Damn. Sad thing for a man like me, going out for burgers instead of a Budweiser and a blow-job, but that's just how it played out.

He blew air kisses at his reflection, and limped out the door, locking it behind him, and got into his Cherokee, gunned it up, and drove off into the dark night of Lake City.

 

Lance T

Lance sipped a twenty year old cognac and thought about indebtedness. Owing. Not something he enjoyed. When he was pro, he had a contract, but a contract, while indebtedness defined, had a start point and an end point, had a dollar figure attached to it for buy out. In this business, indebtedness or at least the appearance of it was an ongoing thing, and frankly, it bugged the shit out of him.

There were the cops, of course, to keep them off his back and to look the other way -- most of that was settled with pussy and free drinks, though the older and more seasoned ones wanted their taste of the good in cash; and a certain amount of payroll and kickback from the girls went to that; there's the City inspectors, the liquor distributors, the doctors he kept on the side for the girls, the girls themselves and then, of course, his investors, whose investment often showed up in satchels full of cash from their lucrative cash rich enterprises and required, well, a turn in the laundry that was a cash-driven business like the one Lance ran, and then he had to take a certain amount of that and run it through his own laundry, all the while finding ways to get that cash into a good ol' electronic format so that it can be shuttled around and then returned, say, as a installment check from a investment firm, or a series of rents from empty houses.

So instead of paying back a debt, he was transformed into a continuing enterprise, which had its benefits, monetary primarily, though there were other resources available to him should it become necessary. Not that he needed that. He had his own and maintained them.

The problem is that the people with whom he was involved were not willing to let Lance call it done and paid and walk away.

That, he thought, with a slow sip of cognac, was the crux of the problem.

"Lance?" the bartender, a new Ukrainian girl named Anke, Annika, something like that, said.

"Yeah?"

"Phone."

He took the handset. "This is Lance."

The voice of his Cambodian business associate. "Good morning, my friend. I was doing my crossword puzzle this morning and I ran across this word. Assistance. You know, I had to look it up in the American dictionary. I thought it had an e instead of an a."

"English can be tricky that way."

"Very tricky, you Americans."

"Some of us."

"Yes." A silence, long enough to cause Lance to shift uncomfortably in his seat. "My friend, I need some help."

This was it. "What is it I can help you with?"

"I have a friend. He requires a place to stay for a short time. A place where he will not come to the attention of the authorities. I was thinking of the apartments you have upstairs? There is the one with its own bathroom? And perhaps the girls could fetch him meals?"

"I don't know..."

"My friend will be no problem, Lance. He has physical limitations, and no interest in the women. All he requires is a room with a bathroom nearby, food, and access to your wireless network. This would be a great favor to me."

"Who's looking for him."

A long pause, then: "No one who will know where to find him. And I can provide some additional security. I will do that."

Lance wanted to scream and throw the phone. This wasn't just a slippery slope; it was a full blown jump off the roof. But he was stuck, so what else could he say?

"Of course. Least I can do, considering our business relationship."

"Thank you, Lance. It certainly enhances our relationship."

"We'll see," Lance said. He didn't really care at this point whether he offended the other man or not. "When will he be here?"

"When can you have the room ready?"

"It stays ready."

"Five minutes, then. And my man who brings him will pick up anything extra necessary."

"What's his name?"

"He'll tell you."

"Okay, I'll...."

The phone went dead. Great.

Lance set the handset down on the bar, and the bartender, studiously not-noticing the boss's demeanor, put it back on the cradle.

"Another cognac, Lance?"

"No. Put a fresh pot of coffee on."

He looked up and saw the door swing open, and a much bigger than usual Hmong guy in his twenties, gang tat sleeves on his muscled arms and all up around his neck, pushed a wheelchair through the door. The man in the wheelchair was old, old, old -- wattled neck and droopy head old, though his eyes were bright and sharp, and he seemed alert. Hmong as well, probably at least in his 70s or 80s, though who could tell with Asians?

Lance walked over to them and the young gun said, "Which way?"

Lance extended his hand to the older man. "Sir, I'm Lance T. This is my place. I'm glad to welcome you."

The older man lifted his hand, a mottled claw, gripped Lance's and pulled him close with a completely surprising strength.

"Hello, Lance T," the old man said in excellent, nearly unaccented English. "My name is Po. My friends call me Tony Po."

"Hello, Tony Po. I'll get you to the..."

"Let's not rush," Tony Po said. "How about a drink together? I may be old, but I still enjoy looking at the young girls."

Lance gawped as Tony Po laughed 'he he he he he' in a perfect caricature of a dirty old man.

"I like cognac," Tony Po said. "And blondes..."

Lance had to grin and shake his head. "And let me guess..with big tits?"

"Of course!" Tony Po threw up his hands in delight. "Who does not?"

Lance laughed out loud. "Welcome to the Trojan Horse, Tony Po. I got a place for you to sit right over here, right next to me..."

 

Dee Dee Kozak

"I need you to sit right here, and watch that computer," Dee Dee said.

Irina wasn't happy about it. "I don't want to stay here alone."

"You had your chance to be out and about. I need you watching *this* computer because this is secure. And I need you to call me when you see the money go through, and then you can log off. Because we'll have our cash and we'll be able to do what we need to do. Do you understand?"

"Why can not your employee..."

"Because she's my employee. You're a principal. You wanted to be a partner, well, now you're a partner. This is what you have to do. Watch our money. I have to go out and round up the rest of what we need."

Irina tapped her expensive leather boot clad foot impatiently.

"How long must I wait?"

"Till it's done. Then you need to shut it down, lock the computer up, and stay close."

"How long will you be?"

"What are you, my mother? You don't need to know any of this. You just do what I say and you do it now. Or you can run this gig all by yourself. Pay and play. After the first part, you can do the second part. And not a second sooner. Got it?"

Irina quailed. This was not an argument she was ready to have. "Fine, fine. Go then. I will stay."

"'I will stay...'" Dee Dee said in a nasal imitation of Irina's voice. "No whining." She turned and stalked out the hotel door, down the hall to the elevator, where she allowed herself a grin. Irina was not adjusting well to being her bitch. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Sometimes it wasn't always pretty. Dee Dee was a long time student of human behavior, and understanding how to dominate and influence and persuade (short of the gun against the head, which of course works, but tended to be a one-time, short-term solution) was part and parcel of her skill set. Which is why she got the big bucks.

She checked out her reflection in the highly polished brass door of the elevator. She was looking *fine* -- skin tight leather jeans tucked into knee high leather boots, a black wool sleeveless jersey to show off her muscled arms, black leather jacket -- the butch blonde look rocked her bod, her hair and her attitude tonight.

Downstairs, she enjoyed the swathe she cut across the lobby, called for her new rental to be pulled up -- a classic Corvette, cherry red, well worth the premium to impress her latest and greatest partner, young Ms. Kiki Warren.

She might live long enough to be a real partner.

Tearing through the streets, the wind barely ruffling her short hair, Dee Dee grinned.

It's a full time job being Dee Dee Kozak. Not for the weak.

She pulled up in front of the Hyatt Regency, and had to stop to laugh and laugh. 'Neo Death God' didn't look *anything* like her Catholic School ID; Kiki Warren looked like a younger and shorter and thinner version of Dee Dee Kozak in her Heartbreak Hotel leathers -- black tights, black boots, leather jacket and wraparound shades.

She honked the horn, leaned over and opened the door and yelled, "C'mon, friend girl! Your chariot awaits!"

And the look on that little girl's face, when the facade of urban cool disappeared into the pure-d unadulterated delight of a teenage girl whose life had just cracked the Awesome barrier into OMFG cool --

-- was going to make it all worthwhile.

 

Mr. Smith, AKA Hank

Cruised down Nottingham Street towards Lake Avenue, one of the main drags downtown, just motoring to forget the pain the chemicals kept down to a dull roar, looked out the window and saw a cherry red Corvette come tearing the other way, two GORGEOUS blondes in it...and he had to laugh and watch them motor down away and pull into a parking lot, looked like that "Gentleman's Club" he'd just passed.

Lawdy. With a new face, new life, new body he'd...well, it was a nice thought. He popped another pill and made a few random turns and went on his way.

 

Nicholas Le Fronte, AKA Nico

Okay, so she had moves. He had to give her that. The OGA broad handed her a blown up 11x14 digitzed off a hard drive, and then several angle shots magnified of an undeniably Hmong face.

"Can you..."

Nina snatched the photos and said, "We're on it. I'll call you when we got him."

The OGA broad just grinned. "Do that, will ya? Make sure he's alive, Capushek. I want to ask him some questions."

Nina drove like she did everything else: balls to the wall. Completely relaxed, hands in the approved driving position on the wheel, cutting in and out of traffic with a complete disregard for the law and the flow of traffic, eyes cutting back and forth to the side mirror, rear view mirror, reading the windshield high up -- she was a good driver.

"Where we going?"

"See a guy."

Down Nicollet Street, down into the heart of what he recognized as Little Viet Nam town. Into the parking lot of a restaurant called Pho Tau Bay.

"We eating?"

"Not now, Nico."

He followed her. She was always at least two steps ahead of him. That pissed him off. She went right past the front desk, where a bird-like older Vietnamese woman looked up in surprise, returned the wave that Nina threw her. Nina went straight to the rear where four old Asian men sat at the farthest back corner booth. Nina stopped a respectful distance from the table, and nodded to a short and balding man with brown spots all over his face.

"Hello, sir," Nina said. Nico had never heard that respectful tone.

The men looked at Nico, who stopped beside Nina. She inched forward just a bit, and Nico honored the body language. She was in charge.

"He works for me," Nina said. "It's okay."

"Hello Sergeant," the older man said. "You are okay with us. Him, we don't know."

"Should I send him away?" Nina said.

Nico tensed, then relaxed. Her ball, her call.

The older man grinned. His teeth were brown and yellow from smoking. "No, Sergeant. You say he's okay, we okay. Maybe you need some help today?"

"Yes, Mr. Pham. Very much."

"You want to eat?"

"Not today, sir. You know what happened in St. Paul?"

"Yes. Very bad."

"I'm looking for the people who did it."

The men exchanged looks, chattered briefly in Vietnamese. Mr. Pham had a look cross his face, briefly, that sent a chill through Nico; this old fuck was a killer, no doubt about it.

"We will help you. What can we do?" Mr. Pham said.

Nina unfolded the blown up photo of the man outside the Federal Building. "This man. I want him."

Mr. Pham took it from her and spread it on the table. The four men hunched over the paper like vultures at work. They chattered back and forth, ignoring Nina and Nico, their voices rising over each other in a shrill cacophony. One of them, with a sporty straw fedora stained with sweat pulled down tight on his head that went strangely well with his faded Hawaiian shirt, slapped his hand down hard on the paper, his words sharp and distinct. Mr. Pham shot back at him, hard and fast, an interrogation of some kind. Fedora Hat nodded once, sharply. Mr. Pham looked up at Nina.

"We know who he is. Did this man do this thing?"

"I don't know for sure," Nina said. "I need to find him. Now. And then I can tell you."

Pham chattered at Fedora Hat. The Hat looked at Nina and said in perfect, unaccented English, "Do you have an iPhone?"

Nina wasn't fazed. "No."

"I do," Nico said. "Why?"

The Hat said, "Let me see your phone for a minute."

Nico handed it over. The Hat took out his own iPhone, swept through the controls, watched Nico's phone ping, handed it back.

"I downloaded his name, address, phone numbers on an iCard to your phone," The Hat said. "He is not one of us. You understand? But we do business with the man he works for."

"Who is that?" Nina said.

The Hat looked at Mr. Pham, who nodded. The Hat touched a few buttons on his phone, and then there was another ping from Nico's iPhone.

"You have him," Mr. Pham said. "I tell you this now, Sergeant. We had nothing to do with what happened. We are Americans. We do not want this. This other man, we do business with him. If, if you find out this is true, I ask you, in return, that you tell us. We must do things if this is true."

Nina nodded. "You have my word, Mr. Pham. My word is good."

"Yes," Mr. Pham said. "It is. Make sure this one understands." He pointed at Nico, who nodded once, sharply.

"I understand," Nico said. "My word is good."

"I hope so," Mr. Pham said. "We are serious about our friends here."

The Hat smiled at Nina, ignored Nico. "If you need any help..."

"Thank you, sir. Not necessary."

"So we hear," The Hat said. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Nina said.

"When you come and tell us," Mr. Pham said. "Please stay to eat, then. Maybe you will have an appetite."

"We will," Nina said. "Till then."

She turned and walked away. Nico lingered, nodded, but the old men ignored him and went back to chattering at each other. Nico reached for the sheet, but Mr. Pham slapped his hand down on it.

"We keep," Mr. Pham said.

"Right," Nico said. "Sorry."

He followed Nina out.

Nina stood outside in the lot, stared up at the sky.

"What?" Nico said.

She looked over at him. "You did good. Keep it up and I might keep you around."

"What? I didn't do a fucking thing except stand there."

"That's right," Nina said. "Which is exactly what you needed to do. These guys live and die by a code that's all about respect. Keep that in mind. We'll be seeing more of them."

"I'd like to have that lunch."

"You don't work these guys. They were working people before you were born. You play the game by the rules: respect. Do what you say you're going to do. Keep your boundaries clear from the get go. Don't ever mistake them for anything other than what they are: stone cold killers who have been running a criminal enterprise for longer than both of us been walking the earth. And they are also men of their word. They will do exactly what they say they will do. Remember that."

"I get that." He paused. "Thanks. For trusting me."

"I don't," Nina said. "I wanted to see if maybe some day I will. Get in the car. You got that location mapped out?"

"Here, it's on Google Maps."

"I want to run the name, look for priors and what else we can get on this guy before we take him."

"What about the OGA broad?"

"She knows me. She knows what she's got. We'll hand her the whole bag. We don't do progress reports. Fire and forget, that's how we roll."

"Glad you're including me."

"Don't push it."

They drove off down the mean streets of Lake City.

 

Lance T

This old fucker can *drink*, Lance thought. They'd started on cognac, shifted to brandy, and the old man was still going on about the old days in Saigon, his party houses in Vientiane, the whorehouse he ran in Patpong, Thailand, and his house on the beach in the Phillippines, the women he'd fucked, the booze he'd drank, and, after a while, the men he'd killed.

That part made Lance a little uncomfortable. Okay, a lot, because that wasn't his area. He was on the fringe of that, and he didn't want to be reminded how close.

"Oh, yes, baby, do it to me one more time!" the old man crowed as one of the dancers did a number to Britney Spears. "Lance, my friend, perhaps that girl would give a private dance for me...later, maybe, my friend?"

Lance bit his lip to stop his smile from spreading too far. One of the girls had already complained that she didn't want to do a dance for someone older than her grandfather in a wheelchair. Customers were supposed to keep their hands to themselves, and it hurt bumping into the wheels and the armrests of the chair!

Gawd. The things he had to do.

"So Tony," Lance said. "Aren't you supposed to be hiding out?"

The big silent Hmong warrior who sat at the table next to them, a series of empty Coke glasses in front of him, glared at Lance.

