Hard Money: A Michael Flint Novel

Book 4: Michael Flint Series

by Diane Capri

Genres: Financial Thrillers; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The thrilling new unputdownable Michael Flint novel from Best Selling Author Diane Capri!

Death stalks the Lyman family. No heir has lived to reach the age of thirty.

Two years ago, the last heir vanished. After an underwater explosion, his body was never found.

Accident, curse, or revenge?

Spencer Lyman managed to break free from his criminal underworld and build a legitimate empire. But escaping a crime syndicate is dangerous business.

Old man Lyman won’t accept that his grandson, Ward, is gone. He's convinced Ward is out there, somewhere, and he's desperate to find him before those who seek to destroy him finish what they started.

Michael Flint can track anyone, anywhere, dead or alive. Curses are nonsense. But accidents and revenge are all too real.

Can Flint uncover the truth and find Ward before time runs out, or will the family curse finally claim its last heir and end the Lyman empire permanently?


What readers are saying about the Michael Flint Thrillers:

“What a terrific story! I love side-by-side stories since it is so fascinating when they finally coincide in a dynamic conclusion.”

“What a great fast-paced story which has the reader looking forward to the next line, paragraph and page as it's an outstanding page turner!”

“Great new heir hunter! Flint is back!!! Heir hunter extraordinaire, Michael Flint, is back with his newest case!”

“I was enthralled with this book because of the genealogist theme. I dabble in genealogy, and have hit my fair share of brick walls. Michael Flint is a great character, fully developed personality, with knowledge and fearlessness to pursue wrong-doing and try to make it right, not necessarily within the law. I couldn't put down the books in this series and am hopeful for more.”

“I started reading Ms Capri's Jack Reacher spin-offs. I've read them all. Moving on to her other works. Great reads. Can't wait for the next in the Michael Flint series.”

“I like the fast pace and not having to wade through a description of the mosaic tile walls in the lobby of some building. A tenacious character with a set of values and a conscience. A very good read. Couldn't put it down!”

“Tense and captivating page turner. I really enjoyed the Michael Flint series and am hoping for more real soon. Michael Flint is a true adventure hero every bit as good as Indiana Jones with a dose of Jack Reacher thrown in for good measure. He's highly principled, while somewhat flawed, but very loyal with a vulnerable side he'd rather keep hidden. Please Diane Capri......more, more, more!”

“This second book was every bit as riveting as I'd hoped for. It kept me on the edge of my seat, and I could hardly put it down. I can't wait for the third book in this series!!”

Award winning New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author DIANE CAPRI Does It Again in the Michael Flint Thrillers

Release date: July 23, 2024

Publisher: AugustBooks

Print pages: 315

Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) emotionally riveting (1) entertaining story (1) suspenseful (1) unexpected twists (1) unputdownable (1)

