by Paul Bishop
A short silence followed while he moved to the fridge and helped himself to a beer. He placed it on a table, grabbed three more, and set them out for the others. Amazed at how good it tasted, he downed about a third of the can. Maddie opened hers, took a small sip from it, and rested the can on her right thigh.
Sharpe eyed Damon and Sarah. "What did the police tell you?"
They exchanged glances and allowed several seconds of uncomfortable silence to pass.
Sarah cleared her throat and said, "They told us you'd died in there. You and the rest of the team."
He nodded and drank a little more.
"Then they said horrible things about you. They told us you'd lost it in there. You'd cracked under the stress of being back in the Biodome and you'd killed everyone. Then you'd shot yourself. That's why they came here. They wanted to know if you'd given any signs of losing it."
"And you said yes."
She scowled at him. "Shut up. Of course we didn't. From what we understand, they also talked to people in METRO about you. Patricia called us an hour ago and clued us in. She thought you were dead. We all did."
"Yet here I sit.” He smiled grimly. “As if by an occult hand."
Damon belched and set his beer down. "Dude, you're not right."
"Where did this whole story about me losing my shit and going on a murder spree come from?"
His friend said, "I'll give you one guess."
"Hawkins."
"Bingo."
"Damn, that hurts."
Maddie set her beer aside, stood, and began to pace. He noticed her face looked pale and her eyes wide with fear. "Hawkins is the head of Trask Corp's security," she said. "Why did he do this?"
"That's a damn good question." He craved a cigarette but Damon had bottled gases stored there. Maybe later. "What's your project at Trask Corp?"
She hugged herself and stared at the floor. "I'm not supposed to discuss it. You know that."
Sharpe knew she wasn't thinking straight. She was a brilliant woman but obviously under considerable stress and probably teetering on the brink of a meltdown after all she'd seen today. "I think we're past that now."
Finally, she nodded. "I suppose you're right. Remember how I told you we were working with stem cells? Well, it's more complicated than that. The goop has tremendous regenerating properties. That's why the cosmetics industry loves it. But we were taking it another step beyond that. We were looking for ways to regenerate muscle, connective tissue, and bones. It's part of a larger project by Trask. They want to graft super-hard composite materials onto bones. The company has a dozen related projects in the works right now. But all the work's theoretical. It could be another decade before it is even tested on animals. And there are a million things that could stop it along the way."
Sharpe's beer was empty, and he seriously considered a second. "They want to create super-humans? Seriously?"
"Not super," she said. "'Enhanced' is probably a more accurate term."
"Apparently, not everyone's on board with this."
She shrugged. "That's probably true," she said. "But I can't think of anyone so opposed to it that they'd resort to murder."
He pressed his palms against his eyes and rubbed his eyes. Fatigue had begun to set in and he guessed it was only a matter of time before the police—or someone else—realized he was still alive. If that happened, he could wind up in jail while the authorities investigated. Or a new team of assassins could be dispatched. None of these scenarios would end well for Maddie or him.
Damon had drifted back to his computer. "Well, well," he said. He sank into his chair and pecked at the keyboard. Windows opened and closed on the monitor.
Sharpe wondered what his friend had found but knew better than to ask. Damon would merely ignore his questions until he'd found what he was looking for.
Sarah took Maddie upstairs to use the bathroom. While he waited for the other man to finish his work, he retrieved another beer from the fridge and nursed this one. He had work to do and didn't want to put himself into a drunken stupor.
Several minutes later, Damon clapped his hands and pushed his chair back from the computer. "Mystery solved."
"Okay."
"Your buddy, Hawkins, was wired one million dollars from a business with links to Russian intelligence. He's traded phone calls and emails with a Russian spy who operates out of Tripoli. The guy's totally off the books. The whole exchange was about him killing the scientists."
"How'd you find out?"
He grinned. "I have friends." His expression turned serious. "But the information's good."
"Does he think everyone's dead?"
"Yes. Or at least that's what he's telling the Russians. Mission accomplished and he's ready for payday."
Sharpe nodded. "Okay," he said.
"What will you do now?"
"Can I keep the weapons?"
9
Hawkins stood before the hotel-room mirror and dragged the razor down his left cheek, over the curve of his chin, and along a few inches of his neck. He dipped the razor in the sink full of warm water, swished it around a couple of times, and set it on a folded towel beside the sink.
With a second towel, he wiped any last traces of shaving cream from his face, studied his reflection, and smiled. He’d aged well for a guy in such a dangerous profession.
There were many others along the way who’d succumbed to the stress. It hadn’t happened to him.
His secret was to not give a shit. People were little more than chess pieces to him, lifeless things deployed and maneuvered with cold precision in pursuit of bigger goals—his goals.
He picked his pack of cigarettes up from the vanity, shook one into his palm, and slipped it between his lips. With a lazy motion, he applied his lighter and took a long, slow drag.
Things had turned out better than he’d imagined. The scientists were MIA. A rescue team had found the transponders from their armor in the vicinity of a carnivorous plant. There was no way they’d made it out alive.
