Getting hands on him, of course, was another story. One that for the moment required me to wear a big, dumb hat while pretending to chain smoke cigarettes on the sidewalk down the street from his hotel.
The wait isn’t just boring. It’s stressful as hell as my mind runs through all the tiny ways my plan could fall apart. I’d rather do almost anything than just stand here, and have to resist the urge to pull out my phone as a distraction from the magnitude of what I’m about to attempt. The phone isn’t even an option for the moment. I’ve powered it off for this leg of the gig, because the last thing that I need is for some cyber sleuth investigating whatever finding my electronic signature at the scene of the crime.
I really want to say fuck it, tell Erin that I’m on my way, and get out of here before these cigarettes give me a case of sudden onset throat cancer. The thought draws a mental image of tumors and pulsating growths so distracting that I almost miss it when St. Pierre exits his hotel on the arm of an athletic, hard featured woman who struts with enough casual confidence to stir me up without even trying. The two of them look like they’re on a date. I don’t see a car for them, and assume that they’ll be taking the scenic route to wherever it is they intend on heading.
Still smoking the cigarette, I start walking in his direction knowing that there’s a 50/50 chance that he’ll end up walking my way. The cards must be in my favor tonight, because St. Pierre and the hard woman share a laugh and start a leisurely stroll towards my half of the street.
I keep my head down as I walk, trusting in the big, droopy hat that I’d bought on the way over here to hide my features from nearby onlookers and cameras. A glance shows me that the distance between St. Pierre and myself is quickly growing short, so I begin studying the sidewalk and counting my steps.
After 65 paces, I spot a crack in the sidewalk that’ll work for my purposes, stick my toe more or less in it, and pretend to trip. For the second time today my body smacks into pavement, but I’m expecting it this time, and manage to not concuss myself.
I lay there for a moment, willing myself to keep my head down, where my hat can hide my face, until I hear the usually unwelcome sound of a presumed gentleman attempting to come to the rescue. Only when the steps come within arm’s reach do I look up to find St. Pierre, and his hard featured companion, rushing towards me.
St. Pierre is in the lead, and when he reaches out for my hand, I can’t hide the smile that flashes across my face. The poor man doesn’t notice, but the woman does about a split second before she leaps forward to plant herself between St. Pierre and me.
In the blink of an eye, her demeanor transforms from that of a woman of substance on the town to one that I’m much more familiar with. Shoulders hunched forward, feet planted wide, and one hand grasped firmly on the collar of St. Pierre while the other stretches out in a gesture that screams “do not fucking pass.”
She’s not St. Pierre’s date. She’s his bodyguard, and sees straight through my act.
CHAPTER FIVE
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I think to myself. I should have known better, especially after reading the file that my secretary had given me. More than anything else, St. Pierre was known for his ability to ID talent and delegate appropriately because he knew his own weaknesses and paid well for others to shore them up. Those concerns must have included taking care of his own safety, because the woman standing before me seemed more than competent – which, honestly, is what I deserve for having written her off as a piece of eye candy.
I still needed to get my hands on St. Pierre if I was to have any chance in hell of getting my money. Unfortunately, no bodyguard worth her salt, paycheck, or unregistered blood diamonds would ever let a stranger get within arm’s reach of their client. Trying to push my way past her would just be asking for a concussion or new ventilation holes in myself, so I’d need to come up with a way to make St. Pierre come to me.
Shifting my gaze away from the woman and over to my target told me that the battle was half done in that regard. He’d just seen a pretty woman tip over, and despite his bodyguard’s worries, still wanted to help. All he needed was a nudge, so I did one of the things that I hate most in the world. I put a puppy dog look on my face, whimpered, and tried to look weak.
The bodyguard, still unconvinced or maybe just uncaring, steps back and tries to lead him away. St. Pierre must really trust her opinion, because he doesn’t hesitate to take a step back along with her and grow the distance between us.
