Apex

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “Not to worry, gentlemen. Let us enjoy the night’s challenge. I hear tomorrow offers something even more sporting to hunt.” Aguilar cracked a mocking grin. “If you can afford the price.”

  The judge and general exchanged quizzical glances as they turned and headed for the Land Rover at a fast walk, leaving Pierre behind on the rocks. Porters in the employ of their host would be by shortly to retrieve the corpse.

  Within the cave something snorted, tasted the air with its tongue, as it leisurely followed the scent of its quarry toward the surface.

  1

  The muscles in Max Ahlgren’s thick forearm tensed as he curled his fingers around the nutcracker.

  “Come on, Ahlgren, I don’t remember!” babbled the man duct-taped to the chair. “It was ten years—!”

  Max squeezed the nutcracker, focused all of his strength into one hand, and felt the satisfying crunch as he pulverized the large knuckle on the man’s middle finger. His victim’s bellow of agony—a satisfying howl—echoed from the crumbling brick walls in the cavernous, abandoned warehouse, startling a few roosting pigeons into flight.

  Yell all you want. There are no ears to hear you. None that give a shit, anyway.

  The warehouse was in a rotting sector of DC that cops only visited when they were cleaning up a homicide. He’d had to evict a couple of crackheads when he arrived, which hadn’t been a problem. Twenty bucks and a few uttered threats sent them scrambling to loiter somewhere else.

  Max hoped he wouldn’t be bothered again but couldn’t be sure. The warehouse had obviously been vacant for decades; however, a few tarnished shell casings and a couple of fading bloodstains told him the place was still open for illegitimate business. The local drug lord’s thugs probably used it for purposes similar to his own.

  The man’s groveling and screeches trickled off into a fit of whimpering hyperventilation.

  As Max stood in the pool of dim light cast by an electric camping lantern, he enjoyed his victim’s suffering, savoring the moment. Every one of you fuckers will meet this fate, until there are no more lies to be uncovered.

  “I’ll ask again, darlin’,” Max said when the man’s whimpers turned to stifled whines. “Your whereabouts during the Russo-Georgian War?”

  “Damn you, it was ten fucking years ago! I don’t remember!”

  Max shook his head. “Come on, darlin’, you can do better than that.”

  Chris Darling—aka Charles Dawes, a former CIA operative—shook his patrician head, aquiline nose fanning the air. In the moments before Max had abducted him, Darling had cut quite a figure: mid-fifties, ramrod posture, expensive haircut. Max had little interest in men’s fashion, but even he had to admit Darling’s custom-tailored, double-breasted, sharkskin suit was worth the several thousand dollars he must have paid.

  His suit jacket and French cuff shirt now lay discarded on the filthy floor as he shook with pain, his undershirt soaked with the reeking sweat of fear. Taped to an ancient rolling office chair, short two wheels when hastily vacated by one of the crackheads, he listed to shield his right side.

  All was going according to plan. Effective torture involved more than just excruciating pain—the victim’s sense of dignity likewise needed to be destroyed. Despite what the government publicly said about torture being an unreliable means to gather intel, Max knew from experience how to get the right information. Success would inevitably follow his efforts... provided his victim actually knew anything.

  “Dammit, I don’t remember,” Darling pleaded.

  “Then allow me to jar your memory. We’ll start with a simple question. Your old boss Peter Banner was in Russia that week stirring the pot. Were you there as well?”

  Darling gulped and said nothing.

  “I’m getting really fucking tired of this, Darling.” Max bent and grabbed the pinky finger on the man’s right hand, maneuvered the nutcracker into place.

  “No! No, I’ll—!”

  Max squeezed the nutcracker. After a minute or so, once the screams died down, he prompted, “Now, you were saying?”

  “I... I was here. In Washington.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You don’t sound sure.” Max clacked the nutcracker’s steel grips together. “Maybe an index finger will give me a definitive answer.”

