A Covenant of Thieves

by Christian Velguth

  It was strange, looking back now and seeing how much Radical Dynamics had impacted his life. Without it, his parents might not be on their third vacation to Portugal right now, and he might not be where he was today. Without the company, he might never have gotten that scholarship, never gone to college, never met Estelle.

  Booker blinked. He hadn’t thought about her in years. This rumination was taking him to strange places.

  “You know, I’m not convinced that you’re taking this seriously,” Jane said, as if she could tell he was letting his mind wander.

  “I’m taking this very seriously, Jane. It’s my job.”

  “And my life. You don’t believe me, do you? About the invisible guy?”

  Booker knew he paused a second too long. “I believe you saw something.”

  She snorted.

  “Jane, we’ve got spotters surrounding the park. If anyone makes a move on you, we’ll see it.”

  “If you can see it.” Her head swiveled towards him, and Booker felt her eyes lock onto his despite the distance. “My life is on the line here, Special Agent. I appreciate that you’ve taken an interest, but so help me, if you get me killed, I’ll haunt you until the day you die.”

  “Don’t look at me. And that’s technically a threat, you know. To a Federal agent.”

  Jane flipped him off, but averted her gaze and kept walking. Booker returned his vision to normal magnification, blinking away the tears and mild nausea that still plagued him each time he did that. A woman passed him on the path, jogging on slender, flexible blades with a gazelle’s bounding gait, easily outpacing the other joggers. He watched her for a moment, wondering if the switch had been elective or not.

  An invisible killer. Was it really that far-fetched, all things considered? Even in his own brief lifetime, technology had mutated into something far closer to magic than he ever would have imagined. The Bureau had a few fancy toys of its own, smart lenses being the most mundane example. And then there were the rumors that came out of the other agencies, filtering down from the spooky pseudo-mythos of black ops and SAPs that might or might not have some basis in reality. Powerful AI, advanced metamaterials, weapons that could kill without a trace. And, yes, true optical camouflage. Booker had no idea if it was real – it had been in the mythos since the late 20th century, along with black helicopters and crashed UFOs – but if it was, and Jane’s killer really was employing it, then what did that mean for his case?

  He raised his spotters on his watch. “Sparrows, report in.”

  “Sparrow 1 here, we’re not seeing anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Sparrow 2, all clear.”

  “Sparrow 3, I’ve got eyes on Red Cap. All clear.”

  Booker nodded to himself, feeling a bit of self-satisfaction from the crisp responses. He checked the time. It was now a minute past the official meeting-time that Jane had established with her client. Not necessarily cause for concern, but it soured the coffee in his stomach all the same. It had taken some doing, but Helen had managed to wrangle support for this op in record time. Pressure from the mayor of Chicago had probably helped. For better or worse, the ACT was moving up into the limelight. It would be a shame to bungle things just when everyone had started paying attention.

  “Sparrow 2, switch lenses to FLIR and do a sweep.”

  He felt a bit silly asking for thermal on such a bright sunny day, but the spotter complied without offering any criticism. The knowledge that he was the lead agent on this op was still weird and a bit frightening. After a few seconds’ pause, Sparrow 2 said, “Everything looks clear. Anything I should be looking for?”

  “Anomalous heat signatures,” was all Booker could manage. He hadn’t shared Jane’s invisible man theory with the rest of his team, finding no way to phrase it without sounding insane. “Stay in that spectrum, Sparrow 2.”

  “Copy that.”

  He sighed, rubbing his palms on his thighs to try and dispel their nervous tingling. Three minutes past the deadline, going on four. The prospect of the day turning into a dud was growing in the back of his mind like a tumor.

  Booker raised Jane. “How’s it looking on your end?”

  “I feel like I want to drown myself in this fountain. Also, tell your guys to back off a bit. They’re about as subtle as a sweaty teen in his first strip club.”

  He had to smile. “I’ll do that. We’re coming up on five minutes past. Try getting a hold of your client.”

  “Don’t know if that’s a good idea. The guy’s already squirrely, considering the way this job’s gone so far. Pushing it might just –”

  “You’ve got a contract, don’t you? If he bails, then that’s in violation of your terms. What happened to honor among thieves?”

  She sighed. “Man, I really hate whatever smartass came up with that. Fine. I’ll shoot him a message, but –”

  “Sparrow 2 here, I’ve got a fast-mover.”

  A finger of ice slid down the center of Booker’s chest. He sat up straight, zooming in on Jane again. “Copy, Sparrow 2. You still in thermal?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not, ah, anomalous.”

  “Booker.” Jane’s voice, taught and tense. “What’s going on?”

  “One second. Just keep moving. Sparrow 2, what am I looking for?”

  “Guy in shorts and a blue t-shirt. Caucasian, heavy-set, maybe five-five. He’s on the west side of the fountain now, closing in on Red Cap.”

  Booker tore his eyes from Jane and scanned the crowd. There was a group of tourists trundling towards her, and beyond them -- He picked out the target almost at once. The man wasn’t exactly incognito. But it took only a few seconds’ observation to confirm that he was moving towards Jane with purpose.

