Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  I watched her lips close around her first bite. Her eyelids dropped, she inhaled, and her face froze mid-chew.

  Why do I love to cook? That perfect moment when you know the meal won her over.

  Bianca Dominguez was mine. I could see her in a bridal gown, flowing up the aisle to me. The deal would be sealed in a few moments, when I brought out the lobster tacos. I’d spent all afternoon mincing fresh lobster with parsley, tarragon, chervil, and hand-picked black peppercorns which I then stuffed into the most delicate handmade taco shells. She would experience multiple culinary orgasms.

  “Mmm.” She finished her bite. “But, still, we need to discuss—”

  Mercury said, Are your ears are open, dude? Do you hear what’s going down at the back of your crib?

  Through battle after battle, Mercury had warned me about my future. He told me who was coming for me and where to aim, even in the dark. He told me when I could rest my war-torn soul. He made my ammo last longer than everyone else’s. He guided me along the paths where others fell to their deaths. He calmed me when the absurdity of war and the certainty of death closed in around me and shut out the light of day. He saved my life, time after time.

  But I never pictured him naked—or black.

  Not that I had anything against black gods, they just didn’t dominate my religious experience.

  Huh. I guess that says something.

  Mercury said, Are you listening to me?

  I said, Could you put some clothes on?

  Mercury flapped his fig leaf in my face. What’s the matter, homeboy? Feelin’ some homo-tingles? Can’t think about Bianca when you have a god to worship?

  I said, Knock it off.

  Mercury said, Oh, don’t worry, homophobe. I’m not Greek. Bacchus is always surprised by whom he finds in his bed, but the rest of us are pretty sure about our sexuality.

  I said, I do not want to hear about your sex life. What did you say about something going down out back?

  A strange scratching sound came from the back bedroom. It sounded like glass cracking.

  My puppy Anoshni barked up a storm. I tossed him a treat and hushed him.

  “Jacob?” Bianca snapped her fingers. “Did you hear me?”

  “Sorry, I thought I heard something in the other room.” I pushed back from the table and rose.

  “But you get that, right?” she asked.

  It was the quiver in her voice that stopped me in my tracks.

  I dropped my napkin on the table and cocked my ear to the back room. “Sure. Um. Get what?”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that. You’re cool with it, then? We’re good? No hard feelings?”

  I looked down at her. “No hard feelings … what?”

  “Jesus, did you hear anything I said at all?”

  My mind raced through the possible directions the conversation might have gone while I dealt with my derelict god and his disturbing sense of humor. “You don’t want anyone at work to know we’re dating. I’m cool with that.”

  “Sit down and look at me.”

  Torn between investigating the noise and my future bride, I retook my seat. She reached her hands across the table. I took them in mine. I looked into her eyes. She was beyond gorgeous. She was the one. I’d never been so sure of anything before in my life.

  “We had sex once, but that doesn’t mean…” She stopped talking.

  So that’s where this was going. “No problem, I understand. You want to take it slow—”

  She pulled her hands away and threw her napkin on the table. “Damn it, Jacob. What part of lesbian don’t you understand?”

  Another noise came from the back room. I glanced at the hallway where Mercury stood in a short, white toga with only one shoulder exposed. Male strippers would blush. It was a modest improvement to be sure, but I appreciated the gesture anyway. He shrugged.

  Bianca’s words pulled my attention back to her. “Lesbian? No way! We had sex.”

  Suddenly, serving lobster tacos seemed like a bad joke.

  “Yeah,” she said, “that was wrong of me. I’m not proud of that.”

  “But. You had a great time—I thought. Oh no. Did you fake it? That’s so wrong.”

  She blushed. “The only thing I faked was the intensity. You were OK as long as I thought about someone else. But you heard me, you know why I did it. Do you forgive me?”

  Mercury laughed like a maniac. Well, lover boy? Did you hear? I don’t think you did.

  I said, Help me out here. What did she say?

