by Steve Richer
The man didn’t look up from the screen. In fact, his eyes focused on the monsters emerging from the shadows and he mashed the buttons, making their heads explode in a mass of red goo.
“Of course I wanted to see you. Why do you think I called you here?”
“But…”
“But? You dare say that to me?”
“I’m sorry, boss.”
“Yes, you’re definitely sorry. You’ve always been. You’re pathetic.”
“Y-Yes, boss.”
“How long have you worked for me?”
The man ducked into a corridor, pulled out his laser cannon, and then emerged into the great room which was lined with enemy aliens.
“Are you gonna make me repeat myself?”
“No, boss.”
“Then answer the fucking question!”
“Two years,” the young man replied. “Two years and… three months.”
Leaning forward on the couch, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth, the man began shooting at the monsters. They were shooting back photon beams but he expertly dodged them. His character crouched and rolled in true superhero form before firing a volley at the aliens.
“And in two years and three months you still haven’t figured out that when I ask a question I expect a straightforward answer.”
“Of course, boss. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“It obviously won’t happen again because I’m seriously reconsidering your future with my organization.”
This time the employee remained silent. The man saw him fidgeting. The two bodyguards standing behind him were absolutely immobile, which made for a stark contrast. They were paid to be statues until they had to jump into action.
The aliens on the TV converged forward and even though the man dove left, mimicking the gesture with his game controller, he couldn’t escape the detonation.
“Fuck! You made me lose my concentration and now I have to start the level all over again.”
“Sorry.”
The man turned his head toward the employee, his eyes burning with anger. He seldom looked directly at his people. They were beneath him, he had no business ever looking at them.
But when he did, everybody in his entourage knew that it was a bad sign.
“Now I’m going to be nice and gentle,” he said with surprising calmness. “I’m going to ask you what I was going to ask you when I called you over, before you made me question your employment with me. Do you think you can act with the appropriate respect now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. All I want to know is if the wheels are in motion. Has everything been set up about our Alaskan friend?”
Not even bothering waiting for an answer, the man turned back toward his game and began playing the level again, starting at the beginning.
“Yes, boss. It’s all happening on schedule.”
“You have confirmation that all the people involved are on point?”
He jumped a gap in the bridge and dispatched two aliens. He hurried to a waypoint in the cavernous spaceship and picked up a medical kit.
“From what I know, the Coast Guard rescued one man, but that was according to plan. The others are in play and in the morning things should move smoothly.”
“Should? Did you just say the word should to me?”
“Boss, you know how it is. There are never any guarantees.”
The man ran forward toward a couple of skittering monsters, sidestepped their lasers, and he lobbed a gravitational grenade. However, the aliens shot at it and it exploded ahead of time, killing his character.
“Motherfucker! Did you see what you did? Did you just fucking see this?”
Standing up, the man spiked his game controller on the coffee table, cracking the glass top.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re sorry? Again? Is that all you can say? I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You’re nothing but a whiny little bitch!”
“Sorry.”
“Not only are you making me lose my game, something I’ve worked very hard at, but you used the word should in front of me. The conditional tense is not allowed in my presence. Did you know that?”
“Yes but…”
“But what? You’re sorry? Again?”
“Boss…”
“That’s right, I’m the boss. I’m the boss and when I give an order the result is that it will be fulfilled, not should. It’s never conditional, it has to be affirmative and definitive. I say something, you do it.”
The employee was sweating. His lips quivered in an equal mixture of anger and fear.
“I’ve been playing this level for six hours and you come along ruining everything,” the man continued. “Do you know how long six hours is when you’re sitting on the couch killing aliens? Do you know how hard it is to keep yourself from going to take a piss when that’s all you’re thinking about?”
“I’m s-sorry.”
In a flash, the man picked up the game controller again and pulled hard on the cord. The PlayStation fell from the desk it was sitting on and he went to it. Without a word, he stomped on it with all his might.
“I’m pretending this is your head, you slimy cocksucker! You’re nothing but a worthless piece of shit.”
There were electronic components all over the carpet and the man didn’t stop. Next, he turned toward the TV which was now displaying nothing but static. He hurled the controller at the screen, splintering it.
“I’m sorry, I should have said will instead of should.”
The man spun toward him. “In my organization, you don’t get a second chance.”
He leaped for his employee who took a step back. However, the two bodyguards were there to catch him, to make sure he wouldn’t go anywhere. The man in charge grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket.
“Please, sir!”
The man didn’t reply. Instead, he punched him in the gut followed by the face before he could be totally bent in half. He sent his knee up to break his nose.
“Aaahh!”
There was blood all over the man’s pants yet he didn’t even notice it. He landed three more blows and followed it up by dragging the young guy to his destroyed gaming console.
He threw him to the ground and without missing a beat, he straddled his lower back to keep him pinned down.
“Do you understand how important this is to me? Do you understand how paramount it is to please your superior?”
