The First Daughter, page 12
Logic dictated that with such a high value target, the people who snatched the first daughter would likely have taken her somewhere remote, and somewhere within a few hundred miles of where she had been taken, ideally by road. So, they would start at the last known location of the first daughter, planning to pose as federal law enforcement and see if they could get any eye witness accounts of Susie Brown arriving at, or indeed, leaving the Lantern Room. They would also see if they could access any of the CCTV coverage from the venue itself, as well as the street outside and surrounding buildings.
Carson would have to do the talking, as he could manage a passable American accent. Brian on the other hand, with his heavy London accent, sounded as if he was taking the piss whenever he tried to pull it off. Much to Carson’s amusement.
‘Ah, piss off!’ Brian had muttered the night before after his last attempt, which had sounded like a very bad impersonation of Elvis. Laughing, Carson had closed his eyes and slept fitfully.
Carson’s eyes flitted open, as the opening bars of Lynard Skynard’s Sweet Home Alabama came through the speakers.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes and groaned.
‘Can we play some decent music now?’ He grumbled.
‘What? It’s a classic!’ Brian protested.
‘It’s my turn!’
‘Oh no, it’s your turn when you’re driving. We agreed!’
‘Pull over then.’
‘No chance sunshine. Look, tell you what, let’s see what’s on the local stations eh?’
Carson grunted his assent.
‘Probably more of this redneck shit though,’ he muttered.
‘Philistine,’ Brian retorted as he flicked the radio on.
He flicked through the stations, ignoring Carson’s ‘told ya so’ stare as bars from ‘A country boy can survive’ came through the speakers. He eventually settled on a news station.
‘There, happy now?’
They listened for a few moments, to the most prosaic, banal ramblings of local back country goings on. Carson, who had tuned it out, was reaching for the dial when Brian smacked it away.
‘Hey –’
‘Shh, shut up and listen will ya!’
President Jones has shocked the nation with his sudden and unanticipated demands to Russia, demanding that Russia pulls out of both Syria and the Crimean Peninsula, or face dire consequences, with some sources on the hill saying we are now at DEFCON 3. Five Russian diplomats have been expelled from Washington DC. More to follow.
‘This isn’t good,’ Carson said.
‘No, it bloody ain’t,’ Brian concurred. ‘So, it’s started then. They’re using their ace in the hole over the president.’
‘We need to find the first daughter. And find her soon!’ Carson said, his face lined with concern as he stared out at the rolling highway ahead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hazim Fawzi checked the device one last time. The festival was hours away, and he was disguised as a caterer stocking up a food truck for that night’s events. He also had in a pack rucksack a full Shin Bet uniform, Israel’s internal security service, complete with a Jericho 941 service pistol, and an M4 assault rifle, the upper and lower receivers of the rifle tucked down either side of the clothing to prevent them clinking together.
Fawzi had also been furnished with genuine Shin Bet credentials, identifying him as a serving member of the Shin Bet security service, and would pass muster at a glance. But, as soon as anyone ran it against the database, the identity of the person the card had been issued to, Eli Barak, would instantly be flagged up as being AWOL. Eli had the misfortune to look close enough in appearance and physical build to Fawzi that he had been singled out, and had been snared in a honey trap where he had thought he was onto a sure thing with a very beautiful Israeli woman.
Eli had made the fatal error of allowing the woman, a hired escort being paid more than she could earn in a year of tricking, to tie him to the bed, blindfolded. When said blindfold was removed, Eli quickly realised just how badly he had screwed up. A painful hour of interrogation later, he was dispatched with a suppressed 9mm round between the eyes, before being chopped up and disposed of in the Mediterranean Sea.
Satisfied, Fawzi set the device to detonate at 10PM that night. It had been ingeniously hidden within the trucks fuel tank, linked up wirelessly to the detonator interface concealed within the kitchen space. After the timer was set, he tucked the thin device into a void behind the fridge. The unfortunate real vendor would have no idea it was there. Of Russian design, the explosive was odourless and undetectable by sniffer dogs. It was one of four such large devices which had been set at even intervals in a circular perimeter around the festival. All devices would detonate at the same time, and if the number of attendees were as high as anticipated, the casualties would number in the high thousands. Double, or even triple that of the nine eleven attacks.
