by Dom Testa
We got to the edge of the gloom of the underpass and stopped. The water, whipped up by the wind, lapped against the side of the walkway. It smelled slightly of sewage and other assorted filth. The whole scene concerned me. On top of it all, Brockington’s GPS dot hadn’t budged. It was within 30 yards.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled out the Glock, held it to my side, and moved ahead. My eyes adjusted quickly, and I realized it wasn’t that dark. It was simply a big contrast from the glitz and glam of the tourist section of the river. Aiken scuffed one foot against the ground, which, within the tunnel we’d entered, seemed remarkably loud. If we’d had any chance of approaching unannounced, that was gone.
That’s when I saw the form ahead. It was undoubtedly the shape of a person on the ground, lying on their side. My concern ratcheted up to alert status.
“Wait here,” I said to Aiken. Then I walked over to the shape and knelt down.
It was Brockington. His crumpled form was oddly twisted, the way a large man would land if killed or knocked unconscious. A sickening amount of blood pooled around him.
He’d been made, obviously, and taken out. I felt for a pulse and found a weak one. Someone, likely Cox, had belted him but good. Damn.
I stood up and pulled out my phone, but before I could do anything else I heard footsteps coming toward me from ahead. Out of the darkness walked two figures, a man and a woman. He was smiling, she was not.
“Good evening,” the man said. His tone betrayed the fact that he gave no shits about the body lying on the ground between us. I recognized the hair, both the goatee and the tail. Finally — finally — I’d come face-to-face with Steffan Parks. He stopped six feet from me and casually clasped his hands in front of him.
I kept eye contact with him for a few seconds before shifting my gaze to the woman beside him. Of course it was Jay. She was bundled inside a full coat. The change from Arizona’s warmth to the winter chill of Texas apparently didn’t appeal to her.
Looking back to Parks, I said, “Hi. Would you guys know where to get a really good Alamo T-shirt? The ones in these shops are crap.”
Jayanti’s stare grew even more unpleasant, but Parks continued to smile. “Funny you should mention the Alamo,” he said. “An historic place of death.”
“And pee,” I said. “Didn’t Ozzy Osbourne urinate on it or something?”
“I thought he bit the head off a bat,” Parks said. “Did he pee on the Alamo, too? What a bad boy.”
“You know a few things about bad boys, don’t you?”
The banter was the last straw for Jay. “Can we please finish this and go? I’m cold.”
“I’m going with you.” The voice came from behind me, and a second later Aiken brushed past and pulled down the hood of his hoodie. “Get me the hell out of here, too.”
The smile on Steffan’s face evaporated. Jayanti practically gaped. They both looked back and forth between me and Aiken.
“Jonas,” Jay said. “What the hell are you—”
“This asshole kidnapped me and dragged me here.” He took another step toward them and looked back at me. “And I do mean asshole.”
Steffan rocked back and forth on his feet. “Well. This is unexpected.” He squinted at me, which looked funny in a dimly-lit setting. “You’re the third government agent to stumble into us. Including the gentleman currently disposed on the ground before you. Why couldn’t I get this kind of attention from the government when I actually wanted it?”
“Because you presented them with something on a par with Nazi techniques?”
This didn’t sit well with Parks one bit, and he practically snarled. “I won’t trade quips with you. In fact, there’s no reason for this conversation at all.” His gaze shifted just over my shoulder and I felt a gun pushed into my ribs from behind.
“That’ll be Mr. Cox,” I said without flinching. “He’ll no doubt kill me, which will be very annoying and put me way behind schedule.”
Both Parks and Jayanti looked suitably confused by the comment. Cox, however, was nonplussed. He reached around and removed the Glock from my hand.
“And what about Jonas?” I asked. “Will Cox finish him off, too, or do you need to question him?”
“There’s nothing to question me about,” Aiken said, his voice an octave higher than normal. “This guy dragged me here and now I’m going back with you.”
