Watch Dogs

by John Shirley

  “You can drink left over booze and eat leftover food and they pay you in cash. Sometimes you can find a poker chip on the floor, cash it in. You really on the down and outs, huh?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  O’Malley tossed his cigarette butt into the alley. “You come back tomorrow, and I’ll...”

  “I’ll need that talk with Santiago tonight, man. Just let me in, I’ll find him.”

  “Can’t do that.” O’Malley started to close the door. “So long.”

  “You want to smoke a joint, Kurt?”

  The door didn’t quite close. O’Malley stuck his nose out again, and glanced up and down the alley “Never could get you to indulge. So you’re into it now huh?” O’Malley looked over his shoulder. “Uh—sure. Just a sec.” He pulled a mop from where it leaned against the wall inside, used the handle to block the door open. “Gotta make this quick! Just a couple of hits...”

  Just one hit. An uppercut to the chin.

  O’Malley was out cold. The Delta Force training was still there in Wolfe’s hands. Wolfe caught the slumping man, dragged him inside. The warmth of the building’s back hallway rolled over him as he looked around. No one in the hall but a lot of clackety-clack came from the kitchen down the hall, along with shouts for orders, cooks grumbling. Wolfe could smell food cooking, and coffee.

  He dragged O’Malley to a utility closet, opened it, shoved him in with the cleaning products. He pulled off O’Malley’s coat and belt, used the belt to tie the busboy’s hands behind him, then shoved an oily rag into his mouth. “Sorry, Kurt,” Wolfe muttered. “I’ll try and remember to let you go when I head out...”

  Wolfe took off his own coat, put it in his pack, and put on O’Malley’s white coat. He found an employee’s men’s room, got his shaving stuff out of his pack, shaved and cleaned up as well as he could. He hurried out of the bathroom, and went into the kitchen trying to look busy and purposeful. Everyone was too busy to look him over much; he figured if they noticed him carrying a backpack over one shoulder, they’d figure he was on his way to clock out.

  #

  It was the Oxycodone that did it: made Verrick talkative, made him feel something like friendly warmth toward the girl. The back pain got Verrick the Oxy prescription but he tried not to take it too often. Trouble was, “not too often” was getting more and more often.

  “Yeah it got ugly in Mali, and uglier in Somalia,” Verrick was saying. He looked up at the red silk canopy over the king-sized bed. The lights were dialed down to half so it was dim but not dark. He smelled of chlorine from the hot tub, which still bubbled over on the other side of the room. He was lying on his side, naked, head propped on one hand. Rose had put on her sheer stuff and was kneeling on the white rug in front of the coffee table, getting high. He could hear the sound of the casino downstairs, coming through the curtained window; croupiers calling numbers, the merged murmur of a crowd. Sometimes there were cocktail parties in this big room for visiting Club bosses. They could open the curtains, and watch the action down on the main floor. If he got up and threw open the curtains he’d be visible from the roulette table and the high stakes poker table and the blackjack table—framed in that window stark naked. That’d throw some gamblers off their game. He chuckled at the thought, and went on, “And one day I just got tired of snipers trying to shoot me in the gullet. I mean, I was risking getting capped for what, for an officer’s pension, and I said Fuck this, I’m gonna change things up. I can quit this and go to work for Blume. Right after that General Van Ness and I got smashed on his Scotch when I was on leave in Algiers, and he tells me about an outfit called Purity. So it all came together.”

  “Purity is an organization, Roger?” she asked, as she tapped a powder from a small canister onto the mirrored table.

  “That’s...kind of a lodge, you might say.”

  “Like the Moose Club?”

  He laughed. “Kinda! But real secret. And this one is gonna change the world.”

  “How?”

  How? That was definitely something he wasn’t going to tell her. He wondered if maybe she’d been leading him into talking about this while he was stoned—maybe she was a federal agent?

  No. Couldn’t be.

  But he should have her capped anyway just to make sure. Maybe later tonight. Shame...but he was getting tired of her anyway.

  He looked at her, checking her out through the rose and blue lingerie; her delicate fingers industriously chopping the china white she liked to snort. He’d told her he wouldn’t get into that stuff, but here he was, taking Oxycodone, not that much different. He’d swallowed some Oxy and one other drug...

