Embracing the Shadows

by Gavin Green

  "That sounds great, sir. I appreciate it." I stood up to leave.

  "Do not thank me yet, Leo," he said seriously. "Check your Planner in the morning; an update will have been sent by then. Your new task will be outlined. An unpleasant task." The shadows around Viggo began to slither and distort. Okay, bad sign. "Something has occurred. I want answers."

  QUINN

  There was indeed a new task for me when I got on the hemo-net late the next morning. It was a file simply named 'Quinn' and had a handful of notes attached to it. The first attachment was a video clip of a news story that aired while I was driving my fellow minions around the night before.

  There was an attack and explosion at Quinn Industries, a chemical processing factory a couple miles north of downtown. A woman and a man assaulted a second-shift employee who just got off work. They beat him, took his security badge and wallet, then shot the poor bastard in the head. They charged into the facility using a secondary door. The male suspect shot at any third-shift worker nearby, while the female suspect threw Molotov cocktails from a gym bag she carried with her.

  One of the crude bombs made it into a flammable compound mixing area, and boom. It was an enclosed space, so the explosion was confined. Otherwise, the whole place might've blown sky high. As it was, there were fires and some structural damage. One worker died from a bullet to the chest, and another didn't make it out of the mixing room. Six other employees were wounded; two from gunfire and four from the explosion. Other workers were hospitalized for possible noxious fume inhalation.

  The two suspects escaped. The police had leads, but were asking for tips to assist their investigation. That told me they didn't have shit, and I wondered why. I mean, a company like that had to have security cameras set up inside. Maybe a few outside, too. Even if some of the cameras got fried in the blast, their footage up until then would've been sent to a server in an office somewhere.

  Viggo's first typed note after the video said, 'Since ShadoWorks is the primary stockholder of Quinn Industries, I have a vested interest in its productivity. Attached below is a security video that has not been released to the police. Clearly seen in the video are the two culprits. The reason for suppressing this evidence is simple. I want them first. I want answers. The police can have whatever is left.'

  Well damn, that was definitive. I texted Gwen, saying that her skills were needed ASAP. While I waited for a reply, I watched the next video clip. The interior security camera was pointed at a loading dock and the back exit door that the man and woman came in through. Viggo was right; the camera caught clear images of both of 'em. The guy had an AR-15, shooting it as soon as they came in. Two nearby Quinn workers ran like hell. The woman didn't start throwing Molotov's until she was almost off-camera. I replayed the short video a few more times to memorize their faces.

  Gwen texted back, just short statements: 'Not a good time - auditors here - will call later'.

  Shit. I needed her help, especially for the recognition software. Rather than throw a fit, I drained my big cup of Irish coffee and moved on to the next note. It was a listing of Viggo's other minions; each came with a photo and relevant data. Under the list was a comment saying that all of the above have been made aware of us (Gwen, Traeg, and I). They only knew us as 'cohorts'. If contacting one of them, I must introduce myself with that title - no name given. Sort of clandestine, but I stayed anonymous.

  I was allowed to contact those other minions for the purpose of gathering info. The problem was that none of them worked in areas that were gonna help me. The dispatcher would've been the closest to what I needed, but I doubted she had the clout to use police computers to find a facial match with the two suspects. It was a fair bet they already had records.

  A thought occurred to me, so I typed a return message to Viggo. The attack might've been considered an act of terrorism, which meant the local FBI office was involved. The CEO of Quinn would have known if that was the case or not, and Viggo had access to the CEO. Hell, he probably had him in his pocket. If the FBI was running the case, our best bet was to gain control of the lead investigator. If Viggo agreed, that part would be on him. He wouldn't see my message until that night. Yeah, inconvenient.

  It was all a matter of going with the best option. Gwen had the recognition software and could compare the faces against anyone in her databanks. She also got info from a cop once in a while, but there was no guarantee he/she could or would use police technology just for her. Even if that did pan out, having an FBI agent as a reliable contact would be pretty damn handy anyway.

