Infernum Omnibus

by Percival Constantine

  “About as well as can be expected.” He sipped the coffee and his face twisted into disgust. “Ugh, but I'd be a hell of a lot better if this was made from beans instead of crap.”

  “The Agency's finest,” said Julie, leaning against the desk.

  “Incredible...we're one of the top intelligence agencies in the world, home to the best and brightest, and we still haven't figured out a way to make a decent cup of coffee.”

  “Yeah, the annoying thing is we were so close, but then came 9/11 and all the resources were shifted from Operation: JAVA to the War on Terror,” said Julie.

  Christian grinned. “Operation: JAVA, huh?”

  Julie kept a completely straight face. “Oh yes, I wrote a research paper on it at the Academy.” She glanced at the computer screen. “Lockhart?”

  “Yeah,” said Christian. “Just going over everything in my head. She was an Olympic class swimmer, certified diver, and they assume she disappeared and drowned while on vacation?”

  Julie shrugged. “It happens. Even strong swimmers get sucked in by the tide.”

  “Still, it didn't seem unusual to them at all?”

  “Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. Either way, you know Agency policy on this. If it doesn't relate to a current investigation, those resources are better applied elsewhere.” She took a sip of the coffee. “What else did you find out?”

  “Nothing.” Christian leaned back in his chair. “Jeff was her only family. She's an only child, and both her parents are dead.”

  “Any aunts or uncles?”

  “Nope, her parents were both only children.”

  “What about their deaths? Any foul play suspected?”

  “Doesn't look like it, it was before she hooked up with the Agency,” said Christian. “Father died of a heart attack when she was in high school, her mother was killed in a traffic accident a few years later. Angela was already at Quantico by that time.”

  “Be careful with her, Christian,” said Julie.

  “I know what I'm doing.”

  “I'm talking purely on the level of the relationship,” she said. “A girl with that much tragedy in her life...”

  “What?” asked Christian.

  She shook her head. “Nothing, maybe I'm just thinking out loud.” Julie patted him on the shoulder. “Just be careful is all I'm saying.”

  ***

  Christian sat in a small diner a few miles from the Agency headquarters, tapping his fingers on the table as he waited for his order. He looked at his cell phone. No new voicemails, no new text messages. Meaning no word from Angela at all.

  “Well, this is a nice, cozy little spot.”

  Christian looked up as a man with slicked-back, platinum blond hair slid into the booth across from him. He wore a reddish leather jacket and had bright, unnaturally blue eyes complete with a strange goatee. The bright green shirt he wore seemed to shimmer in the light as he moved.

  “Can I help you?” asked Christian.

  “Saw you sitting over here, thought you might be bored.” He drew a cigarette from a special case and placed it between his lips, then offered his hand. Christian noted all the rings that lined his fingers. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  Christian carefully shook his hand. “I'm Chris.”

  “Nice night, eh Chris?”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

  “That's because I didn't give it.” He removed a Zippo lighter and flicked it open, sparking the flame. The waitress came over to the table before he could light the cigarette.

  “I'm sorry, sir, but there's no smoking in here.”

  The blond man sighed and placed the cigarette back in its case. “Bloody fascists, can you believe this?”

  Christian shrugged. “Never been much of a smoker myself, so it hardly affects me.”

  “But it does affect you, mate—it does.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “When they came for the smokers, I remained silent; I was not a smoker.”

  “'When they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.' Paraphrasing Martin Niemöller?”

  “Smart man.”

  “So you're equating smoking bans with Nazism?” asked Christian.

  “It's just one of the beginning stages. It starts off with taxing the shit out of it, a vice tax. Government says, 'well if you don't want to pay the tax, just quit.' But people still want to smoke. So then comes smoking bans. 'If you want to smoke that's fine, but in the interest of public health, we're banning it inside restaurants and bars. So just take it outside.' And then the taxes go up even more, to make up for health costs. Next move is criminalization and pretty soon, you've got people in jail for possession of tobacco.”

  “Interesting theory,” said Christian, raising his water to his lips. “I still didn't get your name.”

  “Apologies, mate. You can call me Dante.”

  Christian froze, his glass still held in midair. Dante smiled at him as Christian set the glass back down on the table. “Could you...say that name again?”

  “Oh, I think you heard me the first time,” said Dante.

  The waitress came by with a plate holding a burger and fries and set it in front of Christian. She looked at Dante. “Did you want something, sir?”

  “No thank you, love, I'm just catching up with an old friend.”

  The waitress smiled and left. Christian set one of his hands under the table.

  “Hold it right there,” said Dante. He raised both his arms. “Now look mate, I'm not here for a fight. I'm unarmed. I just want to talk, that's it.”

  “Talk?”

  “That's all I want, talk.”

  “You're one of the most wanted men in the world,” said Christian. “I've been trying to track you down for years. Why would I lose this chance to get you now?”

  “Because for starters, you've got no proof,” said Dante. “I walked right into this dive, sat right across from you, and had a conversation with you before you even realized who I am. And even then, all I told you was my name—do you know how many Dantes there are in the world?”