Leaving the catering truck, he made his way over to the Marina, casually smoking a cigarette as he walked, the peak of a baseball cap from some American sports team pulled low over his eyes, with dark sunglasses further disguising his face.
He extinguished the cigarette and carefully stubbed it out before binning it, not wanting to be challenged by some job’s worth security guard, before entering the men’s room facilities.
Seeing it was empty, he entered the spacious disabled cubicle, and pulled out the Shin Bet disguise. After fastening up his boots, he put the Jericho in his hip holster, and assembled the M4 carbine. Pulling out a flat packed military daypack within, he stuffed the now empty civilian backpack inside.
Exiting the mens room, Fawzi walked away from the Marina, with the bored countenance of a grunt diligently going through the motions.
The fools. They have no idea, Fawzi thought to himself, smiling inwardly as he strolled away.
BRIAN AND CARSON pulled into the parking lot across the street from the Lantern Room. They stepped out of the car, looking out across the tree lined street at the main entrance.
Foot traffic was light, most of the cities citizens commuting by car. A station wagon full of kids in sports kit drove past, a harassed looking soccer Mom yelling at her charges, while a man in a suit driving a black Chevrolet talked into a cell phone he had pressed to his ear drove in the opposite direction. The distracted soccer Mom nearly veered across the centre line, almost swiping the Chevrolet. She sped off, pointedly ignoring the yelled insults and one finger salutes coming from the driver of the Chevrolet.
‘Charming lot, ain’t they,’ Brian muttered as they crossed the street.
They were wearing dark suits purchased less than an hour ago from a strip mall outside of the city, Carson a charcoal suit, Brian’s an indigo blue. They both carried counterfeit FBI credentials which were convincing imitations of the real deal, but wouldn’t cut mustard with a database check. Each of them had cost a further five hundred dollars, which had been hastily arranged by Bradley’s contacts. Carson had questioned Brian about Bradley’s involvement, saying someone who could source untraceable weapons, cars and dodgy credentials so quickly was surely a shady character?
To which, Brian had told him to shut his gob, that Bradley was a mate and a real stand up bloke, one of the good guys. Even if his methods were at times somewhat less than legal.
‘Remember, let me do the talking,’ Carson said as they crossed the road. ‘This kind of establishment is generally for the younger crowd. Plus you sound like the Greek with the dodgy quiff behind the counter at my local chippy doing his Elvis act whenever you try and sound like a yank.’
‘Oh shut up, you tart!’ Brian replied.
‘Now, now, Grandad.’
‘Your gonna catch an unfortunate one in a moment, ya cheeky sod!’
‘Oh, sorry mate,’ ribbed Carson. ‘Didn’t mean to get you, all shook up!’
As they crossed the road, Brian let out a string of abuse in fluent cockney rhyming slang that Carson couldn’t quite decipher as they approached the main entrance, although he got the gist; a few choice adjectives followed by some dire warning that he was going to get his arse kicked if he didn’t shut his bloody gob. Brian hadn’t been in the best of moods with him to begin with, making it clear every other mile on the way from DC that they’d still be where they were had they kept their heads down, without attracting all the attention and drama Carson had involved them in.
Brian’s mutterings ceased as they entered the club. The reception halls walls were a dark, indigo blue, with the lighting suspended above the floor from lots of small electric lights inside of small, old fashioned looking, rustic oil lantern effect red boxes, suspended at different heights. It was early evening, and as such it was still reasonably quiet. There was a contrasting white recess behind a desk which was clearly a security and reception area, a door marked staff only behind the desk. The lone doorman behind the desk beckoned them over, a large unit of a man in his mid-twenties who was so muscular, that some of his muscles appeared to have muscles of their own. Carson couldn’t help but giggle inwardly at the obvious steroid abuse, the baby-faced head looking tiny in proportion to his neck and shoulders. He had a name badge that read Nate.