Sample

CHAPTER 1
Las Vegas, Nevada
Michael Flint stood on the Las Vegas strip outside the sprawling Venietio
casino, reviewing the situation before moving ahead with his plan. The
influence of organized crime in Las Vegas was not a myth. Extreme caution
was required.
Although the Venietio rested on the quieter end of the Las Vegas strip, it
dazzled with the bling for which these casinos were famous.
Venietio’s central building housed two floors for gambling, forty-five
floors of hotel rooms, and a top floor of penthouse suites. Tropical plants,
choreographed lighting, and swimming pools spread a couple of hundred
yards in all directions. Occasional access paths crossed the scene to keep
numerous bars, restaurants, and cabanas supplied.
Running such an establishment was like managing a small city. The
logistics required constant attention.
But the most treacherous path every casino owner in Las Vegas had to
navigate was the one between legal business operations and unscrupulous
grifters exploiting every angle, legal or otherwise, attempting to amass and
keep their fortunes.
Nick Kodinsky and Dayton Whyte had been two such grifters. Years
earlier, they’d begged, borrowed, and cajoled to raise half a billion dollars
to break ground on the Venietio casino.
Kodinsky had been the voice of reason to investors and banks, and
Whyte had the balls to repel the mobsters before they had a chance to get
their hooks into the fledgling operation.
Operating a casino in Vegas that, one way or another, wasn’t controlled
by crooks and killers had always been an impossible challenge. Kodinsky
and Whyte believed it could be done.
They were wrong.
Over time, Kodinsky ran the operation on the right side of the law, albeit
barely. While organized crime kept chipping away at Whyte, who was,
without a doubt, the weakest link.
Businesses in Vegas, legal or not, were owned and operated by those
who took the long view. Which meant a constant struggle to keep Venietio on
the legal side and out of the mob’s hands.
Inevitably, weak men like Whyte fell under the mob’s control.
Which was the very moment, Kodinsky’s wife said, her husband became
expendable, living on borrowed time.
Exactly who killed Nick Kodinsky was never clear, but they dumped his
body forty miles from the strip. All forensic evidence was destroyed before
the body was found.
Nick Kodinsky’s will gave his half of the casino to his wife, Dolores.
But Whyte challenged the will in court, and his delays and legal maneuvers
had kept it there for three years. So far.
A thorough investigation by the Las Vegas homicide unit turned up
questions but few answers. So few that Delores Kodinsky had finally turned
to Michael Flint.
Flint’s investigation had turned up a string of anomalies. For a casino on
the strip, the business didn’t look so healthy.
Staff had been cut and suppliers were clamoring to be paid. Croupiers
were shopping their skills to other casinos, and several had already left.
Flint’s client, Delores Kodinsky, was being systematically cheated by
her husband’s business partner. No doubt about it.
Yet, every time Flint had checked the place out, the slot machines and the
tables were always full. Where was the money going?
When Flint confronted Whyte with these facts, he denied and deflected.
Which ticked Flint off and made him dig harder.
Hanging out in a small bar off the strip the previous evening, Flint had
hit gold. The bar was a popular meeting place for Venietio casino staff. After
a bit of eavesdropping and heavy tipping, he found a cook with an interesting
story. All casinos had a vault. Usually underground, the vaults stored the hard
money. Cash accumulated in casinos, even as they tried to encourage payment
by plastic.
A steady stream of cash flowed to the banks daily. Some banks
specifically allowed casinos to deposit money over the weekends. Casino
cash handling was a well planned and executed process.
Except at Venietio’s, the cook claimed.
The armored car that collected the money hadn’t been seen for a month,
and the cash had stopped flowing to the banks. According to the cook,
Venietio’s vault was full of cash.
Delores Kodinsky’s cash.
Flint had checked the Venietio’s floor plans. He’d located the
underground tunnel to the vault.
He had two options. He could watch and wait to confirm that Whyte
planned to disappear with Kodinsky’s fortune in cash. Or he could act now.
Flint considered both options fully. It was the right thing to do. Weigh the
pros and cons. The risks, the benefits. But the answer was obvious.
Which was why Flint’s finger was now poised over the call button on a
burner cell phone. It was time to disturb Whyte’s cozy scheme. He pressed
call.
Whyte answered on the third ring. “Who’s this?”
“Michael Flint. I’d like a meeting.”
Whyte scoffed. “No chance. Talk to my lawyer.”
“Two minutes. I’m in Vegas.”
“Go have fun. Somewhere else.”
“You’ve been reading too much Mickey Spillane.”
“Get lost.”
“If you’ve got any sense, we should talk.”
“You step on my property, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I’ve got an offer you can’t refuse, as Mickey would say.”
“Who the hell’s Mickey?”
“I know what you’re doing with the money the casino generates.”
Whyte paused. “My business has got nothing to do with you.”
“Has a lot to do with Dolores Kominsky.”
“The ex-croupier Max kept on the side? She doesn’t deserve squat.”
“They were married.”