  Dante reached across the table and took a fry from Christian's place. “Now listen here, let's say for the sake of argument that you take me to Chandler in leg irons, right? What are you going to give him when he asks for proof that I am who you say I am? The identification in my wallet has a fake name and a fake address. The Agency doesn't have a single photograph of me. This conversation isn't being recorded. So what proof do you have? And keep in mind, Infernum doesn't have a union card.”

  Christian pointed to Dante's hand. “What about that ring?”

  “Which one?” asked Dante, holding out his hands. Christian looked over each of the rings, but not one of them bore the fire symbol associated with Infernum. “There's also the matter of you being physically unable to arrest me. I've already worked out five different ways to kill you while still sitting here and you wouldn't even see one of them coming. My driver is right outside and if I don't come out, he'll report in to my second. Then either a) my lawyers get involved and publicly humiliate your organization; or b) it's full-scale war and every assassin on my payroll raids your holding facility.”

  “How would they know where you were taken?” asked Christian.

  Dante grinned. “GPS locator implanted in my body.”

  Christian took a bite from his burger.

  “How is it?” asked Dante. Christian nodded to show his appreciation. He washed it down with a drink of water and then looked back at his guest.

  “So what's this all about then? Did you just come here to gloat?”

  “No, that's just an added perk. I came by because Uncle Dante wants to help you with your love life.”

  “Angela.”

  “I believe she told you her name was Anna, Mr. Pierce.”

  “You keep her out of this.”

  “You're the one who brought her into it,” said Dante. “We had a nice little arrangement, Pierce. You try to turn one of my operatives
, I kill said operative and leave you standing in the dust. It was working great. But then you decide to go after my latest operative.”

  “She's Agency,” said Christian.

  “Was Agency. You lot made sure she had no reason to bear you any loyalty. Now she's Infernum.”

  “She's opposed to everything you stand for.”

  “Not quite. We've got a better pension plan and we have great insurance. Even dental.”

  Dante leaned back into the booth, draping his arm across the back of the cushion. “Now listen, I really couldn't care less who Angela shags. Fact of the matter is, getting laid is good for her line of work. Relieves stress, releases endorphins, all that stuff, and this leads to her being more relaxed in the field. But a nice boy like you shouldn't be involved with a woman like that. She's a firecracker, she is. You should be with a sweet, maternal type. Someone like a teacher or a nurse. The kind of girl you can settle down with in the suburbs in a nice house with the picket fence and the two-point-three children.”

  “Maybe I like to live dangerously,” said Christian.

  “Careful, old son. This just might be the day when wishes are horses.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Threat? Me? Perish the thought.” Dante slid from the booth onto his feet. “I'm just giving you fair warning—you never know what the future may hold.”

  Dante left the diner and Christian finished off his meal in silence, his mind still recycling the conversation. Once he finished, he called the waitress over.

  “Something else you needed, sir?”

  “Just the check, please.”

  The waitress gave him a confused look. “I'm sorry?”

  “The check, I'm ready to go,” said Christian.

  “Your friend already paid.”

  Christian sighed and pulled his jacket on. “Of course he did...”

  CHAPTER 14

  When Angela returned home from a quick bite to eat at a nearby restaurant, she immediately felt a draft. Instinctively, she drew her gun and checked the windows. That's when she noticed the curtains by the balcony door were billowing.

  She walked towards the balcony slowly and gently moved the curtain to the side. As she did, she pressed the Desert Eagle's barrel against the back of the intruder's head.

  “Evening, love,” said Dante.

  “The hell are you doing?”

  “What's it look like?” Dante looked slightly over his right shoulder and raised his hand, a cigarette gripped between his ring and pinky finger. “I'm having a smoke.”

  “Don't have your own balcony you can smoke on?”

  “Matter of fact, I do. I rent a penthouse in the city, quite nice in fact. Wrap-around balcony, you know. Now lower the gun, we both know you won't kill me.”

  Angela didn't flinch. “I'm getting a little sick of you and your lapdogs breaking into my apartment.”

  “And I'm getting a little sick of having guns pointed at me. Now put. It. Down.”

  “How about you go to hell?”

  “Fine, be that way.” Dante spun towards his left, one arm wrapping around Angela's, his opposite hand then gripping the gun and pulling it from her grip. Within a few quick moments, he disassembled the gun, leaving the parts lying on the balcony floor. He leaned against the edge of the balcony, still facing her. “Now then, if you're done acting like a child, might we get down to business?”

  Angela crossed her arms and leaned against the balcony door frame. “I'm listening.”

  “Good.” He flicked his cigarette over the edge and produced a USB memory card from his pocket. “Where's your computer, I've something to show you.”

  “Follow me.” Angela led him back inside, through the kitchen and into the sitting room. She pointed to the small table beside the chair. “Right there. You want a drink?”

  “Scotch with a splash of amaretto on the rocks, if you've got it.” He sat down on the chair and picked up the laptop.

  “Let me see,” said Angela.

  Dante plugged in the memory card and brought up the file he had stored on there. Angela walked into the room and handed him his drink and he took a sip. “Not bad,” he said. “Hardly the best scotch, but it'll do.”