‘Gentlemen, I don’t mean no disrespect to y’all, but y’all a little on the old side to be comin up in this club. Yes sir, you lookin like my Granddaddy and all,’ he finished, nodding at Brian.
Before Brian drew out his pistol and started shooting, Carson put a hand on Brian’s shoulder as he drew out his counterfeit FBI badge.
‘I’m special agent Winters, and this here is my colleague, special agent Jackson. We’re trying to track down the last known movements of one Susan Brown. We have reason to believe that she visited this establishment three days ago, mid afternoon, early evening perhaps. Can you recall seeing this woman?’ Carson asked in a convincing, southern accent, holding out a picture from one of her social media accounts on his iPhone display.
‘No sir, I cannot recall seeing her, and I surely would, she sure cleans up real nice,’ he responded, his eyes all but popping from his head.
‘This young lady is dead, son,’ Carson chided. ‘Show a bit of respect.’
‘I’m real sorry to hear that, yes sir, real sorry. I didn’t mean no disrespect. Hell, I didn’t know.’
‘Oh, that’s ok son, don’t mind me. Say, have you got any surveillance cameras around this here establishment?’
‘Surely do, but y’all need to speak to the boss about that. Keeps the monitors in his office out back,’ he replied.
There was a long silence, with Nate just staring mutely at Carson. Carson couldn’t help but wonder if all that muscle mass wasn’t drawing far too much blood away from the lad’s brain.
‘Ok, Nate, can you, you know, take us to your boss then?’
‘Yes Sir, surely I can,’ he said, snapping into life. ‘Follow me!’
They were led into the clubs interior through a corridor, with washroom facilities along one wall, and another door opposite leading into what appeared to be a catering area. The dance hall was spacious, a large bar running the length of the back wall, with an impressively large wall mirror running its length behind the optics. The bar itself was in keeping with the dark blue walls, a dark blue, marble affect surface, but with evenly spaced, rectangular red leather panels along its front, behind bar stools that were all dark leather and polished brass. The lighting was the same as the entrance lobby, but with the lighting suspended higher up in the vaulted ceiling, with an array of different coloured lights and strobes attached to rigging suspended above the dance floor of deeply polished Parkay, a raised platform at one end forming an enclosed DJ booth. A row of table booths ran along a wall adjacent to the bar and carried around along the opposite wall to the bar, broken only by the entrance corridor. The booths were high backed, plush red leather seating around dark blue, marble effect table tops with napkin dispensers and condiments at the back of each booth.
A skinny man in white shirt and black slacks, somewhere in his mid-thirties was taking inventory behind the bar, a dirty blond ponytail running down his back. He looked up as Nate approached the bar.
‘Damnit Nate what you doing back here, you needs to be watching the front. I swear you as dumb as a box of rocks!’
‘Sorry Mr Davis, these here are Feds. They asking about some dead girl.’
‘You fellas got a warrant?’ Davis asked sharply, looking at their badges.
‘I’m agent Winter, this here is agent Jackson. Please excuse our intrusion Mr Davis. Are you the proprietor of this fine-looking establishment, Sir?’
‘Yes I am. Warrants?’ He asked again, unimpressed with Carson’s civility.
‘Mr Davis, we aren’t fixin to search your establishment, or cause you any undue trouble. We’re trying to retrace the last known movements of a young girl, sadly deceased, name of Susan Brown.’ He drew out his phone, showing the display to Davis. ‘Do you recognise this young lady, Sir?’
Carson noted a sudden flicker of anxiety in the man’s features, before he made a sudden U-turn on his previously surly and unwelcoming manner.
‘No, I, I haven’t seen her in a while, she used to be a regular, real shame she’s dead. I’m terribly sorry, agents – it’s been a tiresome day. Maybe some of my staff–,’ he broke off, seeming to think hard for a moment. ‘Hey, Nate, Nate come over here!’ He called after Nate, who was half way back to the reception hall.
