by S L Shelton
“I’ll have everything ready for you by noon tomorrow. You can return then to sign the papers.”
“Will you put a gun to my ribs as you rob me?”
“Monsieur BeauLac, I’m sorry you aren’t pleased with the terms. But I can assure you, this is an investment. Not a robbery.”
The sound of chairs moving through the mic indicated the meeting was over. Wolf listened for several minutes longer as voices and footsteps moved away before switching off the remote. He pocketed the remote and stood.
So that’s how they’re compensating for the lost money…forcing the membership to contribute more.
“I wonder if ten billion will be enough?” He mused aloud as he went back downstairs to beg his way back in the office to retrieve his bag and mic.
BeauLac was familiar with the money situation if not an active manager of it. All Wolf had to do was squeeze him for the information—that would require an incursion.
As he stepped outside, he watched the limousine pull up to the building across the street. He stepped back into the doorway as the security team ushered the billionaire into the car, their watchful gazes sweeping the street for threats.
The guard who had remained outside spoke briefly to one of the other black-suit-clad men who then swiveled his head in the direction Wolf had his fainting spell. He nodded and all of them climbed into the vehicle before driving away.
Wolf lingered in the doorway for several moments, staring at the building across the street. Had he not drawn so much attention to himself earlier, he would have gone in and reconnoitered the office, searching for opportunities to pry into their systems.
But with his face being fresh in the mind of not only the security guard but the patrons and employees of the cafe, he decided he’d arrange for a face-to-face with BeauLac first. It would be wiser to go in more informed anyway.
As he made his way back to his vehicle, he wondered if Storc had made any progress. He’d wait until he confirmed with BeauLac that Prince-Underthall was the accounting firm they should be focusing on.
“That should help narrow things down considerably,” he said to himself as he got into the stolen Mitsubishi.
It suddenly struck him that he was talking to himself—he had been for several days. Scott’s habits were slowly seeping into his consciousness.
He shook his head as he started the SUV. “I should have worked harder to break your bad habits,” he muttered. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to fight so many of them if I had.”
**
10:55 p.m.—BeauLac Estate, in the South of France
WOLF walked toward the BeauLac mansion in the pouring rain. The storm had blown north from the Mediterranean Sea a few hours after he arrived from Avignon. His surveillance had been limited during the daylight hours, and though the heavy winds and driving rain were limiting his visibility now, it would also impede detection as he approached and entered the house.
The first group of security men had left and were replaced at four o’clock. He waited in the pouring rain to see if there would be another shift change at ten o’clock. At ten-thirty he moved forward, confident they were on a twelve-hour schedule rather than eight- or six-hour shifts.
He kneeled in a hedgerow outside of the ancient vineyard that surrounded the sprawling estate. It was the same approach Scott and Kathrin had taken when they had broken into the house months earlier, and Wolf had perfect recall of every ditch, rise, culvert, shed, and gravel drive along the way. The memory of that break in created a strange tug on Wolf’s balance—something akin to grief though he knew it was Scott’s memory of Kathrin that intruded.
Tainted with emotional baggage, Scott’s memories of this place infected Wolf’s thoughts with unwanted sadness. He felt the boundaries between his own consciousness and Scott’s slip. The Ambux treatment Nance had given him was already affecting his abilities. Two weeks of operational competency may have been too optimistic. At this rate of personality loss, he’d be lucky to maintain his individuality for another five days.
He stood and pulled his hood back so he could hear better. The driving rain added a white noise component to his efforts, but something felt different from the last time Scott had been there—a quiet hum of a generator, barely detectable in the hiss of the rain.
He circled around to the side of the mansion, yards away and still outside of the ring of light cast by the security lamps. The sound of the generator grew louder as he reached the back of the ancient house.
Standing in the shadow of the tall cypress trees marking the edge of the courtyard, Wolf jammed his hands into his wet hoodie pockets and stared—this was new. The large diesel generator sat on a newly poured pad of concrete, and next to it sat a large travel trailer. The lights inside, though dimmed through closed blinds, revealed the blue flickering light of computer monitors.
BeauLac had upgraded his security.
“Well, shit,” Wolf muttered in an unintentional display of Scott’s personality.
He scanned the area around the trailer and spotted a camera at the door. Had he approached the kitchen entrance of the mansion as Scott and Kathrin had months ago, he no doubt would have been seen. And that was disturbing because he hadn’t noticed any new camera installations. Someone took their tech camouflage seriously.
Judging by the lack of a tactical team’s approach, he concluded he had not yet been detected.
Should I go in detected and risk a fight coming out? Or, find a quiet way in?
A voice on a radio to his side interrupted the debate. “Bravo, anything?”
“Negative, command. The rain is fucking with the sensors,” came a man’s response. “Either that or an animal on the perimeter.”
He had been detected, but as he had hoped, the storm was making their surveillance unreliable. The voices were unmistakably American—BeauLac wasn’t using local security.
“Alright, Bravo. Bring it in.”
“Roger. Oscar Mike.”
Military. Maybe even Baynebridge.
