Black Violet

by Alex Hyland

  Geary shot him a look.

  ‘Might be,’ Tully repeated.

  Geary glanced at me. ‘You really know how to make a fucking enemy, don’t you.’ He nodded at the necklace. ‘We’ll take it with us.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Tully.

  ‘We don’t know what’s waiting for us at the coordinates. We might need it.’

  Tully went quiet. As he thought to himself, I eyed the necklace.

  ‘I think it’s safer if we leave it here,’ I said

  Geary glared at me. ‘If I need the keys to a Chrysler, I’ll ask for your opinion. Otherwise, shut up!’

  I gazed back at him. I swear, if Shakespeare himself had tried to describe Geary, he’d have struggled to avoid using the words ‘fucking asshole’.

  Tully nodded to himself. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Take it with you. I want you back safe, Ella. Whatever you find, you bring it and the necklace back here, no heroics, you got me? Geary’s running this.’

  Ella nodded.

  Tully turned to me. ‘You hear me, Michael?’

  I kept my eyes on Geary.

  ‘Michael!’ Tully repeated.

  ‘Fine!’ I said.

  Tully glanced back at the shutter door. ‘Cooper! Get this guy some ID!’

  Cooper, the guy with all the rings, appeared at the door. As he beckoned me inside, he paused and glanced at a car pulling up in the shadows under the overpass. Tully sighed wearily at the sight of it – a huge, pearl black 7-series BMW. It ground to a halt about eighty feet from us, and just sat there.

  Tully rubbed some life into his face.

  ‘They didn’t give you a heads-up?’ said Geary.

  ‘No, they did.’

  ‘You want me to speak to them?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  Ella stared at the car.

  ‘Are you going to tell them about Lizzie?’ she said.

  Tully shook his head. ‘Not until we’re sure.’

  ‘Tully...’

  ‘Not until we’re sure!’ He took a deep breath, then glanced at Cooper. ‘Get this guy some ID.’ He nodded at me. ‘Go. Now.’

  As I made my way back to the warehouse, Tully headed for the BMW. It was a good bet these were the guys that he worked for – the fountains in the front yard. Tully reached the car, glanced back at me, then headed round to the far side. He opened the rear door and got in. I couldn’t see who was in the back, but I guess I wasn’t supposed to.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Cooper said to me.

  I nodded, then followed him back into the warehouse. As we headed past the other soldiers in Tully’s operation, I could feel the weight of their eyes on me. I was like the new kid at school, a week late and not a friend in the place.

  ‘You know how to use a gun?’ Cooper asked me.

  I nodded uneasily. I’d fired guns at ranges with friends, but I was no fan of them.

  ‘You’re flying civilian, we’ll get you sorted out at the other end,’ he said. He threw me a vaguely reassuring smile. ‘You do what Geary says, you’ll be fine.’

  As I followed him down an orange lit corridor, I glanced at the stacks of silver bands on his fingers. A charm bracelet around his wrist, the kind that a teenage girl might wear – hearts and crosses hanging from it. Probably belonged to a girlfriend – a good luck gift to ensure his safe return. Still, a guy would need a certain amount of confidence to get away with wearing that. He may have been as threatening to look at as Geary, but there was something a little more considered about Cooper. The kind of soldier who’d tear through Afghanistan with a copy of The Bridges of Madison County taped to his flame thrower.

  He reached a heavy steel door at the end of the corridor – sleek armored plate and pressure sealed locks. Surveillance cameras above it. He tapped a code into a keypad by the door. The door beeped and clunked open. Beyond it, a dimly lit staircase headed down.

  I followed him into a murky sub basement. The thick smell of resin in the air. We passed a long line of padlocked cages, and I slowed for a second. The cages were stacked full of glistening black machine guns and fat caliber pistols. Rocket launchers and cases marked, ‘Uranium Shells.’ I’d never seen anything like it.

  Cooper glanced back at me. ‘No mistake. When we turn up, you know the talking’s over.’

  I had no doubt. Cage after cage of heavy weaponry. These guys arrived with about as much grace as kicking down the Pearly Gates and telling St Peter you’re there to fuck his wife.

  Cooper yelled at an open door at the end of the corridor. ‘Yo, Dixie, we need an ID!’

