by Larry Hoy
Bryan grabbed the remaining towels and threw them at the foot of the staircase. Heat blasted him in the face as a rolling fireball enveloped the stairs as it roared upward to the second floor. Erebus stared through Bryan’s eyes, transfixed by the flames all around him.
Sweat poured down his face, and when he wiped it from his eyes, his left hand came away red. That was the moment when his own memories cleared a little, when he no longer saw things through Bryan’s eyes, and since the fire was raging upstairs, he must have already carried Herbert to the back yard, to safety. He must have.
The night was dark as he blinked in the firelight of his fully involved house. Somehow a wad of wet paper towels had wound up in his left hand and the heat from the flames drove him toward the back fence. Distant sirens grew louder by the second, but all Adrian could do was turn his head and watch as the roof caved in on everything he had ever owned or loved.
Except Herbert.
He still wore his pajamas, but stood next to his father reading a paperback, although how he could see the print in such deep shadow Adrian didn’t know. It was enough that he had saved his son and the boy was safe.
His wife had left him the keys to the Ford Taurus with the rear bumper held on with tie-downs. Guiding Herbert into the backseat, Adrian didn’t wait for the police, EMTs, or fire department. He started the car and, when he reached the end of the driveway, turned left, heading away from town and the hospitals there. Destination unknown.
The Command and Control Center for LEI Worldwide in Dallas bustled with activity at all times of day or night. The glass in Cynthia Witherbot’s office at the center of the Kremlin had turned opaque as Servilius Tandro approached, passing two banks of workstations. What happened in her office was nobody’s business except hers and whoever was with her, in this case the unfortunate Head of Communications Security. The mere electrification of the glass told the center all they needed to know about the tenor of the meeting, however; Tandro was in for one of the British Bitch’s infamous tirades.
Arms folded and her familiar scowl set firmly on her face, only Witherbot’s eyes moved as Lakesha buzzed Tandro into the office. He stepped to the front of her desk. A curt nod told him to sit.
“You know why you’re here.”
“Yes, ma’am. The leak.”
“Well?”
Tandro drew a deep but silent breath. “We’re getting close to finding him.”
“You said that last week.”
“He’s very good at hiding his tracks.”
“You said that last week, too. You keep saying ‘he.’ Have you at least determined that much?”
“Uh, no, ma’am, that’s just a figure of speech.”
“So, you’ve made no progress.”
This time Tandro raised his finger. “Actually, ma’am, we have. Whoever the mole is, he or she is very, very good at this sort of thing, but they did make one mistake. They bounced an access request seven times before relaying it through a server in Nigeria, after which—”
“Spare me the details, Servilius, that is your job, not mine. Just tell me the status of the investigation.”
“Speaking from his or her point of view, this could have been a fatal error, but tracking it down will take a lot of time.”
Fatal indeed, she thought.
“How much time? Need I remind you that lives are at stake?”
Tandro pointed to the wall. “Ma’am, someone out there is betraying everyone who works here. I know it has happened once before, but this is the first time since I’ve been here, and, since it’s my job to prevent this sort of thing, I take it very, very personally.”
“All right then, Servilius, I believe you. But mark me well, no matter how much I like you personally, I need to see results, and soon. Is that clear?”
“It is, ma’am. Very clear.”
Once Tandro had gone back to his own office, Witherbot left the glass energized and drummed her fingers on an open file folder on her desk. Whoever the mole was, he or she had to vanish quietly. Things like this were much better handled without muss or fuss. One day the guilty party was at work like any other day, the next they were simply gone. Nobody would know for certain what happened to them, although in a corporation that earned its money by killing people, it wouldn’t be hard to guess. Still, it was that slight bit of uncertainty that kept everyone in line. Maybe they’d gotten a quick and painless double-tap to the head, but maybe torture was involved. LEI didn’t exactly have a reputation for leniency toward its enemies, as its history of tracking down bin Laden showed. And if the corporation that grew from that beginning would never do such a thing now, it was useful for people to believe they would. It went a long way toward preventing the next mole.
