Pseudonym

by Neal Penn

  “Yes, we’ll take care of both of them.” Damn straight.

  “Anything else?”

  “When can you deliver?”

  “As early as seven, sir.”

  “I want to stop by after they’ve eaten, maybe about eight-thirty or so.” Or maybe in an hour. “Can you tell me the room number?”

  “Hold on … He’s in room 316.”

  “Thanks. Give yourself a good tip, alright?”

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Directory assistance couldn’t find a Noelle Phillips. There was a Nicky Phillips, a Nathan Phillips, and an N. Phillips Jr., but no Noelle. Sage determined she was most likely from out of town anyway based on the earlier assumption that she and the man on the doorstep were not affiliates of the company.

  What their motives were, though, he still couldn’t determine. They were either after Tommy or after him. And being after Tommy didn’t make any sense. Still, the fucks who had killed him said to give a message to someone or something named Crane.

  Sage sat in his motel room, his eyes closed to ward off the red haze. The connection was the key. Who the hell was Noelle Phillips? Who was Crane? Crane could have been the man on the doorstep. That was a real possibility, maybe a probability. And if not Crane, then who had the man on the step been? Why did the company give a damn about what they did, and how did that impact Tommy? Tommy could have gotten in trouble himself, but it was doubtful. That meant everyone was after Sage. The company thought Crane could be scared away using Tommy.

  He searched his memory for anyone named Phillips or Crane. Maybe they were a soldier’s relatives. No, not possible. Nobody had any real names on the missions. Sage stood and stretched before dropping to the ground and counting off push-ups as he thought. The company would certainly want him dead, that was a given. What about Crane? Was he a reporter or something? Had he stumbled on something? Wait…

  Tommy kept talking about hiring a publicist. Maybe that’s what this guy was. The company comes to scare Tommy out of it, but they want Tommy around to find Sage. If the publicist gets movies made or TV specials, there’s too much risk, too much exposure.

  No. They didn’t say to back away from Crane; they said to tell Crane to back off. So, who the hell were Crane and Phillips?

  He stood up. He’d done fifty, nothing in terms of a workout but he’d only wanted to think. It was just unknown. He needed intelligence, reconnaissance. So he needed to find Phillips. That would lead him to Crane, if they were together, or to the doorstep man, or both, or if Crane … Jesus, Tommy. This is complicated.

  He considered just heading to the company. He could probably make it halfway through before they got him, but that would mean Phillips got away clean. She was already part of the mission, an objective. He couldn’t do it. She’d tricked Tommy. She was going to die. Maybe not Crane or the doorstep man, depending.

  Still, Phillips would die.

  But why had she tricked Tommy in the first place?

  Sage walked into the bathroom, took off his clothes, and stepped into the shower. The water was hot, scalding, and he let it wash the blood and dirt from his hands and arms away. He watched the water swirling around the drain turn pink and stayed in the shower until it was clear.

  Finally, he stepped out and walked back into the room. His cell phone was blinking.

  He grabbed a towel and dried his hands. Only Tommy had that number. Used to. He picked the phone up and looked at the screen. It indicated a new message from T. Norwood. He clicked the button and the message came up.

  Mr. Sage, my name is Rodney Crane. I am a private detective.

  Okay, that explained his job. So someone hired Crane for something.

  Alongside the message was a number with an extension and a cell phone number. Sage dialed the first. Someone answered for the Marriott Hotel and Sage asked for the extension, a room number. A woman answered.

  “May I speak with …” He paused. “Noelle?”

  “This is Noelle.”

  He hung up the phone. Marriott Hotel, room 316.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Nero woke up in the middle of the night. It was happening too often now, and the doctors kept telling him to lay off the rich foods and hard liquor. He’d cut back on the booze, he always liked wine better anyway, but they could all fuck themselves if they thought he was giving up white sauce or veal Marsala.

  He stepped off the bed, careful not to wake up Tanya and hear all about how he needed a diet. He grabbed a robe, wrapped it around himself, and headed to the kitchen. There, he fixed himself a sandwich and poured a glass of wine.

