Dark Deeds

by Mike Brooks

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Drift told the events manager. “What’s the issue?”

  “The issue, Mr. Pérez, is that you hustled us,” Chen said tightly. “You claimed your fighter was big and tough and had a mean right hook, as I recall. You didn’t say anything about him being a damned berserker!”

  “Bro, that weren’t berserk,” Apirana rumbled. “You ain’t seen berserk.”

  Drift shot him a glare. Not helping. “Mer Chen, surely you can see that it wasn’t in my interests to undersell my fighter’s capabilities? Apirana’s never been in a sanctioned bout before, so I gave you what I thought was a reasonable assessment of his skills. I had no idea he’d prove to be this effective.” He paused for a second. “If I had, I might have tried to get a higher price out of you.”

  “What’s the problem, anyway?” Apirana put in. “The locals ain’t happy, right enough, but Kuang took the fight and lost.”

  Chen turned zir glare on the big Māori. “Mr. Kuang was supposed to lose by knockout,” the events manager said acidly, “but it seems that you rushing him out of the gate shook him so badly he forgot the plan.”

  Everything went silent for a moment. Drift exchanged glances with Apirana and saw the big man’s eyes were as troubled as he felt.

  “You’re telling us,” he said slowly, “that the fight was fixed?”

  “It was supposed to be fixed!” Chen snapped. “Your big, dumb, inexperienced man was supposed to take big swings, ‘get lucky’ with one, and put Kuang down, not slam him to the floor and nearly take his arm off!” Ze took a deep breath, clearly trying to compose zirself. “I will ask you a direct question, Mr. Pérez: Do you have any idea whom I represent?”

  “Apart from the Two Trees Arena?” Drift asked, praying that Apirana wasn’t going to rise to “dumb.”

  “Apart from the Two Trees Arena.”

  Drift glanced over at Apirana again and was relieved to see that the big man didn’t seem to be on the verge of violence. He looked back at Chen. “I’ve got a pretty good idea, yeah.”

  “Then I hope you understand just what a precarious situation you are now in,” Chen said coldly. “We do not like having our plans derailed. We had a large amount of money riding on the correct result of that fight.”

  “Oh, come on!” Drift protested. “If you’d let us in on the plan—”

  “We didn’t know you,” Chen cut him off. “Unfortunately for you, now we do.” Ze turned away from Drift and walked towards Apirana, two of the security dropping in to flank zir as ze did so. “Mr. Wahawaha. You are unhurt?”

  “He barely touched me,” Apirana replied warily, eyeing the two security guards. Drift would have put money on Big A being able to take them both to the cleaners if necessary, although perhaps putting money on fights wasn’t a good idea right now, even hypothetically.

  “Then you’ll be fine to fight again a week from today, when there’s another event in town,” Chen said briskly. “We’ll make space on the card and find an opponent. You’ll accept. We’ll see whether the betting lines consider you the heir to Kuang’s throne or a lucky upstart who got a fluke win, and then we’ll place a bet accordingly. And then you’ll win or lose, accordingly.” Ze paused for a second. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” Apirana said. There was a growl in his voice, but the big man didn’t start throwing fists, and that was about as much as Drift could hope for at the moment.

  “Good.” Chen turned away from him and began to head for the door, then paused and looked over at Drift. “One more thing, Mr. Pérez. I understand that you and Mr. Wahawaha have a shuttle in dock, the Jonah? Please don’t try to leave before next seventhday. We have low tolerance for people who interfere with our business through ignorance; we have none for people who interfere with them deliberately.”

  Drift swallowed. “What about Apirana’s pay for tonight? We have to eat, you know.”

  Chen just snorted. “Don’t push your luck. If you perform as required next seventhday, you’ll receive the agreed fee for each appearance. If you don’t . . .” Ze shrugged. “You won’t really be in a position to have much use for money anyway.”

