The Brimstone Series

by Robert McKinney

  I look around the room and see that the wall sized window of the office had shattered during the hostage taker’s barrage. If I wanted to, I could sprint through it, make a drop, and land somewhere safe before I’ve picked up too much speed. I may have company waiting for me between here and there, but that beats getting shredded by a hail of flaming machine gun fire.

  Glancing down at my secretary, though, I realize that I can’t leave him behind. He’s the last ally I have left in this business, and besides, as arms dealers go, he’s a half decent guy. I reach out and grab onto the back of his jacket collar and start dragging him, slowly, to the window side of the room.

  He ignores me while I do it, seemingly intent on the conflicting tasks of applying pressure to his stomach, holding onto his briefcase, and aiming his shotgun one handed at the door. I knock the shotgun from his hands, and try to do the same with the briefcase. He holds onto it tight, and then glares up at me.

  “Look.” I say, “We’re both gonna die if you don’t trust me. Let me get you to the other side of the room, and do not, for a second, let go of me.”

  He frowns at me as best as he can with his face twisted in the pain he’s no doubt feeling.

  “What are you planning?” he asks, as I drag him closer to where the blown out window frame meets the adjoining wall at the corner. He lifts his free hand to point at the door. “Do you have a claymore mine or something? Tight confines for that, but it could work, I think.”

  “Yeah, no.” I say “Nothing like that. And also, I’m sorry.”

  For a moment, my secretary’s face twists into an expression of arrogant, indignant rage.

  “You treacherous!” he shouts as I shove him to the side and through the empty window frame.

  He stops shouting, though, when he realizes that I’ve followed along with him - one hand gripped like a vise onto his own wrist.

  I look down, and see the ground coming fast towards me. My secretary sees it as well and starts screaming. At least this time, his yells are not aimed at me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Here’s something to keep in mind for future reference. Lighters, even wind-proof almost-Zippos, are hard to ignite when you’re falling out of a ten plus story window. All of the air flying by is what gets you, stealing away sparks well before they can turn into flame.

  My fellow skydiver and I have fallen about a story before I get my damn lighter to work and start burning. I use the tiny dying embers it makes as a key between worlds and continue falling, my secretary still in hand, as we enter the red glow of hell.

  I was right about 12 stories not being enough distance to make a drop without attracting attention downstairs. Fortunately, I’d prepared a little for that. The speed you pick up while falling downstairs doesn’t translate too well when you land back in creation. The opposite, however, is definitely not true. I’d dropped at least a story or more before I’d been able to transition from creation to downstairs, and keep every mph of that madness with me during my shortcut.

  I feel an impact in my knees as I smack hard into something, but no claws or beating wings follow me down through the deeps. Somewhere above us floats a devil who’s probably still trying to figure out just what in god’s name hit him. I don’t worry about it once we’re gone. I’ve got a landing to make.

  Yelling and encased in a gout of black smoke, my secretary and I pop back into creation. For the second time in a day, I hit the floor hard and find myself tumbling until I hit a wall. My secretary lands atop me, and for a second I can’t breathe. I push him off me and start gasping, my whole body in pain.

  Like I said, momentum is a funny thing, especially when crossing between worlds. The speed you build up while falling through hell is mostly bled off when you come back to the world. The speed you carry with you while entering hell, however, has no problem sticking with you once back in the world.

  I climb to my feet to make sure that my legs can still hold me. They ache, but nothing folds under me. I’m lucky to have landed without breaking a bone, though considering where I’d aimed my landing, that wouldn’t have been as bad as it could be.

  Smoke from my shortcut has followed me again, and I can hear the shriek of a smoke alarm going off somewhere nearby. A fat man in scrubs shouts something at me in Portuguese. When I turn to face him, I see a hospital hallway stuffed with doctors, patients, and nurses staring at me. Speaking Spanish, because I barely know that, let alone Portuguese, I tell them all to stay away. I then turn back to where my secretary had landed in a heap alongside me.

  For a second I worry that the little man isn’t breathing, but when I touch him, he just starts cursing at me. I let him go on for a while before raising my hand to cover his mouth. He glares at me again, but keeps quiet long enough for me to speak.

  “We don’t have much time, so I’ll get through this quickly. Yes, we took a shortcut. Yes, that shortcut went through exactly where you think. No, you’re not dead. Not yet, so let the doctors help you.”

  I look up and see that some of the medical workers are banding together in twos and threes. It won’t be long for one of them to get some courage and come confront us directly. I keep talking to my secretary, keeping my voice low.

  “You’re at a hospital in a really nice part of Sao Paulo, Brazil, so try and be nicer than I was to the people who next come to help you. The doctors here will fix you up with no problem, but the moment they do, you’re probably going under arrest. Say nothing while you’re here. Too many people here speak English, and even if they don’t they can recognize the language. The cops will have a hard time figuring out who you are, even with finger prints. Give me your wallet while you’re at it, we don’t want make their job any easier.”

  My secretary chuckles a little when I say that. Then he leans forward, his brow wrinkles, to whisper back to me.

