It wouldn’t make them too popular with the people who sent them to try to rob McFadden, but everyone in their type of situation did it. The whole “snitches get stitches” threat was only uttered by those who never faced hard time themselves. Finding honor among low-level hoods was like hunting for diamonds in sewer sludge.
Thankfully, he wasn’t the one who had to look through that sludge. He was literally looking for everything else.
A woman stepped into the station, glanced around like she was a little lost, and drew the sergeant’s attention away from the pile of paperwork he was working on.
In fairness, she didn't look like she belonged in a police station. All five foot six of her—helped a little by the heels she wore—looked like she would be a little more at home at a marketing firm. Or maybe in LA, trying to make it as the next strong woman Latina typecast.
She flicked stray brown hairs from her face and tucked them behind her ear before she walked over to where he had begun to stand.
"Excuse me, miss?" he asked and moved out from behind his desk. "Are you here to file a police report? Because you can do that with the desk sergeant at the front. As you can see,” he waved a hand around. “We're a little swamped here."
"Actually, the desk sergeant told me I would be able to talk to you about an arrest you made," she stated. "Five arrests, actually."
Oh shit. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
She withdrew a badge from her jacket pocket. Not simply a badge, he noted—a golden shield with an eagle at the top and three letters emblazoned on the front. The FBI had arrived.
"I'm Special Agent Niki Banks," she said by way of introduction. "I understand that you, Sergeant Avery Smith and Officer Case Smith, no relation, brought in five local toughs for an attempted robbery?"
He didn't like where this was going. These conversations usually ended with the agents claiming that one of his perps was a federal witness or something like that and needed to be released immediately. It would fuck with all his paperwork.
"Yes," he said, nodded, and tried not to let his displeasure show. "I’m not sure what the FBI wants with a bunch of low-level thugs, though."
"Oh, I'm not here for the five," Banks said with a firm shake of her head. "I'm here about the man they tried to rob. A…Mr. McFadden?" She checked a notepad to be sure.
"Oh, right," he said and recovered from his surprise in only a few seconds. "I’m not sure what you want with him either…although yeah, considering the way he beat the poor bastards, I'm not surprised he's some kind of special forces dude. He said something about being in the Zoo, but I'm not sure I believe him."
"It would be best if you put him out of your mind, Sergeant," the agent said and consulted her notepad again. "In fact, I wondered if I could talk you into removing any mention of his name from your reports. His location should be considered…well, sensitive information."
Smith nodded. Was the guy a witness in protective custody? It sounded about right. McFadden had seemed like the kind of man who had a dark past.
"I'll keep him out of my future reports but I've already filed a couple on the arrests and sent them to the DA's office," the sergeant said, genuinely apologetic.
"The office that only opens tomorrow morning," she nodded. "Shit. Well, I guess I'll need to talk the DA into making the necessary redactions. Anyway, thanks for your time, Sergeant, and I appreciate your cooperation."
"Of course, us folks in law enforcement need to stick together," Smith said, chuckled, and proffered his hand. "Fuck all the jurisdiction crap, am I right?"
"Correct." Banks gave him a small smile and shook his hand briskly.
Chapter Eleven
Taylor did spend a fair amount of time after the cops left working on the building to spruce it up a little, even though the last hour had to be done with the help of Liz's headlights. He had enough time to finish what was required for the electricity so he could work with the building’s lights for the next few days.
It wasn't the most elegant situation, but he didn't mind spending the night at the location. It would give him a better feel for what it would be like when he actually moved in. Besides, he didn't want to be out of the picture if or when those goons decided to turn up again.
He moved a portable bed inside and set up the Wi-Fi to be used for security and personal access. After ordering something out for dinner, he ate quickly, went to bed, and slept better than he had at the hotel. There was something about staying in a place he owned and had a right to be in that was relaxing.
Which was weird since it had been difficult to get any sleep in the truck when he had been traveling. He assumed that having an actual bed—even a portable military one—helped.
The sun had barely begun to rise when he woke with the realization that there would be no hot water for a while.
Maybe there was a boiler or something in one in one of the basement rooms he hadn't checked thoroughly yet. If not, he’d have to install one sooner rather than later. Still, it meant an icy cold shower in the staff ablutions behind the grocery store—a lucky find, in his book, as he hadn’t expected to find one in that kind of property. He was more than used to cold showers from his time in the corps.
As always, it was as unpleasant as fuck but endurable.
With that done, he ate leftovers from the night before as a hasty breakfast before he set to work again. His first priority was to resolve the hot water situation. Priorities became flexible when faced with real need.
Hours later, his phone rang.
"It’s all day with these people," he grumbled as he yanked the phone out. He thought it was probably the cops trying to get another interview with him over what had transpired the night before. When he looked at the number that was calling, however, he realized that it was not even in the States.
There were one or two people who wanted to talk to him outside the US, but none of them were in law enforcement. Taylor answered the call and put it on speakerphone.
"Hi, I'm calling the number that was left in the men's room?" said a rough and familiar voice through the speaker.
