by Heskett, Jim
But none of them were as brilliant as Zach Bennett. Zach had an effortless grace to the way his mind worked, with respect to viral mutation and infection. The rest of his brain, though, was a muddy swamp that Thomas knew he would have to carefully shape and mold. For a little while, Thomas had thought he would be able to accomplish that through flattery. When flattery didn’t seem to work, he had switched over to more pressure-based options. But, not even that had moved the needle. The kid seemed to have no idea what was in his own best interest. As stubborn as a toddler.
While Thomas watched his worker bees tap on keyboards and squeak markers across whiteboards and mix compounds, he sighed so hard he felt lightheaded. Zach was not among the workers. He had tried to skip out on work yesterday, but Helmut had gone to collect him. So far today, Zach had not shown for his afternoon shift.
Terribly disappointing.
Plus, Thomas had a voicemail inbox full of messages from an overachieving bean cruncher at Draconis, asking about items in his budget proposal. For quite a long time, Thomas had enjoyed autonomy and carte blanche to handle scientific research endeavors however he saw fit. But, things at the mothership had been changing. Thomas didn't know for sure, but he suspected they were close to moving forward with the alpha project. If they were progressing faster than Firedrake's failsafe alternative, then that was bad news.
“Damn it, Zach,” Thomas muttered to his office walls. “You’re going to screw this whole thing up for me. You’re going to cost me my job.”
Or worse.
There had to be a way to make Zach listen to reason. How far would Thomas have to go to communicate the urgency of the situation to this little bastard? How pig-headed could one college kid be?
Thomas didn't even have to complete the failsafe project. He only needed to make progress. With progress, he could catch attention. He could catch notice. He could move up. Maybe all the way beyond this piddly Firedrake subsidiary, up into the Draconis big leagues. Then, he wouldn't be listening to bitchy budgetary voicemails from some mid-level accounting drone; he would be sharing tee times with Francis Valere and Roland Jefferson. Bouncing ideas back and forth, cementing Thomas's place as someone the big dogs would remember.
At least, Thomas was right not to have mentioned Zach Bennett to anyone else in the parent company, not as of yet. He had hoped to unleash Zach as his big surprise, but if it didn’t pan out, it wouldn’t tarnish his reputation. He could hold on to that.
Thomas heard heavy footsteps outside his door. Helmut appeared there, a sad look on his caustic face. He held a folder under one arm, clasped against his body. He seemed a little out of breath, which was strange.
“Come in,” Thomas said. “Shut the door behind you.”
Helmut obliged, then stood at attention in front of the door. “I am sorry, Mr. Milligan. Zach is not at home, but his phone and laptop are in the apartment. He appears to have left most of his possessions there. I did a full sweep personally, and there’s no indication of where he went.”
“Shit,” Thomas said, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “He’s on the run.”
“Again, I am very sorry, sir. We had someone on his apartment, so I’m not sure how he slipped away.”
“Did he drop a string of tied-together bedsheets out his back window?”
Helmut swished his lips back and forth but maintained that flat expression. “No, he did not.”
The big guy hadn’t gotten the joke. “How many of your people do you have on this?”
Helmut frowned, a look that did not inspire hope in Thomas.
“I have two men out looking for him, but the tech people are of no use. Zach has one credit card, but he has not used it in weeks. He seems to operate mostly by cash. Very strange for a young person. Plus, no phone, so we can’t track that, either. Nothing to allow us to narrow down his position.”
“What are you saying? What are our options?”
“I am saying that unless he posts something telling on social media or calls his ex-roommate and gives away his current location, he could be anywhere. Sending men to drive around hunting for him is not a good use of time. We need leads.”
“Great. That’s just wonderful. And here I thought this day couldn’t get any better.” Thomas scowled as he pointed at the folder clutched in Helmut’s hand. “What’s that?”
“First, if I may, there is another angle we have not considered. Zach has an older brother named Harvey. He works with bears in a national park.”
“Are they close?”
Helmut shook his head. “They have not spoken in several years, as far as I can tell.”
“Then he’s not valuable as leverage. Give me the folder.”
“This is about the girlfriend, sir.” He set the folder down on the desk. “Before you read, I want to say one thing about Ember Clarke. It has been very difficult to find information on her.”
“Can you get in on her phone, to hack it? Wait for a message or call? That’s one person he’s sure to contact.”
Helmut shook his head. "So far, impossible. But we made a different breakthrough yesterday. One of our technicians intercepted information about an ongoing FBI investigation, and that led us to discover more about her."
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Ember Clarke is the subject of an FBI investigation? That seems like something we should have known from the start.”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t believe she is under direct investigation. Not specifically. It’s all in the report I gave you. Ember Clarke is a member of an organization named the Denver Assassins Club. The organization itself is under investigation by the FBI, but it is a very… what’s the phrase… cloak and dagger operation. Many people in the Bureau do not know about the existence of this organization or the investigation into them. We have a couple contacts in the three-letter agencies that slipped us some information about this DAC, back before we established the lab here. Due diligence about where we were operating, and all that."
“I see.”
