by Brad C Scott
The beefy man in a renaissance costume is the giveaway, his serious expression and rigid posture as out of place as mine. No aura of regret or dark dissatisfaction with life, though, just a blank, professional slate. A bodyguard, here? The heavy-set man behind him must think himself someone special. The client, costumed like a medieval warrior in chain mail, leans against the balcony railing with one hand, a lit cigar in the other. When he turns his coifed head my way, exposing a trimmed beard and hawkish nose, I recognize him.
Arriving this early wasn’t a mistake after all.
On my approach, the bodyguard interposes himself, forcing me to stop. I lean to one side and raise an eyebrow past him at Jacob Ghents, the Chief Operations Officer of Blackhawk Worldwide, the largest private security firm in the world.
Ghents assesses me with shrewd brown eyes. “Help you with something?”
“Mr. Ghents, might I have a word in private,” I say, cutting eyes at his man. “It’s about one of your missing employees.”
“Malcolm Adams,” he says, bobbing his cigar at me, “I’ve seen you on the Hill recently – that bad business in Los Angeles, wasn’t it? Let him through.”
The bodyguard steps aside, and I move up to the cobweb-covered railing next to Ghents.
“Cigar?” he asks, patting at a pocket on his tabard.
“No, thank you. How’s business?”
“Polite of you to ask, sir. But that’s not why you’re here, so please cut to it. Small talk is a weakness of the small-minded.”
I glance about before poniarding him with my eyes. “Randall Conry. Where is he?”
“Dead would be my guess.”
“You sound pretty sure about that guess.”
“He wouldn’t disappear without good reason. Since he’s not on the run from anyone that I know of – excepting you, it seems – dead seems likely.”
“Is he working for you now?”
“There are official channels for this, Mr. Adams.”
“Official channels will get people killed. I’d like to avoid any more deaths, Mr. Ghents.”
“You forgot ‘unnecessary’ – who’s doing the dying makes all the difference.”
“So that’s a no?” I ask.
“He hasn’t been in contact in over three months.”
“And off the books? You set him up with his current employer.”
Jacob Ghents puffs at his cigar and scrutinizes me through a haze of smoke, assessing whether I can back up my assertion. I can’t, but the fact he’s thinking it over tells me I guessed right. Muirland and Conry worked extensively for Blackhawk on military contracts overseas, so it’s no stretch to believe the COO would be involved in their recent domestic actions. No stretch at all: Blackhawk has a reputation for shady dealings despite a knack for evading indictments. Their execs are well connected in the Capital, but connections will only shield so much from the cold slap of extortion.
“He’s been one of your top contractors for years,” I emphasize. “You expect me to believe you know nothing about the work he’s doing now?”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what you believe.”
I reach into a pocket and pull out my trump card, the picture I took from Krayge’s cabin before it got blown to hell. Watching his reaction, I extend it between us. “Found this at Conry’s place. Could be he left it there in case he got burned by an old friend. I also found the back trail – you, Conry, and Muirland worked together in Laos. Back in the good old CIA days – Operation Sunscreen, wasn’t it? And you’ve kept in touch since. You have an excellent plastic surgeon, by the way.”
“Put it away,” he says, looking away and lowering his cigar, but not before his face betrays a subtle blend of anger, fear, and… regret? “I don’t know where he is, Mr. Adams. As I said, he’s probably dead. Men in our line of work don’t always get funerals.”
I put the picture in a pocket. “You don’t seem happy about it.”
“Collateral damage is not confined to the innocent.”
“You think someone had him killed?”
He tosses his cigar away. “If so, that’d be on you.”
So he does know. And unless I’m reading him wrong, he believes that Krayge is dead, killed in an extension of the housecleaning that occurred at the electrical substation in LA. It seems they’re not so close after all. That, or Krayge wants him to believe he’s off the board. And Ghents blames me, though his anger seems misdirected. Who’s he really angry with?
“I didn’t start this,” I say. “Who did?”
