I showed up at the location a few minutes
early. Lights from the parking lot showed that both the glass front
door and display window had closed blinds. Neither on the door nor
on the marquee out front were any signs to say what the store used
to be, if anything. I was about to knock, but then figured that
Viggo might've left the door open for me. It was unlocked, but
there was someone else besides him waiting for me in there.
The relatively small and empty place was
dark; light from an open backroom door allowed me to see basic
shapes. One of those basic shapes was a woman, twenty feet from the
door. She sat casually in a folding chair next to a card table.
Without being able to see much detail, I could still make out that
she was long and slender, had her hair pulled into a ponytail, and
wore some sort of loose pants and a windbreaker. She was in the
process of sharpening a long knife with a whetstone when I came
in.
"Who're you?" I asked, trying to sound polite
as I stepped further into the open space. Not sure if I did,
though. My social skills were always a bit sketchy.
Ignoring my question, the woman lazily jabbed
her knife toward the door to the back like she didn't give a shit.
"They're waiting for you," she said quietly. Then, like I wasn't
there anymore, she returned to making her blade razor sharp. What a
fucking charmer. If there was an orphanage on fire, she seemed like
the type who would've brought marshmallows.
Viggo and a stranger were in the back room.
It was another bare space, but the ceramic floor and wall spigots
suggested it used to be a kitchen. Instead of sinks and grills and
all that shit, a large and sturdy table sat in the middle of the
room. The stranger sat on the far side of it, with Viggo standing
next to him. "Good evening, Mr. Brock," Viggo said, making it clear
we were using aliases. "This gentleman," he gestured to the
stranger, "is Special Agent Jerome Rutherford of the FBI."
From what I could see of him, Rutherford was
an average-sized, dark skinned black guy in his late thirties with
a shaved head, thin mustache and round glasses. I thought the
normal look on his face would've been one of intensity and
intelligence, although at the time he appeared to be a little
confused. He eyed me with some apprehension, probably able to
discern at least some of the weapons under my coat.
As I sat across from him and nodded a hello,
Viggo continued. "This location is used as an FBI meeting place,
where Agent Rutherford and his associates meet with informants.
Tonight, however, the roles are reversed. The hidden cameras and
listening devices have been removed. Agent Rutherford and I have
come to an understanding. Is that not so, Agent?"
"It is, Mr. Stone," Rutherford replied in a
deep bass voice. He was quick to answer; being a new minion had a
very strong effect on the guy. Maybe he was used to having control,
and being suddenly obedient was something he needed. You know, like
how hot-shot lawyers or CEOs go to a dominatrix. That's the best
guess I've got; I'm not a damn therapist.
"And, as we have discussed, my cohort Mr.
Brock will be my liaison if I am unavailable," Viggo continued. I
was pretty sure that meant if he was down in the sewers. "Mr.
Brock," Viggo addressed me, "the good Agent has been informed of
our current needs and has been given the necessary data to complete
the task given to him." The task was obviously to identify the
Quinn terrorists.
In front of Rutherford was a phone next to a
DVD in a case. "Do you have my number, Agent?" I asked.
"No sir, Mr. Brock. I was told to exchange
the number on this new phone with yours. I suggested to Mr. Stone
that normal emails aren't secure, so any information should be
passed along in person. If you don't mind, I will only use this
phone to give time and date to meet here without revealing the
address."
"That sounds good to me." I looked up at
Viggo and asked, "Was there anything else, Mr. Stone?"
"Yes, but only that you should expect to hear
from Agent Rutherford by morning with positive results. Plan to
meet with him again soon after." He looked down at Rutherford.
"Trade numbers and be on your way, Agent."
After Rutherford and I gave our phones back
to each other, he hurried out of the room without another word. I
didn't hear him say anything to the woman, either. Two seconds
later, the front door opened and shut. Not caring if that woman
overheard me, I just had to ask, "Who is that lady out front,
sir?"
He cocked his head slightly to one side.
"Surely you are not so naïve or proud to think the only minions
that I have acquired are the ones in this city. Runa has served me
since the Black Death."
Okay, I was naïve and proud.
