Devil's Den

by Jeff Altabef

  “How about an incentive?” I pull a roll of money from my pocket and peel off a hundred-dollar bill. “After all, we’re all capitalists.”

  He doesn’t move, but his eyes lock on to the bill in my hand. He’s tempted, but one hundred is not enough for him to rankle his boss.

  I peel off another hundred. “I’m desperate. What do you say?”

  He takes the bills with his left hand, careful to keep the assault rifle pointed at me with his right. “I’ll take your money, friend, but all I can do is call over the manager. You can press him, but he ain’t gonna let you in. Pocket change won’t work with him, unless you’ve got a suitcase somewhere. Even then, he’s the prickly sort.”

  “Thanks. It’s worth a shot.”

  The mountain talks into a radio, and a few minutes later the door opens. A thin, well-dressed man stands in the doorway. He’s wearing a navy pinstripe, three-piece suit, white shirt, with a gold tie and matching handkerchief in his front breast pocket. Highly polished black shoes and a gold watch complete the ensemble.

  He’s in his thirties. He’d like people to think he has money, but he doesn’t. The gold watch is a good fake, but it’s still fake, and all that polish on his loafers can’t hide that they’re at least a few years old. He looks annoyed and peers down at me past a pointy nose.

  He speaks with a muddled European accent. It’s also fake. He’s mixing up an English accent with an Australian one. He’s probably never left the country.

  “What’s the problem, Robert?” he asks the guard primly.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but this gentleman insists he needs to see you. He says he represents a significant Originalist who wants to inquire about joining.”

  The manager frowns. “This is highly irregular. No one gets in without an appointment. Let me see your identification card. I’ll let you know if your employer should bother to call and set up an appointment.”

  I hand him my card, and he swipes it through a reader. A few seconds later, his demeanor changes, and he looks at me with fresh eyes. “You’re in luck, Mr. Cabbott. We can make an exception for your boss.” The manager opens the door and clears space for me to walk past him. The security guard lowers his rifle and looks confused.

  The inside appears like someone’s mixed modern technology with an old-fashioned country club. A lush, burgundy-colored carpet covers the floor, and mahogany paneling stretches halfway up the walls. It’s reminiscent of a library in an old university club one of my former employers frequented, but modern flat panels adorn the top half of the walls.

  Even though the place must have cost a fortune to decorate, it feels like a whorehouse. Underneath all that polish and wood and technology is a sleazy layer you’d find in a ghetto brothel. The place reeks of it. I wonder if I should say anything, maybe stuff a note into a comment box somewhere.

  Images of exotic scenes like mountaintops, underwater reefs, and ancient ruins flash across the screens. The image of a beautiful young woman catches my attention. A large glass cross, enclosed in a star, spins on a mirrored table. Only the star spins. The symbol of The Farm in motion. I’m in the right place.

  The fake quasi-European prick speaks in a smooth, well-practiced voice. “My name is Decker Kirkland, and I’m the manager of this establishment. Welcome to Otherworldly Extreme, a private club like no other in the world.” He points at a metal detector and says, “I’m sorry about the inconvenience, but a necessary precaution in today’s troubling times.”

  An attractive young brunette with long legs operates the machine. She smiles sweetly and hands me a small plastic tray. Another armed guard stands behind her, his eyes fixed on me, his hand resting on the grip of an automatic handgun. He must be the brother of the mountain who guards the door. They share the same body type and look, which could only be the result of the same genes. He’s a few years younger than his brother and he looks meaner, which hardly seems possible. This one likes to fight.

  I reluctantly drop the Smith and Wesson in the tray.

  “And your phone also,” says the brunette.

  I glance at Kirkland and he says, “We’ll keep those items here and give them back to you when you leave. We never allow phones or anything that can record images inside the club.”

