Pseudonym

by Neal Penn

  “Jesus, Roddie. Are you okay?” She sounded genuinely concerned, but in that tired way he’d come to expect from her, the tired way he deserved.

  “Yeah, I just—” A small bark interrupted him, and he saw Lolly standing in front of the closet. Oh, shit. Forgot all about you, girl. “Sorry, just need a few days.”

  “Was that Lolly?”

  “Yeah, I’m taking care of her.” He had the gun case now, and he put it with the bottle on the chair. “I’ll call you when it’s all clear.”

  Crane walked back to the room and saw the empty spot on the desk where his laptop should have been. Fuck, what is this shit?

  “Alright, Roddie. You take care of yourself, too.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Norwood wheeled inside, and Sage shut the door behind them. “Can we go to your office, please, Tommy?”

  “Sure, John.”

  Tommy rolled his eyes as Sage walked behind him. Sometimes the front men were like this. You do all the work, write every damn word, and they try to take control of the relationship.

  Besides, he wasn’t really ghostwriting. They were a team. He wheeled into the office and moved in front of the computer, really the only place his chair would fit. Sage went to the little client chair and sat down. “I have company coming, John, so let’s make this quick.”

  “It won’t take long. Pull up The Shadows of Rwanda.” Sage was a whole lot quieter than normal. Why the hell he wanted to look at their first book was beyond Norwood.

  Norwood found the book, double clicked, and the document came up. He turned the computer screen so that Sage could see as well.

  “Okay, Tommy. You know the part where Fortley gets the location of the transmitter?”

  “Yeah, it’s the first time the reader gets to see that Fortley isn’t some kind of pure white knight. He tortures the guy, orders his men to rape his wife.”

  “Read the paragraph, Tommy.”

  “What?”

  “Find the paragraph where the guy finally breaks and read it.”

  “Jesus, Sage. You want to do editing on that now?” Sage sat silently, staring at him. Norwood sighed and started scrolling through the book. “Alright, here it is…uh…okay, here we go. ‘Bizimani screamed when his wife was brought in. Sandrine! The only thing left of her clothing was panties the men had cut but just to get through them. Her face was swollen and her blood ran down her legs.

  “‘Fortley turned to the man, holding the iron rod, which still glowed white despite the pieces of Bizimani’s skin still smoking on it. He lifted the man’s head and without warning pushed the end of the rod into his left eye. Steam rose with Bizimani’s screams. His wife, probably in shock from the rape, didn’t react but simply continued sobbing quietly.

  “‘I did that for a reason, Fortley said. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to do that to your other eye. You know why? Right after that I’m going to tell the twenty soldiers I have outside that didn’t get a chance at your wife that it’s their turn. I want you to hear her screaming. Who’s inside her? Which hole?

  “‘Six minutes later, Bizimani was dead. Fortley walked out of the house considering the mercy he’d shown by killing Bizimani before shooting the wife.’”

  “Thank you, Tommy.” Sage rose and walked out of the room. Norwood followed him to the kitchen, where Sage reached into the refrigerator and took a beer.

  “Uh, help yourself, John.”

  “Tommy.” He leveled his gaze at him. “All of that happened. I am Strike Fortley.”

  “Um, not sure what you …”

  “That’s the kind of tactics we used, the reason we were never officially on the payroll. I have killed more men than you’ve ever even met. Listen to me, Tommy. You cannot draw attention to us. Even after more than twenty years, the people involved will not like it. They don’t want people to know about those things. They will come after you. They will come after me. They will kill us, Tommy.”

  “C’mon, John. You’re joking, right?” Norwood punctuated the question with a nervous laugh. The doorbell rang. “Oh, there’s my girl, now.”

  Sage walked to the door and pulled the girl roughly inside. Norwood couldn’t see what Sage did, but in just a second, the girl was lying on the floor. She wasn’t moving.

  “Oh, my God! You killed her!”

