Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  “No matter. The air force would’ve shot it down. That’s what they’re for.”

  Ethan stood up. The grey suits would be on the twentieth floor now and coming up.

  “The CIA sold the mad despot a spaceship capable of blowing us all to shit…for money?”

  “Oh yes, of course. A hundred billion dollars will buy a lot of mayhem in this world.”

  Now Ethan was puzzled. “Where did a hundred billion come from? The Koreans paid one point five billion. I saw the figures.”

  Hofmann shaped his face into a smile and let his arms relax and swing down from the chair. “Oh, that was simply my…commission.”

  “For nuking eight million Americans?”

  “As I said, it was never going to happen.”

  “No,” Ethan said, picking up his Colt. “Your technicians fixed the spaceship that we flew back to Vandenberg without even seeing an intercept fighter.”

  “Well, yes. That was a little embarrassing.” He looked at the Colt. “So are you going to shoot me?”

  “For trying to blow me and my men up with a hellfire? Your mercs trying to shoot us to dogshit? Or you threatening my people’s families?”

  “It was never personal.”

  “That’s good to know.” Ethan put the Colt back in its belt holster. “No, I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “Also good to know. I could use a man of your—”

  “You really are a dick, aren’t you?” Ethan stepped around the table and stopped. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to call off the guns you’ve sent after my friends.”

  Hofmann nodded.

  “You’re going to scupper the president’s insane play.” He narrowed his eyes to shut the man up before he got started. “You’re going to have SecNav reinstated, with the rest of the agency directors.”

  “I can try.”

  Ethan moved his jacket so Orpheus could see his Colt.

  Hofmann nodded again. Message received.

  “Then, when you’ve done that,” Ethan said, and started to move towards the door, “you’re going to hand yourself in to the FBI and confess the whole thing.”

  “I’d have to be totally—”

  “This is a one-time offer. You do that, you get to live. You try to run, I’ll hunt you down and kill you. You try to wriggle out, I’ll kill you. You set your thugs on me…”

  “You’ll kill me.” Hofmann stood up, unfolding his tall frame from the deep chair. “You think you can come into my home and threaten me?”

  “Just did.”

  “You may as well shoot me now because I will not comply with your schoolboy demands. I will not spend the rest of my life in some concrete hole just because you threaten me.”

  Ethan reached the door and stopped. “It’s not a threat. You have until tomorrow…noon.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “We both know the answer to that.” Ethan opened the door.

  “And what about this?”

  Ethan looked back at Orpheus pointing a little automatic at him. “Now you’re just being silly.”

  He closed the door behind him.

  He crossed the big office and stepped into Hofmann’s private elevator, pressed the button for the garage and watched the doors close as the grey suits charged in from the stairs. He should’ve waved. That would’ve been cool. The moment had passed, but tomorrow was another day.

  It occurred to him as the lift sank silently past the floors with no doors, that he could’ve shot Orpheus right there. He’d been pointing a gun; it would’ve been self-defense. But he knew it wasn’t. The way the man was holding the thing, he’d have been lucky to hit the wall, and he had four to choose from.

  The men and women in their ill-fitting uniform suits looked at Detroit as he passed through the scanner but didn’t see him; he was just another semi-transparent naked body on the screen. No weapons so no interest.

  He took a flute of wine from a passing tray and strolled through the foyer and past the fountain, stopping occasionally to look at the paintings. Some were okay, others not so much. Pretentious daubing doesn’t make up for lack of talent. Eye of the beholder, he supposed, but myopia isn’t an excuse.

  She was holding court in the Garden Café, laughing at lame jokes, being impressed by pea-brains, and swirling through the place like a fairy queen on speed. You don’t have to lie on your back to be a prostitute.

  He put the wine down on an occupied table and ignored the surprised looks and muttered comments from the woman who didn’t own a mirror and her rent-a-dick with the striped tie that didn’t match his shirt.

  Senator De Antonio took another glass of wine from a table full of glasses. Of course, it was free. She drained it in three pulls. The woman could take her drink, but she was a politician, so that was a given. But that was okay, because what goes in must—

  She excused herself and headed for the restroom, her tight Latino ass moving just right in her tight designer black dress. Another time, another place. Yeah, like she’d look at him twice.

  He made his way around a statue on its oversized plinth and watched her work the freeloaders who’d turned up for the event. Must have been a thin night on the free-dinners scene.

  She finally got past them and went into the women’s restroom. Detroit moved slowly across the room; women disappear for days into the restroom, so he had time.

  He saw what he needed and looked around casually before opening the plain door with the paint chipped at the bottom edge by the trolleys pushed by the workers who got to clean up after Washington’s finest had taken their noses out of the trough.

  He strolled over to the restrooms with a plastic panel under his arm, as if carrying a sign telling potential users that the restrooms were out of use was normal. He put it in front of the women’s door and stepped away to watch a couple of unsteady women change direction and go in search of relief elsewhere.

  Three women came out of the restroom and hurried back to the wine and food without even glancing at Detroit leaning against a pink pillar as if waiting for whoever was left in there.