  He was about to put the Viagra to good use when he noticed a bus boy pushing a cart in through the door.

  “What the fuck!” Rose said blearily, losing the ladylike diction she put on for customers. “What’s he doin’ in here?”

  “Door’ supposed to be locked,” Verrick muttered, instinctively pulling a purple satin sheet to cover his nakedness. “How’d the hell you get in? Get outta here...’

  “Oh sorry, sir,” said the busboy. He didn’t sound very damn sincere. With the drug and the dimness it was hard to see the guy’s face. Verrick blurrily noted that there was a small backpack on the lower shelf of the cart.

  “We don’t need anything bussed out of here,” Rose said.

  “Might need Verrick bussed out of here,” the busboy said, closing the door behind him—and pulling a small pistol from the pocket of his white coat.

  “Shit,” Verrick said. His own .25 backup pistol was in his pants, which were lying on the floor next to the hot tub. Getting sloppy. That’s what the Oxy does to you, you fool! Shoulda had a bodyguard in the hall.

  He didn’t like the bodyguards knowing his private business, though...

  “How much are they paying you?” Verrick asked. “You seem like a good man to have around. Tell you what. You could make twice as much working for me.”

  “Already worked for you,” the busboy said, reaching over with one hand to dial up the light. He did it without looking away from Verrick; without that gun muzzle wavering. Rose moaned when he did that, and scrambled back from the glass coffee table.

  “Wolfe!” Verrick burst out.

  “That’s right, Major.”

  Verrick looked at his trousers across the room. He tried to figure out how he’d get to them—and that pistol. “Hey—you’re going to shoot me, at least let me put my pants on. Rose—hand me my trousers.”

  Rose stirred...

  “No, uh uh, you make a move, pretty lady, and I’ll put a bullet in you,” Wolfe said.

  Rose froze.

  “How’d you get in?” Verrick said, stalling. Pretty sure that Wolfe was here to shoot him. Maybe someone would realize Wolfe had gotten in...

  “Door lock’s electronic,” Wolfe said genially. “I came equipped for that. Back door, though—that’s an old fashioned lock. So I had to knock some fool out.”

  “And you took his place? Resourceful. That offer to work for me still goes.”

  Wolfe’s soft laughter was bitter. “Oh, I’ll do something for you, Verrick. You straighten out my life and I very deliberately won’t put a bullet through each of your knees. And I won’t break your spine just above your tailbone. And, I won’t drop a dime and tell every fucking reporter in the country what a thieving, treasonous scumbag you are.”

  So Wolfe wasn’t definitely planning to kill him? That emboldened Verrick. “You already tried smearing me in military court. You sent some letters out from that prison too.”

  “They didn’t get anywhere, way I heard it. Somebody intercepted them.”

  “That’s right. I should’ve...”

  “Should’ve what? Had me killed,Verrick? I expected you would. Maybe you could still do it if I decide to leave you alive today. Only you’d have to find me. And you won’t. You won’t find me. But I can always find you. You’re a public figure, Major Verrick! You can pile on the bodyguards but it won’t help you—
I can find you. You know I can. I’ll either kill you—or I’ll take the dirt I’ve got on you and broadcast it everywhere.”

  “If you had any proof of anything, you’d have done that already, soon as you got out of jail.”

  Wolfe hesitated—and Verrick saw a troubled flicker in the man’s eyes. So Wolfe was bluffing about having anything on him the press could use.

  “I can still take you down, Verrick,” Wolfe persisted. “I promise you. One way or another. But I’m giving you a chance. If you want me outta your life, you clear my name—and I figure you can do it without going down yourself. There was Captain Callahan...”

  Rafe Callahan. Army Captain under Verrick’s command, and Verrick’s partner in heisting the warlord payoff money in Somalia. Callahan was dead now. Verrick had him killed, made it look like an al Qaeda car bomb. “How am I supposed to use Callahan to cover my ass?” Verrick asked. “Am I supposed to say he did it all alone?”

