by Adam Carter
His partner for the assignment helped him to his feet again and half-dragged him into the car. “Hospital,” she insisted.
“Bunker.”
“What are you trying to prove, Charles?”
“Bunker,” Baronaire all but shouted from where he lay on the back seat. “And stop calling me Charles!”
He heard the door slam and the car started quickly. They would make the local papers, but he didn’t care. No one would have taken down the car’s registration and even if they did Baronaire didn’t much care. He was hurting too much to care about anything.
He had leaped from a two-storey building and slammed into the road. He doubted he had broken any bones, but had left a fair-sized dent in the tarmac. And then he had been run over by a car. Normal human beings did not survive being run over by a car. Ergo he was not a normal human being.
But if he wasn’t human, what was he?
And why?
CHAPTER TWO
Chasing cars was not something Baronaire was looking forward to. It had been a while since he was last running over rooftops, but he figured for this coming assignment he would be getting in plenty of practice. But he was young, fit and healthy and could foresee no problems. There was a woman he needed to track down, and she was running scared. If he could find her tonight he would be able to tie up the entire investigation quickly. If he could get to her without having to give chase, that would be a bonus; he just couldn’t see that happening somehow. There was a part of him even looking forward to pacing the car along the rooftops if need be.
Baronaire sat behind his desk reviewing the paperwork. His target was a woman named Laura Reynolds. She was an innocent, which made her an unusual target for Baronaire. Well, not unusual – he always preferred to target innocent women; just not in a work capacity. His boss, DCI Edward Sanders, had assigned him this case specifically, and he could see why. Someone had slipped up. Someone in Operation WetFish, Sanders’s oh-so-careful department, had screwed up royally, and now there was a clean-up operation to deal with. Laura Reynolds had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had seen someone do something they shouldn’t have been doing. And now she had to be taken care of.
Operation WetFish was a legitimate, yet unorthodox, branch of the police. They dealt with the refuse of the courts and saved the taxpayer a shedload of money in the process. If a case was thrown out of court due to witness intimidation, corruption of evidence or just plain seedy lawyering, WetFish would step in. If the felon was obviously guilty, it was the job of WetFish to either plant evidence so a conviction was assured, or else off the guy and solve the problem permanently.
But it could never make the newspapers, so they were the very model of discretion. They would frame other felons, set up suicides, tip off rival gangs; whatever it took to get the guilty party dealt with quickly and cleanly.
An officer not even named in the files – the DCI did not like for his team to know too much about one another – had not sufficiently checked his location. Just as he was arranging a perpetrator’s suicide – a note left in the deceased’s handwriting, bottle of half-empty pills by the bathtub – the cleaning lady had walked in. She had taken one look at the scene, screamed, and fled.
The officer was no longer working for WetFish, and now Baronaire was charged with cleaning up his mistake.
It was a simple job, and these days Baronaire rather liked the simple jobs.
A shadow fell across his desk then and he looked up. There was a short, slim woman of Chinese origin standing there. She was dressed smart, had a small smile to her lips: a secret smile she should not have been sharing with her colleagues. Baronaire had never seen her before, and he was certain she didn’t work for WetFish. What she was doing in their underground bunker, therefore, was something of a mystery. They didn’t even have cleaners here: otherwise they would all be running after the Laura Reynoldses of the world.
“What?” he asked as the woman just stood there.
She held out her hand. “Detective Lin. You can call me Sue.”
Baronaire stared at the hand. “Why would I want to do that?”
Her body language altered, sagged in disappointment, but the hand remained in the air. “You’re Charles Baronaire?”
He grunted. “You new?”
Finally the hand lowered. “First day. I think I’m replacing somebody, but no one’s talking much about it.”
“No one will. Sanders doesn’t like his staff fraternising. So toddle off, Lin.”
“Call me Sue.”
Baronaire ground his teeth. She was beginning to grate on his nerves already. He stood up, reached for his trench coat. “Sorry, I got places to be.”
“I know. I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Why am I starting to wish I’d taken the file notes with me to read on the way?”
“Sanders assigned me to work with you on this one.”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t need a partner.”
“I thought you guys generally worked in pairs?”
“Well ... yes. But this is cut and dry. I can handle it.”
“I think the boss wants me to get some field experience.”
Baronaire couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He glanced across to the DCI’s office, but there was no sign of Sanders. Clearly the old grouch was hiding under his desk until these two left together.
“I don’t do puppy walking,” he told her in clipped tones. “Go hang around with someone else.”
“DCI told me to hang around with you.”
“It’s night. You wouldn’t be able to keep up, girl.”
She bristled at that comment and that single spark of fire made Baronaire feel that perhaps he had misjudged her. Perhaps there was something to this woman after all.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Charles,” she said brusquely, “I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. And I’ve been keeping up with people like you my whole life.”
“People like me?”
“People who think they can push someone around just because they’re female, or short, or not of the same ethnicity.”
“Do people even really say ethnicity? Anyway, I don’t care whether you’re female, or short, or Chinese. I just don’t like you. Now go away.”
