Wallbanger

by Sable Jordan

  * * * *

  Jack Holloway exited the elevator on the third floor of the Doubletree Hotel. Making a left down the corridor, he walked the short distance to room 351. The plastic key card went into the reader, and he waited for the light to go green before turning the handle and pushing his way into the room he’d been living in for the past few days.

  Gale didn’t need to know that.

  Unlike her, he actually had been in the area visiting family. Well, they were a touch south in North Carolina, but when he’d gotten the e-mail saying she’d be in Virginia, he made the trip up.

  Though it irritated him, Gale’s absence to talk to her “Mama” allowed him the chance to check his own phone. He’d heard the low vibration while they were on the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice. He had a feeling that it was a new assignment, and was correct in the assumption.

  An easy one—just a skip trace. Probably a personal favor. It had happened before. He didn’t have a name, but with the cell number supplied in the text message he could easily pin down the tower closest to where the phone was last located. A simple matter of trilateration. Could do it in his sleep.

  Freshly showered and a towel slung around his hips, Jack sat in the chair at the desk and roused his laptop from SLEEP mode. He didn’t have all the equipment with him that a true trace would require, but being resident computer guru in The Crew, he’d set up a method to remotely access anything he’d need while anywhere in the world. Made last-minute travel a whole lot easier.

  A few strokes to the keyboard and he was in the mainframe, going through a series of security checks to ensure his system couldn’t be hacked. Pulling up the desired program, he entered the ten-digit number and sent out a signal to check that the phone was on—it wasn’t—sent another to give it juice via the reserve battery power every mobile phone had that 911 used for emergencies. Then he waited for the mechanical brain to work its voodoo.

  In the space between, he dressed and ordered room service, the coffee and croissants arriving before the machine spit out the results: Toronto, Canada. According to the screen, the phone was last at Pearson International almost 8 hours ago.

  That was the first red flag. Nowadays, as soon as an inbound plane touched the runway, people had their phones out to contact loved ones, let them know they’d arrived. If the phone had gone dead, he had to assume the owner would have charged the battery by now, and, had it been used to make a call, it would have pinged off another tower already. Had it ever left the plane?

  Of course there was the other scenario to consider—the phone was on an outbound International flight and had been shut off just after the traveler called people on the other end.

  Jack opened another program on his computer, running a piece of software he’d written for situations such as this. Four minutes later, he had hacked the phone company’s database only to learn the device he’d was tracking had never made a single call. Just a text message. That made even less sense.

  Leaning back in the chair, he drummed his fingers on the wooden table. Technically, it was mission accomplished. He’d located the phone and could leave it at that. But something urged him to dig a little deeper. Should he?

  Shoving his conscience aside, he traced the incoming flights for Pearson, finding that three planes had landed around the same time the phone had arrived in Canada—one from New York, another from Vancouver, and a third from Columbia. Another six had departed—headed toward New York, Chicago, Ohio, Florida, Barcelona, and Brazil. Without more data, that didn’t tell him much.

  He made a call. “The info you wanted. Last location is Pearson International Airport, Toronto, Canada.”

  The voice on the other end hesitated. “Where are you?”

  “New York,” Jack said. The lie came easily.

  A heavy sigh preceded the caller’s next words. “This stays between us, and I’m only asking because I trust you. There’s a member who’s DNC.”

  DNC—do not contact. Not uncommon, especially when an agent was in play. “Why is that a concern?”

  “She’s ‘I. I.’ as of two weeks ago. Never been dark while in-op. I need her.”

  I. I.—inoperable indefinitely. Two weeks ago?

  Jack’s scalp tingled. This wasn’t just any agent. In spite of his gut reaction, he asked the question anyway, forcing some levity into his tone. “And she’s not on vacation?”

  Silence.

  Not a good sign. He went for it, unsure if the other man would answer. “Who am I tracking, Bill?”

  “Kizzie Baldwin.”

