by E. J. Mellow
“Ah! Gustav, you son of a bitch. If you were not our guest tonight, I would be pissed at you for taking so much of my money,” rumbles a deep voice in French.
Hearing the one name I needed assurance of finding down here, I grin and step into the light. “Hello, gentlemen, mind if I join you?”
Pushing aside the glass of fifty-year-old scotch left on the table, I survey my work. In a past life I might have indulged in a sip, but my desire for anything alcoholic died a long time ago, when they did. Now I simply ignore the amber liquid while glancing around the cellar. Gustav Babineau, my target for this evening and now very dead, stares out at nothing, easily put down with the first of my bullets straight to the head. One of his bodyguards, meeting the same end, lies flaccid in a heap next to him, and two more players unfortunately needed to be removed for no other reason than they were going to shoot me if I didn’t shoot them first. The last two guests have their hands in the air, and after patting them down for weapons and finding none, I see they are just hapless participants to an unlucky game. I let them live.
“I’m sorry to cut the festivities short, but the business I had with Monsieur Babineau was rather pressing.” Straightening my gray T-shirt, I approach the two men staring up at me. One has his mouth pursed in contempt, while the other wobbles with uncertainty. “Now to ensure that none of you steal the pot that seems to have found its way to the floor, I’m going to bind your hands.”
One of the French men spits near my shoe.
Spits.
I mean, really? Doesn’t he know these are Mezlan exotic alligator leather?
“There’s really no need to be so uncivilized, mon petit homme.” I place the barrel of my gun against the saliva-happy man’s forehead. “Binding your hands is a much better alternative than what I could do instead.” I lean in closer. “Or would you prefer that option?”
The man kneeling next to him, whose wire-rim glasses have begun to fog with his nervous perspiration, watches on as his companion shakes his head and lowers his glowering gaze.
“I didn’t think so,” I say before straightening and smacking the butt of my gun against the spitting man’s skull. He hits the stone floor with a thud as the last man lets out a little squeak of surprise.
Glancing to my bifocaled friend, I give him a wink. “Don’t worry,” I tut. “You’re next.”
“Body count four. Assets standing two. No crowd drawn. You can send in the Sweep team.”
“You couldn’t have had body count at one, Carter? Just this once?”
I grin into my cell while fixing my dark hair in the reflection of one of the many wine bottles lining the walls. “And make your job any easier, Jules? Never.”
“I shouldn’t have even asked,” she grumbles through the line. “I just dispatched the team. They should be there shortly.”
“Perfect.” I check the rounds left in my gun before placing it back into the holder at my back. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” I glance to my watch while climbing the stairs. “I have a certain French caterpillar hopefully naked in a hotel that I must make sure I cocoon before I leave.”
Jules makes a gagging sound. “I can’t believe woman mistake that as charm.”
“And what would you mistake it as, my darling?”
“Being well endowed.”
I stifle a chuckle. “Oh, my dearest Jules, one of these days you’re going to let me show you just how well endowed I am.”
I can practically hear her eyes rolling, and it makes me smile more.
“Yeah, too bad I like lady parts over boy parts.”
“See! We are made for each other.” I push through the back door of La Poison Noir, the warm night air wrapping around me fondly. “I like lady parts over boy parts too! Let’s make love already.”
Jules laughs. “Get your ass home, Carter.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Carter?”
“Hmm?”
“Do it safely.”
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Hanging up, I giving the pile of garbage that’s in the same place I left it a fleeting glance before I make my way out of the dark alley and into the starlit night, whistling a tune as I go.
4
3
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS: 2215 HOURS
I watch him drunkenly stumble up his apartment complex stairs before he pushes open a faded green door on the fourth floor, disappearing inside. I dial a number into my phone.
“3?”
“I need a favor.”
Silence, then, “What kind of favor?”
“A personal one.”
Silence again.
“Akoni, remember Santiago?”
“Sure, sure, a favor. I can do a favor.”
I shake my head, annoyed I needed to bring that up. Talk about gratitude.
“In about an hour I’ll be texting you an address. I’m going to need a disappearing act for this one, okay?”
“Ooookay?”
“Akoni!”
“Yes! Geez, okay. I got it. Don’t worry—you’ll be taken care of.”
I hear typing on a keyboard.
“I just need to know one thing, 3. For my own peace of mind.”
I wait.
“Is this something that will come back to bite me in the ass?”
I stare at the door the man went into. “No, Akoni, I don’t think anyone will be sorry to see this package go.”
I slap the man lying on the bed hard across the face. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
His eyes blink open before they widen in shock. They grow even larger when he realizes he can’t move. He tries to speak, but he can’t do that either.
Leaning away, I regard his internal struggle for some sort of external response and take in his appearance. Bad choice of tattoos cover his—I’m very displeased to admit—impressive exposed chest, the black ink standing out against his white skin. A shaved head sits on top of a slightly attractive face but is ruined, in my opinion, by the existence of a soul patch and dirty jeans worn low along his hips. He smells of another woman’s cheap perfume and booze. I cock my head to the side, trying to see the appeal.
