The Fixers (Infernum Book 4)

by Percival Constantine

  Contents

  Front Matter

  Title Page

  Before You Start...

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  The Saga Concludes...

  Also by Percival Constantine

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FRONT MATTER

  Angela Lockhart swore to never work with Infernum again. But when the search for her husband's killer hits a dead end, she's left with no choice except to once again perform a job in exchange for the information she needs. Her mission: rescue a disgraced scientist who holds the secret to a deadly biological weapon. She's not the only one after him, though. A team of highly skilled assassins is on the job as well, and they'll eliminate anyone who gets in their way!

  THE FIXERS

  An Infernum Novella By

  Percival Constantine

  Based on concepts and characters created by Percival Constantine and Kyle Shire

  BEFORE YOU START...

  Just go to percivalconstantine.com/subscribe to get your free stories!

  CHAPTER 1

  The bass pounded in the Moscow nightclub. The entire establishment was bathed in darkness, with neon lights flashing over the young crowd as they gyrated to the DJ’s sounds. The club’s second floor wrapped around the edges, allowing those above to watch the people on the dance floor below. A few cages hung suspended from the ceiling with scantily clad dancers inside. One woman pushed through the crowd, wearing jeans, a white tank top, and a leather jacket.

  She went to the bar and leaned over the counter, brushing the blond hair behind her ear. The bartender leaned forward, turning his head so he could hear her over the music. She ordered a drink and whispered something to him. Discretely, she slid several rubles across the counter and he claimed them with the same discretion as he placed her drink in front of her.

  The woman turned her back to the bartender and sipped the gin and tonic as her eyes scanned across the club. She looked up, focusing on the balcony and the VIP seating area. Her blue eyes noted the man who sat in the balcony, looking over the edge at the dancers below. He was too old to be in a place like this, easily in his fifties with a thick, dark mustache. But the women who were more than half his age, wearing next to nothing and draping themselves over his body didn’t seem to mind.

  She took the drink and walked up the steps. There were three men in suits who stood between her and the roped-off VIP booth and they blocked her path as she approached, shaking their heads. They were big and from the tattoos she could see on their wrists, part of the Russian mob. Just like her target.

  “What do you want?” one of the guards asked in Russian.

  “I’m here to speak to Mr. Brezhnev,” she said. Though her Russian was good, there was no mistaking that the accent was American.

  “Mr. Brezhnev is busy.” He looked her over from top to bottom, a lecherous smile forming on his lips. “Pretty girl. Maybe if you show a little more skin, he’ll be interested.”

  “I’m sure he would.” She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. Then she added in English, “Tell him it’s about Carter Brennen.”

  From the look on the face of the guards, they were more surprised by the name she dropped than the sudden switch to English. One of them stepped past the rope and the woman watched as he whispered something to Brezhnev. Something that clearly caught the mobster’s attention, because he sat upright and placed his cigar in the ashtray, waving off his arm candy.

  The guards led the two young women away, who protested and shot the new arrival dirty looks. The blond just ignored them and walked past the rope when the guard removed it for her. She sat in a chair across from Brezhnev and kept her eyes locked on him.

  Brezhnev reached for a whiskey on the table and drank it slowly as he in turn watched his new companion. “American, yes?” He spoke English almost perfectly.

  She gave a nod. “Once upon a time, anyway.”

  “You said this is about Carter Brennen,” said Brezhnev. “Why would a pretty thing like you be interested in a man like that?”

  “Because Brennen killed my husband.”

  Brezhnev chuckled. “I’m sure he’s killed many husbands. Wives, too.” He leaned back and draped one arm along the back of the small couch. “Why come to me?”

  She crossed her legs and placed her hands in her lap. “Brennen is an arms dealer. And I’ve been told no one moves any merchandise in Moscow without Nikolai Brezhnev’s knowledge.”

  Brezhnev’s smile grew wider. “Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear.”

  “All I want is a location. I know he’s in Russia and I know you’re the man to help me.”

  He scratched under his chin and shrugged. “Maybe I know where he is. Maybe I don’t.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Nikolai.”

  “Shall we examine the facts?” Brezhnev reached for his cigar and took a few puffs on the end. “Let’s say I did know where you could find Brennen. You were quite correct when you said nothing happens in this city without my knowledge. So if Brennen were conducting business in Moscow, that means not only would I be aware of it, but that I allowed it. And as I’m sure you’re well aware, Brennen does very well for himself.”

  Brezhnev reached for the cigar case and offered it to his unnamed guest. She held up her hand in a refusal.

  “What’s your point?” she asked.

  “My point is I know Carter. He may be a…how you say…little shit. But he’s a profitable little shit. And you? I don’t know why it serves my interests to help you. I don’t know who you’re working for. I don’t even know your name.”