  “I didn’t kill her, Tommy. She’ll be up in a few minutes with a headache. You can tell her she tripped.”

  Norwood looked at Sage. “Jesus, you’re telling the truth.”

  “Yeah, Tommy. Something in me snapped after a while and I couldn’t do it anymore. I slipped away, been slipping ever since. But if you lead these people to me, I’m dead.”

  Sage held his hand on the doorknob. “Don’t make me kill you before you can get me killed.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Noelle had dinner on the table when he returned. It was Italian; chicken Marsala from Antonelli’s. She moved it from the containers onto ceramic plates along with salad and a bowl of minestrone.

  “Looks great,” Crane said. He put the scotch on the counter next to the jug of vodka and sat down. Noelle sat opposite him.

  “Well, our boy has been interviewed by Publisher’s Weekly on its website.” Noelle folded her napkin and put it on her lap. Crane hastily did the same. “Evidently, his series is well on its way to being the bestselling digital books of all time.”

  “I just don’t get it.” Crane tasted the chicken. Heavenly. “How the hell does cheap dime-store crap like that get onto the bestseller lists?”

  “You didn’t like the books?” Noelle looked dumbfounded, and Crane had no idea why.

  “Never really read them. But aren’t they stupid spy and soldier shit, the typical crap?”

  “My God, no!” Noelle shook her head, and Crane felt like he was in school, and in trouble. “They’re easily the most well-researched books I’ve ever read in the action genre. This guy doesn’t cut corners at all. The science behind his claims is incredible.”

  “God, I never figured you for the type of person that likes books like that, Noelle.” Crane got up, dropping his napkin as he did, and poured himself three fingers of vodka. “I thought you only read Shakespeare and stuff like that.”

  “This guy gets stuff, Roddie. Hold on.” She stood up and Crane realized she’d caught her napkin and put it next to her plate. He brought his cup to the table and put his own napkin next to his plate.

  Fuck, he hadn’t drunk so little in a long time. He sat and drained the vodka in one long drink. He resisted the urge to throw it all back up and stood again, bringing his cup back to the counter, refilling it, and sitting down just in time to make Noelle think it was the same vodka he was sipping from when she re-entered the dining room.

  “Roddie, listen to this. ‘Fortley listened to Dr. Bremark's spiel. The gene gun uses ammo that’s made by putting DNA on top of gold dust. It’s all on top of a piece of Mylar—that’s a polyester film that looks just like cellophane. It’s all on top of it, and we use a compressor to pump helium gas into the gene gun. When the helium makes the pressure reach a certain point, the Mylar breaks. That will send tiny pieces of gold into your arm at the speed of sound.

  “‘If it works as planned, the DNA we’ve developed will penetrate some of your cells, and a few of them will accept the altered DNA as part of their own. These will replicate, changing your whole genetic makeup so you become stronger. Fortley stood and said to go ahead with the procedure.’”

  “Okay,” Crane muttered, and he took a small sip of the vodka. Already he was a little out of it, and he hoped Noelle wouldn’t notice. “So the guy can be creative with his science. Who gives a shit?”

  “Roddie, the guy is absolutely accurate. Gold dust is one of the primary ways genetic injection of material is possible. It’s still in use with crops and livestock. Hell, some group just did the same thing with a pile of crap from W.S. Burroughs. It’s a scientific process that I’ve never seen used in fiction.”
/>   “So the guy does his research. His plotlines still suck.”

  “No, Roddie.” Noelle took a bite of chicken, and Crane waited as she chewed. “The plots don’t follow typical conflict patterns in fiction. The guy writes like a non-fiction writer. Yeah, his style isn’t as developed as Crichton or even Robin Cook, but the internal consistency is remarkable.”

  “So what are you saying, Noelle? You think this guy is a good writer?”

  “I’m saying that I think this guy is telling the truth.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  At home that night, he couldn’t stop thinking of Gladys, of what they might have been together. He sat in the library with a glass of bourbon and wondered why he hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves over the years. He didn’t want her now, not really, but he was lonely with his wife gone.

