by Adam Carter
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was a cop,” he said straight.
Rachael frowned. “What? Oh, I don’t care about ... That’s not what I wanted to ...”
He realised he had said the wrong thing again, but then he had had so little experience with women. That was technically not true; he had a lot of experience with women. He had just never before felt this way about one.
“Before we go in there,” she said, “I wanted you to know, what I said back at the lake?”
“You didn’t mean it?”
“I meant it.” She looked away, ran a hand through her hair in exasperation. “At least I think I did. Everything’s happening so quickly. We sit around a house driving each other nuts for two weeks; then all this happens in one night.”
“You don’t drive me nuts, Rach.”
“Look, I just want you to know after this is over I want to be able to take a step back and try and figure out my life.”
“You want some space?”
“My best friend’s been murdered and I was nearly drowned, Charles.” He could tell she was valiantly trying to keep the desperation from her voice. “Cut me a little slack.”
He digested all of this. “Sure. Once this is done, no pressure.”
She smiled, although it was an anxious, frightened gesture. “Thanks.”
Baronaire pushed open the door and the heat and smoke of the inside battered him with an intensity he had not expected. No matter how much he could sense through a door, it never seemed to compare to the real thing. He was correct in how many people were currently using the public house, however, and there was much in common with them. Most of the men were large brutes, with various tattoos showing on their bare arms, while the women were thin, poorly dressed, wearing far too much make-up and looking like junkies. Baronaire breathed deeply and decided a lot of these people were junkies.
He walked in as though he had every right to be there, taking his movements slowly, aware of Rachael’s small, nervous steps behind him. She clung to his arm, keeping her eyes down, and he felt her heart race at being in this place. Baronaire was more than aware of every eye being upon him, and he approached the bar nonchalantly. There was silence in the entire place, and the stares he was receiving would be enough to kill an ordinary man stone dead.
The bartender approached Baronaire with a small smile upon his bushy lips, and Baronaire noticed several clubs tucked away behind the bar. If Baronaire could actually see the clubs, it meant the bartender likely kept a shotgun within easy reach.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked in a thick Dublin accent.
“Trouble.”
“Trouble? That supposed to be tough-guy talk?”
“Take it however you want it, friend.” Baronaire glanced about the pub. “To be honest, I expected people to be attacking me by now.”
“Maybe we’re a law-abiding establishment.”
“Maybe that’s coward’s talk for everyone behind me is soiling themselves.”
The smile in the bushy face was gone in an instant. “Seems like we got ourselves a comedian here.”
“Hey, I changed my mind,” Baronaire said, raising his hands. “I don’t want any trouble after all. Just a milkshake here for my companion. That is, if you’re not all drinking it out of saucers.”
Rachael screamed as a pool cue came down hard at Baronaire. He caught the cue, snapping it so the attacker’s momentum sent him careening into the bar. “Haven’t done this in a while,” Baronaire said with a smile. “Rach, you might want to hide over by the fruit machine.”
The entire pub descended upon Baronaire in the very next instant. Rachael backed away, keeping low, her fearful eyes fixed upon the mass of bodies punching and beating him. Blood shot into the air and bodies were flying in every direction, and amongst it all Baronaire was grinning. Drink and drugs were fuelling these people, giving Baronaire all the advantage he needed. It was also eleven o’clock, which gave him even more of an edge.
He evaporated on the wind, his body dissipating into a fine white mist which drifted across the bar to re-form beside the ‘tender. Baronaire poured himself a drink and leaned against the bar, watching the men still flailing about with their fists and weapons. He laughed at the blank looks on the men’s faces as they realised their prey had escaped. It was like an old cartoon where the man who started the fight would crawl out of the flailing bodies, and Baronaire suddenly knew the thrill of being such a character. “Rabbit season, duck season,” he laughed, although no one seemed to get the joke.
The first assailant launched himself across the bar, but Baronaire grabbed two clubs and solidly whacked the man about the head. Even as he fell back, two more were vaulting over the side. Baronaire beat them back also, his movements and reflexes far faster than anyone in the pub could match. He felt like he was playing whack-a-mole for the first ten seconds, until the patrons began to realise their strategy wasn’t working.
Baronaire tossed the clubs and reached for the predicted shotgun. Pumping it, he quickly blasted the ceiling, which came raining down on everyone’s heads. He levelled the weapon at the crowd and said, “Last orders, guys. Anyone want a shell on the house?”
There was a single moment of complete silence, and then the entire crowd ran for the doors. All that were left were Baronaire, Rachael, those already unconscious ... and the bartender.
Baronaire tossed the shotgun to Rachael and turned to the ‘tender. The big Irishman was no longer filled with such arrogant swagger, and Baronaire approached him slowly. “Johnson. Dale Johnson.”
“I don’t know any Dale Johnson,” the Irishman replied.
“Shame for you. Johnson killed a girl named Vicky Klein. Now he’s sent goons after her best friend. A couple of hours ago they tried to drown her, so she’s understandably peeved.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “That’s her holding the shotgun by the way.” He leaned back. “Johnson?”
“Up ... upstairs?”
