Once Is Never Enough Page 13

  “Can’t I?”

  A frisson of fear traveled up Bettina O’Toole-Applebaum’s spine. “You have no right.”

  “I have every right. If I believe you’re a danger to yourself and others.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because of people like you, Mr. Flynn has become a media sensation. To some, he has even become something of a hero. But he isn’t a hero. He’s a danger. He is delusional. He is sick. And people need to know that. That’s why you need to write the real story. Tell the public who he really is. You know better than most. He easily could have killed you. You’re lucky he didn’t.”

  “I can’t write the real story if I’m stuck in here.”

  “No, you can’t. Which is why I’m letting you go. But you need to get the truth out. If you don’t and Flynn hurts or kills some poor innocent person….” Durkin put her beefy finger in Bettina’s face. “That makes you a danger.”

  Flynn wore a threadbare thrift store tuxedo a little too long in the sleeves and baggy in the seat. Still, it was designed by Hugo Boss and Flynn wore it well. If Sancho had learned anything from Flynn, it was that confidence can take you a long way. Even confidence based on delusions of grandeur and a certain amount of crazy.

  Sancho wore the only suit he owned. He got it on sale at Macy’s for his grandfather’s funeral. The black Kenneth Cole Slim Fit Suit fit a tad tight as he wasn’t as slim as he was when he bought it. This was the first time he put it on since that sad day. Nickelson wore a one-button tuxedo he’d bought at Brooks Brothers a few days before they left. It fit him well, and he looked like he was having the time of his life.

  They stood outside under the stars in Belenki’s fabulous back patio and yard. The infinity pool glistened with a festive blue glow, though no one was swimming. Multi-colored party lights hung between the trees, illuminating two outdoor bars and bistro tables with white folding chairs. Across the yard, a small jazz ensemble accompanied Lady Gaga as she sang an old Doris Day song. Dr. Nickelson smiled at Sancho and sang along.

  “Picture you upon my knee, just tea for two and two for tea, just me and you and you and me alone!”

  Awkward.

  Sancho sipped his Anchor Steam beer. Flynn spoke with a stunning redhead in a tiny black dress. She leaned in close, touching Flynn’s arm, whispering in his ear. He whispered back and she laughed. Flynn waved Sancho over. Embarrassed to be caught staring, Sancho grinned and stepped closer.

  “Sancho, this is Natalie Breen.”

  “Hey, Natalie. Good to meet you.”

  She shook Sancho’s hand. He recognized her from People Magazine. In the seventies she was a top model and once was married to a famous rock and roll star. But now she was married to a media mogul fifty years her senior. Rupert Breen was one of the billionaires Flynn rescued from Goolardo.

  “I was just thanking Mr. Flynn and I want to thank you too. If not for you gentlemen, Rupert might not be here.”

  Sancho couldn’t tell if she thought that was a good thing or a bad thing, but nodded and smiled. “Is your husband here this evening?”

  “Somewhere, I imagine.” She took Flynn’s hand in hers. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to borrow your Mr. Flynn and introduce him to someone.”

  “Of course.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sancho.”

  She ferried Flynn away. Sancho headed back to Dr. Nickelson. The psychiatrist took a big pull on his mai tai and serenaded Sancho with a few more lines of Tea for Two. “We will raise a family, a boy for you, a girl for me. Oh, can’t you see how happy we would be?”

  Gaga finished the number and everyone applauded, including Nickelson who clapped so hard he sloshed mai tai on his white tuxedo shirt. “Darn it!” Nickelson smeared the red stain all around trying to wipe it away. “I better get some water on this.” He lurched off to find a rest room.

  Gaming tables filled the large ballroom. Roulette. Craps. Blackjack. Baccarat. Even though the setting wasn’t nearly as baroque as the Salle Medecin at the Casino de Monte Carlo, a similar excitement and tension vibrated the air. With no smoke and no smoking allowed, the room had a more antiseptic feel. That was fine with Flynn as he’d given up cigarettes. They were not allowed at headquarters and had an effect on his endurance, so he quit, though he did miss the nicotine buzz and the taste of his favorite Balkan and Turkish blend with three gold bands. They were custom made by Morland and he carried them in a thin cigarette case made of black gunmetal. Back then he smoked upwards of sixty fags a day, but he was a different man now.

