by T. E. Woods
Then he got down on his knees and bowed his head. The blaring music went silent.
“You want this?” the man in the chair asked.
“I do.”
“You ready for this?”
“I am.”
“You’d kill for this?”
He felt his bowels rumble. This was the moment. It wasn’t a gamble because he had nothing to lose. He figured the worst thing that could happen if they knew he hadn’t done the kill was to toss him out to walk the streets till dawn, when he could find some tree to sleep under. Maybe rough him up a bit, but he’d survived worse. But there was a chance, maybe just a small one, that by the end of the night he’d have all he ever wanted.
“I have.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his trophy. With his head still bowed, he handed it to the man he prayed would become his father from this moment forward.
D’Loco inspected the offering, turning it first this way, then that. The boy who bowed in front of him had no doubt the article was genuine. He had cut it off himself.
Finally the man in the chair stood. He held the jacket sleeve offered as evidence of the kill high above his head, showing the stitched-on patch declaring membership in the Pico Underground to the rest of the men in the room.
“Looks real deal to me,” D’Loco announced. “California done lost another dreamer.”
Approving grunts, mingled with “hell yeahs” and “damn straights,” filled the room.
“Get on up here, boy,” D’Loco commanded. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m Kashawn Meadows.” D’Loco knew damn straight who he was. Kashawn had taken the Pico badge straight to Mouse, informing him of his kill. Mouse would have gotten it to D’Loco, letting the boss know who it was who brought down the Pico. But this was all part of the initiation script and Kashawn played along. “Sixth Street was my home. I’m looking for another.”
“Well, boy, you found it. Right here at 97.” D’Loco reached out his hand to Kashawn and pulled him into a hearty embrace. He held him tight as he called out to the others. “New brother, men! Right here. Birthed on the streets. Raised on the streets. Born to die on those same damned streets.”
D’Loco released Kashawn and pushed him into the crowd. There were no beatings this time. More than a dozen men took their time with him. Slapping him on the shoulder, playfully grabbing his face, rubbing the top of his head like he was some kind of good-luck mojo. Each brother offered a welcome. Each swore to have his back. He would have been happy to have it go on forever, but the brothers stepped aside when D’Loco took command once again.
“C’mere, boy.”
Kashawn stood again in front of his leader.
D’Loco took a braided gold chain from the table beside his chair. He held it out to Kashawn.
“You wear this, boy. Any man try to take it from you dies where he stand. You hear me?”
Kashawn swallowed the pride choking his words. “I do.”
“Any man do take it, take it from your dead body. You hear that?”
“I do.”
“Gimme your hand,” D’Loco commanded.
Kashawn opened his right hand and held it out in front of him. D’Loco placed a heavy gray bead the size of a pencil eraser in it.
“That there’s lead,” D’Loco said. “Like the bullet you put in that Pico. You put that on your chain and wear it proud. Anytime you take out a threat to this family I’ma give you another bead. You wear those with pride, too.”
Kashawn closed his fist around the chain and bead. He brought them to his mouth and kissed them, fighting back tears.
“Go on, boy,” D’Loco laughed. “That’s for wearin’, not fuckin’.”
Kashawn threaded the bead onto the chain, fastened the clasp, and pulled it over his head. He smiled, nodding his respect to the chain D’Loco wore around his own neck. The one strung with at least twenty beads.
D’Loco raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips, and looked down at Kashawn. “Why you here, boy? And don’t give me no boog about family. You got us now. There gotta be more. Why you here?”
No way Kashawn could tell him what was true. He really was there for the family. All he wanted was these brothers, this home, this protection and loyalty. After seventeen years of bouncing from one house to the next, some charity, most state run, he had himself a place. He didn’t want another thing in all the world.
