A Covenant of Thieves

by Christian Velguth

  “Touching,” Hollis said dryly.

  “The van was stolen,” Booker said. “Right?” Jonesy nodded. “But how do you know this one is yours?”

  “Work on a vehicle long enough, you know it inside and out,” he said, head in his hands. “When I heard about the hit on the museum, that there’d been an Amazon van, I hoped it wasn’t mine, but…”

  “You should’ve brought this to us, Jonesy,” Hollis said.

  The mechanic snorted derisively. “Yeah, and get thrown in lockup.”

  Booker was thinking. He squatted down beside Jonesy and took off his sunglasses. “This van. It still had the GPS equipment used to track them, right? When they dumped it here?”

  Jonesy looked at him and nodded slowly. “Deactivated. They always deactivate them, when a van is taken out of the pool. But --”

  Hollis dropped down to his other side. “Jonesy. Please tell me you reactivated that tracker.”

  “I didn’t,” the mechanic said, and Hollis swore. “But I was going to. Figured out the radio frequency and everything. I…” He glanced at Booker. “I could maybe still do it.”

  * * *

  The signal led to a condemned parking structure in the Loop on Wacker. There it disappeared, presumably because the van had gone underground to one of the lower levels.

  “Place was shut down for flooding and mold,” Hollis said, studying his armband as his car raced across town. “Two years ago, according to public records. Had to clear out a whole community of homeless. Jesus -- half of them had fatal respiratory infections.”

  “Nice,” Booker said grimly.

  “Yeah. Place was bought six months ago by a housing developer -- remind me to never rent with them -- oh, but construction stalled.” He grunted. “Get this. According to zoning, the structure is right next to the old Blue Line tunnels, where the river broke through years back.”

  “Right next to?” Booker echoed. “As in…”

  “As in it’s accessible from the bottom-level of the garage.”

  “So they park, then ditch the van for the tunnels?”

  “Maybe. Those tunnels are still flooded, but…Maybe.” Hollis peered through the windshield as the city sped by. He let out a slow breath.

  “Everything ok?”

  “Yeah. Just not how I wanted to spend my Saturday.”

  Clear shafts of golden light lanced between the Chicago cityscape, turning steel to silver and glass molten. They parked outside the condemned structure, neither of them feeling the need to comment on the broken strips of red tape that hung from the entrance.

  Outside, Booker drew back his suit jacket to check the standard-issue Glock nestled snugly against his ribs. It was synched with his lenses, all systems green, but he still felt better seeing it for himself. He took a breath as he regarded the ramp leading down into the dark.

  No problem.

  “Shall we, Special Agent?”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for backup?”

  “Car’s on its way. We’ll secure the scene for them. Odds are nobody’s down there.”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Didn’t say you were.”

  Hollis radioed in to let dispatch know they were starting their search, then led the way down the ramp into the parking garage. Booker tucked away his sunglasses and set his watch to record everything caught by his lenses.

  They took a side stairwell that reeked of stale urine down two levels. Hollis paused at the door to update dispatch again, voice low and echoing in the stairwell, then unsnapped his holster and rested a hand on the butt of his sidearm. He leaned against the door, listening. After ten seconds he turned to Booker, eyebrows raised to his bald pate. Booker tucked back his jacket with one arm to make access to his Glock easier, and nodded, heart pounding.

  You trained for this.

  The door opened with a heavy echoing click. Darkness waited on the other side, engulfing them as the stairwell door swung shut. Hollis clicked on his shoulder-mounted lamp, a wide beam of blue-white parting the darkness like a heavy curtain. Booker switched his smart lenses over to image intensification, low sensitivity so Hollis’ lamp wouldn’t blind him. The details of the garage were revealed in pale green-white, with everything that the detective’s light touched thrown into harsh sound-stage relief.

  It was cave-cold and damp, the bare concrete slick with condensation. Fuzzy dark patches grew along the floor, walls, and ceiling. The air was thick with dust -- or spores. Booker pulled his jacket up over his mouth and nose, squinting, wishing he had a mask. Hollis removed his hat and covered half his face with it.

