Read Online Closure (Jack Randall) by Randall Wood - Free Book Online
Authors: Randall Wood
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involved. With a purse in the 50 million mark per fight, who wouldn’t want to do it twice? This weekend’s match was a repeat of one held ten months prior, one fighter, a reigning champ who was at the end of his career, and the other, a young challenger from England who had clearly won the previous match. Clear to everyone but the judges, who had miraculously kept the title with the champ, and guaranteed a rematch down the road, translating into more money for everyone. The fighters would break even on their earnings with a win and loss apiece. The champion would retire a very wealthy man. The casinos, which had totally opposing odds from the first match, would clean up once again. The promoter would collect a hefty check from the pay-per-view audience, as well as the people who came to see it in person. The city of Vegas would have a slightly larger population for the weekend that translated into more revenue for its many businesses. Even the airlines would see some profit from all the out-of-town fight fans flocking to the desert city. And yet there were people who thought boxing was a bad thing.
• • •
One of these flights was Southwest Airlines flight 2809 from Chicago’s Midway airport. A “red-eye” as it was known, leaving at 9 p.m. and arriving in Vegas four hours later. The flight and arrival time had been carefully picked weeks ago. The plane was dark, as most passengers were asleep, their empty bags of peanuts next to their half-finished drinks. The flight attendants were quietly talking in the small galley at the front of the plane. With a plane of sleeping passengers, they had little to do. Most passengers were asleep before the takeoff and safety briefing.
Settled in seat 26D was Sam. His hair was darker now, and the glasses he had perched on his nose did nothing for his 20/20 vision. They did however change his face. Sam had thought the need for a disguise was unnecessary, but Paul had talked him into it. As much as Vegas was sin city, it was also very safe. At least as long as you were in a casino. Casinos meant large sums of money. Large sums of money required security. Security meant cameras, everywhere. Since Sam could expect to be on camera for most of his time in Vegas, he’d relented to Paul’s wisdom and altered his appearance. With his dark hair, glasses, and a little scruff on his face, he certainly did not look as he normally did. Some Super Glue to his fingers would keep the prints to a minimum. If he did everything right, he shouldn’t have any problems. Plus, as Paul had pointed out, “It’s Vegas; you’ll probably run into somebody you know!” Sam had kept an eye out for just such a person, but so far all were strangers. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. They had an hour to go and he should just try to blend in with his fellow passengers.
• • •
His mother had named him Russell, but from the time he was nine they had started calling him Profit. He began as a lookout for the local gang in his south-central Los Angeles neighborhood. By the time he was ten he had his own corner, and was moving more crack per day than the kids twice his age. Despite his chosen profession, Profit had an innocent face, one that he exploited to make people trust him. He looked harmless to the people who cruised through the neighborhood looking for a safe source of rock. The real danger was the seventeen-year-old with the Tec-9 machine pistol in his coat who Profit paid to watch his back. Two eight-year-old lookouts in both directions, and Russell had all he needed to be a successful businessman. One thing Profit did, that few others in his area were known to do, was read. Regardless of his lack of schooling—he went only when he wished—he had above average intelligence, and had educated himself by reading everything he could get his hands on. By twelve he had realized that the constant battles among the gangs were just plain bad for
• • •
One of these flights was Southwest Airlines flight 2809 from Chicago’s Midway airport. A “red-eye” as it was known, leaving at 9 p.m. and arriving in Vegas four hours later. The flight and arrival time had been carefully picked weeks ago. The plane was dark, as most passengers were asleep, their empty bags of peanuts next to their half-finished drinks. The flight attendants were quietly talking in the small galley at the front of the plane. With a plane of sleeping passengers, they had little to do. Most passengers were asleep before the takeoff and safety briefing.
Settled in seat 26D was Sam. His hair was darker now, and the glasses he had perched on his nose did nothing for his 20/20 vision. They did however change his face. Sam had thought the need for a disguise was unnecessary, but Paul had talked him into it. As much as Vegas was sin city, it was also very safe. At least as long as you were in a casino. Casinos meant large sums of money. Large sums of money required security. Security meant cameras, everywhere. Since Sam could expect to be on camera for most of his time in Vegas, he’d relented to Paul’s wisdom and altered his appearance. With his dark hair, glasses, and a little scruff on his face, he certainly did not look as he normally did. Some Super Glue to his fingers would keep the prints to a minimum. If he did everything right, he shouldn’t have any problems. Plus, as Paul had pointed out, “It’s Vegas; you’ll probably run into somebody you know!” Sam had kept an eye out for just such a person, but so far all were strangers. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. They had an hour to go and he should just try to blend in with his fellow passengers.
• • •
His mother had named him Russell, but from the time he was nine they had started calling him Profit. He began as a lookout for the local gang in his south-central Los Angeles neighborhood. By the time he was ten he had his own corner, and was moving more crack per day than the kids twice his age. Despite his chosen profession, Profit had an innocent face, one that he exploited to make people trust him. He looked harmless to the people who cruised through the neighborhood looking for a safe source of rock. The real danger was the seventeen-year-old with the Tec-9 machine pistol in his coat who Profit paid to watch his back. Two eight-year-old lookouts in both directions, and Russell had all he needed to be a successful businessman. One thing Profit did, that few others in his area were known to do, was read. Regardless of his lack of schooling—he went only when he wished—he had above average intelligence, and had educated himself by reading everything he could get his hands on. By twelve he had realized that the constant battles among the gangs were just plain bad for
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