Devil's Den

by Jeff Altabef

  Fantasy Books from Evolved Publishing

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  The best-kept secrets in 2041 America are the deadliest ones. ~ Food is scarce and good jobs the rarity. America is rife with ghettos and armed checkpoints, and poverty runs rampant. With secretive rebel groups and spies, psychotic killers, lies and murder at the highest levels of political influence, America stands at the fracture point.

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  April 14, 2041

  Warren Scott approached Room Number Nine with a deep scowl etched on his face. He hated surprises, which were messy and usually crammed with excrement he had to clean up. He liked order, predictability, control—that way he avoided all the shit.

  The message from Michael had been mysterious at best. He said he had found something shocking and needed to meet in person immediately. Shocking could mean anything. Warren’s definition of the word was surely much different from Michael’s. Still, the young man had sounded agitated, so Warren had altered his schedule and set up the meeting.

  After a few long, angry strides down an empty hallway, he reached his destination. Stained black, the old-fashioned door was made of solid, heavy maple wood, the Number Nine engraved in shiny brass toward the top. He paused before opening it, glanced at his reflection in the brass fixture, and cursed. A strand of hair had fallen out of place, which he immediately swept back to its assigned location. He needed a new hair gel; the Italian one was crap.

  He checked the hallway one last time to make sure no one had seen him, turned the brass doorknob, and opened the door.

  Inside the room, Michael sat alone and agitated on the edge of the bed with a tablet computer tossed to his side. Upon seeing Warren, he stood, relief clearly evident on his face. “Thank God you were able to meet me so quickly. I didn’t even know there were rooms up here.”

  Warren closed the door and studied his face closely, noting the sweat running down the sides in little rivulets, and the stress lines creasing his forehead and the corners of his eyes. Even in the cool air-conditioned room, his golf shirt, heavy with moisture, stuck to his body. Slightly overweight, Michael had weak facial features that his thinning, straw-colored hair only made weaker.

  Warren’s employer had paid for Michael’s college education, and still owned the rights to the young man’s income stream for the next eight years. Michael worked in the technology department. He didn’t work directly for Warren—no one worked directly for Warren—but he did special projects for him from time to time. Sometimes Warren paid him for results, a few extra dollars Michael could keep for himself. All in all, he was a talented person Warren had known for just under three years—talented, but not indispensable. So few people were truly indispensible.

  Warren smiled to put the young man at ease. “Yes, there are ten rooms up here for out-of-town guests. They rarely ever get used but can come in handy for a hasty meeting like this one.” He lightly crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, tell me what you’ve discovered, Michael. It can’t be half as bad as you look.” He always used first names when addressing people. It gave him power over the person he spoke to.

  Michael rose from the bed, started pacing with quick, short strides, and looked toward his feet as he spoke. “I started hacking into Mr. X’s computer just like you said. It took me some days before I got past the security, but once I did, I stumbled upon something truly shocking.” He grabbed his tablet and unfolded the keyboard.

  Warren sat stiffly on the bed and waited, his internal clock ticking, and sighed. He glanced at his handmade Swiss wristwatch. Paper thin, the timepiece had a large white, rectangular face with blue digitally projected hands, and a narrow platinum band. The thinnest watch ever made, it had cost him an outrageous sum, held a charge for three years, and kept terrible time. He had an important meeting to attend. He needed to bribe a state senator and the usual vices—drugs, prostitution, and cash—appeared useless. The man had integrity, or at least he seemed to have integrity. Warren would break him in the end. He could be quite creative, if necessary, and he’d never met a politician who possessed true integrity. He’d have a better chance finding a unicorn.

  As Michael fumbled with his tablet, Warren practiced the enhanced breathing methods he’d learned in yoga. He felt rushed and would rather deal with Michael later, but the young man’s agitation intrigued him.

  Michael’s hand shook slightly as he handed the tablet to Warren. Sweat from his fingers lingered on the edges of the computer as he released it.

  An open memo appeared on the screen, as well as a number of supporting documents with tabs behind it. As Warren started scanning the documents, his eyes grew wide. Few things surprised him, but Michael had found more than he had imagined he would.

  After a few minutes, he placed the tablet on the bed and stared into Michael’s eyes. He took pride in his innate ability to read people, and what he saw surprised him. Shock and fear lit Michael’s eyes, and maybe something else, something dangerous.

  Michael stammered, “You see, it-it is both great news and terrible news. I-I can’t believe it, but all the backup documents look authentic. I’m stunned.”

  Warren pushed the tablet away from him and calmly asked, “Is there anyway to trace this information to you? Did you leave a trail of some sort?”

  Michael hesitated before he answered. “I left no evidence. If he figures out that the information was hacked, he’ll reach a server in Singapore and the trail will grow cold from there.” His voice displayed the confidence that came with expertise.

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  Michael rocked back and forth on his heels with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “No one else, Mr. Scott. I knew you’d know what to do. You’d know how to make this public.”

  The situation isn’t half as bad as it could be.

  Warren smiled. “You did absolutely the right thing, Michael. Sit down while I think about the best next steps. As you said, this is such good news wrapped in an awful secret. We must be careful. It has to be handled delicately.”

