by A. C. Mason
“Just because he didn’t plant the bombs doesn’t mean he didn’t take part in the preparation and funds to ensure someone else did.” He flipped up the laptop screen and tapped the keyboard.
“How’s Lee-lee?” Rowley’s voice came from the speaker. All these years later and he still called her that. It had bothered her husband, but she had never wanted him to stop.
“Not well. She hasn’t even begun to deal with her emotions. Don’t push her,” Peter responded.
“Pete, I want the best for her. Me. You should want that too.” Rowley’s tone lowered. “You know I’ll take good care of her. We both know she needs that.”
A huff. “But you can’t. The authorities are always breathing down your neck.” Anger peaked in Peter’s tone. “She deserves better than the crap we grew up in. If you love her, you should want that for her too.”
“I’m nothing like your self-righteous and two-faced father.” His tone held a hard edge. “I’m paying you to...what?”
“To keep you out of jail.”
“And?”
“Slip you the names of individuals with similar beliefs to yours. Not to arrange meetings or funding.” Peter’s voice sounded strained.
“Time restraints have come into play. I got to move up my plans so I can give Lee-lee a more stable environment, like you’re providing for Meg and the baby. I’d hate for something to happen to your sister or your family because we didn’t act. The house of cards needs to crumble.”
“Are you threatening me?” Peter huffed.
“Think of it more as giving you good advice for the safekeeping of those we both care about.”
“What do you want?”
The audio went silent. What on earth was Peter helping Rowley do? Names and funding. What kind of mess had her brother let himself get sucked into? They could only afford one fuck up in the family, and that was her.
“Need I say more?” The man across the table from her shrugged. “I can pick Peter up right now for aiding a terrorist, ship him to Guantanamo Bay and deny we have him.”
This was a lot to take in. Rowley wasn’t an activist? He founded the Coalition of the Living, protested against legislations that protected or was inclusive of the undead. Angry, vocal and militant maybe, but not a terrorist. For years, the feds had been trying to prove he also headed the Army of the Living, a group responsible for nearly all domestic terrorism. She’d always thought Peter handled his cases because he was an old friend and to uphold the First Amendment of the Constitution, Freedom of Speech.
Mr. Homeland Security hadn’t picked up Peter, so he had to believe she could do something the feds couldn’t. Not good for her. “What do you want from me? I won’t help you mount a case against my brother.” Despite the strained relationship between her and Peter since their father’s death, he was all the family she had left.
“You could give Peter a get-out-of-jail-free card for the rock-bottom price of your cooperation.”
“I don’t know anything about any of Rowley’s other affairs.” Hard to believe that Rowley lived a double life. Attacks aimed at undead killed the living too.
“Don’t worry...I’m going to put your best assets to good use. Accept McKie’s advances on you, let him have what he wants. It’s not rocket science. I’ll handle the rest. Occasionally I might need for you to show up unexpectedly. Nothing dangerous.”
“And who are you?” She’d never expected to serve her country on her back.
“Barton. That’s all you need to know. The less you are aware of, the better for you if found out.”
Found out? Given what she’d just learned, she had to consider that all the scary, brutal things written about Rowley in the newspapers were true. Not fabricated stories by the government trying to make him into a monster. As long as all the feds wanted was her on her back, she might survive this. She’d endured his twisted pat down. Maybe she could make it through this. She hadn’t fallen off the turnip truck and was sure, soon enough, the feds would want more and she’d be dead if uncovered.
“See the undead behind you?” He pointed beyond her shoulder.
The bald man with the blue-hued skin in the photo had nobility in his features. “Yes.” What did he have to do with all this?
“That’s Vaihan Louchian, Special Advisor to the President Undead Relations. An Ancient zombie. He moonlights as a CIA agent. We suspect they are planning to take down Peter. McKie is nothing without funding and support or your brother to keep him out of jail. You are going to be Vaihan’s way in, a vulnerable young widow ripe for the seducing by a charismatic and affluent Ancient. And you’ll fall for his pursuit. Call Meg and accept the invitation to the performance of Jean-Baptiste Lully’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Louchian’s a boxholder at the Kennedy Center. Simple.”
