The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  Harley glanced down at the phone. A second red light was flashing on the screen now. Her heart jumped. Did they finally have a location? She picked up the phone and zoomed in. The dot seemed to be in the middle of the ocean. That didn’t make any sense. Did the guy have his own island?

  Supposedly the fibbies were monitoring her phone twenty-four seven. Graves had told her a team would be scrambled the instant she activated the app.

  “Give me something substantial,” she said, “How many clones are there, exactly?”

  There was a pause. Was he giving up? No, she heard a long sigh. “That is information that I no longer possess,” he said, “The clones have taken over the cloning operation. My guess would be between one and two hundred, given the typical gestation rate and my lab’s current capacity.

  It made her stomach churn. A couple hundred Reapers? The death just one of him caused was more than enough.

  “Is Dr. DeVol still alive?” she asked.

  "As far as I know," the Reaper said, "Though he is not as useful as he once was. The last I saw of him, he was busy getting inebriated from alcohol he had brewed himself. The cloning operation is mostly self-sustaining at this point."

  There was something in his voice that seemed off. Like he was trying to hide something. Something about DeVol.

  She looked down at the phone. There were more red dots now. More and more appeared.

  “What the hell?” she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Ah, you are probably wondering about the FBI’s tracking system,” the Reaper said, “I would imagine it is not functioning as expected. The FBI should really hire better people to do its software. It’s quite pathetic, actually.”

  Harley bit back a tirade of swear words. Son of a bitch was too smart. The FBI’s nerd boys were probably crapping themselves right now.

  “So what do you say, Detective Harley?” the Reaper said, “Do you wish to have all my clones in one basket? Or do you wish to keep fighting a war with hundreds of individuals just as smart as I am?”

  Harley growled and clenched the phone in her fist. “You piece of shit.”

  “You keep saying that,” the Reaper said, “Do we have a deal? You suppress my involvement at Bennie’s Garage, and I shall hand over the clones to you.”

  “How do we know you’ll follow through?” Harley said.

  “You don’t,” the Reaper said, “But it is your choice.”

  “You’re just using us to get what you want,” Harley said, “I want you to stop killing.”

  The Reaper laughed. “No, you want my head on a stick. Do we have a deal, detective?”

  Harley ground the heel of her palm into her eye. What choice did she have? The lesser of two evils was still evil. But maybe she could still work it to her advantage.

  “I’ll agree on one condition,” she said.

  “And what would that be?” the Reaper said. He was sounding bored. Was she exceeding his attention span?

  “I want a rematch,” she said.

  There was a long pause. She listened to the hiss of the open line, her heart hammering. Would he take it?

  “A rematch?” he asked.

  “Yeah. You and me. One on one,” she said, “Loser gets to go home in a body bag.”

  She heard a rasping from the phone, like the Reaper was rubbing his chin. “You are proposing a fight, detective Harley? Just the two of us?”

  “Yeah. You man enough for it? Or are you too much of a coward?” she said.

  There was another long pause. She savored it. She’d knocked the bastard off his mental balance. She was going to get under his skin. Or maybe she already was. He could have taken her out years ago when she was a slobbering drunk. But he’d stayed away, left her alone. Was it possible that the Reaper was actually afraid of her?

  “Very well, detective,” the Reaper said, “Once your authorities have disposed of my clones, then you and I shall meet. One final time. Though, if you wished to commit suicide, there are quicker ways.”

  “Oh, I won’t be the one dying, asshole,” she said.

  “I would not count on that,” the Reaper said, “I shall be in touch, Detective Harley. Suppress that report, and have your authorities ready for the most dangerous bust of their lives.”

  The line went dead. The screen on her phone went blank. An instant later another call was coming through. She peered at it. Walt. Of course. She threw the phone out the bedroom door the flopped back on the bed.

  Maybe the pirate eyepatch was getting to her. Now she was challenging serial killers to death matches?

  Forty-Six

  Carlson stared at the handset for a long moment before returning it to its cradle. He tried not to think about how his hand trembled, or how his heart was beating like a drug crazed rock drummer.

  You and me. One on one.

  What a ridiculous notion. Did she really think he would do such a thing?

  He pulled the telephone plug out of the wall of the dilapidated tenement. The smell of human waste was strong in the room. That and blood. A ragged bundle lay against the wall. Carlson sighed. He should have waited to kill the man. Now he was filled with tension again and needed release. He’d have to find another person to kill. Just to take the edge off.

  He rolled up the cord and put it carefully back in the box with his telephone scrambler. The unit had cost him a lot of money. The Israelis had some excellent spy gear, but their prices were outrageous. Oh, well. It was effective, that’s all that mattered.

  He straightened up. His skin was hot under the latex appliances that changed the shape of his face. He’d had to discard his standard kit and come with with a new one. Stupid clones. If they had just listened to him, all of this trouble could have been avoided.

  And Detective Harley wouldn’t be challenging him to ridiculous death matches.

  You man enough for it? Or are you too much of a coward?

  How dare she? He was death. He feared no one.

  Not even her.

