by Dave Buschi
“Please Daddy,” said the girl.
She was crying. One side of her face was very red. The camera man zoomed in on the eyes. The eyes were wet, glistening. Fade out.
Ah. Rudnitsky smiled again. Perfect. His camera man was such an artist.
He clicked to the next video. His camera man always prepared two. The first with those two brief scenes would be sent to the mark with their demands. An hour later Rudnitsky sent the second. It was a longer video with much more content. It always got good results. No matter the demand, it was always met, immediately. There was something about seeing your loved one—daughter, wife, young son—and then seeing them with Vlad or Petrovich or Monster.
After that, people would do anything to get the money they needed. Anything.
Rudnitsky’s thin lips curled into a sneer as he watched. Ah, this was well done. The girl’s screams, though on low volume, filled the darkness.
24
MARKS and Lip retrieved what they needed. Lip’s little cottage was full of surprises. From the outside it looked like it was falling apart. Inside was another story.
In the second bedroom, which was above the living room, the closet had been expanded and reinforced with stainless steel. Under the steel was cementitious wall board and fire wrap. The door that opened to that closet looked like a normal solid wood door, except for the punch pad that was in the location where the door handle normally went. Lip punched in a seven digit number. Three locks disengaged and the door opened.
Inside the closet Lip had created wall-to-wall shelving units. Those shelves were covered in black felt. It was one of Lip’s better DIY projects.
Some people had walk-in closets done in maple and walnut for their designer clothes and accessories. Not Lip. His closet was filled with a different garden variety. Not Gucci or Prada, but Mossberg and Heckler & Koch and other makers of fine weapons. It had everything from handguns, to pump action shotguns, rifles, knives, incendiary devices, you name it.
They packed the basics with ammo to match. Marks threw in a few of his favorites. They didn’t know when they’d be back, so they planned for several scenarios. What they took filled two duffel bags. One for Lip, one for Marks.
The bags, which were quite heavy, were put in the backseat of Vlad’s car. They took up an entire seat. Luckily, the sedan was roomy. Vlad had customized his ride with black matte hubcaps. The interior was black leather, black on black. There was plenty of gas. Vlad had hooked them up. Least they could do is give him a lift. They threw him in the trunk. That done, they got Marion, said goodbye to Lip’s mom and piled back into the car.
AS always, Lip took the wheel. Man liked to drive, which suited Marks just fine. He leaned back and took in the sights. There was no chatter, no radio, just an occasional sneeze from Lip. Man was definitely coming down with something.
They were hitting rush hour. It soon became bumper to bumper. As Lip went forward at a snail’s pace, Marks thought about the unanswered questions they’d compiled so far:
1) Why did The Brotherhood want to kill Marion?
2) What had Johnny Two-cakes done to elicit that reaction? Killing a man’s wife was retribution stuff.
3) What had happened in Costa Rica?
4) Was this related to an old job? Something with ties to the Shadow Factory?
He thought of other questions they’d voiced earlier. About the newspapers, about the databases being altered, about how those men had found Marion. She’d taken every precaution, followed the instructions on Johnny Two-cakes’s letter to a tee, and still those men had found her. That was telling. He chewed on that one in particular. Marion had called Marks’s and Lip’s business line. If their phones were being monitored, that meant they’d been flagged, were under surveillance.
The usual procedure was to do it close, be nearby. Have a team already in place. It allowed for better reaction time. If intel came in that was actionable, the team was already there and could move quickly. But that hadn’t happened. Marks and Lip had sat for twenty minutes once they’d gotten Marion’s call. If there was a team nearby they could have beaten them to the bus depot, but they hadn’t. They’d pulled up minutes later. After Marks and Lip arrived. So, that meant something else.
What though? Maybe it wasn’t a flagged line. Maybe Marks and Lip were just being watched? Maybe those men had followed them? But that didn’t fit either. This outfit obviously had some sophistication. There were the databases… and they’d turned off the cameras at the Starbucks. Did it in record time too. If they could do those two things, they could monitor phones. So why hadn’t they?