  With his money, he could have anyone he wanted, but the long line of women aspiring to be the next trophy wife didn’t appeal to him. He’d string them along and discard them. None of them was his wife. Or Gladys.

  I’m stressed, he thought, it’s the Sage thing. It was true, too. He tended to react to stress with sex. Get all worked up and get rid of it. That was the advantage to having a wife at home.

  What the hell was Sage up to? Why would he come back now and put out those goddamned books? Why the hell is it always left to me to fix other people’s fuck-ups?

  Eighteen years almost, nearly four percent of the company—that was several hundred million dollars—and his own personal army. Fuck, if Winslow had run the damn place right in the first place, there wouldn’t be a Sage problem. And now, his old maid daughters hire some two-bit (God, who says that anymore?) private detective loser to find their long lost Dennis.

  Well, ladies, Denny isn’t Denny anymore. Daddy made him into a killing machine, and the son of a bitch—no offense to your mother—isn’t all that interested in going back to a normal life. Now I have to clean up your daddy’s mess.

  And what was with this detective anyway? The operatives he’d sent after him weren’t his best, wouldn’t even have the job if he hadn’t wanted to help for Andy’s sake. But even at their worst, they could take a guy like Crane. Hell, they’d knocked down an entire ATF unit in Utah, one by one over the course of a week. So who was this guy? He was clearly better than they’d thought.

  He needed a drink. Were there any servants left in the house? He reached for the phone, dialed an extension, and got the head butler. Ten minutes later, he had a tall bourbon and a plate of water crackers and European cheeses on the table.

  The food he ignored; the drink he didn’t.

  Was scaring Crane the right way to go? If he really was the loser his history suggested, he’d back off and no harm was done. However, if Crane was good—and his avoidance of the two assassins made that possible, even probable—the tactic would have the opposite effect. It would strengthen his resolve.

  That meant one more person to flush Sage into the open where he could be dealt with. It was a win either way. Cleaner and easier just to kill Crane, and it would come to that eventually; but for now using Crane as an additional tentacle worming its way to Sage made sense.

  They had a window of two weeks before the Jaguar book came out, according to the press release. If they got Sage prior to that, no problem. If the book came out, it wasn’t definite that anyone would take it seriously, but it would be hard to deal with the inevitable calls from the politicians.

  So far, they’d been lucky and nobody recognized the operations depicted in previous books. Of course, little of the specifics of those operations ever came to light, but Jaguar … there were at least half a dozen politicians who became intimately involved with that one. Then there were the soldiers, the CIA operatives, the officials in Costa Rica.

  He shook his head. The operation was almost a quarter of a century old, and the likelihood of fallout would be minimal were it not for the positions of power held by some of those in the cover-up. If he tried to minimize—

  Alright, it’s doing no good going over and over and over this. The decisions are made already. He looked at the clock. 11:30. He sipped his bourbon.

  If the books hit and we don’t get Sage, we’ll…

  It was another two hours before he finally slept.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Is there an email address on Twill’s website?”

  Noelle was just finishing up with the dishes, and Crane was pouring another glass of vodka. She told him there was, and Crane went to her computer and booted it up.

  “Hey!” He was two rooms away, so he shouted. “What’s your login password?”

  She walked into the room. “Is there a dog in the garage?”

  Crane looked up sheepishly, “Uh, yeah … I forgot. I didn’t want to leave her at my place, and I didn’t want to leave her alone at … Oh God, Elle, I’m sorry. I should have asked, but with everything going on, I just … Sorry.”

  Noelle shook her head, but she was smiling. She leaned over him and typed in her password. Crane thrilled at the contact of her breasts against his back, her hair over his face. “You send that email, and I’ll get your dog situated.”