Fuck, I think, wishing I could cry on command. I can’t, though, so I make do with grabbing my ankle and whimpering more.
The bodyguard sneers at me, and I can see the traces of a deep, yet well sutured scar on the bottom edge of her lip. She’s the kind of woman who’s seen worse, done worse, and probably shrugged off much worse than what I’m feigning on the streets of Barcelona. I’d bet that some less-than-professional part of her wants to snap a pair of fingers in my face and tell me to just walk it off.
I’d be inclined to agree with her under different circumstances, but have shit to get done myself. I can’t summon tears on command, but I can still do something.
While still making eye contact with St. Pierre’s bodyguard, I take a drag of my cigarette and make a show of putting on my best resting bitch face. Careful and slow, I rise to my feet, then move as if to step into the street so that I can pass by the well dressed, still suspicious, pair occupying the sidewalk.
I also gasp and let my ankle fold under my weight the moment that step lands. I topple, and this time the motion sends me not towards St. Pierre or his guard, but instead towards the cobblestone lined street.
The stones approach fast enough to spike my heartrate through the ceiling, but I know that bracing myself for the fall is out of the question. This has to look real, and given the competence of the bodyguard in arm’s reach may cost me a broken bone or three.
The sight of a blonde falling at his feet not just once, but twice, is apparently too much for even the security minded St. Pierre to take. I hear him curse and shove past the hard featured bodyguard as he stretches out a hand out towards me. I take his grasp with one hand a split second before landing, then spare a glance to make sure that the cigarette, still clutched in my teeth, is still burning.
The bodyguard tries to say something, but neither St. Pierre or I hear, because by the time she gets started we’re already in hell.
CHAPTER SIX
Getting St. Pierre to hand over his banking information once we land in the southern outskirts of Mali is actually the easiest part of my day. Like I said, getting yanked between worlds can be fucking terrifying if you’re not an old hat at it like myself. I’m barely halfway through telling him that I won’t hesitate to do it again if he doesn’t pay up now when he starts reciting his routing numbers and passwords by memory.
I point him towards a township just short of the horizon and watch him scurry away, shooting wide-eyed, almost crazed glances over his shoulder at me. If I had to guess, it’ll be a long time before he even thinks about walking out on a bill again.
I wait until he’s safely out of earshot before I sync up the roam anywhere satellite antenna I always carry to the Bluetooth on my phone. I text the info over to my secretary and wait for his confirmation.
His reply arrives within seconds, along with a cascade of missed texts from Erin.
I double check the time before opening them and immediately feel my heart sink. Despite all the travel I do, I’ve never gotten used to running the math for time zone changes in my head. I’d thought that I still had a half hour before the scheduled beginning of my date. Turns out that I’d gotten it wrong, and was more than two hours late.
I almost don’t open the texts, as if ignoring the problem would somehow make it go away. I know it won’t, though, so I suck in a breath and tap Erin’s most recent message.
“it’s over.” It reads. “never talk to me again.”
No. Wait. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. I’m on my way. I have to tell her I’m on my way.
I start to type back to her, but then start reading the other texts she’s sent – so many of them that they pile high on my phone’s screen.
I start to scroll through them, as if there’ll be some hope for redemption hidden in their all lowercase depths. There isn’t though. I’ve fucked this up too badly to be saved, so I switch over to where my secretary’s reply text sits unread.
“Accounts full.” It reads. “Plus a bonus on top. Thanks for this. I owe you one.”
My secretary knows me well enough to assume that I wouldn’t access the apps he’s set up for my banking, so he takes the liberty of sending a text copy of my new balance in the minutes that follow. Thirty four thousand, six hundred eight dollars, and twelve cents. It’s enough to cover a few more months of tuition, plus a bit left over for one hell of a treat.
Despite the money, the only thing I can think of is the cookie-cake that I’d ordered for Erin. So I close my phone, make a drop, and get ready to tackle two pounds of caramel fudge cookie-cake in my pajamas, alone.
