by Heskett, Jim
She swallowed a lump in her throat and tried to keep it together. Almost done with this mess, she thought.
“Thanks,” she said. “You didn’t have to come.”
He shrugged. “I was here for another meeting, anyway. And like I said, I wanted you to know that I’m here. If you need anything…”
She nodded. “Thanks, Charlie — really.”
Charles — sometimes Charlie, never Chuck — was one of the oldest living members of the DAC, and he was as revered and respected as he was mysterious. The man hardly spoke at meetings, rarely came in for the monthly Branch gathering, and Ember had never seen him talk to anyone outside of work. Still, everyone seemed to like the man. Always calm, collected, and willing to dish out helpful advice only when asked, Ember had quickly grown fond of him.
And if she were honest and could do it all over again, she would have likely chosen Charlie as her mentor.
She said goodbye and left him standing sentinel over the hallway.
Two more people were waiting for her outside the door to the room where the Board met. One was Fagan, Ember’s actual mentor. Fagan was an older woman, half of her face burned from a bad contract from several years ago. Ember had known Fagan for years, but the old woman had only recently become her mentor.
The other person was Gabe, a new recruit to the Boulder Branch of the Denver Assassins Club. Ember had recently started mentoring him. Gabe wasn’t a registered and tenured member of the Club yet, but as her recruit, he had a right to accompany her to any disciplinary meetings. He was tall and handsome in a frat boy sort of way, with carved hair and a square jaw. He looked as though he’d fit in better on a rowing team or at an Ivy League mixer.
He seemed young enough that Ember saw a child when she looked at him, but she also knew what he was capable of. He’d been in training for enough time now that she knew he was an effective weapon. A cunning, honed, and deadly weapon.
“I thought you’d dress up or wear a little makeup,” Fagan said.
Ember looked down at her black slacks and gray top, now feeling self-conscious about it. “This is dressed up. Plus I’m having a pretty good hair day. That should be enough, right?”
Fagan’s lips curled into a frown.
"I wore heels," Ember said. "That's about as dressed up as I get. I didn't think an evening gown would be appropriate, and I'm not putting on the full makeup assault for this."
“I think you look hot,” Gabe said.
Ember gave the kid a sad shake of the head. “Thanks, Gabe. That’s very helpful.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Fagan said. “You have your token?”
Ember took it out of her pocket. A gold coin marked only with the nondescript letters DAC. Every Club member received one once officially allowed to become a registered member. And the Review Board required members to bring it into any Board meeting if they wanted the chance to speak.
She held it out to Fagan. “Of course I got it. Only problem is holding onto it, since my hands are sweating like candy-hiding kids at a fat camp.”
Fagan gave Ember’s shoulder a squeeze and smiled with the good half of her face. “You’ll do fine, but maybe tone down the self-defense sarcasm?”
“Yeah. Good point.”
“It’s time to go, though. You ready?”
Ember sighed and shook out her arms for a few seconds, then nodded. She wanted to rant and rave about the inconsistency of the Board, their claim to hold the rule of law above all when you never knew from one day to the next what would happen. But, she held her tongue.
Gabe opened the door, and the three of them stepped inside.
It felt as though a wave of pressure rolled out of the room and consumed her. Her breath caught in her throat, her hands shook. Snap out of it, she willed herself. You’re a trained assassin. You’re better than this.
But while she had been trained to maintain calm in dicey situations, she still couldn’t help the anxiety building in her chest. She wasn’t prepared to face her peers and answer for her crimes against the Club. She wasn’t prepared for how bad this meeting might go.
But she held her head high. She knew that in her position, they all would have done the same thing. Maybe.
Ember approached the table and stopped with her hands behind her back, feet shoulder-width apart. She stood before the round conference table on the fourth floor of an office building not far from downtown Denver. Outside, there was a sign on the building that read Denver Consolidated Holdings, but there was no such business inside the walls. It was the main administrative building of the Denver Assassins Club.
Ten people sat at the conference table opposite her. The Club president David Wellner, as well as the Vice President, the Secretary of Operations, the Club Historian, and representatives of each of the Club’s six Branches. All of them with their tokens sitting on the table in front of them.
The Branch representatives had no voting rights at these Review Board meetings, but they’d been invited to act as carriers of information. After Ember’s disciplinary meeting, they would each go back to their respective Branch headquarters—referred to as “Post Offices”—and deliver the news to the members of each individual Branch. These meetings were not recorded with audio or video, ever. Only the Historian took notes.
Behind Ember were her two companions. Fagan and Gabe stood silent and motionless, only there in support of Ember. She was allowed no legal counsel, per Club rules. They were not allowed to speak, so Fagan kept her token in her pocket. Gabe had not earned his token yet.
Ember set her Club token down on the table, and a few of those present leaned forward to check it. A formality.
“November Clarke,” The man at the end of the table said, drawing out the words. He eyed her with suspicion, but she couldn’t tell if it was an act or not.
