On the Up

by Shilo Jones

  A person sleeping, three thirty in the morning, woken suddenly? Takes a full minute to realize they’re awake. It takes me ten seconds to reach a bedroom after I kick in the front door. Enough time to murder a target three or four times before he’s fully awake.

  That’s the only goal. Kill him while he’s asleep.

  Him awake means I’ve failed. Means I’m at risk.

  Add another half-minute, at least, for the target to crawl out of bed, secure a weapon, find an effective defensive stance. There. I’ve murdered him eight times.

  But let’s say a target wants to make my mission even easier.

  Maybe he’s lived a sheltered life, coddled by privilege and graced with power and blessed with wealth. Let’s say he’s a man in his prime, fit and strong, at the peak of his career. He is, in his mind, invulnerable. That’s why it seems reasonable to run alone through an isolated, densely wooded area, working up a solid sweat, heart pumping, his playlist blaring in his ears. A difference between women and men. Women still live close to fear. Few would go out of their way to make it this easy.

  I’m talking about my bro Mr. Craig Williams, who just topped a steep hill rising from the ocean and gained the peninsula of land called the West Side. Williams is in the woods now, grinning, feeling mighty fine, enjoying the brisk ocean air and sunlight settling on salmonberry leaves and fern fronds. Lovely day for a run. He’s been running in this forest for twenty years. The man knows every turn in the trail, every puddle.

  But he doesn’t know me.

  Step from behind a fir, SAP raised. Weighted leather cracks on skin, echoes through the forest, makes me believe all of this is real. The target’s on the ground before he knows he’s hit.

  Speed. Shock. Terror.

  Don’t bother putting my balaclava on until the target’s down. Williams looked right at me in the instant I hit him. Won’t remember a thing. Takes ten seconds to drag him into the woods. He’s moaning, blood leaking from exploded lips. Starts to struggle, make an effort, keep fighting, don’t give in, be a winner—

  Two more and the target quiets.

  A man like Williams has spent his entire life lording over others. But now, three blows from the SAP, on his belly in the muck and moss, now I’m taking him back to the fucking swamp. Everything that props this man up—family, money, custom, gender, race, rule of law, every advantage that gives men like Craig Williams free rein in the world, makes them tyrant kings—none of that counts for shit down here in the swamp.

  Check my watch. A countdown timer set at four minutes.

  We’re already twenty seconds in.

  Sink my knee in the small of Williams’s back. Not thinking much. Not worried about much. Moved outside my mind, beyond buried roadside bombs of emotion, sinkholes of memory, the compulsion of time, the stream of language, symbols, and delusions that aggregate into the cesspool we call consciousness. Beyond doubts and second guesses and moral circle jerks. Way far from good and evil. Only a thing in motion. Meat. Living a single isolated moment. The terrain of prophets and warriors, a gale-force wind stinging sand into my eyes, tasting the enemy’s blood. This is peace.

  Lean close to the target’s ear. Slip the KA-BAR from its sheath, metal on leather, a sound like a last breath, makes me want to whistle a tune. Williams hears the blade freed, dry-heaves, grosses me out even though he’s doing it unconsciously, body reacting to terror, fight or flight, and I have to spend some time mellowing him or Williams won’t truly be with me for what comes next.

  So I smooth-talk him until we’re ninety seconds in. Returning a terrified man to the world takes patience.

  Williams gasps, spits. I keep on him, whispering sweet nothings until he says, “You fucking thief. My money—”

  “Not money, Williams. You’re all I want. You’re what I have.”

  “…why?”

  I let the KA-BAR speak. Run it over the back of the target’s neck, not hard enough to cut him but softly. Williams flinches, grinds his head into the leaves while a breeze rises off the Pacific and we’re in a sweet-smelling forest with dewy dappled light and gorgeous super-verdant moss and cheerful birds chirping a hymn to another glorious day in Vancouver and man Peele’s right this town sure is pretty—

  “You know why, Williams. You feel it.”

  Silence, then weird choking sounds.

  “Williams. Listen. I’m holding a seven-inch combat blade to your neck. Next is I cut you. You know why. Answer me.”

  “Not money?”

  “No.”

  Williams squirms, bucks, tries to toss me off, whispers, “Bang Phli? My God. Here? Bang Phli.”

  The name has power over him.

  “How many?”

  “Not my doing,” Williams says, struggling to look over his shoulder. “Cost overruns. Material outlays. Doesn’t matter. Not my fault. We subbed the fucking factory—”

  A smooth stroke, forehead to chin. Slam his head into the leaves and dirt to silence him. “It matters now, Williams. It matters a whole lot.”

