In the Shadow of Men

by Darren Swart

  Gillian crouched behind a tree and watched their back with a small pair of binoculars. It seemed like an eternity before she put them aside and stood. Wordlessly, she tugged at the foliage behind them, uncovering a worn Bronco behind the façade of camouflage. He stared with his mouth open at the truck. He said nothing but couldn’t help but think that this girl was really resourceful. He sat staring at the Bronco before she raised a single eyebrow at him. “Coming?”

  With both hands and the help of a fence post, he hauled himself off the ground. As he flopped into the passenger seat, he uttered the only intelligent question he could think of: “Are you with the police?”

  For the first time since he’d met her, she smiled showing two rows of perfect teeth. “No. But I promise you that I’ve been sent to protect you. We just have to make it through the next twenty-four hours. Do you understand?”

  Marty nodded, feeling a little better, though not much. In his mind, he pictured a frog jumping out of a pot of boiling water and into a fire. A little better would have to do.

  Chapter 6

  David Delgado was happy with his alter-ego of Digger. It allowed him a degree of anonymity for who he really was. However, Digger was as far removed from his image as an asteroid is from a quark. His frightening intellect intimidated a great many intelligent people. Though she didn’t understand him, his mother loved him without end. But even she wasn’t sure how to reason with him at times. He toyed with writing his doctoral thesis on a series of brown paper bags, but he realized that the committee at Southern Cal would have dismissed it as a prank rather than a political statement. In any event, it was taking them two years to understand what he had written, so he decided to take some time off.

  Perhaps it was by chance that he had met the strange little man known as Franz at one of his mother’s garden parties. The little round man was by no means physically impressive with his unkempt appearance and short, portly figure. Still the beautiful people gravitated around him like a rock star. That intrigued Digger who listened intently from a distance. The little man seemed to light up, as he described the excavation where he’d found ancient papyrus scrolls predating the fall of Rome. Digger stopped listening to the mundane twaddle around him when Franz described a series of complex paradoxical worlds that sounded like a prehistoric version of his thesis on layered quantum dimensions. Interestingly enough, his thesis had not been published yet. Digger watched politely, as the people around him smiled and nodded—even though they had no idea as to what the little man was saying.

  Digger had waited until the crowd dissipated before introducing himself. That had been two years ago and he had been working for the bizarre little man ever since. The odd jobs he assigned him were always interesting, albeit strange. Digger never regretted it, though it had drawn him away from home.

  Digger had always enjoyed his random encounters with Gillian. She was stoic and acidic at times, but genuine. If he said something that she didn’t understand, she minced no words in telling him so. He always knew where he stood with her. They felt no sexual tension, no pretense of something else. Their relationship was clear and to the point where there was no room for innuendo between them. Today, she would be bringing in Marty. That, in itself, was a relief on several fronts. He had watched the farm for days and reported activities directly to Franz. While he accepted the importance of the work, there were limits to how long he could live off of food paste and dodge poison ivy and chiggers. For future reference, he would not bring any more of the roast beef. He didn’t care what the boys at NASA said. It was not prime rib in a tube.

  He sat reading the National Examiner, waiting patiently for Gillian and Wood to arrive. He had watched her deftly rescue Wood and whisk him away from the farm. It was almost a thing of beauty to watch. He had remained quietly watching McPherson until they were out of sight. When it was apparent that McPherson was not following, he melted into the foliage, silently retracing his steps back to his bug.

  He smiled at the simple delight of the egg-like shape of the yellow Volkswagen; its chrome wheels glistening in the sun, a stubby whale tail on the back and flames spread across the side. He had driven it from California and would drive nothing else. He opened the trunk and used the towelettes to remove the camouflage paint from his face. As he slipped off the next generation Gilley suit/body armor with cool packs, he smiled. The gaggle of old widow women on his block would have been in a tizzy for weeks had they seen him in this getup. But then, it might have given old man McGillacutty a rest from their conniving gossip.