  “You’re right. Then let me tell you.” She cleared her throat. “I work for myself, no one else. Like I told you, Brennen killed my husband. So I’m going to kill him. This is completely personal. And if you help me…” She looked out the corner of her eye at the guards who were now looking over their shoulders at her. “…I’ll let you and your men walk out of this club with your vital organs still intact.”

  Brezhnev laughed at this and reached for his drink. He held up the glass to her in a toast. “I like you, my American friend. You have spunk. And what is your name?”

  “Angela Lockhart.”

  Brezhnev sipped his drink and shook his head. “Impossible. Angela Lockhart is dead.”

  “No.” She smiled. “Not yet.”

  Angela reached for her crossed leg, pulling the small gun free from her ankle holster. She aimed the gun at Brezhnev and opened fire, hitting him in the shoulder. The guards reached beneath their jackets and drew handguns, pouring bullets into the VIP booth.

  Angela jumped behind her chair, using it for protection. As soon as she found an opening, she jumped from the balcony and caught onto one of the cages. The dancer inside screamed and cowered as Angela’s momentum sent them swinging.

  Once she came close enough to the other cage, Angela jumped and caught onto those bars. She turned to look back where she had come from and Brezhnev’s guards were reloading their weapons, trying to aim at her.

  Angela swung against the cage, the new dancer also screaming. When she got close enough, she jumped and flew across the gap, soaring into another VIP booth. She landed hard on the glass table and it shattered under her weight, covering her in
alcohol and cigarette ash.

  Shocked expressions and curses in Russian filled the booth. Angela ignored them and stood. Once they saw her gun, their curses turned to screams and they ran. Angela stepped over the rope and stuck her back to the wall, moving carefully along it and trying to see her pursuers.

  A small opening led to the men’s and women’s bathrooms. Angela ducked inside and walked into the women’s bathroom, holding her gun under her jacket as she passed the girls who stood in front of the sinks, examining themselves in the mirror. She got into one of the stalls and climbed onto the toilet seat, crouching and holding the gun aimed at the door.

  There were shocked gasps and then she heard male voices ordering the women out. Angela took a deep breath. This could have gone better. She looked down at the ground and saw one of the guard’s feet approach the stall door. He stood in front and gripped the door from the top, pulling on it. It wouldn’t budge.

  Angela aimed at his fingers and pulled the trigger. His digits were reduced to stains and he screamed, pulling what was left of his hand from the door. She fired two more times through the door and saw him slump down through the gap at the bottom.

  “Karl!” she heard his partner scream. Before he could fire at the stall, Angela kicked the door open and used it as a shield. She tossed her gun out onto the ground and then grabbed Karl’s handgun now that he wouldn’t need it.

  The spray of bullets took down Karl’s partner and Angela took his gun. She went to the exit and stood against the wall. The door opened and Angela raised the weapons.

  A scream was her response.

  Angela sighed, looking into the face of a young brunette whose cry was loud enough to break glass.

  “Out of order!” barked the former assassin.

  The girl nodded quickly and ran. Angela stepped back out into the club and looked around. It was still Brezhnev and one more man, assuming Brezhnev hadn’t managed to escape yet.

  The club was still jumping. The bass was loud enough to drown out the sound of the gunfire and not even Angela’s stunt jumping from the cages was enough to cause a stir. She stuffed the guns beneath her jacket as she tried to move through the crowd, when she noticed the group of people whose VIP booth she’d disturbed. They were talking to the club’s security, two large men in suits who walked towards her.

  Angela didn’t want to hurt innocent bystanders. They had nothing to do with Brezhnev, they were just trying to keep the peace. But she also couldn’t risk being taken away.

  “I have to ask you to leave, miss,” said the bouncer in Russian once he approached her.

  Angela gave a nod and then swung her arm in an arc. She held the gun by the barrel and hit the bouncer across the face with the butt. The unexpected blow threw him to the side and he almost stumbled. She kicked him in the chest and he stumbled back into the second bouncer. Angela aimed both guns at them and they held up their arms.

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” she said in Russian. “Go downstairs. Now.”

  The men did as they were told, moving to the staircase and quickly descending. Angela turned away, ignoring the stares from the clubbers who watched her in shock. She walked around the length of the balcony area, making her way back to Brezhnev’s booth.

  But when she got there, she saw he was gone. The cigar still sat in the tray. Angela looked closer at it and saw that it was smoldering. He couldn’t have been gone long. With the other two chasing her, the third must have tried to sneak him away.

  The second floor had a large bay window that looked out over Moscow. Angela ran over to it and looked outside. It was positioned right over the front entrance of the club and she saw the taxis slowly moving away to make room for a limousine that pulled up to the front.

  Two men ran from the front entrance, one of them holding the other low and a gun in his hand. It was the final guard, leading Brezhnev to his escape route.

  Angela stepped back and ran at the window. She shot the glass and jumped, crossing her arms in front of her head as she plunged through the window, going into free-fall and landing right on the roof of the limousine.