“Information around this topic is contradictory and confusing. But, rest assured, we are working to find out the truth. ”
“Interesting,” Thomas said as he flipped through the pages. “One hand of the FBI not knowing what the other is doing, eh?”
When Helmut gave him a confused look, Thomas shrugged. “I guess that’s an American expression.” He waved for Helmut to continue.
“We were able to make contact with someone inside the club of assassins — someone a friend of a friend has worked with before. Turns out Ember has recently been disciplined for an infraction, and she has been given a trial by combat.”
“Trial by combat? Does that mean what I think it means?”
“I believe so.”
“Odd. How medieval.”
"Yes, sir. This group has many strange traditions. Regardless, we think Ember could have been taken by another member and is currently being held captive, possibly as part of this discipline. We don't have a location yet, but we are working on it."
“Timetable?”
Helmut fidgeted. “This Club has excellent security, which makes information hard to come by. We were only able to get the information we have so far by exerting considerable pressure.”
“I understand. However difficult it is, though, you need to make this your top priority. If we get Ember, we get Zach. I’ve had enough of this kid playing hard to get. It’s time we took the element of choice away from him. If we have to kill her, that’s fine with me. Maybe seeing her head in a box will finally wake him the hell up.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Thomas eyed his head of security. “Who’s your best man?”
“Well, me, obviously.”
“Okay, but I can’t spare you. After you, who is your best man? Someone who understands the sensitivity of dealing with a target who might have the eyes of the FBI on her, or, at least, near her.”
“Pasha. He is Russian. Brutal, but clean and efficient. H
e does not make mistakes. He will know how to give it the touch it deserves.”
“Is he nearby?”
“I believe he is in Mexico, sir.”
Thomas closed the folder and dropped it on his desk. "Get him here as soon as possible. I want Ember Clarke dead; I want Zach found, and I want to put this whole stinking mess behind me."
Chapter Seventeen
GABE
Gabe opened the front door of the Golden Post Office. Unlike the other Branches, Golden chose to hide their building in plain sight. Not far from the Coors Brewery, they owned a gargantuan glass and concrete structure that looked like mixed-use office space. Right in the middle of commerce, only feet from Highway 93 and bike lanes and foot traffic. Gabe had to applaud the gall of such a move, given all the illegal activities that occurred in this building on a daily basis.
The lobby itself was enormous. High, vaulted ceilings, marble floors, massive touchscreen kiosks spaced out like upright, oversized iPads, with huge generic canvas art on the walls. A tall reception desk stood in the middle of the room. Behind it was a statuesque Asian woman, her hair pulled up into a tight bun to go along with her sharp gray business suit.
Gabe approached the woman, his tennis shoes softly thumping on the shiny floor. His head buzzed with the initials RHF, a Golden member Gabe needed to find. The person who had initially been assigned Ember’s contract, but had then traded it to some other member.
With all other tracking options exhausted, locating Ember hinged on finding the owner of those initials.
The woman smiled, showing Gabe a set of perfect white teeth. “Welcome to WorkComm Plus, Golden’s premier shared workspace community. How can I help you today, sir?"
"I am, uh…” Gabe leaned over across the desk and lowered his voice. "I'm a recruit for Boulder."
The woman's broad smile stayed firmly in place as she tilted her head at him. "I'm afraid I don't follow, sir. Maybe you can find the business you're looking for by using one of the self serve kiosks? It’s usually the easiest way.“
Gabe looked back at a kiosk and then returned his attention to the woman. This wasn't going well. He’d heard about the front to make it look like a regular business, including this receptionist. But she had the best poker face he had ever seen.
They must have had a secret entrance for Club members somewhere else. Damn. His research about Golden Branch hadn't said anything about that. There had to be a way to bypass this woman’s feigned ignorance, though.
"No, I'm with the Club." At the end of the sentence, he flashed his eyes at her. "David Wellner, Jules Dunard… I know all about the Review Board, the Branches, the whole thing. I come from Boulder, where Ember is my mentor, and Fagan is her mentor. Two weeks ago, there was a poisoning at the Branch, carried out by someone working for an assassin from Parker Branch. Is any of this ringing any bells?"
The smile faltered a little as the woman’s left eyelid spasmed for a fraction of a second. She looked like an android processing information. “We normally don’t receive guests like you in the main lobby, sir. It’s very unusual.”
"I didn't know what else to do. Can I go in? I'd like to walk around a little to see if this is the right fit. I need to get a feel for the place, know what I mean?"
After a brief pause, the woman said, "I'm afraid no one is available to speak to you this late in the day. Maybe if you can give me your name and a message to pass along, I could have someone reach out to you? Or possibly, you could come back tomorrow? Earlier in the day would be best.“
"Gabe Jackson. I'm a Boulder recruit, but I'm thinking of applying for membership in the Golden Branch instead. I'm not sure who I need to talk to about that. There's nothing I've seen in the bylaws about defecting because I guess it doesn't happen too often."
The woman scribbled notes on a tablet with a stylus and then smiled at him. She didn’t seem to have any other words to offer in this conversation.
