Dread Uprising

by Brian Fuller

  After a phone call and a few taps on the table, the projector whirred to life, Archus Magdelene brightening into view. She occupied half the screen, and a map of the Goutre and Hudgins office complex occupied the other.

  Sixwing, the head of Midwest Operations, joined them. He was thin but toned, the type of body fit for Ironman competitions. His tan face and dark hair were morphed to middle age, as many of the Ash Angel leadership preferred. Sixwing’s deliberate and precise way of speech was a slow counterpoint to the rush everyone felt. As the meeting got underway, Helo appreciated his even temper when emotions ran high. Nothing he said ended in an exclamation point—he was calm, controlled, and in command.

  Helo wished he had that gift, especially when he became the target of debate.

  “Trace—sorry, Helo—is compromised.” Sixwing complained in his steady tone. “Send the other three. He can stay here and help coordinate. I know you don’t agree, but I’m hoping a seasoned agent like Cassandra will see wisdom.”

  Archus Magdelene shook her head, but Cassandra jumped in. “Sixwing, after the last year, it’s hard to imagine who isn’t compromised. I’ll get him morphed into something even you won’t recognize.”

  “But he isn’t in the system,” Sixwing countered. “The only way Dahlia and the Thrall could have found him was through direct contact with a traitor within the AAO. I wasn’t thrilled he was allowed to come here. They might be tracking him right now.”

  “Not necessarily,” Cassandra said. “Helo had phone contact and personal contact from several members of the AAO during his time in Phoenix. Any one of them could have led the Dreads to him inadvertently, especially if our communications are compromised.”

  “Let’s not forget that the Dreads are helping him,” Sixwing said. “Why would they do that if they weren’t setting him up or using him?”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” Archus Magdelene admonished. “A single Dread has helped him twice, apparently against the wishes of whoever is running the show.”

  “We can’t know it’s against anyone’s wishes. His personal connection to Goutre and Hudgins makes him—”

  “We’ve been over this,” Archus Magdelene said, sounding exasperated. “Repeating your arguments isn’t working. I’ve made my decision. Can we move on?”

  Sixwing folded his arms. “Yes, Archus. Please log my objections.”

  “Very well. Please review the plan we’ve put in place,” Archus Magdelene said.

  Helo released a fist he’d been clenching. He saw Sixwing’s point, but this was Goutre and Hudgins, and like Cassandra had said, it felt like fate or the devil’s due. One way or another, he knew he had to go there.

  “We’ve got to get access to their internal computer system,” Sixwing droned. “The office protects its sensitive files by not making them accessible to the internet. Even their intranet is run on physical wires rather than wireless routers, meaning we can’t hack it just by getting near the building. We’ve been able to get a good idea of who their current clients are, but their transactions and the movement of money is buried somewhere in their system.

  “The idea here is pretty simple. We need to plant a Wi-Fi transmitter on a computer inside so we can hack the internal network. Sounds simple, but the device has to be registered on one of the machines on the network for us to even have a chance. Even with the connection, it could take weeks to break down encryption and security.

  “Since Helo has computer experience, he and Cassandra will have the lead. They will pose as an elderly couple trying to protect their recently fabricated estate from greedy kids and greedy government. Helo needs to find a physical computer on the inside. We suspect they mainly use terminals.”

  “They do,” Helo confirmed. He’d noted it on one of his few visits to the place.

  “And terminals won’t do,” Sixwing continued “The Wi-Fi device has to be plugged into the port of an actual server or desktop machine or someone’s laptop. To be honest, we don’t know where any might be in the building, so the initial visit might be recon only unless you know, Helo?”

  “Not really,” Helo admitted. “There is a server room in the basement, but you’d need a key card with access to get into it, and only the IT folks and perhaps some upper management have access to it. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “A secondary plan,” Sixwing added, “is to gain access to a terminal of one of the employees and drill down on one or two of the shell companies we came across. Failing all this, we might have to try impersonation. We’re combing their employee records for a likely match.”