"I *am* hiding out," Tony Po said. "Who is going to look for an old man in here!"

He choked on his brandy. "I am hiding in plain sight! Nobody looks for an old man where the young men are!" He gestured to the waitress. "More brandy!"

"Hay for my horses!" Lance said, waving at the waitress, who shook her head, hiding her grin, and brought the old man another brandy.

"You want another Coke?" Lance said to the silent bodyguard.

The bodyguard shook his head no, arms crossed in disapproval. Lance shrugged and turned to his guest.

"Tony? You want to move the party upstairs? I got plenty of room up there..." Lance began.

"No! I like it here!"

"Hell, everybody likes it here..."

 

Kiki Warren

Squirmed in the Corvette's passenger seat. "Am I going to like this?"

Dee Dee laughed. "Oh, honey. C'mon. How many strip clubs you been in?"

She pulled into the lot, waved off the valet. Kiki noticed that Dee Dee backed her Vette into a slot, near an exit door.

"Is that so if we need to get out in a hurry we can go this way?" she said.

"You're sharp, Kiki. That's why we're going to go far together," Dee Dee said. "When you go anyplace, you want to think about your exit strategy. How do you get in? How many ways out? Where do you park your car? If the valet takes it, he's got to get it for you. Want to wait if you're in a hurry? Or if someone pays off the valet to stall you? No. So we plan for the worst, and if it doesn't happen, then we're golden. If the worst happens, then we're golden. Get it?"

"I saw that in a movie. Old one, RONIN."

Dee Dee laughed and laughed. "Doing your homework? Where you been all my life, Kiki? I think I'm going to steal you away...get that ID of yours handy."

Kiki got out. This so rocked! She didn't let her excitement mask her checking things out, "situational awareness" is what the guys on the internet called it, scoping things out, far and wide, and she said, the tone of a proud student, to Kiki: "Like should we be watching that van over there?"

She pointed at the white van that had pulled up into the lot and then turned around and faced out, the engine idling while the valet was waved off.

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

Damn it. Missed his turn, or maybe it was just the Hand of Fate on his steering wheel. Lake City was a river city, and all the downtown streets were a maze of one-ways that had grown up over the years along the cart tracks where goods were hauled up from the riverboats to the thriving village at the intersection of the waters. So if you weren't tuned in all the time, and completely familiar with the streets, neither of which applied to him right now, it was easy to miss a turn and get turned around. Not that he had a particular destination in mind; just driving around, out for the night for a pint and a fight...okay, just kidding, since either one would strain his bodily mechanism to the breaking point, and he wasn't going to have that till he got done what he came here to do, the covert-overt agenda (damn, this whole hall of mirrors thing got tiresome...), so it was back around the block, and there was that strip club, The Trojan Horse, and I'll be dipped and triple fucked, if that wasn't Jimmy John Wylde his own self in front of the club, opening the car door of that funky FJ Cruiser and letting out one of the most Divine Incarnations of the Goddess that Mr. Smith had ever laid his eyes on, good or bad...

...and in the parking lot, the sliding doors of a white van opened up, and something deep inside ol' Hank went PING PING PING and he saw movement that came together someplace faster than the speed of light that said: Shooters.

Hank cut across a lane of traffic, sliding the car in a bootiful lil ol bootlegger turn and locked it in place across the exit to the parking lot, hit the door and got out, as quick as he could, G-17 out and coming up, and shouted "Jimmy John! Targets two, targets two!"

As soon as he saw the muzzles of the AKs he started his firing cadence, keep up the fire, which is why he liked the 9mm, lots of beans in his shooter, and a good bonded round like the Speer Gold Dot would fuck them up just as good as his old trusty .45 ball, but he had more of them, hell, he had over 100 rounds in magazines on his body, take that motherfucker!

He stayed behind the engine block, no fire and maneuver, too old, too cold, too rolled in the old deep shit, but he could still roll heavy when he had to, though it might take him out, because THIS was not something he was read in on, and if they were trying to tag Jimmy John WITHOUT reading him in on it, well, he'd just have to fuck up their whole day, though he doubted the people he worked for would want him pissed off, and the first guy he lit up, at least three rounds into the torso and one into the neck before he went down, but hell, he was pumping out lead as fast as he could, give Jimmy John time, give him time to read it and either get in the fight or get the fuck gone...get outta here, Jimmy....

 

Jimmy John Wylde

At the first shot, I grabbed Lizzy and ran her towards the door. Silent Kai grabbed her and I yelled "Get her inside, call the cops!"

And I grabbed my brand new redone Glock 19, the grip rough in my hand and a perfect fit, just like Deon, little finger feeling for the extension of the Dawson mag and I pied out around the corner of the building where the guard shack for the parking lot was taking fire and...

"Jimmy John, get outta here! Get outta..."

That was Hank's voice.

"NO!" I shouted, and I came around, putting fire down range where Hank's cone intersected and overlapped with mine, and the white van was in that intersection. There were two down and one half in and out, the driver either dead or wounded because Hank was servicing the shit out of the driver's windshield, keep 'em in the vehicle, take away their mobility, bonded bullets on glass, through the glass and into the body of the car, and I kept it up on the open door, put some through the sheet metal into where the occupants would be huddled back, because there is nothing more frightening than bullets tearing through sheet metal when you're inside a metal box and can't get out, unless it's on fire... and I saw a leg come out and put one through it and then grabbed for another Dawson mag, slapped it into place and then --

-- Hank had stopped, too. Ears ringing, I looked around. No sirens yet.

"Jimmy! Get the fuck out of here!"

"No! You go! Go! I got this!"

And then a black Suburban smashed into Hank's Cherokee and knocked it, and him, back about ten feet.

The Cherokee burst into flames...

 

Dee Dee Kozak

This was a pretty fuck up if ever there was one. Dee Dee was no stranger to gunplay but she preferred a particular type; she was an ambusher, a shooter from a position of surprise with all things stacked in her favor. She most decidedly was *not* someone who sought out a gunfight face to face and head to head without a whole ton of back up, tactical air, indirect and direct fire, maybe even some drones with Hellfires. Now, just who the hell was this about?

All of that went through her pretty head a whole lot faster than it could be said, or written, as she sussed it all out. Now, just WHO the hell was that shooting at that van, and WHO the hell was shooting at him and was this about her, or just that random violence thing that crops up from time to time?

She grabbed Kiki by the arm and hustled her towards the side exit, teetering in her high heel boots, and along the way she snaked her free hand down the front of her tight leather pants to the pouch right in front of her hip hollow and pulled out the Beretta 21A she kept there, feather-light but a whole lot better than bashing a bad guy with her purse, get to the door, one-way out, bang hard on it and yell: "Let us in!"

The door opened wide and there was a scared looking girl in a bathrobe standing there. Dee Dee dragged Kiki through, then pulled the door shut and said to the scared dancer: "Is there a door on the other side of the building?"

She elbowed the scared silent dancer out of the way and dragged Kiki down the hall. Kiki called back to the dancer: "Thank you! Thanks for not leaving us out there!"

Down a hallway, women screaming to each other, and there, like an island of calm in the middle of a great storm, stood Lizzy, her cellphone to her ear.

"Lizzy!" Dee called.

Lizzy waved her over, and Kiki stopped and stared at the tall blonde dancer.

"What the fuck, Lizzy?" Dee said.

Lizzy held up her hand. "Nina, can you come now? There's a gunfight..."

And then Lizzy looked at Dee and Kiki. "Help is on the way."

 

Nicholas Le Fronte, aka Nico

Nina turned the car sharply around and hit the siren. The light bar in the dash began to flash blue.

"Where we going? What's going on?" Nico said.

"Shooting in progress. 'bout a mile from here."

"Well," Nico said. "At last. Something I can do."

"You got the talking part done," Nina said. "This is heavy."

Nico rolled down the window. Over the siren and the racing engine, he heard the steady crack of rifle and pistol fire.

His partner whipped the squad in and out of traffic, came around turns like a stone pro on a closed track.

And on the straightaway, wrong way down the block, he saw figures outside a building, and at least one car on fire...

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

Fire...

He rolled away, felt scar tissue crack and break, the pain shut away, partially from the drugs, partially from force of long habit, and while he was down here better slap another magazine into place, wish he had a happy stick, even though they were a pain in the ass to transport concealed, but the Dawsons were almost as many rounds, and fit flush to the butt, so he inserted one, his thick fingers still able to do so, press checked the chamber just to be sure, and then rolled on his side, pushed himself up slowly and he heard the cadence of fire coming around, pointed his pistol, swearing under his breath, and Jimmy John his own self, coming around, pistol locked out and the falling brass a fountain of joy if you were a shooter, arcing up out of the pistol, and then he grabbed Hank by the sleeve pulled him up, yelled "Reload!" and dropped to one knee, slamming a mag into place as Hank took over the fire because, surprise surprise, there was at least one cool head (relatively speaking) inside that van, who was sending some heavy lead their way, but the advantage Hank had was mobility and volume of *aimed* fire, while the guy inside the van was shooting out the shattered windshield and had a limited arc of fire, and then Jimmy was yelling "Up!" and he got up, shoulder to shoulder just like the old-timey times and then Jimmy John looked him in the eye and Hank registered the shock and the sorrow and horrible, horrible guilt all at the same time and he shouted out of the slit of his mouth, "Service your target, motherfucker!" and inside, he wished he had time for his eye drops, because his eyes hurt something fierce right now, and he was probably dripping blood out of his tear ducts, that had to be what it was...

 

Jimmy John Wylde

Hank...oh God, Hank...

There was nothing there but a round white scar, slit for a mouth, two holes for a nose and those eyes... that was Hank, darker and fiercer and hurt, but it was Hank...and he shot like Hank, locked out in Isosocles, head tilted to the right to better line up his eye, and tracked like the turret of an Abrams.

"Service your target, motherfucker!" the scarred man snarled, and that was Hank...

I locked back on and emptied my magazine at the remaining shooter, dimly seen, in the shattered wreck of a van. I dropped my magazine and slapped another into place, scanned, listened. So did Hank.

Sirens inbound.

Screams from somewhere inside the building.

No movement from the van.

The tinkle of falling glass, the low rumble and occasional hitch of the van's motor, still idling.

Hank's breathing, labored in the chest, wheezing through the upper lungs...

"Burn scars in the lungs," Hank said. "That's what causes it."

I stared into his eyes, the deep blue wounded wells of his eyes.

"You gotta get outta here, Hank," I said. "The cops are inbound...can you do it?"

An unmarked vehicle squealed to a stop. Nina Capushek jumped out, pistol in her capable hands, while some long-haired plain clothes guy scuttled around to the trunk and appeared a second later with a M-4, chambered a round, then tucked it into his shoulder socket like an appendage that had been there all his life...

"Jimmy? Anybody hurt?" Nina called. "You and your buddy, put your guns up. Now! Just put 'em away."

The other cop tracked on both of us.

"Tell you guy to ease up, Nina," I said. "We're putting 'em away."

Red liquid ran from Hank's eyes. He tucked his pistol back into a dangling MIC holster and slipped it into his waistband.

"Officer?" Hank said. "I have medical conditions. I need to sit down, and I need to put some drops in my eyes. May I do so?"

Nina looked at him, and to her credit, she was way fast on the uptake. She read the situation and him faster than even I, who'd lived and breathed with this guy, could do.

"Sir," she said. "Please sit down. Do you need medical assistance?"

"No," he said. "I got it."

He settled himself down gingerly on the curb, and took out an inhaler. He took a long hit, put the inhaler away, popped two pills, his hands shaking, and then took an eye drop bottle out and dropped liquid into his eyes till red streams ran down his face.

The young guy scanned the area, dropped his carbine to a low ready, looked at Hank.

"Where'd you catch it, dude?" the young guy said.

"The 'stan," Hank said.

"You need anything? Want some water?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'd like some water."

The young guy went back to the squad, came back with a bottle, handed it to him.

Nina stayed behind the vehicles and covered the van, and then the uniforms began stacking up on the street, followed by EMS. Covered by the squads, Nina and her partner approached the van, followed by two cautious uniformed pairs.

I sat on the curb next to Hank, who handed me the half empty bottle of water.

"Just like old-timey times, huh?" Hank said.

I drank some water. "Yeah. It is."

"It's a fine mess you've landed us in, Ollie."

We both laughed.

"Guns?" I said.

"I'm a medically retired federal law enforcement officer," Hank said. "Got me a fancy laminated card that says so. I can carry a weapon anywhere. No worries."

"Backstop?"

"To the nines, my friend. To the nines."

"Well, then. Here we are. Is this your idea of a near miss?"

"No. Not mine. You know better."

"So?"

He laughed, a wheezing, frightening sound. "I know you don't believe in coincidence, Jimmy John. So let's just say the Finger of God pointed me this way this afternoon. And we'll just have to leave it at that."

"Thank you."

Hank turned and looked straight ahead. "You'd have done the same for me. If you were able."

I couldn't say anything.

 

Dee Dee Kozak

Oh, well, fuck me silly, Dee Dee thought. She peeked out around the girls crowded in the front and saw the bouncer from Moby Dick's sitting on the curb next to some seriously fucked up guy, and two plain clothes cops, one of them the woman that Lizzy had waved to, moving in on the van. That is *so* not who I want to see right now...

"Lizzy? We got to get out of here...is there any other way out of the lot?" Dee said.

Lizzy said, "Yes. I'll ask Kai. There's a chain on the 2d Avenue side that he can unlock and you can drive out that way."

"Honey, if this is how you gals party, I don't know if we can hang! Let's go!" Dee followed Lizzy with Kiki in her wake.

 

Kiki Warren

Oh My God! This was too cool! In the course of 24 hours, she'd stolen a million dollars, been in a strip club AND seen a real gunfight...and she hadn't even really gotten warmed up yet!

I love my life. What's next?

"What's next, boss?" she said.

Dee Dee looked at her and grinned. "I'm thinking a quiet cocktail somewhere, how about you? What do you like?"

"Margaritas."

"Had a lot of those, have you?"

Kiki had to blush, look down. "No."

"Hey, you girls!" someone called.

Kiki looked over and saw the most creepy looking old Chinese man in a wheelchair, grinning at her and waving her over. "Come here, girl! You! Come here?"

"Me? You don't want to talk to me!" Kiki said.

"Sure! You don't need to be afraid of me! Come here now!" the old man insisted.

Curiosity killed the cat, or the Kitten, but it had also taken her far in her career, so Kiki stepped up to the old Chinese man.

"What do you want?" she said.

"You want to make some money?"

"Shut up! Perv! No F-ing way!"

"Not that, stupid girl! Are you stupid? You don't look stupid. You look very smart. Are you smart or are you stupid?"

"I'm smart," Kiki said.

"Here," the old man said. He held up a flash drive. "You know what this is?"

"Yes."

"You take it. You know how to e-mail?"

"What am I, retarded?"

"E-mail address on the drive. You see?"

Kiki looked at it. "Yes, I see."

"Easy job. You take this, you upload to that e-mail address. Drive wipe itself. I give you $100."

"What is it?"

"You don't need to know."

"Hah," Kiki said. "You don't know what I need and don't need." She tossed the flash drive back into his lap. "Keep it."