  Mercury said, She only slept with you to get to Pia Sabel. She thought all female athletes were gay. Her plan almost worked except for that one little problem—Pia isn’t gay. And now that Bianca’s working for Sabel Security, she doesn’t want her new boss to get creeped out. She wants you to be her beard. And that means the “Stearne-Dominguez” wedding just went out the window—unless she marries your sister.

  Mercury howled.

  My heart broke in half and fell over. I was crushed and speechless. She used me. Despicable.

  I have never used someone in that way.

  Probably.

  The distinct sound of breaking wood came from the back room.

  I bolted down the hall and threw open the door to my home office. I flipped on the lights. One drawer in my wall-sized gun cabinet stood open, the lock pried out with a crowbar. My rare 1972 Walther PP Ultra was missing along with a magazine and a box of the equally rare 9x18mm Ultra bullets. A framed set of replica guns was missing from the wall as well.

  Anoshni followed me in and started barking. I leaned down and scratched his ear. He cocked his head and watched me.

  An icy breeze came from the window. The glass was missing.

  Mercury said, Get out front, you’ve got company coming in.

  I said, Who took my Walther?

  Mercury said, Get out front, something important is going down.

  I pushed past Bianca and ran down the hallway.

  A car’s headlights swung into my driveway. The engine cut off. The car door opened at the same time I opened my front door.

  BANG.

  A silhouette near the driver’s door grabbed his chest and dropped to his knees.

  The distinct pop of a Walther PP Ultra reverberated in my tight Maryland suburb. I dropped to the ground and rolled behind an elm tree, reaching for a weapon I’d left inside.

  Behind me, Bianca switched off the lights and took cover in my living room. She peered around the jamb with my puppy under her arm, breathing hard.

  “Where is he?” she asked, referring to the shooter.

  “Left, in the street, I think,” I whisper-shouted. “Grab my pistol on the kitchen counter.”

  She scrambled around inside the house, came back, and whistled. I crouch-ran to the front door, grabbed it from her, and pointed it in every direction. I found nothing. I stepped closer to the street, aiming at anything that moved.

  Nothing moved.

  Bianca called 9-1-1.

  Mercury said, Now’s the time for gallantry, bro. Step out there and see if he takes a shot at you.

  Even though it was a dangerous and stupid idea, I stepped into the street, tracking down the narrow, tree lined lane. My heart beat zoomed up to top speed, filled with adrenaline and ready for battle like a race car on nitro. A shadow flickered between trees, eight houses down, running away. Beyond my field of vision, a car door slammed, an engine started up, headlights snapped on aiming away from me. The killer pulled out and drove away.

  I stuck my weapon in my belt and ran up my driveway.

  A body lay crumpled against the front tire of a new Audi, breathing in wet, ragged gasps.

  Kneeling in front of him, I grabbed his wrist and felt a weak pulse. I knocked his porkpie hat off and felt his clammy forehead. His life spilled out of a two-inch chest wound and flowed down his top coat. He had ten minutes to live, tops. “Hey, buddy, you’re going to be OK. Hang in there, ambulance is on the way.”

  Bianca slid to h
er knees next to me. “Who is he?”

  “No idea.” I whipped off my shirt and held it to his chest. The winter air stung my skin and sleet strafed my back.

  Anoshni crept up and sniffed at the blood. I stared him down. “Don’t you dare.”

  The pup gave me an innocent head-tilt.

  The dying man grabbed my neck and tugged me in close. “Jacob?”

  “Save your strength, pal. We’re going to get you to the hospital.”

  “Remember me? David Gottleib, 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines, the 3/2, Glory Platoon.” He coughed up a chunk of blood and spat it. “Nasiriyah. You saved us.”

  “Sorry, friend, you’ve confused me with someone else. I was a Ranger, not a Marine.”

  He fumbled for something in his pocket. Under the heavy coat, he wore an expensive suit with a starched shirt and sleek tie. After a few seconds, he pulled out a bloody .50 BMG cartridge, a bullet from an M2 machine gun, and pushed it in my face.

