Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  “I don’t see the problem, senator. Everything went off like it was supposed to.”

  “What? Aren’t you listening? No one was supposed to get killed!”

  “Have you forgotten who you're talking to?”

  “That was different! Thurman was dirt; he was selling classified material to our enemies! If he'd have been caught he would have been convicted of treason! And that head researcher at Jenetix knew full well what he was doing was illegal! For God’s sake, The Pentagon had a standing order to disavow the son-of-a-bitch if anything he was doing for them got out!” Beaumont paused. “But that security guard was just a lowly working stiff! You should have been more careful!”

  “Well, if they want the guy back so bad, I’m sure they can just scrape up what’s left of him and make another one.”

  Beaumont look disgusted. “You have no appreciation for this at all, do you?”

  “We’ve been through this before, senator. Shit happens. It’s a dangerous world and it’s getting worse every day.” Ross paused, setting the cheese in his lap. “And you and I both know it's only going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “I was promised we could do this my way—without any collateral damage!”

  Ross sprung from the bed, flinging the block of cheese to the floor. “Collateral damage is a fact of life! Besides, it's not like I was trying to kill him.”

  Beaumont split his brow. “Really?”

  Ross walked up to the senator, clenching his fist hard enough to make his knuckles pop. “You said it yourself, Shane. We’re not dealing with the Boy Scouts here! I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have. Trust me; sometimes it takes things just like this for your enemy to know you mean business.”

  Beaumont offered no response.

  Ross sensed the trepidation. “Your parents were Lebanese, right? Arabs? You’d probably be first on the list...next to blacks, of course. I mean there’s nothing more traditionally American than killing blacks...except maybe Native Americans. Whew, we had a ball trying to erase them, didn't we?”

  “You don't need to remind me of what the fight is about, Ross.”

  “Don't I?” Ross turned sour. “These anti-human bastards start up more labs faster than we can take them out. They cook up their tailor-made babies and secretly stockpile their 'purified' DNA for purposes only half of which we've even imagined. And the public just lines up to suck them off for the smallest taste, not knowing it’s all a setup. Don't forget that you’re in the minority, senator; an army of one. The rest of your capitol frat brothers are too busy getting rich from these human traitors.” Ross giggled. “Even I’ve got to give them credit; the strategy is almost flawless: tend to their uber-race like an earnest farmer, until it’s tall, ripe, and ready for harvest. And do it just slowly enough so nobody pays attention.” Ross stuck his finger in Beaumont's face. “Well, I don’t care if the moronic masses choose to live in ignorance anymore. I’m not going to wait for a country full of sheep to finally wake up and smell the stink coming off the shepherd. I’m going to stop these traitors by any means necessary.” Abruptly, the eyes set deep in Ross's skull became like cannonballs, exploding straight at the senator in a quiet rage. “And keep in mind that even though you know the truth as I do, you're still one of them. You're still part of the cadre of corruption, arrogance and irresponsibility that has ripped apart the lives of people who are a million times more fit to live. Collaborating with someone like you violates almost every personal conviction I've ever held since I was ten-years-old. The fact that you're going to leave here in one piece is a consummate act of discipline on my part.”

  Beaumont averted his eyes. He was ashamed that he had so little bravery with Ross. “You don’t understand what this means,” he said unassumingly. “People are panicked. They’ve been buying guns in record numbers for ten years straight. They may be aware that the corporations have dug their own graves, but they won’t tolerate innocent people getting killed. You’ve just made it that much harder for us.”

  Ross blinked, trying to shake off his disbelief. This imbecile did realize he'd just been threatened, right?

  “I've made it what it needed to be since the first day you came with your hand out,” Ross said. “I've made it a war! And people have to take sides in a war! They straddle the fence trying to have their cake and eat it too, they become casualties. They have to choose!”

  “This was supposed to be our ace-in-the-hole,” Beaumont said, tasting futility. “Our way of circumventing the system and doing what’s right when it failed. This isn’t what I intended at all.” He manhandled the base of his skull, pulling at the hair. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should’ve gone to the press, made public statements.”

