Murder on Olympus

by Robert B Warren

  “If you don’t start talking, I will end you,” I warned. “Do you understand?”

  The rider chuckled. “You’re not going to kill me.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah. I can see it in your eyes. You’re no killer.”

  That was where he was wrong. I had killed during my time as an OBI agent. In those days, it was my job to track down dangerous criminals and bring them to justice. Most suspects surrendered without too much of a fight. But every now and then, I’d come across some psycho who’d rather shoot it out with me and my squad than come along quietly. Once they’d gone down that road, all bets were off.

  I wasn’t proud of things I had done, but I knew they were necessary. Some people—people who thrive on the fear and suffering of others—needed to be put in their places. All the same, I couldn’t shoot a defenseless opponent in cold blood, even if he deserved it. I was a killer. But I wasn’t a murderer.

  “Are you willing to risk it?” I asked the rider.

  He smiled and said nothing.

  I did the dramatic gun-cock that action heroes always do when they mean business, hoping that would loosen his tongue. He continued to grin, unimpressed.

  I could see I was going to have to try another approach. I reared back and swung my foot upward. The tip of my shoe struck the rider’s injured arm.

  He screamed and fell onto his side, gripping his forearm. “You bastard!”

  “Ready to talk yet?” I asked.

  “Screw you!”

  I stepped on his broken forearm, pinning it beneath my foot. “Look, pops. You’re starting to get on my nerves. Tell me what I want to know, and we can end all this drama. Why did you try to kill me?”

  “Because killing is what I do.” The rider groaned and writhed in the dirt.

  “Let me rephrase the question: Who sent you?”

  The rider let out a wheezing laugh. His face contorted with pain. “Like I’m gonna tell you.”

  I eased more of my weight onto his forearm. He grimaced.

  “Who was it?” I demanded, enunciating each word.

  “I don’t know!” the rider hissed. “I’ve only ever talked to him over the phone.”

  Him? So his boss was a man.

  “Why did he want me dead?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  I ground my heel into his forearm. He cried out.

  “Why did he want me dead?” I repeated.

  “He said you needed to learn your place!” the rider shouted.

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t bother asking either. A client’s motives are their own damn business. Got nothing to do with me.”

  I removed my foot from his arm and stepped back, the gun still trained on him.

  Gradually, he got to his knees. Sweat poured down his face.

  I couldn’t tell if he’d been lying to me or not, and I didn’t have the energy to keep interrogating him. I figured it’d be best to turn him over to the OBI. Maybe they could get some answers out of him.

  “Get up.” I gestured for him to rise.

  The man stubbornly remained on his knees. I grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled him upright. I started to walk, pulling him along with me.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

  “To the cops.”

  “I don’t think so.” The rider rammed his shoulder into me from behind.

  The maneuver caught me off guard. I stumbled, tripped over something—probably a rock—and fell.

  He bent and yanked up his right pant leg, revealing an ankle holster. As he drew a pistol from it, I rolled onto my back and fired a round from the gun I had confiscated. The bullet struck his broken forearm. He dropped the gun and went down screaming. I rushed over to him, snatched up the pistol, and pointed both guns on him. He laughed as he struggled to sit up. Blood poured from the hole in his arm, spilling onto the fallen leaves.

  “S-see,” he squeezed out. “I t-told you . . . you . . . you’re no killer.”

  “Shut up!” I kicked him in the face. The blow knocked him out cold. At once, I regretted hitting him. Now I had to carry his unconscious ass all the way back to civilization. This day was getting better and better.

  28

  Dirty, tired, and burning with fatigue, I dumped the unconscious man on the edge of the highway and collapsed beside him. The sun had begun to set, staining the sky orange and deepening the surrounding shadows. Getting out of the forest took longer than I had anticipated. Finding a route around the chasm had lengthened the trip by over an hour.

  After I had a chance to catch my breath, I called Herc on my cell phone—which, luckily, had been in my pocket—and asked him if he could come pick me up. I would’ve called him sooner, but I had no idea where I was until I reached the highway. When he asked me what was wrong, I said I’d tell him the whole story once he got here. At the moment, I was too exhausted to hold a conversation.

  While I waited for Herc to arrive, I considered everything I knew about the assassin’s employer, which wasn’t a whole lot. I knew that he was male, and that he had lots of money. Other than that, I was in the dark.

  It was possible that he and the God-killer were one and the same. But that theory didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why would the killer single me out as opposed to members of the OBI—especially since I had only recently agreed to take the case? Besides, it wasn’t like I was on the brink of uncovering the killer’s identity. Hell, I had doubts about whether or not I could even solve this mystery.

  Maybe it was Collin Stone. He did threaten me after all. And he definitely had the funds to hire an assassin. Or two, in this case. But I’d been doing this detective thing long enough to know not to jump to conclusions.

