The man across from him sat, sphinx-like, in a high-backed chair behind a solid teak desk, gazing out over a view of Battery Park tinged with sunset oranges and reds.
His office windows overlooked the point where two rivers, the Hudson and the East, met from either side of downtown Manhattan. Garrison himself wore a black Brioni suit with a gray silk tie and a bone-colored dress shirt that complemented the suit’s lines. A discreet pin of black metal caught the light from his pocket. It was small, and blended easily into the black of the suit’s fabric, but Horne couldn’t help noticing it.
It depicted the Egyptian god, Anubis.
Horne scowled. He knew the emblem to be a calling card, of sorts. He had one too, but he didn’t have the loyalty––or the stupidity, his mind muttered––to wear his openly.
Garrison even had a damned Anubis statue sitting on his desk.
The rest of his office looked like something out of a movie about fictional oil tycoons. Done all over in expensive woods, with light gray carpet and black and chrome fixtures, it had a cool, dark, metallic flavor. A massive hunk of scorched rock, one of the world’s largest known meteorites, stood on a white marble pedestal in one corner, shimmering with a faint, bluish hue.
Knowing Garrison, the wood making up the bookshelves and the desk was probably logged illegally from some deep rainforest in South America or Asia. Tusks from an African bull elephant swept gracefully from the upper wall nearest to the door, a trophy from one of Garrison’s last hunting trips and likely a not-so-subtle screw you to any animal-rights fanatics who might come calling.
A kinetic sculpture made of titanium spun silently on his desk.
Garrison didn’t look up from where he gazed out over the water, taking in the view of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty in the distance. He might have been appreciating the view, or he might be thinking about the coming weekend, when he’d be flying back to a ranch his family kept in Montana. Or maybe he wasn’t looking at anything at all.
Maybe he hadn’t heard a damned word Horne said.
Maddeningly, Horne couldn’t tell the difference.
“Garrison, we can’t screw around with these guys,” Horne said, sharper, trying to get the man to turn, to look at him. “To even suggest such a thing now is painting big, red targets on our chests. Not just your chest. Mine. His.”
He pointed to the other occupant of the seventieth-floor office. The man he pointed at jumped, as if Horne aimed a gun at him, not his forefinger.
“See?” Horne’s voice rose an octave. “You’ve got Forsythe rattled, too. You need to get your shit together, David. Put your big-boy pants on, okay? We screwed up. We need to face that fact, and deal with reality. Not keep pretending we can ride this thing out.”
Garrison’s blue eyes slid back into focus.
He pursed his lips, glancing at Horne.
“You’re saying this to me?” Those narrow lips quirked. “You’re the one who’s been talking to the cops, Alan. Not me.” He nodded at the other man. “And not John.”
Horne felt his face heat. “I didn’t talk to the cops. I talked to an old friend. He’d never say anything. Not unless I asked him to.” Suspicion swam through his mind, a harder anger. “How the hell did you even know about that? Are you having me followed now?”
“They called me.” Garrison gave him a hard look. “And yes. You are a fool to think they wouldn’t be monitoring us now, given what is at stake.”
Feeling his stomach drop, Horne fought to turn it into anger and only half-succeeded. Glaring from Garrison to Forsythe, he noted the latter still looked like an antelope ready to bolt across the savannah from the scent of lions.
Horne’s eyes returned to Garrison.
The older man watched him shrewdly, his blue eyes holding a harder edge.
“Well?” Garrison said.
“Well, what?” Horne snapped. “You saw the news last night. I was looking into options. For all of us. I called an old friend.”
“An old friend who happens to be a cop.”
“He’s LAPD,” Horne snapped. “And technically, he’s suspended right now.” He paused, giving his words an additional punch of emphasis. “He also knows Black. He worked with him. Hired him on as a consultant last year on some murder case... and before that, they worked a case together in San Francisco, that big Templar thing.”