  “Any on-site intelligence?” Cassandra asked.

  “We’ve done drive-bys every hour for the last two days. We have confirmed that Dreads work there. Goutre and Hudgins are both Dreads.”

  “But they have wives,” Helo said, remembering the haughty, plastic women that accompanied them at the parties.

  “Yes,” Sixwing confirmed. “Normals, both of them. It’s been a shocking development. We’ve never seen Dreads placed so high in industry, much less a white-collar industry—ever. There has been a lot more foresight to the Dread activities than we previously imagined. What we thought was a recent, unified uprising has actually been in motion for a number of years. Goutre and Hudgins founded their law firm five years ago and have done quite well financially. These two are a far cry from the regular dumb thugs we’re accustomed to pounding. Something complex is going on here, and I personally believe we’re in more danger than even the Blank Massacre suggested.”

  “That’s enough doom and gloom,” Archus Magdelene said, “though I think your statement does underscore the importance of this mission. We need to find out where all the funding for vehicles and weapons development comes from. That’s somewhere in the bowels of Goutre and Hudgins. The mission starts in two days. You ready for this one, Cassie?”

  “Yep. Helo’s got a sword now, so I think we all feel a little safer,” she answered dryly.

  Sixwing’s gaze darted from person to person, face scrunched.

  “Helo spent some time with an Old Master,” Corinth explained. “He can slice. He can dice. And from what I hear about the Dread Thrall in his apartment, he can mince. The burn crew probably could have used a sauté pan.”

  Archus Magdelene grinned and shut off her feed.

  For a late February day, Springfield was jacket-weather warm, a recent week of unusually balmy temperatures having thawed the hilly, tree-blanketed landscape into dull browns and grays. A pleasant sunshine favored them, brightening the white granite building that rose four stories into the air. Goutre and Hudgins, Attorneys at Law.

  To a normal’s eyes, the edifice represented affluence. To Cassandra’s Ash Angel team, which had driven past it twice since arriving in Springfield, it was a dark fortress guarding desperately needed secrets and crawling with Dread security.

  For Helo, it was a house of pain. His widow and the man she’d cheated on him with awaited inside. Her dark Acura sat in the parking lot. The Scholus confirmed that both Terissa and Simon still worked for the law firm, and thinking of the two of them together wrenched his stomach.

  He was Helo. He was free. He would keep reminding himself of that.

  “You going to be able to handle this, Helo?” Cassandra asked after a long silence.

  He hoped he could. After escaping the Thrall, he thought he had turned a corner. Maybe he still sat idling at the intersection.

  “I’m good.”

  It was 10:23 a.m., seven minutes before their appointment. They sat in an old Mercedes in the parking lot morphed into pruned seventy-year-olds. Since they were supposed to be rich, they’d dressed the part. Cassandra looked as elegant morphed old as she did morphed young.

  Helo felt like a train wreck of speckled skin and floppy ears. They’d agreed not to risk weapons of any sort. Double-checking, Helo fingered the Wi-Fi network device in his coat pocket, cleverly disguised in a slim pack of mint gum. The dark-gray suit Helo wore dwarfed his emaciated frame, while Cassa
ndra’s long black skirt and lacy white shirt looked expensive enough to match her genuine pearls.

  They were Charles and Amber Honeycutt, married forty-six years. Two greedy, squabbling boys were desperate for them to die so they could despoil their estate, if not their very corpses.

  “We need to decide something, Helo,” Cassandra said as they prepared to exit the car. “Old couples come in two varieties, sweet and sour. The sweet ones smile a lot and tell lots of funny stories. The sour ones have spent the last ten years of retirement sitting at home getting on one another’s nerves. Which are we?”

  “Since we’ve got no stories and have two children we hate, sour makes sense.”

  Cassandra grinned. “Okay. Just remember you asked for it.” She picked up the comm unit from the console. “Goldbow, Corinth, we’re going in. Send good thoughts our way.”

