Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(72)

“Fucking mess,” I said.

“They’ll have it back to normal by tomorrow,” Silverman said.

“I am so comforted by that.”

My feet squelched in the sodden carpet.

Silverman seized my arm. He pointed. “’Scuse me. I need a shot of this—”

He ran a few paces, dropped on one knee, raised the camera.

I followed his direction with my eyes.

A small but regal-looking group was now making its way between the blacked-out slot machines. At their head I saw a shortish, strutting figure in a white suit. Dim light left his hair a deep shade of maroon, and he gestured furiously, issuing orders right and left. Runners came and went. Others pressed around. As he walked, a makeup woman deftly stepped ahead of him to add a little blusher to his cheeks, expertly dab his nose.

He marched right up to Silverman. He stood scarcely a yard away, the camera angled up at him. He understood instinctively that such a shot would make him seem a giant, a colossus, striding through the world. He raised his arms, opened his mouth, ready to make some rousing, thunderous speech.

Then he saw McAvoy.

His brow creased up. His mouth worked. His arms came down. He pointed, and his lips moved, but he couldn’t find the words. “You—” he said.

His index finger wagged like a baton, beating on the air with vicious, angry force.

“You little shit.”

Edward Ballington had come to town.





Chapter 57

The Bug




“Get the lights on. I want full lights here. Where’s the tech crew?”

His head was back, his shoulders swung. He swaggered through the wreckage like an emperor.

Behind him lay a trail of sodden footprints, silver with reflected light, fading as the carpet pile eased back into shape.

“That man.” He pointed. “Have him clean the bar. Get this place working. I want everything—everything working. How many staff are still here?”

No one answered. He grabbed the nearest of his entourage, seized him by his shirtfront and almost pulled him off his feet.

“How many?”

“I can—I can check, sir.”

“Good. You fucking check for me, all right? You fucking do that.”

Still the man hesitated. It was barely a second; but Ballington thrust his head forward, till they were nose to nose.

“Run, you jackass!”

Two yards on, we came upon our first real casualty.

He lay, curled up, half under the blackjack table, as if he had wedged himself in there to hide. His hair was gray, cut short; he wore a silk shirt and slim-cut jeans. There was blood smeared on his face and clotted in his hair. As we approached he moved one arm, but couldn’t raise it, and it flopped down on his belly. A moan came from his lips.

And Ballington stopped dead.

He had been talking, but he broke off, mid-sentence, staring at this figure, folded up there like a broken doll.

I genuinely thought he looked confused. As if he’d never once imagined people might be hurt, or even killed in the attack.

He waved away his underlings, advancing cautiously. He squatted on his heels, leaned over, inspecting the man’s damaged face. Then, with one hand, he started picking through his bloody hair, hissing and tutting to himself, as if examining his monthly balance sheet.

He uncovered the wound. He pressed a finger to it, and the man shivered. One foot began to kick. His breathing became rapid, harsh and shallow.

There was nothing cruel about it. He seemed merely curious, to come upon a thing he hadn’t seen before. He pressed his finger to the wound, withdrew it; sniffed at his hand. Then he wiped it on the carpet and stood up.

“Get this out of here,” he said.

His aides swapped glances.

Someone, braver than the rest, said, “Hospital . . . ?”

Ballington wrinkled up his nose. “Hospital. Get rid of it!”

A flurry of activity began. A figure in civilian clothes—Ballington’s doctor, I presumed—came racing up. Ballington gave rapid orders. “I want the finest medical facility in town. Whatever it costs. Everything will be paid for. Whatever this man needs.”

He was no longer looking at the injured man.

“I want to know his name. I want to know where he goes. How long it takes to get there. You will keep me informed to his state of health, is that clear?”

He sounded angry, as if the man’s injury—his whole presence there—were some kind of affront. But he shook himself. He glanced around, looking for props, then posed in the arch of a restaurant doorway, stretching out his arms. “This historic day,” he said. “This—” He brought his hands together, almost as in prayer. “This honorable day—”

Silverman still had his camera on the injured man. One of Ballington’s staff went over and pulled him away. The man looked familiar. He was dressed for Vegas: bright blue shorts, Spider-Man T-shirt, Yankees cap. The somber face just didn’t fit the party clothes. It was Captain Ghirelli, Ballington’s security: the man who couldn’t smile.

To Silverman, I said, “You’re working for this guy?”

“It’s a commission, Chris.”

“For Ballington? You took his money?”

“Not exactly . . .”

“You took his money and you told him where we were.”