Unstable Target: Six Assassins Book 3

by Heskett, Jim

  Ember looked over at Gabe, and he was running a lap timer on his phone. He was twirling one hand in a circle, which Ember took to mean she needed to keep Quinn on the phone long enough for his trace to work.

  “You know it’s super-weird that you say my full name every time you mention me, right?” Ember asked.

  “Is it?”

  “Who is this girl you killed?”

  Quinn laughed. “She was meat. That’s all that matters about her. If she had a name, I never knew it. I called her something else, but that’s none of your business.”

  He was lying, but she didn’t see a need to argue with him. “It’s easier for you to kill them if you don’t think of them as people, isn’t it?”

  “Did you like the little twist at the end? Bet you thought I was going to shoot her in the head, right? Instead, a blast of electricity. Much more exciting. I like surprises, and I thought you would, too.”

  “Do you have more meat at your disposal, or was this your only hostage?”

  “Hmm. I don’t think I’m going to answer that. Let’s change topics so we can talk about our next meeting.”

  Ember looked at the little slip of paper in her hand, debating if she should admit to Quinn that she’d found it. Most likely, he had intended for her to do so. “Okay, let’s talk about it. If I show up, are you going to be at the next one? Or are you going to break your word again?”

  “Maybe. I have six more days after this one to play with you. I like playing with you, Ember Clarke. Getting to know you and your methods is great fun for me. For you? Maybe not.”

  “You’re going to die, Quinn. And I’m going to be the one to pull the trigger.”

  “Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Anyway, I’ll call you soon with more information.”

  “Do you think you—”

  Before she could get the question out, he hung up. Ember unplugged the device from her phone and handed it over to him. He frowned, which she didn’t take as a good sign.

  Gabe inserted it into his phone, opened an app, and started swiping.

  “Was it long enough?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. This isn’t like a simple cell tower trace. I have to analyze the file, and that could take some time. Maybe a day or more.”

  “A day?”

  Gabe shrugged. “Maybe longer. I have to look at the readout and let the software analyze the frequencies of the receiving line to match it up with the sending signal. It’s the best I can do.”

  “Okay, okay,” Ember said as she slipped her phone into her pocket. She walked back over to the corpse inside the metal torture device and met the dead woman’s eyes, frozen in fear at the moment of her death. “We should make a last sweep for evidence and then wipe this place down for prints. No dilly-dallying.”

  As soon as she finished talking, sirens chirped outside.

  Chapter Seven

  WELLNER

  Day Two

  Denver Assassins Club President David Wellner opened the contract titled Parker Member #1586 v. Ember Clarke. Her second in the black spot trial by combat discipline. Since Ember had killed the poisoner Lydia Beauchamp on the sixth day of the contract last week, Wellner would now mark it null and void.

  Two weeks in, two assassins handled. Ember, in a few short years in the Club, had become one of the most effective and lethal killers Wellner had ever seen. Judging by the last two weeks, it would appear Ember had a chance of making her way through all six contracts. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless.

  But, Ember now had moved on to week three, and the assassin on her tail this time was Quinn Voeller from the Highlands Branch of the DAC. While Lydia had been crafty and dangerous, Quinn was a straight-up sociopath. On several occasions, Wellner had heard rumors about Quinn’s activities that would conflict with the Club’s bylaws, but he was slippery. Nothing concrete had ever been brought to the Review Board.

  If Ember managed to take him out now, Wellner wouldn’t have to worry about it. Or, if Quinn killed Ember, he could put this black spot mess behind him and move on.

  Wellner didn’t have the emotional room to think much about Ember’s contract this week. Foremost on his mind was the video his secretary had shown him a few days ago. Vice President Jules and Club Historian Kunjal having a secret chat in the stairwell of this building, a hundred feet from the room where the Review Board met. They’d spoken in vague terms during their clandestine meeting, almost as if they had expected someone to overhear their words.

  But Wellner knew what this discussion was about. By all reasonable logic, it had to do with unseating Wellner from power. Of course, they hadn’t said those exact words. They hadn’t even mentioned Wellner by name.

  But it was about him. It had to be. He didn’t get to be where he was now in the DAC by assuming anyone had his best interest at heart. He’d let himself become lazy and sloppy over the last couple of years. It had to stop.

  Wellner felt a wave of tension rumble up from his feet, through his belly, and up into the top of his balding head. He stood and swung his arms around. This was too much. All of it, too much. He needed to catch some air and walk off a little of the heaviness he felt from breakfast.

  Wellner marched out to the front of his office to find his secretary Naomi giving him a concerned look. “Everything okay, sir?”

  “Fine. Have you seen Jules around this morning?”

  “I don’t think so. You want me to reach her?”

  “No, don’t do that. What are you working on?”

  She tapped her full, red lips together a few times as she gazed over the array of scattered pages on her desk. “I’m still trying to catch up on processing the paperwork for the Golden expansion. They included some last-minute provisions that are making things challenging.”

  “Anything I need to know about?”

  Naomi shook her head. “I’ll write up a report when I’m done here. I do have messages for you, though. A lot of them are about the poisoning at the Boulder Branch last week. Some of their members are unhappy.”