But that truth he couldn’t say. It would weaken him in the eyes of his brothers. So he put on his half smile. The one that always got the social worker to blame his latest visit on his underprivileged circumstance. Whether he was in that white lady’s office to explain shoplifting, skipping school, or cussing out the teacher, Kashawn could pull out that little grin and she’d be reaching for a cookie, telling him to try to do better. Make better decisions, she’d tell him.
“It’s all about the Benjamins, man.” Kashawn let the smile go wider. “It’s all about gettin’ paid.”
D’Loco stared at him long enough for Kashawn to fear he offended his god. But then D’Loco laughed. Loud and long.
“Brother got it right. He already got the family. Now he want the cheese.”
The other men joined in the laughter, adding their agreement that beyond their bond, it was all about the money.
“Listen here.” D’Loco quieted the room in an instant. “Our brother need a new name to mark his joinin’. He done been baptized in blood. Time for a…a…what those church folks call it? A christening! Tha’s it. Let’s christen this sumbitch.” He put his hand to his chin and thought. “I got it. All about the Bens, is it? Okay, Mr. Money. Boys, meet your newest blood. We gonna call him Green K.”
Kashawn heard the others bouncing his name among them, murmuring their approval. He looked up at D’Loco, feeling a warm heaviness wrap around him. D’Loco held his gaze with approving eyes.
Green K he was.
And should the time ever come, he would die for the man who had named him.
Chapter 5
Olympia
Lydia sat behind the console of her communications center and cursed. She’d spent several hundred thousand dollars on this equipment. Nearly that much again on specialized upgrades, task-specific software, and a genius tech—more interested in the challenge than the reason—who knew how to build what she wanted without asking questions. Over the years it had proved to be her finest investment. This gear, this secured room in her basement, allowed her to monitor police activities around the world and track her targets no matter where they tried to hide. For years these monitors, keyboards, relays, and servers had kept her effective, safe, and invisible.
But now, with the stakes never higher, her investment was yielding nothing.
Mort’s daughter, Allie, a sociopath who could charm as easily as she could kill, had kidnapped his seven-year-old granddaughter. Mort was counting on Lydia to find them.
And she had nothing.
It had been only a few days ago. Four? Maybe five? Lydia and Mort were having a glass of wine on his houseboat. Mort had just wrapped up a difficult case. Lydia saw no need to spoil his well-deserved moment of relaxation by updating him on Allie’s recent murderous rampage. She wanted to believe Allie was gone.
And then the phone rang.
Mort’s son, Robbie, was calling. Lydia watched the color drain from Mort’s face. She saw fear in his eyes as he calmly gave directions to his son. When Mort hung up, he turned to her. These subsequent days of no sleep and constant vigilance had done nothing to wipe away the memory of Mort’s words.
“Allie’s taken Hadley.” Mort relayed Robbie’s account. After an uneventful family dinner on a day Lydia had been so certain she’d contained any threat Allie posed to Mort’s family, his granddaughters took their baths. Hayden went first while Hadley read in their bedroom. When Hayden got out of the tub, Hadley wasn’t there. Hayden didn’t think anything of it, grabbed a robe and a brush, and went downstairs to have her mother brush her hair. Then Robbie sent Hayden back u
pstairs.
That’s when Hayden found the note from her twin.
Hadley had scrawled, in red crayon, that she was off on an adventure.
Robbie and Claire searched the house. When they couldn’t find her, they pressed Hayden.
“Allie must have made arrangements with Hadley. Convinced her to sneak out of the house.” Mort’s face was cloaked in frustration. “Robbie and Claire teach the girls about stranger danger. But Allie’s their aunt. Allie probably suggested a secret run for pizza or ice cream. Hadley would have thought it was a game. Allie has over an hour’s lead on them.”
That had been nearly a week ago, but the dread she felt that night still lived in Lydia. She raised a hand to the side of her face, touching the swollen bruises marking her survival of a brutal assault by one of Allie’s henchmen. She knew what Mort’s daughter was capable of.
