by Alison Ryan
Panic set in, and I tried to quell it with self-talk.
“Calm the fuck down, Clara. Think.”
I jumped to my feet, grabbing my phone and a medical bag and diving across the bed. I was surprised, but no one had yet made entry into the guest house. I stepped up onto the desk and lifted the back window. I tossed my bag out and scrambled through, landing on the grass behind the house just as I heard someone enter the house just feet from where I’d been sleeping. The fence into the neighbors’ yard was designed for privacy; too tall to climb. Stealthily as I could, I opened the trapdoor just far enough to drop down onto the spiral staircase, and I gently let the door close above me.
I was practically hyperventilating, and I had to consciously slow my breathing and heart rate. I made my way toward the house and opened my unlocked my phone. I wasn’t sure who to contact. 9-1-1? Atlas? Odin? The decision was made for me. I’d contact no one. I had no service. Which made no sense, since I’d always had full bars anywhere on the property, even down below. But now, I had nothing.
I rifled through my medical bag and armed myself with what I had available; I filled a syringe with Ketalar, the brand name for a powerful sedative called ketamine. If I injected an unsuspecting person with that much Ketalar, all at once, they were going down.
I made it to the house, and silently climbed the staircase to the kitchen. The gears that moved the shelving in the pantry to reveal the portal were quiet enough that unless someone was standing within a few feet of the pantry, they wouldn’t hear a thing. My hope was that I could get into the kitchen unnoticed and somehow find Odin or Piper. Plan B was to reach the front door and get out into the yard, where I’d scream for help at the top of my lungs.
Syringe in hand, I poked my head out into the kitchen. The side door was closed and no one was immediately visible, but I heard a voice from the living room, just on the other side of the wall. To the left was a passageway that would make me visible to anyone on the stairs or in the living room or dining room. To the right was my best option. I’d have to pass by the door, but I could duck below the window. I’d hopefully get an unnoticed peek at the living room.
I crept to that corner, staying low, and I could hear Odin’s voice. It was filled with anger.
“I’m the stubbornest Titan of all, you miserable bastard.”
A man’s voice replied, “And you were supposed to be the brains of the family. I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you one more chance. Piper Kipton. Now.”
Were they really after Piper? And where was Lea? I had to act, and I recalled moments in the ER, when seconds counted. Times in the OR when mistakes had been made, inaccurate diagnoses putting lives at risk, how action mattered more than words and more than hand-wringing.
I leaned as far as I dared. Odin was sitting on the couch, his face puffy. A white-haired, barrel-chested man addressed him. Directly in front of me stood a guy dressed in the same uniform as the ones I’d seen fighting with Randall. He was bent at the waist, leaning forward on his knee, booted foot resting on a chair. A gun dangled from his right hand.
A step got me within range, and just as he turned toward me, I plunged the syringe into his neck, giving him the full, tranquilizing dose.
His eyes flew open wide and he took a stumbling step, ripping the needle from his neck. He held the syringe in his hand and looked down at it, as if a clue to what I’d injected him with remained. He studied it for a moment then pitched forward, out cold. Meanwhile, the white-haired man had turned away from Odin and Odin lunged at him.
Odin half-tackled the man, pulling him down, but as they rolled, the intruder quickly gained the upper hand. Odin’s muscles were just too atrophied to fight, even with a surge of adrenaline.
The man easily overpowered him and wound up behind Odin with an arm around his throat and the opposite hand behind his head.
“I can kill him. Right now. Snap his neck. Is that what you want?” he asked me.
I shook my head in defeat.
I looked down for the gun the man on the floor had held, but as luck would have it, he fell directly on top of it and it was trapped beneath his bulk. He had to be at least two hundred and fifty pounds. There was no way I could quickly reach the weapon, even if I knew what to do with it.
“He can just sleep a while, then,” the man said, squeezing until Odin slumped in his arms. “What did you give my man?”
“Unfortunately, only Ketalar. I didn’t have anything more potent,” I explained.
