by Mike Baron
The light woke him. His first impulse was to reach for Steve. He remembered and sadness filled him. He glanced at his watch.. Seven-thirty. Sounds of a printer from the other room. Opie came into the room and began licking his face. Dogs were like that. Otto sat up, rubbed his eyes, padded into the bathroom, took a shit, shave and a shower.
Kleiser stood next to the printer in the living room, Porter sprawled on a sofa. The room stank from Porter’s intense body odor exacerbated by the meth. At least Kleiser had resisted temptation. He looked up as Otto approached.
“What do you think?” He handed Otto a sheet of white foolscap affixed with the Bureau seal and heading.
“Very nice. But we’re going to need a transfer order signed by a judge.”
Kleiser turned, sifted through some papers and handed Otto what appeared to be an official FBI Request for Transfer.
“Holy shit! How did you get this?”
“You want the long version or the short version?”
“Never mind. Outstanding work, Randall! I’m putting you in for a No-Prize.”
Porter lurched up off the sofa popping a fresh can of Red Bull. “A Marvel No-Prize? I got one of those. Did you dig when they turned Spider-Man into a gay Puerto Rican?”
Otto and Kleiser stared blankly.
Porter looked around like a man discovering his surroundings for the first time. “I got that shit somewhere. Lemme dig it out.”
“Not necessary,” Kleiser said.
Porter got down on his knees and pulled two long cardboard boxes labeled “Spider-Man” from under the card table holding one of the servers. Otto envisioned a long fruitless meth-fueled search.
`“I’ll take your word for it,” Otto said.
“No, wait. I know where it is.”
Porter got up and headed into the kitchen. Otto looked at Kleiser and mouthed the word ‘great.’
There was a pop and a thud followed by the snarl of an old dog defending its master.
***
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
“Death by Computer”
Two more pops and an animal squeal.
Kleiser looked up quizzically while Otto moved. He’d left the Ruger in the bedroom! Stupid! No time to get it before whoever had snuffed Porter entered the room. Otto picked up a monitor and held it like a Crusader’s shield in front of his chest. Kleiser suddenly noticed the electricity in the air and sat up with his mouth open in a state of uncomprehending anxiety.
The killer entered the room in a crouch, black cargo pants stuffed into black boots, heavy black turtleneck sweater and a black balaclava covering the narrow, deep-set killer’s eyes. The figure wore a utility belt that would have drowned Batman and cradled a Glock with a fat black suppressor in both gloved hands, swinging the muzzle from one to the other.
The muzzle came back to Otto as the sinister intruder gave Kleiser the psychic brush-off.
“Have a seat,” the intruder growled at Otto. Otto backed up and sat down on the deep cloth sofa. Not exactly conducive to fast movement. The figure edged toward one corner leaning against the computer desk, hostages at ten and two. He nodded toward Kleiser.
“Who’s this?”
Kleiser shot Otto a fearful glance.
“Randall Kleiser.”
The figure grinned beneath his stocking mask. “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.”
“If you’re federal why are you wearing a mask?” Kleiser said.
“I’m not federal,” the intruder growled.
“Take the mask off, Quinn. You’re not fooling anyone.”
Benson pulled off the mask revealing the bony skull and Mr. Sardonicus smile. Dark circles under his eyes belonged to an older man. “I tagged you for a screw-up back in Cairo,” Benson said. “Kleiser--go sit on the couch.”
Kleiser shifted to the sofa.
“Either you boys carrying? White? Nothing? No knives or shit? First sign of fast action and I put one through your knee. What happened to your face?”
“‘With a donkey’s jawbone I have made donkeys of them. With a donkey’s jawbone I have killed a thousand men.’ Only I fucked up. I used my own jawbone.”
“You remembered. Stand up and turn around.”
Otto did as he was told. He felt the hard muzzle of the Glock against the inside of his thigh as Benson patted him down one handed, stood and shoved Otto forward so he stumbled onto the sofa. Kleiser watched fearfully.
“Your turn,” Benson said. Kleiser stood while Benson patted him down, shoved him back into the sofa.
