by Mike Cooper
Markson was guilty of something. I just wasn’t sure how far he’d been involved.
True, he’d definitely gone into business with shady Russian money, and tried to keep it secret. Thirty years of ethical profit making, but when push came to shove, apparently the profits part was a lot more important to him than the ethics part. Selling Clay Micro was a way of shifting assets over to the Russian mafiya, in exchange for their money laundered through Dagger Light.
Furthermore, once I showed up at Clay Micro, Markson apparently hired Harmony and her crew to abduct me for an extended session of tea and interrogation. The Clayco board must have tied themselves in knots over that one—they’d contracted Ryan to hide a little problem from Markson, then it blew up and suddenly Markson himself swooped in with his own shut-it-down-now initiative, right over their heads.
But by that point Brinker had knocked everything truly to pieces by calling in the Russians. Unlike the refined oligarkhi Markson presumably dealt with, Dagger Light’s street-level enforcers came after me the same way they’d probably once pacified Chechen villages. Now it was anarchy: everyone shooting at everyone else, innocents in the cross fire everywhere.
The question was, what did Markson know about Brinker? Were they aligned with each other somehow? They weren’t consulting at the beginning—otherwise either Harmony or the Russians would have come knocking, but not both.
But Harmony got a cessation-of-contract notice and the Russians didn’t.
In the end, Markson knew or didn’t know. It wasn’t more complicated than that.
We didn’t have time to plod through a long, detailed investigation. For personal reasons, we couldn’t hand it over to the real authorities—anything more than passing interest from the law would mean vast difficulty for Harmony and me. Dave’s circumstances were no less muddled.
No, we needed a quick resolution. And by far the quickest I could think of was to confront Markson directly. Get it all out into the open, and see what happened.
He wouldn’t confess, of course, if he was guilty. But maybe he’d have a convincing denial—and if not, he’d at least be on warning that we knew the story. Then Harmony and I could start negotiating a deal that let us walk away.
And Dave too, of course.
It was a tough ride. Harmony stayed in the Charger, but I took over the driving from Dave, who had begun falling apart when the adrenaline ran out and the fact of Brendt and Elsie’s deaths sank in.
“All my fault.”
“What?”
“If I hadn’t been over at their house so long, no one would have looked for me there.”
I had to concentrate on driving to keep the Charger in view. Harmony was way over the local speed limits.
“You didn’t kill them,” I said. “Hold on to that. Other people do bad things—it’s nothing on you.”
“How did they die?”
I shook my head. “Badly.”
We arrived at the event site in twenty-five minutes. I had only a vague idea where we were—Harmony had the directions, and I was just following. Somewhere east of Clabbton and south of Pittsburgh, in a region of hills and woods and small farms. We’d been on I-79 for fifteen miles, then back onto state roads, then county blacktop. Not far past a one-stoplight town Harmony slowed, and I came up behind the Charger.
“Another mile,” she said through the earpiece. “According to the online maps.”
“Can you get satellite view?”
“Nothing useful. We’re in low-res territory out here.”
We passed a cemetery, stones and markers in the midday sun. Some had small American flags in front of them.
“We’re almost there,” I said to Dave.
“Okay.”
Harmony’s voice: “What’s the plan?”
Good question. “Any ideas?”
“No.”
“Well, then,” I said. “The usual.”
—
There weren’t the crowds I’d been expecting. Two television trucks, a row of cars parked along the road, a small group of people around a small stage. The area wasn’t anything like the fracking site where I’d had breakfast—here, the drilling had been completed, all the equipment removed, and the pipeline put in place. The ground had been resodded, the pits filled in, the slick-water catchment erased from the landscape.
A few pickups and one heavy truck had been relegated to the farthest parking. I didn’t see a hard hat anywhere.
We parked at the end of the row. Harmony put the Charger between the last car and the mine, and I left plenty of room—the next latecomer wouldn’t block it in.