  The only thing I knew for sure was that someone out there wanted me dead, and I needed to find out whom. The assassins’ attempt on my life had ended in failure. But I knew better than to think their employer would give up so easily. Eventually, he’d send more hired guns after me. With any luck, the OBI would find out who he was and arrest him before that happened.

  Herc arrived shortly after nightfall. The assassin was still unconscious—he had woken up earlier, but a kick to the head put him back to sleep. Herc parked his hybrid on the shoulder of the road and stepped out. The car’s headlights burned through the darkness.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” Herc said, coming over to me. The blood on my clothes made him pause. “Geez, what happened?”

  “I ran into a bit of trouble.”

  Herc looked around. “Where’s your car?”

  I shook my head solemnly.

  Herc helped me to my feet, then glanced at the rider, who had begun to stir, but was still unconscious. “Who’s that?”

  “An assassin. He and his buddy tried to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone hired them to do it.”

  “Who’d want you dead?”

  I shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

  “You think it has something to do with the case?”

  “Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.”

  Herc went silent. “The assassin’s employer,” he said after a few seconds. “Do you think he’s—”

  I shushed him before he could finish his question. Though the rider was still unconscious, I still didn’t feel comfortable discussing the case around him.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I said.

  Herc inclined his head toward the rider. “What do you want to do about him?”

  “Take him to the hospital to get that arm patched up. After that, I’ll have the OBI do a pickup. Let them deal with him.”

  I got in the car and buckled my seatbelt, while Herc loaded the rider into the backseat. My body felt like it’d been put through a meat grinde
r, but at least I was alive. I wished I could have said the same about my Lotus.

  We drove back to New Olympia and headed downtown, to the hospital. The rider woke up about halfway through the ride, but was too weary from blood loss to give us any problems. He mostly stayed quiet in the backseat, drifting in and out of awareness. Even if he was fully aware, I doubt he would have tried anything funny, especially with the seven-foot monster sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Herc pulled into the emergency room parking lot of Olympia General and carried the rider into the hospital. I stayed in the car and contacted OBI headquarters. I gave them a play-by-play of what had happened. They said they would send someone over immediately. My guess was they were going to interrogate him in the morning. I intended to be there when they did.

  I ended the call and put away my cell. My head felt like it was cracking open. Today had definitely not gone the way I planned. I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. I hadn’t realized I had fallen asleep until the driver-side door opened, and Herc got into the car. The vehicle shifted beneath his weight.

  “The doctors are taking care of him,” he informed me.

  “Good for him,” I said, yawning. “I hope whoever hired him covers medical insurance.”

  “You should get yourself looked at too.”

  “Nah.”

  “Jonesy,” Herc said, as if talking to a child.

  I sighed. After all the excitement I had that day, I wanted nothing more than to go home and go to sleep. But Herc was right. Having a doctor look at me would be the smartest thing to do. I couldn’t crash the interrogation if I couldn’t get out of bed tomorrow.

  We walked inside the hospital. I filled out an information sheet, then took a seat in the crowded waiting room. The chairs were stiff and uncomfortable, the lights bright and disorienting, and the icy air blowing from the overhead vents made my sore body feel even worse.

  The doctor saw me after an hour and a half, which translated to a thousand hours hospital-waiting-room time. She was short and cute, with curly brown hair and a big, dimply smile. “My, my, aren’t you looking rough?”

  She checked me for broken bones and internal bleeding.

  “You’re pretty bruised up, but other than that, you’ll be just fine,” she said. “That cut on your head will need stitches.”

  The doctor left the room, humming to herself. A nurse came in minutes later and sewed three stitches into my head. Fortunately, she didn’t have to shave my head—if only fixing my car could have been so simple.

  After I got to my apartment, I took a hot shower and slathered a soothing cream all over the bruises forming on my chest, arms, and legs. Then I fell face first onto my bed and drifted off to sleep.

  When I woke up it was almost 7:00 a.m. My entire body was sore and tight, as if I had been working out for the past twenty-four hours. I took a couple of aspirin for the pain and grabbed my cell off the kitchen counter. I needed to call OBI headquarters and see when they were planning to question the assassin. I sat down on the sofa and dialed the number of the main office.

  The agent who took my call had a low, monotonic voice. He could have been mistaken for one of those automated answering systems. “This is the office of the Olympic Bureau of Investigation. Please identify yourself.”

  I sighed. Another mandatory ID check. Every call to OBI headquarters began with one. I knew that verifying my identity was an important security measure. But that didn’t make the procedure any less tedious or annoying. It was still just red tape. Of all the things I hated about working for the government—long hours, small salary increases, limited career growth—red tape was by far my least favorite. Everything I did, or tried to do, was mired in protocol. I couldn’t even take a piss without filing a ten-page report.

  I cleared my throat and gave him my information. “Plato Jones. Agent number 1056077714829. My clearance code is HGF920.”

  Since I wasn’t a member of the OBI—not anymore—I didn’t have access to their private network. Fortunately, Zeus had made me a temporary profile that would remain active until the case was closed.

