by Michael Todd
“Oh, right. There’s no guarantee he’ll join us anyway, so why worry about that now?”
“Well…I guess I should ignore the fact that Mixon just bought himself a train ticket to Philly on his credit card then?” she asked.
“Obviously,” he retorted with a good dollop of sarcasm but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. He’d really hoped Mixon would decide to join them. “So, where am I off to next?”
“You’re going back to Philly too,” Anja said. “Anderson sent me an email. The old-timer says he wants to talk to you. It seems he has a mission.”
“I hope it’s not training anyone else,” he grumbled. “Airport?”
“Airport,” the hacker confirmed cheerfully.
Chapter Five
“So,” Jeremiah snarked as he stepped out of the car, “instead of enjoying the last weekend I have before I assemble my team and start to work with them, study up on the people we’ll go after—”
“You would have spent it drinking and having a couple more quickly-regretted trysts,” Anderson pointed out as he turned the rental car off and opened the door. He ignored his companion’s horrified look. “Anja keeps tabs on you, and she fills us in on what you do with your free time. Sue us.”
“I have half a mind to do exactly that. You have Anja spying on me?”
“Well, we would,” the older man said. He decided against taking his jacket with him and left it on the seat before he closed and locked the vehicle. “But she does it anyway and lets us know what the highlights are. Either way, instead of making stupid decisions and helping drunk women make even stupider decisions—”
“Stupider isn’t a word,” he interjected. “I think.”
“It is too a word, and did I mention ‘shut up?’ Instead of having the weekend off, you’re out here in the outskirts of Los Angeles with me.”
The operative narrowed his eyes at his boss. He’d seemed extra snippy all the way there, which possibly had a similar source as his own unhappiness. Although, if he had to venture a guess, he would say that Anderson’s reasons carried more weight. Spending time with one’s own wife and children trumped going out, getting drunk, and getting laid.
“Which segues excellently into my next question,” he said finally to change the subject as they strode toward what looked like a chop shop abandoned for the weekend. “What the hell are we doing out here? You were suspiciously quiet on the flight.”
“I wasn’t quiet. You napped the whole way,” Anderson pointed out curtly.
“I was slee…meditating,” Jeremiah corrected. “Meditating. Us bad guys have to meditate before we get our bad going. It’s part of my ritual. It’s how I tap into my savage nature.”
“Right.” The ex-colonel’s tone carried a hint of sarcasm. “Anyway, now that you’re done meditating while snoring, I can fill you on the details of what we’re doing here.”
“I don’t snore,” he protested weakly.
“I stand as the tired and grumpy evidence to the contrary. But back to what we’re doing here. We’re hunting for someone called Edward Smith—which is almost more fake than Jeremiah Savage. Almost.”
“And, apparently, we’re hurting people’s feelings today.” He chuckled morosely under his breath.
“Can I fucking finish?” Anderson hissed.
“Right…sorry.”
“Edward Smith is the name attached to most of the missing materials from the Pegasus shell corporations,” the older man explained. “He’s still working for the company, but there isn’t anything else tied to that name other than the company contract and this so-called materials workshop.”
Jeremiah studied the property as they approached. The business was clearly abandoned for the weekend but that wasn’t surprising, all things considered. What was interesting was the mountain of parts from what looked like hundreds of cars stacked on top of each other. All were old and had been dismantled and stripped down to the chassis. Doors, lights, and even trunks had all been removed.
“Say, Anderson, you’re the smart guy between the two of us,” he said and sneered at the junkyard that was secured by nothing more than a flimsy fence and a chain with a padlock on the gate. “Is ‘materials workshop’ some fancy fucking lingo for chop shop?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” his companion answered.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Thanks for clearing that up.” He scowled and shook his head in real disgust. “So, what were you saying about this…Edward Smith, fellow? He wouldn’t happen to have sparkly skin and a craving for B-positive, by any chance?”
“What?”
“Nothing. It was only a weird thought. You know, if this was a movie, all I’d have to do was shoot at the steel padlock and it would break apart.”
“And the alternative?” Anderson asked and sounded genuinely curious.
“You wouldn’t happen to know how to pick a lock, would you?” Jeremiah grinned as he responded to the question with another one.
The other man merely shook his head.
“Which means we’ll have to climb over this damn fence in ninety-degree Californian afternoon heat,” Jeremiah complained as he tested the barrier’s tolerance to weight. “Of course, it’s dry heat, so I suppose it could be worse. Such a fun, adventure-filled life we lead.”
He climbed first and made it smoothly to the other side. Anderson took longer and definitely felt more out of shape than his comrade, who even caught him on the way down.
“How are you feeling?” the operative asked and looked concerned.
“I’m…fine,” he lied. “Anyway, Edward Smith has nothing to his name other than a contract for a shell corporation parented by Pegasus and ownership of this fucking place. He doesn’t even have a social security number or a driver’s license.”
“A shell corporation paying a ghost,” Jeremiah noted. “That adds up.”