I find none.
“You know what I think we humans take for granted?” I ask, moving from the bed, the plastic I placed under him crinkling before I walk around the room. His small apartment is unoriginally cliché for the type of man who lives here, and I play with random objects thrown about. Pleather this and faux-fur that, bowls of discarded cigarettes and joints, fluorescent illuminated fish tank in the corner serving as our only light source. Douche bag chic. “The human nervous system,” I answer, glancing back to his slack body lying across his wrapped sheets, his breathing erratic, his fear pheromones off the charts.
“Yes, it’s really never paid attention to.” I drag a grungy-looking kitchen chair to the side of his bed and take a seat. “For example, did you know that every square inch of your nervous system has a purpose? A job allowing you to blink your eyes.” I flick him in the eye. “To breathe through your nose.” I hold his nose shut for a second, enjoying his panicky intakes of breath when I let go. “To even take a piss.” His gaze bulges, and I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t be going there…yet.” My smile is serpentine. “Yes, the human nervous system is quite fascinating.” I lean back, removing a piece of lint from my jeans. “Like right now. I bet you’re asking yourself, ‘Now why can’t I move?’ Well, I’m sure you’re asking a lot more than that, but let’s stick to what’s important here, shall we?”
I look to my companion for an answer, watching his veins pop in anger and confusion, his skin beading with sweat, while low guttural sounds are desperately trying to escape his mouth.
“Good, agreed. Now I’m sure you’re asking yourself this and didn’t think that it could be caused by the slightest tweak of chemicals mixing along your central nervous system. Did you think about this? No, I highly doubt you did. But what I find the most fascinating is how certain parts of the body can be fu
nctionally shut down yet still be open for stimulation.”
I wait a beat.
“To put this in layman’s terms,” I continue, staring him dead in the eye, “you can’t move, but you sure as fuck can feel.”
The man seems to produce some wiggling after that, finding his deep-rooted animalistic adrenaline to slightly wear off the paralysis.
“Oh, do you need more fixin’?” I grab the small pouch I placed on his nightstand. “Don’t worry. I’ve got just the thing.” Taking out a syringe, I quickly dispel the blue-hued liquid into the base of his neck. He stills.
“There.” I return to my seat, crossing my legs. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, not being able to move but still being able to feel. Yes, amazing, isn’t it? That things in your body can be controlled like that? But I think you can relate to the appeal of things being in your control. Things being at your mercy. Can’t you, Roger?”
His eyes lock on to my mouth, transfixed on his name coming from my lips. I give him my most feral smile.
“Yes, unfortunately, I know you very well, Roger.” I snap on latex gloves before unrolling a large collection of surgical equipment. Choosing one of my favorite knives from the middle, I let the metal wink in the dark, a devil’s promise. “And I think you’re about to know me very well too.”
5
Nashville
I shuffle into the kitchen, searching for the pot of coffee whose smell got me out of bed.
“Morning,” Ceci greets me from where she’s perched on the kitchen island, eating cereal and reading the paper. She’s in light-washed jeans and a pink blouse looking just as fresh and perky as she always does.
“Morning,” I grumble.
I hate morning.
“Man, you look beat. Did you not sleep well?”
“I had some work to do until late.” I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter.
Ceci drops the paper by her side. “I’m going to check out some waitressing jobs today. Are you going into the office?”
“Not if I can help it.” Taking a sip of my coffee, I glance out the large windows that run the length of my loft apartment. It’s too bright outside for its own good. My eyes are always more sensitive in the daylight.
After an overseas job, one that was successful, and rather clean I might add, the agency usually leaves me alone for a while. Since I already debriefed in the Madrid headquarters before heading home, there’s no reason for me to get called in for at least a couple weeks. Vacation bells sound in my head again.
“Listen—about yesterday…” Ceci plays with her spoon in her bowl.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No. Let me finish.” She hops off the island. “You’re right. I don’t know why I…” She pauses, searching for the right words. “I’m not going back to those bars. I’ve decided to only look for jobs in safer places, maybe some of those fancy five-star establishments downtown.” She tips her chin up, meeting my eyes with a look of resolution. “I think that will solve a lot of the messes I’ve found myself in…in the past.”
“That’s great.” I put my mug on the counter. “I never understood why you worked in those cesspools anyway. A hot, smart girl like you? You could work anywhere.”
She perks up at my approval, before frowning. “Yeah, but those places were all we’ve ever known.”
“Well, lucky for you I also know a number of people in the downtown area that owe me some favors. I can make some calls—”
Ceci wrapping her arms around me cuts me off. “Nashville Brown, that would be amazing! Do you really know people?”