Baronaire tapped him on the cheek. “Good boy. Sleep.” And the Irishman collapsed.
Baronaire vaulted over the bar to find Rachael staring at him. “How did you do that?”
He suddenly realised he had hypnotised the bartender in plain view of Rachael and mentally kicked himself. It was yet another in a growing list of stupid mistakes he had made in front of her. “I learned a few tricks from someone in the magic circle.”
“Don’t lie to me. Anyway, I didn’t mean that.”
“Oh. What then?”
Rachael gestured about the common room with her free hand.
“Oh.”
“You work out, right?” she asked.
Baronaire was well aware she had just told him not to lie, so he said nothing.
“And you sneaked out from under them all? That something else you learned in the magic circle, Charles?”
He wasn’t even minding that she was using his first name. “There are things about me you don’t want to know, Rach.”
“Like how you can toss around men twice your size? How you can send people to sleep? Or how you can turn into gas and drift around the room? Yeah,” she added to his shocked expression, “I noticed that.”
Baronaire had expected she would have been cowering in too much fright to have seen. The ‘tender hadn’t noticed, nor had any of the other patrons of the pub. Out of them all only Rachael had been so observant. It warmed his heart, even if it did pose certain problems.
“And,” she added, taking the shotgun in both hands now, “you can think again if you intend to hypnotise me into forgetting it, pal.”
Baronaire smiled once more. He had been doing a lot of that since he had met Rachael. “Thought never crossed my mind.”
“So you want to start telling me how you do it?”
“Concentration.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you?”
“Don’t know that either.”
Rachael was eyeing him strangely, but he cou
ld offer her nothing more of the truth, for it was all he knew.
He looked away, then back to her. “Johnson’s upstairs. Don’t you want to end this while we can? We can talk later.”
“We can talk now. Tell me something at least.”
He admired her tenacity; he just found her timing suspect. Still, she had seen some of the things he could do and was far from quailing. She was in fact holding a gun on him, even if he didn’t believe she would actually use the thing. “All right,” he told her, stepping close and looking into her eyes. “I was born in nineteen sixty-one. My mother died when I was young, I don’t remember her. My father was murdered when I was five. I was raised by a man named Jeremiah. I found I could do things ordinary humans could not even imagine. I might be a genetic experiment, a mutant from radioactive fallout; hell, maybe my mother was an alien.” She didn’t even crack a smile at that one. “I don’t know what I am, Rachael. I wish I did, but I’ve spent the past thirty years trying to work it out and I don’t expect to find the answer after some soul-searching in a sleazy dockyard pub. Now can we go kick in the head of the guy who killed your best friend?”
Rachael lowered the gun and shook her head sadly. “Just when I think I know you, Charles.”
“You believe me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Placing his arm about her shoulders, Baronaire headed over to the stairs. It was good to get things off his chest.
Baronaire took the stairs first, motioning for Rachael to keep the shotgun handy. He listened for signs that anyone up there was prepared for an attack. After all, Baronaire’s entrance to the pub had been noisy at best and there was little chance whoever was upstairs had not heard anything. He could sense a mingled scent, but it was difficult to pinpoint. There was so much smoke and pollution within the pub that they were interfering with his senses. Still, he was at least almost certain there was someone upstairs.
Behind him Rachael whispered, “If you want to go up there as a mist, I won’t be offended.”
Baronaire’s grin was infectious, and he took her up on her offer. Drifting upwards, around the bend of the stairwell, he came upon a large man holding a pistol. He wore a suit, as Rachael’s attackers had been, and there was no trace of nervousness from him. If Baronaire had ventured up the stairs on foot as he had intended he would have been shot, perhaps even killed. Instead he floated clear from the stairs until he had all but enveloped the bodyguard. The suited man’s nerve did not break, although he swatted at the mist with one hand, clearly thinking it was tobacco smoke from down below.
And then Baronaire solidified behind his foe, his arm wound around his throat, his other hand closing upon the gun. Baronaire pulled back on his arm, crushing the man’s windpipe, and he died with wide eyes and a simple grunt. Baronaire dropped the body and whispered to Rachael that it was safe to come up. She met him on the landing and briefly eyed the body. There was not even a flicker of doubt or shame from her. These people had fully intended to kill her and she cared nothing for any of them. Her stern thoughts were what usually turned Baronaire away from women, but with Rachael they only seemed to excite him further.
They headed across the landing and Baronaire heard sounds coming from behind one door. He paused, indicating to Rachael that this was the one they were after. She nodded, taking a deep breath and allowing him to do his job. Baronaire counted slowly to three and then kicked the door in.
The room was clearly a bedroom and looked very much like a cliché run-down motel from a bad television programme. The sheets were dirty, the television appeared broken and there were cockroaches crawling across the floor. The window was half open, the shutters gently blowing in the night air. There was a single occupant in the room; a smartly dressed man with a haircut as expensive as the suit. He had a cruel glint to his eyes and rents to his face where someone had recently clawed him. Vicky Klein had left her mark and Baronaire had no doubt as to the identity of this man.
If there had been any, Rachael’s gasp behind him ended the debate forever.
“Johnson,” Baronaire said, stepping into the room. “Mind if I call you Dale?”
