Too Wylde

by Wynne, Marcus

  The driver pulled up in front. She paid him in cash, tipped him way better than he deserved, and thanked the cute Mexican bellboy who took her bag to the front desk.

  Nice place.

  She checked in, collected her key and followed Cute Boy up to the room. He let her in with a flourish, collected his tip with a smile and the hint of a wink, and she smiled demurely behind her sunglasses, then laughed with delight when she tossed herself back on the bed.

  Oh, My, God. This just so fucking rocked. Every girl would be so green jello over this.

  She took out one of the three cell phones she carried, all iPhone Gen 4 Siri, all with the cool encryption packages she liked, each one in a different name, her own portable girl posse. She turned one on, checked her texts, saw that Double D had sent one:

  You in yet?

  Dash of fingers: Yep. In the room.

  A few moments later: Want to go out for drinks and a dance at a hot strip club.

  Kiki's eyes grew huge. OMFG! Hell to the yeah!

  I'll come by and pick you up at 8:00 p.m. in front of the hotel. I'll be driving a black Lexus; I'm blonde!

  I'm in black! C U then!

  She hugged the phone to her thin chest. OMG. My life so fucking rocks.

  She unpacked her computer gear, powered up her box, connected to the hotel Wi-Fi (they ran through a proxy, nice, but not enough for her, she did a VPN and set up her own on top of her encrypted wireless transmission complete with spoofed FECN ID) checked her e-mail drop box. Downloaded what she needed onto a 8GB flash drive and it was good.

  Now it was time to get some room service, a nap, a shower, and get dolled up for the night out with the real player...

  Mr. Smith, AKA Hank

  Large hotels, lots of turnover, lots of exits. That's what Mr. Smith liked. You want to be hidden in plain sight, stay in a place where the faces change every day, where you don't talk to anyone, where you don't engage in conversation, where you don't linger, you just come and go like everyone else...drive an anonymous car, don't draw attention to yourself.

  Kinda hard to do when your whole head is a scar, and the very act of walking through a lobby becomes an exercise in display. So he went whole hog the other way: a small cheap motel, where the Pakistani owner took cash and asked no questions, never met your eye, denied everything and anything to the Feebs that came by looking for terrorists or people of interest, where the Hispanic maids took a tip everyday and a few quiet words in fluent Spanish helped them to understand that taking his money meant keeping their mouths shut, where he could park his car under the watchful eye of a camera and not worry about some eager beaver coming and sticking a GPS under his wheel well, and he could surf the internet on his well secured laptop fairly sure that he was just one more blip in the bandwidth.

  So a Motel 6, where he could work undisturbed, where the maids gave plenty of notice before they came in and the DO NOT DISTURB sign was honored (though in good Machiavellian fashion -- "The only means of security which are sure and proven are those you see to yourself" -- he made sure and backed it up with his hidden micro-cams and checked them often from his smartphone) and the unspoken but very clear message was "Leave me alone."

  It really was a wonderful day in the neighborhood.

  Mr. Smith flipped through a medical software program on his laptop, a present from a concerned counselor that worked for the private corporation that fronted for the private corporation that fronted for the OGA that actually funded things -- a long way from the alphabet soup that everyone else was so fond of throwing hints about. He was studying potential new faces. The baseline was a 3-D rendering of his face as it was; the program allowed you to try on different features, just like clothes on a model, to see how you look. The program would only allow those features that were actually medically possible according to the staff of surgeons who worked to create it; Mr. Smith knew some of those surgeons worked for his particular flavor of OGA as contractors when it was necessary to, well, completely disappear someone without actually "disappearing" them.

  Amazing what you can do with modern surgery, if cost is no object and access to the best is a given. Some of the other things: gait, bone length, all those things biometric ID at a distance looked for, you could compensate for that with prosthetics, lifts, training. Facial bone structure, now that required some pretty dramatic work, or else a lot of time with a make up kit, though the magicians in Technical Services Division could do that if it were called for.

  He looked up at the TV screen above the table where he worked, at his reflection, the white ghostly blob of his head and face in the dark glass, lit from below by the computer screen.

  Scary.

  As hell.

  Casper the Unfriendly Ghost. He grinned at that. Unseen In All The Worst Places. He wondered if anyone else would remember Null's motto in a few years. Ken had been the first guy to really work with new age plastics and polymers, but to hear these young assholes go on, they were the only ones who knew the ins and outs of kydex.

  Young. He'd been a young asshole; according to the few that he touched base with (the ones that lived, anyhow) he still was an asshole. Guess you needed a fan base to tell that, and most of his fans were long gone and occasionally lifted a glass to his memory if they weren't.

  He touched his face. Memories of women...he didn't want to go there. It had been a long time. Forever, actually, in this new life. And he doubted all his works would function in the clinch, assuming he found a hooker who could handle him and his medical needs. Though that would be a great way to go out; dead between the legs of some stone gorgeous $5k a night hooker, and the Coroner trying to figure out who the hell he was. That would keep the OPSEC/DISINFO boys and girls working long hours.

