The Autumn War
Page 19
Anonymous’s email to Declan made him frown. “They know a guy, not really part of the Brigade. He’s like totally paranoid.”
Aidan looked at the email and swore. “He’s a total dick is what he is. Frankie Spoonface.”
Declan sighed. “That’s not his name…” He smiled involuntarily, “but he does look a spoon mashed his face in. And Aidan’s right, he is a major dick.”
Aidan went to the kitchen and started the coffee machine. He continued to talk, raising his voice to be heard. “He thinks he’s in a movie or something. Meets in public, always a new city. Has to be face to face, no electronics—he’ll pat you down for a phone—that kind of thing.”
Declan nodded. “Francis Ex. Like Malcom Ex but you know, white and, um, not Muslim I guess. But totally telling off the Man.”
I considered. If Frankie could get me a location on Hans outside the system, I’d take it. “I can meet him in Austin tomorrow. Easy airport, we can do the Elephant Room. It has one front door, below street level, exits onto a four way corner with plenty of surveillance opportunities for him. Eight pee em?”
Declan looked at me and squinted speculatively. “You know this how?”
“Oh, we do drops there. I have to hand over zip drives or envelopes. This is somewhere no one much pays attention and it’s got a really easy airport. Plus, I suspect someone in the agency likes the brisket at Ruby’s Barbeque.”
He smiled, tapped some keys and nodded. “Sent.” Less than twenty seconds later he got a reply. “Huh. He knows it. Says be there at nine, not eight. You’re supposed to wear a blue hat.”
I nodded. If it was amateur hour, we’d go amateur all the way. Perhaps Francis had never been to the Elephant Room. There would be a very good chance several men would have hats, some of them might even be blue. Blue suede Kangols were a thing the last couple of years in the Jazz scene in Amherst and I knew from my past dealings, Austin’s music scene usually set the trends.
Aidan walked in with a large canvass bag decorated with a cat wearing a pirate’s eye patch and green paisley patterned handles. The patch of matching paisley green had been sewn on top of a screen print and had frayed edges. Inside were my clothes and a Tupperware full of pastries. Some local bakery had started making high end Pop Tarts for the brothers and Aidan had insisted when I left he send a bundle with me These were supposedly lingonberry and fig. Or boysenberry sour cherry. Or both. He had been very vague.
I looked over the bag. It looked as if it would survive a small war in and of itself. He smiled at me and handed me a large travel mug. “Coffee. You’re leaving right?”
I nodded. “I will need to do some stuff in Austin before I meet Frankie Spoonface.” That made him snicker. Declan joined him.
“The bags from this lady I know in New Jersey. She custom sews them. Declan told her it had to be beyond epic and she, um, apparently is really into cats and pirates.”
Declan squinted at the bag. “I think it’s like her cat. You know, like a photo even. But not with an eyepatch.”
“That’s a mild relief. Feline piracy might be irresistible.”
The brothers did a double take. Declan held up his left hand. “Kitten pirates. Grow up into cat pirates. Squee adventure game.”
Aidan grabbed a laptop. “On it.” He frowned as he typed furiously. “Aaaaaaaaand… not copyrighted. Right, new game idea. Big Bear gets thirds.”
I gave them hugs. They’d be up for days stealing bits of old games, modifying some graphics packages, maybe buying a game engine like Aidan said was done regularly. In forty-eight hours they’d be Beta Testing a kitten pirate game and, if it flew, the real thing would go global in two weeks. When I started for the door, they stepped out from their hive mind to say goodbye.
Declan hugged me first. He did his best to out-crush Big Bear and I did my best to let him. I figured it was some advanced version of the Bro Code and he seemed to appreciate it. “Remember, Bear, be like careful and don’t trust Francis. He’s not you know, really screwed on tight.”
Aidan gave me a more sedate hug, it merely hurt my ribs. Bear, you’re epic. You’re…wait for it…legendary.” That made him laugh to himself. “Don’t forget what Em told me, that ladies um…” He clearly couldn’t remember exactly. He’d had more vodka punch than we’d had.