“In Vegas? You think that counts for anything?”
“Married’s married. Seven years.”
“She’s a gold-digging b—”
“You don’t like her because she turned you down.”
Whyte’s voice dropped an octave. “You watch your mouth, you—”
“Let’s discuss this in person.”
“No chance. Go back to whatever hovel you crawled out of. Now.
Because my security has been alerted, and we’ve called the police.”
Flint snorted. “You? Called the police? Right.”
“I’ll see you put away for the rest of your life. A very short life.”
“You threatening me?”
Whyte laughed. “That would be like threatening a roach. Because I can
step on roaches. And I do.”
“So I’ve heard. People like Clyde Beatty.”
Whyte didn’t speak for three full seconds. Over the phone, his breathing
sounded irregular. Forced. Like he was holding something back.
“You weren’t charged with murder,” Flint said. “But I have a photograph
that could change that.”
Whyte remained silent for another full second. “You’re a piece of
work.”
“I’m a hard worker. That’s why I’m on the phone with you now.”
Flint heard a single click. Distinct. Crisp. He heard no breathing from
the other end of the phone, but the call remained connected. A moment later,
another click sounded, and Whyte came back on.
“All right. Two minutes. Come up and show me what you’ve got.
Penthouse elevator.”
This time the line went dead.
Flint placed a second call to Bradley, a Las Vegas PI he’d hired for
backup. “We’re on. I’m headed up to his penthouse. You don’t hear anything
from me five minutes after I get up there, call the cops.”
“You got it.”
“And call the cops if you see anything being moved out of the tunnel.
Anything at all. A bicycle comes through there, call the cops,” Flint said, to
be clear, as he moved through the casino toward the elevator.
“Roger that.”
-
CHAPTER 2
Flint pushed through a door marked Penthouse Visitors Only. Which led to a
small room and a second door. This one was solid oak with no handle. A girl
in a short and clinging dress sat behind a reception desk. Behind her, a
camera stared down from the corner of the ceiling.
“Michael Flint. Meeting with Dayton Whyte.”
The girl nodded and typed on a tiny laptop. “You’re early.”
“Sue me.”
“Mr. Whyte has authorized a single visit.” She looked up, stared a
moment, then raised her eyebrows with a smug smile. “Two minutes.
Precisely.”
“Won’t be a problem. Even a single minute’s going to put me off my feed
for a week.”
Whyte never had combative visitors. The girl’s mouth opened and
closed a couple of times as she searched her brain for a snappy comeback.
She waved toward the elevator.
Metal scraped against metal and a moment later the oak door opened a
few inches. The setup must have had a crude metal brace bolted inside the
dignified oak door, effectively blocking intruders.
“Enjoy your visit,” she said snidely and busied herself on the computer.
Flint pulled the oak door open. It led to a second room where two large
men in dark suits stood on either side of shiny brass elevator doors.
Arms by their sides, eyes locked straight ahead. Barrel chested. Casino
name badges, unlikely to be real names, but Flint noted that Rick had a goatee
and Cuba a buzz cut.
“So this is where you either beat me to a pulp,” said Flint, “or you wait
until your mob boss has seen what I have to show him.”
“We identified you when you started poking your nose where it doesn’t
belong,” Cuba said. “We could have buried you long ago.”
Flint scoffed. “Obviously you don’t think so. Because you haven’t done
it.”
Cuba stepped forward, lips pressed into an angry thin line.
Rick intervened and beckoned Flint forward. “Arms out. Legs apart.”
Flint took a breath. This was it. He lifted weights, ran marathons, and
trained to stay sharp.
But this pair were disciplined fighters, not backstreet brawlers. Solid
muscle, and plenty of it. Probably trained as well as he was.
If they’d been instructed to work him over, they’d coordinate. In the
confines of this six-foot square room, they believed he wouldn’t stand a
chance against the two of them.
Flint stepped forward, raising his arms as Cuba reached for Flint’s torso
to pat him down for weapons.
Flint grabbed Cuba’s lapels and spun around, catching the man offbalance.
With one thrust, he shoved Cuba out of the small room, slammed the
door, and rammed the metal brace into place to keep it closed.
Rick lunged forward, leading with his fist. Flint dodged and shoved him
to one side.
“I’m not here for a fight,” Flint said reasonably. “But two against one
didn’t seem fair.”
Rick steadied his feet and prepared to land the second blow.
Flint held his hands up, fingers spread to show he meant no harm. “He’s
not hurt. You can open the door to check once I’m in the elevator.”
Rick adjusted his fist, clearly considering Flint’s comment. After a
moment, he lowered his arm. “Against the wall. Spread ’em.”
“I’m not armed. Against casino rules.”
“Shut your mouth. Against the wall.”
Flint stared a moment before turning to face the wall. He kept his
muscles taut. Rick roughly patted him down and pulled the burner phone from
his jacket pocket.
“I need that,” said Flint. “If your boss wants to see what I have.”
Rick pushed a button on the wall and tossed the phone back. Flint caught
the phone in his left hand.
Half a moment later, Rick attempted a solid punch, planning to hammer
into Flint’s back and side.
Before the punch landed, Flint twisted swiftly out of reach.