  He laughed at that. Try to spin a story to cover that shit: long dead special operator discovered dead -- again -- with his face and fingerprints burned off, teeth replaced, between the thighs of a five thousand dollar a night hooker. He'd have to work some fine single malt Bushmills into it, though either of those pleasures would kill his ass.

  It was just a matter of time.

  He looked over at the stacked Pelican cases in the corner.

  Would make more sense if he went out with a bang.

  Of some kind.

  He clicked off, eased up out of the chair, felt the various adhesions snag and stretch throughout his body. Went and dropped fluid into his eyes till they ran pink tears. Gave himself a shot, checked his blood levels, took a few pills. Sat back on the bed and flipped through channels till he found a rerun of SOLDIER OF FORTUNE INC. It was from the first season, and man, he still had a hard-on, or at least the memory of one, for Margot. Reminded him of that Ukranian girl he'd met working in that pub in Chelsea when he was seconded to the SAS for training; same dark hair, blue eyes, sharp boned face, lean and muscly, a little tiger. What was her name? Didn't matter. Was fun while it lasted. She wouldn't kick him out, though, as long as he had money. Which was the problem. It was all about the Benjamins.

  He couldn't watch the rest of the show, flipped till he got to the news. Shooting at local gun store. He turned up the sound. Frowned. Deon Oosthuizen. Now, that's a known player on his social network analysis. Three Somalis?

  He took out his cellphone, tapped out a text message. Waited. The phone rang a moment later.

  "Somebody freelancing on me?" he said without preamble.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Recent unpleasantness with some former residents of the Mog. Close to home. Again, someone freelancing on me?"

  "No."

  "Check."

  "I..."

  "Check."

  A sigh. "I'll do that and get back to you."

  "A simple yes or no in text will do."

  "All right." He paused.

  "Always check."

  "Yes, sir."

  He disconnected, turned off the phone, tossed it on the bed.

  Bullshit. There's no such thing as coincidence.

 
; He turned on his side, eased himself up and out of the bed with the long practice of someone who had spent a lifetime in a hospital bed. Limped to his bag, reached in and brought out his pistol. Full size Glock 17, grip trimmed, a silencer front post sight and a Dawson rear and a Trijicon RMR milled down into the slide to co-witness, Dawson magwell and the baseplate of a Dawson extension giving him a full 26 rounds of 9mm goodness in a handful cut down just for him. One of the CAG operators did all the work for him; they were a good bunch, and his standing in the Yellow Shooting Glasses Generation gave him the courtesy and respect others wouldn't understand.

  Jimmy John got it.

  Mr. Smith hefted his 17, pulled out a MCI Glock trigger sheath and looped it around his belt, clipped the Glock into place and tucked it down into his waistband. Good to go. He grabbed two additional magazines and shoved them down into his left hand pants pocket, another double mag carrier and shoved it in the right hand pocket of his oversized oilskin canvas upscale shooting jacket and checked himself out. Back in the bad old good days, he'd have tucked some knives in there, but he was too fucked up to engage in hand to hand, and knife was always at least close enough to be hand to hand, so it was shooting. He was still more than a little handy, though long sessions wore him out, and the red-dot RMR rig on his pistol certainly made his life a lot easier when it came to sight acquisition.

  Maybe a late night drive and a burger would be good. Who knows, maybe someone would try to jump his ass and lighten his load of boredom.

  Which was a good way of disguising what was really on his mind, which was Jimmy John, and this current assignment, and the subsequent phases of said assignment. He wasn't one to go for body counts, and some part of him rebelled at the fact, plain and simple, that the bodies he'd put in bags earlier were all US citizens, most of them .gov employees, and the fact that they were off the reservation, or so he'd been told, didn't really make it any more palatable, even with an original signature kill order/Presidential Finding shoved under his nose. Who'd a thunk it, that we'd come to this in his lifetime? Maybe he should transport some RDX into the White House the next time they gave him one of those "here you go, look at it and then kiss it good bye" decorations and letters. At least an Intelligence Star they let you look at once in awhile. Not that he was in it for the ribbons.

  No.

  He was in it because this was what he did and this is who he was. What else could he do? He was dying anyway. At least this way he was of use.

  Damn. Sad thing for a man like me, going out for burgers instead of a Budweiser and a blow-job, but that's just how it played out.

  He blew air kisses at his reflection, and limped out the door, locking it behind him, and got into his Cherokee, gunned it up, and drove off into the dark night of Lake City.

  Lance T

  Lance sipped a twenty year old cognac and thought about indebtedness. Owing. Not something he enjoyed. When he was pro, he had a contract, but a contract, while indebtedness defined, had a start point and an end point, had a dollar figure attached to it for buy out. In this business, indebtedness or at least the appearance of it was an ongoing thing, and frankly, it bugged the shit out of him.