The mercenaries he’d sent in were also dead, killed in the Biodome.
That’d been an added bonus. Hawkins had planned to kill them anyway because he hadn’t wanted to split his money three ways or leave witnesses. He knew he could’ve killed them but it was easier to let them die in that alien shithole where the animals and plants would dispose of the remains.
Seated on the edge of his bed, he ground the cigarette out in an ashtray. He picked his phone up, looked at the numbers on the screen for the third time in an hour, and allowed himself a cold smile.
The Russians had deposited one million dollars in a black account in Seychelles. He had no idea why they’d wanted the scientists dead, nor did he care.
The money was all that mattered.
He picked up a glass with Scotch over ice, sipped it, and uttered a satisfied sigh. Things had progressed extremely well. He had plans—big freaking plans—for his newly acquired wealth. Those included getting as far away from the Trask Corp and the Biodome as possible.
All in due time.
Tonight, his priority was to celebrate.
Hawkins had spent the afternoon at METRO, drinking and listening to the morons spout heartfelt tributes to Sharpe. One waitress he’d had his eye on—the one with the small waist and big tits—had brushed a tear away. Maybe he could use that to worm his way into her pants. He could make up a couple of stories about how close he'd been to Sharpe and how torn up he was about the dumb bastard's death, listen to her whine about how sad she was, and maneuver her into bed.
After all, he was hoping to get laid. And even if he was a millionaire, he didn’t want to pay for it.
Once he drained the last of his Scotch, he tossed the cup into the trash, stood from the bed, and headed to the door. After a short pause, he diverted toward the vanity where a holstered SIG-Sauer pistol lay. He hitched up his shirttail and clipped the pistol inside the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.
He wasn’t expecting trou
ble, but it never hurt to be prepared. Besides, he'd made a few enemies around there.
Outside his door, he heard the metallic slide of a pump shotgun before everything went to hell.
The breaching round fired from Sharpe's shotgun ripped through the lock and splintered the wood. The force caused the door to whip inward.
He released the shotgun and let it fall with a clatter. With the Beretta 9mm pistol drawn from a hip holster hidden under the untucked tails of his shirt, he strode into the room.
Hawkins, a pistol clutched in his right hand, sprinted into view. The gun barked three times but the bullets flew wide and chewed into the door jamb and drywall behind him.
Acrid smoke hung in the air. With adrenaline racing through his veins, the smell barely registered with him, although he was aware of the stinging in his eyes.
The muzzle of his adversary’s pistol tracked him.
Sharpe triggered the Beretta. It cracked twice and the slugs drilled into Hawkin's chest.
His body stiffened and fell.
He hurried toward him. His adversary had dropped the pistol and he kicked it across the hotel room floor before he knelt beside the wounded man, whose breathing came in ragged gasps.
"You bastard," he said, his voice hoarse. "I had this all worked out. Was gonna be rich."
"Sorry about your luck," he said.
"Call me a doctor."
"No."
"I'll tell you who hired me."
Sharpe shook his head. "No deal, princess. We already know."
The carpet under the man was stained dark-red with blood.
"You can't let me die." His face was pale and his eyes unfocused. An instant later, a death rattle escaped his lips and his body went limp. Sharpe rose to his feet and left the hotel room. He picked up the shotgun on the way out and headed to the stairs. He'd dump the weapons and lay low for a couple of days while Damon worked with Interpol to smooth things over.
10
"You knew he was dirty, didn't you?" Sharpe said.
He was seated at a corner table at METRO and leaned forward, his forearms resting on the tabletop and a beer at his right elbow. Alexandra Richards was seated across from him and smiled. If his question made her uncomfortable, she showed no outward signs of it. She lifted a glass of white wine, moved it under her nose in small circles, and made a face.
"This smells like horse piss," she said, sipped from it, and wrinkled her lips and nose before swallowing. "Hideous."
"I asked you a question."
"I know, darling. I heard your question. I simply won’t dignify it with an answer.”
His fists clenched. When he spoke, he forced the words out in an even tone. "You owe me an explanation."
She set the glass down, crossed her long legs, leaned in, and smiled. "What we owe you is a large sum of money. I should say, 'owed.' My understanding is we already transferred the money into your account."
He nodded. "And I moved it to a different account because I didn't want you thieving bastards trying to take it back."
"You're so hostile." She pouted.
Sharpe sighed. She was shameless and could play this game all day with him. Trying to get her to do the decent thing was like a seal asking a shark to go vegan.
He brought his beer to his lips, swallowed a mouthful, and set the bottle down.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you," he said.
She tilted her head slightly. "Really?"
"Goodbye, Alexandra. Don't let the door hit you...well, you know the rest."
The woman pouted again. He ignored her and focused instead on his beer. After a few seconds, she shrugged, gathered her purse, and rose from her seat.
"You know," she said, "Trask Corp has big plans for the Biodome. That means more trips inside. We'd love to have you on the payroll."
