The Brimstone Series

by Robert McKinney

  I could look for one of them, maybe, but I don’t know where to start. The last one that I’d met died while making one drop too many in Borneo a few summers back.

  There’s another option, too, though I don’t like thinking about it. It’s been in the back of my head since the moment I lost Mary. A choice of last resort that I’d said I’d never make again.

  Once again, I look down at the photo of Tom Angler, the man I’d been calling Todd in my head. I’ve done bad things to gain freedom and get to where I am in the world. I’ll do a hell of a lot worse if it takes me to Mary.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ole Beeze is a bastard. Not a loud one, or particularly showy, but he knows how to twist a knife when it suits him. I think that’s why he hasn’t moved from the place where I’d first had a chance to sit down and really speak with him. It’s a wood frame and window AC unit kind of affair, half heartedly converted from a church that didn’t get enough love to keep the bankers away. He’d taken most of the crosses down by the time I’d met him, but the pews give it away.

  I don’t land directly inside of the place. Bastards are rarely kind to uninvited guests. Instead, I plop down on his back porch, and feel the too tall grass and gangly limbed weeds that reach past the rails tickle the back of my thighs.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. I knock three times out of ritual instead of sheer force of habit. Ole Beeze once told me that there’s a sort of magic in threes. Nothing useful, as most people define it, but people, or rather things, like Ole Beeze notice its lack.

  The door opens.

  “Come in.” Says a soft, feminine voice.

  I step through the doorway and follow the voice into shadow. I squint and blink for a moment as my eyes adjust enough to make out a few details. The lamps that stand in corners and fluorescents hanging overhead are all turned off, and the only light in the room comes from narrow, stained glass windows on the opposite wall. The space is small, and only grudgingly accepts the three rows of pews that someone had squeezed through its narrow hallways.

  Ole Beeze sits waiting on one of the pews. He’s wearing someone new today, a young woman with skin dark enough to blend well into shadows. The face is different, but the good natured expression with a hint of mockery is more than familiar. It doesn’t fool me.

  Bodies, freely given, are the payment that Ole Beeze demands for his gifts. He wears them and exchanges them the same way that most rich men wear suits. One morning, a blonde. The next, a brunette.

  One year. That’s how long he’d worn me for. A whole year away from Mary that I’d never get back. I don’t know for sure what he did while controlling my body. I don’t want to know, either. The blood he’d left on my hands and inside of my mouth had told me more that I’d ever have the courage to ask. I try not to think about it, especially when making drops.

  He leans into the pews, his elbows draped over their high, angled backs. One hand is busy twirling a cigarette, while the other rolls a lighter, much like my own, from one delicate knuckle to the other as if it were a coin.

  “Have a seat.” He says in the young woman’s voice.

  I lower myself to a seat and find that the wood grain is hard and unforgiving under my weight. My knotted muscles let out a small squeal of protest, but at least the weight is gone from my ankle. The relief is enough to make me want to sigh, but I stifle the sound when I see a look of disapproval on Ole Beeze’s face.

  “You’re bloodied.” He says, the expression returning to good humor.

  “And then some.” I say. “Sorry to mess the furniture.”

  Ole Beeze snorts and sweeps his hands wide, palms upwards, as if presenting the room to me.

  “Yes, because it would be a shame to besmirch a room so holy as this.”

  I catch the faint smell of wood smoke filling air. When I look for it, I find a dust covered cross on the wall releasing a thin tendril of smoke

  My lip curls a little at that. Just because you take the girl out of the faith doesn’t mean you can take the faith out of the girl. Even with everything that I’ve seen and all that I’ve done, a few remnants of respect are still left in me. I have bigger problems to deal with though, so I school my face back into stillness and turn back to Ole Beeze.

  We sit together in silence for a while. Me not moving, him not even breathing. Finally, he sighs and leans over towards me.

  “Are you going to make me say it?”

  “Yes.” I say, keeping as still as I can. The wooden pew continuing to dig into my back and I manage to hold back a wince.

  “Why?” He asks. I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Irritation, I think. With so many faces, it’s sometimes hard to tell.

  “Because you love games, and frankly, I need you in a good mood.”

  That, at least, brings a glimmer to his eye, and it lasts for longer than its usual moment. I may not have him yet, but I think I have something.

  Ole Beeze spreads his hands, as if waiting for me to lay something heavy in them.

  “Then by all means.” He says, “indulge me.”

  “I’ve got a bargain for you. A small one.” I say.

  The lighter he resumed rolling from knuckle to knuckle falters for a moment before steadying and continuing on smoothly.

  There we go. I see hunger in the devil’s stolen face. He wants this, and while he doesn’t do something so obvious as lick his lips in anticipation, I know him well enough to see that I’m close.

  “What flavor of power are you in need of?” He asks, his voice even.

  “No power, this time. Just information.”

  The lighter freezes in his hand then falls down to the floor.

  “Little imp, no matter how much you like to pretend otherwise, you are not among the rabid dogs that I’ve pulled from the gutters. You understand that knowledge is by far the most dangerous power, so please refrain from acting as if I’m too simple to understand the same.”