“Who’s Control?” Otto said.
“I don’t answer questions. I ask them. I need everything you’ve got on the SHCs--how they start, everything you know or suspect about the perpetrators. Whose place is this?”
“Porter’s,” Kleiser said. “You shot him.”
“You’re awfully mouthy for a nerd turd.”
“Fuck you.”
Benson’s left leg shot up and out, booted heel smashing into Kleiser’s face knocking out a tooth and jamming his head hard against the wall with a bone-jarring thump.
“How can he get knowledge whose talk is of bullocks?” Benson said.
Kleiser leaned forward groaning, hands to his face dripping blood on the threadbare carpet.
“Aardvark. Who’s behind the flame-outs?”
“Tiny aliens that look like spiders.”
As casually as flicking lint Benson whip-kicked Otto in the side of his head with his right instep so fast the only thing that kept Otto up was Kleiser sitting next to him. Otto’s head rang and he saw stars. It reminded him of Libya. His new jaw flamed with pain.
“Keep it up I’m gonna get out the power tools.” Benson reached into one of the pockets attached to his belt and removed two thick plastic wiring harnesses.
Otto knew that once those were on he’d be helpless. He judged kicking Benson in the groin, but the seasoned op remained just out of range.
Benson tossed the wire harnesses to Kleiser. “White, show him your back. Douchebag, put those on tight.”
Porter appeared in the entrance to the kitchen backlit by the morning light, holding something over his head. As he stepped into the living room, Otto saw the blood streaming down his face. Mouth open in a wordless scream Porter lurched forward bringing the ancient sixty-pound monitor down on Benson’s head screen first. At the last instant, Benson sensed something and started to turn but he was too late.
The massive diode screen shattered and the old monitor sank down onto Benson’s bony skull to the ears. Benson swayed upright, pistol pointed at the floor and collapsed.
***
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
“On the Road Again”
Benson’s bullet had struck Porter in the steel plate in his skull, and while he’d dropped like a stone he’d recovered a few minutes later to find his dog dead beside him and some freak with a gun in the living room. Filled with righteous rage he seized the first weapon at hand and brained the fucker.
Porter sprawled on the sofa with the mother of all headaches while Otto fixed a washcloth filled with ice. Kleiser washed himself off in the bathroom and emerged with a flesh-colored bandage the size of a package of Chiclets plastered across his nose. When they pried the monitor off Benson, they discovered that a shard of glass had pierced the carotid and the rounded side of the monitor had filled with blood. Otto went through his pockets finding his Ocelot, car keys and an ankle gun. The key ring included a BMW ignition key.
Porter stared at his hands. “Wow, man. Wow. I killed a pig.”
“You killed a fuckin’ pig with your bare hands!” Kleiser and Porter exchanged a high five.
“Well technically, I used that old monitor. I got tons of that shit. I keep meaning to recycle but loading all that shit in my car and carting it to the recycling joint is a drag, man, and plus you gotta pay them by the pound to take this shit. Prob’ly cost me five hundred bucks to get rid of this shit. I could sell some of my comic collection--I
have a complete run of Spider-Man but I don’t want to have to do that. I already sold all my Youngbloods.”
Otto went out through the kitchen into the backyard, a jumble of discarded lawn furniture, tools, old bikes, old charcoal grills and bricks. He set his Ocelot down on the brick patio, picked up a cinderblock and gave it the Benson treatment.
Kleiser followed him out, raised his eyebrows.
“That’s how he found us. Fuckers have been tracking me through my track-proof phone. Benson drove here. Let’s find it. You go east I’ll go west.”
It was a new BMW 540i with Florida plates. Otto drove it back to Porter’s and stashed it in the backyard, which was pretty much invisible to neighbors. He went over the car with a magnifying glass. Kleiser rigged a signal locator out of Porter’s pile of junk and they swept the vehicle for bugs.
