Last Train To Nowhere

by K. C. Sivils

“No later than thirty-six hours. The first of the space freighters will be departing then. This is just a small part of their complete cargo, so they won’t wait.”

  Irritated, the Sergeant snapped at Markeson through the comm link. “You couldn’t arrange for a dedicated vessel to move the product?”

  Markeson growled right back. “It’s a good thing you hired me as a consultant. That sort of thing draws attention. Better to have your containers mixed in as one of many smaller shipments for transport to another world. More paperwork to confuse things if necessary and it provides plausible deniability for the smuggler."

  “You should have explained this up front,” the Sergeant said firmly.

  “Why? Then we don’t get paid. You pay us for what we know and who we know.”

  “I see your point.”

  Markeson shook his head in disbelief. It was possible he was dealing with incompetent idiots. He would have to tread even more carefully if that was the case.

  “I need to know the destination and when the cargo will be ready for uplift to the space port. Once you provide me with that information, I’ll tell you which ship and docking bay.”

  "You did not include this in the information provided," the now irritated, deep voice said.

  Markeson rolled his eyes and glared at his comm before answering. "You have the information you need to clear Security and Customs. That's all you get until I get paid. I have expenses, obviously. You pay me and tell me the next bit of information, and we move on to the next phase."

  “Must this be so complicated?”

  “Yes,” Markeson sighed. “It must. It provides verifiable accountability for both parties. Trust is always an issue in matters of this nature. Doing it this way addresses the trust issue. Things go wrong. Doing things piecemeal allows both parties to walk away with plausible deniability. The only loss is the cargo, which can be replaced in most instances, and the money invested. I shouldn’t have to point out that smuggling carries heavy prison sentences. Certain items carry even harsher prison sentences.”

  “Forgive my ignorance,” the Sergeant replied. “My skill set is of a very different nature. As you have pointed out, we are paying you for your knowledge and who you know.”

  "I'm glad you understand that," Markeson answered through clenched teeth.

  “I will pass on the information. Message me the exact amount we owe for this stage of the contract. Include valid expenses. I will see to it you are compensated no later than 1700 hours today.”

  The link went dead, causing Markeson to stare at his comm in anger. He decided the Colonel's right-hand man was going to vanish as well if he eliminated the red headed siren.

  ---

  Moving past the checkpoint, Kilgore pulled his collar tighter and hunched his shoulders in a vain effort to reduce the amount of his body exposed to the wet, cold wind.

  Despite his posture, Kilgore marched with purpose as he made his way around the perimeter of the mysterious research facility. As the commander of the Space Marine detachment, it was his prerogative to inspect the Shore Patrol as they stood their duty posts.

  As discretely as possible, he glanced at the facility. From the outside, it appeared to be a large, nondescript building. Typical of most buildings found on military bases, it was square, had little architectural detail and was painted a bland uniform off white. The building had one entrance, but no guards were posted. Kilgore had no doubt the entrance was under constant electronic surveillance, had guards inside and required multiple clearances, biometric scans, and knowledge of the entry code. In the entire time, he'd been posted at the Brownstown facility he'd never seen anyone enter or leave the facility.

  “It’s because the real entrance is underground,” he whispered aloud. Kilgore finished his circuit of the building and made his way toward the base administration building. It was possible the information he needed could be uncovered there.

  ---

  “He’s growing suspicious,” the Sergeant stated a second time.

  "I heard you, but there is nothing we can truly do about it," the Colonel snapped back.

  “Have you heard from the others off-world?”

  “Yes. Our plan has been approved.”

  "Good. I don't like dealing with this Markeson. Once we have the necessary contacts, he must be eliminated. The only reason I haven't terminated him now is he believes we are incompetent.”

  “Now, now,” the red head answered. “You’re feelings are just hurt because I needed to have a little fun. You know you’re my Sergeant,” she purred soothingly, massaging the man’s wounded ego. “Until we’ve finished our missions, I can’t mix my pleasure with business. You know how important you are to what we’re trying to accomplish.”

  Silence filled the link.

  “Yes, Colonel. Of course. But I insist this Markeson be terminated upon completion of the mission. He must not be allowed to compromise you.”

  It was subtle, but it was there, and the red head heard it. The only underling she trusted was angry with her. Angry because it was not him she shared her bed with, which was a shame. He was so good at his job, and loyalty like his could not be purchased. Nor could his skilled, ruthless approach to his job. Her Sergeant was totally devoted to her, more so even than the cause.

  "When this is all over. When we have finished our last mission, things will be different. The business will complete, and it will be time for pleasure. Pleasure that should be shared together." She listened to see if the promise of what he desired most would mollify him.

  “Yes, Colonel. As you say, things will be better when all of this is over.”

  “Don’t forget that Sergeant,” she told him. “Things will be better.”

  The link broke. Brushing a lock of her fiery red hair out of her face, the Colonel considered the man's tone in his last words. He seemed to have believed her. She shrugged. It wouldn't matter really. She'd kill him too if it were necessary.

