by LE Barbant
Tiny squeals filled the lab.
He smiled as he recorded the results.
“See, Rita, this is progress. Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.”
His cell phone buzzed and Chem sighed at the interruption. The text came from a blocked number, which provided only an address.
Turning back toward his unwanted guest, Chem said, “I’m sorry, but I have to take this. We’ll meet next week to discuss…”
But he spoke only to darkness.
His lab was empty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tracking Chem through the back alleys of Pittsburgh was nothing compared to the work Tim Ford had done on the streets of Fallujah.
After a short tour and honorable discharge, Ford had decided to put the skills he had honed serving his country to work as an independent contractor. He worked through Blackbow, a private military corporation that placed operatives in dangerous situations all over the world. Pay was determined by locale, and Ford was crazy enough to be the highest paid grunt that Blackbow owned. He’d carried guns for hire throughout the Middle East, as well as in Burundi, Columbia, and Somalia—to name only a few. The pay was good, and the company kept enough details off the table to ensure that the mercenaries could keep a relatively clean conscience—most of the time. Many of his peers lacked any moral compass. Tim assumed that half the guys would take out their best friends from a kilometer with a TAC-50, if the pay were right.
While Wilkinsburg lacked the dangers of a war-torn state, it certainly wasn’t a place to visit for kicks. But the depressed borough bordering Pittsburgh attracted Chem that night—and Tim along with him. His late-model Ford Ranger tailed the cab—keeping a safe distance back. He certainly wasn’t afraid of being made by Chem—the scientist focused only on his work. The retired merc needed to give his nerdy companion some pointers on stealth and evasion so the chemist could make it to Thanksgiving.
Chem ducked into a house on Campbell Street. Through his binoculars, Tim counted two people waiting for the doctor’s arrival in the foyer. The broken-down old house might have been the only tenement on the block officially occupied, though Wilkinsburg had its share of squatters.
Foot traffic was light; not surprising for after two in the morning in a less-than-savory neighborhood.
Tim pushed a pinch of Copenhagen under his lip and waited. The nicotine settled his nerves, though he wished he could do without it. Over the course of the summer, Ford’s stakeouts became more and more frequent. Initially, upon returning to the states and his hometown, he was restless. The transition from mercenary to civilian left him incomplete. His body craved the adrenaline spikes afforded by his previous work. Depression had set in quickly, and Ford, not knowing what to do, turned to the bottle to stave off its effects. Then, when that wasn’t enough, he began his late night missions.
****
Stumbling out of the bar, Ford was nearly drunk enough to dance in public. The hot summer night baked the South Side streets, but he was oblivious. The harsh edges of his malaise had been worn down by booze, but he still felt something not quite right in his gut.
It may have been the beer, or whatever pill that busty redhead gave him in the bathroom.
Tim staggered into the alley and lost his stomach next to a dumpster.
“Ah, man, that sucks.”
Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slowly turned to face the voice. The world continued moving after he stopped. “All in a night’s work,” Tim said, sizing up the figure in front of him.
He was more boy than man. A Steelers jersey from the Kordell Stewart era hung over baggy jeans. Tim’s well-tuned sense of danger tingled despite his intoxication.
“Well, take care, buddy,” Tim said, making for the alley.
“Hold up, man,” the guy said. “Can you help a brother out? My car broke down and I’m trying to get home. You got a couple of bucks for bus fare?”
Tim closed his right eye and squinted his left, trying to make the two blurry images of the kid merge. He jammed his right hand into his pocket. “Nah, man. Sorry. Left my last couple on the bar for a tip. Good luck, though.”
“It’s cool. I’ll take your watch instead.” The guy stepped forward.
“Like hell you will,” Tim growled.
Laughing, the man said, “You’re in no shape for this, buddy. Pay your toll, and go sleep off your drunk. This is the way it works.”
Tim stepped toward his adversary. “You don’t know how it works. And trust me, you don’t want to find out.” The slur in Ford’s speech was thick enough to confirm his state—to the kid and to himself.
