by Dom Testa
Poison Control
Eric Swan Thriller #2
Dom Testa
Profound Impact Group
Join the Swaniverse - Get free stuff
Eric Swan is
The Spy Who Can Never Die
With each new tale you’ll learn a little more about Q2’s super spy, Eric Swan.
If you’d like to be among the first to learn of each new adventure before they’re published, just let me know where to find you.
As a thank you for joining the Swaniverse, you’ll be treated to a free Eric Swan short story, along with other bonus treats.
Details at the back of the book.
Thanks, and happy reading.
Dom Testa
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter One
When a bullet whistles past your head it’s not always whistling. Sometimes it’s more of a pfft, sometimes a solid crack as it breaks the sound barrier, and sometimes you don’t hear the projectile at all because it’s been overridden by the sound of the weapon’s discharge. It all has to do with the particular firearm in question and your distance from the asshole shooting at you.
Science aside, there’s also the unmistakable sound of the targeted person screaming holy shit or the disgusting noise as they soil their pants. The first time I was shot at I did both. Laugh all you want, then go put yourself in the line of a 9mm round, tough guy, and let’s see how you do.
I’d just had two shots slam into the stucco above my head and wasn’t in the mood to hear any more. The problem, however, was the triangulation. That’s a fancy way of saying I was pinned down because two shooters were set up about 100 feet apart. They each covered one of my only two ways off the railed patio. I crouched below the decorative half-wall that may not have been very tall, but at least was thick enough to stop slugs.
Getting into this predicament could easily be blamed on Agent Ford, the DEA agent who’d bumbled through the patio doors even as I yelled at him to wait. He was sure he could make it to safety and then, with some luck, nab the bastards.
I’d feel like a creep blaming him now while he was lying in a puddle of blood in the center of the patio. In other words, he definitely didn’t make it to safety. And since I’d temporarily teamed up with him — something that, as a Q2 agent, I rarely did — I’d rushed out to try to help him in case he was merely wounded. No. He was dead and now I was trapped.
Both of the armed jokers seemed competent in their marksmanship, but at the moment they were just wasting rounds. My fear was that eventually one of them would figure out an angle that worked. Which was the first of two reasons I couldn’t just sit and wait for the cops to finally show up.
I glanced over the top of the stubby wall long enough to locate the guy on the left. Four or five more shots forced me back into my crouch. But that was enough time to see that he’d taken cover behind some poor soul’s car. Looked like a newer Lexus SUV. Nice ride.
You might be thinking, Just shoot the gas tank and make it explode. You’ve confused Hollywood with real life. Bullets simply put holes in gas tanks, they don’t cause eruptions. Looks good in movies, though, so directors will keep doing it.
Ah, but there was one other detail I’d picked up. Behind the Lexus and Shooter One was a large metal sculpture. I didn’t have enough time to make a solid identification. It may have been a pelican; we were in central Florida, after all. But it could as easily have been the sculptor’s mescaline-tinted vision of Mickey Mouse. Or maybe Walt Disney through the eyes of Tim Burton.
Let’s call it abstract.
I chanced one more look to confirm the shooter’s position then ducked again. I calculated some angles myself. This would not only be risky because I was opening myself up, it would take some damned fine physics and geometry. Even if I put the rounds in the spots I thought could work, I’d have to empty an entire magazine of 19 rounds and hope for one hit. But at least it was something to try. The guy would drop behind the car when I started firing, and if I sprawled far enough to my left his buddy on the right wouldn’t be in a position to see me.
All of this was guesswork. Which, on many occasions, had gotten me killed.
My decision was made when they both let loose with another burst of at least 10 rounds each. Sometimes in my line of work you just get plain sick and tired of getting shot at. This was bullshit. It wasn’t even my kind of case in the first place. I’d been loaned out from Q2 simply because there wasn’t a pressing national emergency for me to work on. Whether I survived or got killed again, Quanta was gonna get an earful about this.
As soon as they finished firing I took two deep breaths and dove to my left. Raising the trusty Glock 18, I emptied the entire magazine. Just as I’d counted on, the guy lowered himself behind the Lexus at the sound of the first shot. Except I wasn’t aiming for him.
Let’s go back to science for a moment. This thick, heavy metal sculpture was tailor-made for ricochets. And in this case it was my only hope. I varied the target point of each shot along that large, curved belly — or whatever it was — striking it along the bottom curve. That would, in theory, send a variety of ricochets down at just the angles I wanted.
I know, long shot.
But it worked. Hey, all I needed was one.
He let out a strangled cry and collapsed, his gun clattering to the pavement.
I knew this would get the attention of his partner, and I wasted no time. Replacing the magazine, I rose to one knee and saw, over the top of my half-wall, Shooter Number Two craning his head out to see what had happened.