  There wasn’t much their team could do to help them. Besides ditching their weapons, they thought it best to go in with nothing that might give them away. No comms. No phones.

  Helo stepped out of the car. He shuffled forward ten paces and turned around. Cassandra wasn’t getting out. She sat in the car, gripping an oversized purse that could fell a rhinoceros and stared daggers out the window. He sighed. Using the old-man walk he had tried to perfect the night before, he ambled over and opened the door for her. A gaseous cloud of generously applied perfume wafted out in search of a horse to suffocate.

  “Gee, thanks, Chuck,” she said with ill-disguised acidity. “You’re always such a gentleman.”

  Helo hunched a bit and kept his wispy head down as if to scan for tricky cracks and curbs in the parking lot.

  Cassandra, scowling at the bright sky, walked with a dignified air despite the forward curvature of her back. They turned the corner onto the sidewalk, finding the expected Dread security guard posted at the outside door. He regarded them with bored eyes for a couple of moments, then turned his gaze back to the street.

  “He sure looks nice in a uniform,” Cassandra said as they walked passed him. “It’s a shame you didn’t decide to serve your country, Chuck. But I guess not everybody’s got the stomach for it.”

  “That’s a security guard uniform, you blind old bat,” he shot back as she waited for him to open the imprinted glass door for her.

  “Well, Chuck, you couldn’t even get that job, remember, because of your drinking problem?”

  So that’s how she wanted to play it.

  The white marble tile sparkled in their eyes as the door shut silently behind them. The sumptuously furnished lobby screamed money. Leather couches on purple rugs faced a circular fountain gurgling at the center. Door-sized paintings of Goutre and Hudgins hung on opposite walls. Trace wanted to spray-paint a red aura around their classically portrayed likenesses.

  A beautiful receptionist with straight brown hair talked on a Bluetooth headset as they approached.

  “Drinking problem?” Helo said, wondering how far she would go to insult him.

  “It’s pretty sad when your drinking problem was so bad you can’t even remember you had a drinking problem, honey.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have had a drinking problem if you wouldn’t have been such a whore at my family reunions,” he countered, and Cassandra burst out laughing, barely able to maintain the proper old-lady tenor to her guffawing.

  Helo grinned as Cassandra latched onto his arm and collected herself. The receptionist watched them, face mirthful, as they approached.

  “I always love to see a happy older couple,” she said, giving them a look usually reserved for kittens. “Gives me hope I might find the right one someday. How long have you been married?”

  “Forty-six years,” Helo said proudly.

  “Forty-five, dear,” Cassandra disagreed.

  “I just wish it was forty-six, pumpkin,” he said, laying on the sap. “I wish it was a hundred.”

  Cassandra turned away. He surmised the giggles were threatening to get the better of her.

  “Aww,” the receptionist cooed. “What’s the secret to staying together, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Helo doubted the receptionist could have found two less-qualified people to answer the question.

  “Strong medication,” Helo said with a wink.

  “Money,” Cassandra added.

  The receptionist laughed. “You two! Well, you must be the Honeycutts for 10:30, right?”

  “That’s right, miss” Helo responded.

  “Let me take a quick look here. Looks like you’re missing some contact information. Do you have a cell phone number or an email address where we can reach you?”

  Cassandra snorted. “Chuck’s not very good with all these new gizmos you kids have. He wouldn’t even touch the microwave for three years because he couldn’t figure out the keypad.”

  “I’m not good with the gizmos? You’re the one who tried to dry silverware in the thing. ‘Oh look, honey, it’s like the Fourth of July in there!’”

  The receptionist laughed again. “Well, that’s okay. It looks like we’ve got a landline, though email makes it easy for us to send you documents electronically. And it says you’re here to manage your estate and make some alterations to your will, is that correct?”

  “That’s right, miss,” Helo responded. “Now that I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, the vultures are circling the old estate, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m so sorry! Do you have . . . long?”

  “Well, it’s testicular and they caught it early. Time I’ve got. What I won’t have are—”

  “Too much information, dear,” Cassandra admonished, “though it is so . . . sad.” Honest to goodness tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

  She was so good at this stuff.