The man grabbed a fistful of flannel and pulled Tim close. “Take the watch off or I will.”
With keys spliced between his thick fingers, Tim pulled his hand from his pocket and swung, the key knuckles connecting with the man’s throat. Releasing Tim’s shirt, he covered his neck. “Shit.”
Wasting no time, Ford landed a left to his stomach and finished him with a knee to the face. The sound of breaking cartilage filled Tim’s ears.
Coughing in a heap on the wet asphalt, the kid looked up at the drunken soldier.
“I don’t want to ever see you on the streets again. Next time, I won’t be so gentle.”
Tim left the alley feeling alive for the first time since returning to Pittsburgh.
****
The door opened, spilling light onto the front porch. Chem stepped out, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.
Tim checked his watch. He would give it an hour so no one would connect him and the chemist, not that the two made a likely pair.
When the time had passed, he stepped out of the Ranger and eased the door closed until it clicked. Tim passed the front porch and crept down the broken sidewalk between the dealer’s house and a condemned adjacent tenement. Thick blinds kept him from further surveying the scene inside.
Mystery was fine by him—in fact, Tim liked it.
The stairs creaked as he climbed toward the back entrance. A storm door missing its glass teetered on rusty hinges. Tim reached through and tried the knob; it turned freely. Excitement, caused by whatever required Chem’s attention, must have distracted the residents. Or maybe, in that neighborhood, people knew to avoid the house that Tim Ford entered unannounced.
The place was in shambles. The kitchen looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Reagan administration. Dirty dishes were piled everywhere, and spoiled milk assaulted his nose. Tim pulled the black handkerchief up over his face. It provided both a shield from the odor and protection of his identity. Sliding the brass knuckles from his jeans pocket, Tim exhaled and readied for battle.
A blaring television veiled the sound of his footsteps. An over-the-top action film, with explosions and gunshots, provided the perfect cover.
Tim peered into the living room to find two men slumped low on a couch, their eyes glassed over. Tim welcomed the pungent smell of marijuana. He grabbed a potted plant, the only decor in the room, and launched it at the television. Both men snapped to attention, their buzz killed by the trespasser and his missile.
“It’s time for you boys to stop dealing in Pittsburgh,” Tim yelled through the handkerchief.
Before he was done speaking, the men were on their feet.
The shorter of the two wasted no time. He charged and swung a sloppy hook, which was easily dodged. The man was slow and stoned, and Tim had trained in and out of the military for hand-to-hand combat.
It was hardly a fair fight.
Ford swung his brass fist into the man’s rib cage, it crumble under the force of his swing. With a wheeze, Tim’s victim dropped to the hardwood.
Seeing his friend felled with such ease, the other approached cautiously. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his left wrist—Chem’s obvious handiwork.
That damned traitor.
The man’s wild eyes scanned the room. Tim held his ground, circling his opponent as if in an invisible ring. While he trusted his training, F
ord knew full well that a trapped junkie was a dangerous beast.
Instead of moving for an attack, the man lunged for the bottom of the couch. Faster than his friend, he made it to the edge before Tim could cut him off.
Shit, Tim thought as the dealer pulled a blade just shy of a machete from under the sofa.
“We’ll deal where we damn well please.” The man grinned.
Tim’s hand found the back of a wooden folding chair that sat against the wall. He swung it in an arc toward his assailant.
Raising the blade, the man knocked the chair off its course. But his move opened him for attack. Tim landed a quick jab to the man’s gut and followed with a brass uppercut to the jaw.
Metal rattled on wood as the man released the knife and slumped to the floor.
He turned back to his first victim, who lay windless where Tim had dropped him. The mercenary pushed the heel of his Red Wing into the man’s broken ribs.
The dealer shrieked under the pressure.
“Keep operating around here and we’ll do this again. Understand?”
The man squirmed under Tim’s boot.
“Understand?” he asked again, leaning into it.
A nod and a grunt was all the man could muster.