  “Sparrows 1 and 3, you got eyes?”

  “Copy. We’re on him. You want us to intercept?”

  Booker didn’t answer right away. The guy was holding back, trying to blend with the approaching crowd, but his eyes were locked onto the back of Jane’s head. He had circled the fountain quickly to catch up with her.

  “Hey, Special Agent.” Jane again. “What the hell’s going on?”

  She had stopped moving at was staring towards him again. The group of tourists engulfed her momentarily. The guy in the blue shirt had stopped, too, and was apparently engrossed in his wristband. At a distance it was hard to get a read on him. He didn’t look dangerous, but that meant next to nothing.

  “Jane. I want you to circle to the west side of the fountain and follow the path away from it, towards Sunset Point. Not too fast.”

  To her credit, she didn’t immediately bolt or scan the crowd, but resumed walking at a leisurely pace. “Is it the buyer?”

  “Unclear. He’s definitely here for you.”

  “Great. And you want me to lure him away from the crowd and corner myself at the end of the island.”

  “You’re not alone Jane. Sparrows, follow at a distance.”

  A trio of copys came back. Jane issued a sigh, but gave no further complaint. Booker stood and, as she reached the west side of the fountain, began to track her, matching her pace as he dogged her from fifty meters away. His own path would eventually converge with hers at Sunset Point, but for now it curved away, following the natural bulge of the island. Booker kept his eyes on Jane, only glancing away to confirm that the stalker was following. A few minutes after her departure he emerged from the crowd and began to trail her down the path.

  “What does he look like?” Jane’s voice was cool and even, but her breath sounded a bit quick.

  “Short, wearing a blue shirt. He’s staying about three or four meters behind you. Don’t turn around.”

  “I should just confront the little bastard.”

  “Don’t. Once you reach Sunset Point, we’ll be able to move in without worrying about the crowd. He’ll be boxed in.”

  “Yeah, so will I.”

  “I need you to trust me, Jane.”

  She scoffed at that, but Booker saw her nod to herself. “My life, your
hands, Special Agent.”

  It was a short walk past a large, triangular lagoon to the end of the island. Booker increased his speed so that he reached Sunset Point first. He sat at one of several picnic tables near a general-purpose gazebo, sweating in his suit jacket, positioned so that he could watch Jane arrive from across the small triangular park. She didn’t make eye contact, but continued smoothly past the gazebo, following the path to the very tip of Belle Isle. There she stopped, standing beneath a flagpole as if enjoying the view of the Detroit River. A few seconds later, her stalker arrived as well, doing a far worse job than Jane at appearing calm and casual as he entered the park. Booker lost sight of him as he disappeared behind the gazebo and didn’t reemerge.

  “Sparrows?”

  “We’re in position. Eyes on the target. He’s sitting at a table, watching Red Cap. Should we move?”

  “Hold off. Let’s wait to see what he does.”

  “I can only stare at this river for so long, Booker,” Jane said.

  “Keep it up. You’re a pro.”

  It was much quieter here, away from the crowd and the endless babbling of the fountain. Gulls wheeled overhead, their forlorn cries mingling with the clanging of the flagpole in the wind to make for a sparse, lonely atmosphere. After a few minutes Booker got up, stretching, and moved casually towards Jane. He kept his distance, coming around the gazebo to bring the man in the blue shirt into view. He was facing Jane, watching her intently. Booker crossed the park, passing by Jane and moving towards the north shore of the island, the man in blue now to his right.

  “Movement,” Sparrow 1 muttered sharply in his ear. “He’s going for something in his pocket.”

  Booker tensed, but kept moving, his path arcing slowly to his right. He passed the man at a few meters, watching from the corner of his eye. The guy was fumbling with something beneath the table – God, please don’t be pulling your dick out – but then Booker saw him raise something that glinted in the light, pointing it towards Jane.

  Booker spun and dashed towards him, one hand going into his suit coat for his own gun. “Don’t move!”

  The guy snapped his head towards Booker, the object in his hand following, eyes widening in shock at the sight of this stranger in a three-piece barreling towards him, pistol raised, while three more hulking agents suddenly converged on him –

  It was a phone. It clattered onto the table as the guy raised his hands, at the same time stumbling to his feet. “H-hey, whoa, take it easy!”

  The adrenaline was still pumping through Booker like a bad fever. It took a force of will to put away his gun, take a deep breath, and assess the situation with fresh eyes. A phone. Not a weapon. The guy stood with his hands pointed towards the sky, like a referee calling a touchdown. He was twirling on the spot in an attempt to display his compliance to all four agents.

  “Stand down,” Booker told his spotters. It came out like an expletive, his voice still ragged with buzzing energy. Christ, I drew on a guy with a phone. He couldn’t wait to hear from Helen on that one. His sparrows holstered their weapons, shuffling and looking lost all of a sudden. The guy was still spinning like a bottle.

  “Easy,” Booker said. “Just – sit down, alright?”

  “Look, I haven’t been doing anything wrong, alright? I have every right –”

  “Sit.”