  The last connected note from Viggo was a short list of directives. Find the assholes (he called them culprits). Subdue them by any means necessary. Make sure that at least one of them survives my attack. Depending on location and circumstance, I was to either bring them to Viggo or call him and he'd come to me. He made it sound simple. Experience told me that it hardly ever was.

  I had plenty of time to kill. So, after a workout and a drink, I decided to take care of my car issue. Per Viggo's order, I left the Audi where I first saw it in Elmwood Cemetery. A thunderstorm was moving in, so I jogged over to the office/crematorium by the gate and waited under its awning for the taxi I'd called. I didn't check the weather beforehand, and didn't bring my umbrella. I'm a moron.

  The rain was coming down in sheets by the time I was dropped off a few blocks from the thunderdome. That was twice that I stood in the rain fumbling with my keys while my cat stared at me through the window, the asshole. After changing into dry clothes, I took the Jeep out one last time.

  Miss Loretta was outside watching the late morning lightning show when I showed up. We talked from our respective porches; I promised I'd mow my lawn when weather permitted. I boxed some other personal shit to bring with me, wanting to make the thunderdome feel more like mine - like home.

  TRAEGER

  The name 'Traeger's Trading Post' made me think of a quaint, western-style shop. That mental image was way off the mark. Set out on the far side of one of the city's southeastern suburbs, the building was the size of one of those long cattle barns. There were two warehouses attached to the back of the main building, forming a huge U. The parking lot out front had plenty of room for customers. I parked close to a big iron gate on one side of the lot, where I guessed larger items came and went from the back. The place sat on an acre at least, and the back half was surrounded by security fencing. Quaint, my ass.

  Inside, everything was behind a counter that bordered the interior of the long rectangular building. Like a jewelry store, only as long as a football field. And when I said everything, I meant everything. That place had it all. Trading cards, guns, watches and rings, guitars, electronics, artwork, tools, CDs and DVDs, toys, housewares . . . the list went on and on. There were also touchscreens to see the images of the big items like cars, motorcycles, tractors, boats, ATVs, mowers, appliances, and furniture.

  Everything from backhoes to butt-plugs, Traeg had it. Yeah, he even had a backhoe. There's a joke in there somewhere about backhoes and butt-plugs, but I'm not clever enough to find it.

  Traeg and I talked in his office, where I told him about the Quinn incident before we moved on to a possible car swap. When I explained my lack of info, he said, "So you don't know who or where they are. Not yet, anyway. That sucks. Have you got everything you need for every possibility?"

  "Uh, I've got stealth gear, good weapons and enough ammo. Is that what you mean?"

  "Sort of, but I was really thinking more along the lines of surveillance equipment. I've got some cool gadgets. I could cut you a good deal, Leo."

  I couldn't stop myself from grimacing. "Damn, I don't know, Traeg. Even with the deal you'd make for me, those kinds of toys are pricey. I'm not exactly rolling in the dough."

  "Alright, tell ya what, we can go with a loaner option for now. Let's go look at some stuff I have in mind." We went out to the sales floor, where he showed me some stuff that would be pretty handy in general for the kind of work Viggo wanted me to do.
Traeg offered to let me borrow anything I wanted for a small, non-refundable deposit. If I broke it, I bought it. If I wanted to keep something, we'd work out a payment plan. Deal. I chose night vision goggles and a powerful sound amplifier with a small parabolic dish. Just to cover my bases, I bought an expandable steel baton. Enter your phallic joke here.

  As for cars to trade my Jeep for, Traeg didn't have many to choose from. Then again, he knew a way to write up the paperwork for any of them as a company car for ShadoWorks. All I needed to provide was my fake ID. I couldn't get a better offer than that.

  At the far end of one of his warehouses, just past a pontoon boat and some outboard motors, were the cars. The first one in the row was a pimped out Cadillac Eldorado. Uh, no. The next car surprised me: it was Shawn Riordan's IROC-Z. Again, no; I liked the vibe of Glazefinger, but that didn't mean I wanted to sit in it. Next was a BMW sedan. I thought Viggo would like me choosing another German car, but, like the Audi, it was too nice. Next to last was a '71 Plymouth Hemi Cuda; I bet the owner cried letting that baby go. I always wanted a muscle car, but it wasn't practical. And it was purple, for fuck's sake.

