“Funny,” Myron said.
“Do you think Spark is lying to you?”
“I think he’s being less than forthcoming.”
“Me too.”
“Not much we can do about it.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong,” Win said.
The car drove down the Strip and through the gate that protected the tarmac for the private jets. Myron saw Win’s parked out to the right. The lights were on inside.
“Where is Spark?” Myron asked.
“Right there.”
Another SUV pulled through the gate.
“How did we beat him here?”
“He hit traffic.”
“It’s the same route we took,” Myron said.
“Come. Let’s say goodbye to our guest, shall we? We can even apologize if you’d like.”
Myron looked at Win. “You have another idea, don’t you?”
“I’m taking a page from your playbook,” Win said.
“Meaning?”
Win didn’t reply. He got out of the car. Myron didn’t like where this was going, but he also knew that sometimes when the “WinMobile” was swerving all over the road out of control, it was best to stay out of the way.
Win started toward the SUV carrying Spark. Spark got out. Again Myron was surprised by the sheer size of him. It wasn’t just the height. His chest was broad enough to handle a paddleball match. Myron watched Win head toward the big man with his hand extended for a handshake.
“I’m sorry this didn’t work out,” Win said.
Spark looked as though he was on the verge of losing it. “I just want to get home.”
“I understand.”
Win, too, was a good athlete. He wasn’t a pro-level one like Myron, but he made up for it with constant training and a detachment that made him border on the genius. He had learned self-defense, speed, strength, planning, coordination, takedowns, maneuvers, strikes, weaponry from literally the world’s best teachers. He planned fast. He saw the angles. He coldly and mercilessly took advantage of every opening.
He also had remarkably fast hands.
Spark was carrying his phone. One second the phone was in his hand, the next moment, Win had snatched it away.
“Hey! What the—”
Win looked at the phone. “As I feared, the phone is locked. Facial recognition and all that.”
“Are you kidding me?” Spark had had enough. “Give me that goddamn phone or I’ll bust you wide open.”
Win grinned at the much, much larger man. Myron spotted the look on Win’s face. He didn’t like it.
Myron said, “Win.”
Spark stepped closer. It was always a mistake to crowd your opponent. Even if you’re the bigger man. You think it’s going to intimidate. It may. But it won’t intimidate those who know how to fight.
Just the opposite in fact.
“I don’t give a shit how rich you are,” Spark said. “Give me back my phone, asshole. Now.”
Win didn’t move back a step. He craned his neck, looked up, and said, “I don’t think so.”
Myron again said, “Win.”
Spark Konners was turning red with anger. His hands formed two sledgehammer fists. Win wanted that, Myron knew. Anger made you stupid. Spark was fed up. He had been insulted and humiliated by the little rich guy standing in front of him. The little rich guy had crossed a line. Heck, more than one line.
“Spark,” Myron said. “Don’t.”
But Spark was too far gone. He loaded up for a big roundhouse swing that, if it connected, would have probably toppled a skyscraper. It didn’t connect, of course. Win saw it coming a mile away. He sidestepped, waited for the precise moment Spark was fully off balance, then Win swept Spark’s leg.
Spark dropped hard to the tarmac.
Win moved fast. He grabbed Spark’s hair, pulled his face to the phone, let go of the hair, stepped back.
The phone was unlocked now.
In a blind fury, Spark got to his hands and knees and bull-rushed Win. Win waited until the very last moment, slid to the left, tripped Spark.
Again the big man fell hard.
Myron moved toward Konners, tried to put himself between the two men to prevent more physical confrontations. Win had so far been only defensive. If Spark tried again, that might change.
Win scrolled through Spark’s phone. “Looks like you made a phone call after you left the hotel suite, my dear lad. Four-oh-six area code. Who were you calling?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Hold on.” He pressed a few more buttons. “Four-oh-six... that’s in Montana.”
Spark got to his hands and knees. He was planning another attack. Still staring at his phone, Win took out a large handgun and pointed it in Spark’s direction.
“I’m a pretty good shot,” Win said. “But you can test that if you so wish.”
Myron tried once again. “Win.”
Win sighed. “Your warnings are like your appendix — they’re either superfluous or they hurt you.”
Myron frowned. “Seriously?”
“Not my best analogy, I admit.” Still reading off his phone, Win said, “Tracking the number now. Hmm. Got it. According to the location towers, the phone is currently emanating from a Budget Inn in someplace called Havre, Montana.” Win glanced toward Myron. “Get on the plane. The flight to Havre is a little over two hours. I’ll pin-drop you the phone’s location.”
Chapter Twelve
You park outside the home of Walter Stone.
It is two in the morning. The house is dark other than the dim glow from a computer monitor coming from the downstairs den. Walter is fifty-seven years old. His house is a three-bedroom Cape Cod of aluminum siding and faded brick on Grunauer Place in Fair Lawn. He has two sons, both in their twenties. One just had a baby, his first grandson. Walter is at his keyboard. He got laid off last April. The Foodtown supermarket he had worked at for thirty years shut their doors, and they won’t find new work for an older white guy, no matter how good he is. That’s what he tells people. It’s the truth, in his mind. His wife is named Doris. She plays pickleball three times a week and does her best to find ways to keep out of the house most days. Right now, she is upstairs sleeping. After dinner, that’s where Doris always goes. Upstairs. Walter stays downstairs. They’re both good with that.
You sit outside in the Ford Fusion. You wear gloves and a ski mask. You have a gun on your lap.
Walter, you assume, is still giddily typing away.
He thinks he is safe behind internet anonymity.
Walter started off on social media like most people his age — poking fun at it, wary of the time suck, thinking it’s something lazy kids do. He hates the new generations — Generation X or Y or Z or Alphas or whatever — thinking they’re all soft and spoiled and that they’d rather suck off the tit of his taxes than do a day’s honest work. Walter’s youngest son Kevin is a bit like that. Into computers and video games and whatnot. A total waste of time, if you ask Walt. Still, at some point, Kevin signed his dad up with a Twitter account first. Not sure why anymore. Guess so Walt could see what the fuss was about. Maybe use it as a free news feed or something. Walter would be damned before he gave any money to the local paper or watched the lies on lamestream TV. Once he started checking out the site, well, maybe it was because Kevin created his account or maybe there was some weird algorithm, but Walter’s Twitter feed filled up with tweet after tweet of the dumbest, most vile, naïve load of bullcrap you could ever imagine. How did people get so dumb? None of these idiots posting all day have a clue how the real world works. The only thing they were more full of than shit? Themselves. Man, they all thought they were the cat’s ass, didn’t they? Endlessly pontificating and condescending and yeah, Walter knew what those words meant. And don’t even get him started on the thumb-up-the-ass, brain-dead women. Jesus H. Get a boyfriend or something. All whining anytime a guy said boo to them or bumped into their elbow. Man, that got Walter’s goat. Everything a guy does nowadays pisses them off. Heck, just talking to them was an “act of violence.” Oh, and not talking to them — ignoring them? That was disrespectful and sexist. When Walter was young, a girl liked to get a wink and a nod. It was flattering. Try that now and she’ll blow a rape whistle in your face. I mean, get a grip, sweetheart. You’re not all that.