by J Jordan
“All right,” he said, somewhat annoyed, “what else do we want?”
“Bring the commander to me,” she said, “and we will discuss the terms. That is how it works.”
Their acting commander, the soldier with the megaphone, spoke fluent Camerran along with her native Andaran, but she still had trouble with what Romney was asking of her. She was entirely nonplussed as he dragged her over to Lorna, where Lorna began to list the terms of their surrender. Usually, in these situations, a few concessions were given to the losing party as a sign of good will. This was not true in Azerran conflicts, since it was viewed as a waste of precious resources in giving to a weak opponent.
But even the Azerrans would flinch at Lorna’s terms.
The Andarans had to knock out the remaining parts of their communications, which was a partially standing satellite relay that Lorna had somehow missed on her way in. They also had to give up half of their remaining food stores, including the pizza pockets that one soldier had been keeping for his weekend shift. No one thought he would mind this “en los brazos de la Diosa,” as it were. They also had to give up half of their water supplies and the only remaining, fully operational APC. The one they had been hiding behind.
In the end, Romney and his associates left the base in their new armored personnel carrier, with its mounted heavy machine gun, and enough provisions for the trip to Hirna Andrea and back.
The new machine gun was named “Joyce.” And she fit in nicely with the others.
Arindale Kinsey and her First Vacation
Agent Arindale Kinsey had no idea how to vacation. She had seen it happening in travel brochures and on billboards throughout Lanvale International, and her coworkers had talked about their vacations before. But the fact was that Kinsey had never actually been on a vacation before.
At this point, the writers had to stop for a moment to ask about her summer vacations growing up. Come on, they said, what did she do as a kid? Did she go to summer camp? And the answer was yes, except not in the vacationing sense. She went to karate camp at age six, where she became the second fastest person to achieve a black belt in the camp’s history. Kinsey left the following summer because the instructors weren’t certified to teach her anything higher. And the other kids were intimidated by her.
Kinsey spent her summers at All Girls’ Survival Camp, the AGSC of Lanvale, until ten years old, where she picked up a variety of wilderness survival techniques. She would never have use for these techniques, living in southern Lanvale with her mother and father. But her mother was clear on the subject of survival: better to know it and never use it than to need it and never know it.
At age eleven, Arindale Kinsey enrolled in the Junior Rangers Academy, those elite group of youngsters who would one day become the best fighting force in the world. There was no macaroni art in this academy, only drills that honed each camper into the ultimate warriors. Their outdoor activities involved amphibious insurgency, how to prepare a proper ambush, something known only as “The Dead Run,” which no one would describe for us in any meaningful detail, and camouflage face painting. The Junior Rangers had rope swings, but the ropes dangled several feet in the air, and there were usually some very angry people yelling at them from below. Kinsey attended every year, all the way up to age eighteen. At that point, the Junior Rangers offered her their highest commendation, the Meritorious Eagle Ranger Crest, under the condition that she stop attending.
She was making the other kids look bad.
She enrolled at Lanvale Prime that fall. Then it was summers spent on coursework in criminal justice, side jobs as a security guard, and a brief stint at a private military corporation after graduation, before the OIB recruited her at age twenty-four.
The researchers relented. They had checked and double-checked, and they couldn’t find a hole in her schedule from age five on. This had to be Arindale Kinsey’s first vacation.
She had booked a penthouse suite at La Reya, a luxury hotel located at the heart of Andarametra. She acquired it for a song, through an off-season discount and with frequent-flyer rewards. La Reya was the lap of Andaran luxury, but this wasn’t why Kinsey had chosen it. It had to do with the hotel’s centralized location. Every major bank in the city was no more than ten minutes away. If Balvance was poised to strike Andarametra, he wouldn’t get far.
Her penthouse for the week was built for extravagance, with its flat-screen TVs and its modern angular furniture. The bed was three times the size of her bed at home. It was a single thick layer of memory foam, dressed in Tambridesian silk, and topped with the latest in pillow science. These pillows would cradle the neck and keep it cool all night.