  There were the cops, of course, to keep them off his back and to look the other way -- most of that was settled with pussy and free drinks, though the older and more seasoned ones wanted their taste of the good in cash; and a certain amount of payroll and kickback from the girls went to that; there's the City inspectors, the liquor distributors, the doctors he kept on the side for the girls, the girls themselves and then, of course, his investors, whose investment often showed up in satchels full of cash from their lucrative cash rich enterprises and required, well, a turn in the laundry that was a cash-driven business like the one Lance ran, and then he had to take a certain amount of that and run it through his own laundry, all the while finding ways to get that cash into a good ol' electronic format so that it can be shuttled around and then returned, say, as a installment check from a investment firm, or a series of rents from empty houses.

  So instead of paying back a debt, he was transformed into a continuing enterprise, which had its benefits, monetary primarily, though there were other resources available to him should it become necessary. Not that he needed that. He had his own and maintained them.

  The problem is that the people with whom he was involved were not willing to let Lance call it done and paid and walk away.

  That, he thought, with a slow sip of cognac, was the crux of the problem.

  "Lance?" the bartender, a new Ukrainian girl named Anke, Annika, something like that, said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Phone."

  He took the handset. "This is Lance."

  The voice of his Cambodian business associate. "Good morning, my friend. I was doing my crossword puzzle this morning and I ran across this word. Assistance. You know, I had to look it up in the American dictionary. I thought it had an e instead of an a."

  "English can be tricky that way."

  "Very tricky, you Americans."

  "Some of us."

  "Yes." A silence, long enough to cause Lance to shift uncomfortably in his seat. "My friend, I need some help."

  This was it. "What is it I can help you with?"

  "I have a friend. He requires a place to stay for a short time. A place where he will not come to the attention of the authorities. I was thinking of the apartments you have upstairs? There is the one with its own bathroom? And perhaps the girls could fetch him meals?"

  "I don't know..."

  "My friend will be no problem, Lance. He has physical limitations, and no interest in the women. All he requires is a room with a bathroom nearby, food, and access to your wireless network. This would be a great favor to me."

  "Who's looking for him."

  A long pause, then: "No one who will know where to find him. And I can provide some additional security. I will do that."

  Lance wanted to scream and throw the phone. This wasn't just a slippery slope; it was a full blown jump off the roof. But he was stuck, so what else could he say?

  "Of course. Least I can do, considering our business relationship."

  "Thank you, Lance. It certainly enhances our relationship."

  "We'll see," Lance said. He didn't really care at this point whether he offended the other man or not. "When will he be here?"

  "When can you have the room ready?"

  "It stays ready."

  "Five minutes, then. And my man who brings him will pick up anything extra necessary."

  "What's his name?"

  "He'll tell you."

  "Okay, I'll...."

  The phone went dead. Great.

  Lance set the handset down on the bar, and the bartender, studiously not-noticing the boss's demeanor, put it back on the cradle.

  "Another cognac, Lance?"

  "No. Put a fresh pot of coffee on."

  He looked up and saw the door swing open, and a much bigger than usual Hmong guy in his twenties, gang tat sleeves on his muscled arms and all up around his neck, pushed a wheelchair through the door. The man in the wheelchair was old, old, old -- wattled neck and droopy head old, though his eyes were bright and sharp, and he seemed alert. Hmong as well, probably at least in his 70s or 80s, though who could tell with Asians?

  Lance walked over to them and the young gun said, "Which way?"

  Lance extended his hand to the older man. "Sir, I'm Lance T. This is my place. I'm glad to welcome you."

  The older man lifted his hand, a mottled claw, gripped Lance's and pulled him close with a completely surprising strength.

  "Hello, Lance T," the old man said in excellent, nearly unaccented English. "My name is Po. My friends call me Tony Po."

  "Hello, Tony Po. I'll get you to the..."

  "Let's not rush," Tony Po said. "How about a drink together? I may be old, but I still enjoy looking at the young girls."

  Lance gawped as Tony Po laughed 'he he he he he' in a perfect caricature of a dirty old man.


  "I like cognac," Tony Po said. "And blondes..."

  Lance had to grin and shake his head. "And let me guess..with big tits?"

  "Of course!" Tony Po threw up his hands in delight. "Who does not?"

  Lance laughed out loud. "Welcome to the Trojan Horse, Tony Po. I got a place for you to sit right over here, right next to me..."

  Dee Dee Kozak

  "I need you to sit right here, and watch that computer," Dee Dee said.

  Irina wasn't happy about it. "I don't want to stay here alone."

  "You had your chance to be out and about. I need you watching *this* computer because this is secure. And I need you to call me when you see the money go through, and then you can log off. Because we'll have our cash and we'll be able to do what we need to do. Do you understand?"

  "Why can not your employee..."

  "Because she's my employee. You're a principal. You wanted to be a partner, well, now you're a partner. This is what you have to do. Watch our money. I have to go out and round up the rest of what we need."

  Irina tapped her expensive leather boot clad foot impatiently.

  "How long must I wait?"

  "Till it's done. Then you need to shut it down, lock the computer up, and stay close."

  "How long will you be?"

  "What are you, my mother? You don't need to know any of this. You just do what I say and you do it now. Or you can run this gig all by yourself. Pay and play. After the first part, you can do the second part. And not a second sooner. Got it?"