"Okay, $500."

"No." She turned away and saw Dee glaring at her. She looked over her shoulder at the old man, still grinning, waving good bye to her. He called over one of the waitresses, buff body like a weight lifter or a Crossfit queen, and started his rap with her.

"What was that all about?" Dee said.

"Am I wearing a sign that says 'hacker' on it?" Kiki said. "Guy wanted me to load a virus or something for him."

"Really?"

"For real."

Dee gave the old man a hard look, then back to Kiki. "Well, you do look like that hacker chick in the movie."

Kiki laughed. "Cool!"

Tony Po

This is not so good, Tony thought. Those killers had come for him. Why else would they be here? And he was still holding the data. He needed to get rid of it. Lance was not an option; he would tell, and his minder would be back from the door soon and prevent it.

So who?

The tall red-haired woman, the dancer, she came by, holding a big bag with a rolled up pad on it. He clutched at her for a moment.

"Beautiful girl?" he said.

She looked at him, and she was beautiful -- brilliant blue eyes and red hair, tall and lean with huge breasts over a flat belly. She stopped and leaned over him, and the kindness in her face took him off guard; she didn't look like a dancer, she looked like... a goddess.

"What can I help you with?" she said.

Tony shifted gears; this was unlooked for. "I...I need some help." He held up the flash drive. "I need this e-mailed to the address on it, please. Right away. Or there might be trouble."

She took it in her hand without hesitation, smiled. "I'll do it for you. What's your name?"

"Tony."

"Okay, Tony," she said. "I'm Lizzy. I'll do it in just a little bit."

"Thank you, Lizzy, very much." He paused. "I'm sorry, you don't seem like a dancer."

She touched his cheek. "Oh, I'm a dancer all right. I'll see you later..."

He watched her go, and his usual licentiousness was held in check. "I hope so," he murmured. "Be careful, beautiful girl..."

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

This was a fine mess. Mr. Smith hunkered into himself, accentuating his weak and injured appearance, while police and EMS and fire fighters bustled around, taping off the scene, detectives tapping and pointing uniforms to work, the press arriving along with a crowd, and he just sat and tried to think through his next steps.

Which would require a whole lot more than a two-step, that's for sure. He'd broken cover, procedures, tradecraft and more than a few traffic regulations right here. It was going to take some undoing.

Jimmy John was deep in a heated negotiation with that woman cop. Powerful energy around that woman; her broken nose drew his attention. Why didn't she get that fixed? Wasn't quite the same as his issue, but in the same genre. Hers was the easy fix.

But then, maybe she didn't want to get it fixed. And that was a statement in and of itself, wasn't it? Women were funny that way.

She led Jimmy over to where he sat on the curb. "Mr. Smith?" she said.

"Yes, officer."

"This isn't the kind of thing I can just cut you loose from. I apologize for that. But Jimmy knows you, we've got your ID, and I can see that you have some medical things you need to tend to. Do you need transport from EMS or can someone drive you down there?"

"I'm fine. Really. I've got all I need in my motel room. I've been living with this a long time."

She nodded. She never let her eyes turn from his. "Okay. Your call. I'm going to have one of the uniforms drive you by your motel. You take all the time you need. He'll bring you down, and you can give your statement. Do you have a local attorney you want to use?"

"I have an attorney, but he's not local."

"Fine, whatever you need."

"I can set up a phone link with him. Would that be okay?"

"Sure. We have conference phones down there. I can put you in one of those rooms for the interview."

"I'll drive him," Jimmy said.

"Rather you didn't, Jimmy," she said. "Stretching things here. Just do it my way, 'kay?"

"I'm good, Jimmy," Mr. Smith said. "It's fine."

"Off the record?" she said. "We should be able to get your gun back to you pretty quick. Nobody but the baddies hurt, and I don't think the strays hit anything but some cars in the lot, and those might not have been yours anyway. We'll need test fire samples, a spectograph and image of the barrel and chamber, we'll get it back to you."

"I can still carry, right?" Smith said.

The cop tapped her toes together, grinned. "Won't be me pulling your claws, tiger. You go right ahead. You can back me up anytime."

And for the first time, in a very long time, Mr. Smith felt the flush of something like true warmth wash over him.

 

Nicholas Le Fronte, aka Nico

"Why'd you let him go?" Nico said. "I could have taken him down, knocked this out."

"Respect. Something I think you'd understand, but then, I've been known to overestimate you," Nina said.

"Fuck you, Nina. Really. Fuck you. I'm not judging you, I'm asking you so I can figure out what your rules are. I'm trying to play this the way you want, and you don't exactly go out of your way to inform me, do you?"

He shook his head in disgust.

"Ease up, cowboy," Nina said. "Yours not to question why..."

"Yeah, yeah, mine just to ride and die. I remember that one."

"Sometimes you actually impress me."

"Fuck you."

"He's Old School, that guy. And he's a friend of Jimmy's, and I got his ID, so he's not going anywhere. He was in some pain and instead of tying up EMS, he can deal with it himself. Guy like that, who handle himself like that? He won't take kindly to anyone trying to coddle him."

"True, that," Nico said. "Caught him some shit, that one."

"What causes those kind of burns?" Nina said.

"Probably an IED. Caught in a troop carrier or a helo, or just in the blast. Or a truck. I knew a driver for KBR, got knocked out by the concussion when his truck caught on fire after getting hit by a roadside IED, he got cooked, most of his face looked like that."

"You'd think they'd have plastic surgery to deal with that."

Nico looked at her nose, started to say something, reined himself in just in time.

"When it covers that much territory, there's only so much they can do," he said. "Hard to build, and it takes time between surgeries to recover."

Nina stared off into space. "Yeah. All right. Let's get back on the job we set out to do. We got bigger fish to fry."

"You're the boss."

"Now you're learning."

 

Lance T

"Are you telling me those guys came for him?" Lance said. He was squared up on the mostly silent Hmong bodyguard slash wheelchair pusher.

The bodyguard shrugged. "Probably."

"Probably? What the fuck you mean probably? You get the boss on the phone, we're going to talk..."

"No. He doesn't want to talk on the phone. You promised him that Mr. Po could stay here. Mr. Po stays here. The boss will call you when he wants to talk to you."

"Get him off the floor. I want him up in the room...no, hell no. I want him out of here."

The bodyguard shook his head no, stolid to the end. "No. He cannot go. He must stay here."

"Then get him upstairs. In the room, both of you. And I'm talking to your boss."

"No problem, Lance T, no problem," Tony Po said. "You right, I need to be elsewhere. C'mon, we go!"

And the long-suffering Hmong bodyguard wheeled the old man to the freight elevator.

Lance watched them go. I don't need this shit.

He picked up a phone.

 

Dee Dee Kozak

Now just what the FUCK have I wandered into now?

She kept her back to the crowd as she hurried Kiki along to the car.

"I'll call you later!" she shouted back at Lizzy, who disappeared inside.

Item: Lizzy's boyfriend turns out to be #2 Hard Body on her hit parade. Mr. Bouncer from Moby Dick's, a stone-serious shooter and running buddy to her long-lost lover boy Deon from South Africa equals Lizzy's boyfriend?

She had to give friend-girl points, though. Nice catch.

"Where we going?" Kiki said.

"Someplace else, baby gal," Dee Dee said. "Things are just too hot and heavy here. Catching lead would wreck my do."

Kiki laughed till she squeaked.

In the car, and pulling out, making sure her face was turned away from where Lizzy's beau was in serious conversation with that heavy hitter woman cop and her scary looking partner with the long gun. So how do I turn this shit into chicken salad?

Tore off down the street, Kiki pressed back, a big grin on her face, when something came back to her.

"Kiki? What did that old man want again? The Chinese guy?"

"The old perv? He wanted me to download something for him. No way. Probably porn or something. On a flash drive."

"Did he give it to someone else?"

"Yeah, the stripper. The one that you were talking to. Liza."

"Lizzy," Dee said. "Lizzy. Did she take it away?"

"Yep."

"Why would he want someone else to load it for him?"

Kiki pondered that.

"It *is* kinda weird. He didn't have a computer?"

"Then what's he doing with a flash drive? And what's so important that it has to go up, like now, and he's willing to hand it over to a complete stranger?"

Kiki looked stricken. "Should I have taken it? I didn't..."

"No. You did good. First rule, right? Never trust anyone. At least not till you get to know them. You did right. I just have to wonder...that guy's Asian, those shooters are Asian, he wants to dump something onto the Internet right after so bad that he's willing to hand it off to a complete stranger and trust them to do it? What do you make of that?"

"You know...I don't know. If it was something important, why take a chance on somebody you don't know? He must have been there with someone, he didn't just wheel himself in there, did he? Can you do that in a wheelchair?"

"Probably. So how does that work? With a flash drive?"

"He could have an auto-execute program with a stripped browser. All you'd need to do is plug it into any computer with an active Internet connection, and the program would send it where it needs to go. With a flash drive, you can load a stripped OS or a virus or...."

"All he needs to do it is stick it into a computer with an active Internet connection?"

"Pretty much, yeah. With some programs, even if the computer isn't connected, a stealth program will load and as soon as it connects to the Internet, then the program takes care of the rest. Doesn't take much."

Dee Dee put pedal to the metal. "Time to earn your pay, Neo."

"What you got?"

"I want you on the Internet connection out of The Trojan Horse. I want you to find out what that was when Lizzy loads it."

"How do you know she will?"

"She's nice like that. If she said she will, she will. I gotta tell you, though...she sure runs with a scary boyfriend."

"You know him?"

Dee Dee jutted her jaw. "I'll just say I know a bit about him."

She raced through the streets to the hotel.

 

Deon Oosthuizen

Deon nursed his second beer at the Gunfighters Table in the back of Moby Dick's. Thieu watched him from the bar, and he raised his glass in a gentle salute and acknowledgment.

"Love me, don't you, missie?" he said.

"Shut up, old fool. You want more beer?"

"In just a tick, darling woman. Will you marry me?"

"No."

He grinned and sipped his beer, shifted in his seat. Since the shooting, he'd decided to up-gun a bit, and had two Para Ordnance .45s holstered, one strong side and one cross-draw, with a total of 4 extra magazines, one dual-mag pouch on each side, and another one dropped into the right hand pocket of his coat.

No such thing as too much ammo in a gunfight.

Brought to mind a little altercation he'd had in Bredell, outside a farmhouse, with three home-invaders armed with AKs who'd caught him out in the yard. He'd run through all three magazines of his primary in about 7 seconds, 25 rounds, and fortunately for him, each of the baddies had backstopped 6-7 COM along the way. He'd advanced on them with an empty gun and picked up an AK when two of their friends, frozen in the grass during the shooting, popped up.

He'd given them the Custom Deon Service as well.

He loved those old 1911s, still had the one he'd taken off a dead pilot in that B-52 out in the deep jungle, but he kept that back to avoid embarrassing questions should he ever have to turn it over for awhile and go through the whole electronic search thing.

Guns. Like that song old Jimmy loved so well, Lawyers Guns and Money. It's what made the world go round.

And women, of course.

His cellphone vibrated. He took it out. Jimmy.

"Oi, oke," he said. "All right?"

"You hear?"

"What?"

"Hit down at the Trojan."

"You all right?"

"Yeah."

"Lizzy?"

"Fine."

"What do you need me to do?"

"A crew that can handle being around beautiful naked women, booze, and keep their heads straight and their shooting irons holstered till they need to bring them out."

Deon laughed. "Don't want much, do you now, oke? That's a tough bill. Let me think on that."

"Don't think too long. I'm down here now. Nina took off. I'll fill you in when you get here. There's something going down..."

"Lizzy?"

"Not her specifically. But while she's here..."

"For you, mate. Nobody else. I'll see to it myself. And bring a gentleman with me."

"You know someone like that?"

"You're awfully hard for someone asking a favor."

"Wish someone would ask me to hang out in a strip club and shoot bad guys."

"There's that. See you shortly. Shall I bring you a long?"

"Good idea."

"I'm thinking a few of those lovely 416s I got in will do just fine."

"See you soon. Text me or call me when you're inbound."

"Will do, oke."

Deon grinned, his lips peeled back to expose his long incisors. "Lovely." He punched in a number. Waited. "Guz? Deon. Got a bit of the serious. You available right now? As in, right now?"

He nodded.

"Yes. Day rate is no problem. Think you'll enjoy the venue. We're running SBR indoors and close, urban. I'll have the kit at the shop. Meet me there, I'll have you sorted. We'll go together. Yes? Good. See you in a tick."

He drained off his beer, left a five-dollar bill on the table. "Theiu, my beauty, I must go. Are you sure you won't go home with me?"

"You see Jimmy?"

"Yes, I'll see him."

"You make sure he okay. Him and Lizzy, I think maybe something going on."

That made him stop. "Why do you say that?"

Theiu shrugged, her tiny birdlike shoulders raising towards her ears like a sparrow's wings. "I do cards. My cards say much trouble coming. Those two, they are both very beautiful but they are like lights in the darkness. They draw things. They are lucky to have you watch over them."

She shrugged. "You are crazy, Deon, but you are a good man. Like an angel."

He laughed. "Let me look outside and see if pigs are flying?"

She threw a dish towel at him. "Get out, crazy pig. Go away. Go take care of our friends. Come back later, I give you a beer."

Deon left, laughing as he went, conscious of her secret gaze on his back.

 

Lizzy Caprica

"I'll be fine, Jimmy," Lizzy said. She drew her hand down her man's cheek, his hard brown eyes softening, as they did, when she touched him. That was the magic of the two of them that she loved so much; a man like this, who only shared his inner softness with her, hidden away in all that fierceness. "Really."

"Deon and a friend. They'll be here as long as you are, we'll see you home."

"I want to come over."

He thought it through. "Yes. Okay. They'll take you there and stay till I get back."

"Thank you."

He leaned forward, brushed her lips with his, raised goose bumps on her, whispered, "See you then."

She watched her warrior stalk away, and felt the girls atwitter behind her.

"Girl," one of them said. "I'd almost give up women for that man."

Lizzy laughed. "I almost did, too."

Laughter.

The women returned to the dancer's lounge, and Lizzy went to her make up table, searched through her bag and laid out her CD for the night's dance routine. She set the flash drive on the table, looked at it, then at the statues of the Buddha and the Kwan-Yin on her table.

Tapped the drive with her finger, picked it up and went to the computer station Lance T had set up for the girls. Tiffany, black and muscled like the Crossfit Queen she was, scrolled through her Facebook page.

"Tiff, let me on when you get through?"

"Sure, baby. I'm getting off right now. Fucking mens. I hate Facebook. All I get is mens sending me pictures of they dick."

Lizzy laughed. "Any good ones?"

"No dick is good dick, girl. Unless they come in here and give me some money. All about the bank, right? Hey, you got that realtor's number, you friend?"

"In my purse. Just a minute?"

"Yeah, baby. Here. Go ahead."

