by Heskett, Jim
Fagan slid her hand into the bag and came out holding a Ruger Mark III pistol. She kept it on the table, finger on the trigger, barrel pointed at Ember. While the gun was pointed in her direction, Fagan kept her gaze locked on Ember’s face, sitting back in her chair so she could survey all of Ember at once. Her face showed no expression — an easy feat considering half of her face was completely dead. She kept her head still and her one good eye focused on a single point. Ember had seen this before, when Fagan had given a lecture to a bunch of Boulder recruits about how to keep several unstable variables in view at once by honing peripheral vision skills. Ember just never thought it would be used on her.
“So this is it,” Ember said, and she was careful not to react. Instinct told her to sit up straight and put her hands on the table, but she didn’t want to make any sudden movements. Fagan had her locked at point blank range. From the tip of the barrel to Ember’s forehead was about forty inches of straight-line distance. If she even flinched, there was a good chance Fagan could put the bullet in her before Ember knew it had happened.
She felt vindicated about bringing her Custom Enforcers into Fagan’s house, yet now the irony was that she had been totally unprepared to actually use them. They were stored safely behind her, at least a second-and-a-half before they’d be ready to press triggers toward her mentor. The safeties were on, rounds chambered in each.
“I’m very sorry about this,” Fagan said.
“Week six,” Ember said. “Only one Branch left: Boulder. I knew this was coming, but I had hoped it wouldn’t be you. I considered the idea, really, but I guess I didn’t want it to be true. With my luck though, it should have been obvious.”
Fagan kept her eyes on Ember, finger on the trigger. She shrugged. “It had to be someone. I thought you at least deserved the respect of facing off against me. I take it as a burden, because I didn’t want anyone else in the Branch to have to kill one of their Branchmates. There’s been too much of that around the Club these last few weeks.”
Visions of Zach Bennett danced in Ember’s head. Awful visions of him alone; of him mourning Ember’s death; of having no one to protect him from Firedrake.
“Also, if you sent some recruit barely out of diapers, you know I wouldn’t hesitate.”
The old woman nodded. “That’s true. I don’t want any more killing than necessary.”
“And I do?” Ember asked.
Fagan paused. “Look, it’s — I’d rather —“
Ember cut her off, giving her the easy out. “So, this is it? You put a bullet in me and then just go about your day?”
The mentor shook her head. “I didn’t want this. No one wanted this. But this is how the trial by combat works. I spoke to Wellner weeks ago and asked him to put Boulder last in the order. I thought maybe you would die before now, or maybe Wellner would cancel it. But you haven’t, and he hasn’t, so here we are. This is what has to happen, according to the laws the founder established for us.”
“And even after you know the black spot was made illegal, you’re still going to carry it out? On your own mentee?”
The old woman pursed her lips and gave a slight shrug. Not enough to alter the angle of the gun’s barrel. “Wellner is President. It’s his call. I know not everyone in the Club or even in the government believes in being consistent and playing by the rules, but I do, and I believe in setting the right example for the recruits. I believe in the course the founder set, almost sixty years ago. Wellner says the black spot is still active, so it’s still active.”
Slowly, deliberately, Ember shifted her butt back in the chair to sit upright, then she inched her arms forward and put her hands close to the mug of tea. Fagan kept a close eye on the movement, but didn’t overreact, as Ember had assumed she wouldn’t.
“Well, like you said, it has to be someone. I’ve faced five and killed five. I’m glad it’s you. But, I do have to ask: can’t you just give me a pass on this one? I’ll walk out the door and be done with it. No one has to die in your kitchen today. Shit, you could even tell people you killed me. I have money enough to fly anywhere and no one would ever see me again. I’m not begging for my life here, Fagan. I’m begging for there to be one less killing as a result of all this. It doesn’t have to go on any longer.”
Fagan shook her head. “I know your name.”
“What does that mean?”
