by Gavin Green
The kid glanced at me once but turned his attention right back to overcoat guy, who didn't turn his head my way at all. They simply ignored my gun pointing at them. That didn't do much for my confidence.
The kid's face looked distorted somehow - it must have been an odd cast of shadows. He was mostly listening and nodding during the short, hushed conversation. The overcoat guy . . . shit, I don't know. Even staring right at him, my eyes wouldn't focus. I couldn't get a defined shape of his silhouette. At a guess, I thought he was wearing a hoodie under the long coat, and the hood was up. His hazy form - a shifting, shadowy outline - in a room where everything else was more or less distinct . . . I'll admit, it freaked the hell out of me.
The overcoat guy stood and handed the kid a tote bag with handles. Even unable to see his defined shape, I could tell that he had at least half a foot on me in height. The kid took the bag and then shot out of the room too fast for me to react. He went toward the billiards room, and was out on the patio before I could swivel my gun in his direction. I couldn't help but wonder who the hell those people were.
I pointed my gun back at the blurry shadow dude. "Hold it right there, chief. I need some answers. First off, who are you?"
He turned to face me, gave me his full attention . . . and I wish he hadn't. I've been in combat zones and chaotic firefights, but I'd never been more rattled than when overcoat guy faced me. I still couldn't see any part of him clearly, but he gave off an air of deep, enveloping power. I'm not sure how else to explain it. It was like a constant wave that demanded respect, caused fear, and held dark wisdom, all at once. And he hadn't even spoken yet.
When he did say something, the creepy factor went up a notch. "There is not much time, Leopold."
The voice was low and guttural, like he had hot embers in his throat. Let's not forget that the big, scary fucker knew my name. Not cool. I replied, "Time for what, and how the hell do you know me?"
"The authorities are approaching. I will make this quick." He paused for a moment, and I could faintly hear sirens. "You may call me Vormund, for lack of a better name." When he said 'Vormund', it came out as 'vormoondt', like he knew the proper pronunciation of whatever country the name came from. "It is twice now that I have intercepted harm that was meant for you, yes?"
I lowered my gun. "That was you at the nightclub two nights ago, wasn't it?"
"So it was. Would you concede that you are in my debt for actions on your behalf?"
Shit, he had me. One of the few things that couldn't be taken from me was my honor. A handshake was like giving my word, and giving my word was like making a vow. It was that same damn honor that forced me to accept an obligation to be met, or a debt to be paid. Any decent soldier probably followed the same basic code of conduct.
I didn't think Vormund saved me from much at the nightclub - I didn't consider pretty boy much of a threat - but he more than likely saved my ass inside the mansion. All the same, he was about the last person - or whatever he was - that I would want to be indebted to. "Yeah, I am. I appreciate your help here tonight. What exactly do I owe you?"
"You may wish to include me in your police reports," he answered in that deep, menacing, almost mesmerizing voice. "Your debt to me will be considered paid when you make no mention of me - none. I know you, Leopold Beck; you will not take false accolades. So, for whatever assistance I have given this night, offer the credit to your downed companions. You will do this."
Even if I didn't owe him, didn't recognize the debt, I doubt I would have had the balls to refuse him anyway. "Yeah, I can do that," I said with a sigh. "Now, who are you, who are you really, and why have you been following me?"
"We all owe debts, Leopold Beck," was his cryptic reply. "You should see to your associates."
At Vormund's reminder, I looked at the hallway to my right where one of the kitchen entries was. I turned back to say something to captain creepy, but he was gone. I mean, like a trick - like he was never there in the first place - gone. I shook it off; I didn't want to think about that right then. The sirens were louder. I still had to find two of my team.
Quick and quiet, I moved into the kitchen. Dan was there, and his body was a mess; I guess he didn't go down easy. The bodies of the chef and two more intruders were there as well. I found the other food server in a corner, a lady in her thirties wounded in the thigh and holding a cleaver. She was nearly hysterical. Couldn't say I blamed her.
