Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  “You’re not replacing me yet, Estevana,” Jessa Eames growled. “I can still function, so I can still command. Now help me.”

  The doctor tried to gently push her back down onto the bed, murmuring something fast and low in Spanish to the nurse. She reached into the front pocket of her outfit and brought up a hypo-spray.

  Major Eames locked eyes with her. “Touch me with that thing, I’ll break your arm.”

  The younger woman couldn’t speak English, but the hard look and the tone stopped her in mid-stride. She cast imploring looks first at the doctor, then at the colonel.

  “I must insist,” the doctor started. “Your arm will start bleeding again. You cannot risk—”

  “I can’t risk blowing the mission over this. Bind up the arm tight and give me a handful of twenty milligram Percs. And antibiotics. I’ll be back when this is over. You can yell at me then.”

  The major stood up, clenching her jaw, deep breaths hissing through her nose. She wobbled, but kept a white-knuckle grip on the bed rail.

  “Please,” the doctor pleaded. “You must be tired.”

  “Losers quit when they’re tired. I’ll quit when I’m done. Now help me or get out of the way,” she snarled.

  The doctor looked to Colonel Estevana, who could only shrug, then spoke to the nurse in rapid Spanish. She nodded curtly and slipped out through the curtains as the doctor turned back to Major Eames.

  “She will get the medicine you want. If you check yourself out, I will not be responsible for any problems. You are doing this to yourself. Against my advice.”

  “I know, I know... it’s all my fault. I’m used to that.”

  ------------------

  Hester stood by the window listening to the rumble and grind of traffic, waiting for Jace Manner to return when the link in his ear beeped.

  “Hester.”

  “I’m never going to get anything done if you keep calling, sir.”

  “Have you located them yet?”

  “Yes, in fact. I’ve got eyes on the contractors now.” Hester checked the time. “I was going to brief you later tonight—”

  “Never mind that. There’ve been some new developments. No doubt you’ve heard about Major Eames.”

  “Yes, sir. Channels were frantic this morning; reports about a raid going spectacularly bad. They said a number of Special Deployment troopers were killed and an officer was badly wounded. The major did survive, correct?”

  “Yes, she did. That Jessa is a hard case. But that’s not why I’m calling. You need to intervene.”

  “Why, sir? The Spanish colonel is in the lead, and he’s pulled off almost twenty units to hunt for those three shooters. Whoever they are, they did everyone a favor and drew off a lot of heat.”

  “Just the opposite I’m afraid,” Mr. MacKinnon said.

  “I’m listening, sir.”

  -----------------

  Jessa Eames swallowed back the pain and focused on the Colonel’s face. “Report on the search?”

  “Major. Let me handle details like that. The medicine you’re on—”

  “God damn it, Estevana, I can still function. And as of right now, this isn’t finished. Now report.”

  He let out an aggravated sigh. “Major, I have half the force combing through thousands of leads looking for the boy, and now the other half is after the three shooters. I flashed a shot of them to the newsnets taken from a traffic cam, but it’s far away and grainy. Even enhanced, they look like anybody. Satellite coverage is still zero and the storm’s only getting worse.”

  “And the good news?”

  He fixed his gaze on the major. “Honestly? None of it’s good. There’re five million sprawlers in the northern district alone, over twenty million around Old Barcelona. Those three could be anywhere by now, even out of the country.”

  Major Eames shook her head. “No. They haven’t skipped town. I don’t know if they’re the scabs we’re after, or somebody else crashing the party, but they’re connected to the boy somehow. He’s still here, so they’re still here.”

  “Are you sure?” the colonel asked.

  “Nope. Just a feeling.” She looked up him. “What about the old guy from the mosque? The pistol-packing sea captain, where is he?”

  The colonel checked a data pad. “I dispatched two units to pick him up. They have orders to bring him and his family straight to our precinct for questioning.”

  “Perfect. I want to know the minute they get him. Now get my bars, a clean uniform and some armor. I want to be there when he arrives. I need to ask him some questions in person.”

