The Daredevil Corpse (The Departed Book 2)

by Sean Arthur Cox

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” I said.

  “Really,” he said. “I’m sacrificing my valuable time for you. These jobs are all for your benefit, you know.”

  “Yeah,” I said, incredulous. “The goodness of your heart and all of that. You get nothing out of it.”

  “Precisely,” he said, and once more I didn’t believe him.

  “Hold on a second, I’m kind of busy at the moment,” I said. I took a moment to check the mirror. She was still on my tail, and traffic grew heavier.

  “Dan, put it on speaker phone,” I said.

  “How?”

  “Oh, for the love of… Give it to me.”

  I snatched the phone. “Take the wheel,” I said, and he did, but none too well.

  I put the phone on speaker and tossed it back to him, reclaiming the wheel just in time to lose a side view mirror to a U-Haul that got a little too close for comfort. I was lucky I didn’t lose more.

  “Shit!” Dan shouted.

  “Well, next time you take the wheel, keep some space between us and other cars. You’re the stunt driver. This should have been a piece of cake for you.”

  “I’m a daredevil!” he shouted. “Not a stunt driver! I go really fast in straight lines and jump over things! When’s the last time you saw someone dodge traffic down a ramp?”

  He had a point.

  “What the devil is going on?” asked the Marquis’s disembodied voice.

  “Uh, we’re sort of in the middle of a car chase right now,” I said.

  “And you’re speaking on your cellphone? That’s illegal. Are you trying to get a ticket?” he asked.

  “I’m in a car chase right now,” I snapped back. “I’m pretty sure when the police find out, they’ll be more concerned with the reckless driving than they will be the phone.”

  “Why are you in a chase?” he asked. “Is it the police?”

  “No,” I said. “Funny thing. Our friend Dan here owes money to the mob, and they may have kinda sent some contract killers after me.”

  “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “Make a left on Broad Street,” Dan said.

  “Deadly serious,” I said. “This is at least- Damn it!”

  I slammed the brakes and turned hard, almost flipping the car.

  “Tell me sooner next time I’m about to miss a turn, Dan.” I regained my composure as best I could. The road ahead was clear for a couple of blocks, which was a nice change of pace. I could focus on the call and putting distance between us and the minivan. “This is at least the third attempt on my life today.”

  “That we know about,” said Dan.

  “Thanks for that ray of sunshine, Dan. Yes, that we know about.”

  “Oh dear,” the Marquis said. “That does make things more difficult.”

  “Yeah, it does, so you can imagine my sudden sense of urgency when I ask how things are coming along with the stunt.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Tracking down the items for those surprise additions to the stunt today will take a little longer. We’ll need to organize hoops and pyrotechnics for them. Setting those up will take a bit longer. The suit you requested can be obtained, but I will need your measurements to ensure it fits.”

  “One block up, turn left,” Dan said. I did, running a red light and nearly taking out a subcompact in the process.

  “Just buy a large one,” I said. “If it’s that important, we can have it tailored on the day. Surely a man like you has a top notch, high speed tailor on call.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Which just leaves the matter of the bomb. Now I know people who can make such a thing but…”

  “I don’t want the details,” I said. “I know too much about you for my liking already.”

  “Very well,” he said. “An anonymous insider to your camp will sell you out shortly, striking a deal with the dregs of the media and auctioning off the GPS coordinates to the highest bidders.”

  “Bidders?” I said.

  “Right in one block,” Dan shouted.

  “Why are we making things complicated?” I said as I cut the turn so tight I bounced over the curb. “We don’t need bidders. What happened to just selling the info for two fifty a pop?”

  “This is better,” said the Marquis. “This is more profitable and more secure. Bidder credit card information is pre-recorded to ensure no one backs out. And I thought to myself, why take the first one hundred buyers? Why not take the best hundred buyers at the time the information is released? It will be much more difficult for them to sell our plans to the authorities if they do not even know that they will have the information to sell until the day of the event. Some people will pay a great deal more than two hundred fifty dollars. This way, our bidders will feel compelled to consistently up their ante when they see others raising their bids. They need not know how many people will get the information. Let their fear of being left out drive the market up, up, up!”

  That sounded like the Marquis I knew.

  “Regardless, those are details for another time. I shall leave you to your car chase. Be safe, at least until the big day.”

  With that, the phone went dead, and I was free to focus on the road to make sure we didn’t go dead with it. Just in time, too. In the distance, I heard the wail of sirens. It seemed our merry chase had drawn some unwanted attention from the local authorities. I figured it might, and I figured it would happen sooner, none of which made it easier to deal with them now.

  “What’s the plan, Dan?” I said, doing my best not to hit the bus of high school kids on their way to wherever it is busses of high school kids went at the end of day in the middle of summer, which could have been anywhere, I supposed.

  “We’ve been through this before,” he said. “I’m a daredevil, not a stunt driver. I don’t do car chases. I don’t do getaways.”

  “I thought you said those gangsters made you work bank robberies and stuff.”