“We’re just going to talk?” Harmony said.
“Sure.” I took the canvas bag with the extra magazines she’d given me and checked the Sig one more time. “But you never know. Maybe he’ll have a lot to say.”
The pipe came out of the ground in a small concrete pad. It gleamed with fresh green paint—subtle, that—an elbow and valve wheel at the top, another pipe leading away at ground level on a lightly graveled bed. The standpipe had been roped off with surveyor’s twine tied to metal stakes, ten feet square.
Nearby, the stage was raised four feet above the turf, a plain affair of two-by-fours and planking, clearly knocked together with circular saws and screw drills. I thought of Brendt, feeling a pang I had to suppress. A podium with a microphone stood in the middle, flanked by two flagpoles. The Stars and Stripes, sure, but I didn’t recognize the other, barely stirring in the breeze—Pennsylvania’s state flag? Or did Markson have his own pennant?
We split up, to move in from different points and converge. Three people shoving their way through all at once would be too obvious.
I drifted along, examining the gas pipe at my feet, like I was pondering the vast amount of energy it promised to deliver. Less than a foot in diameter, but a million cubic feet per day—the disproportion was impressive.
“Sir?”
I looked up to discover two police officers. No, not police—private security, but with bloused combat boots, blue uniforms, badges and heavy sidearms. My mistake was probably common and surely intended.
“Yes?”
“You can’t carry that bag up near the stage.”
I glanced at it. “Just some books and stuff. A water bottle.”
“All the same. Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll leave it here.” I slid the bag off and set it on the ground.
The man started to speak, but someone tapped the microphone and an amplified voice boomed out. “Hello? Hello?”
“They’re starting,” I said. “I don’t want to carry this all the way back to the car.”
“Well, sir—”
I pushed the bag into the pipe’s shadow, where it was barely visible. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget and leave it here.”
“All right.” The second guard spoke. I nodded thanks and they turned away.
“Thank you for coming.” The amplification really was too loud. “It’s a beautiful day for us here, for Pennsylvania, and for America’s energy future!”
Brief applause. One TV crew was filming, the other still standing around, presumably waiting for the headliner. The guards moved off. I considered recovering the munitions bag, but it seemed too risky.
And I wasn’t completely disarmed, after all.
Harmony was on the other side of the crowd—forty people, tops—and catching eyes. Even the man at the podium had a glance for her. Dave was in the middle somewhere, as anonymous as, hopefully, me.
“We are extremely fortunate to have Wilbur Markson joining us today. Wilbur needs no introduction, surely!” The speaker went on to introduce him. “America’s most famous ethical investor, whose Sweetwater fund has returned twenty percent every year for thirty-one years now—an unequaled record, and he’s done it entirely by focusing on good, honest American companies. Those are the kinds of businesses that create real value. Value for his investors, value for customers, value for the entire economy . . .”
The speech went on. I continued through the crowd, approaching the stage.
Markson was instantly recognizable: tuft of white hair, his plain farmer’s face, a twinkle in his eye behind old-fashioned glasses. He sat between another man and a woman—executives, in suits much nicer than his.
Motion at the edge of the crowd caught my eye. Four men, jogging up from the row of cars.
One was a head taller than the others, and he looked seriously pissed.
“Yo,” I said quietly into the earpiece, not moving my lips. “Trouble.”
“I see.” Harmony’s voice.
“Have they seen you?”
“No.”
No, because they’d seen me first. The big guy shouted something I didn’t catch. The speaker on stage faltered. Markson frowned, looking out from the stage.
Private security flowed through the crowd—at least six in uniform, plus a couple of men in suit coats who were moving with too much purpose to be bystanders. All headed for the Russians.
They might not have coordinated cross-jurisdictional issues beforehand.
I stepped to the side of the platform, closer than I would have gotten had security not been distracted by the new arrivals.
“Markson.” I said it quietly, just loud enough to carry. “Hey, Wilbur.”