“I know you’re really Allison Campbell, from San Diego.”
A cold chill spread from Ember’s chest and then raced out from there, making her toes and fingertips tingle. She tried to look stoic, unmoved. “How long have you known?”
Fagan was unflappable. “For a while. You’re not the first fed to poke around the DAC. Maybe you won’t be the last. You’ve stuck around the longest, no doubt about that, Agent Campbell.”
“I prefer Ember.”
Fagan sighed. “I do, too.”
“Last cup of tea together, huh?”
“Yes. Unfortunately so.”
Ember pursed her lips and put her hands around the mug, the heat instantly seeping into the palms of her hands. In another second or two, she would have to let go.
“Okay,” Ember said. “I understand.”
She kept her eyes up, trying to keep Fagan occupied. Ember rolled her thumbs forward. The cup tilted. She gave it a shove, and the scalding tea flew across the table.
Fagan screamed when the liquid hit her face. Her eyes shut, neck twisting away from the pain. The gun went off.
Ember felt pinching fire on the left side of the lower part of her neck. Across the table, Fagan’s mouth was open in a grimace, her free hand reaching up to her face. Her chair was moving backward, as if she were trying to escape and regroup. Her feet hit the floor, and she pushed herself up as the chair collapsed on its back.
The gun went off again, but Ember didn’t feel the shot this time. It had missed.
She whipped a hand back and snatched one of her twin Enforcer pistols. As she brought it forward, she flicked off the safety and leveled it at Fagan, who was trying to aim the gun again after her sudden shift. Fagan was still blinking, still blinded.
Ember pulled the trigger. One time only. She forced herself not to hesitate, for fear that she wouldn’t be able to carry out the task.
She didn’t miss.
The bullet entered Fagan’s dead eye on the right side. The shot blasted like a cannon in this small space of the kitchen. It was far too much gun for the job, but Ember was used to the power. She’d trained with them, knew them like the back of her hand. The recoil was powerful, but nothing she hadn’t expected.
They were the weapons Fagan herself had given her. Ember tried not to think about that.
As Fagan’s head snapped back, she stumbled in that direction, arms rising. Gun still in her hand. The older woman took a full step back and collided with the kitchen counter. A jar of chocolate chip cookies rattled and bumped into a plastic tub filled with powdered sugar.
For the briefest of moments Ember wished she could take it back, to remove the bullet lodged in Fagan’s head and once again try to talk it out.
Then Fagan’s arms went slack, and she slid down to the tiled floor. Her head lolled forward, with blood dripping down onto her cheek, splatting her robe. The old woman’s shoulders did not rise and fall. Her head stayed down, pointed at the floor, with a severe frown painted on half of her face.
Ember stood and looked at the pistol in her hand. It occurred to her that up until this moment, during this entire six-week ordeal, she had not yet fired either of her Enforcers. The first time she had used them in over five weeks was to kill her own mentor.
Now the adrenaline and dopamine kicked in and Ember felt lightheaded. She pushed the chair back and gasped for air, as her pumping chest made it hard to breathe. Tightness came all over her body, like a series of nerve pinches.
Across the room she went, her legs moving but feeling like she were gliding on roller skates.
Ember looked down at the old woman, sitt
ing slumped on the floor, blood collecting on her front. Ember’s eyes flicked up to a framed mirror in the kitchen, and she could see a line of blood trailing down onto her own shirt. Fagan’s bullet had passed through Ember’s left trapezius muscle, taking a chunk of flesh halfway between her neck and shoulder. It was as if something had taken a small bite out of her.
As soon as she noticed it, the feeling came. She rotated her arm and a shooting blast of pain registered in her mind, but it hadn’t immobilized her. Being right-handed would help, since the shot had been to her left side. With soap and water and a few stitches, she would be okay. Ember grabbed a napkin on the table and pressed it against the wound, making her grimace.