“You ever wonder who’s really in charge in this town? The man who’s got his hands cupping every set of balls in DC?” He gives me a dead-eyed smile. “I don’t. Do what you want with that picture, Mr. Adams. You won’t be alive long enough to make much use of it in blackmailing me. If you’ll excuse me –”
“If he’s got you by the balls, help me stop him.”
That draws a chuckle. “You can’t. But you’re the sort to die trying, aren’t you? I’m not inclined to let you take me with you.”
“He used you, didn’t he?”
Ghents says nothing, face going stony, but his left eye twitches. Bingo.
“You gave him your manpower assets, and then he, what – got some killed, then killed off the rest to cover his mistakes?” Reading the anger behind his eyes, I drive every word home to increase it. “He botched the op, and you pay the price. And you’ll just stand there and take it? Forget cupping your balls, sounds like he’s got you bent over the railing. You must be used to the position by now.” Not a mortal strike, but it still draws blood, his mouth tightening on the taste of bitterness. “The sentinels won’t bother with the reach-around. It’ll be brutal when they find out how close you were with NDL turncoats.”
He steps close, looks down his hooked beak at me from inches away. “Muirland and Conry were good men. Good men. They weren’t working for New Dawn – I’d stake my fortune on it. They’d never go over to the other side like that. You want to find who they were working for? Look closer to home, Mr. Adams.”
“Give me a name.”
“I’ll give you a location: St. Louis. That’s where all the special assets are going next.”
“Why?”
He steps back, raises his cigar. “It’s the newest front in the war that has no name. Every side will have its agents in play, same as it was in LA.”
“Who’s running things in St. Louis? I need a name.” I pat the pocket with the picture.
He works his jaw like he wants to spit before leaning close. “Connor Montoya. A local asset, knows most of the players – if you can get to him.” Before I can respond, he gives me that dead-eyed smile again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my balls are feeling a bit squeezed. Good luck to you, sir.” He walks off, exiting the balcony as I turn to stare off into space.
Interesting. The war that has no name? What the hell does that mean? Seems I’ll need to book a flight to St. Louis to find out. At least he supported my theory that NDL wasn’t behind the attack in LA, though he gave me next to nothing on who was. Close to home could mean a lot of things, including someone at DSS. Someone powerful, someone Ghents fears. However much the disclosure of his relationship with purported NDL operatives might harm him – and it would, despite his connections – Ghents is more afraid of the man he claims is pulling the strings. The same man who sent his assets to LA, who’s answerable for the deaths of my reclaimers.
The food chain may reach higher than I thought.
◊ ◊ ◊
A stunning blonde in a highwaywoman’s costume swaggers toward the estate. She seems familiar despite the getup – a full-length trench coat, tricorn hat, and a sword sheathed at her back – but the dim lighting and distance foil recognition. A man lurches in her wake wearing an anime costume, some sort of Manga. She glances up, and a smile curves up beneath the edge of the black and gold mask before she passes out of sight.
I work my way back to the grand foyer and down the curving staircase, scanni
ng the crowd for the blonde. No sign of her, but the feel of eyes on my back draws me up. Scrutinizing the costumed partygoers, none seem to be paying me any attention, the painted and masked sea of faces bright with black light, coarse laughter and conversations jumbled amidst the swelling tide of a dark melody. Running my eyes up the curving stairways reveals the same, up to the second-floor landing… There, leaning on the balustrade above me, a man in a skull mask; and behind the mask, familiar gray eyes aglow with malignant calculations.
Him.
I scramble through the crowd to one of the stairways, ignoring the outrage in my wake. Taking the stairs two or three at a time, I almost push one man over the edge and pause long enough to grab him. Making the landing, the skull-masked figure has its back turned, moving away. I juke through the crowd and follow into a hallway.
Pulling my pistol, I jam it to his back while putting the other hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fucking move, asshole. That’s it.”
“What? What’s going on?” The figure starts to turn toward me.
