Black Water

by S. D. Rudd

  Keith leaned even closer, steaming coffee mug dangerously close to spilling on his lap. “The devil you talkin’ bout aliens for? They don’t exist.”

  Ian gave him a hard glare. “Holding to it until you die,” he said in disbelief. “Interesting.” He picked up his cappuccino mug for the first time, not sure if he should trust it. So he didn’t. Instead he used it as a prop. “The people know you’re a pack of wild venomous liars, Mister Weapons Specialist; they know you event more stories per hour than a daytime soap scriptwriter can think of in one season. JFK. The true cause of Princess Di’s death. Who really killed Michael Jackson. Such intricate multifaceted deceptions devised by men with virtually limitless power and equally limitless wealth. You lie, Mister Solomon. Like Apollo thirteen. Don’t tell me you want us to believe they were anywhere but in Australia, don’t insult my intelligence, sir.”

  Keith’s voiced deepened when he leaned forward a smidgen more, elbows now resting on his knees, and said, “Let’s just talk about the weapons design.”

  It took everything to keep Ian from grinning. He’d gotten into Keith’s head and that’s all he wanted. “The weapon,” he said. “Of course.” He planted his mug atop a wooden coaster. “That would be the purpose of this visit, would it not?”

  Ian played with the lock combinations of his attaché case while he commentated. “You know, it’s a terrible thing when you can no longer trust anyone. You see on the news all the carjacking’s and muggings and it makes you wonder if life is really about relationship building or protecting yourself from such.”

  He glanced at his full cappuccino mug on purpose. “Don’t know when you’ll come across someone who has something against you. Might try to rob you; might try to effectively remove you away from existence. Either way you have Hell to pay for putting your trust in a bloodline.”

  “If you’re implying that your drink is fixed…”

  “I’m…not implying anything.” Ian glanced at Keith portraying a hint of satisfaction but only on purpose. “Just rediscovering the very nature of mankind.”

  The locks plopped open.

  “It’s man versus beast. Kill or be killed. And most of the time the beast is a man seeking to kill another man in hopes of gaining absolute power.”

  Ian pulled out his laptop and sat it on the cocktail table. Then he paused for effect and met Keith’s narrowed eyes. “The law of nature and the land. Survival. Isn’t that why we are here tonight, Mister Weapon’s Specialist? Or I do believe it’s for mere domination purposes.”

  “I’m not gonna sit here and listen to your bickering…”

  “Yet you are.” There was a long paused as both men stared each other down. “Do not fool yourself, Mister Weapon’s Specialist, your life is just a vapor as is mine and sooner or later you’re going to recognize that the President you serve has seen it that way since the very beginning of your mother’s conception.”

  A firestorm ripped across Keith’s countenance. “You ever talk about my mother again and I’ll see to it that each of your children receive a shipment of one of your body parts before Christmas morning.”

  Ian glared at him. Unmoved.

  “And stop calling me ‘Mister Weapon’s Specialist.’”

  “Let me tell you something, Keith, you couldn’t remove me if I gave you the order, supplied you the weapon and pulled the trigger for you.”

  Silence. Evidence that Keith Solomon knew his place yet his face was more vibrant than a lobster awaiting his trip to the boiling pot of death.

  “Now, can we get on with this? I haven’t used my hot tub in weeks and I really need the relaxation right about now.” When he heard no response. “Good,” he said, then he flipped open his laptop and turned it on. “Over my years of research,” he continued, as if nothing had happened, “I’ve noticed that weapons have more dominating effects when they are not recognized as weapons until it’s too late.

  “Think about 911. No one suspects that one of their own planes could be used against them in combat. Think about the Trojan Horse. Assumingly a gift, a peace offering, by an army who vastly outnumbered a small fortified nation by legions yet not being able to penetrate the walls for conquest. Or the Spartan battle formations and tactics. Who would have thought such few men could wipe out such an exponentially large portion of an incredible army without much effort or loss of human life.

  “But, let us conjecture a moment. What if the people knew that the planes could be used to take down buildings, or the horse was actually hollow and full the opposing army. What if they hadn’t seen the formations and tactics of the Spartans for the first time during battle? What if they had battled an army with that art of war before? The weapon is no longer super. It loses its power, its effectiveness and it doesn’t work against the enemy.

  “The point is, super weapons are effective only if the technology or the tactic is disruptive and unseen before, which would make the enemy have to learn the weapon while in the heat of panic. Then, panic overrides logic, the weapon never gets processed, and the enemy has no time to learn it before he is wiped out of existence.

  “And what if—just what if—the weapon was so powerful that you could wipe out entire armies in minutes and what if, even after seeing the weapon in operation, no one recognized the force eliminating entire colonies as a weapon at all? It was just a freak accident that happened outside of anyone’s control.” Ian leaned back in his chair and folded his hands, oozing with satisfaction. “You would have an effective super weapon.”

  The expression ok Keith’s face said it all. “And you’re telling me you have one of these,” Keith said, interest bubbling all over his hard chapped lips.

  A hesitation proceeded before Ian said, “I’m telling you we’ve been using this weapon for over twenty-one years now.”