The found a sawed-off Winchester twelve gauge in the trunk along with a cordless drill, enough electronics to bug a college dorm and clothes. Kleiser hacked the Florida Dept. of Transportation and discovered that Benson’s plate didn’t exist. How cool was that? He traced the VIN and found the BMW belonged to a Naples-based firm, Husted Securities. Further research revealed several military contractors on the payroll including Brainiac and a development grant from the Dept. of Defense.
“We’re taking the Beamer,” Otto announced. “Benson’s off the grid--they don’t know where he is or how long this is going to take.”
“What about the dude’s phone?” Kleiser said.
Otto pulled the Ocelot from Benson’s pocket and tossed it to Kleiser. “Get a list of incoming and outgoing before we give it the heave-ho.”
When Otto went back into the house Porter had conked out on the sofa making a noise like a wood chipper. Otto surveyed the damage. Dead dog, dead spook. They didn’t have time to do a professional clean-up.
Five minutes later Kleiser came in. “Got ‘em. What are we going to do about Porter?”
“We can’t take him with us. Leave that fuckin’ shit with his gun--let the cops straighten it out. Obviously Porter here is no killer--and when they finally figure out who Benson is there will be a lid on this tighter than a politician’s college transcripts. They can’t charge Porter--that would expose the agency. They’ll hold him for a little while, figure out he’s harmless and let him go. Maybe they’ll even hire him. Is he a good hacker?”
“The best. Next to me. It’s that Asperger thing.”
“When I get an opportunity I’ll tell the right people.”
Kleiser pulled out the Ocelot. “Why not let them know now?”
Otto held his hand out. Kleiser tossed the phone. Otto went out through the kitchen, laid the phone on the bricks. Kleiser followed him out and stared.
“We need some time to get in place,” Otto said. “Did you get those numbers?”
Kleiser handed him a sheet of yellow legal paper.
“Okay. I need for you to send this to someone and then we’re outta here.” Otto picked up a brick and smashed the phone.
***
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
“Control”
Sunday evening.
Brubaker sat in his study, Macallan at hand, going through the latest intel on domestic terrorist activity. An unwelcome distraction but it was his job. He tried not to think about how close he had finally come to his goal: the secret of spontaneous human combustion. Benson had never failed him. Benson was the most lethal and versatile op Brubaker had ever known.
Benson had estimated it would take him twelve hours to set up and get in place from the time he received the coordinates. By all rights he should have results by now. Half expecting a phone call, Brubaker reluctantly turned his attention to a recently hatched group of Puerto Rican Separatists called Quemarlo.
Somewhere across the bay, a foghorn made the loneliest sound in the world. Brubaker looked outside, down the broad sweeping lawn to his two hundred feet of shoreline, still visible in the dying light. He’d bought the place eighteen years ago and had spent the happiest moments of his life there with Doris, the kids, the dogs. The 118-year-old Georgian residence had cost 4.3 million at the time.
Everything was about to change. The current President was a fop and a weak tit. Kagemusha included two cabinet secretaries, head of the Joint Chiefs, and several powerful members of Congress. The Speaker of the House was prepared to step in and declare martial law.
With the power of spontaneous combustion, a power that had fascinated him since childhood, he would restore the United States to its rightful preeminent position in the world. He would restore its moral fiber and return to the principles of Christianity, which the Founders had intended. At some point he would come forward and be hailed as the savior of America. Monuments would be built to him, songs written, movies made. Now that Gabe Winner was dead Bradley Cooper could play him.
One of his two pedigreed vizslas started barking. A splash of headlights played across the evergreens at the turn around. Who could be visiting at this hour of the night? It was nine-thirty! Were things so bad the President couldn’t take a chance on regular communications he had to send a car?
He heard the faint chime of the front door, Doris talking to someone. A minute later, she appeared in the door to his study. “Luther, Margaret Yee is here.”
“Tell her to come in. And thank you, dear.”
What could the National Security Director possibly want with him?
The grim-faced Director appeared in the door clad in a navy blue wool suit and carrying her omnipresent bag.
“Come in, Margaret. Would you like a drink?”