Lizzy slipped into the still-warm seat, closed the browser, and inserted the flash drive. The green LED on the drive lit up. After a moment, a disk icon appeared on the desktop. She clicked on it. There was a single file labeled "Click Here." She did. The file opened up and a progress bar opened: "Searching." Then an IP number appeared, and then another progress bar started ticking off an upload of 240 GB. Lizzy closed her eyes and began to hum the Gayatri Mantra to herself, "Om bhur bhuvasva, suva, tat savitur varenyam, bhargo dhivasya, dhimahi, dhiyo yonaha, pracho dayath..."

It took four rounds of three before there was a ping and the status box said: Upload completed.

Lizzy ejected the drive and weighed it in her hand.

"Did anyone see where that man in the wheelchair went?" she called to the room at large.

"Chinese pervert motherfucker," one of the girls said. "I think Lance threw him out."

"No," Tiffany said. "They stuck him upstairs in Lance's spare apartment."

"Why?" Lizzy said.

"He's some friend of Lance's."

"I didn't know that."

"Drinks for free and dances for less? Hell yes, he's Lance T's friend. Better be."

Lizzy rose from the chair, all muscle and flow, her long red hair trailing behind her, went out the door and up the stairs, down the hall and knocked on the apartment door. The silent Hmong man who pushed the chair opened the door.

"We don't want anything," he said.

"I have something for your friend."

"Let her in, fool! Move!" the man in the wheel chair said. He bumped the younger man out of the way. "You come in!"

"It's all right," Lizzy said. "Here."

The old man snatched the drive back and shot a glance at his younger companion. "Did you do this?"

"Yes," Lizzy said. "It's done."

"Thank you! Wait, I pay you..."

"No need," Lizzy said.

"It's done?"

"Yes," Lizzy said. "It's done."

She turned and walked away.

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

The young cop, Officer Rice, had done two tours with the 82d before he'd taken the cop test and gone through the Academy.

"It's a good gig," Officer Rice said. "Scary how sometimes it starts to look like Iraq over here, you get over on the north side and it's just like Mogadishu. Never been there, but some of the Rangers I worked with were in the Battle of the Black Sea. You done time in the Mog?"

Mr. Smith knew what the real question was: You with CAG, DEVGRU, OGA -- you Tier One, you one of the rock star meat-eating cowboys of the special operations world? Or you just another regular grunt like me, a burned and bloodied veteran of a harsh and ugly war?

"No," Mr. Smith said. "Before my time. I was in 7th Group when I got dinged. In the 'stan."

"Lotta my buddies went SF," Rice said. He rattled off some names, one of whom Mr. Smith recognized.

"No," Smith said. "I don't know any of those guys. I was pretty much a cherry. Then I got flambed."

Rice laughed. "Sorry..."

"Don't be. You know Jimmy John?"

"Wylde?" Rice paused, a beat too long that told Smith what he wanted to know. "No. Not really. He's friends with Detective Capushek."

"Broken nose?"

"Don't ever call her that where she can hear you."

"Tough one, huh?"

Rice grinned and nodded. "Yeah. She's a fucking ball buster. Rumor was she was a dyke, but she's not. Just don't date anybody on the PD. Keeps herself to herself. She was the only woman ever invited to try out for SWAT. Kicked ass, but decided not to do it. She's top gun in Special Investigations, works for LT Fabruzzi, puts her on all the hot shit. Serious gunfighter, too. She's been in about eleven shootings, all straight up gunfights, and they buried every one that she ran across."

"How'd she get that broken nose? She's a beautiful woman you take that away."

"She never talks about it. Rumor was she got it broke on the job up in Minneapolis, before she came down here. Don't ask her, either. Pisses her off."

"I'll remember that. Appreciate you driving me down here."

"No worries. This the place?"

"Yeah."

They pulled into the Motel 6. "Nice spot," Rice said, straight faced.

"It's cheap. And they leave the lights on for you."

They laughed.

"I'll wait here," Rice said.

"Thanks. I'll need a few, got to get my meds, give myself a shot."

"Need any help?"

"No. I'm good. Thank you."

Smith limped off, moving slowly, the very picture of a tired, near-crippled man. Till he got in his room.

"Fuck me swinging," he said, the words hissing between clenched teeth. He grabbed his med go-bag, hit the series of shots and added a little shot of happy juice to bring him back to some semblance of nice and calm. It was all he could do not to go over and push the button the charges stacked neatly in Pelican cases against the wall and blow himself up and end this goat fuck.

"How did I get here? How the fuck did I get here?" he said. "Rhetorical question."

No sterilizing this, with a fucking cop sitting outside. Pelican cases all locked, gear secured in locked duffel bags looped with cable locks to the cases. And the motel management knew better than to go in his room when he wasn't there. Micro-cams in place. He picked up the spare iPhone, turned it on, tapped the board to call up the interior of the room from the remote web-server, set it on frame every two seconds for capture as well as real-time on call...spare gun, identical Glocker from his stash, and restock his mag pouches, okay, ready to roll...docs in place.

Now the part he was dreading.

He took the secure phone, tapped in a number, which took him to a voice proxy on a VOIP connection, which further connected him via a VPN tunnel to a server in a place far, far away...

"402," a mechanical voice answered.

"402, this is Domino 37."

"Domino 37, ID sequence."

He spelled it out, slowly and clearly. "D. O. M. I. N. O. Tree. Seven."

A moment of silence while voice stress and vocal signature were run through a complex algorithm against a detailed computer digitization of his voice.

"Stand by." Silence. Then a human voice. "Go ahead, Domino."

"Backstop activated. Street crime compromise. Police involvement."

Smith studied a small hand-held electronic device he held which blocked any and all electronic bugs that might be active within 100 yards.

"Understood. Are you injured?"

"No."

"Are you in custody?"

"No. I am being transported for a statement."

"Fatalities."

"Yes."

A faint clicking, someone tapping on a keyboard. "Backstop is active, I'll be on the phone. Do you need to refresh any points?"

"No."

"As soon as you're clear, we'll need a brief."

"Understood. That will come via voice packet."

"Yes. Standing by."

"Thank you."

"Yes."

The phone went dead.

"Ah," Mr. Smith, aka Hank, aka a dozen different names over the years, sighed. "I am well and truly fucked."

He stared at the blistered egg white that was his face in the mirror. "It's a fine mess you've landed us in, Ollie."

And then he put on his best semblance of a happy face, and went out the door.

 

Irina Komorov, Meet Kiki

"And who is this?" Irina demanded.

"Your new Best Friend Forever, Rina," Dee said, throwing her purse into an overstuffed armchair. "Set up over there, baby."

Irina held both hands up. "Who is this? I want to know!"

"Kiki, meet Rina. Rina, meet Kiki," Dee said.

"Hey," Kiki said.

"Who is Kiki?" Irina said.

"Rina, shut up," Dee said. "Kiki is part of the crew. And, right now, a whole hell of a lot more important than you. Got it? Kiki is handling the money. You know, the thing that makes the world go round? The thing you promised me so I would take care of the loose ends? Which, by the way, we have to talk about, because one of those loose ends almost bit me in my fine firm ass earlier today."

Irina had to take that in. It wouldn't do to lose her temper; she had too much to lose. Slipping the leash here would not be easy, either.

"You are the computer girl?" Irina said.

Kiki looked at Dee to take her cue, then she shrugged her birdlike shoulders and said, "Yeah."

"Good," Irina said. "I hear you are good."

"I am."

"Good."

"Well, now that everything is *good*, we're going to get the fuck out of Kiki's way and let her work her magic. Kiki, what do you need?"

"An outlet and some space."

Dee cleared the work-station and set the chair in front of it. "Here you go. Gotta love a hotel with an executive work station. You want something to drink? Water?"

"Mountain Dew."

"Honey, that shit will rot...okay. Mountain Dew. That's what we got room service for. What to eat?"

"M&Ms. Peanut."

Dee Dee laughed. "I suppose you want me to pick out all the blue ones first, right? You better hack like a rock star, baby."

"Oh, I do," Kiki said.

"I know you do," Dee Dee said. "So. First. I want you to run the sourcing on that strip club. Second. I want you to talk me through the money transfers. Third. I want you to move some of that money to some different accounts. Can do?"

"Yep."

Irina pulled a chair up. "I can watch?"

"Whatever," Kiki said.

This was important, Irina thought. And I do not understand how it is done. I am dependent on a little girl to do this. She leaned forward, studied the monitor intently, the scrolling code, the multiple windows, the steady clacking of keys, while Dee Dee called in an order.

"Yes. M&Ms. How hard is that? Fine, charge it to the room. And not the small packs. If you only have the small packs send up, oh, ten or so of them. Thank you!"

Dee went into the bathroom.

"How long have you done this?" Irina said.

"Since I was 6 or 7."

"How old are you now."

"I'm....almost 14."

Irina took that in. "You are very smart. You are a genius?"

The girl reddened. "I don't know about that."

"I think maybe you are. I do not know anyone who can do this. And I know many people."

"It's not so hard."

"If you have a gift."

Kiki shrugged, embarrassed.

"Whatever."

She crouched like a predatory bird over the keyboard. Irina studied the girl's face. Very young. Smart, too smart, and very sensitive in the way of young girls who have not yet known hard things. Though many things seem hard when you are a young girl. Rina was selling herself at 14, and some part of her, buried deep inside, was angry at this brilliant young girl, who had a skill that didn't require her to be on her knees in front of fat old men.

"Can you teach me this?" Rina said.

Kiki looked up, surprised. "Uh, I dunno. I've never taught anyone. I don't think that I want to."

"I will pay you."

"She's got a job," Dee Dee said.

Irina turned and looked up at the assassin, who had been standing there for some time. There was a knock at the door. Dee went and let a waiter wheel a cart in, who accepted a signature and left.

"Here you go, kiddo," Dee said. "All the food groups. Chocolate, sugar, caffeine, sugar, corn syrup, more sugar. Throw in some red meat and a cube of butter, we'd have it licked."

"Helps me think," Kiki said defensively.

"You thinking makes me money," Dee said. "So eat up. Think. Make us money."

Kiki ripped open a pack of peanut M&Ms, washed them down with a glass of Mountain Dew from a fine goblet. Grinned and worked the keyboard.

Irina watched her and watched Dee. Wanted one, and hated the other.

 

Tony Po

Stared out the window and remembered Vientiane. Laotian girls, delicate and fine boned, so amazingly soft, their skin smoother than silk. Black coffee softened with hot milk on the terrace of a fine hotel. Custom silk suits. The jungle. Triple canopy and the plod and suck of mud beneath his sandals. Poppy fields. So beautiful in the light, their orange blossoms turning to follow the sun. And the long rows of bamboo sheds where the opium was processed, the poppy bulbs milked.

Sacks of raw opium, and then, later, with the help of the pragmatists of the CIA, processing into heroin at select forward camps, conveniently built beside airstrips. The money paid for guns and equipment and food and shelter for the families of the stolid brown men who lined up to take their pay and follow the white men, among them the Tony Poe from whom he had borrowed his name.

Money.

Stacks of it. And then, later, the sophistication of moving it around. Though Tony, with the canniness of a multiple war survivor, made sure to keep a good portion in gold. Gold people understood. You can take gold anywhere and turn it into whatever you need. Easy to assay, easy to carry enough to get a start. Easier than diamonds. That required an expertise you had to find. Gold you can test with a kit yourself. Diamonds were harder that way, though a good way to transport significant value from one place to the next before the crack down on blood diamonds. And in the age of the Internet, moving money was done with the touch of a few keys.

Or the uploading of an expensive custom program.

Like the one he held in his hand.

And what was moved, in this instance, could not be unmoved. Without him and his willing participation. The wonders of technology cut both ways, and that was what he was counting on. He was a survivor, of many battles, many wars, and many dealings with ruthless men. And he had dealt, ruthlessly, with those who'd crossed him.

But now...

He was an old man. A toothless lion surrounded by the young lions, dependent on their tolerance. Or so they thought. Because what he had, more than any of them, was his experience and his long memory and his long list of friends for whom he had done many favors.

And money.

And most of all what they feared the most.

Secrets.

The things they wanted hidden, he knew. And he had a way to bring them out into the light.

Nothing frightens the dark-siders more than that.

Other than losing their money.

He grinned at that thought. From the days of moving gold to the days of moving electrons. He didn't know how to do it, but he knew how to talk to the young kids who did, the ones who were knee-high nieces and nephews as children and who Uncle T had put through college, paid for their tuition and their spending money and their nice new shiny cars. They paid it back, as dutiful family did, with the kind of favors they were trained to do, and Uncle T had been sure to identify early on the ones who were good with electronics, who liked to tinker with computers and coding and hacking and video games, and those ones got extra attention, a little extra money, and encouragement (and when necessary, a sharp slap) to keep them in school to get the best computer degrees.

He weighed the flash drive in his hand.

The bosses had sent men to kill him for this. Because he was tired of working and was ready to retire, but the sure hand of Tony Po was needed; he was a good earner, the best earner there was. It wasn't just what he knew, it was who he knew, and what he knew about them, that maybe him almost untouchable, and very very rich -- not just in the bank, but in the currency of favors and access. That, sometimes, maybe most of the time, was worth more than dollars in the bank. Or stacks of gold heaped high in a hidden vault.

He was rich in luck, too. This he knew. More than once he'd felt the urging that was his lucky guardians nudging him: "Talk to this person, talk to that person." And when he did, good things happened. Like seeing that beautiful dancer, and just knowing she would do this favor for him.

Now it was in play.

The program was running.

If they hadn't come for him, he would have sat with it longer. The problem with a threat is that sooner or later you have to act on it or demonstrate it in order for it to be effective. Some people are never cowed, some recover from being cowed, and some will always be easily cowed by the appearance of strength or a threat.

Tony had been threatened by experts. His body bore the scars of a man who'd endured more than one violent encounter. They had come to him to make good on their threat. And he, in turn, had made good on his. So now it was in play.

"Hey!" he said to his bodyguard. "You better get some more friends over here. I don't think those guys are going to let this go."

The bodyguard held up his phone, showed a text the old man couldn't read. "On their way."

And so it begins, Tony Po thought. As it had so many times before. He wondered if, this time, it would be his last.

 

Guz

Went over his gear quickly. He kept it all packed for gigs like this, whether with Deon or one of the other people who kept him on speed-dial, but he hadn't lasted all these years without a skill-set that included checking, double-checking, and then checking again against his lists.

Basic load-out was in his old issue and badly battered Mystery Ranch 3DAP; he favored it because of the very cool and useful three-way zip. He liked the issue Kelty MAP 3500 as well, but the slightly smaller Mystery Ranch forced load discipline on him, and he enjoyed that. Always packed was a trauma kit, cleaning kit for his weapons, spare ammo, light outer shell, admin on a flash drive, $5K in cash, spare socks, snivel gear, energy bars, water, a Norwegian Jerven Duk, paracord and some tiny titanium stakes, his mini-survival kit, 2 knives.

He could go anywhere and do anything with what he had there.

The rest the mission would determine, and since it was Deon, all he had to worry about was a personal weapon to get him there. There was a Colt Mk18 locked in a box in his trunk with a Mayflower plate carrier rigged with magazines and a blow out kit, but that was for true emergencies and not for work. But again, since it was Deon, he'd not have to worry about that.