LIP drove with one hand on the wheel. Took them an hour before lanes opened up. It was no longer bumper to bumper. People were starting to turn their lights on.
Marks broke the silence. He looked back at Marion. Next to the duffel bags, pressed against her thigh, was her purse.
“How much is in there?”
“I counted, but I’m not sure,” Marion said. “It’s a lot.”
“One million?”
“Maybe a little more.”
Marks nodded. It was dark now. The roads had become country roads. Not many commuters this far out. They had the roads all to themselves. Their car like a black missile, doing seventy in the night.
25
SNOOKS lived in the boonies. They took a left turn off a paved road onto a single-track. Their headlights bounced. One moment illuminating gravel and dirt, the next lancing up into the inky blackness. Less than two hours ago they’d been on an eight lane highway. Not anymore. Civilization was behind them.
Suspension on the car was good, but it rode low. Several times they heard the undercarriage scrape. It made for a bumpy ride. They kept hearing Vlad shift in the trunk like a bunch of suitcases rolling around.
THE road was dry. Cracked earth. Didn’t seem to have rained out this way for a while. That was fortunate. Their sedan really wasn’t the vehicle for this. This was back country, made for pickups with big knobby wheels and big V8s. They had a V8. They just didn’t have the rest. No flatbed, gun rack, or dents on the fenders.
It took them fifteen minutes to get to the big house going ten miles an hour. Snooks owned a nice lay of land. Over two hundred acres, Marks seemed to recall.
Nice spread.
Had they been able to see further than thirty feet ahead they would have seen rolling fields on their right, uncut and ungrazed. To their left, trees. In the darkness they could just make out a whole continuous line of them.
They went through an open gate. A big white fence tracked around the house. It was an older house, sagging on its haunches, but still dignified. White clapboard, dormers, and a wraparound porch. A snapshot from the Twenties. Almost a hundred years ago the place would have looked about the same. Not much had changed in these parts.
Around the roundabout drive the grass was cut. A clumping of trees was off to the right. An older pickup was parked next to a newer model. First indication they weren’t back in the Twenties. Old and new. Fitting.
Invisible to them, but up there, in the trees and on the house, were discrete cameras. This place may have looked simple and country. Sure, it was that, but it was also home to Snooks, and Snooks wasn’t your regular gal.
She came out to greet them. It had been a long time. Over a year since they’d seen her last. She hadn’t changed one bit. She was standing halfway up the steps, house all lit up, wraparound porch behind her.
She cast a big shadow. Snooks was all woman. Marks had often thought that two thousand years ago she would have been worshipped as a goddess. She was a living breathing fertility doll. An exaggerated hourglass, more on bottom than on top. All curves and she flaunted them. Didn’t matter what she was wearing. In this case it was a dress. Big sack of a dress, but she filled it up. Light behind her didn’t leave much for the imagination. She had beautiful skin. Miles of it. Cocoa brown.
Marks secretly had a thing for Snooks. Stepping from the car, a grin stretched on his face.
&nbs
p; “How’s my favorite lady doing?”
“Be better when you give me that hug.” She gave him a pouty frown.
Reunion time.
Marks walked over and gave her a hug. She didn’t step down from her step. She wanted height on him. She was above average height to begin with, but that extra step boosted her, and she cut him down even more to size—grabbing him and giving him a hug only she could do. Marks found his face pressed against two natural wonders. Cushiony, like great big feathery pillows, could sleep on those like a baby.
She let go of him. Marks’s nose smelled vanilla. Her skin, buttery smooth, was like a milkshake.
“How ‘bout I ditch my husband and we go upstairs?” Snooks said.
Marks didn’t miss a beat. “After you.”
She smiled and those soft brown eyes of hers danced. “I almost believe you would. You know one of these days I’m gonna take you up on it?”
