by Daniel Gage
But it was still enough to make him warm in the crowded bar, and Cam peeled off his sweater.
“That’s some scar,” he heard a voice say, and Cam glanced over to see Lloyd eyeing a mark on his back.
“It’s not a scar,” Cam explained. “At least, I don’t think it is. My mom said it was a birthmark.”
“Interesting,” Lloyd said. “It looks like writing in some other language.”
“It’s just a funky birthmark,” Cam said as he raised his eyebrow. “Stop staring at my back; it’s making me feel funny.”
Lloyd laughed and settled back. “Cam, you’ve done time, right?”
Cam’s face tensed at the question. He didn’t try to hide it, but he didn’t wear it on his sleeve like some ex-cons. He wanted to move on from his past, no matter how hard those instincts were ingrained in his very being.
“Yeah,” Cam said, lowering his voice. “Why do you ask?”
Lloyd looked around, making sure there were no prying ears. “No reason. I just, ah, have a small opportunity coming up. And if you know your way around cars, I may have a way for you to make a few extra bucks.”
Despite his best efforts, there it was. Cam’s way back into the life. He told himself he wanted to leave it behind, but if his stunt today proved anything, it’s that he lived for the thrill of the chase, and crime had that drug he loved so much. It took his mind off of his life, his situation, where he felt like he belonged somewhere else.
If he scored it big enough, he may be able to buy his way to someplace better. Then maybe he wouldn’t feel so damn lost in his own life.
“I’m interested,” Cam said. “Tell me more.”
**********
The bartender was familiar with Henry, and knew he wasn’t the best tipper. So when he ordered round after round on his tab, he knew the man wasn’t going to make it worth his while.
But the night was otherwise slow for a Tuesday, and it at least helped time go by. And it was entertaining, watching the men get drunk over this Cam fellow’s foolish act of bravery.
Nope, you’d never catch him that high above the city, clinging to a steel girder for his dear life, let alone running down one to save someone else. Being a bartender at a small dive bar was safe enough work, and it kept his stomach full.
He was wiping a glass when he saw this Cam person remove his sweater, causing his T-shirt to ride up his back.
And there it was. The birthmark that looked like Sanskrit.
When he was asked to keep an eye out, he thought that man from the Agency of Family Continuity was crazy, saying they’d pay for any leads on someone with a Sanskrit birthmark.
Looked like he was going to get that tip tonight after all.
He reached under the bar and grabbed the disposable phone and sent a text to the only number programmed in its contact list.
Found one. Boston, the man’s name is Cam. Mid-thirties, works on a construction crew at the new skyscraper near the Financial District. Mark is on his back.
And as he hit send, the bartender couldn’t fight the smile forming across his face.
Twenty-five hundred dollars would take care of quite a few of his problems.
CHAPTER 3
“I know it doesn’t sound like much, but the extra twenty meters on my new yacht makes a huge difference,” Charles said, his thick French dialect slurring after his fourth glass of wine. “It’s so much more open.”
Alexandre couldn’t help but chuckle, but for a different reason than everyone else.
Charles’s yacht, his old or new one, didn’t have a helipad, or any of the other numerous amenities that Alexandre’s had. Even his smallest yacht eclipsed Charles’s singular boat.
Alexandre sipped his wine, a twenty-year-old limited vintage merlot that was priced at—hell, he didn’t care how much it cost.
He was the richest man here, and it felt good. No, it felt great. And not a day went by that he didn’t love reminding himself of that. Not that the sounds of the Mediterranean waves sweeping over the beaches outside his villa weren’t a constant reminder already.
“Oh, Charles,” Alexandre drawled, “wait until your next new yacht. You’ll love that even more.”
Charles laughed. Alexandre knew the man was humoring him; it was a common practice to kiss ass to those wealthier than you. Thankfully, it wasn’t something Alexandre had to do often.
But to have his ass kissed, and so frequently, he would never tire of. Alexandre kissed more than his share in his previous life; enjoying it in this life seemed appropriate.
“Alexandre, tell us about this latest investment of yours,” Charles said. Then, he added with a jovial smile, “We’re all still furious at you for not extending the offer to us.”
Another round of rich-man laughter filled the large, ornately decorated room. Alexandre didn’t care if they were furious or not; the investment added to his net worth, and he was more than happy to brag about it.
“Here, I’ll show you,” Alexandre said, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked the display and pressed a series of buttons, and out of the screen shot a 3D image of a device. It was a cylinder with connections on either end, and was otherwise very unassuming. But of course, he knew different.
“This battery will make what Tesla has done for cars seem like child’s play,” Alexandre explained. “I have one installed on one of my yachts, and with its solar energy collectors, I haven‘t had to recharge it in weeks. It’s going to revolutionize travel and energy efficiency like we’ve never seen before.”
A chorus of oohs and ahhs came after his explanation, and again, Alexandre couldn’t tell if they were impressed, sucking up, or a bit of both. Either way, he decided to enjoy it.
“Next time they offer stock, you must tell us.” Charles grinned.
