She Is The Widow Maker_An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure

by Michael Anderle

  “You are good at that. Anything else interesting happen?”

  James winced. “Shit, there’s something I have to admit. I called up Peyton to ask for help on a case. I should have asked you first.”

  “Peyton’s a big boy. Mostly. I don’t fucking care if you call him. What did he say when you asked him for help?”

  “He made me pay him five thousand dollars.”

  Shay burst out laughing. “Good to see Peyton is taking care of himself and getting a job. I want to see him mature a little anyway. Now he’s Mr. Entrepreneur. Hey, kind of like you! So it’s just Trey going around knocking heads so far, or what?”

  “Got a couple of other guys we’re gonna train up. If things go well, I’ll convert the entire gang into bounty hunters and then recruit others.”

  “Damn, Brownstone! You’re gonna run a bunch of other guys out of business.”

  James snorted. “Only if they’re shitty at their jobs.”

  “Entrepreneur Brownstone. Like my own version of Malibu Barbie or Princess Barbie, but a guy.”

  “Hey, since you’re going to Japan anyway, maybe you could pick me up some yakiniku.”

  Shay laughed. “I don’t think it’s gonna keep.”

  “Nah, it’s fine. Just pack it in ice. It’s the flavor profile I’m interested in anyway.”

  “’Flavor profile.’ Aren’t you fancy?” Shay sighed. “That’s just my luck. You don’t want me, but you still want a piece of meat.”

  James groaned. “It’s not like that.”

  “It’s fine, Brownstone. Don’t stress it. I know you like me and I know you’ve got your issues, so nothing has to happen fast. But I gotta go for now. Got a few things to take care of before I catch my flight. Talk to you later.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  Shay hung up.

  James stared at the phone. “You light a piece of wood it burns, gives you coal, gives you ash. You talk to a woman, you have no fucking clue which way it will go.”

  Maria pushed into the Black Sun. She didn’t care if the FBI thought Brownstone’s assassin floozy was dead. She was more convinced than ever the woman in the picture was the allegedly-dead hitman from New York.

  The AET officer made her way straight to the bar, the crowd parting for her. She yanked out her phone, brought up the drone picture, and held it up to Tyler. Kathy glanced their way but didn’t come over for a closer look.

  “Good evening to you too, Lieutenant,” Tyler greeted her with a smirk.

  “I’m not in a good mood. Do you know this woman? I know it’s not the best picture, but if you have any sort of clue, I need to know who she is. This is important shit.”

  Tyler stared at the picture, his brow creasing. “As much as it pains me to admit this, I have no idea who this woman is. Not even the slightest.”

  “Are you sure? Because if I find her, I’ll be able to piss off Brownstone big time.”

  The bartender smiled and leaned forward again for another look.

  Maria snickered. “Yeah, I figured that would motivate you.”

  Tyler’s smile slowly turned into a frown. “Damn, I’m sorry. You know how I love to do my civic duty when it comes to Brownstone, but I really have no clue.”

  Maria took a deep breath. “You’re not shitting me, are you? This isn’t some sort of power play or manipulation? I need this woman. She’s the key to taking down Brownstone.”

  Tyler shook his head, irritation in his eyes. “Nope. No clue, and it’s pissing me off because not only do I not like being ignorant, I don’t like the idea I can’t fuck over Brownstone when handed an opportunity by a cop, of all people.”

  The lieutenant muttered a few obscenities and pocketed her phone. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance. It’s just a matter of when.”

  I’m not giving up yet, Brownstone. Your ass is still mine.

  James folded his hands in front of him as he waited for his guest. He wasn’t sure if having a meeting at a barbeque restaurant was all that professional, but he didn’t give much of a shit. The Brownstone Agency was never going to be fancy, and everyone who worked for him needed to accept that up front.

  A huge and muscled middle-aged dark-haired man with closely-cropped hair in a tight t-shirt and jeans stepped in, his every movement radiating confidence and precision. He walked straight to James’ table.

