by Sable Jordan
In twisted dark slacks and a modestly cut, beige blouse, the woman lay at an awkward angle, neck wrenched opposite the direction of her torso, legs and arms akimbo. Judging by the upended laptop she’d collapsed, dragging the machine with her. Her face was bruised, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Xander wondered what, or whom, she’d been staring at when the bell tolled.
On the bright side—if there was a bright side when dealing with the dead—this wasn’t Sumi.
Kizzie stepped around him and all he could do was observe as she made a sweep of the small rental. She edged near the window to be sure no one could see into the living room, Xander assumed, and then disappeared down a short, dark alcove. A quick trip and she was back, nodding briskly and confirming what they’d all suspected: Just the four of them.
Or three and a husk.
The kitchen was next, and she returned from it with each hand stuffed into a plastic bag. A wad of paper towels in her grip reeked of harsh cleaner. Xander risked a glance back at Phil, who subtly shook his head. Five thousand dollars and he was supposed to stand around and let Kizzie take point?
Suppressing a groan, Xander faced Kizzie, his stance wide, jaw clenched and arms crossed over his chest. She stooped near the body, seemingly oblivious to the smell. Pregnant or not, Naima would have lost her lunch, breakfast, and the prior night’s dinner by now. Dead bodies were her limit. The things Kizzie must be capable of…
One bag removed, she pulled her phone from her pocket, working the screen over with her thumb. She extended the device toward him accompanied by a hard look that warned him not to do anything stupid with it.
He took her phone.
The “glove” went back on and she rolled the stiff onto one side, ripped the shirt where gravity had it stuck to the shoulder. A slight nod to him and Xander came around to snap photos before the body resumed its original state. Kizzie checked ankles and wrists, the protruding belly, abandoned the body and studied the empty space near the girl’s head.
Turning abruptly, she searched the trash bin, lifted a black lid out and the broken base it belonged to. He snapped a couple more photos; she set them back in the garbage. She glanced at the desk, passed her bagged hand over the surface, checked it and then moved on.
Watching her work, Xander couldn’t help but notice the look on her face, or lack thereof. No furrowed brow, no twisted lips or scrunched nose or grimace. Just a cool detachment in her eyes. This was just another day, another op, and he again wondered at everything Kizzie had seen and done.
A white label was stuck to the bottom of the laptop. She flipped it right-side-up, revealing the splintered screen. Depressing the power button did nothing. She gathered the machine and the power cord and carried them to Phil.
Then she was searching again—going through drawers in the computer desk; another trip to the kitchen where she folded a long envelope and tucked it in her back pocket; once more to the bedroom.
A board hung on the wall nearest the woman’s desk, a calendar thumb-tacked into the soft cork. Appointment after appointment had been crammed into the small squares, all of them seemingly related to work. He scanned the dates and came to one with a CK! written in purple ink with a smiley face beside it.
Xander grinned.
Moments later, Kizzie emerged wearing the slightest hint of a frown, grabbed the paper towels from the floor and jerked her chin toward the exit.
Phil opened the door and checked the hall, went out and to the left. Xander exited; Kizzie brought up the rear. She wiped the knob and door down on both sides and then closed it gently behind her. Together, they went right. From entry to exit the entire operation took just shy of three and a half minutes of complete silence.
By the time they reached the street, the gloves and paper towels were stowed in a pocket. Phil had gone the back way, avoiding being seen by Yukiko who was across the street, pacing beneath an awning and fidgeting with the long hair of his wig.
“Either she wasn’t home, or she just didn’t answer,” Kizzie said. “Or you lied.”
Yukiko blanched, taking an unsteady step back in the too-high heels. “No, this is her residence. This is where I did the tattoo.”
Xander didn’t doubt it. The design was similar to Sumi’s, so the two women were connected in some way. Whether Yukiko knew Sumi or not was the real question.
“Perhaps she moved,” Xander offered.