"Was that number for a good fucking time, emphasis on fucking?" he asked. "Because if so, I think you might want to talk to someone else, Trevor."
"Tayloorrr! It's nice to hear your voice again," the man said and laughed. "How are things going back Stateside? Are you enjoying all the peace and quiet?"
"I was until there wasn't any peace and quiet to be had around here," he replied. "There was, and the ladies in Vegas are fucking insane, but I had trouble with a few of the local criminals. Nothing like the bounty hunters you're probably still dealing with in the Zoo but annoying enough."
"I can see how it would piss you off," Trevor commiserated. "Around here, we have suits with big fucking guns and rocket launchers and the like. I guess walking around in a full suit of mech armor and armed to the teeth isn't something folks around there are too willing to accept?"
"Well no, but that merely means I don’t have to deal with a horde of alien monsters and equally well-armed bounty hunters," Taylor pointed out. "Seriously, the guys I had to deal with had difficulty getting through my back door."
"Now that's a low bar to miss." The man chuckled again.
"You're about as hilarious as a nine-year-old who discovered an old book of dirty mad libs," he rolled his eyes. "In the end, all I needed was a baseball bat. The last one tripped over his own feet and begged me not to beat his face. I guess that settles into the world of disappointments that defines leaving the Zoo."
"Well, I would enjoy a little more boring out here, even if it means we make less money. Wait, no—yeah, I'd still want the money. Last I heard, you came away from here with enough cash to buy your own island."
"Not an island, per se," Taylor corrected. "But a good enough start. I’m almost to the point where I can buy an island and declare it McFaddenland. That might work as an eventual idea, but for now, I'm focused on getting a business off the ground."
"Oh, right, speaking
of which," the man said. "I heard you were setting up a location to start fixing suits. Is that intelligence correct?"
"Well, yes, but it’s still in the setup phase right now. I asked my boys who are still there to spread the word that I'll have a shop that would undercut the repair costs of the assholes there, but I didn't expect it to happen so quickly."
"Well, sure, when word comes out that we might be able to get cheaper prices on suit repairs, it tends to get around. So, lay it on me—what kind of prices are we looking at? Depending on the cost and the quality of the work, I know you'll have one hell of a niche market with the smaller merc groups out here that don't want to deal with what those corporations charge."
"Well, give me a sec to look into my market research, one minute." He pulled the phone away and checked the files on it quickly before sticking it back on his ear. "Okay, from the prices I looked at, it should take you about twelve grand to airfreight your suits here. You'd find a better price in bulk, so send all the suits you need repaired at the same time. I’ll fix them, add a couple of modifications on my own, and ship them back. If you're not a fan of the repairs or the modifications, I'll refund you for the things you’re not happy with."
"What kind of mods can you put into them?" Trevor’s curiosity was evident in his voice. "And more importantly, what kind of charges would you put on them?"
"I'll have to see what you give me and I'll quote you for what I can do, then you'll be able to choose what you want," Taylor replied. "There won’t be any price negotiation, though, but I can assure you it will be cheaper than the quotes you'll get over there."
"Yeah, that's still not putting the bar too high, is it?"
"Well, yeah, it's how I made it out," Taylor explained. "It was me, some kind of Military R&D, and a FYOTON Manufacturing heavy mech suit."
"Yeah, you're a regular kickass."
"Hey, remember eighty-three trips into the Zoo?" Taylor pointed out smugly.
"You'll hold that over everyone forever, won’t you?" The merc sounded both amused and irritated.
"Damn right I will until someone goes in there eighty-four times." That drew a laugh from the other man.
"Fun times," Trevor replied. "Anyway, I'll look into the shipping to get you the suits we need worked on. Shipping should only take a day or two for that kind of pricing. If the work is satisfactory, I'll make sure the word continues to spread. We need to keep guys like you in business."
"Works. I'm looking forward to it, Trevor. Stay alive in there."
"No promises," he replied cheerfully. "Have a good day. It is day there, right?"
"Yep, mid-morning."
"Well, have a nice day." The line clicked into silence.
"What do you know? I have my first client," Taylor told himself and savored the feelings of satisfaction and excitement the knowledge brought. "I need to get the business all set up without delay.” He looked around the large, cavernous, empty space. “And I need someone to talk to. I feel like I'm going crazy."
He took another shower—this one as cold as the last—and washed the couple of hours of work off before he pulled on a clean shirt.
Business needs now took precedence.
Banking hours were bullshit. Taylor was annoyed.
The fact that these people seemed to think the world revolved around their schedule was a problem, one that was usually exacerbated by the fact that there were countries elsewhere in the world that abided by the same rules. Inevitably, given that they were in different time zones, it meant that every country had different banking times.
Yep, still bullshit.
But it was the kind of crap everyone needed to live with since the world did, in fact, revolve around their schedule.
Which meant that even though Taylor had scheduled an appointment with the bank's loan office and he had arrived precisely on time, they still directed him to a waiting area with no Wi-Fi where he had to kick his heels until one of the loan officers was available.