  “I’m Staff Sergeant Chris Royce.” He grunted. “Make that Staff Sergeant Chris Royce, retired.”

  James stood and shook his hand. “James Brownstone.” He pointed to a tray of ribs and pitcher of beer already on the table. “Help yourself. You want me to call you Staff Sergeant?”

  “Chris or Royce is fine.”

  “Most people call me Brownstone, but I don’t really give a shit what people call me.”

  Royce chuckled and slid into a seat. “So Gunny and your email said you needed a man to whip some men into shape?”

  James nodded. “Yeah, that at first, but it’s gonna go beyond that. I want someone who can handle recruiting new people, training new people, and, fuck, I guess staff management or whatever you want to call it for a lot of guys with a lot of testosterone. I’ve really only got one guy working for me now, but I’m an ass-kicker, not a leader.”

  Royce eyed James, curiosity on his face. “I’m not a bounty hunter. I’ve been a Marine my whole life. You sure you want a guy like me around? I’m all about discipline, not following your gut or whatever shit..”

  “I don’t need you to be a bounty hunter. You’re exactly what I want. I need you to instill discipline in new recruits. If I’m gonna grow this company, I can’t have a bunch of thugs going out there and causing trouble. My name’s attached and my rep’s attached, which means it’s my responsibility. You get my men disciplined, able to shoot and hit shit, and throw a punch. Trey and I can help them figure out the investigation part.”

  Royce picked up a rib. “Gunny also mentioned that your first group of candidates are a bunch of sad-sack piece-of-shit gang members.”

  James grunted. “Yeah, do you have a problem with that? These guys working for me is non-negotiable. If they can’t handle the training that’s one thing, but they’re getting the chance.”

  Royce shrugged. “I dealt with more than my share of gang members who joined the Corps. And these punks have you to look up to, so it makes it easier.” He took a bite from the rib. “Good barbeque.”

  “Yeah, it is good barbeque, and I’m no role model.”

  “Yeah, you’re just a guy who was on TV taking out an entire gang. A guy other cities call to come and kick ass for them.” The Marine chuckled. “Just saying it’s a good thing, Brownstone. In the Corps it’s easy. You have flag and country to point the kids toward. Since you’re a private guy it’s a little harder, so we need a new symbol. You’re that fucking symbol, whether you like it or not. Men always need someone to rally around, and you’re the fucking man in charge—and unlike a lot of generals, you can personally kick ass. If you can’t handle a little attention, this isn’t gonna work.”

  “I get that.” James gave a shallow nod. “You do whatever you need to do…assuming you’re interested.” He polished off a rib.

  He didn’t like the idea of being a symbol of anything, but he wasn’t about to tell a Marine Corps DI how to do his job.

  “That offer you sent me in the email still stands?” Royce asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s some damned good pay. Very generous.”

  “Pay for the best, you get the best. Besides, I’m not a stingy guy.”

  The Marine reached for the pitcher of beer and poured himself a glass. “I’ve gotta take care of some shit over the next week, but after that, I’m ready to start. Where are we going to be doing this?”

  James thought that over for a second.

  Shit. That asshole banker was right. I am going to need a building, after all.

  “Royce, why don’t you tell me what you need and I’ll buy a building.”

 
The Marine put down his beer and grinned. “Damn, I wish it had been that easy in the Corps.”

  13

  James pushed into the Leanan Sídhe, every muscle in his body tense. He still owed the Professor his participation in a Bard of Filth competition, and every stop in the Irish pub brought a greater risk of being forced to humiliate himself with a filthy song or limerick.

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have borrowed those artifacts. I don’t know if it was really worth it in the end. Damn it.

  The bounty hunter wanted to avoid a repeat of the awkwardness in Detroit. He didn’t mind a few good obscenities, but he didn’t get the appeal of ribald cadences or filthy limericks, and he didn’t think he ever would.

  Sex wasn’t fucking funny.