‘Yes, Mr Davis, sir?’ He asked sycophantly as he hurried over.
Carson wondered why this behemoth was so intimidated by this reedy little man.
‘Could you kindly take these gentlemen to the VIP room – oh wait, where are my manners. Would you care for any refreshments? On the house, naturally,’ he asked, looking at Carson and Brian.
‘Thank you kindly, but no, we’re just fine,’ Carson replied.
‘Okay, if you could follow Nate through, some of the staff that were in on Monday are on today and starting soon. I’ll send them right on through as soon as they clock in.’
‘Thank you kindly,’ Carson replied, neglecting to say what was on his mind.
He hadn’t mentioned Susan Brown was last seen alive here on Monday to Davis.
‘Say, you a football fan? How do you reckon the Cowboys are gonna finish up this season?’ Quickly changing the subject less Davis notice his trip.
‘I don’t rightly know – more a baseball man myself, and our team sucks!’ He laughed, nervously.
‘OK, then,’ Carson laughed. ‘Be seeing you soon,’ he said, as he turned to follow Brian and Nate.
He led them up through the door into the DJ booth and out through a door at the back.
As they walked, Carson noticed Nate take out his phone, read the display, before hurriedly putting it away, grinning stupidly at Carson as he noticed him watching him.
‘Girlfriend,’ he stammered. ‘Always textin me at work, I tell her not to but hey, what ya gonna do?’ He guffawed awkwardly.
Carson felt a sudden spike of unease. Bad liars always tried way too hard to sell their bullshit.
They stepped down a short set of stairs into a corridor, which was definitely behind the scenes. The walls were exposed breeze-block and painted white, with uncovered pipes and cabling running along the ceiling. They were shown into another room further down the passageway.
It was much smaller than the dance hall, but it was clearly the VIP room. It had polished oak flooring, red and black leather furniture, with unlit red candles atop of a large, dark, polished wooden table in its centre. A private bar ran along the far end of the rectangular room.
‘If y’all wait in here, someone will be with y’all real soon,’ Nate said, before leaving the room, and quickly slamming the door behind him.
‘Hey,’ Carson called out. ‘Hey Nate!’
Carson tried the door.
It was locked.
‘What now, silly young one?’ Brian asked, eyebrow raised. ‘Seen that coming a bloody mile off!’
‘Well, we had to let it play out,’ Carson replied defensively.
‘Oh yeah. Good play!’ Brian said sardonically. ‘Now bloody what?’ Brian said, as they drew their guns.
Before they had fully cleared their holsters, a fire door burst open, and suddenly four big men were in the room wearing black tactical clothing, aiming three pistols and a shotgun at them.
‘Now, you two Limey bastards are coming with us, that’s what!’ The man with the shotgun said.
He was somewhere in his mid-forties, clearly ex-military, but clearly hadn’t been chased around by a physical training instructor any time recently. He was almost definitely on the salad dodging, scoffing down the Big Macs, supersize and extra fries every time diet. The black ponytail gave him a passing resemblance to Steven Segal, which Carson mused, he probably thought made him look like real hot shit.
‘Don’t you know, it’s a crime impersonating federal agents? Consider this a citizen’s arrest,’ he finished, a sinister, crooked smile spreading across his face.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After Brian and Carson were relieved of their weapons and phones, they were cuffed, roughed up some, and then frog marched through the fire door, along another white painted, breeze block corridor. It led on into a large room at the back where all the bar stock was stored, housing stacks and stacks of various barrels, cans, and bottles on pallets. At the back of the room was a roller shutter door, which lay open with a panel van backed up just inside the entrance, its rear doors open. Brian and Carson were roughly shoved inside, then the doors were slammed shut behind them.
If they hadn’t sat down with their backs against the wall pretty sharpish, they would have been thrown down, as the van tore away at speed within seconds.
‘I’ve got to talk to my travel agent,’ Brian grumbled. ‘Always getting these bloody orrible’ package deals.’
