Bad Company

by P A Duncan

  The man jerked and whirled around. He looked her over and smiled. “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m a friend of Sergei’s.”

  The smile broadened. “Any friend of Sergei’s is a friend of mine, especially your kind of friend.” He held up the envelope. “Sergei came through for me. A man of his word.”

  “That he is, Cutter. Let’s go outside and chat about him, shall we?”

  The smile dropped from his face. His eyes narrowed to slits. “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Since I’m a friend of his, I’d like to talk about where you sent him.”

  Cutter’s eyes widened, and he looked around the post office, his breath coming in pants. “I don’t… I don’t know what you mean.”

  Mai opened her jacket enough for him to see her Beretta ready for a cross-draw. “We can do this quietly or the hard way. Which will it be?”

  “How do you know Sergei?”

  “He did some work for me, and we became…” Mai smiled. “Close friends.”

  Cutter got it and winked at her. “All right, but I’m not going anywhere with you. We can talk here.”

  “A little public for the subject, don’t you think?”

  “Right now, it’s my protection.”

  “How do you think I knew you’d be here?”

  His brows knit as he puzzled over that. “Sergei told you?”

  “He sent me a blind copy of the email he sent you. In a message to me he told me you’d found him work at Patriot City.”

  “Hey, let’s not talk about that here.”

  God, she wanted to throttle him.

  “In his message to you he told you to watch your back, right?”

  Cutter’s frown deepened, but he nodded.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Mai said. “To watch your back. For Sergei.”

  His eyes took in the post office again, and he said, “There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts across the road. I’ll meet you there.”

  “How much did Sergei send you?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “I’ll double it if you come with me. There could be a job in it.”

  He looked her over again. “Any chance we’ll become ‘close friends?’”

  “You never know.”

  “What the hell? Let’s go.”

  Mai took him by the arm, a tight grip above his elbow. “I have transportation outside.”

  Cutter stopped. “You didn’t say anything about transporting anywhere.”

  “You think I walk around with five thousand dollars on me? Do you want it or not?”

  “Someone knows where I am and when I’m supposed to be back.” His eyes shifted away from her as he spoke.

  Liar.

  “I won’t hurt you, Cutter.” Unless my partner’s hurt, she thought. “We’ll chat about Sergei, and you’ll get your money.”

  They emerged from the post office into warm sunshine. The Directorate van approached from her right. Mai heard a squeal of tires to her left, a car accelerating. Instinct made her push Cutter behind her.

  A silver Honda Civic bore down on them, stirring something in her memory, something that made her pull her gun.

  “Tangos at my nine o’clock,” she said, to her team.

  “What?” Cutter blurted. “Where?”

  A man leaned out the open window on the passenger side of the Civic. Mai saw a camouflage jacket and a ski-masked face, not to mention the Uzi pointed at her and Cutter.

  In movies, scenes like this were rendered in slo-mo, overlaid with hip music. Reality could seem to slow, but it also had no music, only wild gunfire as the car slewed toward them.

  Mai brought her Beretta out to return fire, but someone shoved her aside so hard she hit the pavement and almost lost her gun. She twisted around to see Cutter take multiple gunshots. He toppled and sprawled over her.

  The Directorate van, reinforced to the point of being a tank, plowed into the front of the Civic. Her backup team of four Directorate operatives emerged, firing into the Civic.

  Mai tried to roll Cutter off her and heard him gurgle. One of the team came to her side. “You okay, boss?”

  “Fine, fine. What about him?”

  He laid two fingers on Cutter’s neck. “Alive but not for long.”

  “Get him off me.”

  The man rolled Cutter onto his back. “You sure you’re not hit?” he asked Mai.

  “No, I…” She looked down at herself, covered in blood. “Call 9-1-1 for an ambulance and give them the code so they don’t SWAT us.”

  He nodded and moved off.

