The Bestseller Job

  He already knew, from hacking into the security cameras, that Brad had gotten rid of any inconvenient staff or visitors, but there was no point in letting him know that they had the house under surveillance. Better to play the part of an appropriately paranoid felon.

  “Yeah, it’s just us today,” Brad confirmed. “Still don’t see why we had to do this here, instead of over the phone or something.” He glowered at Parker. “Bad enough she already barged in uninvited.”

  “I don’t barge,” she said indignantly. “Barging is for amateurs.”

  Hardison tried to head off a debate on the finer points of home invasion. “In matters of this nature, I find face-to-face meetings are preferable to conducting delicate business over the phone, online, or in public. You never know who might be listening in.” He gestured grandly at the imposing edifice surrounding them. “A more secure environment is always best.”

  More importantly, they needed to set a precedent for their next meeting, which, according to plan, had to take place on these premises. There was also the fact that marks were often more easily manipulated on their home turf, where they were likely to feel more confident and be less on guard. Or so Sophie maintained, and she would know.

  “If you say so,” Brad said grudgingly.

  “I do,” Hardison said, taking control.

  Brad led them into the same den where Parker had spooked him before. The wall safe was again hidden behind the shelf of phony encyclopedias. Hardison’s nose twitched in distaste; the room reeked of tobacco. Parker glanced nostalgically at the ceiling before perching on the edge of the desk and getting back to her book. Brad looked askance.

  “Don’t mind her,” Hardison said. “She’s just along for my protection.” He leaned toward Brad and whispered. “Seriously, mate, just leave her be.”

  Brad gulped. He sat down behind the desk. He lit himself a cigar and puffed on it aggressively, as though daring his visitors to object. “So what’s your racket anyway?”

  “Think of us as highly skilled facilitators.” Hardison planted himself in a wingback chair facing Brad. The smoke from the cigar was obnoxious, but he ignored it for the sake of the con. Exuding confidence, he launched into his spiel. “The saps and suckers, they think they can hold on to what they’ve got. But smart operators like us, we know better. Nice guys finish last, and sometimes you need some first-rate bad guys on your side to solve problems nobody else can.”

  “And that’s where you come in?” Brad said.

  Hardison leaned back in his chair. He chuckled slyly, channeling Nate.

  “We provide… solutions.”

  “Uh-huh,” Brad said skeptically. “For how much.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars, and a tiny sliver of the proceeds.”

  “Fifty thou?” Brad nearly swallowed his cigar. “For what?”

  “Not only will we acquire a complete copy of the sequel, as well as any documents establishing its provenance, but we can also make your problems with Denise Gallo go away for good.”

  “Oh, yeah. And how you gonna do that?”

  “Let me demonstrate.” Hardison took out his phone and dialed a number. A second later, a ring tone sounded from Brad’s pocket. Confused, he took out his phone and stared at the screen. “Check your messages,” Hardison suggested. “You’re not going to believe who’s calling you.”

  A video clip played on the phone. Gavin Lee gazed up from the screen with a serious expression on his face. His voice spoke from beyond the grave:

  “Hi. This is Gavin James Lee, recording this video will for posterity. Being of sound mind and body, I wish to leave all my worldly estate to my brother and oldest living relative, Bradley Orson Lee.” He paused to let this sink in before speaking directly to the camera. “We’ve had our differences, big brother, but family is family, and I hope this proves that, ultimately, blood is a bond that can’t be broken. Take care, bro, and be well. I love you, buddy. Recorded September fourth, 2012.”

  Brad’s eyes bugged out. “Holy crap! Is this for real?”

  “Are you kidding me, mate?” Hardison said. “Of course not.”

  “Then how?”

  Hardison put his phone away. He wiggled his fingers.

  “A little CGI, a few YouTube videos of your brother giving interviews and doing readings, a new backdrop, some creative splicing and editing of the audio clips, and… voilà.” He didn’t have to fake his pride in the manufactured footage. “I must say, your brother was quite articulate, with an impressive vocabulary. Made my job a good deal easier.”