The bathroom had a built-in Jacuzzi and a walk-in shower with jets on all sides. And let’s not forget the complimentary soaps, shampoos, conditioners, and never-ending supply of towels. Kinsey was in the lap of luxury, indulging in the finest Andar had to offer. The stage was set for a vacation to remember.
Arindale Kinsey was terrible at vacations.
She started by setting up a command center in her living room, made complete by her laptop and her files on Balvance. She spent her first hour in the penthouse on her cell phone, calling her local contacts to check for any movement on Balvance in Andar. But none of them would cooperate. Each confessed that Blackbourne had called them first and informed them that she was on vacation. And if she called, they were told not to give her anything. One of them told her about a nice place for a show. She didn’t write it down.
Her next move was to try her remote login to the OIB central database. From there, she could gather the latest intelligence on Balvance’s crew. But her login credentials didn’t work. Neither did Salinger’s. Moments later, she received a text message from the OIB Network Administration, wishing her a wonderful vacation and to say that her computer was blocked from all internal networks. Duration: one week. They had even cleared her local drives of all sensitive information, to ensure she enjoyed her time in Andar. It was nine a.m. of the first day and her vacation was ruined.
Kinsey tried the flat-screen TV, looking for something to take her mind off her predicament. Her first order of business was local news. One affiliate carried a story about a commuter plane crashing just south of Andarametra, but it didn’t fit the description of Balvance’s plane. At 9:15, the TV was off. At 9:20 a.m., just over two full hours into her vacation, Kinsey was at the hotel’s gym. She needed to clear her head.
By 1:00 that afternoon, Kinsey had completed three full circuits of her personal strength-training regimen. Then she ate lunch at the Cafe Reya, an extravagant restaurant inside the hotel, where a man named Ricardo was compelled to give her his number. She deposited the new number in a complimentary shredder at the front desk and returned to her room.
She tried the TV again. Local news was still covering the wrecked airplane. According to the report, the pilot was the only survivor, and he was in critical condition at La Mujer Del Cielo Hospital. But, again, it wasn’t Balvance’s plane. She tried international news, but it was all celebrity gossip. As if there was nothing else in the world to talk about.
Kinsey tried a movie. It would have to be a war movie, preferably one set in the Great Nations War. She found The Last Lion of Gonford, a sensational retelling of Camerra’s defense against Azerran invasion. It was filled with scenes of glory, scenes of gruesomeness, and a pinch of historical accuracy. She enjoyed the first act, and was nearly into the second, when a Camerran sergeant major appeared on screen wearing the insignia patch of a second lieutenant. Kinsey’s eyes watered at the gross inaccuracy. A real sergeant major would face the merry hells wearing that patch.
As the movie hobbled along, she noticed a tank in one action shot was obviously a Stanley-Evans SE101. Anyone with passing knowledge of military history knew the SE101 was first manufactured long after the Great Nations War had ended. Perhaps, the filmmakers would argue, the schematics for the SE101 were drawn toward the end of the war, and that the tanks were built in small quantities t
o meet Camerra’s final war needs. There are no accounts or records to back up this theory.
And besides, the director would say, it was only in the shot for a few seconds.
But Kinsey had seen enough. They had gone too far.
She tried fresh air next. Maybe that would do something. She took a walk around the block surrounding the hotel, and then another, and another. She kept her focus on the crowd of people coming up and going down the busy streets, but she knew he wouldn’t be there. She continued to watch and wait, and to move on as needed, until she completed her third time around. No sign of Romney Balvance. She retreated back into La Reya for an early dinner, where she bumped into two old friends.
