San Francisco Slaughter

by Jack Badelaire

  He finished the last of his coffee and padded back inside his kitchen. Dropping mug and bowl into the sink, he walked into his living room and picked up a small, battered, leather-bound address book from next to his telephone. After a few moments of searching, Lynch found what he was looking for, and he picked up the phone receiver and dialed a number.

  “Colonel Lambert’s office,” a female voice answered.

  Lynch paused. “I’m sorry, I was looking to speak to Colonel Carson.”

  “General Carson left this office after he was promoted four months ago,” the woman replied. “I can give you the number to his new office, if you’d like.”

  “That’d be great,” Lynch answered.

  He took down the new number and dialed again.

  “General Carson’s office,” a young male voice answered.

  “I’m looking to speak with the general,” Lynch replied.

  “Is he expecting your call?”

  Lynch thought for a moment. “Yes, he probably is.”

  “Who should I tell him is calling?”

  “Tell him it’s Hangman.”

  The line was silent for a few seconds. “Uh, Hangman?”

  “Just tell him.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The line went silent for a minute before coming off hold.

  “Well, you’re not dead yet.”

  Lynch recognized the gravel-rough voice of Colonel - no, General - Alex Carson.

  “And you’ve been promoted to general, sir,” Lynch replied.

  There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. “Payment for services rendered, I suppose. Now they’ve got me out here at Fort Ord, babysitting trainees. Promoted into someplace where I can’t cause trouble.”

  “I doubt there’s any place where you can’t raise some hell, sir.”

  There was a brief silence. “So, what’s on your mind, Sergeant?”

  Lynch thought for a moment. “I’ve been out nine months, and I’m going pretty stir-crazy. Guess I miss the life more than I thought I would.”

  “You’re not in any trouble, are you?” Carson asked.

  “No, sir. Nothing like that. I get plastered now and then, but that’s it. No grass or pills, no trouble with the law. I pay my rent, got a part-time job. I guess I’m doing about as well as could be expected.”

  “You’re not lying to me, are you, son?”

  “No, sir. This isn’t a cry for help. I’m just...I feel like I need to get back in the game. I’m too bunched up, no matter how hard I try to hang loose.”

  “Have you been looking for work? Something full-time?”

  “No, I’m set with money right now. Got a place on Mission Beach. My family set me up with plenty of cash when I got back.”

  “So, you’re just bored?” Carson asked, a tone of amusement in his voice.

  “Sir, it’s not just boredom. Everything just feels...flat. The world is just lifeless and dull, you know? I miss the action. I’ve started dreaming about it.”

  “Hell, son. We all dream about it. I still have dreams of parachuting into Normandy with the 82nd.”

  “Not dreaming of the war, sir. I mean, I have those too, but this is different. I’m dreaming of going back, that I’m happy because I’m going back.”

  “You could always enlist again. You’re young, and you’ve got a great service record. Hell, we could use an NCO with your experience here at Ford Ord. Teach these babies how to avoid getting killed.”

  “It’s not the Army I’m missing, sir. It’s the action. The adrenaline. We’re out of the war, and I get the feeling we’re not stepping into another any time soon. Running teenagers through live-fire drills isn’t what I need.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “Jamie, are you sure about this?” Carson asked.

  “It’s been eating at me for a few weeks now. I need to do something about it, before I do something stupid.”

  “Alright, I get it. You’re not the first guy out of SOG who’s asked me for help. I know a few people, private sector types, who need guys like you, hardasses who don’t mind getting their hands dirty.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir. Dirty was our speciality.”

  Carson was silent for a moment. “Some of what you might be asked to do, it could be illegal. If you get nabbed by the police, you might be looking at serious jail time.”

  “Sir, you and I both know there was nothing legal about what we did back in the war. I don’t have a problem breaking a few laws and ducking the heat.”

  “Okay then, how fast can you get to San Francisco?”

  “I can be on the road in ten minutes.”

  Carson laughed. “I figured as much. Okay, I’ll make a call today and make sure you’re expected. Call me first thing tomorrow morning, and I’ll have an address for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sounds great.”

  “Do you have a suit? Something to wear to an office?”

  “Yeah, my mother made sure of that when I got back.”

  “Okay, that’s good. I don’t want you going into this looking like you just walked off the beach. Oh, and Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you have a handgun?”

  “Do you really have to ask, sir?”

  Carson laughed again. “You’re right, that was a stupid question. Well, bring it with you, Sergeant. I have a feeling you might need it.”

  FOUR

  The Steiger Electronics Corporation was housed in a gleaming cube of steel and glass, dominating a large parking lot along the eastern edge of the Stanford Research Park. Lynch pulled his Jeep into a vacant spot and stepped out, running a hand through his thick shock of black hair and working out any windblown tangles. Glancing around, he pulled a necktie out of his pocket and put it on, then did the same with the suit jacket folded carefully behind his seat. Lynch wore a medium grey suit with a white shirt, black tie, and spit-polished black leather shoes. He felt foolish dressed this way, far removed from his usual Mission Beach attire, but Carson had insisted he go into this looking professional.