  Ross laughed. “With what? Tell me one name of these sources of yours. Name one who would actually step forward and corroborate your evidence. Even you are too scared to take on your buddies from the Armed Services Committee. It would be all they would need to browbeat you through the next election. You’d be finished.”

  Beaumont pushed the heels of his hands deep into his temples. “This was never part of my plan. I just...”

  “Part of your plan?” Ross said rhetorically. “Part of your plan?” He folded his arms and set his face just inches from Beaumont’s. “Boy, you really have lost your perspective there, haven’t you?”

  Beaumont started to say something but Ross severed it, shouting, “You wouldn’t be getting shit done if it wasn’t for me! It’s my actions that give you your goddamn credibility! I do what you're afraid to do! I'm the one who steps out on faith, putting my ass on the line to save this country from itself! You just shuffle behind a podium all day talking down to people who might otherwise listen to you and then you wonder why they won't!”

  Beaumont buckled, shaking his head. “I should’ve known dealing with you was a mistake. You’re like a Rottweiler without a leash.”

  Ross eased back, looking amused. “Yet, here you are. And why? Because you know better. You know better than I do what they’re up to, what they're capable of. You knew if you continued to sit on the sidelines you’d be allowing the enemies of this country to tear us apart from the inside out and the human race would soon be unrecognizable.” He halted, gauging the senator’s reaction. “You know what they really want...don’t you?”

  Beaumont’s chin dropped like a stone. Ross was absolutely right. Biotech had its claws far too deep in the capitol’s flesh. Their money was everywhere, and the promises of their experiments were pervasive, yet well-kept secrets. He hated to think what could have come about if he hadn't let Ross have his way against human sellouts like Jenetix and Thurman Industries, bombing their labs, threatening their researchers and even kidnapping their executives. And Beaumont didn’t have one shred of evidence against them that couldn’t be disputed as cuckoo theory, or that could be exposed without linking him to a federal crime. They would bring him down with no more effort than blowing their noses. Good god, the senator thought and felt his tail coiling between his legs.

  “How am I supposed to argue for the cause like this?” he wondered aloud. “I just lost one of my best contributors, on top of it. What am I supposed to do?”

  Ross plopped his butt onto the corner of the closest bed and rested his forearms on his thighs—who-gives-a-shit body language. “You're still chummy with Chad Maguire. I'm sure he'll do his utmost to keep you employed. Since you delivered the package without a problem, maybe I can get junior to put in a good word.”

  “Waste of time, anyway,” Beaumont sighed. “He'd be an idiot to talk to you.”

  “It's not like I have a lot of choice. You certainly haven't been adding to the collection plate.”

  “I'm a United States senator, for God's sake! Do you have any idea the kind of precautions I had to take just to make this little trip?”

  “It wasn't my idea,” Ross reminded him.

  “It was like boarding an Israeli airbus! Showing up with the kind of cash you were asking for would have
set off too many alarm bells.”

  Ross watched as Beaumont started in with that crap where he just stands around sighing and running his hands over every part of him from the neck up. One second longer in his presence, Ross thought and he would end up giving Beaumont a beating something fierce.

  “What am I going to do?” Beaumont asked.

  “Do what you’ve always done,” Ross replied snarky. “Follow the example of the preachers and televangelists during the abortion debate. Disassociate yourself from the violent extremists on your side of the aisle while simultaneously encouraging their actions through divisive speech.” He ominously leaned forward. “And don’t bother me with this kind of bullshit again.”

  Beaumont stood still for what seemed like hours, desperately searching for his errant traces of dignity. Finally, he turned and opened the door.

  “Oh, and senator,” Ross said smiling.

  Beaumont cocked and ear.

  “Have a capitol day.”