Guz was neat and tidy and compact, 5 feet 10 inches, deceptively solid -- you wouldn't know to look at him he had practically no body fat at all on him, years on the Teams would do that to a guy -- hair and beard neatly trimmed. He favored a plain glass pair of horn rim glasses; no magnifying ability to them, but they softened his profile, always a challenge for an off-duty SEAL.

It was all about the blend.

Comfortably worn Levis with a tan on tan Ares Gear Ranger Belt, good to go; Salomon low-cuts, check; a baggy and well worn tan Operators Shirt from Drop Zone Tactical. He looked like he was ready for safari. Holsters...well, throw a drop leg in the bag, just in case, and run a snug tight Raven Arms for his Glock 19 on his strong side, a spare mag pouch in front of that, a double mag pouch on his other strong side, tuck a Hissatsu somewhere in there -- fixed blade only, a folding knife started broken -- and he was good to go.

Slung his pack over his shoulder, and he looked like a naturalist going out into the woods, which he did quite often. Guz was at home in the woods, happily so even in the worst of weather, something his Team mates often commented on. Guz never complained, no matter what it was like. Unless it was to make a joke.

Fired up his Wrangler Rubicon, looking over his shoulder to make sure everything was undisturbed. Then drove away from his neat and tidy home, carefully landscaped, staying two miles below the speed limit.

 

Deon Oosthuizen

Looked up at Guz coming through the door. Good lad. Looked like a game keeper or a bloody birdwatcher.

"How you keeping?" Deon said.

Guz grinned. Perfect teeth, like everything else about him. "Fine, thanks, Deon. Nice to see you!"

"You as well. Ready for a bit of work?"

"Yes."

"Here you go, some kit..." Deon pointed at the side counter. Three HK-416s with the 10.3 inch barrel, Aimpoint Micros mounted up top and a Surefire forward, three London Bridge E&E bags set with the tops open.

Guz poked into one, pulled out a Magpul magazine, loaded two down. "ASYM Precison?"

"Only the best for you, lad. You're one of the few that appreciate nuance."

Guz laughed. "So what are we doing?"

"Bit of PSP. Looking after Jimmy's dearest at her club. Seeing her to his place, after. Sitting there."

"What's up with Jimmy?"

"Bit of a bad go outside the club. Still sorting it out. Asian, Hmong probably. Shooters."

"On him? His girlfriend?"

"Don't think so. Jimmy and someone else sorted them out. So there might be a bit of comeback."

"Jimmy. He's just like a lightning rod, isn't he?"

"He is. But he's one of us."

"Yes," Guz said. "He is. So. In close, inside? We're gonna run the long guns?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"Gonna call attention to us."

Deon grinned. "You'll like this." He pulled out three soft guitar cases, popped them open. "I replaced the zip with a velcro tear away. Carbine goes here, the mag-bag here. Grab, tear, mount. Tear aways secure the gun and the bag. We sit just by the DJ, we're elevated...you ever been in there?"

"No. Not my thing."

"Not a bad place to spend some time. The DJ podium, off to the side. Gives you overwatch on the whole floor, the dance runway, all that. You can work close with her back in the lounge, since you are young and strong of heart, and I am old and weak in will. I'll cover in front and when she's on the stage, you can work the floor."

"Comms?"

"Standard. In that case right there. Ear buds, throat mike."

"Gonna be tough with the background noise. Music, what not."

"Fair point. Rather do without?"

"No. Just saying."

"You want body armor?"

"Threat assessment?"

"The ones he killed were running AKs."

"I don't want body armor."

"Light and fast, then?"

"You bet."

"Fair enough. Here. Bit of spending money."

Deon handed Guz a bundle with 7 $100 dollar bills, and $300 in $20s. "Day rate. That'll be good till tomorrow. We'll sort it as we go, I don't think we'll be on this more than a day or two."

Guz split the money into two stacks. One stack went into his cordura combat wallet, the other stack went into the front pocket of his jeans. "Fine with me. I got plenty of time."

"No contracts?"

"Not right now. Way things are, thought I'd stay home for awhile. Work on the yard."

"How are your rose-bushes?"

"Great! I've got eight of them now in the back. Room for more, if need be."

"How did that tree chipper work for you?"

"Was fine, really. You chop the arms and legs off, open the torso, makes it easier to grind it up good. Catch it, mix in some high quality manure, line the hole and plant those roses in. Roses love it. Makes for a really healthy planting mix. Manure helps accelerate the decomposition, and masks the smell...you know, meat and blood when it's hot. But it breaks down pretty fast when you have it chipped down like that."

"How do you clean it? Afterwards, I mean?"

"Hose it down over some saw dust, sweep the saw dust up, it's all good. I wash it down with industrial bleach, too. But c'mon...who goes DNA testing on a wood chipper?"

"Fair point. I hope we don't need to do that, but it's good to have if need be. How's your mum and them?"

"All good, Deon. Thank you."

"I'll have to come by and pay my respects some time."

"She'd like that. So would my aunt."

"How's she taking to Lori?"

Guz shrugged. "Ah. Women. No one will ever be perfect. But Lori works on her. It's all good. Mom's teaching her how to cook her secret Italian dishes."

"Progress, then."

"Yep."

"Shall we get on with it?"

"Two vehicles?"

"One is none..."

"...and two is one. Meet you in the parking lot?"

"Stage one across the street, that would be you; I'll take the lot. We'll have options."

"Let's do it."

 

Jimmy John Wylde

Jimmy John, Jimmy John, where do you belong...

I wondered if that was actually a song somewhere. I remembered my father singing like that to me, as a child, when he rocked me in his arms, but I could only remember a few words from that distant memory: Jimmy John, Jimmy John...

Kai, the formidable bouncer that had worked for Lance T as long as there had been a Trojan Horse, he of the scarred neck where he stopped a Spetsnaz spring blade in an epic fight not that long ago, stood cross-armed beside the coat check counter, and I found myself unconsciously falling into the same pose as though I were working the door at Moby Dick's.

"You can go back with her," Kai whispered. His vocal chords had been damaged in the fight. "I am fine here."

"I'll wait till the guys get here. It'll be safer for everybody."

Kai nodded. The other security people, all unarmed, were as edgy as cats in a pitbull convention. "It will be good, Jimmy."

"I'll wait out front."

The big man nodded. I went out front. It was a sort of psychic attunement, the kind that comes on men when you've worked together for a long time. I saw Deon first, in his battered Cherokee; he gave me a cheery wave as he pulled into the parking lot, waved through by the valet. He slowed down and studied the freshly washed down lot, the bullet scars on the pavement, on the walls outside. Parked the car and got out, a soft guitar case slung over his shoulder, another one in his hand.

A late model Jeep Rubicon pulled into the lot across the street, backed into a position aimed right at the front door. Guz got out.

Guz. Good. Only the best tonight. He too was slinging a guitar case. He did a scan of the streets, of the cars, then crossed the street to me.

"What are you guys? Dos Amigos? Did you bring me some tacos?" I said.

Guz grinned. He was always happy. "Thought we'd send out later."

"I'll buy," I said.

"Fair one," Deon said.

"Is that for me?" I said, pointing at the spare guitar case.

"About time you learned an honest trade. The three of us, we could make a go of it, sing at retirement homes, you know. Troubadours."

I hefted the bag. "What you got for me?"

"We'll sort it inside, lad. 416, mag in it, 28 as usual. Throw bag with ten mags. I put a few spare Glocker mags in there for you. Like the Dawson job I did?"

"Yeah."

"Good kit."

"Came in handy today."

"World's a dangerous place."

Guz grinned. "Wherever I go, everyone is a little safer."

"Let's go make the world a safer place," I said. "Guz, can you handle this? There's naked women in there."

Guz grinned. "My strength is that of ten because my heart is pure."

"I'm glad someone's is," Deon said.

It was going to be an interesting night.

 

Lance T

"I don't want any more of your people down here," Lance said. "I want you to collect Tony and get him out of here."

The man on the other end of the phone, Lance's silent investor, said soothingly, "My friend, I have people on the way. Extra security..."

"You're not hearing me. I don't need your extra security, I need Tony out of here. They, whoever they are, know he's here and they just got their people killed. So if they want him bad enough to come down here looking for him, they're going to come back again and come back a lot harder." Lance was steamed. "Every time this happens, I take a loss, do you understand? That's money out of my pocket and out of yours. This is a business, not a B-movie. You understand?"

"Lance," the other man said. "This is not a negotiable. I will get him moved as soon as I am able. I cannot take him out right now."

"Have your gun men take him to a hotel. They can hide him there."

"I will have my men move him from there when we have another place. That will not be immediately. As soon as I can."

"Look...."

"This discussion is over."

The phone went dead.

Lance looked at his phone, set it down too carefully on his desk, stood. Took a deep breath and pushed it down through his feet, grounding himself out.

Then he picked up his chair and threw it at the wall.

 

Jimmy John Wylde

I had two of the most dangerous men in Lake City with me. I wonder if this is how Attila the Hun felt amongst his Mongoldai. Deon is a known player among the shooters, and he was popular with Lance's girls, as he was a regular with a generous nature. It helped that Lizzy loved him, and made sure the girls took good care of him. Guz? Well, Guz just had The Look. He worked hard to hide it, and to the less discerning, he just looked like a young guy not long out of college who worked out and liked the outdoors. But The Look was like a big bright stamp across his forehead to anyone with more than a little bit of experience with violence of the professional kind.

We went up to the DJ stand, where DJ/VJ Nate was bopping to the tunes in his head as he set up for the rest of the night. He looked up. "You guys with the band?"

"Too right, Nate," Deon said, holding out his free hand, and went through the elaborate handshake ritual Nate favored.

"I don't even want to know what you're gonna play," Nate said, eyeing the soft guitar cases.

"Heavy metal," I said. "Thrasher, AC/DC, you know, classic death metal."

"Dude, you are so old school," Nate said.

"It's because I *am* old," I said.

"Any requests?" Nate said.

"Not from me," I said. "You guys?"

"Do you have Simon and Garfunkel, "The Boxer"?" Guz said.

Nate stared at him. Not a known player. "Bro, this is, uh, a *dance* club. We don't play elevator music in here."

"I like that song," Guz said.

Deon gave Nate the eye. Nate shrugged. "I'll see what I can do, bro."

I slapped Guz on the shoulder. "You're one of a kind, Guz. Let's get set up."

Guz grinned. "How about Stuart Davis? The acoustic version of 'Psycho Killer.' You got that one?"

Nate tilted his head. "I got some Stuart Davis, bro. You're fucking with me, right?"

"Uh, no," Guz said. "I'm heterosexual."

Nate tilted his head the other way. "Uh, okay. Sure. Whatever you want, man. Friend of Deon and Jimmy, friend of mine. I'll play Psycho Killer, The Boxer, you want The Star Spangled Banner, I'll play that, too."

"Do you know The Frogman Song?"

"Uh, no."

"Never mind," Guz said. "Psycho Killer would be good. Thanks."

"I'll get one of the girls to dedicate it to you."

"Thank you!" Guz said. "So. How we gonna do this thing?"

Deon looked at him. "Psycho Killer?"

"Classic song," Guz said. "This guy Stuart Davis does an acoustic version, it's great."

Deon and I looked at each other.

"Guz," I said. "You are a man of deep and abiding mystery."

"What?" Guz said.

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

Stared at the walls of his motel room. The interview at the police station had gone surprisingly well. He'd never done one before. His "attorney" on the other end of the speaker-phone had done a bang up job of getting straight to it: he was a passerby, retired law enforcement, drove into the middle of the fight, felt himself (based on 30 years of honorable service) in danger of his life and intervened utilizing an appropriate level of force with a lawfully possessed weapon. End of story. Give him his gun and a medal and send him on his way.

What was so surprising was that the cops pretty much saw it the same way, which gave him some inkling into the level of juice Jimmy John (or Jimmy John's friends) had in this town. He'd given his account, his attorney listened, a stenographer took the notes, he deferred signature until his attorney had reviewed it formally and returned it to the PD, was told he could pick up his gun in a week, after they had run the tests to confirm what they needed to go, thank you very much, Mr. Smith, don't let the door hit you in the ass, and Officer Rice will give you a ride to your hotel. Please don't leave town without telling us, or having your attorney inform us if you prefer.

And on his way.

Rice dropped him off and said, as Smith got out of the car, "Hey, Smith...there's a bunch of vets, cops mostly, we get together down at Murphy's Pub most nights for a beer, they got great burgers, cheap, good beer, cute college girl waitresses. While you're in town, come on down, buy you a beer or three."

"Can't drink anymore."

"Come anyway, we'll buy you some water and blow the odor of beer all over you."

"Lemme see how things go. Thanks for the ride."

So inside, drops for his eyes, blotting red against the white towel he held up to his face. Stare at the wall. Think about the debrief he had to record and transmit. A ping from his phone: text message. Embedded in that was a link. Hit the link, took him to a secure web-page. On the page, only one thing: the large numeral 2.

Phase 2.

Time to step it up.

Oh, man.

How strange it was. First that cop, Nico, and the tough one, Nina. Being cool with them; Jimmy John in the stand and fight mode; an offer of drinks.

How long had it been since he'd had that? Simple companionship? He had to be honest, go deep, and think of how he'd isolated himself, hidden that scar away...the scar of his life and what it had become.

The steel in him shifted then, just for a moment.

Time to work.

Guess that meant that he'd passed initial muster with the bosses; maybe the statement (and the voice stress analysis going on the controller's side) convinced them there wasn't much else. Though he had to rein in his hopes for that. Until they told him otherwise, that was his story and he was sticking to it.

Phase 2. He went over and rested his hands on the stacked Pelican boxes. Four of them. He'd have to get another Cherokee; he'd planned on them fitting perfectly into the back with the rear seats folded down. Precision was everything. He drummed his fingers on the plastic, went and sat down at the desk, took out a local city map. Down in the Lake District, on a side street right off the main drag of J Street, a plain looking three story brick building, signed on front as Votron Electronic Games. Parking meters in front with a two-hour limit, so he'd have to rotate some cars in there. Park the Cherokee out front, with the dampening material on the street side, walk off, set it off.

Good bye Votron Electronics, the actual operating base for an off the shelf operation that just couldn't take a hint, fully endorsed by the Administration and the National Command Authority, which was just a fancy word for the President and his cronies. Time to clean up, an election is coming...

Then it was bye bye, and off to a different corner of the weird world, to do the things he did best.

Or not.

His bank accounts brimmed with unspent money. His, rightfully earned, and a significant pile he'd skimmed out of operational funds, like any good field man would, put away against That Day. Maybe it was That Day right now.

He had his network for his medical needs, he had money enough, places to go. Maybe he should head south, find some gentle senorita who, for enough dollars, would tend to him and his needs till the day he decided to punch out, or that got decided for him. The bosses would come looking, but every field man plans for That Day -- he'd be more difficult than you might imagine, even with his unmistakable face. That would be the first step on the plan, get the surgeries...but that wouldn't do much besides cosmetics, the damage inside the European docs kept medicated with their experimental treatments, that was pretty much undoable and gave him a line, somewhere in the future, months, weeks, years, days, who the fuck knew, where it would all just collapse, a systemic failure from within, the long deferred consequences of a long day in the Fire --

-- and what felt like a lifetime outside of it.