  Lynch crossed the parking lot and walked towards the building’s front entrance, a large pair of glass doors with brushed steel frames. Stepping through, he found the air inside cool and dry, probably maintained to a tenth of a degree by massive banks of air conditioners on the building’s roof. He looked around the spacious lobby and set eyes on a reception desk, manned by a petite young redhead looking at him with a courteous smile.

  “Good morning, and welcome to Steiger Electronics. How can I help you?” she asked.

  Lynch walked across the polished white marble floor and approached the desk. “I’ve got a meeting with Mr. Steiger and Mr. Blake.”

  “Your name?” she asked, glancing down at an appointment calendar on her desk.

  “Lynch.”

  She nodded. “Can I see some identification?”

  Lynch pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed her his military I.D. She glanced over it and nodded, handing it back while gesturing towards a bank of elevators behind her.

  “Take the center elevator to the twentieth floor,” she said.

  Lynch pocketed his I.D. card and nodded. He walked to the elevator and it opened as he approached. Looking back, he saw the receptionist take her hand out from underneath the desk. He wondered if she had control over any elevator that went to Steiger’s office suite.

  The elevator ride was swift and silent. The doors - also brushed steel - opened into another, smaller reception area, this one carpeted, with cream-colored walls and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the park. From here, he could see dozens of buildings surrounded by hundreds of acres’ worth of sun-bleached concrete, an ocean of parking lots filled with thousands of cars.

  “It gets boring after a few weeks,” the receptionist said. Lynch turned and looked at the woman, a strikingly beautiful blonde in her late 30’s, older than the girl in the main lobby by at least a decade.


  “The view?” Lynch asked.

  She nodded. “Nothing but cars and ugly buildings. But it beats being in a typing pool.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Lynch replied. He gestured to the double doors behind her. “May I go in?”

  “Your name?”

  “Lynch.”

  The blonde pushed an intercom button. “Sir, Mr. Lynch is here to see you.”

  “Send him in, Cathy,” said a man’s voice from the speaker.

  Cathy nodded in the direction of the double doors, and as Lynch reached for the door handle, she pressed a button on the desk. There was a soft electric buzz and a click, as the door’s lock disengaged. Lynch stepped inside, and found himself in a gigantic corner office, with floor-to-ceiling windows and thick carpeting. Several comfortable, sleekly-modern leather chairs were arranged around a glass coffee table. A fully-stocked dry bar sat against the interior wall, with coffee service and several carafes of orange and tomato juice set up next to the liquor. A large steel-and-glass desk took up the exterior corner of the room. Everything about the space, from the room itself, to the lighting fixtures, the furniture, and all the accessories, spoke of ultra-modern stylistic sensibilities. To Lynch, it seemed like an alien world, something out of an episode of Star Trek.

  There were three other men in the room. The man standing behind the desk was clearly Steiger; tall, clean-shaven, with dark brown hair, good looks, and a slim, athletic build. He was tanned and dressed in loafers, tan slacks, and a white polo shirt. He had the look of a man who played a lot of tennis in his free time, and probably owned a yacht. Steiger stepped around his desk and walked over to Lynch, offering his hand with a friendly smile on his face. There were a few lines around his eyes, and Lynch guessed Steiger was somewhere in his forties, but took very good care of himself.

  “Sergeant Lynch. Good of you to come. I’m Jonathan Steiger.”

  “Mr. Steiger, quite a building you’ve got here,” Lynch replied, shaking Steiger’s hand. The grip was dry and firm, the handshake of a man perfectly at ease and in control of the situation.

  Steiger smiled. “Thank you, I designed it myself - or at least, worked closely with the architects. If it was going to house my company, I wanted to make sure everything was to my specifications.” Steiger turned and gestured towards the two gentlemen in the room with him. “I’d like to introduce you to the two men you’ll be working with. Mr. Blake is the head of security here at Steiger Electronics, and Mr. Colt is a private security consultant I’ve hired specifically to deal with our problem. You’ll be working directly with Mr. Colt, and liaising with Mr. Blake for all your needs while working with us.”

  Lynch nodded and looked at the two men. Blake was sitting in one of the leather chairs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a glass of orange juice held in his hands and a cigarette dangling from his lip, the ashtray next to him containing a half-dozen butts. He was a big man, with a thick frame and broad shoulders, built like a linebacker finally going to seed in his middle age. His balding head was close-cropped, his dark hair shot through with considerable grey. Looking at the lines on Blake’s craggy face, Lynch guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-fifties. He wore navy slacks and a brown sports coat, and his brown leather shoes were old, but well-maintained. Blake said nothing and didn’t bother to stand, only nodding in greeting when Lynch met his gaze.

  On the other side of the room, Colt was leaning against the bar, a cup of coffee near his elbow. He looked to be younger than Steiger, probably in his early thirties, and long-legged, with a cowboy’s strong, rangy physique, close-cut sandy brown hair, and cold, piercing blue eyes. He wore an expensive, cream-colored suit, white shirt without a tie, and tan leather cowboy boots. There was a slight bulge in Colt’s suit coat along his right hip, and Lynch guessed he was wearing a gun. He watched Lynch approach with a calculating, predatory look in his eye. With a smooth motion, Colt stood up straight from where he was leaning and extended his hand in greeting.

