by Michael Todd
The attempts on her life in both countries proved that in or out of her element, Dr. Courtney Monroe was still formidable. Regrettably, her partner was as well—a former Marine with a history and numerous connections to the kinds of men and women who could keep him relatively safe. Carlson had tried to assassinate the man himself with a team of well-armed and well-trained men. All he’d achieved was to embroider Anderson and Monroe’s legend and provide even more ammunition they could use in any kind of court battle they might face down the line.
If they were lucky, she would die in the Zoo and he would lack the clout to retain his place on the board.
But he couldn’t plan for luck. He needed to be prepared for the probability that she would survive to reach Philadelphia in one piece and still be in control of Pegasus. Carlson had tried to use his formidable power to tackle the problem head on, and he’d failed because he’d underestimated them.
Charles intended to learn from those mistakes. He had made up his mind to be prepared to not only remove them but to have a replacement waiting once they were out of the way. Carlson was, regretfully, a lost cause. The ex-CEO was still recovering from numerous surgeries and was up to his eyeballs in the shit that came when the FBI threw the book at him. Worse, he’d intimated that he did not intend to fight the charges—a sign of weakness that Charles found both disturbing and distasteful. No, he couldn’t count on him being there to lead Pegasus out of this quagmire.
“Richard Maven on line one for you,” a young man said, standing inside the glass door.
Maven was an old friend, now at the front of one of the largest investment firms in New York, which allowed him to keep his fingers in as many pies as he wanted.
Charles snatched the phone from its hook after the first ring. “Richie, how are you doing?”
“Charlie, it’s good to hear your voice again.” Maven laughed. “Damn, how long has it been? Last I remember your sorry face was that one time in Monaco—”
“Right after the race. We played poker all night, I remember.” It had been a good weekend. He wasn’t much of a racing fan, but he was known to spend some of his weekends gambling. Vegas and Atlantic City were his vice capitals, but he didn’t mind a trip to Europe with friends when the time could be spared.
Of course, there had been far more vices involved than simple gambling, but he couldn’t really talk about that. One never knew when one or another of the country’s intelligence agencies might run a tap on one’s communications.
“Good times,” Maven said. “Anyway, I’ve had the time to look over your proposal, and while Carlson’s shoes will be challenging to fill, I do believe this could be a deal that benefits everyone involved.”
He remained silent and waited for his friend’s inevitable backtracking.
“However,” the man continued after a short pause. “You know I can’t actually take any of these steps to assume control of Pegasus until the current proprietors have moved out of their respective offices—if you take my meaning.”
“Of course. I’ve already worked on the processes required to expedite their extradition,” Charles said with a chuckle. “I wondered, though, if you had any—shall we call them suggestions?—for how to deal with the current occupants?”
“Well, you know I can’t be involved with any of the internal workings of a company I currently have no place in,” he said blandly. “But my assistant will provide you with paperwork on the people who can. They’re expensive but top-of-the-line too. They should be perfect for the kind of relocation needs you have in mind.”
“I appreciate it, Richie. Are we still on for Thursday?”
“I’m willing to take your money on the golf course any day of the week, Charlie, so Thursday works. Take care.” He laughed in parting and the call cut off.
Charles was suddenly reminded why Maven wasn’t his first choice for taking up the reins at Pegasus. There were a handful of others, half of whom had turned his proposal down. He didn’t blame them since Pegasus stock was almost radioactive at this point. The others had all seemed interested but had shown the same kind of hesitation Maven had. The company was still immensely profitable, but they needed Anderson and Monroe out of the way before they could make any open moves to take over. These contenders also had a couple of ideas regarding who might be up to the task of eliminating them.
There had been a couple of overlaps in the lists provided, which gave him a good indication of whom to call for a meeting. Charles drew a deep breath and forced himself to regain his single-minded control. Yes, these troubling times made for some strange bedfellows, but he had to believe that any one of the choices he’d contacted was better for the company than Monroe and Anderson.
He had to.
“So why do they call it the Windy City?” Anja asked as Jeremiah put his car in park.
“Well, I assume because it’s a city that has a lot of wind,” he replied as he stepped out of the car and stretched with a soft groan.
He needed to look into a car he could use on these trips. He’d had discussions with a couple of Anderson’s contacts in Philly about acquiring a vehicle that was sturdy, reliable, and unassuming for him to tie to some shell corporation or another. More than anything, he needed to use it without having to worry that his name would pop up on the radar. He liked the name Jeremiah Savage and didn’t want to have to change it for a while.
“Yeah, be a smartass to the person you rely on for information,” she grumbled.
“I’m a smartass all the time. I can’t help it if you or somebody else is on the receiving end.”
“Well, the smartass should know that your target regularly frequents the Bailey’s Tavern every night, usually comes in at seven, has dinner, and leaves after a fair amount of drinking,” she said. “I’ve never understood people who have a favorite bar. Aside from convenience, why would you have only one bar to go to every night?”