  NINE

  THE WORLD AROUND her spun, like she had been struck on the side of the head with the butt of a semiautomatic rifle. As memory served her, she was. Twice. The first one was a warning to the shoulder; the second one was to the head and it put her out. This woozy feeling swirling inside her stomach told her she had better lay back down before she passed out…again.

  Only Monica Brookes couldn’t.

  Her hands were bound with ripped up bed sheets. Behind her back. Both legs secured with the same material, same color and same knot at the ankles, not cutting off circulation but coming close enough. And she must have been a little too careless with her words because another similar concoction wrapped through her mouth and behind her head, her shoulder length hair squeezing out the knot in a mangled web. It took an exhaustive effort for her to get back into an upright position. Once she was there, her shoulder and temple just throbbed.

  She was not laying back down. Not for a while.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dawn of new lights she made out a massive facility, well lit. And voices. Conversing. It didn’t take long for her to realize where she was. She was in a warehouse. Worst of all she knew why.

  With her back against a concrete wall, her arms behind her back, her legs arched in front and her feet planted together, she saw the man who had done the kidnapping talking with two of his associates.

  And she loathed him.

  Sylvain Ambrose.

  One other man approached Sylvain in military attire from pants to boots, black, and a t-shirt that was a little too tight for his muscled frame, also in black. Mathias Nichols, the hit man that took his job a little too seriously. She remembered him narrating to himself as he shot at targets the other day. Impressed with himself, quietly singing praises to himself. How sickening.

  When Sylvain noticed him, he turned and took Mathias’ hand, expressionless.

  “You’ve got the documents?” she heard him say.

  “You really have to ask?”

  “Just don’t tell me you’ve found a pack of wild dogs on the way home and there will be no conflict.”

  She noticed Mathias’ hesitation. If she didn’t know better she’d suspected Mathias o
f loathing Sylvain as much as she did. That might be to her only advantage, she thought. “You know me better than that.”

  “And the little girl?”

  Monica noticed an insipid smile reaching across his face. Her back stiffened in shock. What little girl?

  “Quietly I hope.”

  “The dog is strung up alongside her.”

  Sylvain’s eyes narrowed. “Strung up? How many rounds?”

  “Three.”

  Now Sylvain fell silent.

  “Two in the chest; one in the head. Standard killing technique.”

  “And the hanging?”

  “I felt creative today.”

  “When you want to be creative look into a mirror, paint a portrait and try to make it better than the original. But the contract called for one silenced round into the head of each member of that household, not three, not killing the family Chihuahua, and certainly not hanging the victims after they’ve been slaughtered!”

  He swore. Monica feared a gunfight at any moment. She pulled her body together and slid into a corner, as if that would ensure her safety.

  “You’ve left too much evidence!” Sylvain screamed. “Every bullet fired, every sadistic act performed, changes how law enforcement investigates the crime, do you understand that? Everything! We don’t need any unnecessary attention at this stage in the process.”

  Mathias gritted his teeth but kept an even tone. “My work is not sloppy.” She sensed a hint of controlled anger in his tone. “I do what I need to do to complete my job. That’s all. It’s none of your business how I should have performed the job, only that it’s done.”

  At first it looked like Sylvain was going to slug him. But he didn’t. In fact, his voiced leveled as if nothing had happened. “What about the safe?”

  “Gone.”

  “What do you mean—”

  “Gone!” Monica saw the two men behind Sylvain exchange looks. Their fearless leader must not have been used to such insubordination. Mathias pulled out another document and handed it to Sylvain, who just looked at it. “But this might serve you better anyway.”

  Monica watched Sylvain hurry through the unfolding and read through the first few lines. “This is remarkable,” he said. “Remarkable indeed.”

  “Oh, indeed it is. You see, this document gives us the exact location of the device. All you need to do now is locate the safe, retrieve the activation code, and you’re ready to rock n’ roll.”

  Sylvain was still studying the document with very interested eyes when he asked, “and how do you suppose we find the safe, Mister Nichols? This bit of information is of no significance without the code.”

  “I thought you were the king of calculations.”

  An awkward silence lingered. But only briefly. Monica assumed that Mathias was letting the subtle shadow punch mess with Sylvain’s mind a little.

  Then Mathias said, “You break into the facility, silence any squealers, put the head squealer in a death lock and make him give you the location of the safe.” Mathias paused. “Simple mathematics,” he said with a scornful grin.

  Monica noticed Sylvain’s glance at Mathias but seemed to ignore the banter. At least for the moment. Monica could tell that Ambrose was both irritated and enlightened by what he heard if it were possible. “You would rob a god if you could.”

  “Samuel,” Mathias said. “He gave it to his wife. But he didn’t think I’d find it.”

  “You didn’t…”

  Mathias alligator smiled.

  “You have less heart than I have imagined,” Sylvain said but she sensed his pleasure with the report.

  Alligator smile wearing thin, “you wouldn’t have called me if I had one.” Mathias spat to the side without moving his head or retracting his glare. She noticed a slight narrowing of Sylvain’s eyes. Silence engulfed the massive open space again before, “Well done, then,” came from Ambrose’s hardened lips.