  Crane found Twill’s site in Noelle’s browser history. He also saw the Publisher’s Weekly article, so he opened it in another tab. He shot a quick email to Twill, saying he was a Hollywood scout looking to talk about film options. He also sent an email to the author of the article.

  He leaned back. This case was weird. He wasn’t sure where to take it.

  The Publisher’s Weekly response came in little more than a few moments, which surprised him. It was succinct and basically said that she would send an email to Twill and inform him of Crane’s desire to contact him. Crane sighed. Typical brush off.

  He walked back out toward the kitchen and found Noelle there wrestling with Lolly. The two were on the floor, Noelle giggling and Lolly wagging her tail at something close to the speed of sound. It was beautiful.

  Noelle noticed him and looked up, smiling. He took of a sip of his vodka and said, “I think I might head to Minneapolis.”

  “It’s way too early for that, don’t you think?”

  “Well, it might be a good idea to get out of town. I’m seeing the Winslow sisters tomorrow morning. I’ll get them to take care of the ticket and maybe see about a laptop, too.” Crane took another sip and realized he was drunk. He looked at the counter and noticed the bottle of scotch. Damn it, yet another night he wouldn’t taste it.

  “I think it’s a crazy idea. You don’t have anything solid. What are you going to do, just go hang out at that bar and hope no guys try to pick you up while you wait to spot your guy?”

  “Look, I’m not talking about moving there. I just don’t know if I can get much done from over here.”

  Whatever her intended response, Crane didn’t get it. Lolly chose that moment to jump on Noelle, and she was lost in the dog, so Crane walked back to her room and the computer.

  He was surprised to see an answer from Twill, but it was no help at all. Looked like one of those automated responses. Twill basically said he was unavailable for any face-to-face conversation and any proposals could be submitted in writing via email.

  He closed the browser and shut down the computer. A week in Minneapolis would at the least get him away from Tom and Jerry. It still didn’t make much sense that Nero would use a couple of goons like them, but Junior wasn’t a whole lot like his father anyway.

  Noelle walked into the room. “I guess if you’re going to be stupid enough to go, I’ll watch Lolly for you. Don’t ask the sisters for a laptop; you can borrow one of mine.” She looked around the room. “I think you have everything you need in here, so I’m going to bed.” With that, she walked out.

  Crane sat there for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he was expected to follow her. He figured it was one of those damned if you do damned if you don’t moments. He sighed, drained the rest of his drink, and lay down on Noelle’s bed.

&
nbsp; Chapter Thirty-Four

  The first was easy to spot.

  He stood in front of the Winslow building sipping from a paper cup of coffee.

  Sage couldn’t have told you how he knew the man was a professional. It was a skill not so much learned as absorbed into your mindset over years of covert activity, and then years of successfully living off the grid.

  Almost successfully. Dammit, Tommy.

  The man in front of the Winslow building came from the intelligence side of the business. Sage could tell by the way his eyes darted back and forth, the practiced manner of nonchalance that made even drinking coffee seem too common and normal, too forgettable.

  Sage could tell by a slight bulge in his jacket that he had a shoulder holster with a small caliber handgun, probably a 22 with a small magazine capacity. An occasional protrusion inside the left leg of the man’s slacks indicated a knife strapped to his calf. The man was armed for close work, not distance.

  He saw the man’s partner a few minutes later. If the first was an assassin, this one was just a brute, probably career military; probably got busted down time and time again from Master Sergeant back to E6, worked his way back up, and got busted down again.

  They were the best soldiers, these kinds of men, but they irritated the fuck out of their commanders. While his partner had small weapons, this man had a cannon in his pocket, a 357 or a 44. He probably had brass knuckles or an extending baton as well.

  They weren’t regulars on Winslow’s payroll, not unless they’d just been hired. Sage had dossiers on all of the operatives there, updated them every six months, the last of which had been three weeks ago.

  The fact that they were in Minneapolis meant one of two things. Either an operation required additional personnel without the level of training usually required, some third world in and out raid; or the men were here on a special.