“Well, having a structured schedule for yourself is a part of it,” he said as he approached the bar in question. “There’s also the feeling of safety. You know the bartender, the owner, and maybe a manager or two, along with the waiters and waitresses. You feel comfortable enough to get completely and absolutely plastered there because you know these people will be around to take care of you so long as you’re willing to part with a gratuity or two.”
“Well, I can understand that,” Anja replied with what he imagined was probably a shrug. “Or half of it, anyway.”
“Who the hell calls their place a tavern, though?” Jeremiah asked and studied the parking lot. From the number of cars, he guessed that the place was possibly half full at this point. It was for the best since he didn’t want to have to wade through a room full of patrons to reach his target.
“Well, someone who’s looking for an old-timey feel, I suppose,” Anja said. “But yeah, calling it a tavern is beyond pretentious.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re agreed on that at least.” He stepped inside.
She was right. Calling it a tavern was pretentious, but whoever had named it had obviously put a lot of effort into living up to the vision. Most of the tables were set into booths surrounding the bar that occupied the center of the room—homey while convenient at the same time. He assumed that it used far less space in the center of the room than taking up a full corner of it, and it gave all the patrons a sense of isolation. No, isolation wasn’t quite the word.
Privacy? Yes, that was better. Jeremiah surveyed the room in an effort to make out where most of the people sat. They weren’t there to go clubbing, that much was obvious. There was a certain aesthetic to it that he liked—a pub feel but without cramming as many tables and chairs into one place that most pub bars tended to do.
“You know, pretentious or no, I think I could get used to drinking at a place like this,” he said and edged around the room until he decided he wouldn’t locate his target by prowling and making all the patrons anxious.
He dropped onto one of the bar stools and raised his hand to catch the
attention of one of the bartenders.
“I’ll take a scotch and soda, twist of lime, light on the ice,” he said with a small smile. The woman nodded and immediately went to work. In a few seconds, the drink was set in front of him and the money presented pushed quickly into a register before she moved away to another of her customers.
“Should I tell Anderson that his star employee is drinking on the job?” Anja asked as he took the first sip. The scotch wasn’t the best quality, but he hadn’t really expected it to be around there.
“Well, first of all, I’m an independent contractor so I would be drinking on my time,” he retorted. “Secondly, what you would want to tell Anderson and Monroe about is the fact that I’m spending company money on drinking. That would be the infraction. And I wouldn’t say I’m any kind of star. Merely…industrious.”
“Is that what you call what you’re doing right now?” the hacker asked around a burble of laughter. “Being industrious?”
“I’m industriously waiting for the target to show up, yes,” he confirmed with a grin.
A couple of the other patrons stared at him, ample evidence that the music playing in the background wasn’t enough to cover his conversation with Anja. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to indicate that he was in the middle of a call. Of course, it wasn’t routed through his phone, but they got the idea and gestured to tell him that if he wanted to continue the discussion, he would have to keep it down. They were there for the pleasant and quiet environment, after all.
“Right, sorry,” he said. “Look, people think I’m crazy talking to myself. I’ll have to call you back another time, okay, babe? Love you.”
“What are you…oh, I understand.” Anja laughed. “Seriously, though, why wouldn’t you want people to think you’re crazy? It’s the best way to get them to leave you alone. I call it the Fight Club method.”
“And what’s the first rule of Fight Club?” he asked under his breath.
“Don’t…oh, I see.”
Jeremiah ignored her as he studied his surroundings to make sure he hadn’t missed any new arrivals. His gaze settled on a couple that stood and made their way out of the bar. The woman definitely looked drunker than the man. He was tall and lean with a tattoo of a skull wearing a green beret that began at the top of his shoulder. His target located, the operative took a deep breath, downed his drink, and spun on his seat to stand quickly and head after them.
The couple left the bar with him close behind.
“Excuse me?” he called rather than get too close without a warning. The man might not look drunk, but even one drink could stir up the paranoia in an ex-soldier taken by surprise.
His mark turned and Jeremiah realized that he was actually far drunker than he appeared but was simply better at hiding it. Either that or he wore vodka-scented cologne. The man studied him a little blearily and smirked when he obviously realized he had about a foot and a half and possibly a hundred pounds or so on him too.
“What do you want, man?” he asked as he stepped forward and tried to look intimidating. “Can’t you see I’m about to get lucky here?”
“Well, I wanted to save you from a night of disappointment.” The operative wisely took a step back. “And I’m actually here with a job offer.”
“I don’t want a fucking job, dumbass,” he hissed and glanced hastily at the woman who had already reached his car. “Now fuck off before I have to break your face in.”
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Jeremiah said but clearly, the man didn’t want to hear it. He spun into motion, his hand already closed in a fist as he aimed a haymaker with surprising accuracy given his level of drunkenness.
Jeremiah had the advantage of speed that came from a clear head. He took a step back and the swing missed his face by inches. The man lost his balance and stumbled forward into his opponent’s elbow. He gave a strangled cry, clutched his broken nose, and flailed at his adversary with his free hand.
The operative responded by gripping the man’s fore and middle fingers and twisted them back until he was forced onto his knees to avoid having his fingers broken.