  And he certainly didn’t want to risk some asshole recording the whole thing and spreading it over the internet, especially when he was trying to build up the reputation of the Brownstone Agency.

  The Professor’s earlier call asking James to stop by the pub hadn’t mentioned the contest, but the man wasn’t above a little deception if he thought it’d be funny.

  James gritted his teeth as he made his way to the Professor’s booth in the back. More than a few people glanced his way, but he wasn’t sure if that was because they wanted him to hear him spew out nasty limericks or because of his recent appearances on the news.

  The bounty hunter grunted as he slid in across from the Professor. “Hey, Professor.”

  To James’ surprise, the older man wasn’t red-faced, and his single glass of beer looked all but untouched. Tension furrowed his face.

  The bounty hunter frowned. The Professor rarely showed any signs of being worried much about anything. James had become convinced the man would laugh his way through the Apocalypse while drinking the Four Horsemen under the table.

  “Good evening, lad.” The Professor managed a pained smile. “Thank you for coming.”

  “You said you had something important and urgent for me to handle?”

  “Aye, I’ve got a little job opportunity for you. It’s something I’d ask Miz Carson to do, but alas, she’s out of the country.” The Professor shrugged. “But the more I think about it, the more I think you’re better suited for this sort of thing.”

  “Wait, you mean like a tomb raid?” James shook his head. “You don’t want me even trying that shit other than running support. I don’t know all that history and shit like she does.”

  The Professor frowned and took a very small sip of his beer. “It’s not a tomb raid. It’s more a pick-up and delivery job. That is to say, another tomb raider has already collected an item for me; a small blue jewel, using all that knowledge of history and shit, as you put it. All I need you to do is go to Seattle to pick it up and bring it back to me.”

  “Why can’t the tomb raider bring it himself?”

  “He was sloppier than he should have been and now other people are aware that he brought the artifact to Seattle. These other people, lad, are simply much more lethal than he is. He’s a good raider, but not much of a fighter. The nature of the artifact also makes it hard to hide from certain types of locator spells when it’s moving for more than a couple of hours.” The Professor shrugged. “He’s at a place where he can’t be tracked, but it won’t protect him or the artifact forever.”

  James grunted. “So why not just hop on a supersonic flight and zoom here? He could get it here in a little over an hour then, and you can stick it wherever you hide shit.”

  “Ah, if only it were so simple.” The Professor chuckled quietly. “The problem is that artifact can’t be flown anywhere. For various magical reasons I won’t bore you with, if the artifact is taken too far from the ground, it’ll explode.”

  “Fucking magic. Is it ever not obnoxious?” James shook his head.

  “It gets better, lad.”

  “Better?”

  The Professor gave a solemn nod. “The explosion wouldn’t be small. Let’s just say we don’t want it to happen near any populated areas. It’d be inconvenient for the people who live there. And the plants. And all the animals.”

  James scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re fucking kidding me. What the hell is this thing, and why did you have this guy dig it up?”

  “An ancient and extremely potent Atlantean power crystal. And I had him dig it up because other people were looking for it, people with much less restraint than I practice even when I’m ten beers in.”

  James sighed. “Power crystal, huh? What does that mean? What does it actually do?”

  “One could easily imagine its use as a weapon, but it’s not actually that by nature. It’s less what it can do than what it can fuel. The full return of magic has amplified the risks proportionately.” The Professor leaned in and lowered his voice, weariness infusing it. “This isn’t something we need in circulation, lad, even among so-called good people. I have my own means of blocking tracking once I receive the artifact. Unfortunately, it can’t be sent directly to the World in Between using any of the artifacts I have access to, but I can at least manage to keep it away from prying eyes and hands. The important thing in the meantime is keeping it away from anyone else.”

  James blew out a long breath, now understanding why the Professor seemed tense—something as rare as seeing him totally sober. There was nothing that could ruin your day like learning a magical nuke was sitting in Seattle and could go off if someone wasn’t careful about how they transported it.