This time it took a single round.
Lest you think this evened the score for Agent Ford, when this pistol party started there were three of these guys. The third, the one Ford considered the planner and leader, had fled on foot, leaving behind Heckle and Jeckle to shoot it out with me. That meant I had no time to recover and count my blessings.
And that was the second reason I couldn’t just sit around. This guy could not get away.
Everyone within a block of our battle had scattered when it all began. Now I heard the distant sound of sirens and holstered the Glock beneath my light jacket. The cops would have plenty of questions regarding the carnage here, but I couldn’t afford the time.
My prey had hustled down the alley behind the strip of touristy businesses lining the street. Okay, maybe hustled isn’t exactly accurate. He’d wanted to hurry, but Agent Ford, in one of his last acts of service to the DEA, had managed to plug the guy in his left calf. It started as a bloody mess and couldn’t have improved in the last five minutes.
That meant several things, all good for me.
Running into a business to hide would be stupid. Hard to remain inconspicuous gushing blood. For the same reason, few taxi drivers would let you in the car.
On top of that, it wouldn’t be long before he’d need to staunch the flow. The body tends to go on strike at a certain point.
And best of all, he sure was easy to track.
I broke into a quick jog, following the dark red splotches down the alley, seeing where a couple of times he’d staggered up to one doorway or another before continuing down the alley. After two blocks he’d cut to the right and crossed a small parking lot that opened on the far side to a park.
I didn’t like the idea of a desperate, wounded animal among a crowd of people. And it didn’t take me long to find him. I only had to follow the screams to the street in front of the park.
Things had gone from shitty to just bloody freakin’ awful. Let us go mano a mano and my training hopefully gave me the edge. But once civilians were thrown into the mix, the job got exponentially more difficult. Damn this freak. He’d already been responsible for the deaths of nearly a dozen people in a sick manner.
Now I sprinted toward the commotion. People were running away in terror, with the exception of one woman who’d dropped to her knees, hands together in a pleading manner. My target had crossed a line you just never cross.
He held up a young girl from behind, his gun at her throat. The girl, maybe 6 years old, was crying, screaming for her mother. Mixed with the mother’s cries, the blaring of sirens from emergency vehicles rushing to the scene of the patio shootout, and the general cacophony of sound from the stunned people nearby, it was a madhouse of sound.
The gunman had stepped into the road and halted an approaching F250 pickup truck. He stood right in front of the grill, forcing the truck to stop. The driver, a young Latino man who impressively filled the truck’s cab, glared out the windshield. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy you wanted to cross, especially if you were scum who would threaten a child.
Before the driver could act on whatever impulse motivated him, I arrived on the scene and pulled out my gun. This got the attention of the shithead, who looked around at me and clutched the girl tighter. She shrieked even louder.
“What are you gonna do now?” I asked, stepping forward. I held the Glock at my side, ready to raise it in an instant but not provoking him.
“Drop your gun,” he said to me. Turning to the truck driver he yelled, “And you, get your ass out of there. Now!”
The young man sat immobile, continuing to glare.
“What do you think can possibly happen here?” I said, taking one more slow step forward. “This is pure panic. You know there’s no way out. So why do you want to scare the girl?”
“I’ll do more than scare her,” he said, his voice high and quavering. The adrenaline, mixed with the loss of blood, had to be wreaking havoc on his mental state. That could make a dangerous situation deadly. The police would arrive soon, but this was going down one way or another before that happened.
I chanced one more step, which brought me to within ten feet of him and allowed me to lower my voice. “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You let the little girl go, and you can take me as a hostage. How’s that?”
“Do you want to die?” he screamed, waving his weapon at me. “Do you?”
I shrugged. “I can’t. It’s kinda my thing.”
“Screw you! Get back and drop your gun.”
“All right. I’ll put the gun down. You just let her go back to her mother. Is that a deal?”
With everything coming apart in his world, and the blood loss draining his energy, the frenzied gunman was having a hard time processing all the inputs. His eyes darted from me to the man behind the wheel of the F250 to the screaming, terrified mother and back to me. I dared one more small step and held my gun out to my side in the international sign of I’m putting it on the ground.
And that’s when the entire dynamic flipped.
The little girl, unaware that she was probably only moments away from running back into her mother’s arms, had a spasm of fear. She let out another wail and kicked one of her feet backwards as hard as she could. It caught the flustered gunman square in the nuts and he let out a grunt while dropping the girl. She landed on her feet and immediately bolted toward her mother.
In one of those moments that truly does seem to move in slow motion, I saw what was about to happen next. Purely reacting out of his own fear and confusion, the lowlife recovered from the nut shot and raised his gun toward the fleeing girl.
