by S W Vaughn
Tom flicked the headset mike idly and leaned back in the van’s seat while he waited for a response. He’d said it mostly to fuck with Jerry, but his partner had been in that dump for a while now. Couldn’t be that much to go through here.
Another thirty seconds went by before Jerry said irritably, “Of course I am. I’ve been in for twenty minutes.”
“Well, hurry up. I’m bored as shit.”
Jerry didn’t respond. Typical.
Of course, his partner’s name wasn’t Jerry—and his wasn’t Tom. Code names were part of the deal. This was their fourth time out together, and he knew nothing about the guy personally. He did know that Jerry was a perfectionist and would take his sweet time, no matter what Tom said or did.
So he’d just talk, because he knew it bugged the shit out of the guy.
“What a friggin’ hicksville this place is,” he said, not caring whether Jerry participated in the conversation. “How can a club like that even stay open out here? Is everybody in Virginia into the freaky stuff, or what?”
“It’s an hour from D.C.,” Jerry said in his ear.
“Hey, you’re talkative tonight.”
“Helps me think.”
“Why, Jerry. Are you having a problem with some rinky-dink homegrown hick’s system?” Tom said. “Come on. The looks of that place, you should’ve been in and out in five minutes.”
“Check that camera by the door.”
Tom snorted, grabbed his night goggles, and zoomed in. “Huh,” he said. “That’s a PTZ. Probably cost more than the damned house, but so what? Any dickhead can buy an expensive camera.”
“He’s got the whole place wired. It wasn’t that easy cracking into the system—it’s not top shelf, but it’s close—and now I’ve got to fix all the video. If I’m not careful, this guy’s going to notice something’s off. Whoever he is.”
“What do you mean, whoever he is? You don’t know that already?”
“Our friend is one paranoid little man,” Jerry said. “Shreds all his paper. Registers his software under Bob Joe Smith. If that’s his name, I’ll eat this headset.”
“Bob Joe? Thought it was supposed to be Joe Bob.”
“Come on, Tom. That’s an easy one.”
He thought for a second. “Oh, I get it. BJs. Guy’s telling people to suck his dick. Cute.”
“He’s a hacker,” Jerry said. “A good one.”
“Terrific.” Tom sat up straighter and scanned the street. Still empty. “So are you saying you can’t handle him?”
“He’s not as good as me. But still…wait a sec. Okay, I’ve got a tap into the control room workstation at the club. Our friend’s trying to sort out the false alarm. But he’s checking the router controls for the cameras too. What are you looking for, friend?” Jerry paused, and there was a short burst of static. “He caught the lapse in the outside feed. Damn it.”
Tom had never heard Jerry swear before. It worried him a little. “Who is this guy?”
“Just a minute. Trying to find some eyes and ears in here…bingo. Webcam.” There was a pause, and then Jerry started humming under his breath. “Hello, friend,” he said softly. “Jesus, the guy looks like Marilyn Manson on steroids.”
“Who?”
Jerry sighed. “Like a bulked-up rock star freak.”
“Oh. So who is the guy?”
“I’m not sure. Let me get the audio up. I’ll patch you in.”
A minute later, there was another static burst. This one didn’t stop. Tom listened as Jerry messed with the feed, gradually peeling away some of the white noise. Then a male voice swam out of the hissing air.
“…couldn’t have been a power interruption. That wouldn’t have tripped only one alarm.”
“You’re talking out loud, Roman,” a female voice said. “Did you know that?”
The male sighed. “Can you get us some coffee? I’ll keep an eye on things.”
“Sure.”
The static cut off with a snap. “Holy shit,” Jerry said. “That’s Caesar.”
Tom frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. His real name’s Roman Blade.” There was no small amount of awe in Jerry’s voice. “I’m better than him, but only because he lost three years behind bars. Even then he wasn’t inactive. He got a phone into a federal prison somehow, and used it to break into a couple of Army servers. Then he dropped off the grid when he got out.”
