Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3)

by Reed, Grant T.

  “I don’t blame Kline for not wanting to leave his compound these last few days,” said Garrett, “His life will be forfeit if the killer gets to him.”

  “He’ll have to get through Kline’s new friends first,” said Honi referring to the Royal Police.

  “I know,” mused Garrett.

  Before Honi could reply, a familiar female voice echoed across the room startling the policeman. “You have mail.” The viewing globe remained dark despite the notification.

  “Damn thing,” laughed Honi, taking the newspaper from Garrett and tossing it onto the desk again. He leaned against the table and removed a cigarette from his top pocket.

  “That might be important,” said Garrett. His tone had changed and Honi glanced his way.

  “That’s okay, it can wait,” declared the detective. He turned to the desk and rummaged around for his matches.

  “I think you should check it,” persisted Garrett. “It could be your authorisation to bring Kline in.”

  “I said, it can wait,” argued Honi. A hard look crossed his features. He located the box of matches and struck one against the side of the desk.

  “I understand,” said Garrett nodding. “I’m sure the police system is encoded. You’d have to log in with a code or some such thing.”

  “Yes,” agreed Honi. He held the match up to his smoke and inhaled.

  “You know,” said Garrett contemplatively, “I was at Kline’s when we received that ransom message from the assassins.”

  “I know,” agreed Honi. He took another deep haul on his cigarette, his eyes questioning.

  “I watched Vic start up a game he likes to play on the G.V. It’s some kind of war-game, where you move different units around the map and attack other countries.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Honi. His eyes remained hard.

  “He had to login to that game with a code too,” continued Garrett. “It’s the damndest thing,” he chuckled, but his eyes retained a look to match Honi’s. “Vic’s just about the dumbest fellow I’ve ever met, but somehow he knows how to login to that game. Even Maury didn’t know how to get into it.” Honi puffed on his cigarette, not saying a word. “You know what I’m thinking?” asked Garrett.

  Honi shrugged. “It’s hard to say, Garrett,” his voice was cautioning.

  “I think the code he used is the same one you use to log onto your police system.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Honi blew smoke into the air and smashed the cigarette butt into the side of the desk.

  “Why don’t you check that mail and prove me wrong,” said Garret evenly.

  Honi growled and stood up straight. He took a half step towards Garrett, his finger wagging out a warning for the younger man. “That idiot Vic is always down here bugging the cops to run errands for them. He likes fetching their coffees. Fancies himself a policeman, I think. I’m not saying it’s true, but it is possible he was present when one of the fellows logged on. He’s so stupid they probably never thought anything of it.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” countered Garrett. “I’ll bet only certain high ranking members of a particular King’s Intelligence unit have this pass code. As I mentioned, even Maury, one of your operatives didn’t know it.”

  “That proves nothing,” snapped Honi.

  “You are right,” agreed Garrett. “You did an excellent job setting this whole thing up. Your involvement is indeed minimised. It really could be that Vic somehow stumbled across a secret access point into the Syndicate’s command center from his G.V. And of course, being the idiot savant that he is, somehow cracked their access login. Assuming he was playing a game, he manipulated Captain Hawks’ and Commander Rowgar’s units into attacking the Ponce prison. It just happens to be coincidence that this very act allowed your agency the opportunity to out the Syndicate and illustrate to the king, the grip the organisation has on our Vellian military.”

  “I told you, our logs are not permissible in any court of law. They mean nothing.”

  “That’s not true. They may not be permissible, but they do show the Syndicate’s activities. That proof alone would be enough to have King Renli take action.”

  “Why would I risk the lives of Captain Hawks and Commander Rowgar on such a gamble? The orders came from a source outside the Syndicate’s channels. That in itself could be reason enough to release the dons from blame. Then there is the issue of Rowgar and Hawks. If all of their men are taken and killed, Omik would simply claim the units went rogue – just like he did. There was no possible way I could know Rowgar would escape that prison and consolidate our claims against General Omik.”

  “No, there is no way you could know,” agreed Garrett, and Honi once more leaned against the desk. The detective looked to be fighting his nerves. “The Syndicate has never been your number one concern though, has it?” persisted Garrett.

  “What are you talking about? They have always been at the top of my list.”

  “At the top, yes,” agreed Garrett, “but, right below B.S., or should I say Yuri.” Honi’s face grew red and he glared at Garrett. “How long did you search before you found him?” prodded the younger man.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Honi licked his lips and looked away.

  “Yes you do, Archie. Kline is a greedy man and a thief. Stealing Ersk’s sable was one thing, but he also took something of yours that day: your girl.”

  “Somebody has to make him pay. She was innocent and sweet. He had no right…” Honi’s voice faded as he realised he was admitting his guilt. His eyes locked on Garrett and he hobbled toward the younger man. “Ersk lost everything that day; his home, his livelihood, and his family. The old man has suffered ever since, while Kline has grown fat off the suffering of his victims.” Garrett braced himself as Honi drew near, but the policeman stopped and stood straight before him. “I have no regrets, Garrett. The men working with Kline are just as guilty as him. I had hoped the Syndicate would rid the world of his stain. You are right; Rowgar and the others were acceptable losses. They are soldiers; they do as they are ordered.”