  Digger had anointed the old women as the Blue Hair Gang. Each one of the widows worked as deviously as any secret agent to ensnare McGillacutty into matrimony. They were as formidable as mercenaries and the old guy didn’t stand a chance.

  He swept the car for bugs or tracking chips, thinking that the whole thing had gone too smoothly. Satisfied the VW clear of devices, he spun it around and headed back to the main road. He senses tingled, as he worked his way from the wooded area. He assumed he would be followed, but just as he assumed he couldn’t see them.

  He swung into the Gas-N-Go a mile up the road. With a Moon Pie and RC Cola firmly in hand, he tapped the touch sensor button on the stereo system and watched as a small screen slid silently out of the slot and adjusted itself to measure Digger’s retina. As he munched on the moon pie, he opened his eyes wide. The system scanned him and logged in under his name. The screen lit up from hidden fiber optic connections in the back. The screen cast an amber glow on his face, as he scrolled through the information while it pinged a remote system. He tapped icons until he reached history tables on the array of sensors integrated into the body of the car. All green bars for the last twenty-four hours. In the event that someone had touched his car even slightly, the history would reveal exactly when and where anyone had placed a tracking device. If the car’s sensors detected explosives, it would not unlock itself to allow him to enter. No alerts or warnings crossed the screen, so he was confident that the vehicle had gone unmolested.

  He relaxed a little. He was still another ghost in the system. He pulled up his messaging screen and tapped out a quick message to Franz: G has secured Wood. The opposing team lost their star player. I will rendezvous with them at the Safe House. D

  Digger sipped the syrupy cola and nibbled on the marshmallow cookie the size of his hand. He calculated that Gillian would take the long way to the safe house to make sure that she wasn’t being followed. She didn’t have all the electronic gadgetry in her Bronco, so she relied on the old fashioned way of losing a tail; plentiful traffic, lots of distance and a dash of cut backs. How quaint. He would have to introduce her to the twenty first century someday.

  He retracted the computer screen and touched the audio button on the system. Selecting random would allow the system to compile the music in the order it wished. That suited Digger just fine. The B-52’s suddenly blasted the cabin of the little yellow machine. He eased the VW out of the Gas-N-Go and onto the main road, and headed back into town. He didn’t see the faded bronze minivan following him at a discreet distant. The Albanians were also good at surveillance. In fact, they were far better than most.

  ****

  McPherson sat on the cool dirt floor, amidst the vomit, clutter and dead bodies, collecting his thoughts. He needed to check in on the developments. He struggled against the fog that continued to threaten to engulf him. He breathed through the pain until the throbbing in his shoulder was under control.

  Fishing the cell phone from his right pocket with his left hand proved to be more of a challenge than one would expect. He winced as the fabric draggedacross the raw nerves from the gaping wound in his shoulder. Shock waves of pain coursed down his arm and into his useless hand.

  He cursed and continued to fish for the phone. Droplets of sweat rained into the dirt below him. Finally, two fingers wrapped around the tiny little phone and pulled it out. He sat back for a moment, exhausted. The waves of pain were now threatening to nauseate him. He was r
eaching his limit of endurance, but he could not afford to black out.

  He reached into his trouser pocket and fished out a small stainless steel tube. He gripped the red plastic cap between his teeth and pulled it free. He spit the cap into the dirt like a wad of chewing tobacco. Placing the flat side against his injured shoulder, he braced himself as he hit the actuator button on top. With a tiny click, an eighteen-gauge needle pushed through his blazer and shirt, delivering a strong dose of antibiotics, pain killers and coagulants into his bloodstream. The lab called it a smart drug. A brief wave of euphoria swept across him, as the pain killers moved through his system. He knew it wouldn’t last. Gradually, the giddiness wore off and for a moment, he felt almost normal.

  He flipped open the phone and touched the speed dial. A deep voice with a thick Albanian accent greeted him on the other end. “Da?”

  “This is McPherson. What’s our status?”

  “We are following the surfer dude. Bernard has the woman.”

