Apex

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  She nodded, gave him a slight smile. “Thank you, Max. Tom speaks very highly of your competence and professionalism. I’m certain you’ll be successful.”

  That makes one of us, he almost responded. “As I said, I’ll do my best.”

  “And what is your fee?”

  He who quotes the first figure loses. It was the oldest rule in haggling, so Max shot for the stars on his first offer. “One million up front, an additional two million when I bring home your son, plus expenses.” If she thought he would work for gold stars and an operative’s wage she was sorely mistaken. Those days were long gone.

  “Done.”

  Max nodded. Too easy. Would she have balked at five? Too late now to consider it. And three mil will buy a lot of gear and private jet miles.

  “You’re the professional, so I won’t presume to tell you where to start.” The senator produced a key from her purse and slid it across the table. “But I went by Josh’s house yesterday. The place is in shambles, like someone ransacked it. Perhaps you can find something they might have missed.”

  Max pocketed the key. “I suppose it’s as good a place to start as any.” He didn’t expect to find anything, particularly if the place had been tossed by professionals. “And I’ll need to see a copy of the note you received.”

  “I have that as well, along with the information Tom said you would likely need about Josh.” She passed him a zip-lock bag containing a large manila envelope.

  Max peered inside to find recent pictures of Josh and copies of his passport and driver’s license, amongst other documents. Max would look them over on his way to Josh’s house. He gave her his bank information, and she promised to transfer the initial payment that afternoon.

  Once they’d ironed out the details, she took his hand in both of hers. “Find my son, Max. Please.” Eyes shiny, near tears, her fingernails dug into his hand. She let go after a couple of seconds and looked away, obviously embarrassed over her emotional outburst.

  Max stood. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you for lunch.” He turned and headed for the front door, pulling off his tie as he went.

  3

  Max located a convenience store about a block from the restaurant, where he purchased a bottle of diet Mountain Dew, his go-to drink, to cleanse the vinegary aftertaste of the wine from his mouth. He then hailed a cab to Josh’s house, located in the city’s upscale Woodley Park neighborhood. The cabbie, an older white guy in a crusher hat crushed one too many times, bitched about the daily afternoon storms as he weaved through traffic. Max silently concurred and tried to remember the last time he’d seen the sun shine in DC.

  Lightning crackled across the sky as he neared his destination, one bolt coming to ground so close that the thunderclap shook the car. He thought of Marklin out on the golf course and prayed that his only decent source of information wouldn’t be struck by lightning.

  Max didn’t need to be informed when they’d reached Woodley Park; the professionally manicured lawns and tastefully restored older homes were a dead giveaway. The cabbie hung a right onto Josh’s street.

  “Let me out here,” Max said.

  “You sure, buddy? The address is a couple blocks down.”

  “Yeah.”

  The cabbie shrugged, pulled the car to the curb. “Okay, but you’re gonna get pissed on.”

  “Nothing I’m not used to.” Max paid in cash, adding a moderate tip, then set off at a brisk pace through the storm’s windy, crackling overture.

  Josh’s house, a modest-sized mock Tudor with a small lawn, came into view. Nice accommodations. Max hadn’t known many graduate students during his time at the University of Minnesota, but the few he’d met hadn’t lived in such posh locales. You know he’s a momma’s boy.

  The way Senator Pierce spoke of her son told him Josh had never wanted for anything. Max figured she had money enough to burn, considering she hadn’t flinched at the fee he’d quoted, exorbitant even by the standards of his industry. She seemed like a pretty straight old gal but probably skimmed from the lobbyist money and campaign contributions that were the lifeblood of politics. She was a senator after all, and only human to boot. Of course, Max didn’t give a shit where his fee came from so long as it landed in his bank account.

  Empty driveways told Max that most of the neighborhood’s residents were off at work. He used the next-door neighbor’s back deck as cover to recon Josh’s house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary from afar. Fat drops of rain began falling in sporadic intervals as the thunder and lightning increased in intensity.