After tying a clean towel around her leg, I took off my jacket and had her do the same to my arm. Even though the blood loss was minimal and looked like nothing more than a deep graze, it had started hurting like a bitch. As soon as I got over the pain of her accidently poking a finger in my wound, I went into the garage. The cops were only a few blocks away by then, and it sounded like they called in everyone for back-up. A door in the garage that faced the back of the property was sitting open, letting in cold air. Still cautious, I went through it and turned toward the east lawn.
There were two dark lumps out in the trampled snow; one of them was moving. I recognized it was Diego just as warbling red and blue lights colored the snow. When I ran over to him, I noticed his earpiece was gone. I also saw that he'd lost a lot of blood from the bullet wounds to his legs. There was a trail of rosy pink snow from where he'd dragged himself toward the mansion, the stubborn ass. He'd tied a couple of his wounds off with strips from his ripped pants, so I did what I could for the others until paramedics got to him. When we saw flashlight beams in the garage, I called out for help.
Fuck, what a weird, violent, bloody, scary night. Oh, and painful, in more ways than one.
INFORMATION
An EMT patched me up while a detective questioned me. My left cheek was swollen, my left arm was grazed, my right shoulder was a big, ugly bruise, and I had little cuts on my face and hands from tree bark and marble chips. I was a lot better off than the rest of my team. Two of 'em were gone - two friends. Dan only had an estranged wife, but Craig had just started a family. I was told that Cordell and Diego were both going to be okay, but all medics say that. Needless to say, I was in a foul mood.
John Crane, my boss at Silas, got to the scene while I was walking cops through my series of events. Bodies had already been removed by then. I'm sure Crane cared about us, but I knew him well enough to know that he was also making sure no one sued his ass off.
Mr. Everett personally thanked me and told me to call if I needed anything. It was a nice gesture, but all I wanted from him was to find out who sent twelve men to kill him. Silas Security didn't do that kind of work. Stanley Everett, on the other hand, had the contacts, resources and the motivation to get some answers. I didn't want the death of Craig Addazio and Daniel Harper to mean nothing. Everett didn't owe me that; he owed them.
I was kept for hours at a police station, telling my story over and over while I pressed an ice pack to my face. Not once did I mention Vormund or the track-star kid. They asked me about a personal safe upstairs in the mansion that had been opened with some sort of explosive. I never went upstairs, never heard any explosion, and didn't know about a safe, but I had a fair guess that its contents left the mansion in a tote bag.
My Glock was held as evidence, but I was finally released in the middle of the night. Crane drove me home, and said he'd have my car delivered in the morning. Half a bottle of Jack later, I was dead to the world and dreaming of shadows. I woke up groaning, sore as shit. I chased the handful of aspirin down with more Jack. I called Keegan and said I needed the weekend off. When asked, I gave him a quick overview of the story, and that he and Deb could hear more about it on the news.
Looking out a front window of my house to late morning sunshine gleaming off the snow, I squinted and saw my old '05 Wrangler parked out front as promised. I felt an urge to go off-roading again, and maybe do some camping. Wrong time, wrong season; I promised myself I would when I could.
While I sat back on the couch and held a bag of frozen peas to my face, I called Gwen. After I made sure what hos
pital Cord and Diego were in, she wanted details about the Everett attack. I indulged her, but glazed over any part that the shadow-man was involved in. On a whim, I did ask what kind of a name Vormund was. She looked it up while we chatted about Diego's health. As for the name Vormund, Gwen said she found it as an uncommon surname, but not as a given one. Then, for trivia's sake, she casually offered that when translated in German, vormund meant 'guardian'.
OFFER
I visited Cordell and Diego in the hospital, and met their respective families again. I'd been introduced to them all at a company dinner six months prior. Cordell only had a father and younger sister, while Diego's catholic family took that 'multiply and prosper' quote from the bible and ran with it. There were kids, siblings, parents and extended family packed into his room. Because of bone and/or tendon damage, both of the guys needed surgery. Cord's condition wasn't bad; Diego would need rehab.
