Henchmen
Authors: Eric Lahti
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Occult, #Fantasy
Henchmen
Eric Lahti
Henchmen
Revised and expanded edition
© 2014 Eric Lahti
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without written permission from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. I love reviewers.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art
© 2014 Eric Lahti
Dedicated to my lovely wife who showed a great deal of patience in dealing with my flights of fancy while writing this and also didn’t get upset when I would continually ask “What just happened?” because I wasn’t paying attention and missed something on TV.
Also to my wonderful son who lets his imagination soar and is a continual source of inspiration.
Contents
06 | Government Security At Its Finest
07 | Reprioritize, or Mission Creep
08 | Some Folks Just Need A Beat Down
22 | Walk On The Luxurious Wild Side
23 | A Hot Chick, a Tough Guy, and a Valkyrie Walk Into a Bar
27 | Den Of Things Best Left Alone
The desert outside of Las Vegas, Nevada is brutal under the best of circumstances. If you never leave the casinos you never really get a feel for how damned hot it gets out here. Heat mirages are rising from the endless asphalt ribbon and even the buzzards have decided to hang out somewhere that doesn’t suck as much as this place does.
“We’re in.” Frank’s dour voice over the comm link seems nonplussed to the point of being bored. There’s a hint of derision there, too, like he can’t believe he just wasted his skills on
this place
.
“These computers blow,” Jean pipes in.
Frank and Jean are our infiltration team. Jean’s the bouncy one. He thinks he’s tough but he’s really not. Frank’s blasé demeanor isn’t an act; he probably really is bored right now.
“Good job, gentlemen. Now drop the security grid and get me into their secure area. Let’s get Jacob out of the heat before he melts,” Eve says beside me.
Eve takes up most of the free space in the front seat of the van. She’s our nominal leader, although we tend to be more democratic than most evil outfits. She’s every inch a supervillain, seven feet tall, blonde and dangerous. I’ve been working with her for about six months and she’s still largely a mystery to me.
“Roger that,” Jean says happily. “These guys are set up with DOD specs, so it’ll take me a minute.”
I look over at Eve and grin. “I’ll bet you five bucks it takes him ten minutes.”
“I’ll take that bet,” she says.
Three minutes later Jean’s voice comes over the comm. “I’m through. Want to know the formula for New Coke?”
“God, no,” I say and hand Eve her fiver.
“Good,” Jean says. “They don’t have it here. I’m looping the security cameras and routing all the phone calls to this room. Ready Frank?”
“I’m good to take caller number five,” Frank says.
“Holler when you’re all set, guys. Jacob, make yourself scarce,” Eve says into her mike. She looks at me and adds, “I hope Jacob’s mob buddies made good ID badges.”
“Does yours list your height?” I ask, peering at my ID badge. My picture looks like me, but I hate looking at pictures of myself so my eyes slide across it. My brownish hair is poking out in the picture and I look like I have rings under my eyes. Photogenic, I ain’t.
“Yeah, seven feet,” Eve says. “I got a good picture. How’s yours?”
“Looks like me, I guess,” I say. “I always thought I was taller than five eleven, though.”
She peers down at me from behind her aviator specs. “Hmph. Try getting on a plane or finding a dress when you’re seven feet tall.”
“I’m nowhere near seven feet tall and I’ve never shopped for a dress,” I tell her.
“That’s probably for the better,” Eve says with a laugh.
“Steven, Eve,” Frank’s voice says. “I think we’re ready for you guys. We’ve got the codes. We’ll meet you at Special Projects, it’s up on four. Just follow the signs when you get in.”
“Nice work, gentlemen,” Eve says. She slaps my shoulder and it immediately goes numb. “Let’s roll.”
I shift the van into gear and the old Ford shudders and groans at having to move
and
run the air conditioner full blast. It picks up quickly and we can see our destination sparkling in the distance. It’s a trick of the light, you know, the sparkling. The buildings are actually dirt brown; it’s a combination of the heat mirages and the gypsum in the stucco that makes them glitter.
On the way in, a man on a loud Harley blows past us going the opposite direction. The pipes on the damned thing rattle the windows when he rolls through.
We both tense up slightly when I turn the van in. This is the first of many places where we can get ourselves in trouble.
The sign on the road simply said Anodyne. That’s it. No “Anodyne Engineering” or “Anodyne Advanced Projects” or “Anodyne: Spending Your Tax Dollars”, just
Anodyne
. If this was on the Vegas strip the name would make you think it’s a bar or some damned hipster nightclub.
It’s neither of those things, obviously. Well, duh, I guess. Why would someone put a nightclub a fifty miles from Las Vegas? Anodyne is a research and development facility that specializes in various types of advanced armor. Most of their stuff will never get used by the military – the cost is too high and Congress critters don’t like to pay to keep soldiers alive – but with any luck we’ll find a good use for some of it.
Anodyne is comprised of five buildings on about a two acre lot. The whole place is xeriscaped so there’s no grass, no trees, and the only shade is a tin roof propped over some poles. There’s a chain link fence with concertina wire covering the entire facility and we have to go through a guard post to get in.
The guard is a fat, bored looking guy dripping sweat and sucking down a Coke like it’s a lifeline. He’s got about a dozen empty cans all neatly stacked in the window and dark shades on. This is the type of person who believes with all his heart that he’s the toughest son of a bitch on the block. The problem is he just can’t convince anyone else of it. Even with his dark shades he looks like a kid who found dad’s body armor.
“ID,” he says when I roll down the window.
Our fake IDs will probably hold up, but it’s best to not push our luck too far. If we can get this guy flustered he won’t spend much time checking up on us.
“Good afternoon to you!” I say cheerfully. “We’ve got this load of parts here for Vandelay.”
He peers at me over the tops of his knock-off Ray-Bans. “IDs. Now.”
