by Heskett, Jim
“Jules?” Wellner said. “I didn’t know you were also going to be visiting today.”
“They invited me to see the renovated courtyard, too. I’m told this is the best spot to view it from above.” She eyed Yousef. “If you’re busy, I could find another spot.”
He waved her forward. "Not at all. Join me." He shook Yousef's hand, and the younger man bowed, then skirted across the room and out the door. He didn't look at or acknowledge Jules as he left. Had Yousef been referring to her with that weird comment?
Wellner found himself sucking in his stomach again, that nasty self-conscious habit. But once he’d started, he couldn’t exactly let his belly go, pushing his dress shirt out six inches. He had to maintain the appearance.
Jules joined him and extended a hand. “Mr. President.”
He shook. “Madam Vice President.”
“Did you see the lobby? They added an interactive touch screen for all the fake businesses in the building.”
“I did see that. It’s very impressive.
She put a light hand on his shoulder. “How are you doing, David?”
“You know, Jules. It’s been a busy week.”
“Yes, it has been. The Oracle reached out to me. She would like to come and address the Board at some point.”
Wellner chewed on his lip, then shook his head. The Oracle was a neutral third-party observer who sometimes handled disputes within the Club. A strange position, not actually in the DAC, but someone authorized to have delegated power within it, and even over it, if necessary.
“Not this week,” he said. “Maybe next week, if we can fit it in. I’ll handle communication with her team.”
“We haven’t had an all-Branch black spot trial by combat since long before my time.”
Wellner nodded. "Since before my time, too. I don't think we had a lot of options, to be honest. Ember Clarke is a very popular member, with as many friends as she has enemies. We put her to death, that's a hit to morale. We let her walk free, and it's a hit to morale from the other half."
“So you thought a loud, political statement was the best way to go?”
He turned up his palms, trying to prevent his face from flushing. He was sick and tired of her condescending attitude, but he needed to remain stoic. “What do you want from me, Jules? I’m trying to keep the peace. The Branches need to know that we and the Board are trying to find the best way forward.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
The comment caught him by surprise, and he let out a blip of a laugh. Coupled with the bookkeeper's pointed comment, he was almost at a loss for words. "Excuse me?"
“I don’t mean to be flippant about it, but I’m worried.”
“Worried about what?”
Jules tucked a few wayward strands of hair behind an ear. “Things are tenuous between the Branches right now. You know that as well as I do, and not just about Ember. It’s been simmering. Do I need to remind you about her incident earlier this year?”
“I know. That’s one reason I recommended the black spot for her.”
“You think this will unite our members?”
Somehow, without realizing it, Wellner had let his belly go. He could feel it pushing against the limits of his shirt. Too late to pull it back in now, though. “I do think it will unite everyone. Or, at least, give them a common cause for a while.”
“I wish we’d had more time to discuss it.”
For a split second, Wellner saw something odd in Jules’s expression. A tiny flutter of her left eyelid, along with a twitch of her right cheek. He could have easily chalked it up to a coincidental dual muscle spasm, but he thought he knew better. David Wellner had worked his way up to the top position in the Club partly by how well he read people. He now might be a flabbier, less physically capable version of his former self, but he had been one of the best, back in his day. He had retained many of the qualities that had kept him alive over the years, including intuition, an ability to read people, and political sense. His ability to detect a liar in action had enabled him to cut out the untrustworthy from his inner circle.
He didn’t know how or why, but he was positive Jules was trying to deceive him. She was working on something behind the scenes; she had a plan.
Or was he frazzled by the bookkeeper’s weird statement, and he was reading it all wrong? Perhaps he had lost a bit of his touch over the years.
“Well,” she said, clasping her hands together, “I’ve got to be on my way. You were right. This is a great spot to look out onto the courtyard. It sure is an impressive Post Office they’ve built here.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Will I see you at the dinner tomorrow?”
“I’m planning to be there. You sure I can’t bring anything?”
“Not necessary. It’s my pleasure to act as host.” Jules again offered a hand to shake. “Always good to see you, David.”
Wellner shook her hand and tried to steal one last look into her eyes, but Jules pivoted the other way before he could. Then, she was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
ISABEL
Isabel Yang hurried off the elevator in the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington, DC. Since she had come straight up from the parking garage, she dropped her briefcase onto the scanner and showed her ID badge to security. She popped through the X-Ray machine and picked up her briefcase on the other side. Through the whole ninety-second process, neither of the two security guards present at the station had said a word to her.
It hadn’t always been like this. She hadn’t worked here before 9-11, which had single-handedly changed the face of US security in federal buildings, but she’d heard stories of how relaxed the atmosphere had been.
But even in the few short years she’d been observing the anomaly, things had changed drastically in this building. She wasn’t sure what exactly had changed — perhaps it was a new constant threat of cyberattacks, or just the side effects of a much faster, much more connected world.