‘Yeah, that could have gone better I suppose,’ Carson muttered.
‘Gee, ya think so?’
Carson groaned theatrically.
‘Ok, I fucked up. Are you happy now?’
Carson would have to do the talking, as he could manage a passable American accent. Brian on the other hand, with his heavy London accent, sounded as if he was taking the piss whenever he tried to pull it off. Much to Carson’s amusement.
‘Ah, piss off!’ Brian had muttered the night before after his last attempt, which had sounded like a very bad impersonation of Elvis. Laughing, Carson had closed his eyes and slept fitfully.
Carson’s eyes flitted open, as the opening bars of Lynard Skynard’s Sweet Home Alabama came through the speakers.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes and groaned.
‘Can we play some decent music now?’ He grumbled.
‘What? It’s a classic!’ Brian protested.
‘It’s my turn!’
‘Oh no, it’s your turn when you’re driving. We agreed!’
‘Pull over then.’
‘No chance sunshine. Look, tell you what, let’s see what’s on the local stations eh?’
Carson grunted his assent.
‘Probably more of this redneck shit though,’ he muttered.
‘Philistine,’ Brian retorted as he flicked the radio on.
He flicked through the stations, ignoring Carson’s ‘told ya so’ stare as bars from ‘A country boy can survive’ came through the speakers. He eventually settled on a news station.
‘There, happy now?’
They listened for a few moments, to the most prosaic, banal ramblings of local back country goings on. Carson, who had tuned it out, was reaching for the dial when Brian smacked it away.
‘Hey –’
‘Shh, shut up and listen will ya!’
President Jones has shocked the nation with his sudden and unanticipated demands to Russia, demanding that Russia pulls out of both Syria and the Crimean Peninsula, or face dire consequences, with some sources on the hill saying we are now at DEFCON 3. Five Russian diplomats have been expelled from Washington DC. More to follow.
‘This isn’t good,’ Carson said.
‘No, it bloody ain’t,’ Brian concurred. ‘So, it’s started then. They’re using their ace in the hole over the president.’
‘We need to find the first daughter. And find her soon!’ Carson said, his face lined with concern as he stared out at the rolling highway ahead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hazim Fawzi checked the device one last time. The festival was hours away, and he was disguised as a caterer stocking up a food truck for that night’s events. He also had in a pack rucksack a full Shin Bet uniform, Israel’s internal security service, complete with a Jericho 941 service pistol, and an M4 assault rifle, the upper and lower receivers of the rifle tucked down either side of the clothing to prevent them clinking together.
Fawzi had also been furnished with genuine Shin Bet credentials, identifying him as a serving member of the Shin Bet security service, and would pass muster at a glance. But, as soon as anyone ran it against the database, the identity of the person the card had been issued to, Eli Barak, would instantly be flagged up as being AWOL. Eli had the misfortune to look close enough in appearance and physical build to Fawzi that he had been singled out, and had been snared in a honey trap where he had thought he was onto a sure thing with a very beautiful Israeli woman.
Eli had made the fatal error of allowing the woman, a hired escort being paid more than she could earn in a year of tricking, to tie him to the bed, blindfolded. When said blindfold was removed, Eli quickly realised just how badly he had screwed up. A painful hour of interrogation later, he was dispatched with a suppressed 9mm round between the eyes, before being chopped up and disposed of in the Mediterranean Sea.
Satisfied, Fawzi set the device to detonate at 10PM that night. It had been ingeniously hidden within the trucks fuel tank, linked up wirelessly to the detonator interface concealed within the kitchen space. After the timer was set, he tucked the thin device into a void behind the fridge. The unfortunate real vendor would have no idea it was there. Of Russian design, the explosive was odourless and undetectable by sniffer dogs. It was one of four such large devices which had been set at even intervals in a circular perimeter around the festival. All devices would detonate at the same time, and if the number of attendees were as high as anticipated, the casualties would number in the high thousands. Double, or even triple that of the nine eleven attacks.