“I keep waiting.”
She smirked. She had a big round beautiful face. Some Asian in there from the Hawaiian side, the rest all African American. Not a line or a wrinkle on it. Somewhere around here, Marks knew, she’d found the Fountain of Youth.
Behind Marks, Lip and Marion had stepped from the car. Marion had a bemused look on her face. First Lip’s mom and now Snooks.
“I got someone I want you to meet,” said Marks.
Snooks looked down at Marion and gave her a warm smile. Then she looked over at Lip and did the pouty frown thing again.
“Whatcha doing there? Get your skinny ass up here.”
Lip knew not to argue, but hustled up. It was just possible that he enjoyed Snooks’s hugs more than Marks did.
A minute later, after introductions with Marion were done, they moved inside.
“Alright,” Snooks said. “I know this ain’t a social visit. Come on back to my office.”
26
ALL business. Snooks would have made a hell of a CEO. Marks and Lip followed her into her kitchen, otherwise known as her office, place where business was done.
She walked with one of those bump-de-bumps walks. Quite a sight and she knew it. She glanced back at Marks and busted him.
“Whatcha looking at?” she said with a smirk on her face.
Marks felt his face flush.
She hooted. Pleased.
They took their places. Snooks’s enormous booty pressed against the sink, expanding like fresh dough. The sink was one of those big white porcelain sinks. Almost as deep as a tub.
“Where’s James?” Lip said.
“He’s coming. When I told him you two were on the way, he said Oh no, Marks and Lip, we need to go on vacation.” Snooks harrumphed. “Man is probably already packing.”
“You talkin’ about me again, woman?”
James stepped into the kitchen. Man didn’t weigh more than a buck fifty if he weighed a nickel. He flashed pearly white choppers. He was older and lined and his skin was the color of mahogany. His black curly hair had some grays and was cut close to the scalp. He had at least ten years on Snooks. Though in truth, it was hard to tell. Marks had no idea how old Snooks was. He always assumed he had years on her, but she may have been closer to his age.
She could have passed for thirty, however. In the kitchen’s light she was radiantly youthful. Her husband, James, had a smile of a man who knew he’d won the lottery.
James gave Marks a handshake. He was a diminutive man, but his grip was of a man that worked with his hands, leathery and strong. “Don’t listen to Snooks. She’s making stuff up. Whatever you need, Marks, you got it.”
“Good to see you, James,” Marks said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this.”
“Nonsense.” James slapped a similar grip with Lip. “Lip, how’s it been?”
Lip smirked. “Like a baby treats a diaper.”
James shook his head. “That good, huh?”
James looked towards Marion. “Welcome, I’m James.”
Marion smiled, tentatively. “Nice to meet you, Marion.”
James nodded. “Alright, I’ll get out of y’all’s hair. I know you just want to talk to Snooks.”
“Thanks, Baby,” Snooks said with a kittenish voice.
James smiled wider. “I’ll see ya. Be nice to my woman.”
Marks and Lip watched James leave. The dynamic between Snooks and James was always interesting. James was never asked to leave, but he always preferred it that way. Clear delineation. Marks suspected Snooks had trained him well. No doubt, using that kittenish voice on him when she needed.
Snooks was very adept at influencing others. Marks and Lip knew from experience. They’d worked with her before. Behind that pretty face and that very full figure was a woman who knew what she wanted, and more often than not usually got it. She’d used her influencing skills on Marks and Lip more than once. The first time was back when their paths crossed too many years ago to count. It was at least a decade and a half ago.
Snooks hadn’t always lived out here. Back then, when they first met her, she was very involved in cleaning up communities. Was a regular activist.
There was some stuff going on in DC. Not ten blocks from the Capital. Not a surprise, that area always had issues, except this time it affected Snooks and some of her people. Drug dealers staking turf, beating up locals, and threatening kids.