“And resurfaced in Backwater, Virginia,” Tom said. “Wonderful. And you’re definitely better than him?”
“Yes. But I think we’re going to have to neutralize him.”
“Permanently?”
A pause. “I’d rather not,” Jerry said slowly. “Too high profile, and you know how they are about eliminating talent. Maybe we could—”
“We’ve got company.” Tom slipped the night goggles on again, then reached back and grabbed the Beretta from the holster behind the driver’s seat. “Pretty red Jag just parked at the curb, and…oh, look. Tall, flat-faced asshole in drug dealer casual, headed for the house. That’s the bouncer from the club. Looks pissed.” He went for the door handle. The guy wasn’t paying any attention to him—that was the beauty of an ambulance van. No one questioned it. “Want me to redirect him?”
“Let’s see what he does.”
Tom stayed ready to move and flipped on the exterior receiver, so they could hear what their new friend had to say. The bouncer leaned on the doorbell, waited about thirty seconds, and then knocked loudly. “Come on, freak,” he said. “I ain’t got all night.”
“Sounds like somebody’s not fond of Blade,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Jerry said in his ear. “That gives me an idea.”
“What?”
“Just wait.”
Jag-Boy punched the doorbell again. This time he only waited ten seconds before knocking harder, and then he tried the door. Of course, Jerry had locked it. “Blade! Get out here, you goddamned lying freak!” He kicked at the door jamb, then strode over to the right side of the porch and leaned out to see the garage—open and empty. “Fine,” he said. “Deal with you later.”
“Jag-boy’s leaving,” Tom said as the man crossed the porch and stomped down the steps. “Come on. Let me play with him.”
“No,” Jerry came back. “Not yet. He’s perfect.”
“For what?”
“Taking care of our problem,” Jerry said. “We already know who he is. Shep, I believe, is his name. So we’ll track him. Then once he confronts Blade and gives him a motive, we take our friend Shep out and set up a frame.”
Tom grinned. “And being an ex-con, he won’t pass go or collect two hundred dollars. Then he’s out of our way.”
“Exactly. And you can use your…talents, so we get everything Shep knows first.”
“I like this plan.” Whistling a little, Tom used the goggles to zoom in and snap a picture of the man getting into his car, and then the Jag’s license plate just before it peeled away. He’d been worried there for a second. These surveillance and retrieval missions were risky enough without going up against someone who had a shot at tracking their activities.
But one has-been, ex-convict hacker just wasn’t going to cut it.
Chapter 10
Shortly after the episode in the playroom, Ozzy decided to incorporate bourbon into his new routine.
It wasn’t quite a conscious decision. He’d gone out through the vestibule to check the parking lot, and suddenly his flask was in his hand. So he took a quick drink before he headed back inside. Then he did another circuit, and when he came around to the front entrance, it just seemed like time for another drink.
He told himself that he knew his limits, and he functioned fine when he was less than sober. There wasn’t much he had to do, anyway. Twice he’d caught signs of a fight trying to break out near the bar, and both times he went over and glared at the offending parties until they calmed down. His earpiece remained silent, and he was glad of that.
Just before closing time, he stepped
outside and drained the last of his flask. He was still fine, though. Barely buzzed.
He went back in—and almost walked right into someone heading out.
“Oh! Hey, I’m sorry.” The figure stepped back, and Ozzy recognized the girl who’d been crying earlier. Teryn. She looked up at him and smiled. “I remember you,” she said. “Sorry about before. I’m usually not so…uh, leaky.”
“No problem,” he said.
“Well, now we can meet properly.” She held out a hand. “Hey there. I’m Teryn.”
“Ozzy.”
As they shook, a small group of guests came toward them, headed for the exit. Teryn steered him aside before he could react. “You all right?” she said. “Looks like you had a rough night.”
“Not really.” Besides walking in on Blade, that was. “I’m just tired. It’s past my bedtime.”