Leaving the catering truck, he made his way over to the Marina, casually smoking a cigarette as he walked, the peak of a baseball cap from some American sports team pulled low over his eyes, with dark sunglasses further disguising his face.
He extinguished the cigarette and carefully stubbed it out before binning it, not wanting to be challenged by some job’s worth security guard, before entering the men’s room facilities.
Seeing it was empty, he entered the spacious disabled cubicle, and pulled out the Shin Bet disguise. After fastening up his boots, he put the Jericho in his hip holster, and assembled the M4 carbine. Pulling out a flat packed military daypack within, he stuffed the now empty civilian backpack inside.
Exiting the mens room, Fawzi walked away from the Marina, with the bored countenance of a grunt diligently going through the motions.
The fools. They have no idea, Fawzi thought to himself, smiling inwardly as he strolled away.
BRIAN AND CARSON pulled into the parking lot across the street from the Lantern Room. They stepped out of the car, looking out across the tree lined street at the main entrance.
Foot traffic was light, most of the cities citizens commuting by car. A station wagon full of kids in sports kit drove past, a harassed looking soccer Mom yelling at her charges, while a man in a suit driving a black Chevrolet talked into a cell phone he had pressed to his ear drove in the opposite direction. The distracted soccer Mom nearly veered across the centre line, almost swiping the Chevrolet. She sped off, pointedly ignoring the yelled insults and one finger salutes coming from the driver of the Chevrolet.
‘Charming lot, ain’t they,’ Brian muttered as they crossed the street.
They were wearing dark suits purchased less than an hour ago from a strip mall outside of the city, Carson a charcoal suit, Brian’s an indigo blue. They both carried counterfeit FBI credentials which were convincing imitations of the real deal, but wouldn’t cut mustard with a database check. Each of them had cost a further five hundred dollars, which had been hastily arranged by Bradley’s contacts. Carson had questioned Brian about Bradley’s involvement, saying someone who could source untraceable weapons, cars and dodgy credentials so quickly was surely a shady character?
To which, Brian had told him to shut his gob, that Bradley was a mate and a real stand up bloke, one of the good guys. Even if his methods were at times somewhat less than legal.
‘Remember, let me do the talking,’ Carson said as they crossed the road. ‘This kind of establishment is generally for the younger crowd. Plus you sound like the Greek with the dodgy quiff behind the counter at my local chippy doing his Elvis act whenever you try and sound like a yank.’
‘Oh shut up, you tart!’ Brian replied.
‘Now, now, Grandad.’
‘Your gonna catch an unfortunate one in a moment, ya cheeky sod!’
‘Oh, sorry mate,’ ribbed Carson. ‘Didn’t mean to get you, all shook up!’
As they crossed the road, Brian let out a string of abuse in fluent cockney rhyming slang that Carson couldn’t quite decipher as they approached the main entrance, although he got the gist; a few choice adjectives followed by some dire warning that he was going to get his arse kicked if he didn’t shut his bloody gob. Brian hadn’t been in the best of moods with him to begin with, making it clear every other mile on the way from DC that they’d still be where they were had they kept their heads down, without attracting all the attention and drama Carson had involved them in.
Brian’s mutterings ceased as they entered the club. The reception halls walls were a dark, indigo blue, with the lighting suspended above the floor from lots of small electric lights inside of small, old fashioned looking, rustic oil lantern effect red boxes, suspended at different heights. It was early evening, and as such it was still reasonably quiet. There was a contrasting white recess behind a desk which was clearly a security and reception area, a door marked staff only behind the desk. The lone doorman behind the desk beckoned them over, a large unit of a man in his mid-twenties who was so muscular, that some of his muscles appeared to have muscles of their own. Carson couldn’t help but giggle inwardly at the obvious steroid abuse, the baby-faced head looking tiny in proportion to his neck and shoulders. He had a name badge that read Nate.