  In that previous life, he spent many hours playing high stakes card games at casinos in France and the private clubs in London. This felt altogether different. There wasn’t the familiar scent of smoke and sweat, greed and fear that you found in most gambling establishments. Here, everyone played for charity. Besides, most of the players were millionaires, if not billionaires.

  Natalie Breen brandished Flynn like a prized poodle, introducing him to her wealthy celebrity friends. He wasn’t part of this world and he knew it and they knew it, and he knew they knew it. He had seen and experienced things these prosperous, pampered upper-crusters couldn’t begin to imagine. Even here, even now, he had to be vigilant as danger was always close.

  Natalie introduced him to a slender, auburn-haired beauty. Her name was Eva Green and Flynn could swear he knew her from somewhere. Something about her was so familiar. Apparently, she was a performer of some sort. She acted as if they had never met, but Flynn was sure they’d been intimate. Maybe in another life.

  Flynn was beckoned to a baccarat table by Natalie’s husband, Rupert. He played with a few other billionaires, some whom Flynn had also saved from Francisco Goolardo. Rupert pointed to an empty chair. “James, would you care to join us? I’d be glad to stake you. It’s funny money anyway as it’s all for a good cause.”

  “Why not?” Flynn said.

  “Have fun,” Natalie said, kissing him on the cheek before heading off.

  Flynn took the empty chair and looked around the table. Besides Breen, there sat Quinton Blackstone of Blackstone Communications, Ingvar Knudson, the Swedish real estate magnate, Prince Adnan Bin Hassan of Saudi Arabia, and Sergei Belenki’s beautiful fiancé, Anika Piscotti.

  He greeted each man and smiled at Anika, who smiled back, focusing the full wattage of her movie star charisma on him. “I thought you worked for Mr. Harper?”

  “No, I work for your husband.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  Flynn smiled and the music that often accompanied him played in his head as he said, “Flynn. James Flynn.”

  Sancho’s shyness kept him tongue-tied and ill at ease. These weren’t his people. These were the elites. Socialites. Celebrities. Influencers. Glitterati. Besides Breen, a few of the other billionaires they rescued were there. Eighty-year-old financier Warren Davis. Hong Kong real estate tycoon, Li Chu Young. Lakshmi Mandar, the UK-based info-tech king. And software mogul Bill Munson, who seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him. Maybe it was because the second richest man in the world had the crap literally scared out of him back on Angel Island and was still embarrassed about that.

  Sancho watched Harper’s men trying to blend in. They were as unsuccessful as him. Hulking, glowering, hard-looking guys uncomfortable in their suits. He caught sight of Mr. Harper watching him. Sancho offered him a little wave. Harper narrowed his eyes and stared at him with such disdain, Sancho had no choice but to turn away.

  Lady Gaga started singing a new song and this time Tony Bennet accompanied her. Dr. Nickelson wobbled back with a fresh drink, bumping his way past the other partygoers. His eyes were watery, bloodshot and unfocused as he sang along with the professionals, irritating everyone within earshot. “By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea, you and I, you and I, oh, how happy we’ll be.”

  “Hey, Doc, Doc, Doc,” Sancho put his hand on Nickelson’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Let’s let Gaga and Tony take this one, okay. People didn’t
come here to hear you sing.”

  “I love Tony Bennet.”

  “Maybe you should slow down on the mai tai’s.”

  “I’m just having a good time.”

  “I know you are, but you’re talking really loud.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nickelson leaned close to Sancho’s ear. “Is this better?”

  “Not really.”

  Nickelson motioned to an attractive middle-aged woman standing across from them. “You see that woman over there with the short dark hair? She keeps staring at me. I think she likes me.”

  “I thought you were married.”

  “Recently separated.” Nickelson wavered off-balance. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve been with a woman?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I don’t either!”

  “Sir—”

  “I have needs, Perez. I’m a man.”

  “A very loud man.”

  “Do you think I should talk to her?”

