Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
JACK
Let’s say life has finally taught you that you are not an ordinary guy. Your evil ex sliced up your brand-new truck. Your girlfriend broke up with you for something you didn’t do. You couldn’t quit your job after what was supposed to be one last assignment. You almost died in a shipping container. And your friends are pissed because your ex ratted you out to the mob, and now she’s run off with the only thing that can keep the Mafia from fitting you and your friends with cement shoes.
Maybe you haven’t been an ordinary guy since you were plucked off the streets by Mr. X at the tender age of thirteen and trained to be a professional thief. Yes, he gave you clothes and food, and a place to stay. But nothing was free. You incurred a debt and the only way to pay it off was to join his crew. The heists got bigger. The risks higher. Weapons were needed. And then innocent people died. You didn’t know you had a line, but that was it. You told him you were out. It was over. So long, farewell. Auf Wiedersehen, adieu, and all that.
Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Mr. X didn’t like good-byes. The debt was unpaid. No one had ever left his crew before, and he wanted to ensure it would never happen again. So it was beating after beating along with the odd stabbing, shooting, and locking you in a meat freezer. There was also that weekend in the Sahara desert with the honey and the ants, and the time he tried to bury you alive, but that’s another story.
You got it. Mr. X felt betrayed, and he hadn’t processed his childhood trauma, so he projected it onto you along with some of his own trauma to ensure you were properly screwed up, because losing both parents and your grandmother when you were young wasn’t enough. But it had been years. You’d moved on and it was time for him to do the same. You’d even offered him the name of your therapist. She’d done wonders for your self-esteem. But Mr. X wasn’t ready to unpack his emotional baggage. Instead, all you got for your efforts were bullets.
And yet here you are, walking into the lion’s den, aka a private members’ club called the Albert House, to meet the man, the mentor, the nemesis, the bane of your existence, and the villain of your story…Mr. X.
“Jack Danger to see Xavier Braithwaite III.” You fully expect the tuxedoed concierge to toss you out onto the street even though you’re wearing the bespoke suit you purchased from Chopra Custom Tailors. Membership fees to the Albert House, one of the most exclusive private members’ clubs in Chicago, are $50,000 per year, and that’s just to start.
“Mr. Braithwaite is expecting you in the Red Room.”
Your blood chills and you pat your chest to ensure you didn’t forget to put on your bulletproof vest when you got dressed this morning. Sometimes you just don’t want the added bulk.
Mr. X is sitting on an enormous red leather chair edged in gold, across from an elderly man in an expensive black suit. He is stroking his chin and studying a chess board intently, as if he were an amateur pretending to be a pro. His opponent is watching Mr. X with a smug expression. Little does he know, it’s all a scam. Mr. X is a world-class chess player, but chess doesn’t pay the bills.
“What’s the bet?” you whisper to the tuxedoed concierge.
“Mr. Braithwaite has lost the last two games with a bet of $50,000 per game. Now it’s double or nothing.”
Two hundred grand for an hour of work is nothing to sneeze at, and there is nothing Mr. X loves more than chess. You take a seat. You’ve always enjoyed watching Mr. X play with his food.
Ten minutes later, Mr. X has a credit note for $200,000 in one hand and a fine bourbon in the other. You both retire to the smoking room, and he orders two Cuban cigars while you settle in leather armchairs in front of a roaring fire. The room is decorated to look like an old English castle with red velvet curtains, tapestries, and suits of armor scattered throughout. You are the youngest person in the club by about thirty years.
“I don’t smoke,” you say when the waiter offers you a cigar on a gold-embossed plate. “It causes cancer.”
“Considering your life expectancy is about ten minutes, I suggest you enjoy it while you can.” Mr. X pushes his jacket aside just enough to show you the weapon holstered beneath the vintage red-and-black velvet smoking jacket that he’s wearing sans shirt to reveal a smattering of graying hair. Mr. X has never been a paragon of style.
Smoke the cigar and die of lung cancer in ten years, or don’t smoke and die in ten minutes. Mr. X has always been a fan of Hobson’s choice—a choice that is really no choice at all.