“There you are, darling,” a smooth, sweet, sexy voice purred, rescuing him from these greedy men.
Alexandre smiled, his chiseled jaw more than willing to share this rare display of emotion. He turned and saw his betrothed, Charlotte, a woman more beautiful and stunning than any other here. Her light blue silk dress was flowing below her waist, but clung tightly to her torso, revealing and accenting all her assets.
“Yes, my dear, my attention was demanded,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Next time, don’t leave me all alone,” she said, her face forming a pout. “I get lonely. I may fall for one of these other handsome men if you lose track of me.”
“If any of them can compare to me,” Alexandre said while wrapping an arm around her waist, “then I certainly wouldn’t blame you.”
Charlotte leaned in close and whispered in his ear, her lips gently brushing against his cheek. “If any of them compared to you, I may consider it. But you know none of them can, and in more ways than one.”
The gesture momentarily stopped his heart, but he hid the moment of vulnerability from his peers and admirers. Charlotte, however, knew it drove him crazy, and she loved teasing him whenever possible. It made their sex life much more intense. He may have to ravage her in a back room of this villa before too long.
It helped that her vast wealth, added to his, made them one of the richest pairings in Europe. They both loved their money and power, loved what it allowed them to do. They could travel, buy anything, or pay off anyone they wanted.
They say money can’t buy happiness. Alexandre did agree with that, but wealth certainly made his life much more enjoyable. As did his yachts, estates, private plane, garage of cars …
Not a day went by that he didn’t appreciate it, but at the same time, he also felt like he had earned it. Every penny was his, and the price he paid wasn’t a light one. But the investment paid off in dividends, more than any other singular investment could. And Alexandre never regretted it for a moment.
“How much longer do we have to humor these … people?” Charlotte asked, again whispering in his ear. “They mean nothing to us.”
“I know, dear, but we have to keep up appearance
s,” he said. “Besides, what’s the point … if we …”
Charlotte’s face twisted as red drops rolled off of Alexandre’s lip and into his wine glass.
“Are you okay, my love?” she asked.
His hand reached up and dabbed the liquid trailing out of his left nostril. When he looked at his fingertips, they were strained with blood.
“Oh my,” Alexandre whispered, his eyes opening wide.
A sneeze surprised him, but not as much as Charlotte. Blood sprayed from his nose, all over her perfect, expensive silk dress. She shrieked, not out of concern for him bleeding, but at the sight of her ruined attire, and she dashed away with a clacking of high heels.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled. It took all his willpower to keep his composure.
As he swiftly walked away, one hand produced his handkerchief, wiping the blood from his face as he shoved his tainted wine glass at an unsuspecting servant.
It’s happening, he thought. It can’t be happening. It’s impossible.
Once he was far enough away from prying ears, he pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. His thumbprint unlocked the screen, and he scrolled to the bottom of his contacts, dialing the one labeled only as “X.”
It rang once. Twice. Before the third, the call connected.
“It’s starting,” Alexandre growled into the phone. “The nosebleed. It’s starting. You told me it’s impossible. You told me he was dead! You said the Shifters couldn’t see him, so he must be dead!”
Alexandre wasn’t sure when he started pacing. He forced himself to stop and regain his composure, and hoped he hadn’t raised his voice. No one needed to hear this conversation. No one except him.
“Yes, I understand that,” Alexandre said after the man on the other end replied. “I know this isn’t an exact science, and I know the Shifters don’t lie. But I’m saying they were wrong. It’s started!”
As the other man spoke, Alexandre felt his manners, his posture, everything he bargained to not be, begin to come back. His shoulders slouched, and his feet dragged as he resumed his anxious walk back and forth.
“I-I don’t c-care!” Alexander shouted, his stutter catching him by surprise. He never thought he’d regress back into that, but now his worst fear had come true.
His Unborn was still alive, and whatever he was doing, it was killing him.
“I don’t care!” he repeated again, lowering his voice to a sharp hiss. “I know there are consequences for killing an Unborn. Do whatever you have to do to find him, and kill him!”
He ended the call before the other man could reply. There was nothing to debate.
His dealer had to find Alexandre’s Unborn and kill him, and now.
Checking his nose and finding that the bleeding had stopped, Alexandre adjusted his suit and lifted his shoulders. He needed to change, and reset his presentation for these self-serving, money-hungry friends of his.
And then find Charlotte and apologize, profusely, for ruining her favorite dress.
The woman was beautiful, and a fox in bed, but Alexandre knew he was a distant second to her collection of million-dollar dresses.
Wealth came with a price, and this was it. He had just thought it had already been paid.
CHAPTER 4
“The senator will see you now,” the young, perky receptionist said.
The meeting was already running fifteen minutes late, and no one had come in or out of the senator’s office. With a light sigh, Emma gathered her things and stood; she knew that the man was blowing her off.
Hopefully, this time, the evidence she had would convince him, and get her agency some much-needed funding, support, and attention. If the American government could admit that Second-Life dealing existed, it would force the dealers even farther into hiding.