END
BRIMSTONE HUSTLE
CHAPTER ONE
I walk into an alley, flick the wheel of my knockoff Zippo lighter, and drop down through a sky choked with brimstone and flame. The heat stings my skin, but my passage is short enough for me to land on concrete before my jeans or spaghetti strap tank start to smoulder. A puff of foul smelling smoke from the trip follows me after I land. I wave my hand to dissipate the cloud, and exhale as I take in the room I’ve just entered.
It’s an ugly place, bare concrete and unpainted walls, but that’s to be expected when dealing with arms factories in this part of the world. A long line of crates are stacked against one of the walls, and a conveyor belt, now dormant, waits to carry more of the same.
With my footsteps quiet and lighter clutched tight, I make my way over to the nearest of the crates. The lock’s a cakewalk to disable, and I lift the lid open to see the weapons, automatics, lined up neatly inside.
The China North Industries Corporation, NORINCO, makes a pretty good rifle, which is why I tend to rob them so often. Keeping track of their guard schedules takes a little bit of doing, but has been worth the hassle and then some ever since my secretary had tracked down a reliable stream of clientele.
Each of the iron and wood rifles inside of the crate is familiar enough to anyone who’s seen an action movie or watched the news since 1947. Rugged and simple, knockoff Kalashnikov rifles are so common they’re almost never worth the effort of moving these days. Or at least they would be, if already stamped with the traceable serial numbers that are added to all rifles before leaving the factory.
I reach down into the crate and pick up one of the rifles, brushing long strands of dirty-blonde hair from my face as I do so because I’d forgotten to bring a hair tie with me tonight. I flip the weapon on its side, squint, then smile when I see that it lacks serial numbers, symbols, and site markings of any kind. Without those markings, this weapon comes as close to untraceable as these things ever get. That’s worth its own weight in gold when shown to the right kind of buyer. Fortunately for my little sister, and her not-so-little student loans, eager buyers are no longer a thing that I’m short on.
It’s hard to pack a duffel bag without making a racket, but I’ve had practice. I’d brought one along with me because it rolls up small and handles easier than a crate, but as I start to unroll it and cram pristine AK-47 clones inside it, I wonder if I should bite the bullet next time and show up with a few padded boxes and sturdy hand cart. I’m panting by the time I get around to emptying my last crate of the night, which is probably why I don’t hear anything until a guard barges through the door and shines a light at my back.
“Freeze!” he says, in what I think is Mandarin. I’m not sure, because I know very little Chinese save for the phrases often used by angry men with guns. That may seem specific, but it’s a good thing to keep track of in my line of work, and is even easy to someone who failed high school Spanish.
I curse to myself, annoyed at the interruption because being annoyed is more pleasant than being terrified. Despite my job, I hate guns, especially when one of them is being aimed at me. I hate them so much, in fact, that I’d spent a chunk of what I’d expected to make with this haul on bribes to know who in this factory will be where and when. The nighttime patrol for this section wasn’t supposed to come through for another half hour. They may have added more personnel, meaning the guard behind me is new.
The new guy tells me to stop again, and it doesn’t take a linguist to pick out the anxiety in his voice. Not good, not good, very not good. I take a breath and try to stop worrying about the gun aimed at my back. I almost succeed, until I remember this funny thing I know about bullets. They still hurt, even if you’re not scared of them.
I exhale and decide that it’s probably best to listen to what the newly hired man with the newly issued gun is telling me to do. With my free hand, the one not still holding my lighter, I reach up and shrug out of the duffel bag strap digging into my shoulder. I lower the bag of weapons down slow and without sudden movements in the hopes of not damaging the weapons inside or getting shot in the back by a twitchy man with a gun.