Garrison’s eyes narrowed still more. “The clients expressly forbade––”
“I know what they said,” Horne snapped. “But I don’t want to end up in prison, David. Do you? Or do you really think ‘the clients’ wouldn’t throw us under the bus at the first fucking opportunity, if it was us versus them?”
Garrison shook his head, steepling his fingers under his lips. Sighing, he gave Horne an impatient look. “Why now, Alan? It’s not like we didn’t know something was coming. Was last night really such an enormous surprise to you?”
“It wasn’t to you?” Horne stared at him, incredulous. He looked between the two of them, trying to decide if Forsythe was worth appealing to, then focused on Garrison. “And yeah, I knew something was coming. But this is more than ‘something,’ David. They’ve gone totally off the reservation. That new leader of theirs has snapped. And if he decides to claim we were somehow involved in that insanity––”
“He won’t,” Garrison warned.
Horne scowled. “Really? You think not? Because I’m not feeling that confident, David.”
Garrison shook his head. “This is what we signed up for, Alan.”
“It’s not what I signed up for,” Horne cut in. “Do you really not get what this means? We can’t just grease a few palms to get back in the game if we’re caught this time, David. You’re talking about treason. Actual treason. Against the United States of America!”
Garrison looked up, his eyes cold. “You can’t possibly be this naïve. You knew what we were getting into! We all knew––”
“Bullshit!” Horne snapped.“He said he’d cause a shortage... he didn’t say he was setting the whole damned federal reserve on fire!”
Garrison frowned, glancing at the door to his office.
So did Forsythe.
When Garrison returned his glare to Horne, his expression had grown exponentially colder, his blue eyes hardening in a hawk-like, wind-creased face. Horne always thought the old man would look at home in a cigarette ad from the fifties, riding a horse and wearing a cowboy hat. His short gray hair, along with the faint line of gray and black stubble on his jaw and cheeks, made his face appear even harder and more weatherbeaten.
“They manipulated us into this,” Horne snapped. “They saw a weakness and exploited it. Pretending we knew their end game all along is just a feeble attempt to convince ourselves we still have control. We don’t have control. We never did.”
Garrison frowned delicately, waving off his words with a ripple of his fingers. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Alan, for crying out loud. We all knew the risks. And let’s not forget...” He gave Horne a shrewder look. “We stand to make a killing off this little event. Funny how, now that the money is being deposited into your account, you suddenly grow a conscience.”
Horne jabbed a finger at the newspaper on the desk. “Over two hundred people are dead, David. They haven’t even found most of the bodies yet! Hell, for all we know, they’re just getting started...”
Forsythe stepped forward. The blond man’s voice slanted a few octaves higher than theirs, and softer, but his words were insistent enough that both men turned.
“Horne’s right, isn’t he, David?” Forsythe looked between them nervously, focusing in the end on Garrison. “I don’t disagree with you. I don’t. But we should have an exit strategy here. There’s too much heat on this... they will get caught. Eventually.” He glanced at Horne, his eyes wide as a rabbit’s. “Maybe going to Black isn’t such a bad idea. He’s well-connected, especially in the military and intelligence community. If he’s stayed alive this long, with the clients gunning for him––”
>
“Going to Quentin Black is out of the question.” Garrison glared at Forsythe, then aimed that stare at Horne, making it clear from his look that he blamed Horne for Forsythe’s outburst. “You really don’t understand what we’re in the middle of here, do you? It’s too late to be getting cold feet. There is much more going on here than either of you seem to realize.”
Pausing, as if thinking better of finishing that thought, Garrison glared at Horne.
“We go to Black, and best case scenario, we spend the rest of our lives in jail. Worst case, we never live to see a trial... or we disappear into a CIA black site or someplace worse.”
“Not if we act now,” Horne said, biting his tongue in anger. “If we talk to them now, tell them what we know, we can get protection. The government won’t care about us… they’ll want the client. But if we wait too long, that window will close. We have plausible deniability now. We won’t have that if we wait much longer.”