  “Don’t worry about me, this isn’t my first disaster, and I have enough fallback identities to find a lawyer to free me. I don’t carry a wallet, but what I have in my briefcase will get me extradited to a dozen countries if the police find me with it. Take it.” he says.

  I take the briefcase from him, and grunt at the weight.

  “There’s a lot of paper in here.” I say. “What the hell was worth going through all the trouble to pack up with those assholes outside of your door?”

  He smiles.

  “Everyone linked to you has been killed in recent hours.” he says, patting the edge of the suitcase. “Everyone, save for you, and the other client whose information is locked up inside. Someone came for my people, and I was going to return the favor.”

  He sighs, and settles his head back down to the floor.

  “And now I’m shot.” he says. “Again.”

  I look down at the briefcase in my hands and think. Everyone save for one. The only reason I can think of to leave one of my contacts alive is if the survivor was the one behind all of the killing. Whoever he is, the bastard is probably the same one who took Mary.

  Still looking down, I also notice something else about the briefcase. It’s locked.

  I look back to my secretary, who’s been following my gaze.

  “Yes.” says my secretary. “You need what is in this case just as much as I did when you found me. I’ll give you the lock combination under one condition.”

  This case has information on whoever took Mary. I grit my teeth.

  ”Which is?”

  “The man inside this case sent his people out to kill my clients. To ruin my name. And then to kill me. My condition is simple. Find him, kill him, and make sure that his death does not come cleanly.”

  I sit back on my heels a little at that. I’ve killed people before. Not many, and never someone who wasn’t actively trying to hurt me. I’ve always kept it as clean and straightforward as I could, which isn’t saying much. Violence is hectic, and dirty, and never goes like you’ve planned, but that
didn’t mean that I’d ever drawn anything out longer than it had to be. My secretary is asking for something completely different, though. He’s asking me to torture. He’s asking for me to be messy, to make it personal, on purpose.

  I think of cookies burning inside the shattered ruin of my house and my dead contacts, but mostly of Mary.

  “Not a problem.” I say, again through gritted teeth. He tells me the code. I thank him, flick my lighter, and leave.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I land near a random Starbucks in Portland, Oregon because I need a place that’s low profile while still having anonymous internet. I’m not kidding when I say random Starbucks, either. Like I said, drops are only as specific as you make them, and I hadn’t been picky when making my landing.

  This particular Starbucks sits across the street from another green and white painted caffeine supplier, and within eyesight of another, larger and dual lane drive through equipped Starbucks a block down the street. The placement seems stupidly redundant until I notice a small mom and pop coffee shop without wifi or cookies sharing the block with all three. Say what you will about Portland, it’s the only place that I know of where even a titan like Starbucks has trouble muscling out the little guy.

  It’s also one of the few places in the country where my current state will attract, at most, a handful of stares. I confirm this by walking into the mom and pop coffee shop. There’s no one inside save for a barista at the counter and two college students bobbing their heads to the soft music filling the place. All three of them look up as I enter the building, and all three go back to their business, unbothered, the moment they see me pull my smartphone from my pocket. My uncombed hair, bad ankle, and brimstone smudged jeans make me look like a hobo in most parts of the country, but here? I’m just another post-millennial trying to get coffee.

  I order a chai latte and join the other patrons in bobbing my head to the music overhead while I wait. I don’t really need to add the caffeine to my nerves, but the traditions of coffee patrons must be obeyed, even by me.

  Every part of me wants to make this visit as short as possible, but I’m realistic and know that’s not what need. I’ve been sprinting headfirst through this whole mess since it started, and haven’t taken the time needed to assess the disasters that have happened, or how they’ve affected me.

  A barista calls my name out, and after picking up my cup, I claim a table for myself in one of the room’s corners. My leg tries to stiffen up on me once I sit down, so I prop it up on a free chair that’s nearby. That devil’s grip had done a number on me. For a second, I’m tempted to pull up my pants leg to check out the damage, but something tells me that inspection will just hurt more, and won’t help anything.

  I sip my chai and lean back into my chair, closing my eyes as I feel the caffeine start to hit home. Jesus, I’d fucked up our home. I’d always tried to look out for her and taken whatever hits that I could when they were aimed her way. Sometimes that meant getting between her and dad. Once, between her and a scumbag that needed killing. The devil I’d bargained with not long after that one had praised me for taking care of him so messily. Like most things that devil had praised, it hadn’t been something to be proud about. But I didn’t feel guilty about doing it, either.

  Getting Mary caught up in all of this shit was another thing. I like to tell myself that I’d done all of it for her. That I stole guns from soldiers who needed them for protection, and sold them to whoever had enough money to cover my mortgage, bills, and secretary’s fees because it was the only way for Mary not to end up like the other farmgirls we’d grown up with. Tired, hopeless, drug addicted - or all three. That was part of it, definitely.

  The larger part, though, was that I did it for me.