“Please, I’m sorry…”
The man pressed his face into the broken plastic. The kid screamed as his face was cut by the sharp edges.
“It’s the last time you’ll be sorry.”
The man stretched to his right and grabbed the mostly intact controller.
“Aaaahhh!”
“You make me lose my game, you make me lose my temper? Know that you’ll lose something too.”
Not thinking twice, he smashed the black controller into his employee’s face. Again. Again.
Until he was dead.
Chapter 14
Rogan was still jacked up from the strip club encounter. Even though it was past midnight, he didn’t feel like going to bed yet. It was odd, he was physically exhausted, especially after killing two assassins earlier this afternoon. But that’s what the adrenaline of combat always did to him.
He sprinkled the cocaine he’d bought down a storm drain. He didn’t want to be stuck with it nor did he want the coke to go back into circulation. Then it hit him that he had spent a fortune for this cheap interrogation trick. Once upon a time, he’d had money to burn but it wasn’t the case anymore. He made a note to stop spending so freely.
So he drove to Delridge and parked across the street from Samuel Poehler’s house. Eventually, he would need to investigate each fisherman to see which one, if any, had been responsible for the hit squad coming after them. The skipper was a good place to start.
It was too late to go knock on the door and talk to his widow. He knew by now that the Coa
st Guard or state police would have notified the family. It was the right time to pelt them with questions, when they were unsteady from the news, but it would have to wait until morning.
The house was simple. It was at least 50 years old with cheap clapboard and peeling paint. It was in otherwise good condition. The lawn had been mowed recently. Looking at a man’s house was a good way to gauge his character.
This told him that Samuel Poehler wasn’t a wealthy man but he took care of his things. He just didn’t have time to do everything. There were two cars in the driveway, a pickup and a station wagon, both almost ten years old. He was a working man. Middle-class. Normal. But a smuggler too?
The FBI agent continued to sit there. He didn’t sip coffee or listen to the radio. He sat there for hours, even dozing for a while. He merely struggled to understand what was going on.
Yet, as much as he tried he couldn’t make sense of it.
Without warning, the car door opened and Rogan fell backwards. The only explanation he could think of was that there was a defect in the latching mechanism. But that wasn’t it.
It was an attack.
“Get up!” a gladly voice ordered.
His first instinct was to reach for his gun but it was secure under his coat and sweater. On top of that, he was practically upside down, his head on the freezing sidewalk and his butt falling off the car seat. The attacker tugged on his collar, pulling him out.
“Whoa, easy,” he said in an attempt to gain some leverage.
“Turn around, asshole.”
Rogan swiveled his head and although he was still upside down he noticed that the guy was pointing a gun at him.
“All right, take it easy.”
There was no chance to do anything so Rogan calmly used his hands to scoot back and come out of the car completely. He found himself sitting on the ground and turning toward his assailant.
He was in his 20s and his face was covered by a thick goatee. His matching black hair was long enough to cover his ears and most of his forehead. He was dressed in jeans and a Seahawks jacket.
But there was something else that was much more eloquent about him.
“You were Army?”
“Shut the hell up!”
He was wearing tan-colored Army Combat Boots (Temperate Weather). They were just a little different than the Marine Corps-issued Danner RAT boots Rogan was currently wearing.
Furthermore, he was using the modified isosceles shooting stance which denoted military training. He kept enough distance so that Rogan wouldn’t be able to disarm him.
“Yes, definitely Army. Infantry?”
“What the hell are you doing in front of my house?”
Rogan nodded, that explained everything. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet so he could lean back against the car.
“So that means you’re Syd, the captain’s son.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a guy who would be very grateful if you lowered that sidearm. You’re giving me the heeby-jeebies.”
“Not until I get some answers.”
“Where did you serve? Afghanistan, right? Spent some time in Kabul myself. You remember the enchiladas at Bagram? It made the local goat stew look like a delicacy by comparison, uh?”
“Why the fuck are you staking out my house?”
“I’m FBI, Syd. Special Agent Rogan Bricks. I’ll show you my badge but I need to reach into my pants. Okay, that sounded really dirty. Can I show you my badge, Syd?”
When the guy didn’t reply, Rogan slowly dug into his pocket, keeping his other hand up to appear nonthreatening.
“Slowly!”
“It’s okay, it’s okay…” He produced his wallet and opened it to reveal his credentials. “See? FBI. Now please lower that gun so we can talk.”
Syd evidently hadn’t expected him to be a cop and he was somewhat flustered. He loosened his arms, lowered the gun, but made no move to holster it. It was a good start anyway.
“Thank you.”
“What do you want? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
“I’m sorry about that. I wanted to come by but I realized it’s late. I didn’t want to come in and talk to you until morning.”
“It’s about my dad?”
“You heard, right? I’m sorry, I truly am.”
The young man lowered the gun even more now, letting it hang alongside his leg. “So it’s really true, he’s lost at sea?”