I shrugged. “Okay. That should be a fun trip for everyone. No concerns about security breaches or anything like that. Good.”
Parks turned a cool eye toward Aiken. “Walk back to the hotel with Ms. Pradesh.” When Aiken opened his mouth to reply, Parks shook his head and added, “Just go. Now.”
“Its about time,” Pradesh said. She walked past without so much as a glance at me.
Jonas hesitated a few moments, looking like he wanted to say something else to Parks. But finally he gave a frustrated sigh and trudged off after Jayanti.
Steffan took a step forward, looked down at the unconscious Ranger, then back at me. “All of this has been so unnecessary. I didn’t ask for much.”
I scoffed. “Steffan, are you actually painting yourself as the victim in all this? You and your girlfriend killed an agent in Scottsdale and three more people in Santa Fe, including someone who used to be your friend. If you get your way you’ll murder a lot more.”
Behind me, Cox pushed the gun further into my lower side until it really hurt. But I kept going. “Tell me this, since you’re about to kill me anyway. Where are you planning your little murder experiment?”
A slow smile returned to his face. “I think I’d rather let you die wondering about that. It can be your last thought. What a way to end a life. As a failure.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, well, it won’t be the first time. How about a hint? East or west of the Mississippi?”
He matched my laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Eric. Look, if the meathead behind me shoots that thing the other agents just down the way are going to come running.”
Parks pursed his lips. “Mr. Cox does his best work with a knife, Eric. He’s going to cut your throat, dump you into this filthy river, and then do the same with that extremely large man lying at your feet.”
He glanced over my shoulder at Cox, gave a curt nod, then walked up to my side. Leaning up to my disfigured ear he whispered, “West.”
After that he smirked and walked on. As the sound of his footsteps faded away, I tuned all of my senses into the large problem behind me and waited for Cox to reach for the knife. He may have been good, he may have been trained well in the military and during his time as a deputy sheriff, but he wasn’t a pro’s pro, and he stood no chance if he didn’t use the gun right now.
And, like all bullies, he felt the need to get in one last dig. Pulling the gun back a bit and leaning up to the same ear that Parks had nuzzled, Cox said, “Looks like someone tried to cut off one ear already. I’ll take the other one. A souvenir.” With a grunt he added, “You government types are too easy. This is gonna be—”
That’s when I did it. With Parks out of the way, and this hired shithead caught up in his stupid tough-guy performance, I re-enacted a move Quanta had used on me with great success — more than once. In a flash I spun and used my left hand to chop his gun hand downward and the heel of my right to smash his nose.
The gun clattered to the ground and I struck again, this time a left into his larynx. He let out a sound that could’ve been gack, and stumbled backward. I expected him to drop to his knees. Anyone else would’ve.
But no. He steadied himself and gave me the angriest look I’ve ever seen on a human face.
It was my first chance to size up Darnell Cox. He was big in all three dimensions, a massive shadow in the already-dim light. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” I muttered. “You’re not a Cox; you’re an ox.”
He spat out a wad of blood, ran a hand across his face, then reached behind and pulled out the knife I’d heard so much about. It was certainly impressiv
e, especially when he whipped it through the air toward my face.
I leaned back just in time, then avoided the next slash, too. I stepped back and summoned my training. The key elements came down to this: don’t fall down, and don’t get stabbed.
The thing I had going for me was that Cox had made his career as a goon simply through sheer size and stamina. He bulled through his victims. I probably could’ve punched him in the face 50 times and it would barely slow him down.
But guys like that often neglect to hone their real hand-to-hand skills. Between my military training and the frequent ass-kickings supplied by my boss, I was confident I’d have one of those pricey margaritas before the night was over.
But nothing was a sure thing.
The broken nose definitely hampered Cox the Ox. He swiped away another stream of blood, then tried a lunge. I easily sidestepped him and delivered another blow to his throat, followed by a shot to his kidneys. It felt like hitting a mattress.