  No sooner had Beaumont left, when Ross flipped open his computer and established the secured connection. The recipient popped to life on the screen and Ross distastefully looked him down. His hair was a bit longer and looked uncombed. His plain vanilla face, with uninspiring eyes, was a trifle more pale than Ross remembered; apparently, staying out of the spotlight was as simple as staying out of the sunlight. Ross figured those narrow, threadbare shoulders would show some signs of wear, having borne the weight of the last eleven months, but overall, he simply hadn't changed much since the trial. The man on the screen was, by most evidence, still the same sorry little twerp Ross had met two years ago.

  “Richie Rich, it's been too long,” Ross said, pulling out a smile.

  “I shouldn't be talking to you,” Maguire reminded him. “It's dangerous for me.”

  In more ways than one, Ross thought. He'd played with the idea of actually going over to Thaddeus Maguire's house and beating the money out of him. Necessary or not, it would have relieved a lot of tension. And Ross had tension up the wazoo thanks to Beaumont, Trineer and all the downgrading. If Trineer's student code cracker was legit, Ross could get inside Case Western's protocols and do quite a bit of damage. However, farting around with computer systems was still bush-league bullshit no matter how big a happy-face he painted on it. If Ross was going to make the kind of hit PHANTOM was known for then he needed some real cash. He could forget all about getting an inexpensive five ton truck full of ammonium nitrate and blasting gel through one of BioCore's checkpoints or garages. Any explosions worth the effort had to happen as deep inside that monster as he could get; that meant using devices that were both portable and powerful. It meant Ross would have to avoid buying from easily traceable sources, which would limit him to one or two suppliers who haggle endlessly. It meant not doing it on the cheap.

  “Some things are worth the risk, Tad.” Ross said. “Didn't Beth teach you that?”

  Maguire looked away from the screen. “You didn't call me to talk about Beth. You're calling me for more money.”

  “I'm calling you about both. Because it's not as if they both don't still mean something to the cause. Beth knew that things would have to continue with or without her. And so do you.”

  Maguire was speechless. Beth! I miss you so much!

  “Make no mistake though, I'd take her back in a second over you. If I could have her back here fighting alongside me, I'd gladly step out on faith for my next dollar. She had a way of making things happen even when I couldn't. She...”

  “Stop,” Maguire said finally. “Just stop.” He continued to stare off-screen. He thought of how his father had picked the wrong morning to start tearing into him again, about how he'd tainted the family name. Today was the anniversary of when Beth and Thaddeus first met and Thaddeus was not in the mood. And what Chad Maguire still refused to take into account, was the fact that as much as his son loved her, Beth Sullivan was never the sum and substance of Thaddeus's reasons for funneling money and information to Calvin Ross and PHANTOM.

  Thaddeus Maguire absolutely hated his father. Despised him. Wished all manner of ill outcome upon him. Fantasized about raising both hand and weapon against him. Some of which he supposed he'd accomplished in the past year, albeit at his own expense. Maguire took one of those long deep breathes like his doctor was always demanding at checkups and then looked back at the screen. He guessed it didn't much matter anymore whether the demands of true love or the obsession of abject hate had played the greater role in his exercise of treachery. It's not like it would change his answer to Ross anyway.

  “How much?”

  Chapter 10

  Cleveland, Ohio, August 25, 10:47 p.m.

  Emil Bruckner sat at the table and spit the skin of another beer nut into his hand. He had been instructed to avoid the obscure corner booths, so as not to advertise a lame attempt at being inconspicuous. Trineer fancied himself a practitioner of hiding in plain sight. Two men sitting in a darkened corner booth of a practically empty bar just screamed of something sinister...if not a homosexual rendezvous. However, the latter would be most unlikely, given the mien of the place—lethargic, not too dim, televisions locked into a dozen different sporting events from a dozen different countries. Your average straight-guys' home-away-from-home. And if any of it made Trineer comfortable enough to drop his guard even further, then the place was just perfect.

  “Shit, you even look gay,” Trineer once told Bruckner.

  Bruckner had uncharacteristically soft, almost feminine features. His shiny auburn hair and trim, hard body were the result of a vitamin regimen and intense regular exercise. All part of the job as far as your average rookie agent was concerned.