The five people on stage turned to look down at me. I heard voices in the crowd—something Russian, a response.
“Clay Micro,” I said, more clearly. “What gives?”
Markson smoothed his frown away and looked puzzled, like your favorite cuddly uncle. “Excuse me?”
“That thoroughly corrupt pipeline supplier you’re selling to your oligarch partners? Have you seen the financials yet?”
Markson pointed at me and looked behind him, saying something I couldn’t catch to the woman. Her eyes widened, and she pulled out a cellphone.
“Silas Cade!” The voice was loud, heavily accented—and far too close. I spun around.
The seven-foot Russian was almost on me, bulling through the crowd. He strong-armed a man in a gray suit, who stumbled and fell, then pushed past a woman in a windbreaker. She squawked an objection. Three security men caught up with him, and he shook them off like gnats.
I went for my gun but he was too fast—leaping forward, he struck me hard in the center of my chest. I tumbled backward, breathing paralyzed from the blow, and fell gasping.
“Mudak!” He yanked me up by one arm. A moment later a second Russian arrived and grabbed my other.
They hyperextended my elbows with immobilization grips, one on each side. I couldn’t do anything—the slightest pressure would break the joints. More blue-uniformed security arrived. The giant just growled at them.
Markson stepped to the edge of the stage and looked down at my face. His expression was no longer avuncular, but cold and thin lipped. He shook his head slightly.
“Mr. Markson? Sir?” One of the American guards tried to get his attention. “We’ll convey him to the police—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Markson gestured. “Settle the audience.”
“Yes sir, but—”
“Thank you, officer.”
The man took a hint, perhaps flattered slightly by the honorific. Markson leaned in. “Ubey ego i izbavsya ote tela,” he said in a low voice.
He spoke Russian? Interesting, but even more so was the one phrase I’d caught: Ubey ego.
Kill him.
The seven-footer smiled slightly and started to pull me away. I couldn’t do anything but try to stay on my feet and hope the ligaments didn’t tear.
KA-BLAAAAM!
An explosion shattered the air, stunningly loud.
The pressure wave knocked people off their feet all around me. Both my captors stumbled. Their holds faltered—and that was enough.
I went low, recovered one arm and struck backward as hard as I could with the elbow, catching the shorter Russian just below the belt buckle. He oofed and started to collapse.
A great huge WHOOMP! and the fireball expanded. I felt heat sear the side of my face. Screaming and terror all around.
Harmony had shot the dynamite, right under the pipeline.
The big guy clouted me on the shoulder. Probably trying for the neck and thank Christ he missed—as it was, my entire arm went numb. I pushed back, trying to get away from him, and banged into the wooden frame holding the stage. He swung again, I ducked.
His fist broke a two-by-four. The stage sagged. Markson and the woman fell atop each other, yelling.
I spun away again, managed to get some distance.
“Silas!”
Dave’s voice. I glanced in that direction. So did the Russian. He grunted and slapped his hand backward, like he was shooing a dog. Dave took it in the face and collapsed.
I had my balance, so I snapped a kick at the giant’s knee. I hit the patella dead on, and with all the force I could muster—but his leg was flexed, and so strong that my foot bounced off, not doing any apparent damage.
“Yobaniy v rot!”
Jesus Christ. I backed up again, deflected a blow, scrambled for room.
This wasn’t going well.
The fireball subsided slightly, but the burn remained fierce, a hot flaming roar twenty feet high. The pipeline must have broken open, flaring all that high-pressure natural gas.
So much for energy freedom. If this got out of control, we’d probably burn down half of Pennsylvania.
The Russian came at me again, trying a kick of his own this time. He was so tall the mechanics slowed him down and I had a half second to twist away. He followed through easily, spun on his other foot, and kicked again. Missed me, hit the stage a second time. More wooden beams fractured.
It seemed to be personal. I would have gone for a gun.
