Damage Control

by Amy J. Fetzer

  She waved that off. “They got it. They’ll be talking about it for a week.”

  The captain twisted, scowling. “So you weren’t undetected?”

  She made a face, showed her bloody palm. “Duh. I didn’t set off the alarms. I wasn’t the only one in the dig getting jiggy in the dark either.” She waited for that to sink in. It took a minute. Men were slow. He conceded with a nod.

  “Take that off,” Cruz said. He had his medi-pack laid out like a pro.

  “What—no date first?” He wasn’t amused. But then, she wasn’t his type. She pulled off the load-bearing vest, then unzipped the skin suit, glad she didn’t have to take a plunge in the Songua River. It was a sewer and ice cold. She worked the stretchy black fabric off her shoulders, the cool air heavenly on her damp skin as she stripped down to bike shorts and a sports bra. Her ego took a dive when neither man paid her a scrap of attention.

  Cruz made her sit again, then gently grasped her elbow.

  She finally looked at the fleshy part of her arm. “Need stitches?”

  “Let me clean it up first,” he said testily. “Told you to wear that dragon skin.”

  Dragon Skin was the newest R&D prototype in bullet-proof protection. But for her, it had one big drawback. “You try climbing up a cliff face wearing thirty extra pounds.” She winced as he injected the area with Novocain.

  “Work out more. Learn to carry it.”

  This from a man she could flatten with one punch? “I work out enough.” She liked to eat all the wrong things. It was a trade-off.

  He had a threaded needle poised, the other hand rubbing the anesthetic in. “It was stupid not to at least take a weapon. You knew they were armed.”

  “My goal was no collateral damage,” she said it loud enough so the captain heard.

  Captain looked back, his eyes narrow. “You were it. Sometimes it’s your life or theirs, ya know.”

  “This wasn’t one of those times.” She’d fired at targets, not people. “Ow! Careful, I sign your paychecks.”

  Cruz took another stitch, looking angrier, and she thought he was worried, but then, she was bleeding. Hard to ignore. He was probably worried about having to go find her if she didn’t return. Cruz DeGama was usually more interested in his research than in making an effort to care about much beyond his rabbit-hole life. Pinching a little too tight, he put a couple more stitches in the wound.

  “How did you get that scar?” He nodded to the check-mark-shaped scar on her upper arm, then covered the spot just below it with gauze.

  “Mountain climbing with my oldest brother, Matt.”

  “Did they ever not take you along?” He wrapped a dull beige wrap around the wound.

  “Yeah, on dates. One of them always got stuck being the babysitter.” She shivered. “None are qualified, trust me.” Her brothers once stuffed her barely two-year-old self in a backpack like a papoose and took her to a Guns N’ Roses concert. No, not even close to responsible then. She thanked Cruz, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a baggy T-shirt advertising tours of the Great Wall. Gathering up the medical debris as Cruz repacked the kit, she bypassed the filthy wastebasket tied to the pilothouse wall with a rag and some nails, and bagged the debris, stuffing it in her pack. No evidence left behind.

  Cruz went back to the small drop-down table, hunched over his computer, tracking everything around them in case they were followed. He’d load up the video and scans aboard the aircraft. Olivia knelt by the glider frame, popped the piping apart, wiped off splatters of blood, then secured it with Velcro in the small, neat bundle. She loved the toys, just not the training required to use them. Sitting, she pulled the rubbing from her LBV but didn’t unseal it. She wasn’t exactly set up to examine it and couldn’t risk the wind tearing the paper. Besides, she was hot, sweaty, and had been in these clothes for so long she could smell herself, but the trawler didn’t have a bathroom where she could clean up. Apparently hanging over the side was the mode for local fishermen. Not an option, she thought, secreting the rubbing inside the duffel’s false bottom. Picking up the NVGs, she moved to the rear of the boat. She sighted in. No one followed. Barely a glimmer of light came from the villages on the river’s edge, the haze of pollution blocking the view more than the lack of electricity.