  Ray-Ray had responded to the situation exactly as she always did. She accepted the instructions, repeated them, and told him the job would be done. Minneapolis wasn’t her favorite place – far from it, in fact – but she hadn’t complained.

  The fifty-thousand put an entirely different perspective on the money Crane owed him. He’d have to meet the girl some time, find out what made a man like Ty willing to put out that kind of money.

  The sandwich was pretty good. Tanya had fixed sausages with peppers along with the gnocchi and a nice antipasti with buffalo mozzarella, and he’d just put the sausage in a loaf of bread and layered the mozzarella on top. The wine was just table wine, but it was good enough.

  The blowback on the Crane/Ty thing could be a problem. If it were two years ago, he’d be asking Crane how to handle it – well, his dad would’ve asked Crane how to handle it. Of course, that couldn’t happen now. Still, Ray-Ray knew what she was doing.

  He sat at the table and one of his men came in. “Hey, boss, I heard noises in here. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. You want something to eat?” Nero took a bite of the sandwich. The peppers were sweet and the sausage was hot. She might be getting fat, but Tanya could sure as hell cook.

  “No, boss. I’m fine.”

  “What? You trying to keep weight off? You some kind of faggot? Make yourself a sandwich.” He took another bite and said through his chewing, “The sausage and peppers—use them and throw on some of the cheese from the salad. There’s some wine, too.”

  His man lifted his hands. “Alright. Alright.” Nero nodded to the refrigerator, and the man walked over and started to fix up a meal. When he finished, he started to walk to his post, but Nero waved him to the table, and he sat down. The two men talked about their families, and his man’s kid sister, who was fucking up her life down in Georgia.

  When they finished eating, the man stood to return to his post and asked if Nero was turning in. “Maybe in an hour. I’ll just go to my office and watch the tube.”

  Nero stood and walked out of the room. The food and wine had worked its magic, and he knew it was just a matter of an hour or so before he could sleep again.

  It was about four, which made it three for Crane. Tomorrow’s gonna be a big day for you, Crane. Ray-Ray had told him she’d be back from Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Crane walked to the mini bar and started loading bottles into the hotel laundry bag. Noelle stood. “What are you doing, Roddie?”

  “Get your purse, the laptop, and anything valuable. We’re leaving.” He put the bag on the bed and began tying his shoes. Noelle hadn’t moved. “Jesus, Elle, get ready. We are leaving. We’re leaving right now.”

  He stood, looked around, grabbed the bag and started for the door. Noelle grabbed her purse, the laptop, and the car keys and followed him.

  “Why are we leaving? What the hell?”

  He pressed the down button on the elevator, thought better of it, and opened the door to the stairwell.

  “Who the hell knows you’re here, Noelle? Not even the front desk has you listed here. Someone either found out you were here or called for me and guessed it was you. That means it’s Ty or someone in this fucked up case.” He stopped at the ground level and almost entered the lobby. He stopped when he saw an arrow indicating an exit to the outside to the left. At the end of a short hallw
ay, they found it. The door opened into the rear of the parking lot. In just a few moments, they found the rental car.

  He started to turn the key but stopped. “Don’t move. Look at the entryway.”

  The man who had been wearing a suit, who had tied up Noelle, and who had run from Norwood’s house, was stepping into the hotel. He wasn’t wearing his jacket but had it draped over his arm. “That must be the guy who called you, Elle.” How the fuck does he know she was here?

  “What in the world is going on, Roddie?”

  “I don’t know. None of it makes sense. Who the hell would want to kill Twill, and—”

  “Norwood.”

  “Fuck. Fine. Who the hell would want to kill Norwood? Why the fuck are the guys trying to keep me away from Winslow? Are they after him, or protecting him? I just … there’s an answer, and it keeps coming close to me and then running away. There was this riddle back in school our English teacher—did you ever have Standifer?”

