Show No Mercy

by Brian Drake

  She met Jose Ramos at a secret meeting where Ramos gave the keynote about how they were the only ones who could bring about the kind of social change the world needed. The group offered more than simply talk, which Kassandra was tired of, but action against the one percent and the other ills of society kept the People from assuming their proper place.

  It was during Ramos’s speech where Kassandra fell in love with him. He had the usual Latin good looks and his suit fit him amazingly well.

  She made her commitment and stayed close to Ramos where he finally noticed her. He taught her to shoot and build bombs and she let him seduce her.

  They were inseparable except when duty forced them apart. They tried not to let interruptions happen very often.

  She turned up the heater as Ramos sped along under the highway limit. The dashboard temperature gauge said it was 58 degrees outside, made chillier by the mist hanging in the air.

  “We should go see the Space Needle if we have time,” she said.

  Ramos only grunted.

  “Bill Gates’ also lives here, you know.”

  Ramos made another sound. “Biggest enemy of them all.”

  “Should we save some C-4?”

  Ramos’s eyes never stopped scanning the road. “Maybe next time.”

  Presently Ramos turned off the freeway and they followed city streets to the suburbs, where the narrow streets dipped on either side to help keep standing water from accumulating on the pavement. Yards were full of lush green lawns and the multiple colors of a wide variety of flowers kept Kassandra’s attention as they moved.

  Ramos finally slowed and turned into a driveway cluttered with leaves, a raised crack a few feet from the sidewalk. Ramos let the front wheels go over the crack and stopped the car. He and Kassandra regarded the small house before them curiously.

  “This is better than a hotel?” Ramos said.

  The house had puke-green paint with a large porch and brick smoke stack on one side. Messy yard. The grass was overgrown, half-dead bushes and trees covering most of the porch.

  “I’m sure it’s nice inside,” Kassandra said. They left the car and carried their bags into the house. “See?” she said. “Much better.”

  The interior was the exact opposite. Wood floors, white walls, every room furnished with antique-looking items Kassandra said provided a certain charm to the place. Ramos went to the kitchen and tested the faucet in the sink. Cold water ran strong. He investigated the hallway bathroom as well, turning on the shower a moment. He came out of the hall wiping a wet hand on his pants.

  “It will do,” he said. “At least we’re not paying for it.”

  They found the master bedroom at the very end of the hall and loaded the dresser with their clothes.

  “We should hit the store for supplies,” Ramos said.

  “I’ll make a list.”

  She investigated cupboard and refrigerator space in the kitchen, finding more than enough room. Usual counter, kitchen table, with a separate breakfast nook near a window looking out on a back yard as equally overgrown as the front. More wood and white. No attention to other colors or decorative arrangements.

  “A man owns this,” Kassandra said to herself.

  A blast of air rumbled through the vents. “Heater works,” Ramos announced.

  It was as good a safe house as they could want, Kassandra decided. The front yard partially concealed the living room windows. Plenty of cover for their activities. And because it was ugly in front, nobody would pay much attention to what went on within.

  Kassandra removed her wig and scarf. She had close-cropped black hair and a very small nose, which matched her small mouth and lips. She made a grocery list and started for the front door. Stepping onto the porch, something skittered off to her left. She saw the back end of a cat slither under the porch rail to hide in the bushes. The cat peered back at her through the leaves.

  “Hi,” she said. She squatted down. The cat, tense, stared at her. “Do you live here too?” The cat’s eyes stayed fixed on her. The animal looked very bony and thin with no body mass. She looked over the warped wood of the porch, the peeled paint, cracks. She could put out a bowl of food. The cat slithered under the porch, its long tail the last to slide beneath the wood. Kassandra stood and went to the car. Driving away, she wondered if she should tell Jose about the cat. He didn’t like cats.

  It was his only flaw.

  10

  The girl and her father were buried together.

  Her name had been Lilly Klove, her father James Klove and Dane and Nina watched their funeral from a distance. The mourners, all in black, had left the funeral service a few minutes earlier and now stood at the graveside as the caskets were lowered and final words spoken.

  Nina watched Dane. His eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the gathering. Lilly and her father were being laid to rest at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park in Colma, a city where the dead outnumbered the living, the population of the departed growing as more victims of the San Francisco Bombing, as it was becoming known, were interred. San Francisco no longer allowed burials in city limits after a 1900 city ordinance. Anybody unlucky to pass in the City by the Bay was shipped south to Colma or wherever a family decided to lay their dead.

  Standing amongst the gray headstones, green grass, blue sky and otherwise peaceful area, Nina knew, did nothing to calm the blood boiling in Dane’s veins. There had been more than one innocent victim in the mall bombing, but the girl represented them all. She’d fallen in Dane’s arms. Nina also knew he probably blamed himself for not forcing her out of there faster.

  Or not jumping in front of the bullets.

  She rubbed his back. He brushed her arm away. His gaze remained fixed on the gravesite.

