Chapter One

Chapter One

H

e disliked having to make house calls. Humans had invested considerable time, effort, and money into creating enough technology in the world to ensure that face to face interactions were only necessary when the people involved wanted them to be. Despite this, however, there were still those who demanded they be a part of their everyday life.

Mason Banks had never enjoyed being around other people. He was one of those people who liked the term introvert. In simple terms, he felt uncomfortable around others. They were hard to read and tended to be unpredictable monsters who could become deeply involved in one’s life without one having much say in the matter. It had been a problem in the past—one that had resulted in an ex-wife. They had parted amicably as both had been of the same mind at around the same time, and Mason hadn’t found it in him to attempt to date again.

Which meant social interactions were limited to those his work as a lawyer demanded—which in his case, unfortunately, was a significant number. He was a good lawyer, but people didn’t merely take his word on it. They didn’t even take his firm’s word on it. No, they wanted to meet face to face to discuss their matters in person. These meetings were sometimes at his office and sometimes at theirs. He had a special place in his heart for those who wanted to discuss it over a meal they were willing to pay for. Unlike most of the other partners at his firm, he hadn’t come from money, and when it came to food, like beer, free was best.

This home call was the kind he really hated. It made him drive all the shit-fucking way out to the middle of nowhere and forced him into places where phone reception was spotty. In this day and age, you’d think they’d have that shit fixed by now. But no.

Banks scowled at his phone and the pathetic two bars displayed on it. That would change soon if his experience with prison visits was anything to go by.

That said, this particular place of incarceration looked more like a resort than most prisons did. Golf courses, tennis courts, indoor pools, and even access to the beach all masqueraded as punishment. Being in prison when you were rich really wasn’t a fair deal, he thought. He knew that even a place like this would be hell for someone who came from the kind of money his client had, but it was still a whole lot better than where criminals usually went.

Hell, a lot of people paid to stay in places worse than this.

Banks shook his head and strode over to a guard. The man was tall, overweight, and lacked any visible deterrent other than a radio at his hip.

“Reason for visit?” the man asked, pushed himself up from his seat, and paused the movie playing on his phone.

“I’m here to visit my client,” he replied with a small, businesslike smile. Just because he didn’t like being there didn’t mean he couldn’t be professional. That was what people hired their lawyers to be, right? Professional?

“Name of your client?” the guard asked while he quickly filled out a form on the computer.

“Evan Carlson.” He placed the man’s file on the counter, and the guard eyed it like it was a snake.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll only need to see your ID, and if you could sign your name, I’ll issue you a visitor’s badge,” the man said with a chuckle and printed out the form for Banks to sign with somewhat surprising efficiency.

If only visiting every other prison in the world were this easy, Banks thought as he signed where indicated and pinned the badge on his lapel.

Well, most of the prisons in the world wouldn’t be as empty, that was for sure, he mused. There weren’t that many criminals with the kind of bank balance required for up-market incarceration. He shrugged, made his way into the facility, and followed the yellow line through the halls as indicated at the entrance. The facility appeared to be almost fully automated. Most of the doors only required him to press his badge to the keypad on the side. There were a large number of cameras, though, so they had that going for them.

Banks stepped into the visitor’s center. Even this room was pleasant and calm. Tables and chairs were provided, and a couple of guards sat in the corner of the room, obviously stationed there for the purpose of watching the interactions to make sure nothing that wasn’t allowed was passed to the prisoners. They looked more engaged with what sounded like the newest Candy Crush game than they were on their task, however. Would they ever stop making those games?

Not so long as they made money, he assumed.

He sat, retrieved his files, and laid them out on one of the tables. Again, having it all on some kind of digital storage device would be easier, but the clients liked to see the files in person. The paperwork made them feel safe and comfortable like it was more real to them or something. He could understand that, he supposed—a certain fear of change and a mistrust of the digital age they’d actually been in for decades by now, which meant he needed to lug paper around everywhere he went.

Banks leaned back in his seat and smiled at the symmetrical organization of the papers in front of him. Maybe it wasn’t all bad. There wasn’t the same feeling of symmetry when you simply placed things on the surface and tried to keep everything neat and organized in a pile. It was also a way to keep his mind occupied while he waited for his client.

The door at the other end of the room buzzed and, a little irritated, he looked up from the table where he still applied minute corrections to the organization of his paperwork. He reminded himself that his client—the actual reason for his visit—had arrived. His need for perfection now set aside, he leaned back in his seat, straightened his coat, and looked at the man who approached.