“I’m partnered with you on this case whether you like it or not.”
“Well clearly I don’t like it. It’s 1994 now; the police are institutionally racist, you know. It was on the news so it has to be true.”
Lin bit her lower lip and he felt for a moment she was going to explode. The thought made him smile, and he decided he probably was being a tad harsh on her. Still, in lieu of an apology he decided to go for a little more baiting.
“Pushed some button there didn’t I, Lin?”
“Call me Sue, Charles.”
“Call me Baronaire, Lin.”
She set her jaw firm, narrowing her eyes and silently refusing to back down. He had an infuriating way of doing things, he knew that. Most people by this point would have stormed off, slapped him or else be shouting their lungs out. Detective Lin had simply said her piece, given her justification and was awaiting his reply.
He could not see why Sanders wanted him to be the one to break in the new girl, or why he trusted him to be the one to do it, but if Sanders had ordered it who was Baronaire to argue?
“Fine,” he said, trying to keep the humour from his eyes. “Do you drive?”
“Of course I can drive.”
“Good. Go pick your car, I’ll meet you in the lot.”
“So you can sneak out the back door?”
“I’m not sure we even have a back door. I just need to do something first.”
She seemed ready to argue further, but finally nodded and walked away from his desk. Baronaire watched her go, intrigued despite himself. He stroked his chin in thought, and a sudden movement to his left indicated that the DCI was back in his office. Shrugging, Baronaire went over and knocked.
“Problem?” Sander
s asked when Baronaire entered.
“Lin.”
“Yes. We needed a replacement and I’ve had my eye on her for a while now. She shows promise, Charles, so look after her.”
“Why me?”
“Why not you?”
“I’m not exactly Mister Warm and Fuzzy.”
“We’re not here to play warm and fuzzy, Charles.” Sanders leaned back in his chair. He was a man probably in his fifties, although his work made him look older. He was physically fit and spry, and there was always something about him Baronaire could not quite place. The man was full of mystery, that much was certain, but Baronaire did not care to know the man’s inner secrets. He had discovered one only a few weeks back and that was more than enough for now.
“If you want me to take a partner,” Baronaire said, “I think Thompson’s free.”
“I’m not asking you to take Thompson,” Sanders chuckled. “Now chop chop, Lin’s waiting for you.”
Baronaire went to leave, but stopped at the last moment. “How much does she know?”
“About what?”
“Don’t be coy, Ed, it doesn’t suit you.”
“She knows enough.”
“She know the truth yet?”
At this Sanders did laugh. “No one knows the truth, Charles. Just pieces of it. And some people know more pieces than others.”
“How much of the truth do I know?”
“Enough.”
“I’ll rephrase. How much more do you know than I do?”
Sanders considered that, and finally said, “I know everything, Charles. Now run along and play nice.”
Baronaire left the office and found Lin in the car park, waiting for him. She seemed relieved that he had showed up but made no mention of it. As Baronaire got into the passenger seat he began to think about what Sanders had said. It was true that the officers of WetFish only knew certain aspects of their jobs, so if one was compromised they could not bring down the entire operation. It was also true that certain officers knew more than others, and being Sanders’s right-hand man Baronaire knew he knew more than everyone. More than everyone except Sanders. And if Sanders knew everything, it meant he knew what Baronaire actually was.
Baronaire had been working for WetFish for over ten years now, and here he was home. But he was not one of them, not really. He was different, even though he did not know how. But Sanders knew. Sanders knew precisely what he was: he could tell as much from the man’s eyes.
And one day Baronaire would have that information from him.
On that day his world would be changed forever.
CHAPTER THREE
Baronaire had not wanted to take Lin out with him, but had never expected she would run him over. They were presently driving through an area of the city where Baronaire would never be able to afford to live. He was in pain, his mind was afire with confusion and anger at having slapped straight into the road; but he was certain they weren’t heading to the bunker. Detective Lin had not spoken since they had shrieked away from the high street, and shortly had she dropped to a respectable speed so they would not attract attention. Baronaire thought to ask her where exactly they were going, but figured he’d find out once they got there.
They pulled into a side-street and Baronaire noted it was a dead-end. Lin parked and removed the keys from the ignition.
“Right,” Baronaire said. “Where are we?”
Lin turned to regard him then. He had not really thought much of her until this moment. He didn’t want a partner on this one, he had no idea why, and being saddled with the new girl was not exactly something he ever liked. He had a job to do and he couldn’t babysit at the same time. Presently Lin was staring at him with a somewhat blank expression, although both her eyebrows were raised.
He knew she was waiting for him to say something else.
“What?” he barked, a little too harshly perhaps, but he was hurting like hell.
“Just wondering if you were going to tell me what you thought you were doing back there.”
“Trying to do my job.”
“By jumping off a building?”
“This job isn’t like the penny dreadful crime pulps you were reading as a kid, Lin. We don’t stand around street corners in trench coats and fedoras doing Cagney impersonations.”
