by Ric Beard
“Maybe he’s burning out. I think it’s all gone to shit for him since Reagan died.”
“That’s his daughter, right?”
Lexi nodded.
“Whatever the reason, we’re better off if he loses. Fuck him.”
“Such language,” Lexi said, fanning herself with her hand again.
Blake ignored her humor.
“I just wonder if there is a trick up his sleeve. He could cause havoc on his way out.”
“It doesn’t make any sense, that’s for sure.”
“I think I just said something similar.”
“But not quite the same,” she replied, flipping him the bird.
“Quaint.” He fanned his face, mocking her. “So are we ordering, or just drinks?”
“I think start with drinks. If things go well, perhaps lunch.”
“Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of that. It’s a little early to propose.”
“Shut up. I’m serious.” She removed her glasses and leveled the blue eyes on him.
“I’m all ears.” He squinted into her gaze.
“Good. So, as you know, I went and investigated the scene yesterday.”
“Right. I checked in on Dad before I came here.”
“Ah. Did he ruin the ‘surprise’?” She made quotes with her fingers.
“What surprise?” She squinted her eyes and pursed her lips sideways. “I’m not screwing with you, Lexi.”
“Ok, then he didn’t ruin it. I should have known. Mikael’s middle name is discretion.”
Blake rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.”
Lexi looked over as a short woman with an Akita that had to weigh 200 pounds sauntered past. She looked at Blake with wide eyes and stuck her lips out.
She mouthed ‘really?’
Blake laughed. Lexi shook her head with derision.
“So, I gave him my assessment and he agreed.”
“Not surprising. He’s always liked you, you know.”
“Well, I suppose,” she replied. “But I don’t see what this has to do with liking me. I was giving him a security assessment.”
“No, I mean, my father doesn’t genuinely like a lot of people. He might tolerate them, find them proficient and the like, but liking them is a different thing. You impress him.”
“Well, I take that as quite the compliment. After all, he raised you.”
She wanted to stick her finger down her throat as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
“Now that the mutual ass kissing is over…”
“Cute.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Lexi found herself in wonderment of the natural pace and smooth back and forth motion of their banter. If she could afford to be entangled, she was starting to wonder if Blake might not be the right entanglement.
Stop your brain, bitch. Cut that shit out!
The voice in her head was right. Blake was continents away from her type. Besides, she still didn’t know what he was up to with Morgan. Now that she was working for Mikael, that puzzle seemed more important than ever. Besides, she’d drifted more toward women in recent years.
“I told him his detail sucks.”
“His detail?”
“His protective detail.”
“Oh, I see. How did he take that?”
“Well, considering a podium exploded in front of him, I think he was inclined to agree; it’s not like there was a lot of conjecture or anything. He is a ‘simple analysis’ kind of guy. His men were positioned badly, they responded badly, and they allowed bad things to happen before and during the event.”
“Simple,” Blake mocked her. He picked up his glass and sipped to hide his smile.
“Yeah, smart ass,” she replied. “Am I boring you with all my security talk?”
“No! Not at all. But I do have a question.”
“Why do I think something smart-assed is about to flutter from thine lips?”
“No. Seriously.”
She waved a hand, encouraging him to continue.
“Weren’t these your guys guarding him?”
“Well, yeah, some of them.” The question irritated her.
Leave your ego at the door, sweetheart, her inner voice said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Oh, screw that,” Lexi snapped. “I don’t need your sympathy. I trained them, but there is a reason I’m their boss.”
Blake showed her his best jazz hands. “Point taken.”
Blake took a sip of his drink.
“He asked me to come work for him.”
Blake looked as if he would spit the liquid for a moment before regaining his facial composure.
“What do you mean by work for?
“On his campaign. Just during the campaign.”
Blake returned silence for a moment before responding.
“And if he wins?”
“What if he does?”
“Oh. Okay. I need to spell it out for you. As if the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. Right. He might want you to work for him as mayor.”
She waved a hand.
“Oh, I doubt it. It’s not like he’d really need me once he had the job.” She took a sip of Blake’s drink. He watched her drink and made a sour face. She ignored it. “It’s not like the city is full of assassins. Hell, you can hardly get people to leave their houses for a barbecue.”
“You don’t think the mayor needs security? Have you seen the entourage Vaughn walks around with? I’m pretty sure he has a two-thug minimum.”
Lexi choked on her drink and started coughing. Blake leaned forward in his chair, but she held up a hand and tried to clear her windpipe in spite of the laughter. When she recovered, she leaned back.
“I’m not sure I’m interested in working for the government. I get a lot more freedom in the private sector.”
“I think you’d be perfect for it.”
Lexi stared at him.
Way too easy. What’s he up to?
“I’m not saying I would want you to leave JenCorp. But you can come to my apartment whether you work there or not.” He threw her a sly grin.
“Could we stay on task, Mister Jensen.”
He threw up his jazz hands again.