Two men joined us from the staircase, both holding handguns, one carrying an assault rifle. My gambit had failed.
“Oh, he’ll have a nice rest, then,” he said, rising to his feet and dusting off his clothing. “You must be Clara.”
I was terrified. How could he possibly…
“Who are you?” I asked.
“You probably know me as QB, if you know me at all, child,” he answered. He then addressed the two men who’d come from the stairs. “Take Odin to a bedroom upstairs. Bind him. Put Dom on the couch and secure his weapon. He’s going to be out for a while.” He then turned his attention back to me. “Clara, let’s go sit in the kitchen, avoid all this ugliness.”
I saw no option but to follow him. He indicated I should sit down at the table, which I did. He went into the refrigerator and returned with a bottle of orange juice. He filled a glass for himself and one for me. He sat down across from me, smiling.
“That’s about all the excitement I can handle for one day,” he said, sipping his juice. Someone walking in without knowing who we were might think I was having a glass of juice with my father.
“So what is this?” I asked, trying not to let my tone betray my fear. “Why me? Why Odin?”
“Oh, Dr. O’Grady,” QB mused. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into a world that was never intended for you to discover. Things happen each and every day, from dusty villages outside Karachi, to the Kremlin, to the Pentagon, to Timbuktu that shape the future of world governments, of the very planet itself, things to which you are not privy. Why, why, why, indeed.” He stood and paced as he spoke.
“Let me ask you a question, fair Clara, have you ever wondered what happens when a whale dies?”
I scrunched my face in puzzlement.
“I mean in the wild, of natural causes, not some beast hunted down by Innuits above the Arctic Circle. A gray whale, just swimming along in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean somewhere, minding his own business, sixty years old, and then his heart gives out. Do you know what happens next?”
“I guess he sinks?” I replied.
“Very good. Yes, he sinks. But there’s more to it than that. When that whale’s carcass hits the ocean floor, scavengers begin to show up. Before long, all the soft tissue is being consumed. Over one hundred pounds per day. But with the sheer size of a mature whale, that can take over a year. Sometimes as long as two years. After that, smaller animals show up to colonize the bones and feed on any organic matter left behind by the first wave of scavengers. After a few more years of that, the bones themselves begin to break down, and certain bacteria grow and feed. Those bacteria, in turn, become food for clams and mussels. That last part of decomposition can take sixty or seventy years. Some scientists theorize that from the time a whale dies to the time its’ resultant fall ceases to be part of the food chain could take over a century. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Sorry, marine biology was never my thing. Is there a point to this lesson?” I replied.
“Dear girl, there’s always a point to my lessons. The point being, a man like Emerson Titan, Atlas and Odin’s father, is a whale. Not necessarily in the Las Vegas definition of the word, a big player in the casinos, but in my example, literally a whale. The death of an empire like his can sustain a whole new economy. For decades, perhaps. Whales, and now we’re talking about the kind who swim in the ocean, are social animals. They travel in pods. Killer whales even work together to hunt. They’re very intelligent animals. Men like Emerson Titan have business int
erests intertwined with many other wealthy men whose names you’d recognize. Others you wouldn’t. A man like Richard Hunt, for example.
“Anyway, whales, like tycoons, are social and need others of their kind to flourish. So the removal of one, whether by natural causes or by harpoon, causes sadness in the group. They’re mourned when they die. Just as you and your paramour mourned Achilles Titan. And you’ll mourn Emerson. Other will mourn Richard Hunt. In fact, they already did. His death was faked not so long ago.
“It will become a reality soon.
“When these men, and all they’ve built, cease to be, opportunities are created; voids that must be filled.” QB stopped and drank more of his juice. How I wished I could get to my medical bag to mix a cocktail for him.
“So you’re some sort of humanitarian? A modern-day Robin Hood?” I asked, my blood boiling at how cavalierly this maniac was discussing murder-for-profit.