  The ground’s damp, the air sharp and cool. Smells of earth, rotting leaves, changing seasons.

  Two minutes in.

  Williams babbles some pain-filled nonsense, pulls it together to moan, “How it works. You’re in this…look at you!”

  “I am in this. That’s why I’m here. Dog eat dog. Every man for himself. Only the strong survive. This is your ethic. This is where it takes us. Two in the swamp. Thing is, you never thought it’d be you. Losing beneath a piece-of-shit trash like me.”

  Sobbing now, horrified at his world being yanked from under him, maybe wondering what he really is.

  “Williams? Have you prayed for them?”

  “No.”

  “Dreamed of them?”

  No answer. I lift my head. We’re still alone. The sun emerges from behind a cloud, warms my face, reminds me of holding my daughter. “But you’ve thought of them. Or maybe…you only thought of yourself through them. Will you be punished? Will you go to hell? Will it ruin your life?”

  “Better them than me.”

  “It’s you now. Understand? You fucking made me.”

  I look to the sky.

  Jasminder Bansal

  Watching the front doors of Marigold from across the street, fidgeting behind an umbrella, nervous as hell but trying to play it cool, furious at Heather Reed and Peele and Sim and Eric and even Amar and this whole fucking town, trying to be an anonymous woman in the crowd, trying to get Peele’s hungry expression out of my head, and after a couple hours of this hell Peele and Elodie walk out, laughing and brushing hands. They barely turn a corner and I’m crossing the street, letting myself into the locked office building.

  I turn the lights on and enter the deserted waiting room with nothing defined except a will to truth. I scramble through the front desk, searching for correspondence with any mention of Bo Xi or Pillar Investment. Nothing. Try Vincent’s office. Locked. But Elodie’s isn’t.

  Hold my breath, slip inside. Her desk is bare. Pens and papers are scattered across the floor, seems unlike the neat-freak Elodie. And lying beside her desk is Vincent’s bike messenger bag. I tear it open, stifle a triumphant yell when I see his silver laptop and before I’ve thought about consequences I’m tapping away, trying to figure out the password.

  Not happening. Turns out I’m lousy at computer espionage, no cyber-spy skills revealed in the knick of time—

  The elevator chimes in the hall.

  I hurry into the waiting room, say hello to Beckett. He asks why I’m not in Osoyoos and I tell him I’m feeling unwell. He flinches, says I do look awful. Maybe even feverish? I laugh, say you better stay away, could be contagious, and he frowns, says that’s not funny Jasminder I have a crazy-busy week ahead. I tell him he’s killing it, that I can’t wait to hear his numbers, that getting him sick is my diabolical plan to try and even the score, and when he nods and retreats to his office I race outside.

  I make it three blocks before it hits me. What a tremendous
ly stupid thing I’ve done. A car horn makes me aware I’m standing in the middle of a crosswalk at a busy intersection. I run to the sidewalk, check if I’m being followed. What if I return Peele’s laptop? That’s what I’ll do. Tell everyone I was confused, ill, grabbed the wrong laptop by mistake. The laptop’s tucked under my arm while I shove through the crowds on Broadway, worrying that people know I’m a thief. I can’t keep the laptop. That’s clear. Clint Ward’s a killer. They’ll hunt me down. The only way to make sure that doesn’t happen is to break the password and give any information to the newspapers and police. It’s the only way to protect myself.

  I decide to go straight to the cops. There’ll be an investigation. Isn’t that how it works? So instead of getting on the SkyTrain I walk downhill toward the Cambie Bridge. The police station’s nestled at the foot of the hill, in the eastern shadow of the bridge, a stodgy brick building with tinted glass windows that remind me of a highway cop’s sunglasses. Walk inside, shoulders back, chin up, trying to appear like I’m in the right but feeling security cameras recording my image. Ask the man behind the desk for the Gang Unit Task Force, a special investigation unit I’m all too familiar with. He directs me to a chair at the edge of a brightly lit hall. Sounds of photocopiers, radio dispatchers, office chatter. I wait, clutching the laptop to my chest, trying very hard not to bolt because where would I go?