  -------------

  Hester crossed the street and caught up with Jace Manner halfway down the block. Approaching him from behind, he stayed several paces back in the crowd until Jace reached the alleyway that ran alongside the building. Hester saw him slip into it and vanish from view without leaving a ripple in the flow of pedestrians. Well done, he thought. He settled his pack on his shoulders, took a microsecond to adjust his eyes, then followed him in.

  The narrow concrete cut was dark and cramped, sitting like a crevice at the bottom of two hulking buildings. There was scarcely room for one person to thread his way among the stacked debris and battered trashcans. The stench of mold and rotting garbage was thick, and the street noise was muzzled down to a low growl. Hester trailed silently behind, ignoring everything except the dark shape of the man before him.

  After a moment, Jace Manner slowed down and Hester caught the flick of Manner’s wrist, the dull glint of metal that slipped down into his palm.

  Ah well, so much for being coy, he thought, and drew the magnum from the small of his back. Jace was half-turned, the knife arm coming up and around when Hester stepped up and leveled the pistol at his head.

  “Don’t.”

  Jace stopped in mid-motion.

  “Good lad. Now drop it.”

  “Who the—?” Jace started to speak.

  “Drop. It.” Hester repeated. “Or this ends poorly right here.”

  The knife clattered to the pavement.

  “Excellent choice,” Hester said. “Who I am isn’t important. But you, you’re Jace Manner, and I believe you have something that belongs to my boss.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: OCCUPATIONAL HAZARD

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. Callejón del Apuro, “Trouble Alley”. 6:08 p.m. Day Five.

  The small wiry guy dipped his head toward the Garcías’ cellar door. “Tell them we’re coming in.”

  We both stood outside in the murk and filth of the alley, glaring at each other. Aside from his light Irish brogue, I noticed he remained professionally out of my reach, and neither his gaze nor a nasty-looking magnum wavered from my head.

  OK, this is bad.

  I tried stalling. “Why?” Not sure exactly what that could accomplish, maybe I did it for my ego’s sake. “You pointing that thing makes me think you’re not all that friendly.” I fought to keep my hands at my sides. “I’m not sure my friends would be happy to meet you.”

  He flashed a grin. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “Says the man with the gun.”

  “Look, mate, if this were a snuff, you’d have never even seen me. I hate drama. But here I am, in the flesh, because we need to chat, and there’s not much time. No joke. Now,” he nodded toward the steel door again, “quit hedging and let’s get a move on. And as we go in, I’ll thank you to leave the door wide open and keep four paces ahead.” He gave me a little half smile. “I want you on your best behavior too. These rounds are mercury tipped,” He inclined the pistol a degree and gestured me forward. “Hate to have to use one.”

  Bad to worse.

  I turned and knocked, and we went in.

  Tam, Alejo, Doc and Poet9 were still there where I’d left them. As we came down the steps, they were all laughing at something Poet said. The mood took a definite twist when we walked in though. I have to give credit to Alejo. He may have gotten older, but as soon as we ca
me into the light, he had a pistol up and ready so fast I’d have sworn he’d already been holding one.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Coming in my home like this?” One of his custom Walthers was leveled and rock steady. The only problem was I was in the way.

  “Says he’s here to talk.” I shrugged. “Al, you mind? People pointing guns gives me a rash.”

  Alejo didn’t move.

  “Talk?” Tam asked. “Who are you?”

  “I told your friend that’s not important. This is a professional courtesy, Mr. Song, so I’ll get straight to it… I need you and your crew to deliver the boy to APAC right now,” the small man said evenly.

  “Boy? What are you talking about? What boy?” Tam started edging his way along the table toward our gear.

  I heard the small man sigh. “The clone you nicked from E.C.I Toulouse. They call him ‘Gibson’. I want you to gear up, take him and get out of here.”

  “We don’t know anything about Toulouse,” Tam responded slowly. “Tell me who you are.”

