Chapter 36

It was over an hour before the Judge and Mr. No-Name emerged, and when they did, they looked no less terrified than they did when they went in. The Judge was jotting down notes, and Mr. No-Name was giving cryptic instructions over his special phone, without listening. Whoever was on the other end was a doer, or responder, not a leader.

Winnie and I had realized that whatever was going on was so bad that we needed to make immediate arrangements to move Regina back to Branson, and make sure our family was safe no matter what happened. Winnie called a private security contractor, who used to work for the federal government, and inquired as to their ability to take us on as a client, right now. They haggled, but it was clear from the beginning of the call, that they would provide us what we needed, and do it within hours, not days.

When she was finished with the call Winnie said, "We need to be extremely security conscious from now on. The people I called do odd jobs for the government, and many of those are jobs you don't report, or keep files about. It's going to be expensive, but being alive and spending money is far better than being rich and dead."

She pointed at my leg and said, "We can't take any more chances, and if things are as ... complicated as they look, we'll need everything we can buy, beg, or steal, before it's over." Winnie had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things.

We worked on getting our pilots and a small security detail together to take Regina home, and by the time her trip was arranged, I'd asked Winnie to go with her to handle getting her introduced and settled. She agreed, but only when I promised her that the plane would bring her back in two days. With Regina safe, I could concentrate on how to get this thing behind me, and get home to my life, still breathing, and in one piece.

Edward and Winnie conferred, and they decided to use the helicopter that brought us the Judge, to get to the jet. Judge Harley was happy to let us use it, because it made things look normal. Having two girls hop a ride to the airport is the kind of thing super rich people do, and it would take attention from our other mission.

Once Winnie and Regina were airborne, the Judge looked at me and said, "Are you up to taking a little side trip to the estate where we captured the Russian bosses?"

I smiled. It might have been an evil smile, because I was SO ready to do a little damage to the people who shot me. "Oh, yeah," I said. "Let's rock and roll."

The Judge saw my look and correctly guessed the rage that was building in me to avenge my attack. He nodded to Mr. No-Name and said, "Let's put this thing on "go" and see if we can kill a bunch of Russian scum, before Winnie comes back."

Mr. No-Name took me to the secure room and gave me the details of the immediate mission. Because I was 'known' as a rich playboy, who ran around with sexy blondes and underage beauties, I could pretty much just walk up to a mansion where a party was underway, and expect to be admitted. This particular mansion was a twin to the one where our men had hit the jackpot a week ago, and the attendees were even more important to take down than the others.

They wouldn't see us coming, because they were having some kind of rich people party. A house full of hookers, drugs, expensive liquor, and the odd gay-boy, were going to keep them distracted. I would wear a very cool, secret-agent-set of camera glasses, and Mr. No-Name and his band of happy killers, could figure out where to go, who to hit, and what to take, well before they entered.

The Judge put the mission on for ten that night, so I'd walk in fashionably late and well after the vodka had done its job. All I had to do was wander from room to room, chat up everybody, give the office a chance to identify partiers from bad boys, and see what rooms appeared to be off limits. The squad would handle the rest ... theoretically.

With little to do in the meantime, I had a good meal and took a nap ... alone ... which was no fun at all. It'd only been an hour and I was already lonely.

What A Wuss!

Mr. No-Name was deep in conversation with various parties by special phone, and the Judge was on a never ending conference call with his intel people, trying to pin down the where-a-bouts of specific targets. It looked like I was going to a party and giving everyone at home a bird's eye view of the festivities.

About seven, I felt the tension building inside me, so I took a long, hot shower, listened to some of my favorite music, and concentrated on photos of the targets, so I wouldn't react when I came face to face with them. Edward was all over the boat, checking listening devices, motion detectors, radio wave interrupting devices, and a host of other things.

When Colleen called to tell me she missed me, I nearly jumped ship and went home. Instead I chatted with her, Beth Ann, and Rebecca, got caught up on all the doings in Branson, and allowed their voices to center me. Good, bad, or ugly, I was going to do what they asked me to do, and take revenge on the people who shot me.

"Carl, we have a special chip implanted in your eyeglasses. We know your prescription, and had this made well in advance, in case we needed to press you into service in an unusual way," the Judge was screaming at someone on the phone, while Mr. No-Name was showing me how my glasses worked.

"The lenses over your eyes act as a reflector as much as they allow light waves in so you can see. As light is reflected on your lenses, the chip records an exact image of what you see and transmits it to our people in the states. There is zero chance of anyone discovering what you have because there is no circuitry. The chip does everything, and the electricity that your body gives off powers the glasses. As long as you are alive and wearing them, they have power." We talked while I tried them out, and Mr. No-Name got feedback from their intel people. It seemed to work perfectly, but, just in case, they fitted me with a self-activating locator on the off chance everything goes to hell at once, and I need them to pull me out.

With that done, I dressed and followed the incredibly detailed directions to the fake chalet, on top of the high hill, with the REALLY big fence, and lots of guards.

There were lots of guards, but not lots of smarts.

My 'borrowed' Bentley fit in so well, they didn't so much as glance at me, so busy were they staring at the bright work. I motored slowly up the long drive and parked at the end of a long row, where there would be no room to park another car and accidentally block me in.

When it was time to leave, it might need to be done in a hurry. Another car was conveniently placed down the hill, in some bushes, in case of emergency.

After shutting down the Bentley and locking it, I sauntered casually into the tacky mansion. As I entered, another clot of guards simply stood aside and let me pass. Rather than react, I never gave them a glance and walked toward the noise and music.

'Someone has good taste in hookers, ' I thought as I entered the great room. It was about fifty by eighty, and lightly crowded with a mix of locals and foreigners. Directly across from me, on a temporary stage, was a dance band busy entertaining the lackluster group.

The scene was reminiscent of the mansion where we put down the bad guy, before heading over here. These people acted like they were invited to this party out of the phone book. I couldn't detect relationships, family connections, familial synergy, or anything to make me believe these people had anything in common.

If not, then why not?

The host was off to one side holding forth on bearer bonds, while surrounded by several flunkies, two obvious hookers, and a couple of stock broker types, who looked as if talking about quick profits was the same as experiencing magnificent sex. Every party has these types, and our Russian mobsters were no different. I guess a party is not complete without including some boring people.