He wondered what Jimmy John would say.

He wondered what would happen when he saw Phase 3 on his secure web page.

He wondered if he would actually do it.

If he didn't, they'd send somebody else. They were going to have to. He'd already decided that. Somebody else wouldn't have the compunction or the hesitation.

What to do, what to do.

"When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout," Smith said. "Or take more drugs."

He popped a couple of pills to smooth his mellow, ease things out, help him focus on the mechanical. Like they said in AA -- One Day At A Time. In his case, One Minute At A Time.

Deep thinking is dangerous for a killer.

 

Dee Dee Kozak

She had some thinking to do.

"So let me see if I understand this," Dee said to Kiki. "You can see on their IP connection that someone went on a shared computer and uploaded this. How do you know it was Lizzy?"

"Oh, I hacked the computer camera. It's in the back where the girls get dressed."

"Baby, there's a million men that would pay for that. Okay. So this upload goes to a server..."

"Romanian. Lots of pirate servers out there, totally encrypted and locked down through VPN. Porn companies, money laundries, all the good stuff. I've been out there, not in this one, but others. Good place for a physical server. Cash and carry, no questions asked."

Dee brushed the hair back from Kiki's face with great affection. "Okay, Wonder Girl. So what is that program doing?"

"What's it done? 'cause it's over, now."

"Yeah, honey," Dee said patiently. "What's it done."

"It activated a hidden web-page. Hidden in that it was on the server, but locked out, I mean physically. Someone got a signal, turned on that sub-server, and then the software cranked it up. It's locked down, but this is what's cool: there's a timer on it. Like a count-down clock on the splash page, just ticking away, counting off 12 hours. Down to 9 and change right now. So something's on that page, but unless we hack it, it's going live in nine hours or so. That was the first thing.

"The second thing is that a 'bot was activated. The bot has been scouring offshore banks, mostly in Asia, but a couple in Europe, and in each one it's been sending money -- big money -- to an account in Aruba. Protected by the Dutch privacy laws, and pretty well locked up for security, but we could get in there if we worked on it."

"How much money is big money?" Irina said.

"Big money is approximately $478 million dollars, US," Kiki said. "They run it through currency exchange to play the rates, make a little, lose a little, but it washes pretty good. But as far as I can tell, the final allotment comes in as dollars and is converted to Aruban florins, rate exchange is like 1 to 1.75, and they can take it out as dollars or have it wired to US accounts from there. It's sitting there right now, and there's more coming in from all over."

"Who does it belong to?"

Kiki smiled so wide it looked as though her face might slide right off. "Belongs to whoever can claim it...or send it where they want it to go."

"Can you do that now?" Dee and Irina said simultaneously.

"Yes," she said. "But not right now. And I need some equipment I don't have. I need a Wacom Tablet, the latest version, because I need to digitize and send a signature, replace the ones on file. They'll have the original cards archived, but if we change them in their database, they won't have any reason to go search them out...until whoever owns it comes looking for it."

"I bet those somebodys include an old man who likes pussy and Chinese food," Dee Dee said.

"Who is this?" Irina said.

"This old Chinese guy down at the club," Dee said. "That's who tried to get our hacker genius to take that flash drive."

"You told me not to," Kiki said.

"Yes, I did," Dee said. "Turned out I was wrong, so lesson there for you. Just 'cause I'm older don't mean I'm right all the time. But you've got a line on something a whole hell of a lot bigger and juicier than the one million we were just chasing around, yes? So what do you say, Irina? Wouldn't you rather have a piece of this instead of chasing around those heavily armed cowboys? Honey, we could leave your million right where it is and take off for this. Aruba is a great place for shopping, and you can get anywhere from there. What do you say?"

"If we get the money..." Irina said. "Can you kill the African?"

"You kill the African, his mean-as-a-snake buddy comes after you," Dee said reasonably. "That's how it goes. Kinda like you. But we're women, and we tend to think better than men do about these sort of things. The smart thing is take *this* money and walk, and if you're still mad in, I don't know, five years or so, *then* come back and kill his ass. I'll even help you. Then. But for me, this is a no-brainer. You want to go on your own, after Kiki and me take this fruit ripe for falling, you can go on. But since you're here, and in a way you funded this, you can come in for a slice and walk away much richer. Find you some of those Russian or Estonian cowboys you're so fond of. Shoot up the whole damn city. While I go spend this here money. What do you say, Kiki?"

"Uh, I can go for the money. But I have to stick around. My mom would miss me, and I want to get my diploma."

Dee laughed. "You want to get your high school diploma? Honey, you got a Ph.D in kick-ass bandit, what you want that for?"

Kiki blushed. "I want one. And I want to go to the prom."

Even Irina had to laugh at that.

"Well," Dee said. "You'll have the best damn prom dress there is, then."

"I know a very good designer," Irina said. "Here in the City. I will have it made for you."

"Then it's settled?" Dee said.

"Yes," Irina said. "The money."

Dee looked at Kiki. "And you?"

"Yes," Kiki said. "The money."

"Then get on the phone to the local computer, oh, wait, they're probably closed, can you order online and get it fedexed here tomorrow?" Dee said.

"Yes," Kiki said. "I have some good distributors, as long as I order before midnight."

"Well, it's getting close to the witching hour," Dee said. "Let's get it done."

Dee Dee grinned widely, stretched high and said, "Thank goodness for the perfidy of men, ladies. If it weren't for their love of pussy, we wouldn't be looking at a half a billion dollar score."

Even Kiki, blushing furiously, had to agree with that.

 

Nico and Nina

"You're a hell of a first date," Nico said.

He and Nina were on foot in the back alley behind the address on the North Side. He ran the M4, a go-bag slung over his shoulder, watching Nina's six as she lead the way.

"You want to run with the big dogs, you pee on the tall trees," Nina whispered back. "There."

She pointed at the sagging back porch of the house they'd come for. No lights. Back yard overgrown with weeds. The wire fence at the back of the yard up against the alley had holes kicked in it. The gate that split the fence into two equal pieces hung open, held on by a single hinge.

Nina pulled out a Surefire light, held it in her left hand, her pistol in the right. Nico followed close behind, his support hand resting near the pressure switch that turned on the Surefire light mounted on the carbine front rail. She crouched down, hands crossed in a Harries position, off hand thumb resting on the button of her Surefire. Moved silently to the rear window of the house, peeked in. No lights in the back, but a dim light in the front room. Nico rolled to the corner of the house, pied around, saw the light in the front of the house, nodded to her. She came past him and he averted the muzzle, shifted shoulders in a sharp Cooley switch, followed her. She inched her head around to look in the window, held up two fingers. She ducked back past him around to the back again, then through the side yard to look in the windows on the other side of the house. Nico kept tracking, watching the other houses, but no one was looking out. It was dark, it was late, and around here, most people minded their business.

Nina went around to the back, stepped quietly and cautiously up the steps, staying to the sides where the joints were, avoiding a creak. Stepped up to the back door, tested it. Open.

Nico mouthed "What the fuck?"

She gave him a hard look, turned, and eased the door open and slipped through, a ghost in the darkness.

Oh, fucking great, Nico thought. Just what I want to do. Make a stealth entry on two subjects who might have just blown a fucking building up, all by my lonesome. Time to man up or go home. He took a deep breath, slipped through the open door.

Nina was silhouetted against the dim light from the front. The back door opened into a filthy kitchen, the sink overflowing with dishes and a faint stink of rot. A long straight hallway led to the front room. Nina moved so silently; it struck Nico that she could be so quiet. He heard the murmur of voices in the front room. She kept going, toe/heel, toe/heel, just like a hunter. She moved past two doors on the left, probably bedrooms, one on the right, bathroom, and then she button hooked smoothly into the front room.

"Police," she said in a low, calm voice. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

Nico came around behind her, quick scan to the rear, nothing, then off at a forty-five degree angle to her right and rear. A man, the suspect from the picture; a young Hmong woman, dressed in skin tight pants and silk halter, stilletto heels, curled up on the couch, listening to him.

The girl gasped, then squealed in fear.

The Hmong man looked at them, kept his hands in sight...then grabbed the Hmong girl and pulled her in front of him --

"STOP!" Nina shouted in full command voice --

-- the girl screamed --

-- Nico stepped off, got a better picture, saw the man's hand caught up in his shirt tail -- "GUN!"

-- "DON'T," Nina shouted. "WE --"

Nico dropped his sight picture down and rolled the trigger for one shot; massive blast and concussion on the unprotected ears inside, muzzle flash in the dim room, and Hmong man's leg caved in backwards, dropping him, down, then Nina stepped in and clubbed the Hmong girl down, sweeping her leg out from beneath her, Nico stepped in and covered the Hmong man, still scrabbling for his waistband so he kicked him, hard, in the gut and stamped on the bloody wound and the downed Hmong man screamed, high and shrill and thready, Nina threw flex cuffs on the girl, then kicked the Hmong man in the head, knelt on him and grabbed a hand, pulled it back, he started to struggle and Nico leaned on the open wound again till he screamed, then Nina flex cuffed both hands quickly, pulled his shirt up over his head, and pulled out the Beretta 92FS tucked into his pants. Rolled him on his side, checked for any other injuries.

"Throw me the Blow Out Kit," she said.

Nico dropped the muzzle, pulled out the cordura cased Blow Out Kit and tossed it to her. She opened it up, pulled out an Izzy and ripped it open, then pressed it onto the open wound, tied it in, opened another and put it on what was left of the back of his thigh and shoved it in there, then wrapped Kerlix around the whole thing, cinched it down tight. She checked his breathing and his pulse at his throat.

"He'll live till we get him to the hospital," she said. "Nice shot."

"Hard to miss at seven feet."

"I know a lot of cops that do."

"Shouldn't be cops, then."

"There's that."

"So, don't mind me asking, but what the fuck are we doing?"

Nina grabbed up the Hmong man's head. "Who sent you to the building today?"

He just stared at her, his teeth skinned back in pain.

"Step on him," Nina said.

"Sure, why not?" Nico said. He put his foot on the fresh bandage and leaned. The Hmong man screamed. The girl shouted in Hmong, then switched to English: "You're hurting him! Stop it!"

"Shut up," Nico said. "You could get hurt, too."

"Let's try this again," Nina said. "Who sent you?"

He spat. Missed her. Nina sighed. "Okay, tough case. Guess I got you. Maybe the big bad OGA will make you into an enemy combatant and take your ass to Gitmo, stick your head in a sink full of water till you talk. Or you can give me what I want, and we'll keep you as a witness. What do you say?"

He spat.

"Wrong answer." She picked holstered her pistol, took out her cell phone, punched in a number. "Mr. Pham?" she said. "I need your help. Right now. Can you send some of your associates here? I'm at the address you gave me. Yes. Right away. Thank you."

The Hmong girl's eyes got wide. "You know...Mr. Pham?"

"You know him, little girl?" Nina said.

"Yes."

"You're gonna get to know him a lot better pretty soon."

"No! Please?"

Now, this is interesting, Nico thought. What the hell?

"He's on his way," Nina said. "But maybe you could go. What's this guy's name?"

The Hmong girl was sweating. She cut her eyes at the wounded man, back at Nina. "Cho. His name is Cho."

"Cho? Cho what?"

"Cho Trinh."

"Does he live here?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

"Lucy. Lucy Vang."

"Lucy?"

"Luc in Hmong. Lucy."

"Lucy, you've got about five minutes before Mr. Pham and his friends get here. A pretty young girl like you, I think you know what they're going to do when they take you out of here, right?"

"Whoa," Nico said. "I'm not..."

"Shut up," Nina said casually. "Back to you, missy. You his girlfriend?"

"Sometimes, yes, sometimes, " Lucy stammered.

"What does he do?"

"I don't know, he work for some people, I don't know what he does."

"Does he always have money?"

"Yes, most of the time, yes."

"Does he live anywhere else or just here?"

"Just here, I think."

"Where do you fuck him? Here or someplace else?"

"Here. Sometimes in hotel."

"What hotels?"

"Many...."

"Who does he hang around with? Who are his friends? Who else do you know that knows him?"

"Not so many, just a few."

"Names. Now."

Lucy started to rattle off names.

"Nico? Record these on your iPhone," Nina said.

He handed it to her, and she hit voice memo and began recording a list of names.

"Spell them," Nina said. "Addresses, phone numbers, places they hang out, where you met them. Anything at all you can remember at them."

She was still on it when a cruiser pulled up, hit the spotlight on the front porch.

"I'll deal with it," Nico said. He stepped out on the porch, rifle dangling, creds up in his hand.

"Stay where you are, secure your weapon," came a voice over the squad loudspeaker.

"Federal Agent!" Nico shouted. "I'm securing the rifle." He set it down, held his creds out. Two uniforms bailed out, one held back to cover him, the other approached, pistol out and down by his side, checked his creds.

"We got a report of shots fired," the uniform said.

Nina shouted out the front door. "Fredrickson, that you? It's Capushek!"

Fredrickson leaned back to peer through the door. "Detective? You need us?"

"No, we're good, I got it."

"I need to..."

"Just g'wan, I said I got it. Thanks!" Nina shouted back.

Fredrickson shrugged. "Cool with me. We're clear here. Later."

He went off and got back into the cruiser with his partner and they drove away, leaving Nico staring with bemusement after them. This had to be the strangest damn police department he'd ever run across. Or else he had the partner with the biggest balls and most juice of any cop he'd ever met. Maybe both.

As soon as the cruiser disappeared around the corner, a Hummer down the street turned on its lights, pulled away from the curb, pulled up next to Nico. Mr. Pham hung his head out the passenger side.

"Hello. Where is Sergeant Capushek?"

"Inside," Nico said. "Join the party."

Mr. Pham got out with three of the biggest Asians Nico had ever seen, and one small wiry one that looked to his experienced eyes as probably the most dangerous one. Leather car coats, the jacket of choice for the experienced street gunfighter on the Asian side, and hands conspicuously in the open. They brushed past Nico and entered the room. Nico scanned the street and followed them in.

Inside, the men ringed the wounded Hmong man and the terrified girl.

"This is what we're gonna do," Nina said. "I'm calling someone in, and then we're *all* gonna go someplace, and you, Mr. Pham, I need you to help with translation and persuasion, you understand that word?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Mr. Pham said in a chilly tone. "This word I know."

"Good. I appreciate your help...and your silence about this." She looked at Nico. "You down?"

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Nico said. "What the hell, I didn't much have career prospects anyway."

"Not like that. We get things done. I'm calling OGA Chick and having her meet us someplace. Mr. Pham...you have a place? A quiet place?"

"Yes, Sergeant," he said. "Very quiet."

"We don't hurt the girl," Nina said.

"As you wish," Mr. Pham said. "We must go."

"I will tell you...." the wounded Hmong man started.

"Too late, ingrate," Nina said. "Now we're on someone else's clock..."

Nico stepped back and said, "Well, it's never boring here in Lake City..."