You take the cigar and puff away in the uncomfortable silence, trying not to inhale on the slim chance you might leave the club alive. “You should get a smoking jacket,” Mr. X says, as if he hadn’t just threatened to kill you. “It stops the smoke from sticking to your clothes.”
“I didn’t realize you were wearing any.” You give a nod toward his bare chest flex. “I prefer the more modern look of my weed-smoking hoodie. It has the added bonus of hiding my face in case the police break down the door.”
“Always the joker.” Mr. X doesn’t laugh. He has never laughed at your jokes. He laughs only when he has revealed an evil plan or has done something particularly heinous, and then it’s the “Whoo-hoo ha-ha-ha” maniac cackle straight out of the Villain Handbook , chapter 1.
“I’m Batman.” You try to lower and roughen your voice to emulate Michael Keaton’s badass delivery of the iconic line from the 1989 movie of the same name, but without the drums.
“Is this really how you want to spend your last few minutes on this earth?” He puffs away, blowing smoke rings in your face, but his aim is off and with the smallest shift to the side, your head manages to go through the center.
You puff on your own cigar. Mr. X taught you how to smoke when you were fourteen. You didn’t realize he was trying to kill you even then.
“I’m here because of Clare.” You’re getting nauseous from the cigar and it’s time to get the show on the road. You’ve already got an exit strategy, and it involves going through the window and using the red velvet curtains to break your fall before the waiter returns with another tray of cancer-causing treats. “We had a deal.”
Puff. Puff. Puff. Mr. X is smoking like a freight train. “Clare’s decision to retrieve the Wild Heart from the museum in Delhi was entirely her own.”
“She would have needed funding, assistance, contacts, and payoffs to get the necklace out of India and into the US. She couldn’t have done it alone. It may have been her decision, but you backed her up.”
“You got me.” His thin lips twitch at the corners. “So now you want me to give it to you as a matter of what…honor?” He snorts in derision. “I’d rather have the $30 million than a clean conscience.”
“I thought there was some decency left in you,” I said. “A man’s life is at risk.”
“So is yours.” Mr. X lifts an eyebrow, and you instantly realize your mistake. You learned a long time ago never to show Mr. X you care. About anything. He is a man who preys on weakness. Although you didn’t lie when you told Simi you’d stayed away all year partly to figure yourself out, you neglected to mention that you were afraid to come home to her in case Mr. X was watching. Only when you were 100 percent certain his goons were looking the other way did you dare return.
“Why do you care so much about this stranger?” He sips his bourbon, licking his lips the way a predator does before it’s about to feast.
“I’m curious to know how far Clare has fallen.” You scramble to cover. “Is she totally corrupted, or is there any decency left in her?”
His dark eyes meet yours and his jaw twitches. “Do you mean is she a failure like you?”
Your pulse kicks up a notch and you try to regulate your breathing. If anything, Mr. X knows how to wind you up. “I used to admire you.” You put down the disgusting cigar and wash down the taste with the even worse bite of bourbon. “You were cruel and brutal, but you saved me from the streets, and I still use the skills you taught me. But when you crossed that line and innocent people died, you stopped being a professional jewel thief and became an ordinary thug.”
Mr. X bristles. Above all else, he is most concerned about his image and his reputation. He himself started as an ordinary pickpocket and rose to become one of the most renowned jewel thieves in the world, known for his daring and stealth and his elite crew.
“This is Clare’s gig,” he says. “If anyone’s life is at risk, it’s on her head.”
Clare joined Mr. X’s merry band of thieves shortly after you. Two years younger, but streetwise, she learned fast and the two of you quickly became a team, rising in the ranks to join Mr. X’s “best of the best” and developing a deep and solid friendship. When he left small-town thieving and moved into high-end burglary, Mr. X brought his elite team with him to Europe, and you and Clare spent more time together, often posing as a couple to pull the cons. One thing led to another led to a few heated nights in Paris and a relationship that was doomed from the start. You ended it. Badly. And then you quit Mr. X and the whole sorry business. Clare went from being a close friend and lover to becoming a deadly enemy, as disenchanted with love as you had then become with the world of crime. You don’t know what she’s doing with Anil, but the Clare of now does not have the limits of the Clare who was your friend.