  “What is Mr. Delgado doing at the moment?”

  “He has left the farmhouse. We are following.”

  McPherson took a deep breath and focused on the conversation. The drugs were beginning to kick in. “Follow him to his destination and advise me then.”

  “Da.”

  The call chirped off. As much as he hated to, he needed to call Bernard. The phone rang only once before Bernard picked up. “Oui?”

  “McPherson here. What is your status?”

  The Frenchman smirked on the other end of the line. “I have lost the American couple at the moment, but I am sure I will find them again.”

  McPherson’s eye twitched, involuntarily. His voice was tight, as he responded. “How do you intend to find them?”

  “I thought I might wait in the center of the town square. I am sure they will drive by and I will follow them.”

  The muscles in McPherson’s jaw tightened painfully as he gritted his teeth. He barked, “I don’t care if you have to go door-to-door. Find them!”

  “But of course, Mon ami.” The line went dead. The Frenchman smiled, as he watched the GPS tracking device he planted on the Bronco move. It would be a while before they showed up here at the safe house. He took his time getting ready for their arrival.

  McPherson took a deep breath to calm down. The Frenchman had undercut him on a contract in Algiers and he was not the forgiving type. He called his employer’s number. Within two rings, a familiar German tenor came on the line.

  “Mr. McPherson, how good of you to check in. Anything you wish to report?” His English was flawless, tinged with just a hint of an accent.

  Dick ran through a quick account of the morning’s events, careful not to exclude any details—including the gunshot wound. The duke listened quietly, as McPherson walked through the recap. There was a slight pause before he asked, “Was Wood injured?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Have you called in for medical assistance?”

  “No, Sir. Your call was more important.”

  “Thank you for your loyalty, Mr. McPherson. Who is following Wood?”

  “Mr. François is watching them.”

  “Were there any other members of their team involved?”

  “The young man from California. I believe his name is Delgado, Sir.”

  “And who is watching Mr. Delgado?”

  “Gem and Gur, Sir.”

  “Mr. McPherson, you know I don’t refer to my employees by their first names.”

  McPherson’s tone dropped a notch. “Yes Sir, I know, but I can’t pronounce their last name…” He sounded like a five year old being scolded.

  A patient sigh sounded from the other end of the line. “Once again, Mr. McPherson, it’s Bos-kov-ski. In any case, please make sure the medical team is dispatched immediately to attend to your wounds and contact me in three hours with a progress report. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, Sir. Three hours, it is.” He looked at his watch to verify the time.

  With a small chirp from the phone, the other end was silent. His eyes blurred slightly, as he scrolled the contact list. With the touch of a button, he called the Critical Response Team number. It amazed McPherson sometimes at the German-like precision the call center used to handle emergencies. The network of teams with skilled staff could respond anywhere in the mainland US and Puerto Rico within an hour of a call. A young cheerful voice greeted him on the other end. “National call center, how may I help you?”

  “Employee ID 973145 in need of medical assistance.”

  “Thank you, Sir. What is the nature of the injury?”

  “Gunshot wound, upper extremity, blood loss.” Dick sounded as though he were ordering a pizza. The thought occurred to him that he was on some great pain killers.

  “Thank you, Sir. Are you caring for the wounded party and do you have first aid training?”

  “Thank you, Dearie, for asking, but I am the wounded party. And yes, I’ve had some experience with this type of wound before. Thank you.”

  Unruffled, she responded, “My apologies, Sir. We’ll dispatch someone immediately. Do you have a transponder unit?”

  “I’m setting it now.” McPherson removed the phone from his ear and pressed a small yellow button below the keypad. It began to glow.

  “Thank you, Mr. McPherson. I have your signal and we will have a unit there in twenty-three minutes. Do you need any further assistance?”

  “Yes. We’ll need a cleaning crew at the same location.”

  “Thank you. For how many today, Sir?” Her cheerfulness annoyed him. He considered finding her and killing her just to wipe the smile from her cherry red lips.

  “Two.”

