“There’s a quick pan, at about one minute forty-three seconds in, and the camera moves past a window. The window has been digitally blurred.”
“Because it showed something outside. Something that would give away the location where it was shot.”
“That’d be my guess.”
“Any way to unblur it?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Great work, Firoz,” Tom said. “You got anything else for us?”
“That’s all for the moment. I can call if I get more.”
“I owe you one.”
“Just keep safe. This guy is the worst of the worst.”
Everyone said their goodbyes and Tom hung up.
“So here’s something I don’t understand,” Jack said. “Walter Cissick was locked in a basement for years. Tom, you were there. Did he have a TV? An Internet connection?”
Tom shook his head. “He had a doghouse. And I get where you’re going. How did a guy who recorded his murders with a VHS camcorder, then get completely removed from society, learn all about darknet, GPS trackers, and deepfakes so fast?”
Jack frowned. “He didn’t. Someone is helping him.”
Roy sat back down. “How does someone that unhinged find an assistant? Put an ad on Craigslist? Disfigured loony seeks same for midnight beach strolls, trading recipes, and stalking ex-cops?”
“Almost as easy as that,” Jack said. “You’d be surprised by how many of these assholes know one another. They can sniff each other out.”
Tom had experiences similar to Jack. “Like recognizes like.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. They’re drawn to each other like magnets. Used to be clubs where they could hang out together and torture people. Now they mostly meet online.”
Harry nodded. “If Cissick is the luddite we assume he is, and found help on the web, that shouldn’t be too hard to track. So does everyone know what they’re doing?”
“For Plastic, Tom and I interview the male victims, you and Jack take the women.”
“I’ll give you guys a list of names and addresses. I’ll also give you the ViCAT profile, and a spreadsheet of every plastic surgeon in the country to cross-reference if any names come up. For Erinyes, I can call a few friends, check out LA’s street cams and see if we can get a facial recognition match, Firoz will analyze the Thirsty video, we can go through missing persons for vics that match her sans the ink. Phin is on babysitting detail. Tom, might not hurt to have Joan stay here for a few days so we can guard her as well.”
“I’ll ask. She won’t do it.”
“Okay. I can hire someone to back-up Phin. I can also do some searches, see if I can figure out how Cissick uploaded to Usher House 2.0 without any tech skills. Did we miss anything?”
“Guns,” Jack said. “We need some guns.”
Harry grinned. “Guns I got.”
THE COWBOY
Descending to ORD
The pilot made the announcement about turning off all electronic devices, but Heckle still pecks away at his cell phone like a Skinner pigeon waiting for the reward pellet.
The Cowboy subconsciously touches her chest, touching the scarred dent where she’d been shot.
So deep I can feel it through my shirt.
A lot has changed since then.
Her name, for one (she now goes by Belle .) Her clothes, trading black leather pants and vests and a matching Stetson (adorned with human teeth) for more conventional blue jeans and flannel tops. Running shoes instead of boots. Still black gloves, to hide the fingers she’s missing, but no holster (and she missed that most, her hand constantly patting her hip and noting its absence.)
The Cowboy hates to blend in. A human being of her skillset should stand out. Alpha predators are meant to be feared on sight.
Sad. But some things aren’t disappointing.
Heckle and Jeckle have helped propel Usher House 2.0 into one of the biggest gorno sites on the dark web, surpassing even Snuff-X in terms of traffic.
With wealth came time, the ultimate commodity.
Time to recuperate and heal.
Time to mourn and plot revenge.
Time to practice and improve.
My Quickdraw is down to .309 seconds. Deadshot from the hip.
Best in the world.
Certainly better than Jack’s.
But the fantasy of facing her adversary in a duel is sometimes superseded by another, darker vision. Once upon a time, the Cowboy made money by hurting people.
She’s very good at it.
Getting Jack alone, bound and helpless, for just an hour, could reduce her to a quivering, begging, screaming, crying, bleeding lump of cowardice.
That has a lot of appeal.
Face her and shoot her first to prove I’m better?
Or chain her up and shove hot coals into her open wounds?
Decisions, decisions…
The first step, of course, is to find her.
The Cowboy glances at the window, sees the plane is already taxiing.
Funny. I didn’t even feel it land.
“We got a reply,” says Heckle.
“On the merc board,” says Jeckle, over his twin brother’s shoulder.
The Cowboy closes her eyes. They booked too late for first class, and she hates being cramped and crowded. Though the twins respected her wishes and didn’t bother her during the flight, technically the flight is still going on.
She sighs and asks, “Is this another little boy in mommy’s basement playing hitman on darknet?”
“This one seems legit,” says Heckle.
“She can get what we ask for,” says Jeckle.
“She?” That’s intriguing. The Cowboy doesn’t profess to know the ins and outs of independent contract wetwork, but she knows that female mercenaries aren’t the norm.
“She’s a real badass,” says Jeckle.
“We’ve checked some of her bonafides, and she’s the real deal. Done some legit scary shit.”
“And she can get an M113?”
“She has an M577,” Jeckle says, handing over his phone.