I smile and hug her back. “Of course. I know lots of people. I could even try and get you a position as an assistant—”
“No! No nine to fives. You know how much I loathe the corporate system. Though given how much you travel, I might be changing my mind.” She nudges me with her hip. “But I like the atmosphere of restaurants and bars. I get to meet all kinds of people and basically get paid to talk all day. Not to mention in the right place, the tips certainly don’t hurt.”
I shake my head at her weird love for the food industry. It repels me. Having to cater to people’s beck and calls. Deal with pompous assholes on a daily basis who get upset if their goat cheese isn’t sprinkled on their salads just right. Yeah, no thanks. Restaurants, to me, are usually loud, crowded, smelly places. Talk about unnecessary sensory overload.
“Okay,” I concede, refilling my cup. “But don’t get mad at me for trying to make an honest woman out of you.”
“Darlin’,” Ceci says, using her Tennessee swagger voice, “that ain’t neva gonna happen.”
After a long run and shower, I sit in my living room indulging in an afternoon Scrabble game while searching possible vacation destinations. The island bells chimed their final toll, and I answered. Maybe I’ll take Ceci with me this time. I usually like to vacation alone, but with the drama she’s had to deal with lately, she deserves a beach and an overabundance of fruity cocktails.
I’m about to click on an extremely indulgent villa in the Caribbean, when my work phone buzzes.
Seeing the name flash across the screen, I curse before answering. “David, please tell me you’re only calling to sing my praises for the job I did in Madrid.”
“I can certainly tack that on to the reason,” rumbles my group director’s deep voice through the line.
I close my laptop with a sigh. “What’s up?”
“Come into the office, and I can answer all your questions.”
“This better be worth it. I was about to book a vacation.”
“After this job you’ll be able to book six.”
I hold back a snort. “Dangle the carrot much?”
“More like the three commas.”
Damn.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
“I’ll see you in ten.”
6
Carter
COA HEADQUARTERS
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK: 0930 HOURS
I stare at the man’s photograph that’s attached to his profile. Very unthreatening brown eyes and an unimpressive face stare back.
“This is Chenglei Kam?” I ask with raised brows.
“What exactly were you expecting? He’s a businessman, not a mob boss. A very dangerous businessman, but a businessman nonetheless.” Anthony Ploom, my group director at COA, takes a seat across from me in one of the many glass-walled conference rooms in our building. His small gut, which has promise for growth, pushes out of his wrinkled gray jacket as he leans back in his chair, his thinning brown hair looking more ashen under the fluorescent lights.
I was back in New York City no less than two days before the agency had another “dire” assignment that called me into the office.
“Still, he looks nothing like a man running one of the world’s most notorious underground biochemical weaponry distributions.”
“I’m glad you’re not entirely ignorant of our situation,” a woman’s voice chimes in.
Jules enters the conference room and takes a seat across from Anthony and me. Her blond hair sits thick around her shoulders, covered in a black blazer. Her hazel eyes are a little too wide to be called conventionally pretty, since they make her seem like she’s in a constant state of wonder, but where she hates that, I’ve always found it endearing, like she’s a walking Disney princess.
“I’m glad you haven’t lost any of your breathtaking beauty, Jules.” I smile.
She merely shoots me a forced grin before launching into the briefing, the tablet in front of me filling with new images. “Chenglei Kam is the son of successful Hong Kong tech businessman Chen Kam and is in line to take over the family business. But until then he’s been a rather busy boy building his own legacy. As you so accurately put it, Carter, he is well versed and deeply involved in the manufacturing of biochemical weaponry. His father knows about this side of Chenglei but is playing the ignorant card and turning the other cheek with all of his dealings. This operation is one hundred percen
t Chenglei’s. He’s already made very lucrative and successful transactions with some of our friends in the Middle East and Russia, but we have recent intelligence that he’s about to make a new friend with some very powerful men in North Korea.”
I snort as I skim through the information that Jules is recapping. “Making new friends by doing trades on the playground?”
“Something like that,” she says. “It’s been whispered that Chenglei has a new toy in his arsenal. A very precarious new toy that he’s willing to sell to the highest bidder. He’s stepped out of his usual safer governmental trading routes and is taking this one digitally underground to a silent auction.”
I glance between Anthony and Jules. “Okay, so where does that leave me? This sounds like a much bigger job than a step in and take down.”
“Our client and main informant on this assignment have knowledge that the code to obtain the formula for this weapon is held with our dear Mr. Kam,” Anthony explains. “The code unlocks an insanely secure digital diary where the formula is stored.”
“What about the techs who created the digital lock? The scientists?” I ask. They both look at me without answering. “Ah, he got rid of them. Well played.”
“Call it what you will,” Anthony says. “But what we’re being paid to do is retrieve the code from Mr. Kam before discarding of him. We can’t chance this formula getting into the hands of possible terrorists.”
“Do we know what the BCW is? What it particularly does?”