  “Very well, Sir. They will be arriving as a separate team in one hour. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “No. Thank you. That should be quite enough.”

  “Very good. Have a nice day, Sir.”

  “Yeah, you too, Lass.” He disconnected the call. While he appreciated the thoroughness and efficiency of the Call Center, it made him wonder just how many calls they handled like this each day.

  Chapter 7

  The duke’s smile filled the room, as he returned to the waiting entourage at the massive mahogany table. Staff busily shuttled drinks and treats to each guest invisible to the group. While all were of royal blood, his was the only one with any standing. As he entertained, he watched them carefully, considering which would be suitable for his empire. He could almost taste the greed in them. It would be a means to control them, ensuring his edict. His legal team would manage the flow, as he rarely inconvenienced himself with such details.

  Entranced the Countess of Luxemburg watched his every move. She watched as he passed a wisp of a smile in her direction. Almost involuntarily, she arched her back in the seat, opening her ample cleavage to him. In a slow circle, she coyly ringed a glass of red wine with her fingertip and brought it slowly to her mouth. With the tip of her tongue, she grazed the single drop of wine from the pale flesh of her skin, nearly closing her eyes in the process.

  The duke allowed himself the momentary distraction, watching as she eased her manicured nail past the lush full lips. His sensibility screamed in protest, as he tore from the vision to focus on the other guests. They would all be his subjects, shortly. He would have more than enough time to explore her uncharted regions then. For now, there was much to be done and he had no time for such distractions. She pouted at losing him and tossed back the glass of wine in a single gulp, making her luxurious auburn locks bounce in response.

  The Baron of Ardmore puffed his chest and turned his head up at the duke, looking down his nose as if he were pointing. As he spoke the tinny nasal intonation sounded like his voice would crack at any moment. “Duke, what is your opinion of the Americans purchasing titles of nobility?”

  It was a reasonable question based on his insecurity of position. The duke smiled at the Baron like a small child. “Baron, as you know, nobility for us is a birthright. Our a
ncestors fought as knights and ruled some of the bloodiest periods known to man. Politics usurped our rule under the misconception that people could rule themselves. So perhaps, there are those who feel that they are ready to return to the aristocracy. Perhaps they are disillusioned and are reaching out for what they feel is a better way? I fear, though, that it is nothing more than the mistaken belief that anything can be bought at a price. They purchase titles of nobility for the sake of novelty, with no true sense of the responsibility that it carries. So in the end, they are nothing more than scraps of paper with pretty blue ribbons. They are nothing more than spoiled children.” He paused thoughtfully, staring at the vaulted ceiling for a moment. “But, as with children, you can hardly blame them. They are ignorant and nothing more. We must look beyond that and just kill them all.” He took a slow sip of wine.

  The room was silent. A titter escaped from the Baron, followed by a laugh. Soon, the room had erupted into laughter. Some slapped the table in merriment, while several at the table politely applauded. When the laughing began to subside, a small impish grin crossed the duke’s lips. He moved to something lighter all the while wondering why they had thought he’d made a joke.

  When his guests were all safely on board the jet and traveling back to their vapid lives, the duke strode purposefully past his secretaries. Both acknowledged him, as he passed through to his office. The surface of the cherry desk was cluttered with maps, scrolls and ancient books. A few surfaces were left to see the rich wood grain beneath.

  He settled into the cushy leather chair and carefully unfurled an ancient scroll, covering the one open spot on the desk. He shuffled some papers to the side and tapped a tempered glass embedded in the desktop. With a quiet hum, a silvery monitor glided out of the desk and glowed as it powered up. A keyboard appeared on the glass under his fingertips. He began to key the characters into a powerful program that was part interpreter, part cryptographer. He feverishly followed the yellowed lines of characters in anticipation of what it would reveal. His jaw tightened, as a quiet chirp of a hidden phone broke the silence. The soft amber glow of a glass touch screen radiated from the desk. His lips drew thin, as he acknowledged the chirp. “Yes, Gretchen?”