True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(47)
The elevator opened on a wide, long floor filled with dozens of empty cubicles and lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. Ian and Ronnie had an unobstructed view from Glitter Gulch to the end of the Strip, where the Luxor pyramid shot a spotlight into outer space, beckoning any extraterrestrials who enjoyed blackjack, strippers, and all-you-can-eat buffets.
The lights were on and both men were keenly aware of the surveillance cameras mounted on the pillars around the room. The men had to assume that the guard in the lobby was watching them, out of boredom if nothing else, so they had to be careful not to do anything suspicious.
Ian went to Pessel’s cubicle, sat down in front of the computer, and entered the operative’s user ID and password. He was just a weary agent filing a late report. While he did that, Ronnie went to a window facing Glitter Gulch, positioning his body so the nearest camera wouldn’t catch what he was about to do. He took a Maglite out of his pocket and flashed it twice at the Main Street Casino. Margo flashed back twice in return from the parking lot. Now she knew they’d safely entered the building and they knew that she had their backs.
Ian followed the instructions that Pessel had given him and called up the employee list. The names were linked to individual pages with the employee’s photo, short biography, and contact information. He started with the senior executives, calling up each entry until he saw Bob’s face. It didn’t take long. Ian was on his fourth name when Bob’s picture came up. He felt an immediate jolt of recognition. Bob’s real name was Wilton Cross, and based on his brief biography, Ian knew they wouldn’t have found out his identity if they hadn’t come here. Cross was a man who lived in the shadows, who stayed out of the public eye and didn’t exist in Google search results. He was also a man who crashed planes into cities and sent out assassins to kill novelists.
“I’ve got him,” Ian said. “His name, his phone numbers, everything we need.”
Ronnie came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. “Let’s see the bastard.”
“Meet Wilton Cross. He works in Blackthorn’s Bethesda, Maryland, headquarters as their global chief of covert operations. He spent two decades doing the same dirty job for the CIA.”
“I told you the CIA and Blackthorn were the same thing.”
Ian wanted a picture of Cross. He tried to print out the web page but his access to do so was denied. “There’s a crucial difference. Blackthorn is a business. They didn’t crash that plane into Waikiki for ideology or patriotism. They did it for their bottom line.”
“World domination.”
“The almighty dollar.” Ian tried to do a screen grab but that was also denied. He didn’t have a phone to take a photo of Cross’ picture on the screen so he settled for writing his phone numbers and address on a piece of paper and then logged out of the computer. “There’s a moneymaking angle to this somewhere. I don’t know what it is but it may be the key to taking this bastard down. Or there might be another way.”
“I have the other way.” Ronnie opened his jacket to show Ian the gun holstered on his belt. “We drive to Bethesda, walk up behind him, and shoot him in the back of the head.”
“That would be murder.”
“He deserves it. The guy is responsible for killing hundreds of people.”
“But if we execute Cross, we won’t be able to prove that and we’ll go to prison.”
“You’re a writer,” Ronnie said. “You’ll come up with something.”
Ian hoped so, because at the moment he had no plan and nothing to go on except a name and a face.
“Let’s get out of here.” Ian got up from his seat and the two men went to the elevator. It opened immediately.
They took the elevator down to the parking garage and got back into the Suburban and Ronnie drove them out, flashing his headlights twice as they emerged as a signal to Margo. As they headed away, Ian lowered his window and adjusted the side-view mirror so he could see the building receding behind them.
They were a block away when the rocket-propelled grenade streaked from the Main Street Station Casino parking lot and slammed into the fifth floor of the Blackthorn building, the explosion blowing out the windows in a belch of fire and raining glass onto the empty street below.
Ian and Ronnie shared a smile.
“That’ll get their attention,” Ian said.
“I’m so glad you came to visit,” Ronnie said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ronnie drove two miles north to a strip club that was famous for having totally nude dancers of both sexes. Ian heard that it was run by a criminal defense attorney who’d taken the club as payment for defending the owner, who was serving a life sentence for murdering the previous owner, who, in turn, was rumored to have killed the owner who’d preceded him. That was Las Vegas. The club was located between a motel and a pawnshop, both also owned by the attorney, both also taken in lieu of fees from clients in cases he ultimately lost. That was Las Vegas, too. In a decade, the attorney might own the entire city.
Ronnie pulled in to the strip club parking lot and found a spot in the back, near the motel. Ian and Ronnie got out. A moment later, Margo arrived in the station wagon and nearly jumped out of the car with excitement.
“What else can we blow up?” she asked.
“That’s the problem with using explosives,” Ronnie said. “It’s like jerking off, eating potato chips, or watching Match Game. Once you start, you can’t stop.”