I push him further into the hallway away from the crowd and up against a wall.
“What are you doing?” says a panicked voice.
Spinning him around reveals the skull and… brown eyes? What? I yank the mask up and off, revealing a frightened young man I’ve never seen.
“Whoa, buddy, please, I didn’t do anything!”
I scan the hallway – the mystery man who disabled Patton is nowhere about. If he was here at all. I step back, let the guy go. “Sorry, thought you were someone else.”
I leave the man sputtering in my wake and head back to the second-floor landing. Concealing my pistol down at my side, I maneuver through the throng, head on swivel. Nothing. I move to the balustrade where I saw him leaning and scan the crowd below in the foyer. More nothing. Did I just imagine him here? Or did he slip away, leaving me chasing the wrong man? Worthy would say I’m being paranoid, but he’d also tell me to make sure.
After a fruitless circuit through the interior, I’m sure that if that gray-eyed bastard was here, if I did see him, he’s gone.
◊ ◊ ◊
Goth electro corrodes the night air, focused in on the patio converted into a dance floor. About forty people flock there, bodies undulating amidst the fog and strobe lights. I head to the open-air bar where the crowd’s thinner. Bloody hell, I wonder if I should just jump the backyard fence to escape this nightmare.
“Whiskey,” I say to the bartender.
I’m starting on my third when a fallen angel steps up beside me.
“Give me a Wicked,” she tells the bartender. “No, in the bottle. Thanks.”
I cut my eyes over as the doe-eyed brunette leans back against the bar, bottle in hand. Damn, this woman’s left little to the imagination, her athletic figure covered only by a black bra and micro-skirt. High heels and a pair of black feathered wings strapped to her shoulders complete the ensemble. Perspiration glistens on her tanned skin, taut stomach undulating with quickened breath from the dance floor. She sees me staring and shoots me a smile.
“This?” she says, gesturing to the whip at her belt, feigning ignorance at what I was actually looking at. “Don’t worry, I only use it on people asking for it.”
“Must be a long line up.”
“It is.” She grins, takes a swig from her bottle. “But I rarely do requests. I could let you borrow it if you like.”
I give her a puzzled look. Her blue eyes stare back, hypnotic.
“For them?” she says, eyes cutting at the dance floor. “You’ve been staring bloody murder since you sidled up to the bar.”
Shit, I have, haven’t I? “You’re pretty observant for a...”
“Physical therapist. Your thunder cloud is pretty obvious. Want to talk about it?”
“No. It’s not worth talking about.” I look away and throw back the rest of the whiskey.
“Good. I hate complainers. Empty talkers, this place is full of them. Action is the only language that matters.” Pregnant pause. “Want some?”
What? When I look over, she licks her lips and grins before spoiling it with a self-deprecating laugh. Despite myself, I chuckle.
“Better, right?” she says. “I’m Tami, by the way. In case you wanted to know.”
“I do,” I say. “Malcolm.”
“I’m only half-kidding, you know. About the action. I can give a legendary massage to wipe that stress away. Among other things.”
“I don’t doubt it. Aren’t you cold in that getup?” It must be in the upper 40s tonight.
“Only if I’m not moving. Like now, for instance.”
“You should get back out there, then,” I say, gesturing toward the dance floor.
“You should join me. I could teach you a few moves. Or you could teach me.”
The sultry grin she beams couldn’t be clearer. The only problem is, it’s been years since I darkened a dance floor. Never was any good at it, but I tried for Rachel’s sake. She loved it. Until she didn’t.
Tami turns to the bartender. “Set us up with the same.” Turning back to me, she runs a hand down my arm and says, “Maybe later? That dark cloud is starting to come back. Come sit with me under the heat lamp, Malcolm. I’m enjoying the company.”
Why not? This screams honeytrap, but what the hell. I let her lead me over to one of the leather couches in the aura of a heat lamp. She takes a spot next to me, leg touching mine.
