The Infiltrators

by Daniel Lawlis

  Zelven took out what looked like a flimsy rag but that fitted perfectly to the contours of his shoes, providing him with excellent grip and a very soft step. He led the way down the hall, and as he neared the end, he pulled out a reflection-free periscope and sought out his adversary.

  Atop the steps slouched a young man, dozing off with a half-finished bottle of whisky next to him. Zelven extracted a cigar, put it to his mouth, and blew. What could have passed for a sewing needle while stationary expanded substantially at the tip as it sailed through the air, two razor-sharp wings unfolding, before the missile buried itself in the drunkard’s throat.

  As Zelven approached the fourth floor, he wasn’t particularly surprised to see several guards through his periscope.

  The closer to the target, the meaner the obstacles.

  He signaled appropriately to his assistants to inform them of the situation and announce a countdown.

  Five seconds later, in a move that some observers may have confused with top-level synchronized dancing, eleven Varco agents rolled across the ground in unison. Perhaps an artistically minded bystander would have expected the man in the center to stand up, send a ripple through his body in pantomime fashion, and then be joined by his cohorts in a well-rehearsed display of spins and acrobatics. But any such expectations were dashed when the men, crouched low to the ground, fired darts in unison at their preselected targets with a lethality that mimicked dance only by its impeccable timing and accuracy.

  Each guard got a dart in the throat and at least one other vital area, but in spite of this synchronized kill there was no way to avoid the sound of several large men crashing to the ground.

  Yet, no sooner had the Varco fired their darts than they sprinted up the stairs to where Zelven, after a quick peek through his periscope, led them onward.

  Coming down from the fifth floor was a skinny runt to check on the noise he thought he had heard. A dart through the throat prevented a scream, and Zelven caught his body as it stumbled towards him.

  Zelven hopped up the next several steps like a rabbit, and just as he was putting his periscope to the corner, it got knocked out of his hands by a vicious kick. It went rattling against the ground and made more noise than any of the late guards combined had been able to.

  Zelven grabbed the man’s foot before he could retract it and sliced the tendon behind the heel. Zelven immediately regretted it, as the man let out a howl of pain that made the recent racket with the periscope sound like a feather landing on silk.

  Zelven quickly threw his knife into the man’s throat, but just barely missed the voice box. He was gurgling blood but managed to let out a couple more howls before falling into shock.

  There was no need for Zelven to give any instructions to his agents this time. This scenario was dealt with exhaustively in Varco training. Any time a stealth mission with a known target lost its element of surprise, there were only two options—abort or race ahead every man for himself.

  Zelven decided for them when he moved ahead. As soon as he reached the fifth floor, a bat came hurtling towards his face. He wasn’t sure what tipped him off—a sudden blurry movement or perhaps the breeze from the swing—but some instinct took over, and he let his body drop to the ground immediately.

  The bat missed his head by two inches as he plummeted to the ground. A brute of a man stood before him and raised the bat with a grin on his face that suggested he was already visualizing the geyser-like eruption of Zelven’s brains.

  Zelven smacked his feet together hard, causing a knife blade to come out the tip of each shoe. He arched backwards and sent his right foot directly into the man’s groin.

  He yelled like an enraged bear, but, to Zelven’s dismay, he appeared not to be dissuaded by this injury from continuing with his geyser show.

  As the bat prepared its descent, Zelven saw the tell-tale redness around the man’s nose that bespoke frequent Smokeless Green usage, and he had no doubt the man had had a grown-up’s dose sometime recently.

  Zelven rolled to the side a half blink before the bat buried itself into the floorboards, sending splinters flying.

  Zelven stood to kick the man in the throat, but—almost to his disappointment—saw his agents finish the man off with a quick series of slashes that made the most seasoned butcher appear slow and sloppy.

  “SHUT THE HELL UP DOWN THERE, MOOSE!! THAT’S THE SECOND TIME YOU’VE GOTTEN HIGH TONIGHT!”

  Zelven wasn’t sure if it was a ruse, but his spirits leaped at the prospect of paying a surprise visit to his target after all.

  He quickly motioned to his men that they were back in stealth mode and to follow his lead.

  Zelven was surprised when the peek through his periscope on the sixth floor revealed no one. With quick motions, he communicated to kill only when necessary, as he wished to speak to whomever they could restrain.

  Zelven turned left, five men following quickly behind him, and the other five veering off towards the right.

  He had only taken a few steps when he heard laughter.

  “You really shut Moose up, now didn’t ya, hahahaha?!!”

  “If Moose was any dumber, I’d cut his head off and attach it to a club. It would be more useful.”