  ---

  For once it didn't bother me that Josephson's driving skills were substandard. Every time he took a turn too fast, Father Nathan would groan in pain. We made it to St. Christus hospital without the good Father dying on us. In the process, we passed two other hospitals, but the stubborn man insisted on going to St. Christus.

  His wound wasn’t life threatening but required treatment. As mad as I was at him I was okay with the idea of him being in pain.

  “So when did you plan on telling me that in a past life you were a soldier?”

  “None of anyone’s business,” he replied. “That was a long time ago.” The Father shot me a look telling me that was all he was going to say about the matter. It was okay. Cops have ways of finding out what we want to know.

  “You happy now?”

  "Yes, I'm happy that my kids will be free of that man's horrible influence. Am I happy that I beat a man to death with my bare hands? Hardly."

  I couldn’t resist the urge to needle the good Father like he needled me at times.

  “You said he needed killing,” I reminded him.

  “I was wrong to have said that. Wrong to have even thought it,” he sighed. “Thinking that is the same as killing the person the thought is about.”

  “No, it’s not. That makes no sense. It’s one thing to think it. It’s another to do it.”

  He shook his head. “Murder in the heart is the exact same sin as actually killing the person.”

  “I don’t understand you.” I was getting tired of his constant word games. “I saw the look in your eyes when you talked about this man. You had no problem with him winding up dead.”

  “You’re right Inspector. And I’m telling you, it was wrong of me to have thought that, to have felt the hate that led me to do what I did.”

  “But your kids are safer now.”

  “They would have been just as safe if he was sitting in your jail.”

  “What makes you believe just thinking you wanted to kill the guy is a sin?”

  Father Nathan just looked at me
with that look he’d give me.

  “I see. It’s something Jesus said in your Bible.”

  He proceeded to ignore me. I wasn’t having any of it.

  “It doesn’t seem to bother you that I killed a man today.”

  "It was in self-defense. You were protecting not only yourself but young Josephson as well, possibly myself. I beat a defenseless man to death. There is a big difference."

  "I saw you afterward. You had the shakes like you get after combat. I've had ‘em myself and seen lots of soldiers get ‘em."

  Father Nathan looked at his right hand. I noticed slight tremors still.

  “I get them every time.”

  “So you admit it. You were a soldier.”

  He looked up at me, his expression somber and contrite. “I was. Then I dishonored my military service. I became a mercenary.”

  I let it go. That one fact explained why Father Nathan never talked about his past. Probably explained why he tried to help people, especially kids.

  “You talk all the time about guilt Inspector. About people being worthless. You’ve seen and done things that would make any sane person feel that way. But I’ve done far worse.”

  I started to feel uncomfortable. "I'm not judging you, Father.”

  "Didn't say you were. But you judge yourself. I judge myself. It's a horrible trap, Inspector. Neither of us can forgive ourselves for what we've done, maybe for what we haven't done. But man is redeemable Inspector. We just can't redeem ourselves."

  "Maybe it's because we're unredeemable? Have you considered that Father?"

  “Of course it’s because man is unredeemable,” he laughed, irony filling his laughter.

  "It's not funny," I snapped. "I don't much like having friends. Friends get killed, sometimes it's your fault, and some times it's not. Friends can betray your trust, cause you pain."

  He just looked at me, looked through me with an expression I couldn’t read.

  "I came to this planet with enough guilt and pain to last ten men a lifetime. I also came without friends. I was fine with that. I was sent here to do a job, and I do it. But despite what I want, I find myself with friends. Do you understand me,” I shouted.

  Father Nathan flinched at my shout.

  “Yes, I do. I caused you to put your friends at risk in your mind. Even worse, I put them at risk.”

  “So, you can understand why I’m so mad at you,” I said with a sarcastic smile etched on my face.

  "Absolutely, but know this Inspector, life has risk. It is filled with pain. God doesn't promise to spare us pain. Pain shapes us. So you have a choice, my friend. You can feel the pain of broken trust and lost friendship because you first trusted another enough to be their friend. Or you can feel the pain and misery of bitter loneliness because you chose not to have a friend. I prefer to take a chance and have friends, friends I place my trust in. I have lived with the other choice, and I won't live that way again."

  Silence filled the squad car. I realized Josephson had parked the hovercar at the hospital emergency entrance and was sitting in silence, listening to the Father and I bicker.

  The door opened, and hands reached in to pull Father Nathan out. In seconds he was gone, rushed inside to be cared for. Somebody shut the door. I didn't know what to think or even say.

  “Inspector, let me take you home. I can take care of the paperwork. Why don’t you get some rest, okay?”

  I know I didn’t answer the pup, but he took me home anyhow. I woke up on my couch. I wasn’t drunk or hung over, but I had no recall of how I got there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I finished my breakfast at Joe's and left. Father Nathan had done fine in surgery and was in a private room. Everyone had gone to see him, and I was fine with that. Gave me a chance to eat alone and not answer questions or be guilted about anything. Like the huge argument, the good Father and I had in front of Josephson.

  My first stop was to drag Bones out of his apartment fortress. I needed autopsies done on the two dead stiffs in his morgue, courtesy of Father Nathan and myself. I wanted to put the entire episode behind me and move on.