  He left Michael sitting on the edge of the bed and strolled to the only window in the room. From here, he could see the long road leading toward the clubhouse. A few cars were already arriving. Soon, the road would be full for tonight’s benefit. With his back turned to Michael, he twisted the large stone on his college valedictorian ring, revealing a small needle on the other side.

  Still glancing out of the window, he said, “This discovery might change everything.”

  Michael held his head in his hands and stared somberly at the floor. “I still can’t believe it.”

  Warren beamed a wide smile at the young man. “You’ve done extraordinarily good work, Michael. You have performed beyond my expectations.” He smiled again as he slapped Michael firmly against the base of his neck.

  The young man stiffened as the small needle punctured his skin. The ring injected a fast-operating poison into his bloodstream, and he became instantly paralyzed. The only part of his body that still moved was his heart.

  Warren heard the thump-thump-thump of Michael’s panic.

  He gently grabbed the young man’s shoulders and let him fall to the bed. “I’m sorry it has come to this. You really did achieve so much more than I thought was possible. I’ll have to deal with Mr. X later. I’m sure you understand.”

  The oxygen left Michael’s lungs.

  Thump... thump... thump....

  Warren moved within an inch of the young man’s face, and waited as Michael’s heart stopped beating, his face turning a bluish-white color as the life faded from his eyes. He regretted killing Michael, but at least he enjoyed watching as the man died.

  He carefully twisted the ring back into its original position. He didn’t
take as much joy in killing Michael as he usually would have. He did his best to revel in the moment, but without the careful planning and anticipation, it felt oddly hollow. And he missed the begging. He particularly liked when his victim promised to do whatever he wanted. He blamed Michael. The young man proved to be selfish in the end.

  If he had told me more on the phone, I could have planned better. Pity, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  Michael had proved himself valuable, but he had left Warren no choice. He wasn’t willing to share this information, and he’d never let it go public.

  He pressed a button on his small cell phone and started talking. “Steven, I need a cleanup crew here at the club. Come to room nine. It’s one body, and there’s not a lot of time. The place is going to be crawling with people soon. Pick it up immediately, and make sure it never gets found.”

  He disconnected the call before Steven could respond.

  Michael was easy, but how am I going to handle Mr. X and this secret?

  He hastily checked the room, making sure he’d left no evidence behind. He grabbed the tablet, folded the device, and put it in his pocket. He didn’t have time to examine it right now but would study it later tonight. Now, he needed to disappear and distance himself from Michael and Room Number Nine.

  He glanced at his watch and frowned. The state senator would be waiting for him, but he left with a bounce to his step. He felt surprisingly good as he closed the heavy maple door behind him.

  The breeze felt good rifling through Jack’s curly brown hair, a bit of freedom in a confining world. It was mid-April, but the weather had already turned hot, easily eighty degrees. Each year summer came a few weeks earlier. The government blamed it on sunspots, but everyone knew it was global warming, and everyone also knew the government would do nothing about it. Spring had been mostly reduced to something old people reminisced about after having one too many gin and tonics.

  Jack expertly weaved his motorcycle through the rush of lower Westchester traffic. He’d turned eighteen two months ago, and his mother had somehow saved enough money to buy him the used, bright-red Indian Chief motorcycle. The bike had a few years on her, but she was in pretty good shape and rumbled powerfully beneath his long legs. He’d used his meager savings to buy a white racing stripe for the body, but that just hid some of the scratches and dents. The bike really could use some bodywork and a new paint job, but he needed to make enough money first, which might take... forever.

  The fuel gauge hovered near empty, but he had no time to stop for gas now, given the long line at the public gas station. Already late for work, he shook his head and motored on. At fifteen dollars per gallon, he’d find other ways to acquire fuel. Either that or take a lot of buses, and buses sucked. He’d rather hitch a ride.

  He twisted the accelerator, passing one of the private gas clubs—no lines and no published prices, but they catered only to the upper classes, which meant he’d never belong. He pushed the Chief onward, hoping he’d have enough gas to make it to the club.

  The sun had already set by the time he glided the motorcycle through the large metal gates at the Ronald National Country Club in Chappaqua, New York. He waved at Bob, the head of security for the club, who manned the gate.

  Bob wore all black and carried an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. The assault rifle was an old design, but reliable and cheap. Most security guards used them, but the private police preferred the new American made M-18s. Bob resembled a six-foot-tall, heavily-armed refrigerator. He specialized in solving discrete problems for the club’s privileged clientele. If any of the members had a problem with one of the lower classes, they spoke to Bob, and he “fixed” it for them. He rarely spoke about the private jobs he performed for members. Only when he was high did he ever talk about his “other” jobs, and then only in the most general terms.

  Bob scared the crap out of most people, but Jack liked him. He reminded Jack of one of those new genetically modified fruits. Once you peeled back the outside layer, you’d find something weird inside. Bob was certainly weird, but Jack liked weird, so Bob was cool with him.

  Jack swung the motorcycle to the back of the main clubhouse, toward the lot where the valets parked the members’ cars. He parked the bike in a spot as a new BMW convertible screeched to a stop inches from him.