  Brad watched the video again. “Okay, that’s pretty slick.”

  “Actually, the rendering still needs a little work,” Hardison admitted. He had wanted to tinker with it a bit more, but that business with Denise had cut into his work schedule. “But I can get you a cleaner version later, once we have a deal.”

  “Yeah, about that.” Brad went into haggle mode. “That’s a cute trick, sure, but what do I need a phony will for? The courts have already awarded me Brad’s estate.”

  “True, but as long as Denise is out there making noise, you’re still going to have to keep convincing nervous business partners that there’s no potential complications with the rights—and deal with any bad PR regarding the poor, mistreated girlfriend. This way the whole world will know that Gavin wanted to do right by you.” Hardison waved the cigar smoke away from his face. “Plus, of course, there’s the matter of the sequel. Don’t you want to be able to prove, conclusively and beyond a doubt, that the new book belongs to you and you alone?”

  “I suppose,” Brad conceded.

  “Trust me, this is in your best interests,” Hardison said. “And, if I may say so, a much more elegant solution than any crude snatch-and-grab.”

  “Yeah,” Parker interrupted. “What were you thinking there?” She shook her head disdainfully. “Amateurs.”

  “Huh?” Brad scowled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Please,” Hardison scolded him. “Like you didn’t have anything to do with that attack on Denise Gallo the other night.”

  “Attack? What attack?”

  “Did you really think we wouldn’t hear about that?” Hardison wagged a finger at Brad. “Thought you could just have your hooligans snatch a woman off the street and that would be the end of it? You’re going to have to do better than that, Mr. Lee.”

  “Are you crazy?” Brad’s face flushed crimson. He lurched to his feet. “I swear to God, I don’t know anything about any attack! What happened to Denise?”

  “She’s fine, no thanks to those discount goons you hired, which just goes to show that you get what you pay for.” Hardison took Brad’s outburst in stride, calmly lecturing him like a professional adviser dealing with a clueless client. “You’re in the big leagues now, Mr. Lee. Maybe that kind of strong-arm tactic worked back when you were boosting autos and knocking over 7-Elevens, but it’s no way to secure your claim on a valuable piece of intellectual property. Frankly, Brad, I’m a bit disappointed in you.”

  “I keep telling you, I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

  Hardison wondered if Brad was telling the truth. He hoped not, because that would mean that somebody else was after Denise, like maybe the mysterious Tarantula? Hardison made an effort to shove the mystery out of his mind for the present. There would be time enough to ponder the question later. Right now he needed to stay in character, and Brad’s guilt or innocence had no bearing on how this con needed to play out.

  “If that’s your story, fine,” he said as Parker snorted in disbelief. “The point is, if you want this problem taken care of the right way, you need to hire professionals.”

  “For fifty K?”

  “And a modest percentage,” Hardison reminded him.

  “I don’t know,” Brad hedged. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Wouldn’t be worth our time if it wasn’t.” Hardison plucked Brad’s cigar from his fingers and ground it out in an ashtray. He fixed a steely gaze on
the recalcitrant mark. “But what you need to ask yourself, Mr. Lee, is how much is that sequel worth to you?”

  YESTERDAY:

  “You were holding out on me, pal,” Nate accused Brad, posing as Max Dunfee of Antipodes Press. “You told me in Frankfurt there was no sequel.”

  He was on the phone to Brad, pacing back and forth in the deluxe hotel suite that was serving as the crew’s temporary base of operations in New York. An array of screens had been set up in the central living room. Sophie was stretched out on the couch behind Nate, while Hardison and Parker were sharing a bowl of microwave popcorn over by the bar. Eliot was off guarding Denise; he had barely left her side since the attempted abduction. Nate hoped he wasn’t getting too involved with their client. That seldom worked out well.

  “Er, I was just playing my cards close to my chest,” Brad lied. “While I figured out the best way to peddle the book, you know.”

