“I see. I threaten to talk out of school and you decide I’ve earned a raise. Yeah, that’ll fly, babe.”
Foley’s lips moved, but nothing came out.
“You’re booking a fat, fat profit on Bertone’s money coming through the bank,” Kayla said. “It will look sweet on your year-end evaluation, so good that your bosses won’t go looking for unhappy lumps under the know-your-client carpet. Bet you get performance bonuses. Big ones. You’re a director, after all.”
Foley took another swallow of his peppery drink, coughed, and cleared his throat.
Rand sang fragments of “Devils and Dust.” Springsteen’s driving rhythms were echoed in Rand’s hips.
“So I want the same percentage of profit from Bertone’s account that you get in bonuses,” Kayla said. “Somewhere around two million.”
Foley removed his glasses, revealing the red eyes of a man who hadn’t slept well. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked around as if expecting someone. “That’s impossible,” he said finally. “I can’t justify a raise like that.”
“Make me a vice president, with performance bonuses back-dated to a month ago,” Kayla said. “Of course, you’ll have to clean up that lousy personnel evaluation you gave me two months ago, but I’m sure you’re up to it.”
Rand forgot the words and just kept humming.
“Hoo-yah,” Faroe said. “She’s a pistol!”
Foley looked like he wanted to bang his head against the booth. “All right. It’s a deal.”
“What is?” Kayla insisted.
“You’ll be a VP and report directly to me. You’ll have your choice of offices-”
“Yippee skip,” she said.
He ignored her. “Plus the raise.”
“Fifty thousand, minimum,” Kayla said.
“But-” Foley throttled back his temper. The hell with it. The bitch won’t live to collect a cent. “Of course.”
“I don’t expect to get paid the same performance bonus that a director gets,” she said reasonably, “but be smart and don’t chisel me.”
“Don’t worry,” Foley said through his teeth. “You’ll get everything you deserve.”
Chandler Mall
Sunday
Andre Bertone’s hands were locked around the wheel of his parked car hard enough to leave dents. They’d been that way since he’d seen Kayla walk into the Cheesecake Factory with a man who looked like a cowboy and moved like a bodyguard.
The headphones he wore kept bringing him news that went from bad to worse. Part of Bertone admired Kayla’s brass.
Most of him just wanted to kill her. Then Foley.
Slowly.
What a putz.
But a useful one. Until that changed, Foley would live.
Mother of God, he didn’t even ask for Jerry’s last name. She could have told him everything!
Not that it mattered. The snipers could kill two as easily as one. It was just that Bertone hated incompetence. He’d killed men simply because they were too stupid to live.
Foley was shaping up to head the Must Die list.
Bertone forced himself to unclamp his fingers from the wheel. No matter how delightful Foley’s neck would feel crushed between Bertone’s hands, the banker was necessary. It would take time to cultivate another bank, another banker, all the messy details needed to launder money safely.
In the meantime…
Bertone punched a number on his speed dial.
“Bueno.”
“Nothing good about it,” Bertone snarled to Gabriel. “There’s a man with the Shaw woman. Tall. Jeans and a black shirt. Cowboy hat. You kill him. Tell Uri to take Kayla.”
“Sí.”
Bertone hung up and waited for two dead people to walk out of the restaurant.
Chandler Mall
Sunday
There’s been activity in the correspondent account,” Kayla said. “Since I’m on record as the account executive, I should know a little bit more about what’s happening.”
“I’ve discussed it at length with Andre,” Foley said. “He’s using the account to finance acquisition of some long-term oil-” He broke off and looked at Rand.
Rand snapped his fingers and mouthed meaningless words.
“Look,” Foley said flatly. “You want to know more, get rid of lover boy.”
“You’re the one who asked me to meet after hours.”
Foley’s jaw flexed. He slammed his laptop case on the table.
Rand’s eyes opened just enough to see into the case as it opened. Nothing more deadly than a computer. Even so, he didn’t really relax. Knives were easy to hide.
Hell, given the right incentive, even the dull ones on the table could get the job done. The long forks would get it done faster.
“All I need from you is access to the account,” Foley said. “There are some transactions that have to be posted, but I can’t gain access through the remote portal. I’m screwing up part of the protocol, I guess.”
Because you never bothered to learn how to do it right, suck face, Kayla thought savagely. You always had one of the “girls” do it for you.
She smiled. “No problem. I’ll do it.”
“That’s why I rely so much on you,” Foley said with a grin as he logged on to the bank web site. Or tried to. He barely managed to keep from smashing his fist on the computer keyboard. “I can get into the account to monitor activity, but when I go to conduct transactions, it says I’m not authorized.”
“I’m not authorized for remote access at all,” Kayla said. She tilted her head. “Maybe the portal you’re using is read-only. Or maybe you need special access to conduct after-hours operations.”
He shook his head. “That’s not good enough. One of Andre’s requirements is that he has access to his money twenty-four/ seven. That’s what I promised him. He conducts business all over the world, all the time.”
Kayla’s mouth thinned. Do you know what kind of shitty business he’s conducting?
“See this?” Foley demanded, slanting the laptop screen toward Kayla. “I can get into the account to read balances, but I can’t move sums to other accounts, either within the bank or outside of it.”
Through slitted eyes, Rand watched Kayla. She’d gone still, then gooseflesh had broken out on her arms. The restaurant was air-conditioned, but not to the point of chill.
The feral smile on her face sent adrenaline into Rand’s blood.
“Let me try something,” Kayla said.
She took the laptop and stared at the screen. “Wow, this is awesome, almost like having your own private bank branch on your laptop.”
And Bertone had been depositing money right, left, and center. One hundred and eighty-two million, and counting.
Holy hell. War is expensive.
“I see our client has been busy,” Kayla said mildly.
Foley looked hard at Kayla’s date, but the idiot still had his eyes closed and was swaying and hip-jigging to a tune only he heard. He hadn’t even tried to peek at the computer screen.
“I got it that far,” Foley said, “but I can’t make any transactions inside the account.”
Kayla put her fingers on the keyboard and typed for a few seconds. Then she frowned and studied the screen. Gooseflesh rippled again as the simple, beautiful, incredible truth echoed in her mind.
Bertone doesn’t control his account.
Foley doesn’t.
I do.
She’d been in such a rush to set up the correspondent account that she’d chosen the password for it herself. She’d meant to give it to Bertone at the Fast Draw but had forgotten.