“I’m sorry if they gave you the wrong impression. It’s probably their job to sound hopeful. But I have to tell you something, Syd. Your father is dead. It’s pretty much 100% guaranteed.”
“Fuck.”
“Listen, Syd. I need you to tell me about the smuggling.”
At that, the former soldier went rigid. A second later he aimed the pistol back at Rogan.
“You shut your mouth.”
“I won’t arrest you, I won’t arrest your mom either. I don’t care about that, not anymore. But I need to know what happened.”
“What happened is that the fishing boat sank. What’s the big mystery?”
Rogan took a deep breath. He’d figured the family wouldn’t have been told the grim details. But this kid had to know the truth, it was essential for the investigation.
“Your father – the whole crew – they were killed, Syd. Killers came by and they murdered everyone before scuttling the boat.”
“What? No!” The gun went down again and Syd began pacing. “That can’t be true.”
“I’m sorry, that’s what happened. From what we’ve been able to learn, it would have something to do with your father’s smuggling operations.”
The young man leaned back against a telephone pole and slid down until he was sitting on the sidewalk. “Jesus Christ…”
Rogan came closer. “Tell me how it worked, Syd. If you want me to find who did this, you need to tell me everything you know. We’re not bringing up charges against anyone in your family, we just wanna know what happened.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Tell me how the smuggling works first. Your dad loads contraband on his boat and then he goes to Russia? Is that it?” The Kamchatka Peninsula was less than a thousand miles from Alaska. It made sense. “Tell me, Syd.”
“No, he never went to Russia.”
Rogan crouched in front of him. “Then how did he do it?”
“There’s this buoy, just north of the Aleutians, some deserted island. Whether it’s dropping something off or picking something up, you just have to tether it to the buoy.”
“And some Russians did the rest of the journey?”
“Yeah. I never met them. Even dad never met them.”
“Then who’s in charge? Who does your dad work for?”
“Nobody.”
“Syd, this is important. We need to take these bastards down before they kill anyone else. Was it people from South Africa?”
“South Africa? I don’t know what you’re talking about. My dad just had a broker, somebody who arranged things. He told him where to pick up merchandise, told him when it should be delivered. Dad got a standard delivery fee. Made up for lean fishing years.” He paused. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I just realized… A week ago, dad booked a vacation for the whole family. Mom, me, my girl, my brother and his kids. We were all going to Disneyland for Thanksgiving. He had way more money than usual.”
That meant whatever he’d been smuggling was more important than usual, Rogan concluded.
“Tell me who the broker is, Syd.”
This time he didn’t hesitate. “Calix Hargrove. His name is Calix Hargrove. If he’s really responsible, I hope you bring that fucker down.”
“You wouldn’t have an address by any chance, would you?”
Syd shrugged. He shoved the gun into his pants and pulled out his phone. He started going through it and shrugged again.
“I don’t have his contact information. All I have is a picture of him.”
>
“Let me see?” Rogan asked eagerly.
“It’s from last summer, I snapped a picture of my dad at the docks. I thought his shirt was silly and Hargrove was standing next to him.”
“Holy shit,” Rogan mumbled.
“What?”
Calix Hargrove was in fact Rusty Brandt.
Chapter 15
The night had been extremely long for Shiloh. The flight from Anchorage to Seattle had been bumpy as hell and it was only moderately less so on the leg east to Toronto. It took three gin and tonics for her to get some sleep.
With the time zone change, she got into Pearson International just before 6am. She was as tired as she was confused by the jet lag. She hopped on the UP Express train and over half an hour later she was amid the downtown skyscrapers.
She took a cab and it was another 20 minutes – in gridlock traffic – before she arrived at the Tim Horton’s that was her rendezvous point. The place was busy with office drones in dire need of a caffeine fix before going to work.
She scanned the area carefully. She didn’t think that this was an ambush; you didn’t do such a thing in a crowded area. Unless you needed to make a point. Getting hit by a sniper’s bullet was still a possibility though she doubted it.
At last, she spotted Dispatch. His name was in reality Barth. He was the former faction dispatcher and she had only met him once in person. He was tall with bleached blond hair and was pushing 50. He was missing part of his right leg and right arm.
Rumors said that he used to work for New Zealand intelligence while other rumors said that this was a lie, a cover, that he had been in fact fired from the NSA after an otherwise illustrious career.
Still on her guard, she headed toward him. He smiled brightly and moved his crutch to make room for her.
“I don’t like this,” Shiloh said as she sat down across from him.
“You’re lying.”
She cocked her head to the side and frowned. “That’s so lovely, you presume to know what’s going on in my head. You should take your show on the road, you’d make a fortune.”
“People like us can’t stay away, Shiloh. It’s in our blood.”
“Ever heard of dialysis? I’m thoroughly trying to change. I was doing very well until I received your phone call.”