  He was in luck.

  Julian bounced out of the car, a smirk on his thin face. He limped because his left leg was longer than his right, and he yelled at Jack, “Hey, you can’t park that piece of crap bike over here.”

  “You almost hit me!” Jack groused back. He jumped from the bike, approached Julian with his hands at his side, palms open, and a sly smile on his face. He towered over his shorter friend. “How about you do me a favor? I’m a little low on gas, and I’m late. I didn’t have time to wait on one of those lines.”

  Julian darted his small black eyes from left to right. As usual, the member parking lot was empty. “You get me fired from this job, and I’ll kill you.” He reached out his right hand and wiggled his fingers. His lips turned downward into a frown, but his eyes glimmered. Julian always needed cash. He had a gambling habit, and he was a horrible gambler—not a good combination.

  Jack pressed a twenty into Julian’s outstretched palm: the usual amount to buy his cooperation. “No one will know.” At least, he hoped no one would find out. He cringed at what he imagined Bob would do to them if he ever did.

  Julian pointed to two dark sedans in the back of the lot. “Use those two. Don’t take too much from either car. Mr. Cullen owns the black one. He has to be ninety years old and can barely see. Mrs. Torio owns the blue one. I doubt she even knows what day it is. Both driver side doors are unlocked. Be quick.”

  Jack groaned. “I can’t take the gas from Mrs. Torio. She reminds me of my Aunt Jackie. How about the white Mercedes?” He pointed to the car next to Mr. Cullen’s.

  Julian shrugged. “That one belongs to Judge Smelts. Don’t take too much from him. He’ll probably blame it on communists and start an investigation.”

  No one liked the judge. His investigations were notorious. He often locked up good people as communists or terrorists with only the slightest shred of evidence against them.

  “You’re the best. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “When you’re done, park that heap of junk in the employee lot, or I’m bulldozing it.”

  Jack grinned. “Don’t worry about the bike. It doesn’t take up much space. No one will notice it. I’m late, and I have to deal with Wendy.” He started up the Chief and swung it toward the two cars in the back. He leaped off the bike, grabbed a clear plastic hose and a funnel from his luggage compartment, and in a few minutes, had siphoned off a full tank of gas from the two luxury cars. Once finished, he parked the motorcycle in the back of the lot, ran toward the kitchen in the back of the clubhouse, and scooted inside.

  The kitchen already buzzed with activity, as burners blazed, fans sucked smoke away from stoves, and workers scurried about in a hectic rush. The sounds of an endless war waged between stainless-steel cookware and utensils filled the vast room, accompanied by the steady rhythm of knives colliding with wooden cutting boards.

  The club’s three chefs stood out from the jumbled mass of kitchen workers. They were the officers of this particular army, dressed in all white with large chef hats proudly placed on their heads. Each one knew his responsibility for tonight’s event.

  The head chef, Antonio, carefully watched his team as they prepared the entrées. His face had already turned bright red as he angrily pointed at one of the assistant chefs, who was pounding chicken cutlets in a manner not to his liking. He noticed Jack’s tardy entrance and disapprovingly pointed to the clock on the wall. Very little happened in his kitchen that Antonio didn’t notice.

  With a guilty shrug of his shoulders, Jack hustled toward the exit, careful not to interrupt the kitchen’s rhythm. He burst into the short hallway that led to the dining room, took a quick left toward the employee bathr
oom, and as he was about to reach the bathroom door, a shrill voice shrieked, “Jack!”

  He didn’t need to turn to realize that the head food coordinator had spotted him. A feeling of dread spider walked down his spine as, head hung low, he turned slowly, his sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. He’d hoped to blend in with the rest of the waiters without running into her—a long shot under the best conditions.

  Jack couldn’t tell if Wendy was just annoyed or seriously pissed off. She glared at him with narrow eyes and pursed lips, but she always looked that way. She wore a severe expression on her face like a mask, and never smiled, unless it was one of the forced grins she felt obliged to flash to members.

  Lucky for Jack, she wasn’t his normal boss; she only supervised him when he worked events. He worked for Blake, the head tennis pro, as an assistant tennis instructor. He only worked events to earn additional money.

  He smiled, tried to add a twinkle to his brown eyes, and flipped on the charm. “You look lovely tonight, Mrs. Mitchell. I’m sorry I’m a little late, but there was this terrible accident on Route 100. I had to pull two kids from a burning car. Luckily, I yanked both out before the car exploded, so they’re okay.” He shrugged his shoulders and attempted his best impression of a humble heroic figure.

  Wendy glanced at her wristwatch, and her lips turned down in a disapproving scowl. “You are twenty minutes late. That will cost you one hour’s worth of pay—I don’t care what Blake says—and next time you’re late, it will be the last time you work for me. Get changed and report to Section 2, and if you can, limit the fraternizing to a minimum. This event is important to Mr. Hoffman, and I want everything to go smoothly.”

  She shot Jack one last disapproving glare in the form of a dagger that twisted in his stomach, before spinning in a tight 180-degree turn and crisply walking to the dining room.

  So much for the charm.