  “Howdy Lynch, glad to have you with us.”

  Unlike Steiger’s hand, Colt’s grip was unusually strong, and his hand was rough and callused. There was a Texan twang to Colt’s voice, and Lynch wondered if he was some kind of cowboy gunslinger-for-hire.

  “Thanks. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Colt.”

  “Please,” Colt said with a smile, “call me Richard.”

  FIVE

  After making a cup of coffee, Lynch took a seat while Steiger took several minutes to fill in the details of his company. Steiger had come out of Stanford in the mid-‘50s and immediately began his own electronics company, catering to finding military applications for modern electronics engineering. Over the last twenty years, Steiger had landed a number of small but lucrative defense contracts, most involving communications devices. While the work was classified, Steiger dropped enough hints for Lynch to wonder if he hadn’t been carrying some of the company’s hardware while doing recon and surveillance missions over the Laotian border.

  Eventually, Steiger got around to the problem at hand. “Five days ago Samuel Roth, one of my best and brightest engineers, stopped coming to work. He’d called in sick the first day, but the next, we couldn’t get in touch with him at home. It was that morning we realized something was missing from Roth’s lab; a prototype microprocessor designed for military ordnance guidance systems. After a thorough search of the lab and the premises, we found nothing.”

  “You think Roth is the thief?” Lynch asked.

  Blake nodded. “After the incident, we did a little digging. Turns out, Roth’s bank account was running on fumes. He’d made several very large cash withdrawals in the last two weeks.”

  “Sounds to me like your man owes someone a lot of money,” Richard replied.

  Blake nodded. “After interviewing his fellow project engineers, one of them admitted knowing Roth liked to gamble. He’d take weekend trips to Vegas every couple of months, and found his way into a few backroom poker games around the city.”

  “Your working theory is he’s going to barter off his debt with your technology,” Richard said.

  Steiger nodded. “Roth could convince someone to take the prototype and sell it to one of our competitors. They could glean enough information out of the design to produce a similar, competing product. If they were smart, there’d be no way we could prove the use of our technology.”

  “Do the police have any leads?” Lynch asked.

  Steiger and Blake exchanged glances.

  “We haven’t spoken to the police yet,” Blake answered.

  Lynch frowned. “I don’t understand. This looks like a clear case of theft to me.”

  Richard smirked. “Y’all want this kept on the QT.”

  Steiger nodded. He stood up from his chair and began pacing around the room.

  “Defense contracts are very political. It’s not about who makes the best product, it’s whose palms you can grease, who you can do favors for, and who you can trust. I’ve built a lot of relationships with high-ranking military men over the past two decades, and my company produces state-of-the-art military-grade hardware.

  “But none of that makes a bit of difference if word gets out that an SEC engineer had a gambling problem, stole a prototype, and sold it to a criminal element in order to pay off his debt. Our credibility would go down the toilet. Millions of dollars’ worth of contracts hang in the balance, and that’s just the products we’re currently manufacturing.”

  Steiger stopped pacing and turned to look at Lynch. “Sergeant, you fought in the first truly electronic war. Guided missiles, thermal weapon scopes. Fighters carrying their own radar systems. Enemy movements tracked by electronic ears that sat in the jungle for weeks or months at a time. The next war - whenever or wherever it might be - is going to be fought with computers just as much as it’ll be fought with men carrying rifles.

  “I’ll tell you, there are fortunes - vast fortunes - to be made by the companies that stand at the forefront of developing those mili
tary technologies. Right now, Steiger Electronics is one of those, but it’s a race to see who’ll stay ahead, and as in any race, we’re just one stumble, one turned ankle away from finding ourselves at the back of the pack instead of the front.”

  Richard crossed his legs and put his hands up in a supplicating gesture. “So, what do you need us to do, exactly?”

  Steiger glanced at Blake, who cleared his throat before speaking. “We want you to find Roth. If he’s got the prototype, we want you to bring it back here. If he doesn’t, we want you to get him to tell you what he did with it, and then track it down and bring it back.”

  Lynch raised an eyebrow. “And if he doesn’t want to give it to us, or give up where it is, when we find him?”

  “Do whatever it takes,” Blake replied.

  “Y’all giving us a wide range of options with a statement like that,” Richard said.

  “Look,” Steiger interjected, “Roth is dead to this company. If it wouldn’t make things so publicly embarrassing, I’d hit him with a list of felony charges as long as my arm. As it is, the future of Steiger Electronics depends on the recovery of that prototype. I am not going to let that happen! I’m not going to let that fucking traitor burn us down!”

  “Do you want him put down?” Richard asked, his voice eerily calm.

  There was a long moment of silence. Steiger turned and stared out the window. “I don’t want him murdered, no. If we can recover the prototype, I’ll pay him a good severance package and cut him loose.” Steiger turned back to look at Richard. “But if that son of a bitch gets himself killed because of the mess he created, I’m not going to lose any sleep over his fate.”

  “Okay, assuming we’re on board. How much money are we talking about?” Lynch asked.