by R. J. Jagger
“You’re going to be okay but you’re under medication,” she said.
“Mojag killed me.”
“Mojag’s dead.”
“He is?”
“Your friend London killed him,” Visible Moon said.
THEY TALKED for a long time, quietly, and made plans to go to the reservation together.
They’d get to know each other again.
They’d let everything that happened wash off.
They’d be born again.
LONDON CAME IN and Visible Moon gave the two women their privacy.
“I heard you killed Mojag,” Shade said.
London nodded.
“It seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Remind me to thank you some day.”
London laughed.
“I will.”
“Because you deserve a good thanks.”
“I’ll be waiting for it.”
LONDON had some interesting information.
Shade’s boss, Kent Harvin, and another CIA uppity-up, Penelope Tap, were uncovered as moles in connection with a plot to sell H-bomb information to the Russians. They were out. It was also discovered that they tried to frame Shade as being a double-agent.
Shade was in.
She frowned.
“I lied to you about something,” she said. “I told you I was helping the white house catch a mole. That was a lie. There was no such assignment. I told you that to get some breathing room to find Visible Moon. I told you a second lie too. I told you that I was being framed as a double-agent.”
“You were being framed.”
“Okay, I was, but that’s not the complete story. The other part of the story is that even though I was being framed, it was in fact true. I was a double agent.”
“You were?”
She nodded.
“I’ve been selling confidential information to the Russians through my Cuban connections for years.”
“Damn.”
“Right, damn,” Shade said. “I didn’t just get money, though. I got information too, information that I passed on for the good of the order. That’s the way I structured my deals. When you added it all up and subtracted it down, I got more than I gave. That was my logic, for better or worse. If you want to get right down to the guts of it though, I liked the thrill of being on both sides. I liked the risk, I liked the danger, I liked the rush. I liked being places I shouldn’t, seeing things I shouldn’t, knowing things I shouldn’t, being something I shouldn’t. It was a drug.”
“I guess the question now is whether you’re going to continue.”
“I don’t know,” Shade said. “But if I do, I could use a partner.”
“Me?”
Shade nodded.
London looked into the distance.
Then she refocused and said, “Sure, why not?”
They shook.
136
Day Ten
June 18
Wednesday Night
WEDNESDAY EVENING Jundee took Fallon to a dive bar on Larimer Street called the Whiskey Snake. They sat in the next-to-last booth in the back and drank wine. “Baby, I did something and I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Jundee said.
She ran a finger down his nose.
“What’d you do you bad boy?”
“Remember when we burned those briefcases?”
Yes.
She remembered.
“Well, the original document’s weren’t exactly inside them.”
She wrinkled her brow and moved back.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I thought they might come in handy for something,” he said. “So I switched them out. Over the past few days I’ve been negotiating with Vampire to return her briefcase back to her, plus ours. This afternoon we reached a deal.” He smiled. “We’re rich, baby. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She’s already delivered the money. I have it stashed in a hotel room.”
“Did you deliver the briefcases to her?”
“Well, not the originals, they burned,” he said. “I delivered the documents. Yes, she has them.”
“I thought we went through everything we did so we could destroy them.”
He kissed her.
“Well, change of plans,” he said. “We’re rich beyond our dreams. What’s going on? You don’t look happy.”
She worked a smile onto her face.
“No, I’m thrilled. I’m just in shock.”
“You’re not in shock, you’re in rich shock. Filthy-rich shock.”
“I got to pee.”
“Then go do it, girl.”
IN THE BATHROOM, she took a long look at her face in the mirror.
Then she opened the window, hiked her skirt up and climbed out.
At the first phone booth she called the police.
“There’s a woman named Rebecca Vampire who lives in Capitol Hill. She’s a spy and she has documents about the H-bomb in her house. She’s going to sell them to the Russians. If you get there quick you can probably stop her.”
“Who is this?”
“This isn’t a joke,” she said.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Yes but that doesn’t mean I’m lying.’
She hung up and walked down the street.
137
Day Ten
June 18
Wednesday Night
WEDNESDAY EVENING, Wilde got Senn-Rae drunk on white wine, put her over his shoulder, carried her into the bedroom and threw her on the mattress. He pinned her arms above her head and gave her a long kiss.
“You’re so evil,” she said.
“You have no idea.”
He took his time with her, peeling off one precious layer of impediments after the other, bringing her to a slow, deep boil.
Then his phone rang.
He froze.
“Don’t answer it,” Senn-Rae said.
He chewed on it then got up.
“It could be something. Give me five seconds.”
On the other end of the line was someone he didn’t expect.
“Bryson?”
Right.
Him.
“This is Jackie Fontaine. I’m Stuart Black’s secretary. Do you remember me?”
He pulled up the image.
Nice face.
White sundress.
Hot for him.
“Of course I do.”
“You’re not going to believe what just happened,” she said. “I’m down on Larimer Street at the Whiskey Snake. That’s the same place you took me. In fact, I’m sitting in the exact same booth.”
“Look, this is bad timing,” he said.
“No, no, let me finish. There’s a guy in the next booth, he’s drinking with a girl. She just went to the bathroom. He’s sitting there by himself. He’s Shadow. I recognize his voice.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” she said.
“How positive?”
“A hundred percent. It’s him, I’m telling you. It’s him. I’d recognized his voice anywhere. It’s definitely him. The girl calls him Jundee.”
“Don’t let him leave.”
HE SLAMMED the phone down and shouted into the bedroom, “I got to go.”
“Wilde! Don’t you dare—”
He didn’t answer.