I think I’m supposed to be intimidated.
Eve leans over me and asks, “Where do we drop these off, man? They’re for Vandelay.
Vandelay
.”
“I still need to see your IDs,” the guard says, looking at our van. “And I don’t recognize the company you work for. What is ‘Rodeo Drives’?”
“Did he not hear Vandelay?” I ask Eve.
“I think he missed it,” she replies. She looks straight at the guard and slowly says, “These are for Vandelay.”
“I know who Vandelay is. What does your company do?” the guy asks.
“Rodeo Drives makes custom hard drives. We’ve got a stack of them in the back for Vandelay. Come on man, they’re heat sensitive and it’s hot as balls out here,” I say.
Eve is practically leaning on top of me now, trying to crawl over my seat to look out the window. When she turns to face me we’re nearly nose to nose. “What the fuck is going on here?” she asks me.
“No idea, boss.”
She looks back out the window. “Do you know what will happen if Vandelay finds out you’re fucking around like this?”
“Ma’am,” the guard stammers. “I need to see your IDs.”
“There is nearly a million dollars’ worth or of custom hard drives in a box back there. They are extremely heat sensitive. Do you want to be responsible for toasting a million dollars’ worth of drives?” Eve asks, enunciating each syllable of “million dollars.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but it looks like the guard is sweating more.
“If I show you my ID will you open the gate so we can take this stuff to Vandelay?” I ask.
“Yes, sir. I just need to see your IDs and, if everything looks good, you can go through.”
All his attitude is gone now, replaced by a gnawing sense that he’s in trouble with Vandelay. A million bucks is probably more than this poor schmuck will make in his entire pathetic life. I show him my ID and Eve passes hers along. The guard looks at them, skimming them quickly until he hits Eve’s height.
“Are you really seven feet tall,” he asks.
“Not when I’m wearing high heels,” she responds with a wink.
He has no response to that so he hands the IDs back and the gate slowly rumbles open.
“Bro,” I say, “we won’t tell Vandelay if you won’t.”
He looks both shocked and relieved at the same time. “Deal,” he says. “Park around the back.”
Some mafia-made ID badges and a little fast talk and we just drove a van into a secure location. Want to know why border security will never work? That’s why right there. People are too easy to fool and too easy befuddle.
Vandelay, by the way, is Peter Vandelay, the Vice President of Advanced Projects at Anodyne. We found his info on the company web site and decided he’d be a good name to drop. He looks like a total cock in his picture, so if he gets busted it’s probably just the eternal principle of Karma catching up with him.
* * * *
Around back is a loading dock with a single guy holding a clip board and frantically waving at us. I park the van in front of the loading dock and get out to chat with the guy. As soon as he sees me get out he rushes over and waves the clipboard like it’s a magic wand. He’s chanting some incantation in corporate speak about matrices and appointments and deliverables.
“Hold up, buddy,” I tell him. “I’ve got the paperwork right here.”
Eve gets out and as soon as she walks around the van the guy’s eyes lock on her and his jaw nearly hits the ground. She glares at him while she opens the back of the van and pulls out a large box marked fragile.
“Mikä on hänen ongelmansa?” she asks me.
“God dammit, I told you we use English on jobs!” I snap at her. “How fucking hard is that?”
She gives me the evil eye and glances at the box in her arms. The guy with the clipboard is getting even more distraught.
“Where do these go?” I ask the guy with the clipboard.
He stammers something that may be an apology or a question.
“The box.” I say slowly. “Where does the box go?”
He frantically starts flipping through the papers on his clipboard and muttering to himself.
“I … I can’t seem to find a delivery scheduled for today,” he stammers.
“Vandelay!” Eve snaps.
“Yeah, they’re for Vandelay,” I tell him. “Where is the fucker, anyway? He’s supposed to sign for this shit.”
“Vandelay,” Eve says again.
“We get it!” I yell. Pause a beat while she looks appropriately brow-beaten. “I’m sorry. It’s the heat.”
Eve rattles off something in whatever language she was speaking earlier. Whatever she said it sounds vaguely apologetic.
I turn to the guy with the clipboard. “So, where’s Vandelay’s office? She can just carry it straight up.”
“I’m sorry,” he says with his nose buried in the paperwork. He flips the pages back and forth as if somehow, magically, the proper entry will appear. “I just don’t see you in here. I’m afraid I’ve got to call someone about this.”
I absolutely cannot let him go any further with this. “Pal, look. We’re late, we’re hot, she’s crazy, and the drives will get totally fucked if we have to wait any longer. Point us at Vandelay’s office and we’ll put in a good word for you.”
He pauses, sweat dripping off his forehead. I can see the gears turning in his head, slowly grinding away at the problem. He’s like everyone else that works at places like this: terrified of getting in trouble but desperate for a little positive attention.
“You’re not up to anything, are you?” he asks.
“Just delivering some custom drives, bro,” I tell him.
“Drives are getting hot, bro,” Eve echoes in some non-distinct accent.
“She’s carrying nearly a
million dollars’
worth of custom drives that absolutely do not tolerate heat,” I say. “And it is fucking hot out here, man. Look, I’ve got paperwork signed by Vandelay himself.”
I hand him the faked paperwork for a fake order from a fake company and he examines it closely looking for reasons to turn it down. We made the order form from scratch by modifying some company’s sample purchase order request forms. Vandelay’s signature was actually on the Anodyne website, probably to make him look more real, so we copied it and pasted it in place and made it look like a faxed order form.
“Vandelay’s office is on three. Go through the loading dock, take the elevator and follow the signs,” the guy says. “You’ll put in a good word for me?”
“Buddy,” I tell him. “You just saved this rat hole a cool mil. I’ll shout it from the rooftops, if you think it will help.”