  They proceeded carefully, rounding a thick pillar. Aisles of empty stalls stretched into the ether for maybe thirty yards. In the far-right corner, the only vehicle on this level, was the van, glowing bone-white in the glare of Hollis’ lamp.

  “Rear doors are open,” Hollis muttered, voice muffled. “Looks like they left in a hurry.” He raised his voice, taking on a commanding tone. “Chicago PD! Step out of the vehicle, slowly, and keep your hands raised beside your head!”

  His orders were echoed back to him. Nothing stirred.

  “Yep,” Hollis said in a normal voice. “They’re gone.”

  The damage to the front of the vehicle was clear, even at a distance. It only grew more apparent as they crossed the empty garage. The van might have made short work of the loading dock doors, but the doors had bit back. Hollis shined his light through the windshield, revealing an empty interior. Booker crouched before the van’s grill to get a better look at the carnage. Beneath the dented and peeled-back metal he could see that the front had indeed been reinforced.

  “If this isn’t Jonesy’s work, I’ll eat my hat,” Hollis said. He sounded distracted as he moved slowly around the van, towards the wide-open loading doors in back. Booker followed.

  Empty.

  “Well, that was expected,” Booker said. “Suppose forensics will be able to sweep the interior.”

  “Yeah,” Hollis sighed. “Probably won’t pull anything but mold.”

  While Hollis called in the van, Booker circled back around it, carefully scanning the dark corners of the garage. His gaze landed on a door in a far corner that stood ajar.

  “Detective,” he called. Hollis hurried over. “Think that was their exit?”

  They approached the door carefully. Mold grew on the floor around it in thick patches, except where a wide curved swath had been cleared by the door. They hauled the door all the way open, rusted hinges squealing, and peered down a short stairwell. Light reflected off standing water at the bottom.

  “Some sort of maintenance access,” Booker guessed. “Based on the water, I’d say it connects to the flooded Blue Line.”

  “I’d say you’re right.” Hollis didn’t sound happy about it.

  They exchanged a look, then proceeded down.

  “After you,” Booker said, looking sourly at the pool of fetid water. Trash and stuff he didn’t care to identify was floating on the surface. It was going to wreak havoc with his pants.

  “Oh, why thank you,” Hollis grumbled. He hesitated, then stepped carefully off the stairs. The water came up to his knees, and he shivered. “Ugh. It’s cold.”

  Booker took a breath, then followed. Ice crept up his legs. They stood in a small well. Another door opened onto a thick darkness, the water lapping softly against its sides. Stepping through it, they entered a flooded tunnel. Old tracks were visible beneath the scummy water, extending away in either direction. The shadows quickly swallowed Hollis’ light as they peered one way and then the other.

  “What d’you think?” Booker asked. “Split up?”

  “Absolutely not.” The detective looked up and down the tunnel again. “Left heads back towards the river, I’m pretty sure. And it looks like the flooding gets worse in that direction. So, right. Right?”

  Booker half-nodded, half-shrugged, and they set out up the tunnel.

  A narrow ledge along the side let them stay up out of the deepest
water, but it was still slow and miserable. Booker’s shoes were quickly soaked through, turning his socks soggy and his feet clammy. The air reeked worse than the lake on a bad day, adding insult to the injury that this trek would inflict on his wardrobe. Booker kept his eyes narrowed, watching the shadows just beyond the range of his lenses for a hint of movement, the flash of a weapon.

  His heart was beating steadily, but somehow stronger than usual. It was loud in his ears, to the point where he was sure Hollis could hear. Get a hold of yourself. This was what he’d trained for. Not desk work, but this. Real Bureau work.

  “Hold it,” Hollis said in a gruff whisper. Booker froze, listening.

  “Wha --” he began, then cut off. There was an acrid tinge to the air, faint enough at this point to almost go unnoticed.

  “What is that?” Hollis muttered. “Gunpowder?”

  Booker shook his head. “Smells like…chlorine.”

  They proceeded more slowly. The smell grew stronger, the air fouler. Booker’s eyes began to burn, agitating his lenses, and he pulled his jacket up over his mouth again, coughing into it. As he blinked away the tears, he noticed something floating in the water to the left. A stream of…something. Something dark and chunky.