The poncho-clad security man walked within inches of Wolf. The debate in his mind over going in quietly had taken on an urgency. Without consciously choosing which would be the most logical tact to take, Wolf reached out and grabbed the guard by the wrist, pinning it between the two of them as wedged his arm under the man’s chin.
Wolf pulled the man down backward, increasing the pressure on his throat and bringing a more rapid conclusion to his struggling as he blacked out.
When the man’s feet stopped kicking against the ground, he held on a moment longer, ensuring he was unconscious. Wolf dropped the guard and stared at him for a second, analyzing the action he had just taken—it was impulsive, dangerous, and worse, it had not been his intention. He was losing personality control.
He took a deep breath before stripping the plastic poncho and wide brim hat from the man. After donning them himself, he walked boldly to the trailer. Luck would be on his side if the trailer door were unlocked.
Beneath the poncho, he wrapped his fingers around the grip of his Glock and then turned the knob. It opened, and he went in.
Inside, two men watched half a dozen TV monitors and a third sat in wet clothes warming his hands around a cup of coffee.
“We have to add more sensors and shield them from weather if this shit is—”
The man in the wet clothes was the first to go down, his sentence cut short as Wolf ripped a long heavy flashlight from the wall and struck him across the head. Confused and taken off guard, the others scrambled away, but Wolf flung the flashlight like a knife at the head of the farthest of the two remaining. He fell, sprawled on the floor as Wolf wrapped his arm under the chin of the last conscious man.
“How many guards?”
The man reached up and tried to pry Wolf’s arm away. Wolf grasped the man’s wrist and flipped him to the floor. He landed on top of the guard, his arm still bent around his neck in a powerful choke hold.
“I’ll ask once more,” Wolf whispered into his ear. “If
you aren’t helpful, I don’t need you.”
“Just us three and one more on the grounds,” the man said, his voice rasping through his constricted throat.
Convenient answer—too convenient. Wolf looked at the command center console and spotted a small dry-erase board between the desk and the door:
Command: Night -Garret, Day - Paul.
Patrol - Night: Alpha- B. Lewis, Bravo-Thompson, Charlie-Wills
Patrol - Day: Delta - Martin, Echo - Jacobs, Golf - Hamm.
Inside - Night: Hotel - Graham, India - Kelly.
Inside - Day: Juliet - K. Lewis, Kilo - Rand.
“Liars never prosper,” Wolf whispered, then choked the man out.
He lay there a moment adjusting his plan. There were at least two more guards on-site if not more. Both of the men sitting at the console had seemed too dry to have spent any time in the rain. It may have been nothing more than the result of human aversion to being miserable for a simple paycheck, but Wolf couldn’t take that chance.
He pushed himself to his feet and drew his pistol before traveling silently down the narrow hallway of the trailer. Past a small kitchen and a bathroom stood a closed door. No light seeped from under the sliding panel, but inside he heard snoring.
The day shift, he thought.
He slid the panel aside and gave his eyes a few seconds to grow accustomed to the dark. Two men slept in triple-stacked bunks.
A nervous shiver ran up his spine. Unaccustomed to being inundated with emotion, he paused mid-step toward them. The man who was not snoring opened his eyes and Wolf jumped, clamping his hand over his mouth. His Glock flashed forward cracking the unfortunate day shift man across the temple with the butt. He remained quiet for a tick, listening to the breathing coming from the bunk above.
Once certain he wasn’t faking, Wolf reached up and pulled the man from his bed, slamming him to the floor. He screamed out briefly before Wolf knocked him unconscious.
Concerned the shout might have attracted attention, he ran back to the front of the trailer and checked the monitors. He dropped down heavily in the chair after scanning the security screens, comfortable no one had heard.
He wiped the wetness from his face and spotted a chest of drawers at the back of the compartment. After opening two and discovering nothing but wireless headsets and unused wet-weather gear, the third drawer contained plastic zip restraints and other detention grade items such as gags, black hoods, and manacles. He dumped the contents on the floor then scooped up what he needed to restrain his victims.
He strapped, chained, and bagged the five unconscious men then returned to the hedgerow to gather the first man he had assaulted. The man was beginning to come around, coughing and shaking his head as he rolled to his side. As Wolf approached him, he clumsily reached from his hip.
Wolf closed the distance in a rush and delivered a kick to the man’s chin, sending him falling backward along with a few flying teeth.
The internal clock in Wolf’s head kept reminding him that he had been at this for too long. Again, a wave of anxiety rose up from his gut and threatened to undermine his clarity.
“How do you function like this?” Wolf muttered.
Though Wolf felt familiar with each of Scott’s emotions, he had never been in the driver’s seat and experienced the physiological effects those emotions had over him. He wondered if Scott, being more accustomed to them, would have simply dismissed them as Wolf tried to do. He likened the sensation to the difference between watching a skydiver on TV and doing it yourself. Logically, he understood all the components, but having it thrust upon him made it a very different experience.
One of the men in the center of the trailer floor groaned and tried to right himself. There was little possibility of him gaining his freedom, but having six resourceful men unattended posed the possibility of his actions being detected too early.
He began digging through other drawers in the trailer. If these men were Baynebridge, they would have a supply of etorphine or some other knockout drug for black bag Ops. About ready to abandon his search as the ticking clock in his head nagged at him, he remembered the small refrigerator in the kitchen.