Yukiko latched onto the explanation with abandon. “Yes, maybe. But I swear this is where I did the tattoo.” He kept his gaze on Kizzie, as though too afraid to even peek in Xander’s direction. “Do… Do I still get my money?”
“What do you think?” Kizzie asked.
The question wasn’t riddled with snark, so Xander assumed it was meant for him. Yukiko stood there in skinny jeans with two lopsided protrusions beneath a sparkling white tank top. Xander decided the man was both too desperate to transition and too scared of the repercussions to risk lying. He retrieved his wallet, plucked a card from a slot.
A frown crumpled Yukiko’s face. “Visa gift card?” he asked Kizzie. “I need cash. You said cash.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes—”
“If you don’t want it…” Xander pulled it back.
“No!” Yukiko nearly grabbed his wrist, but stopped before making contact. He waited for Xander to hand the card over. “How do I know—”
“Call it.” Kizzie watched the street; Xander kept his gaze on Yukiko.
The man angled away, hands trembling as he punched in the numbers. His eyes darted to Xander and away, up and away again. He entered the code and waited some more. Then he sucked in a sharp breath, squeezed his eyes shut and smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you.”
He threw his arms out, hugging air as Xander deftly dodged the embrace. “This never happened. We never met and you never want to meet me again. If you don’t understand, ask your boyfriend about his wrist.”
Grabbing Kizzie’s hand, Xander strode away, leaving Yukiko stupefied on the sidewalk.
“No hugs for Yukiko?”
Xander tugged her close so she rode his shoulder. “And make you jealous?”
“How much was on the card?”
He shrugged, increased the pace. “Seven, maybe eight.”
“The deal was for five. Xander Duquesne,” Kizzie said airily, “philanthropic criminal extraordinaire. Such an e-nigma…”
Xander fought a grin. Was she always this playful? This easy to be around? Here they were tracking a murderer to get to a nuclear weapon and Kizzie was ribbing him. He shook his head. This woman…
They turned the corner and started up the first of two blocks they had to traverse before reaching the car.
“So if you’ve got money to blow, how much are you into Harvey for?”
His blood chilled as the reality of their situation slammed home with startling clarity. They had a gaping chasm of secrets between them, the present one being his involvement with the salted bomb. He’d never told Kizzie details and had no intention of doing so now. “Six million.”
“Dollars?” She stopped short, and he spun back toward her. Her face was mostly neutral, with hints of disappointment and disbelief peeking through. “Who’s your buyer, X?”
Something like guilt stabbed through him. Exhaling, he looked around, not liking that they were having this conversation out in the open; not liking that they were having this conversation at all. He ducked into the shadows between two buildings, Kizzie in tow, the light from the street dim but enough to see that expression still on her face.
“I don’t want to lie to you.” He meant it and the admission surprised him as much as it appeared to surprise her.
“Hot damn! We’re finally on the same page. What’s the truth?”
“I can’t.” She pursed her lips and he added, “Not won’t—can’t.”
“Or you’d have to kill me?” Kizzie chuckled; Xander didn’t. “That serious, huh? Well, what can you say that doesn’t end wi
th me in a ditch?” Grinning, she turned her head to glance down the alley. “Or is that why you’ve dragged me back here…”
Xander searched for the few tidbits he could safely part with. “The actual mechanism is a sphere about 6 inches in diameter. Plutonium core surrounded by highly explosive gases, wrapped in a gold or cobalt casing, about a half-inch in thickness. Utilizes a boosted fission implosion design—start one small explosion, that triggers another, bigger explosion—just…yoctoseconds apart, damn-near instantaneous—which triggers another explosion and so on until everything goes kablooey.”
“Thought you didn’t know the makeup,” she said, all signs of joking gone from her face.
“Theoretically,” he amended, cleared his throat. “Thing is, you don’t need to launch it, or drop it. With the sphere and the know-how to create the arming switch that initiates the first explosion, you can set it off by cell phone or e-mail or status update.”
“Remote trigger.”
