by Tom Stern
He pulled open the cabinet. Grabbed two CD-Rs. Went back to his computer as quickly as he could without drawing Cuchulain’s invisible attention. Stuck a blank CD-R into the tray. It auto-ran. One second. Whirring to itself. Three seconds. Kelley was getting away with it. If Han kept his meeting going for another minute, Kelley would have a copy and no one would be the wiser.
The screen went black. Kelley gnashed his teeth together to keep from screaming. Leaned over the computer, bouncing the mouse. Was it just the screen saver?
No. The computer itself went dark. It whirred to a stop. The little green power light turned red. The whole set-up abruptly died for no apparent reason.
Cuchulain’s voice emanated from the everywhere-and-nowhere speakers: “What do you think you’re doing, Mister Kelley?”
Busted.
Kelley didn’t answer.
The conference room door opened. Han and Anastasia and all of the rest of them slowly filed out. Anastasia sliced him with stiletto eyes. Was there a hint of fear there, as well? Kelley thought so. Han smiled, the smug bastard. Kelley could tell he was ecstatic.
“I asked you a question.”
“Ask me to my fucking face, you sonofabitch!” Kelley shouted to the ceiling. “I’m not one of your goddamn sheep! No wonder King Pirate’s running circles around IPC. A handful of scared office workers, whimpering like whipped dogs at the sound of their master’s voice. Pathetic.”
Han lost his smile. “I would have thought you’d change your view of this organization after the raid.”
“Going to the military for hand-outs, and slinking in behind to make arrests and take the credit? Please.” Kelley glared at the little crowd gathered. “You couldn’t buy a beer without tripping over your own dicks. One raid, and suddenly you’re the terror of the high seas?
“I came to you people for help. You said I’d get it. And now I’m hearing this bullshit about clearances. I’m not here to put files in a drawer. I’m going to put a bullet in King Pirate’s heart.”
The elevator dinged. Min and his sandalwood cologne got off, followed by another half-dozen guards.
Kelley nodded at the approaching security. “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”
“Your insubordination has left us no other choice, Mister Kelley. Leave the disc on the desk. And get the hell out of the building. You have three minutes.”
“What happens in three minutes? You come outta your little hidey-hole and do something?” Kelley snarled. He stared down the guards. Min held his eyes. The message was implicit; they didn’t want to fight. But they wouldn’t back down. Kelley would probably lose. “Nah, in three minutes you’ll throw a bunch of guys who have nothin’ to do with this at me. You think King Pirate’s this much of a pussy? This’s why you guys will always lose.”
“Mister Kelley, you’ve lost your three minutes. Get the hell out. Now.”
He searched the faces of the other agents. Asano wasn’t happy. But he was a man born to do his duty and follow orders. He spotted Sanjay, quietly glowing to be rid of Kelley. The rest looked away.
Kelley didn’t bother appealing to Anastasia. He’d been getting her shitty attitude all morning. He wouldn’t give her an opening to kick him when he was down.
Kelley slapped his IPC ID on the desk. Dropped the raid video next to it. Turned to Min and the guards. They tensed. Expecting trouble. Kelley didn’t give them any. He thought, What’s the point?
He walked to the elevator and left.
…
Kelley strolled through the swarms of people crowding the Central Market.
Built by the occupying British in 1888 as a “wet” market, the massive building had been renovated again and again over the years. It eventually fell to shambles. The KL government was planning to demolish the Market, until it was recognized as a part of the city’s heritage and dubbed an historical landmark. KL dropped the coin to bring it up to par, and now the Central Market was one of the biggest attractions in the city.
It was essentially just a huge commercial space. One hundred and twenty kiosks filled the Central Market. Kelley liked the Central Market because it seemed like a perfect mash-up of old and new. A teenaged DVD vendor hawked blockbuster titles next to an elderly woman selling traditional Malaysian silks. Electronics and shoes and gold and chopsticks and chickens and hip-hop CDs and t-shirts and picture frames and art and jeans and glasses and rice and anything else one person could sell to another. The kiosk rental fees were cheap enough that almost anybody with something to sell could find a place at the Central Market. But, like the internet, it wasn’t a matter of getting involved; it was all about being heard over the crowd. The Central Market wasn’t just a bazaar, it was a prime tourist attraction. Over 1.5 million people visited the Central Market every year.