“Like I said,” he reiterated and fixed the hapless man with a hard look, “there’s been a misunderstanding. I wasn’t offering you a job. I was offering her a job.”
They both looked at the woman who now staggered closer to them.
“Come on, boys, you don’t have to fight. You can take turns,” she grumbled in a decidedly British accent and shook her head. “I doubt either of you is enough to handle me, but maybe if you tag team, we can work it out. We’ll talk about the logistics on the way to…was it my place or yours?”
“Not that kind of job,” Jeremiah responded and chuckled as he shoved the kneeling man out of his way. “Hi, I’m Jeremiah Savage. And call me crazy, but I don’t think your friend here is a Green Beret, despite the tat.”
“Well, duh, of course,” the woman said.
“And you were going to sleep with him anyway?” he asked and flashed a dubious glance at the man, who now whined over his broken nose.
“Of course. He is—was—hot. You’re less hot, but the rating went up now that you beat him up. I’m Samantha Davis, and you can call me Sam. Do you want to get out of here?”
She placed her hand on his shoulder and smiled invitingly.
“Again, not that kind of job.”
“Way to kill a lady boner,” she huffed. “Fine, what the hell kind of job do you have to cockblock me for, anyway?”
“The kind that requires the skills of one Samantha Davis, formerly Corporal Samantha Davis of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment,” he said and held her gaze squarely. “Specialist in close-quarters combat and demolitions, and your paperwork reads like a where’s where of global terrorist communities and violent insurgencies. You were a very busy woman for about twelve years before you were honorably discharged. The…whys were very carefully hidden by your regiment, which let you retire three years early with full benefits.”
“It’s none of your business why I was discharged,” Sam said and leaned forward, her expression intense. Her reddish hair was fairly short and slid loose from the bun she had tied it in with the sudden movement. “It was a good reason, though. Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”
“Maybe over drinks?” Jeremiah gestured at the bar behind him. He couldn’t really place her accent. Then again, accents had never really been his forte. She was British, though, he could tell that much.
“Nah, I think I’m done for the day,” she replied with a large yawn. “And to be honest, I could really use a job. I’ve let my skills slide lately, and that won’t do. Give me a when and a where, and I’ll meet up with you. I expect to be fairly compensated for my work, though.”
“I can promise you that the money won’t disappoint you,” he said with a smile.
“Excellent.” Sam patted him on the chest. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t ever tell me that I clean up good.”
“Don’t you?” he asked and wondered what that was all about.
“Of course I do,” she scoffed. “That’s not the point. I fucking hate that phrase, is all. It sets me off.”
“Well, there you go.” He shrugged. “You have the job if you want it. I don’t need you to look good. I need you to be able to tap into what sets you off when the time calls for it and make other people a lot less pretty.”
“And until then?” she asked, all business now despite her obvious inebriation.
Jeremiah withdrew a card from his pocket. “Don’t fuck with the leopard that’s looking at you like that.”
“What?” she asked, her expression dubious.
“Never mind,” he grumbled. “Go home, sleep it off, and be at this address on Monday at around noon.” He slipped the card into the front pocket of her shirt. After a second thought, he pulled a twenty out of his wallet and added it to the card. “And take a cab home. You’re in no condition to drive.”
“All right, Mum.” She grinned chee
kily. “Will you tell me who you are, then?”
“I told you.” He flashed her an amused look as they wandered to the road where, hopefully, it wasn’t too early to hail a cab. “Jeremiah Savage.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, my name is Fae. Fae K. Namerson. It’s Gaelic or something.” She punched him in the shoulder. “Come on. It don’t take a genius to figure out that it’s a made-up name.”
“All names are made up,” he pointed out, and she rolled her eyes.
“What are you, some kind of wise guy?” she demanded.
“I’ve been told that the term ‘smartass’ applies, actually.”
“Whatever, smartass.” Sam sounded mildly offended. “So, will you tell me what your actual name is? Maybe a little history? You seem to know so much about me, it’s only fair that I learn a little about you. The way you handled the fake back there shows me you’re a man of some worldly experience, although your accent pegs you as a local boy. You don’t look like the guys the Marines usually churn out. Not Navy or Air Force either. Army, I’d say. You’re exactly the right kind of bland they usually produce.”
“All that makes sense,” Jeremiah replied and raised his hand as a cab neared. “You should go with that.”
The vehicle came to a halt beside them as she scowled at him. “You really won’t tell me anything?”
“I’ll tell you on Monday. Get home safe now, you hear?”
“Yeah, fuck off.” She rolled her eyes as she stepped into the cab. He wondered if she’d give the driver directions to another bar. The woman had said she’d had enough, but she’d revealed a very keen insight back there. He suspected she wasn’t actually quite as drunk as she had made herself out to be.
“Quite the charmer, this Sam,” Anja said into his earpiece as he strolled back to his car. “I can’t wait to see how she interacts with our friend Captain America.”
“Captain…who?” he asked.
“You know…the ‘no foul language’ guy. Terry Mixon.”