DARK HEARTED (The COIL Series)

by Telbat, D. I.

  This day began as any other, in the mid-afternoon, when he descended a hidden staircase from his bedroom upstairs to the club office downstairs. He checked the books and took a few uppers—always uppers and always in pill form. Half of the club regulars sported syringes in ankle holsters, but Bernard hated needles. After an hour in the office, he stepped into the throng of ecstasy and techno music where he danced with a few upper-class prostitutes and shook a dozen hands with corporate men and thugs alike.

  A lot of businessmen used his club to make deals. Sometimes the deals had nothing to do with him, but he received a cut of everything, anyway. Those were the unwritten rules, and Bernard kept a book of names and scores. He used his leather-clad goons to handle the ugly work if needed. The gangs that ran Berlin's streets could have the streets. Bernard's club was neutral ground—his ground. Everyone partook of his services, and no one would profit from his demise. A sly businessman above all, Bernard's network spanned the world.

  He was behind the bar serving drinks and twisting to the million-Euro sound-system when one of his goons waved Bernard over.

  "Some Englishman asking for you," the man yelled into Bernard's ear. Most of his goons were ex-convicts, so they were hip to the scene. Like their boss, they loved money and served him loyally for it. "Looks like a heavy."

  The man pointed down the bar. A heavy was someone with both money and power, Bernard's favorite, but he couldn't see anyone who stood out. His goon put a hand to his neck and traced a jagged "S" below his ear. Bernard groaned, but it was nothing his man could hear over the vibrating music.

  Moving down the bar, Bernard's eyes searched the throng and press of bodies for the Englishman who was sure to stand out in this atmosphere. But he was wrong. After a full minute, he realized that he'd been looking beyond the Englishman because the bloke fit in too well. The Englishman wore black leather and a black beret. Though older than most of the day crowd, he was the right age to be a heavy from Britain. At only forty-three, Bernard considered anyone older than himself to be old school. This one with the beret was a little washed-up physically, but his eyes seemed keen and maybe a little cold. On his arm was a sexy woman in a stylish tank top, plaid shirt, and jeans. Her head was shaved, except for a strand of dark hair that hung from the front of her head to her left eye.

  The woman could've been a meth freak or rocker, by the way she was dressed, but there were a few things that told Bernard she was something special. For one, she looked healthy. White teeth shined through snarling lips, and her slender arms and neck showed signs of muscle. Her neck sported a couple tattoos: two lightning bolts on one side, not unlike Hitler's S.S. squad bolts. That's why Bernard had groaned when his man had shown the sign of the "S." She and her Englishman were Nazis and part of the generation that believed such tattoos had to be earned. Maybe she had killed a Black or a Jew for her bolts. There was no doubt she was some type of soldier, a neo-Nazi, and maybe even the older man's bodyguard.

  On the other side of her neck was an angled swastika so large that it wrapped partially around her throat.

  Bernard nodded his head toward the back hallway. Leaving the bar, he led the way for the leather-clad man and his vixen. Three of Bernard's goons fell in behind the Englishman. One of Bernard's goons was a woman, a little taller, though younger, than the shaved, tattooed stranger was. Almost all of Bernard's people used meth and they looked it. What he would give for a pretty thing like this English broad to show off to clients—racist or not!

  He opened a door next to his office. The two strangers and his three goons filed inside with him and stood around a steel table surrounded by steel chairs. The door closed and sealed with a hiss. The club's noises were muted in the quiet room.

  "I'm Bernard Heisenberg," Bernard greeted in good English, offering his hand to the man in the beret. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

  The bald woman crossed her arms, her face as stone as she stood a half-pace behind the man in the beret. Yes, Bernard decided, she was his bodyguard; she had the look. The beret man squeezed Bernard's hand as he shook it.

  "It was a long time ago, Bernard," the beret man admitted in an English accent. "I'm Cecil from Liverpool."

  "Liverpool. Hmmm. What brings you from the banks of the Thames?"