The Cowboy stares at a well-built brunette in a black tactical jumpsuit, surrounded by several enormous, wrinkly dogs.
The Cowboy recognized the breed. Neapolitan Mastiffs, which look like 150 pound versions of shar-peis. Behind them is, the Cowboy guesses, the M577.
Perfect.
“And this picture isn’t fake?”
“We checked with our validation software,” Heckle says. “Completely real.”
“What is she asking?”
“One point three million, crypto exchange equivalent. Plus a butchered Angus cow, fresh, shipped to her.”
“She wants a dead cow?”
“For her dogs. While she’s away.”
I like that.
“Before we blow all of this money, are you boys sure Jack Daniels is not in touch with that idiot, Harry McGlade?”
“She hates McGlade,” says Jeckle.
“We witnessed it,” says Heckle.
“Besides, Harry McGlade thinks she’s dead,” says Heckle.
“We’ve been watching his webcast,” says Jeckle.
“He devoted an entire one hour episode to crying about her,” says Heckle.
“He thinks you killed her,” says Jeckle.
“And he’s not faking it?” the Cowboy asks.
Both men shake their greasy heads in unison.
“He’s not that good of an actor,” says Jeckle.
“He’s an awful actor,” says Heckle.
“And Jack Daniels wouldn’t trust him with this secret,” says Jeckle.
“She’s not that stupid,” says Heckle.
Harry McGlade better hope that was the case. If I thought he knew where Jack was, I’d flay the information out of him.
“How about Herb Benedict?”
“Still nothing,” says Heckle.
“We hacked the Chicago Police Department database. He isn’t drawing a pension,
” says Jeckle.
“And the man named Tequila?”
I liked Tequila. One of the strongest people I’ve ever met.
“All we have to go on is his first name and your description. We’ve got web spiders crawling for him. So far, nothing has turned up online,” says Heckle.
“Good chance they’re both dead. Lots of unidentified bodies in Nebraska,” says Jeckle.
So the mercenary is our best bet.
The Cowboy continues to stare at her picture. “Do we know who she is?”
“No one knows who she is,” Jeckle says. “But she has a codename.”
“A codename?”
“Her codename is Hammett.”
PHIN
If anyone needed proof that the United States has an unhealthy obsession with guns, all they had to do was take a tour of McGlade’s armory.
The master bedroom, converted into shelves and aisles of weapons and ammo and accessories, reminded me of the scene in every action movie where the hero had a gearing-up montage, picking the deadliest and most exotic firearms out of the dozens and dozens available, photographed with the same intensity of a love scene.
“Worried California will be invaded, Harry?” Jack asked.
“I think of my guns as an investment. I’m investing in my right to remain free and safe from tyranny, both foreign and domestic.”
Jack’s firearm expertise trumped my knowledge of any single subject. With handguns I could intuitively load and shoot just about all of them, and I could hit what I aimed at often enough to be reliable. With standard rifles and shotguns, I needed a little longer to figure them out, but my aim was a little better.
Harry had weapons that looked like they came out of a year 2045 reboot of Rambo; weird shapes with crazy add-ons that were so overly complicated an attacker could take their sweet time and shoot both of my legs off before I figured out how to fire back.
I glanced at my wife, and she wore a neutral expression.
She’s upset.
Which is the new norm for her.
And my new norm is accepting it or ignoring it.
It’s been a rocky few years, but how did we get to this point?
Why aren’t I pushing back?
“What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Is it all the guns?”
Jack had just gotten through a traumatic event that shaped the way she felt about firearms.
She met my eyes. “You’ve seen the movies where the old gunslinger swears to never kill again and is then forced to pick up a weapon one more time?”
“Those guys are babies,” Harry said. “I prefer the movies where the hero never stops killing, because some people need killing.”
Typical McGlade bravado. But I didn’t entirely disagree. I’d met many people that the world would be better off without.
But by my metric, I’m probably one of those people. I’ve done bad things. I’ve hurt others. My moral compass has no true north.
If we were getting rid of all the troublemakers, I’d be in that line.
I’ve heard it said that you need to make mistakes in order to learn. If that’s true, I’m the wisest man in the country.
And I was certainly wise enough to know that being in California, helping Harry and Tom, would end badly.
I was also wise enough to know that I’d never be able to talk Jack out of being here. Best try, I could play the Samantha card, guilt her into leaving. But then she’d resent me, and if things went sour, resent herself for not helping her friends.
Would I rather have her hate me, or hate herself?
And why am I tiptoeing around this subject?
When did I become just a pushover?
Did becoming a father make me soft?
Jack isn’t a child. She doesn’t need coddling.
She needs someone to push her.
But lately I’ve been afraid that if I push, I’ll knock her over and she’ll never get back up.
“Are these all loaded?” Jack asked.
“Wouldn’t be dangerous if they weren’t loaded.”
“What about Harry Junior? Aren’t you afraid he’ll get in here?”
“You saw the door, Jackie. Seven digit code, higher than he can reach. You think he’s going to drag a stepstool to the door and punch in ten million different combinations until he guesses the right one?”
“What is the right one? 1-2-3-4-5-6?”