  When I pass through the metal detector, Kirkland plays tour guide. “We have our experience chambers down that hallway.” He points to his left but walks to his right. “That’s where we have our conference rooms and my office. Otherworldly Extreme is the most exclusive private club in the world. It costs one million dollars to join and each experience costs twenty thousand – U.S.,” he says, as if we are somewhere the currency would be something else. “I hope those numbers won’t scare away Mr. Jeffries.”

  Those numbers should scare away everyone, but I play along. “He’s willing to pay for the best,” I say. “Money is just a means to an end for him.” I’m not sure what that means but I heard a wealthy person say it once, and other rich people nodded in agreement, like it made a lot of sense.

  “Of course,” says Kirkland. “Well put.” He opens the door to one of the conference rooms. Same décor as the lobby but smaller, with a cherry wood table in the center and a full-sized glass refrigerator along one of the walls.

  He points to the fridge. “Help yourself to some refreshments. We have an exclusive brand of organic apple cider that’s outrageously good. Locally grown and fresh.”

  “Maybe later,” I say. “Why is the private club so much more expensive than the regular service?” I know this club is an important puzzle piece, but I need to understand what they do here and how it might relate to the cult and Megan.

  Kirkland smiles. “The two aren’t close to the same. Imagine the difference between riding a bicycle and driving a Ferrari.”

  “Quite a difference.”

  “That’s about right. The regular virtual reality experience is truly remarkable. The guests use full-sized helmets that immerse them into the virtual world. We even use well-placed electrodes to stimulate realistic experiences on the chest and other areas. Those experiences feel as lifelike as we can make them. In many cases, more intense than real life, but they depend on computer simulations, and that’s limited. Plus, we can only stimulate so many nerves with the helmet and the electrodes.”

  Kirkland touches a button on a screen and a sleek, stainless steel tube appears. “For extreme experiences, we fully submerge our guests into a special substance inside these experience chambers. This truly enhances the experience. The guests literally feel more connected to the virtual world than the real one.”

  “So, the connectivity is better?” I ask.

  “Not just that.” Kirkland smiles before he continues. A well-practiced expression to make sure his target listens to what he says next. “We offer real experiences. These experience chambers are connected to real people, so we avoid computer simulations. No two experiences are the same. Every experience is unique. It’s more real than real life.”

  More real than real life? They connect to real people? I’m beginning to understand The Farm’s connection, and I don’t like it. “So, if my boss wanted sexual experiences, he could, in effect, have sex with a real person virtually.”

  “Oh, yes. And the sex will be better than anything he’s ever experienced. Our Angels are specially trained, and our technology touches upon all his nerves. I guarantee that it will blow his mind.” Kirkland beams a bright smile, and I resist the urge to rip out his throat.

  “And what if my employer’s tastes tend to the younger side?”

  “No worries. Any desire can be filled.”

  A more sinister idea pops into my mind. “What if my employer likes to hurt people?”

  “Oh, certainly. The Angel on the other end will experience everything as if they were together in person. Once the experience ends, the Angel won’t suffer any lasting injuries. Only vague memories.”

  “And if he wants to experience killing someone.”

  Kirkland grins. “Th
at can be arranged – for an extra charge. In those cases, the Angels actually die. Their brains believe the injuries are real and what the brain believes, is reality, no? But there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Yes. The client can alter his avatar. In this way, he can appear and feel young again.” Kirkland’s eyes light up. This is his clincher—the final argument he uses to sell clients. Every good sales pitch has one. “We can adjust the avatar based upon the client’s wishes, so he can be both younger and stronger. Thinner. Taller. Whatever he wishes. How much is that worth? To go back in time and practically make yourself a god?”

  It’s a good question, and I see why he uses this last pitch as his clincher. Who wouldn’t want to be younger, or stronger, or better looking? Even if it’s just for an hour in a virtual reality? The wealthy would pay dearly for a reality that allows them to become gods.

  “How will he know if it works the way you say?”