If I’d been closer I could’ve leapt at him. As it was, the girl was now much closer, so I instinctively dropped my gun and dived, tackling her as the crazed gunman’s weapon went off. I felt the searing heat and pain as the slug connected, but lay on top of the girl, awaiting the killing shot.
Which would’ve come, I’m sure. This maniacal fiend had officially slipped into the nothing-to-lose stage that meant he was prepared to go down blazin’.
But he never had the chance to finish me off. As soon as that first shot rang out I registered another sound. The sound of peeling rubber. The sound of an engine roaring with everything it had, which in this case was about 400 horsepower.
The next sound would’ve been sickening if I hadn’t wanted it to happen or hadn’t been dealing with my own wound. It was the sound of a large pickup truck driven by a large man running over a shithead with a gun.
I rolled to my side to let the girl escape to her delirious mother. I couldn’t roll onto my back; there was a .38 slug lodged in my ass. And it hurt like hell.
Opening my eyes I saw a pair of cowboy boots next to my face. The owner knelt down and I recognized the truck driver. He looked at the blood dripping from my pants onto the ground and said, “What’s your name, man?”
“Eric. What’s yours?”
“Felipe.”
“Well, thank you, Felipe,” I said, grimacing.
He nodded as if he ran over people every day. Turning toward the mangled body beneath his truck he said, “That guy was an asshole.”
Chapter Two
We were nearing the end of a strenuous workout, my first since returning from Florida. My shirt was soaked with sweat and my breathing was more like labored gasps. Not to mention the aches I felt along my chest and upper arms as a result of blocking as many blows as I could.
Which made it all the more disheartening that my sparring partner looked like she’d just finished a hard day of online shopping.
Her name was Quanta and she oversaw the domestic spy agency I worked for, known simply as Q2. There is no Q1 or Q3. In fact, the name began as something of a joke but, since no one could think of anything better, it was accepted with a shrug. Quanta, after running two similar organizations overseas, had been brought in to oversee the team of field agents, of which there were only 4, including me.
She liked to keep her agents in shape by beating the hell out of us with her own brand of martial arts, which I describe as a sort of Taekwondo meets Jedi Mind Trick. As usual, the beat-down took place in the elaborate garden on the grounds of her home. Quanta rarely went to the actual headquarters.
“Listen,” I said between gulps of cold, January air. “I know you’re kicking my ass, but do me a favor, will ya? Don’t literally kick my ass. It’s just now feeling back to normal.”
She stepped back and assumed a neutral pose. “Swan, do you think an opponent would grant your wish?”
“Honestly, Quanta, I don’t care. But I took a piece of lead in my butt cheek for a case I shouldn’t have been on.”
“Oh. So now it’s up to you to decide when or where you work? The DEA asked for help and you had nothing going on at the time. Sending you out to stay in field shape is better than having you sit around getting fat and lazy.”
“How about you just cut me some slack for another week or two?”
“You won’t be here for the next week or two.” With that, she walked past me toward the sliding glass door that opened from her kitchen. I used her exit to bend over, hands on knees, trying to recover. I didn’t like to do that when she was watching. I’ve never come close to beating her, but there’s still pride.
After a minute I walked into her kitchen and helped myself to some sort of juice in her fridge. It was purplish, I know that much. Quanta would be off meditating for a few minutes, s
o I took out my phone and used the time to kill off brain cells by surfing online. In the back of my mind, though, I considered her parting line. It had to mean I was back on assignment. A real one.
When you’re an agent for Q2 you understand that those assignments have three primary characteristics:
One, they involved serious domestic threats against citizens. These are threats the government would prefer be kept quiet. Can’t have every nut job’s evil plan spilling out over social media. Believe me, you don’t want to know a lot of the shit we stop. You just don’t.
Two, they required a certain amount of espionage and sleuthing. That makes me part spy and part private eye, and those aren’t the same things. Normally I would never use a word like ‘sleuth,’ but I devoured a lot of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books as a kid. Yes, Nancy, too. Shut up.
And three, the missions had a high probability of death. Usually the bad guys got to do the dying, but often we bit it, too. Since there’s not exactly an endless supply of super agents you can pick off the tree, normally that would be a big problem.
The issue was solved thanks to a woman named Devya Nayar. She was the scientist at MIT who took the concept of Frankenstein, merged it with the science advancements gleaned from the work on artificial intelligence, and produced something we call reinvestment.
The quick explanation goes like this: My thoughts, my memories and experiences, and my personality — all the things that make me me — were digitally stored in something akin to a super-computer. If the body I was using got whacked, then my essence, that digital version of me, was downloaded into a new body and I was back on the job.