Tim gave one last push, for good measure. He felt another rib crack. “Good. This is my city, and I’m taking it back.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Ladies and gentlemen, first, thank you for coming. There is nothing more beautiful than a late summer day in Pittsburgh. Standing here at the confluence of the three rivers [note: venue was moved—check with Kate] I am reminded by just how amazingly blessed we are by our home town [Too cheesy? Ask Paul about this one].”
Rhett propped the tip of his pencil between his teeth for a moment. Then, applying pressure to the yellow pad, he crossed out “amazingly,” and placed an exclamation mark in the margin. He imagined a crowd, and said, “But no matter how idyllic, today remains shrouded in loss. Bobby Vinton was a friend and a colleague. Though young enough to be my own son, he taught me more than I can explain. So, as we come together…”
Rhett stepped to his window and stared out at the streets. The speech was good. But good had never satisfied the young politico. It lacked a certain ring—lines that would dance in the audience’s mind for weeks to come. This speech aimed to frame the public discourse around recent events. The pithier the better—especially if he could manage some lines that were easily tweetable. The man grinned to himself as he propped his foot up on the radiator. Cicero never needed to worry about keeping his best lines to 140 characters.
“Crime is nothing new to Pittsburgh…” He stopped. His first assignment was a clusterfuck. Rhett needed to pen something for the mayor that mourned his Chief of Staff’s untimely passing while inciting fear of future attacks. Every politician has a platform, and this was Mayor Dobbs’. But he also needed to assure the people that the city government had everything under control—not to mention the need to stay within the good graces of the police force. Not too much fear, just enough. It was a balancing act on the scales of public opinion.
Rhett had spent hours combing the speeches following the events of 9/11 in search of the perfectly turned phrase that had allowed a speaker to appear strong and confident, but also heart-broken and wise. This was no easy task. Mayor Dobbs had strength, but in recent years he failed to appear that way. Rhett believed that Dobbs, though not an Andrew Jackson or a Teddy Roosevelt, was the smartest man in contemporary politics—in the Steel City and beyond. The word slinger knew that the Mayor had his sights set beyond Allegheny County, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he and Paul would soon be moving back to the nation’s capital.
But things weren’t looking good. Polling had placed the race for Dobbs’ reelection on shaky ground. Pittsburgh was a city of change, emerging as one of the most thriving medium-sized cities in the country, despite, many believed, Dobbs’ policies and appointments. Popular sentiment began to sway toward Dobbs’ challenger—Peter Kinnard.
Kinnard was young. A transplant to Pittsburgh from the West Coast, he cut his teeth on Pittsburgh politics during a summer internship at a community development corporation. The non-profit was committed to urban renewal that didn’t take the form of gentrification—a policy the young politician now ran on. Peter fell in love with the city. It captured his heart and imagination. When it was time to return to Stanford, he decided to stay and finish his last year in the Steel City.
The young idealist had only worked in the city for ten years before people started positioning him for political office. Humility kept him out of it for some time, but he finally relented. After a term on the City Council, Kinnard began his campaign for mayor with a platform against business as usual. Thankfully, for the young politician, many citizens held that the old-time politics of the Dobbs administration represented everything wrong with the status quo. He had the backing of the urban youth, the artists, and the students—just about anyone under sixty—and that enthusiasm was beginning to trickle up through the voting base.
It would take a perfect run to beat Peter Kinnard, and to Rhett that translated into perfect messaging. Those were nearly the exact lines he used when he walked into the mayor’s office and requested a job earlier that week. He was rarely denied what he wanted. Rhett Johannes spoke, and people trusted him.
A light tap on the door interrupted his writing. Without waiting for a response, Kate, the Mayor’s office manager, stuck her head in. “He’s ready for you.”
“Is everyone else here?” Rhett asked.
Kate stepped into his office. Everything about her was perfect. Rhett loved the way her dirty-blond hair fell over her shoulders. She was young, funny, and recently single. While he’d never dated a divorced woman before, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
“Just about.”