  “Yeah, remember how I said I botched that job?”

  “Great. You don’t do getaways. You can’t answer a phone. What are you even good for?” I said and instantly regretted it.

  “Nothing, I guess. Sorry,” he said weakly and retreated into himself.

  I felt like a complete ass for it, and I wanted to say something, but I pushed it aside. I had bigger concerns at the moment. One more thing I needed to fix. I did my best to go no mind and hope something buried deep inside him kicked in, but my efforts didn’t really work. I needed to learn to control that. It would have been so convenient if I could slip into my client’s memories at will. Alas.

  I surveyed the surrounding traffic to see if I could find anywhere to hide, or at least cut off the hit woman from following me. Spotting a gap behind the car beside me, I slammed the brakes and fell back quickly, swinging the car wide across two lanes and disappearing onto an off ramp. I took a peek in the mirror behind me and didn’t see her car following. I would have liked to think I made good my escape, but I wouldn’t dream of hoping.

  “Are we safe?” Dan asked, not much louder than a whisper.

  “If I know nothing else about that woman, it’s that she’s persistent and clever. She’ll find us. Maybe not soon, but eventually.”

  He propped his head against the window and stared out into the city surrounding us. It wasn’t a good part of town. Slummy, and from the look of it, not far from an industrial district. Lots of alleys and abandoned warehouses I could maybe hide the car in. For all my hostility and criticism, Dan had actually done a pretty good job navigating, and I told him so. It did little to boost him back up, but a little was better than nothing at all. I prowled the streets looking for an appropriate spot and settled on a long-dead car garage. Pulling around to the rear, we forced open the back gate and drove in, waiting for the heat to die down. We may have escaped the police and the assassin for now, but they would be back. They knew what we were driving. The police would be on the lookout for us, and if she was smart, the assassin would be listening on their radio
frequencies to track us. That was a lot of attention to wait out.

  “Look, Dan, I know I’ve said it already, but I’m really sorry about what I said to you earlier. I was under a lot of pressure what with the police and the phone call and all the attempts on my life. You understand.”

  “Yeah, I get it,” he said. “No offense taken.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m going to stretch my legs a bit. Grab us some burgers. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  I thought about telling him no, that it wasn’t safe, that he should just listen to me and stay put, but I didn’t think that would sit well with him. “I’m going to sit here a bit longer. Let the heat die down. Then I’ll find us a room. If you’re not back by then, I’ll text you the address.”

  He nodded weakly.

  “Don’t go too far,” I said instead. “We may need to beat a hasty retreat.”

  “Yeah, no problem.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out, letting the door’s own weight close it behind him. The crunch of sneakers against gravel and broken glass let me know he was gone.

  What was I going to do? How was I going to hold this all together until the Marquis could get things set up? As mountains of stress piled high up on me, burying me beneath their crushing weight, I heard that voice scratching at the back of my mind.

  You know what will take that stress away, said the voice.

  Scratch, scratch.

  My hands quivered as the last of my adrenaline started to mix with something deeper, a need I was trying desperately to ignore.

  Scratch, scratch.

  Chapter 16

  OLIVIA

  TELL ME WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO

  Dan “Danger Man” Germany is one slippery, world-weary heroin addict, I’ll give him that. I’ve been patrolling the streets where I last saw him for who knows how long, but I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the man since. I’ve even expanded my search radius to the surrounding area, but no luck. I didn’t expect any success. After all, I’m just one person searching a considerable chunk of the city for one car. Still, it doesn’t hurt to hope.

  Desperate for any lead I can get, I turn on my police scanner. They should be looking for both of us. After all, it takes it at least two people to chase. Sure enough, the line is all abuzz looking for me and my missing quarry. The bad news is they haven’t seen him. The good news is they haven’t seen me either. I guess I’ll take my victories, no matter how small, wherever I can get them today.

  As I cruise up and down the streets for the umpteenth time, my secured phone rings, so I look for someplace nearby to pull over. I’m already wanted for the car chase, but no sense throwing a Using a Phone While Driving charge on top of it. I realize it’s the lesser charge and it’s like complaining that your towel is wet while the boat is sinking, but a person must have principles.

  After a quick glance around the area, I pull into the one place where a Sedona will blend in the most, the natural habitat of the urban mom-wagon: a Chik-Fil-A parking lot.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, kiddo,” comes a voice I’ve known almost my whole life. “How’s business going?”

  “Oh, it’s going fine,” I say, doing my best to sound like I don’t know what this is about. “How about yours? Aren’t you working today? An ambassador or something?”

  “Working on it right now,” Houston says. “I’m in the hotel. I’ve got the uniform on. Just waiting for the soup.”

  “Soup?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “The guy likes his soup, so I’m down in the hotel kitchen waiting to deliver it, after adding a secret ingredient, of course.”

  “Arsenic?” I ask, trying to prolong his story in hopes he forgets why he called.

  “Ricin,” he says. “You know better than that. Everyone checks for arsenic.”

