Omega Series Box Set 2

by Blake Banner

  I dodged a head butt, took a knee to my floating ribs and thumbed the magazine release. I let the weapon go and as he staggered back I pulled the Fairbairn & Sykes from my boot and lunged at him, gripping the back of his neck with my left hand, bringing the blade over the rifle and ramming it home into his throat. Death by suffocation is one of the worst ways to go. So I cut hard left, severing the artery, and unconsciousness and death came fast, as the blood drained from his brain.

  There was absolute stillness. I pulled the Sig from my belt, stepped into the room and flipped on the light.

  SIXTEEN

  There was a woman sitting on the floor, in her thirties, in jeans and a blouse, pressed into the corner, hugging two children. Her eyes were bright with anger, confusion and reproach. The kids were beyond the point of weeping, but their faces were wet with tears and they were clinging to their mother, watching me with small, terrified faces. In that moment I knew with absolute certainty that what I was doing was wrong, on the deepest level. But I was equally certain that I had no other option.

  I said, “Where are they?”

  She stared, like my question was the most insane thing she had ever heard. “Where are they?” She looked around the room. “You have killed everybody!”

  “Alpha, Beta, Delta…your…”

  I couldn’t say it. She shook her head. “You’re insane. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  She shook her head again. “No… No, I will not tell you!”

  I realized I had my Sig in my hand. I put it in my waistband, behind my back. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  She pulled her kids closer, curled her lip and spat the words at me, “Fuck you!”

  Realization dawned, and with it rage. I said, “He sent you here, with the kids, with Captain Bob, but he stayed in Malibu.” I said it half to myself. “Son of a bitch.” Then I focused on her face, the tortured mix of fear, hatred and confusion. “You don’t know, do you? You don’t know who he is. He told you you’d be safe here. Did you come in convoy? A display of strength, the car with his family in it. It was all designed to draw me into a trap. He used you, his wife and children, as bait.”

  Her face had gone like stone. In the distance I could hear choppers. I shook my head. “I am not your enemy. You’re sleeping with the enemy. Take my advice, get a divorce, get away from him, get your children to safety. He is not who you think he is.”

  I ran down the stairs and burst out through the door. It was too late. There were three of them, hovering over the woods, making the trees bow and toss in the downdraft. Clouds of dust billowed from the parking lot. Then their spots came on and blinded me. I jumped down the steps, trying to find cover somewhere, so that I could run for the trees. But I knew it was hopeless. A voice in my head told me this was where it ended. Jim had been prophetic after all. He had told me, die well.

  I came up on one knee, aimed the ACR into the blinding spotlights, through the choking dust, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The magazine was empty. I pulled my Sig from my waistband and prepared to charge. If I was going to die, then I would take them with me.

  And that was when the heavy, 50 caliber machine gun opened up, tearing the night in half, screaming like torn steel over the whine and throb of the turbines. Stuttering savagely its message of merciless death. I should have thrown myself to the ground. I should have sought cover. But there was in that moment a berserker rage on me that I could not control. I screamed and hollered and bellowed like a demented demon, emptying my small, 9 mm slugs into invisible enemies hiding behind a furious, blinding glare of light. The heavy machine gun hammered in my ears, but I was immortal, indestructible in my rage and not a single bullet hit me, or even fell near me.

  And next thing my Sig was just clicking, empty, but the sky was filled with exploding fireballs, and tortured, twisting, screaming steel was raining down on the forest and on the parking lot. Waves of burning air hurled me back. I covered my head and my face with my arms and ran, falling back to the shelter of the house, telling myself I had a shot in a million and punctured a fuel tank.

  Another explosion shook the building. The 50 cal kept stuttering, spitting. Rotors stuttered, a turbine whined out of control and a third chopper hit the ground and exploded.

  Then everything was silent, but for the angry roar of flames. I rammed another magazine in the Sig and stepped out. The sky was orange with fire and the woods and the parking lot were littered with the shattered, twisted remains of three helicopters, and the burning, mangled remains of the men who had come to kill me.

