The Razor's Edge (The Disavowed Book 1) by David Leadbeater

Author:David Leadbeater [Leadbeater, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-06-23T23:00:00+00:00

16

“Not sure I can do this,” Radford grumbled as he and Silk left the hotel.

Silk headed straight for the parking garage. “Comes with the territory. Always has. You’re a field op, Dan. You know the game – you take the good with the bad.”

“There’s a difference between field ops and this.”

“You saying you’re a lover not a fighter. That it?”

“I’ll rough it up if I have to. But this is damn different, Adam. It’s disgusting and ghoulish and you know it.”

Radford flashed back on Trent’s face as they left the room. The perpetually unsmiling man had had a twinkle in his eyes, Radford was sure of it. His parting comment, ‘don’t forget your spades’, was delivered with grave humour.

Pun intended.

“A lack of foresight,” Radford grumbled as Silk squealed their way out into the stream of traffic weaving down Las Vegas Boulevard. “That’s what it is.”

“I guess so.” Silk indicated right. “But Trent can’t think of everything.”

“I damn well wish he’d thought of this.”

Trent had been waiting for them when they had returned to the room together, several dollars lighter and several units of alcohol heavier. The look on his face was sterner than ever, the news he delivered even harsher than expected.

“One thing though,” Radford said speculatively. “I do like the sound of our new case agent. She sounds the type of feisty I like.”

The three men had been conscious of time slipping through their fingers. And not just theirs. Monika Sobeiski was running out of time. Her son, Artur, and her friend, Anna, had to be going crazy. The Edge had always been the team that got the job done. This one would be no exception. So they talked it out. The only lead they had was the address of a building site somewhere in Dallas. Half built, half populated by rich folk. Owned indirectly by the Polish mafia, but handled by one of their legitimate companies. The big problem was that they couldn’t wait another week for another consignment to ship in, and didn't even know if there would be another one.

The hours had passed uncaringly. The skies began to lighten over the great city, diluting the effect of the scintillating neon lights. Tourists fell to sleep, shattered but happy, in outsize beds on sublime mattresses. Croupiers and guest hosts, big rollers and thieves, table dancers and pool lifeguards started the journey home to rest and gear themselves up to do it all again in eight or ten hours. And the buffets kept serving. The machines kept rolling. The city never stopped turning.

Radford took five minutes to speak to his wife, trying to explain how he hadn’t had the time to talk earlier, but the way she agreed and continued her own side of the conversation told him she wasn’t listening. He gave up. He went back to the crisis confab.

“There is no answer,” Silk was saying. “Other than direct confrontation.”

“You always say that,” Trent told him. “Every operation, you say that. You have no . . . finesse.

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