  The heavy leaning against the door pulled it open, and the events manager disappeared through it with zir escort. Drift waited for it to click shut again before he turned and booted the lockers behind him.

  “Me cago en la puta!” That didn’t seem enough, so he punched them as well. “Stupid! Fucking! Gah!”

  “Easy, bro,” Apirana said from behind him, although he sounded understandably tense as well. “I ain’t relishin’ this, but we just gotta go through this pantomime once more. And this time I’ll know the script. It’ll be okay.”

  Drift turned to him, trying to keep his voice level in spite of the churning in his gut. “Oh, it is not okay, A. It is a long, long way from okay.”

  GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT

  Sergei Orlov stiffened, eyes widening in shock that quickly became horrified recognition. Powerful crime lord or not, he had to know things were bad when he was being held at gunpoint by a woman he’d threatened with death a couple of days beforehand.

  “Please don’t make any loud noises or sudden movements,” Rourke continued softly. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down on your bed?” She dipped the nose of the gun a fraction to indicate that he should move backwards. Orlov obeyed, shuffling across the thick carpet and then sinking slowly onto the mattress.

  “How did you escape?” he asked, licking his lips nervously.

  Rourke raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you know?”

  Orlov’s expression of horror faded into one of confusion. “What?”

  “Why don’t you know?” Rourke repeated. “Why don’t you know how I escaped? Judging by your shock, I’m going to take a guess that you didn’t even know I had escaped. I was in a hotel that I presume you own, guarded around the clock by three of your men, but I’ve just walked into your home and listened to you having sex before you even knew there was a problem. Who were my guards?”

  Sergei Orlov was looking more and more shell-shocked. “What?”

  “My guards, the men you sent with me. Who were they?”

  Orlov blinked a few times, apparently trying to rally his thoughts. “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  “There were three of them,” Rourke supplied levelly. “Out of those three, Leon is probably the best foot soldier for your operation in terms of temperament, but he’s drinking too much. I could smell it on him. It leaves him tired and hungover, and that makes him sloppy and disinclined to listen to his colleagues.”

  “His . . . his mother died recently,” Orlov offered, frowning at her.

  “That would explain a couple of things,” Rourke replied, nodding. “Now, Andrei’s cautious, but only where obvious threats are concerned. He doesn’t think wider, and he can get complacent. He’s too easily swayed by other people, too. Sacha, on the other hand, is just an arrogant, overconfident bully. You need bullies, but you don’t need ones who get their asses handed to them by the person they’re supposed to be holding prisoner.”

  Orlov’s expression of confusion hadn’t really shifted. “Why are you telling me these things, if you intend to kill me?”

  Rourke took a deep breath. Drift had always been the gambler of the two of them, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She lowered the gun. “I don’t intend to kill you, Mr. Orlov. I’ve come to ask for a job.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence while, Rourke was certain, the crime boss double-checked his own translation of her words.

  “You want a job?” Sergei Orlov finally asked in disbelief, once he was certain his ears weren’t deceiving him.

  “Yeah,” Rourke told him, trying to maintain her relaxed demeanour. Incapacitating guards, stealing aircars, even breaking into a gangster’s home: These were all variations on things she’d done many times before and had been trained to do. This part, however, was out of her comfort zone and much more Drift’s speci
ality. It was why she’d joined up with him, after all.

  “And why should I give you a job?” Orlov demanded. Some of his usual manner was coming back to him now, as though she wasn’t still holding a gun.

  “Why? Because I’m very, very good,” Rourke said. “But I’m not unique. Anything I can do can be replicated by someone else, and I just broke into your home. Your operation clearly isn’t up to scratch. I can help you with that.”

  Orlov frowned at her. She could see anger in his eyes at her temerity, but she could also see the cold calculation that had brought him to the top of the pile. He was smart enough to realise that she was telling the truth, and in sufficient control of his emotions to let rationality win out.

  “But you work for Captain Drift,” he pointed out.