‘Gentlemen, I don’t mean no disrespect to y’all, but y’all a little on the old side to be comin up in this club. Yes sir, you lookin like my Granddaddy and all,’ he finished, nodding at Brian.
Before Brian drew out his pistol and started shooting, Carson put a hand on Brian’s shoulder as he drew out his counterfeit FBI badge.
‘I’m special agent Winters, and this here is my colleague, special agent Jackson. We’re trying to track down the last known movements of one Susan Brown. We have reason to believe that she visited this establishment three days ago, mid afternoon, early evening perhaps. Can you recall seeing this woman?’ Carson asked in a convincing, southern accent, holding out a picture from one of her social media accounts on his iPhone display.
‘No sir, I cannot recall seeing her, and I surely would, she sure cleans up real nice,’ he responded, his eyes all but popping from his head.
‘This young lady is dead, son,’ Carson chided. ‘Show a bit of respect.’
‘I’m real sorry to hear that, yes sir, real sorry. I didn’t mean no disrespect. Hell, I didn’t know.’
‘Oh, that’s ok son, don’t mind me. Say, have you got any surveillance cameras around this here establishment?’
‘Surely do, but y’all need to speak to the boss about that. Keeps the monitors in his office out back,’ he replied.
There was a long silence, with Nate just staring mutely at Carson. Carson couldn’t help but wonder if all that muscle mass wasn’t drawing far too much blood away from the lad’s brain.
‘Ok, Nate, can you, you know, take us to your boss then?’
‘Yes Sir, surely I can,’ he said, snapping into life. ‘Follow me!’
They were led into the clubs interior through a corridor, with washroom facilities along one wall, and another door opposite leading into what appeared to be a catering area. The dance hall was spacious, a large bar running the length of the back wall, with an impressively large wall mirror running its length behind the optics. The bar itself was in keeping with the dark blue walls, a dark blue, marble affect surface, but with evenly spaced, rectangular red leather panels along its front, behind bar stools that were all dark leather and polished brass. The lighting was the same as the entrance lobby, but with the lighting suspended higher up in the vaulted ceiling, with an array of different coloured lights and strobes attached to rigging suspended above the dance floor of deeply polished Parkay, a raised platform at one end forming an enclosed DJ booth. A row of table booths ran along a wall adjacent to the bar and carried around along the opposite wall to the bar, broken only by the entrance corridor. The booths were high backed, plush red leather seating around dark blue, marble effect table tops with napkin dispensers and condiments at the back of each booth.
A skinny man in white shirt and black slacks, somewhere in his mid-thirties was taking inventory behind the bar, a dirty blond ponytail running down his back. He looked up as Nate approached the bar.
‘Damnit Nate what you doing back here, you needs to be watching the front. I swear you as dumb as a box of rocks!’
‘Sorry Mr Davis, these here are Feds. They asking about some dead girl.’
‘You fellas got a warrant?’ Davis asked sharply, looking at their badges.
‘I’m agent Winter, this here is agent Jackson. Please excuse our intrusion Mr Davis. Are you the proprietor of this fine-looking establishment, Sir?’
‘Yes I am. Warrants?’ He asked again, unimpressed with Carson’s civility.
‘Mr Davis, we aren’t fixin to search your establishment, or cause you any undue trouble. We’re trying to retrace the last known movements of a young girl, sadly deceased, name of Susan Brown.’ He drew out his phone, showing the display to Davis. ‘Do you recognise this young lady, Sir?’
Carson noted a sudden flicker of anxiety in the man’s features, before he made a sudden U-turn on his previously surly and unwelcoming manner.
‘No, I, I haven’t seen her in a while, she used to be a regular, real shame she’s dead. I’m terribly sorry, agents – it’s been a tiresome day. Maybe some of my staff–,’ he broke off, seeming to think hard for a moment. ‘Hey, Nate, Nate come over here!’ He called after Nate, who was half way back to the reception hall.
‘Yes, Mr Davis, sir?’ He asked sycophantly as he hurried over.
Carson wondered why this behemoth was so intimidated by this reedy little man.