  Mai knelt in a widening pool of blood. Cutter’s eyes were open, glazed with fear as he struggled to breathe. Blood foam burbled from his lips. Mai took his hand, and he gripped hers, hard.

  “Hang in there, Cutter,” she said.

  “Medics?”

  “On the way. Look at me. Don’t stop looking at me.”

  “Doesn’t hurt. I don’t feel… You really friend of Sergei?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good man. Kept word.”

  “He always does.”

  Cutter’s eyes lost focus, and the grip on her hand slackened.

  “Cutter! Stay with me! Medics are on the way.”

  “Arlington. Enough money…bury me…Arlington?”

  “Nobody’s getting buried. Hold my hand until the medics arrive.”

  “Arlington,” he said, the effort making him wheeze.

  “Easy. Arlington’s not a problem.”

  He wasn’t going to last for an ambulance, though she heard the distant siren. Convention had it you comforted a dying man, but she was unconventional.

  “Cutter, why did you send Sergei to Patriot City?”

  “Good work. Good pay. Second revolution.” He inhaled a ragged breath. “Arlington. My parents…p…proud.”

  Mai heard the rattle in his windpipe.

  “Damn,” she said.

  The sirens were louder, and though she thought it likely futile, she started CPR.

  The Directorate

  When she raised an inquiring eyebrow at him from across the room, Nelson smiled and gave his most recent lover a head shake. A long day, long enough he had no interest in sex. Dealing with multiple police jurisdictions, local and federal because the gunfight that morning had been on post office grounds, was tedious, leading to exhaustion. All he wanted tonight was a glass or several of Scotch and an empty bed.

  Her little pout almost changed his mind. He gave her a wink and checked to see the data stream had been diverted to his quarters before he headed that way.

  When he entered, he left the lights dim for a while. Fluorescents and computer monitors had assaulted his eyes all day. He basked in darkness for a moment. He set his cane down and limped to the bar.

  He reached for a glass, hand stopping in midair when he saw one missing, as was the bottle of Scotch he’d opened the day before.

  “Lights,” he said. “Eighty percent.” The room brightened, and he turned around.

  Mai Fisher lounged on one of his twin sofas, booted feet up on the leather cushions, his bottle of Scotch on the low glass table, a half-full glass balanced on her flat stomach.

  He’d never thought of her in a sexual way. Well, maybe on first sight of her all those years ago. Now, she was too self-assured and foul-mouthed for him. He’d never understood Alexei’s attraction for her. She was, however, one of the best operatives he’d ever known. He picked up a glass and went to the other sofa. Snagging the bottle as he sat, he poured himself a drink.

  Mai was still in her bloody clothes, and her eyes, when she looked at him, betrayed she’d had more than one drink. “I like that thing with the lights,” she said.

  “Our facility engineers are Star Trek geeks. Lose your way home?”

  “He’s not there.”

  Nelson spotted where the blood had transferred to his sofa. “At least the leather’s cleanable,” he murmured. He sank
back into the cushions, glad to take the weight off his hip and knee.

  Mai swung her feet to the floor and sat up, draining her glass. “You’ve been behind a desk too long if the blood gives you qualms.”

  “No, just wondering why it has to be on my furniture.”

  “I wanted you to see it.”

  “I have far less tolerance for your drama than Alexei does. I prefer subtlety.”

  “Bugger that. You’re the least subtle man here, as any analyst or operative in a skirt will attest. I’m too drunk to drive home. I’m sleeping here.”

  “This is sudden.”

  “In your dreams. You have a spare room, and I assume what with your propensity for female company, you have something I can sleep in.”

  “Hall closet, but most of it isn’t meant to be worn long. Leave your clothes on the bathroom floor, and I’ll find something for you.”

  She stood, swayed. “No peeking.”

  “In your dreams,” he replied, and reached for the phone to call his valet.

  Despite his limp, Nelson was silent when he entered the guest room and crossed to the bath. He gathered up the bloody clothes and boots. His valet was good; everything was salvageable.