  “Define 'unhappy.'“

  Naomi dug through a pile of pink message slips. “Most of them did not put their names on the messages. But, generally, certain members didn’t feel like a memo was adequate to address a member of one Branch attacking and killing members of another.”

  Wellner shrugged. “I would never want to give the impression I’m indifferent to petitions from our members. But Lydia is dead. Not much punishment I can assign to her at this point.”

  “Of course. I’ll put together some talking points if you’d like, in case you want to follow-up on last week’s memo.”

  “Perfect. Also, that reminds me. Can you get the tech guys to look at your phone? I don’t like these anonymous messages. I want to know who’s calling us, so ask them to add a modular trace to your extension. I want to know who’s unhappy.”

  “Absolutely, David. I’ll get them here today. Do you need anything else?”

  “I’m going to go for a walk. Be back in a few.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't hear it because he had snatched his coat and scarf and was out the door in less than two seconds. He'd zipped up his jacket and thrown the scarf around his neck before he was in the stairwell. His body jiggled as he thundered down the steps to the first floor, then he paused to catch his breath before he pushed the bar to open the back door.

  Behind the Denver Consolidated Holdings building was a grassy open space, filled with knee-high yellowing weeds. The city had completely neglected this little patch of land. Wellner had thought about ordering some of his administrative team to go out there and cut the grass, but he didn’t want to bring attention to their quiet little building hidden here, not far from downtown. Part of life in the DAC was staying low-key at all costs. In the thirty-plus years the Club had used this building as its headquarters, they had never had a police visit. Wellner kept that item as a personal point of pr
ide. So, the grass would have to stay.

  But, the grass didn’t matter. Its height obscured the view of I-25, which wasn’t much to look at, anyway. He could see a little of the mountains peeking out between the buildings, but only slivers.

  “Morning, sir,” said a voice from behind him.

  Wellner whirled to see Kunjal Anand sitting by the door, his back up against the building. He had a yellow legal pad on his legs, pen cap sticking out of his mouth.

  “What are you doing out here?” Wellner said, his heart racing from the surprise greeting.

  Kunjal shrugged. “I like the morning air. I like the cold. It is supposed to snow again later today. I missed the snow two days ago, and I would like to see these flakes I am told are as thick as a quarter.”

  “Trust me. It gets old real quick.”

  Wellner took a few steps toward him, to see how Kunjal would react. If it made the younger man uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. He only continued to stare, squinting up at his boss.

  Wellner hunkered down. He wanted to take great care in his words, but he also felt like he needed to get an answer right now. “You’ve been talking to Jules Dunard.”

  “At times, sir, yes. Like at the dinner week before last.”

  “And what do you talk about when you and Jules get together?”

  “This and that.”

  “That’s what you said last time.”

  Kunjal’s head twitched, and he frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Wellner’s pulse raced. He had one ace in the hole, and he didn’t know a way other than to reveal it. While he would never present this info to Jules herself, Wellner didn’t feel those same reservations with Kunjal. Did he?

  Wellner hesitated a moment, deliberating if he should take this next step. With so much on the line, he didn’t think he had another choice.

  “You had a conversation the other day with Jules in the stairwell.”

  Kunjal’s lips swished back and forth for a few seconds. “Yes, I recall that. It was brief, but we did talk.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “If I recall correctly, we talked about the last black spot. By that, I mean the last black spot trial by combat the Club issued as a disciplinary measure in 1971. Prior to the one handed down to Ember Clarke.”

  “Are you being serious? That’s what Jules wanted to talk to you about?”

  Kunjal offered a grave nod. “Yes, President Wellner. I am serious. Is there some problem with us discussing Club history?”

  “Never mind that. Why were you talking about black spots now?”

  “Ember Clarke has been looking into it, asking Historians at different Branches. They have been reporting her queries to me. Naturally, this made me curious, so I wanted to conduct my own research into the matter.”

  “And?”

  “I went to the Club archives in Parker and could not find the Review Board documents from that entire month. I found this odd. Elsewhere, the information about the last black spot is… inconsistent. The Vice President also has concerns about it.”

  “She does, does she?”

  The younger man’s weighty brow knitted together. “Yes. Are you troubled about something, sir? I feel like there is something you want to say that you are not saying.”

  “I need to know what’s going on in my own house, Kunjal. I need to know where the loyalties lie of the people who are closest to me.”

  Now, the kid looked genuinely confused. “I don’t understand.”

  Wellner readjusted the glasses dangling on the edge of his nose. “I know you don’t. But I will ask you one thing: do not, under any circumstances, mention to Jules that you had this conversation with me.”

  “Of course, sir. Whatever you ask, I’m happy to oblige. I serve at your pleasure, Mr. President.”

  Wellner studied him for a moment before walking away. He didn’t know if Kunjal was capable of lying, but he didn’t think the kid was telling the whole truth, either.

  Chapter Eight

  EMBER

  Ember knocked on the door. A yawn like a roar escaped her lips, and she steadied herself with one hand on the hallway wall outside Gabe’s apartment. She’d ordered the double shot, but it was already feeling like a triple shot morning.