“Tell me about yourself, Malcolm.” She places a hand on my thigh, the wide smile growing teeth. “Feel free to lie, if you want. But if you do…” She touches the whip.
“I might have to break my policy,” I begin and then stop, seeing the stunning blonde in the highwaywoman’s costume that caught my attention earlier. She stands alone before the entrance to the backyard, staring at Tami and me from ten meters away. When she meets my eyes and grins, I realize who she is. “Sam.”
“Who?” says Tami.
Samantha stalks forward, thigh-high black boots parting her full-length coat to reveal white-stockinged legs. She bears a smile, but the sea-green eyes framed within the gilded black mask hold no mirth. Rather than address me, she steps behind our couch and bends over to whisper in Tami’s ear. It’s a short message, but the result is dramatic. Tami jumps to her feet, twisting about to stare at Sam from across the couch, blue eyes iced with anger.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“I’ll see you later, Malcolm,” says Tami before walking back into the house.
“Samantha,” I say, standing. “What was that all about?”
“Malcolm. I’m so happy to see you.” The anger vanishes from Sam’s eyes, now mirroring the contrite smile on her face. Contrite and yet just a bit pleased with herself. Like a girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar, but the cookie was still worth it.
I chuckle. Can’t help it – her expression combined with the whole situation: priceless.
“What?” she asks.
I motion to the couch. “Would you care to join me, fair lady?”
“I would love to, gentle sir.”
As we sit next to each other, I say, “It’s good to see you, too. You look amazing in that costume. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Thank you, Mal – can I call you Mal? – and it’s the real deal, too. See?” She unsheathes her sword and hands it to me. I heft the blade and inspect it – it’s battle-ready, a steel cutlass with a sharpened edge.
“Nice,” I say, handing it back, “but I already shaved today.”
She snickers and sheathes the blade. “Don’t worry,” she says, “this is only for shaving lady parts. And… I know how to use it.”
“Lady parts, eh? Like Tami’s? Are you going to tell me what that was about?”
“First, answer me one question: what is she to you?”
“I met her five minutes ago.”
“Good, I was in time.” She pushes herself a bit closer toward me on the couch, takes a look around, and then leans forward to say,
“Mal, she’s a DSS agent.”
“What?”
“An independent consultant, works for the sentinels. You’re not the first man she’s… Well, I didn’t think it was right to let her have her way with you.”
“‘Have her way with me,’ huh? How do you know she’s with DSS?”
She shrugs her shoulders and gives me a sly grin. “I have my ways. Being a tier-three DOD consultant means knowing the right people. That one’s one of their best, always gets her man. Not this time, though.”
“My hero,” I say woodenly. “You have saved me. However will I repay you?”
She leans back and chortles.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“A colleague got me an invite.” She accuses me with a look. “No one else would.”
“I told you about this party, didn’t I?”
“I practically had to torture you to get the information,” she says in a dry voice. “As if this was some sort of top-secret mission. One you had to complete on your own.”
Torture me? I’d stopped by the DOC two days ago to check in on Patton again, even brought her a café au lait the way she likes it. She seemed absurdly grateful for it, reading who-knows-what into it, asking me several oblique questions about my non-existent personal life. I deflected most of them, but I did let slip my intention to come here. And it seems she’s irritated that I didn’t think to invite her…
“And here you are,” I say.
“Maybe I’m stalking you, hmm?”
What? I try to shake the confusion away, but she’s still sitting there, hands in her lap, smiling at me like I’m a priceless work of art. First, Tami almost seduces me – a DSS agent, if Sam is to be believed, and well on her way to success – and now Sam is here, the woman I’ve been trying not to think about since we met? What the hell is going on here? Is God playing reindeer games with me? Well, it would fit the pattern.
“Where’s your date?” I ask.
“My date? You mean Jeff. We came together, that’s all. He’s a little young and naïve for my tastes, and such a dork! Did you see his costume?”
“Some sort of Manga cosplay.”