Her country wanted her to take it up the ass with sand thrown on. She preferred lube. Some type of federal bureau pissing contest was underway and she was caught in the middle. Funding. It was always about money. Since Check Point Defense, CPD, was formed to patrol the streets of the country to keep its citizen safe, the CIA and Homeland Security had to fight to keep their operations financed.
“If Rowley finds out I’m seeing an undead, he won’t have anything to do with me.”
“McKie may become angry at first but he will also pursue you harder. Losing you to one of them won’t be an option he’d consider feasible.”
The man never had tried harder than when she was married. “I’m not a fan of Ancients.” She was happy to live and let unlive, but that didn’t mean she wanted to mix.
“You don’t need to be.” He chuckled. “I’m not your type either, but your body enjoyed our encounter. It’s why you’re perfect for the job. Emotionally frigid and physically torrid. You’d have made a great agent.”
The man wished she had enjoyed it. She had shut down to get through it and it would seem he hadn’t even noticed. Her father would be proud that she was finally putting her smarts to good use. Who knew the feds were such pimps? “I might not have a grip on my emotions, but I do have morals.”
“And do those include your brother wasting away at Guantanamo Bay? We are less concerned with your morals than we are with the safety of the president.”
This was way over her head. How was the president’s safety involved? He’d made no mention of this before. Guess she was on a need to know basis.
“I’ll pick up Peter if you can’t see past your own self-righteousness.”
Asshole. “I’ll help you.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to overstep your morals, Ms. Waltz.”
“I’ll do it.” For Peter, she’d do anything. “What if I can’t pull this off? I have no training and no clue what I’m doing. I’m a chef, not some government agent.”
“Technically, now you’re both. From the footage I viewed, you’re a pro in the sack–can’t think of much else female agents do. For Peter’s sake, you’ll find a way to pull this off.” He reclined and set his feet on the table. “I trust you can find your way back to your car? It’s a block back.”
“Yes.” She didn’t give a damn how cold it was. The last thing she wanted was another ride with him. She slipped on her shoes. “How will I contact you?”
“I’ll be in touch as needed.” He jerked his head to the side, gesturing to the exit.
That was cause for concern.
How was she to date this Ancient she knew was trying to ruin her brother? She tied her jacket.
“Oh, and use protection. Wouldn’t want you to catch anything or get hooked.”
What a mess she was in.
Chapter 3
The white business card lay flush on Rowley McKie’s desk, facing him, next to the closed folder.
Dr. Barton DeGruis, PhD
Homeland Security
Federal Coordinator of Civil Defense
Devin shifted in his seat behind the Fed, hand under his suit jacket on his gun. Agents were a hassle to dispose of.
“It’s a
perfect setup.” Mr. DeGruis wrapped his hands around the arms of his chair.
Aside from the fact that Rowley didn’t trust any Fed, he was especially wary of one waltzing into his office offering him a golden egg. He didn’t like people who insisted on having academic notations accompanying their name. Weren’t feds born with a PhD in politician ass kissing?
“If I’ve got your plan correct, Mr. DeGruis, you’re going help us assassinate the president. But who says I want to kill the president?”
“I do. You’re running out of time. Ten years of political maneuvering is coming to an end and the first Bill of Undead Rights will pass. The tentative date is February fourteenth on the thirtieth anniversary of the American government opening the doors to the undead, so to speak, which is only four months and change from now.”
“Back to the details of this plan of yours, which is to make it look like Vaihan Louchian is framing the leader of the Army of the Living. Meaning me, as everyone has the misguided notion it is moi. All the while, we have it go down for the actual deed.” Rowley got the advantage the feds saw in having numerous scapegoats to pin the crime on, but that still didn’t make sense. “My question is why?” Since he would know the truth about what actually happened.