  * * * *

  Helsinki, Finland

  Tourist was a role Phillip Marchande hadn’t played in a while, but when it came to his job, he was flexible. He exited the subway train and paid a nearby vendor for an overpriced paper map and an I Heart Helsinki shot glass; shoved the souvenir in a pocket. He stood there a moment, amidst the throng of people coming and going, studying the map with great care. It was unnecessary—Marchande always knew where he was going. Even when Xander doesn’t, he mused.

  They’d been friends for more years than he could recall, friendship being a rare thing in their line of work, and Xander had always managed to pull Phil out of the fires. Sure most of those fires were ones Xander had set, but that was a minor detail. Truth was, Phil wouldn’t have it any other way. An introverted adrenaline junkie by nature, Xander’s many escapades kept Phil’s heart pumping at a steady rate of “holy shit!”

  Done with the ruse of consulting the map, he hugged his thick coat around him and boarded the escalator to go topside, wondering how this particular blaze would play out. Phil knew this mission was personal. It had always been personal, but Xander had convinced himself it was all part and parcel of the game; likening it to moving a pawn on a chessboard, a way to ferret out your opponent’s strategy. But Xander would never admit it was much more like placing the black queen in firing range of the white and hoping your opponent didn’t notice.

  The queen, he thought, noting how Xander called Kizzie “Princess”. Perhaps the title was fitting after all. Xander was staking more than a little bit in this gamble with Sacha, and Kizzie was an unknown quantity. A beautiful quantity, but an unknown one, nonetheless. Being Xander’s hired muscle made Phil wary of people, yet Kizzie had slipped beneath his defenses with ease. In the span of 24 hours she’d already promised to kick his ass—something Marchande was sure she’d make good on—and cost him twenty grand. She’d definitely make things interesting.

  But women also had a way of complicating things. Especially for Xander.

  The ride to the top brought him just a mile east of his destination, a distance he covered in a leisurely half hour stroll; a beanie on his head and sunglasses pulled over his eyes both to protect them from the harsh white glare of the snow on the ground and to allow him to discreetly scan his surroundings. He paused to look at architecture he wasn’t interested in; snapped photos of irrelevant statues with the camera of his cell phone. All while working his way toward the chateau.

  A huge, single-story structure on a sprawling, tree-covered lot, it was enclosed by a high granite wall. Sacha’s own little fortress a stone’s throw from metropolitan Helsinki. Phil walked the length of the block the compound resided on, counting the cameras as he went. Stationed in plain view so everyone would know they were being watched. There were five in the L-shape he’d traversed, which meant at least an additional five on the remainder of the rectangular block, and he assumed they all operated off the same feed. Easy work.

  As he rounded the corner, a car pulled through the compound’s sole entrance, which was guarded by an automatic gate. The passenger looked familiar, but he’d only gotten a glimpse as the vehicle made its way onto the private land. He had to be sure.

  Without breaking stride he crossed the street at a diagonal, going straight for the church that sat opposite Sacha’s chateau. Head skyward, he slowly climbed the risers as though admiring the structure’s beautiful facade. What he really appreciated was the hi
gh vantage point.

  At the landing, he stopped to read the schedule and then pulled open one of the heavy wooden doors. A slight hesitation—it had been a while—and he crossed the threshold, stomping the snow from his boots onto the rubber mat. The building didn’t fall, so he continued inside, deliberately skipping the holy water. No sense in pushing his luck.

  All was quiet, the church practically empty save a few people toward the front deep in prayer. He averted walking down the nave—again, the luck thing—and crossed the anteroom toward the set of stairs that would put him in the Juliet balcony one story up.

  A memory surfaced of him being a shy little boy in the choir; his mother believing it would be a good way for the reclusive Phil to make friends. It didn’t help. He wasn’t much for talking, less for singing, and when he whispered the director told him he had to sing louder so God could hear him. “It’s the only way to save your soul.”

  Phil went on murmuring.