  He clenched his shaking hands into fists. Images of that night flitted through his mind. It had seemed like such a delicious idea at the time. Make her see her father’s body. Let the grief rip through her. Then he would take her and make her suffer. Make her feel fear. He was going to take her to the farm. Play some games in the cellar.

  Show her he wasn’t afraid of her.

  It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

  A pity it turned out the way it did.

  Perhaps, once the clones were taken care of, something could be arranged. She wouldn’t get her death match, but she would get something. Let her stew for a while. Let her paranoia and fear grow. Let it eat away at her mind.

  When he finally took her, it would be a relief for her.

  For him.

  Forty-Seven

  Harley let Graves in after he threatened to break the door down. He had pounded on the door for a solid minute. Probably pissed her neighbors off. Not that she really cared.

  Now he was pacing back and forth in front of her couch, wearing a hole in her carpet. She sat in the middle of the couch, still in her black Metallica t-shirt. She hadn’t even bothered putting her leg on. It was times like this that she wished she could stand the taste coffee. She could use a jolt right now.

  Except that wasn’t true. She’d already had a jolt. Her nerves were singing. She needed a fucking drink. Or a fuck. Both would be awesome. She eyed Graves as he paced back and forth, lecturing her on the folly of daring serial killers to duels. Or something. He was a little disheveled. His brown hair was slightly mussed, there was a shadow of stubble on his cheeks. He wore jeans and blue pullover that zipped up the front.

  It was the most casual she’d ever seen him.

  He smelled a little of musk, a little of a sharp soap.

  She needed some warmth. A little human contact. Some skin on skin. Arms around her. Hot breath on her neck. Something to take the edge off the loneliness. A little light to push back the darkness.

&nb
sp; But she knew if she pulled off her shirt and invited him to her, he’d turn away.

  It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t had any since she’d stopped drinking. It was tough to pick up guys who weren’t drunk. And when she wasn’t drunk, too.

  “You’re nuts, you know that?” Graves said. He finally came to a stop in front of her. “I have a hard enough time with Parker as it is. What do you think he’s going to say? Jesus, challenging a serial killer to a death match? That is just so, so…you.”

  “Yeah, gotta be me,” Harley said, “So you got anything else? Cause I could use some more sleep.”

  “No, you’re not getting any more sleep tonight,” he said. If his brows came down any further, they were going to turn into a mustache. “Parker wants us downtown. Now.”

  “Shit, what’s he doing up?” she asked.

  “Everybody is up now,” Graves said, “That phone call lit up half the field offices in the country. They were scrambling people to those locations.”

  “Yeah, they didn’t find anything did they?”

  Graves ran his hand through his hair. His face was flushed. Had Parker already chewed him out? Or was it just pregnant expectation?

  "No, not a damned thing," Graves said, "He had some kind of super-sophisticated jammer. The tech boys are thinking it might be military, foreign maybe."

  “Sounds expensive,” Harley said.

  “Only if he actually paid for it,” Graves said, “He might have stolen it from a military installation.”

  Harley rolled her eyes. There was going to be all kinds of speculation. They really didn’t need to indulge in it themselves. She held her hands out to him.

  “Come on, big boy, take me to the bedroom,” she said, “All my clothes are there. So is my leg.”

  He huffed out a sigh, but he took hold and pulled her to her foot. He let her lean against him while she hopped along.

  It was something.

  Forty-Eight

  The downtown office had a big open area in the middle of the building. It didn't really qualify as a cube farm, since there weren't any dividers. Just a bunch of desks too close together. It gave Harley a twinge of nostalgia. It was almost like the bullpen back in the homicide division. Except everyone here was wearing suits. Though a lot of them had their coats off and the sleeves of their starched, button-down shirts rolled up.

  All the agents–mostly men, but there was a token woman or two–were on their phones, growling at whoever was on the other end of the lines. They looked grumpy. Even grumpier when they looked up and saw her.

  Hey, it's not my fault guys, I didn't tell the dick to call me at 3 am.

  She gave them her pirate glower. Most of them looked away. She had her long, black coat over the Metallica t-shirt, and her black fedora stuck on over her thick hair. Her Taser was tucked safely in the coat pocket. She’d managed to get it through security this time. A small victory.

  The place stank of coffee and desperation…a thick cloud of sweat and quiet fear.

  At the end of the narrow aisle waited Parker. His balding scalp gleamed under the harsh fluorescents. He was fully dressed, looking like he was freshly showered, his dark gray suit wrinkle free. The front of his pants were creased sharp enough to draw blood.

  But the blood was in his eyes. As Harley approached, her leg clacking and creaking, she saw Parker’s eyes were a bloody roadmap of every highway and backroad in the man’s vision.

  “Well, Ms. Harley,” he said. His hands were clasped behind him. He probably wanted to look tough. A single punch to the throat would have convinced him otherwise. Harley kept her own fists in her voluminous coat pockets.

  “Well, Mr. Parker,” she said, mimicking his tone.

  Parker's eyes narrowed and his lips pressed to a thin line. Beside her, she could almost feel Graves willing her to behave. She felt a little sorry for him. She had no intention of behaving. She stared directly at Parker, daring him to try something.