  On their previous visit to San Francisco, where Dane had lost a friend after responding to his call for help, he had revealed to Nina something he admitted never telling anybody else. As a young man, he’d tried to keep his distance from death, whether it was his grandparents or pets, because he didn’t want to deal with the emotions. It wasn’t until later in life where he finally let himself grieve for previous losses and felt like life was dealing him a bad hand with all the fatalities he’d since been surrounded with. Friends and enemies alike. There was no hiding from death now. He had to face it at every turn, like he was facing it now.

  Nina turned her attention to the burial. The caskets were in the ground, the group breaking apart slowly, wandering back to vehicles. It was over so fast. Nina was always struck by how quickly such moments began and ended but always lingered in the mind.

  Dane finally let out a breath.

  She looked at him. His face had softened. Maybe now he’d say something.

  “What now?” Nina said.

  He turned his head and locked eyes with her.

  “No more victims,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He turned sharply and started walking. Nina hurried to catch up. She knew there would be more victims, but she and Steve would give their all to keep the numbers as low as possible.

  Meanwhile, they had a plane to catch.

  Time to even the score.

  Their flight left SFO on time. Nina leaned back in her seat to sleep but Dane stayed awake and stared out the window.

  He didn’t have any deep thoughts about the mission. Find Mueller, make him talk. Dane had been active too long to give the enemy any further thought than one gave a cockroach on the kitchen floor.

  But he kept seeing the girl’s face. Her big brown eyes stayed on him. She wouldn’t rest until her killers were dealt with. Dane didn’t blame her.

  He’d read the CIA’s file on Mueller prior to the funeral, but still wasn’t sure if they could use any of the details. Once he saw McConn’s intelligence and found matching points in both files, he’d have a better idea about what to plan.

  Nina snorted but didn’t wake up. Dane asked for a Coke when the flight attendants passed with the service cart and one handed him a bag of mixed nuts as well. No first clas
s amenities or first class at all on such a short flight.

  Nina awoke before the plane touched down in Memphis and McConn met them at baggage claim.

  Todd McConn looked like a cross between a California surfer and a cowboy. Wiry frame on which his clothes hung loosely, long hair, T-shirt and jeans, with cowboy boots and Stetson rounding out the ensemble.

  Smiles and handshakes with a hug for Nina as the three greeted each other and McConn led the way to his dirty Subaru wagon. It didn’t look like much, but the engine was strong and McConn had replaced the soft factory suspension with a racing set-up. The wagon cornered like it was on rails.

  Nina called shotgun so Dane hopped in the back seat after loading their suitcases.

  “From one job to another, huh?” McConn said as he drove. Not from the South, he had no accent. He’d chosen Memphis as a home base because of a smoking property deal he found.

  “You find out anything about Mueller?” Dane said.

  “Some good stuff, yeah. You’re gonna like it.”

  Presently McConn turned up an unpaved driveway and followed a long access road. Trees lined either side with green grass covering the rest of the property. A three-story colonial sat dead center, with a circular driveway and wrap-around porch.

  “I kept the outside original,” McConn said, “but inside is all remodeled. Hard-wood flooring, modern electrical system, central heating and air conditioning. Spared no expense.”

  “No wainscoting?” Dane said.

  “Good heavens, no.”

  They left their bags in the front room. Off to the left and right of the entryway sat the dining room and living room, each well-appointed, with a set of steps ahead which McConn said led to his basement operations center. He promised a full tour later and led them down the steps.

  The basement had plenty of space, some of it occupied by computer and monitoring equipment and the rest looked like storage of a variety of items. Dane noted a gun case in one corner. One wall was dedicated to a computer and several monitors, with a large flat screen monitor on the next wall.

  “Welcome to my office,” McConn said as he strapped on a pistol belt. The 9mm Beretta 92FS on his hip tipped forward in the holster.

  “What’s that for?” Dane said.

  “I have a client mad at me.”

  “Really?”

  “I sold him some information he didn’t act on for a week. By the time he did, the information was outdated. He accused me of selling him faulty intelligence, some threats have been exchanged and I’m taking precautions.”

  “Oh, brother,” Nina said.

  “You could have told me ahead of time.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Steve. There are sensors all over the property and plenty of combat space,” McConn said. A cluster of security monitors to the left of McConn showed different parts of the property. “If even a bird lands on the grass, I’ll know about it.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down in front of computer. “I’ll put everything on the big screen,” he said.

  Dane stood by Nina and waited. He raised an eyebrow at her. She shook her head.

  McConn dimmed the lights and started typing. The screen filled with Hans Mueller’s bald dome.

  “We know what he looks like, ding-dong.”

  “Want to see where he lives?”

  “Currently? Like right now?”

  “Like right now, yeah. CIA doesn’t have that, do they?”

  “No.”

  A few more keystrokes showed an angled, above-ground shot of a cabin in the woods, an A-frame with smoke drifting from the chimney.

  “Just outside Berlin. Current location. Sat scan confirms.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Top of his head, for one. Plus, he likes to step out and look at the weather.”

  Dane stepped closer to the screen. The glow lit up his face. “Any other angles?”

  Two other pictures flashed, side angles and a long shot of the front. “Couldn’t get much closer,” McConn said.

  “You’re positive he’s there?”