But a quick shot to the back of the head? That was another story.
Witherbot picked up the encrypted line and dialed a number only she and Director Keel knew.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” said a perfect baritone voice with the slightest hint of a Welsh accent. Witherbot couldn’t help smiling. The previous time the accent was Swedish.
“Very soon I will need you and your brother’s special talents, Ribaldo. Stand by for my call.”
“What about Steed?”
She rolled her eyes, even though nobody could see her do it. “Dear God, no.”
Witherbot outlined the situation.
“Might I speak freely?” Ribaldo said.
“That depends on what you have to say.”
He chuckled. “You don’t need Jürgen and me, Assistant Director, and I believe you know that. You need Steed.”
Chapter 22
Downtown Memphis, TN
The short pipe bomb weighed less than two pounds. In the pocket of Adrian’s raincoat, it pulled down on the garment but not so much that it was obvious. He flipped up the collar to keep the rain out, which, when combined with the old school fedora, did an excellent job of making him invisible from any overhead cameras or any passersby. Not that anybody else was roaming the streets on a night like tonight. Grace Allen would have called the storm a frog strangler.
He splashed down the sidewalk as the cold December rain came down in sheets. He could see his target parked along the edge of the road, a 1969 black Corvette Stingray. The car belonged to Mark Shields—one of those LifeEnders assassins, code name Mad Mok.
The car was in the valet parking lot outside one of those steak restaurants where you pay one price, very high, and eat all the meat you want, the kind that Adrian had never been inside because he couldn’t justify spending that much for dinner. Food was just food, after all; it all wound up in the same place. But it upset him that such a lowlife trigger man was inside eating a fine steak dinner that was paid for with blood money.
Adrian turned off the sidewalk to cross the street, but as he stepped off the curb he slipped and fell, just in case anybody was watching. Cameras would no doubt record him, but it was so dark and the rain so heavy, not even facial recognition would be able to ID him. Or so he told himself.
He fell into the street right behind the back bumper of the ’69 ’Vette. He pulled the bomb from his pocket, reached under the rear of the car, and pressed it against the gas tank. Except it didn’t stick. He moved the pipe bomb around, pushing it against various parts of the car, until he finally heard a soft thud as the magnets grabbed onto something.
He got to his feet and brushed off his jacket, which, given the deluge, seemed pointless. Nobody seemed to notice Adrian’s fall, or much care what he was doing. A valet might have been watching from a stand in front of the restaurant, but he couldn’t be sure even of that. He turned his head side to side to make sure nobody was paying attention, reset his hat, and resumed walking. The cold rain soaked his shoes and ran down the back of his neck, but he barely felt it. He crossed the street, walked around a building, and back to his waiting car, where he had a good view of the Stingray.
Herbert sat where he’d left him in the back seat. The boy resembled a big, green marshmallow
wrapped in a forest green winter coat. Like every other moment of his life, Herbert never looked up from his reading. This time it was At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft. Adrian never wondered how Herbert was able to read in the near total darkness.
“I’ve heard of Lovecraft, but I’ve never read him,” he said. “Is he as good as they say?”
Herbert held up a thumb. His son had grown quieter since Grace Allen was killed, as if the boy knew what had happened to his mother. Not that Adrian had mentioned the accident to Herbert, but somehow the boy seemed to know. A boy needs his mother, he figured. It must have been a special connection between mother and son. That’s how the boy knew. That had to be it. And now the boy was grieving for his mother.
He grabbed a pack of peanut butter crackers from the passenger seat and popped one into his mouth. Reaching over the seat, he put them in reach of his son.
“Hungry?”
Herbert just kept reading. The boy hadn’t eaten much lately and it was beginning to worry Adrian. It wasn’t healthy for anybody to mourn that long, especially a growing boy.