  Dixie appeared in the doorway. A four-hundred pound sack of meat wearing a sleeveless denim jacket the size of a parachute. Long brown hair down to his waist. He flicked the strands away from his face, then nodded at a wall just beyond the door.

  ‘Stand here,’ he said to me.

  I stepped into a stark office. A computer screen and a bunch of printers sat in the shadow of huge black crucifix hanging on the wall above the desk. Dixie grabbed a camera from a drawer. ‘This the pickpocket?’ he said.

  Cooper nodded.

  Dixie pushed me up against the wall like I was a prisoner on orientation.

  ‘Passport?’ he said.

  Cooper nodded again.

  As Dixie dialed the settings in the camera, I stared uneasily at the crucifix. Thick black metal, five feet tall, it looked like it belonged in a cathedral.

  Dixie noticed my look and smiled to himself. ‘Religious man?’

  I eyed him a moment, then shook my head.

  He laughed. ‘I bet you’re not.’

  He paused from setting the camera, and closed his eyes like he was savoring fine wine.

  ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ he said, as if he was sharing some personal moment of revelation with the world. ‘The Lord’s words. You should be rightly ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said.

  Cooper threw him a look. ‘Just take the photo, Dixie.’

  As Dixie pointed the camera, he winked at me. ‘Jesus talks about thieves plenty, you know.’

  I sighed. ‘Yeah? What does he say about making fake IDs? Or is that how he got himself resurrected?’

  His expression turned cold. I held his look – I wasn’t going to be judged by this guy.

  He grunted at me. ‘Look at the camera.’

  I glanced at the lens – the camera clicked.

  He checked the image, then headed over to his desk. He grabbed one of a dozen passports lying by the computer, opened it wide, then fed it into a printer the size of a fridge.

  ‘All good, Dixie?’

  I turned to find Geary leaning against the doorway. I eyed him cautiously. I glanced down the corridor to see if Ella was with him – but it was a show of weakness.

  He smiled. ‘She’s busy. A lot to do now.’

  He folded his arms, then just eyed me – his testosterone-fueled silence thickening the air in the room.

  Cooper toyed impatiently with his rings as Dixie tapped away at the keyboard.

  ‘You want full background on this or just the passport?’ said Dixie.

  ‘Just the passport,’ said Geary.

  Dixie scrolled through lists of names and birth dates on the screen.

  ‘Age?’ Dixie asked.

  ‘Twenty-nine,’ I said.

  He scrolled down the screen, then stopped.

  ‘OK, Caucasian male,’ he said. ‘You’re Daniel Coggin.’

  Geary mulled the name over to himself. ‘Daniel Coggin. Danny Coggin. Danny C. Yeah, he sounds like a sack of shit too.’

  Dixie nodded. ‘He does, indeed. Ain’t no God-fearing motherfucker either.’

  ‘Boy been shooting his mouth off again, has he?’ said Geary.

  Dixie turned and stared carefully at him.

  ‘No respect for nothing,’ he said. ‘Trouble for you.’

  Geary nodded wearily to himself. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  He glanced at me a moment, then took a deep breath. Before I could even react
, he slammed me against the wall. I crumpled onto the floor, tried to pick myself up, but he grabbed my right hand and held it locked in his. Pain tearing down my arm. I couldn’t move for the sheer power in him.

  ‘There’s a chain of command here,’ he said. ‘You may only be with us for a couple of days, but you’re going to learn it.’

  He took out a hunting knife. My heart raced as he pressed the point of the blade against the palm of my right hand.

  Dixie nodded. ‘The righteous path, Mr Coggin.’

  The sting as the blade began to pierce my skin. Fuck. I struggled, but Geary held me firm.

  ‘Push the blade right through,’ said Geary. ‘Rip those nerves...tendons. A thief, no more.’

  He toyed the tip of the blade across my palm, carving out a thin bloody trail. He gripped me even harder.

  ‘What’s it going to be? he said.

  I gazed breathlessly at the blade.

  He smiled. ‘You know how much I want to do this anyhow?’

  ‘I’ve got it!’ I said. ‘Chain of command! I’ve got it.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You follow every fucking word I tell you!’

  ‘I’ve got it!’

  ‘Cos I don’t give a shit that you’re Jon’s brother.’

