by Wesley Cross
“I like being driven once in a while. More time to think. Now, tell me about our progress.”
“Stage One is almost complete,” said the Senator, relaxing in his seat. “We replaced the key players already. We should be able to move to Stage Two not later than mid-March.”
“That’s too slow; we should have been in Stage Two already.”
“You worry too much, Alex. I’ve got everything—”
“I pay too fucking much, so don’t tell me not to worry. If you can’t get it done, I’ll get somebody else who can. You’re not irreplaceable, you know that, right?”
“I do know that,” said Senator fixing his eyes on Engel. “No one is irreplaceable.”
The two men stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally, Senator threw his hands into the air.
“Let’s not fight, Alex,” he said in conciliatory tone. “We’ve got way too much at stake to get into squabbles.
“Then fucking fix it,” said Engel, picking up his paper and turning away from the Senator. “We’re starting Stage Three by the end of March, and if you want it as much as you say you do, you’ll make it happen.”
Senator stared at Alexander for a few seconds, then climbed out of the limo.
“I’ll get it done, Alex,” he said before closing the door. “Just make sure you hold up your part of the bargain.”
Engel gave him a curt nod without looking up, and after the door closed knocked on the divider separating him from the driver. The car smoothly pulled out. They drove through a deceptively small gate onto Further Lane, a narrow two-way street in East Hampton running through one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.
Alex touched a biometric sensor on the communication console and waited a few seconds until a green light came on, signaling that the device was ready to establish a secure link. He then punched in a twelve digit code.
“Please state your name and your designation,” said a young female voice with a British accent.
“You know who I am,” he snapped at the device.
“I’m sorry, sir, please state your name and your designation” the voice said again, not fazed by his little outburst.
“Alexander Engel, Alpha Two,” he said impatiently.
“Thank you, sir. What is your destination number?”
“Alpha One.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The line went quiet for a few seconds, then there was a distinct click, then it went quiet again. Alexander waited a few moments, but no one was talking.
“Hello?” he said.
“I’m here, Alex,” said a genderless computerized voice, its identity protected by the scrambler.
“I’m concerned about some of the Betas. Beta Four in particular.”
He paused, waiting for some sort of reaction from the listener, but none came.
“I think we might be moving too slowly. The longer we wait, the greater the risk of getting exposed.”
He paused again, unnerved and irritated by the lack of any response.
“Hello?”
“I’m still here,” the voice said again, “but all you’ve done so far is express some concern. I’m not sure what do you expect me to say.”
“I think it might have been a mistake to put Betas forward. Pulling the strings from the shadows is ineffective.”
“That may be so, but this arrangement wasn’t created to make things efficient; it was created to protect us. Betas come and go, and if the plan fails, we can assemble a new team. We will be successful eventually.”
Alexander stayed quiet for some time, mulling things over.
“One more thing,” he said, tapping his finger on the communication device. “I need to know who I’m talking to. I’ve had enough of these games when we have so much at stake; I need to know who my partners are.”
“That’s not possible, Alex, and you know why.”
“Bullshit.” His fist slammed into the soft leather of the seat. “You know my name, and you know other players, too. I need to know yours.”
“There might come a time when you’ll need to know my name,” said the voice. “Until then you can refer to me as Alpha One.”
There was a click on the line and the green light on the communicator went out. Engel stared at it for a few seconds, then looked out the window.
We’ll see about that, he said to himself, we’ll see about that.
• • •
The trailer was cold, and the flickering light from the bare light bulb by the door was throwing long dancing shadows onto dirty walls. Mike Connelly opened his eyes and looked around trying to understand where he was. Slowly it came back to him.
“Kowalsky?” he called out. It came out hoarsely and barely audible. He waited a few seconds, but there was no response. He cleared his throat and tried again, this time a little louder.
“Kowalsky? Chuck?”
The room remained quiet. Mike tried to access his body’s response. He was wounded few times in his career, but nothing even came close to this. The cop fixed his bandages, and his broken arm was now splinted and secured in an improvised sling, but he was stiff as a stick and in a lot of pain. The long-term prognosis was still unknown, but one thing was clear; he wasn’t going anywhere for a few days at least. He had some food and the little trailer was connected to the water line and the sewer, but he still needed help.
Mike tensed for a second when he heard somebody’s footsteps outside, but they were heavy and easily recognizable.
Kowalsky entered the trailer, closed the door, and put two plastic bags onto the floor. He studied Mike’s face for a few seconds.
“You look like shit.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“I did see the other guys.” Chuck took off his coat, picked up the bags from the floor, and put them on a small dirty table. “Brought you some food and antibiotics. The meds are past expiration date, but they should be good. Oh, and I took away your gun.”
“That’s not cool to take other people’s stuff.” Mike watched the cop go about unpacking the bags and sorting out bottles of medicine.
“You’ll have to get over it,” said Chuck, “and you’ll have to tell me a compelling story to convince me not to lock you up for the rest of your life.”