“To put it bluntly, the current administration is failing the living citizens of this great nation and sheltering the undead minority. Other than The Unabomber, who else has been able to evade the authorities this long? I have it on good authority that the CIA is planning a takedown of your outfit. If we don’t put something in motion now, frankly, there will be no one with the resources to pull this off. Homeland Security doesn’t believe it’s in the best interest of this country to give the undead the same rights and privileges that the living enjoy. I can’t imagine an undead president. Who’s to say they won’t decide that cloned humans isn’t good enough? I don’t want to be sent off to the slaughter.” Mr. DeGruis leaned back in the seat. “They could overturn the law that doesn’t permit them to create more of their kind. It’s hard to know what their motives are. Nor do we feel we should take the risk and find out.”
Green eyes razor sharp, Devin watched Mr. DeGruis. A closed folder on his desk contained the details of the plan. There were three possible venues for the hit to go down. One he and his man were considering as well.
If Mr. DeGruis couldn’t pull off “the frame,” the Military of the Living wouldn’t be their scapegoat to fall back on. When the current president was killed, zombies would be blamed. The vice president would assume command and round up all the undead.
“How does the CIA plan on taking us down?” Rowley placed his hands on the cherry wood desk, palms up.
“If I tell you how the CIA plans to pick the Army of the Living apart, what reason will you have to help me?” Mr. DeGruis tilted his shiny bald head.
He did have a point. The Army of the Living already planned on killing the president, but if they could then use Homeland Security to instill fear in Americans about the government involvement in the conspiracy, all the better. The country might clean sweep high levels of the civil service at the same time. Just because Vice President Jose Torrez’s beliefs prevented him from fully embracing the undead didn’t mean political maneuvering wouldn’t when push came to shove. Politicians were all the same, looking out for the next election.
“The information would be a gesture of good faith.” Something feds knew little about. “You’ve come to me, not the other way around.”
“Have a new up-and-comer within the ranks of your men?” The man’s lips parted, and his gold-capped tooth shone.
Ah, he saw where he was going with this. A fucking snitch in their midst.
“A man with just the right mix of personal tragedy related to zombies with a record of hate crimes against the undead.”
Rowley nodded to his right hand man Devin. “Bring the rat bastard to the back room.” Neil. He was the snitch.
Devin’s lips turned up on one side, his green gaze gleamed with agreement.
If he didn’t need to test Barton’s commitment level to seeing this through, Rowley would shoot the mole himself.
Devin vanished down the hall.
Anger worked a storm of fury inside Rowley’s chest. “Do you know how we deal with infiltrators, Mr. DeGruis?”
“I doubt you house them in a jail and feed them three square meals a day like the current administration does for the undead criminals.”
Nor did the Army of the Living give a snitch an easy death. “It doesn’t bother you that a young man’s life is going to end? A man who’s been led down this path by loyalty to God and country?”
Mr. DeGruis shrugged. “Many more will die if we don’t clean up the nation’s infestation of undead.”
“Let’s just say, I may agree to help you but before I decide, I want to know how far you are willing to take this.”
“To the end.”
Typical. Always focused on the end result and forgetting the steps in between. “And what of the beginning. How are you going to prove to me I can trust you?”
“I told you about the informant, didn’t I?” A blank gaze met his.
Did Mr. DeGruis think him too stupid to figure out he needed the mole dead? The rat would report that he saw the agent there. “You did, but the truth is I already suspected the weasel. So here is how we are going to play this. You’re going to take him out, here, in front of me and Devin.” Rowley rose, hand on the holster of his nine millimeter. “If you do that, we have a deal. Don’t, and we never had this conversation. You go on your way.”
Barton stood level with him, six-two in a dark suit.
“I’m not much for talk. I’m a man who respects persons of action and of their word. We need to know everything he’s told them, so don’t get too trigger-happy. We start with the fun stuff, torture.”
Rowley led Mr. DeGruis down the hall to the rear room, where Devin sat smoking with Neil. Meat hooks hung on rows of tracks. The converted meat-packing warehouse made for a great locale. Decades later and the building still reeked, which masked scents.