  “I think we should go inside and get you some coffee.”

  “That attack on the car scared the piss out of me. I thought I was going to die. But you know what? It was worth it. Totally worth it for a night like this. I haven’t had this much fun in twenty years. Best of all, I’m making a shitload of money just standing here!”

  “Can you please shut up.” It was the attractive middle-aged brunette that Nickelson thought was staring at him.

  “Sorry!” Nickelson said. He put his finger up to lips and raised his other hand in apology as he leaned in close to Sancho and whispered loudly in his ear. “I think she likes me.”

  “Let’s just listen for a little while, Doc.”

  “Okay.” He listened for all of ten seconds before saying, “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That noise.”

  Sancho heard it just as Nickelson mentioned it. A high-pitched buzzing. A problem with the sound system? The buzzing grew louder and more insistent. That’s when he noticed the woman who told Nickelson to shut up staring at something in the sky. Sancho followed her gaze and at first couldn’t make sense of what he saw. Some sort of flying thing. It was difficult to see it against the night sky, but the loud buzzing was unmistakable.

  Nickelson pointed. “What the hell is that?”

  “I think it’s a drone. A big one,” Sancho said.

  Gaga stopped singing when she spotted the drone. The musicians stopped playing. Only Tony Bennet still crooned, oblivious to the fact that there were now two additional drones, all hovering above. Sancho’s first thought was paparazzi. He knew they used drones to capture pictures of celebrity weddings. One of the contractors pulled a pistol to take aim, but Harper forced his arm down.

  “Not safe,” he said.

  A tear gas grenade dropped from one of the drones. It hit the ground and exploded. People ran and shouted in panic. Sancho’s skin and eyes and throat burned like fire. People screamed in agony and collided into each other as they tried to get away.

  That’s when the second grenade hit. A flashbang. Sancho, already blind, was now deaf, his ears ringing with a high-pitched whine. He felt for Nickelson but lost him in the stampeding crowd. Dizzy and off-balance, sightless and disoriented, he fell. People stomped on him as they tried to get past.

  “Dr. Nickelson!” he shouted but couldn’t even hear his own voice.

  Someone stepped on his hand. Someone else kicked him in the face. But the pain from the tear gas was so intense, he barely noticed. He couldn’t catch his breath. All he could do was crawl. The agony almost paralyzed him, but he knew he had to move. What if this was just the beginning? What if bullets were about to follow?

  “Dr. Nickelson!”

  The searing pain didn’t fade. If anything, the burning sensation in his eyes and throat grew in intensity. Hot tears streamed down his face. He could taste salt along with bitter chemicals on his tongue. Where’s Flynn? Is he inside? What the fuck is happening? He just kept crawling, but he barely moved. One hand, then the other, right knee, left knee. Move. Don’t stop.

  He fell in the infinity pool. The icy water cooled his burning skin. The relief instantaneous, but that momentary reprieve from pain was followed by absolute panic as more people fell into the pool on top of him. So many bodies flailed in the water. Pulling. Pushing. Floundering. Kicking.

  He held his breath and tried to reach the surface but was shoved under. Knees and elbows and fingers and hair pressed down on him from above. He choked on water as he tried to find air. Occasionally, his head burst out of the water and he’d hear a terrified cacophony before he was shoved back under again. He reached up, grasping for a handhold, hoping for a way up, a way out, and then finally he found help.

  A hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the water. Suddenly he was on the side of the pool, sucking in sweet oxygen. He caught a momentary glimpse of Lady Gaga staring down at him.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  Sancho couldn’t talk, but he could nod. She hurried off to pull someone else out of the pool. Sancho looked to the left to see Weird Al on his hands and knees, throwing up.

  “Everyone in the house!” It was Mr. Harper. “In the house! Now! Let’s go! Move! Move! Move!”

  Flynn prepared to lay down a natural nine on the Baccarat baize when he looked through the floor to ceiling window into the backyard at smoke and people running—apparently screaming in bloody terror. “Apparently” because the windows were so well soundproofed it looked like a mime riot. Anika turned to see what he was staring at and was so surprised by all the terrified faces, she dropped her gimlet. It shattered on the floor.