  The last choice was the only sensible one. The big blue Dodge Ram 1500 4x4 was less than five years old, not too many miles on it, with only had a few dings and dents. It was a regular cab, and had an attached matching blue camper shell. The only flashy parts to it were the slightly oversized tires and big-ass V8 engine. It was worth more than the Jeep, so Traeg offered me a no-contract payment deal. For coming off as a hard-nosed bastard, he was actually a really good guy.

  Back in the office, Traeg offered me a drink to conclude our deals. He was a rum man, so I just kept to my flask. I asked him about the perks of working for Viggo for so long. The first word Traeg could think of was "lucrative". He mentioned how Viggo started coming in with rare coins, unstamped bars of gold and silver, small antiques, and a steady supply of fine jewelry. Our commander never haggled much; he just wanted cash and was content with the going rates.

  I hinted at the question of Traeg's physical perks. "One thing's for sure," he said with a rare grin, "my dick hasn't turned all big and ugly like some of those damn rats of his have. Shawn worked for him the longest, at least around here; I heard a rumor that Viggo's kept some minions around for a long, long time. Anyway, Shawn was fast, fairly tough, and stronger than he looked. That kid had skinny arms. I'm not quick, but I got Viggo's tough skin. A few years back, some punk tried to rob me with a crappy little revolver. I swung a tire iron, he let off a round. He still talks with a stutter. I got a bruise on my arm."

  Laughing, I said, "You probably didn't need the tire iron."

  Traeg shrugged. "I might be a little stronger than normal, but nothing to brag about. And I'm not shit compared to our boss. I once saw him hit some other vamp with a car." Traeg leaned forward in his chair to emphasize his point. "He wasn't in the car - he swung it."

  "A car . . . He beat up someone with a car. You have got to be shitting me."

  "I shit you not. That other vamp was a tough mother; one of Viggo's punches put him down, but not out. When he started to get back up, our boss grabbed a compact Toyota by its tow hook and swatted him into the side of a building. I tell ya, Leo, that wall looked like a Jackson Pollock mural with a body smashed into it."

  I'll admit it. When I got home that rainy afternoon, I had to look up who Jackson Pollock was to know what the hell Traeg was talking about.

  COMPARISONS

  "That's not the news I was hoping for, Gwen." She'd finally me called back a few hours after I got home. Her cop contact wasn't an option.

  "What can I say, Leo? Does 'too damn bad' work for you? He's a desk sergeant. He can't go waltzing off and start playing with databases that most likely have restricted access anyhow. Oh, and since it'd be for personal use, he'd be lucky if they only fired him."

  "Okay, I get it," I said with a sigh. "I don't want you to abuse your friendship. If I knew his position or rank or whatever, I wouldn't have put you in a bad spot. Sorry." Just to lighten the mood, I playfully asked, "Who is this friend of yours, anyway - a special fella?"

  "That's none of your beeswax, mister. Look, I can still run your faces through my ShadoWorks software. The chances of getting a strong match in my system are slim, but it's worth a shot, right? All that I ask in return for my handy programs and awesome skills is that you have to tell me what you're working on. I want every juicy detail."

  I showed up at Gwen's place an hour later. I'd already forwarded the videos and notes about Quinn Industries to her, so all I brought with me was dinner. While we ate chicken, I talked about Traeg and his pawn shop. Gwen turned on her facial recognition shit and did a comparison run with the two terrorists. The best choice it found for the guy was a 34% similarity match, and a 21% match for the woman. We studied those comparisons. It wasn't them.

  Because it was a Friday and Gwen refused to work weekends, we both had time to chill out and talk about all the new stuff we had in common. The rain had let off, so I took her outside to show off my new truck. "Huh," she grunted with a shake of her head. "Big weapons and now a big truck . . . Exactly how small is your penis?"

  Glaring at her, I replied, "I'm also the proud owner of a cat. Does that balance the testosterone scales?"

  "Depends," Gwen volleyed. "How big is it?"