  Brad was lounging in a hot tub, unaware that his sweaty, beet-red form was currently filling up a large portion of the screens in front of Nate and the others. Hardison had detected the presence of the hidden camera aimed at the hot tub when he’d tapped into the mansion’s electronic security system, and Parker had verified its existence while prowling the mansion a few nights ago. Nate didn’t need to rack his imagination to figure out what sort of X-rated activity the camera was intended to catch, but that was irrelevant; what mattered was that the camera was working for him now.

  “Well, the news is out,” Nate said. “That’s for sure.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. Thanks to some well-placed rumors on industry Web sites and message boards, the whole world knew about the alleged sequel, supposedly titled Assassins Remember. Sophie brandished the latest copy of Variety. A front-page headline read STUDIOS SNIFF AFTER ASSASSINS SEQUEL. One of the screens charted Internet searches regarding the sequel. Assassins Remember was currently a trending topic on Yahoo. Fans were already speculating feverishly about the plot.

  “Tell me about it,” Brad said. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  “I can imagine,” Nate said, although he didn’t need to. They had been tracking Brad’s incoming calls and e-mails since the news broke, and, yes, Brad was getting positively buried in offers and inquiries from genuine publishers, agents, big-name directors, movie stars, and studios. And the best part was, Nate and the crew hadn’t even needed to fake all this interest. Assassins Remember really was a hot property now.

  Too bad it didn’t exist.

  “So this is the real deal?” Nate asked. “An actual sequel written by your brother before he died, not some ghostwritten knockoff like you were talking about before?”

  “It’s for real,” Brad said. “The last thing my brother ever wrote.”

  “Then you’re sitting on a gold mine, my friend.” Nate wanted to keep reinforcing that idea every chance he got. Brad was not somebody who required a subtle touch. “So when do I get a chance to read this future bestseller?”

  “Um, soon,” Brad hedged. “Just getting all my ducks in a row, you know.” He got out of the tub and walked over to a nearby fridge in his birthday suit. Sophie averted her eyes from the fleshy spectacle. Parker made a face. “And, naturally, I’m getting lots of other offers.”

  “I’m sure! But hey, when you’re looking at the international market, don’t forget your friends in New Zealand—and those beers we had in Frankfurt.” Nate let Max sound a little desperate to land the book for Antipodes. “I can’t talk figures right now, not before I have a chance to review the manuscript, but I can tell you that if Remember is half the book that Forget was, this could be a very big book for us—and we would pay accordingly.”

  “So I keep hearing,” Brad said. “Gotta run. More calls coming in.”

  “I’ll bet.” Nate stayed on the line as long as he could. “Don’t forget. We want to see that manuscript. And the sooner the better.”

  “I hear you,” Brad said, a tad impatiently. “Loud and clear.”

  He hung up on Nate.

  His phone kept ringing.

  “All right,” Brad said. “We have a deal… if you can get me that sequel.”

  Hardison beamed at him. Parker put down her ebook.

  “You can count on us,” Hardison said.

  | | | | | | EIGHT | | | | | |

  LONG ISLAND

  For credibility’s sake, they let Brad stew for a couple days. They couldn’t make stealing the sequel seem too easy; he might get suspicious, or just start wondering why he was paying so much. In the meantime, he continued to be barraged with legitimate offers regarding Assassins Remember, without the Leverage crew needing to lift another finger. Hardison actually felt sorry for raising the hopes of Gavin’s fans—it was like teasing people with the possibility of new Deep Space Nine episodes—but not enough to call off the con.

  “You got it?” Brad asked eagerly. “The new book?”

  “Was there ever any doubt?” Hardison strode up to the front door of the mansion, carrying a leather briefcase. He grinned at Brad. “We always deliver.”

  Parker trotted up the steps beside him. She stumbled on the top step and fell toward Brad. “Oops!” She grabbed on to him briefly to steady herself, then shoved him away. She gave the steps a dirty look. “You should get that fixed.”

  “Get what fixed?”

  She didn’t explain. “You’re lucky nobody’s broken their neck yet!”

  “Never mind that.” Brad clearly couldn’t care less about the steps—or Parker’s neck. He eyed the briefcase hungrily. “Is that it? What have you got there?”