  Her adrenaline rush had calmed by the time they reached the docks near Jaimusi, a good two hours later. Hauling black gear bags, the three boarded the light plane on a deserted airstrip, then left Manchuria China behind. They’d have to make a refueling stop somewhere near Shanghai, though South Korea would have been easier. They risked attention with landing anyway, and she prayed they could bribe their way out of an inspection. The pilot never came out of the cockpit before takeoff and by the time they reached altitude, the boat captain was asleep. She envied his casual, no-stress attitude. Nothing was exciting to him and she almost wished she knew his real name, then decided he was a little too scary for any kind of relationship. Handsome, but scary.

  Olivia dozed and didn’t realize how deeply till the plane touched down again. She rubbed her face, then stood to gather her bags. Captain slung a worn olive green pack on one shoulder, paused at the hatch, and looked back. She went still, anticipating she didn’t know what.

  “Not too shabby for a scientist.” That came with a small reluctant smile.

  She felt incredibly rewarded. “Thank you, Captain.” He left the plane. She wouldn’t see him till his specific skills were needed again.

  She and Cruz left one aircraft and boarded a sleek little Gulfstream V that was cool with air-conditioning and the aroma of food. She wasn’t hungry till now, always the case, but whatever was cooking made her mouth water. She stowed her gear bags, found a seat, and planted her butt in it with no intention of moving or talking till they were in a noncommunist country. Across the wide aisle, Cruz dropped into the sofa, stretching out. The engines revved, the jet taxied. Her patience wore out, and she yanked the duffel’s false bottom and removed the rubbing, then grabbed a notebook and pen before she sat again.

  “The light is lousy in here,” Cruz said.

  “I know, I have to look though. Once we’re at cruising speed, load up the video and scans. I need a better view.”

  “Mind if we eat first?” He sniffed dramatically.

  “Yes. We aren’t in secure territory yet.”

  “Man, you need a nap.”

  “Behave or I’ll cut off your Starbucks.” That settled him in the chair, and she unfolded the rubbing, drawing the notepad close as she searched for that one kanji character. She found it, duplicating it in a sketch before returning the rubbing to its protective sleeve and hiding place. She studied it, her Chinese minimal, and deciphering the language of characters wasn’t much better. But she’d seen this symbol before.

  Di nèny er.

  The changeling.

  Moscow, Russia

  His watery eyes followed her as she walked to the bar and poured three fingers of Stoli. She spilled a drop and dabbed it, turning toward the man in the padded chair as she sucked her fingertip. The old man quivered with excitement, shifting in the chair. She could see his erection swell and glanced away, smiling only inside her soul, enjoying manipulating him. He was as foolish as the others, believing her uneducated and desperate. Whoring for the wealthy. It was a keen advantage, for she went unnoticed, a person not worthy of attention. Molenko and his ex-KGB comrades spoke freely, ignoring her even when they lusted after her. All she did was listen and watch.

  Tonight, it would end.

  She crossed to him, handing over the drink. He guzzled half, letting out a long heavy breath as if it took great effort to do just that. Fool. She stopped in front of him, her knees to his, then she inched her skirt higher as she straddled his broad thighs. He muttered vulgar encouragement as she spread his heavy black robe, exposing the soft, plump flesh thickening his middle. The old man repulsed her and reminded her of her purpose. It had been clear for three years. This man had given it to her—and taken so much. He set th
e drink aside, then put his ham-fisted hands on her hips and pulled her nearer. His erection pushed against her, and she smiled, kissed his forehead, then his eyelids, his cheek. He tried to take her mouth and she pushed his face away, her eyes warning him.

  “Surely just one kiss, little beauty.”

  She didn’t speak, shaking her head, her blond hair grazing his chest. That foul mouth would never touch hers. He cupped her breasts through her garments and she made appropriate noises, tipping her head back. She rocked on him and his impatient touch bruised. He opened her blouse, pushed her bra down, and lifted out her breasts like an eager teen. He nuzzled his face between them almost violently, then bit her nipple.

  She shoved him back, slapped his face.

  He scowled. “You dare much, little one.”

  She said nothing. He didn’t deserve an answer. She smiled coyly, rising up, her breasts in his face. He groped her body, trying to enter her, and she rocked as if excited for him, wrapping her arms around his head.