  “Oh, we offer a free experience to prove our claims.” He makes a show of looking at his watch. “I need to step out for a second. We can discuss other details when I return.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

  I need to find a connection between this place and The Farm. I need an address. A keyboard sits on the table, so I attack it. There’s not much functionality, but one of the options leads me to a screen with more information about Otherworldly Extreme. Lists of locations. Typical experiences. Costs.

  Nothing about The Farm or who owns the place. I search the program, but it doesn’t give away any secrets. I’ll have to wring the information out of Kirkland, which makes me smile. He’s no innocent in this. I’ll enjoy giving him an experience that’s more real than real life.

  I spot the refrigerator. What did Kirkland say again? Something about locally grown apple cider.

  I open the door and remove a glass jug with a label on it: Organically produced apple cider for Otherworldly Extreme. Bottled at The Farm in Walden, PA.

  Walden, Pennsylvania? That’s only a few hours away from the city. And they used a capital T for The and F for Farm, which means it’s a name. They’re too cute.

  I replace the bottle and grin. I have a town at least and that’s more than good enough. There’s no need to waste time here. I want to tell Kate and get moving.

  I try the door and it’s locked. Locked from the outside. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

  Caesar’s voice barks in my head, “What a clusterfuck you’ve created here, Trainee. This is worse than the Dubai debacle. You acted like a pimply kid at prom. So overeager, you missed all the signs. It’s enough to make me hurl my lunch.”

  The guard didn’t think I would get in. The manager was about to dismiss me until he scanned my card. The fake Samuel Jeffries shouldn’t have made that big of an impression on him. He couldn’t have recognized the name since it’s not real. Why did he turn so accommodating?

  He saw my name and then he changed. Oh, for fuck’s sake! I was so intent on getting inside, I ignored the obvious signs that something was screwed up. These Farm people must know I’m looking for them. I try the door again, and it’s bolted shut. Reinforced by steel, the wood frame won’t splinter if I throw my shoulder into it.

  “Trapped by a slippery talking, good-for-nothing-snake-oil-salesman,” says Caesar. “You’d better move quickly or that broad of yours is a goner. If they know about you...”

  The Fates are screwing with me again, and now they’re after Kate.

  Two things are certain. I need to escape from here and fast. And I’m going to kill that prick Kirkland. He doesn’t know it yet – but he’s already dead.

  Every investigation has a turning point—the moment when the target realizes he’s being hunted. Usually it happens right before I achieve my objective: an instant before I put a bullet in someone’s skull, or kidnap my target, or steal a valuable piece of intel. On rare occasions, the turning point happens sooner, before the end of my investigation, like now. I won’t lie about it. It makes everything more difficult.

  The Farm knows I’m after them, but how? I can think of only three likely possibilities. One, Mr. Peterson grabbed a photo of me off his surveillance system and sent it to the cult. Possible, yet highly unlikely. Even if Peterson knows how to contact these people, a coward like him wouldn’t want to get involved so directly. Second, Darleen could have told Frankie. Another unlikely choice. She truly hates him, and she’d only have a vague description to tell him about me. That would be useless. They’d never identify me that way. I’m hard to find.

  So that leaves only one possibility left, and it’s the worst. They know Brad is dead, and they’ve reviewed the surveillance video from the apartment building. I thought I looked away at all the right times, but I could’ve missed a camera. No one’s perfect, least of all me. Somehow, they got their hands on that tape, which means they’ve got government connections. They have money and now they have connections. They’re becoming more formidable by the minute.

  I reach for my phone, but they took it from me when I entered the club. I need to contact Kate right away. If they know about me, they probably know about her. She’s in danger, but there’s nothing I can do about that until later. First, I need a way out of here. When in crisis mode, always prioritize and handle the immediate crisis first. Wasting time worrying about next steps is a sure way to get killed.

  I grab a chair, swing it over my head and smash it into the video camera attached to the ceiling. I don’t need them watching me. Next, I tap on the windows. Four-inch bulletproof glass. Even if I heave a chair into it, it’ll hold.