There was something about these people that said they came from money, he acknowledged as Carlson limped over to him. Banks had heard about what happened and how he had been shot on the plane he’d planned to abscond on shortly before his arrest. The fact that they had allowed him to have full reconstructive surgery on his knee as well as a cane was astounding—full mahogany too, from the look of it, with an ivory grip. He couldn’t help a soft shake of his head. It certainly paid to be rich in these parts.

It was somewhat hypocritical of him to think that, he supposed. He made upper-six figures in base salary before the addition of performance incentives and bonuses. This year alone, he had already put seven figures away with much more to come.

Still, an air of old money hung around Carlson. Even in prison, his hair looked like it had been styled by New York pros and boasted the salt and pepper look people called distinguished. His shoulders filled the eyesore orange jumpsuit prisoners wore regardless of where they were imprisoned. He looked like he could be a model for the damn garment. Even walking with that limp, he carried himself with the kind of grace people like Banks only saw in movies.

The prisoner took a second to situate himself on his chair and scowled and groaned as he settled into place. His knee was still stiff and unable to bend if the way he sat was any indication. Banks tried hard to feel bad for him, but he’d also seen why Carlson had been targeted like that.

Still, he was professional enough to not let his personal feelings interfere with his business and simply smiled and proffered his hand to shake Carlson’s.

“Mr. Carlson, my name is Mason Banks, Esq,” he said to complete the formalities. “I’ve been assigned your case by the firm that has represented you, Statten-Whitney, on the request of a mutual client of ours.”

The man nodded. There were less than pleasant implications involved in providing details of who the client was. Considering that these conversations were all recorded, there was no point in taking any chances. He already knew who the unnamed client was anyway.

“Of course,” Carlson said with a small quirk of the lips and shook his head. “Are there any updates on my case?”

“Well, the FBI is still processing your testimony since it was considerable,” Banks said and ran his finger over the redacted files he had been given by the FBI. “I know it’s not my place to ask, but how does someone in your position get that deep into organized crime?”

“It’s not the crime itself,” Carlson explained with a soft chuckle. “A person in my particular situation tends to have trouble with the law—mostly the IRS—so it’s usually a good idea to have something like a get out of jail free card, just in case. I make a few connections, launder a little money, and keep the receipt in case I ever need to give it to someone who will reduce any sentencing that might appear in my future.”

Banks nodded. “That sounds like a good plan. How has it worked out for you so far?”

The prisoner shrugged and offered a noncommittal grunt. “They put me in here to work on improving my handicap while they process the testimonies I’ve fed them. It’s rather like witness protection in style, you know what I’m saying?”

He nodded because he did, in fact, know what he was talking about. The FBI was notorious for treating cooperating witnesses like VIPs. In this instance especially, considering the names given up in his testimony, they had thought it would be better to keep him in custody for the duration of their investigation. Of course, in this case, it could be years. There had been something in the files that said his previous attorneys had been the ones to suggest putting him in this facility. There hadn’t been any mention of why, but that was one of the reasons for this meeting. Carlson was afraid of someone—or something. Banks could only assume it had something to do with the bullet that had resulted in a seemingly endless series of surgeries on his shattered knee.

There was no point in guessing, though. From what he’d seen of the videos and the transcripts of his testimonies, the man struck him as the kind of person who liked the sound of his own voice.

“Well, I assume I can speak freely,” Banks stated when both the guards moved a little farther away from them and the cameras in the room suddenly went dead. “Here’s the short version of it, Mr. Carlson. Our mutual client is annoyed by how long it’s taking for you to get out into the world and do the good work, as it were. Their words, not mine. Your minions in Pegasus have tried to put up a fight but they’ve failed miserably, to the point where the client is losing too much investment with too little gain.”

Carlson ground his teeth. The lawyer had also assumed the man was the type who would dislike being given orders like this, but he knew he was in no position to be pissy about it. Promises had been made by the man to people whom you didn’t want to disappoint. And he had disappointed them. Banks knew that even though he didn’t know many of the details involved. He was merely the messenger.

“I won’t leave here until certain matters outside have been dealt with,” the ex-CEO said and looked visibly tense under his baggy jumpsuit.

“If you’re referring to the criminal enterprises you might have angered with your testimony, you have nothing to fear,” he responded with a small and hopefully reassuring smile.

“What, do you think I care about what a couple of small-time Italian mobsters can do to me?” The man leaned forward and whispered despite knowing they weren’t being listened to by anyone who mattered. “Please. I have more resources at my disposal than the whole of the Cosa Nostra.”