Despite my efforts, there’s a clatter when the duffel bag meets the ground, and I have to wonder if the buyer will make me discount the whole lot if there’s cosmetic damage, or if I’ll be able to convince the him to take a price cut on an item by item basis. I’m hoping for the latter. Mary’s taking up film studies this upcoming semester, and I have to find her a nice camera in addition to textbooks.
The new guy doesn’t seem to be as worried about the merchandise as me, because he kicks my bag aside with a scraping noise. He stomps in towards me and plants a hand on my shoulder. I can feel the tremble in his fingers as he tightens his grip, preparing himself to pull hard and swing me around to face him.
I face him and then some, swinging my elbow as I turn while stepping enough to the side to avoid wherever his gun had been pointing. A ranger I’d met out in Bangkok once told me to never lay hands on someone you may have to shoot. All it does is let them know exactly where to swing.
My elbow catches him in the nose a moment before my other fist follows suit. The strikes are sloppy, even by my standards, but he still staggers back and drops his gun. He stands there gawking at me for a full heartbeat or more, maybe surprised at a woman putting up this much fight, before he starts bending down to pick up his weapon. By then, I’m already diving for my bag of stolen guns on the floor and raise up my lighter with my free hand.
He says something else to me, but I don’t think I’d have cared, even if I’d understood. The only thing that I’m focused on now is the duffel bag in one hand and my lighter, held firm and ready, in the other.
I flick the lighter, birthing sparks, and drop again into flame, leaving no trace but smoke, and a bloody nosed guard in my wake.
CHAPTER TWO
As always, heat digs into my skin, but it ends when I land on top of a wide sand dune on the coast of the Philippines a half second later. Wisps of sulfurous smoke linger around me for a moment, but the breeze coming off the Visayan Sea is enough to carry it away. The lighter in my hand is warm to the touch and my duffel bag, loaded full, is tight in the other. The hard part’s done, so I place the lighter in a pocket large enough to be worthy of the name, and return the duffel bag strap to its place on my shoulder.
My phone comes out another pocket next. It’s an odd, bulky looking thing with the guts of an iPhone that I’d bought in a rough part of south-east London about two years prior. The Peckham dwelling hacker who built it for me said that it would hold up to anything short of NSA screening, assuming they didn’t look hard.
That’s vital in my business, even for people who can take shortcuts downstairs to move quickly like
me. I do a Google search, call a cab, and start walking towards the seaside road where the cab will pick me up in five minutes.
I’m a devil dog, a real one, not a U.S. Marine. Devil dogs like me make deals with unsavory creatures for the chance to gain unsavory power. For me, it was dropping - a way to take shortcuts through hell and land anywhere on earth that I want. For other people, other things like visions or uncanny skill with a blade. Most of us don’t live long after making their deals because they get overconfident and do stupid things. I’ve been at this for a few years, and intend to keep living, which means never, under any circumstances, making a drop right after I’d landed someplace nearby. Instead, I just wait for my taxi, instead of landing closer to my scheduled meet in the Philippines
My driver arrives late in a strange, boxy taxi that looks like a WWII era jeep made love to a corgi. He calls it a “jeepney” when I ask, and spends the following two minutes extolling the religious virtues of tipping. I ignore him long enough to check out the clock on my phone, and see that I’ve gotten the time zones mixed again. I’m not late to my meeting, but I’m behind my own schedule for getting an early lay of the land. I tell the driver that there’s one hundred, American, in it for him if he can get me to the meeting in less than ten minutes. He smiles at the challenge, slams the accelerator, and starts hauling ass. My next eight minutes, plus or minus thirty seconds, is spent clinging to a broken seat belt and regretting life choices.
With a minute thirty to spare, the driver squeals to a stop in front of a ritzy beachfront hotel. It’s the kind of place that charges almost too much and refuses to sell drinks with umbrellas in the glasses. I pay the driver and hop out of the jeep-corgi hybrid, taking in the sights while adjusting the duffel bag strap on my shoulder.
The Brimstone Series Page 2