A wry smile crossed his thin lips. “Not exactly. The enrichment of others is merely a happy byproduct of my work. But I was just getting to the good part. If a whale’s fall can sustain its’ own biologically diverse ecosystem for over one hundred years, and the death of a mogul like Emerson Titan can facilitate the movement of tens or hundreds of billions of dollars, what do you think the similar death of a government could accomplish?
“When the Soviet Union collapsed, many, many new billionaires were minted. New millionaires were popping up like weeds. Imagine when the United States inevitably dissolves.”
The look of horror on my face must have been unmistakable.
“Think of the possibilities! A physical split into red and blue states? Texas or California becoming sovereign nations? Why, the mind boggles at the opportunities for economic plunder.”
“You’re a vile cockroach,” I hissed. “You’re describing a second Civil War with what almost sounds like glee.”
QB gave me a stern glare. “At the end of the day, some men are born to lead, others to follow, and others to profit off all of them. I make no apologies for my appetites. I’m a slave to them. And they require me to do… unsavory things.”
“Psychopath.”
He laughed at my intended insult. “I can never remember the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath. But I do know the difference between me and most men.”
My expression prompted him to finish his thought.
“Most men dream of that sports car they saw in a movie, or fantasize about living in the mansion on the hill. They see a beautiful woman and they wonder what it must be like to have her in their bed. And then they go back to their mundane lives, slowly dying of boredom. I, on the other hand, put no limits on myself. I own homes on four continents. Modern-day palaces. A fleet of not only cars, but yachts. And if a woman strokes my fancy, I simply have her. Yet my name appears on no Forbes lists, in no Wikipedia article about the wealthiest men in the world. I can walk down the streets of Sydney, Boston, Rio de Janeiro, Beijing, and no one gives me a second glance. I need travel with no bodyguards, although I am always secure.”
“Are you trying to impress me? Because all you’re doing is making me sick,” I hissed at him.
“That’s too bad. I had hoped my soliloquy might act as an aphrodisiac,” QB laughed. “Actually, it doesn’t much matter. What does matter is that certain people who have wronged me will make restitution.”
“What have you done with Piper and the baby?” I asked.
“Baby? Oh, that’s rich. It makes sense, it’s been just about long enough. See there, without me, that baby wouldn’t exist. I’ve created life, in a manner of speaking. They’re perfectly safe from me, although I confess they’ve found themselves a good hiding place. They’re simply incentive. As are you. For all my wealth and influence, I’m not omnipotent. I sometimes require pawns to do my bidding, and some of these pawns simply aren’t motivated by things like money and power. They need more of a push. There are persons of consequence beyond my reach. Annoyances, itches that I can’t scratch. Atlas Titan. Annalise Rubidoux. Nolan Weston. Harlan Phelps. Oleg Drenik. Raven Conway. Richard Hunt. Matthias Schneider.”
QB was rambling. He seemed to be losing his train of thought, staring out the window at the bright Las Vegas morning. I recognized some of the names; Atlas and Raven, of course, and I’d heard the name Richard Hunt mentioned by Atlas, prior to QB bringing him up. The other names I didn’t know; what I did know was that if QB considered them enemies, they were people I’d consider allies, if not friends.
“Odin was being obstinate. You seem like a more agreeable sort. Where would Piper take the baby to hide? I know she didn’t leave, my men would have seen her,” QB asked me.
“You expect me to help you? You must be kidding.”
One of QB’s goons joined us in the kitchen.
“You don’t have to. But if you don’t, then Odin dies. If that doesn’t convince you, then you die. If I still haven’t found her, I simply burn this house down and they’ll find her remains when they sift through the ashes. Oh, and those of…what did you say the baby’s name was?”
I was in a state of complete shock. I wished I’d injected myself with the Ketalar. I sat in stunned silence.
“No? Unfortunate. Take her upstairs. Kill Odin in front of her. Then bring her back to me,” QB instructed his man, who walked toward me.
“Please. Please don’t, you don’t have to do this,” I begged.