  “For you, Papa,” she whispered.

  “Huh?” He tried to look at her, but she held him tightly, bearing her weight down. With one swift, strong move, she twisted violently and heard his neck break. His hands fell away, and she remained still for a second, reveling in one more victory, then backed off and righted her clothing. She fished in his robe pocket for the keys she’d seen earlier. He was rarely without them.

  She crossed to the wet bar, a French design, probably two hundred years old, and she slipped behind it. It joined the other pieces in the richly appointed apartment filled with such antiques, the stolen relics of families and countries. He knew enough secrets to be kept in lavish existence while her countrymen begged for bread on the streets. She knelt on the floor, opened the lower cabinet, and removed the bottles of liquor, then drew the safe forward. It had taken her months to learn of it, then spending days with this pig for the opportunity to search. He checked it nearly every day and it spoke of his paranoia and guilt. Her hands shook slightly as she tried the keys. None of them fit.

  “Bastard,” she muttered, tossing them aside, then grasping her handbag from atop the bar. She knelt again, removing a black pouch, then from it she withdrew the plastic explosive. It was a tiny amount, the size of a coin, and she rolled it to a thin strip no wider than a toothpick, then wrapped it around the lock as antiquated as the man. She inserted the fuse and ignited it, then scrambled to the other side of the bar, listening to the long hiss and a pop. She crawled around, smiling when the lock fell to the floor with a thump. She waved away the acrid smell, then opened the safe, pulling out the stacks of files turned yellow with age. She searched for the one she needed, pausing a moment to read the secrets of the Kremlin. This was his blackmail, his leverage to force more money for his lifestyle. For his silence. From the file, something slid free and she held it toward the light. It was a two-gig flash drive. She slid the file into her bag, then returned the rest, wiping off her prints with a cloth soaked in ammonia. The odor wrinkled her nose. She closed the safe, pushing it back, and returned the liquor bottles to disguise it.

  Shouldering her bag, she moved around the room, obliterating her presence, and searched for more cameras she might have missed. Near the door, she stopped, inserting the flash drive into her Web phone and watching it load. She lifted it to her ear, and heard the wav file play.

  Her heart wrenched in her chest, and she stopped it, unable to hear more.

  Positioning the strap across her body, she walked to the door, and opened it a fraction. She spied his guard slumped in a chair near the front door. She slipped out, walking down the hall. At her approach, he stirred awake and gave her a lecherous smirk.

  “My turn now, baby?” he said, cupping his crotch.

  She scoffed, tipping her chin up. “You are not rich enough to even touch me.” She strode out the door.

  He smacked her butt as she passed, called her a stupid whore. At the base of the wide steps, she turned back, drawing her weapon. When he saw the long-nosed pistol, he scrambled for his own gun. She fired first, the suppressor silencing his death and exploding the back of his head over the antique Prussian drapes.

  The Surrey Auction House

  Chertsey, Surrey, United Kingdom

  Noble Sheppard let out a breath when the Weller auctioneer slammed his gavel down and ended the bidding. The fifteenth-century ship’s log was his. While the archaeological provenance was doubtful, its contents were not. He looked across the room at his competition and received a gracious nod at the acquisition. He didn’t think it was sincere. His only opposition had tried to pressure him to back out before the bidding began—with a nice bit of cash, of course—but he couldn’t be swayed. The bidding war marked the end of a long search, and a sizable negative to his accounts. He hoped he hadn’t paid a fortune for too little a prize. While the ship’s log was authentic, a thorough examination was refused. The document was on vellum, remarkably preserved, yet too frail to be handled by the bidders. Each page had a plastic sheath to protect it.

  He walked to the cashier and signed the credit, shook hands with the auction house staff, then gathered his precious purchase. He cast them a last smile as he left the brownstone, then paused outside the door to slip the linen-wrapped book into his leather satchel. Finally. He adjusted the strap across his chest, then stepped out from under the awning and walked down Guildford Street. Turn-of-the-century replica lamps shined yellow light on the damp road. A gentle fog grew from the pavement, and he suddenly longed for his shop and the smell of old books. Living abroad and traveling was more of a burden than a pleasure. Perhaps he was just getting old, and God forbid he turn into a crotchety old fart like his father. That man never enjoyed life.