Again, Ember looked down at her mentor. This woman, who had taken Ember under her wing, had guided her and provided direction. This woman she had known for three years, who had never been untrue to her. This woman who had never wanted anything for Ember other than to be a good member, a good Branchmate.
Ember slid down to one knee. First Charlie, then Gabe, then Isabel, and now Fagan. They were all gone. All the people Ember had come to rely on during her time in the Denver Assassins Club. They were all erased now, and she had no one left.
Ember set her pistol on the floor and her head in her hands and wept. She had never felt so alone in her life.
Chapter Five
WELLNER
DAY TWO
Wellner stepped off the elevator in the Denver Consolidated Holdings building. In a suit, with a shower and shave this morning. Still a little hungover, but trying to keep his chin up and his eyes open. Two security guards trailed him, leftover from his detail after the attempt on his life three weeks before. The other two had been reassigned to something else days ago. Wellner didn’t even know where or why, because he’d been on full autopilot for a solid week now.
Once they had all stepped off the elevator, Wellner turned around and held up a hand. “You guys can wait in the break room, okay? I think I can manage checking email and signing documents on my own.” He had tried not to let the sourness in his stomach make him sound any less confident. And he didn’t know why he kept worrying about what his personal guards thought.
He had much bigger worries on his mind.
As Wellner cruised down the hall, he passed Jules Dunard’s office. Fifty feet down the hall and to his left, he kept a revolver in his office. He wanted to grab it, rush back here, and put a bullet in her. What would her security detail do if such a thing happened? Shoot it out with his security detail, like two chess players sending their knights to do battle in the center of the board?
She had to know he’d attempted to have her killed last week. But days had elapsed without a word from her about it. Why hadn’t she said anything? There had to be some sort of plan brewing in Jules’ twisted mind.
Simply letting it go? Not the Jules Dunard Wellner knew. No way.
He flexed his fists and kept his eyes forward, walking past her door, despite the lethal thoughts dancing in his head. That was one catastrophe he could wait to deal with. For a few hours, at least. There were other problems just as catastrophic on the docket today.
Wellner opened up the waiting room to his office to see his secretary Naomi at her desk, looking stunning in a form-fitting business suit. Her hair was up, exposing the pale flesh of her slender and smooth neck. He tried not to stare, but, as usual, found it impossible. He was perpetually stunned by how a simple look at her could make him realize he’d forgotten the breadth of her beauty. Also, he knew focusing on her good looks was a weighty distraction.
She stood, and immediately he realized something was wrong. “Good morning, sir. I have… news. It’s not good.”
“Is there an angry mob outside the front of the building?”
She seemed unfazed by his gallows humor. “No, but there was an incident this morning. Members of Parker and members of Golden. There was an attack at the Golden Post Office, before dawn. Just a couple hours ago. The retaliation in Parker came minutes later.”
“How many hurt?”
“Most of them.”
He titled his ear toward her to make sure he'd heard her correctly. “What? Most of them?”
“Ten dead, close to twenty injured. The police are already on scene. A few of the living and wounded managed to escape, but several are in police custody. I’m trying to get more information, but it’s going to be difficult to find out what the police know.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and adjusted his glasses. “I need the names of those arrested. It's time to make some calls.”
“I’ve been trying, David. No one can get me that info.”
Without knowing what to say, he stumbled into his office without another word. He dropped his coat on the chair across from his desk and sat, then jiggled his computer mouse to wake up the computer.
“Sir?” Naomi called from the other room.
“I need a minute,” he said, his voice sounding chalky and weak. A moment later, Naomi appeared in the doorway, and she closed the door for him. Eyes down, not looking at him directly.
Everything was falling apart. And the pace of the collapse had accelerated. Isolated incidents had turned into daily skirmishes, and now the police were involved. Poking around, asking questions. Normally he would have called Marcus Lonsdale immediately in a situation like this. Marcus had an uncanny ability to make inquiries into the DAC go away, but there were now multiple murders. Mass shootings. Active police involvement. Marcus couldn’t make all that vanish.