  A woman arrives, introduces herself as Officer Sandra Dawson. She’s in her early thirties, short hair, bit of an overbite, and the problem is I can’t tell if I can trust her. But she smiles in a way that says she’s happy to see me, leads me into an interview room, closes the door. Speckled linoleum, beige walls, and grey furnishings, and something about how unremarkable the room is freaks me out, not a single distinguishing feature, and as I sit at the table and try to smile for Officer Dawson I see identical rooms spreading across the city, across the country and continent, a maze or nest of anonymous self-propagating interrogation rooms. Have I made another mistake? Is this going to help? Old World paranoia hits, some vestige handed down from my mother. Basically: Officer Dawson isn’t going to let me leave without paying a bribe, and I consider how best to excuse myself.

  Officer Dawson offers coffee or tea. I decline both, say thank you, try to be polite, rational, remind myself I’m doing the right thing but appearances matter, I need to be clear, composed, tell her exactly what happened. Officer Dawson asks me what I need to talk about. I tell her about Clint Ward and Vincent Peele and that I’m certain Marigold Group is laundering money through real estate deals.

  I put the laptop on the table. Officer Dawson doesn’t say a word. I’m fighting the urge to yell. This is the right thing to do. All the evidence is in the laptop. To convict these men. An international money-laundering syndicate. Officer Dawson looks capable. She’ll realize what a treasure of evidence I’ve delivered.

  “Will I have to testify?”

  Air whispers through the ventilation system. Officer Dawson folds her hands on the table, says okay Miss Bansal please listen very carefully. Return the laptop to Mr. Peele’s office immediately.

  I shake my head. I’m not communicating clearly. She doesn’t understand how serious this is. “Is it because I worked for them? At Marigold? Is that some sort of conflict? Because I didn’t know.”

  “Return the laptop to its legal owner, Jasminder. Before it’s reported missing.”

  “I can’t do that. Please? I…did this? They’ll—”

  Officer Dawson firms her lips, says the laptop is stolen property, even if it does contain evidence of criminal activity it’s completely inadmissible, asks if I have anything else I’d like to discuss.

  When I don’t answer she gives me a nod and walks out. Vincent Peele’s laptop is sitting on the table, mocking me, laughing at a fucked-up failure chasing her ridiculous dreams—

  I get everything I want by helping others get everything they want.

  “You understand why, Amar,” I whisper. “You would’ve called Vincent Peele a nothing middleman. You would’ve called him an opportunity.”

  Cops in uniforms march through the hall, laughing and joking, day-to-day nine-to-five and here I am, not part of anything, inside and out.

  Mark Ward

  Three minutes and thirty seconds in.

  On a winding gravel path, cool in forest shadows. Leg’s gone stiff. Otherwise feeling not bad. Not celebrating yet. Not riding some psycho-invincible high. Maybe feeling a bit too vincible? Trying to stay focused despite the pain, manage the details, make sure I didn’t commit a grievous tactical error. Thinking about Carl Reed warning me about Ryan. Replaying the target’s shock when he realized I wasn’t after his money. That was the only way Williams saw himself being harmed. Robbery, blackmail, kidnapping for ransom. Not plain ol’ aggravated assault. Physical suffering’s for us poor folk. Not men like him. I guess, though, sometimes life goes off the rails, even for a hard-working, upstanding guy like Craig Williams, and shit, that doesn’t bode too well for an asshole like me, does it?

  Leafless alder and birch branches fan across the trail, brush my chest and cheeks, leave me soaked. Bloody clothes, combat knife, and balaclava in a backpack. Now dressed in running gear. Another neighbourhood guy out for a jog. I’m not far from Williams, but I’m not worried. I gagged him, tied him to a tree. It’ll take a while for him to be discovered. There’s an odd aftertaste in my mouth, bitter and burnt, and my ears are humming, just a bit, evidence of the endorphins racing through my blood. Other than that I’m calm. No shakes.

  Smooth, even breathing, nice for a change, hope it lasts but know it won’t.

  I break out of the woods and onto the sidewalk. This is a well-established neighbourhood, Blanca at 16th, renovated early-century stucco bungalows with peaked roofs, and boxy two-storey Vancouver Specials from the seventies. A couple newish Darth Vader houses with black aluminum trim and patches of faux black brick. Cypress trees, birch and elm in the yards. A tidy neighbourhood. Quiet now, no traffic. A dog barks a few blocks down as I cross Blanca, make my way up 15th, a slight incline, leg starting to stab at me, street lined with cherry trees yet to bloom, cement lions perched on fence posts, my leg getting bad, mind going oxyoxyoxy, sweating, knowing I’m pale, not looking great, get in early, nice place to raise a family, plenty of upside.