  Mai had found the gym shorts and tee shirt he’d laid on the bed for her. She’d also found a sweater Alexei had left here at some point. She’d fallen asleep with his scent in her face.

  That gesture brought up unaccustomed emotion. For a long time now, he’d doubted her feelings for anyone except herself. Her concern for Alexei was real and went beyond the bruised ego of being left out of a secret.

  He returned to the living room and handed her clothes off to the valet.

  “Let her sleep as long as she needs.”

  27

  Patience

  Mai woke to find her clothes from the day before as pristine as when she’d purchased them. Even the interior of her boots showed no sign a man’s lifeblood had seeped inside. She dressed and entered the living area. Nelson’s valet was in the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” she said to his back and headed for the door.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” he said, his accent somewhere between Scotland and Yorkshire. “Mr. Nelson indicated your favorite breakfast is Eggs Florentine Benedict. I have it ready.”

  That was too tempting. “Since you’ve troubled yourself.”

  The valet had doffed his suit jacket for a bib apron. Mai watched as he plated two perfectly poached eggs atop beds of wilted spinach and ladled a thick Hollandaise atop them. He put the plate on the eat-in counter, and she sat down.

  “Do you take your coffee white or black?” he asked.

  “White, no sugar.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  The bite of egg, spinach, and Hollandaise was glorious, and Mai savored it before she told him it was perfection.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ve had the pleasure of cooking for Mr. Bukharin, but not for you. This is a first.”

  “Where did Nelson find you?”

  “That’s classified, I’m afraid, ma’am. More coffee?”

  “No thanks, and classified?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Enough ma’ams. Makes me think I’m in England.”

  “Ma’am, I’m a stickler for protocol, but Mr. Nelson warned I shouldn’t say Your Grace.”

  Mai wondered what Alexei would think of having a butler.

  “Ma’am, I’m off. Please leave your plate and utensils right there. I’ll take care of them later. Good day.”

  She finished every bite of breakfast and longed for a piece of toast to sop up the last dollop of Hollandaise. She thought the valet might consider that too crass.

  Mai went to an operative’s unused office, wrote her report, and debriefed with the rest of her team before the critical incident mitigation board.

  With all the necessary paperwork and discussions done, she went home.

  Mount Vernon, Virginia

  At some point during the day, Mai had put aside her online search for Patriot City and snagged a glass and a bottle of Irish whiskey.

  The ambush on Cutter had unnerved her more than she’d let on to the critical incident board. Not its execution or outcome but the fact someone had wanted the man dead, someone who knew where he’d be. Operationally, the ambush was amateurish, but sometimes the clumsy effort worked.

  Cutter was dead a few days after referring Alexei to Patriot City. If that meant a death sentence for Cutter, what did it bode for Alexei?

  The secure phone rang, making her jump, and she grabbed the receiver. “Alexei?”

  “Sorry, it’s Nelson. McTavish indicated you had a good breakfast.”

  “Ah, the valet. I may hire him away.”

  “You can try. I finished reading the reports and the debrief transcript. No issues. The ID on the two in the car came in. You want the names?”

  “Have analysis check them against anything they can find on Patriot City.”

  “Already done. They were both dishonorably discharged after beating up another soldier they thought was gay. Six months in Leavenworth before the discharge. Their families were uncertain of their whereabouts for the past couple of years, but one called home periodically, collect from a pay phone in Springfield, Missouri. Is your computer on?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sending photos of the men, in case you’re interested.”

  The email arrived, and she opened its attachments. Autopsy photos from the shoulders up of two men. Their eyes were half open, as if dozing. “I recognize them,” Mai said.

  “How?”

  “They’re the two I chased from the Wilders’ house last year. There was something familiar about the car. Nelson, they must be involved with Patriot City. Someone wanted Cutter dead after he sent Alexei there. That’s not coincidence.”