  I had not done this with a lucky shot from a 9 mm.

  Then I saw him and almost laughed. Njal, all six foot six of him, with a 50 cal machinegun on his shoulder, walking toward me through the wreckage with a smoking cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

  He raised a hand. “Hey hey, all good?”

  I shook my head. “No. We have to get out of here. Every cop in the state is going to be swarming over this place in the next twenty minutes. You just shot down three choppers.”

  He shrugged. “Yuh, you so slow. They would have got you. You should have been out five minutes before.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Thanks.”

  “OK.”

  We started walking back toward the drive. I said, “Fenninger wasn’t there. He used his wife and his kids as decoys to lure me here.”

  “So where is he?”

  “I’m guessing he’s at home.”

  He stopped on the path and pointed into the trees. The flames from the choppers were dancing in his eyes. “My vehicle is here. You gonna go an’ get him? You need help?”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ve got this now.”

  He smiled. “OK. Do it this time, yuh?”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  He disappeared in among the shadows and the undergrowth and I ran the rest of the way to my car. I brought back the Emperor and threw it and the rest of my stuff in the trunk. I reversed out of the trees and sped silently back toward the Old Topanga Canyon Road. Far off in the night I could hear the wail of sirens. I forced myself not to speed, to drive at a leisurely pace, winding down out of the mountains with my heart pounding and the vast glow of L.A. rising over the darkness of the hills on my left, and the vast blackness of the ocean ahead of me. I stabbed a Camel in my mouth and lit up.

  My mind was racing. They had played me, but they still didn’t know it was me. They still believed I was somebody sent by Marni and Gibbons. If they had known it was me, Ben would have made sure the trap was better, and the troops more numerous and better led. He would not have left the operation in the hands of Captain Bob. But now, now they would know. Once they found out what had happened, Ben would recognize my handiwork. He would know it was me.

  I still had a little time. There would be a mopping up operation, an assessment of the damage, a report back to the brass. So I still had time.

  I hit the end of the Topanga Canyon Boulevard doing fifty and did not pause. I jumped the red light, my tires screamed and I surged from fifty to a hundred, thundering in silence along the Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu. I checked my watch. It was just after midnight, and there was hardly any traffic. I made it to the intersection with Wildlife Road in just over six minutes, slowed hard and turned against the lights, then cruised at a leisurely twenty miles an hour, with my heart pounding, until I came to Fernhill Drive, opposite Fenninger’s gate. I stopped on the corner, killed the engine and climbed out to sit on the hood. I lit another Camel from the butt of the first and gave myself a few minutes to calm down. There was a breeze coming in off the ocean. It moved the tall palms silhouetted against the moonlight, cooled my skin and carried with it the quiet strains of big band jazz.

  I sucked on the cigarette, inhaled deeply and tried to locate the source of the music. Fenninger’s house was floodlit. The lights played on the Russian vine that spilled over his white fence, and touched t
he leaves of the giant oak outside his gate. I stuck my left hand in my pocket and strolled across the road. As I approached his big, white metal gates I could hear distinctly that the music was coming from his house. There was a heat in my belly that I could barely control. In my mind I could see the pain in his wife’s eyes; the pain and the fear in her eyes and her children’s. He had knowingly put them in harm’s way, deliberately used them as bait to catch a killer, and meanwhile, to protect his own sorry ass, he’d arranged a party here.

  I walked back to my car pulling my cell from my pocket and dialed El Toro. Maria answered.

  “It’s me, El Gringo.”

  “You don’t like that name.”

  “It’s growing on me. You owe me a favor.”

  “I know it. The cops just left. Don told them he did it, protecting me and the hotel. They told him they would not prosecute.”

  “Good for him. You’ll get respect now. Nothing earns respect like unbridled violence.”

  “You want payback?” There was a smile in her voice.