There, on a door shelf, sat an unopened package of six vials labeled Acetorphine. “Even better,” he muttered and began searching for hypodermic needles.
After inoculating the men from waking too soon, he spent several moments scanning the video monitors and searching through shift schedules. The day shift didn’t begin its watch until four o’clock. Though that was good news, it worried him that there had only been two men in the bunks. The others could be residing off-site, or worse, were out for a night on the town and could drive up at any minute. But there was nothing he could do about that. He had to move.
Through the video screens, the other two guards—a male and a female—appeared to be alert and walking their rounds inside the mansion. With that in mind, he filled four more syringes with Acetorphine and took a headset and radio from the desk.
He paused at the doorway and looked back at the unconscious men, suddenly worrying he’d forgotten something. Unable to formulate any rational reason for the feeling, he silently swore at Scott’s insecurities and set out to enter the house.
The rain beat down harder than it had earlier and showed no sign of abating. That was lucky. Nothing makes detection and surveillance more difficult than a storm. The first inclination of human nature is to seek the fastest, easiest path to dry warmth when the weather was chilled and wet. As long as it continued to storm so heavily, he had a greater chance of the missing day shift not showing up during the night.
In either case, he had to subdue the two guards inside, find BeauLac, and question him before being discovered.
“Piece of cake,” he muttered sarcastically, before realizing that was yet another Scott trait popping to the surface of his awareness. In fact, the whole evening so far was tainted with Scott’s personality. He had just spent thirty minutes subduing, binding and drugging six Combine hired mercenaries instead of dispatching them with the more expedient method of killing them each on the spot—during the entire process, it had never occurred to him to kill them.
He stopped at the servant’s entrance and looked back at the trailer, half tempted to rectify the oversight by returning and executing those men. After a moment of angry indecision, he realized the ridiculous nature of that thought and shook his head in frustration.
“I guess it’s only fair that you’re fucking with me,” Wolf muttered. “I did it to you long enough…just don’t get us killed.”
He neither expected nor wanted a response. Scott was tucked away in the warm, dark blanket of a coma. But Scott’s personality was leaching into Wolf’s awareness like a rag soaking up water. Ambux was erasing Wolf by inches, slowly choking off one personality and backfilling it with the matter around it.
Resentment crept in as he reached for the door handle. I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t ask to be saddled with the responsibility of holding Scott together when his brain melted as a child.
He opened the door and peered in before sliding silently into the servant’s entry mudroom. The door closed, and the white noise of the rain muted to a dull background hiss.
It’s not my fault he was exposed to Ambux, or that his father was killed, or that his…our mother was rendered catatonic. He paused at the laundry room and tried to suppress his building anger. I didn’t sign us up for the CIA, or Russian nukes, or kidnappers and terrorists.
He grabbed the doorway to the laundry room, suddenly feeling faint. Heat built in his face and nausea rose from his gut—the symptoms of rage, he realized. He had seen those same things pass through Scott countless times, and it made him angry that he now felt them. He gripped the wooden trim of the doorway and heard it splinter.
Startled, he pulled his hand away. He’d never done anything subconsciously before—that was something that only happened when you weren’t aware. The bile in his gut churned and his lack of control slowly turned
into a mild panic attack. He pressed himself against the wall and breathed deeply, trying to regain his composure.
This is impossible. There’s no way I can see through this. I’m losing my mind. The irony of the thought struck him and he scoffed a quiet chuckle. My mind. Mine…no wonder Scott hates me.
Distracted by the surge of emotion, he didn’t hear the guard until she rounded the corner and came face-to-face with him.
Startled annoyance was first to flash across the woman’s face, then panic. Wolf lashed out and struck her in the jaw. He felt it dislocate under his fist as her body went limp and dropped to the floor. She lay there, the lower half of her mouth grotesquely protruding to the side.
Guilt.
Guilt?! Are you fucking kidding me?!
He rubbed his face with a wet hand then knelt to feel the woman’s chin. He shook his head as he leveraged her jaw into place and snapped it into position with a bone-grinding crunch.
“A week ago, I would have just killed you,” he whispered as he pulled the cap off one of the syringes with his teeth then injected the Acetorphine into her neck. “Consider yourself lucky.” He paused before rising and said, “Sorry,” as an afterthought.
He felt oddly better after saying that, which in itself became amusing after a few seconds. He shook his head as he dragged her into the laundry room and covered her with a pile of bed linens.
Next to the dryer, an old radiator hissed and bubbled. He reached out and warmed his fingers near it as he collected his thoughts. It had never occurred to him that the encroachment of Scott’s personality would begin so soon and would limit his abilities so. The one advantage he had being in control of Scott’s body was the detachment that came from being a pure intellect. Now even that was gone.
Damn you, Nance, he thought, then grasped the radiator. Pain, fear, and anger flashed across his nerve endings to his brain, but he resisted the instinct to pull his hand away. The surge of adrenaline forced new focus and sharpened his mind.
When he released the radiator, blisters had already formed. He looked at his hand, turning it over twice before pinching the blisters and popping them.