Taylor sighed, shook his head, and leaned back in his seat while he toyed with the phone in his hand. There was only so much he could do on the device while he waited but he had enough time to sift through all his financial statements until he was bored to tears.
With that said, he actually did find the whole mathematics of the situation interesting. He'd never given it much attention while in school, but once he realized that money did make the world go around, metaphorically speaking, it suddenly became one hell of a lot more interesting.
"Mr. McFadden?" A tall, lean man with an aquiline nose and straight, short black hair walked up to him, adjusting his mid-range black suit.
"That's me," Taylor stood up, and up, and up. He smiled down at him as he
shook the man's proffered hand. "It’s nice to meet you…"
"Jason Lewis. Nice to meet you too," he replied. "I'm sorry for the delay. We've been a little swamped around here over the past couple of days. Nothing interesting, of course, but still time-consuming."
"Not a problem It's not like we had a scheduled appointment or anything," he responded and managed to restrain most of the sarcasm that edged the words. "Oh… Wait."
"Hah, very funny, Mr. McFadden," Lewis said and had the grace to chuckle. He couldn't tell if that response was sarcastic or not, but it didn't really matter as he guided him toward his desk in the back of the open area of the bank's local headquarters.
"So, I've been led to understand that you've come here in search of a business loan," the man said. "I would like you to know that we work extensively with current and former military members and that should definitely improve your loan qualifications with us."
"Well…that's great."
"We looked at your history in the Marine Corps, but I'm afraid we didn't see much in the way of…well, notes of what you were doing." Lewis checked his phone.
"Wait, you guys have access to my military records?" he asked, a little offended.
"Well, yes. That is a part of how we would be able to use your time with the military to improve your credit suitability with us."
"Yeah, well, I'm not surprised, I guess. Most of what I did would have been redacted."
"Anyway," Lewis continued cheerfully. "What kind of financial support do you think you will need?"
"Well," Taylor said and retrieved the sheets of paper that contained the market research he had put into his business. "I'm not sure what my company's name will be as yet, so you can call it…McFadden's Mechs for now. Anyway, I already have the research done into the sales market, which has clearly established that I would have a viable and fairly constant demand, all while being able to undercut standard market prices in the area."
"And you're trained to repair and modify the…ah, mech suits?" Lewis asked and sounded a little uncertain as he tried to grasp the variety of makes and models Taylor had established as his starting point.
"I have a degree in engineering plus experience in both modifying and repairing them in the Zoo," he said with a firm nod. "Both in the jungle itself on missions and in the shop. Actually, I spent considerable time with the mechanics who did the job on a daily basis, and I plan to bring one of those mechanics in as an employee."
After a few minutes of going through the paperwork, Lewis looked up. "You've…put considerable thought and effort into this," the man said, leaned forward, and paid more attention to the papers set out for him.
"People keep saying that like they're surprised." Taylor scratched idly at his beard, a little irritated. “It’s my life, so of course I’ll put thought and effort into it.”
“Well, you don’t usually expect this kind of thing from—" the banker started to say and looked up hastily from the papers as if he suddenly recalled who he was talking to.
“From?”
“Never mind.” Lewis shook his head quickly. “Well, this all looks to be in order, Mr. McFadden. Indeed, we don’t often get business proposals this well-organized and laid out.”
“Well, I do my best.” He knew the man
had intended to make some mention of his appearance—or maybe the fact that he was big and burly and it meant he was supposed to somehow lack in the brains department.
Taylor wouldn’t have said he was anything close to a genius, of course, but he did know his way around a financial statement. Not only that, logic had demanded that he put time and thought into studying the economy he would work and live in. That wasn’t only about being smart.
It was simply common sense.
"Well, I still need to submit it for approval, but I would say the chances are very good that you'll receive the approval for your loan." Lewis gathered the papers on his desk. "Do you mind if I make a copy of these?"
"You can print from here." He handed the man a USB drive and leaned back while he waited.
"There is one more small detail regarding the loan, however," the banker said a few minutes later when the printer whirred to life. "We do need some kind of collateral—you know, to insure it and make sure the bank has some security."
"I know what collateral is, Mr. Lewis." Taylor gave him a tight smile. "In the paperwork, you'll see that I own the property where I intend to run the business from and in fact purchased it outright, but I don’t want it encumbered so choose not put that up as security. You'll also find Certificates of Deposit totaling around two million dollars."
Lewis raised an eyebrow and flipped through the documents as he took a sip of his coffee. The banker seemed distracted while he perused the paperwork and the silence dragged on a little.
"That should be enough to cover the collateral, right?" Taylor asked when his patience wore thin.
"Yes…absolutely, yes, Mr. McFadden. But it would have to be a personal rather than a business loan." The man frowned, his demeanor still professional but a little curious. A moment later, he looked up at Taylor. "I…if you don't mind me asking, if you have this much invested, why bother taking out a loan in the first place?"
Hired Killer (Cryptid Assassin Book 1) Page 10