  I shut my mouth, hold my breath, and imagine myself small. I’ve just insulted my old teacher, who could drag me screaming downstairs in his wake with not a sliver of effort. Not that he’d leave it at that if truly offended. I still don’t know where Mary is, but I doubt that would stop him if an example had to be made.

  Exhaling slowly, I lower my head.

  “I’m sorry.” I say. “I just need to get what I can. My sister is missing. She was taken from my house. I know who did it, I think, but not where he is. I need to know that. Please.”

  The lighter goes back to rolling between Ole Beeze’s fingers again, despite my not actually seeing the point where he picked it back up.

  “I want a ride.” Says Ole Beeze. “A long one this time. Three years for the location of who has your sister, payable once you’ve found her, of course.”

  My heart leaps in my chest.

  “You’ll get it.” I say. “But payable after I’ve returned home with her. No offense, Ole Beeze, but I don’t want any confusion, or you showing up for me the moment I lay eyes on her.”

  Ole Beeze inclines his head to me, making the stolen woman’s hair fall in waves in front of his eyes.

  “Fair.” He says. “Confusion really is the bane of a good deal.”

  “OK then. You’ll get another ride.” I say. “For three years, starting after I’ve returned with Mary. No visits to my friends or family while wearing me, either. Hell, no visits to anyone who’s met me before. Drop me off safe and unharmed at home when you’re done.”

  “Nothing is safe, little imp.”

  “Don’t insult me, either, Beeze. No drop offs outside of army barracks in Burma. No surprise endings with swat outside of my door. No immediate danger. For me, that is safe.”

  Ole Beeze nods then rises to his feet.

  “You have me hooked, little imp.” he says, holding out his hand.

  I shake it and he tells me everything that I n
eed.

  “I wish I could give you a ride there.” He says as I prepare to leave. “None of my brothers would molest you while traveling with me.”

  That’s the problem, he’d once told me, with making their deals. When a devil trades a power to a human, he loses it himself. They can still grant that same power to as many other people as they like while making their deals, but they can’t use the power for themselves until the bargain holders have died.

  The dead part had worried me a little back then, because why not kill me and gain the power back once the deal was complete? That’s when Ole Beeze had reminded me of the unspoken small print that went with all of their deals. Devils can’t kill the people that they’ve made bargains with. It’s a good thing to keep in mind, and about the only reason I’d ever risk angering him.

  It’s also why most devils prefer brief forays of violence and the burning that waits them downstairs over the chance to wear a human body in creation for a week. Making deals can be a hassle, even for devils like Ole Beeze. I think that’s why I’ve never heard of any devil dog being granted anything close to immortality.

  “It’s no problem, Beeze.” I say. “Besides, I need to make a stop and get a few supplies first.”

  “Supplies? Oh my, is someone planning a party?” Ole Beeze smiles again. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  ”These men took my sister, Beeze. If anyone tries to stop me, I plan on getting downright biblical.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I get some distance from the church house, make a drop, and land on an island off the coast of Puerto Rico. I’m standing on a forest trail and am surrounded by green leaves. I walk down the trail for a bit until I come to a rock stained with a splash of white paint. I leave the path at the rock and head west in the dying light until I come to another rock, this one larger and wholly unmarked. I push it away and uncover a bombproof crate buried underneath.

  I’d chosen this place years earlier because it shares a time zone with the U.S. east coast. It’s easy to get disoriented when one makes as many drops as I do, so it pays to have a familiar fallback that helps me reset.

  A reset isn’t what I’m after at the moment. What I need is the bags full of diamonds, spare cash, weapons, burner phones and other equipment stacked inside of the formerly rock covered crate. While this fallback cache isn’t the most recent that I’ve made, it’ll be more than enough for what I have planned.

  I start picking up items and laying them aside, double checking to make sure that what I need is all here. The diamonds inside are good for any kind of bribe that I could think of, but I don’t plan on paying anyone off in what’s to come. I have similar feelings about the Glock tucked into a Sidecar holster with a spare magazine. While I’ve known my fair share of people who’d shoot first and ask questions never, I know that if the bullets start flying, I’ve already lost.

  No, the items I set aside each have a specific purpose. A spotting scope and stand with enough zoom to count the feathers on a bird’s wing from half a mile out. A pair of smoke grenades, four flash bangs, and a flat, hardback book-sized slab of putty with wires attached that an old Navy contact of mine would have recognized as a breaching charge. A stuffed medical kit, about the size of an insulated lunch box, rounds out the collection of items. I pack them all into a duffel bag, close up the cache, and start walking back to the trail though Puerto Rico’s sea of green tropical rainforest.

  It starts raining not long after I reach the side of the trail. The drops are cold enough on my skin to make me shiver, and for a moment I consider giving into impatience and making a drop right here and now. The moment passes when I consider the risk that would be. I’d been reckless today with a lot of my drops, and I doubt my luck will last if I come face to face with another devil again. If that happens, and I end up trapped and killed downstairs like the other devil dogs I’ve heard of, there won’t be anyone left to take care of Mary. I’m too close to be stupid, so I put my head down and put in the work of trudging, ankle screaming, through the growing mud of the trail.