  "Clever, but it's the Mersey River actually." Cecil narrowed his eyes. "I wish I came for pleasure, but we have a bloody hazard on our hands. Doing some house cleaning. You understand?"

  Nodding, Bernard knew the gang and mob lingo well enough. He looked past Cecil at the tattooed vixen. What was her name? Was she the cleaner who did the house cleaning? If she was an assassin, Bernard wanted her even more, even wondered how she killed her prey.

  "Whatever you need, Cecil from Liverpool."

  Cecil reached inside his leather jacket and set an envelope on the table. Bernard stared at the envelope, but didn't reach for it.

  "My policy is to…try to stay out of the Brotherhood's interests," Bernard stated. "Some of my boys are comrades, but while they're on the clock for me, they work for me and me only. Hopefully, there's a purchase order in that envelope, Cecil from Liverpool, because it's about all I can give you."

  "I have free information for you."

  "Nothing is free, Cecil from Liverpool."

  "Caution is free. For this information, you will stand clear," Cecil ordered rather than requested. "A local has strayed from his racial purity. If he comes to you, deny him assistance. He's a bloody traitor to his race."

  Now, Bernard was curious. Staring at the envelope still, he wished he could see its contents without actually touching it and becoming involved. A heavy from Liverpool was there to clean house? It could only mean that a local, also a heavy, had betrayed the white supremacist cause somehow. Bernard knew all the influential German neo-Nazis. Who was in trouble with the home office? If it were someone small—a nobody—he wouldn't be looking at Cecil from Liverpool. And, if it were a nobody that had betrayed his race, the vixen would've handled the nobody by taking him out. Whoever it was, it was someone big enough for this Cecil man to isolate from Bernard, and surely others, before they killed him.

  Though Bernard wasn't a racist, many of his clients stood on the left or right side of that line. He had Jewish clients, too—antiquities mostly—but he kept them quietly satisfied. They paid in gold or diamonds from New York, which was better than he could say for the Nazi clones who expected more than they paid for, only because he was white like them.

  His curiosity won out. He had to know who had betrayed the comrades.

  After picking up the envelope, he unfolded five pages. Four were high-resolution photographs of a white man with red hair kissing and holding hands with a pretty black woman. The last page contained confirmation of the photographs and the subsequent investigation findings. Bernard felt himself go pale, then handed the five pages to the goon on his right who also studied everything intently.

  "I know this man," Bernard voiced. "He is a man of power in Europe, especially in this city. Though he has hair in this photograph, I know him to keep his head shaved now. But he's not the type to come looking for my help. In a different class of people, but not without contacts all over. There are one or two informants of his in this club right now. It's a black-arts crowd, and witchcraft is one thing I do not dabble in, Cecil from Liverpool."

  "Soon, he'll be desperate enough to go anywhere he can for help, especially once he goes on the run. Because of these photos, he's a marked man."

  "Yes, I see." Bernard smoothed down his caterpillar eyebrows and looked at the pictures again. A Nazi in the arms of a black woman was as condemning as it could be. "Xacsin McLeery with this woman. It hardly seems real."

  "We validated our information," Cecil informed. "Even if it was a long time ago, it is him. His whole network is being dismantled since it's now polluted. Someone code-named Abaddon, perhaps his black arts handler, is also on our list. When Xacsin decided to set up in Germany as a comrade, he had his past erased, but not very well. He
killed this woman in the photo. A race traitor can't hide forever, though."

  "Well, he's no client of mine. Seems like you guys could let him slip by," Bernard figured. "I mean, after all he's been doing for your cause, as the rumors have it."

  "There can be no compromise!" Cecil pronounced. "We'll handle him, and whoever else is loyal to him. That's why I came to you first. No point in bystanders getting in my way, even if you're not a comrade."

  Bernard beamed with pride. This was the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever heard from the likes of this man.

  "The warning is appreciated, and I'll be sure to pass the word. No one will help Xacsin McLeery. Now…" Bernard pointed at the bald vixen and his own female goon. "What's it going to take to put these two in my ring?"

  "My soldiers have better things to do than to entertain you, Bernard."