  Mathias held his glare while Sylvain snapped his fingers and one of the two men standing behind him handed Mathias a sealed envelope.

  “Here is the second half of your payment.” He snapped again. “And the deposit for another.”

  The look on Mathias’ face said it all. He did not expect that. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Your cerebral is quite impressive for a conceited barbarian. And your plan comes across as remarkable, for some anomalous reason, yet it requires a special kind of weapon to infiltrate that facility and perform the desired tasks.”

  Monica felt the tension in the air. She searched the warehouse for possible escape paths. But then again, how would she make it past the guards? That is if she manages to untie these knots. Frustrated, she just sat back and watched a disgruntled Mathias doing his best not to explode. Surely, that would spell his death. Although she was certain that Mathias could take him, she doubted he had the support that Sylvain arrogantly sat on. At any rate, Mathias was not speaking. He was not moving.

  He was not happy with this plan.

  “Is something the mater, Mister Nichols?”

  “I’m going to Tahiti.”

  “An exotic place that will always be there.” He looked Mathias square in the eye. “But I will grant you your vacation as long as you give me a suitable replacement.”

  A long silence. It appeared to Monica that, although Mathias was a dangerous man, he knew better than to buck with a pit bull. “What is the assignment?”

  Sylvain glanced over at Monica and lightning struck her lithe frame. “See that gorgeous woman over there?”

  Mathias glared at her, not speaking, not moving. Eerie.

  “She has a friend.”

  “Lovers?”

  “Not that I like how your mind thinks, but why is that relevant?”

  He trained a piercing stare on her. “It would make killing him more fun.”

  Sylvain paused in disapproval. “I need you to locate him.”

  “Kindergarten stuff.”

  “But I want him located, not eliminated.”

  Mathias shot Sylvain a hard face. “I don’t do missing person’s reports.”

  Sylvain held up two hands. “Not yet.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Locate him. Lure him. Follow him. I need him to find me without appearing as if he was led to me, you understand that?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Once he finds me and after he delivers what I need, you can then become as creative as you want to be.”

  “I like this plan.”

  “I knew you would. Duran,” he said and the man called Duran put the second envelope in Mathias’ hand.

  Mathias ripped it open and fanned through a thick stack of dollar bills. His body stiffened and queried Sylvain for answers with his eyes. “A hundred large?”

  “This is not half, this is a tithe.”

  Even Monica was in shock behind that figure.

  “So you’re telling me this assignment is gonna take some time.”

  “Put your travel plans on hold for a while, this might very well be your retiring hit.”

  “What did this guy do?”

  Monica noticed the hesitation. Then Sylvain said it. “It’s not what this guy did, it’s who he is and who he is none of your concern. Just complete the mission.”

  It looked like Mathias struggled with that last undercut. But he said nothing and did nothing except carve a grimace into his face severe enough to peel the flesh off Sylvain’s bones. Instead of a rebuttal, he said, “Give me another fifty that doesn’t effect my overall percentage and two uninterrupted days to put something together.”

  “For?”

  “Adequate personnel. This job you send me on is more dangerous than the Brazil campaign.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve seen that look in men like you only a handful of times,” Mathias said. “Whoever this man is…he is the only man that will ever be afraid of.”

  It looked to Monica as if Sylvain was trying to make his mind to
rebut the statement or acknowledge its correctness. Instead she watched Sylvain nod in approval. “Done.”

  “Gimme three days after the grace period. I’ll have him.”

  “I know,” Sylvain said and then thrust his hand forward.

  Mathias clenched it, turned and marched out.

  Monica cried to herself.

  Alan! Oh, Alan…don’t come for me.

  TEN

  HE STRUGGLED TO activate his thermal heat sensor with every defiant will in his body. If he could access it Alan could see everyone who occupied this house. Everything. Even the creature that lurched about these old walls. His heat sensor detected anything with a temperature greater than eighty degrees and could sense animate objects through any obstruction.

  In the open his vision was virtually unlimited. Once objects were in the way, he could only see through them up to seventy-six feet. He closed his eyes again and focused. Nothing. The monstrous snort sounded like it was down the hall now. And it broke his concentration. His heart banged against his chest, his throat dried out and the feeling left his body for a moment.

  Alan’s eyes flew open. Shifting. Searching.

  Nothing.

  Clacking against the wood floor! Creaking. Stopping. Then another clacking, another creaking, and another stop. It was coming towards him and it was close. How did it move so fast, he thought.

  No time for that now. He disconnected himself from reality, from the situation, closed his eyes and focused. Harder. It took three seconds for him to forget where he was and what danger he faced. His mind just focused on that imaginary ball in the back of his head. Then something happened. Warmth. He felt a surge of warmth in his head. Suddenly, something tingled around that imaginary ball and his eyes sprung to life.

  Everything he saw now was in shades of brown. Everything. Except for a four legged outline, colored with various shades of orange and red. It all happened in a flash. Then it went back to night vision, all white. That was all he was going to get until the auto repair sequence was complete. But what Alan saw stopped his heart. That was the “it” Camille was talking about; that was the “it” that might kill him if he ever tried to escape.