  “But don’t worry,” Trineer insisted, “It works in your favor. You don’t look the slightest bit dangerous.”

  Bruckner eyed the bartender filling a fresh beer-mug for one of the regulars seated at the bar. He wouldn't have guessed this place to be one of Trineer's recent hangouts. Agent Brisby had a damn good laugh over it when he heard. McCutcheon, however, did not. All he did was just shake his head and ask, “We are professional investigators, right?”

  “Hey, Butt-lick,” a brash voice said and Bruckner felt the sharp poke of soon-to-be-broken fingers between his shoulder blades.

  Still with the Butt-lick shit? Bruckner thought. He had laughed the first couple of times Trineer used it. Why not? Emil Buttrick wasn’t his real name anyway. Now, every time he heard it, he just wanted to put his fist straight through Trineer's skull. Bruckner turned to see Garrett Trineer lingering directly behind him, the thin black stick of a burning herbal cigarette teetering between his lips. Trineer was grinning with his eyelids at half-staff. He still wore that same faded denim jacket and hard cotton-poly blend work fatigues. His short cropped hair was slightly mussed and he sported his perpetual five o’clock shadow. He swore his rugged look worked wonders with the ladies.

  “Sorry, I’m a little late,” Trineer said and took a seat at the table. “I met this fine young honey on the way over here. Damn, she was holding!” He gestured, cupping his hands to his chest. “You should’ve seen her.”

  “Good for you,” Bruckner said. “I spent my time studying.”

  “Well, you have to keep up appearances, right?”

  “I was just kidding.”

  Trineer blew off the joke and turned his attention to the big circular bar. “Yo, pimp! Bring me a Michelob,” he shouted. He then turned furtive and looked Bruckner straight in the eye. “You got’em?”

  “Yeah,” Bruckner answered and produced a slip-disk from a chest-pocket. He opted not to transfer it to a more sophisticated pin or light-drive. He wanted to avoid looking too resourceful. He stuck it in Trineer's path.

  “All right, all right, put it away. I don't want that shit. It's not like I can verify it anyway. Leave it for when we get to D.C.”

  “D.C.?”

  “Yeah. He owes me money for a job—well, now two jobs.” Trineer regarded Bruckner with a flick of the wrist. “I
'll deliver his hacker, but you're gonna hand him his shit. Something's wrong with it, he'll know I never touched it.” Trineer shook his head. “All this trouble just to hack into school records and shit. Worthless.”

  “I thought he was coming here,” Bruckner sighed. He'd been thrown by the notion of traveling to Washington D.C., but had hidden it well. “I don't want to travel with this thing.”

  “I'm not happy about it either. I just got back from busting my hump for this guy my damn self, but that's how it is.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “A little place called None-of-your-fucking-business.”

  Bruckner looked humbled. “You're the one that brought it up, Jeez.”

  “Just be ready when I come pick you up. I wanna get an early start.”

  Bruckner strained to contain himself. Less than a year on the job and he was about to bring down Calvin Ross, the leader of the most prominent anti-biotech terrorist organization in the country. He had eluded capture a year ago when the bureau finally dropped the hammer on PHANTOM. The same hammer they would eventually drop on their own collective toes when it came to convicting all of the scum. Take it easy, Emil, the agent thought. Can't afford any mistakes. He recalled what McCutcheon had said about this being the bureau's only way of making up for the Thaddeus Maguire fiasco, and if not for the painfully avoidable bungling of certain agents, Maguire would be bunking three feet from a stainless-steel toilet by now. “Believe me kid,” McCutcheon had lamented. “There's nothing like a successful domestic terrorist with a knack for staying under the radar to make even the best agents impatient and sloppy.”

  Emil took those words to heart. Current laws covered a lot of black-bag screw-ups, but illegally obtained shit was still illegally obtained shit. A well-paid cadre of lawyers could make entire careers on driving such cases all the way to the Supreme Court and once around the park. Throw in a few conveniently dead or missing witnesses, and lawyers like Miles Gabriel would have been suddenly considered overqualified.