We need to clarify that last statement. The two elves that took seats at Kinsey’s table were not her friends, not at the time. But she recognized them the moment they sat down. They said nothing as they situated themselves. The blonde one began sorting through her purse with one hand, the other propping up her wraparound shades. Her accomplice, a brunette in a neck brace, sat across from Kinsey and drummed her fingers on the table. These were Rella and Rikka, the Candratas, bank tellers from the First Ontaran. On vacation, just like Kinsey.
Kinsey remained composed. She took a bite of salad and looked to a young man as he made for the door. Too tall for Balvance. Her gaze returned to the salad in front of her. The silence that followed was broken by a photograph flicked across the table. It made the slightest tink against her bowl. Kinsey looked at it, nonchalantly at first. But she soon found it hard to look away.
It was Romney Balvance, Cora Queldin, and Tykeso Vandesko, standing around a forest-green sedan. Balvance was frozen mid-sentence, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. Vandesko was in an ill-fitting jacket, a sweat stain forming on his back. And Queldin stood beside Vandesko, arms crossed as they always were. Kinsey snatched up the photo and examined it carefully. There was no mistaking those bushy sideburns. The time stamp on the bottom right corner placed him there three days ago.
“Cresdale,” said Rella, “waiting to make a trade with Mr. Kyro.”
“For what?”
Kinsey laid the photo back on the table and took a forkful of salad. She was playing her disinterested act poorly. This was the first she had seen of Balvance since the heist. And not for lack of trying.
“We hoped you would know,” said Rikka. Her fingers drummed tuneless on the tablecloth.
“No idea,” said Kinsey. “Probably fencing off one of those treasures he found in your vault.”
“The emails say he was looking to buy something.”
Kinsey looked coolly at Rella’s smirk. How did she get those pictures? There were never any red flags on Balvance within the OIB, and thus no way of tracking his movements through the city. She had to settle for the basics, cross-country travel. There was no possible way these two could sort through the hundreds of thousands of security cameras spread across Cresdale, in search of one man at one particular moment. They already knew where to look. They had to know. But how?
Come to think of it, Kinsey had never bothered looking into Rella or Rikka Candrata. Their records were clean all around. Maybe a little too clean. She planted her fork into a mound of spinach and tomato, then folded her hands in front of her. It was obvious she had nothing on them.
“It sounds to me like you have all the info, Ms. Candrata.”
“Misses,” corrected Rikka.
“All I can say is that Balvance is in Andar right now. But something tells me you already knew that.”
Rella and Rikka nodded in unison. Rikka’s nod involved her torso.
“Maybe you two could fill in some of the blanks for me.”
The elves looked to each other. Kinsey had a better read on Rikka. She played the tough girl a little too hard. She seemed younger than Rella and less experienced in the art of subtlety. Rikka was more expressive than her counterpart, her brow furrowing at importune moments, and she had a terrible habit of looking to Rella when nothing was being said. By comparison, Rella was a stone statue. Her wraparound sunglasses made her a poker enthusiast’s worst nightmare. Kinsey looked Rikka in the eye when she spoke.
“Do you want a reward? We’ll buy anything you’ve got.”
“Money is no object,” said Rikka, looking to Rella. “We share a common goal, after all.”
“But we must be careful who we trust,” added Rella. “Our goal is to find Romney Balvance and return what he stole.”
“Ladies, I assure you, your enemy is my enemy. You can trust me with anything.”
“We will be the judge of that, Ms. Kinsey,” said Rella. “Let’s start with what you know.”
“Everything?” Kinsey gave her best indignant chortle. “Just like that.”
“Think of this as an exchange. Information for trust. The more you share, the more we trust.”
Kinsey sat back in her chair and watched the two. She made the mistake of crossing her arms, quickly planting her hands in her lap. If Rella had caught this gesture, she made no sign that she did. The black plastic mirrored Kinsey’s posture.
She started with everything that could be found in public records. There was a bank robbery, which Balvance and his crew had been a part of, and they got away with some valuables. From there, she admitted, the OIB had lost interest in him. Much of what he had stolen was easily replaced or covered by insurance money. Rella and Rikka grimaced at this fact. Kinsey noted the reaction before moving on.