The young man darted his gaze to him. “What’s this about?”
Rowley pulled out his gun and slammed the butt against Neil’s cheekbone. Blood ran from an open gash on the side of his face. “You’re worse than they could ever be. Betraying your own kind. You think you could get the goods on me?”
“What are you talking about? I would never.” He backed away, stumbling.
“Is this the snitch?” Snot-nosed, arrogant little prick thought he could take him and his men down.
Mr. DeGruis stood next to him. “He is the one.”
Devin grabbed the struggling man, shoved him to the ground and tackled him.
“Mr. DeGruis, help the man string him up.” The little bastard didn’t have a chance.
Devin held Neil down with a knee to his shoulder and neck. Neil thrashed beneath him, spit flying from his mouth as he screamed, “McKie, I would never betray you!”
Devin picked up a hook and skewered Neil’s back with the metal tip. A screech rose from the man on the floor. Barton impaled him on the spike point, scraping against the bone. The yell was one of agony. The two men lifted Neil, latching him to a track, feet dangling. Blood ran, pooling on the floor.
“Please begin, Mr. DeGruis.” Rowley sat back in a chair pushed up next to the wall by the door. A chill wafted through the dim room.
Devin rolled in a table adorned with crude instruments next to him. Mr. DeGruis’s dark gaze traveled over the assortment of bloody tools. Was he losing the courage of his convictions? If he waited too long, Neil would bleed out. Maybe that was exactly what he intended. He reached with his long fingers for wire cutters. Good choice. For his betrayal, his death should be painful.
Gunari, an undead, stepped into the room and extended its teacup beneath the stream of blood. “I thought I smelled fresh eats.” It inhaled.
Mr. DeGruis clamped the wire cutters over a finger. “I’m going to go one at a tim
e until you tell me everything.” Bone crunched beneath metal. Red fluid trailed in a stream off the dangling flesh. He tugged off the bit.
“Don’t waste.” Gunari tsked, saucer extended. Mr. DeGruis placed the removed pinky finger on the dish. “Make sure to put the leftovers on the table.” It picked up the removed finger and popped the morsel into its mouth. “The sweet yet disappointing taste of naivete.” Drops of red stained the pale white flesh with a hint of blue.
In the purest form of their depravity, Gunari wore but one face, that of a predator. It lifted the rim of the cup to its lips, tipped up the bottom. Lust pooled in its eyes. This was the true face of their kind. It didn’t want a place in society. No, it wanted dark alleys and live flesh. Exactly the reason Rowley elicited its help.
“It helps to ask questions.” Rowley enjoyed the horror. It always conjured the only memory he had of his mother. A pool of blood. Her contorted face. Vacant eyes. The creature had launched at her. It had white eyes with tiny dots, and had latched onto her neck. A gasp had escaped her lips and her body had slumped to the floor. Other than that day, he had no recollection of the woman who’d been raped and devoured before him. Left on a soiled floor with a partially consumed corpse, he had cried himself to sleep lying against her.
“Your coffee, sir.” Ming, his assistant, set a white cup and saucer on the side table next to him. The smell of the light roast beckoned him. Bittersweet heat washed over his tongue as he sipped. Leera. Another visit was in order, but first, a shower. He wouldn’t bring this filth into her home.
* * * *
Rowley knocked on the bright red door of the brick bungalow. Through the sheer curtains of the bay window, light bathed the lawn. A figure sauntered over. His heartbeat accelerated. Her effect on him was as strong as ever.
The door opened and Leera stood there in a thin satin peach gown, which accented her warm rum skin tone. Was she headed out on a date? He exhaled deeply.
“Rowley.” She smiled and gestured. “Come in.”
His name rolled off her tongue like an invitation. “I was just in the neighborhood. Hope I’m not interrupting you?” Between work and staying locked up at home, she didn’t have much contact with others since her husband’s death.