“Thank you,” Emma said as she hurried past the receptionist, who was already lost in filing her nails.
Emma opened the door and stepped into the office, gently closing it behind her. The first time she had come here the door closed with a slight thud, and Senator Greenlee made it very clear that wasn’t acceptable. She hated playing these games, but until her agency was on solid ground, she didn’t have many options.
“Agent Jennings,” Senator Greenlee said from his chair. The man was in his late forties, but in excellent shape. Emma could tell he took good care of himself.
So it was even more insulting that he didn’t stand up to greet her appropriately.
“Senator Greenlee,” Emma replied. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Well, I have a new secretary, as I’m sure you saw,” the senator said. His inflection was neutral, but the meaning wasn’t. “She didn’t know better. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this appointment.”
“Should I leave?” Emma spat out. She dismissed any guise of professionalism as she confronted the senator’s message. “I won’t stand for this disrespect. I don’t give a fuck who you are; no one talks to me this way.”
Senator Greenlee regarded her words for a moment, then raised his hand and spoke in a softer tone. “Please sit, Agent Jennings. It’s my mistake; I’ve been under some pressure lately. I understand you have new evidence to show me about this Second-Life theory?”
She almost snapped at him again, saying he knew damn well it wasn’t a theory, but she bit her tongue. Emma considered that the man’s harsh tone was to unsettle her, to take her off her game, to put him in a position of control and power.
Politicians were notorious for their ability at manipulation and mind games, and Senator Greenlee hadn’t gotten to his seat of power as the Senate Majority Leader by playing nice.
“Yes, I do,” Emma said as she sat down and opened her folder. “As you know, we need funding. We need to make the public aware that this isn’t a threat. We had several more confirmed incidents of birthright theft, and the situation in Prague left several dead and hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage.”
“Show me,” he said, reaching his hand across his desk.
Emma handed him the stack of photos and reports from the Prague incident. The pictures depicted scenes of the chase through the city, as well as some of the more extensive damage caused by the dealers’ firearms and grenades. Finally, they showed the wrecked car and the empty backseat with a buckled belt.
“This doesn’t tell me anything,” Greenlee said, dropping the photos on his desk. “This looks like a drug deal gone wrong, and the resulting over use of resources trying to catch them.”
“But look at the reports,” Emma insisted. “These aren’t drug dealers. Drug dealers aren’t armed like this, or that capable. And the wrecked car—”
“Looks empty,” he interrupted. “Seems like whoever was in there walked away before you were able to get to them.”
“He didn’t!” Emma said, her voice rising in defense of her agency and the team she led that night. She forced herself to relax before speaking again. “You can see from the photos that Bernard was in the car when it started speeding through the alley. He had no chance to leave, and the footage shows he didn’t walk away.”
“But this dealer managed to escape,” the senator said. “Why is it impossible that Bernard didn’t?”
“He’s not athletic, or resourceful, like these dealers,” she said. “They seemed like they have their escape routes planned. But Bernard, he wasn’t like them at all. I doubt he had the guts to even consider throwing himself from the car, let alone survive if he did.”
The senator let out a sigh. “So this Bernard fellow. He stays in the car just to die, and vanish?”
“We’ve been over that before,” Emma said. Her patience was wearing thin, and she wasn’t afraid to let the man see that.
The senator let the silence hang in the air for a minute before he spoke.
“This Bernard fellow. Part of your job was to figure out what he stole. Any leads?”
“Patent information,” Emma replied. “His job at the patent office opened several doors for him. We’re still narrowing
down specifics, but some of what he had access to was extremely valuable. Not something normal dealers would be interested in.”
“Patents?” he asked. “You expect these thugs to open a factory or something? Do you realize how crazy this all sounds, Agent? I’m half tempted to denounce your agency as a scam. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t think it would only strengthen the public’s paranoia and call this Second-Life hoax a government conspiracy.”
The senator finally removed himself from his chair, but instead of using the gesture to reach out to Emma either in kindness or not, he turned and faced out his office window.
“I’ve spent hours on the phone with various officials in Prague for your actions. You can see yourself out. And don’t come back without concrete evidence, Agent Jennings.”
Emma stood and gathered the file, then walked calmly out of the senator’s office, her face twisted in a harsh scowl.
**********
As she made her way past the oblivious secretary and back to her car, she again wondered why she cared so much. The senator wasn’t the first she’d tried to convince of birthright thievery. Time and time again she’d attempted to convince her family and now former friends about why she did her job, who reacted much like the senator did.
Despite technology advancing at such a rapid pace over the past few decades, no one seemed to believe her. The idea of taking one person, killing them, and having them take the place of another unborn child seemed crazy, insane.
And as she sat behind the wheel of her car, she realized that she, too, would think it was impossible, had she not been through all that she had.
They couldn’t win. Emma understood that now. After months of rumors and chasing vague leads, they had nothing. Their agency was a wing of a private security company, their department founded on the dollar of their other branches, handling identity theft and the like. Who knew how long that funding would keep their branch afloat, especially with a lack of results for almost two years?