  A fourth picture showed Mueller on the porch along with two other men, both lingering around the driveway in front of the cabin. The top of Mueller’s head didn’t mean much to Dane, but McConn switched to another shot of Mueller looking up at the sky. Good enough for Dane.

  “How long’s he been there?”

  “Not long. Couple weeks. My contacts say he always has at least two guards at the place. They’re mercenaries. Two stay at the cabin while two others live in the loft above a bar in Berlin owned by one of Mueller’s buddies. They rotate weekly.”

  “Who brings the replacements?”

  “Mueller’s girlfriend, Lanka.”

  Another picture flashed on-screen. A woman with dark skin, dark hair, big brown eyes. She wore a long red dress and carried a diamond-studded purse.

  “Lanka Kobevko,” McConn said. “Ukrainian. She’s been going with Mueller for a couple of years.”

  “What’s her background?” Nina said.

  “Party girl. She hung around the periphery of anarchist groups until she met Mueller at a rally.”

  “How did she hook up with Mueller?” Nina said.

  “Not sure.”

  “She visits once a week to bring the replacement guards,” Dane said, “and she lives in Berlin?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Dane cursed under his breath. The CIA wasn’t a bad organization. Good people worked there who wanted to do their best and protect the US, but for all the good they did, when they dropped the ball on something, they dropped it hard. Lukavina had told Dane, Mueller had vanished after fleeing to Libya. Fine. But to lose track of him entirely, fall into the trap of “out of sight out of mind” was inexcusable and part of the reason the San Francisco bombing had taken place.

  But there was no sense in complaining. They had the lead they needed and the ability to strike back.

  “Let’s start there,” Dane said. “Want to come along?”

  “I could use a break from the house, yeah,” McConn said.

  “Good,” Dane said. “We’ll call Devlin as well. We leave first thing tomorrow.”

  A buzzer sounded and a red light flashed on one of the security screens.

  McConn rolled his chair to the monitor. Dane joined him.

  “Three guys hopping the eastern fence,” McConn said. The monitor plainly showed the three men and they all toted automatic weapons.

  “Your angry clients?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Our guns are packed.”

  McConn jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Cabinet.”

  Nina went to the indicated corner and opened both cabinet doors. A variety of semi-automatic rifles and pistols were inside. She grabbed two handguns and passed one to Dane. Dane exchanged the handgun for a Mossberg 500 12-gauge shotgun and a handful of shells. He started feeding the rounds into the tube.

  “We have to wait for them to come into the house,” McConn said.

  “Why?” Dane stuffed spare shells into his pockets.

  “Because then it’s legal to kill them.”

  “No prisoners,” Nina said, snapping a shell into her automatic.

  “Exactly.” McConn took out his Beretta. “Follow me.” He started for the stairs.

  11

  Automatic gunfire punched through the front door.

  “Down!” Dane shouted, throwing himself at Nina. The trio landed hard on the stairs, wood splinters flying everywhere and sizzling projectiles slamming into the interior of the house. The door flew open as the man on the other side gave it a kick. Dane jumped up with the shotgun pressed into his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger. The blast of buckshot ripped open the gunman’s chest and stomach, bloody guts and pieces of bone joining the mess on the entryway. The gunman’s body landed with a squishy thud.

  Dane pumped another round and waited.

  Glass broke somewhere; another shot cracked.

  “They’ve spread out,” Mc
Conn said, running up the rest of the stairs. Dane and Nina took off in separate directions.

  Dane, behind McConn, made a left as McConn entered the living room. Dane advanced down the foyer hallway, kitchen ahead, the shotgun at the ready. He stopped at the corner. The kitchen counter was spotless; the center island also clean; the tiles nicely polished. Did McConn do housework all day? A window above the sink looked out into the back yard, but Dane saw no sign of hostiles.

  McConn stayed low as he entered the living room, using the furniture for cover. None of the windows seemed disturbed and he found nobody hiding anywhere. He moved across to a doorway, entering a short hallway. To the right, the door to the side porch; kitchen on the left. He stepped into the kitchen. He and Dane turned their guns on one another but quickly removed fingers from triggers.

  “On the deck!” McConn said.

  He and Dane dropped behind the center island as a gunman blasted the patio door, slipping into the house. McConn rose first, the two shots from his Beretta snapping loudly. The gunman twisted out of the way, the shots going wide, but then Dane, firing from the floor, blasted out the man’s left knee. The shooter screamed. McConn followed up with a headshot and the shooter stopped screaming.

  Nina cut through the dining area to the larger adjoining room McConn had set up with a pair of pool tables, bar, and a sitting area of leather couches, all of it brightly lit from the windows and ceiling skylight. Her shoes landed hard on the wood floor. The home she and Dane shared wasn’t this nice. You could eat off the floor. The goon entering through the shot-out window behind the bar saw her and fired, ducking under the bar as Nina rolled under a pool table.

  She’d selected a Browning Hi-Power, a nine-millimeter pistol with a 13-round magazine, the magazine loaded with hard-nosed slugs. More than able to penetrate the wood of the bar. She fired a line of shots into the front, the wood splitting, but nobody screamed. She fired another pair of rounds into another section.