He thumbed the controls of his smart phone and brought up a music channel. He kept talking to Herbert without really expecting an answer.
“It was a good idea you had. About the bomb, I mean. I can’t tell you how much safer this is than trying to shoot someone. You’re a very smart young man, son, and I’m so glad we’re doing this together.”
Herbert nodded and waved without looking up.
Mark Shields glanced at the maître d’ as he surveyed the dining room.
“Jonathan, this was a fantastic meal, and the steak was excellent. Please pass along my compliments to the staff.” Raising his glass of bourbon in a silent toast, he swirled the liquid around the glass and then held it to his nose. The smell of caramel, smoke, and just a hint of cherry enhanced the pleasure of the liquor before he drained the last swallow. “The bourbon was also perfect.”
“I am very gratified by your kind words, Mr. Shields. It is our pleasure, as always.”
“So, what did Adam serve me?” Shields said. He always let the bartender, Adam, select the bourbon for his meal. The senior bartender knew more about alcoholic drinks than anyone in the city, and was Memphis’ only Certified Bourbon Steward. “I really liked this one. The sweet oak flavor, just the right amount of heat.” He gave the now-empty glass a final sniff. “Damn that’s good.”
Jonathan smiled, pleased that his friend approved of the whiskey. “Would you care for another?”
Shields held up a hand. “Thank you, but I’m driving.”
“Very wise of you, sir. Adam asked me to pass along that tonight’s selection was a limited release from Buffalo Trace called Pappy Van Winkle 25. It is, shall we say, available only to those with the most discriminating palate? May I inform him that you approve of his choice?”
“You may tell him he’s a damned genius. I hope it’s not too gauche to ask for a doggie bag.”
“Of course not, sir. Our four-legged friends deserve the best, too. I hope you have an exceptional evening. If you’ll excuse me.” The maître d’ turned to go.
Mark sniffed the empty glass. “Jonathan?”
The man turned to face him.
“Maybe a double to go?”
The other man gave a small nod and waved to his waitress before disappearing into the back room.
Ten minutes later, the young woman brought him his check in a leather wallet. She also carried his coat. She sat the wallet on the table, then reached under the coat and pulled out a simple brown bag. She placed it on the table with a slight clink of glass.
Mark signed the check, unsurprised at the bill’s four figure total, and pulled on his coat. When he picked up the bag, he felt the shape of two long bottles and smiled as he remembered the flavor of the bourbon.
Worth every damned cent.
“Thank you, Rachel. It has been an extreme pleasure, as usual.” He passed the wallet back to the young lady and headed for the door.
Shields rarely let anything bother him, but now he felt both more content and more energized than usual. Life was good! He stood in the doorway for a moment, breathing in the aroma of rain, which had a way of disinfecting the stink of the city and leaving it smelling fresh and…not clean exactly, but natural, like all the steel and concrete and asphalt weren’t manmade monstrosities but rather the handiwork of Nature.
He tucked the brown bag inside his coat and trotted to the car. The wet Corvette sparkled as raindrops reflected under the streetlight. He unlocked it and slipped inside, where the smell of the rain was replaced by that of oiled leather. Mark placed his package in the passenger seat and slipped his key into the ignition.
The engine came to life with the low-throated grumble of a predator, and Shields felt the vibration under his feet and buttocks like he was riding a tiger. This was the ride for a Shooter, and despite the custom modifications that could turn it into a rocket whenever he wanted, there was no need to show off. That wasn’t the point. He knew what it could do, he knew the power under the hood, and that was enough. So, he conserved the engine as he cruised down Poplar Avenue until he saw the on-ramp to Interstate 240.
Adrian was worried the sleek Corvette could leave his little Ford in the dust whenever its owner wanted and get out of range too fast for him to set off the bomb. He considered blowing it up at the curb but decided to stick with his original plan. The Ford’s engine coughed a few times, but the engine caught, so he dropped it into gear and chased after the black car.