  The guy flumped back down on the table bench. Booker nodded to his spotters, and they spread out to form a perimeter. He glanced over towards Jane – she stood by the flagpole, watching him but not coming over. Fine, for now.

  He turned back to Blue Shirt and held out a hand. “Phone.”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed --”

  “Phone.”

  Blue Shirt tossed it to him, looking terrified. It was a burner, unlocked, and Booker saw why. The man had been in the process of live-streaming a video to a website called…

  “Yoga-Pants Party,” Booker said slowly. He raised his gaze to Blue Shirt, then glanced at Jane. She was standing beneath the flagpole, watching him, hands on her hips, which were clad in a pair of black yoga pants.

  Booker waved to her, then ended the live-stream and tossed the phone back to Blue Shirt. He fumbled it, but didn’t pick it up out of the dirt. He seemed too terrified of Booker to move.

  “Is this really how you spend your Mondays? Don’t you have a job?”

  It took a few tries for the man to get his voice started. “Th-this is my job.”

  Booker pinched his brow. “Christ, and I went to college.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just -- look. Don’t -- don’t do this shit, alright?”

  “It’s not hurting anyone,” Blue Shirt said, starting to sound petulant the longer he went without wearing handcuffs. “What’re you, anyway, a cop?”

  “FBI.” Booker was pleased to see the man’s spine deflate all over again. “And you may have just compromised a sensitive operation.”

  “Oh shit,” Blue Shirt whispered. “Look, man, I didn’t even know -- I can erase the video!”

  “Damn right you can --”

  “Hey!”

  Jane was coming over, looked pissed and impatient. Booker moved to intercept her, but she brushed past him, marching right up to Blue Shirt. She jabbed a finger at him. “Were you filming me?”

  “Um…”

  She nodded, as if that were all the answer she needed, and then brought one heel down on the man’s phone. It exploded, splinters of glass and plastic and metal scattering in the dirt. Blue Shirt leapt to his feet.

  “What the fuck are you doing --?!”

  “Get. A. Life,” Jane hissed at him. She turned to Booker. “We done?”

  No, Booker wanted to say, we’re not done, not by a long shot. But Blue Shirt was spluttering, face reddening, and in the distance he could see the same group of tourists making their way from the fountain to Sunset Point. The spotters were looking to him for direction.

  He sighed. If there had been any chance of flushing out Jane’s client/would-be killer, it was long gone by now.

  “Yeah. We’re done.”

  * * *

  They got a hotel room downtown, where they’d spend the night before heading back to Chicago the next morning. While Jane showered, Booker sat on his bed, composing a report of the day’s events. He wasn’t quite sure where to start, or how to frame it as anything other than an abject failure.

  Fortunately, he wouldn’t need to say anything. The recording from his lenses would make all that perfectly clear.

  It was growing late in the evening, and as the day had worn on, the totality of his fuck-up had slowly settled over Booker. Not only had he screwed his very first sting operation and possibly burned the only solid lead he had, but there were now two recordings of his confrontation with a private citizen. It didn’t matter that the creep had been taking a pervy video of Jane; all the guy had to do was upload that video to his social feed, include a whiny paragraph about how assaulted he had felt by the entire ordeal, and boom: the narrative would be twisted fully against Booker. Without the proper context, he would look like just another asshole with a badge.

  He stared at the screen of his laptop, trying to figure out how he could defend his actions without sounding defensive, without admitting fault. He’d already given a brief summary of the events to Helen when he called to update her on his progress, and that had gone poorly enough. She wasn’t the shouty type of boss; instead, her voice grew very cool and collected, and she stated the facts in the simplest, bluntest way possible.

  “Well, it sounds like the op didn’t work out, did it?”

  No. No, it hadn’t.

  The sound of the shower cut out, and a moment later Jane emerged from the bathroom in a robe, wrapping a towel around her hair. “Wanna get some food? This place seems swanky enough to have decent room service. Or we could go out. You can expense that sort of thing, right?”

  Booker grunted. He was frowning at his laptop screen, not seeing his feeble attempts to sal
vage the day’s events.

  “Hm. Take it that’s a no, then. Well, room service it is. I’m not picky, so long as they do meatless.” She flopped down onto her bed with a yawn and turned on the TV, and began to browse the available apps. She was silent for a moment, then said, “So, um. You want to order, or should I?”

  Booker leaned back until his head thumped against the wall and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Okay,” Jane said. “I’ll order. What do you want?”

  “I’m not hungry, Jane.”

  “Bullshit, you’ve only had coffee all day. C’mon, tell me what you want or I’ll just get something slathered in mayo for both of us.”

  He turned to her, and the grin faded from her face as she took in his expression. “Stop. Alright? This isn’t a vacation. We’re not buddies.”

  Her eyes turned stony. “Right. You’re a suit, I’m the CHS.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, this CHS is hungry, so I’m getting something --”

  “Do you not understand how bad today was? Is that really not clicking for you? We fucked up, I fucked up. If your contact was there on that island, not only did you completely miss a rendezvous, but your role as a CHS was blown the moment four agents came exploding out of the bushes. The only way it could have gone worse was if I shot that asshole with the phone.”