  "Take the challenge, Cecil from Liverpool! I know you guys. You never hesitate to show your superiority. Coming all the way from your island, you have to give us a little demonstration! But we'll wait until the evening crowd shows up. That's where the real money is. We'll split the winnings down the middle, you and me, no matter what. Everyone'll place a bet. You'll see. They love these events. What's her name, anyway?"

  "December," Cecil said without hesitating, "and you should know that she doesn't usually leave her victims breathing."

  "Oh, now, Cecil from Liverpool, it's all in good fun. The first one unconscious. That's the rule, the only rule."

  Cecil's face was expressionless, as he seemed to measure the younger, taller woman beside Bernard.

  "What do you call her?" Cecil asked.

  "Vulgar, as in the ancient Roman Latin." Bernard offered his hand to Cecil. "I'll have the ring set up. Say, midnight?"

  "Xacsin can wait another day, I suppose." Cecil shook Bernard's hand. "We'll be back."

  #######

  On the drive back to the hotel, June was quiet, making Corban uncomfortable. He opened his mouth several times, trying to find the right words to explain why he had to accept Bernard's challenge, but nothing he had to say justified the danger he put her in.

  "Look," he finally said, "I can stick you on surveillance up at the castle to get you out of the city. Bernard has people in this city, people who'll track us down if we don't show up tonight. Your safest bet is to let me get you out of the city, unless you agree to fly back to the States."

  "Absolutely not!" She frowned. "If you wouldn't have accepted the challenge, I would have, anyway. I can take that scrawny girl, Vulgar. Don't you think I can?"

  "Whether I think you can or not, isn't the point. This isn't what COIL does. We don't fight for self glory."

  "Then let me fight to keep our cover. You know, as well as I do, if I don’t fight, Bernard may not even honor our deal about Xacsin."

  "Oh, boy." Corban sighed loudly. "I think you're enjoying this too much."

  **~~~**

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Corban, with all due respect, you cannot pit her against some club junkie of Bernard's! He doesn't have weaklings working for him—I know! June's a civilian. This is absurd! Listen, Corban, I don't tell you how to run business, but in this circumstance, you need to get her out of the country—after you wash that ink off her neck. And I can't believe you shaved her head!"

  Rupert Mach was the only one among the COIL men who dared to speak so boldly to Corban, though Corban was fifteen years his senior. Still in his leathers, Corban's bandaged head was now obvious, since his beret was on the bed. Behind Rupert, June was being drilled by Bruno and Scooter in the art of hand-to-hand combat.

  June hadn't changed out of her December costume yet, either. She seemed to be enjoying the attention and appeared to be not the least bit concerned. In a few hours, she was to face a rabid and perhaps veteran fighter in the underground club as several hundred primal addicts watched.

  "I know Bernard Heisenberg," Rupert repeated. "He wouldn't have set this up unless he could get something big out of it. This woman, Vulgar, she's probably a pro, Corban! Did you get a good look at her knuckles? See any scars? Disfigurement of her face? There's a guy I know who could drive June back to France by midnight. No sense in getting—"

  "No," Corban stated firmly. "June made a good point earlier. If we pull out of the challenge now, we lose our cover. And the data I gave to Bernard would lose its vitality. We need Bernard's gossip circle to isolate Xacsin."

  "Xacsin was really with a black woman, huh?" Rupert asked. "That info was legit? Since it's all from six years ago, before he began the whole Abaddon bit, you think this will even affect him now?"

  "It's all legit," Corban assured. "His whole Wend gig now is new.

  Semi-new, anyway. But none of that matters if we don't show up at midnight tonight. We need Bernard's ability to pass on and vouch for the word that Xacsin is a marked man. It'll shut him down somewhat, not to mention shake up his nerves. His own people will begin to turn on him, avoid him."

  "He controls them. I don't think they'll turn on him."

  "Well, he won't be able to hire anyone else, at least. His career is over—as a White Supremacist, anyway."