I debated stopping by Keegan's for an afternoon drink. Since half of my face was still swollen, though, I just went back home. I didn't have to worry about the media bothering me since my company wouldn't release my name or information, so there were only a few messages on my cell phone that I forgot to bring with me again. One was from Crane; just a check-up call. Another was from Gwen, who gave times and dates for the funerals of Dan and Craig.
The last message wasn't one I expected. The caller I.D. listed the number as private. It was from a woman with a slight accent - French, I assumed - named Dominique Rondeau. She said she wanted to discuss a lucrative business opportunity with me. No other info was given except for a local phone number, and the request to call back at my earliest convenience. I wondered how lucrative she was talking about. Hell, there were a lot of things I was wondering.
Ms. Rondeau sounded professional and honest in her message, but something didn't feel right. Maybe I was still edgy because of a dozen hired guns and the spooky shadow dude. Maybe the timing was just wrong; I was still a little twitchy from being in combat less than a day before. Maybe I hadn't let go of Dan and Craig yet; we weren't best buds, but they still meant something to me. Maybe I was afraid of a 'business opportunity' because it might change the safe little world I was hiding in.
I finally decided to find out what the opportunity was, and could easily walk away with no regrets if something still felt wrong about the offer. I poured myself a Jack and Coke and then dialed the number. A guy with a youthful voice answered, "Realm Management, how can I help you today, Mr. Beck?"
Okay, that caught me off-guard; I didn't think receptionists had caller I.D. on their phones. I also never dealt with a male receptionist. "Uh, yeah, hi; I was asked to return a call from someone named, uh, Dominique Rondeau? Does she work there?"
The receptionist chuckled. "Yes, sir, you could say that. I'll connect you."
RESTAURANT
Just over 48 hours later, on a crisp Sunday afternoon, a limousine pulled up in front of my house. It showed up right on time. Straightening my suit, I stepped out to go have a business dinner with Ms. Rondeau that I agreed to after talking with her. She insisted on sending a car to pick me up. I was also promised compensation for my time even if I declined her job offer. Hell, I couldn't say no to that.
I waved to Miss Loretta, who was on her porch for her afternoon cigarette, and got in the stretch sedan. The driver headed north into downtown and pulled up in front of a stylish high rise commercial building. "Not doubting you, man," I said to the driver, "but I don't think there's a restaurant in here, unless you count a cafeteria or something."
He turned and grinned at me. "This is the place, sir. There will be someone inside to escort you. Oh, and I know you said you can open your own door, but someone might be watching. Not to go against your wishes, sir, but I'd rather not get in trouble."
He seemed really worried about it. "No problem; do your thing." I didn't know any chauffeurs, but he seemed like a nice guy. If I had the money, I would've tipped him. Well, probably.
A uniformed guard met me at the doors of the building and let me in. Once in the big, empty lobby, a nicely dressed young woman escorted me to the elevators. She used a security card that allowed access to the top floors. On the 36th floor, we exited into a lavish reception area. Offices were to the left. Off to the right, though, was a set of large wooden double doors - my destination, as I found out. While the young lady spoke into an intercom in the wall next to the doors, I noticed two cameras pointed at us. Ms. Rondeau said it was an exclusive restaurant, but I wasn't expecting that level of security.
After the door locks clicked, the young lady (I forgot her name) told me to just follow the hallway. After I stepped in, the big doors shut behind me with a heavy thump. In the hallway that turned right then left, there weren't any tables or doors; just nice carpet, subdued lighting, and weird art on the walls.
Around the last corner was a large, two-story tall room. It was a restaurant, and, holy shit, I was out of my element. The entire wall to my right was windows that looked out over downtown; I arrived just past sundown, and it was a damn nice view. Everything else about the place was elegant and tasteful. Only about one third of the tables were occupied, but everyone in there looked like they stepped out of fashion magazines. Even in my best suit, I felt like a bum in comparison.
