Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [88]
“You know what to do.”
The man had nodded and, mimicking Gunn’s stride, departed.
Now Gunn looked at his watch and started counting off the seconds to himself. By the time he had reached thirty, a man emerged from the toilets and came and stood beside him.
“It’s a fuckup,” Gunn said. “A total cluster-fuck.”
“Calm down,” his companion said. “We’ve gone through shit before, we’ll get through this, too.”
“I have been calm,” Gunn said, “through all of this.” He threw up his arms. “I sat back and let you do the planning. And guess what? One of my men is dead, and the two others wish they were.”
“I’ll take care of their rehab,” his companion said. “Put the money out of your mind.”
Gunn took a deep breath and leaned back against the cold-drink case. As always, it was impossible to get a read on John Pawnhill. He was in his late thirties, good-looking in an anonymous kind of way. He had thick, dark hair that covered the top half of his ears. His eyes were hooded and inscrutable. Gunn was acutely uncomfortable around him. It was as if Pawnhill generated a current that made those who stood near him jittery.
“It’s not just the money.”
“Oh?” Pawnhill said. “What, then?”
“It’s the way this came apart.”
Pawnhill seemed as relaxed as ever. “How did it come apart?”
“All at once and all over the place—like a terrier with a rag doll.” Gunn felt his anger building—anger at events that were out of his control, anger that he had been put squarely in Henry Holt Carson’s gun sight, just where he didn’t want to be. “I made a mistake by ignoring my own dictum: If you want it done right, do it yourself.”
Pawnhill nodded, as if agreeing. An instant later, Gunn felt the tip of a switchblade at his throat. Pawnhill had stepped in front of him, pinning him back against the glass and stainless-steel case.
“Listen, motherfucker, you came to me, remember? And do you remember that I lost a half million when the Stem was infiltrated last night? Was I to blame for that? Was I to blame for Arjeta Kraja opening her big mouth to that little shitbird Billy Warren? And, by the way, how the fuck did she find out about Middle Bay in the first place? Think it was from me?”
“Not you, no, that’s absurd.” Gunn tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and, anyway, his heart seemed to be beating at the back of his throat. “It must’ve been Dardan. He’s the only other person who knew about the bank.”
Pawnhill drew the blade lightly across Gunn’s throat, inking a line of red. “Dardan liked to fuck, not talk.”
“Fuck and kill.” Gunn stared into the other’s pitiless eyes. “Listen, I have no doubt if you’d done the job Alli Carson would be dead now.”
“Too dangerous. It wasn’t possible.” Pawnhill’s black ardor appeared to have cooled somewhat. “We both needed an extra layer of protection. Your men provided that.”
“The Secret Service agent—the girl—came snooping around.”
“And what will she find out about those three?”
“Nothing,” Gunn said. “They’re squeaky clean. I told you that.”
Pawnhill removed the knife and, after cleaning the blade on Gunn’s crimson tie, folded it away. “You made a big fucking mistake accusing me—”
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“Don’t fucking say you didn’t do something when you fucking well did.” Pawnhill held up an admonishing finger. “And neither Willowicz nor O’Banion are squeaky clean.”
“Those two are professional ghosts. No one can connect them with Fortress or me personally.”
“They’re loose ends,” Pawnhill said. “Tie them up and throw them away.”
“Jesus, these guys are valuable.”
Pawnhill leaned in. “Their liability outweighs whatever value you put on them. I want it done and done now. Understood?”
Gunn would just as soon kill this fucker where he stood, but he knew that would be disastrous for business, not to mention for himself. He had too many black deals going to risk the spotlight being turned on him more than it already was. Naomi Wilde was a smart and tenacious agent—McKinsey had told him so. He also knew that the three men she was investigating were a dead