She laughed. “You’re awful sweet for such a big guy.”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, I’d trust you to watch my back.”
“Thanks.” Her words brought Blade’s fierce expression to mind, the comment about not trusting him—and damn it, he wasn’t going to keep feeling guilty about that. He’d tried to apologize. Mostly to change the subject, he said, “Those boys give you more trouble tonight? I didn’t see them here.”
Her brow furrowed. “What boys?”
“The ones who were bothering you last night.”
“Oh.” She looked away fast. “Who said they were bothering me? They were guests, that’s all.”
“Then how did you know who I meant?”
“Look, you’re new here.” She turned back, and there was a panicked look in her eyes. “We’re probably not even talking about the same guys. I talk to a lot of guests, you know? Nobody was bothering me last night.”
You’re lying. From the way she was acting, he guessed they must have threatened her. Tomorrow night he’d pay closer attention, actively look for them. Have a little chat. “Okay,” he said aloud. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“What are we celebrating?”
Kat’s voice just behind him caught Ozzy off guard. That wasn’t like him. She came around to join them, and he said, “Peace and quiet.”
“It sure was.” Kat smiled and put a hand on his arm. “You’re perfect,” she said. “I knew you would be. Great job tonight.”
“Well—”
“You did just what you should have. Don’t even worry about that.”
“All right.” He managed a smile, and wondered how this woman he barely knew could put him at ease so fast—even when he was determined to beat himself up.
“And you, darlin’,” Kat said, turning to Teryn. “Holding it together?”
“I’m a lot better,” the girl said. “Just heading out now. I’m gonna go sit with Presley for a while, and I’ll probably stay the night. They bring in a bed for me if I ask.” She offered a shy smile and waved. “’Night, y’all. See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, hon.”
Ozzy watched her leave, and then raised an eyebrow. “Presley?”
“Her sister. Their momma was a huge Elvis fan.” Kat swept a long look around the nearly empty club. “So, I owe you an apology,” she said.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do,” she said. “I meant to check in on you now and again, to see how you were holding up. But I ended up playing hostess all night and never got away. I should’ve at least told you it wasn’t your fault. The false alarm, I mean.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.” For an instant she looked furious, but he sensed it wasn’t at him. “Anyway, you did just fine on your own. I’ll always appreciate that.”
“Well, you’re welcome.”
She laughed. “Knowing you is going to be a real treat,” she said. “But honestly, are you doing okay? You look like you been rode hard and put away wet.”
He nodded. “I’m just tired.” And drunk. But he was more exhausted than he’d realized, and he was starting to feel it now.
“Not too many all-night parties in the Army, huh?”
“No, ma’am. Unless you count sentry detail.”
Damn, but her laughter was intoxicating. “Well, you go on home and get some rest,” she said. “Try to sleep in. We’ll turn you into a night owl yet.”
They said goodnight, and Ozzy headed out to his bike. His eyelids felt heavy and hot. He probably could’ve lain down and fallen asleep right on the gravel. But his bed was a hell of a lot more comfortable, and home wasn’t that far away.
He could make it.
Chapter 11
Roman killed the last of the lights inside and went out the front, pausing to lock the exterior door. Kat had offered to stay while he reset the system, but he could tell she’d had a rough night with the new VIP. He wasn’t surprised—he’d pegged Corvair for a Dom at first sight, and an inexperienced one at that. So he insisted that she go home and take care of herself.
It frustrated him that he’d only found half of the problem. A simple code glitch had tripped the alarm, and a system reset would keep it from happening again. It almost seemed too simple. His distorted paranoia insisted that he run exhaustive diagnostics on the off chance some government faction was trying to break in. He’d resisted for now, but he would probably come in on Monday and run them anyway.
Still, he couldn’t figure out what happened to camera four. He knew he hadn’t imagined the lapse—the time readout was running one minute slow. The reset had fixed that, but it couldn’t tell him why the camera went out.
He didn’t like loose ends.