"I'd rather have one of those mutated jaguars chew my freaking nuts off."
Her smile was positively feral. "Good, I'll be in touch."
Sharpe watched her walking away for several seconds before he shook his head in disbelief. He was no psychologist, but that woman wasn't wired right.
At least she was gone for now.
Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the bar was as dark as hell and crowded.
He caught Patricia’s eye and raised his beer. She smiled and nodded. The waitress had been uncharacteristically nice to him since he'd managed to return from the dead. The same went for some of the patrons, who'd even bought him free drinks.
Of course, it wouldn't last, but he liked it just the same.
Patricia brought his beer quicker than expected. He nodded. "Thanks."
She winked and showed him a broad smile as she placed it down in front of him.
"Keep the tab running," he said. "I feel an ugly binge coming on."
"It's early," she said. "You might want to pace yourself."
With a grin, he looked around METRO's dark interior.
"How can you tell? It's dark as midnight in here."
"I don't want you puking your guts out. Not here, anyway. You can go home and do that. We just had the bathrooms cleaned."
"I'll try to make it to the alley."
"Do that." She winked again and walked away.
The door opened and briefly allowed street noise and light into the bar. A female stood silhouetted in the doorway and her features became more distinct as the door closed and banished the outside light. First, he saw the long blonde hair, but as she moved inside, her cornflower blue eyes came into focus.
Madison caught his eye and gave him a small wave and an uncertain smile.
She wound her way through the maze of tables until she reached his.
"Hi," she said.
"Hey."
"Can I join you?"
He felt his heart beat a little faster and he gestured to one of the chairs. "Sure."
"What are you drinking, sweetie?" Patricia asked.
Madison pointed at his beer. "I'll have one of those," she said.
"You got it." The waitress picked up Alexandra's wine glass, set it on her tray, and wiped the table before she returned to the bar.
A brief but excruciating silence passed between the two before he finally said, "So, how are you doing? Are you good?"
She nodded. "Nothing a boiling-hot shower and a couple of days of sleep couldn't fix.”
“Top it off with alcohol and deep-fried food and you’ll feel even better.”
“How did you not become a doctor?” She laughed.
“I never did well with the whole first, do no harm thing.”
Her smile faded.
“I heard about Hawkins,” she said.
“Me too.”
She smirked. “Heard about it or...”
He picked his beer up by the neck, swigged from the bottle, and put it down again. Several seconds passed while he watched bubbles shoot up from the bottom of the bottle and decided whether to dodge the question.
Screw it.
“Are you wearing a wire?” he asked.
At first, the question seemed to surprise her. Then, she grinned and spread her arms to flaunt her bare arms and shoulders. “I’m wearing a tank top,” she said. “There aren’t too many places to hide a wire.”
“There’s always your prison wallet.”
She giggled. “Excuse me? What's a prison wallet?"
“Think about it.”
“Yuck, is a prison wallet what I think it is?"
“Yeah.”
"Well, I definitely don't have that wired. So answer the question."
He sighed. “I know what happened to Hawkins. I know in great detail what happened. Get my drift?”
“Will you have trouble over it?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Do you like bad boys? If so, then yes, I'm in deep shit."
She smirked again. He detected a trace of uncertainty in her eyes as though she couldn’t tell for sure whether he was serious and pushed his beer asi
de.
“He tried to have you killed and he planned to frame me for the murder. He arranged for your colleague’s murder. Again, he wanted it to fall on my shoulders. Once he found out we both made it out of the Biodome, I have no doubt he would’ve murdered us. We wouldn’t have survived for longer than forty-eight hours.”
Maddie shuddered. He felt bad for being so blunt and scaring her. But he also believed she needed to know his reasons for killing Hawkins.
“So you had to do it?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want to spend my life looking over my shoulder. That meant I had to deal with it.”
“What does this mean for you? Will you be in trouble for it?”
Sharpe shook his head. “I doubt it. When the Americans found out about this, they were pissed. They frown on Russia killing our scientists, especially when you’re doing such valuable work.”
He swigged more beer. “Not that I know what you’re doing. All I know is it involves stem cells and goop. Even if you explained it to me, I wouldn’t understand it. But you have fans in Washington DC.”
Her face flushed. “I had no idea,” she said.
“Me neither.” He shrugged again. “From what I understand, they’re happy you’re okay and ecstatic that Hawkins got what he deserved.”
“You’ve done this before,” she said.
“When I was a soldier. Trust me, though, I don’t make this a habit.”
"That's good."
"But this could become a habit," he said.
Her cheeks flushed. "What could?"
"Hanging out with you. If you want to, I mean."
She smiled. "I'd like that."
Nightclub At The End of the World
Eric Beetner
This story is something a little different than the others in this collection. It’s more graphic and can be described as post-apocalyptic horror.
LMBPN Publishes some horror, and we have readers who love those books. However, since we don’t publish enough to fill a complete anthology we thought we’d add this story to STAR NOIR as a bonus for fans of the genre.