With a growl he swung the knife again. I circled him, which gave me time to analyze the battleground. There was something about this area Cox had forgotten, and didn’t see now in the poor light. So I moved back to my right, guiding him exactly where I wanted him. As soon as we were there, I feinted a move forward, which caused him to try another slash. That had him off-balance, and my sidekick to his chin worked perfectly. He staggered back a step.
And right over the prone body of another large man, Ranger Brockington, who’d slept through the whole thing.
Cox went down hard and, in trying to keep his balance, the knife clattered to the ground.
I bent down and snatched it just as my dance partner pushed himself up and, with a roar, leapt for me. From my kneeling position I executed my own lunge, driving the knife right up through that Simmons Beautyrest of a chest.
For a moment he was frozen, supported by the knife at the end of my arm. I slowly got to my feet, relishing the look of utter disbelief on his face. I drew the knife out and plunged it in again, this time into his oxen heart. Now he did fall, toppling backwards onto the pavement.
I caught my breath, hands on hips, and wiped perspiration from my brow. For such a cool night I’d worked up a nice sweat. That margarita would become a sure thing, along with a good shot of whiskey, to boot.
After checking one more time to make sure that Brockington was still alive, I turned back to Cox. Grabbing him by the arms, I grunted and heaved him over to the edge of the river. Rooting through his pockets, I lifted both his gun and mine, along with his wallet and phone. There was nothing else except change and Tic Tacs.
I gave him one last glance. “Guess we’re not so easy after all, dickhead.”
I used my foot to tumble him into the river with a large splash.
Then I called Kowalczyk to help me with the Ranger.
Chapter Seventeen
In my line of work, any time there’s a major foul-up — in this case a Texas Ranger who’d been assaulted and a prime witness/suspect abducted — it meant getting your ass chewed out.
With Quanta there was never shouting, and that’s worse. In the military I always got yelled at, but I was prepared for it because my dad had been a shouter. After a while it’s like a drug; your body becomes resistant and it loses any potency.
Mom, however, rarely raised her voice. She’d worked the disappointment angle, which is playing dirty as far as I’m concerned. Nobody can stand the idea of disappointing their mother.
That was Quanta’s style, too. I’d successfully completed a good number of missions, but I’d also bungled my share. Most cases have an assortment of both. A spy’s job is built on more of a risk/reward system than that of a Wall Street hedge fund. You want results, you have to stick your neck out. Consequently, I’d been through numerous replacement necks.
In fact, my boss would often point out I’d been through more bodies than any other Q2 agent. I was told by Sherilyn, my favorite tech in our basement lab, that the count wasn’t that close, either. When curiosity demanded I push her for actual stats she gently told me to piss off. We’re not supposed to know anything about the other agents. Some day they’ll explain why, but I suspect it has to do with Q2’s first investment agent.
Things with him didn’t end well — although I haven’t heard his side of the story; we’d have to find him first — and now we’re all pretty much sequestered from each other.
At the moment I was sitting in my San Antonio hotel room on a conference video chat with Quanta and Poole. My room service dinner sat on a nearby tray, mostly just picked at.
“So you went into a darkened, secluded area, confident there was trouble ahead, without backup,” Quanta said. “And you dragged your potential source of information, Aiken, with you, even though he was known to be sympathetic with the other side. So that makes at least four potential adversaries, one of whom was a hired thug. How could that possibly go wrong?”
“He was one of the shittiest hired thugs I’ve ever encountered,” I threw in. “But, then again, Parks isn’t experienced enough to hire the best. Yet.”
“That’s beside the point. What outcome were you expecting?”
“The exact outcome I got.”
Quanta fell silent, and I saw on the split screen that Poole was trying to become invisible.
“Do you want me to explain?” I asked.
“Oh, by all means,” Quanta said. “I’m anxious to hear any explanation that could remove the stench from this situation.”
