Lies (The David Chance Series Book 3) Read online

  Her purse buzzed again. This was it. They were in position. Her heel drove into the lush red carpet, her body lurched to the side. With a few stumbles she came near the wall and caught it with her hand. This was the tricky part. He was sure to have said something, but she had no way of knowing so she pretended to be fighting the liquor and turned in his direction with a bright smile.

  As she had hoped, he was standing close with an expectant look on his face.

  "I caught my heel on the rug," she said, swaying. "I must have had— one too many."

  His eyes were studying her now, possibly wondering if she was old enough to be drinking. Hopefully the generous amount of foundation she’d put on would give the appearance of age. It didn't matter. If he carded her, it would only increase her chances of success. While fumbling for her fake I.D. she would have plenty of time to get the job done. Her hand reached out and clutched his lapel, as though steadying herself. He offered no resistance.

  Good.

  His lips fluttered the words, "Are you okay?"

  She shifted to make sure she could catch each sentence, but this was a delicate matter. The secret to pick pocketing is controlling where a mark is looking. If she kept him looking at her eyes or her face, he would not move as she needed him to.

  She let out a light calculated breath to allow him to smell the alcohol, but not too much. It was important to give the impression that she was in no condition to do anything requiring dexterity, while still maintaining her sex appeal. If her calculations were correct, her perfume and body spray would be just enough to overpower the alcohol, and she hoped her loose-fitting blouse would make his imagination run wild. Her tactics seemed to be working; his face had the dopey expression all men have when they have been conquered. This gave her a much-needed jolt of confidence.

  Everything was set.

  She slid two fingers along his shirt toward his badge while her other hand swung up loosely and thumped on his chest. This would draw his attention while she deftly lifted the ID and swooped it down into her purse. "I really should watch what I drink," she said, bringing her eyes up to meet his.

  His eyes snapped up from examining her body, just as she’d planned.

  She didn't want him to be aware of how long she kept her hand in her purse, swiping his card down the credit card peripheral attached to the top of her hacked smartphone. One good swipe was all she needed to capture his data. She gave him another smile, forcing the warmth of it to spread up into her eyes. "You're so muscular. Do you cross-train?" Her hand slid across his chest and down his arm, purposefully keeping his eyes away from where the badge had been removed.

  "I play a lot of racquetball," he boasted.

  The art of picking pockets, according to the video she’d acquired from a hacker friend's private collection, was a lot like playing the piano. Both hands had entirely different roles to play, but by writing the notes in a line, one on top of the other, the victim’s mind could be tricked into believing they were doing one thing instead of two. For her, it was more like a dance. One hand rubbed and squeezed the man's biceps, while the other did what she had spent days training it to do, hold the card with two fingers, lay two more on the face of the smartphone, seat the card, and swipe. It took two swipes before the phone vibrated to let her know she had been successful.

  In a fluid motion she put one corner of the card in the notch between her pointer and middle finger, withdrew her hand from her purse, palm up, so the card would not be visible to the guard's eyes, and brought it up to join the other in squeezing the man's biceps. The badge stuck out conspicuously on the backside of his arm now, but she had turned him slightly so no one would see.

  She slid her left hand down to his wrist and pulled his arm up and out, while her other hand sneaked back to the other side of his body and rested on his hip. Once again, the security card was exposed, but the man's arm dangled at his side, obscuring it from anyone's view.

  "You have such long arms. I bet you don't miss anything." She wobbled her head and looked up at him. His expression had changed slightly, exposing a hint of suspicion.

  She brought his arm down and flipped open his suit jacket, sliding up from his waist. "Do you carry a gun?"

  This elicited a response, as she knew it would. All of his attention was on her left hand now—and not on her right—which came up and pinned his security card back on his pocket.

  He pulled back slightly as she let her right hand slide down his chest.

  His lips fluttered with words. "You know, you speak pretty clear for someone who’s had one too many."

  She’d hoped that would go unnoticed. It had not passed her inspection, while making the plan, that drunk people had a slur to their words. But she’d never had training on how to mimic that type of speech impediment. It was all she could do to speak without sounding deaf. "I'm not drunk," she said defensively.

  He checked for his gun, badge, and possibly his keys. She wasn't sure about the last. His eyes flicked up. "What are you up to?" He was onto her. But that was expected. The gun line was meant to put him on the defensive. His response was textbook.

  "What do you mean?" She attempted to look aghast. "Do you think I’m trying to pick you up? You think I’m a prostitute?!"

  He continued to check himself over, but stopped quickly to shoot her a disgusted look. "N- no!" he stammered. "It's just...You know what I mean!"

  The prostitute question was her detaching line. The job was done. The goal of a grifter is to always keep the target off balance and to control the conversation. The security agent wanted to interrogate her because she had raised his suspicions, but the prostitute line would make him back down. The last thing he wanted to do was mistakenly call a guest of the casino a call girl. She flipped her curly blond locks out of her face and stumbled away. "Pig!" she said, over her shoulder.