Rick’s knuckles landed hard against the wall.
A nasty sounding crunch resounded. Rick yowled loudly and jerked his
fist back to his chest for protection.
The elevator doors slid open silently and Flint stepped inside.
“Better get some ice for that hand,” he suggested as the elevator doors
closed between them.
The smooth ride up started slow and accelerated relentlessly. The speed
decayed as quickly as it grew, but the stop was easy and then the doors slid
open again.
Flint stood to one side and waited. Whyte’s goons didn’t show up.
Which was a bad sign.
Pausing a moment, Flint peered around the door’s edge. Mirrors and
modern art hung between Doric columns in a hallway that led to what looked
like the living area. A flickering mixture of neon light from the strip, forty
floors below, bounced in reflection from floor-to-ceiling glass and back
again. Flint stepped out into the unoccupied room and the elevator doors closed
behind him.
Where was Whyte?
Flint’s every step echoed on marble flooring. In the opposite direction,
the hallway led to a kitchen. He walked into the living area.
The interior reflected the designers’ taste for the modern. Simple shapes
defined the furniture and light fixtures. The chairs and sofa bowed to
magazine covers and geometry more than comfort. The glossy white baby
grand piano was devoid of embellishments.
The living area occupied the corner of the building and spanned seventy
feet in either direction.
There was no sign of Dayton Whyte.
“Whyte?” Flint called.
The hard surfaces bounced his name around the empty room and the
hallway and would have been heard in the kitchen. Easily. But the silence
that followed had an edge. Something beyond the lack of voices.
Flint moved to the wall, collecting a crystal statue on the way. Eighteen
inches high with good heft, it was a reasonable weapon against anything but a
gun.
He covered the hallway into the kitchen, which was a giant affair with
appliances ringing the walls, an island in the center, and a breakfast area that
overlooked the rear of the building. A vast array of stainless-steel saucepans
hung from a rack above the cooking island.
Flint circled the room, calling for Whyte, but no one responded.
From a drawer beside the enormous range, he swapped the statue for a
knife. Japanese steel with well-honed edges. It had a sheath, so he tucked it
in his belt.
Retracing his steps along the hallway, Flint found a door artfully
disguised as a giant gilt-edged mirror. The oversized panel swung inward to
reveal a massive bedroom. Flint wondered if he’d find a bloody body draped
across the sheets, but this room, too, was unoccupied.
He checked the en suite as he dialed Bradley again.
Bradley answered on the last ring. “Yo.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where are you?”
“In his penthouse.”
Bradley whistled. “Didn’t think you’d make it inside.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. What do you see down there?”
“Nothing special.”
“Anyone in or out?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a big place.”
“And I’m watching it all. No excitement. Keep looking up there. The
penthouse is a big place, too.”
Flint frowned. “I checked the living area and kitchen thoroughly. But I
can’t find the bedroom,” he lied. “So I’m coming down.”
“No, wait.” Bradley paused a moment. “Try … like big pictures and
mirrors. Rich people love that. Hiding stuff. Makes them feel special. Like
they’re the only ones who know the secret.”
“Yeah. Them and you.”
Bradley paused again. “What d’you mean, them and me?”
Flint sneered. “You know where to find the bedroom.”
Bradley didn’t speak.
“How much is he paying you?”
Flint heard heavy breathing before the line went dead.
-
CHAPTER 3
Flint looked at the empty bedroom. Damn. Whyte had skipped out. Decided
to take his money and run. Which meant there was another way out of the
penthouse.
Whyte had attempted to trap Flint here.
How long had he been gone?
Could Flint catch him before Whyte disappeared?
He raced from the bedroom to the elevators, found the call button, and
stabbed it. The light didn’t illuminate.
He pressed the button several times. Nothing happened.
He shoved his ear against the metal doors but heard nothing.
Opposite the elevator door were the emergency stairs. But he couldn’t
open the door.
He hammered the sole of his shoe against the door by the closing
mechanism at the doorknob.
The door didn’t give.
Flint ran to the kitchen. He collected three saucepans with steel handles
tapering to an elegantly narrow tip.
Flint approached the narrow glass window beside the stairway door. He
pounded the window with repeated blows from one of the heavy pans until
the glass broke. He wiped the spiky shards away and reached into the
stairwell to unlock the door.
But the latch refused to turn.
Flint rammed the end of two saucepan handles into the doorframe at the
locking mechanism.
Alternating, he used them to jimmy the gap between the door and the
frame, attempting to widen the gap.
The oak trim splintered off and the pans fell to the floor.
He pounded the handles deeper into the gap, straining against each one
before adding the next. More wood broke off and he kept using the same
technique.
Finally, one of the handles pierced through the side of the door. A few
more moments of pounding and the door swung open.The saucepans
clamored to the floor as Flint pushed through into the stairwell.