  The car sped off and Angela slipped, falling onto the trunk. She released one of the guns so she could grab onto the antenna on the trunk and hold on tight. Her legs fell over the edge and the soles of her boots scraped against the pavement, but she quickly pulled herself up and climbed onto the trunk.

  Angela aimed her only remaining gun at the rear window and pulled the trigger. The glass was bulletproof, but it did spook the driver and he swerved, nearly throwing her off.

  She held on tight and the driver swerved again, intentionally this time. She managed to keep her grip and then she saw the moonroof open. The guard stuck his head out and pulled something with him, aiming a pump-action shotgun right at Angela.

  Just as he fired, Angela moved to the other side of the trunk, her feet resting perilously on the bumper. He pulled the handgrip to chamber a fresh round and in that short time it took, Angela was able to fire off a shot from her gun that forced him to duck to avoid getting hit.

  Angela scrambled up the trunk and fired again, this time hitting him in the head. He fell back into the limousine and she heard Brezhnev curse in Russian. She dropped in through the moonroof and landed in the seat beside Brezhnev, her gun pointed at him.

  Brezhnev pressed his body against the door. He made a move for the dropped shotgun, but Angela fired at it and he quickly pulled his hand back to avoid taking a bullet in it. Angela stuck her leg out and slid the shotgun over to her side of the limousine, keeping her handgun fixed on Brezhnev.

  “Tell your driver to stop the car,” she said. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Across the world on the outskirts of Washington, DC was a credit office, although that was just a facade that hid the real operations. This served as the headquarters of an organization called the Agency, ostensibly a covert division of Homeland Security.

  In truth, the Agency had no connection to the United States government. But the majority of its operatives had no such knowledge. Including Agent Julie Kim, who sat at her desk, her gaze fixed on the computer screen as she reviewed for what felt like the thousandth time all the information the Agency had on their prime target.

  “Look like you could use some more rocket fuel.”

  Julie jumped slightly at the sound of the voice but relaxed and turned her chair to see Jack Marco standing behind her, holding two cups of coffee. He had a grin on his handsome face and Julie returned his smile and accepted his offer.

  “Thanks.”

  Marco stepped closer and peered at her screen. His gaze drifted to her. “Dante?”

  She nodded as she sipped the coffee. “There’s something that feels weird to me. Infernum is supposed to be this global terrorist threat, right? But they’ve also destabilized brutal regimes and stopped other terrorist attacks. Is he just trying to eliminate the competition?”

  Marco shrugged. “Maybe things aren’t as black and white as we’re led to believe.” He looked around the room to be sure no one was listening in on their conversation, then he leaned in closer. “You know how Chandler feels about operatives doing independent investigations. Remember what happened after Mexico?”

  Julie’s lips tightened. The Agency’s war with Infernum became personal for her when an Infernum assassin named Carl Flint killed her partner, Christian Pierce. Julie discovered he was in Mexico and violated orders to pursue him. What she found there was far worse than just a burnt-out hitman—a Colombian drug cartel that had practically taken the entire town hostage. She helped Flint take them out and then she killed him—her reason for going after him and his final request.

  When she returned to DC, Chandler chewed her out good and proper. She’d been demoted from field work, stuck behind a desk ever since, filing reports. Only recently had she begun to climb out of the hole she’d dug for herself. Marco was right to advise her to be cautious. If she wasn’t careful, she might face worse
than just a demotion. She could lose her job or worse, be brought up on criminal charges.

  Julie sighed and closed the windows with the files she’d been reading. “You’re right. Don’t tempt the fates. I just…” She groaned. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m letting him down.”

  The phone on her desk began ringing. Julie looked at it with a mixture of curiosity and fear. She exchanged a look with Marco, whose expression was the same. She wondered if the call was about the files she’d been viewing.

  Her hand reached out carefully and she picked up the receiver, holding it to her ear. “Kim.”

  The voice on the other end just gave her the barest of information. It didn’t help to ease her anxiety. “Understood,” she said. “I’ll be right down.”

  Julie hung up the phone and Marco stared at her. “What was that about?”

  “I’ve been called into a meeting,” she said. “With Chandler.”

  “You don’t think…?” Marco hesitated.

  She took a deep breath and stood from the desk. “Only one way to find out.” Julie gave Marco a parting smile, trying to put on a brave face. “Wish me luck.”

  Marco gave her a nod of acknowledgement and tried to return the smile but it was half-hearted at best. Julie left her area, walking past the rows of desk where other Agency analysts worked on their various operations. She approached the back of the room where a pair of elevators waited and boarded one of them, hitting the button for the sub-basement.

  The doors opened with a beep and she stepped out into the metal corridor. Julie walked through the halls, past doors to various conference rooms until she came to one at the end of the hall. The door opened and she looked at the man holding the handle, standing in the doorway. He was in his sixties or so, with short, silver hair combed to the side and wireframe glasses.

  “Agent Kim.” Director Michael Chandler held out his hand. Julie looked at the hand with some trepidation but shook it anyway. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”