“Alright,” Rhett said. “Let’s do this.” He gathered his things for the meeting and stepped toward the door.
Kate coughed. “Um, Rhett…”
“Yeah.”
“Shoes.” She pointed at the speechwriter’s feet.
Rhett smiled. “Of course.”
****
The conference room was hotter than hell, but Rhett was getting used to it. Some swore that Dobbs would turn up the heat, just to mess with his staff. Rhett wouldn’t put it past him. Eight white men and Rhett sat around the oval table. Each of them had a role, and they were all good at their jobs—very good. The walls were littered with color-coded maps, outlining voting districts, donor lists, and major events. Most of the time the conference room was used for important meetings, but for the past half year it operated as the war room, a dedicated space for Mayor Dobbs’ reelection run. Less than three months away from Election Day, and the team was starting to get nervous.
Peter Kinnard’s numbers were going through the roof, and the Mayor’s fund-raising efforts had stagnated.
Dobbs, a fit and attractive man in his late fifties, paced in front of a white board. He pivoted and leaned on the end of the oval table. “We have this. That little West Coast shit isn’t going to run my city. It’s embarrassing that he’s even doing so well. Jason, what’s the update on the polling?”
Jason Harris was a well-dressed twenty-something with clear-framed glasses and an iPad. He passed around a couple of sheets of paper with graphs and charts. “The latest polls suggest that Kinnard is gaining the confidence of older voters. We’ve lost some ground in the 35-50 range. People are scared, they think you…”
“They think I’m failing them. They think I’m weak.”
“Yes, sir. And Kinnard’s confident that the youth will actually turn out to vote this year. Their passion seems actionable.”
Rhett looked the data whiz up and down. The man had a certain confidence that betrayed his years. Where is he getting this data? The speechwriter didn’t doubt that he was right, but the nuance in his report required a level of polling unheard of in local elections. Rhett made a note to ask him
about it after the meeting.
“Kids are fickle. We should start running targeted ads, talking about Kinnard’s privileged upbringing. That will turn them against him,” Frank Boyd interjected. Boyd was as ruthless as he was ambitious. It was no secret that he wanted Vinton’s spot as Dobbs’ right-hand man.
The mayor nodded toward Boyd. “The level of media presence involved in that kind of campaign requires significant resources. Ken, where are we at with that?”
Ken Richards, a pasty man with a pockmarked face and a receding hairline, leaned back in his executive chair. Sweat had already gathered on his forehead. “It’s not good, sir. I wish I could say differently, but our numbers are down again this week. Our real hope is after the events tomorrow and the Mayor’s Gala we’ll be able to gain momentum. But you need a message. Something that will inspire people to open their wallets.”
Rhett’s heart stopped. He knew he was next.
“Rhett? What do you have for us? Can you turn the ship around?”
Rhett straightened the legal pad in front of him and aligned the pen perpendicular to its edge. Not wanting to portray the same countenance as Richards, he stood to address the mayor. “My hand’s on the rudder, sir. The speech is nearly done, and I think it’s some of my best work. They’ll eat it up.”
All eyes were on him.
The rest of the cabinet hated the speechwriter—because Dobbs loved him. He’d showed up only days earlier and the mayor already placed a higher level of trust in him than in some of his more senior staff. Though their jobs were on the line, most of the men in the room wanted to see Rhett fail—which he never did.
“Give us the broad strokes, son.”
“Sure.” Rhett picked up the legal pad and pretended to read his notes. He didn’t need to, he knew them by heart. “It starts as a eulogy to Vinton.” Rhett glanced at the vacant chair at the end of the table opposite Dobbs and paused for effect. “You’ll praise his gifts, go on about his family and his dedication to the city of Pittsburgh. Everyone loves a dutiful servant. Vinton had been in Springdale late, trying to raise support for your new crime plan. Working hard—naturally.” Rhett could feel half the room grimace. “So he basically gave his life for all of us, for the city. At least that’s what the crowd will believe.”