 

Deon Oosthuizen

With his headset on and neck mike in place, Deon almost looked like a DJ/VJ himself, if it weren't for his skeletal build and his tactical clothing. He stood off to one side from the spot-lit DJ stand, out of the light, his guitar case leaning against a tall wooden stool. He grinned at Guz, seated at the bar, his guitar case between the stool and the bar and his leg pressed up against it, sipping a ginger ale and besieged by the girls circulating the floor who knew he was a friend of the house *and* seriously cute *and* not that interested, which caused them to redouble their efforts.

The lights were down, the strobes going, and it was going to be Lizzy's set soon.

Nate the Vj/DJ called it out: "And now, Miss Lizzy, let's give her a big Trojan Horse welcome!"

And the house erupted in shouts, whistles and claps.

Girl had a following, that's for sure...

Nate spun Prince's Cream, which was old enough of a song that even Deon had heard it, and appreciated it: ...this is it...cream...get on top...

Lizzy strutted down the runway, a pale blue wrap dropping to the floor as she went down, hitting the beat and working the skimpy blue halter and panties she wore....

...cause you got that burning desire...

Girl knew how to work, that's for sure. Never did privates, but then, she didn't need to. She was a main draw, and Lance T. never forced her to do anything she didn't want to do. Not least of all because it was a good idea from a business perspective, but it also paid to stay on the side of her boyfriend...

...get on top, cream, don't you stop...

Deon spotted the Asian shooters entering before Guz did; Deon had the high ground and the overwatch. He tapped the tone button on his set, then clucked out "Shave and a haircut, two bits..." on his throat mike.

Guz set his glass down, pushed his stool back, bent over as though he were lacing his shoe, effectively disappearing beneath the line of the bar.

"Four shooters, Asian, to your left, diamond formation, black leathers, tracking up the wall," Deon whispered.

"Got it," came the cool reply.

Guz still looked like he was fiddling with his shoe, though Deon saw his shoulder working as he popped the velcro on his guitar case.

"Stand by," Deon said.

Lance T came rushing down the stairs, headed right for the Asians who stopped when they saw him. Deon couldn't make out what Lance was saying, but it was obvious he knew these guys. What the....?

And now Nate cut into some Rob Zombie, 'Living Dead Girl'

Who is this irresistible creature with a love for the dead?....

"Hold in place, Guz." Deon said.

Guz nodded, raised his head nodding in beat to the music, slow casual scan, making the targets, nodding...

...on the devils wing...living dead girl...sing it to me...

"Acquired," Gus said.

"Acquired," Deon said.

...living dead girl...sing it to me...

 

Lance T

"There's a lot of people in here, you need to stay cool," Lance said.

"We're cool, man" the big Hmong man said, a hint of a sneer in his voice as he looked Lance up and down. "Don't sweat it, wrestler. We get what we came for and we're gone..."

Lance felt like elbowing the smug asshole right in the face. Hell, maybe he would...another time. He just had to get this shit out of the club right now. He had Kai and the security crew like rabid pitbulls straining at the leash, Jimmy and Deon and that scary-ass Mr. Normal they brought in here, armed to the teeth and probably drawn down on us right now, and an ancient Hmong player that for some reason people wanted to kill and other people were willing to send heavily armed players at the drop of a hat to protect.

Just another night in The Trojan Horse.

 

Jimmy John Wylde

Didn't like what he was seeing with Lance T. Body language was all wrong. He didn't want to walk off and leave his guitar case. He called over a waitress, Renee, and said, "Hon, stand right here for a second and watch that case."

Renee looked at it, looked at him, looked at Lance, and said, "For a minute, okay, Jimmy? Should I...."

"It's cool," Jimmy said.

He eased out of the chair, whispered in his throat mike, "Moving to back Lance" and heard two clucks from Deon, three from Guz, and a "Yes," from Kai, who was already behind the four big Hmong shooters with two of his biggest bouncers. They knew to stay out of the way if something went down. They'd been there before.

The boss of the Hmong crew knew who Jimmy was; he shifted back, made sure his hands were in sight.

Jimmy nodded. Keep it friendly. "Everything okay, Lance?"

"We're cool, Jimmy. Just some club business, doesn't involve you or Lizzy, okay?" Lance said.

"Everything okay, bro?" Jimmy said to the lead Hmong man.

"Yeah," he said. "We're cool. No problems with you, man."

"Let me know you need anything, Lance," Jimmy said, easing back, nodding, the picture of friendliness, the significance of his untucked shirt not lost any of the four Hmong shooters. "Clear," he whispered, his throat mike picking it up.

Two clucks, then three.

Back on station, nodding thanks to the waitress, who hurried off, stress on her face.

She wasn't the only one.

 

Guz

"How long have you worked here?" Guz asked Amelia, the latest in the long line of dancers trying to cajole him into a private.

"Almost a year. How come you don't want a dance?" she said.

"I'm engaged. Do you make really good money?"

"Engaged? What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"I don't think that way. So. How much do you make?"

She was disappointed. "Not much from guys who want to talk and not pay me."

"Guys pay you to talk to them?"

" Most guys pay me to dance for them."

"Wow. Well, thanks anyway."

She flounced off, and he touched his plain glasses. Clark Kent strikes again.

Scanned again, his ear bud in place, Deon over-watching, the Hmong hitters already up stairs, Jimmy back in place, and his disconcertingly beautiful girlfriend was into a really nasty one, Nine Inch Nails at their dark best:

....you like me desecrate you...you like me complicate you...

Dang. This whole strip club thing was a trip. Serious money making going on. Bad guys being players, sad guys buying fantasy, glad guys buying drinks, and the mad guys...well, being ambulatory targets.

Guz laughed. Sure is fun being a freelancer. Beats the hell out of swimming to work.

Though sometimes he missed those days.

He kept up his scan and didn't let himself be distracted by Lizzy going through a routine that was part Olympic pole-dance, part ballet, part ancient homage to some kind of Goddess that reduced men to throbbing incoherence, red hair like a wing swinging back and forth, her blue eyes piercing the men closest to the stage, the ones who held up money as an offering to her and what she represented, an untouchable fantasy, the only one in this club, surrounded by dangerous men with guns to watch over her, and he wondered if she knew just how far Jimmy would go to protect her.

That's a good friend to have. And the worst possible enemy.

Jimmy, that is. He had a long memory and a deep little black book, and the skill set to make things happen.

...help me...help me get away from myself...I want to fuck you like an animal...

Jeez. Where did these guys get these lyrics? Sure was driving the crowd wild.

Looks like she was going to take a break pretty soon --

 

Tony Po

Didn't want to go, but the big boy in charge wasn't having it.

"We got our orders," he said. "You're going. Nice quiet house in the suburbs. No more free pussy and brandy for you."

"Not funny," Tony said. "You watch your mouth."

The cocky Hmong In Charge drew it back a little, shrugged. "We're going."

Tony's bodyguard took the handles of the chair and started down the hallway to the small elevator. "Only two of you in here. No more room."

"We'll take the stairs," the relief leader said. "Meet you at the bottom."

"Ah, let's get the fuck out of here," Tony said. "Go!"

They squeezed into the elevator, Tony in his chair, his bodyguard, the smallest of the armed escorts. Tony's bodyguard pushed the button and the elevator began it's short descent.

"Some day you'll be old," Tony grumbled. "You'll know what it's like."

"At least you're alive," the new guy said.

"Yeah," Tony said. "For now."

The elevator door opened. There was a white guy, older, pudgy, late 40s or 50s with a ratty pony-tail standing there, horn rimmed glasses, ragged goatee.

"Whoa! Sorry, dude, I thought this was the restroom? Do you know where the restroom is?" the white guy said.

"Get the fuck out of the way," Tony's bodyguard said.

"Whoa, yeah..." the white guy turned away as the three of them came out. Then he turned, "Dude....?"

"Go..."

Tony's bodyguard's mouth was shut by a silenced bullet from the pistol that appeared in the white man's hand as though by magic from beneath his flannel shirt.

Pfffffttt was all Tony heard.

He barely raised his hands before the man tracked in on the new bodyguard, who took a round neatly between the eyes and dropped where he was. The white guy stepped in close and said softly, "Mr. Po, if you want to live, I'd strongly suggest you just shut the fuck up and play along while I wheel you out of here. If you give me any reason whatsoever, I will end you just like I ended these two. Got it? Now...where is the drive?"

Tony just gawped up at him. He heard the big new guy's voice from around the corner, "Where's the fucking elevator?"

The white guy held his finger to his lips, pointed the pistol at Tony, then held it behind his leg and limped down towards the corner. The three bodyguards came around. Never saw it coming. At almost point blank range, one, two, three shots into their heads, instant drop; the white guy held the pistol in both hands and went around where he could see down the hall, reached down and tugged one of the bodies out of the way, then hurried back and stepped behind Tony's wheelchair.

"We're out of here, Mr. Po. Remember what I said."

The white guy pushed hard and fast through the narrow passage around the bodies, down the hall and then a sharp turn to the right, then through swinging doors onto the loud main floor of the club, the strobes disconcerting, then the white guy slowed down, don't cause a scene --

"Who has the drive, Mr. Po? Where is it?"

"I don't have it. It's hidden."

"Here in the club?"

He kept pushing through the crowd, moving easily, trying hard not to make more of a scene. "Where in the club, Mr. Po?"

Tony knew then. End of the line for him. They had no intention of keeping him around, and when they found out it was already launched, he'd be lucky if they had this guy put a bullet in his head.

"It's here," Tony said.

"Where?"

They were almost to the front of the club, and they would have to go by the security. Lance T was standing there, talking to the big one, Kai, and turning to see him.

"The dancer," Tony said.

"What?"

"That dancer. That one. Redhead. I give it to her."

"Don't bullshit me, Mr. Po. Do you have it on you or did you leave it upstairs or did you hand it off to one of your people?"

"I give it to that girl."

"I....

Tony rocked himself sideways hard, then the other way as the man bent to compensate for the sudden change. The wheelchair tipped over, spilling the old man onto the floor.

"Help me!" Tony shouted. "Somebody help me!"

"Whoa, dude, here, let me help you out," the white guy said, bending closely and whispering, "I'll kill you, you old fuck, shut up...."

Lance started over and the big bouncer with him. The white guy held up his hand and said, "I've got him, no worries, bro..."

"Who are you?" Lance said. "Where are...."

The white guy was fast as hell. He brought the pistol up, but didn't shoot Lance, he shot Kai, aimed for the face, tagged the broad trapezius because Kai was already moving, knocking Lance off line...

"Help! Help!" Tony shouted as the music changed --

 

Deon Oosthuizen

...Robert's got a cool hand...six gun trigger...

Deon bobbed his head. Foster The People. He knew this one, liked it, though he wondered how many of the people watching Lizzy go through her routine actually heard the lyrics...

...all the other kids in their pumped up kicks, better run, better run, run from my gun...

He saw the chair tilt over, and then he saw the old hippy pushing the wheelchair move fast as hell bringing up a long barrelled pistol suppressed, looks like a Glock 17 with a Gemtech can and pop, he could see the ejected casing hanging in the air always funny how time slows down in a gunfight for some people and Deon was one of those experience i reckon gives me all the time in the world shouting "Gun! Gun! drop his hand and crack the case, pull up the HK, safety off time to dominate the world Get down! Get down! And then the old hippy quick scanned and saw it all that fast, turned the pistol down and shot the old man once in the head, then reached down and grabbed one arm and started dragging the body past Lance and Kai, the crowd blocking Deon's shot --

 

Guz

Like Deon, in the zone, had already sized it up, and went for his pistol instead of the long gun; closer, faster, and he needed one hand to knock the waitress out of the way to clear his line, and he saw the shooter lean down and put one in the old man's head and then grab the dead man's limp arm and start running, dragging the small body behind him now why the fuck is he doing that, clear the line people, I don't shoot civvies and Guz barreled through the crowd, knocking patrons, dancers and waitresses out of the way, hurdled Lance with the bleeding Kai over him protecting him, and the trail of blood ran right through the entry way, past the coat-check girl and still no line he hit the front door and paused just long enough to see, and there it was two rounds right where he would have been if he'd gone through it, this guy's a pro, no shit... break the rhythm of a pro, just enough to miss, because this guy wasn't going to hang around, and the slam of a car door and Guz came out fast and hard and low and there's the van, the door slamming shut, and one shooter with something bigger than a pistol and shorter than a long and Guz was rolling and rolling, cars slowing down and he scurried behind one, two girls dressed up for the night their eyes huge as they saw him come around, and then a burst of rounds, across the hood of the car, the girls screaming and then the van was off and running, Guz locked down, turned and saw everyone looking at him, a few cell phones coming up, and he lowered his head, tucked the pistol away and jogged back into the club....

 

Jimmy John Wylde

Vaulted onto the stage, grabbed Lizzy and ran her back down the runway straight through to the back --

...better run, better run, run from my gun...all the other kids with their pumped up kicks better run, better run, run from my gun...

-- Pistol out and running, Lizzy going exactly where I moved her, like she always did, the other girls shrieking and I shouted "Get down, get down, get down!"

Move her to the back, pause, shout into the mike, "Deon, Guz, go, go, go!"

Deon hustling down the hall, rifle up, go-bag slung over his shoulder, kicking the side door open, and clearing out, then a shout from him: "Clear, Jimmy! Come to me!"

Shoving Lizzy quickly, covering her with my body as we got out the side door, Deon with the weapon shouldered scanning, crabbing across the lot to the car, I brought Deon's keys up, hit the unlock, shoved Lizzy in the back and jumped in next to her, Deon jumping into the driver's seat and handing back the HK to me, pulling the car forward and holding, scanning both ways, cars stopped in the front, backing up in a hurry to the chained off gate, Deon jumping out and lifting the unlocked padlock, courtesy of Kai, off the chain link that blocked the alternative exit, on the radio I called Guz

"Guz, you clear?"

Crisp voice back. "Yep, across and running, traffic's bad, I'm gonna jump the curb and ride some sidewalk, meet you around the corner, wait one..."

I looked back and saw his Wrangler roll out of the parking lot and turn onto the sidewalk, horn blaring, lights flashing, people jumping out of the way, and he just kept rolling till he hit the corner and bumped down into the street, drove off the wrong way --

"See you on the other side, bro," Guz said.

"SITREP."

"Whoever the old hippy was did a job on that Asian. Busted a cap in his head, dragged the body out and put it into a van, got clear, at least two other shooters in the van, no body hurt out in front that I saw."

"Roger that. Other side."

Deon didn't say, just processed it and went, wheeled around and saw the Wrangler come to a stop, nice and slow and legal, then pull into the lead position and smoothly accelerate away.

"I'm thinking your place might not be the best, oke," Deon said. "Plan B."

"Yeah," I said.

"Plan B it is," Guz said. "On it."

"Jimmy?" Lizzy said.

"Yes."

"What about everyone else?"

"I'll check when we get you safe."

"They weren't there for me. They came for Mr. Po. The old man in the wheelchair."

"Did you know him?"

"Yes. Jimmy?"

"What?"

"I did something for him."

"What did you do?"

"He asked me load something on the internet."

"What was it, Lizzy?"

"A drive. Some kind of program."

I sighed. "Okay. We'll talk about it later. Did anyone see you do that? What computer did you use?"