He was already out the door with pants in one hand and keys in the other.
138
Day Ten
June 18
Wednesday Night
BLONDIE WAS IN BAD SHAPE thanks to Trench’s gun Saturday night. The windshield was gone, bullet holes had destroyed the hood and fenders, both headlights were shattered and the interior was trashed from the rain. She still ran though. Wilde pulled her out of the garage into the night. He hadn’t gotten a block before a drizzle dropped out of the sky and flew horizontally into his face.
He didn’t care.
There was no room in his mind for anything except what would happen.
He brought
the vehicle to a skidding stop in front of the Whiskey Snake, jumped out and ran inside.
The back booth where Jackie Fontaine should be was empty. So was the one next to it.
Wilde reached over the bar, grabbed the bartender by the shirt and said, “There was a woman sitting back there. Where is she?”
“She left.”
“When?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
He bounded out the front door and looked up and down the street.
Jackie was nowhere.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Where’d she go?
Did she do something stupid and tip her hand?
Did the guy stick a knife in her ribs and say, “We’re going for a little walk?”
He paced back and forth, not sure what to do.
Suddenly a woman came running up the street.
It was Jackie.
“You’re here,” she said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t leave.”
“Where’d you go?”
“The guy’s girlfriend went into the bathroom and never came out. The guy left. I followed him. He went to the Kenmark hotel and got in the elevator. It stopped on the fourth floor.”
“Let’s go.”
They ran too fast to talk.
AT THE HOTEL, Wilde grabbed Jackie by the arm, pulled her over to the reception desk and said, “What was he wearing?”
“Black pants. His shirt was blue. It had long-sleeves.”
To the guy behind the counter, “That guy came in here ten or fifteen minutes ago. What room is he in?”
The man hesitated.
“I’m not supposed to—”
Wilde slapped his hand on the counter.
“Just tell me!”
“407.”
“Thank you.”
They bypassed the elevator and took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. They walked down the hall to 407 and Wilde knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?”
Wilde pulled Jackie aside and whispered, “Is that him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
He slapped her on the ass.
“Get out of here, now.”
“But—”
“Go I said.”
WILDE STEPPED BACK in front of the door and said, “I have a message from your girlfriend.”
The door opened.
A man stood there.
He had a bad-boy’s face and a taut chest. There was anger in his eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Wilde reached in his pocket and pulled out a red matchbook with a gold B, the one he found on the ground by the boxcar.
“She wanted me to give you this.”
The man snatched it and looked it over.
“What the fuck’s going on?”
Inside on the bed was an opened briefcase filled with money.
“You’re the pinup killer,” Wilde said. “I’m here to take you to the police.”
The man punched him in the face, cat-quick, landing a solid blow before Wilde could cover. The impact sent him onto his back. He landed on his tailbone and pain shot up his spine.
The door slammed.
Wilde already knew what was happening.
The man was grabbing the briefcase and heading for the fire escape.
Wilde got up, tried the knob and found it locked.
He kicked the door.
It didn’t budge.
He kicked it again.
It was solid.
The door to the adjacent room opened and a head looked out to see what the commotion was. Wilde ran over, pushed the person out of the way, ran through the room and pulled the window up.
He shot through the opening onto the fire escape.
The killer was out there heading directly for him.
The man froze with surprise.
Then he ran the other way.
There was no down, only up.
That’s the way he went.
Wilde followed.
The man was fast, faster than Wilde but he had nowhere to go. The fire escape dumped them onto the roof. It was flat and filled with obstructions.
The man set the briefcase down and rolled up his sleeves.
“So, you want to play? Let’s play.”
Wilde didn’t advance but he didn’t back up.
“It doesn’t have to be this way. Just let me take you in.”
“Sure, no problem.”
The man charged.
IT TOOK TEN MINUTES to kill him, ten bloody minutes straight out of hell. After he threw his final punch, Wilde didn’t have enough strength left to get to his feet. He rolled onto his back and felt his chest pound.
The rain fell.
He kept his eyes closed.
The rain felt good.
It felt like it was washing everything bad away.
139
Day Ten
June 18
Wednesday Night
FALLON SAT ON A CURB in the rain.
Cars sped by.
They smashed puddles at her.
She kept going over it until she was positive she was making the right move. No matter what angle she looked at it from, the result was the same—she couldn’t trust Jundee.
Without trust there could be no love.
Without love there could be no oxygen.
They had history together but that wasn’t enough.
She got up, stuck a cigarette in her mouth and reached in her purse for matches. She pulled out the red book with the gold B. That was the pack she’d been saving as a souvenir, the ones she used Saturday night to set the briefcases on fire.
She tossed it into the gutter.
“Don’t need you anymore.”
She fumbled around until she found the other pack, struck a match and lit up.
The smoke felt good in her lungs.
She inhaled deeply then blew out.
New York.
That’s where she’d go.
New York.
FIVE MINUTES LATER she found a beat-to-death pickup truck with the keys in the ignition. Ironically, it had New Mexico plates. She slipped in, fired it up and said, “Whoever owns this, I’m sorry.”
Then she took off.
THE END
Copyright (c) R.J. Jagger
All rights reserved
R.J. Jagger is the author of over 20 thrillers and is also a long-standing member of the International Thriller Writers. He has two series, one featuring Denver homicide detective Nick Teffinger, set in modern times; and a noir series featuring private investigator Bryson Wilde, set in 1952. His books can be read in any order. For complete information on the author and his ebooks, hardcovers, paperbacks and audio books, as well as upcoming titles, news and events, please visit him at:
Rjjagger.blogspot.com
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