Horne shot both of them angry glares.
“The clients won’t stop with this one oil reserve,” he added. “You know exactly what they brokered from us. You know the sheer quantity they’ve got in their possession. They only could’ve used a fraction of that on what they did last night––”
“It’s too late.” Garrison glared up at him. “Do you really not understand this? This is only the beginning, you are right in that, but this is a war we cannot win. The only option we have is to be on the right side. Before it is too late.”
Horne stared at him. “The ‘right’ side? Is that what you think we’re on?”
Garrison continued to focus on his face, his eyes like blue ice. Then, shaking his head, he swiveled in his chair, aiming his gaze out the window once more.
Horne could only stare at him, stunned.
When the silence stretched, he shut his mouth with a snap.
“Black’s a P.I., for fuck’s sake... and according to my friend, a damn good one. He was a spook before that.” He gritted his teeth. “Christ. You wouldn’t believe the stories I’ve heard about him, even apart from what my friend told me. I knew a few people in the security sector who claimed to work with him back in Iraq. Even Black’s so-called friends are afraid of him. If anyone can handle our clients... it’s him.”
Garrison looked between the two of them, his lips thinned to a sharp line. He paused on Horne, evaluating him like he was some kind of insect.
Horne clenched his hands. He made an effort to subdue his voice.
“This doesn’t have to be ideological, David,” he said. “All Black gives a shit about is money. We hire him, we’re hiring one of our own. We pay him enough, and he’ll do this however we ask. I’d take my chances with someone like Black over our clients, any day.”
Garrison glared up at Horne with those ice-blue eyes. “God Almighty. You really don’t know Black at all, do you? You really think money would be his motive in this?”
“Money is always the motive,” Horne said, dismissive. “It is for people like us. Anything else is just window-dressing.”
Garrison continued to stare at him, his eyes holding that angry disbelief. His eyes returned to the glass wall, scanning the horizon for something Horne could not see. When the older man spoke next, his voice was low, holding a bite Horne could only just discern.
“You’re wrong, Alan.” Garrison continued staring sightlessly at the horizon. “In fact, I’m beginning to think the opposite is true. I’m beginning to think it’s never about money. Not really.”
There was a silence.
“Then you’re an idiot,” Horne couldn’t stop himself saying. “Jesus Christ. You really are one of the true believers now, aren’t you, David? What? Sunday mass not creepy enough for you anymore? You needed to convert to their fucked up fairytales?”
Garrison didn’t move. He continued to stare out the window.
Watching him, Horne fought an impulse to walk around the desk and shake the old man.
He was still staring at him when the doors behind them slammed open.
Somewhere in the background, a secretary screamed.
Horne could only stare, frozen, as four men walked in, all of them carrying guns. All four wore black masks that warped their features, with slits only for their eyes, noses and mouths. Inhumanly bright-colored eyes shone from behind several of those masks, shining in the sun. Horne saw dark blue and green... then stopped on a tiger-like, animal gold.
The man with the gold eyes lifted his mask, exposing his face.
Horne felt his stomach drop, his mouth go dry. Wringing his palms and fingers, he felt his hands break out in a sweat.
“Black.” He swallowed, staring at him. “What are you doing here? Did Andrew send you?”
The tall man with the black hair gazed around at all three of them, as if assessing the length and breadth of the room. Something in his eyes struck Horne as robot-like, borderline not-there, like his consciousness was only halfway in the room.
Then his lips twitched in a smirk.
Those sharp, gold eyes focused on Horne.
“No, Alan,” he said, raising the gun he carried so it pointed at Horne’s face. “Andrew didn’t send me.”
Before Horne could take a breath, he’d already pulled the trigger.
7
CRIME SCENE
BLACK TOLD COWBOY and Ace to stay with the car.
Then he glanced at me.
He already stood on the sidewalk, the SUV’s door propped open as he leaned on it, looking at me, a faint frown on his face. He inclined his head, indicating for me to get out.