  “Yeah. I do. But I’m willing to pay. I need you to organize four girls and send them to a party in Malibu, within the hour. It pays double their usual rate. But, Maria, they have to be real lookers. And swingers.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “Is for you?”

  I couldn’t keep the hatred from my voice. I snarled, “No, it’s for Aaron Fenninger and his guests.”

  “Aaron Fenninger?” She sounded intrigued. “You’re full of surprises.”

  “You have no idea. Send them in a limo, charge it to expenses. I need them here within the hour.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re on their way.”

  I hung up, dropped the butt on the hard top, crushed it with my foot and returned to sit on the hood of the Zombie and wait. Forty minutes later a stretched white limo rolled into the street and cruised down toward Fenninger’s place. I hailed it and pointed at his gate. It pulled up and I opened the door for the girls. They climbed out. They were gorgeous, but they looked bemused. I smiled and said, “Earn your pay, girls. Laugh and giggle for the camera.” I buzzed on the intercom at the gate, but stayed out of view. A woman’s voice answered and I put a smile in my voice for her. “Mr. Hanks here to see Mr. Fenninger.”

  There was a little laugh, but nothing happened. Then a man’s voice came on. He sounded drunk. “Tom? Is that you?”

  I did a fair imitation of his voice and shouted, “I brought you a gift! A thank you for not inviting me to your soirée! I am hurt, but not yet wounded! Say hello, girls!”

  The girls laughed and waved at the camera. I heard more laughter over the intercom. “You damn fool! This isn’t… It’s just an informal gathering. Ah, come on in and have a drink!”

  The gate started to roll back. I signaled the chauffeur to wait and the girls to go on in. I followed them down a path by the side of the house. At the end, I could see a floodlit lawn and a turquoise pool reflecting the lights from the house. The music was louder and I could hear voices, mainly male, talking and laughing. It was a warm sound, civilized, friendly. I gave a whistle and the girls stopped and turned to me. I grinned.

  “Whatever you expect to make tonight, there’s a five grand bonus if you are really outrageous. If you manage to shock me, I’ll double it.”

  They looked at each other. It was all the encouragement they needed. They were already stripping as they ran for the pool, and I was already filming them on my phone. Fenninger came out from the back of the house, saw the four naked girls and burst out laughing. They all hugged him and he was loving it, laughing, kissing them and slapping their asses. I got it all. Then they were off, jumping into the pool, splashing around and squealing. He followed them, still laughing.

  I held back and saw a few other people step onto the lawn. A couple of them were actors and actresses, others I couldn’t see. I heard somebody ask, “Did you say Tom was here?” And Fenninger turned, searching for his new guest. I was still in shadow, with my phone in front of my face. He laughed and moved toward me. “What are you doing, you crazy son of a bitch?”

  I said, “I’m making a new movie for world wide release.”

  He frowned. He didn’t recognize the voice. I put the phone in my pocket and stepped toward him, smiling. “Hello, Aaron. How are you? I have just seen your wife and your kids. They send their regards and hope you’ll be able to join them soon.”

  He went white. The actor next to him, famous for being urbane, was frowning in an urbane sort of way, with a smile woven into it. It was an expression that was ready to move in any direction it needed to, once he knew who I was. I looked at him and said in my most reasonable voice, “You will forgive us, this is a very delicate, family matter and I am afraid it can’t wait. It needs to be discussed now.” I turned back to Fenninger. “Your wife and children are very anxious to find out what is happening, Aaron.”

  His mouth was working, but no sound was coming out. He glanced at his pal for support, but his pal’s instinct was telling him that Fenninger’s house was not a place he needed to be right then. “Perhaps,” he said, in his distinctive, urbane way, “I had better leave you to it. It’s getting kind of late anyhow.” He turned to Fenninger. “Listen, thanks for a great evening. Next one’s at Sly’s.”

  I called after him by his name. He stopped and looked at me, like his name was a Ming vase and I was mauling it with dirty hands. “Maybe you could spread the word.”