  I opened my mouth to answer, and froze. I wasn't going to win that one. Luckily, an incoming phone call saved me. It was the ShadoWorks number. When I answered, all Viggo said was to be available for the next evening, and to be ready for any number of scenarios. He then told me he wanted to talk to Gwen. I'd forgotten about that GPS tracker app in my phone.

  By her answers, I could tell he was asking about the two 'culprits' and the recognition software. She told him the results, listened for a second, and then handed the phone back to me. "Yes sir," I said.

  "The disappointing outcome of Ms. Solomon's search has altered my plans. I am making arrangements as we speak. By dawn, there will be details of new duties in your Planner. I will want you at your best tomorrow evening. Am I understood?"

  "Yes sir." Basically, if I was drunk or hung over the next night, I was in deep shit.

  As I put my phone back in my pocket, Gwen curiously asked, "Well . . . ?"

  "Well . . . I guess I have the night off. Something's going on tomorrow, but I'm not sure what. I might slip you a clue if I figure it out."

  "You're such a turd. Get outta here; go get a good night's sleep. And you better give me an update."

  "I'll make you a deal," I said as I climbed up into my truck. "Tomorrow I'll tell you all the particulars, and then you tell me all about your desk sergeant boyfriend." I pulled out of Gwen's driveway with her still standing there, staring daggers at my grin.

  I fought the urge to stop in at Keegan's for a drink or three . . . or seven. Hardly entertaining the slim chance of Tanya wanting to churn some butter with me, I went straight back to my place. I wasn't proud of my willpower. Hell, I thought it was a lost opportunity to enjoy my freedom, but Viggo had set his expectations. As well as my deep loyalty, there was the fact that he could kill me with his pinky finger. I had all sorts of incentives to follow his order.

  By the time that I'd cleaned my guns, put in a good workout, and scooped Thunder's neglected litter box, it was late and I was exhausted. I crawled into bed after a shower, wondering what was planned for the next night. I didn't wonder long; I was out like a light in a few seconds.

  As usual, I dreamt of Viggo. That night, though, it was different. I was at one end of a long and roughly carved stone hallway. It was lit from above by a string of bare bulbs, which were powered by lazily hung extension cords. The hallway walls were lined with dozens of thick wooden doors on both sides, and all set closely together. I didn't see Viggo, but I heard him speaking. The only words I remember were the ones he'd said to me and Traeg not too long before. "I have always had a tendency to hoard . . ."

  AGENT

  Following the day of
rain, the next morning was clear and relatively cool for mid-June. Too bad none of the damn building's windows would open. I went ahead and did some chores - a load of laundry, gave Phillip more supplies, blah-blah-blah - before seeing what Viggo had in store for me.

  In the Planner, the new message told me to be at a given address at 10:00 that night. There weren't any details, so I figured I'd bring nearly every weapon I owned. The heavily armed Boy Scout, that's me.

  While my PC was on, I browsed local news headlines; stupid and ignorant are two different things, and I couldn't afford to be both. Okay, so . . . The Royals won again. There was more vandalism in another utility tunnel, this time under a manufacturing complex. A big charity run was coming up. A leaking gas line caused a house explosion. The mutilated body of a man was dumped onto the lawn of the late Stanley Everett. The headlines were basically: good, bad, good, bad, and holy shit.

  Needing directions to the address Viggo gave, I found out the place he wanted me to meet him at was in a suburban strip mall. Not exactly dramatic or secluded, was it? I was expecting something a little more clandestine than a vacant store between a deli and a nail salon.

  With an afternoon to burn, I found a different barber for a high-and-tight haircut, ironed some slacks and a shirt, and otherwise hung out with Thunder. Speaking of my cat, I was getting nowhere with that Gift of Fauna thing. I didn't want to let Viggo and Barnabus down, but it didn't look good.

  I showed up at the location a few minutes early. Lights from the parking lot showed that both the glass front door and display window had closed blinds. Neither on the door nor on the marquee out front were any signs to say what the store used to be, if anything. I was about to knock, but then figured that Viggo might've left the door open for me. It was unlocked, but there was someone else besides him waiting for me in there.