  “You gave us these.” He gasped. “To remember you.”

  Something rang familiar about handing out bullets. The Battle of Nasiriyah was a hazy memory over a decade old and shrouded in fear and confusion. But the bullet dragged fragments out of my past into the present. I was nineteen and fresh out of Ranger School. I’d been awake for three days and lived through four nasty firefights. My Humvee took an RPG that killed my sergeant. Dazed, I ran through narrow lanes trying to find a friendly face who could point me back to my company.

  Instead I ran into a squad of Saddam’s Republican Guard on a cigarette break. They were as shocked as I. We stared at each other, eight of them and one of me, for an eternity lasting two whole seconds. Before they could level a rifle, I took off through alleys and backyards faster than I’d ever run before. I stumbled into a Marine platoon. I thought I was saved—but they had it worse, pinned down on all sides and taking casualties.

  “I modified it for you,” Gottleib said and pushed the bloody bullet against my cheek. He coughed with less strength. Bloody bubbles formed on his lips.

  “Take it. Keep it.” He tried to breathe but couldn’t get much air. “Important.”

  I knew what the bloody bubbles meant: his lungs were filling with blood. Internal bleeding or a collapsed lung or something else beyond my limited medical knowledge. I revised my estimate of Mr. Gottleib’s lifespan to a few seconds.

  “You saved the Glory Platoon. Now you have to save…” His eyes opened wide, he gripped my shoulder.

  His first death throe.

  I’d seen too many of those.

  “Just relax, they’ll be here any minute.”

  “No. Listen.” He wheezed more blood, breathing shallow and short. “You have to stop them. Save the country. You…”

  He spasmed again, the pain wracking his body like an electric shock. His fingers dug into my shoulder, then relaxed.

  David Gottleib slumped and exhaled his last.

  CHAPTER 3

  As Gottleib died at Jacob’s house, Pia Sabel stood in the homeless shelter’s unpainted supply room, her forearms extended level in front of her, while the supply lady stood on her tiptoes to add a third stack of bedding. The shorter woman couldn’t reach.

  Pia bent her knees, glad she’d worn her yoga pants, and lowered herself six inches. She smiled over the stack. The woman smiled back and placed the extra sheets on top.

  Fully loaded, Pia locked the bedding under her chin and made her way down the hall to the second door on the right.

  As drab as the place was, it felt more like home than the palace her father built. This was a place where families rekindled hope after crashing to the economic sea floor. In a tangential way, Pia knew the feeling.

  For twenty years, soccer had kept her on top of the world. Cheering fans wore her jersey and begged for selfies and sent adoring tweets. Coaches counted on her to do the impossible when everything else failed. And she did the impossible. She volleyed goals, sent assists, stole passes. It was a high unlike any other. A world where she instinctively understood the physics and knew where each split-second decision would lead. Keeping focused on the game left no time to remember her parents’ murders or the man she killed. Leaving all the focused training and game time left her feeling as if she had crashed to the sea floor.

  She didn’t feel homeless or sad. She felt lost.

  All she wanted in life was what she felt at the shelter. Hope.

  Halfway between rooms five and six, she opened the closet where the setup crew left the mattresses. Back in Room 2, she laid a mattress on the frame and snapped a sheet over it. After tucking it in, she added the top, and the blanket. She stood up, pulled out her scrunchie, shook her dirty-blonde mane, tossed her head down and back and slipped the scrunchie back in tight.

  Pia repeated her bed-making routine and was bringing in the third mattress when Jonelle Jackson, president of Sabel Security, known to employees as “the Major”, entered. Agent Marty limped a step behind her, leaning on his cane.

  Agent Carlos Valdez, the new guy, stayed by the door, the snake tattoo on his neck twisting as he glanced around the room. Short and thick, like a welterweight boxer, he took in the water-stained ceiling tiles and the peeling wallpaper and the pine floor that had long since lost its varnish. He backed against the wall and stood at a close approximation to attention that someone who had never served in the military might think was about right.