  Rourke grimaced. “Ichabod is a good man . . . mostly . . . and I have complete faith that he’s going to do everything he can to honour his side of the deal with you. But I don’t have complete faith that he’ll succeed. And if that happens, if he doesn’t come back, I don’t intend to be killed slowly as an object lesson.” She shrugged. “I decided I’d rather prove that I was more valuable alive and working for you.”

  The crime boss stroked one stubbled cheek with his thumb. “I do not negotiate with terrorists. Give me the gun, and I will—”

  Rourke tossed the Kobel onto the bed beside him before he’d finished speaking. He glanced down at it in obvious surprise, then back up at her.

  She folded her arms, trying to ignore the hammering of her heart. “People will promise anything at gunpoint.”

  He picked the gun up, ejected the magazine to check that it was loaded, and raised his eyebrows when he saw that it was. “That was very trusting of you.”

  “I’m confident you’ll want to listen to what I have to say,” Rourke told him. Also, you’re less than two metres away from me, she added in the privacy of her own head, and I could get my hands on you before you’d finished taking aim.

  Orlov replaced the magazine, but put the gun down on the bed beside him again. “Did you kill any of my men in your escape?”

  “No,” Rourke replied. “Dealing with their failures is your prerogative. Although I’ll grant you that Sacha’s probably not as good-looking as he was.”

  “He will look worse,” Orlov said grimly. “And why did you decide to call on me here?”

  “Your home is where you feel safest, so ironically that’s the easiest place to get to you,” Rourke said. “Also, I wanted to reach you before news of my escape did and you sent out a kill order for Drift and the others. And finally, if I spoke to you alone, I didn’t risk embarrassing you in front of anyone else.” She shrugged again. “I figured that might make you slightly more amenable to my offer.”

  “Very sensible,” Orlov conceded, “although I do not consider myself to be a slave to pride.” He looked up at her, his dark eyes weighing her. Rourke held still under his scrutiny and stared back: She wasn’t going to pretend to be meek and subservient, because she knew her acting talents didn’t stretch that far. The bastard could accept her as she was, just as Drift had done, or not at all.

  “You have already shown great resourcefulness, and I can see that someone such as yourself could be of great benefit to me,” Orlov said finally. “I also acknowledge that had you intended me harm, you could have achieved it. So I will take your intentions to be genuine.”

  “So we have a deal?” Rourke asked cautiously.

  “I am a businessman,” Orlov said. “It would be a foolish businessman who turned down a better deal for all parties when it presents itself. Here will be the new terms, Ms. Rourke: If your companions return to me by the agreed date with half a million stars, you may stay or go as you please. If they do not, but you have proved to me before that time that you will be of sufficient benefit to my organisation, you will enter my employment unharmed, and I will also not pursue Captain Drift and the crew of the Keiko . . . although I will still make public how they left you to your fate, not knowing what that would be. They would deserve it, I feel.”

  Rourke nodded, her throat tight. “And if they don’t return with half a million stars and I do not prove that I will be of sufficient benefit?”

  Orlov grimaced. “Then I would have to follow through with the initial terms. Although in recognition of the service you have already done me by highlighting the weaknesses in my organisation, I will at least guarantee that your death will be swift and painless.”

  She smiled tightly, despite his matter-of-fact discussion of her possible murder. “Better than waiting in a room to find out whether Ichabod’s going to be able to save me. I never was good at being a damsel in distress. So when do I start?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Orlov told her, picking up the Kobel again and getting to his feet. “Come. I think we can arrange a better class of accommodation now.” He walked the two steps to the head of his bed, reached under the lip of his bedside table and pressed something, then brushed past her and strode out into the living room. His manner was once more that of the lion in his den and not just because he had the gun now, Rourke realised. He had been confirmed by her words and actions to have the power. If she wanted to keep her crew safe, she needed to win his approval.