Wait a minute—I had a gun. What was I thinking?
My right arm was still uselessly numb. I tried to draw left-handed, while still scuttling away. He sneered and followed, fast as a whip.
I gave up on the gun and ran—straight for the fireball.
He was two yards away. I turned, stumbled, started to fall.
A scream. Even through the chaos and fire I recognized Harmony. The giant was a blur, fists swinging in. I went to the ground hard, on my back—
And brought both legs up, curled and kicked. As hard as I could, every bit of strength and anger channeled into one strike.
I caught him square, at hip level. The combination of his momentum and my assist kept him in the air, flying right over me. Out of control.
Right into the inferno.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Clabbton VFW wasn’t much—one story, wood—and could have done with new paint years ago. But the gravel lot was filled, and more vehicles were parked down the road on both sides. Two guys in black suits pointed newcomers where to leave their cars, helped older folks through the door, murmured directions and condolences.
The morning sun was sharp and clear. Birds twittered in the trees behind the hall. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust when I stepped inside.
Closed caskets, of course, on a dais up front. Two, end to end so people could pay their respects in order. Some black bunting on one table with flowers. A slatted metal hatch had been rolled up over the pass-through counter to the hall’s kitchen, and two women were serving coffee. Some trays of cookies and brownies, the plastic wrap just coming off. Nothing store-bought here.
There must have been a hundred people inside and with those numbers, even quiet and respectful chatting raised a din. But that was okay.
No one likes a silent wake. It really is for the living, not the dead.
Dave found me in the crush, coffee cup in one hand. People gave us room—or maybe it was just me. Him they knew and liked. I was a stranger, and maybe they could sense I’d brought this death into their community.
“Good turnout,” I said, working on a plate-sized sugar cookie. “They had a lot of friends.”
“Brendt grew up here, and Elsie one county
over. Not everyone moves away.”
“You doing okay?”
“Sure.” But he didn’t smile.
We hadn’t talked much in the two days since ruining Markson’s jamboree. Chief Gator had taken one look at the scene in Brendt’s house and dismissed the suicide scenario, but he didn’t get any further before federal agents airlifted in and claimed jurisdiction. Which was reasonable enough, given the numerous SEC violations, environmental and commercial lawbreaking on a wide scale and apparent involvement of Russian criminal elements.
Remarkably, Wilbur Markson was staying afloat—a victim, like everyone else. The Russians were either dead or had disappeared, conveniently, on nonstop flights back to the motherland.
“The CEO who started all this, Brinker, he’s not even in jail,” Dave said. “He’s been getting pizza deliveries out at his mansion.”
“How do you know that?”
“Heard it down at Sully’s.” He shrugged. “It was him and the Russkies all along.”
“He was just an opportunist.” When Clayco’s board let Brinker know his division might be on the block, he must have gotten worried—and rightly so because even a blind-and-deaf auditor couldn’t miss the games they were playing. “I think every single person at Clay Micro was stealing from the company, and only the fact that they were making so much profit let them get away with it.”
“So why’d the Russians still want to buy in, if it was that raggedy?”
“My guess? Someone like Brinker they could understand. Just another amoral biznesman on the make. It was probably oligarch money at the top, looking for investments in America—lots of natural gas in Russia, not to mention other resource extraction, so it makes sense they were starting with a business they knew. And because you apparently can’t make an honest dollar in Russia nowadays, the mafiya were in, which meant they had their crew of enforcers handy to smooth the deals.”
“Well, they’re out of it now.”
And indeed, Dagger Light’s acquisition of Clay Micro had been stopped dead. Rockwire, Dagger Light’s part owner, was “under investigation.” Markson had already started to extricate himself and his money, claiming no knowledge of what such small and obscure holdings in his vast empire might have been up to. Throwing the Russians under the bus, of course, but that was okay. They’d find other opportunities later, other chances for synergistic cooperation.