  Max returned to the sidewalk and walked calmly through the gathering storm to Josh’s front porch, fortuitously sheltered by a small overhang. A particularly fierce thunderclap commanded the clouds to unleash their torrent as he examined the door. Again, everything looked normal and undisturbed, until he noticed fresh scratches around the keyhole on the doorknob. Picked. He tried the door: unlocked. Knowing he stood unobserved—he could no longer see the street through the deluge of rain—he drew the pistol he’d brought along for his city work, a Sig Sauer .380 with the serial number filed off, as he entered the house.

  The foyer gave access to a living room through an archway to the left. A flight of stairs ascended to his right, while straight ahead ran a hallway leading to the rear of the house, most likely to the kitchen. Senator Pierce hadn’t been bullshitting; whoever tossed the place had done a thorough and messy job. Max hung a left and stepped carefully through the wasteland of Josh’s living room. The kid didn’t own much furniture, and the luxurious leather sectional and easy chair mommy had purchased sat torn apart, all cushions cut open, stuffing all over the floor. They’d likewise ransacked both bookshelves and discarded the contents wherever they happened to land. All pictures had been pulled from the walls and removed from their frames.

  He encountered more of the same in the dining room. Shards of ceramic and glass covered the kitchen floor, visible through an open archway to the right. Pots and pans lay scattered, a pricey espresso machine split open on the counter. Max began to question the looters’ professional skills. He couldn’t imagine true pros wasting their time breaking open a coffee maker.

  Then again, why not? They broke everything else.

  He paused for a moment to listen before entering the kitchen. But for the sound of heavy rain hammering the roof, the house was silent. He could see straight ahead into the kitchen’s dining space, but the food preparation area off to the left was hidden behind the wall. He entered carefully, his weapon at the ready, slicing the pie as he rounded the corner.

  Something came at his face as he stepped around a countertop. He reflexively raised his left arm and grabbed the object, a heavy stool from the English pub dinette set, which he easily ripped from his assailant’s grasp and cast aside. He raised his pistol, finger tensed on the trigger, and regarded his attacker from behind the sights.

  He’d expected to see a man, likely a stupid and clumsy one judging from the manner in which the house had been searched. But his eyes fell on the polar opposite, a wiry woman of about thirty clad in tight jeans and a black leather jacket. Numerous piercings decorated her face—earlobes, nostrils, both lips—beneath a head of spiky black hair fading to electric-blue ends. Though obviously not one of the thugs who’d tossed the house, her ferocious dark-brown gaze would have looked at home on a career criminal.

  She didn’t flinch as Max faced her down with the pistol. Instead she spat the words, “Go on, big boy, fucking shoot me already!”

  “Be careful what you wish for.” Max advanced a step but saw her determination waver only slightly as she backed away. Two steps brought her to the kitchen sink, the end of the line. “Now who the hell are you?”

  She shook her head. “Nah, you go first.”

  “I’m the one with the gun. Now get talking.”

  “Fuck off!”

  Tough little bitch. And she’d forced h
im to bluff. He raised the gun as though he were about to pistol whip her.

  “Okay, okay!” She raised her right arm to fend off the blow that never came. “I’m press, all right?”

  “Really? You have a pass to burglarize homes?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  Max shook his head, returned the Sig to his shoulder holster. “I’m not the one breaking shit.”

  “Neither am I. It was like this when I showed up.”

  “Uh-huh... We’ll see about that. Now who are you?”

  “To the scoundrels of this world, I’m known as Heat. I’m an investigative reporter.”

  Max sneered at her, almost laughed. Heat? Indeed. “With a self-styled nickname to boot.”

  “Oh, you think it’s stupid? Well Pope Francis doesn’t. I published the piece in the New York Times that blew open the latest Catholic priest pedophilia scandal. I’ve taken on the Pentagon, Enron, any number of senators who would squash me if they thought they could get away with it. I make motherfuckers sweat. You get it now?”

