Just the thought of that makes me grit my teeth with anger.
“His name was Dylan Royce. He was let go four months ago for performance-related and drug dependency issues. Basically, he was a shit disturber, with a developing taste for violent behavior. We gave him a heavy severance package in exchange for a signed confidentiality agreement. Turns out he didn’t think that gag order applied in a tattoo shop. He ran his mouth off to a fucking tattoo artist and the entire conversation was recorded on the store’s surveillance system.”
“What kinds of things were said?”
“Bullshit. All of it. All kinds of false accusations. But it won’t matter if the media gets hold of it,” Bentley mutters. “The tattoo shop owner actually called Alliance’s 800 number—pulled it off our website, I assume—and told the operator that he had damaging information on Alliance that I would want to know about. She didn’t know what to do so she put him through to my operatives director’s voice mail, where he then left a message threatening to send the video to a journalist.”
I see where this is going. “How much was he asking for in exchange?”
“Six hundred and fifty-five thousand.”
“That’s . . . specific. Why not an even million?”
Bentley snorts. “Who knows. My operatives director called him back and asked for proof, so the guy texted him a short clip of a video, taken by a phone, of a monitor—some crappy little security monitor, it looks like. My guy bought us four days by agreeing to an exchange. Told the shop owner that we needed that time to round up that much cash.”
I snort. I doubt Bentley would have an issue filling a duffel bag in an afternoon.
“That’s when my operatives director briefed me. I couldn’t risk that video floating around for four days so I briefed and dispatched a team within two hours to recover the video from the shop owner and eliminate both of them from future risk of talking. Quietly. Royce sure as hell couldn’t be trusted anymore, gag order or not.”
Eliminate.
Kill.
I trust Bentley’s decision making, so if he thinks the guys had to go, then they had to go. “What happened?”
“That major clusterfuck happened.” He nods toward the newspaper. “Two dead bodies, surrounded by a media and police circus and a missing videotape. Had they used their heads and followed orders explicitly . . .” Bentley shakes his head. “My guys were supposed to take out Royce somewhere quiet first and then get to the shop at closing to seize the tape. But they decided to improvise, seeing as Royce was at the shop getting work done. A ‘two birds with one stone’ robbery cover-up.”
I reach for the newspaper, unfolding it to scan the front page: a double homicide at a dive tattoo shop in Mission District called Black Rabbit. The inset shows two faces—one, a Caucasian ex-Marine named Dylan Royce, whom you could easily identify on the street as such with his bulky size and brush cut; the other, a Willie Nelson wannabe named Ned nearing his sixties, who doesn’t look like he’d be capable of serious risk to anyone. Then again, I’ve watched hundred-pound women produce bombs from beneath their burkas as they charge a U.S. Humvee, ready to blow everyone up. I don’t underestimate anyone anymore.
But this Royce guy . . . “It says he had a Medal of Honor?”
“Yup. An outstanding soldier, which is why we hired him. He went downhill, though. It started with Vicodin. He turned into a real troublemaker after that.” Bentley shakes his head.