Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(74)

He clapped his hands together. To me, he said, “Now, you relax. Recall I once made you an offer? We’ll tell you when we’re ready for you, man.”

I took Angel’s hand. We sat there, without talking. McAvoy was maybe six feet off. After a time I realized he was staring at me. Just sitting there, his thin legs stretched in front of him, and drilling holes into my skull.

I don’t think that he even blinked.

So finally, I met his stare.

He did not look good. His face was thin and undernourished, rock star cheekbones jutting in a pale, unhealthy skin.

“You lied to me.”

I said, “I didn’t lie.”

“You’re not control.”

“No.”

He said, “So how do you intend to get me home?”



Shwetz threw his phone across the room, just missing one of Ballington’s guys. He lumbered to his feet. He hunched up, hid his face. His striped shirt stretched across his shoulders, wet with sweat. His back heaved, tensed, and fell.

A croupier retrieved his phone. He took it, and, his moment’s fury over, went back to the desk. He held the phone, lifted his eyes towards the ceiling. Then he punched another number.

I said to McAvoy, “I was at GH9.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“I heard you died there.”

“Uh-huh.” He had what might have been a herpes in the corner of his mouth. He pressed his knuckles to it.

Then he said, “I want a cigarette.”

“Can’t help you there.”

“Anyone?” he called out. “Cigarette?”

I’d seen him only briefly on the CCTV but he’d looked cocky, self-assured. Now he whined.

“Cigarette . . . ? Please?”

One of the guards passed him a smoke and lit it. McAvoy sucked greedily. He shut his eyes.

I said, “So tell me how you got out.”

“Out?”

“GH9. You survived it. Tell me how.”

“Best way there is.” He lolled his head back, smiling with a new calm. “I wasn’t there,” he said.

“You swiped in. There’s a record of your ID.”

The cigarette was going quickly.

I said, “Tell me. I’m interested.”

“Can’t work it out? Oh, too bad. Too fucking bad.”

I felt a little nag of anger in me, but I pushed it down, tried to act friendly.

“One week on, and one week off,” he said. “But say it’s not that week you want off. Say you want another week instead.”

“Spell it out for me.”

“We swapped badges. Clever clever clever, weren’t we? You have my badge, I’ll have yours. You couldn’t guess that? Really?”

“So you’d be there—what? Two, three weeks, sometimes?”

He nodded.

Christ, I thought. No wonder you’re nuts.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You were at GH9. And you were skimming. Right?”

He didn’t answer.

“Just you? Or others, too?”

He said nothing.

“Well,” I told him, “it’s impressive, anyway. Most people steal office supplies. You went for the big one.” I was looking right at him. “You stole the gods.”

Silence.

“So,” I said, “indulge me. I’m wondering how you did it. And why.”

His cigarette was down to the filter now. He took a final drag, then ground it out under his shoe.

“You weren’t at GH9.”

“Actually, I was.”

“You’d know then.”

“Like I say—indulge me, eh?”

“If you were there, you’d know what it was like. No checks on anything. I could take a flask, siphon what I wanted. I took stuff out hidden in a laundry bag. That’s how slack it was. No security.”

“There was plenty, stopping people getting in, believe me.”

“None going out.”

“Christ. So—I suppose you got a stack of stuff, right? Stashed somewhere?”

There was a little, tight-lipped grin came on his face then, and I saw that cockiness once more; the flip look and the offhand pose, the would-be rock star cool.

I hated that. The arrogance. The ego of it all.

I said, “You stole them. Bits of gods, right?”

The grin was still there.

I said, “You’re kind of crap, though, when it comes to setting up, aren’t you? Containing them? All that?”

He looked away. He called out for another cigarette, but this time nobody was giving.

“You set ’em up, put ’em in place, then what? Like this? This is a mess. And Ballington’s,” I said. “Another mess.” I took a breath. “And the old lady. New York? Made yourself some money out of that, I think. You know what happened to her?”

“What old lady?”

“De Vere, the name was. Melody Duchess. Difficult. Cantankerous. She died, you know.”

“So?”

“She died as a result of what you sold her.”

“Not my fault.”

“I was there, you shit.”

Eddie stepped between us. “Guys, guys—”