Too Wylde

by Wynne, Marcus

  "Good," Irina said. "I hear you are good."

  "I am."

  "Good."

  "Well, now that everything is *good*, we're going to get the fuck out of Kiki's way and let her work her magic. Kiki, what do you need?"

  "An outlet and some space."

  Dee cleared the work-station and set the chair in front of it. "Here you go. Gotta love a hotel with an executive work station. You want something to drink? Water?"

  "Mountain Dew."

  "Honey, that shit will rot...okay. Mountain Dew. That's what we got room service for. What to eat?"

  "M&Ms. Peanut."

  Dee Dee laughed. "I suppose you want me to pick out all the blue ones first, right? You better hack like a rock star, baby."

  "Oh, I do," Kiki said.

  "I know you do," Dee Dee said. "So. First. I want you to run the sourcing on that strip club. Second. I want you to talk me through the money transfers. Third. I want you to move some of that money to some different accounts. Can do?"

  "Yep."

  Irina pulled a chair up. "I can watch?"

  "Whatever," Kiki said.

  This was important, Irina thought. And I do not understand how it is done. I am dependent on a little girl to do this. She leaned forward, studied the monitor intently, the scrolling code, the multiple windows, the steady clacking of keys, while Dee Dee called in an order.

  "Yes. M&Ms. How hard is that? Fine, charge it to the room. And not the small packs. If you only have the small packs send up, oh, ten or so of them. Thank you!"

  Dee went into the bathroom.

  "How long have you done this?" Irina said.

  "Since I was 6 or 7."

  "How old are you now."

  "I'm....almost 14."

  Irina took that in. "You are very smart. You are a genius?"

  The girl reddened. "I don't know about that."

  "I think maybe you are. I do not know anyone who can do this. And I know many people."

  "It's not so hard."

  "If you have a gift."

  Kiki shrugged, embarrassed.

  "Whatever."

  She crouched like a predatory bird over the keyboard. Irina studied the girl's face. Very young. Smart, too smart, and very sensitive in the way of young girls who have not yet known hard things. Though many things seem hard when you are a young girl. Rina was selling herself at 14, and some part of her, buried deep inside, was angry at this brilliant young girl, who had a skill that didn't require her to be on her knees in front of fat old men.

  "Can you teach me this?" Rina said.

  Kiki looked up, surprised. "Uh, I dunno. I've never taught anyone. I don't think that I want to."

  "I will pay you."

  "She's got a job," Dee Dee said.

  Irina turned and looked up at the assassin, who had been standing there for some time. There was a knock at the door. Dee went and let a waiter wheel a cart in, who accepted a signature and left.

  "Here you go, kiddo," Dee said. "All the food groups. Chocolate, sugar, caffeine, sugar, corn syrup, more sugar. Throw in some red meat and a cube of butter, we'd have it licked."

  "Helps me think," Kiki said defensively.

  "You thinking makes me money," Dee said. "So eat up. Think. Make us money."

  Kiki ripped open a pack of peanut M&Ms, washed them down with a glass of Mountain Dew from a fine goblet. Grinned and worked the keyboard.

  Irina watched her and watched Dee. Wanted one, and hated the other.

  Tony Po

  Stared out the window and remembered Vientiane. Laotian girls, delicate and fine boned, so amazingly soft, their skin smoother than silk. Black coffee softened with hot milk on the terrace of a fine hotel. Custom silk suits. The jungle. Triple canopy and the plod and suck of mud beneath his sandals. Poppy fields. So beautiful in the light, their orange blossoms turning to follow the sun. And the long rows of bamboo sheds where the opium was processed, the poppy bulbs milked.

  Sacks of raw opium, and then, later, with the help of the pragmatists of the CIA, processing into heroin at select forward camps, conveniently built beside airstrips. The money paid for guns and equipment and food and shelter for the families of the stolid brown men who lined up to take their pay and follow the white men, among them the Tony Poe from whom he had borrowed his name.

  Money.