Gabe felt his window of opportunity closing. "Before I go, can I use your restroom?"
The woman nodded and pointed off toward a door to her right. "Just through those doors. Would you like to leave a phone number, sir?"
"No, thanks. The people you are trying to pass along that message to? They know how to get in touch with me."
“As you wish.”
"Actually, hang on—no need to have anyone reach me. I'll just come back in the morning and speak with someone then. I don't really like waiting around by the phone, you know?"
"Very good, sir."
Gabe headed for the door and pushed it open. The receptionist’s eyes trailed him the whole way. Her muted attention unnerved him, and he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
He saw a pair of unisex bathrooms on his right, and a set of unmarked doors on his left. Three of them. Most interesting was that the third door on the left had no knob and no keypad. That had to be the one. Unless this was another part of the “hiding in plain sight” mystique.
He wondered where the security cameras might be concealed, and if they were constantly monitored or if their feeds dumped straight into archival databases.
Gabe removed a small plastic device from his back pocket and walked it over to that door. He'd always been addicted to gadgets and had long since been fascinated by the types of cheap, made-in-China equipment sold in local "spy" shops and in the backs of catalogs. As he got older, he realized all of the equipment he was obsessed with was also made by legitimate companies, at a quality level that made the gear actually usable.
This device was similar, though it had been pieced together by some other assassin at the Branch — some Post Offices maintained a fully stocked “gear shack” accessible to members and recruits. When Gabe had come on board, he had had a difficult time convincing Ember that he wasn’t more excited about the gear shack than he was in being a recruit.
He held the device out in front of him, then began tracing a line around the edge of the door. He held the device up to the wall like it was a stud finder. When he reached waist height on the right side, an LED on the top of the device flickered. Gabe held it in place until the door clicked and drifted open.
"There we go," he whispered. "Let's see if the lions are in the den." Many modern office door locks were "smart," which meant that emitting a digital false-positive toward the inner mechanism with a custom device like this one would confuse the lock just long enough to open it.
Gabe slid inside the door into a stairwell. In near dark, he squinted as he climbed to the second floor. But when he touched the first step, automatic lights built into the walls flicked on. Very nice. On the next landing, he looked out through a cutout in the window to survey the floor. Inside was a large, open room, with cubicles throughout the middle and offices lining the exterior. Abuzz with activity as headset-clad people in business casual attire typed on keyboards. This looked like Golden’s switchboard operations team. Possibly their intelligence operatives, too. He wouldn’t find any of the servers he was looking for here.
Gabe continued to the next landing and checked through the window. On this floor, he could see what looked like a break room or lounge, with a kitchen, ping-pong table, couches, and one of the largest TVs he had ever seen. It reminded him of the flashy, cash-flinging startup that had taken over an old furniture store down the street from his apartment in Boulder.
But then, Gabe saw exactly what he wanted to see. At the far side of the room, a guy cruised by, clutching a rack-mountable fan that looked to be the right shape and size to slot into a server space.
Gabe pushed open the door into the break room. There were about a dozen people in here, filling their water bottles and drinking coffee and chatting on phones while they reclined on the couches. They maybe looked like assassins, but Gabe couldn't be sure. Given the makeup of this break room, they could just as easily be software engineers taking a break during coding sessions.
He kept his head down and pushed through. A large window to his right overlooked the Golden Branch’s courtyard below.
It was quite a sight to see. A swimming pool, tennis court, benches under shady trees. Boulder Post Office didn't have anything as nice as this. Ironic, since Boulder was technically the more affluent town, but Golden chose to wear their wealth on their sleeve.
Gabe navigated through the room to follow the guy carrying the server fan down the hall. They entered a hallway, wide and littered with doors on either side. Gabe checked both ways and then positioned himself about twenty feet behind his target. The man stopped at a closed door with a plaque on it reading personnel records. Perfect. Exactly what Gabe was looking for, if he wanted to find the person with the initials RHF who had transferred Ember's contract to someone else. The guy—seemingly not noticing Gabe—slipped inside the room and shut the door behind him. It locked shut when it closed.
Gabe paused in the hallway, hands on his hips. How could he get access to that room? It had a key lock; old school style. While there weren’t any security cameras pointed directly at it, that didn’t mean there weren’t eyes on the area.
Breaking in there would require care and privacy. He would at least have to wait until Mr. Server Fan exited the room.
Before Gabe could come up with a way to cleanly and quietly break in, a finger tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled around. There were two guys standing opposite him: one white, one black. The white guy was a lanky redhead, the black guy muscular and with a swirl of grimness encircling him. Gabe thought he might've recognized the black guy, maybe from the all-Club meeting from a couple of months ago. But he couldn't be sure. With a couple hundred Club members spread across six Branches, a lot of people looked vaguely familiar.
"Are you lost?" the white guy asked.
"Yes. I was looking for the bathroom."
The black guy put his hands on his hips, his massive chest straining the limits of his long-sleeved T-shirt. “You know you're on the third floor, right?"
“Am I?” Gabe said, pushing out a jovial chuckle. "I somehow found myself in the stairwell. I get lost easily."