  “There, there, Amber,” Helo consoled, taking her hand. “This old stallion will be around for a good while now.”

  The receptionist’s eyes actually watered. “We’ll get you taken care of, Mr. and Mrs. Honeycutt. Your estate will be in good hands with Goutre and Hudgins. You’ll be with one of our brightest and best junior partners today, a Mr. Simon Powell. He’ll see you shortly. Have a seat, and he’ll be out to greet you when he’s ready.”

  Helo felt cold. He made junior partner? Cassandra led him away to a leather couch and sat beside him. When the receptionist wasn’t looking, Cassandra punched him in the arm.

  “Don’t make me laugh like that,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Now, are you going to be able to face this guy? This cannot end in a jealous fit of revenge. You got me?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  Helo looked at the floor and rubbed his wispy-haired head. Simon Powell. As soon as that face popped into view, he was going to want to shove it through a wall. He set his jaw. This mission was important. They needed to know who was funding the Dreads, and he couldn’t screw it up. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the reason this mission had fallen to him had nothing to do with his computer expertise. It had to do with him, with Terissa. With Simon.

  Cassandra watched him intently as she applied some lipstick.

  The door next to the receptionist desk opened, and Simon Powell stepped out. There he was, fashion-model strut in a gray pinstriped suit. The good looks, the winning smile. He still had the never changing tan, and now Trace knew why.

  Simon Powell was a Dread.

  Cassandra applied a crushing squeeze to Helo’s hand, his unbeating heart compressed under the weight of his horror. Thought failed him, his mind recoloring memories with new meaning. Recoloring them red.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Honeycutt,” Simon smiled, teeth as white as chalk. “So nice to meet you! My name is Simon Powell, and I’ll be handling your account. I assure you I’ve got a lot of experience, and we’ll make sure your investments are secure. Follow me, please.”

  Helo barely heard a word. The Wi-Fi router in his pocket might get installed. It might not. But Simon had to burn. His hands shook. Terissa, seduced by a Dread. What if she was still invol
ved with him? Even if she wasn’t, just knowing the monster was anywhere near her enraged him. Poor, fragile Darcie. Used and driven to madness by a Dread to whom she was nothing but a mortal plaything, married so he could fit in at the firm. Righteous indignation coursed through Helo’s frame, and Cassandra had to apply another iron squeeze to get him to settle himself.

  “Breathe,” she whispered.

  Simon’s back was to them. Helo sucked air, trying to wrestle his emotions. By the time they were sitting across an expensive mahogany desk from the Dread, Helo had bridled the anger that begged to reach over, flare his Strength, and stuff Simon into a desk drawer—the small one.

  “In this session,” Simon began, “I just want to get a lay of the land, look at some of your financials and assets, and get an idea of the general direction you want to go. I understand you wish to protect your estate from your children, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Cassandra confirmed. “I know that sounds cold, Mr. Powell, but—”

  “There’s no need to explain yourself, Mrs. Honeycutt. It’s not at all unusual. It’s your wealth, after all. Some parents like their children to receive an inheritance; others prefer their children work for what they get to help them develop a strong character. Some parents don’t like their kids. The important thing is this: you do what you see fit. If you want to give it to your children, great. You want to donate it to charity? Great. You want to stack it all in a big pile and burn it? Well, I would advise against it, but great.” He laughed at his own joke, and Helo managed an anemic chuckle. “So let’s begin, shall we?”

  Helo let Cassandra do all the talking. Forcing himself to breathe, he scanned the room for a way to get the Wi-Fi device installed. Simon’s computer was hidden behind the desk. It was probably a terminal, anyway. Time to reconnoiter. One reason they’d chosen to go as an elderly couple was so he could bumble about and act lost and cute and old. If he got caught where he shouldn’t be, he could play the “senior-moment” card.

  “Is there a bathroom around here close?” Helo said, interrupting Simon’s overview of how interest accrued over time.