“Ok, just so we don’t go back to that ‘Mister Jensen’ shit. Back to what I was saying. I think you’d be really useful to Dad. I actually prefer you be there, protecting him. The podium thing freaked me out.”
He was being entirely too understanding. Did he want her away from JenCorp? Was it something to do with the midnight meeting with Morgan? She shifted restlessly in her chair.
“I could try to hold you to your commitments at JenCorp, Lexi. Sure, I could. But if I did, what would you think of me? That I’m self-interested? Putting my own safety and the safety of a company before the safety of my father? Besides, my being understanding makes you more likely to return.”
Free, free, set them free.
“So, you’re really okay with it?”
“I’m fine with whatever you want to do. The fact is, Dad’s getting old. You’d be a great equalizer if any crazies—or any of Vaughn's thugs—got ideas.”
Lexi thought so, too. But protecting Mikael made up only a portion of her motivation. Sure, she loved the old man, but her deepest interests lay in preservation of the race. Humanity. Not one man. But in Mikael’s case, he was one man who could make a real difference. If he was going to take up the torch and represent the people in expanding civilization across Old I-40 to the awaiting city in the west, then protecting Mikael Jensen was exactly where she needed to be.
When she arrived in Triangle City, the mayor had touted the expansion. But true to the politicians of the old world, something had changed the man’s position. In her intelligence-gathering liaisons at the hangout for off-duty Security Services personnel, the Rusty Digit, she’d gathered more information than she ever expected about the man who held the reins of power. Some officers contended that the mayor’s concern over
his ability to hold power in a world with consolidated cities might be his motivation. More cities meant more distribution of said power, dilution. Others wondered if there were businesses lining Vaughn's pockets in an effort to stay local instead of inviting badlander animosity by rolling into their territory to clear Old I-40. There were half a million people in Triangle City, and that meant plenty of repeat business. But Lexi also trained with Vaughn's daughter when Mikael had sent her for combat training with the Expeditionary Forces, and she thought the mayor might have decided losing more citizens’ children was bad form. Maybe the man had a heart somewhere inside his thick form.
“Do you find that trash bin’s color appealing?” Blake asked, cutting off her train of thought.
Lexi turned her eyes on him and shined a sideways smile. “Sorry.”
“I have to know what that was. Looked pretty deep.”
“My thoughts are my own.” She leaned forward and mouthed, “Mister Jensen.”
“That’s only going to work so many times. Maybe I’ll make you call me that in bed.”
Lexi leaned back with a soft laugh and crossed her legs without breaking eye contact. “You’ll make me do nothing.”
She willed a smile.
“When do you start?” Blake asked, showing Lexi he had the good sense to change the subject before she dragged him into the alley.
“Today.”
“You don’t waste any time. Does the boss have any public appearances scheduled for tonight?”
“The boss has agreed to stay indoors until I have retrained his staff.”
“You sound like the mayor, asking him to stay indoors.”
“If it were up to him, he would call a press conference, glue the shattered podium together, wait for the Tabs to start flashing, and hold up both middle fingers before he took what amounts to Vaughn's advice to stay inside. But when I’m the one asking, he seems to take it seriously.”
“Consider yourself somewhat relieved of duty until after the election. Assign your most trusted to take over in your absence.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s my father. I should be thanking you.”
Chapter Sixty-One
A Tool of Lesser Minds
The overhead light shone in Fleming’s face, causing him to squint as he sat in the contraption reminding him of a dentist’s chair. His arms and ankles were strapped tightly, and his hands and feet were beginning to itch from the loss of circulation. Prison rumors about this room were common, but Fleming had never had the misfortune to end up here, until now. It seemed his luck might have run out. It was inevitable, really.
When the cybercrime unit came beating down his door, he’d known he was screwed. When they arrested him for conspiracy to commit treason, he had suddenly wished he’d never seen the woman he’d provided with technology that allowed her to bounce her IP address and become untraceable on the DarkWeb. Though Miles himself had made the introduction online, Fleming sometimes doubted whether the two were really associated or if he’d been scammed. So, he’d used a worm to find out who she was. Over time he built up a history on her, followed her via a bug on her Tab, and found out just who he was dealing with.
An immigrant, her city history only went back six years. She moved freely around places others didn’t go. She spent time in City Hall in the very cyber division that had arrested him, but she had no employment record there. She frequented a cop hangout and often left with different Security Services officers. But she worked in private industry. It hadn’t made sense. But then he’d monitored her as she walked through some kind of secret exit from the city, and that had decided him. Venturing outside the city walls?
The bitch was crazy.
So, when the SecServices brutes stormed in and took him, when the magistrate tried him, and when they dragged his ass into the city jail, he’d kept quiet. She would be his ace in the hole. He would bide his time and then make a deal. There was no way she wasn’t guilty of something, maybe espionage. She was intel gathering for her company, at the least. It was illegal to leave the city.
But then a guard had approached him and slipped a piece of paper through his bars. The neat lines of script on the note were burned into the backs of his eyelids.
You knew what you were getting into when you signed up. Talk, and I will find out. I can reach you anywhere.