She keyed in a search request. Her query would require bypassing law enforcement firewalls, but two heartbeats later a listing of police dispatches in King County appeared on her screen. She scanned them all. Robberies, car thefts, accidents, domestic conflict…nothing out of the ordinary for a large metropolitan area.
No murders reported since I checked this morning, she thought. They haven’t found Staz’s body yet.
But Allie surely knew by now the man she’d sent was dead. By Lydia’s hand.
I expected to hear from you again, Allie. But I thought you’d come for me. I wasn’t ready for you to attack your own family.
Lydia had been able to track Allie’s path out of the country. According to filed FAA flight plans, Allie had chartered a jet the night Hadley disappeared, leaving Seattle at 6:42 for Toronto. Two passengers: one adult, one child. But Allie’s plane had touched down in Calgary. Lydia was able to access the pilot’s digital log. His notes stated the adult passenger had requested an emergency landing due to illness but refused medical treatment after touchdown.
Passenger left airport accompanied by minor in private vehicle. This pilot returning to base.
She remembered Mort’s despair when she had relayed the news.
“They could be anywhere,” he had said. “Allie has international connections. She could have had another plane waiting. They could be on a train or in a car. We’ve got nothing.”
Mort was right. Allie’s criminal empire provided an endless stream of money. Her network of connections spanned the globe, fueled by the one motivator no one could resist: fear. Allie’s pathology left her free of any moral restraint. She would stop at nothing to achieve her goals. She’d do anything, say anything, sacrifice anything to get what she wanted.
Even her niece.
Lydia slammed her hand against the console. She threw herself back in her chair and raked her fingers through her auburn hair.
The overhead lights in her office dimmed ever so subtly.
Lydia snapped to attention. Someone was on her property. The nearly imperceptible fade of her lights had been a silent signal she’d asked her electrician to install. It tripped whenever someone approached her home and was part of an overall security system that would make the Secret Service yearn for a consult.
She wasn’t expecting anyone. She never did on the two-acre estate she had transformed into her fortress. She entered another command. A six-view display appeared on her monitor, each camera recording a different view of her property. The tension clenching her spine relaxed as she identified the car coming up her long driveway. Lydia shut down her computer, locked her communications room, and bounded up the stairs in time to open her front door to her visitor.
“Mort.” He looked like hell. Stubble shaded his cheeks and chin. His skin had the ashen pallor of someone surviving on caffeine and desperation. His bloodshot eyes stared at something over her shoulder. “Come in.”
He walked past her, more robot than human. “Anything?”
She closed the door and followed him down the hall. This time he didn’t stop to drink in her view of Dana Passage, the islands, and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. This time he didn’t ask about her practice or why she wasn’t dating that nice fellow from the coffee shop or the Olympia detective he knew to be a stand-up guy. He seemed to be using his last bit of energy to find his way to her sofa and collapse.
Lydia sat on a chair across from him, steeling her heart against the sight of his depleted body and crushed spirit.
“I’m tracking the credit cards she’s used in the past. There’s been no activity since she left the Larchmont. I captured recent photos of Hadley that Robbie and Claire posted on Facebook. I’ve got those synced to surveillance cameras at airports and train stations, both U.S. and international. My computer’s programmed to alert me to any facial recognition beyond 60 percent.”
“Anything?” He didn’t bother to ask how she had come to have the type of equipment most governments couldn’t afford.
“Nothing yet. What’s on your end?”
“The FBI’s still camped out at Robbie’s. There’s still the tap on the phone. And of course there’s the APB on Allie.” He scraped his hand across his face and sighed. “But it’s all useless. Allie’s not going to call. She doesn’t want ransom. She wants Hadley.”
She wants revenge, Lydia corrected. She wants to destroy us all. She’ll wage her war on your family by taking Hadley. And she’ll punish me by leaving me helpless to stop her.
“Has the FBI brought in any international agencies?”
Mort shook his head. “They’re operating as if she’s still local.”