  Stacks of it. And then, later, the sophistication of moving it around. Though Tony, with the canniness of a multiple war survivor, made sure to keep a good portion in gold. Gold people understood. You can take gold anywhere and turn it into whatever you need. Easy to assay, easy to carry enough to get a start. Easier than diamonds. That required an expertise you had to find. Gold you can test with a kit yourself. Diamonds were harder that way, though a good way to transport significant value from one place to the next before the crack down on blood diamonds. And in the age of the Internet, moving money was done with the touch of a few keys.

  Or the uploading of an expensive custom program.

  Like the one he held in his hand.

  And what was moved, in this instance, could not be unmoved. Without him and his willing participation. The wonders of technology cut both ways, and that was what he was counting on. He was a survivor, of many battles, many wars, and many dealings with ruthless men. And he had dealt, ruthlessly, with those who'd crossed him.

  But now...

  He was an old man. A toothless lion surrounded by the young lions, dependent on their tolerance. Or so they thought. Because what he had, more than any of them, was his experience and his long memory and his long list of friends for whom he had done many favors.

  And money.

  And most of all what they feared the most.

  Secrets.

  The things they wanted hidden, he knew. And he had a way to bring them out into the light.

  Nothing frightens the dark-siders more than that.

  Other than losing their money.

  He grinned at that thought. From the days of moving gold to the days of moving electrons. He didn't know how to do it, but he knew how to talk to the young kids who did, the ones who were knee-high nieces and nephews as children and who Uncle T had put through college, paid for their tuition and their spending money and their nice new shiny cars. They paid it back, as dutiful family did, with the kind of favors they were trained to do, and Uncle T had been sure to identify early on the ones who were good with electronics, who liked to tinker with computers and coding and hacking and video games, and those ones got extra attention, a little extra money, and encouragement (and when necessary, a sharp slap) to keep them in school to get the best computer degrees.

  He weighed the flash drive in his hand.

  The bosses had sent men to kill him for this. Because he was tired of working and was ready to retire, but the sure hand of Tony Po was needed; he was a good earner, the best earner there was. It wasn't just what he knew, it was who he knew, and what he knew about them, that maybe him almost untouchable, and very very rich -- not just in the bank, but in the currency of favors and access. That, sometimes, maybe most of the time, was worth more than dollars in the bank. Or stacks of gold heaped high in a hidden vault.

  He was rich in luck, too. This he knew. More than once he'd felt the urging that was his lucky guardians nudging him: "Talk to this person, talk to that person." And when he did, good things happened. Like seeing that beautiful dancer, and just knowing she would do this favor for him.

  Now it was in play.

  The program was running.

  If they hadn't come for him, he would have sat with it longer. The problem with a threat is that sooner or later you have to act on it or demonstrate it in order for it to be effective. Some people are never cowed, some recover from being cowed, and some will always be easily cowed by the appearance of strength or a threat.

  Tony had been threatened by experts. His body bore the scars of a man who'd endured more than one violent encounter. They had come to him to make good on their threat. And he, in turn, had ma
de good on his. So now it was in play.

  "Hey!" he said to his bodyguard. "You better get some more friends over here. I don't think those guys are going to let this go."

  The bodyguard held up his phone, showed a text the old man couldn't read. "On their way."

  And so it begins, Tony Po thought. As it had so many times before. He wondered if, this time, it would be his last.

  Guz

  Went over his gear quickly. He kept it all packed for gigs like this, whether with Deon or one of the other people who kept him on speed-dial, but he hadn't lasted all these years without a skill-set that included checking, double-checking, and then checking again against his lists.

  Basic load-out was in his old issue and badly battered Mystery Ranch 3DAP; he favored it because of the very cool and useful three-way zip. He liked the issue Kelty MAP 3500 as well, but the slightly smaller Mystery Ranch forced load discipline on him, and he enjoyed that. Always packed was a trauma kit, cleaning kit for his weapons, spare ammo, light outer shell, admin on a flash drive, $5K in cash, spare socks, snivel gear, energy bars, water, a Norwegian Jerven Duk, paracord and some tiny titanium stakes, his mini-survival kit, 2 knives.

  He could go anywhere and do anything with what he had there.