  Someone howled at that response, and the unmistakable sound of a glass being filled with liquid emanated from the room. A couple more steps, and the tell-tale smell of alcohol permeated Zelven’s nostrils, letting him know he was going to be crashing one hell of a party.

  “HEY! Go check that there telescope, now won’t ya? I like to know about myyy . . . competition,” a man said, appearing to have struggled to put together the sentence.

  “He’s gone, I told ya!”

  A loud sound like a slap across the face echoed, followed by, “HEY! Who’s the boss here, anyway?”

  A sigh was emitted, and the sound of more liquid being poured sounded somewhat like a bubbling brook.

  “He’s gone, Lefty! Sheeesh!”

  “What did I tell ya? Did it work, or din’t it? You ain’t always got to use violence to win the game!”

  “I know, Lefty. It’s like you said. If there ain’t no fish in the pond, ain’t no one gonna stick around too long.”

  “Yep,” came the reply with the satisfaction of a teacher whose dumbest student has finally grasped a basic concept.

  Zelven could tell based upon the voices roughly where each man was situated, but he was suspicious about there being only two voices. He quickly signaled for the other team of Varco agents to kill everyone they came across. He had already decided which one man would survive in this room.

  He motioned to his nearby Varco agents which man was to be spared, and on the count of three they burst into the room.

  Zelven sent a small throwing knife spinning through the air and buried it cleanly in Lefty’s neck as he downed the last glass of hard liquor he would ever enjoy on this side of eternity.

  A thin man looked in horror at the team of assassins, his right hand still clutching the telescope with which he had been peering down into the street just moments earlier.

  Two other bodyguards were in the room, but his agents took them out before he even had time to register their presence. A few stifled screams echoed down the hallway, and then he turned to the now petrified man still clutching the telescope.

  Taking a chair next to Lefty, Zelven said, “Please, sit. You’re in no danger. Quite the contrary, tonight your life has taken a lucky turn.”

  The petrified man stood still, but as it appeared to be from fear rather than defiance, Zelven told him amiably, “Sir, please do as your bid.”

  The man glanced quickly at Lefty, and while he seemed a bit unnerved by the grisly sight, not even Zelven’s scrutinizing eyes could spot a hint of mourning. Cautiously, he sat down.

  “Lefty didn’t call you by your name, so would you do me the courtesy of introducing yourself.”

  “Tim,” the man said so timidly it almost sounded like a question. “Sometimes Thin Tim,” he added un
easily.

  “Well, I admire a man who keeps his weight under control. It’s a sign of not just physical, but also mental, fitness. My name is George—George Ritmer, at your service.”

  Thin Tim took the extended hand uneasily, his fear of displeasing Mr. Ritmer only slightly outweighing his fear of getting near him.

  “I feel much better now that we have been properly introduced. Do you know why I’m here?”

  You’re a robber and a killer, Tim wanted to say, but shook his head, afraid he would surely join Lefty if his answer was unsatisfactory.

  “Well, that’s to be understood. A man could have many motives for entering in such a bizarre fashion. Let me explain it to you in economic terms. I have often been accused of being an idealist. You see—I believe in free markets. If I stand on the same street corner as you, it ought to be up to the buyer whether he poisons himself with your Smokeless Green or mine. The right to choose is very fundamental to individual liberty, is it not?”

  Tim nodded.

  “Ah, I suspected you to be a free market man the moment I heard your conversation with Lefty here,” Zelven said, pointing to Lefty as naturally as if he were alive and fully active in the conversation. “I think it was your reticence to carry out Lefty’s protectionist order of checking the telescope to see if the competition had returned. At that moment, I told myself, Those are the reluctant footsteps and grudging tone of a man not fully onboard with this arrangement. Thus, here you sit before me, heart still beating, body still in working order. We free marketers are not exactly brutes, you know.”

  “Lefty . . . Lefty was the one behind it. He said you killed some of our men, so he sent . . . some guys to spread the word that they wasn’t to deal with you,” Lefty said, with the tone of a tattletale.

  “Well, I’m willing to assume you were acting under duress.”

  Tim’s face brightened, until Zelven resumed: “But duress doesn’t cover all sins. It’s a rather persnickety legal defense, and not all jurists agree on its full scope. Let’s say we simplify it with a simple proposition.”

  “Just name it, Mr. Ritmer,” Tim said with the tone of a man eager to descend the gallows.

  “I have a predicament. I am looking to move up in this organization, but I happen to have an independent source of Smokeless Green. Thus, while I believe I could be a tremendous asset to this organization, I see my optimal role as being one of supplier. I suspect I could be of great benefit even to the largest wholesalers in this organization.

