“Example?”
“The biggest and most serious is the rumor they can infiltrate a stranger’s SYNAPSYS.”
Dowland shook his head. “That’s impossible. I’ve seen several presentations by the experts that are irrefutable. There’s no method of breaking into someone’s SYNAPSYS. It’s like being able to read someone else’s mind.”
The old man leaned toward him, his eyebrows moving up like two exclamation points.
“Exactly. And that’s why this information is so startling. So interesting. It seems this group is planning to use that technology to their advantage.”
“Planning what?”
Bohmer’s face became grim as his dark eyes cut into Dowland.
“They seem to have a surprising amount of information in their possession. More than we could have ever imagined.”
Dowland didn’t have to ask what this information might be. He was probably talking to Bohmer in person because the man feared others might discover his identity. His and a small group of others.
“So this isn’t a new job you’re giving me, correct?” Dowland asked.
“No. But as I said before, this one will be your last. Whether or not you complete it.”
Dowland cursed. “I’m completing it. After all this time I’m finding the fool who calls himself the Reckoner.”
“This man here,” Bohmer said, pointing a skeletal finger at the image on the table. “He could be anybody. He could be working for me as far as I know. What I do know is you are not this man, because of what you just did, because of those you’ve already killed to get this info. And because of when and where this photo was taken.”
“Please tell me Hawaii,” Dowland said. “You’re putting me on a plane and bidding me a big fat Mele Kalikimaka. Right?”
“This was taken in Chicago.”
Dowland winced and then had to laugh. “Have you ever been to Chicago in February?”
Bohmer swatted his palm over the image of the man.
“For finding and killing this man, you will be able to buy your own island in the Pacific. But, Jon, even though you have done good work, if any information manages to slip out into the open—anything—you are among those who will be the first to go. You know that, right?”
Dowland nodded.
I’ve known my place for a long time.
Bohmer rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath, staring out at the ocean in the distance. The smell of salt and sand seemed to drift around them.
“I know you don’t have a pretty wife and four children, but there are others in your life. The others I deal with have the same sort of savagery you possess. So if this is not dealt with immediately, you will be. And it will be fast, and it will be monstrous. And as always, I will be the one to order it to happen.”
Nothing about any of this surprised Dowland. He had an idea what to expect once he heard he would be having this meeting.
“I’ll do my job before you have to do yours,” Dowland said. “And as I said, I still think there’s only one ringleader out there. And he’s not going to be out there for long.”
“Killing him isn’t the hard part. It’s finding him in the first place. It’s like trying to hunt down a ghost.”
“I have some experience at that sort of thing,” Dowland said.
“I know. That’s why you’re the man for this job. You have to send a demon to catch a ghost. Now let me ask you again. Can I get you something real to drink? Something that will quench the thirst that’s written all over you?”
Dowland couldn’t help liking this old man’s style.
The drink finally came, and as Dowland listened to the old guy ramble on about the “good old days,” he thought about the Reckoner again. Whoever this guy was, he was truly deluded. If he could fathom what was approaching, the man would go into hiding and never come out again.
He’s too stupid to realize the hurricane that’s about to decimate his entire world.
2.
The stench surrounded the mountains of waste lining the buildings he passed. This was the part of Miami the city had abandoned, the section that housed the sort of men and women who were capable of anything. As Dowland studied the piles of debris he walked by, seeing food containers and socks and shampoo bottles and rotting fruit and the smear of leftover everything, he was reminded why the garbage business was so lucrative. The world was one giant waste heap, and nobody wanted to get up and do something about it.
Technology can’t take out the trash.
The liquor store on the corner of the brick building had a broken sign above it and pale light inside revealing several patrons shopping. Dowland turned and headed down the alley as instructed, the dark enveloping him. The smell intensified, and the garbage wasn’t as neatly piled in this dead-end strip between old buildings. As he reached the back wall, a flashlight made him stop and squint.
“Turn that off, Sergei.”
“Dowland, is that you behind the scruff?”
He cursed and told his Russian friend to stop blinding him. The short, round figure came out of the night and gave him a huge bear hug.
“It’s been so long, my friend,” Sergei said, clapping two big hands on Dowland’s shoulders. “So long that I didn’t believe it was you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“The world is busy. Unless you live in East Town and life slows to a halt.”
“Why don’t you leave this squalor?”
“Can’t leave family,” Sergei said. “Even the ones I’m restricted from seeing. Plus, Miami Beach is still as beautiful as the people walking on it.”
“Miami Beach is a setting in the history books. A place that got washed away and submerged. That beach out there isn’t Miami Beach. It’s a beachfront along the eroding shores of a half-baked city that’s quickly deteriorating as well.”
Sergei laughed. “I see your outlook on life is just as cheery as it used to be.”
“Did you pick the most foul-smelling place in the city to meet?” Dowland asked, rubbing his nose and shaking his head. He was getting light headed from the putrid air enclosing him.