“You should have arrested me the moment you came here,” said Mike, “but you didn’t. Does it have something to do with the fact that you’re suspended from active duty?”
“How do you—”
“Well,” Mike interrupted him, “even if I didn’t know for sure that monster Chiappa Rhino you were waving around was hardly a standard police issue.”
He paused, quickly exhausted by the conversation.
“I brought you here because the thread that I’d been following has led me to something that I don’t think I can handle by myself. Especially…” He pointed with his chin to the pile of discarded bandages at his feet. “In this pitiful state. I needed a resourceful outsider like yourself.”
“I’m listening.”
“Oh no.” Mike produced a tiresome smile. “Before I tell you anything at all, I’ll eat whatever fast food garbage you’ve got over there, have you give me few shots of antibiotics, and pour me a glass from a bottle that’s sitting behind that dishwasher liquid. It’s a half decent single malt, so feel free to pour one for yourself, too.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” said Chuck pulling the bottle out and pouring two generous portions. “These antibiotics are just pills, not shots. You watch too many medical soaps.”
Mike took one glass and watched Chuck down his scotch in one long gulp.
“I think we’ll get along just fine, you and I.”
CHAPTER 19
“Jason? C’mon, buddy.” Max rushed to his friend and knelt beside him. He leaned in, putting his head to Jason’s chest to see if there was any heartbeat, and immediately pulled back, overwhelmed by the stench of alcohol and vomit.
He shook his friend’s shoulder, trying to wake him.
“Err,” said Jason. He opened one eye that wasn’t completely swollen. The bloodshot orb tried to focus on Max for a few seconds, but then gave up and the heavy lid came down again.
“What the hell happened to you, man? Jason?”
“Maaaax.” Jason opened his eye again and this time looked at Max, a drunken smile briefly flickering on his bruised lips, but it disappeared almost immediately as a deep frown creased his distorted features.
“She must be cold,” he whispered, “sooooo cold.”
“Who’s cold?”
“Very cold,” he repeated and fell asleep again.
Max looked at him for a minute considering his options. Finally, he grabbed Jason under his arms and dragged him into the master bathroom.
He leaned him against the wall and turned on the warm shower. After a few seconds Jason woke up with a start and promptly retched onto the floor.
“Crap,” he mumbled, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand and grimacing in pain.
“What happened to you, man? I’ve never seen you in such state.”
Jason sat on the floor for some time, warm water running down his face.
“Dude?”
“I got jumped,” said Jason hoarsely. “Just some kids.”
“Aha,” said Max. “Did they dunk you into scotch before or after that?”
“Nah.” Jason managed a smile. “I did all the dunking on my own.”
“Alright, I’ll leave you here then. There’s a mess in the kitchen that needs to be cleaned up.”
When Jason got out of the shower, wearing one of Max’s robes, the kitchen didn’t look like a crime scene anymore, and there was a white china cup of steaming chamomile tea on the counter.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said sheepishly, taking one of the tall stools and the cup of tea with both hands.
“Yeah.” Max poured himself a cup of tea as well and sat on the other side of the counter.
“Listen, I’m working on a plan. I think it can work, but it’s dangerous, and I would need that big head of yours working at full capacity.”
“Sorry,” said Jason again.
“You apologized already. When I found you here, you said something weird. You said she was cold. Who’s cold?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You said it twice.”
Jason shrugged and sipped the tea.
“Must’ve been scotch talking. I don’t ever remember saying that.”
He took another sip of tea and got up.
“I really want to hear that dangerous plan of yours, but I’m not sure I’m up to it just this second. I think I’d like to take a nap if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” Max got up as well. “Take a nap and we’ll talk when you wake up.”
After Jason left for his bedroom, Max retreated to his office. There was much work to do. First he uploaded the pictures he took of Blackwater employee badges into a photo editing program. A few of them were taken at good angles, and he was able to quickly create a composite, then he scaled his own photograph to match the space on the ID and superimposed it on top of the company’s badge. Each photograph was also stamped, the blue ink of it covering the badge and part of it covering the corner of the employee’s picture. Max first used the smart color selection tool to select the distinct color of the stamp and copied it onto a different layer, then mirrored it to create a complete stamp.
It wasn’t an exact replica and wouldn’t pass a close scrutiny, but Max was confident that a quick glance of the security guard wouldn’t be able to see the little imperfections.
He leaned back in his chair studying the final result for a few seconds. That should do the trick, he thought. At least the first half of the trick.
• • •
When Johnny parked at the end of the block of a quiet tree-lined street, the sun already sunk below the horizon, and darkness was quickly taking hold of the city. He checked the address again and looked at the clean limestone building across the street with a single bright spotlight above the porch. Johnny took out a machete from under the seat and tucked it under his arm. He opened the door, got out of the car, and taking a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, crossed the street.