  “Oh shit,” Hollis hissed.

  Booker looked up, following the detective’s light. Something cold plopped into his stomach. Directly ahead, two pale shapes floated in the water. He knew what they were instantly, but for a moment his brain refused to process it. They were mannequins, they had to be. Living things didn’t look like that.

  Except they were decidedly not alive.

  “Shit,” Hollis said again, and then began to splash forward. Booker quickly followed.

  The bodies floated face-down. Both were dressed in dark suits. Around them the water seemed to be clogged with a layer of soupy, viscous material, like oil, but thicker. There were chunky bits as well, dark, raw-looking nuggets --

  Booker’s throat suddenly contracted. He drew a sharp breath and held it to keep from throwing up. The smell was so strong he could taste it, like burnt rubber.

  “Fuck,” Hollis said. Then again, louder: “Fuck!” He turned from the scene and tried to raise dispatch. “Can’t get a signal out down here. God damn it.”

  Carefully, Booker stepped off the ledge and waded towards the bodies. He paused as he reached the layer of scum, then plowed forward. The bodies bobbed as his movement sent out ripples.

  Don’t think about it.

  He crouched, one hand covering his nose. With the other he reached out to the nearest one, the larger of the two, and flipped it over.

  A sound rose from the back of his throat, and he stumbled backwards. This time his stomach made it nearly to his teeth.

  “Oh Jesus,” Hollis said flatly. “Jesus Christ on a cracker…”

  Shoving down his revulsion and the urge to go splashing in the opposite direction, Booker flipped the second body.

  It wasn’t difficult to see what killed them. Their faces -- what was left of them -- were oval-shaped masses of inflamed flesh and oozing pits, raw and wet and horribly clear in Booker’s enhanced vision. One man’s skull had caved in, starting at the nose and extending down to his upper jaw, the few remaining teeth misshapen like soggy sugar cubes, glistening an almost perfect white. The mouth gaped open, showing a swollen tongue that bore tiny pockmarks. Water filled his exposed throat and pooled in other dewy cavities. The other man was more intact, but still totally unidentifiable.

  “I think,” Booker said through his hand. “I think…some sort of acid was used. Erase their identities, maybe. Explains the smell…”

  He looked up sharply, scanning the dark stretch of tunnel. “Hollis, this must have happened recently. An hour ago, maybe less --”

  A loud sound made him jump, followed by heavy splashing. He turned to see Hollis throwing up his taco into the water. “Ugh, God.” He wiped his mouth. “I’ve never -- never seen any shit like this. Have you?”

  “No.” Booker stepped up onto the ledge so he wouldn’t be pinned between Hollis’ vomit and the floating soup of flesh and liquified bone. The worst he’d seen had been the bodies of flood victims, back during his time with the National Guard. “I’m guessing these are the two gunmen.” They’d been wearing masks during the raid, but their builds and outfits matched security footage and witness description. He raised his eyes, searching up the tunnel for a third body. “Where’s the driver?”

  “Floated off, maybe? Or maybe he’s the one who…” Hollis choked, and turned quickly away from the bodies. “Don’t suppose either of them have the skull on them.”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “Well I’m sure as shit not gonna go splashing in that, looking for it. Let forensics handle it.” Hollis took a deep breath, hands on his hips. His back was still to Booker, hat crumpled in one hand. “The whole God damned city is on my ass for this one, Hopkins. General populace might not give two farts about ancient relics, but hitting the Field Museum in broad daylight…that just can’t stand. And if I can’t bring that skull home wrapped up in a bow…”

  Booker put a hand on his shoulder and gripped it firmly. “This isn’t over. The driver might be out there. We find him, maybe we find the skull..”

  Hollis nodded, glancing at Booker. He nodded again, then drew a deep breath and mashed his hat onto his head.

  Without another word he headed back up the tunnel, to climb outside and get an APB out, leaving Booker standing in green-limned darkness. He stood over the bodies, arms folded, brow furrowed.