Kelley wondered if all of them were in the building right at that moment. It was like swimming upstream through bumper cars. It was a menace to claustrophobes and agoraphobes alike. The Market was impossibly hot and wet, like a swamp. And loud. Kelley could barely hear himself think. Every vendor screamed at the same time. The collective talking of so many people in one place melded into a dull, constant roar. Like a forest fire.
Kelley fought his way through the masses. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket; he couldn’t actually hear the ring. Kelley left it alone. This was no place to try having a conversation. And he needed to get what he came for.
Kelley a big man, and a Caucasian, drew attention. He got through the crowd faster than most others would. Even so, it was a struggle. He was coated in a sheen of sweat. His clothes tightened.
After what seemed like an endless effort, Kelley finally arrived at the kiosk in the far northern corner. It belonged to a knife seller named Bingham Singe. Kelley owned several fighting knives. He tried to keep one close at all times. He’d bought them all from Bingham Singe, at Brody’s referral. Bingham sold every kind of knife that was worth owning. Among other things.
Bingham saw Kelley making his way through the crowd. Smiled. Started pushing himself up from his little stool. Kelley waved him down. Didn’t want Bingham exerting on his account. Bingham wasn’t getting any younger. Thin and weathered. He was an old-time guy, deep in the losing battle with his body. Yet, Kelley could tell there was a wiry strength in Bingham that could come when summoned. When his body allowed, Bingham moved with a quick, sharp grace. Kelley had no doubt that Bingham was deadly with his own wares, if it came down.
Bingham greeted Kelley with a salaam. “How are you, my friend?” he asked in his passable Malay. Kelley’s was only okay. The past several weeks in KL had helped to improve his Malay, but Kelley still had a ways to go. Bingham didn’t know any English. Kelley didn’t know any Hindi.
They briefly caught up as best they could. Kelley got to the point. “I need to buy something.”
Bingham gestured to his knives. Kelley looked them over. Picked one up. Pretended to examine it with interest as he said, “I need something you don’t keep here.”
Bingham nodded, knew where Kelley was going. “What would you like?”
Kelley picked up another blade knife. Running his thumb down the blade’s edge. “Nine.” Meaning: a nine millimeter semi-automatic handgun.
“Two days.”
“That long?”
Bingham held out his hands. It is what it is.
“How much?”
“Thirty-two.” Meaning: 3200RM. About $800 worth of U.S. currency.
It was almost everything Kelley had left. He accepted the deal without a second thought. Kelley cut his thumb with the knife he held. Bingham grinned. A blood oath that Kelley would buy the gun on delivery.
“Two days.”
He swam back into the Central Market crowd. In two days he would have a gun. And then he’d really get to work.
…
Kelley stood at a bus stop. He stared at the cell phone’s LCD. The early call was from Cuchulain. Kelley debated erasing it, unheard. Decided to give into curiosity and listen to
what the asshole had to say.
Ten seconds into the message, Kelley smiled to himself. Well, well.
…
Darkness fell on Kuala Lumpur. Neon ignited. Clubs opened. The night creatures came out.
Kelley made his way up the street. Checking building numbers. Expensive condominiums. He was in Bangsar, in the Lembah Pantai district. The Telekom Malaysia Building stood in the background, the skyscraper a dark knife on the horizon, black but for the lights limning its silhouette. This slice of the neighborhood was recently gentrified. An upper-class enclave carved out of a poor section of the city. Two blocks either way put Kelley back in his element. The street was relatively quiet. It was off the main drags. Residential.
Kelley checked his watch. Five minutes to seven. He wanted to ring the bell at seven on the dot. Another few blocks would get him where he was going.
He heard the insectile whine of an approaching motorcycle. A rare thing in this kind of neighborhood. Kelley glanced over his shoulder.
