Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

  Fredo could charge fifty grand for a meeting and a million for a case because he held the equivalent of Olympic gold in two highly prized sports: hunting and killing. His cartel credentials made him the first choice for connected clients who had challenging cases but easy budgets. Clients who required reliability and demanded discretion. Clients with targets other assassins couldn’t track or wouldn’t touch.

  Fredo arrived at the Fairmont San Jose disguised by bronzed skin, a swashbuckler mustache, cheek inserts, thickened eyebrows, and a black beret. The combination made him look more like the love child of Rocky Balboa and Che Guevara than a white elf, a fredo blanco—if one linguistically combined Old English with Spanish as his creative yet cruel parents had done. Throw in the boots that boosted his 5’5” height to nearly 5’8”, the sunglasses hiding his eyes, and the padded trench coat he wore like a cape to free his arms and disguise his shape, and photographs would be worthless as identification tools.

  For offense, he was packing twin .22 caliber pistols and a few concealed stilettos. On the safety side, his beret was lined with Kevlar—a trick he’d learned from the Mayor of Moscow—and he sported a bulletproof vest. His hands were covered, as always.

  Having become an extreme germophobe during his last assignment for El Chapo, Fredo had more gloves than most movie stars had shoes—and a dry cleaning budget that rivaled modest mortgages.

  He arrived at the designated suite by exiting the elevator two floors above his destination and walking down. As promised, the door was propped ajar. He hit the Record button on his phone, extracted both .22s from the holster in the small of his back, then slipped inside.

  Fredo had expected to find a darkened room, but the bathroom light was on and the curtains were open, exposing the dawning California sun. Only the double doors to the bedroom were closed. The armchair positioned to face them from mid-room conveyed the message with the clarity of a neon sign.

  Before taking his designated seat, Fredo did three things. He checked the view to ensure that there was no sniper shot through the window. He felt beneath the seat cushion and found nothing more sinister than a manila envelope. And finally, he pulled a small, oldschool detective’s notebook from his trench coat. “How many of you are there? Please count off.”

  After a short pause, he heard “One.” “Two.” “Three.” “Four.” “Five.” Going right to left from his perspective, like birds on a wire. The fifth was a woman, the other four men, all in that sweet spot between mature and old.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  “You’re sitting on the fifty grand,” One said. “The million is also nearby.”

  “Very good, tell me about the case,” Fredo said, putting pen to notepad.

  “Use your phone to search for ‘REVELATIONS by Cassandra.’”

  He did, and was delighted. Vegas! Fredo loved operating in Las Vegas. It offered tons of cover with all the activity, lights, and noise. Plus great hotels and the desert close at hand. Alas, the website said no shows were scheduled and consultations were not currently available. “Got it.”

  “She’s your target. We don’t know where she is. She fled weeks ago after an earlier assassination attempt.”

  Some slouch couldn’t kill a woman? That was a shocker. Fredo loved it when his targets were female. Who didn’t like easy money? Maybe they’d made the mistake of sending a woman to kill a woman. “Why did it fail?”

  “We don’t know for certain since Casino security dealt with the first guy, but we believe it’s because he disregarded our warning.”

  “He disregarded,” Fredo repeated to himself. So the failed assassin had been a man. “And what warning was that?”

  “We warned him not to underestimate Cassandra’s psychic powers.”

  “Are you telling me she sensed him coming?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re saying. Not in general, mind you. In specific. She sensed his murderous intent as he drew near.”

  Fredo had never heard that warning before. He’d need to ruminate on it. “What restrictions did you place on the job?”

  “No collateral damage. And an act that looked like a dissatisfied client rather than a professional hit.”

  “Is that what you want from me?”

  “Yes.”

  Fredo did not believe in supernatural powers, but he wasn’t about to risk his life on something he didn’t understand. “Tell me more about these powers of hers.”

  “She can sense what’s on your mind when you’re within speaking range,” the woman said. “For example, if she were sitting where I am right now, she’d know that you’re looking forward to removing your cheek inserts and taking off that heavy hat.”

  Fredo began searching for the camera. Usually they were too small to spot, but this one had high enough resolution that a substantial lens was indicated.

  “There’s no camera, Mr. Blanco. I have the same gift. Concentrate on your mother’s birthday.”

  Fredo wasn’t going to fall for that old trick. Savvy psychics did research, just like assassins. He wasn’t sure how they’d have located his mother, but as a tracker himself he knew such things were possible. He thought about his sister instead.

  “Valentine’s Day. Your sister was born on Valentine’s Day.”

  Wow. This lady did psychology as well as research.

  She pressed on, leaving him no time to dwell on her skill. “How do you typically dispatch your targets?”

  The question’s phrasing put Fredo at ease. His new clients might have special skills, but they weren’t killers. Using words like “dispatch” and “target” rather than “kill” and “girl” or “Cassandra” told him they wouldn’t bloody their own hands. As for his methods, Fredo avoided anything that exposed him to bare skin or bodily fluids, including blood. Thus stilettos rather than knives and .22 caliber bullets rather than those with the power to create messy through-and-through wounds. Suffocation was good. Blunt force trauma really wasn’t his thing—some skulls cracked open easier than others. He was happy to drop people from height, so long as he didn’t have to approach the corpse. “I’m not a butcher if that’s what you’re asking. Like a good deer hunter, I prefer a clean kill.”