“Who are you? You’re not police.”
Baronaire wasn’t quite sure it made a difference who they were. If they were here to kill him what did it matter his day job? “Actually I am,” Baronaire told him. “I work for an unorthodox but entirely legal department which does the work everyone wants doing but no one else wants to do. Usually we clean up the mistakes of the courts, but tonight our job profiles have changed somewhat. You killed a working girl on my DCI’s patch. He protected those girls, and you killed one of them. For that, you’re on the top of our naughty list.”
Naughty list? Baronaire had never quipped so much in his life as he was doing tonight, and wondered what other crazy things love did to people.
Johnson frowned. “WetFish? You’re telling me Sanders is gunning for me because I killed a hooker?”
Baronaire was taken aback. “You know about WetFish?”
“Of course I know about WetFish,” Johnson replied as though Baronaire was an idiot. “Like you said, you’re entirely legal. The bigwigs in the police know about you, and with enough money so do others. You’d be surprised how many politicians know everything you people get up to. Nice work in Scotland by the way.”
This was too much for Baronaire to take in. “You’ve read our files?”
“All your reports. They make for interesting reading; you have many fans in politics, my friend. You know, I had no idea who was after me, but this explains everything. Sanders always was a man obsessed. I didn’t realise he was trying to straighten out the hookers, but that sounds just like him all right. So,” he said as though remembering Baronaire was there, “you’re here to kill me then? That would be a mistake, you know. Sanders does everything to avoid publicity. You can’t go around murdering high-ranking politicians, Charles.”
Baronaire’s eyes narrowed. “You know who I am?”
“Now you’ve told me Sanders is involved, I’m making assumptions. Everyone knows the famous Charles Baronaire. The top man at WetFish. Has a greater success rate than any other field agent.”
“If you’re trying to intimidate me, it won’t work.”
Johnson shrugged. “And this is the whore I’ve been trying to kill these past two weeks. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, girl.” He looked back to Baronaire. “I’m a big man in this city, and Sanders won’t let you kill me. Plus I respect you, so no hard feelings for any of my men you may have killed. What say you give me the girl and we’ll call it settled? I can do a lot for you, Charles.”
From the doorway Rachael pumped the shotgun. In a level tone she said, “Don’t call him Charles.”
For the first time Johnson actually seemed worried. He backed off a pace, holding out a placating hand. “Now let’s not be hasty here. Charles ... Mr Baronaire, I can help you. I know you want to know things. I don’t really understand them myself, but I guarantee I know people who do.”
“Go on.”
“You can do things. The paperwork doesn’t really say what, but you have unusual abilities. I can help you with them, I can help you understand yourself. Just give me a chance and we can ...”
A terrible thunder filled the room then and Johnson was blown backwards, his blood spattering the walls, his body slamming into the window and crashing through. The night wind howled in as it claimed its prize, dragging it all the way to the docks below.
Silence settled slowly on the room and Baronaire raised his eyebrows at his companion.
“Typical politician,” Rachael said, tossing the gun onto the bed. “Talks too much, and all of it a lie.”
Baronaire shrugged. She was probably right.
He heard a noise then and held a finger to his lips. Rachael had not heard of course, for she was not superhuman. He moved slowly to a wardrobe, reaching out a slow and steady hand for the knob. He nodded to Rachael to be ready, and then yanked open the door. A girl screamed,
jumping hysterically. She was around Rachael’s age, wearing a tight tank top and skirt. Her face was smeared with tears, her body drowning in sweat. Baronaire took her by the arm and dragged her from the wardrobe, throwing her onto the bed.
“He was up here with a hooker,” Baronaire said to Rachael. “Should’ve known.”
“What do we do with her?” Rachael asked. “She’s heard everything about you, about your business. Your boss doesn’t sound like someone who’ll want that getting out.”
“No.” Baronaire ran a hand through his hair. This was all going so horribly wrong. Then something suddenly clicked in his brain. “Rachael, I want you to wait outside for me.”
“What? Hold on a ...”
He took her by the arms. “Rach, do you trust me?”
She was frantic, afraid, and kept glancing at the trembling girl on the bed. But finally she lowered her eyes. “Yes.”
“Then know that whatever I do, it’s in your best interests.”
Rachael left the room without looking him in the eyes. He did not know whether she was ashamed of him, or fearful he would attempt to make her forget everything he had done and was now about to do. Rachael Webster was not a woman who ever wanted to forget. She wanted to remember everything to make herself stronger.
And that was what Baronaire loved about her.
He turned back to the cowering girl, who was now pleading for her life. But Baronaire could not afford to be merciful. Not when he now had someone to protect, no matter the cost.
CHAPTER NINE
“They know who we are,” Baronaire told Sanders in the early hours of the morning. The police had at last arrived to the dockyard and Baronaire spoke with his DCI beside the older man’s car. It was a chill morning, and both men wore long coats with deep pockets. It was always a good idea to have deep pockets in Operation WetFish.
“A lot of people know who we are, Charles,” Sanders replied. “Can’t be helped. If people didn’t know us, there would be no funding.”
“The wrong people know.”
“Yes. Yes, they do.”