It used to be that she could stop and chat with the men at the security post, even hang out while they checked people in and out of the building. They might have asked if she’d caught the Wizards game, a common topic since they knew Isabel was a huge fan and had even almost played in the WNBA. They knew she had been a top college prospect with a potential career cut short by a stupid skiing accident in Vermont almost ten years ago.
Or they might have asked her if she'd had a chance to try out some new restaurant in the area. Because of her ethnicity, her colleagues seemed to assume she had the inside track on the best Asian food places to eat — she didn't, even though she loved the cuisine. Or they may especially have asked her about her new haircut since Isabel had chopped off a life-changing eleven inches only last week.
But today, and lately, there was not a word about the bob haircut. Not a word about the new dim sum place. Not a word about anything. This place had definitely changed.
Isabel sighed and said thank you anyway as she collected her belongings. She hurried down the hall toward room 436. Her heels clacked on the floor, sending echoes like bullet ricochets with every step. Not making small talk with security was fine, actually. She had enough on her mind already.
Isabel opened the door to 436 to find two dozen agents and administrators in suits turn to stare at her. All of them men. At the front of the darkened room stood Marcus Lonsdale, her boss. Marcus was a little older than her at thirty-five, and dead handsome for a white guy. He had a perpetual five o’clock shadow and great hair. Marcus reminded Isabel of when she was six years old and had a crush on her older cousin she would only see on holidays. Too bad Marcus didn’t share her cousin’s warm smile and sense of humor.
He was standing next to a laptop connected to a projector, a bright white display on the wall, with black lettering in the middle reading Organized Crime in Denver.
Her presentation. The last slide of it, actually. The one she intended to leave up while she fielded questions from the group on their o
ngoing investigations into both the Belcamino mafia family and the North Side Riders gang, the two main sections of the presentation.
“Agent Yang,” Marcus said with a smile that seemed venomous. “I just finished doing your job for you.”
“I’m so sorry I’m late. There was a problem on the Metro.”
Marcus closed the laptop, which made the projector dim and the room go dark. “No problem. You’re just in time for the Q&A part, which I am not prepped to do. Have a moment to chat in the hallway so we can sync up?”
“Of course, sir.” To the room, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m terribly sorry, everyone. We’ll be right back.”
In the hallway, they crowded together outside the closed door. He lowered his voice. This close, she could smell the spearmint on his breath. It failed to cover up the smell of cigarette smoke wafting from his mouth and off his clothes. “You really left me standing up there with my dick in my hand.”
“I apologize, Marcus. It won’t happen again.”
She opened her mouth to offer more, but he held up a hand to stop her. “That doesn’t matter. I handled most of it, but there were a couple of spots that I had no idea where to go next.”
“Where do I need to fill in? Mafia or gang activity?”
“Neither. Forget about that. About halfway through, we got hit with a curveball. They want to know about the DAC.”
Isabel wasn't quite sure how to take this comment since the Denver Assassins Club was not an open topic for discussion in the FBI. The mission brief only Marcus and Isabel knew about was classified "sensitive, compartmented," and many of the details were on a need-to-know basis. As such, it hadn't been part of her Powerpoint presentation. "How do they know about the Assassins Club?"
Marcus gave a grave shake of the head. “I have no idea. But someone in there brought it up, and everyone looked up at me like I’d told them about buried treasure. We’re talking about organized crime in Denver, and the DAC is an alleged criminal organization in Denver. Supposedly, there are FBI records on them, so it’s not like we can pretend we didn’t know about them before making this presentation.”
"What are you worried about, sir? That we look bad because we neglected to include it, or that a criminal organization is running around unchecked?"
He sneered. “Don’t give me that. You know what we’re up against.”
"You're right. I'm sorry about that. This whole day has got me a little upset, and that just slipped out. What are they going to ask me?"
“They’ll want to know what we’re doing about them. And we can’t tell them nothing, because then we look like idiots. But we can’t tell them what we actually are doing, either. If we tell them you and I have an ultra-covert operation to look into the DAC’s ties to international crime, then we expose ourselves to a whole new slew of questions we’re not prepared to answer.”
Isabel nodded. “I see your point.”
“You think you can walk that tightrope?”
She knew what the question meant. Was she willing to fall on the sword if they didn’t like her answers? “I’ll do the best I can.”
“Okay. We can’t stand out here forever.” When they entered the room, Marcus nodded at Isabel and asked, “Maybe you can get the lights for us?”
She turned on the lights and then rushed to the front of the room and set her briefcase down. Isabel cleared her throat as she stood up straight and held her hands in front of her waist. “I’m happy to take questions.”
“I want to hear more about this assassins guild,” asked a man in the second row.
“Right,” Isabel said. “Unofficially, we believe they’re known as the Denver Assassins Club. But, officially, we don’t have any concrete proof they exist. It’s just feelers at this point. It’s not currently a part of our investigation into organized crime in Denver. They have no tangible connection to the mafia or criminal gang activity, so we haven’t opened any sanctioned channels to begin an investigation.”