“Then color me curious,” Banks said and shifted in the uncomfortable seat. “What makes someone with your kind of resources hide in federal custody?”

Carlson didn’t like that question. He had worded it in a precise fashion to rub him the wrong way, and he could see his words had exactly that effect as the prisoner settled back in his seat and adjusted his jumpsuit the same way he would have adjusted a sport coat.

“I assume you’re aware of the actions perpetrated by Colonel James Anderson and Dr. Courtney Monroe, the duo that currently runs Pegasus in my absence?” he asked, his voice still low.

“Of course,” the lawyer replied and allowed a warm and hopefully professional expression to light up his face. “They are the reason why your exit from this facility is being facilitated.”

“What you don’t know, I suppose, is that they have worked with a pit bull,” the man continued. “Well, not an actual pit bull, but an enforcer—muscle they brought in to make sure their takeover was successful.”

“We knew they had muscle, but are you saying it’s the work of only one man?” He’d seen the kind of damage that had been wreaked on their investment, but he always assumed that it had been the work of a highly-trained team.

“Well, I assume he has a team, but I only met the one man,” Carlson confirmed with a scowl. “The motherfucker put a bullet in my knee and walked away, leaving me to eat the charges as some kind of lesson, I think.”

“Oh, right, I remember that.” Banks scanned the file until he found the section that covered the incident. There had been a couple of questions raised over it. “How did that happen again?”

“He shot me,” he explained with exaggerated patience but looked and sounded exasperated. “What the fuck else do you need to know?”

“Nothing that’s not already in the file,” the lawyer said quietly with a hasty glance at the guards who still made no effort to listen in. “I merely need to understand what happened from your perspective so I can spin it for your hearing for a more accessible kind of confinement.”

He nodded and winced as he shifted in his seat. “So, what can you do to help me with that?”

“To help you eliminate Anderson and Monroe?” Banks asked and narrowed his eyes.

“Eventually, sure, but to get to them, you need to get to their muscle first,” the former CEO replied and rolled his eyes as if this much at least was obvious. “The man called himself Savage when we talked. Before…you know.” He pointed at his knee.

“Right.” The lawyer read quickly to see if there was any mention of this Savage character in any of the testimonies that had been submitted. He wasn’t surprised to find there wasn’t. The prisoner seemed genuinely terrified of this man, and he wasn’t the kind of man to scare easily.

He wasn’t the kind to get casually kneecapped like that either, Banks thought and rubbed his eyes as his mind worked the possibilities.

“Okay, Savage…that sounds like a fake name,” he said decisively.

“It probably is,” Carlson agreed. “But he was American and definitely had experience in the intimidation business. From the look of him and the way he operated, he might even have a military background. That should be enough for you to start with, right?”

“Do you have any pictures of him?” At this point, even grasping at vague straws might provide somewhere to start with his search. “Or maybe remember what he looks like?”

“If there were pictures, they were scrubbed,” the man said and shook his head. “He has support staff, that much is obvious, but there has to be some kind of image of him out there. He…had green eyes, although I guess he could have worn color-changing contacts, I suppose. Other than that, he had brown hair—a very average-looking Caucasian male. Not too bulky and not too tall. Nothing really stood out about him, now that I think about it.”

Banks made notes of what little description the client provided. It wasn’t much, but he had been known to find people with less. He was a tenacious bastard, something taught to him in his early days as an attorney. If this enforcer had been in the military, those bastards tended to keep the records on their operatives very dutifully. If the man was one of Anderson and Monroe’s associates and had been seen with them, there would be pictures to work with somewhere. If he could find those, it would be a start.

He had been told to meet with Carlson and make sure he was ready to work with them again, and it seemed like eliminating this Savage was the way to do it. The lawyer had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as he gathered his paperwork again.

“I need you to dig deeper,” the prisoner said and obviously sensed that his time was almost up. “Find the man, find his weaknesses, and use them to take him out of the picture. With him still around, you’ll never get to Anderson or Monroe. He’s too good a buffer.”

Banks nodded, finished packing up, and pushed himself from his seat. He extended his hand for Carlson to shake as the guards moved closer again and the cameras came back to life.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said with a small but noncommittal smile. “I’ll let you know.”

Plans already churned in his mind. He didn’t wait for Carlson to push his lame ass up from his seat before he headed to the doors that buzzed to let him out.

First, find the muscle, then find the muscle’s weaknesses. Use those weaknesses against the muscle somehow.

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before.