  Noelle shook her head. He told her the riddle, messed it up. “Hold on, Elle.” He reached in the back seats pulled the liquor-filled laundry bag from there. He downed a shot-sized bottle of Jack Daniels and tried the riddle again.

  “So, two doors.” Noelle held up two fingers. “Two guards. One truthful and one liar. Death or life?”

  “Yeah that’s it. This case is like that.”

  “Ask either guard what the other guard would say leads to life, and go through the other one.” Noelle shrugged, unimpressed.

  “Jesus, tell me you’ve heard that before?” Smart ass.

  “No, but you need an answer that either guard would—”

  “Yeah—answer the same. Well, today’s same answer is our hotel room.”

  He pointed at the hotel doors.

  Dennis Winslow was stepping through.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  After only twenty minutes of sleep, his cell phone woke him up. Four o’clock in the morning. He mumbled a greeting into the phone and then cleared his throat. It was Gladys.

  “Sir, I have Senteeri on the line.” Who the hell was that? There were only four or five people Gladys could wake him for.

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “It’s the asset Aiken sent to watch the Marriott.” What now? This was it. He was done. Wrap up the damned Sage thing and then no more of this crap.

  “Have they checked out?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I think you need to speak with him.” Damn. If Gladys let a call through like this, it was serious. It also meant Aiken wanted him to hear the update straight from the horse, didn’t want to make the call. Damn, damn, damn.

  “Alright. Put him through.” He felt like a jerk, but he pressed a button to wake Andrew for some bourbon.

  The man sounded harried. “Sir, Sage is at the hotel.”

  Jesus Christ. Crane got to Norwood first and found Sage first. “I can take him if you want me to.” God, the young are stupid.

  “Son, we’re bringing in two squads to take Crane. It’s no reflection on you, but there’s no way on Earth you could take him alone. Follow, but don’t engage.”

  “But I have backup here. Walker walked in a few minutes ago.”

  Walker … who was Walker? “Son, Wal-Mart and the government employ more people than me, and that’s about it. Who’s Walker?”

  “He always works with Smith, the guy who likes the Watch Caps.” Oh, shit. “They just got back from Maryland, and—”

  “Under no circumstances are you to engage Sage. Leave the lobby now, discreetly. Stay outside in your car and wait for Aiken to send someone to you.”

  “But—”

  “This is an order, son, not a suggestion. Get the hell out of there.” How had Crane managed this?

  “Yes, sir.”

  He dialed Gladys, told her to get Aiken for him, and walked out of the room to find the bourbon. This was all blowing up.

  God, who the hell had believed all the science fiction fairytale super-soldier crap? It never worked. Everybody gets excited for Captain America and we end up with Corporal Hell.

  The phone rang and he told Aiken to check the safe house.

  “Yes, sir, but we’re low on resources, and someone at the Marriott just called 911.”

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Since they didn’t know he was coming, Sage just took the elevator.

  As he pressed the up button, he noticed that his hands were still covered with blood and winced. Should’ve cleaned up. Sometimes it was difficult to remember he was in America and not one of the mission locations where blood on a man ended questions instead of bringing them.

  The doors opened, and he hurried inside thankfully.

  Noelle Phillips would die, and then he’d get whatever information he could from this private detective, Rodney Crane. He pressed the button for the third floor and breathed deeply. The red haze crept from the corner of his eyes and over his field of view like the tide rolling over the beaches of Costa Rica.

  That was for you, Tommy. Tommy was always saying, “Like the tide,” or, “Like a bird searching for its nest,” or, “Like eggs crushed underfoot.” Describe a man’s head exploding, a woman running, or a neck snapping, and Tommy would come up with a “like a…” to illustrate it.

  The doors opened, and Sage stepped out of the hallway. Directly ahead was room 302, and an arrow pointed to the right for rooms 301-359; to the left, rooms 304-360. He turned left and scanned the room numbers. 304, 306, 308, 310.

  He got to 312 before he realized the door to 316 was ajar. He slowed down and stood directly to the side to listen.