  “Now, I thought I would go the traditional route and just start selling to users on the street, make a name for myself, begin supplying retailers, then wholesalers . . . well, I don’t mean to condescend to you; you know how this works, don’t you?”

  Tim nodded unconvincingly.

  “But, I keep hitting snags. First, a few men tried to rob me, and I only narrowly survived. Then, Lefty here started threatening my clients. I’m starting to think I’m going about this whole process wrong. I’m thinking maybe you know some people higher up in the food chain, if you will permit a metaphor, that perhaps I could sell to directly. I can guarantee you I’ll supply them more cheaply than their current supplier, these vicious attacks against my person will cease, and we can all go back to earning money.”

  Tim looked pale.

  “Now, forgive me for being presumptuous—it is one of my vices—but I can read a man. And if I’m not mistaken, you look like you’ve got some valuable information for me but are afraid to part with it. Go on. We’re both businessmen.”

  “Well . . . I do know a guy. And, yeah, he’s up the food chain. But—”

  “Please speak, sir. No obstacle is insuperable.”

  “Well, he’s Lefty’s brother.”

  “Ahhh, ironic yes, but unworkable no. Are you familiar with Gantler’s masterpiece The Quest for Power?”

  Tim shook his head, thinking it best not to mention he couldn’t read.

  “Well, I won’t spoil it for you, but there is an applicable part, I think. You see, when Frivulian, suspecting a traitor in his organization, kills every man in his inner circle, one by one, until only his brother is left, and yet the attacks against his wife and children continue, he cries aloud, begging forgiveness from the gods for the innocent blood he has shed, and crying bitterly that he had suspected his brother from the start but couldn’t bring himself to act on the unthinkable.

  “Moved by his remorse for the innocent blood spilled and by his reluctance to commit fratricide, the gods take pity on him and confuse the minds of the very assassins hired by the treacherous brother, who then kill him, mistakenly believing him to be the target.

  “For family honor, he never discloses his brother’s treachery, he weeps and eulogizes at his funeral, and he promises vengeance against the assailants, but actually hires them to replenish his ranks.”

  Tim looked at blankly, but then a malicious cunning crept into his eyes.

  “Lefty has cheated on Robert before.”

  “And has this slight come to Robert’s attention?”

  Tim sighed, and then joy came into his eyes as he continued. “More than twice. He said he’d kill him the next time. I happened to be standing right next to him. Boy, Lefty was mad. He denied it and cussed a blue streak, but Robert sent him packing with a punch to the jaw and a kick to the backside.”

  “Do you believe he would have?” Zelven asked, his blue eyes piercing like daggers into Tim’s.

  Tim exhaled deeply, as if knowing his answer better be precise. “Shucks . . . he was awful mad . . . they is brothers . . . but, seein’ how Rob’s temper is, yeah, I think he’d a killed Lefty if he ever cheated him again. I seen him kill before.”

  “Excellent,” Zelven replied.

  Chapter 10

  “So, let me get this straight,” Rob said between large bites off a steak bigger than the plate holding it. He had heard the story, and he was examining its taste. It left something to be desired. Whereas the steak he was wolfing down had been seared to perfection, its tender, juicy composition providing a mild anti-inflammatory effect to his nearly perpetual anger, the story he had just heard had a far less exquisite taste.

  Perhaps if he tried the very words in his own mouth he would get a better idea whether to swallow them or spit them right back into Thin Tim’s face and order his throat cut while he proceeded with his meal.

  “Lefty was aimin’ for my spot. But he figured if he just killed me outright, that might not sit too well with my supplier . . . or my men,” he said, casting a quick look at his bodyguards to assay the extent of their mourning in the event of his demise by treachery. A few shook their frowning heads, and he decided that would suffice.

  “So, he hires some guy—and I mean a guy with some bad dudes backin’ him—to start killin’ people in our backyard.”

  Rob gulped down a piece of steak, slashed off another, shoved it into his mouth, and resumed.

  “Bam, bam, bam—one guy after another gettin’ stabbed, slashed, disappeared. You name it. Then, I’m to be the next target. And I die along with a whole crew of guys inside Lefty’s building.

  “Lefty somehow survives, promises vengeance, and then takes my spot.

  “How am I doin’ so far, Tim?”

  “P-perfectly, sir.”

  “Good. Cuz here’s where we get to the part that don’t taste right. Just how in the hell was these guys gonna kill me when Lefty’s in the building, but I AIN’T?!!!” he snapped and then swallowed another large chunk of meat and then began laughing menacingly.