“Here we go, Herbert. Keep your head down, son.”
Adrian moved his little car from lane to lane as he slowly gained on the killer. Three—no five—car lengths, he told himself. That should be close enough. Ahead, he saw a streetlight turn from green to yellow then red. The Corvette was stopped. Adrian stopped behind it, keeping a three-car-length distance even though there were no other cars between them. It was perfect. This way no innocent bystanders would get hurt.
Then another car pulled up behind him and blasted its horn. He froze for a second, unsure of what to do. Quickly, he turned on his emergency lights and waved for the car to go around him. He’d just have to keep tailing the ’Vette and wait for another chance. The car behind him finally changed lanes to pass him on the right. It was a Mercedes SUV. Adrian glanced over and saw a middle finger sticking out the driver’s partially lowered window. The car was past him before he could respond.
“Thanks, asshole, that makes things easier…”
If he wanted to get them both he’d have to time it perfectly. He’d done the math a dozen times in his head, and he was pretty sure that three car lengths was far enough, but with Herbert in the car he couldn’t take any chances. He reached for the garage door opener attached to the sunshade visor and waited.
When the light turned green, both the ’Vette and the Mercedes started forward, more or less parallel to each other. Adrian paused, his mind calculating distances…and pushed the button.
The blast shook the Ford even as he hit the gas pushing the car into a hard U-turn. A wave of heat pushed it sideways until he regained control. A yellow-orange fireball rolled into the night sky and the hulk of the Corvette drifted to the curb. The Mercedes kept going despite the flames on its hood and roof.
Adrian pulled to the curb a couple blocks away and opened the door.
“Stay here, son, and keep your head down. Don’t let anyone see you. I’ll be right back.”
He ran toward the burning car.
What traffic there was had come to a stop behind the Corvette in the westbound lanes, but not those going east. Apparently, boiling black smoke and the chance of being caught in a secondary explosion wasn’t dangerous enough to stop some people. So, Adrian had to dodge cars to cross the street and get close to the burning mess. A few courageous people braved the rain to try and help, but most stayed in their cars. As he passed them, he could see more than a few of the faces were lit by their phones. Odds were good the cops would
be on site soon.
The back half of the car was gone, the fiberglass body melting at the break. Bits of smoking wreckage lay in a rough 75-foot-wide circle around the wreck. Adrian moved closer, until the heat from the burning car seared his skin, even thirty feet away. He skirted around the side of the car and, with his hands blocking most of the glare from the fire, peeked between his fingers. The initial flames had subsided as the gasoline burned off, and through the smoke, dark, and rain he could make out a few details in the firelight. Something charred and vaguely manlike sat upright in the driver’s seat. The head of the body was leaning forward as if it were sleeping with its chin on its chest.
“Get used to the feel, you murderous turd. You get to feel that for the rest of eternity.”
Adrian grinned as he said it out loud. He’d not only discovered that he enjoyed killing bad people, he liked cursing, too. There was a freedom to it all that he’d never felt in his life. It didn’t occur to him to keep his voice down, besides, the roar of the fire drowned out everything else.
Satisfied his test run had gone perfectly, he traced his steps back to his car. The few people who had tried to help hadn’t approached anywhere near as close as Adrian, and as he walked back to his car, they called encouragement and told him how brave he was to try to help the poor man. He waved back, reveling in a moment of adulation.
“How bad is it?” someone asked.
“As bad as it looks. That guy never had a chance.”
Back at the Ford, Adrian watched the fire burn until he heard the sound of sirens. “I think it’s time we get gone, Herbert. What do you think, bud?” He didn’t bother to check his son’s response. The boy would give him a thumbs up. He always did. Herbert, clever boy that he was, was still only eight years old. He loved his father and trusted his father to do what was best, and Adrian took that responsibility very seriously.
Driving east on Poplar, Adrian turned on the car radio and pounded the steering wheel to Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” If that wasn’t irony, he didn’t know the meaning of the word.