  “That’s not necessary. None of this is! If you wanted to talk to me—!”

  “I should have stopped by for coffee? I think we both know better. You’re so approachable I had to purchase your whereabouts on the dark web.”

  “Look, I was here that week, not in Russia. Pete left me behind to mind the shop.”

  “Of course he did. You were his strong right hand.” Max laughed at his own joke. “Which in the real world makes you a boot-licking toady.”

  “Fuck off and die!”

  Max slugged him square in his noble nose, felt it explode into pulp beneath his fist.

  Darling’s head snapped back; blood poured from his nostrils. “Yeah, big fucking deal!” Darling spat blood at him. “That all you got? You’re a busher, Ahlgren. Always were.”

  “Sorry, working on the fly here.”

  The nutcracker just wasn’t cracking it. Darling was a tough old goat who had been trained to inflict torture and to withstand torture himself. In a perfect world, Max would have wired his scrotum to a car battery, but he lacked time to set that up.

  He dropped the nutcracker and picked up the blowtorch, sparked it to life with a friction igniter. “You’re still a handsome rake after all these years. Wonder what your wife will say when you come home looking like the Elephant Man.”

  “Don’t do it!”

  Max held the hissing blue flame inches from Darling’s face. He pointed it for a moment at his broken nose, then moved the flame to his temple and ran it slowly across his head. Darling’s hair burst into flame with a crackling whoosh as he screamed in terror. The acrid stink of his burnt hair brought tears to Max’s eyes and nearly made him retch.

  “Jesus, what the fuck do you put in your hair? Grecian Formula?”

  Darling responded with more yells.

  “For that distinguished touch of gray!” Holding one hand over his mouth to ward off the stench, Max torched the rest of his hair.

  Darling thrashed wildly in the broken chair, which toppled.

  “You’re supposed to hold still for the barber,” Max chided as he watched smoke curl from the man’s head. The flame had raised blisters all over his scalp.

  Once Darling calmed, he growled, “Fuck it! Fine! I told you where I was. What the fuck more do you want?”

  “Had enough games, asshole? You wanna talk to me now?”

  “Ask already!”

  “Who is Burt Jarvis?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  Max knelt and stuck the blowtorch flame beneath Darling’s chin just for a moment, but it did the trick.

  “I said I don’t know! I’ve only heard his name. You gotta believe me!”

  “Banner ordered Burt Jarvis and an unknown number of accomplices to murder my family. While he was in Russia, running an off-the-books op outside of Telavi in Georgia. So if you were here... You might not have been on the scene, but I’m thinking you coordinated somehow with Jarvis. Ever been to Minneapolis? Did you fly there that week?”

  “Never! I’ve never been there.” His face radiated earnestness.

  Another problem with torturing professionals, they can keep up their front even under the most painful duress. Had Darling been a normal civilian, the interrogation would have ended fifteen minutes ago. But even with two broken fingers and a head covered in blistering burns, he remained economical with what little truth he revealed.

  “What was Jarvis’s position in the agency?”

  “I don’t know. Banner talked about him. I never even heard his n
ame before then.”

  “You knew Banner was going to murder my family though, didn’t you?”

  Darling gulped audibly, breathed heavily. “He said you needed an attitude adjustment to get your focus back on your work. That you knew too much to simply let you walk away. His words, not mine.”

  Max’s work back then had been begrudging to say the least. He joined the Special Activities Division of the CIA under duress in lieu of receiving a death sentence, despite his innocence, for murdering his Marine Corps commanding officer.

  Fucked by the corps and then double-fucked by the company. Yeah, that really improved my attitude.

  Peter Banner, Max and Darling’s former boss, had been a maestro of manipulation, and Max had been lulled by his lies for several years. The murder of Max’s family had been a mistake. But he learned. He got what he deserved. Max often wished that he had killed Banner but took consolation in the fact that at least he’d seen him die in a most gruesome manner.