  Turning right, he walked briskly, the humid night air a familiar comfort. An array of compact cars drove past, slipping into spaces they shouldn’t. An occasional horn blast made him glance in the direction. For all its innovation and culture, Europe failed with routing traffic around its history, he thought, then took his life in his hands as he stepped off the curb and dodged between cars to the other side. He’d walked less than a block when he felt someone close behind, but a glance in a window reflection showed a nearly vacant avenue except for a few straggler cars and a couple across the lane, rushing into a pub. He continued, eager to examine his artifact in private. The ship’s log was over six hundred years old, Portuguese, and priceless only to a few. But he knew he held one more key to unlocking the legend.

  Traffic thinned alongside him as a shiny black sedan pulled away from the curb. The car kept to the edge of the street, wedging traffic to a near standstill, and Noble smelled the exhaust, felt its warmth. The fog pearled higher. He passed shops closed for the night, his footsteps crisp on the pavement and increasing toward his hotel two blocks away. He should have taken a cab, he thought, and in his peripheral saw a man step out of a doorway and from across the street, walk abreast of him. It made him aware of his surroundings, the lack of people, the light between traffic signals dim and shadowy, yet Noble kept his pace even, searching ahead. The area brightened outside a small movie theater. The show had started, the lobby empty except for a young blond woman behind the snack counter cleaning up. He took a few steps past, then suddenly turned back to look at the movie poster. In the glass, he watched his back, and considered himself fortunate to know the tactic.

  The man across the street slowed, then turned back a step and searched the ground for something that was not there. Noble remained where he was, his stomach tightening as the fellow looked in his direction. He wasn’t fooled. The other buyer had pressed him for nearly two weeks now, each occasion a little more forceful, a little more desperate. He hadn’t a clue why they wanted this particular ship’s log. It held little information or value to anyone, really. Nor was it much of a relic. Noble needed only two pages for his research.

  The man noticed him watching and straightened, then turned in the opposite direction, into the dark. Noble hurried down the next block, and near
the end of Guildford Street, he spied the monument marking London Street and strode quickly, eager for the safety offered in lights and people in the Crown Hotel.

  The Tudor hotel was unpretentious luxury. Hoping Matterson was on duty, he glanced at his watch, calculating London time. He was several yards away from the entrance when a man stepped in front of him. Noble jerked back, excusing himself and made to go around, thinking he’d have soup tonight, that wonderful leek and chicken he’d had his first night at the Black Cherry Fayre. But the man stepped with him, and Noble frowned a second before he recognized him as the fellow who’d trailed him from across the avenue.

  Panic rocketed up his spine as Noble stared into cool blue eyes. “Dear God, you people are persistent. I said no.” He stepped around him, but the fellow moved as well. “Don’t be a child.” He stepped back and was about to cross the road when the man grasped his satchel strap and he caught the gleam of a knife blade. In a loud voice, Noble shouted, “Help! Mugger!”

  People turned, focused, the doorman hurrying toward him, a scarred billy club materializing from somewhere inside his coat. It was the distraction he needed and he yanked the satchel strap, shoved off his attacker, and with the crowd’s approach, the man immediately turned away, rushing onto Church Walk and into the dark. Noble hastened to the hotel, grabbing his champion’s shoulder.

  “Bless you, friend,” he said, then stepped through the doors and into the hotel lobby. A bit of calm settled through him with the scent of lavender and beeswax, and he searched the small lobby, then aimed to the far left corner, and the concierge behind a carved desk. Matterson. He dug in his satchel, gripped the log, and weaved between furniture groupings and late-night guests, trying not to bring notice. He stopped in front of the desk and Matterson immediately looked up.

  “An envelope, please. Large, sturdy.” He glanced over his shoulder, saw a figure in the dimly lit hall leading to the bar, immobile, watching.

  “Certainly, Mr. Sheppard.” Matterson slid back from the desk, then handed him an overnight express messenger pack. Noble searched his pockets for a pen. One appeared, Matterson’s smile behind it.