“Women want to be wooed, even powerful women. They want to be made to feel special and important.”
He grinned. “Yes! Right. Epic. So you know, don’t go buying her just any diamond and expect she’ll be happy.”
Declan nodded sagely. “She might want rubies, dude. Or sapphires or what are those purple things, name from Africa?”
Aidan rolled his eyes. “Tanzanite man, frakking tanzanite. Ain’t no lady issues when you drop the tanzanite.”
Big Bear gave them both major hugs and a firm handshake. Then in his gravest voice he repeated, “No lady issues when you drop tanzanite.” They giggled like little boys and showed me to my car. We hugged in total bro fashion again and did some manly back slapping. The brothers waved as I drove off, did some kind of esoteric fist pump activity that made me think of commandos ordering an air strike, and then faded from view as I cruised slowly out of their suburb in the dead of the night.
Chapter 12
The Death of Wickham
By the time I was on the highway, and en route to Austin, I had neatly packed my emotions in a steel safe and sunken that within a stone sepulcher under the endless cold sea. Beside me were the Tupperware of pastries and my Glock along with a flat stone covered in C4 with a detonator rigged to fire three seconds after impact.
On the far side of Albuquerque they tried to hit me. Three black sedans chewed up the highway behind me. All had tinted windows and were missing their front license plates. As tactics went, it was both obvious and fairly effective. Three versus one usually involved a great deal of firepower. They could run me off the road or riddle me with bullets, or preferably both.
Car chases are obnoxious. Unless the drivers are expert and their machines correctly tuned for the task, vehicular combat quickly devolves into a game of Russian roulette with road conditions and tire traction. When faced with these kinds of impossible odds, it’s best to act immediately and force the other team to compensate. As they got close, I spun the sedan to face them and rammed the car into reverse. Using the automatic window controls to lower my left window and as the cars started their maneuvers, one to my left, one to my right the rear car to ram me, now hood to hood, I tossed my bomb to the car on my right and rammed the brakes.
The chase car hammered my hood and drove me into the bumper of the left chase sedan. While they both tried to disentangle themselves from what had become a chain of three cars, I fired the entire magazine into the driver’s side of the car facing me, dropped the gun, and put the sedan back in drive. My bumper sheared off, spinning the car in front of me as the car behind slowed and started to list towards the side embankment.
The other sedan blew apart, shoving me into the side of the spinning car and buffering me from what would have been a high speed crash. Instead, everything in the car slammed against the right side, I jerked hard in my seat belt and the spinning vehicle did a half twisted and started to roll at over 120 kph, flipping off the side of the highway and dropping into a gulch with a huge crash. I slowed to a stop, reloaded the Glock, and walked back towards the car I’d pumped full of shots. The bombed sedan was a husk of vapor and red flame. The crashed sedan caught fire, gushing forth with oily black smoke. No one tried to escape.
That left the former lead sedan. I was twenty meters from the front when a body dropped out of the rear passenger side. Someone rolled out over the dead body carrying a rifle and started to drop to one knee. I put three shots into their mass and the target fell back onto the pavement prone. A shot rang out from within the vehicle, missing me by several meters. I kept walking and another four shots blew a hole through the front window, all missing me. When I was within five meters I stopped and waited. A minute
later, my assailant opened the passenger’s side door behind the driver and limped out.
He had been tall but the bullets I’d put into his legs doubled him over. Only by clinging to the hood could he hold himself up. He was dark haired, thin, and had a wispy mustache done in fu-manchu style. Blood covered his face and his eyes were some muddled color; not brown and not green. It took me a moment to realize I knew him.
Carlos the Crocodile had been the most feared La Eme hitman west of the Mississippi. He got his name feeding live victims to his pet crocs. Both the US and Mexico had him on the Ten Most Wanted for rape, arson, and kidnapping. No one had ever successfully prosecuted him for any crime; witnesses or key evidence always disappeared. He hadn’t even been considered for an actual murder. The bodies on the other side of the car were Section 22 certainly. Carlos had been the odd man out.