President David Wellner was a chubby man, balding, with thick glasses that turned his eyes into giant orbs. But as harmless as he looked, this man wielded enormous power.
“Sir,” she replied, keeping her eyes locked on a spot on the wall behind the members at the table.
“This is not the first time you’ve appeared before the Review Board on a serious charge. Do you remember what I said to you last time you broke the rules and stood where you’re standing now?”
Ember cleared her throat. “If I remember right, President Wellner, you said you’d be damned if you were ever going to cut me slack again, after that day.”
Wellner took off his eyeglasses and set them on the table. Two oval indentations appeared on the bridge of his nose where the glasses had been resting, large and obvious enough that she could see them from where she stood. He massaged these spots and then ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Right. The Board was quite clear with you. It was a controversial decision to allow you to remain then, despite the circumstances.”
“Yes, sir. I know it was.”
“So what am I supposed to do with you? You’ve killed yet another registered member of the DAC.”
“It was self-defense.”
“There’s no evidence of that. Niles had paperwork for the contract. He had a right to complete it.”
“I also had paperwork, President Wellner. Fagan provided you with copies of the message board conversations. I had a right to be there, too. This Board doesn’t have all the facts.”
“You think your paperwork was legit and his wasn’t?”
She shrugged but didn’t offer any comment. There was no proof she could use to argue her position.
Wellner frowned and then slid his glasses back on. “Doesn’t matter who talked to whom or which contract came first. Niles is the one who’s dead, you’re back here, and now we have to figure out what to do with you.”
Ember stood at attention, lips sealed. They’ve already made up their mind, she thought. There wasn’t any fact she could offer to sway the Board. She only had one card left to play, and she had to hope it would work out in her favor.
“Last time,” Wellner said, �
��you were allowed to stay within the Club because of your three excellent years of service prior to your infraction. But, you’ve been on probation. And now, you’ve broken that probation. You’re not leaving us with a ton of options here, Ember.”
She debated for a moment. Can I really pull this off?
She had one move, one option remaining. It was a move she had never thought she’d actually see someone else request, much less a card she would try to play herself. But she was out of options.
Ember took a breath, held it. She slowly let it out, closing her eyes and then opening them, looking through everyone and at no one in particular.
“I request single trial by combat with Five Points.”
No reason to delay it any longer. Might as well get it over with.
Her statement caused a murmur along the conference table. A few whispers between the President and Vice President.
“I’m not sure if that’s appropriate in this situation,” Wellner said. “Given your history. Trial by combat is usually reserved for lesser offenses.”
Ember looked him in the eye. “I deserve a chance to prove myself since there’s doubt about the facts of the case.”
He sighed as his eyes darted back and forth over her face. The members of the Board took turns whispering in each other’s ears. An interminable thirty seconds elapsed, and Ember tried to focus her ears, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Then, Wellner leaned over to the new Club Historian and muttered something. The Historian got up from the table and approached a file cabinet, then returned a moment later with an ornate wooden box. Ember had never seen it before. A DAC token had been pressed onto the top.
Wellner opened the box and removed a piece of paper, then folded it in half. He held it out to the person next to him, and the paper exchanged hands along the conference table until the last person, a representative of the Westminster Branch, passed it to her.
“Sir?” Ember asked as she held the paper, still looking at Wellner.
Wellner nodded at the page. "If you want trial by combat, this is how we're going to do it. We discussed it, and this is the best option that's fair to everyone. You've offended all six Branches with your actions, so all six Branches will have a chance at justice. The rules against completing contracts on Sundays will be waived for the duration."
Ember unfolded the paper. Her heart sank as she realized what it was. A single sheet of printed paper, blank except for a dark circle drawn in the middle.
Chapter Five
WELLNER
David Wellner slumped into the chair behind his desk and let out a sigh so large, stars dotted the edges of his vision for at least three seconds afterward. The chair squeaked as he stopped holding in his belly. He’d been sucking it in for the entirety of the Review Board meeting. He didn’t know why he did that; everyone in the room knew he was chubby. They could see it in his pudgy cheeks. Still, a kind of vanity drove him to hold in his stomach. Or, was it insecurity?
He took off his rounded eyeglasses and set them atop his head, in the middle of his bald patch. Yet another reason to be self-conscious. After the morning he'd had so far, Wellner surprised himself that he could still think of his appearance at a time like this. Still, he found a way to do it.
A knock came at the door. “Enter,” Wellner said, sliding his glasses back on as he sat up straight. He smoothed his shirt and placed his hands on the desk, trying to look casual.
The door opened and there stood Kunjal Anand, the new Club Historian. A small waif of a young man, brown-skinned and covered in thick, black hair. He had a pompadour haircut that ended in sideburns running to the bottom of his ears. A strange look for someone barely out of college, but Wellner had no idea what sort of fashion the kids were into these days.
Kunjal was only two months in the country, and it showed in the thickness of his accent. Still, his English was pretty good for a non-native speaker.
“Busy, sir?”