  He took my meaning and nodded. Meanwhile, the girls had got hold of their phones from their bags and were photographing themselves and each other wet and draped over a lot of alarmed looking celebrities who were rapidly gathering their stuff and making their way toward the gate. One of them, a cute ninety-pound doll who in the movies can take down a gorilla with a single punch, gave Fenninger a kiss on his cheek and said, “If I am in any of those pictures, Aaron, I’m going to need them by morning. You understand that, don’t you honey?”

  He nodded. He looked very sick. He knew that her lawyers were the least of his worries right then. I said, “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’ll take care of everything.”

  She gave me a once over that said I wasn’t offensive because I didn’t exist. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the man who is going to recover those photographs. Be nice to me.”

  She aborted a smile and left. Suddenly we were alone with the four naked women in the pool. I grinned at him. “Strip naked and get in the water.”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  He stared at me but didn’t move.

  “There were twenty men, ten outside and ten inside. I killed them all, including Bob. Your wife and kids were barricaded in the bedroom at the top right of the patio, on the galleried landing. I didn’t kill them.

  “Bob called for reinforcements. They sent three choppers. I brought down all three of the choppers.” I held up my right hand. It was caked with blood. “This blood is Bob’s. Now take off your clothes, get in the pool and look like you’re having fun, or I will take my knife, disembowel you and lynch you with your own intestines.”

  He stripped and got in the pool. The girls were all over him. I filmed it all. After two minutes I stopped filming and grinned at the girls, who really did look as though they were having a ball. “Now take him inside and show him a good time. Film it. And, Aaron?” I leered at him. “Do whatever you have to do, snort whatever you need to snort, but make it convincing.”

  He swallowed hard and nodded. As they moved toward the house I held back one of the girls. She smiled at me. I said, “Get everything on camera. Everything. Especially if he snorts. Got it?”

  She winked at me and ran after her friends. I sent what I had so far to Gantrie, told him to expect more, and to give it worldwide exposure first thing in the morning. Then I sat and had another cigarette, watching the peaceful lapping of the pool under the trees. Inside I could hear the girls laughing and squealing. I gave them fifteen minutes, then collected up the
ir clothes and their purses and carried them inside.

  The room was huge, with a high ceiling and modern, cream and white Scandinavian furniture scattered over parquet floors. In the center there was a copper fireplace, similar to the one at the vineyard. Fenninger was sitting naked on the sofa, snorting a line of coke . He had three girls draped around him doing things that no girl who expects to go to Heaven should ever get caught doing. The fourth was filming it all.

  I dumped their clothes on a chair and collected their cells. There were general moans of complaint that the party was just getting started. I ignored them and sent the photographs and films they had to Gantrie. When I’d finished I said, “You got cash in your house?”

  He looked at me like I was the scum on the scum on the sole of his shoe. “Really? That’s what this comes down to? Money?”

  “Have you got cash in your house?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. It’s in the safe. Ten grand?”

  “Give it to the ladies.”

  He looked at me for a long time, like he was trying to work out what I was about. In the end he got up and crossed the room to a blond wood door. He opened it and went inside. I said to the girls, “Get dressed. Go home. This stops being fun now.”

  They started dressing. After five minutes, Fenninger came out with a wad of cash. He gave it to the girls and they left, still giggling but trying to suppress it. When they’d gone, Fenninger sat and watched me in silence.

  I said, “Did you call them?”

  “You knew I would.”

  “Are they in L.A.?”

  “They flew in when they heard about Intelligent Imaging Consultants.”

  “Are they coming, or are they sending men?”

  His face flushed with anger. “What men? Do you know—have you any conception?” He stopped, as though he had asked me a question, then screamed at me, “Have you any conception of how many men you have killed tonight?”

  A wave of nausea swept over me. My skin went cold and prickled. It was a terrible question to be asked. When I answered my voice was husky and didn’t sound to me like my own voice. “They were trying to kill me.”