With him was his accountant, Joseph Bernstein. He was a well-dressed man with greased, jet-black hair and a permanent suntan that made his already perfect white smile seem luminous. He sat on one of the two leather sofas that were in front of the desk, facing each other length-ways.
“So is everything to your satisfaction?” Bernstein asked.
“It all looks in order, yeah,” replied Trent, who then spun around to face the room and rest his hands on his dark, solid oak desk.
As he was about to say something else to Bernstein, there was a knock at his door. He sighed wearily.
“What?” he shouted at the door.
It opened, and Duncan and Bennett entered. They were escorting a young, blonde woman wearing tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a short, furry jacket.
“What’s going on?” asked Trent, raising an eyebrow casting an approving glance over the new arrival.
“Boss,” said Duncan. “Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but it’s important. This woman just showed up downstairs, said she’s got something she needed to show you that couldn’t wait.”
Trent massaged his temples, then sighed and looked over at Bernstein.
“We’re done,” he said. “Get the fuck outta here.”
Bernstein nodded, and without a word, gathered his belongings and hastily made his exit past the new arrivals, closing the door behind him.
Trent looked at Duncan and Bennett in turn, before checking his watch. “It’s twenty-two minutes past ten,” he said. “This better be fucking good.”
Duncan gestured to the woman to step forward, indicating she could talk.
“Mr. Trent,” she began. “I’m Tammy. I work at Shakes, over in Hazelwood.”
“And why aren’t you over there right now, working?”
“Because of this,” she replied, producing a USB flash drive from her pocket.”
“And what’s that?”
“The club got raided last night,” she explained, confidently, like she knew she was doing her civic duty reporting it to her boss. “This guy walks in, kinda tall, cute-looking… I go over, y’know, see if he needs anything.”
“Get to the point, my dear, before I lose my patience.”
“Well, he starts askin’ all these questions about who’s in charge. I figured him for a cop at first, but then he took out Eight Ball, Mike the bartender, and followed Justin into the back. I heard shouting and shooting, then this guy walks back out. I go back to look and see Justin all kinds of dead — even had two fingers missing off his hand. Anyways, I figured you’d wanna know. This here is the security feed.”
Trent clenched his jaw muscles, suppressing his anger. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. He was pleased she’d come to him with the information. He signaled to Duncan, who took it and walked around the desk to stand next to him. Trent gestured to his laptop, which was still open in front of him, and Duncan plugged the memory stick into it and played the video file stored on there.
Trent watched as the unknown man walked in and spoke to Tammy. He was then approached by Justin and another guy, both of whom he took out before shooting the bartender and heading to the back area. Another feed then picked him up going into the office, shooting Justin’s fingers off, getting into the safe before shooting him in the head and emptying the contents and then…
Staring right into the camera.
Trent’s short temper took over and he exploded with rage, slamming his fist down hard on the desk and letting out a visceral growl, causing everyone in the room to jump in surprise.
“Sonofabitch!” he yelled.
“Boss, are you alright?” asked Bennett, who was still standing by Tammy.
Without answering, he stood and turned to Duncan, pointing at the laptop — the video file paused on the screen showing the man’s face in vivid detail.
“Find him. Now!” He walked around the desk and stood in front of Tammy. “You did well bringing this to my attention,” he said to her.
She shrugged calmly. She’d worked at the club a long time, and had been involved in the world that Trent ran for even longer.
“Just figured you’d wanna know, Mr. Trent,” she replied, respectfully.
He nodded and looked at Bennett. “See she gets home safely,” he said to him.
“Sure thing,” replied Bennett, taking his cue to leave and ushering her out of the room.
After a few moments of pacing around his suite, trying to calm down and let his anger subside, he gave up and stormed out of the office to the elevator in the corridor outside. He took it down to the ground floor and walked out the front of the building, where his car was always waiting for him. He got in the back and slammed the door shut.
“Where to, Mr. Trent?” asked the driver, turning around in the front seat.
He rubbed his temples in frustration and anger. “Anywhere,” he replied. “I need a fucking drink.”
He sat back as the car drove off and looked out of the window at the lights of the city flashing by. His mind raced, and his anger boiled away just beneath the surface. He had no idea where he’d come from or why he’d resurfaced, but he was sure of one thing… Adrian fucking Hughes was a dead man walking.
14
I’ve left Josh working away on his idea of robbing Trent via cyberspace. I’ve gone for a stroll around town to find a breakfast bar. It’s another miserable day that’s threatening rain, but as yet has relented. I’m walking the streets, the collar on my jacket turned up, casually navigating the tail end of the morning rush hour crowds.
Last night, as we were in such a good mood after disposing of Trent’s drugs, Josh and I decided to celebrate with a few drinks, courtesy of our mini bars and room service. As a result, I’m feeling slightly delicate this morning and in urgent need of some food to make myself feel better. Josh has always been able to handle more drink than me — I think it’s a British thing. Their beer’s stronger than the stuff you get in the States, so they can down our booze like tap water.
Calling on my limited knowledge of the city from the depths of my repressed memory banks, I seem to remember there’s a nice place not far from our hotel that used to do a nice breakfast and tasty coffee, so I’m heading there to see if it’s still open.
I turn a corner and walk past a furniture store, which has a huge window displaying lots of discounted sofas and chairs and tables. For no real reason, other than it’s something to look at and occupy my mind with for a fleeting moment, I glance through the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a guy’s reflection walking behind me. He’s close, but no closer than anyone else is to anyone else at this time of a morning. But there’s something about him that’s immediately set my spider sense tingling. Something… familiar, almost.
Am I being paranoid, thinking someone’s following me? It could just be my mind playing tricks on me — after all, I’m going through a lot right now and I’m probably not thinking clearly…
I need to put my mind at ease though.
I chance one last look in the window before I pass the store and glimpse him again. He’s wearing black jeans and shoes, with a long coat, fastened, that finishes just above his knees. He has a determined expression and walks with a purpose. And he’s staring directly at me.
Okay… my first instinct was right — I’m not paranoid. I know a tail when I see one. My mind kicks into overdrive. Why am I being followed? And by who? Logic would dictate it’s one of Trent’s men, which means he’s seen the footage of me in his strip club and the game has begun… But I’m on a crowded street, and while I’m happy to get his attention, I don’t want to get anyone else’s. Not yet.