“Always, Kunjal, but I got time to talk. Come on in.”
Kunjal clutched a notebook to his chest as he entered the room and shut the door behind him. “I have some questions about the Review Board meeting.”
“That was your first one, right?”
Kunjal nodded. “I want to make sure I get the details correct in the official record. I’m going to start making notes for the updated version of the Club history.”
Wellner waved the boy to the chair opposite his desk. Kunjal's presence here was an odd matter, for everyone. In the fifty-ish-year history of the Club, there had been exactly five official Historians. Always chosen from a line of succession from existing Club members. When the previous Historian had retired three months before, he had hand-picked his nephew Kunjal to take over in his place. For the first time, an outsider would become the steward of the official Club record. It had been unprecedented. But as outgoing Historian, the man was technically able to choose whomever he liked to succeed him. No one thought he would choose someone from outside their ranks, but it wasn't against the rules.
“How do you like your apartment?” Wellner asked.
“It’s wonderful, sir. Much more roomy than where I was before. And American refrigerators are massive. I can barely fathom it. I will only have to go to the grocery store once a month with a refrigerator so large.”
Wellner chuckled. “Hmm. I guess I never realized we had big fridges in this country.”
“Indeed. I’m very grateful to be where I am.”
Wellner shifted in his seat, then smacked the top of a stack of papers on his desk. He hoped the motion would come across as a power move, and Kunjal would get to the point. Hard to tell, based on the young man’s non-reaction.
“You have questions about the black spot?”
Kunjal nodded. “Very much, sir. I haven’t seen anything about it in my searches of previous Historians’ records.”
“That’s because you’d have to go way back, and probably take a trip out to the remote storage facility in Parker. No one has received a black spot as a disciplinary measure since 1971. The practice has never been officially outlawed, but it has fallen out of favor. Modern sensibilities, you know. It’s a lot to manage.”
“I’m confused, Mr. Wellner. I read about Ember Clarke’s previous infractions, including the very serious one related to that civilian, Harvey Bennett.”
Wellner raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“And I don’t understand her punishment. The records show many Club members exiled and killed for much lesser offenses than this one. Why is she allowed a chance to remain, especially after her recounting of what you said to her in her last disciplinary review?”
Wellner sighed as he rubbed his hands together. “Fair point. But Ember is something special. I don’t know if she has more allies than enemies among the Branches, but she does have a lot of allies. Outright killing her would make a lot of people upset. But, letting her off with a slap on the wrist isn’t an option, either. The black spot trial by combat is the best middle-of-the-road option. It will almost certainly end in her death, but I thought she deserved a chance. Also, to be honest, I like her. She’s excellent at her job, most of the time.”
“And you think she has a chance to succeed against six of the best assassins in the Club?”
Wellner pondered this for a moment as he shifted in his chair. “No, probably not. The Branches will work it out among themselves and then send their top people. The first of the six assassins has already been chosen.”
“Seems to me she has little chance.”
Wellner nodded. "Like I said, Ember is special, but she's not immortal. When she dies, many in the Club will say she got what she deserved. Some will appreciate that she had a chance and that each Branch had a part to play in determining her justice. That's the problem with the vanilla flavor of trial by combat. Who do we send? Which assassin from which Branch? Doing it this way is the best optics from any angle. Politics, Kunjal. Always have to consider the politics."
> Wellner couldn’t tell if the boy understood the subtleties of the decision or not, but he scribbled copious notes, either way.
“The machinery of this organization fascinates me,” Kunjal said. “Over fifty years of operating under the nose of law enforcement, and not once have they found out about us.”
If it had been anyone else speaking like that, Wellner would’ve probably had that person investigated by an internal audit. Or at least he would have mentioned something to the rest of the Board about the curiousness of the remark. But he had to remember Kunjal was brand new at this. And Historians played by a slightly different set of rules. They could go anywhere in the Club. Talk to anyone. The Club founder had felt it necessary that access be an ingrained characteristic of the one responsible for the record.
"This Club was founded by a wise man a long time ago. He saw what we needed and set it up. Then, decades of refinement have helped us keep our bylaws sacred. We stay under police and FBI radar by strict adherence to the rules."
“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but adherence to the rules does not seem as strict as the Board would like.”
“That’s correct. We’ve had a string of bad behavior lately. That’s another reason for the ruling we handed down today.”
“How do you think this black spot trial by combat will affect the morale of the Club?”
“My hope is that it improves things. You’ve come to us at a difficult time, I’m afraid.”
Kunjal furrowed his considerable brow. “How so, sir?”
“We’ve had a lot of upheaval among the members over the last year. Little power struggles in the Branches and things like that. We need unity. We need to push forward.”
“Are you concerned?”
Wellner tilted his head back and forth. “Not officially, no. Off the record? Somewhat. These things happen from time to time. The DAC has weathered many storms before, and I don’t think this one will kill us.”
“Do you want Ember Clarke to live?” Kunjal asked.