  Minute, two and nobody else came out. He pushed himself off the pillar, stretched his shoulders and looked around. Nobody was paying him any mind, which was not surprising with all the free drink still flowing.

  He stepped into the restroom and pushed the door closed. There was nothing to wedge it with, but the Cleaning in Progress sign would do the trick. Nobody would want to look stupid trying to get in when the place was awash with suds.

  A woman came out of one of the four cubicles, straightening her skirt, and stared at Detroit in horror.

  “Evening, ma’am.” Detroit ran his hand over the sink top. “Management. Just checking that the cleaners are keeping the place suitable for you fine folks to take a pee.” He pointed at the sink. “You go right ahead and wash up. I’ll be through in a minute.”

  The woman edged past him and bolted out the door. Nervous type.

  He checked the other cubicles through the time-honored way of bending down and looking for feet. One pair. Lesley was alone. And smoking by the smell of it.

  “Ma’am,” Detroit said, “the smoke alarm has tripped and the fire department is on its way.”

  The senator coughed and choked for a moment; then the door banged open and she stepped out, waving her hand in front of her face to dissipate the last of the smoke.

  “No need for that,” she said, and leaned back to flush the toilet. “Just a harmless smoke. You know what it’s like?”

  He had no idea, never having put that shit into his lungs.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  There were voices outside the door and he looked back. A moment later they were gone. He’d need three minutes, anything less than that and a good paramedic would be able to save her.

  Ethan opened the personnel gate in the big roller door blocking the basement garage and stopped. The hippie wagon was parked on the ramp, its lights off but the engine running with a rough coughing burble. H
e smiled and got in.

  “Okay, now I’m impressed.”

  Andie crashed it into gear and it lurched up the steep ramp. “Why? I knew you were on the way. The whole place is shouting at each other over comms.”

  Ethan flinched as she wrenched the stick and the gears grated. “You’ve never driven a stick-shift before.”

  “No. You can tell?”

  “Uh-huh. Kinda guessed.”

  She stopped at the top of the ramp, reached for the stick and changed her mind, letting the VW lurch out into traffic in third gear, or second, or what was left of any of them.

  “You’re supposed to push the clutch before you change gear,” Ethan said, caught the confused look and gave up. Third gear was fine in traffic.

  There was no traffic.

  “Take a left onto Seventh and pull over. I’ll drive.”

  She glanced at him then concentrated on keeping her grip of death on the green fur steering wheel.

  “You can drive?” Ethan said slowly.

  “Yes, of course. I used to drive my dad’s pickup on the farm.”

  “Of course you did.” He sat up in the seat and looked ahead. “Pull over here.”

  She frowned and stared ahead. “No stopping here. And that’s a hydrant. We’ll get a ticket.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll pay.”

  Ethan got his hand on the dashboard just in time to avoid smashing his head on the windshield as she bounced on and off the curb and slammed on the brakes.

  “There you go,” she said, smiling and getting out.

  Ethan took a moment to get his heart rate down to below cardiac arrest. Give him a firefight any day of the week. Daddy’s pickup. Jesus.

  Andie opened his door and let it swing back and crash into the bodywork. “Cops’ll be along any minute. We’re holding up traffic.”

  There was maybe a dozen cars, and they were mostly in the other lane, but he’d take it. Anything to get behind the wheel and stay alive long enough to be killed by Orpheus.

  By the time he’d walked around the rusty heap and sat down in the driver’s seat, Andie was settled with her computer open on her knees and all was right in the world.

  “You didn’t—” She grunted as he bounced the wagon off the curb and back onto the road. She took a breath. “Is he dead?”

  Ethan took his hands off the wheel one at a time and wiped them on his trousers with a grimace.

  “Oh yes, I should’ve said. I had a hotdog.” She shrugged. “Messy one.” She opened the glovebox and rummaged for a second, then handed him a crumple of lace.

  He started to wipe his hands while steering with his knees, until the lace opened and he was holding a pair of women’s panties. He stopped for a second and held them up.

  “Not mine,” Andie said.

  He shrugged and wiped the wheel with them and handed them back.

  She pushed them into the box and closed the cover. “You didn’t kill Orpheus.” She saw him glance at her. “I’d have heard on the comms.”

  “No. Could’ve done. Subject didn’t come up.”

  “How does that work?”

  He glanced at her again quickly, afraid to take his eyes off the road in case the nutty wagon did something stupid.

  “The not coming up. You have to get in the mood? Like walk down the middle of Main Street and eye each other?”

  “Something like that. I gave him till tomorrow to call the FBI.”

  “Oh, that’s us done, then. Home for supper.”

  “I liked it better when you didn’t talk.”

  “Yeah, my brothers used to say that.”

  “Bright boys.”

  She looked out of the window. “Not really.” She was silent for a beat. “They joined the marines.”

  Later he’d think of some witty response, just couldn’t right then. “Did you find anything while I was chatting with my new friend?”

  “Nothing much.” She straightened the computer screen. “Got a definitive day one for Orpheus showing up.” She turned her computer as if he could see it. “October 2001.” She pulled the computer back. “Still haven’t worked out how it made all his money.”

  Ethan looked at her long enough for the VW to wander over the white line for a look at that part of the world. He wrenched the wheel back and waved a hand out of the open window at the blaring horns.