  The rest the mission would determine, and since it was Deon, all he had to worry about was a personal weapon to get him there. There was a Colt Mk18 locked in a box in his trunk with a Mayflower plate carrier rigged with magazines and a blow out kit, but that was for true emergencies and not for work. But again, since it was Deon, he'd not have to worry about that.

  Guz was neat and tidy and compact, 5 feet 10 inches, deceptively solid -- you wouldn't know to look at him he had practically no body fat at all on him, years on the Teams would do that to a guy -- hair and beard neatly trimmed. He favored a plain glass pair of horn rim glasses; no magnifying ability to them, but they softened his profile, always a challenge for an off-duty SEAL.

  It was all about the blend.

  Comfortably worn Levis with a tan on tan Ares Gear Ranger Belt, good to go; Salomon low-cuts, check; a baggy and well worn tan Operators Shirt from Drop Zone Tactical. He looked like he was ready for safari. Holsters...well, throw a drop leg in the bag, just in case, and run a snug tight Raven Arms for his Glock 19 on his strong side, a spare mag pouch in front of that, a double mag pouch on his other strong side, tuck a Hissatsu somewhere in there -- fixed blade only, a folding knife started broken -- and he was good to go.

  Slung his pack over his shoulder, and he looked like a naturalist going out into the woods, which he did quite often. Guz was at home in the woods, happily so even in the worst of weather, something his Team mates often commented on. Guz never complained, no matter what it was like. Unless it was to make a joke.

  Fired up his Wrangler Rubicon, looking over his shoulder to make sure everything was undisturbed. Then drove away from his neat and tidy home, carefully landscaped, staying two miles below the speed limit.

  Deon Oosthuizen

  Looked up at Guz coming through the door. Good lad. Looked like a game keeper or a bloody birdwatcher.

  "How you keeping?" Deon said.

  Guz grinned. Perfect teeth, like everything else about him. "Fine, thanks, Deon. Nice to see you!"

  "You as well. Ready for a bit of work?"

  "Yes."

  "Here you go, some kit..." Deon pointed at the side counter. Three HK-416s with the 10.3 inch barrel, Aimpoint Micros mounted up top and a Surefire forward, three London Bridge E&E bags set with the tops open.

  Guz poked into one, pulled out a Magpul magazine, loaded two down. "ASYM Precison?"

  "Only the best for you, lad. You're one of the few that appreciate nuance."

  Guz laughed. "So what are we doing?"

  "Bit of PSP. Looking after Jimmy's dearest at her club. Seeing her to his place, after. Sitting there."

  "What's up with Jimmy?"

  "Bit of a bad go outside the club. Still sorting it out. Asian, Hmong probably. Shooters."

  "On him? His girlfriend?"

  "Don't think so. Jimmy and someone else sorted them out. So there might be a bit of comeback."

  "Jimmy. He's just like a lightning rod, isn't he?"

  "He is. But he's one of us."

  "Yes," Guz said. "He is. So. In close, inside? We're gonna run the long guns?"

  "Better safe than sorry."

  "Gonna call attention to us."

  Deon grinned. "You'll like this." He pulled out three soft guitar cases, popped them open. "I replaced the zip with a velcro tear away. Carbine goes here, the mag-bag here. Grab, tear, mount. Tear aways secure the gun and the bag. We sit just by the DJ, we're elevated...you ever been in there?"

  "No. Not my thing."

  "Not a bad place to spend some time. The DJ podium, off to the side. Gives you overwatch on the whole floor, the dance runway, all that. You can work close with her back in the lounge, since you are young and strong of heart, and I am old and weak in will. I'll cover in front and when she's on the stage, you can work the floor."

  "Comms?"

  "Standard. In that case right there. Ear buds, throat mike."

  "Gonna be tough with the background noise. Music, what not."

  "Fair point. Rather do without?"

  "No. Just saying."

  "You want body armor?"

  "Threat assessment?"

  "The ones he killed were running AKs."

  "I don't want body armor."

  "Light and fast, then?"

  "You bet."

  "Fair enough. Here. Bit of spending money."