TRAILER
Agent Rutherford sent me a text before I went
to bed that night. It simply said, 'Task is complete. I have
positive results.' I replied for him to meet me again in ten hours.
I knew Viggo wanted his culprits ASAP, but I still needed to make a
plan with whatever Rutherford found.
The door to the vacant store was open again,
so Rutherford was already there (he'd given a spare key to Viggo,
who locked up the night before - the key was then given to me). The
Agent seemed calmer and more composed than the night before. Not
that I was worried about him; I was just glad I didn't have to deal
with a nervous wreck who'd been told too many supernatural
secrets.
There was a file on each of the terrorists.
As I suspected, they both had criminal records. Hell, they were
both still on parole for the same crime - a murder that was knocked
down to 2nd degree manslaughter. Ya gotta love our legal process.
Some of their individual priors included weapon possession, assault
with a weapon, battery, burglary, and eluding. In most cases, the
charges were reduced - some down to misdemeanors - in order to
flush the two pieces of shit through the system.
The guy was Mitchell (Mitch) Whitney, 36,
dishonorably discharged from the Army at 19 after one year in.
Police knew him to be an outspoken homophobe and white supremacist.
The file had a recent line-up photo of Mitch, and a list of his
tattoos. Under listed habits, he was suspected of meth use, had a
gym membership, and tried getting into a couple local fight teams
to get some MMA matches.
The woman, Maxine (Maxi) Knut, wasn't much
better. She and Mitch had the same parole officer four years back;
that's how they met and hooked up. Prior to Chuck's violent and
racist influence, Maxi was a freelance scumbag. I guess being a
diagnosed kleptomaniac with a bipolar disorder and anger issues
pretty much set her course. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. She was a
sociopath, the same as her boyfriend.
Mitch and Maxi lived in a trailer home a few
miles somewhere beyond the suburbs. Once I got home, I used google
maps for the layout of their address and made a plan. The setting
was great for me. It was a rural site, so neighbors weren't a
problem; straight roads, letting me see any traffic; lots of trees
and ground foliage to dampen any noise, not that I wanted to make
any. Their place sat alone on a small lawn, with a thick band of
woods separating their backyard from some train tracks. About a
quarter mile beyond that was an old farm road with no other houses
nearby. I planned to go that night.
Loaded for bear and toting Traeg's loaned
toys, I locked the truck and headed into the field. Feeling a
little exposed, I hurried between the rows of some low crop to the
thin tree line ahead. The train tracks beyond that were recessed
about five or six feet. I had cloud cover, so concealment was
pretty easy on that dark night. The quiet and the open space behind
me reminded me of some military missions that I didn't want to
dwell on. I kept moving across the tracks, up the far bank, and
into the woods.
The night-vision goggles really helped me
over uneven ground and avoid twigs. There was light ahead, so I
kept my head down until I was near their edge of the woods. Finding
a good spot, I took my goggles off and looked through the leaves. I
was near one back corner of the trailer home. A light was on over
the sliding glass door; Mitch was out back, attaching a 20 lb.
propane tank to his grill. From inside, I heard the muted noises of
music playing and voices talking. I turned on the little sound amp
and pointed the hand-held dish at the trailer.
There was definitely someone else inside with
Maxi. Great, they had company. I could tell their guest had a deep
male voice, especially compared to Maxi's, but both their words
were garbled from the Metallica CD that was playing. Safe in the
woods, I waited for a better time to make my move.
I thought maybe I'd be bringing Viggo three
people instead of two. That thought died when the back door slid
open and the guest stepped out, followed by Maxi. Nope, definitely
not three people - maybe none at all. To be technical, I wouldn't
have called the unexpected guest a 'person'. I was pretty sure that
Jack Fletcher hadn't been human for a very long time.
ASSAULT
Damn it, there was a hemo involved. And not
just any hemo, either. It made sense that Fletcher was behind the
attack on Quinn Industries. Among other radical ideologies, he had
a deep-seated hatred for anyplace that created a little pollution.
Viggo putting Fletcher in his place at the Gathering probably
focused his anger to go after specific targets. I wouldn't have
been surprised if he was also responsible for dumping a body on a
property that my commander had openly claimed.