  “You’re a tech analyst, right?”

  “Last time I looked at my job description.”

  “Okay. It’s been a long day. I’ll do this slow.”

  She closed her computer, turned in her seat and faced him. Ready for the bedtime story.

  “Orpheus was nowhere in sight before 2001.”

  “Right. Not a trace of him.”

  “And by October he had more money than a dog has hairs.”

  “Right.”

  “And what…oh, I don’t know…cataclysmic disaster happened around that time?”

  “How would I know? I was in kinder—Christ! Nine-eleven.”

  “Give the petty officer a cigar.”

  “He made his money betting that the dollar would crash.”

  Ethan shrugged. “Not much of a gamble.”

  She was still looking at him, puzzled.

  “He knew.”

  She was going to talk, Detroit could see it, but she was a politician, so what the hell did he expect?

  “Are you with the fundraiser?” She pointed at his jacket lapel. “Yes, I see you have a badge.” She looked around at the mirrors and the closed cubicle doors. “You know this is the ladies’, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. I’m puzzled to know why you’re in here, that’s all.” She raised a hand. “Not that I wish to pry. Heaven knows that would be the last thing I—”

  Detroit punched her in the chest. Not hard, more a sharp rap, but it was where he rapped her that made the difference. The middle knuckle of his right hand impacted her third rib on her left side just above her heart. A stinging little strike that barely staggered her.

  She yelped and stepped back, holding her hands to her sternum. “What the hell—”

  Her knees buckled and she slumped to the floor, twitched once then was still. And quiet.

  Now he needed to keep help away long enough for the commotio cordis to be irreversible. He leaned his back against the door and watched her slipping away as her body waited for her heart to send blood, but the strike had disrupted its rhythm, and in…one minute ten, there would be no coming back.

  She seemed very peaceful lying on the restroom tiles, her hair framing her face and even her black dress smooth and maintaining her dignity. She was…had been a good-looking woman. Pity, there were few enough of them around without killing one.

  There was a host of ways he could’ve sent her on her way. A quick twist of the head and her neck would’ve made that distinctive wet twig sound as it snapped. Or just old-fashioned strangulation, it still worked well. A towel with a knot made a good Indian garrote to crush her throat from behind. But none of those trusted methods were any use on this gig. He’d been seen, was probably on CCTV and phone cams. She turned up suspiciously dead, the cops would trawl through the footage, and there he’d be. This way, it was just a heart attack from too much…well, everything.

  Three minutes.

  He opened the restroom door and took a quick look. Nobody close but a couple of women on their way. He walked out quickly and looked around urgently, saw them and strode over.

  “There’s a woman collapsed in there. I think she’s had a heart attack.” He stepped around them and raised his arm to point. And to cover his face. He didn’t need to, the women almost ran into the restroom. And he walked away, looking at the paintings and sculptures as he went. Just another freeloader enjoying the party.

  He glanced at his watch as he waited at the curb to cross to his car. The whole thing had taken forty-five minutes. Seemed longer, but it would in that company. Half an hour back to the Fairmont. In time for room service and John Wayne’s best movie. Day turned out j
ust fine.

  “But how could he have known terrorists were going to fly planes into the Towers?” Andie said, and looked around for a seat belt, in vain. It was long lost under the seat.

  “Only one way I know of.” Ethan glanced at her. “Bin Laden told him.”

  She coughed and took a second to recover. “Why would Bin Laden tell him? He’s an American, his sworn enemy.”

  “Money.” Ethan shrugged. “Maybe Bin Laden needed somebody in the US, somebody with money and influence. So he gave Orpheus what he needed to go from zero to hero in the financial markets.”

  She was still staring at him, trying to assimilate it.

  “I might be way off,” Ethan said, “but that’s the only scenario that makes any sense. Bin Laden tips Orpheus off that there’s going to be a world-shaking attack on US soil, and Orpheus bets on the dollar dropping like a stone. Not much of a risk there with his inside knowledge. He’d put every cent he could beg steal or borrow on it. The rest is history.”

  “If that ever got out, it would bring him down and his whole empire with him.”

  “And put him in a tiny airless cell for the rest of his miserable life,” Ethan added. He eased off the gas and the VW slowed from its thirty-five-mile-an-hour top speed.

  “Can you do that?”

  She frowned at him.

  “Can you…you know, get it out there?”

  “Of course. Before you’ve even finished asking.”

  That wasn’t totally accurate, as he’d asked already, but he got the point.

  “But not right now.”

  He waited for her to explain. One second. “Why not right now?”

  “We know Orpheus had upfront knowledge of nine-eleven and did nothing to raise the alarm, but we have no tangible proof.” She flinched as a car overtook them with an inch to spare and gave them a blast of the horn.

  “I could contact every newspaper in the country and every blogger worth reading, but without proof, I’m just another conspiracy nut who hates successful business.”

  He put his foot back on the gas and pushed the wagon up to thirty while he thought about it.

  “Doesn’t really matter though, does it?” She waited a second for him to overtake a cyclist. “You’re going back tomorrow to shoot him. Right?”