She looked at the Scotch on his desk. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
Brubaker went to the wet bar concealed behind a sliding Oriental panel and poured Yee three fingers of Macallan.
“Ice?”
“Neat is fine.”
Brubaker handed Yee the drink. She sat in an overstuffed Queen Ann, her feet barely touching the Persian rug.
“Margaret, you look like the grim reaper.”
“Luther, I have Ray Benson’s phone records. Earlier today we arrested Congressmen Peake and Wayans as well as Secretary of Energy Fulton and Joint Chiefs Chair General Macauley. Peake and Wayans are singing like a gospel choir. Benson spoke before he died. He said you ordered the hit on White.”
Brubaker stared into his glass. “I see. And why haven’t you arrested me?”
“The President felt, in light of your outstanding service to your country, that you might wish to avoid the ugliness of the trial and media frenzy.”
Brubaker opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a 1911 Colt .45. He set it on the desk top. “Is this what you had in mind?”
“I’m so sorry, Luther, but you left us little choice. The warrant has been issued, federal marshals will be here in the morning.”
She rose. “Thank you for the drink. I’ll show myself out.”
A minute later Brubaker heard murmured greetings between his wife and Yee and then the front door shut..
So this is how it was supposed to end? With Brubaker doing the “honorable” thing while the country slid further into chaos and penury? Brubaker had always believed that suicide was the coward’s way out. A trial would provide him with the platform he needed to make his case to the American public.
But the public wouldn’t buy it. The public was stupid. The public was a mass of security-seeking ill-informed sheep whom politicians and the media played like a game of Space Invaders.
Brubaker had a dock that currently hosted his twenty-eight foot Boston Whaler.
In some ways, Brubaker had also been preparing for this moment his entire life. The safe house owned by a shadow of a ghost in Arlington. The fake passports and IDs, mounds of cash and South African Krugerrands. The Kagemusha network.
Doris appeared in the door, a crease of worry running up her forehead, her long blond hair fixed in an elegant bubble. “What was that all about?”
“Doris, I’m going away for awhile.”
***
CHAPTER NINETY
“Tabitha”
Sunday evening.
Tuscadero was in Annandale not far from George Mason University. Kleiser’s Black Widow sycophant lived in Alexandria and from the moment she opened her sixth floor apartment door it was plain she was head-over-heels in love with the hacker whom she had only known previously in chat rooms. Tabitha Truskewitz was 200 lbs. of Goth with neon orange hair and tats on her fat biceps. Her lips were orange. Her fingernails were black. Her apartment was a shrine to Black Flag, Rage Against the Machine, pre-sellout Green Day, Che, Mao, and OWS.
Tabitha was a Queen Nerd Geek. There were posters of the Dragons of Pern, John Carter, Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, Hellboy, Lord of the Rings, and Witchblade. Tabitha’s Facebook handle was Ferociouscosplay.
Tabitha was a Gamer.
Tabitha was a Cosplayer.
Tabitha was a Hacker.
The tiny apartment hummed with monitors, hard drives and servers. A brand new HP full color printer occupied a corner of the living room, manual open on top. An old-fashioned fat cathode-ray television was tuned to CNN. Images of whole neighborhoods burning, police in riot gear, solemn politicians interspersed with insurance and network advertisements lent an air of absurdity.
“It’s so good to finally meet you!” she gushed, hardly giving Otto a second glance. “You’ve been a hero of mine like forever!”
“Yeah thanks, Tab. Did you get the stuff?”
“Totally! As soon as I got your message I went out to Best Buy and picked up the printer. I hope I got the right paper. I hit an Office Max and bought about four kinds. Would you like something to drink? Beer? Whiskey? You want to do a bowl?”
“Got any Red Bull?” Kleiser said.
“No but I have Mt. Dew.”
Otto raised his hand. “Me too.”
Tabitha left them in the living room as she went into the tiny kitchen. Otto looked at Kleiser, raised his eyebrows.
“She’s cool,” Kleiser said.
“Does she know she’s gonna have to bail?”
Kleiser made a placating gesture. “Don’t worry about it.”