  Her hamstrings felt tight, mostly because she and Gabe had been forced to flee the Night Owl last night at top speed. Quinn had seen it fit to drop a dime to the cops as a little parting gift.

  Thirty seconds later, the door opened, and Gabe stood there in a terrycloth robe, looking haggard. His shortish brown hair jutted out at odd angles, black bags sat under each eye, his lips were pale and dry.

  “You okay?” Ember asked.

  “I didn’t sleep great.” He took a step back and waved her in, then she kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot.

  “I didn’t either. Two alley cats had a throw-down at four this morning, and I couldn’t get back to sleep after that. I’ve been working on getting caffeinated, but I think I did the calculations wrong. What was your excuse?”

  Gabe looked at her with raised eyebrows, as if she should already know the answer. "The girl in the bar last night. I keep thinking about the way she died. And what would have happened if we could have gotten her out in time? I kept thinking that if we could have broken off a chair leg and lit it on fire, maybe the smoke would have masked the view of those cameras, and we could have bent the gun away from her face."

  "It's possible, but also possible that he set those cameras to activate the trap at the first sign of motion. Maybe he rigged it so if we interfered, the gun would have blasted a hole in her head."

  Gabe made a face. “That doesn’t help.”

  “My point is, we did what we could with the time we had. Playing H.G. Wells in your head isn’t going to do anything.”

  “H.G. Wells?”

  “The Time Machine. Don’t you read?”

  Gabe turned up his palms. “Not that one, apparently.”

  “Look, kid, I know it’s horrific. But—and maybe this something you should hear before you consider taking your Club membership test—it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen as a member of the DAC. There are some real sickos out there.”

  “Yes, like Quinn.”

  "Him, and worse. This line of work doesn't have you bumping elbows with life coaches and children's book authors unless those people are also rapists and pedophiles or otherwise done something to make someone hire you to kill them. But, once you've got your own contracts, you can carve out your path however you see fit. That's the beauty of this job."

  He nodded and planted his hands into the robe’s front pockets. “Yeah. I’ll sleep better when Quinn is dead.”

  “Do you have anything on his location?”

  He tilted his head back toward his bedroom, and Ember followed him there. His laptop’s fan was whirring on high, with white text speeding along the black screen. He sat in the big leather chair in front of his desk as his eyes flicked over the scrolling text.

  “Well, I know it’s a landline. That’s what I have so far.”

  “I don’t understand. If you can know that about it, why can’t you know where he is?”

  “I’m running a complex algorithm. It’s not like the geo-thing that cops or feds do. This is analyzing the audio, looking for environmental cues, comparing it to cell tower data. It takes time.”

  “How much more time do you think you’ll need?”

  "Late tonight, maybe early tomorrow. It's hard to predict because it works like a snowball. Or a spiderweb."

  Ember sat on the bed, dejected. If Quinn had more victims held hostage in whatever house he’d called from, then waiting another day might be too long. But, there wasn’t any point in cajoling Gabe to make it work faster.

  “Do you think he knew we would trace the call?” Gabe asked.

  “It’s entirely possible. There’s a good chance that whatever address you find will lead us into another trap. I know now that I shouldn’t trust a s
ingle word coming out of his mouth.”

  “Next time you go, you should take an army.”

  Ember nodded. “If I had an army, maybe I would.”

  "You have a couple of dozen Boulder Branch members who would help you. Take ten of them. Make use of the tools you have."

  Ember considered this as she took the little slip of paper from her pocket, the one she’d retrieved from the machine after the young woman’s death.

  “Free shipping," Ember said. "If I can figure this out, then your trace probably won't matter anymore. What do you think that means?"

  “Shipping. Maybe he’s got a delivery truck? Maybe an RV? Or maybe it’s about a shipping container sitting on a flatbed train car somewhere?”

  “Yeah. It’s too broad. We don’t know shit.”

  "I'm working on it. Once we have an address, it'll be a lot easier to narrow him down. Do you think he lives in the Highlands neighborhood since that's his Branch?"

  “Not necessarily. In the ‘60s, the Branches were defined based on where the members lived. But now, they’re more symbolic than actually geographical.”

  "Sorry, I can't get the info faster."

  Ember leaned over and gave his knee a squeeze. "I know. This isn't your fault. It's good to see you up on your feet after the poisoning last week."

  “I’m feeling much better. Hardly any stomach pain anymore.”

  She stood, and when he looked up at her, she said, “Good. I’m going to stop back by the Night Owl bar. Make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Want me to go with you?”

  “No, you stay here with your…” she waved a hand toward the laptop, “computer nerd algorithm thing. This is your top priority, so call me as soon as you know something.”

  * * *

  Ember noted the broken chain and lock behind the Night Owl still sitting on the ground. As far as she could tell, the police had not been here. That troubled her because there had been police close by last night. Ember and Gabe had been running too fast to pay much attention to them at the time. It's possible Quinn did not call them, and the chirp was coincidental. No way to know now.