“Leave it for days, weeks, years. It can be configured in a variety of objects, though the dimensions for max output and minimum size have been calculated.”
“What’s max output, in terms of area?”
“That sphere could easily level everything in a one-mile radius. Vaporize flesh…shockwave’ll topple anything standing. But with the right weather conditions and a surface detonation—land or water—the resulting radioactive fallout could initially contaminate 50, 60 miles. After that…” He shrugged.
Her eyes slipped closed and she muttered something under breath. “Size?”
“Kizzie…”
“Give me the size, X. I need to know what I’m up against.”
Low emissions signature, ridiculously easy to transport, and it could render an entire population extinct in a heartbeat. It could “salt the earth.” 6 million dollars was chump change. He’d pay double to finally have Harvey in his possession. That’s what Kizzie was up against.
Of course, Xander said none of this.
That Kizzie considered what she was up against meant she had no intention of giving him his bomb without a fight. Which posed a new question: If she did manage to get Harvey away from him, who would it go to? The CIA, or Connolly?
As much as he wished things could be different between them, not knowing the answer to that question was answer enough.
“A government issued ‘suitcase nuke’ is the size of a dorm room refrigerator…” he said, somewhat blandly. “Nikolay made a picnic basket.”
* * * *
Back in their room, Xander sat on the edge of the couch, Phil stood near the door with his back braced against the wall, eyeing him coolly. Xander had enough on his plate for one night, so that conversation would have to wait.
“Akari Sato,” Kizzie said, reading the name off the mail she’d taken from the woman’s residence. “The In-Yo on her back has ‘gust’ in the dragon position.” Her brow pinched, eyes shut tight as though she were trying to recall the series of images she’d seen. Even though they had the pictures, she was working on recollection so her first impression wouldn’t be swayed. He admired that.
“Ropes inked around her ankles, like Sumi. Trashcan had a broken wooden box. The lid had the In-Yo in one corner, and a flower in the other—pink…five petals. Cherry blossom, maybe? Crumbs on the desk, don’t know from what, but there were a few on her mouth too. Strands of blue hair on the body, victim’s was black. Red string around her neck… Laptop label reads ‘Hanabi, Inc.’”
Xander flicked his gaze to Phil, the look going unnoticed by Kizzie. “What else did you see?”
Her head shook slowly back and forth, and her eyes fluttered opened. “What bothers me is what I didn’t. No cell phone. Not in her room, purse, kitchen, by her body. She had other gadgets and a couple tech magazines in her bedroom. Dressed nicely, decent furniture. Woman like that living in Tokyo…?”—her head bobbed—“She had a cell phone. My guess is, whoever was there when she died took it.”
Kizzie glided to Xander and bent at the waist, their faces so close their noses almost brushed. The move caught him completely off guard, as did her hand on his leg. He sat up a little straighter. Pulse spiked, his dick thickened in his jeans almost instantly. He wet his lips as her hand moved up his thigh. Reached his hip. Kizzie curled her fingers into his pocket at the same time she angled her head to whisper in his ear. “Now why would somebody take her phone?”
Coming out with her own mobile, Kizzie cut her eyes at him. “Any thoughts?”
“Hanabi is a pyrotechnics company.”
She twisted her head to Phil and Xander turned in the same direction. What did Phil think they’d gain by divulging that info, and why was he sharing in the first place?
“The CEO was an American,” Phil said. “Avery Hall. He died at his home in Shimoda, the same time and place as the first girl.”
“Whose name is?”
“Chiho Losu. 23. Her tattoo is ‘clay.’ Cause of death: cyanide poisoning. Also found trace amounts of a toxic glycoside called oleandrin. Works on the heart, but with the cyanide, it’s overkill.”
“And nobody thought this was pertinent Intel?” Kizzie zipped her face back to Xander, the intimate eye contact strong and unwavering.
His dick throbbed again, her effect on him painfully obvious. He watched her mouth; the way her pillowy lips moved when she spoke. He’d spent too many nights thinking about her mouth on his cock and tonight didn’t look like it’d be any different.