  I do know better, but so long as I can keep the topic on him, he can’t focus on me.

  “Do you think he’ll tip?”

  “Probably,” he says. “All the guys in the break room say he’s very generous.”

  “That’s a shame,” I say.

  “What is?”

  “That he’s a good tipper. There aren’t many in the world. It’s a shame to kill one.”

  “I’m pretty sure tipping well doesn’t excuse selling state secrets,” he says.

  “I suppose your right,” I say, and sensing the conversation stalling, I grasp for something with more substance to keep him going. “Well, would it at least be considered bad form to keep the tip?”

  “Why would it be?”

  “You know, because he’s giving you a gratuity for the very thing that’s going to kill him. I don’t know. It seems wrong.”

  “It’s ironic, sweet heart, but not wrong. If I had a problem with people giving me money to kill people, I would be in the wrong career field, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t realize he’s paying for it.”

  “Which is what makes it ironic, but taking it is by no means unprofessional.”

  “I suppose.” Crap. Running out of steam, and the question of ethics and professionalism no doubt only restoked his reasons for calling. I need something with a story, something non-controversial. “How did you swing the uniform?”

  “Laundry room,” he says. “Snatched one right before the hotel loaded them on the truck to be cleaned. At least it’s not noticeably dirty.”

  I struggle to contain a giggle snort at the image of the stout, middle aged hit man in a bellhop’s uniform, with the epaulets and the gloves and hat, but I fail miserably. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just can’t shake the picture of you in that get up.”

  “It’s not as amusing as it sounds,” he says. “They’ve gone modern. It’s less traditional and fun. More of a glorified khakis and polo getup, really.”

  “That’s disappointing,” I say.

  “Speaking of disappointing, what have you been up to today?”

  “Nothing?” I say. I hope he buys it, but I’ve never been able to lie to him convincingly.

  “Are you sure you don’t mean protecting Dan Germany from assassins even though it’s highly unprofessional of you and I already told you not to?”

  “I might mean that,” I say sheepishly. “How did you know?”

  “Kiddo, the man was involved in a terrible car crash but didn’t get killed. There was a shootout in his apartment. No body there either. There were at least two attempts on his life by professionals, and he’s still walking. Makes an announcement about realizing he could go at any time.”

  “You know all that?” I ask. “How do you know all that?”

  “Because I’m in a bellhop’s uniform waiting around for soup. I have nothing better to do than poke around with what’s trending on the Internet. I saw Danger Man pop up, knew his name had come up in work circles, and you had some moral concerns about killing him. Of course I looked into it.”

  “Could be a coincidence,” I say because I’m apparently not only bad at lying but also at digging myself out of bad lies.

  “And then, of course, there was the high-speed chase involving a car much like yours, also in the same town where this other stuff is happening.”

  “There are extenuating circumstances.”

  “Sweetie, you have to work with these people. What reason could you possibly give to make up for that?”

  “They aren’t professionals, the guys coming for him.”

  “Guys?”

  “It’s a contest,” I say. “The mob, they hired this guy who calls himself ‘the Fist.’”

  “Never heard of him,” he says.

  “Me neither, so I looked into him, found some pictures. His reputation says he works cheap, but sloppy. Never traced back to him though. No consistent M.O.”

  “And…?”

  “And it’s because he runs a website on the dark hidden corners of the Internet. He posts a picture and a bounty, and random people hunt the person down for prestige and prizes. The wi
nner gets a portion of what he was paid for the hit, and he pockets the rest.”

  “So what? This is some sort of game to them?”

  “Exactly,” I say. “With scoreboards and everything.”

  “So, you have a dozen untrained killers-”

  “Over twenty,” I say. “There are twenty-two untrained killers.”

  “Twenty-two untrained killers all gunning for one guy, what, for the fun of it?”

  “That’s pretty much the gist.”

  “That’s not very professional at all,” he says.

  “I agree. So really, I’m not risking ruining professional relationships because these guys aren’t even professionals. It’s like I’m doing the field a favor by stopping them.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “They’re worse. They kill for fun and they’re eager to make a buck on the side. These people are dangerous. If they can’t get paid and get off killing Danger Man, don’t think for a second they won’t come gunning for the woman ruining all of their fun.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Anyway,” he says. “The reason I called. Cook out. Fourth of July. What are you bringing?”

  “That’s why you called?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Hanging out in this kitchen reminded me I need to get a menu together. I’m doing burgers and barbeque, obviously. Some sides. I was wondering if you could bring some potato salad?”

  “What?” The defensive walls of stress crumble around me and I can’t even process what he’s saying.

  “Potato salad. Can you bring some?”

  “Uhh, yeah. Sure, no problem.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see-”

  My mind snaps out of its daze and throws itself into gear as I’m about to hang up. “Hey, one more thing. Quick professional question.”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  “What do you do when you can’t find your target, particularly if he knows he’s being hunted down?” I ask.

  “Normally? Research. Call in favors. Visit his old haunts and talk to old associates? For your situation? I’d maybe get in on that auction.”