The concrete steps were jarring next to the modern luxury of the
penthouse, but Flint barely noticed. He took the stairs three and four at a
time, using his shoulder against the walls to slow his pace at each one-eighty
turn.
Four floors down a fire door opened into a corridor.
Flint ran through and along the hallway. Apartment doors led off on each
side. The corridor turned a couple of times. Finally, he found an elevator.
This time, when he pushed the call button it illuminated, and the digital
counter marked the car’s progress toward him.
When the car arrived, two well dressed women shuffled to the rear as he
stepped in.
This elevator was glacially slow compared to the one for the penthouse.
Flint spent the minutes that felt like hours during the slow descent creating his
plan of attack.
Whyte must have used the time between Flint’s phone call and his
arrival to disappear with Delores Kodinsky’s money. A hundred million at
least. If Whyte succeeded, Flint’s client would be broke. Whyte would hide
the money where Kodinsky would never find it next time.
Whyte’s plan to cheat Nick Kodinsky’s widow from what was rightfully
hers was way too close to succeeding. Which Flint absolutely would not
allow.
The casino complex had three lower levels. Kitchens and guest services
filled the first two floors. Access to the main vault on the third level was
strictly controlled.
Whyte was moving cash from the vault. He’d be forced to exit at the rear
of the building through the tunnel. It was a hundred feet underground. At the
end was what looked like a normal roll-up garage door.
Behind it was a second door. This one was a steel-reinforced airlock
style, fabricated with metal and concrete.
The guest elevator doors eventually opened onto a casino entrance. Flint
hustled quickly across the floor and burst outside. At the base of a dozen
steps out front, lines of cars and taxis alternated dropping off and collecting
departing guests in a loading area.People milled around in every direction.
The whole casino complex covered several acres of land. Running flat
out, it would take several minutes to reach the tunnel exit. He needed faster
transportation.
His gaze scanned for one of the golf carts he’d seen transporting
gamblers earlier.
Before finding anything suitable, he locked eyes with a man he
recognized standing across the road from the entrance.
As soon as the face registered in Flint’s mind, he started moving. Rick,
Whyte’s elevator guard, hurried away, too. Fast. Oblivious to the screeching
of car tires and honking horns as he ran in front of the traffic.
Rick was speaking into a walkie-talkie. Which meant he had backup.
Possibly the casino’s security muscle. They’d have weapons and comms.
Quickly, Flint turned and ducked into a crowd of gamblers entering the
building.
The casino was a few steps below grade from the entrance which was
meant to impress visitors with the scope of the spectacle. It also gave Flint a
wide view.
Throngs of people packed the casino floor. Hardcore gamblers at tables,
tourists at slot machines, and gawkers everywhere.
On Flint’s left, two men in black suits cut a path through the crowd
headed directly toward him. He spun on his heel and hoofed toward the
shopping gallery. His pursuers picked up the pace.
Dodging, weaving, and a judicious use of his elbows gave Flint the
advantage. He reached the far side of the gallery two dozen steps ahead of
his pursuers.
An archway separated the casino from a larger food court and shopping
mall combination. The mall security guards wore gray short-sleeved shirts
instead of black suits. Which probably meant they were a different team.
Flint steered clear of them anyway.
At the exit, Flint leaned against the wall beside a fire alarm. He rammed
his elbow backward to smash the glass and then swiftly yanked the handle
down.
Instantly, sirens whoop-whoop-whooped. A recorded voice instructing
people not to panic while the reason for the alarm was being investigated
sounded from speakers in every direction. Followed by the same whoops and
then a repeat of the voice.
Flint’s pursuers were just twenty feet away. He turned toward the
shopping mall’s long, wide hallways and pumped his speed.
Just as he started to run sprinklers opened up above the crowds. People
screamed and ran for cover.
His pursuers were slowed by the mass as they tried to power through.
Flint ran along the hallway until he reached the end of the sprinkled zone
and once again found dry pavement. The faces he passed looked perplexed
by his drowned appearance, but no one was heading for the exits here.
He followed the walkway as the mall zigzagged through the building. He
was out of sight, but he’d also lost sight of his pursuers.
Moments later, he saw them.
Directly ahead.
Dripping wet.
One on either side of the twenty-foot-wide corridor. They’d found a
shortcut.
One man placed his hand inside his jacket to suggest his gun rested there
and motioned toward the side of the corridor.
Flint pretended to take the warning seriously.
He feigned a move to one side. Then he pivoted and ran flat out into a
designer clothes shop. He kept low, dodging left and right between the racks
and shoppers. He crouched down behind a row of jackets, squeezing against
the side wall. Easing the jackets back into place and keeping down to wait.
Seconds later, the two men ran through the center of the store, swiveling
their heads. ...