  Dixie strolled over. ‘We’ll cut that miserable hand right off of you,’ he said.

  Geary nodded. ‘Believe it.’

  He twisted my hand a final time, pulled the blade away, then released me. I licked the blood from my palm, and glanced at Cooper.

  Cooper smiled. ‘Like I said. You do what he says, you’ll be fine.’

  Motherfuckers.

  8

  I hate to say it, but Luke Geary was an honest-to-god hero. He single-handedly raided a Taliban fuel dump in Kandahar and saved the lives of two US servicemen who were being held there. He received the Distinguished Service Cross – they’d have given him the Medal of Honor, but he had too long and checkered a history of disobeying orders. It’s hard to dislike a guy who could do something like that, but Geary made it easy. He hated the ground I walked upon, and wanted me to know about it at every conceivable opportunity. As far as he was concerned, he and Ella were fighting the good fight, and I was nothing but a self-serving low-life.

  I could feel him staring at me as the three of us sat parked in a rented Jeep in Hamilton, Montana. He and Ella were up in front – I was in the back. I adjusted the bandage on my palm, then ran my fingertips against each other in quick succession, checking the movement. It stung, but the action was smooth enough.

  I didn’t tell Ella what had happened, but she’d taken a good guess. She was pissed as hell at Geary. Not that he gave a shit. He hadn’t moved an inch from her side since we’d left Tully’s place – not at the airport, nor on the plane. This was an award-winning killer who’d walked into a Taliban fuel dump like it was his local gas station – as ex-boyfriends go, he was a fucking nightmare.

  I kept my eyes on Morgan’s Gun Store across the street, and tried to get focused. Hamilton was a small mountain town – a quiet hive of pick-up trucks and churches. It was also our last stop before we headed up to the coordinates. According to Geary, we needed a handgun. We’d managed to buy a few rifles around town, but when it came to handguns, the store owners wanted background checks – three days minimum. Tully had a contact who was going to supply us, but the guy couldn’t get to Hamilton for another six hours, and we needed to move quickly. And so we waited outside Morgan’s. It was late afternoon.

  I glanced at the rifles we’d bought lying on the car floor beside me.

  ‘I’m sure these are going to be fine,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ said Geary. ‘What tactical experience are you basing that genius fucking opinion on?’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘If you can’t do it, just say,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll get you the gun, don’t worry,’ I replied.

  The main door of Morgan’s swung open – a guy in his thirties emerged from the store.

  ‘What about him?’ said Ella.

  I stared carefully at the guy. He was wearing a blue denim jacket – a stonewashed Wrangler, five buttons, three pockets, no lining. I eyed the jacket’s upper left panel. A shoulder holster made a subtle, but characteristic fold in the wearer’s jacket. I’d learned to recognize it over the years – you didn’t want to be stealing anything from someone carrying a gun. But there was no fold in this guy’s jacket.

  ‘He’s not carrying,’ I said.

  Geary sighed like it was my fault that this guy wasn’t armed. We carried on waiting, but this was Montana – we didn’t have to wait for long. A guy in his forties emerged from the store. Tall, thickset, squeezed into a pair of combat pants like it was a bet. He buried his hands deep in the pockets of a black bomber jacket, and there it was – a subtle ridge in the leather by his left arm.

  ‘He’s carrying,’ I said.

  I grabbed a folded street map off the back seat and got out of the car. As I walked toward the guy, I unfolded the map to its full extent – it fluttered around as it caught the breeze. I felt myself getting tight – nervous – this guy was armed. I kept my eyes on the map as I approached him. The lost tourist – it had always worked for me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said in my best British accent.

  As he stopped, I held up the map.

  ‘I’m looking for Ponderosa Street?’

  ‘Ponderosa?’ he said. ‘You’re way off.’

  I offered him the map. He took it and held it in front of himself, as people do.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said, pointing at the map.

  As I stared at it, I moved in so I was standing right beside him. But I was off my game – I got too close, too quick. Personal space is like an alarm zone. He took a slight step away and stared at me. I was making a guy with a gun feel nervous.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just…it’s my brother-in-law’s birthday and I’m two hours late as it is. If you could just show me.’

  He nodded toward the Jeep. ‘You don’t have satnav in that thing?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a rental. It’s broken.’