  “So he sent Jarvis to do it.” Max learned this via an incomplete file of old emails between Banner and Jarvis, given to him by an operative named Juno Rey as incentive to join her on a mission to North Korea the previous year. Juno had promised to provide more information after they completed their mission. The lovely Miss Rey proved to be CIA through and through, a dedicated double-crosser. After she died on that mission, Max could only seek the missing information from those least likely to give it up: those with suspected involvement.

  “I guess,” Darling responded. “I just knew it was taken care of. That was Banner’s—”

  “Not buying it.” Max grabbed him by the chin and jerked his head around so their eyes met. “You know more. Give me Jarvis’s real name, and I might let you go home.”

  The son of a bitch actually laughed at him. “We both know that’s not going to happen, even if I could tell you something.”

  “Pity. I figured you might want to live a few more years, watch your granddaughter grow up. She was great tonight, a real prima ballerina.”

  “Yeah, congrats on kidnapping me as I left her first recital—that’s a new low even for you.”

  “Well cry me a river, Darling. You and Banner broke the code when you got my family involved. I’ll never have grandchildren thanks to you night-creeping, shit-spewing assholes. So go fuck yourself with a flagpole.” Max spat on him. “And if you think this has been fun, wait till I waterboard you.”

  Darling wheezed a laugh. “With what?”

  “I guess you didn’t notice that rusty five-gallon pail in the corner over there. It’s got a couple gallons of liquid in it, not sure what. Presume the crackheads used it as a toilet. We’re about to—”

  Max’s phone vibrated in the pocket of his coveralls. He let it buzz as he pulled Darling from the floor and positioned him upright once more. With no voicemail the phone continued to vibrate, now well past a dozen rings. He didn’t want to answer but got the feeling the caller wasn’t about to hang up anytime soon.

  Max pulled out the phone. The screen read unknown, the standard number for telemarketers or covert motherfuckers with lots to hide. Considering the time of day, a bit after 0115, probably the latter.

  “Maybe it’s Jarvis,” Darling offered with a smug grin.

  With his right hand, Max chopped Darling hard and fast across the Adam’s apple. As Darling sat gagging, Max replied, “Don’t interrupt when someone’s taking a call. Didn’t they teach you manners at boarding school?” He pressed the green phone icon. “What?”

  Dead air on the line.

  Then, someone said, “Morning, Max. Hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  It took Max a moment to identify the caller’s voice. “Your timing could use some work, General.”

  “Fortunately, your convenience is none of my concern,” said Marklin, a retired lieutenant general and former Marine Corps liaison to the CIA. These days he worked for some sort of think tank security firm that catered to high-level government officials. Twelve years before, Marklin had helped induct Max into the CIA after his ouster from the corps. For that reason alone, Max hated him almost as much as the late Peter Banner.

  “I heard you were back in town,” continued Marklin. “Figured I’d pay my respects.”

  “You heard right. Just back to catch up with some old friends.”

  “So I hear. I also hear one of them is missing.” Matthew “Raven” Rau, another of Banner’s former drinking buddies, now slept with the fish at the bottom of Baltimore Harbor. As with Darling, Rau’s interrogation had been a waste of time, though the slow and methodical dismemberment of his body had provided a slight measure of satisfaction.

  “Well, you know how it is. People in this business are always going missing.” And Darling will join their ranks soon enough.

  “Why are you here? Certain eyebrows are beginning to rise.”

  “Just digging for a little information, General.”

  “Well, keep it up and the grave you dig might well be your own.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. If you wanna leave a callback number, I’ll be glad to continue this conversation in the morning. Right now, I’m in the middle of something.”

  “It can wait. I have a job for you.”

  “And you already know my answer. I’m not working for you or any other company stooge, past or present.”

  “Oh? And here I thought you might be interested in catching up with another old friend. I must have assumed incorrectly. My mistake.”

  “Wait. Who are we talking about?”