Marks and Lip had helped her out. That first chance meeting had started a friendship, a mutual respect. They had other meetings after that—in some ways that initial meeting with her was the seed that would start Marks and Lip on their moonlighting gig; their penchant for fixing certain wrongs. Their own version of community service.
Snooks’s methods weren’t all that different than Marks’s and Lip’s. She played hardball when hardball was needed. Funding wasn’t there for a much needed women’s shelter? Cutbacks for an after-school program for kids? Heaven help those that made those decisions, particularly if they’d greased their own palms or made a back office deal they shouldn’t have.
Snooks would find out. She was good at finding out things. She’d worked in a past life for an outfit that did contract work for the Pentagon. She was very savvy when it came to Lip’s area of expertise. She understood that decisions were rarely as they looked on the surface. There was always more to a picture, if you knew where to look, and knew the right tools to use. That was the great thing about the digital age. Secrets were always harder to keep. Somewhere was a trail, somewhere someone had slipped up.
“So how can I help?” Snooks said.
ALL business.
Marks did the talking. He didn’t mince words; he told just enough to impress the seriousness of the situation. Snooks had never met Johnny Two-cakes, but a friend of theirs was a friend of hers. “These people are bad news,” Marks said. “Lip and I are going to need to find out some things. We need a safe place for Marion.”
“Of course,” Snooks said. “You don’t even need to ask. Anything else I can do?”
“Not with this one,” Marks said.
Lip added that they might need to use her barn.
Snooks nodded and her face became grave. “You know where the pigs are, if you need them.”
27
MARKS and Lip said goodbye to Marion. It was a little awkward. Hug or not? Marion made it easy for them. She gave each of them a hug.
Marks had a moment of eye contact with her. “We’ll find out what happened to John, I promise, and then we’ll be back. You’ll be safe with Snooks.”
She smiled, sadly. “Thank you.”
There was nothing more to say.
Snooks demanded another hug. No complaints from them.
SMELLING of vanilla, Marks and Lip walked outside.
“Think he survived the trip?” Lip said.
Marks’s face set. “Don’t know. Let’s find out.”
28
IN the dim light, Rudnitsky opened the email. It contained an Adobe Document, a very normal-seeming PDF, which could be viewed once it was clicked open. The contents were
usually a recipe, sometimes it was something else. In this case when he clicked on the PDF it pulled up a recipe for ‘fried chicken livers’. His client—which he’d dubbed ‘Client 487’—was very particular and preferred this manner of communication over any others.
The sender’s name this time was [email protected] The ‘JBorge’ part—or the name—was always different, but the last three numbers were always the same. 487. Hence the nickname, ‘Client 487’. Sometimes the sender used a Yahoo account, other times it might come from MSN, Gmail, Earthlink or some other email service provider.
It was entirely random and there was no apparent logic. Names would vary all over the board. One letter and then a surname, which might sound European, Middle Eastern, Asian, English, African… any nationality on the globe. The only consistency within the sender’s address was the 487 part. Just the number.
Every week or so, a separate email was sent Rudnitsky with an update for the encryption software. That software was needed to unlock the PDFs. The PDFs always contained an embedded media file. The encryption software was needed to remove and unscramble it. Once that was done his laptop’s speakers were able to play the voice message.
Rudnitsky ran the encryption software. Moments later the voice message played. It was short and to the point and answered two questions that Rudnitsky had sent earlier to Client 487, using the previous 487 address. He had typed in the inquiry and used the software to encrypt the message before he sent it.
His two questions were: Who killed my men? Where is their location?
The answer played on the speakers.
“Leonard Markston and Thomas Lipkin. Their abbreviated dossiers will open on your screen momentarily. Their location cannot be verified at this time. We will send you their location shortly.” The voice was flat and expressionless. It was always the same voice. There was no accent and it gave no indication of gender. It was completely devoid of emotion. It could very well have been a man or a woman that was saying the words. Pavel Rudnitsky had often wondered. He’d had a relationship with this client for over a decade and not once had he met them.