  He nodded, then relaxed a little and stepped back toward me. I grabbed one edge of the map with my right hand, leaving my left hand free, hidden underneath it.

  He glanced at me. ‘British, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a long flight.’

  He returned to the map. ‘OK, we’re here…’ he said.

  I snaked a hand under the map and into his jacket. My fingers brushed imperceptibly against his shirt and jacket lining, figuring the space. I kept my attention on the map – kept him distracted. I felt the butt of the gun between my fingertips. It was secured by a leather strap with a popper. The trick with poppers was not to pull them. You had to keep pressure on them between two fingers and use a third to pry them open silently, quickly – a tenth of a second, a blink of an eye.

  ‘And Ponderosa is…here,’ he said.

  ‘Wow, I am a way off, aren’t I?’

  I took the map back from him. I folded it underneath itself, and around the gun that was now in my left hand. It was heavy – felt like a brick. I wondered whether he’d miss the weight. I nodded at him, the gun safely hidden within the folds of the map.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘No problem,’ he replied, and headed off down the street. A second later, he slowed – then stopped. Fuck, he was missing the weight. As he turned to face me, I noticed another fold in the right hand panel of his jacket. A double holster – he’d been carrying two guns. Shit. He stared carefully at me. I smiled back politely – casually. If he went for his other gun, I didn’t know what the fuck I was going to do – the Jeep was thirty feet behind me. He took a step toward me. I held my breath.

  ‘Are you Tommy Roper’s brother-in-law?’ he said. ‘He’s married to a Brit.’

  I felt like laughing.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  �
��Alright,’ he nodded. ‘You have a good day.’

  As he headed off, I sighed heavily to myself.

  I got back in the car and unfolded the map – a black pistol inside it. Geary reached back and picked it up. He checked the clip – it was full.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘Come on,’ Ella said to him. ‘He got you the gun.’

  He threw her a look, then snapped the clip back into the gun. As he hit the accelerator, I glanced back at the double-holster guy disappearing in the distance. We hadn’t even got started yet, and this nobody had already freaked me out. Jesus. For all my bravado, this was going to be deep water for me.

  We crossed the Idaho state border a few hours later and headed south on Route 93. With the Bragers casting a long shadow on our horizon, no one said a great deal. As Ella studied a map of the area, I gazed at the mountains and thought about that moment with Lizzie – that veiled specter behind the glass. I tried to conjure up some sense of who she and Marcus were.

  Tully had given me a file on the Bragers but the information was sketchy. They’re in their late forties. Reclusive. They live on a yacht called The Warren Gate that spends most of its time in international waters. Although they’re rarely seen, Marcus comes inland for business sometimes, and there’s a few photographs of him available. The most recent was taken at the Paris Air Show last year. He’s six-two. Blond hair slicked straight back. Pale-skinned, but with dark, wide-set eyes. An intelligent air about him, he looks like a Viking lawyer.

  Lizzie’s appearance is a much grayer area. There are very few descriptions of her, and no photographs – at least not as an adult. There’s a few pictures on the net that were taken when she was a kid, but that’s about it. She’d been pretty as a kid though. Painfully thin maybe, and with mousy hair chopped like she’d cut it herself – but huge brown eyes and delicate bowed lips.

  What photos there are of her were all taken indoors. Lizzie has EPP – erythropoietic protoporphyria. It’s an enzyme deficiency that causes the skin to blister in sunlight. Lizzie’s had it all her life apparently. She grew up never being able to go outside – probably spent her childhood in some dark little corner. I almost felt sorry for her.

  This, and what little else is known about Lizzie for sure, comes largely from one source – press coverage of a court case that took place in Norway when she was twelve. ‘The Doll Trial’ it was called. It’s about the only definitive account in Tully’s file, and it makes for some interesting reading. When Lizzie was a child she had a huge collection of china dolls – hundreds of them. They occupied the entire top floor of her parents’ house in Oslo. Apparently she’d spend her days sewing these elaborate dresses for them all – finely beaded gowns and embroidered silk suits. She was a talented young seamstress by all accounts. And a keen writer too it seems. As well as their own tailor-made wardrobe, each doll had its own journal in which Lizzie would write entries on their behalf.