  Behind me, the small man tutted impatiently. “Stop. Jig’s up, Mr. Song. You can keep yapping, asking questions I’m not going to answer, or you can shut up, take my advice and deliver your package. My appreciation for freelance talent only stretches so far.”

  “Leprechaun or not, I say he’s Asian Pacific,” Poet9 interjected.

  “Way to go, Poet.” I mumbled. “Real discreet.”

  Poet threw me an exasperated look. “What? He’s got a gun. He knows.”

  “Hey,” I called over my shoulder, “is it OK if I turn around?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  When I looked back, he was addressing Poet9. “Very sensible, but I’m not with Tokyo. Give it a think as you pack, and I bet you’ll figure it out,” the small man winked. “Besides, from what I’ve heard, some slant-eyed executive already red-dotted you. Sent a couple gunners your way, am I right?”

  “What did I tell you?” I said to Tam.

  “Why are you listening to him?” Tam asked me. “Why is anybody listening to him?”

  “Who are you working for then?” Poet9 asked.

  “More questions, more wasted time. Let’s just say I represent someone who wants the boy make it to Tokyo sooner rather than later. Your arrest would spoil the itinerary.”

  “Our arrest? You’re full of shit,” Tam said. “We’re clean.”

  “Not for long. G.C. is on their way.”

  “How could Guardia Civil know about this place? No one knows Gibson’s here,” Alejo scoffed.

  The small man shook his head. “Mr. García, the terrorist alerts had neighbors eyeballing your building for the last three days. I took care of them, but it’s you they want. It seems someone at G.C. has taken a keen interest in what you were doing at a certain mosque two nights ago. You’re to be brought in for questioning.” He checked an old-fashioned digital wristwatch. “I’d say you’ve got maybe twenty minutes before the vans show up.”

  Alejo still had his pistol up. “And you know this how?” he asked in deadly earnest.

  “Connections.” The small man tapped his ear. “I’ve got a shunt on their nets.”

  “You lie. They don’t have any traces to me,” Alejo said.

  “How about prints on a pistol? Apparently you were naughty and shot at someone.” The small man raised one eyebrow. “That good enough for you?”

  The old pirate thought for a second then muttered darkly under his breath. “That guard’s gun...” He lowered the Walther.

  “Hold on,” Tam said. “You stroll in here with that hand cannon, spouting all this. How do we know we can trust you?”

  “Trust is an occupational hazard in your line of work,” the stranger smiled. “But you’re still breathing, and that has to count for something. Besides, I’m telling you to leave. I want you to make your delivery. Now, between the lockdown and the search teams, APAC’s UpCity offices are out of the question. That leaves their Trade Legation at the Docks. Chop, chop. Time to be going.”

  Doc K spoke up from the corner. He’d been silent the whole time, and he addressed the small man slowly, his accent drawing out each word.

  “If I read between the lines here, Dawson-Hull knew about Tam’s mission and somehow wanted Gibson to be stolen.”

  The stranger turned to face him. “I don’t believe I know you,” he said. “You are?”

  “A doctor.”

  “You have a name?”

  “Yes. But it’s not important,” Doc said, and pressed him further. “So London actually wants Asian Pacific to have the boy… and you’re here to insure everything goes smooth. Why?”

  The smaller man made a slight bow to Ibram. “Wheels within wheels, I’m afraid. There are other men behind the curtains with their hands on the levers and knobs. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Does it bother you that you’re gambling with a child’s life here?” Doc asked pointedly.

  “Did you hear what I just said?” the stranger replied.

  “That boy’s dying. Whatever they did to him is killing him.”

  The small man gave Ibram an amused look. “These chaps nick a classified bio-unit from a secure research laboratory, and you’re lecturing me on morality?”

  “Gibson isn’t a ‘unit’. He’s a child. A boy.”

  “Wrong. Gibson is a biological platform for proprietary technology, engineered and produced exclusively for that purpose. The seventeenth in a series, no parents to speak of, he has no rights. He’s not a citizen; he’s corporate property, doctor. And the corporation can dispense with their property as they see fit.”