  This was the moment she feared most. With eye-to-lip contact broken, she had no idea what he was saying to her, if anything at all. He could be watching her silently as she wobbled away, or he could be demanding that she return and explain herself. Her heart pounded harder with each step, expecting at any second that his hand would grip her arm and spin her around. Or, worse, he could be calling in the rest of the team to circle around her. She headed toward the double doors that led to the in-house restaurant but didn’t make it there. A hand tapped her on the shoulder—instead of taking her by the arm—though it was no less jarring to her nervous system. She drew her purse in defensively and turned.

  The security agent was still behind her, but it was not he who had tapped her. He wasn't even looking at her. Instead, here stood a short man in a Bermuda shirt, tan dress shorts and sandals.

  "Yes?" she said, confused.

  The man's lips moved slowly. "Did you think you could hide from me in this house of sin?"

  Her eyes darted left and right. "Ah- sorry. You must have the wrong person."

  "Impressive, what you did back there," he said, displaying a creepy grin.

  He knew? Was he a con artist looking to profit from what he saw? If so, he was in for a sad awakening. "Look. I don't know what you think you saw," she said, shoving a finger at him, "but I have friends, and they’re watching."

  He deflected her threat with another even more indifferent smile. "When did you become so good with people?"

  The implication of the question ran a chill through her. She’d played the security guard flawlessly. How could he know about her lack of socialization?

  "I don't know what your game is, but I'm not interested," she said, starting for the doors again. If he followed her into the restaurant and continued to bother her, she could have him removed as a stalker.

  A hand caught her wrist and she pulled free with a jerk. The man came around. "It's not going to do me any good to talk to your back now, is it?"

  A whisper exploded from her lips. "Who are you?"

  He tapped the name tag on his chest. It said, Jackson.

  Her throat constricted.

  W
as he here? Had Jakson found her? She scanned the room to see if anyone was looking their way, but her eyes were drawn back to the tag. Why was the name misspelled? "Where is he?" she whispered. "Is he watching us now?"

  Again the man ignored her words and pressed with his own question. "Why did you run, Jillian? Have we not treated you well?"

  "Treated me... You tried to kill me, and my mother!"

  He looked genuinely shocked. "Why, Jillian. Why would you think such a thing?"

  She looked at his neck to see if he had a wire coming down from his ear. "Is Jakson listening to us?"

  "To every word," he said smugly.

  Her eyes scanned the room as she spoke to the air, to Jakson. "I saw you and your goons get out of the black car. I saw you coming for us." She looked back at the man’s face.

  "Yes. We were coming for you, but not to hurt you."

  "Don't give me that. I read your lips from across the street!"

  "What did I say that made you think I would cause you harm after so many years of protecting you?"

  "‘Make it clean, make it quick.’ I'm not stupid. I knew what you were coming to do."

  "From that you assumed I had come to kill you?"

  "With the way things were going," she said, through gritted teeth, "I didn't know what to think. You seemed to have lost your moral compass."

  "Jillian, as you are well aware, we have a job to do. And sometimes that job requires us to make tough choices, choices that aren't always pleasant."

  "Whose choice was it to burn my house to the ground?" she hissed. "Who had to make that unpleasant choice?!"

  "It was necessary. But had you not jumped to conclusions, I would have explained it to you."

  Once again she looked at the man's ear. There didn't appear to be any communications device. And even if there was, how was he communicating Jakson's answers so quickly? In a creepy way, his lips even moved like Jakson's. It wasn't the first time she’d noticed those signature lip curls on other men. On at least two other occasions she remembered being approached by messengers from Jakson and seen that same tight press and elongated stretch on the letter e. She might have thought it was her imagination if she were anyone else, but her mind easily replayed each incident as clearly as if they were happening at the same time, right next to each other.

  "I want to talk to Jakson. Where is he?"

  "I'm with your mother," he said, curling his mouth into a wry smile.

  The room expanded behind him as his words burrowed into her heart. He was upstairs? In their suite?

  "N- oh no..." She started moving backward. Would he hurt her? So much had happened, there was no telling what he would do. There was one thing she knew for certain, Jakson was a radical zealot. If he believed she was his enemy now, he wouldn't hesitate to kill her mother.

  She turned and broke into a run for the elevator.

  Chapter 3

  Self preservation, more than anything else, led Jon Blake to follow the voices down three streets, across two parking lots, and up to the side of a tall hotel. How could he not follow them? Whether their intentions were good or evil, it didn't matter. He had finally decided to go by the old adage: Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.

  The hotel windows glowed with varying shades of amber as the rising moon cast a shade of blue down the outside wall and into the murky green hedges that encircled the base, making the massive structure look almost foreboding. A street lamp started a low hum as the light slowly came to life. It would be dark soon.

  "This will do nicely," said one of the voices.

  Jon looked up. For what? he thought.