  “One moment,” the agent said. I could hear him typing on a computer. “All right, everything checks out. I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Jones. Thank you for calling the office of the Olympic Bureau of Investigation. I’m Agent O’Neil. How can I help you this morning?”

  “Hi, Agent O’Neil. I just have a quick question. I called last night to report an assassination attempt on my life. You sent some of your agents to Olympia General to arrest the suspect.”

  Again, I heard O’Neil typing on his computer. “It says here that at 9:47 p.m. last night, OBI operatives arrested a Mr. Dalen Scott, following a murder attempt on a Mr. Plato Jones. Is that correct?”

  I didn’t answer right away. Since I didn’t catch the assassin’s name while he was trying to murder me, I first needed to make sure the OBI hadn’t picked up the wrong guy.

  “The man you arrested, Dalen Scott,” I said, “describe him to me.”

  O’Neil clacked away on his computer keys. “It says here that Mr. Scott is a white male, six-three, well-built, with gray hair and blue eyes. He had a bruised jaw and multiple injuries to his right forearm, all resulting from a confrontation with Mr. Plato Jones.”

  Good. They got the right guy.

  “Does this sound like the man who attacked you?” O’Neil continued.

  “Yeah, that’s him. When are you guys are planning to interrogate him?”

  “I’m afraid there won’t be an interrogation, Mr. Jones.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Scott was killed last night.”

  I started. “By whom?”

  “By the arresting agents. During his processing at OBI headquarters, Mr. Scott assaulted one of the agents and stole his gun. The other operatives had no choice but to neutralize him.”

  “Wait. He wrestled a gun away from an OBI agent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I laughed. “I’m sorry, Agent O’Neil, but that’s a little hard to believe. Scott was barely conscious when I dropped him off at the hospital. Not to mention his arm was busted. How could he have stolen an agent’s gun?”

  O’Neil offered no explanation. “I could fax you a copy of the report if you’d like.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Could you give me the names of the arresting agents? I’d like to speak with them.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, but that information is currently unavailable.”

  I pursed my lips in suspicion. “When will it be available?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have that information,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yeah. Did your guys find the other assassin?”

  O’Neil went silent for a moment. Then he said, “It seems they did. Mr. Noah Salter was found dead in the woods bordering Highway 18. The report says he died of a brain hemorrhage in relation to a fractured skull.”

  That, I believed.

  “Do you have any more questions, Mr. Jones?” O’Neil asked.

  “No, that’s all. Thanks for your help, Agent.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Jones. Have a nice day.”

  I ended the call and went over to the window. I raised the blind. Morning light shone through the mist-covered glass.

  I didn’t have to wonder if the OBI was lying to me. The details of Scott’s death were too far-fetched to be authentic. For one thing, his wrists and ankles would’ve been shackled during processing. He would’ve had a hard enough time walking, let alone fighting a highly trained special agent. Furthermore, why were the names of the arresting agents unavailable? The whole thing stank.

  Why were they hiding the truth? What did they have to gain? Were they somehow involved in the assassination plot? If that was the case, it meant Zeus was involved as well, since the OBI answe
red only to him.

  The idea terrified me. What do you do when the King of the Gods has it out for you? What can you do? I couldn’t answer either question.

  And more importantly, why would Zeus hire me, pay me a bucket of cash, and then try to kill me? It made no sense.

  Confronting him directly was out of the question. If he was responsible, he’d likely kill me on the spot. If he wasn’t, he’d kill me for insulting him. Either way, I was screwed. For the time being, my best option was to stay quiet and continue the investigation, as if the attempt on my life had never happened. With luck, I’d figure out a way to get myself out of this mess.

  29

  My appointment with Aphrodite was scheduled for 12:15. We were meeting at Arturo’s, an expensive restaurant on Siren Street. I would have preferred to question her somewhere more private, but I let her chose the location. I hoped that mistake wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass.

  When I arrived at Arturo’s, the door was locked. I peered through the window. The lights were on, but there were no customers. Two waiters chatted at one of the tables, a man with a shaved head and a woman with a blond ponytail. I tapped on the glass. The waiters glanced at me. I waved at them. Both looked annoyed.

  They talked for a minute, probably arguing over which of them should get up and deal with me. Eventually, Baldie got up and unlocked the door. He looked me up and down. His top lip curled as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul.

  “We’re temporarily closed to the public,” he said, his voice dry and unfriendly. “Someone’s rented us out for the afternoon.”

  “That someone wouldn’t happen to be Aphrodite, would it?”

  Baldie’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. May I ask your name?”

  “Plato Jones.”

  “Ms. Aphrodite is expecting a Mr. Jones.”

  “Great.” I waited for him to show me inside.

  Baldie didn’t budge.

  “Problem?” I asked.

  “I need to see at least three forms of ID.” He held out his hand.