  “No one who bears mentioning over the phone. Let’s meet tomorrow, the usual spot. You remember.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Zero-nine-hundred.” Marklin severed the connection.

  Max shoved the phone into his pocket.

  “Who was that?” Darling gasped, just beginning to regain powers of speech. “Marklin? You going to work him over next?”

  If I thought it might get me somewhere... “Nah, somebody might miss him. You don’t present that problem.”

  “Well then fucking get it over with already.” Darling’s words dripped from his lips like syrupy venom.

  “Nonsense, Chris, we’re just getting started.” Max kicked Darling over backward in his chair, relished the sound of his head smacking the cement, as if someone had dropped a bowling ball. “But don’t sweat it. It’ll all be over soon enough.”

  Too fucking soon for the likes of you.

  ***

  At 0855 Max entered Meridian Hill Park in northwest Washington, DC. With statues and Italianate fountains, the small park had been built to emulate the great urban parks of European capitals. If it had ever achieved such splendor, those days were long in the past. Though a fine façade, its fountains and greenery couldn’t mask a city in decline. Garbage littered the paths, weeds sprouted from flower beds, and vandals regularly decorated the place with graffiti.

  Max walked the paths through steam-room humidity beneath a gray sky ready to spit rain at any moment. How do people live in this part of the world? He found everything about the East Coast—foul weather, crawling traffic, pissed-off people—drab and draining after so many years in Vegas. One day this will end, and I’ll never have to see Washington again.

  He found Marklin sitting on his usual bench on a slope that overlooked the cascading fountain and its large rectangular pool. They had rendezvoused many times in this spot over the years to exchange information. Other than a few extra wrinkles and a head of cropped gray hair, the general looked much as he did when Max first met him some twelve years before. He wore a black golf shirt, white slacks, and a cap with some golf gear manufacturer’s logo on it, leaving no doubt as to his plans for the rest of the day.

  You’ll have to deal with me first. Max wondered how that might affect his game. He approached and sat down, the bench giving a bit under his bulky f
rame.

  Marklin lit a cigar.

  “Cuban?” Max said.

  “Is there any other kind?” Marklin looked him over. “You look like shit, son.”

  “Back at you. Didn’t know we were related.”

  “And you stink too. What is that awful smell?”

  “Grecian Formula.”

  Marklin examined Max’s sandy-brown hair, then shrugged. “Seems to be working. But at what cost?”

  “You summoned me here to discuss hygiene?”

  “No, but you could certainly use some instruction.”

  “Sorry, some of us work odd hours, and this place is nowhere near my hotel. If you want to be rid of my stink, then come to the point.”

  “Gladly. I want to get eighteen holes in before it storms later.

  “I’ve been working as a consultant lately for Senator Linda Pierce. She’s the ranking Republican on the Senate Intelligence Committee, in case you’ve never heard of her.”

  “Name rings a bell, but I can’t say I know much about her.”

  “She’s a damsel in distress at the moment, just up your alley. Apparently, her son Josh has gone missing. I haven’t been briefed on the specifics—my job is to connect her with someone who can find her boy and bring him back without attracting attention from the press or authorities. Your name sprang to mind.”

  “Sounds like she needs a missing persons expert, General, not the likes of me.”

  “Maybe so but sometimes it’s the thought that counts. And Senator Pierce is about as honorable as they come in this town. Serve her well and you have a friend on the Intel Committee. That never hurts, especially for a man in your position.”

  Max knew the smell of bullshit. He couldn’t envision a senator voluntarily supplying information to help him in his quest. Talk about political suicide. “I’ll have to decline. I’m really busy right now.”

  “Yes, playing a game you can’t possibly win. How much longer do you think these shenanigans of yours can continue? Allow me to answer for you: not very goddamn long. I got a call on the way over here, something about Chris Darling not returning home from his granddaughter’s ballet recital. A guy with that sort of reputation is going to be missed. You’re about one missing operative away from a shallow hole in the woods.”