She had pulled information on his three accomplices and found nothing of note. Balvance had a history with criminal enterprises. He had worked for Hulgrad and Co, an accounting firm that doubled as a front for money laundering. Hulgrad and Co. cleaned bills for the Smoak crime family and a few lesser Lanvalean gangs. Kinsey could only speculate that this work paved the road to more hands-on work with the criminal underworld This was probably how he got involved with the First Ontaran. Balvance was good about covering his tracks. There were no traces between his time at Hulgrad and the heist. His setup was spotless. Kinsey knew there was a connection there, and that she could find it with enough digging around.
Vandesko was a ghost. Literally. He died in Koyvos during the uprising and was laid to rest in an unmarked grave. The response from the Azerran Citizens Registry had said as much. And yet, he somehow managed to purchase retail space in 2010 with the help of a private bank. Kinsey had been ready to call it a coincidence, except that all of Vandesko’s financial records listed the same place and date of birth as the deceased. Even his mother’s maiden name was the same. If it was an impostor, he had done his homework.
Rikka was leaning in now, her mouth half open. She nudged Rella, but the more stoic elf wouldn’t fall for it. Kinsey noticed her chin shift slightly to the right, as she continued to listen.
They had the most on Queldin. Doctor of Camerran history. Master’s in pre-monarchal Camerran society. Two counts of trespassing on private property. One count of destruction of public property. Two counts of vandalism. Six counts of assault. Queldin had spent her formative years in and out of Lanvale Juvenile Corrections. But she had served her time for each offense. The charges were purged from her public record on her eighteenth birthday, though the OIB’s record kept everything. She had no criminal record beyond that point. It was clear that Queldin had a troubled childhood, but it seemed she had cleaned up her act for the end of her senior year at Alda Ainsa High. She was accepted to Lanvale Prime the following year.
Rikka elbowed Rella again. Finally, they looked to each other.
Kinsey took the time for a victory bite of spinach. The salad was warm.
Rella was the first to look away. She had a grin on her face.
“It seems you did have something of worth.”
“This is helpful,” added Rikka, “and now we have something we would like to share with you.”
Rikka snatched up Rella’s purse and rifled through its contents, holding it up to her face with one hand and searching with the other. She came up with two more p
hotos and a vial of eye drops. Rella snatched up the vial quickly, her mouth twisting into an uncomfortable grimace. Rikka pointed to Rella’s cell phone, another excavated object from the depths of her purse. There was a notification on the screen, but Rella had snatched it away before Kinsey could read it. She made out that it was a reminder set to go off in five minutes.
“Rella, dear. Before we begin. It’s time.”
Rella Candrata took a deep breath and slowly unscrewed the top from the vial. She ripped off her wraparounds in one clean motion. Kinsey groaned at the sight. Rella’s eyes were still bright-red from the pepper powder and blinking furiously. The inflammation was painful to look at. The poor, tortured elf took the dropper to each eye, dispensing a milky liquid. The whole time, her breath came in hissing bursts through her clenched teeth. Rella blinked the medicine into her eyes, then reached dumbly for her purse. Rikka was prepared, silk handkerchief in hand. Rella snatched it away and dabbed at her eyes. Then, carefully, she returned the dark shades to her eyes. She sighed with relief, regaining much of her original composure.
Rikka reset the timer on her phone. Kinsey caught it this time. Drops every eight hours. Balvance did this.
“Okay,” said Rella, in between deep breath. “All right. Where were we?”
“What was that?”
“I think you know, Ms. Kinsey.”
“Steroid?”
“A special mixture,” said Rikka. “It reduces swelling, while treating the underlying inflammation caused by the pepper powder. It also treats the tear ducts and facilitates proper flushing. It’s all organic, of course.”