  I’m good at this job. Good enough that I’d still be a good deal more than decent at it if I’d somehow stumbled upon it even without the dropping through hell. I know my way around guns, don’t draw undue attention, and most importantly, have a good gut for how this fucked up market thinks. I’m good at this job. I’ve never been good at anything, other than protecting Mary.

  She’s out there, somewhere. Possibly hurt, definitely scared. She’s waiting for me, and I won’t be able to find her until I know who I’m dealing with. So with that thought in my head, I finish my chai, and start rummaging through the documents in the briefcase sheet by sheet.

  They’re eye openers, to say the least. While my secretary is generally tight lipped when it comes to telling me details about potential buyers for security reasons, he has been a busy beaver when to comes to tracking his employers. The briefcase is a trove of record keeping, complete with formulae and languages I don’t understand crammed alongside pie charts and tables listing high volume trades. The folders detailing me contain more or less my life’s history, with the last portion containing a reminder to look into how I fill orders so damn fast.

  The information he has on the men who’ve been ruining my day doesn’t disappoint. From what my secretary can tell, they’re a mercenary shop based not too far away from the camps holding refugees fleeing all the hurricanes that climate change has created in Florida. They’re a diverse company, and seem to work with politicians, aid workers and spy agencies alike.

  After the day I’ve had, none of this really surprises me. The guys who took my sister took out my newest buyer so fast I hadn’t been able to catch them with a drop. They’d also managed to kill more than a half dozen of the toughest allies that I have and get a team on site at my secretary’s place, all within the space of an hour and a half. Pretty much everyone who’s had recent contact with me have been hunted with the kind of professionalism rarely found outside of special ops teams. It’s the same level of skill sometimes found in the more expensive reaches of the private sector.

  A watermark at the top of several of the pages says “ESR Services” alongside a little logo of a dog covered in flames. A quick search through the suitcase confirms that as the name of the mercenary outfit. It’s run by a husband, Tom Angler, and his wife, Patricia Angler (neé Sanderson,) who are almost never found at the headquarters of their shared private military company.

  My secretary’s notes indicate that the duo in particular plays well with the Chinese, and specialize in off book things like bringing unruly expatriates home. It takes some digging through the suitcase to find the photos that match the names, but eventually I find them.

  Pat Angler is a tall, tan skinned woman with the kind of physique I’ve often seen on those obsessed with hiking trails. I’ve never seen her before, but the husband is significantly more familiar to me. Tom Angler is a man with pale sunburned skin and a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. On his right hand is a college class ring with a big red jewel set into the center.

  It’s Todd the buyer from earlier. Mr. Money.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Motherfucker. I should have known that it had been him. He’d been the last person I’d talked to before going home to Mary, and despite all the carnage at the hotel, I’d never seen his body. Not up close at least. Planning a ruckus like that would have diverted attention from even the most level headed of people, which I’ll be honest, has never been me.

  I’ve been played, and looking at the photo even I have to admit that I’m in well over my head. To do what he’s done - to kidnap Mary, fake all of that carnage at the ritzy hotel, and then run through my allies as easily as a teenager would mow the lawn - this man has to have to had access to more than an ad hoc network of former shooters and spies. Any corporate CEO with enough stock options and a lack of morals can accumulate that. Using those resources like a hammer one moment, or a scalpel as needed, was a long way away from what your average merc shop could do. There are governments in this world, mine included, which would have trouble tackling people like this.

  There’ll be more than a mere challenge when facing people like this. I may be a devil dog, but I’ll still bleed out
just as quickly as anyone else if I’m shot, and my resources are at best a fraction of what this man has to draw on. With his friends in various governments, he can lock down, or even trace, most of the money I’d use to bribe my way into more information on him. That, or have the police the world over on the lookout for me. He’ll have all sorts of ways to know where I am. I now know where Tom’s mercenary company is based, but the file says that he’s almost never there. I don’t have time to wait for that to change.

  The only thing that I’ve learned from this entire briefcase is just how well and truly fucked I am. I don’t know where Mary is. I don’t know how I can beat this man. Hell, I don’t even know why this man and his company give a damn about me in the first place.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I’m plain outmatched.

  But I think I may be able to find someone, or rather something, who isn’t.

  Bribes, smuggling, gunplay, tradecraft - all of these are things I’d picked up on the job. The thing that made me so good at arms trafficking, wasn’t a learned skill. I’d learned that from Ole Beeze almost a full decade ago.

  I don’t know the specifics of how it went down on his end, but Ole Beeze had been on the lookout for what he calls “talent” when he found me. I’d been screaming bloody murder at the corpse I’d just made when he’d shown up with a puff of brown smoke and offered me a deal.

  Freedom. The ability to move anywhere, anytime. To never be trapped and scared for myself or Mary again. It didn’t even cost me my soul, according to him.

  The lessons on dropping that followed were short, but close to unthinkably stressful. No matter how much you think it, no one is ready to see the inside of hell. Not the first time, at least. His lessons on surviving were similarly short, and followed a sink or swim approach to learning. I swam. I lived, a good deal longer than most of the others devil dogs that I know he or his brothers and sisters have trained.