  This time, the woman didn’t reply for a while, causing his thoughts to wander. They went back to her psychic tricks. This client had found a lot of information online. He needed to scrub the internet. There were people you could pay to do that.

  “What’s your favorite movie?” she asked. Quite the non sequitur.

  Another psychic trick. Of course he loved The Godfather. Playing the odds would give her another “miraculous win.” What else? The Day of the Jackal was also too obvious. Best to throw another curve ball.

  Before he gave it voice, she said “Game of Thrones isn’t a movie, but I’ll take anything less predictable than The Godfather or The Day of the Jackal.”

  “How are you doing that?”

  “As I told you, Cassandra and I share the same gift. I trust you’ll take the warning seriously.”

  Damn right he would. And now he knew his client’s motive: eliminating the competition. He could appreciate that. “I will.”

  “Good. Now that we’re clear on that complication, what questions do you have?”

  “What’s her family situation?”

  “None.”

  “Where does she get her money?”

  “Just savings, as far as we know. She’s comfortable, but far from rich.”

  “So there are no family ties or financial links?”

  “None that we’ve discovered. Can you track her down?”

  Fredo could track anyone down, given enough time. “I can.”

  “Can you do it in the next hundred days?”

  The hunt was going to be the challenge, not the kill. He could work around her gift. “Estimates are just that, especially at this stage where I know so little about the target. As a policy, I always budget for a year and aim to deliver well ahead of schedule. Usually that hits the hund
red-day mark. To answer your question directly: I believe so, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  “Good.”

  “Will you take the job?”

  “I never back away from a challenge, but I refuse to sell myself short either. She’s no ordinary target, not by a long shot. And she’s been warned by the earlier blunder. Plus you’re asking for a rush. Add those up and I’ll need twice my usual fee to commit. Today’s million becomes the fifty-percent before. I get another million after, agreed?”

  “You’ll find the first half in the credenza, along with the burner phone we’ll use to communicate. Please keep us posted with weekly updates.”

  38

  Getting Creative

  The Caribbean

  SKYLAR AWOKE feeling good. She finally understood the nagging sense of unease that had bothered her for weeks. Her head, heart and intuition had been subconsciously at odds.

  Now that she knew what was going on between Chase and Vicky, Skylar felt at ease. Everything made sense—and she liked the sense that it made.

  Skylar had always been a competitive excitement seeker. An adventure seeker who pushed her limits. She’d been a firefighter and an internationally competitive triathlete. She’d even made the championship podium a time or two, although never the top step.

  Because of her split-second shortfalls, sponsorship dollars had remained out of reach. Meanwhile, the runner-up prize money barely covered her travel and training expenses. To pay the bills, Skylar had become a firefighter. That had been a comfortable arrangement, given the good pay and all the free time it afforded for training, until fate forced her to choose between rescuing a child and saving her lungs.

  That choice—one she would make again—had dashed her Olympic dreams and put her paid occupation off limits. She’d floundered for a while, but eventually ended up on a yacht with Chase, so nowadays she felt nothing but fortunate. Nonetheless, Skylar missed the competitive thrills that had characterized her life before the fire.

  She wasn’t alone in that sentiment. Chase also missed his prior life.

  Like her, he’d landed on a yacht out of necessity rather than choice.

  Now it seemed that fate was evening out the score by selecting them for a special mission. The high-stakes, save-the-planet kind.

  Chase had walked her through Vicky’s fascinating story and the unforeseen perils of mind reading. He’d also briefed her on the people they would be up against—as members of Team Vicky. Despite the stature and means of their opponents, Skylar was walking into their first strategy meeting feeling excited rather than intimidated. Simply put: she craved a noble mission and a novel challenge—regardless of the risk.

  “Where should we begin?” Vicky asked, as they gathered around her table.

  When no one else jumped in, Skylar voiced a question that had been at the back of her mind. “How do you know it’s the lawyers who are trying to kill you, and not some third party?”

  Vicky nodded. “Good question. The short answer is that I don’t. Not for sure.”

  Everyone stopped breathing.

  “I am certain that they can read minds,” Vicky quickly continued. “Your personal experience with Scarlett Slate virtually proves it. When you add to that their trademark glasses and perfect record, all doubt vanishes.”

  “We also know that they’re evil,” Chewie added. “Whereas Vicky chose to use her power to counsel and entertain, they chose to pervert justice for financial gain.”

  “I understand that,” Skylar said. “But just because they’re evil mind readers doesn’t mean they hired the Las Vegas assassin. I’m not trying to be argumentative. I just want to ensure that we address the urgent issue: keeping Vicky alive.”

  Chewie nodded and turned to Vicky. “How can we confirm that it was the lawyers who sent Vance?”

  “That’s relatively easy, in theory,” Vicky said. “All I have to do is ask—while wearing my glasses.”

  “Just catch one in an elevator and put the question to him?” Chewie asked.