“Why not?” asked the man.
“Lack of evidence,” Marcus said, interjecting. “Lack of resources. Lack of… everything. Come on, George, you know how it is. We’re pissing in the dark here.”
Isabel hadn’t recognized the man before, but now, with the name, she could place him. He was from the FBI’s Office of the General Counsel. This man reported to the Deputy Director himself. This man could, with a single phone call, demand everything the FBI had on the Denver Assassins Club. He could have Isabel and Marcus fired or transferred to some tiny and remote field office where they would wither and die on the vine.
“We have records,” Isabel said. “They’re not unknown to us, but we’ve had to make a concerted effort to focus our investigations in the area where we can get the biggest wins. The alleged Denver Assassins Club is not on that short list.”
The man grumbled to himself for a moment, then he stood. “Marcus, can you and I speak privately?”
“Of course,” Marcus said. Marcus cleared everyone out of the room while Isabel stood and watched. For a moment, she thought others might want to stay and ask her questions, but no one seemed to care. The DAC had, in an instant, become the shiny new toy they all wanted to play with.
Then, Marcus ushered Isabel out as well, and she waited in the hall for five minutes for George and Marcus to finish their conversation. No one from the presentation spoke to her as they wandered off down the hall, back to their own offices and cube farms. Had she blown it? Had she butchered her career with the FBI by missing one stupid train?
The door pulled back, and George gave her a stern look as he brushed past her. A moment later, Marcus appeared in the doorway and waved her back into the room.
“Sir,” Isabel said, “I did the best I could—”
“You’re on a plane to Denver.”
“What?”
“By tomorrow, at the latest. Tonight, if you can manage it.”
“But… I don’t understand why. What does this have to do with my presentation?”
“You know why, Agent Yang. They want boots on the ground, so you’re going to give them what they want. You and I both know why we don’t want to shine a light on this, but none of that matters anymore. We got the attention of the people who will not let this go, and that’s what counts.” Marcus took a pack of gum from his pocket and tossed a piece into his mouth. As his lips smacked, he offered Isabel a grave nod. “Arrange a flight. Get out there and learn what you can, then get your ass back here ASAP.”
“But…”
“All I want to hear out of you is, ‘yes, sir.’”
She flexed her jaw. “Yes, sir.”
Marcus smacked his gum as he strutted past her and out into the hall.
Chapter Seventeen
EMBER
The sun sank behind the mountains to the west as Ember stared at the building from across the street. Like many of the Branches’ Post Offices, the one in Westminster was an old office building. Unremarkable, quiet, muted colors on the outside to draw no attention. Except for Golden and their fake receptionist, those flaunty cravat-wearing jerks out west. Well, maybe they didn’t actually wear cravats, but it wasn’t hard to picture them lounging on yachts and eating caviar.
At 80th and Sheridan, smack in the middle of this Denver suburb, the Westminster Post Office stood. Outside, the sign in the parking lot listed a slew of businesses, but there were actually only assassins and recruits inside it. Training, meeting, planning, preparing for contracts. This Branch specialized in contracts made to look like an accident. Ember liked those sorts of contracts, too, but Westminster had fewer scruples about the motives behind them. As a result, they took on clients such as rich kids who couldn't wait twenty more years for their parents to croak, or corporate sharks looking to undercut the competition by killing their executives. Ember would never accept a contract like that.
But, they were a part of the Club, so they were colleagues, shitty morals or not. And that made it strange for her to stalk their Post Office.
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And Ember didn’t know exactly why she was here. If Xavier Montrose was inside, no one here would give him up. And, she wasn’t likely to find him going in or out of the building. They probably had a secret entrance. A few of the Post Offices did so they could take weapons inside, despite the Club rules about no guns and no violence occurring in or within a hundred feet of these buildings. That’s how they did it, though. Tunnels and unmarked trucks moving goods in or out.
The Review Board claimed strict adherence to the rules had kept the DAC operating for over half a century. Or, the appearance of strict adherence to the rules. A tricky house of cards sitting atop a wobbly table.
But, there had to be something she could glean from a stakeout. Some clue that could lead her to Xavier. A way to strike first, so she wasn’t running around like one of her targets. She didn’t like the feeling of being chased and pursued. She was usually on the other side of this equation.
Nine months ago, Ember had been on a contract in London. An importer from Dubai had been attending a conference there on tariffs. At least, “importer” was the occupation on his main set of business cards. His real occupation was the buying and selling of young women. Most of them from Russia, Ukraine, and parts of Belarus. Ember had gladly taken on the contract to kill him. But, the target had heard whispers about the price on his head and had promptly hired four men to take her out first.
Ember had known she was in danger from the moment she disembarked from the plane at Heathrow. She'd felt something, a slight shift in the tension around her as if she were being watched. Her instincts hadn't failed her, and she'd narrowly escaped an attack in the terminal. Sometimes shit went sideways, just like the accidental contract mixup with Niles Thisdell that had started Ember on her current path.