Chapter 6 #2
Sawyer Best looks comfortable in worn jeans and a nondescript shirt.
The scuffs on his steel-toed work boots say he’s worn them for years.
His cropped gray hair makes him look like he’d be equally at home in a boardroom or a battlefield.
In fact, the former soldier is the president and CEO of Sawgrass Corporation, a private mercenary army.
And I need to talk to him about deployment.
“Got a minute?” I ask, dropping into the massive leather seat across from him.
He finishes a message he’s typing on his phone with a decisive tap on the screen. Taking care to set his device face-down on the arm of his chair, he meets my gaze dispassionately. “Of course,” he says.
Best may be the one man I’ve met with a tighter laser focus than my own. I cut straight to what I need. “What staffing would you recommend to protect against a home invasion?”
Something sharpens behind his dark eyes. “Where’s the home?”
“DC. Georgetown.”
“Any existing physical defenses?”
“A twenty-foot fence topped with concertina wire and full biometrics at the gate.”
His eyebrows arch, but his tone remains detached. “The greatest risk to home security is the people inside the home. Your household staff. Your family. Your guests.”
“Noted,” I say. At least my staff is above reproach.
“What size force do you need to deter?”
“So far, one overconfident asshole with a pistol and zipties. But that fucker has friends.”
That earns me a more penetrating stare. “Friends who’ll back him up with a few more handguns? Or friends who’ll hack the biometrics, cut off all your communications, and show up with a nuclear bomb?”
I’ve aways believed in belts and suspenders. My computer code is the belt. Sawyer’s men are about to be the suspenders. “Something between the two. The asshole in question is bratva.”
Best glances toward the back of the plane, where Kelly and Boyle are still deep in their Irish-mob-captain conversation. “Perhaps you should consider other ways to resolve your situation.”
If I get the mob involved, I have to deal with Kate’s father. I don’t want his input on Tarasov. Lynch hasn’t managed to dispose of the problem in years. So I tell Best, “That’s not an option at present.”
“Well, my option is pretty straightforward. I’d assign two teams of two, plus a canine unit. One pair at your gate. One pair inside the house. Canine walking the perimeter and keeping an eye on the grounds. Eight hours shifts for everyone.”
“Double that,” I say. “There’s a secondary residence across the street.”
Best only nods.
“And no one actually inside the house. At the door is fine.”
“At the door is fine until your overconfident asshole ends up inside the residence.”
“He won’t, if your men do their jobs.”
Best shrugs. He’s made his recommendation, offering his own version of belt-and-suspenders. I can hang myself if I want to. My idiot clients do the same thing every day—rejecting the advice they’re paying me millions to deliver.
“I can have a contract for you to review by noon,” he says.
“No need for paperwork.” If Tarasov minds his manners and takes his pound of flesh out of my hacking on his behalf, then there’s no need for a record of this transaction. And if he doesn’t, I don’t want any incriminating paperwork interfering with the clean-up.
“No paperwork,” Best says. His grip is iron as he shakes my hand.
It’s a pleasure doing business with someone in the Diamond Ring. Neither of us wastes time bickering about payment. Sawyer Best is the finest security consultant in the world. I’ll pay whatever he requires. He’ll do the same if—when—he needs my services.
The pilot chooses that moment to announce we’ll be on the ground in fifteen minutes. Soon enough, we’re deplaning at Memphis International Airport. Half a dozen limos wait to transport us to our ultimate destination.
“Wait,” Roger Turner says, as he spies the airport sign. “Whores aren’t legal in Tennessee!”
We make our way to downtown Memphis, coming to a stop in front of a football stadium that sports a massive blue-and-gray tiger on the outside wall. A small village of open-sided tents fills the parking lot, along with dozens of pickup trucks.
Climbing out of the car is like stepping into a campground. The air is heavy with the smell of burning wood.
“We are…tailgating?” Arsene Dubois asks. His French accent makes the option sound as exotic as bushwhacking through the .
“Close,” Prince says, producing a fistful of bright red lanyards. Each of our names is printed on a plastic card, along with a gold foil star that says VIP. The back of the tag says World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest.
“Listen up, fuckers,” Prince says. “You’ve got one hour to tour the joint.
Then we’re meeting up at the VIP tent for a little remedial education.
Today’s barbecue judges will give you a crash course on what they’re looking for—how to analyze ’cue with all five senses.
After that, you cocksuckers get to evaluate entries for the inaugural Diamond Ring FPP Award. ”
“FPP?” Gage Rider asks.
“Fucking Pig Popup,” Prince says. “But we’ll announce the official award as Festival Pig. The winner, determined by the twelve of you, gets twenty-five grand in prize money, plus a full year of operations expenses for a popup restaurant on Beale Street. Courtesies of Diamond Freeport, of course.”
“When do we start eating?” Fiona asks, a gleam in her voracious eye. Everyone laughs.
We’re moving toward the nearest barbecue chefs when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop in the shade of a Ford F-450 to see who needs me now.
The text has arrived from a blocked number.
Remember me?
The press does too
And they want to know what’s behind all those black boxes
One hundred mill by June 1 keeps me from sharing
I tap the attached document like I’m signing a confession. A white page fills the screen, so bright I have to squint to make out the black letters. It’s an indictment for mail fraud, wire fraud, and a dozen other counts, all springing from owning and operating a fraudulent collection agency.
And I know exactly what’s behind the first redacted box. My name: Cole Plutus Wolf.