  Deon handed Guz a bundle with 7 $100 dollar bills, and $300 in $20s. "Day rate. That'll be good till tomorrow. We'll sort it as we go, I don't think we'll be on this more than a day or two."

  Guz split the money into two stacks. One stack went into his cordura combat wallet, the other stack went into the front pocket of his jeans. "Fine with me. I got plenty of time."

  "No contracts?"

  "Not right now. Way things are, thought I'd stay home for awhile. Work on the yard."

  "How are your rose-bushes?"

  "Great! I've got eight of them now in the back. Room for more, if need be."

  "How did that tree chipper work for you?"

  "Was fine, really. You chop the arms and legs off, open the torso, makes it easier to grind it up good. Catch it, mix in some high quality manure, line the hole and plant those roses in. Roses love it. Makes for a really healthy planting mix. Manure helps accelerate the decomposition, and masks the smell...you know, meat and blood when it's hot. But it breaks down pretty fast when you have it chipped down like that."

  "How do you clean it? Afterwards, I mean?"

  "Hose it down over some saw dust, sweep the saw dust up, it's all good. I wash it down with industrial bleach, too. But c'mon...who goes DNA testing on a wood chipper?"

  "Fair point. I hope we don't need to do that, but it's good to have if need be. How's your mum and them?"

  "All good, Deon. Thank you."

  "I'll have to come by and pay my respects some time."

  "She'd like that. So would my aunt."

  "How's she taking to Lori?"

  Guz shrugged. "Ah. Women. No one will ever be perfect. But Lori works on her. It's all good. Mom's teaching her how to cook her secret Italian dishes."

  "Progress, then."

  "Yep."

  "Shall we get on with it?"

  "Two vehicles?"

  "One is none..."

  "...and two is one. Meet you in the parking lot?"

  "Stage one across the street, that would be you; I'll take the lot. We'll have options."

  "Let's do it."

  Jimmy John Wylde

  Jimmy John, Jimmy John, where do you belong...

  I wondered if that was actually a song somewhere. I remembered my father singing like that to me, as a child, when he rocked me in his arms, but I could only remember a few words from that distant memory: Jimmy John, Jimmy John...
/>   Kai, the formidable bouncer that had worked for Lance T as long as there had been a Trojan Horse, he of the scarred neck where he stopped a Spetsnaz spring blade in an epic fight not that long ago, stood cross-armed beside the coat check counter, and I found myself unconsciously falling into the same pose as though I were working the door at Moby Dick's.

  "You can go back with her," Kai whispered. His vocal chords had been damaged in the fight. "I am fine here."

  "I'll wait till the guys get here. It'll be safer for everybody."

  Kai nodded. The other security people, all unarmed, were as edgy as cats in a pitbull convention. "It will be good, Jimmy."

  "I'll wait out front."

  The big man nodded. I went out front. It was a sort of psychic attunement, the kind that comes on men when you've worked together for a long time. I saw Deon first, in his battered Cherokee; he gave me a cheery wave as he pulled into the parking lot, waved through by the valet. He slowed down and studied the freshly washed down lot, the bullet scars on the pavement, on the walls outside. Parked the car and got out, a soft guitar case slung over his shoulder, another one in his hand.

  A late model Jeep Rubicon pulled into the lot across the street, backed into a position aimed right at the front door. Guz got out.

  Guz. Good. Only the best tonight. He too was slinging a guitar case. He did a scan of the streets, of the cars, then crossed the street to me.

  "What are you guys? Dos Amigos? Did you bring me some tacos?" I said.

  Guz grinned. He was always happy. "Thought we'd send out later."

  "I'll buy," I said.

  "Fair one," Deon said.

  "Is that for me?" I said, pointing at the spare guitar case.

  "About time you learned an honest trade. The three of us, we could make a go of it, sing at retirement homes, you know. Troubadours."

  I hefted the bag. "What you got for me?"

  "We'll sort it inside, lad. 416, mag in it, 28 as usual. Throw bag with ten mags. I put a few spare Glocker mags in there for you. Like the Dawson job I did?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good kit."

  "Came in handy today."

  "World's a dangerous place."

  Guz grinned. "Wherever I go, everyone is a little safer."