  Internal Affairs could wait on their investigation. I wasn’t handing over my .50 cal until I finished up the mystery of who put my dead SP on ice. I wasn’t worried about putting those buzzards off. The last time IA tangled with me, several of them found themselves transferred to remote mining or farming villages far from Capital City.

  Once I got Bones to work, I planned to spend most of the day going through the shipping manifests and seeing if any of the other detectives had snitches on the space station where starliners and space freighters docked. Passengers or cargo would then be brought down by barge or shuttle to the Capital City spaceport.

  I promised myself I would go to see Father Nathan before my evening meal. The longer I put it off, the harder it would be. Just better to do it and be done with it, our friendship would survive or it wouldn't.

  ---

  “Everything is actually as it should be,” the deep voice said from inside the last container. Stepping out from inside the container was the dark headed man who had hired the mercenaries. The leader of the mercs knew the man was simply an intermediary for their real employer.

  “You sound surprised,” was the Captain’s gruff response.

  “Perhaps I am being a bit judgmental,” the Sergeant replied in his arrogant tone, the condescension unhidden in his attitude. "The accident you arranged was amateurish. So please forgive me if I am pleasantly surprised the cargo is all in acceptable condition, delivered on time, and has been properly maintained."

  Tired of his employer’s elitist arrogance, the Captain deliberately abandoned his respectful attitude, adopting an ominous tone to his speech. “We aren’t murderers for hire,” the Captain informed the man.

  “You’re paid killers,” was the Sergeant’s sneering response.

  "Sure, we're killers. We kill people in combat. You want a heist pulled that requires gunplay. We can do that. But we're not hitmen. You want a hit done, talk to a local crime lord in the future."

  Noticing the other mercenaries in the unit had all moved over by the six containers and were observing the conversation with great interest, the Sergeant made the wise decision to be gracious. As the Captain said, they were killers, and he was alone.

  “Point taken Captain. Accept my apology. For what it is worth, I told my superior the same thing. Combat troops do not have the skill set for that sort of wet work.”

  The Captain laughed in disbelief. “What makes you think I believe that?”

  "I see." First raising his hands so his palms faced out, the Sergeant next slowly removed his thick outer coat and set it on the warehouse floor, followed by his immaculately tailored suit coat. He removed a platinum cufflink and slipped it into his pocket. Slowly he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a tattoo on his left forearm.

  He expected a different reaction from the mercenary’s leader. More respect.

  "So you served in the Army's Special Forces black ops. We're all Marine shock troops, the best of the best. You want to force a landing on a heavily defended planet? You send us."

  “If that were the case, why are you and your men all mercenaries now?”

  The Captain and all of his men took one menacing step forward in unison. “Because some politician back on Earth made the case the Space Marines had grown too large. Typical lefty who wants to curry votes by cutting defense spending. So we all got riffed. What’s your story?”

  “My commanding officer left the service. Like you, I found myself with a particular skill set and with the Expansion Wars long over the Army felt I was redundant. My C.O. offered me employment, and so here I am.”

  Taking another look at the tattoo of a dagger piercing a sniper’s scope at a right angle in red and black ink, the former Marine took a step back.

  "Look, neither of us is doing what we were trained to do. Just be respectful to my men and me, and I'll see to it the same respect is sho
wn to you. Call it professional courtesy.”

  “Agreed. I apologize. And know this, I will see to it in the future that any wet work is not assigned to you and your men.”

  The Sergeant slowly dressed. The Captain escorted him to the exit of the warehouse where he paused, extending an open hand. The two soldiers shook, each testing the other’s resolve.

  "I promise I will make sure my superior is aware you have fulfilled the original obligations of your contract in an exemplary manner, as would be expected of Marines."

  Upon exiting, the Sergeant walked slowly and deliberately, not giving the sniper on the roof of the warehouse any reason to take the shot.

  He had meant what he’d told the Captain. He was impressed by the work they had done, showing initiative and discipline. If the situation in the near future required it, he had the funds in his personal account to hire them for one very specific job. One that would be well suited to their skill set.

  ---

  I sat in Bones office. His computer network could use a bit of updating. Data searches without warrants are tedious affairs to begin with. A slower than normal network makes the job seem like having my teeth filed.

  Without warning Bones entered, closed the door behind him and locked it. He didn't say a word; he just vanished into his storage closet and shut the door behind him. Seconds later he emerged with a state of the art sweeper to check for electronic surveillance. Three passes around the room later, Bones seemed satisfied we could talk.

  “Are you trying to get me killed,” he hissed in a low voice.

  “Not at all. I just have to clear this up so I can move ahead on the, ah, other matter without having Internal Affairs giving me grief.”

  “Well, you have a funny way of demonstrating your concern for me,” the paranoid coroner shouted in a whisper, which is not an easy thing to do.

  I considered his paranoid response for a moment.

  “Which one of them?”

  "One of ‘em I can handle. Your source was right. The DNA matched right up with what we had on file in employment records. It's Winston Vitter. Bent Detective who got careless. You have to act at least like you're not on the take. Five years ago he was cashiered and sent to the medium security facility on Persephone for six months."