“Pretty much,” Sergei said. “Why did you reach out? It can’t be to say hi. I’ve left more than a dozen messages the last few years. And yeah, yeah, I get it. You’ve been busy. So you must be looking for someone, and all your fancy contacts aren’t looking so fancy after all.”
“I happened to be close to Miami.”
“Ah, so it was location. Convenience, correct?”
The sound of a siren blasted overhead as a police drone passed by, the bright spotlight momentarily lighting up a portion of the alley.
“Can we go somewhere—anywhere—to get out of this death trap?” Dowland asked.
“Are you still sober?” Sergei asked.
Dowland chuckled. “Are you still married?”
“Ah, well, there’s a bar a couple of streets over,” the stout Russian with no accent said.
“So how long has it been since I saw you last?”
“Five years, I believe,” Sergei said as they walked out of the shadows. “I assume that you are no longer with Kamaria.”
Sergei remembered.
“Yes, you assume correctly. Kam made me choose. Either her or living life my own way. She said it was the drinking, but for her it was control. In the big picture it was the right choice.”
“At least you got to choose,” Sergei said. “My ex-wife wasn’t as cordial.”
As they reached the street, a trio of police drones zipped past above them.
“I seem to recall you breaking one of your wife’s ribs,” Dowland said.
“I’ve dealt with my anger issues,” he replied.
“We all have our vices. Some are just a little more noticeable and get us into trouble.”
“No trouble
tonight, my friend,” Sergei said.
“Of course not.”
3.
Maybe it was one of those tired stereotypes—a Russian and his vodka—but Sergei certainly lived up to it. The vodka was cheap stuff that his friend guzzled the way Dowland might drain a beer. The bar was packed even though it didn’t seem to have a name outside. The haze of cigarette smoke and pot filled the pub, and blaring rock played as the two men sat at a table in the back, trying to keep their shouted conversation private.
“Marijuana is legal but cigarettes aren’t,” Dowland said as he glanced at the shadow of Sergei sitting in the smog. “Meanwhile, in East Town Miami, nobody can tell the difference between the two.”
“Forget a little lung cancer,” Sergei said. “Pique has decimated this place. The authorities have completely given up.”
“You ever tried it?”
“Of course. Dangerous how good it makes you feel. Remember the days when people would use dirty syringes to pump heroin into their bloodstream? Forget the fear of heroin and using a needle. Then the opioid epidemic started when popping pills became all too easy. But Pique? It’s easier to use than transferring funds from bank accounts.”
“True,” Dowland said. “The hard part is finding the code that keeps Pique alive in your system.”
“We work harder to invent ways to kill ourselves than to improve our lives.”
“That keeps me employed.”
Sergei laughed. “You and me both. Cheers, old friend.”
Dowland updated Sergei on everything he needed to know, telling him only the basics. An unnamed and unrecognizable man running a group. The photos, online correspondence, and any other known information was on a file Dowland had already sent to Sergei’s SYNAPSYS. Dowland needed his friend to help determine whether the Reckoner was indeed one person or several.
“You have a strange way of knowing where people are even when they don’t want to be found,” Dowland said. “I know from firsthand experience.”
What he liked about Sergei was that he never asked why. He didn’t want Dowland to tell him details, like who wanted to know and why they were interested. It honestly didn’t matter to Sergei. All that mattered was that he’d be paid for the job, and he needed income to provide for his family. Plus, Sergei was the best digital bounty hunter Dowland had ever known.
“What’s the price for finding him? Or them?”
“Five times the amount I last paid you,” Dowland said.
Sergei’s whole demeanor changed, and he downed the remaining shot of vodka on the table as quickly as his smile flashed. He immediately flagged down the server and ordered another round for them.
“I will get you information, no question,” Sergei said.
It was smart having people like him who weren’t working for the government and weren’t in the network. Guys who had been forgotten about, who weren’t influential but who also weren’t dangerous enough. Dowland knew those were the sort of people who could get things done. They had no choice to do anything but that. Men like Sergei had nobody to lean or rely on.
4.
By the time they had gone through several more rounds, with his Russian friend drinking several shots at a time, the crowd seemed thicker than the smoke, and the music sounded louder. Sergei’s eyes were wide and glassy as he bragged about romantic adventures he had pursued in the last few years, but he simultaneously choked up about losing his wife and barely keeping relationships with his kids. Dowland felt loose and relaxed after half a dozen pints, but he wasn’t flying as high as the vodka man.
They were having such a good time that they barely noticed when the seven-foot-tall man in a muscle shirt stepped next to their table. Shouts and laughter and shoulder-to-shoulder patrons filling this place at two in the morning made it easy to ignore some giant suddenly staring down at them. Led Zeppelin’s second album played in full, and while most of the people in the bar probably had no clue who the band was, Dowland had to give the owner or bartender some props for setting the perfect backdrop for tonight’s mood.