  Gun drawn, already on the move, Flynn headed for the French doors. People outside choked, clawing at their eyes and screamed soundlessly. A flashbang went off. As Flynn was on the other side of the glass, he didn’t get the full impact, but was still momentarily blinded. Before he could open the doors, the crowd outside came crashing through the glass. The tear gas stung Flynn’s eyes as the masses stampeded into him.

  “Get inside! Everyone inside!” Harper shouted as the gasping, choking, blinded, crowd shoved Flynn backwards across the room. He tripped on a couch and fell with five more people landing on top of him. Their combined weight flipped the couch and Flynn found himself trapped beneath it, his gun and one shoe gone.

  He tried to crawl out from under the couch. Someone kicked him in the head. A stiletto heel came down on his hand. He reached up and grabbed the back of a pair of pants to pull himself up. But the pants came down before he could pull himself to his feet. He saw the label. Brioni. And the person whose pants he pulled down, tripped over them and fell to his knees. Flynn used their shoulder for leverage and managed to get upright before pulling them to their feet as well.

  “Mr. Flynn!” It was software billionaire Bill Munson.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Munson. You might want to pull your pants up.”

  Harper struggled to get control of the hysterical crowd. “Calm down! Everyone! We need to stay calm!”

  Heavy machinery rumbled. The security shutters closed, covering every window in Belenki’s fabulous mansion, sealing the place up, securing it from any outside threat. People were so stunned by the racket of the shutters closing, they actually shut their mouths for a few moments as well.

  “Thank you!” Harper said. “We are perfectly safe as long as we stay calm!”

  “Mr. Harper is correct!” Sergei Belenki moved through the crowd with Severina. “These security shutters are made from hardened carbon steel and long as we are inside, there is nothing that can touch us. My home has the most advanced security system in the world. It’s more secure than the White House. The authorities are on their way. Please accept my apologies for that inexcusable security breach.” Belenki said that last sentence while staring at Harper. “As soon as the police arrive everyone is welcome to go home. But that doesn’t mean the party has to end. There’s wine, there’s food, there’s
music, there’s whatever you want. Just know that while you’re in here, in my home, nothing bad can happen.”

  The energy in the room changed as the crowd began to relax. Conversation and laughter swelled with the sweet relief of people who survived something dangerous and came out the other side. Flynn found Sancho rubbing his eyes and smoothing back his damp hair. He looked bedraggled and exhausted, dripping wet from head to toe.

  Flynn crossed to him. “You all right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where’s N?”

  Sancho looked around the room. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he make it inside?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I told him this was a mistake. He never should have come. He’s head of the whole shebang. He shouldn’t be in the field, risking his life like—

  An earsplitting alarm screamed. Red lights flashed on the Hellfire Anti-burglary system attached to the ceiling. The siren was so deafening no one could talk or hear or think. Fear was etched on everyone’s face. Why did the alarm suddenly go off? Did someone break in?

  Sancho pointed at a chandelier as it abruptly grew brighter and brighter. Flynn hurried for Belenki and Severina as every light bulb in the room grew blindingly bright before exploding one at a time.

  Harper and his men immediately drew their weapons. Flynn would have drawn his as well if he hadn’t lost it when the crowd knocked him on his arse. Nevertheless, he hurried for Belenki and grabbed his arm just as the Hellfire system on the ceiling blasted a cloud of atomized pepper spray, covering everyone in the room.

  Flynn put his hand over Belenki’s eyes and dragged him out of there with Severina’s help. All three choked and gasped, blind, but Flynn knew they had to move before the crowd panicked and stampeded again.

  Through his streaming tears, Flynn saw Harper tap two of his closest men on the shoulder and indicated for them to follow. They easily shoved their way through the panicked crowd to catch up. Flynn, Belenki, Harper, and his men hurried down a corridor, away from the cloud of pepper spray. Alarm speakers covered the house, so the siren carried into the corridor. Belenki, tears streaming down his face, led the way. Flynn and the others followed, passing sconces with bulbs burning brightly before each one exploded with a loud pop.