Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
enthusiastic applause, leaving Hank lost in the surreal lives and drama acted out before him. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder.
“We’ve got to go. Follow me,” Willy said.
They exited through a side door, bypassing the lobby, and Hank matched his pace to Willy’s jog. The man standing at the door of a conference room opened it. Inside the room, Hank noticed the same people he had seen at the briefing earlier that day. The gun safe, disguised as a refrigerator, was there, but there was no bank of monitors and no gamer throne. Atari-Boy sat in a cloth-covered, chrome-framed chair in front of a laptop. Megan Ward spoke in front of a large screen, which she was manipulating with a tablet. She zeroed into a frame showing the outline of the Queen Elizabeth Theatre on the bottom and the waterfront on top.
“… some organic unrest in the US. ANTIFA shills are escalating the events, if not staging riots. In the last week we’ve been tracking growing activity in Toronto and Winnipeg. Tomorrow it spreads here. Everybody knows it—law enforcement, the kids on the street, the news reporters, EMS. It looks like everybody’s reading from the same playbook on this. Law enforcement are all sleeping in, resting up for the blue line tomorrow. The politicians are enjoying the chaos, and they’ll let things go to hell—even encourage it.
“Here’s where it affects us. They scheduled the main protest for tomorrow, but we have intel that some careless punks are freelancing tonight. It looks like their target is somebody in this building. As most of you saw, earlier today we came across a busload of known bad asses and we painted each with a squirt of radioisotopes. It makes them easy to track and what started out as a precaution paid off big time. As I speak, a handful of them are congregating right next door.
“Since their contract to fuel anarchy doesn’t start until tomorrow, it looks like they’re planning a little side job tonight. Besides Mr. Ou and his party, there are three other high-value targets in attendance for this performance. From their meager preps and amateur-level coordination, there’s no way in hell these lowlifes know about our operation, but we can’t rule out our party as potential targets.”
“My guess is that these would-be criminal masterminds think they’re spending a night at the aquarium—most likely aiming to snatch one of the three other high-value targets and collect a ransom. In Canada, even the elite are hoplophobic, so only one of the three has an armed bodyguard. But we can’t be certain that they are not after one of our rich little brats, or their prominent parents who tagged along. Either way, they cannot be ready for my wrath. And since Mr. Ou won’t stand for any publicity surrounding his daughter’s party, its our job to make sure no kidnappings happen tonight.”
“Mr. Ou and his entire party are accounted for and being escorted to a room down the hall. The three at-risk targets are being informed of the threat. Mr. Ou agreed to be the face of the protection effort to gather up the other VIPs before they leave the building. We do know they are planning the kidnapping for the streets. You’ll see.”
“How can you be so sure it’s a kidnapping?” asked a large man in an ill-fitting suit.
“You mean other than the bleeding-heart VIPs with their ransom insurance? Corporations have made kidnapping a viable career choice. Besides, nobody wears expensive jewels to Phantom of the Opera, and nobody gets assassinated in Canada. Trust me. These guys think they’re about to grab an easy hostage. Reality is, they fell into their own worst nightmare.
“From what we know, these actors are street thugs who lived long enough to take their skills on the road. Rocks, bricks, and the occasional sock stuck into a liquor bottle filled with gasoline. They haven’t been here long enough to plan this thing out. We’ve got a crazy amount of intel on them. Trust me, if law enforcement did their job, they’d all be behind bars at least long enough for Julie to turn gray.” She motioned toward an angular girl with raven black hair.
“We’ve found one accomplice who works here—a coat checker. He’s been texting with Sam Farley. Farley is the leader and hasn’t left his seat in the Java Cat, even to go to the bathroom. Four hours and counting. We’ve manipulated the texts so purple-hair-coat-check-boy is still in play. He doesn’t know it, but he’s working for us now. Their group is small. The greedy bastards think it’s a slam dunk and I don’t imagine they’ll want to spread their cut too thin, but we’re watching for connections who might show up late. Right now, it’s just three guys on the street. They all stepped off the magic school bus.” She motioned to the screen, “The confirmed bad guys are the red dots, the accessories are yellow for now. If we find them armed or they join in with the kidnappers, their ID will turn red.”
A street map overlaid onto a satellite image zoomed less than a block away from the Queen Elizabeth Theatre to include a storefront on Hamilton Street—Java Cat. Three dots stacked like red pancakes slightly offset from one another lingered inside the Java Cat, labeled A1, A2, and A3. A similar stack of yellow dots also populated the Java Cat, labeled C1, C2, C3. As the screen zoomed in on the cluster, two more yellow dots, C4 and C5, blinked and peeled away. One headed down the alley, the other drifted along a direct path toward the large theater complex.
Green dots littered the Queen Elizabeth Theatre, some blinking, some stacked in one place looking like a segmented caterpillar. Only one red dot appeared. The corresponding picture showed a face with multiple piercings and purple hair—the coat checker.
Julie, the girl with the raven-black hair, spoke up, “Why is there a blinking yellow disk walking down the hall toward us?”
Megan Ward spun toward Atari-Boy positioned at the laptop and said, “Zoom in.”
An outline of the Queen Elizabeth Theatre filled the screen, framed in by the sidewalks and surface streets around it. The 3-D view looked skeletal but showed rooms, hallways, and the building’s various levels. With the previous view, the yellow dot appeared to be coming toward them, but in 3-D it represented a person one floor below. When zoomed in closer, a green dot attached to the yellow, but both people were represented by an avatar with a question mark.
“Well, Justin, got anything?” Megan Ward said,
Hank was a little disappointed to find Atari-Boy had a name, but the exchange was interesting.