“He’s the one listed as signing off on all the equipment that went missing from the shell corp, which means we need to find whoever is controlling the ghost and politely ask them to give everything back,” Anderson returned with a hard smile. “And hope they include the names of the people running them.”
“This seems like counter-intuitive legwork when Anja can usually track them down,” the operative observed as they moved cautiously through the veritable car graveyard.
“Well, Edward Smith is the only name actually associated with the missing stuff, and considering that there are some things even I can’t do…” Anja sounded off in his ear. “I needed you two to do some of the actual legwork for me to have something to work from. I can trace someone through the baby pictures their mother posts on Facebook, but I can’t track people who don’t exist. Yet.”
“Well, if you keep working on it, you’ll get to that eventually,” he said in an encouraging tone.
“What?” Anderson asked.
“I’m not playing two parts in this conversation,” Savage replied. “If you want to hear what Anja has to say, put your damn earpiece in.”
“I still have something against having a still, small voice in my head,” the older man retorted. “Call it biblical aversion.”
“That’s your loss. She’s particularly sharp with her wit today,” he replied with a grin.
“Why, thank you.” The Russian sounded pleased. “I’ve worked on honing my skills as an entertainer. Actually, I’ve taken an Internet course in my free time.”
“What free time?”
“I have free time,” she protested. “If you thought my life merely revolved around getting you lot in and out of trouble, you are sadly mistaken, my friend.”
Anderson simply rolled his eyes at the younger man’s grin as they approached the only building on the lot. This obviously housed the office and the delivery area and was the only sign of civilization in the otherwise depressing sea of vehicle carcasses.
The operative hesitated and looked around him as something niggled at his awareness. He’d assumed earlier that it was normal for the pre
mises to be closed for the weekend. But didn’t chop shops work twenty-four-seven? They’d logically be open when there was a need, whatever the hour, but what were the odds that they would be conveniently shut down at the same time they paid them a visit? Whichever way he looked at it, something seemed off.
“Out of pure curiosity,” Jeremiah said as they moved in closer and drew the pistol from the underarm holster he’d brought with him. Thankfully, Anja’s weapons acquisition skills had extended to a somewhat scruffy individual who had lurked outside the car rental office and simply handed the weapon over before he melted into the crowd. “Exactly how much did this Smith dude steal? I know it wasn’t money, but what value would you put on the property he made off with? Can you make a rough estimate?”
“Well, some of the stuff was actually priceless,” Anderson answered. “They were prototypes with hundreds and thousands of man-hours spent on research and development. Courtney gave me approximate numbers on the patent pricing alone and put it at around fourteen million dollars.”
“Fuck.” Jeremiah scowled and his gaze swept their surroundings once more as he fixed a suppressor on the muzzle of his Glock. “It sounds like Mr. Smith is buying Mrs. Smith a very expensive diamond necklace. And a one-way trip to the Cayman Islands. Do you think it’s Carlson? Could he even pull this kind of shit from custody?”
“I can’t think of anyone else who would be able to pull this off, can you?” The other man glanced at him, his expression somber. “Besides, this stuff is bleeding edge technology—the kind that even we don’t know how to use. It’s not like you can simply sell it on the black market. If you steal it, wouldn’t it make sense that you’d already have a buyer lined up?”
“Well, just because Carlson is the only person we know who could do this, we shouldn’t make the mistake of assuming he’s the only one,” Jeremiah reasoned. “He might have partners in crime—people he trusted to continue his work if he wasn’t around. Or even people who know what he was up to and know that the plans that he had are worth making a quick buck from if placed in the right hands—”
He spun and leveled his weapon as he faced in the direction from which they’d come.
“What?” his companion asked and turned to squint into the stacks of junk around them.
“I could have sworn I heard something clink back there.” Savage’s voice took on the chilling quality that Anderson was now familiar with. “Like someone used a bolt cutter on that chain instead of bothering to climb the fence.”
The ex-colonel paused, but all he could hear at that moment was the loud thump of his heart as it picked up speed.
“How would they know we’re here?” he asked. “Fuck, I wish I’d brought a gun of my own. Not that I’d really be much good in a firefight, but I feel naked. Useless.”
Savage narrowed his eyes at him. “Well, I can only speak from the experience of having seen you in a firefight once, but I do seem to recall that you were a long, long way away from useless.”
“I still needed your help,” he reminded him.
“To deal with fifteen trained and heavily armed home invaders. I think it’s realistic that you needed help to deal with them.”
“I was terrified,” he confessed and swallowed as his throat constricted. “Honestly, I had a panic attack. And I only reacted in anger when I realized those guys would kill my family too, not only me. After that…well, protective instincts reigned, I suppose. It was a one-time thing.”
“Again–I can only say this from my own experience—wanting to keep your family and the people you love safe isn’t a one-time thing.” The operative’s voice softened as he rested his free hand on Anderson’s shoulder. “It’ll be a burden on you for the rest of your life and will force you to do and keep on doing stupid things and put the needs of others over your own. Just…draw from that. I know I will.