  “Shit, sounds like my kind of job. Don’t even have to fly. I hit the 5, I can get there in a day.” James cleared his throat. “So, about payment. Maybe we could strike a deal.”

  Something approaching amusement reappeared on the Professor’s face. “A deal, lad?”

  “You know, if I do this, then I don’t have to do your Bard of Filth Competition?”

  The older man laughed and wagged a finger. “No, no, no, lad. You’re still doing that. I’ve been nice. I’ve just been trying to give you time so you won’t totally embarrass yourself. The Bard of Filth is a contest of true talent, not just bawdy nonsense.”

  “I can’t do that shit. I’ve been trying to get some help writing the limericks, but I’ve got nothing so far. Come on.”

  “The Sword of Damocles always falls eventually, James. Make sure you’re ready. I’ll owe you a big favor or three for this job, but I can’t give up the Bard of Filth competition.”

  “Seriously?”

  The Professor laughed. “There are only two things in life I’m always serious about, James: beer and filthy limericks.”

  James grunted. “Fuck. It was worth a try.” He rose. “Okay, I’m in. I’m gonna go hit my warehouse and get the shit I need. Sounds like I should hit the road as soon as I fucking can.”

  “You’re doing me a major favor that I won’t soon forget.”

  “Yeah, but you’re still not letting me out of your dirty limerick shit. That’s some bullshit.”

  The Professor smiled and gulped down some beer. He exhaled loudly. “Some things are even more important than the safety of the world, James.”

  Widowmaker stepped into the Leanan Sídhe with a smile on her face. She’d reverted to her young Angelina Jolie look, having taken a liking to the form. Her latest information from the Black Sun suggested Brownstone might come to the pub, but she needed to confirm that it wasn’t another false trail.

  She surveyed the packed room but failed to spot the distinctive bounty hunter. A sense of familiarity settled over her; a hunter’s instinct honed over a long time.

  I can almost smell you, James Brownstone. Were you here? Were you close?

  The Drow strolled toward the bar, several men watching her as she moved. She instinctively searched for wedding bands, marking a few potential harvests for later. Her mission awaited.

  The bartender offered her a smile. “What’ll it be, miss?”

  “I’m looking for someone. I was told I might be able to find him here.” She played with a lock of her hair. “It’s important that I f
ind him.”

  “Lots of people like this place.” He gestured to the crowd. “Who is it you’re looking for?”

  “James Brownstone.”

  The bartender chuckled. “Should have figured. We get a few of you groupie types snooping around in here whenever he’s on TV lately. Anyway, you just missed him. He was here not ten minutes ago. Sorry.”

  Widowmaker matched his chuckle, even though she wanted to rip out his life energy in frustration. So close.

  “Oh.” She let out a light sigh. “Do you know where he might be going? I’m not a groupie. This is about business…his business. Bounty hunting.”

  “You’re a bounty hunter?” Incredulity crept onto the man’s face.

  “Oh, no. I have some information for Mr. Brownstone on a bounty.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m an informant.”

  The bartender gestured to a booth in the back where a white-haired middle-aged human sat drinking a beer. “Father O’Banion might be able to help you. He was the last one to talk to him.”

  Widowmaker smiled. “Thank you.”

  She rose and walked straight to the booth. She didn’t bother to ask his permission as she sat across from him and folded her hands in front of her.

  Something tugged at the edge of her consciousness. Her skin tingled, and her heart pounded. This human was much more than he appeared. Dangerous, even. Nothing about his puffy-faced appearance and portly middle suggested an obvious danger, but the Drow assassin traded in false impressions and knew never to place naïve trust in what one saw.

  I’ll just get the information about Brownstone and harvest this one to be safe. Laena will understand. Our mission is too important.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Father.” The Drow tilted her head, looking the man up and down. “You don’t…look much like a priest, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Ah, not a priest, madam.” The man laughed. “I’m still Smite-Williams for now. I’ve not drunk nearly enough for Father O’Banion to come out.”