  Oddly enough, he did. Though almost a foot shorter than Max, Heat carried herself with the confidence of an elite career soldier. In her mind that’s what she is. She even somewhat looked the part. Tattoos covered most of her exposed skin. The chest piece partially visible beneath her jacket showed skull-headed macabre figures dancing amongst roses in black and red. On her right hand, one letter of the word TRUTH was tattooed on each finger. Max couldn’t help wondering what else might be inked beneath her denim and leather.

  “Sure, that’s great,” Max said. “Now how about your real name?”

  “Again, you first.”

  Fucking reporters. “Fine. My name is Max Ahlgren. And I’m not part of the crew who wrecked this house.”

  “No shit?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. I have business to take care of, and don’t think I’ll hesitate to knock your ass flat to get it done.”

  She raised her palms in placation. “Okay, fine, we’ve established you’re bigger than I am. My name is Iris Keller, since you want to get technical. But I don’t answer to it.”

  Max sighed, shook his head. “Whatever...”

  “So what are you doing here if you’re not part of the problem?”

  “I’m solving the problem, what else? What the hell is your excuse?”

  “Really? Who are you working for?”

  Though it lacked the ringing panache of Heat, Iris could just as well have named herself Relentless. Despite her typical annoying reporter’s quirks, Max found himself developing a grudging respect for her. But he wasn’t ready to give up his employer or anything else until he knew more about her.

  “You tell me why you’re here,” Max said.

  “Just following up on a lead. Until some jack-booted, middle-aged merc barged in and crashed the party.” To her credit she refrained from using air quotes. “His gun versus my stool—not very sporting if you ask me.”

  “You might have had a chance if you’d swung it properly. Grab it by the legs next time, not the seat.”

  She cocked her head and smiled. “Duly noted.”

  Even though she mocked him, Max had to admit hers was the most genuine smile he’d yet seen in Washington. And he had a marked weakness for bold women. And a history of playing the fool. He snapped his mind back to the present. What the fuck am I going to do about this woman? “All right, one more time. Why are you here?”

  “You don’t really—”

  At a shuffling noise near the door, Max silenced her with a raised hand. He drew his pistol, and they listened to the squeak of wet rubber soles on hardwood flooring as people entered the house moving as quietly as possible. Two, by the footfalls. One pair of squeaking feet continued up the entry hallway toward the far end of the kitchen; the other pair went silent as they traversed the carpeted living room. Dammit! They would enter the kitchen from both ends, and the guy in the living room had likely noticed Max’s wet footprints on the carpeting. As to their possible identities, he had no idea. Not cops. Police would have knocked and announced their presence before they barged in. Unfriendly, whoever they are.

  Max looked to Heat, then pointed to the stool he’d taken from her. He couldn’t handle both entrances; she would have to mind the other and hope for the best. Heat’s face remained calm—actually, she looked kind of amused—as she grabbed the stool by the legs and moved to hide behind the refrigerator.

  Seems she learned her lesson.

  Max tiptoed into the dining room and pressed himself to the wall next to the archway leading to the living room. A couple of seconds after he’d gotten into position, a pistol silencer poked tentatively through the entrance.

  Max raised his pistol and then brought it down on the man’s wrist, right at the junction with his hand. The man’s gun fell from his black-gloved grip onto the floor at Max’s feet. Pressing his advantage, Max turned the corner and confronted his opponent, a black man roughly his own size with a shaved head. The guy swung a quick left that caught Max on the jaw, though he avoided the brunt of the blow. Max ducked the right hand that followed, then swung his pistol at baldy’s head. A clean miss—the guy was fleeing, dancing over upset furniture in his haste to be away.

  Max trained his pistol on the man’s back but held his fire. Though the heavy rain would muffle his unsilenced gunfire, he wanted to avoid shooting if possible. Not in this neighborhood. It only took one busybody to call the cops.