  “Gibson’s a human being. You can’t trade life like some commodity. What’s wrong with you?” Ibram fired back.

  The small man rolled his eyes. “See here, if we’re getting principles, the same thing goes on every day all over the planet. Sweat shops, child soldiers, sex slaves, drug mules, cubicle drones, on and on. You get my point. And those are real lives, doctor, not test tube ones. Millions of them. Your problem here is that you’ve got front row seats and you don’t like the view.”

  “What about God?” Alejo interjected. “You invade my home with a gun and this nonsense. The Bible sets out right and wrong—”

  “Ah, sorry…” the small man held up his hand. “No opiate of the masses for me. A lot less baggage if you’re a strict utilitarian. Beside,” he winked at Alejo, “a ‘gun and nonsense’ have got plenty of things done in the past. Speaking of which…” He squinted at his watch again. “I should stop with my sermon.”

  “Why did Dawson-Hull want Gibson kidnapped?” Doc demanded.

  “No more questions.” The man faced Tam. “You in, or out?”

  “I’m supposed to believe that APAC still wants the boy, even though they tried to off us?”

  “That’s the simple version, yes.”

  “We could be walking into a trap.”

  “But you’re not,” the small man said impatiently.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Tam said.

  “A deal?” The stranger flourished his pistol in a rapid figure eight and looked around the cellar. “Looks to me like your hand is played out, and you don’t have any chips left on the table.”

  “A deal,” Tam insisted. “If G.C. is really on their way, Al and his family need to disappear. We’ll take the boy, no fuss, but you have to get the doctor here and the Garcías to the outer arm of the North Dock. They have a friend who can get them out of the country.”

  “Do I look like a relief worker to you, Mr. Song?”

  “You look like one of those quiet types who could snap and become a serial killer,” Poet9 said.

  “Very funny, but I’m not in a position to—”

  “You’re in a position to barge in here and chat us up,” Tam cut him off. “You’re in a position to tap secure comms. Your bosses deployed you solo, so you’re not some noob spook. You’ve got weight, and I want you to use it.”

  “I’m only here to insure the asset get
s to Asian Pacific intact.”

  “And we’ll get him there. After all, we lifted him out of Euro Cybernetics. That has to count for something.” He gave the smaller man a thin smile. “This way everyone gets what they want, right? You shepherd Doc and the Garcías to safety, and Jace and I will bring Gibson right to APAC’s doorstep ourselves.”

  “We will?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he glared at me.

  The stranger’s head bobbed from side to side as he weighed Tam’s proposition. After a moment, he looked straight at Alejo. “We leave in five minutes. Meet me in the alley. Pack light, and here, take one of these.” He shrugged his backpack around to the front, unzipped it and held out a silver canister.

  “What is this?” Alejo asked.

  “A fogger. Set it upstairs in a main area. I’ll leave one down here for that big room. When you’re ready, hit the black button on the bottom. The black one. Not the red.”

  “What does it do?” Alejo asked.

  “After ninety seconds, it releases a bio-reactive aerosol,” the smaller man said. “Don’t be close when it sprays. You breathe it in, you’ll be sick for days. Once it’s dispersed, it stinks like hell, but it’ll muck up every DNA trace in your home in ten minutes.”

  Alejo eyed it. “Not explosive?”

  “No. It’s not a bomb.”

  “I didn’t know they made things like that.” Alejo frowned.

  “You’re not supposed to.”

  “And it works?” Alejo asked dubiously.

  “I use them,” he replied. “Remember. The black button.”

  Alejo plucked it from his hand and started upstairs, calling for his wife.

  “Against my better judgment, I’m making an exception for you, Mr. Song,” the stranger said. “You understand my obligation ends if you fail to meet your side of the agreement?”

  “We hold up our end. Always. Look, Mr… you have a name yet?” Tam asked.

  “Hester,” the small man said. “You can call me Hester.”

  “Well, Hester, seems we’ll have to trust each other here. You’ve got my friends—I’ve got your package. I intend on making that boat,” Tam replied.