  She fell in behind him, suppressing another smile. To prove her worth, she would have to point out as many flaws as she could in what he already had in place. Buckle up, gangsters of New Samara. The next few weeks are going to be very unpleasant for you.

  Orlov looked over his shoulder at her as he stopped a few metres from the door of his elevator. “You may wish to stand a little farther back.”

  “Sure.” She backed off three steps, guessing what was coming.

  The elevator’s arrival was heralded by the same faint hum that she’d heard when Galina departed, only growing louder instead of fading away. The door slid open, spilling the same light across the carpet as before. On this occasion, however, it also disgorged the four armed security guards who had been summoned by the emergency alarm Orlov had just pressed.

  They raised their guns to cover Orlov as the closest threat, recognised him after a split second, and hurriedly diverted their weapons away, then registered Rourke’s presence and began to shift their aims once more. . . .

  “Wait!” Orlov snapped in Russian. The guards stopped, but their eyes remained fixed on Rourke. She met the gaze of each of them in turn. Get used to the sight, boys, she told them silently, you’ll be seeing more of me soon.

  “Ms. Rourke here has managed to find a way out of her captivity and into my home,” Orlov said. His voice was level, but Rourke could hear the undercurrent of anger in it. He showed them the Kobel. “She could have shot me dead and none of you would have been able to do a damned thing about it, but she chose not to.”

  The guards were lowering their guns now, and a couple of them were exchanging uncertain glances with each other.

  “You,” Orlov said, pointing at one. “You’re in my garden until the morning. You”—he pointed at another—“find Ms. Rourke a room in the Grand House’s hotel. You don’t need to place a guard on her. And you two,” he finished, “find out what the hell went on at the Silver Star earlier this evening, and get Sacha, Andrei, and Leon rounded up. Take whoever you need and don’t bother being gentle. If those three aren’t where I can lay hands on them by the time I wake up tomorrow, you can kiss your jobs good-bye.”

  “Can I get some clothing that is the right size, too?” Rourke called. “Even my old bodysuit would do, if I can wash it.”

  Orlov looked around at her and snorted in wry amusement. “But of course, you can speak Russian.”

  Rourke shrugged. “I would not be much use to you otherwise, would I?”

  “And you choose to let me know this now . . . why?”

  “So you know what I do and do not understand, and can decide what to say around me accordingly,” she said simply, walking forward. “An employee should be honest about these things, surely?”

  Orlov n
odded approvingly. “As you say. In the morning then, Ms. Rourke.”

  “In the morning,” she replied. She walked through the guards and into the elevator, which galvanised them into action: Three of them got in with her, sealing off the doors and sending it humming smoothly downwards, while the other remained behind to guard Sergei Orlov’s garden.

  She’d started the evening with no shoes in a second-string hotel, under armed guard, and with the very real threat of a gruesome death in a couple of months. It wasn’t even midnight on New Samara’s twenty-six-hour clock yet, and she was going to be sleeping the rest of the night in the most luxurious hotel on the planet, with shoes, and with no armed guard outside her door: She was prepared to chalk that up as a win. Tomorrow, she’d set about taking her fate into her own hands. Granted, that would involve helping someone who was by any reasonable definition a bad man, or at the very least thoroughly amoral.

  Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  LAUNDRY RUN

  Kuai blinked, barely able to comprehend what the Captain was telling them. “So the Triax knows this is our shuttle?” he asked in English.

  The crew of the Jonah were sitting in the galley again, as was standard for their meetings. Apirana was sunk in his armchair, as usual, and Jenna was perched on the arm of it, as had also become usual. Muradov was staring into his coffee at the table, Kuai was sitting far enough away from his sister that she couldn’t kick him, and the Captain . . . well, he was pacing up and down with a grim expression on his face.

  “They know that it’s my shuttle, or mine and A’s,” the Captain said, “They might not have been paying attention to the rest of you, or just think you’re crew. But we’ve got a bigger problem than that.”

  “The timing,” Muradov spoke up, without raising his gaze.