  Angela sat on the couch nearby and nursed her vodka tonic. “What do you have there?”

  “Your next assignment,” said Dante.

  “Why didn't you just send it directly to me instead of coming here?”

  “Because this is personal,” said Dante. “Remember our arrangement? In exchange for finding your husband's killer, you work for me.”

  “Do you really think I'd forget something like that?”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Dante. “Well, I found him.”

  Angela almost dropped her drink in response, but she retained her grip at the last second and the alcohol just splashed around a little. “You—you found him?”

  Dante nodded. “His name's Carter Brennen. The late Jeffrey Beam encountered him on his last assignment in Russia. He's a nasty arms dealer, Beam infiltrated his operation and his cover was blown.”

  “And you think Brennen killed Jeff?” asked Angela.

  “Pretty much certain of it,” said Dante.

  “But Jeff wasn't killed in Moscow.”

  “I know, he was killed during some downtime after a mission. I've read the file, I've heard your story, I know the details. Did it ever occur to you that Brennen had a mole inside the Agency?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think it's so hard to get a double-agent?” asked Dante. “Look at how many of my operatives the Agency was able to turn, you think it's so impossible to believe that someone couldn't turn someone inside the Agency? Brennen had someone feeding him intelligence about an Agency plot to infiltrate his operation. There were two agents assigned to that op. One was your husband. The other was the mole. That's how Beam's cover was blown, but Brennen wasn't able to kill him at the time. So he took him out later, found your address thanks to his mole.”

  Angela's grip tightened on the glass, her knuckles turning white. Her anger built to a boil. “Where is Brennen?”

  “Unfortunately, he's dropped off the radar,” said Dante. “My people are working on finding him. Turns out he also stiffed me on some business, so I want him gone as well and once I find him, I promise you that the assignment will be yours.” Dante sipped his drink again, releasing a sigh of satisfaction. “Damn, that's good.”

  “What about the mole?” asked Angela. “Who is he and where can I find him?”

  “Did Jeffrey ever mention an Agent Pierce to you?” asked Dante.

  Angela shook her head.

  “Turns out the two of them worked a few jobs together. One of them was the Moscow op. Seems very interesting that Brennen's mole gave him Beam's location but not Pierce's, don't you think?”

  “Where do I find this Pierce?” asked Angela.

  “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

  Angela furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”

  Dante turned the laptop so it faced her. On the screen, she saw Pierce's file and a photograph. The photograph was of none other than the man she knew as Chris.

  This time, the glass did fall from her grip, shattering on the floor.

  “You knew?” she asked.

  “I knew you were seeing him and I looked into it,” said Dante. “Pierce works for the Agency, he was the one who tried to turn both Travis and Anton. A bit more digging and I found out he also worked with your husband in Moscow. Questioned the right people, called in a few favors and then I find out he was on Brennen's payroll. The day you met him, the day you killed Anton? Did the coincidental nature of that encounter ever strike you as a bit strange?”

  “Maybe—maybe a little, but I just dismissed it as paranoia,” said Angela.

  Dante shook his head. “Never doubt your instincts, love. That's how people end up dead in our work. Pierce was obviously using you to try and get to me. Probably recognized you as no
t only a former operative but also Beam's wife. Thought he'd put a whammy on you, offer you a chance to come back to the Agency.”

  Angela stood and stormed out of the room. Dante followed her, going into her bedroom and leaning against the door as she opened the hidden compartment for her weapons cache. She removed a Mossberg 500 twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun from the rack and began loading the shells.

  “Isn't that a bit overkill?” he asked.

  She turned to glare at him. “When someone kills the only person you love and makes you look like an idiot, then you can tell me what is and isn't overkill.”

  “Suit yourself, love,” said Dante. “I was going to offer to give this job to someone else, I understand it's a bit of a conflict of interest given your recent relationship with him.”

  “No,” said Angela. She grabbed a gym bag and slid the shotgun inside. Then she pulled her jacket on, loading the extra clips into the inside pockets before holstering her Desert Eagle. She placed the small revolver in a small holster strapped to her ankle. On her other ankle, she strapped a hunting knife beneath the boot cut of her jean.

  “This asshole is mine.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Christian had only been home a few minutes. He took off his jacket and hung it from a hook near the door and helped himself to a beer in the refrigerator. He just opened it when he heard a loud banging on the door. Looking down at his watch, he saw it was a little after ten and he wondered who could be here at this time. The banging persisted.

  “I'm coming!” he shouted. “Damn, have some patience, will you?”

  Before he reached the door, another bang issued forth. This one far, far louder than the others and one that was accompanied with the smell of gunpowder and the blowing of his lock. Christian immediately slid back into the kitchen and reached for the Beretta in his shoulder holster. The door kicked open and he heard a familiar voice.

  “We need to talk, Chris!”

  He instantly recognized the voice, although not the anger present. “Ange—Anna?”

  Angela stepped into his view, standing in the kitchen doorway. She raised the shotgun and pointed it at him. “I think we should see other people.”