When the guard came back to collect the note, he’d shown Fleming a long knife with a shiny silver blade that he kept in his boot. He’d taken the note, eaten it, and walked away. After his conviction, the same guard showed up at the prison, the apparent recipient of a transfer.
Sweat stains were starting to form on his prison uniform beneath his armpits from the lack of climate control—or the use of the climate control, more accurately. With no clock and no natural light, he had no concept of time but guessed hours had passed since the guards led him in, unceremoniously dumped him in the chair, and strapped him down. His feet were bare, with compression pads strapped to his arches pumping at intervals. Every few seconds, the pads filled with air designed to push the blood through his legs while at the same time, the straps tightened to force the blood back down. The skin between his knees and feet was pink with cloudy white spots. They itched like burlap.
The locks receded with a whine, and the metal door slid into an opening in the wall. One of the guards who strapped him to the chair strutted in like he owned the place, threw him a glance, and stood by the wall to allow an older man wearing a well-cut suit with an open-collared shirt to pass. He was carrying a leather case.
“Mister Fleming,” the man said with a perfectly white smile. “I am Sinclair.”
Sinclair wore magnification spectacles making his brown irises seem abnormally large. His hair was thinning on top with a bald spot in the center of his head.
Fleming nodded, deciding to play it cool.
“Nice glasses.”
Sinclair ignored him. Seeming satisfied after checking the straps around Fleming’s shins, he walked back to the tray upon which he’d set the bag. Working the zipper running the length of the leather satchel, he started laying out ominous looking stainless steel instruments in neat rows. Fleming felt the saliva building up in his mouth and gulped it. Sinclair pulled a folder out of the bottom of the bag and dragged a metal chair around to the side where Fleming sat. The chair made a loud noise against the concrete floor. It wasn’t lost on Fleming that the folder was for effect; certainly, the man had access to a Tab that could hold the same information. But, man, all that paper must have been expensive.
Paid for on the city dime, no doubt.
“This is the transcript of a conversation between members of The Underground. Please take a moment to read it.”
The pads on Fleming’s feet inflated. The bands around his legs tightened. Then both released their tension.
Fleming craned his neck forward, trying to see the text on the paper.
“Apologies.” Sinclair thrust the paper in front of Fleming’s face. Fleming nodded when he was finished.
“So, what do you want from me?”
The pads on Fleming’s feet inflated. The bands around his legs tightened. Fleming cringed. The machinery relaxed.
“Patience, Mister Fleming.” He placed the paper into the same place within the stack from which he’d pulled it and closed the folder.
“I’ve been tied to this machine for hours with that whooshing sound pushing the bottom of my feet and those god damned straps tightening. You want me to be patient?”
“Who is CorpKill62?”
Fleming glanced at the guard and then back at Sinclair.
The pads on Fleming’s feel inflated with a whoosh. The bands around his legs tightened with a creak. Then both released their tension. Fleming was ready to wrap those straps around someone’s neck.
“How the hell would I know?”
Sinclair sighed.
“You are Rafael Fleming. You were convicted of hacking into a governmental accounting system and planting a v
irus in an attempt to wipe the credit accounts of the Triangle City government. Is this correct?”
The pads inflated. Fleming waited for the tension to release, trying to ignore his desire the desire to scratch his legs and the bottom of his feet.
“I’m not guilty of that. It was a frame job.”
Sinclair reached forward, grabbed Fleming’s wrist and drove his thumb into soft flesh.
“I asked if you were convicted of the crime!”
“Yes!” Fleming tried to jerk his wrist away, but it only jerked the restraints.
“Good. My understanding is that people like you tend to be a tight community. You know each other.”
“Then your understanding is fucked.”
The pads inflated.
Sinclair clicked his tongue. “That’s not necessary.”
“Neither are the pads and the straps, asshole.”
“They tend to speed along conversations. When you’ve told me what I want to know, I will gladly have the guard relieve you of the discomfort.”
“Of course. Ask me a question I can actually answer, and perhaps we’ll get somewhere,” he said, matching the man’s snobby diction.
“Sarcasm is a tool of lesser minds who can’t cope, Fleming.” He gestured to his tools. “If you choose not to cooperate, I’ll make your current discomfort seem pleasant.” He picked up a wooden handle with a feather duster attached to the end and ran it slowly over Fleming’s leg. The itch was intolerable.
The pads inflated. The straps tightened. Fleming clinched his teeth, wishing they were gripping Sinclair’s nose. He forced himself to relax.
“I am not being uncooperative, Mister Sinclair. I just don’t have the information you want. I assure you, I’m not being difficult.”
“I see.”
The pads inflated. Fleming felt the blood rising in his temples. He clinched his fists. He tried to kick circulation into his feet, but they were strapped down tight. Sinclair turned a dial on the strap connected to the pads on his feet.
The pads inflated.
Fleming growled. “I’ve been a model prisoner. I’ve never gotten into trouble with the guards. I’ve wasted almost two years of my life for a crime I—”