“You’re wearing a trench coat,” she reminded him.
“That’s beside the point.”
“And what is the point precisely? Do you have a hero complex, Charles? You know, I really hate people who have hero complexes.”
“I’m not a hero.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. You don’t think you’re indestructible then?”
“Able to leap off tall buildings in a single bound,” Baronaire grimaced. “Look, what are we doing in this alley?”
“I don’t know. Why aren’t we in a hospital?”
“Because I don’t do hospitals. Check with Sanders if you like; under no circumstances am I ever to be taken to a hospital.”
Lin seemed to think about this, and Baronaire wondered when she would give up. If she figured out what he was she was more than welcome to tell him; Baronaire had been pondering that particular question for years.
“I ran you over, Charles. You have cracked ribs.”
“They’ll mend.”
“And you don’t have a hero complex?”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. It was a half-truth. His body had far greater recuperative capabilities than an ordinary human. In fact his broken bones were already on their way to mending themselves. However, it would take time now that the sun was risen, and the healing process could be sped along nicely by the intake of the only two substances Baronaire ever ingested. Maybe ingested was even the wrong word: one he ingested, the other he sort of just internally absorbed. Lin was proving so annoying right now he was tempted to take what he needed from her and tell Sanders she’d fled Operation WetFish screaming, never wanting anything more to do with the place.
But Sanders wouldn’t believe him for a moment.
“All right,” Lin said in a tone which told him she didn’t believe him either, “I’ll assume for the moment you know your own limits. You’re fine, you’re mending. Back to the case then.”
“Good.” Baronaire straightened in his chair. It was uncomfortable, but mainly because the seatbelt was digging into his injuries. He still couldn’t believe he had been so stupid as to have missed the car. He had made far more difficult leaps than that before, without even thinking. He knew the sun had likely thrown him off-balance, that he had not put enough power or momentum behind the leap; but he had always taken that sort of thing into account before. Perhaps he was tired, perhaps he was just getting old.
Maybe he needed a change of pace.
“At least we have a simple case,” Lin said, seeming to sense his thoughts. “What’s the address for our target?”
Baronaire produced a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket. He read the address off to Lin. “Will she be heading home though?” he asked rhetorically. “She’s running scared, she could be going anywhere.”
“Could they track her from the bunker?” Lin suggested.
“This isn’t James Bond, Lin. We’ll head to her house, see whether her family can tell us anything. She lives with two friends, so she might not even think to let them know we’re coming.”
“Who is this woman? What do we want her for?”
Baronaire’s smile was tight. “You didn’t read the report, I take it. She’s a nobody. Wrong place at the wrong time. She saw something she shouldn’t, and now we have to silence her. Before she can bring down the entire operation.”
“So she’s not even a criminal?”
“Nope. Just a normal cleaning lady, working part-time for a rich guy. A guy who got rich by being criminal scum. Just an average woman, could easily be anyone’s daughter, sister, whatever.”
“Then we can’t kill her, Charles; that’s obscene.”
“Obscene or not, we have our jobs. And st
op calling me Charles, I mean it this time.”
He could see she was visibly startled by both his outburst and the revelation of their assignment. It was her first task since joining the organisation, and Baronaire could see the DCI’s logic behind the decision. If Lin couldn’t perform this task without regret she was no use to any of them. What Sanders would do with her then Baronaire did not want to know. He wasn’t aware any officers had not worked out in the past, but he could not honestly say how Sanders dealt with such people. Maybe he saw them as weaklings, or traitors. Maybe Sanders saw WetFish as his family, like he was himself some kind of mob boss.
The idea appealed to Baronaire’s sense of humour and he smiled at the wry thought.
“It’s not funny,” Lin said.
“You either laugh or cry, Lin. Why’d we come to this place anyway?”
“I live round here.”
“Really?” Baronaire asked, surprised. “You can afford a place around here?”
“It’s only a small place, don’t go thinking I’m rich. Speaking of which, what’s the pay like in WetFish?”
Baronaire grunted. “What’s your standard rate for assassination?”
“Hey, don’t get high and mighty with me. You get paid to kill people too.”
“I don’t get paid. Another thing to ask Sanders about if you really want to. Can we get out of here please? This place is starting to make my skin itch.”
Lin pulled the car out and they headed back onto the streets. The sun was rising higher every moment and Baronaire closed his eyes as the winter chill caressed his body. He wished it was dark again already: somehow he knew his injuries would stay with him all day.
They had only been driving for two minutes when their radio crackled. Baronaire flipped the receive button and a voice came over. “Baronaire, Lin ... You guys anywhere near Tumblehill Street?”
Baronaire recognised the voice as belonging to Barry Stockwell. Stockwell worked back at the bunker and didn’t get to see any fieldwork. He was a calm, unassuming individual who likely had never held a gun in his entire life. He was a genius at being a communications hub, however, and it had not taken Baronaire long to understand why Sanders kept him around. Sanders had twenty-five other officers working under him; he could afford to keep Stockwell permanently in the bunker.