“Y’know, since diversifying your bad guy portfolio, you’ve been a phenomenal pain in my ass.”
“Welcome to the party.” Phil chuckled.
She stood and pointed at Phil. “You’re guilty for having testicles.” It was Xander’s turn to grin. “So you’ve seen the police and coroner reports—I’ll assume now that you won’t tell me how you got them—but did they mention a red string around Chiho’s neck?”
Phil nodded.
“Any idea what it is or why it’s there?”
“It means they’re sacred,” Xander said, bringing Kizzie’s focus to him again. “To make something sacred you tie a rope around it. Learned that from another Dom a couple years ago who had a thing for rope work….and Shintoism.”
The CK! circled on Akari’s calendar…the rope tattoos around her ankles. Xander grinned, their next move suddenly so obvious.
“Is that smile a good thing?” Kizzie asked.
A deliberate once-over and he said, “Depends.”
“International man of mystery.” She huffed and turned her attention to Phil. “The laptop?”
“Screen’s a wreck and the cable’s damaged.” Phil motioned toward where the computer sat plugged into the wall socket. “Don’t know if it’s salvageable yet, but I may be able to access the hard drive. Give me some time.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll tell me immediately, so I’ll just be over here holding my breath,” Kizzie snarked. “This is a serial. Chiho, Akari, Sumi—Clay, gust, mist. They’re connected. Just those three or are there more? Is Sumi next or already dead? ‘Cause if she is, we never see Harvey again.” A glance between them and she added, “Buck stops here, unless either of you have something else to share.”
Xander leaned back against the couch, waiting for Phil to give an exposé worthy of a tabloid. Phil said nothing, and Xander’s shock at the man’s silence bothered him. He’d never before had even a sliver of mistrust when it came to the man he called brother.
Now…?
“Well, fellas,” Kizzie let out an irritated breath and plopped onto the love seat, “I guess I’m back at square one.”
Xander pulled the lime green flier he’d snatched in Kabukichō from his pocket and slid it across the coffee table.
Kizzie took the page, dark brows squishing together as she scanned the text. “Nope,” she shook her head, “Absolutely not. Not again—not me.”
“Come on, Princess,” Xander coaxed, smiling broadly. “For old times’ sake?”
“Hell no.” Kizzie exte
nded the flier toward the door where Phil stood. “But you, handsome? You’re gonna look faaabulous in assless chaps.”
July 31st
Manzanar, CA
A black SUV scuttled across the desert floor like a lizard seeking out a spot to escape the blazing sun. 107-degrees, according to the blue digits on the bottom corner of the rearview mirror. This close to Death Valley, Julie believed it. The air conditioner blew full blast, drying the sweat that drenched her when she’d pumped gas at a little town down the road: Independence, California. Ironic.
At the entrance to the site, an American flag snapped on its pole, the stripes faded and browned, edges torn from years in service. Due to the winds, a fine layer of dust blanketed the car, forcing Julie to use her wipers to keep it from building on the windshield. Apart from a handful of vehicles, the place was empty, the heat no doubt playing a role in keeping the tourists at bay.
She couldn’t imaging doing calisthenics in this weather, or anything else for that matter. Knowing the rows of barracks she passed were not equipped with air and couldn’t keep the swirling grit out, she had no idea how any of them had survived the hot days. Nights either, since deserts turned to iceboxes once the sun went down.
Did they ever know a moment’s peace here?
Snatched from all walks of life—college students and mothers. Soldiers and business owners. Artists and activists. Religious, non-believers, and those in flux. Children. Elderly. Sick and infirmed. Able-bodied.
Prisoners.
All of them; thousands of them.
Americans, just like her.
It was…surreal. Julie could almost see the barbed-wire fences that once surrounded the camp, keeping the obedient in. She knew a thing or two about balance. The natural order of things mandated there be those on top and others on the bottom, a dichotomy she rather appreciated in her personal life. But in this case, she wished those made to feel lesser than would have fought.