There wasn't a maître d'; just two very well-dressed guys that asked who invited me. One of them led me over to the one of the booths against the far wall, where a woman was seated. She had auburn hair pulled into a fancy bun, looked to be in her mid-thirties, and wore a nice dress with a silk shawl around her shoulders. She was attractive, but her features were a little thin and angular for my liking. But, shit, I wasn't there for a date.
CONVERSATION
"Mr. Beck, thank you for coming. I'm Dominique Rondeau. Please, have a seat," she said with a genuine smile. Maybe because of the atmosphere, I expected her to be stiff and formal.
"Thanks for inviting me." I slid into the empty booth seat. The guy who brought me over took our drink orders and walked off. "When you said it was an exclusive place, Ms. Rondeau, I still didn't picture anything like this. I'm used to burger joints and pub grub."
"I enjoy indulging in opulence on occasion, Mr. Beck," she said in the same subtle French accent that I heard on the phone. "I hope you enjoy it as well, and perhaps you'll come to prefer it in the future. Access to this establishment is one of the benefits of the position my company is offering you."
"Yeah, about that . . . I had some questions, if you don't mind."
Our drinks were delivered along with leather-bound menus. Once we were alone again, she said, "I'd be concerned if you didn't. Go right ahead."
"Okay, first off, why me?"
Ms. Rondeau looked at me pointedly. "Is there a reason you feel you shouldn't have been chosen?"
"Well, one thing is . . . I'm not down on my looks, okay? But let's face it: my scars don't exactly make me one of the beautiful people," I said as I vaguely gestured to the other restaurant patrons.
"I find your scars rather exotic, to be honest, Mr. Beck, so I don't find it to be an issue. Appearances, however, have very little to do with why you were sought out. You're handsome, but it's your skills and other factors that are of interest."
"Well, um, thanks, that's nice of you to say. But on the phone, you said that you worked in the art field and that the position you wanted me for was to be executive protection for various people in that community, yourself included." I paused for a gulp of my drink. "Ms. Rondeau, I know nothing about art or the culture that surrounds it. Artists don't need much security besides a copyright lawyer, do they?"
One side of her mouth curled into a smirk. After a sip of club soda, she replied, "And perhaps protection from their own egos, but no, Realm Management wouldn't be employing you to act as an artist's keeper. Let's order, and I'll give some details over dinner, alright?"
Dinner sounded good to me. It was one of those fancy menus with no prices, and the choice of steak was limited to filet mignon. Crap, no ri
b-eye? When we'd both decided, Ms. Rondeau waived a waiter over. While he took our orders, she asked for a very specific bottle of wine to come with the meals. I knew wine like I knew art.
While we waited, Ms. Rondeau explained that Realm Management was a patron company to numerous artists, and owned many of the local art galleries. It was a contributor to the city's large art college, and had strong influence in most of the regional museums. The company's reach went beyond just the arts, though. It was involved with architecture, civil planning, realty, healthcare, industrial and commercial development, and was getting into the food services industry. Damn.
"I remember you saying that you're the administrator over the art galleries that your company owns, right?" I asked as our meals were delivered.
"Yes, I oversee various personnel, local and regional artists, and showings. I also have the final say on most sales and acquisitions."
"That's all pretty impressive, Ms. Rondeau. So I have to ask, and sorry if it comes out kinda rude, but why are you the one interviewing me? I'm sure you've got plenty of people under you to do it."
"That's rather simple," she said while shooing the waiter away and poured her own glass of wine. "My employer told me to hire you personally. Underlings typically handle such matters, true, but I can't say that I mind. This gets me out of my routine and out of my office, and, honestly, I find it refreshing that you don't walk on eggshells with me the way most of my employees do. Here," she grabbed my empty wine glass and filled it, "you simply must try some."