Just then, another of QB’s men came in through the side door, carrying a laptop. My laptop. He set it down on the table in front of QB, hit a few keys, and stood back. “Kipton. And a baby. It’s a live feed, although she shut the camera down a few minutes ago.”
QB studied the laptop, then turned it toward me. It was the streaming feed from Odin’s room, where I’d monitored him during his convalescence. He rewound it, and we watched Piper rush into the room and punch in a code to close the door behind her. I admired her grit. Even in private, and with her newborn in her arms, she displayed no panic. She tried her phone, but had as much success as I’d had. She set Lea down on Odin’s bed and moved about the room, searching for weapons or supplies. As if a light bulb clicked on above her head, she suddenly stopped and stared directly into one of the cameras. Within seconds, the feed was disabled.
“Did you deliver the baby, Clara?” QB asked me.
I nodded.
“It must be such an incredible experience, to hold brand new life in your hands. I envy you that, Dr. O’Grady,” he said.
“Yet you prefer to take life. That’s a paradox. Or a sign of you being bat shit crazy,” I replied.
“Dear girl, I take no pleasure in killing. You don’t understand me at all. I am a civilized person. If and when it becomes necessary to kill, I do not hesitate. But I don’t enjoy killing for killing’s sake.
“But in the interest of full disclosure, I do sometimes employ men like that. Ruthlessness and a thirst for blood sometimes trumps diplomacy. Your friends in Milan are going to meet some men like that, very soon.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that if QB were here, that meant he wasn’t in Milan. And if QB knew they were there, and Atlas didn’t know that he knew, then the danger he and his team were in was extreme.
QB excused himself and left the room for a few minutes. I was left under the supervision of two large men with guns. I sat quietly.
When he returned, QB sat down and smiled at me. “I made Odin the same offer I made you. Remember? Cooperate or I’d kill you, then I’d kill him, that one. Yes?”
I stared daggers through him.
“Ah, well, Odin must be very fond of you. When I mentioned harming you, he suddenly changed his tune. Let’s go pick out something to read, shall we?”
QB rose and walked over to the bookcase concealing the secret room. He rubbed his palms together, then stepped back and laughed. “Arthur, if you please.” One of his men approached the shelves, and QB recited the titles and in which order to remove and replace them. As the final piece was put in place, he stepped b
ehind me. “Piper Kipton is an unpredictable type. A wildcat. I’ll follow you into the room. Wallace, you make entry. Arthur, on my six.”
We formed a single file line and entered the secret room.
26
Atlas
Complete. Fucking. Disaster.
With every mission, I was trained to have a secondary location. Sometimes a third and fourth. With the Milan trip, we arranged for a small house in the Lombard countryside on the outskirts of Milan.
If you have the right connections, there’s a global network of people; fixers, cleaners, doctors, and others who can get you what you want, where and when you need it, regardless of local laws, customs, or availability. They’re motivated by money, and top shelf customer service means repeat business. It’s disadvantageous for them to double cross or jeopardize any clients.
Raven got us an apartment near the stadium, outfitted with weapons and state of the art surveillance equipment. The house in the country would serve multiple functions for us. If our apartment was compromised, we had a fall back. If we got separated during the hit on QB, it was our rendezvous point. If we needed somewhere to take QB or one of his henchmen, that was the place.
Now it just seemed like a place for me to bleed to death.
We arrived in Milan scattered on different flights, originating from different locales. Nathaniel was first, followed by Carlo and Raven together. I was last. We sent Carlo and Raven, both fluent in French, to meet Nathaniel’s Legionnaires in a public square across town to coordinate. No need for them to know where our base of operations was.
We spent a few days scouting our locations and gathering intel. Raven was able to filter out helicopter traffic around the stadium on satellite feeds and narrow down the possible locations of QB’s helipad, and we set about narrowing the list.
She was also able to identify a few more of the people from the video at the match. The woman with QB was named Shu Qi. She was a former model and daughter of a Chinese diplomat. Her uncle had ties to the North Korean government. This was getting better and better all the time.