  “Maybe Cutter broke some taboo on talking about the place. I don’t think Alexei will have a problem fitting in, and the Nevansky legend is tighter than tight. I say again, he’s good at this.”

  The whiskey had mellowed her, and she didn’t react to him. “Did you hear anything from the FBI or ATF?”

  “ATF owned up to knowing about Patriot City. They have an agent inside. For more than a year.”

  “What? When Alexei asked they were adamant they’d never heard of it. Where is it?”

  “That, they won’t say. The ATF director’s attitude is that Alexei’s presence will interfere with a delicate undercover operation, so Patriot City’s locale is need to know.”

  “What about the agent? Can you get a name, a take on how good he is?”

  “Also need to know. At the agent’s next report-in to a handler, the ATF will pass on the info about Alexei.”

  “That could be days, weeks. Can we get me inside? A journalist, perhaps?”

  “Our research has shown Patriot City is locked up tight, and they fit the paranoid right-winger stereotype to a tee. Another stranger showing up might be too much. Besides, Alexei didn’t want you there in case he’d have to share you for breeding purposes.”

  “Fat lot of luck they’d have there.”

  “I’ve put in a request to the Defense Mapping Agency for satellite imagery for six states around Kansas City, Missouri. In the meantime, John Carroll is your mission. I know you’re not big on patience, so develop some. Think of it as preparation for the remainder of Natalia’s teen years.”

  “You keep making jokes.”

  “It’s my defense mechanism, Mai. I’m concerned, too. This is Alexei.”

  Sometimes she forgot Nelson had been Alexei’s first partner. “Nelson, what if—”

  “No what ifs, Mai.” He hung up on her.

  28

  Yahweh's Voice

  Patriot City

  A new group of trainees had arrived, and the welcoming ceremony was something to behold: a sermon from Elijah, complete with a choreographed, multi-media happening with canned, heart-pounding music, strobe lights, lasers, and dry-ice fog. A contrast to the simple,
quiet daily prayer meetings to which Alexei had become accustomed. Given what the trainees paid to be here, the show would convince them they were getting bang for their buck.

  After the singing of “God Bless America,” Elijah seemed to rise onto the stage against the backdrop of the man crucified on the swastika. Two flags flanked the swastika-crucifix: the Gadsden “Don’t Tread on Me” and Patriot City’s standard, a dark blue field with the swastika-crucifix in the center. Lighting tricks, the fog, and a trap door in the stage no doubt, but it elicited oohs and ahhs from the audience.

  When the resounding music faded with a dramatic flair, a spot lit Elijah as he walked stage front, a Bible in his right hand. He introduced himself.

  “I am Elijah. The name given me by the Jewish medical establishment and registered with the Jew-infested government no longer describes who I am.” He held the Bible up. “After Yahweh saw fit to open my eyes and ears to his truth, I opened this Bible at random to find the name Yahweh wanted for me. It opened to the Book of Kings, and I saw the name Elijah. The seer. The prophet. Elijah to whom Yahweh spoke and to whom Yahweh gave visions.” He lay the Bible over his heart. “Yahweh forced me to see his truth, and he has shown me the future he wants for his true believers, his chosen. Yahweh anointed me Elijah. Halleluiah!”

  “Halleluiah!” came shouts from the audience.

  Elijah looked over the gathering—Patriot City’s permanent residents, the instructors, Lewis, the new trainees. Among the instructors Alexei sat at an angle to the stage, where he could see Elijah and the new arrivals, some now with dubious expressions.

  Elijah smiled. “Well, you’re probably thinking, this guy thinks God talks to him. What have I gotten myself into?”

  A few soft laughs came from the audience.

  “Brothers, would you even be here if Yahweh had not spoken to you, had not put the idea into your head? He brought you here. He has a job for you. You.” He pointed at someone and another and another. “You. You. You. You are the vanguard of his chosen.”