I shifted in my seat, one of those uncomfortable desk chairs that hotels specialize in, even the 4-star chains. I had this explanation pretty well set in my mind; it was just a matter of expressing it so that I didn’t sound nuts.
“It’s like this. As you say, if Brockington was indeed out of commission, as I expected, then it was going to be four against one. I wasn’t going to capture both Parks and Pradesh without the possibility of a gun battle, and in that case anything could happen, including the unfortunate death of Steffan Parks.
“To me, that was unacceptable, because he may have already programmed it so the poison is distributed at some pre-determined time. If he died, we wouldn’t know when or where until Eyewitness News broke in with a bulletin. And the same thing might apply if we just apprehended him. He could sit there, smug, waiting for the poison to roll out.”
“So far this explanation is nonsense,” Quanta said. “Of course we need Parks alive. But you not only lost him and his partner, you lost one of the few people who might’ve helped us get the information.”
“I didn’t exactly lose him,” I said. “I planted him.”
More silence. Then Quanta shook her head. “All right. I’m listening.”
“Aiken doesn’t know enough yet. I think he can find out more. And then I’ll find out from him.”
I don’t often see my boss laugh, but this was one of those times. It was the sarcastic variety.
“You think Jonas Aiken is going to soak information out of Parks, and then rush back to you to share it? Swan, he’s probably already dead.”
“I don’t think so. I think he’s pretty convincing. And the fact that he threw me to the wolves at the soonest possible moment also looks good for him. At the very least I think Parks, who we already know is a genius at potions but a relative amateur at crime—”
“Not counting the bodies he’s already piled up?” Quanta said.
“Well, yeah. But still, it’s not his forte. I don’t think he’ll murder Jonas. At least not yet.”
Poole finally spoke up. “Could you just send Aiken a text on the SL phone you gave him?”
Quanta answered. “No. If — and that’s a big if — if he’s going to play ball, you can’t risk having Parks hear or see him receiving anything right now. It could upset everything. No, Swan will have to wait this one out.” She looked back at me. “And you really think Parks is going to spill everything to this guy?”
“No. But I think this guy can get information out of Jayanti.”
“Why?”
I looked down to break eye contact. “I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”
“Did you and Aiken discuss this arrangement beforehand?”
“Uh, no.”
The frustrated sigh came through loud and clear from Washington D.C. “Let me make sure I understand your plan, Swan. You put yourself in a position where Aiken would be retaken by Parks. You then banked on the fact that you could defeat their hired killer. Next, you’re counting on Aiken to obtain vital information from Pradesh and find you in order to save the day. Is that about right?”
I had to chuckle. “When you put it like that . . .” I looked back at the screen. “All right, so it sounds like a long shot. But in the heat of the moment it’s what made sense to me. Jonas has a really odd relationship with Jay, and I think he’s figuring out what a schmuck he’s been. If he still has that SL phone, or if he can get his hands on it, he can contact me. I think he will.”
“Lovely,” Quanta said. “And if he doesn’t?”
I chewed my lower lip for a second. “If he doesn’t, I’ll come up with Plan B.”
Parks had whispered West to me, and I believed him. He thought I was about to be fish food — if there are fish in the San Antonio river. And regardless of what he said about not wanting to divulge information, let’s get real: Bad guys always liked boasting about their plans, about their accomplishments, their victories, and their overall superiority over anyone who pursued them.
Sometimes it meant sending notes to the police. Others, like Son of Sam and the Zodiac killer, sent letters to journalists.
This guy was no different. Saying just that one word — West — probably got him aroused.
If we took the meager facts available to this point and plugged in that single vain utterance, it suggested one of the two towns where he and Jay had surfaced lately. Why exactly would Pradesh be at that conference in Scottsdale? She wasn’t on a panel. She’d flat-out told me she wasn’t attending any of the breakout sessions.
Networking, she’d said. Really? In the midst of a project to kill tens of thousands of people she’s interested in padding her contacts?