  “Look at you.” Hardison chuckled. “As greedy as a kid on Christmas. Well, naughty or nice, Santa has definitely come through for you this time.” He raised the case and patted it. “We hit the mother lode: computer files, a printout of the manuscript, plus Gavin’s own handwritten notes and outlines, just to prove he really wrote it.”

  “Wow,” Brad said, impressed. He reached for the case. “Let me see.”

  “Not so fast.” Hardison kept a tight grip on the handle of the case. “There’s still the little matter of our payment. In cash, as agreed.”

  “Oh, yeah. That.” Brad’s enthusiasm dimmed several watts. “Don’t worry. I’ve got the money, although it wasn’t easy coming up with that much dough on short notice, I’ll tell you that.”

  “You’ll make it all back with the sequel,” Hardison promised. “And much, much more.”

  “That’s the idea,” Brad said. It was unclear if he was agreeing with Hardison or trying hard to convince himself. He gestured toward the door. “Come on, then. Let’s go inside. As soon as I make sure those are really the goods, and that you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me, you can have your dough.”

  “Now we’re talking,” Hardison said. “I look forward to completing our transaction.”

  In truth, he had no intention of letting Brad look at the “sequel” too closely. A couple of sample chapters were one thing, but even with Eliot’s help, they could hardly expect Denise to churn out an entire novel in a matter of days, so they had just cobbled something together by cutting and pasting scenes and chapters from a dozen different spy thrillers they had pirated online. Hardison had personally searched and replaced to make sure all the names and proper nouns were consistent throughout, but it would be a literary miracle if the plot made any sense at all. As an exercise in creative plagiarism, the Frankenstein-like patchwork job looked like a real book at first glance, just in case Brad insisted on skimming it right away, but no way would it bear a close reading.

  Fortunately, it didn’t have to.

  Hardison checked his watch. Anytime now…

  Right on cue, a blue sedan, with a spinning red bubble light atop its roof, zoomed up to the front of the mansion. A police siren wailed as the unmarked vehicle squealed to a stop only a few yards away from the portico.

  “What the heck?” Brad exclaimed.

  “Hell, no!” Hardison feigned distress. He turned on Pa
rker. “Were we followed? You were supposed to make sure we weren’t followed!”

  “Don’t blame me!” she snapped. “Why is it always my fault?” She glanced around frantically, as though considering making a run for it, but the mansion’s open front lawn offered little in the way of cover. She lunged at Hardison, brushing against Brad. Her finger jabbed Hardison’s chest. “Damn it, I told you this location was too risky! We should’ve used that old fallout shelter instead. The one in Death Valley!”

  “Wait!” Brad looked alarmed. “What’s happening?”

  “Don’t say anything!” Hardison said urgently. He hastily lobbed the briefcase into some nearby bushes. “Let me handle this, okay?”

  The car’s door slammed open and Eliot emerged, dressed in a police uniform. His long hair was hidden beneath his cap. A surly expression made it clear he was not to be messed with. His right hand rested on the gun holstered at his hip.

  “Nobody move!” he ordered. “Stay right where you are.”

  Brad instinctively threw up his hands, then lowered them sheepishly. This wasn’t the first time he’d been confronted by the law. “Um, what’s this all about, Officer?”

  Before Eliot could explain, the car’s back door was flung open and Sophie joined the scene. She stormed up the steps and pointed angrily at Hardison and Parker.

  “You see, I told you those thieves would be here… with him!” Her dark eyes shot daggers at Brad. She was utterly convincing, more so than she ever was onstage. “I knew you were lowlife scum, Brad, but I never thought that even you would stoop so low!” She looked like she was about to slap him. “Your brother would be ashamed!”

  “That’s enough, Ms. Drury.” Eliot got between Sophie and Brad. “Let me handle this.”

  “Handle what?” Brad asked. “What’s this all about… and how did you get past the front gates?”

  That would be me, Hardison thought smugly. It had been easy enough to reprogram the security system so that Eliot and Sophie could buzz themselves in. Not that Brad was likely to figure this out anytime soon. He was about to have bigger things to worry out.