  Thinking more about Ryan than Williams. Asking where I’d go if I were the kid. Gotta be partying again. Likes his job too much to quit. So he’ll show up soon enough. Hopes Clint will wait until he’s eighteen, make him crew boss, set for life.

  Turn right onto Tolmie and see a wiry motherfucker leaning against my Ford like he’s waiting for me. Which he is, because it’s the crazy dude in the Datsun that was following me in North Van on my first night in town. He lifts his jacket to show me the Glock tucked in his belt, then gestures me into the driver’s seat in a no-bullshit way that lets me know he’s military. I follow the command, no use arguing with a take-no-prisoners soldier ghost.

  We climb in and the ghost says he just got back from Tunisia, a crucial time in that country, lots of work to be done, good energy.

  I start the truck.

  “Mind if I tell you where you’re going?” he says.

  “Mind fucking off?”

  “Name’s Caltrop. I’m here because of you, Mark. Your work.”

  Caltrop catches my look, seems surprised, like he’s cluing into something and giving himself shit for not considering it earlier. “I’m real, Mark. I’m alive and really here. Any way I can prove that to you?”

  “Not at this late stage, nope.”

  I drive off slow. Caltrop says head down to 16th, then east. “The murdering pig. How’s he doing?”

  “Who?”

  Caltrop laughs. “Hippie takes his son outside, points to the sky, says son, the Man’s got satellites up there can count the hair on your balls. The kid thinks for a minute, looks at his father, says, what hair, Dad?”

  I stay quiet. We wind though the West Side for several minutes. The
y’ll find Williams soon. I’m wondering who the hell this guy is and what he knows and how to get rid of him and out of the blue Caltrop says you get to know someone well enough, study them, it’s like seeing into their future. “I know Carl Reed that well.”

  My hands tighten on the wheel. “Carl who? Sounds like a dickwad.”

  “Blitzo,” Caltrop says, sneering. “He earned the moniker long after we parted ways. I see you’re uncomfortable, Mark, and I want you to know I’m not here at Carl’s request. That were the case, it’d already be done. I’ve had plenty of opportunity. Had another one earlier today, out at the lagoon?”

  I try and speak, manage a choking cough.

  “Relax a little, Mark. You’ve had one heck of a week. Another left at the second light. Think about the blood-soaked evidence in your backpack before you ram us into a pole.”

  “They’d take us both. Something tells me that’d hurt you as bad as me.”

  “They wouldn’t take me.” Caltrop seems to be regretting his decision to have me drive. “Steady, soldier. Ease off the gas. Leg’s setting you on fire? Sorry about that. Painkillers in your backpack?”

  “Stay out of my shit.” Blinking, world in the periphery losing focus, trying to concentrate on the yellow line.

  “I’m not patronizing. Trying to help.”

  Caltrop digs in my backpack, finds the pill bottle, taps one out.

  I jerk the truck into my lane. “Two. And you want the video of Hannah Reed, fucking take it. It’s in there. I didn’t even watch it. It’s Vincent Peele you want. That muff-faced hipster fuck.”

  Caltrop finds the camera, pockets it, says mighty fine of me, hands me two Oxys. “There. Moving right along. Get in the left lane. Attaboy. Now. I’ve known Carl Reed for over three decades. Met him when he was eighteen. Keep in mind people are quick to judge. We meet someone, that single meeting becomes the entirety of a person. It’s ridiculous but it’s how we work. There’s no reckoning for how a life changes over time, its ebbs and flows. Which is to say, you meet a man like Carl Reed as he is now, it’s easy to dismiss him. And right now, he’s all the things you think he is. At a life low. Been sliding downhill for a long while. Doubt he’ll make it through. But it’s important you know that when I met him, early on, Carl Reed was the radiant, supercharged future of our organization. He was that rarest of creations: a dreamer who translates his dreams to the people around him, convinces them the dreams are theirs. That’s an incredible gift, Mark. A very powerful and potentially dangerous gift. You understand how normal folk will fall in line behind that kind of charisma. People are itching to be led. Another left at the second light. You can order a man to kill, command him to commit any horror. And he will. But eventually it’ll destroy him. Means you have to keep replacing your soldiers. This is fine if you work on the scale of nations. But when you work on the scale we do it’s simply not sustainable. Someone like Carl Reed, a man who spins dreams, he’s invaluable. He gives me too much credit. I’m meat-and-potatoes. Carl is what makes something like us work. Made, I suppose. And when he went—we all went.”