  It was an unlikely schoolyard fight with a then six-year-old Xander that made Phil find his voice, and his talent. The two had been running together ever since. Souls were overrated. Besides, he liked to think he and The Big Guy had an understanding….

  Mounting the steps, Phil came to the landing and paused, not expecting to see anyone there. A woman stood polishing a beautiful mahogany organ, the scent of lemon strong in the air. Humming a soft tune, her eyes widened when she looked up, clearly shocked at his arrival.

  “You scared me,” she said in Finnish.

  He didn’t speak the language so said nothing. This could be a problem. People often remembered men like Phil; the height, the build, the tanned skin and deep scar that crossed his eye and cheek. Glasses and a beanie might not be enough to conceal his identity.

  She cocked her head. “English?” He nodded and she said, “You come to help?” pointing to the brass pipes rising high toward the heavens.

  Phil nodded again, uncoiled his hand from the grip of the sound-suppressed Glock in his pocket. He approached the instrument and took the rag from the woman, positioning so he could look out the window. Two taps to a tiny button on the arm of his sunglasses zoomed the built-in camera lens, bringing the license plate of the car a bit closer; pushing the bridge up on his nose activated the ‘record’ function. The wireless transmission went directly to his phone.

  He watched as two men exited the vehicle, the passenger his only true concern. They were too far for his naked eye to distinguish, but he knew the camera would pick up all the action. Someone exited the chateau to greet the guests, and all three figures mounted the steps and disappeared inside.

  Having gathered what he needed, Phil ended the recording by sliding the glasses down his nose a hair. He’d process the info and get it to Xander before they went to the party later that evening.

  “You not hellllpiiiing,” the woman sung sweetly.

  He smirked, checked his watch—plenty of time. Better to stick around and be sure no more unexpected visitors showed up between now and then. Plus, just in case that understanding wasn’t clear, he could use a couple brownie points with the Man Upstairs.

  Adding more polish, he pushed the cloth against the wooden frame, rubbing in small circles.

  5

  McLean, Virginia

  Daniel Gilbert held the door for the exiting couple, and then stepped into the loud establishment. The Pub was exactly what a small dive bar should be—lively atmosphere, cheap drinks and a quirky mix of locals and first-timers all out enjoying one of the few places in McLean open until the wee hours of the morning. The air was so filled with smoke it barely passed for breathable, and since he’d decided to quit smoking just a few weeks before, it was always a welcome balm to his nicotine-starved lungs.

  He took a breath deep into his body—Damn, that feels good—and pulled a square of original flavor Nicorette from the pack in his pocket, popped the gum into his mouth. The taste was horrendous, but he figured it increased his odds of never wanting to go through the cessation process again, ergo he wouldn’t go back to the smokes. Smoking was risky. He shrugged out of his wrinkled suit jacket and shifted onto a barstool.

  “Hey, Danny.” Shirley raised her voice to be heard over the bustle of the jukebox and the crowd. She slid a club soda across the lacquered bar and wiped up the trailing water with a cloth.

  Nodding in both greeting and thanks, he lifted the clear liquid to his lips. Club soda wasn’t his favorite, but since he’d given up drinking as well, it was all he allowed himself to have. Vices weren’t a thing a man of his newly appointed importance needed.

  Daniel Gilbert’s life was risk management, and up until a few months ago, he’d lived his life “look before you leap”. Every decision he made went through a rigorous five-step process of threat identification, assessment, risk determination, reduction strategies and implementation of those strategies to maximize the outcome. He often joked that selecting toothpaste was a bitch, but at least his teeth were white. Even when playing the odds, there was no such thing as luck—only the meticulous five steps could bring about success.

  That orderliness was something he picked up before the military, and was how Daniel came to take a position as a company clerk. He still found himself in dangerous situations, but it was, by his calculations, the least risky of the available options. Truth be told, his heart pumped Kool-Aid, but his family expected him to serve, so serve he did.