Two guys on a motorcycle swerved around the corner. Both wore canvas jackets and black motorcycle helmets. The driver jumped the bike up onto the sidewalk and came straight at Kelley. The passenger whipped out an extendable fighting baton.
Kelley dove behind a bush just as the motorcycle screamed past. The baton whooshed at him and slashed through the bush’s branches.
The driver immediately spun the bike around, burning a rubber crescent in the sidewalk.
Kelley slid his fighting knife from the sheath under his boot. The motorcycle kicked in the speed. They came at him. Aiming to either run him down or smash his skull.
Kelley crouched, ready. Timing, timing, timing. In the moment before they hit him, Kelley ducked. He jammed the knife in the front wheel’s spokes. It instantly froze. The bike flipped, sending the riders flying. The motorcycle tumbled down the street. Throwing up sparks. It was beautiful and terrible.
The thugs landed with painful thuds. Stunned. Kelley charged them, ready to pull their heads off with his bare hands.
Before he could reach them, a second motorcycle veered around the opposite corner. Two more riders. Instead of a baton, this team’s passenger had a pistol with a suppressor.
Kelley vaulted behind a decorative wall. Heard the whap-whap-whap of bullets striking the weak stone inches away from his head.
Without a gun of his own, Kelley had no game to answer with. Keeping his head low, Kelley cut through the lawn surrounding the condominium. Heard the motorcycle turn, coming for him.
Kelley sent himself over a chain link fence. Vanished around the corner of the building. More bullets tracked after him.
Heart slamming. Head singing with adrenaline. Kelley ran down the adjoining alley. Putting obstacles between him and his would-be assassins. Heard the motorcycle circling the block. The rider found a way into the alley. He gunned the engine. Searching for Kelley.
Kelley realized this was a perfect opportunity he couldn’t pass up. His eyes landed on a maintenance shed. Next to it, a pile of lumber.
He yelled, “Hey!” The killers on the motorcycle immediately angled for him. Kelley ran. Grabbed a two-by-four as he passed the shed. Heard another thap of a bullet against the shed’s wall where his head had been a moment before. Club in hand, Kelley made tracks. Heading for the cross street alley. Made sure the killers could see which way he went.
The thugs maneuvered among the alleys to find and kill him. Motorcycle engine loud, echoing among the tight walls. Kelley kept just far enough ahead to lead them farther into the labyrinth.
Kelley saw the intersection he’d use. He ducked around the corner. Club raised. Crouched low, ready to spring the moment they appeared around the corner. The motorcycle driver revved after him. His partner reloaded the pistol. Kelley savagely grinned. In ten seconds he’d have a free gun, and the opportunity to beat some information out of these assholes.
The distinctive warble of a KL police siren wailed in the distance. Coming closer. The killers paused, uncertain. The cavalry was on its way. Kelley swore under his breath. Too goddamn soon! The killers were just far enough away. Kelley couldn’t get to them before they shot him down. He needed them to come to him. Just a couple dozen yards. Agonizingly close.
The killers quickly conferred. Words drowned by the idling put-put-put of the motorcycle’s engine. The driver nodded. He spun the motorcycle around. They drove away. Disappearing into the shadows at the end of the alley.
Kelley wandered out from his hiding place. Whipped the two-by-four against the wall. Furious. So fucking close. Were the killers sent from King Pirate? One of his lieutenants? Or someone else he didn’t know about yet? Kelley was back to square one.
Or perhaps not. Everything is of value, even if it’s not at first apparent. It was becoming increasingly obvious he couldn’t take down King Pirate by himself. And his plan to work with IPC came to shit. The only option was to get inventive. Which was why, against his better judgment, Kelley was going to make his appointment.
With a price on his head and the police on their way, Kelley sauntered away from the scene.
…
Cuchulain opened the apartment door at the first knock.