Justin said, “Yeah, it’s not been my top priority, but I’ve told Interpol we’ve located one of their persons of interest and sent a pic.”
“Where the hell’s the pic?” Megan Ward hissed.
“Yeah, well, I’m working on that one… I’ll update it.”
“That’s bullshit, Justin. You should have handled this.”
“It’s in the feed now.”
Framed within a yellow dot, a clear photo of a good-looking Japanese man about Hank’s age showed on the monitor.
“Is he dangerous? Any weapons? Does Interpol want us to detain him? Damn it, there’s only one thing I hate more than Mounties, it’s Interpol. They’re arrogant, have stupid accents, and they wear their clothes too tight. Justin, they’ve got cameras all over this place. I want answers about this guy. Yellow dots will get us killed.
“Willy, you and Gunn are closest to the door. Mop this up. If this guy is trouble, cuff his ass to a handicap rail. If he forgot to pay his cyber-currency tax, pat him on the back and let him walk. Go… go… go!”
Justin’s voice came through Hank’s earpiece, loud and clear. Willy slowed the charge down the stairs and listened, too. “He’s unarmed. Not even fingernail clippers,” Justin said. “I’ve checked his face everywhere. Looks like he’s a Japanese businessperson. Rich family, jetsetter. Interpol has him POI for border violations, and the US wants him detained at any point of entry. Looks like a white-collar criminal. I’d guess tax cheat.”
“Okay, thanks. We’ll check him out anyway,” Willy said. “I did a security detail for Interpol once. I thought they were great. Paid going wages and put us up in a fancy hotel.” With an accent deep from the bayou, he added, “Good thing I ain’t arrogant and my clothes fit right.”
Not to be outdone, Hank pulled out a down east Maine accent that would make his uncle proud. “Nah, t’ain’t nothin’. She’s a dite numb.” Only hours ago, he was certain Willy was a jerk, and now he was following him down the stairwell, laughing.
As they approached the fire door leading to the floor with the mysterious Japanese businessperson, Hank reached into his sporran and touched the handle of the SALT pistol. The rig made a poor excuse for a quick draw holster, but the gun was close enough. Still, he wished he had his Colt 1911 or anything that fired lead.
Willy motioned a quiet finger toward his lips, pointed to his wrist, and motioned his fingers swiping from left to right over his watch. Hank took the hint and copied the gesture revealing multiple screens. They paused while leaning against the wall and studied the information on the small screens. He scrolled past the picture they had seen upstairs. The next screen contained details. Sex: Male, Age: 26, Name: Tatsuo Oshiro, Alias: Gregory Hattori, Allegations: Border Violations.
Hank’s eyes met Willy’s as he gave a hand signal to follow. They broke out of the stairwell’s heavy steel doors and entered a large, well-lit corridor. Only a dozen people were in view, and the two crossed the expanse with a slow, casual gait toward the opposite wall.
“I have eyes on him. I have a knack for these things. Sure, I saw the blond in a short black dress and serious heels first, but she’s with our POI. Let me handle things but keep your Nerf gun handy. Justin says he’s not armed, but I’m sure he knows some Bruce Lee moves.” Willy chuckled. “But don’t worry. I took a Chuck Norris course in whoopass.
“Excuse me? Sir? Mr. Oshiro?” Willy called ahead.
The man and woman walked on without responding to Willy’s raised voice.
“Gregory!”
Fifteen yards separated them, but when the man reacted, it didn’t seem far enough. The yellow dot labeled C9 morphed before his eyes. The man turned around with the menacing look of a gang member being challenged. His silent glare said, “I’ll rip off your head.” All of Hank’s senses spooled up for action and didn’t stop when the man’s face labored into a smile.
“Bridget. Meet me in the foyer at coat check. I’ll only be a minute.”
The woman released her grasp on Gregory’s arm and turned to see who stole her man’s attention. Another transition before Hank’s eyes occurred when the statuesque bombshell, dressed to the nines, turned around. She became somebody’s teenage daughter playing dress-up. With an unimpressed shrug, she spun on her heels and walked off, adding years with each confident step.
“What do you want?” Gregory asked.
“We represent the theater and wanted to make sure that everything has been going well for you and your companion. Is there anything you need from us before you leave?”
It was clear from Gregory’s expression he was not buying what Willy was selling. Keeping Willy in his peripheral vision, the man glanced over at Hank and measured him up, stopping at his eyes. Once again, the man’s contempt softened, and he turned back to Willy. A queasiness overtook Hank’s belly and when Willy closed the gap, his stomach did a flip. Willy knew how to fight and he outweighed this creep by at least fifty pounds of muscle, but things go wrong—all the time. The man matched Willy’s movements, narrowing the safety zone between the two combatants even faster. Hank gripped the pistol in the sporran as both came to an abrupt halt—only an arm’s length separated them.
“Thank you for asking. I need nothing from you. Good evening,” he said and walked away.
“Well, Gregory,” Willy said in a mocking tone, “We’ll keep an eye on you to make sure everything continues to go well for you and your… niece?”
The tension in Hank’s gut melted as the well-dressed man ignored Willy. When he was out of sight, around the corner, Hank relaxed his grip on the pistol.
Willy shook his head at Hank and said, “I don’t know what border violations are, but that guy is scary.” He turned his attention to his watch and spoke, “Justin, keep C9 yellow. Tell Interpol whatever you want, but he has nothing to do with tonight’s activities.”
“The girl?” Hank asked.
“She’s out of her depth. Not our problem.”
Willy had played this right, and Hank followed him with more confidence back upstairs to the briefing room.