He coughed and looked at me, his empty eyes now filled with rage. “You gonna die, Especial.” Many Spanish speakers preferred that to Spetz and it was mostly the same anyway. If Carlos wanted to threaten to kill me in Spanish slang, what was the point in arguing?
“Carlos, you’re slightly outnumbered here.” I pointed the Glock at his feet and blew off one of his toes. He screamed and fell to the pavement, sobbing in agony. He rocked as he held the injured foot, spewing a steady diatribe of Spanish curses. I took the time to survey the damage. Two dead in the front seats, both S22. The Glock had slaughtered them—apparently they had not put bullet resistant glass on these cars. If I had to guess, I’d bet Carlos had loaned them out and come as the local guide.
I did some rough math. Five people per car, which meant another fourteen Section 22 soldiers had been killed. As the hitman rocked and swore, I examined them. No tattoos, no icons, no strange passports, or tans or anything else that identified them as Zeus’s. This firefight had just lowered Hans’s field effectiveness by fourteen.
I walked back to his side. Other vehicles would be along soon. The bomb had blown the car across five lanes and stalled traffic. Once emergency personnel showed up, I needed to be gone.
“Right. Carlos, I apologize but I am on a timetable.” I put a small hole in his right shoulder. He yelped and went deathly quiet. “Thank you. Pay attention. I’ve got another six shots and you have toes, bones, two large cajones. I don’t like rapists. If I had time, I’d geld you like a steer.” I smiled at him and kept my voice low and steady.
“Whatchu want, Ese?” He tried not to whimper, but he clearly believed me. In my place, Carlos would torture me for days. He might have come to do just that. I had gelded his cousin, also a rapist, a decade ago with a shot from a 30-06.
“Tell me how they found me?”
He laughed. “They no found you. I found you, Especial.” He thumped his chest. Get a man talking and he would reveal to you the world.
“Okay. Tell me how you think you found me.” I sat on the word think, as if it was barely comprehensible that Carlos the Crocodile would be smart enough to locate me. That got him
“Sheeeeet. I have some guys in the motor vehicle. They look at plates on the traffic camera. You pass by in New Mexico buying some gas and bam, La Eme, she knows. They make a call and hey, I am here.”
“With a bunch of Nazi goons.”
He looked about him in distaste. He clearly didn’t know who Section 22 was or who he’d been allowing in his cars. “Seriously? Dey Nazis? Like hail Hitler?”
I nodded. “Close enough.” I pursed my lips and looked as I was considering things. “You call this in to someone? How’d you get the muscle?”
He laughed and it caused all the wounds to bleed more. His face lost more color. “We was on a job. Trying to waste some lady. She was…” He coughed and flecks of blood came out. He had some internal bleeding. “The lady no there. She heard we coming. No her, no computers, place was rigged.”
“Rigged to blow?”
He nodded. “Used to have five cars. But your Nazis went in all guns blazing and the perra had the whole front mined or something. Chewed up like six guys and two cars. Left a couple bleeding and took off before the cabrons show up, you know?”
“In Albuquerque?”
“Yeah. We was ten minutes from here when my guys call. I said, hey two for one, you know.” He coughed again and I could see the fear in his eyes as he finally saw the blood.
“Ambulances will be along in three minutes, four tops.” I looked him over. He was wounded but would not die. He was also at a crime scene with a whole lot of dead bodies and tons of contraband as well as weapons used in prior crimes. I looked behind him and, when he turned to see what was there, I blew the big toe off his right foot. He’d never shoot straight again. Then I left him to scream and curse.