“You’re as close as a guy like me can get to a friend—which is sad now that I say it aloud—and so I’ll do my best to protect you. Because…yes, I can hear rusty hinges moving, which means we definitely have company. Take cover and let me deal with these guys. If you really want to be useful, pick the guns up from those I kill and use them. Or use the time to see what you can find in the offices. Take your pick but…stay out of my way, okay?”
Anderson nodded and the uncomfortable pounding in his chest increased, but somehow, instead of panicking, his mind seemed to settle into a calmer place than it had found in a long while. He sucked in a deep breath and made the choice to hurry toward the office building. He appreciated Savage’s words, of course, but he assumed he would be a lot more useful if he rummaged through the building and tried to find something worth their efforts rather than try to be a hero.
He could only hope the operative had the situation in hand.
It wasn’t a long walk back to the fence where they had climbed over, and he doubted he would encounter any new faces on the way. He wasn’t sure who these people were, but there was one thing he could be certain of—if they cut through the chains that secured the gate, they weren’t the people who owned the place.
Which meant they weren’t there to protect something. They were there to attack.
At the same time, it could be people employed by the chop shop, Savage acknowledged as he checked that he had a round in the chamber and dropped behind what had once been a Chevy SUV. It could simply be that they wanted something and were in too much of a hurry to locate whoever had the keys. That particular scenario sounded highly unlikely, but it was always wiser not to make sweeping assumptions that excluded the simple explanation.
He edged cautiously toward the front and remained in cover with his pistol tucked close to his chest with both hands. His grip tightened on his weapon as he came into view of the gate. A couple of men stood there—on guard, he assumed as he inched closer and found a secure position nearer them for closer scrutiny. The newcomers were dressed in khakis, combat boots, and Kevlar vests. It seemed like someone had come looking for a fight.
Well, damned if they didn’t come to the right place.
“Anja, do you have any cameras on our location?” Savage asked, his voice low.
“There are a couple of the cameras that cover the entrance and one on the building in the back,” she responded. “They are active but don’t feed into any kind of hard drive. I’d say they want security but don’t want any trace of what happens there recorded.”
He nodded even though he knew she couldn’t see him. This close, he couldn’t risk making any more noise than was necessary. The two men, armed with submachine guns, watched the entrance but didn’t seem overly interested in the spaces between the cars. For now, that was lucky for him, but that luck would change if they saw him coming.
The operative eased in as close as he dared—still a car deep into the stack—before he dropped to one knee and cradled his weapon in both hands. Fifteen yards, he estimated, give or take. Even with the suppressor, it wasn’t a difficult shot if he simply chose center mass. Unfortunately, thanks to the vests, he needed to aim for the head.
He squinted to keep the afternoon glare out of his eyes as the man closest to him turned to look at the two black SUVs parked outside.
Savage took another deep breath and squeezed the trigger, and the Glock kicked back into his hand. The target’s head snapped forward a fraction of a second after the pop and his brains and blood sprayed across the windshield of the closest vehicle.
The second goon spun to search for the shooter and made the stupid choice out of fight or flight. The operative didn’t have time for a headshot. He simply stepped out from between the cars that shielded him and pulled the trigger a couple more times. The armed man fell back a few steps. While the bullets were hollow-points and wouldn’t go through the Kevlar, experience said they would still hurt like hell.
The grounded fool stared at him in disbelief as he strode closer to him and squeezed the trigger. A hole appeared on the unfortunate man’s forehead and he slumped.
Thankful
ly, they didn’t seem to be professionals—or not to the level that he was, at least. They were good enough for local muscle but probably lacked any real battle experience. It seemed obvious that they’d simply been drawn from the local pool and given weapons and body armor with a lot of hoping for the best involved.
His instincts prickled on the heels of that reasoning. Why would a team meant to protect a chop shop be selected from local muscle? That made no sense at all. Savage holstered his pistol and yanked the submachine gun from the hands of the first man he’d killed. He searched the body and located a couple of extra mags under his vest. It was important to establish where these bozos were brought in from and why. He would search them for a phone or anything else that could tie them to someone who would have to pay for the pleasure of trying to kill him. It would cost them a literal arm and a leg.
He grinned and examined the weapon in his hands. It had no suppressor so his ears would ache by the time he was finished. He would need to remind Anja and Anderson to source protective earplugs—not run of the mill, of course, as his work demanded that they be discreet and not easily visible while still doing the job.
For now, he pushed the thoughts aside, cocked the bolt back, and checked that there was a round in the chamber before he advanced deeper into the car graveyard. His approach was slow and cautious, and he took the time to constantly check his surroundings. He knew the men inside were aware that he was coming for them. They had to have heard the shots, as quiet as they were, and that meant they would be ready for him.
Well, ready for something, he thought with a grim smile. He wasn’t sure if anyone on earth could be ready for him specifically, not when he was in that cold-killer place that now directed his actions.
Savage gripped the weapon with both hands and looped the strap over his head, still shielded by the cover provided by the cars. It wasn’t much, perhaps. He wasn’t sure how much firepower an old aluminum chassis could withstand, but it was better than nothing—and would certainly hurt a lot less than if he only wore Kevlar.