“They’re what? She was in Calgary. The charter pilot dropped them off when Allie feigned illness. My God, Mort. She’s in the wind. Her connections are more European and Russian than American. Why aren’t they on it?”
“They don’t know about Calgary.” His voice was weak, drained. “They don’t know about the jet Allie chartered.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell them what you’ve learned. Not without implicating you. They’d have all kinds of questions about how you were able to learn what you did. And once they got a load of your system…that would kick off questions we don’t want asked.”
“Tell them! Tell them who I am. How I come to have the hacking power I do. Tell them why I needed it. Tell them I’m the Fixer and bring Hadley home!”
“But it won’t bring Hadley home.” Mort spoke in a defeated whisper. “The whole damn agency will get so wrapped up in the drama of bringing you in that any search for Hadley will be shoved to the back burner.”
He was right. She could see the headlines now. INTERNATIONAL ASSASSIN CAPTURED…LEGEND IS REAL: THE FIXER IS CAUGHT. News stations would fixate on Lydia’s exploits. Mort would face prosecution for his role in allowing the Fixer to go free. And Allie would have all the time she needed to take Hadley to a place no one would ever find her.
Until she tires of her. Until she chooses to deliver her final, vengeful blow that will destroy everyone who loves that little girl.
Lydia stood and stalked down the hall. She grabbed blankets and pillows from a closet and came back to the living room.
“Sleep, Mort. You’re no good to anyone in this condition.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice. His exhaustion was complete. Mort kicked off his shoes, stuffed a pillow at the end of the sofa, and stretched out. By the time Lydia opened the blanket and covered him, his breath had already fallen into the deep, steady cadence of slumber.
She stood over him.
“I’ll bring Hadley home,” she whispered. “Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.”
Whoever has to die.
Chapter 6
Seattle
Kashawn Meadows watched the neighborhood roll by. Here he was. Sitting in the back of D’Loco’s cruise. J-Fox driving. Big Cheeks riding shotgun. Feeling like, Man, it doesn’t get any better than this. His only wish was that the windows weren’t so dark. Heads turned when this ride rolled by. Everybody knew it was D’Loco in back. Even the old church ladies shaking their heads as
if anyone in that car gave a care for what they thought. Kashawn wanted everybody to know who was sitting next to the man. He was the newest member of the 97s. Freshest horse in the posse. Maybe he’d roll the window down a bit. Let folks catch an eyeful of who’s knocking elbows with D’Loco.
For sure he’d do it if LaTonya happened to be strolling down the street. Wouldn’t that give her something to think about while she was on her way to her school chores. She’d have to think twice about feeling sorry for somebody just because he couldn’t afford that slop in the cafeteria, now wouldn’t she?
“Green K. I’m talking at you, boy.” D’Loco shoved his shoulder against Kashawn’s. “I ask if you’re up for this.”
Kashawn pulled his gaze away from the street.
“I’m okay. Just drinkin’ it in’s all. And hell, yeah. I’m up for this. I tole you, D’Loco. I’m up for anything. You name it. S’done. No doubt.”
D’Loco laughed and slapped the back of the driver’s seat. “You hear the man, J-Fox? Say he ready for whatever. Was Green K up for some shit when them ladies come by the house last night?”
J-Fox and Mouse joined in on D’Loco’s laughter. It had been a long night. After D’Loco had given him his gold chain—after he was made a full and forever member of the 97s—his new brothers had started the party. Liquor, pot, coke. It was all brought out to celebrate the family’s expansion. Kashawn knew he was being judged by how much he could handle, and most everything they were throwing at him was new territory. But he couldn’t let them know. He was a player now. Had to act like one, and he had a plan. Everything seemed to be working fine. He paced himself. Whenever the booze or the bong got him feeling too mellow to continue with the festivities, he’d snort a line. Revive himself. Thump his chest and reach for the next glass of whatever was handed to him.