  The bald man threw open the front door and bolted from the house.

  “Shit!” a male voice shouted from elsewhere. Squishing footsteps double-timed back down the hallway toward the front door. A feminine grunt, followed by the solid thud of wood on flesh, put an end to the other attacker’s run. He now heard moaning from the hallway floor.

  “Drop your gun, asshole!” Heat shouted.

  Oh boy...

  Max vaulted over trashed furniture as he crossed the living room. In the entry hall Heat stood over the other man, the stool poised over her head to deliver another blow. Dazed, bleeding from the back of his head, the man stirred on the floor as he regained his senses, his silenced pistol still clutched in his gloved hand. Max crushed the man’s fingers beneath the heel of his Italian leather dress shoe.

  The man grunted in fresh pain and surrendered his gun easily enough. He then rolled over and stared up at Max, who didn’t like the look of him: rangy, chinless, greasy blond hair. His blue eyes exuded the insane malice that was stock in trade in Max’s business. “Better call the cops, dickhead,” he said with a yellow smile.

  “You should be so lucky.” Max booted him in the ribs—once, twice, three times until he heard the crack of bone and the wheeze from his lungs. After kicking him once more for good measure, Max pulled him to his feet by the shirt collar. “Now who the fuck are you two, and why are you here?”

  The man grinned at him. “Piss off.”

  Max slugged him in the gut, then delivered an uppercut that rattled his weak chin and loosened a few teeth. He slammed the man against the wall and searched him, passing what he found to Heat—wallet, car keys, two extra mags for his 9mm pistol, and a cell phone.

  “ID?” Max asked Heat.

  “None,” Heat calmly responded. “And his phone is locked. Pull up his right sleeve.”

  “Why?”

  “I caught a glimpse of something just above his wrist while he was squirming on the floor.”

  “Okay.” Max didn’t raise the guy’s sleeve—he grabbed the jacket sleeve at the shoulder and ripped it off his arm, same thing with the shirtsleeve beneath.

  “What the fuck?” the guy muttered.

  “Shut up.” Max raised his arm so they could have a look. Heat had spotted a symbol about two inches long tattooed on his inner forearm.

  “Let me see that thing,” Heat moved in and joined Max to examine the tattoo—
a black owl inked in tribal style. At a glance it seemed nothing special, rather like something a nerdy college girl might get on a spring-break whim.

  Then Max noticed that the bird had only one cyclopean eye buried dead-center in its forehead.

  The man squirmed in Max’s grasp as Heat took a picture of the tattoo with a small digital camera. She then turned the lens on his face.

  “That’s enough,” Max said. Whomever this guy was, he obviously didn’t want to be photographed and was psycho enough to come after Heat in the future. “You ready to talk now, dickhead?”

  Dickhead shook his head.

  “Then it’s out the fucking door you go.” Max marched him down the hallway and shoved him out the open front door. He stumbled across the stoop and splashed down in a puddle of water on the lawn. Max spotted the bald guy sitting patiently behind the wheel of a gray sedan parked at the curb. They weren’t about to risk continuing the fight on a front lawn in a ritzy neighborhood during the daytime.

  Heat squeezed into the doorway next to Max and began taking pictures of the partially sleeveless thug as he rose dripping from the puddle. Max slapped her hands down, pushed her into the house as he slammed the door closed behind him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Max shouted. “You don’t take pictures of guys like that if you want to live much longer.”

  “Fuck that, I’m not afraid to expose assholes like them.”

  “Then you’re a fool. And the heat’s on you this time. Those guys weren’t after me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they would have been better prepared. I guarantee you that bald guy was expecting an easier target.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But that was still fucking awesome! Shit, maybe I’m in the wrong business.”

  “Bust one stool over some dipshit’s head, and you’re ready for a career change?”

  “Maybe I’ve got what it takes.”

  “More like you’re a quick study with a stool and lucky to boot.”