His truck huddled alone in the huge parking lot, making it look even more like a piece of shit than usual. He climbed in and started it, promising himself again he’d get something held together with more than rust and road grit, that didn’t conk out when the temperature dipped below 50. But there was always more gear to buy, more software to upgrade. He’d been half a step behind the best, sometimes further, ever since he lost three years of his life to a goddamned technicality.
Caesar had died in there. Now all Roman had left was survival…and revenge.
He’d avoided thinking about Stone for most of the night, but now the bastard was back to haunt him. As he drove the dirt road leading away from the club, he remembered the man’s half-assed attempt at an apology. How he’d said it was “obviously consensual.” No shit. Why the hell wouldn’t it be?
And downstairs, when he mentioned the going-away present. Stone said I didn’t.
No, he didn’t—not personally. Instead he’d gotten his guard buddy to lock three of the biggest thugs he could find in Roman’s cell with him for most of the night before his release. Stone had been conspicuously absent from the party. And Roman had been the piñata.
That was a place he didn’t want to go. He relived it enough when he managed to sleep.
He turned onto Route 50 and drove for a while, deliberately not thinking about anything to do with prison. He’d still have work to do when he got home. Agreeing to Shep’s demand had effectively doubled his workload, and soon he’d have to decide on an end game. Preferably one that kept Shep away from him permanently.
Just before the big blind curve, he slowed without thought—and realized something wasn’t right. There was a bright, stationary light ahead where there should’ve been darkness. This road ran through miles of fields before it hit town. There were no street lights, and the few-and-far-between houses were too far back from the road to throw that much light.
He slowed even more, thinking maybe someone’s car had broken down. But when he rounded the curve at a crawl, the road was clear. A single headlight shone from the field to the right, about twenty feet from the road. An overturned motorcycle.
And just beyond it, a dark heap that was almost definitely a person.
Roman considered just driving on and calling 911, even as he pulled over and put his flashers on. He really wasn’t into the good Samaritan stuff. But it was the middle of the ni
ght, the cops would take forever to show up, and these days he avoided involving himself with law enforcement at all costs. He knew basic first aid and CPR, so maybe he could help—and if he couldn’t, he’d use the motorcycle rider’s phone to call it in.
He grabbed the flashlight from the glove box, got out and started across the field. “Hey, buddy,” he called as he approached. “You conscious?”
A faint groan responded. So the rider was alive, at least.
“My phone is dead,” he lied. “If you can tell me where yours is, I’ll—” He stopped abruptly when the flashlight’s beam illuminated the rider. “No,” he said. “No fucking way.”
The big man on the ground shifted and turned his head. If there’d been a faceplate on the helmet, it was gone now. “Blade?”
“If I’d known it was you, I would’ve kept going.” For the moment Roman couldn’t bring himself to take another step toward Stone. “You know what? You’re conscious, so you can call for help yourself.”
Stone coughed. A little blood leaked from his mouth. “Don’t have a phone.”
“Come on. Who the hell doesn’t have a phone these days?”
“Only been out two weeks. Spent most of it…in a bar.”
“Jesus Christ.” He might’ve felt sorry for the bastard, if he hadn’t spent his own first month of freedom in a goddamn hospital. “I saw you hitting the flask at the club. You’re damned lucky I didn’t tell Kat,” he said. “You drunk?”
“Not anymore.” He tensed, rolled over on his side and struggled to his feet. With a quick, ragged breath, he pulled the helmet off and dropped it on the ground. There was the start of a nasty bruise under one eye, and a few beads of blood at his hairline. “I’m fine,” he said hoarsely.
Then he fell to his knees.
“Oh, yeah. You’re fine.” Roman’s jaw clenched. He scrubbed his face and glanced back at his truck. Suddenly twenty feet seemed like a long damned way. “Look, I can’t call the cops,” he said.
“Don’t want them.”
“Good.” He probably should’ve figured that. Most ex-cons were cop-shy. “So I guess…”