  The Major and Marty gave him a brief, disdainful glance.

  “I’m sorry for dragging you to this part of town so late at night,” Pia said, “but I wanted to settle this right away.”

  She laid out the bottom sheet and tucked it in.

  “We’ve already deployed our people,” the Major said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to cancel the Omani deal. It was detailed and well-planned. We need to discuss the payment.”

  The Major turned to Marty, who shrugged.

  “They’ve already paid us in full,” Marty said. “Including the contingencies.”

  Pia flapped out the last top sheet and settled it. She tucked it in and smoothed it out. Then shook out the blanket. “Tell me about the contingencies.”

  Marty took a breath before explaining the complex contract for oilfield security services. “The new oilfield is close to Yemen and they are concerned the civil war might spill across the border. They proposed a contingency plan for extracting our people should anything get out of control.”

  “The Sultan of Oman is in ill health and has not named a viable successor.” Pia tugged a corner of the blanket to smooth a wrinkle. “Prince Taimur, who awarded us the contract, is seventh in line for succession.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re putting eight hundred American veterans on his southern border.” Pia checked her work. “He insisted on veterans who’ve seen action.”

  “He didn’t want mall cops and was willing to pay extra.”

  “Does the contract allow him to call our people to the capitol?” Pia fluffed a pillow at the head of a bed.

  “Only for their own safety,” Marty said. “It’s part of the emergency extraction plan.”

  “Who decides when their safety is in jeopardy?”

  “The prince. He has the intelligence reports for the border area.”

  “In a worst-case scenario, could our people fight their way out of Oman?” Pia asked.

  “No question.”

  “Under the terms of the contract,” Pia asked, “could Prince Taimur call our people to the capitol—for their ‘safety’—and put them in the situation where they had to fight their way out? And could that fight cause them to wipe out specific elements of the Omani Army loyal to someone other than Prince Taimur?”

  “You mean drag us into a civil war?” Marty asked. “He’s not that kind of man.”

  “Have you studied the history of monarchies in transition, Marty?”

  “Maybe three hundred years ago brothers killed each other for the throne.”

  “Sultan Qaboos came to p
ower by overthrowing his father.” Pia paused. “Could eight hundred heavily armed, well-trained American veterans tip the balance of power in a small country today?”

  The Major watched Marty flounder for a second, then said, “I will personally monitor the situation to ensure nothing like that happens. I will arrange ships to extract our people before it comes to that.”

  Pia turned from her bed making duties to face her employees. “Oman overpaid by $20 million dollars. Why?”

  “The money came from their representatives,” the Major said. “The lobbying firm of Duncan, Hyde and Koven, DHK. We think there was a miscommunication. We inquired about that two days ago.”

  “DHK didn’t respond right away?” Pia asked. “We’re talking about enough money to fund two hundred college educations.”

  The Major and Marty exchanged glances.

  “They said instructions would follow.”

  “Return the money, immediately,” Pia said.

  “That would be premature,” Marty said. “DHK represents over fifty major overseas companies. They’ve always worked with Velox Deployment in the past. The Omani deal changes that. This is our first shot at impressing them.”

  “We do not impress clients. We save them.”

  “But we landed a hundred-million-dollar deal,” Marty said.

  “And it’s a good deal,” Pia said. “But the extra $20 million is too good. When someone gives you something you didn’t earn, they’ll want something in return.” Pia waited a beat. “Under no circumstances are you to overcharge, or allow a client to overpay, without specific details.”

  Marty gripped his cane. His mouth tightened.

  The Major looked him over, then faced Pia. “In this case, waiting for the instructions could be prudent. Your father has worked with Tom Duncan for years, and he—”

  Pia held up a hand, cutting her off.

  A long silence stretched between them. Marty shifted his weight.

  The Major cracked first. “As you wish, Pia. We’ll wire the money back in the morning.”

  Agent Marty pursed his lips and turned on his cane. The Major followed him out. Carlos turned to follow them.

  “A minute, Carlos,” Pia said.