“Who is your friend, Sergei?” the stranger shouted.
Dowland snapped out of friendly mode and surveyed the man, knowing he meant business. He didn’t let go of his lazy, having-a-good-time-blowing-off-steam composure, but he began to prepare for something.
“We’re busy,” Sergei told the man.
The shiny scalp glowed on the skinhead who peered at them, and the man didn’t bother to hide that his eyes were lit with Pique.
“Have I seen you before?” he asked Dowland.
“Sorry. I don’t think so.”
“No, I think I’ve seen you. You’re not from around here.”
Dowland looked at his glass, then drained the rest of his beer before glancing back up at the freak of nature. “I’m having a drink with a friend, so you’ll have to excuse us.”
The stranger wouldn’t budge. By the looks of his arms and shoulders busting out of the tank top, half of this man’s life was probably spent in a gym.
“What sort of business does a guy like you have with my old buddy Sergei?”
I’ve been polite, and I’ve given him a chance.
Dowland knew several things about the men who employed him. Not the guys who had job titles, not bureaucratic officials or FBI agents, but the real men, the guys behind everybody else. The puppet masters like Bohmer. They wanted Dowland to get his job done, whether it was finding people or killing them. They also wanted him to take care of any trash and debris he might find on the side of the road he was on.
This guy was a very big, bulky piece of garbage.
For a second Dowland looked at Sergei and saw that his friend’s eyes were on fire. He was drunk and inviting a whole lot of trouble. Dowland grinned, waiting for the second Sergei spotted his smile. Then Dowland propelled off his barstool with the pint glass in hand and bashed it across the skinhead’s face, cracking the glass as the stranger’s head barely moved.
With a shard of glass sticking out of his cheek, the man simply smiled down at Dowland, showing the power of Pique. “Oh man, you’re gonna pay for that,” he said.
Before he could do anything else, Sergei tackled the big guy, sending both of them into the crowd. They landed on several young women just as Dowland looked around to see if the skinhead had any friends.
Here they come.
There were three others, and all of them obviously worked out with their friend. For a second he thought of ending this right here with his Beretta, but then he shoved that thought aside. The beer was talking. So were the memories of former fun days with his friend. And of course, the music helped.
It’s been a while since I was in a bar fight.
He laughed as “Ramble On” blasted in the background. Dowland didn’t wait for the guys to come to him, but instead, he began to rush them like an old-school running back trying to burst through a defensive line.
For the next ten minutes, nothing but chaos ensued.
5.
“Here—you need this.”
Sergei handed Dowland a big chunk of frozen steak wrapped in plastic. They were sitting on the steps outside Sergei’s run-down apartment building.
“You keep this handy for bar fights?” Dowland asked, laughing as he took it and put it against his swollen and cut lip.
“I think I recall—and I may be wrong—but aren’t you the one who slammed your glass in Fritz’s face?”
“You know his name?”
“Oh yeah,” Sergei said, holding a bloody rag against the gash on his temple. “He’s one of the big smelly fish in this little rotten pond. Sells Pique and is an addict as well. I see him sometimes early in the morning on the street. I’ll bet most of those guys won’t even remember the fight come morning.”
“If they do, let me know. You don’t need people messing around with you or your kids.�
��
“They won’t. They need me. Occasionally I have to track down people who don’t pay their bills. And don’t judge me either. You have to work hard at earning a decent wage these days.”
“No judgments here.”
Dowland winced as he stretched out his mouth. They had managed to fend off and fight the four men, but half the bar had somehow gotten into the mix, creating a free-for-all that finally prompted him to grab his gun and fire into the ceiling, which sent everybody running to the doors. Right before everybody split, however, a lone woman had slugged him in the mouth. Perhaps for no reason other than he had disturbed her fun night out.
“You probably don’t hang out much in seedy areas of the world like this, huh?” Sergei asked him.
Dowland chuckled. “I’ve been in the seediest. Wealth doesn’t make something reputable. It only cleans it up and makes it pretty.”
“I’m still surprised to see you here. Now. After all this time.”
“The older I get, the more I realize that trust is very difficult to find. Probably harder than even love, and that’s virtually a miracle. And I know I can trust you.”
“So why do you do this?” Sergei asked as they both looked out to the abandoned and burned-down building across the street.
“Do what? Get in barroom brawls?”
“Your job,” Sergei answered. “You’ve been doing this a long time.”
“Why do you do your job?”
“I’ve already told you. Money. And I need that for the family. That’s why I do the work I do and live where I live. But you. Do you have some kiddos on the side I don’t know about?”
“Nope. Unless I don’t know about them either.”
“You’re a shrewd man. I know you have savings. Why not retire?”
“Retire? Do I look like I’m seventy years old?”
“You look worn out.”
“A bit beaten up, sure,” Dowland said.
American Omens Page 5