Wellner didn’t think any of these assassins would talk, but the veil of silence wouldn’t last forever. Not with police reports piling up. Someone in local law enforcement would put it all together and call in the feds, sooner or later.
When the login screen came up, he typed his username and passcode and then opened the window to access the internal message board. A red video icon near the bottom would allow him to make an emergency public address to all six Branch message boards. A way to send an urgent notification to every single remaining member of the Club.
And Wellner didn’t even know the total count. A month ago, he knew. Now, there wasn’t an accurate way to keep track. Based on all the various reports, it seemed about half the DAC were either dead, hospitalized, or in custody. The number of active members shrank each day, for sure.
His finger hovered over the mouse button. He knew he should say something to salvage this situation, but what? What could he even do to make all these unruly and aggrieved assassins behave? What could he do to promise them that the FBI, CIA, NSA, and others weren’t about to swoop in and send everyone to jail?
Wellner bit his lower lip, sucking deep breaths and trying to push through the cloudy hangover, turning his thoughts choppy and muddled.
The intercom buzzed. “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I thought you’d want to hear this. Ember Clarke is here to see you.”
Chapter Six
EMBER
She waited for the nod from Pretty Young Thing Naomi, then she opened the door into Wellner’s office. Ember wondered what the voluptuous coffee-fetcher would do once this all fell to pieces. If she got a secretary job somewhere else, she couldn’t list the DAC as an item in her work history. A glaring blank spot in her resume.
There was something in Wellner’s expression Ember recognized but couldn’t place. He’d worn it from time to time during the three years they had known each other. A little mischievous, a little guilty, a little like he had a secret he would never share. Ember had seen this look before and had come to associate it with people who had an innate social awkwardness that made looking people in the eye challenging, but she’d always brushed it off.
Neck wound aching, she had stitched it together herself last night, and the bleeding had stopped, but any time she tried to lift her left arm, she got a painful reminder of the bullet that had grazed her there. Almost six weeks ago, the sniper Xavier Montrose had shot Ember in the thigh in a Boulder safe house. But that bullet had been a skin-level
graze. She had limped for a couple days and then felt fine. This remnant of Fagan’s shot was much deeper. Every time Ember moved, she would receive a reminder that she had ended the life of someone she considered one of her closest friends. One of her heroes.
“Morning, Ember.”
“Yes, it is. Not a good one, but it's what we’ve got.”
“What can I do for you?”
She studied his face. Puffy, bloated, his skin pale and shiny. He most definitely didn’t look okay, and she wasn’t surprised. His precious DAC was falling apart around him, and he didn’t seem capable of doing anything about it. The rumor was he’d spent the last several days holed up in his house, drunk and avoiding all of his responsibilities.
Ember reached into her pocket and produced two gold coins. The first she set on Wellner’s desk. His eyes drifted down to it, a confused frown on his face.
“What’s that?”
“The DAC token belonging to my mentor, Fagan. She was the sixth of six.”
“She’s dead?”
“I put a round through her eye in her kitchen yesterday evening, before she could shoot me. The black spot trial by combat is now complete. Xavier Montrose, Lydia Beauchamp, Quinn Voeller, Veronica Acevedo, Brody Jenks, and now Fagan. And, you know what, I never even knew her last name.”
“Fagan was her last name,” Wellner said, looking down at the coin. “Beverly Fagan. She didn’t want it listed on any official documents. I think I was maybe the only person who knew it.”
“You could have stopped this at any time. None of this had to happen, but you let it go on to the end. For what? So the archives would show how you followed the letter of the law, even though the letter was bullshit?”
“I only found out about the black spot being made illegal recently. I promise you that’s true. If I had known before… maybe things would have been different. But, everything I did, I did in the best interest of the Club. Or what I thought was in the best interest. Hindsight being 20/20 and all that.”