“She’s going to kill an innocent man.” You don’t particularly like Cristian. His repeated betrayals and lack of loyalty are indicative of a lack of character, but he doesn’t deserve to die.
His faces twists in a grimace. “You might have been my best student, the closest I’ve ever had to a son, but you care too much about people. What have you gained by throwing your lot in with a bunch of amateur misfits?”
Family. Love. Not things Mr. X has ever had or will ever understand.
“It’s a weakness Clare doesn’t have,” he continues. “She can put the job above everything else. You’ve lost your edge and I have no regrets about what I’m about to do. You still owe me a life debt and it’s time for me to collect.”
You hear a rustle of cloth and two of Mr. X’s henchmen step out from the balcony behind the red velvet curtains you had planned to use in your escape. They are armed, of course. Virgil, with his thick mustache, has a Colt .45 pointed at your head, and redheaded Rusty has a Beretta. They are both smirking because they think you have been outplayed—at least you think Virgil is smirking. It’s hard to see what’s going on beneath all that hair.
“Only two?” Usually, Mr. X sends a handful of hench.
You hear movement behind you. Moments later the waiter—who is clearly not a waiter, and you should have known that because he served the cigars with the tray in his left hand—walks into the room. He lifts the cloth on his tray to show you a .44 Magnum before closing the door.
Now you know why everything in the room is red. What is a private members’ club if there isn’t a special room for killing, and a concierge willing to take a hefty payment to look the other way?
You quickly assess the situation. There are two armed henches at the only window and a waiter slash hench at the door. There is a blazing fire in the fireplace and no other way out of the room. Mr. X is also armed, but he likes to leave the killing to others so he doesn’t dirty his hands. Nothing says “innocent” like a lack of gun residue on the fingers.
“What about a little beating first?” you suggest. “We could take a trip back to the meat freezer where I almost died of hypothermia, internal injuries, and blood loss. That was fun. Or how about another game of shoot Jack and leave him in an airport bathroom to bleed out all over the unsanitary floor?”
“We’ve come to the end,” Mr. X says. “I’m tired of the games.”
“That’s just age. If you go back on your supplements, get a good sleep every night, and walk every day, you’ll feel twenty years younger.”
A scowl creases Mr. X’s overly large forehead. “I don’t understand you. I don’t think I ever have. You have no way out of this situation, and yet you’re still cracking jokes.”
“That’s because I came with an offer.” This is the ace up your sleeve that you hoped you wouldn’t have to play. “You want my life; you can have it. Tell Clare to return the necklace to my crew and I’ll come back and work for—”
My words are cut off by a disturbance at the door.
“What do you mean I can’t go in?” A woman’s voice—oh so familiar—rings out in the hallway. “My late husband was a member of this club for over thirty years…and…oh, poor Richard.” A sob. A murmur of voices. “I simply must see Jack. He was Richard’s very best friend, and he doesn’t know…” Another sob. A wail. “He doesn’t know what happened.”
“Tell him you’ll call the police if he doesn’t let us in.” Another voice. A beautiful, rich, melodic voice that makes your heart sing and your blood quicken.
“The police?” Simone’s voice rises with incredulity. “Darling, we don’t call the police. It would be crass. We’re already causing a scene. Look how many people are watching. I am going to die of embarrassment. Die. Dead. Remind me to tell the accountant to cancel Richard’s annual donation to the club. If they can’t even honor his memory…”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” A third voice, this one lower, rougher, and decidedly male. “This is taking too long.”
A thud. A moan. An urgent murmur. The rattle of a door handle. The click of a lock.
In an instant, the henches disappear behind the red curtain. The waiter covers his gun. Mr. X tightens the silk belt on his smoking jacket and puffs on his cigar.
The cavalry arrive.
Simi, Chloe, Gage, and Emma burst into the room, followed by a billow of orange chiffon and a sparkle of diamonds. Simone takes one look at Mr. X, seated beside the fire, and her laughter rings out around the room.
“Oh heavens! A smoking jacket. How utterly déclassé.”