  Despite all of my tough talk, it’s hard enough to keep your spirits high when caught in the rain on a good day, which this certainly isn’t. The last few hours have been the most tiring, most stressful that I’ve ever known and my body, mind and spirit are feeling the weight.

  I just stand in the rain for a minute and let the raindrops land on my head. Three years. When this is done, I’ll be giving that to Ole Beeze. I don’t know how I’ll explain it to Mary, or if she’ll forgive me, or even how I’ll keep her safe while Beeze has me. She’ll have to be strong for both of us while I’m gone. I know that I won’t be able to do it. I won’t be anything, not in a way that matters, until Ole Beeze is finished and I serve out my term.

  Worries do nothing for Mary though, so I go back to moving. After a few dozen steps I’m able to put the discomfort and selfish need to take a breather under a tree behind me. I hike until I’m a quarter mile or more away from where I’d landed in the forest. More than enough space to drop again without worry.

  I wipe the rainwater from my face and adjust the duffel bag strap on my shoulder. While I’ve been running around the globe looking for clues, Mary’s been out there somewhere. Alone and scared. She’s been waiting long enough for her big sister to show. I flick my lighter, knowing I won’t make her wait any longer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My drop takes me to one of the dozens of storm surge evacuation camps that “temporarily” sit inland of coastal Florida. Climate change is by no means a gentle thing, and the people in this state know it better than most. Though hurricane season had just started, Florida had already been hit twice. The news said that the governor declared mandatory evacuations a couple of weeks back. No one heeded them, because everyone near the coast had either moved to Colorado, Montana, or somewhere else high above current sea level if they had enough money. Those that didn’t had been sent to underfunded camps starting back when the tides started rising during my own high school years a decade ago.

  There had always been too many camps for the National Guard to take care of, which I think is why my treacherous buyer, Tom Angler, is here. While mercenary work will always be in demand, the bodies needed for old fashioned combat duty fluctuates a good deal from year to year. The smart corporate warlords, of which Tom Angler was one, kept their bottom lines steady by providing an endless stream of overqualified guards to whatever refugee camp had a need for something close to order. Most of the guns for hire that I’d known in my time treated stints at the Florida camps like a boring paid vacation. More fistfights, fewer landmines - that kind of thing. A quick Google search with one of my burner phone confirms that the camp Ole Beeze had sent me to is one guarded by ESR Services - my enemy’s shop. Given how badly he’s chewed his way through me and mine lately, I hope that here, on his home turf, his guard will be down.

  It isn’t.

  I learn this less than a minute after landing on a hillside half a mile north of where the camp is located. I setup my spotting scope and start surveying the lay of the land, tracking civilians, guard rotations, and aid truck deliveries. At least five hundred civilians and two dozen guards are milling about in the campground, which blankets a half dozen football fields worth of space. The guards are all armed, and not with pistols, either. Each one of them carries a machine gun like the pair I’d seen in Angola before.

  Overkill if you ask me, but then again, I’ve never dealt with a Gators fan.

  A few more minutes of surveying shows me that most of the guard patrols are concentrated near a cluster of prefabricated buildings at the center of the camp. One has a roof covered in antennas and dishes, while the other has the bright red cross of a medical clinic. My gut tells me that I’ll find Mary in one of the two. My only problem will be getting inside without being spotted or shot.

  Making a drop straight into one is likely a bad call. For one thing, the place cou
ld be the wrong spot, and if it isn’t I won’t be able to make another drop with Mary nearby without attracting the wrong kind of attention from more devils downstairs. No, the smart play will be to land at the edge of the camp, create a distraction, and make my way deeper on foot. I’m not particularly confident in my old fashioned sneaking skills, but when I think over my options, this is all that I’ve got. Mind made up, I repack my scope, make a drop, and land next to a collection of tents near the corner of the camp.

  I give a quick look around and find no one to see me. Good. I use the alone time to set up my distraction and start sprinting towards the center of the camp.

  The smoke grenade that I’d left to blow on a timer goes off with a hiss when I’m a few tents away. The grenade sends a brightly colored tail of smoke into the air, and in seconds I can see, as well as hear, the camp reacting to the new threat. The first guard I pass doesn’t glance my way, as he’s too focused on seeing what the hell’s burning green in the campground behind me.

  The second guard I pass is another story. I go by him at a run, my eyes set on the pair of prefabricated buildings now coming into view. He doesn’t tell me to stop, but he does open fire with his light machine gun at me. The basic drawbacks of that weapon are the only thing that keep me alive. Though “light” when compared to heavy hitters like a Browning machine gun, the weapon is still a bitch to handle in a fight, especially if fired on the fly from the hip or a standing position.

  I’m too far ahead of him to see if he’s taken the time to aim at the shoulder or let loose from the hip. Whichever one he chose, it wasn’t enough to tag me with the first few rounds of his burst, and he’s not strong enough to keep the weapon on target as the following shots through his barrel up high. I see bullets smack into the ground to my left and ahead of my feet before trailing off and high over one of the prefab buildings ahead of me.

  I come closer to the buildings and see that the one that he’d sprayed has a red cross on the side. The place where I was most likely to find Mary.