  His obsession—and it was an obsession—with risk reduction was simply the way he operated. It was also the reason why he made far less money than his contemporaries working in the financial field. Daniel could have gone to Wall Street and made a fortune; would have been living in some posh Manhattan loft with a nice car and a gorgeous blonde arm-piece he’d bang steady every night. But according to his diligent computations, he’d have burned out by 36, the probability of a breakdown due to stress was in the 98th percentile, and he imagined his blonde fucking the doorman since Daniel was spending all his time at work.

  So instead, he’d chosen the path of least resistance while continuing to serve his country as a risks manager with the CIA. 36-years of age, burned out, same title, tiny apartment in the quiet town of McLean, not so flashy car. Gorgeous arm-piece also absent, as was the sex. For once in his life he’d miscalculated, and the grievous error then drove his ambitions now.

  Daniel had been on the safe side of risk for too long. Now he wanted to see the view from a slightly more dangerous perch. In a month, he would resign from his post leaving the security and stability he was accustomed to, and step out to see the world. The knowledge emboldened him, made him walk a little taller, but after years of being safe he still treaded carefully. After all, 90% of screw-ups came from basic human error.

  He took a sip of his club soda and scanned the crowded bar. I’m putting all this behind me. It couldn’t happen soon enough.

  A loud noise erupted from the area of the dartboards, and someone shouted, “She kicked your ass again!”

  He turned his attention to the laughing crowd. An angry man, the loser he assumed, stormed out of the sea of bodies, yanked his coat from the tree by the entrance and left. Cool night air crept in before the door swung closed again. To his right, someone brushed against him and he swiveled his head.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said. “Still a little excited about my victory.”

  “No problem.”

  “Another Heineken, Shirley.” She bopped to the music while waiting for the drink.

  He looked her over—Georgetown sweatshirt, fitted blue jeans and hiking boots. She had a cute face, tanned skin, and, if he had to guess, she was just old enough to be in her third or fourth year at the University. Likelihood of getting shot down—fifty-fifty. Feeling good, he decided to take a chance. “How much did you get him for?”

  “Sorry?” She looked at him with big brown eyes.

  Daniel sipped his drink and jerked his head toward the door, trying to affect an air of coolness he’d never tried on before; wasn’t quite sure
fit. “Tommy—the guy whose ego you just bruised. How much?”

  A half smile graced her lips. “Six hundred and eighty.”

  His eyes widened and he whistled. “You two really had a game going. He’s one of the better players in town.”

  She angled her body toward him, propping one elbow on the bar. “Am I looking at the best, then?”

  “Damn straight.” He grinned. By the look on her face she wasn’t impressed. “Daniel Gilbert,” he said, hand extended.

  Even odds she’d walk away.

  “Lana James.” Her grip was firm, unexpected from someone so small, but the confidence in her smile backed it up. “Want to put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Gilbert?”

  He let his hold on her last a little longer and shook his head. “Don’t gamble at darts anymore. People stopped lining up to play.”

  “You can’t be that good,” she challenged. “What are you drinking?”

  He noticed a ring on her left hand when she accepted the beer from the barkeep. Middle finger—not engaged. Probability of having my ass kicked by a fiancé: zero. By a boyfriend…. “Club soda.”

  Lana’s tiny brow knit. “Stopped drinking too?” She giggled. “Loser buys the next round of sodas, then.”

  Daniel’s gaze landed on her mouth, studying the way it moved while she spoke. She trapped her tongue lightly between her teeth, and he looked up to catch the flirtatious gleam in her eyes.

  “We could wager something else…if you want….” She let that hang on the air, her gaze making a trip down his body before returning to his, and for once in Daniel’s risk-assessing life it seemed someone had done the computing for him. He thrummed with excitement as he always did when the odds were firmly in his favor.

  Her beer went on the countertop beside his club soda and she stepped into his personal space. Mouth at his ear Lana breathed, “Come play with me, Danny.”

  * * * *

  Helsinki, Finland