  There has to be a way out. The ceiling vents are too small to fit through. Another dead end.

  I’ve only one play left. The small tab of plastic explosives concealed in my boot. I pop open the heel and remove the tab. It’s powerful stuff. Too powerful for this, but I’m desperate. I can blow the windows or the door. The windows are the better option. The mountainous security guards are probably behind the door and the street looks clear.

  I flip the cherry table on its side and secure the tab to the glass window. I activate the detonator, which gives me ten seconds, and jump behind the table. The explosion shatters the glass and much of the wall. Shards pound the table and the building rocks.

  The table holds. At least it’s made from real wood. Score one for the bad guys. For a million dollars to join the club, at least they didn’t cheap out with crap furniture.

  I toss the table to the side and jump through the gaping hole that used to be the windows. Freedom. I hit the ground running, away from the main street and the entrance to the club.

  An SUV screeches to a halt in front of me, blocking the side street. Three private security guys jump out. They’re armed to the teeth, and all I have is a small, ceramic throwing knife concealed in my belt. It’s not worth pulling out.

  I run back the other way. Maybe the club’s security guards won’t leave the shop. I could use a break, but I don’t get one. Two giant shadows step into the street directly in front of me.

  Kirkland stands behind them, points and shouts, “That’s him! Take him alive.”

  I glance over my shoulder and the three private security guards move in on me in a classic triangle formation, guns trained on me. I’m no longer worried about the guns, though. Kirkland screwed up. Now I know they won’t fire. They want to take me alive. Good luck with that.

  The two giant-sized guards block my way out. Robert, who guarded the door, hands his assault rifle to his brother, who then hands both to Kirkland.

  Robert talks in a calm, sure voice that floats toward me in a confident wave. “Listen, friend, this isn’t going to work out well for you. Get on your knees, turn around, and let me cuff you. Otherwise, you leave me with no choice. I’m going to have to pound you into next week.”

  His brother snickers and says, “Let’s pound him anyway.”

  “Shut up, Joey. We don’t need to hurt the little guy.” I’m no little guy, but to these two, I might as w
ell be a toddler.

  Robert acts as if he’s in control, thinking he has every advantage. I’ve got to flip the table, and quickly.

  I stalk toward him. “You know what they do here. Your brother is too stupid to understand, but you know. It’s not right. They have to be stopped.”

  The big fellow shrugs. “It’s not my concern, friend. On your knees or you’ll wake up tomorrow after I give you a beating.”

  I’m within a step of him now. He’s massive. I don’t have a lot of choices. Punching or kicking him in the body would be mostly useless. Too much fat and muscle for me to cause him any real pain. I’ve got to hit him in a sensitive spot like the face or neck or knee, yet he’s moved into a competent defensive position, hands around his head. He doesn’t care if I punch him anywhere else. All he has to do is protect his face and get his hands on me.

  “If you put it that way. I’d rather not spend the night in the hospital.” I lower my hands and move forward. He subconsciously lowers his in response. He’s used to people giving up at the sight of his bulk, so this is what he expects.

  I shift my weight as if I’m about to get on my knees, but instead I pull my head back and snap it forward, bashing it into his nose with all the force I can muster. I’ve caught him by surprise. Everyone expects a punch or a kick, but no one anticipates a head butt. The skull is like a club with thick bones, strong neck and core muscles. A fine weapon.

  I connect hard and shatter his nose. He wobbles backward and falls on his ass.

  I know how he feels. His nose felt like a brick, and I’m momentarily dazed.

  His brother curses. “What the fuck!” He rushes me before I can focus, grabbing me by the shoulders, and slamming me against the building. His face twists angrily. “I’m going to kill you.”

  He’s serious as he circles his ham-like hands around my neck—vices that shut off my oxygen.

  I jam the heel of my palm into his chin as hard as I can. I don’t have much leverage, but I snap back his blockhead. He loosens his grip for a second, which lets me gasp some air.