  “That’s the concept. He’s dead so no harm done if you lay it all on him. You make a public statement, say you got new information, say Callahan stole the money and not al Qaeda. Tell the courts you realized I was right about the money being stolen—I’ll say you weren’t in on it after all. That I was wrong, when I accused you, it was all Callahan. They reverse my discharge, they give me my pension back. My name is cleared. You never hear from me again.”

  “So that’s the deal? Okay—what the hell. Sure. Why not? Maybe it’ll clear things up for both of us.”

  Wolfe stared at him. Then he snorted. “Look at you!” He shook his head. “No.” Wolfe shook his head. “Nah. I can see it in your face. You’ll never do it. You think it’ll be easier to kill me. You’re wrong about that, Verrick.” Wolfe tilted his head to one side, thinking it out. “Maybe I need to just take you out. At least I can get that much satisfaction....”

  Wolfe raised the gun, aimed—Verrick prepared to jump off the bed...

  The door burst open behind Wolfe.

  It pushed him off balance and he fired the .38 but the bullet went wide, cracking into the headboard.

  Rose screamed.

  Verrick threw himself off the end of the bed, rolled, grabbed for his pants and his .25...

  “There he is!” Honker’s deep voice from the hall.

  Verrick looked up to see Wolfe turning to face the big bouncer standing in the doorway—Honker with a billy club in his hand.

  Honker looked at Wolfe’s gun—then ducked to one side.

  Verrick resumed digging through his trousers, pulling out the .25 caliber pistol...

  “Look out, boss!” Luke Kelly was there, suddenly, in the doorway—a muscular but rangy man in a black limo chauffeur’s uniform, he was Verrick’s bodyguard and driver. Somebody must’ve warned him there was trouble in the casino. Good man!

  Luke fired his big .45 at Wolfe, missing as Wolfe ducked to one side. The bullet shattered the window overlooking the main floor.

  Verrick heard screams from the casino floor as the shot sent big fragments of window glass onto the tables down below.

  Wolfe had flattened to the side of the door, pressed to the wall by the light dial.

  Verrick raised the gun to fire at Wolfe, pulled the trigger—and realized the damned safety was on. Shit.

  Wolfe fired the .38 and Verrick felt something tug at his right side. He grabbed Rose and pulled her to her feet between him and Wolfe.

  “Roger! Don’t!” she squeaked. “He’s going to shoot me!”

  “Shaddup, Rose!”

  Luke was in stepping into the room, swinging his .45 toward Wolfe—but Wolfe was hammering down on Luke’s head with the butt of his gun. Luke stumbled back. Verrick fumbled with the .25 with one hand, the other holding the whimpering Rose in front of him.

  Then the lights went out. It was dark in there except for a patch of light at the door and a dusty little ray coming through the bullet hole in the window curtains.

  People were shouting down the hall. “We found a guy tied up in a closet and he...”

  Verrick felt his drugginess more, with the lights out—he was dizzily aware of someone rushing past him.

  It must be Wolfe. Verrick spun Rose around to keep her shielding him—and then the curtains were gone from the window, flooding the room with light.

  Verrick shoved Rose away, turned, stumbled to the window—now he really was standing there naked, though nobody was looking at him—and he saw Wolfe had jumped through, carrying the curtains down to the tables.

  There he was, already halfway across the room, that little backpack in one hand, the gun in the other: Wolfe running down the casino’s gaming aisles.

  Verrick tried to get a bead on him with the small pistol—he fired. Missed.

  Wolfe snapped off a shot at a uniformed security guard—knocked the billed cap off the guard’s head. The security guard dived down and Wolfe ran past him, out the double doors to the front corridor...

  Son of a bitch. The guy might get away.

  Verrick looked down at his side. Not a bad wound at all.

  He turned, grabbed his pants, shouting. “Somebody get out there and stop that bastard!”

  #

  Wolfe had to plow his right shoulder into a heavy set black bouncer at the door. The bouncer went Whoof!, the air knocked out of him, and fell out of the way. Carrying the backpack, Wolfe opened the door, rushed out into the night air of the recessed doorway, shutting the door hard behind him.

  The shiver-inducing blast of the Hawk almost felt good, now. At least that cold slash of air meant he was still alive. It’d been a close thing in there...

