Chapter 16 #3
“Y’all twins?” he asked them at one point. The two men said nothing, though one’s lip curled back in a sneer of sorts to reveal a gold tooth. Truly. Like the one that the Austin Powers Villain had—which immediately earned him the nickname Goldie.
All four men looked like picture-perfect bodyguards—menacing and still, save for Portobello’s intermittent fidgeting.
They didn’t, however, strike Beckett as military-trained professionals.
Martial arts training somewhere along the line, certainly.
Boxing and MMA as well, with those misshapen ears and the crooked cartilage of their noses—but they weren’t former military.
For one thing, they were all standing immobile in an open hallway with a single exit.
Beck didn’t understand how anyone thought standing still and frozen in place for hours on end could keep you mission ready and quick to respond to threats.
If anyone came through the door, it would take a minimum of several seconds for any of them to react.
By then, a proficient shooter would have taken out at least two of them, if not more.
Before the next second would be up—they’d be reacting to open gunfire—forced to be on the defence rather than the offence.
It would be a nightmare—both inefficient and stupid.
Now, Beckett on the other hand, had chosen to use the T shape of the hallway to his advantage.
He was standing by the wall across from the meeting room door, slightly to the side where the door handle was.
If anyone came out shooting, they would automatically aim towards the opposite side of the way in which they’d pulled the door, giving him that vital extra second to react.
From his relatively hidden vantage point, if anyone began shooting from the short corridor, they wouldn’t see him until it was far, far too late for them to defend themselves.
Beckett was contemplating the merits of making up his own lyrics to the tune of Last Christmas when Nickel nipped at him from the pouch strapped to his chest. The little thing hadn’t moved since they’d arrived, nestled and sleeping soundlessly against Beckett’s chest. Now though, he was staring up at him with those pretty black eyes that Beckett couldn’t say no to.
“What?” Beckett asked, as if the Nickel would answer him. For some reason, he imagined that if the dog had spoken, he’d sound like James Earl Jones. He snickered at that errant thought. Nickel barked. Well. Yipped. He’d heard Pantouffle bark more convincingly than that.
“You need to tinkle?” he asked, feeling absolutely ridiculous for asking the question. Nickel yipped again, which Beckett took as a yes.
Beckett looked up, feeling a pair of eyes on him. Sure enough, Scarface was glaring at him.
“What? Ya’ll never seen a tactical dog before? Looks like nothing, but this little flea bag has teeth like a piranha. He’ll bite your balls clean off if he reaches ‘em,” he claimed earnestly.
He got a snicker out of Goldie for that one. At least one of these household appliances masquerading as guards had a sense of humor.
“Anywhere around here I can take him out to pee?” he asked them, resisting the urge to reach into the little pouch and scratch the top of Nickel’s head like he usually did to soothe him.
He hadn’t really expected any of the men to answer his question, but Goldie must have been a dog guy because he pointed towards the door at the end of the hallway and said, “Take a left out that door, then go all the way down the hall. There’s an inner courtyard and the door should be unlocked.”
“Cheers,” Beckett said, shooting the man a grateful wink.
Walking down the hall with his back to the four men was uncomfortable, but Beckett forced himself to relax and look casual. He pushed the door open and veered left as Goldie had instructed. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he pressed on his earpiece, turning on the comms.
“Nickel needs to tinkle,” he said, voice pitched low. “I’m gonna poke around if I can,” he added, because he was all about multitasking.
It only took a minute to find the courtyard, and he set Nickel down in the slushy snow.
Thankfully, the weather in Montreal was unusually pleasant for January.
Still freezing, but not as frigid as it usually was.
Nickel did his business quickly, trotting back to Beckett to sit at his feet, holding one paw up dramatically to show just how freezing it was.
“Your theatrics are very Franklin.” He picked up him up and tucked him back into his little pouch. “Your daddy always hated the cold. Bitched and moaned every time we went skiing.” He petted his furry head with one finger. Nickel looked up and licked his finger.
“That’s a whole lot a tongue, buddy—we barely know each other,” he admonished with a quick snort as he headed back inside. He’d told Hayes he’d poke around, but doing so in an unfamiliar building of this size was a fool’s errand.