Kelley stared up at the giant Irishman. He was big as life, red hair the color of whisky-drunk anger and a mesomorph body easily topping out at six-foot-four. Nearly three hundred pounds of sausage fat and slab-hoss muscle. Kelley guessed him at fifty years old. But it was hard to tell; the drink put on years worth of mileage. Cuchulain’s bulging face and neck were almost as crimson as his hair. His nose was red and crooked. It looked like Cuchulain had torn the nose off someone else and clumsily mashed it onto his own face. Deep crow’s feet pulled like nets at pale blue eyes. His face was lined like a topographical map of Ireland. In terms of genetic ancestry, Kelley and Cuchulain could easily have come from the same tribe of bloodthirsty Celts howling down on the Roman legions a thousand years before. The difference was in tempering. Ryan Kelley worked with his hands and body. He was forged in the fires of his will. Cuchulain was all add, no subtract. Body building, genes, food and drink had made him a hulking figure of excess in a nation of small, lean people.
The fighter in Kelley quietly evaluated himself against every man he met. No doubt Cuchulain could crush his throat like a paper bag. But he also didn’t doubt Cuchulain would have a hard time catching Kelley in the ring. He was big and ponderous, a force of nature. Kelley wondered if his mind worked the same way as his body.
He didn’t have to wonder long. “Ryan Kelley!” Cuchulain shouted. Kelley allowed himself to get dragged into the condo. His brain hummed with curiosity about this strange man who ran an agency from behind lenses and microphones.
It was only then he realized Cuchulain held a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum tight against the side of his body. Kelley’s eyes locked on it. Cuchulain shrugged. “Oh, this.” There was a desk near the front door. He stuck the gun in the top drawer.
As soon as the pistol was out of sight, Kelley glanced around at the apartment. It was worn and bare. It looked like the kind of place that was advertised as “furnished,” but with the bare minimum of cheap crap to make due on the promise. The low end of normal in every way. Except for one detail. There was a coffin in the corner.
“Nice place.”
“It’s not mine,” Cuchulain said, coming out Iss nae mehn through his baritone grumble. “I’ll not trust you with my home this early in the game.”
Kelley nodded at the coffin. “What the fuck’s that? Subletting from vampires?”
“Oh, aye,” Cuchulain nodded. “That’s mine. I sleep here, betimes. When it suits me.”
“You sleep in a coffin.” Flat statement.
“Nothin’ more comfortable in this world, lad. Don’t look at me like that. Ain’t as if you won’t be sleepin’ in a coffin one day, yourself.”
Kelley turned away from the coffin when he realized he didn’t care. We all have our quirks, he thought. And this Cuchulain guy was the king of quirk. “W
hen my time comes, it’ll be a burial at sea.”
“Returning to the essential element, eh?”
“That’s right,” Kelley said. “What the hell do you want?”
“Have a seat, lad.”
“No.”
Cuchulain’s clear eyes narrowed. Looked Kelley up and down. Nodded to himself, making a decision.
He went to the coffin. Opened the lid. Pulled out a valise. It sagged at the bottom, full. Cuchulain dropped the valise on a low table. Stepped back to give Kelley room.
When Kelley didn’t move, Cuchulain said, “Go ahead, lad. Take a look.”
Keeping half an eye on the huge man, Kelley unzipped the valise and looked inside. His head whipped up. Cuchulain again nodded, a tight smile bending his wide, cruel lips.
Kelley overturned the valise. Thick stacks of ringgit held together with rubber bands tumbled onto the table.
They both watched the pile of money like it was going to get up and dance. It didn’t. Like a gun or a woman, cash money doesn’t have to do a damn thing to be the most interesting thing in the room.
“How much?”
“Four hundred grand.” Which translated to about a hundred thousand U.S. dollars.
Kelley took a seat. Eyes still firmly on the money.
Cuchulain fetched the Bushmill. He poured two shots. Handed one to Kelley. They tapped out a cheers. Downed the Irish whisky. Kelley gave his approval. Cuchulain poured another couple of shots. Kelley just picked it up, held it. Letting the heat from his hand warm it as he thought.
“What’s it for?”
“Not what, who.”
“Okay, who’s it for?”
“You.”
Kelley thought as much. Sipped half the shot, let it swirl before swallowing. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m going to make you an offer. At first you’re going to say no. And then you’re going to say yes.”