  “It won’t be that easy,” Chase said, wading in. “They’re attorneys who have been at this for decades. I’m sure they’ve developed thought discipline that normal people don’t possess, if for no other reason than to shield awkward thoughts from each other. Getting them to even think the truth may require something resembling an interrogation.”

  “Or finessing,” Vicky added. “In my counseling practice, I got people to reveal information all the time without their realizing it. But in any case, I agree we should plan for more than a casual encounter.”

  “Let’s assume for now that we’ll find a workable approach and confirm their guilt,” Skylar suggested. “What do we do then?”

  Chewie put his arm around Vicky. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  “Actually, I’ve been insisting that we be better than the goose,” Vicky said, surprising her fiancé before addressing the group. “Surely we can be more creative than club-wielding cavemen.”

  “You want to negotiate with them?” Chewie asked, his voice more pleading than argumentative. “With the four highest-paid attorneys in the country? With people who have a combined eighty years of experience outwitting other professionals in high-stakes public battles?”

  “I want to get creative,” Vicky said, slapping her thighs. “What are our options?”

  Everyone turned to Chase.

  “There are several,” he said with a solemn nod. “For starters, you can simply hide and hope to outlive them. You are twenty years younger than they. Alternatively, you could plead for your life, although I would hesitate to expect that group to be either honorable or merciful. You could negotiate, but I agree with Chewie’s assessment and would consider that ill advised. Blackmail is often an option, but that can’t involve the obvious because exposing their special skill is the one thing we must avoid. Other than ‘the caveman approach’ as Vicky put it, that’s all I’ve been able to come up with—so far,” he added in a tone that let Skylar know his mind was actively working the problem.

  “I agree,” Chewie said. “If it can’t be blackmail, it’s got to be bludgeons or bullets.”

  Vicky shot to her feet. “Come on, people! There must be other tactics we could use? Something creative. Something twenty-first-century.”

  Skylar watched her husband working the problem. Vicky had pushed his buttons, deftly making it a matter of pride. Everyone watched his mental struggle while silently sipping their morning coffee.

  At last, Chase began to think out loud. “Our goal is twofold. We want them to stop thwarting justice, and to leave Vicky alone. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Vicky replied.

  “The problem exists because they invented the same system you did. And whereas you both quickly realized that the discovery had to be kept secret, they went on to deploy it for evil means, whereas you used it for good. Correct?”

  Again, Vicky concurred.

  Chase raised both index fingers. “If they lost their ability to read minds, would they cease to be a threat? To you and to justice?”

  That was an interesting thought. Skylar wasn’t sure it would lead anywhere, but she felt a stab of pride nonetheless.

  “It would end the threat to justice,” Vicky said. “As for me, well, that’s less clear. I suppose I’d still be a threat to the world in their minds, but they’d no longer need to worry about me inadvertently exposing their professional treachery.”

  “What are you thinking?” Chewie asked.

  Chase leaned forward, excitement in his eyes. “Do you know what an EMP is? An electromagnetic pulse?”

  “A burst of energy powerful enough to fry electronic circuitry.”

  “That’s right. I’m wondering if that might be the solution we’re looking for.”

  Vicky shook her head before the echo died. “I do appreciate the lateral thinking, but even if we managed to sabotage both the glasses they’re wearing and all their spare pairs, I’m sure they’d just build new ones.”<
br />
  “No doubt,” Chase agreed. “But I’m not considering using an EMP to fry their equipment. I’m thinking about using one to blast their brains.”

  39

  The Hitch

  VICKY QUICKLY DISMISSED Chase’s fanciful idea of a mental EMP. A blast that would rob the RRS&S lawyers of their ability to read minds. “I truly appreciate your ingenuity, but the physiology doesn’t work that way.”

  This time, it was Chase who didn’t back down. “Not to be insensitive, but wasn’t that how you lost your hearing? The explosion overloaded the anatomy of your ears to the point where they could no longer perform an operation as sensitive as distinguishing variations in sound waves?”

  “Well, generally speaking, yes. But—” She paused there, remembering.

  “What is it?” Chewie asked, after a few seconds of silence.

  “The attorneys of RRS&S aren’t using brainwave-to-text software like I do. And they don’t appear to be using brainwave-to-voice software like I would be if I could hear. I checked every photo I found on high magnification and saw nothing in their ears.”

  “So, what are they doing?” Chase asked.

  “As far as I can tell, their mind reading system works like a bridge.” Again, she paused to process.

  “A bridge?” Skylar prompted. They were all entranced.

  Vicky nodded, as much to herself as to the others. “I briefly considered another approach early in my research. My system collects signals en route to conscious thought and then transforms them into speech, which it displays as speech-to-text. What they’re doing, I believe, is transporting that data directly into their own streams of consciousness.”

  “So there’s never a record of what they’re doing,” Chase said, sounding excited. “That helps explain how they’ve kept the secret for so long despite using it in court—where all eyes are on them.”

  “They’d have no record of thoughts they miss or forget,” Chewie said, wading in. “But that’s probably a wise tradeoff. Would that system be more difficult to invent than yours, or easier?”