‘Could you kindly take these gentlemen to the VIP room – oh wait, where are my manners. Would you care for any refreshments? On the house, naturally,’ he asked, looking at Carson and Brian.
‘Thank you kindly, but no, we’re just fine,’ Carson replied.
‘Okay, if you could follow Nate through, some of the staff that were in on Monday are on today and starting soon. I’ll send them right on through as soon as they clock in.’
‘Thank you kindly,’ Carson replied, neglecting to say what was on his mind.
He hadn’t mentioned Susan Brown was last seen alive here on Monday to Davis.
‘Say, you a football fan? How do you reckon the Cowboys are gonna finish up this season?’ Quickly changing the subject less Davis notice his trip.
‘I don’t rightly know – more a baseball man myself, and our team sucks!’ He laughed, nervously.
‘OK, then,’ Carson laughed. ‘Be seeing you soon,’ he said, as he turned to follow Brian and Nate.
He led them up through the door into the DJ booth and out through a door at the back.
As they walked, Carson noticed Nate take out his phone, read the display, before hurriedly putting it away, grinning stupidly at Carson as he noticed him watching him.
‘Girlfriend,’ he stammered. ‘Always textin me at work, I tell her not to but hey, what ya gonna do?’ He guffawed awkwardly.
Carson felt a sudden spike of unease. Bad liars always tried way too hard to sell their bullshit.
They stepped down a short set of stairs into a corridor, which was definitely behind the scenes. The walls were exposed breeze-block and painted white, with uncovered pipes and cabling running along the ceiling. They were shown into another room further down the passageway.
It was much smaller than the dance hall, but it was clearly the VIP room. It had polished oak flooring, red and black leather furniture, with unlit red candles atop of a large, dark, polished wooden table in its centre. A private bar ran along the far end of the rectangular room.
‘If y’all wait in here, someone will be with y’all real soon,’ Nate said, before leaving the room, and quickly slamming the door behind him.
‘Hey,’ Carson called out. ‘Hey Nate!’
Carson tried the door.
It was locked.
‘What now, silly young one?’ Brian asked, eyebrow raised. ‘Seen that coming a bloody mile off!’
‘Well, we had to let it play out,’ Carson replied defensively.
‘Oh yeah. Good play!’ Brian said sardonically. ‘Now bloody what?’ Brian said, as they drew their guns.
Before they had fully cleared their holsters, a fire door burst open, and suddenly four big men were in the room wearing black tactical clothing, aiming three pistols and a shotgun at them.
‘Now, you two Limey bastards are coming with us, that’s what!’ The man with the shotgun said.
He was somewhere in his mid-forties, clearly ex-military, but clearly hadn’t been chased around by a physical training instructor any time recently. He was almost definitely on the salad dodging, scoffing down the Big Macs, supersize and extra fries every time diet. The black ponytail gave him a passing resemblance to Steven Segal, which Carson mused, he probably thought made him look like real hot shit.
‘Don’t you know, it’s a crime impersonating federal agents? Consider this a citizen’s arrest,’ he finished, a sinister, crooked smile spreading across his face.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After Brian and Carson were relieved of their weapons and phones, they were cuffed, roughed up some, and then frog marched through the fire door, along another white painted, breeze block corridor. It led on into a large room at the back where all the bar stock was stored, housing stacks and stacks of various barrels, cans, and bottles on pallets. At the back of the room was a roller shutter door, which lay open with a panel van backed up just inside the entrance, its rear doors open. Brian and Carson were roughly shoved inside, then the doors were slammed shut behind them.
If they hadn’t sat down with their backs against the wall pretty sharpish, they would have been thrown down, as the van tore away at speed within seconds.
‘I’ve got to talk to my travel agent,’ Brian grumbled. ‘Always getting these bloody orrible’ package deals.’
‘Yeah, that could have gone better I suppose,’ Carson muttered.
‘Gee, ya think so?’
Carson groaned theatrically.
‘Ok, I fucked up. Are you happy now?’