“Come on, doc. I need you.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “What use could I possibly be up there? Didn’t the cops ask for you?” Frowning harder, I added, “Why didn’t you ask Nick to come? Or Angel?”
“Because I don’t want Nick. I don’t want Angel, either. I want you.” His expression didn’t move. “Come on, doc. I could use a second set of eyes. Yours, specifically.”
My skepticism deepened.
Folding my arms, I quirked an eyebrow at him.
He frowned, glancing at Ace and Cowboy before looking back at me, his gold eyes visible as he tilted his head to see over the mirrored sunglasses. “Are you going to come in with me, doc?” he said, quieter. “Or not?”
Something about the way he said it, or maybe the look in his eyes, or maybe something I felt off his light, made me bite my tongue on the sarcastic remark that wanted to form.
He really did want me to come with him.
I had no idea why, but looking at him, I could feel it as much as see it.
Exhaling in annoyance, I slid over on the leather seat.
When he moved out of the way to accommodate me, I climbed out of the car, landing on the sidewalk in inappropriately high heels. Adjusting the black mesh dress I still wore, I glanced around nervously at the foot traffic, some of which paused to stare at Black, likely recognizing him. It felt strange to have zero security around us suddenly, even though I knew the building was full of cops.
I didn’t look over until Black touched my arm.
I watched his hands and light as he made another of those complicated, graceful gestures, indicated for me to follow him into the building. I caught the additional meaning there, too. He didn’t just want me to follow him physically; he wanted me to follow his lead.
Nodding, more to myself than to him, I didn’t bother to answer.
He didn’t say another word to me as we made our way up to the glass doors.
The lobby had only two cops, but they both got up when they saw Black. From their eyes, they clearly recognized him, too. They also didn’t look overly surprised to see him; someone must have told them we were coming.
One of them aimed a long, lingering stare down me, too, reminding me yet again that I wasn’t exactly dressed for work.
Black slid a portion of his bulk in front of me, even as I thought it, catching hold of my wrist. I couldn’t fail to notice the proprietary feeling there, or the
pulse of aggression that came off his light as he looked at the cops.
“Which floor?” he said, blunt.
The first cop––not the one who’d stared at me––ushered us politely to the nearest elevator car. Using a pass card he must have gotten from building security, he hit the door to the highest floor and got out, tipping an imaginary cap towards me and giving me a half-smile.
I could tell Black didn’t like that all that much either.
You’re kidding, right? I sent, after fielding a decidedly annoyed look from him. You’re the one who hires people to dress me like this, you know.
Black didn’t answer.
I’d be just as happy to walk around in sweatpants, I added. Or combat clothes, like the rest of your team. I was doing this as a favor… or did you forget?
Black didn’t answer that, either.
After another pause, he sighed, however. Stepping closer, so that he stood directly behind me, he leaned down, kissing the back of my neck.
Sorry, doc, his mind murmured. Thanks for coming. I’ll take you to dinner after, okay?
I nodded. When he nudged my mind again, I opened my psychic sight, and found him waiting for me.
Might as well do some training, since you’re here, he sent, still soft. Can you see the cameras in here, doc?
I frowned, glancing around at the walls.
Not with your eyes. He nudged me gently with his mind. Use your sight.
Still using his mind, he showed me where little smudges of what he called “light” clustered on the outside of the elevator car’s mirrored walls. I knew from things he’d shown me before that those smudges were a kind of energetic residue left over from human fingers and hands touching that part of the glass. After I noted the heaviest cluster of them around the buttons and near the lower part of the walls, he nudged my attention higher.
That high up, only one corner had a cluster of smudges.
You can use your logical mind, too, he added, kissing my neck again, and making me shiver involuntarily. Logic generally speeds things up. But you should get in the habit of looking with both. Use one to confirm the other. He smiled. Always good to know where the cameras are, doc. No matter what you’re doing.
Black Of Mood (Quentin Black: Shadow Wars #2): Quentin Black World Page 9