I pointed the dish at them to hear what they
were saying. ". . . not to light that thing until after I left,"
Fletcher said angrily to Mitch. "I've told you I'm not fond of open
flames."
"Yeah, sorry - forgot. But it's just a grill.
I - I'm not settin' the woods on fire or nothin'."
Fletcher clamped a hand around Mitch's neck,
lifted him off the ground and tossed him a few feet back onto the
lawn. "You're pathetic, Whitney," he stated with a growl while
Mitch rubbed his bruised neck. "I know you don't speak out of
insolence, so it must be sheer stupidity. A fool and a slut; what a
pair I've chosen. You may burn your overpriced meat after I'm gone.
Now get up."
Maxi just stood on the small set of stairs,
not moving. I guess to take Fletcher's attention away from Mitch,
she meekly said, "We could really use the rest of that money, if it
ain't a bother."
The burly Outsider turned his shaggy head to
her. "Ah, so you can buy more steak, marijuana and cheap beer?
Never fear, I keep my word. You'll be given the remainder of what I
promised soon enough. No matter what, I want you both ready for the
next mission in three days. Have I made myself clear?"
Mitch and Maxi both nodded their heads.
Fletcher gave each of them an uncomfortable glare, and then walked
out of sight around the far side of the trailer. I couldn't see any
cars from my position, but I didn't hear one start up, either. It
was surprising that Fletcher was on foot; it would've been a long
ass walk to get back to his parks in the city. Not wanting him
within earshot, I planned to wait a while longer. That time would
also give the couple time to get mellow from pot while their steaks
cooked.
Much sooner than I expected, Mitch said the
meat was ready. He apparently liked his steak black and bloody.
Maxi came out with a platter, but no lawn chairs or anything. Shit,
they were going to eat inside, where cell phones and any weapons
were. I didn't want them to have the slight chance of getting to
one or the other before I got to them. The time had come.
I charged in fast from the dark - much faster
than any normal guy - and caught them both by surprise. Using the
butt of one of my 9mm's, I hammered Mitch in the forehead. As he
crumpled and dropped his spatula, I spun to Maxi. She was still
holding the platter with two hands, eyes wide and mouth hung open.
Without hesitation, I swept her legs. The platter went flying. She
landed on her back with a grunt. My silenced gun was in her face
half a second later.
Maxi had a stunned look on her thin face,
which was framed by short, greasy brown hair. Her eyes were
bloodshot. Her teeth were bad. She might've been cute once, a long
time ago. Life hadn't been very kind to her, though. At 32, Maxine
Knut looked 40 and going downhill fast. Too damn bad.
Trying to be professional, I calmly said to
her, "Roll onto your stomach, arms out from your sides." When she
hesitated, I added, "Don't be stupid, Maxi. This is the easy
way."
As she slowly began to comply and roll onto
her side, I heard Mitch groan "God dammit" behind me. He must've
had a skull like a fucking Samoan. He was already getting to his
hands and knees. I leaned over and hit him one more time at the
base of his skull.
Just as I delivered the knock-out blow, Maxi
yelled. I turned back. She'd pull a .22 revolver from the back of
her jean shorts and squeezed off two quick rounds before I could
kick her arm away. I momentarily ignored the sharp pain in my ribs,
using my other leg to kick her in the side of the head with my
combat boot. That fucking bitch shot me. I kicked her again. And
damn it, the report from that .22 was loud.
I was stupid, so damn stupid. Between the
two, I figured Mitch might've been carrying a pocket revolver.
That's why I went for him first. My black shirt was wet on my left
side. Half a foot around to my back, it was wet there, too. I was
pretty sure the bullet passed between two of my lower ribs.
Hoping no one heard the shots, I secured
Mitch and Maxi with zip ties and gags. Even with me being a little
stronger than normal, pulling them both toward the woods made my
wound flare with hot pain.
I stopped, released the limp bodies, and
tried to slow my breathing. I shut my eyes, concentrating on
closing the entry and exit wounds like Viggo taught me. I stood
there on a dark edge of the lawn and felt a last small trickle of
blood being forced out as the bullet wound closed. My ribs were
still sore, but I felt a hell of a lot better.