  He heard shouting from overhead and remembered the sentries on the roof. How was he going to get past those guys? Soon as he ran out from the doorway they’d shoot him down with those AKs...

  Then a vehicle came screaming down the streets, sirens blasting. Cops, already?

  Maybe turning himself over to the cops was the best thing—he’d be alive, in their custody. For a while. But for how long, with Tranter and his kind around?

  Then he realized it wasn’t a cop car—it was an ambulance. The ambulance veered toward him and up onto the sidewalk, bouncing when it hit the curb. It fishtailed to a stop with a harsh squeal and the smell of burning rubber.

  The rear doors of the ambulance popped open and that EMT with the dirty fingernails looked out at him. “Get in, fast!”

  Wolfe ran to the ambulance, and dived in the back, backpack in one hand and gun in the other. Bullets ricocheted off the street behind him as the sentries opened fire. Then the EMT had him by the collar, pulled him in, and slammed the rear doors shut.

  The ambulance roared away down the street, driven by another, much larger guy up front. A rear window of the ambulance webbed with a bullet impact, then the columns supporting the L Train tracks were in the way, and the sentries couldn’t hit the ambulance.

  It swerved around a corner, and Wolfe levered himself to a sitting position.

  “Damn, that was close,” The EMT gasped, hunched over as he came and sat down on a gurney near Wolfe. “I tell you dude, don’ think Pearce is paying me well enough for this shit.”

  “Pearce? How’d he know?”

  “What you think, he hasn’t been following you? Them ctOS cameras, those are his eyes, man! Blume thinks they got that thing insulated against him—naw, no way! The Club still has cameras that watch big shots with the whores in case, it needs to blackmail them. And Pearce can hack the Club’s cameras well as anybody’s...”

  “You going to take me to him?”

  “Hey I don’t even know where he is—moved to a new safe house. No, I’m dropping you off someplace else you can lay low for a while. But you’re going to hear from Pearce. Oh yeah, you can count on that. ‘Cause you owe him, now, man. You owe Aiden Pearce bigtime, Wolfe.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The mid morning light was coming pearly gray through the filtered window of Verrick’s office window.

  Tranter seemed puzzled as he squinted at Verr
ick. “So you don’t want an APB out on this Wolfe character after all?”

  Verrick shook his head. “If you can get some of the Chicago Cops in that area to look for Mick Wolfe without telling ‘em why, fine and good. If they pick him up, they should call you and you should call me. And I’ll make it worth their while to turn him over to me directly. But an APB—no. We don’t want a general alert—we don’t want the media in on it. Because, you know, the Four Clubs isn’t legal...aaaaand because I was there with a known hooker. All that could come out.”

  “Oh.” Detective Tranter cleared his throat. “Speaking of that high class whore...”

  “She taken care of?”

  “She’s part of a new parking lot on the North side, about five feet down. As of this morning.”

  “Good, good...” Rose had heard too much of what Wolfe was talking about, which had made eliminating her even more imperative. “Another thing is, Tranter, if Wolfe is caught and he talks to the wrong cops, or to federal agents, you never know what he might say. I don’t think he’s got anything that’d stand up in court, but...”

  Verrick didn’t want to go on. It would mean having to explain to Tranter what it was that Wolfe knew too much about. And Verrick definitely didn’t want to give Tranter that information.

  Tranter never asked about it.

  Detective Tranter just stood there, waiting—and Verrick kept Tranter standing there, as if he were an NCO in the presence of a Major. Which was more or less the way Verrick thought of it. He could see rainwater evaporating from the shoulders of Tranter’s trench coat, blown in the current of warm air from the heating vent.

  “The Club doesn’t want any noise made about what happened at the Four Clubs,” Verrick went on. “CPD knows all about the place, of course, but all the right people are paid off. I assume you’re getting your cut.”

  Tranter shrugged. He wasn’t going to confirm or deny it.

  “If the media runs a story about the fight at an illegal casino,” Verrick said, “then the CPD is going to have to make surprised noises and raid the place. No one wants that.”

  Tranter nodded, slowly. “I heard Wolfe shot you. That right?”