As he climbed the stairs he grabbed the machete by the blade and leaped into the air, smashing the spotlight with a handle. It broke with a soft crunch, plunging the porch and the front yard of the house into darkness, and Johnny froze for a few seconds, listening for any signs of alarm, ready to flee. Nothing happened.
He moved again and, hiding the blade behind his back, rang the doorbell. For a few seconds it was quiet, but then Johnny heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened enough to reveal a short chubby man in his forties dressed in long flannel shirt and sweatpants. His gray eyes scanned Johnny suspiciously from behind the brass chain.
“May I help you?”
“Good evening.” Johnny smiled his most disarming smile and flashed a fake police badge on his belt. “We’ve received some complaints about kids breaking windows in the neighborhood. Did you see anything by any chance?”
“I don’t think so.” The man looked at Johnny, then looked up, frowning as he realized that the spotlight was broken. “I think my light is broken. Give me a second to grab something warm and I’ll come out.”
Johnny watched the man’s face as he tried to close the door. He kept his features calm, but his eyes registered panic, and Johnny knew that his bluff was called. He grabbed the banister and pulled back, then with all his weight slammed into the door.
The chain snapped and the door slammed into Steve’s shoulder, sending him tumbling back into a small kitchen. Johnny went in and carefully closed the door behind him.
“Steven Poznyak, I presume?” he asked, watching the man crawling from under an overturned table and taking the machete out.
“Help!” the man screeched trying to get up. “Help!”
“Get up and shut up, or else I’ll carve you up before anyone shows up here to help you,” said Johnny, pointing at the man with the tip of his machete.
The man stopped screaming and just stared at Johnny, no longer trying to get up.
“I said get up,” said Johnny calmly.
The man obeyed and slowly got up, holding onto his left side.
“Anybody else in the house?” asked Johnny.
“No.” The man was clearly scared, but kept himself under control. “What do you want? I have some money in the safe and a pair of expensive watches.”
“I don’t care about the money, Steve,” said Johnny. “I just want to talk. Come here.”
“Then talk.” The man moved back, trying to position some chairs between himself and Johnny.
Johnny charged. The man tried to swing a chair at him, but Johnny easily swatted it aside with the handle of his machete and kicked the man in the gut. Steve doubled over and fell onto the floor, raising his hands to try to protect himself from more kicks.
“Why do you always make this difficult?” said Johnny. Stepping over Steve he brought the blade to the man’s throat. Steve stopped struggling.
“That’s better,” said Johnny grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt and dragging him to the bedroom while keeping the blade pressing on Steve’s neck.
In the bedroom he forced Poznyak, who was pale with fear, onto his small twin bed and after a quick struggle tied his hands and feet to the bed’s posts in a spread-eagle position.
Steve tried to scream again but Johnny silenced him with few brutal punches to the face, then stuffed Steve’s mouth with a pair of socks that he found near the bed.
“Alright,” he said, looking down on the squirming-in-terror man. “Like I said, I just want to talk. Nod if you understand.”
Steve feverishly nodded. He tried to say something but the muffled sounds were impossible to comprehend.
“So.” Johnny sat at the edge of the bed. “What I came here to tell you is
that you’re not taking your job seriously.”
He watched in amusement as bewilderment mixed with fear on Steve’s face.
“You’re doing important work, Steve,” he said, “and you can’t just get up and try to work for another company just because they offer you more money. You are…” He paused, snapping his fingers and looking around as if searching for the right word. “An integral part of the process. You understand?”
Steve nodded again, large drops of sweat running down his forehead.
“See? That was easy,” said Johnny, getting up. “I told you what I came here to tell you, and you listened. I know you’ll do the right thing and stay where you’re at. There was no need for all this.” He waved his hand at Steve.
“We’re good, right?”
Steve nodded again.
“Okay then.” Johnny turned away to leave. “I should be on my way then.”
He walked a few steps and heard few muffled cries from the bed.
“Ah.” He turned around. “Silly me. Of course you can’t get up by yourself.”
He came back to the bed, looking down at the man.
“On the other hand, if I just left you here, I couldn’t be completely sure you got the message.” Johnny unsheathed the machete again. Steve started to scream.
Johnny quickly cut off Steve’s clothes and pulled the pieces off him. He then brought the blade to Steve’s throat again. The man froze, a sheer terror in his eyes.
Johnny moved the blade slowly, scratching the skin on the man’s chest going down to his stomach. Steve was now furiously pleading something through his stuffed mouth. Johnny moved the blade lower until it rested on top of Steve’s crotch. Steve froze, tears running down his cheeks.
“If I have to come back here again, I’ll cut it off,” said Johnny, “so please don’t go on interviews again.”
He lifted the machete and, ignoring Steve’s half-crazed cries, swung it at the bedpost, cutting the rope around Steve’s right hand.
“You’re a lucky man,” said Johnny and put his machete back into the sheath. He patted Steve on a cheek and left.