The mangled sedan managed to start a good minute before the police and fire departments arrived. They appeared in my rearview mirror as I drove away. It took me another twenty minutes to find an exit with a truck stop and to ditch the sedan behind a row of sleeping truckers. I wiped down the gun, left much of the original Section 22 gear with their IDs, money, and prints, sufficient to tie them and the Glock I’d just used to Carlos and company. Then I took the rest, including my now mangled pastries and jumbled clothes, shoved them all in my pirate cat bag and went to get a cup of coffee.
Every once in a while, the world surprises you. Lisa’s Truck Center in Moriarty, NM makes a fine cup of coffee. It also served me a plate of fish and chips (live dangerously after a gun battle, order fish in a landlocked state) that turned out to be delicious. The waitress admitted they bought everything at Costco because Jeff, the fry guy, was “turnt,” and while he kept the oil in perfect condition, nobody trusted him to cook things that weren’t premade. She also gave me their Wi-Fi password. In the kitchen, a large man with a squat neck with strange bumps and a squashed nose muttered and ranted.
I used one of the stolen cell phones to log on and ping a fragment of Jeeves. Which was really a fragment of Morris, or perhaps Darcy. One couldn’t be too sure what twists and turns the hacker had put into the original protocols. In The Web, when operatives wish to communicate, they go to community notices on Craigslist. In one of those quirky life imitates art turns, someone borrowed the central conceit of a Samuel Delany story and the shadow world rotates our location monthly, sending The Word through the grapevine, online, and inside courier briefs so that within minutes or hours the global network knows where to look. Abilene, Fresno, Boston, Chicago, Dusseldorf, Lisbon, Singapore—every month ticked off by a location, the key ones repeated. Some groups reckon dates solely by the city month, as in Fourth Mumbai (which was November, 2009). Their operational reports read like a strange code—Diderot engaged the protocol at the secondary location with qualified success on the Ninth of Third Prague.
The month had just turned and the fragment, after taking some passwords, informed me that it was Fifth Auckland. The Auckland Community section had a few extra entries already, all codified by how The Web communicates. Hits go under Rideshare, official notifications of deaths, attacks, thefts, etc., go into Events. Want to hire a crew—publicize it in the Classes section. Offering illicit goods or stolen secrets: Pets. Musicians offered equipment and safe houses for a price. Everything else went under General, and that was a mishmash of threats, coded messages, auctions for high end prostitutes. Usually distributors of major contraband would put a notice in with their new email that led to an encrypted deep web locale from which a middleman vetted serious buyers and allowed the select few through to the month’s deep web address. These groups sold human beings, narcotics in bulk, weapons of mass destruction, child pornography, murder and kidnapping for hire, state secrets.
For these reasons, browsing the Community section of the City of the Month can be harrowing. The Rideshare section had four ads looking to share a ride with someone going to meet a Special someone from New York (or a variation thereof). All gave a romantic description of their long lost soldier lover who they wished to kiss and hold (code for kill on sight) and shower with roses (whic
h meant the fee was negotiable—which in The Web meant price is no object). One actually had my picture prior to my shaved head. I had some pie and read through the ads. In the last two days, I had become the most wanted man on the planet. It made sense that Carlos would give chase without taking precautions. I opened another phone and emailed all four rideshare contacts - Pete, Ahmed, Julie, and Cisco.
Classes had a similar group of ads, all related to driving skills. Translating them into operational talk, there were five different mercenary outfits looking to find people who knew me by face and could help hunt me down. Pete answered me back from an address I recognized as a South African S22 front. The price on my head was above $3B. I told him the target had been sighted in Albuquerque and that, for a price, my team could apprehend. That would send the surveillance team into fits.
Ahmed and Julie both sent back replies within a second of one another and they were nearly identical. Another Jeeves fragment listed the original ISP as Maldonado, Uruguay. The Cult offered me $4B and a new identity. I asked for funds, human traffic (that meant slaves with legends) and some bioweaponry, preferably airborne. Then told them the exact same thing as I had told Pete.
My waitress came by and I noticed she looked pale. In the kitchen a pair of uniformed police officers were asking Jeff questions. She poured me more excellent coffee.