  "So, you're going through with this?" Rupert shook his head in frustration. "I don't recommend it, but I guess it could work. Using June as a prop was a good move, but this? And you won't even tell us what happened to your head? Maybe that's what this is all about—you're simply not thinking straight from this head injury."

  "It's an unorthodox move, Rupert, I agree and admit that. Believe me, I wanted to avoid it, but now we don't have a choice. We have to proceed; we have to follow through tonight."

  "What if she loses? I mean, that's a probability."

  "Hey, I'm right here!" June said from behind him.

  "She's just a reporter!" Rupert continued. "You know she's going to get hurt."

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe? Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Then, you'll let me get her out of the city?"

  "No."

  "You're exhausting me." Rupert shook his head. "As it is, I have to work all night, running background checks on surveillance photos and evacuation routes. All night!"

  "Actually, I want you and some of the operatives from your office at the club tonight."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Don't I seem serious?"

  "All right. You pay the bills," Rupert said with resignation. "What do you need?"

  "Bernard said he recognized me from somewhere. Most likely, it was from when I was undercover years ago. Whatever the case, look into his past to see if he and I may have crossed paths. Finding out how he knows my face is too small a detail for us to get wiped out over, before we even get a chance at Xacsin Castle. Also, he's got twenty security personnel in the club and at least two outside. If he's up to anything questionable, I want to have him matched man for man."

  "Well, are you taking Memphis and Johnny?"

  "Yes, all of my men."

  "Okay, that's eight. I can double that, I think. It's a little late notice to find over a dozen men for an all-night op."

  "Do what you can. I appreciate it, Rupert."

  "Yeah, I know you do, Corban. We're all working toward the same goal. I've worked with Nathan Isaacson a few times over the years. Don't think I know Toad or Milk, but I understand why you're working us to the bone to get your guys back."

  Rupert and Corban watched Scooter demonstrate on Bruno in slow motion how to knock out someone using a blow to the chin. June watched and listened to his instruction, but Corban felt he could read people quite well, and he was confident that she could handle herself.

  "Maybe Brauch Schlenko should show her a few things," Rupert mused. "He knows a thing or two that could save her from a drawn-out bout."

  "June's really not going to learn anything tonight that she doesn't already know," Corban said. "You know, she just might do all right. She doesn't look too worried."

  "That's what worries me." Rupert frowned. "That girl should be scared to death. I know I would
be."

  "Well," Corban said, slapping Rupert on the back, "that's why we leave the brawling to the youngsters. Let's go over some of those castle photos while we wait."

  #######

  Corban had kicked everyone out of his room to catch a few hours of sleep, but he was awake by eleven and suited up in his leather jacket and beret costume in minutes. He met June in the hallway.

  "The rest of the team will be inside the club, so don't get distracted by familiar faces. They're only backup…"

  "What's your input on this fight?" she asked as they climbed into his car. "The others have all given me their two-cents."

  Looking over at her, Corban didn't start the engine right away. She seemed a little nervous now. But in the ring, he knew that would turn into excitement, adrenaline.

  "I'm worried that you may be enjoying this too much," he accused.

  "Actually, I'm a little flattered that you're letting this happen at all. I can't believe you trust me to do this."

  "It's okay if you win. We'll all be happy with a win. Just try not to get too hurt. Either way, win or lose, the boys will whisk you out of there and into a car. Did Scooter teach you anything useful?"

  "Not really." She blushed and smiled. "I know he meant well, though. When I was in the Army Reserves, I took all the jujitsu classes. They were only standard courses, and it's been a few years, but I think I know what to do."

  "You'll do fine." Corban started the car. "If you get in a real pickle, just pretend to faint. That'll stop the fight. We don't lose or win anything from this fight; we only have to show up."

  A few minutes later, they pulled into the alley behind the men's store. A valet took their car and they walked into the downstairs club together. Unlike many American or other European clubs, there was no weapons-check at the door. Almost everyone in the club was armed, but it was a known fact that if anyone drew a weapon, they would be blacklisted from the club, and no one wanted that. The club was the number one source in the city for any number of criminal paraphernalia.