"The one in back. The lounge. The girls, but I don't think any of them know what it was. And I gave him back the drive."

Deon looked at me in the rear view mirror. "Plan B, oke."

"Yep," I said. "Plan B, all the way and then some."

 

Old Hippy with a Silenced Pistol

Had his knife out and cut the old man's clothes off. Shirt, pants, underwear, tossed aside to one of the other men huddled in the van, who began to tear the clothing apart. Old Hippy opened the old man's mouth, used the knife to look under the tongue, inside the cheeks, lifted the belly fat to look in the folds, rolled him over and inserted the knife, cut open the anus to a mild explosion of gas and loose feces, used the tip of the knife to prod in it.

"Don't open him up in here," one of the other men said.

"It's not up his ass," the old hippy said. "Unless he swallowed it, it's either in his clothes or he really did give it to that fucking stripper."

"We got eyes on her and that fucking PSD. How the hell does a stripper get a PSD? Those guys were pros! What the fuck is that?"

"Not in the clothes," the other said. "What about the wheelchair?"

"Could have been, but I didn't have time to drag that out, too," the old hippy said. "Where are they running the girl too? Maybe whoever's paying for that PSD is paying for it, and her, out of our money."

"Not ours," one said.

"Close enough. We got fat bank coming. Pull over, let's dump this shit and get back on the girl. Here is good...."

The driver pulled over and the men in back dumped Tony Po's body and his clothes in the mouth of an alley, then drove off."

"We got two guys on a bike tracking them, vectoring in the other cars," the driver said, head tilted as he listened to the radio traffic on his head set. "They're going to put up a Raven in a minute, get you real time from the drone."

"Good," the Old Hippy, whose work name was Shane, just like the old-timey time movie, given to him by a guy he'd been through school with who used that expression all the time...

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

Put the last of the Pelican cases into the back of his latest Cherokee. Later model, so there was some minor difference in the back compartment, but his cargo still fit in there well enough to suit him. He ran his situational awareness check with his scanners; all good to go. A few laptops, plenty of cell phones, routers, satellite TV. Nothing directed at him or his handiwork. He took out another control box, custom made his very own self, touched it and watched the circuits light up, rows of 4, all green for good to go. He hit the safe and watched the LEDS all go red.

M'kay. Happiness.

He got in the car and drove off. Bit of a ruckus down and around in Hmong town right now; lots of people doing the what the fuck dance: when in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout. So, as the good Machiavelli had said in his epic discourse THE PRINCE: The only means of security that are sure and lasting are those you see to yourself. In other words, no back up.

If you want it done right, do it yourself.

Off he went through the late night streets. Easy enough. Not like he hadn't done this a timey time or two.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood, won't you be mine, won't you be mine...

Pulled into a spot right in front of Votron Electronics. So what to do?

He got out, plugged the meter, looked at the sky. Wouldn't be long till light, but this building wasn't going to be full with staff till mid-morning. Take out the building, take out the servers, night staff, security, probably a few all-nighters, but you don't get the big cheeses who wouldn't come in till their staff had been in, started the coffee, brought in the bagels.

There were other possibilities. He'd been slipping a bit, lately, and he still had to account to the Bosses about this whole thing, gunfighting in the street with the tertiary target he'd been assigned to. Not looking forward to that.

He jingled the change, looked down the block and took a stroll. Starbucks, probably deserted this time of night, but a coffee would be in order. Still line of sight, too.

Walked in. Nobody in the place, but a half-asleep barista who jumped when he saw Smith's face. Mouth open to say something, caught himself.

"What can I start for you?"

"Oh, I'd just like some water and a place to sit down for a bit. And maybe a small brewed decaf?"

"Yes sir."

The kid was young, but a good size, just about the same height though lighter than Smith. The kid was careful to not stare at him as he poured a tall glass of water with ice and lemon, and then put a small cup of decaf next to it.

"Is the decaf fresh?"

"Yes, sir. We brew it fresh every hour."

"Starbucks. Just like clockwork." Smith paid for his drinks, dropped a dollar bill in the tip jar, sat down by the window and stared out, ignored the kid. For now.

Drank his coffee and thought dark thoughts.

 

Nina and Nico

Her hands on the wheel, picture of the operator at work. Nico said, "It's been a hell of a day."

"Night is young," she said.

" Be dawn pretty soon."

"Not for this dick head."

"Where we going?"

"Not where they wanted."

She turned off J Street, past the Starbucks where a single figure sat inside, hat and coat pulled tight around him, and pulled up behind a new Cherokee in front of a three story building with a fancy-schmancy sign on it that said Votron Electronics.

"What the fuck?" Nico said.

"OGA's digs," Nina said. "We're gonna do some enhanced interrogation here."

"Nina, this isn't my thing. Not what I signed up for."

She turned to him and got dead in his face. "Listen to me and listen good. That fucker back there in that car killed a lot of people. This is how we get things done. We'll get what we need, and then you can have your due process back, got it? Once he goes to them, it's not our problem anymore."

"Whoa, okay, cool down, will you? You never cut me in on what you're doing."

"I'm too busy getting shit done. Are you in or not?"

"In."

"Let's go, then."

Mr. Pham and his men got out of the Hummer, pushed the girl along and two of them carried the wounded man.

"This way," Nina said. She bounded up the stairs, hit the buzzer, held it down. The door buzzed back, and she held it open. "Let's go." She scanned the street; nobody around, just the one car in place weird place, must be an OGA car, but why would they park there and not in the lot? worry about it later... and they all piled through the door.

Inside, at the top of the stairs, Carol the OGA Chick stood with two burly security types.

"Up this way, through here and into the back," she said crisply. "We're ready for you."

And up the stairs they went....

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

Watched the sudden flurry of activity out front with intense curiosity. Did the bosses know this was going to happen? Did they have somebody watching him right now? Were they tracking his payload? Or was this one of those Random Finger of God moments that seemed to be coming on him fast and furious?

His gut told him this was a decision branch. Now or never.

"Hey son," he called to the barista.

"Sir?"

"You want to make a hundred dollars?"

"What?"

"Look, I know it's just you here, but as you can see, I have a medical condition, and I forgot to put change in my meter. It's worth a hundred bucks to me not to have to get up and go do that. Will you do it? Just take you less than a minute."

"I can't leave the store...."

"Look around, there's nobody here but you and me. Think of it as a bathroom break, but you're getting paid. Here, I'm not bullshitting." Smith held up a crips $100 bill and a handful of quarters. "Do an old sick man a favor, will ya? Please. I'm in some pain and I need time for my meds to kick in."

The kid went back and forth about it, then came around and said, "Where's your car?"

Smith pointed down the block. "There, see where that Hummer is?"

"Yeah."

"Cherokee, right there. Here's my key fob, would you bring me the pills on the front dashboard, please?"

"Okay...if anybody comes in, tell them I'm in the bathroom."

"You bet. Just hit the key fob, it unlocks the door." He handed the kid the $100 and the quarters, and he was out the door at a light jog. Smith gave him half way to the car before he got up and walked out the side door, pushed the button his box and watched the lights go green, then hurried around and put the Starbucks between him and the street, started walking away as fast as his scarred legs could carry him.

 

Starbucks Barista

Now why the fuck did I let myself get talked into this?

Oh, okay. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks, and that poor old fucker looked like he was dying. Least I could do.

Past the Hummer, past an unmarked squad car. There was the Cherokee. Huh? Meter was almost full up, he plugged in a quarter and it stopped at two hours.

Fucking Lake City. Gouge everybody for what time they get.

He looked inside the Cherokee, raised the fob, pressed it.

 

Guz

Liked his Wrangler. Not the best in a car fight, too light, too unstable, but it was fine for knocking around. Hands on the wheel, eyes cutting high on the windshield to the side mirrors to the rear view, relaxed with that coiled tension that gave him that little bit of extra speed in the moment.

Slowed for a sign, stopped.

Dodge Ram pickup idling, waved him on.

Guz pulled into the intersection slowly, waiting for Deon to catch up, when he caught the movement in the pick up truck bed, old trick, two shooters coming over the top, and as he drilled in on them, a beige Ford Taurus came through the intersection and caught Deon's Cherokee right on the front wheel well, slamming it hard and crushing the well in around the tire --

"Go!" Guz yelled, but then he read it, the Cherokee wasn't going anywhere, and then round were ripping into his shiny Wrangler

This is the last time I use my POV on a job, by God, I swear it...

-- Out and running, HK 416 up and throwing the go-bag over his head, thumbed it to full auto and give 'em the SEAL wake up call, a mag or two on full auto let's establish some fire dominance here and he opened up on the truck, driver first, let's make sure they don't run away, the ASYM Precision rounds tearing up the windshield and the driver, too, mag change, hit the release, sideways flip to throw the mag free, slap in a fresh one, hit the bolt release back on target, give 'em another one, just like that, now the two in the Taurus out, advancing on Deon and Jimmy, well, guess I got a bit to spare, and send two quick burst their way, just to remind him that Guz was here and he was a bit irritated with the damage done to his shiny Jeep, hard to convince the insurance company that he just drove through a gunfight, one of the two dinged and down, gotta love these AYSM bullets, gonna go buy that guy a beer when this is all said and done, two targets in his zone c'mon Deon, c'mon Jimmy, let's get in the dance time for another mag change, dropped one rapped in another slap the bolt release and service and...

White light and what the fuck just happened, grit of the concrete on his knees and then his head bouncing in slow motion, oh man, I hate it when I get hit, and rolling over on his back, keep the shooter up, pain in the upper left quadrant of his back, and that white van rolling into the intersection, that old hippy with the silenced pistol running now that Guz was down and the fight was on around the Cherokee, pulling the trigger, nothing happening, diagnose the problem, solve the problem, SEAL, double feed, oh, great... must have slammed the mag when he fell forward, strip the mag out, can't find his knife, stick your finger in there and see if that will work, bolt snapped on his finger Dang! shook the loose rounds out, pulled another one out, slammed it home, bolt home, pulled it back just to check, okay, back in the game, Can I stand? checked his legs, well, they're moving, blood running down his back, okay, still functioning, pushed himself up with the buttstock of the 416, nobody was paying attention to him big mistake there, boys, you never count a SEAL down and out unless you see his brains, and even then, we're trained to run without them... couldn't get all the way up, that's fine, he shot pretty good from the kneeling anyhow...how the fuck did they get Lizzy away from Jimmy...shit, he must be dead...time to even the score then. He put the sights on the closest one, with some kind of long gun, kill the long guns first, and rolled the trigger, short three round burst hey diddle diddle right up the middle of your back, take that, dude...serviced him right purty and they were bundling her into the van and that Old Hippy turned and...

...the skyline light up brilliant white, and then the whole ground shook.

Now, I gotta say, if these guys got artillery or close air support, this was most definitely not in my threat briefing...

And Old Hippy jumped in the van and as they pulled away, fired a burst back at Guz, who returned the favor, but too wide...

slowing down, not a good sign, better get an Izzy and some duct tape out, but I don't think I can reach back there touched his chest and saw the blood seeping there through and through, okay, that's good reloaded again and pushed himself up, staggered towards the Cherokee --

 

Mr. Smith, aka Hank

Saw the flash of light, felt the boom, covered his head as windows shattered, staggering him.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...

 

Deon Oosthuizen

Opened his eyes, remains of the airbag around his face, felt the bruising, ears ringing -- looked back --

-- Jimmy half in and half out of the van, blood pooling around him. Guz shambling forward, blood running down his front, the pale face of someone controlling shock, HK-416 at the ready --

"Where?" Guz said.

"Gone," Deon said. "Gone."

 

Lizzy Caprica

-- Looked up at the men who pinned her down in the back of the van. And the man who looked like an old hippy looked her up and down, smiled, and said, "Well, hello, pretty."

 

To Be Continued in "THREE'S WYLDE"

Coming in Spring 2012

 

 

 

Recommended Purveyors of Gear and Training

 

Gear and Gear Services

Aimpoint. Combat optics. www.aimpoint.com

Arc'Teryx. Tactical clothing. http://leaf.arcteryx.com/?EN

Ares Gear. Ranger Gun Belt. http://www.aresgear.com/

AYSM Precision. Killing ammo. http://store.chencustom.com/

Comp-Tac Holsters. http://www.comp-tac.com/

Drop Zone Tactical. Tactical clothing. http://dropzonetactical.com/

Gemtech. Suppressors. http://www.gem-tech.com/store/pc/home.asp

Glock. Pistols. www.glock.com

Gryphon Group. Combat driving.

H&K. Pistols and long guns. http://www.hk-usa.com/index.asp

Karl Sokol. Gunsmith. http://www.chestnutmountainsports.com/

London Bridge. Tactical nylon.

Mayflower Research and Consulting. Tactical nylon. http://www.mayflower-rc.org/store/index.php

Mike Sastre. Concealment knife sheaths. http://www.rivercitysheaths.com/

Milt Sparks Gunleather. Concealment holsters. www.miltsparks.com

Righteous Duke Designs. Tactical art work. http://www.righteousduke.com/

Spyderco Knives, Sal Glesser and Joyce Laituri. www.spyderco.com

Surefire. Combat flashlights. www.surefire.com

 

Training Services

Bill Rogers Shooting. Firearms training. http://www.rogersshootingschool.com/

Claude Werner, Firearms Safety. Firearms training. http://www.dryfire-practice.com/page1.php

Dave Harrington. Firearms training. http://store.greygrouptraining.com/DAVE-HARRINGTON/

Dennis Martin, CQB Services. Combatives training. www.cqbservices.com

Grey Group Training. Broker/Agent for tactical training programs. http://greygrouptraining.com/

Kelly McCann, The Crucible. Firearms, combatives, advanced tactical skill sets for use in high threat environments. http://www.team-crucible.com/

Ken Hackathorn. Firearms training. http://store.greygrouptraining.com/KEN-HACKATHORN/

Massad Ayoob, Massad Ayoob Group. Firearms training and training liability. http://massadayoobgroup.com/

Nick Hughes, FIST. Combatives. http://www.fightsurvival.com/

Paul Howe, Combat Shooting and Tactics. Firearms training. http://combatshootingandtactics.com/

Ray Dionaldo, Filipino Fighting Systems. Knife combatives. http://www.fcskali.com/

Rick Faye and Diana Rathbone, Minnesota Kali Group. Martial arts and weapons training. http://www.mnkali.com/

Shane Gosa. Firearms training and superior training event coordinator. apiprodigy@gmail.com.

 

Acknowledgments

Terry Trahan, Diana Rathbone, Shane and Megan Gosa, Righteous Duke, Chandra Houston, Peter Johnson, Anthony Sell, Joe Riedy, Matt Levi, Seth Young, Todd Arrigoni, Bill Witkowski, Ryan Nash, Tim Welsby, Dennis Martin, Slacky, Si, and the Liverpool Gutterfighters, my brothers and their families, and the Wynne Clan.

 

Credits

Cover art and website design by the fabulous Madiera James of Xuni.com. www.xuni.com

 

Contact The Author

www.marcuswynne.com

Please sign up for my e-mail list on my website listed above, and get a personal invite to my private Google+ and Facebook pages.