  Maybe he saw the menace in her eye. Or maybe he had better things to do. He turned to Graves.

  “Agent Graves. You are dismissed. I need to speak to Agent Harley alone,” he said.

  “That ain’t gonna happen,” Harley said.

  Parker’s face went red. “Agent Harley–”

  “It’s for your own protection, sir,” Graves said.

  Parker gave him a look like he’d lost his mind. Graves held up his hands.

  “He’s not joking,” Harley said, “If you and I are alone in the same room and you say something especially stupid, I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”

  "Are you threatening me, Ms. Harley?” Parker said.

  “You bet I am,” Harley said, “I don’t like you much as it is. It wouldn’t take much to put me over the edge.”

  Parker glanced left and right. She noticed the room had gotten quieter all of a sudden. People were staring.

  “I could have you arrested,” Parker said through clamped teeth.

  “Not before I rip your nuts off and stuff them down your throat, asshole,” she said. She nodded in the general direction of the desks. “Your pet agents won’t get within two steps of me before it happens. I guarantee it.”

  The man was so red now he looked ready to burst a gasket. “Can’t you control her?” he said to Graves.

  “No sir,” Graves said, “I’ve tried. Doesn’t work.”

  “You could try flowers sometime,” Harley said, “Or chocolate. The good stuff though, not the junk they sell down at the drug store.”

  Now Graves was flushing. Any second now steam was going to start coming out of Parker’s ears. It wasn’t such a bad night after all. Though technically it was morning. She’d heard rumors people actually voluntarily woke up at this god forsaken hour. It didn’t seem natural, though.

  “So why did you want me down here?” she asked, “I already know you don’t have anything from the phone call.”

  Parker spread his lips, baring his teeth in what could be called a smile, but was more like wind coming off a glacier.

  “Actually, we did get something,” he said.

  Forty-Nine

  The geeks down at the FBI lab didn't look as geeky as she expected them to. They actually looked kind of hot. There two of them, both tall, blonde and shaped like junior bodybuilders. They looked like twins.

  Parker introduced them as Nelson and Nelson. Maybe they were twins. They reached out to shake her hand, both of them had rakish grins on their faces.

  “Call me Jim,” said the first one.

  “And call me Bob,” said the second.

  She shook their big, manly hands. Got a little flutter in her chest. She couldn’t tell them apart. Neither wore name tags on their tight, gray t-shirts. They wore tight blue jeans, too. Apparently the dress code didn’t apply to studly lab guys.

  “Jim Bob?” she said.

  The corners of their mouths quirked up at the same time. Adorable.

  “Our father’s–” Jim said.

  “Idea of a joke,” Bob finished.

  Twins then. And they finished each other’s sentences. Did they play team sports too? She had a field they could play in.

  “So, you boys like pirates?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact,” Jim said.

  “We love pirates,” Bob said.

  Harley’s grin felt like it would encircle her head. “We’re going to get along great,” she said.

  Behind her, Graves cleared his throat. She ignored him. A girl had needs and she needed some big, hunky lab techs. If she had known this was standard FBI equipment, she would have joined years ago.

  “Ah hem,” Graves said, “Jim, Bob, you were going to show us the voice data?”

  To her disappointment, the twins turned away and sauntered over to their computer thingy. Well, not too disappointed. Them tushies looked good in those tight jeans.

  She waved a hand in front of her face. “My goodness, it is always this warm in here?”

  If Graves was giving her a dirty lo
ok, she didn’t see it. And hell with him and his straitlaced asexual crap anyway.

  The Jim Bob twins were fiddling with some computer equipment. On the screen were a bunch of squiggly lines. Jim–or was it Bob?–hit some keys and sound came from the speakers.

  “So what do you say, Detective Harley? Do you wish to have all my clones in one basket? Or do you wish to keep fighting a war with hundreds of individuals just as smart as I am?”

  “You piece of shit.”

  The Reaper’s voice and hers, respectively. The twins froze the playback. She looked to Jim Bob, raising her brows in a question.

  “He thinks he’s very smart,” Jim said. At least she thought it was Jim.

  “But he’s not as smart as us,” said Bob.

  “We have created a very,” Jim said

  “Sophisticated voice analysis system,” Bob said.

  “Which allows us to–”

  “Determine regional dialects–”

  “With great accuracy.”

  Harley felt like she was watching a tennis match as the brothers Jim Bob bounced back and forth. They were like the same person in two bodies. It made her wonder what else they were capable of doing in tandem.

  The went on about waveforms and pitch samples and socio-economic demographical field studies. None of it made sense to her. Finally she put up her hands.

  "So, in simple English, you know where this guy lives?" she asked.

  The brothers looked at each other. There was a bit of doubt in their eyes.

  “We can’t narrow it down to an address,” Jim said.

  “But we can tell you places he’s been and might be,” Bob said.

  “So where the fuck is this asshole?” Harley said.

  The brothers gave each other a look, then nodded. Doing some funky ass twin telepathy thing, apparently.

  "In our judgment," Jim said.

  “He comes from a wealthy family,” Bob said.

  “Who resides, or has resided in–”

  “Harcome County.”