  He heard movement, but it was only one set of footprints. Heavy, male, unless Noelle Phillips was fat, but Norwood wouldn’t have been tricked by a fat girl.

  It had to be Crane. That meant the girl had gone to get ice or was asleep or something.

  Then a voice came from the room: “Where the fuck did you two go?”

  It was soft, almost a whisper, but Sage recognized it from Tommy’s house. It was the tall man, the one who had warned Tommy about Crane first.

  The haze became a deep red, and Sage kicked open the door.

  The man was standing behind the bed, a shotgun in his hand, pointed toward the floor. When he saw Sage he brought it to bear, but Sage was on him as he fired. The man flew against the corner, and Sage felt the pellets burn into his shoulder and his left arm.

  Sage fell backwards over the bed and landed on the other side. He shook himself, and felt that switch in his body that turned off the pain go into effect. The first time it had happened had been nearly thirty-four years ago in Angola, when rebel forces had hit him with fire from all directions. He had been incapacitated momentarily, and then stood and begun a systematic extermination, ultimately rallying his team into action.

  He stood, using both arms, pleased with the responsiveness of the left. It was already healing, the wound a day or two old by now. At some point he’d need to see a doctor to get the lead pulled out. He walked to where the tall man had scrambled to his knees. The man leveled the gun again and shot.

  Sage felt the shot hit his hips and his right leg -- felt it, but not as pain. He shambled forward and wrenched the gun from the man’s hands. He pumped it, ejecting the spent shell.

  The man’s eyes widened as Sage brought the twelve-gauge up and put the barrel against the bridge of his nose.

  For Tommy, you motherfucker.

  Sage pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Calmly, he turned it around and smashed the butt into the man’s face, hearing his nose crack and watching blood splatter with satisfaction. Again he hit him, and again.

  By the time he stopped, he was crouched on one knee, and the butt was hitting floor instead of flesh.

  “Drop the gun!”

  Sage turned and saw two uniformed police officers with pistols trained on him. “Drop the gun now, asshole!” He glanced at the window and stood. “Drop or I’ll shoot.”

  Sage ran to the window, hearing the officers emptyi
ng their guns, feeling bullets hitting his arm, thigh, and back.

  He hit the window full force, crashing through the pane to drop the three stories to the ground.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  “Did you hear that?”

  Noelle nodded. Two shots, loud. “I think Winslow just got rid of Pinky, or the other way around.”

  “Pinky?”

  “Yeah, you know, Pinky and the Brain, the cartoon characters.” He looked blankly at her. “Oh, Jesus, Roddie. You can do it and I can’t?”

  “You could at least use names people know.”

  “Shut up.” She shook her head. “Do you have a plan, Mr. Detective? I’d really like a plan because I d—” She stopped at another loud noise and watched as Dennis Winslow crashed through a window on the third floor and fell to the ground. Crane reached for his door but stopped. The guy was standing up and limping away.

  By the time he was out of sight, he wasn’t limping anymore.

  “What the fuck is this? Jesus. Okay, the plan right now is to get the hell out of here.” He turned the ignition and drove out of the back of the lot. Cop cars were congregating at the front of the hotel, and he made a series of turns to get as far away from sight as possible. “Let’s find a coffee shop or something.” An entrance for the I-65 appeared ahead and he pulled on.

  “What’s going on here, Roddie? I don’t get it.” Noelle’s voice was near panic.

  “Reach into the laundry bag and get me something to drink. Get something for yourself, too.” Up ahead was a billboard for Denny’s. “Two more exits, and we’ll be able to calm down a little.”

  “Oh no, Roddie!” Noelle’s hands were shaking, but she produced a small bottle of vodka for Crane and unscrewed an individual wine bottle for herself.

  “What?” Crane looked in the rearview and the side mirrors. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “It’s not that, Roddie. We left the dog in the room.”

  Crane let out a long breath. “Well, Sammi won’t be happy with me. There’s no way we’re going back right now. We’ll have to figure it out later.”