“Let me get the door for you,” Hayes said to someone. He hadn’t communicated anything at all since entering the meeting room, and Beckett didn’t think Hayes’ breaking radio silence was accidental. Beckett paid close attention, leaning against the nearest wall that offered the best cover.
He could barely hear the other man’s muttered comments through his earpiece.
“I’m on my way,” was all Beckett managed to make out.
It wasn’t much, and it certainly wasn’t enough to form an action plan, but if Hayes had gone out of his way for Beckett to hear, it had to be important.
Cautiously, he headed back the way he’d come, hoping to see who Hayes had been talking to.
When he was about 20 feet away from the meeting room, the door swung open.
Beckett ducked under the nearest stairwell, remaining silent and making himself as small as possible.
“What the fuck is it doing here? It needs to be loaded at the docks!” A man spoke loudly into his phone, his voice echoing up and down the hallway. He must have thought he was alone.
“No, no!” he insisted, just as Beckett caught a glimpse of the guy.
Young, maybe late 20s at most, with a scruffy jawline.
He looked far more like a mafioso than Matthew ever would.
Dressed to the nines in a sharkskin suit with a pair of new Santoni wingtip shoes that shone brightly in the glare of the ceiling lights.
“I don’t care if the street is—well, fucking find another way—no, don’t roll over them! What the fucking hell am I paying you for? You think I want this in the headlines tomorrow morning? Rosario Corporation truck driver kills four construction workers in a fucking road rage incident?”
Beckett barely managed to stifle his snort as he pictured that crazy-assed headline. He didn’t blame the truck driver who was getting his ass chewed. Construction areas in Montreal were a bitch. He’d contemplated murder a time or two himself.
“Yeah, I’ll be right there—just—don’t open the back.”
That last part made Beckett’s gut clench.
Everything up that point had been routine bullshit complaints and ass-chewing.
That last order though? The guy made Beckett think heads were gonna roll.
Literally. Beckett watched as he headed towards the lobby entrance, his dress shoes making tapping noises with every step.
Beckett kept him in sight as he left the building, trying to figure out what he was flipping out about.
From his limited view of the street, Beckett saw a truck parked near the entrance that closely resembled an armored vehicle.
Like it was used to haul money, maybe. That was usually what people cared the most about securing for transport.
He supposed a truck like that could be used for transporting drugs as well, but why in the world would anyone bring a truck loaded with drugs to the business district and park in front of a well-recognized, busy office building?
The man was now out of sight, so Beckett discreetly worked his way across the lobby.
He ducked down behind furniture and some fountains.
By the time he was crouching next to the receptionist desk and angled himself to get a good view of the truck, the man was talking animatedly with the driver.
He’d climbed into the passenger seat and was waving his arms about dramatically. Beckett couldn’t see the driver.
“There’s a truck parked outside. Armored vehicle for sure, but there are no firing ports,” Beckett whispered into his comms. He knew Hayes wouldn’t be able to answer him, but at least he’d have provided him with key details that they could discuss later.
“The driver parked in front of the building, and it clearly wasn’t the plan—Giorgio Armani is pisssssed. ”
After a minute of watching the man-in-a-sharkskin-suit, now stuck with the moniker Giorgio Armani, Beckett could see that he’d finished berating the driver.
They had apparently reached an understanding, with Giorgio directing the driver using a variety of hand signals, as if showing a lost tourist where to go.
“He said something about the docks—maybe there’s a loading bay somewhere?
Maybe in an underground parking garage? I think their original plan got fucked up because of construction but—” Beckett fell silent, crouching lower to the floor as Giorgio opened the truck door and jumped down.
He was still scowling, but at least he’d stopped yelling and waving his arms. Brushing dirt from his trousers, his face contorted with disgust. He marched back inside, crossing the lobby like a man on a mission.
Beckett wondered if he’d be returning to the meeting.
Apparently not, since he pushed through the door marked “Stairs.”
“Fuck,” Beckett muttered, as he stayed low, preparing to follow him. He pressed on his earpiece. “He’s taking the stairs—I think he’s headed to the basement. I’m going to follow him.”