  Who bothered with all this for something like a crystal skull?

  Helen’s not going to believe this, he thought. First day in the field. Life in the ACT just got a lot more interesting.

  Booker drew his e-cig from his jacket and took a long drag, nicotine vapor flooding his lungs and the cool green glow illuminating the tunnel. He turned from the bodies and went to find Hollis.

  Five

  Milwaukee

  Wisconsin, The Third Coast

  The Safe House held the honor of being the kitschiest place in Milwaukee where one could still scrounge up a half-decent martini.

  Located in an alley near the downtown riverwalk, the entrance was marked only by a red door beneath a row of international flags. Provided you could give the correct password to the 1950s-style receptionist waiting inside, you would be granted access via secret passage to an espionage-themed restaurant that fell somewhere on the fine line between charming and grating. The menu featured the usual burgers and sandwiches and fries, and was served by men and women in black suits and cocktail dresses who were required to address every customer as “Agent [insert novelty name].” Their ability to manage it without rolling their eyes right out of their skulls was admirable.

  “And what can I get you, Agent Arsh…Artha…” The waiter, a man in a suit that was visibly stained, squinted at the name cards on the table where Kai and Rick had pencilled their aliases. “Ashastra?”

  “Arthashastra,” Rick said, smiling what he probably thought was an endearing smile. “It’s actually an allusion to an Indian discourse on spycraft from the 2nd century BCE. So, you know, it’s –”

  “Clever.”

  “Right. And I think I’ll go with the Double Agent. None of that Frankenburger crap, either. I want the genuine beef tonight.”

  “You’re aware the USDA hand-pattied beef adds an extra ten –”

  “I feel like splurging, Agent –” Rick squinted to read the waiter’s name tag. “Michaels. My friend and I are celebrating, and will settle for nothing less than exceptional.”

  “Uh huh. And for you?”

  “Smersh Burger,” Kai said. “Onion rings, not fries.”

  Agent Michaels seemed relieved by Kai’s brevity. He informed them that he’d “Have that out right away, Agents,” and departed for the kitchens.

  Kai waited until Agent Michaels was out of earshot -- not that it really mattered, beneath the scream of the British punk rock b
eing piped into the room -- then said, “You know he thinks you were flirting, right?”

  Rick froze mid-sip of his Vesper Lynd. “Does he?” He glanced at where Agent Michaels had vanished. “Was I?”

  “That’s really more of a you question.”

  Rick was still staring at the bar, looking a combination of bewildered and forlorn. Kai raised his beer. “C’mon. Clink. To a job, well…”

  “Done, at least,” Rick said. They clinked and drank, Rick wincing as the gin met his split lip. He was still looking like a side of tenderized beef after Houston. Though, in all honesty, he had looked a lot worse. Kai, for his part, took a long draught, happy to not have been on the receiving end of a beating, for once.

  Ever since settling down in Milwaukee, Rick and Kai had made the Safe House their regular post-job haunt. It was a bit noisy for Kai’s tastes, but Rick was a sucker for cheese, and this place laid it on thick. Plus, there was something delightfully cheeky about two thieves meeting in a spy-themed restaurant and toasting their meta-legal successes.

  “So.” Kai said, setting down his emptier tankard. “Think Ibis will go for the necklace?”

  Ibis was the name their anonymous client was using. “Wreath. And yeah, if he has any brains. It’s solid-gold, one of the best Myrtle wreath specimens I’ve personally ever seen. It’s a miracle it wasn’t the first thing looted when Houston collapsed.” Rick shrugged. “Really, we should ask for more. That wreath is worth double the flask, easily.”

  “Right.” Kai had no idea -- this was Rick’s territory, not his. “But it’s not what Ibis hired us to get.”

  “Look, we got the flask.”

  “And broke it.”

  “Chilton broke it,” Rick growled. “There’s two ways this plays out. Either Ibis is a collector, in which case he should still be glad to have even a broken Mughal flask, and still might be interested in the wreath. Or he’s a broker, in which case the wreath is worth a helluva lot more, and we did him a favor. Win-win, however you look at it.”