“Like I’m that obvious. It’s 5318008.”
Of course it is. Any grade school kid with a pocket calculator knew that number. “That’s as obvious as it gets, Harry.”
“You bet your boobies, Phin. While standing on your head.”
Harry beckoned us deeper into the armory, obviously happy to be in his element. “The big stuff is over here, Phin,” Harry points. “I know you need to overcompensate for your shortcomings.”
“I don’t think I’ll be needing a grenade launcher, Harry.”
“You never know.”
I doubted that was even legal to own. Not that it mattered. “Just show me Glocks in 9mm.”
“What generation?”
“Surprise me.”
“Long guns?”
Jesus. Long guns? “A twelve gauge pump.”
“How about a rifle?”
The fact that I might need a rifle made me even more uncomfortable about what we were doing. I considered going with something standard, like a .30-06 used to hunt, but it was unlikely the threat would be foraging deer.
“An AR-15 will be fine.”
“Good choice. Get some use out of it before they become illegal. Which I’m okay with, by the way. Ordinary citizens don’t need assault rifles.”
“You’ve got over a dozen,” I said.
“There’s nothing ordinary about me.”
Good point.
“For ARs, I like the Bushmaster M4 carbine. Mostly because I like to say the word Bushmaster. Bushmaster. Feels so naughty. Bushmaster. Cockcommander would also be a good name for a gun. I’d also support a brand called Buttjockey. Maybe I should put that on a t-shirt. Would you wear a Buttjockey t-shirt, Phin? A tight one. You got the pecs for it.”
“You’ve got the new Smith & Wesson Performance Center 986,” Jack said. She had a revolver in her hand and was sighting down the barrel, aiming at the floor.
“You betcha. Seven rounds in the cylinder, 9mm. You still dicking around with a five round .38?”
“I’ll try it on for size.”
“Like everything in life, more is always better. More money. More fame. More sex. More drugs. Maybe not more drugs. I smoked so much weed the other day I forgot how to blink.”
Funny. But I wasn’t in a laughing mood.
“My eyes got so dry I was keeping them moist with my own spit.”
Jack moved along to another gun, one of the high tech ones I didn’t understand.
“Is anyone listening to me? Anyone? I can stick out my tongue while I throw up out of my nose and not spill a drop. Who wants to see?”
He had no takers.
“Where’s that AR? I also need a knife, some brass knuckles, and an expanding baton.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Nice. And I gotta say, I’m a little aroused right now.”
Jack found three more guns like she was shopping for ingredients to make a recipe she knew by heart. Soon she had a pile of five.
“Trigger locks and ammo, McGlade.”
“Cabinets to your right, Jackie.”
I laser-stared at Jack and said, “We also need body armor for us, and Sam.”
Jack’s head whipped around. “Sam doesn’t need a vest. She’s not going anywhere near any danger.”
“If she’s staying with us, she’s getting a vest,” I told my wife.
And just like that I remembered where my backbone was.
“Should we have our daughter pick out a gun as well, Phin? Maybe something small, like a .22lr?”
So we’re doing this.
Okay, then. Here we go.
“Maybe
we should, Jack. Or instead of a vest and a gun, how about we pick out a small set of leg braces, and some preschool crutches.”
“Low.”
“You know what would be even more fun? You and I, shopping for child-sized coffins.”
“Fine,” Jack said. “We don’t need you. Take Sam and go somewhere until this is over.”
“You don’t need me?”
“I know you didn’t go to college, Phin. Is there a part of that sentence you didn’t understand?”
“Getting more aroused,” Harry said.
I walked over to Jack, feeling the adrenalin spike, feeling like a street fight was going down. “I’ll make it easy for you, college girl. I won’t leave your side. Sam won’t leave mine. You stay, we’re staying. Or you can realize how stupid this is, and we all go somewhere Kevlar isn’t needed. But here, it’s needed. End of discussion.”
“You can’t just dismiss me like that.”
“What are you going to do about it, Jack? Hobble over here and poke me with a crutch?”
I watched her, wondering if I’d pushed too far.
Hoping I’d pushed it too far.
Still locking eyes with me, Jack asked, “Harry, you got a gun range?”
“Of course.”
“Fifty foot targets, Phin. Six bullets. I get the better score, you and Sam leave.”
“Maybe it is my lack of education that’s making me hard to understand, Jack. Or maybe you need to shake the shit out of your ears and listen closer. I’m not leaving you. Sam isn’t leaving me. We stay, she gets a vest. End of discussion.”
“If I didn’t get shot in the back, I’d kick your ass right now.”
“If you were fully healthy and ten years younger you couldn’t kick my ass. If you’re deluded enough to think otherwise, bring it.”
“If you guys fight I’m going to stain myself,” Harry said.
For a moment, I thought Jack was going to call my bluff and charge at me. I’d have to knock her down to gain her respect. But I’d have to do it without harming her T11 vertebra.
Then again, if she hurt her back coming at me, we’d have the perfect excuse to get the hell out of California before any heavy shit went down.
I waited, half-hoping my wife would find the guts to rush me.
“You’re acting like an asshole, Phin.”
Chaser Page 7