  "You'll see."

  Jon stuffed the tips of his fingers in his jeans and attempted to look less suspicious than he felt. There were a few people here and there throughout the darkening parking lot, but no one paid any attention to him.

  "See the red car with the black bumper sticker by the side door?"

  Jon nodded.

  "Go stand behind it."

  He did as they commanded.

  After several conspicuous minutes of loitering, the voices issued another command. "Walk to the door and hold it for this couple as they come out. And Jon..." they said with a slight pause.

  Yes?

  "Try to not look so sullen."

  He walked over just in time for the man to open the door, caught the door handle for him, and moved to allow them to pass. They both smiled thankfully, and he returned their smiles with a hesitant one of his own.

  "Good. Now step inside."

  He slipped in and let the door close behind him. Why did you bring me to a hotel?

  "You will see."

  His heart pounded as he walked down the empty hallway past a workout room and a door marked POOL. Why was he so nervous? It wasn't like he had done anything wrong—except sneak in. The worst they could do was ask him to leave.

  "Take the elevator to the 4th floor," said a slow voice with a southern drawl.

  He did as instructed.

  What am I looking for? he thought.

  "Four twenty-six," said a voice.

  He followed the hall nearly to the end and stopped in front of a door marked 426. His eyes darted up and down the hallway.

  "Stop it," said a male voice.

  What?

  "Stop looking around like a criminal."

  His eyes shot to the ground.

  "Be confident, like you belong here. We’ll do the rest."

  The rest of what?

  "Knock."

  Why? Who is in there?

  "This will go smoother if you obey."

  But I want to know what I'm getting myself into.

  "Just knock."

  He felt the urge to look up and down the hallway again, but resisted. Okay, he thought, we'll do it your way. For now. He reached out and knocked.

  A moment passed. Then the latch clicked and the door pulled in. In the doorway stood the most beautiful Italian woman Jon had ever seen. She was a few years older than him, shorter, and dressed in a sequined evening gown that shimmered when she moved. "Yes?" she said, tilting her head, letting her dark hair swoop behind her neck.

  "Repeat what we say," said the voices.

  He nodded internally.

  "Bjorn sent me," said a voice.

  He repeated it.

  "You're early, hun," said the woman.

  "Will that be a problem?" said another voice.

  He parroted the phrase.

  She opened the door and gave him access to the room. "You're the client."

  Jon sensed a change with the voices. His nervousness, and desperate attention to their instructions, had given them strength. They were no longer coming to him as voices, but as pure thoughts. The thoughts urged him to walk in and stand near the bed. Not wanting to make a mistake he gave in to the compulsion.

  "Do you have my clothes?" said his own voice, naturally, as if it was his decision to pose the question. Their control didn't feel imposing but rather an extension of himself. The union was so close he could feel the personality of the speaker, as though he were him. Was this what possession felt like? It wasn't at all creepy, like in the movies.

  "Yes," said the dark-skinned beauty. She took a suit bag from the clothes hanger by the door and laid it out on the bed. "You want me to watch?"

  The boldness of her statement took him by surprise. "No," he said, abruptly, but the ghostly presence was quick to add the words, "Freshen up," along with a short wry smile.

  The woman's full lips puckered slightly, and her eyes smoldered. "Let me know when you're done," she said, turning and strolling into the bathroom.

  What am I doing here? thought Jon, with more panic than he intended to reveal.

  "What does man desire? Sex, money, power? We are giving you your desires."

  I don't want this!

  "Do you not find her attractive?"

  Is she an escort?

  "She will be anything you want her to be."

  I don't want her to be anyth
ing!

  "Does the fact that she is an escort alter her appeal?"

  Yes! he thought, amazed that he needed to explain that fact.

  "Then we shall find someone more suitable. But for now, she is for your arm."

  What?

  "Where we are sending you, you cannot go alone. She will give you the edge you'll need. Now get dressed."

  He looked down at the suit bag draped on the bed. Where are you sending me?

  "To make a little money—and have some fun."

  I can live with that, he thought, unzipping the bag. He took a black suit out. It wasn't quite a tux, but it was close.

  Why is she holding a suit for the man she is supposed to be meeting? he thought. Wouldn't he come in a suit of his own?

  "His wife would ask too many questions. Like you’re doing right now," said a snide male voice. "Time is short. Get dressed."

  He stripped down, sheepishly aware that there was a good chance they were watching. But if that was the case, hadn't they already seen everything? The thought made his skin crawl. How long had they been watching him? How far back did their influence go?

  He slid the suit on then transferred the contents of his pockets from his old pants to the new ones, a small wad of hundred dollar bills and a debit card. He paused momentarily and looked at the card. It seemed unfathomable that he’d only managed to retain thirty thousand of the more than two million that was in the briefcase he had plundered. And he wouldn't even have been able to save that if he hadn't stuffed three stacks into his clothes in case things went south, which they did. If only he had known, he could have salvaged more.