  Garrett nodded. “What will you do now?” he asked. “That assassin could just as easily be tracking B.S. as Kline.”

  Honi took a deep breath, his stance relaxing a little. “That depends on you, Garrett.” His look was unwavering. “I had planned on retiring and taking Yuri home to his grandfather. Maury is to head our division now and bring the Syndicate… and Kline to justice.”

  Garrett cleared his throat. “Neither of us can undo what has been done,” he said at last. “I honestly don’t know if I would have done any different, were I in your shoes,” he admitted.

  Honi looked shocked. “So you won’t say anything?” he asked. His fingers shakily sought out another cigarette and he limped to the desk and his matches.

  “What can I say?” returned Garrett, “Everyone knows Vic is a genius with the global view. I’m as surprised as you that he managed to figure out that pattern.” Garrett turned for the door.

  “Thank you,” said Honi quietly.

  Garrett did not look back. “Take care of B.S.”

  “Like you said,” agreed Honi, “My son has always been my number one concern.”

  23

  Volatile Spirits

  The crowd at Club Coliseum spilled into the streets. People had been lined up for hours to get tickets to tonight’s Golem Wars. The tribal music was loud, overhead speakers delivering its pounding beat to the revellers. Men and women danced inside the building, as well as up and down the laneway out front. Beer and other alcoholic beverages flowed liberally and the mood of the crowd was as raw and pulsating as the music.

  Inside the hall, the floor was crammed with sweating jostling bodies. To the right of the dance floor, Garrett leaned over Merle, shouting to be heard over the music. “Come on, buddy, just do this one thing for me!”

  “No way,” argued Merle. The little dragon was standing on a table, his head almost even with Garrett’s. He adjusted his su
nset specs and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. “The only reason I did it last time was because you didn’t show up!”

  “What’s your problem? I have front row seats and I promised I’d sit with Coral. This is my chance with her, don’t blow it for me.”

  “If that wingnut loses the match, they’ll all blame me! Besides, I don’t know why you’re so gaga for this girl all of a sudden,” yelled Merle. “She’s not that good looking and she’s uppity to boot. You said yourself she drives you nuts!”

  “He… wants… to… mate… her,” supplied P.C. from beside them. The automaton was busy dusting the rafters overhead and didn’t bother to look over as he spoke. Behind him, Coral stood quietly with the drinks she had fetched from the bar.

  Merle coughed into this hand and became interested in the floor. Garrett wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled weakly at the woman. “Hi,” he said. Coral passed Garrett his beer, but said nothing.

  An explosive cheer erupted from across the room and all eyes shifted in that direction. Threading his way through the crowd, a thin man in yellow coveralls and a pink shirt made his way to their table. The newcomer’s face was flushed and Garrett thought the man’s purple and white bowtie might be cutting off the circulation to his head. People from the crowd reached out and patted at him or shouted alcohol induced greetings. The man ignored them all.

  Arriving at Merle’s table, Johnny I.Q. adjusted his oversized spectacles and stared down his nose at the dragon. “I’m surprised you had the balls to show up, Snake Boy.”

  Merle turned to Garret, his lips curling. “I’ll do it!” he snapped.

  “Oh I don’t think you’ll be so optimistic when you meet my new creation, ‘The Lumberjack’. We’re gonna shave Christmas dinner off your golem’s backside.” Johnny shoved Merle backward. “And then maybe you and I can have a go in the alley. I owe you one for Stoneman.”

  A blue current crackled over Merle and he stumbled forward, ready to claw the man’s eyes from his head.

  P.C’s feather duster hit the dragon in the midsection and prevented him from reaching his target. “The… rules… clearly… state… that… any… aggression… between… owners… before… a… match… is… strictly… prohibited… and… the… match… will… be… forfeit.”

  “I don’t care,” growled Merle, his eyes bulging white, his arms raking the air overtop the feather duster. “As you’ve pointed out many times, I don’t own you!”

  “All… prize… money… will… also… be… forfeit,” continued P.C.

  Merle ceased his struggles, his small dragon sides wheezing with stress. “You’re lucky we need those funds,” he breathed. He wiped a dab of spittle from the corner of his mouth as Johnny eased his way back through the crowd. Merle turned to P.C. “You said you tied Flower up in the back alley?”

  “Stupid… doorman… said… no… dogs… allowed,” huffed P.C.

  “Good,” continued Merle. “And what was that latest attack command you were teaching him?”

  * * * *

  Garrett felt a thrill of excitement as he led Coral to their seats. Already the coliseum was packed. All of the benches were filled and every inch of standing room was occupied. The crowd initiated a wave to their left and Garrett watched the flow of bodies and arms encircle the coliseum. When the pulse of activity reached them, both he and Coral laughed and added their effort to the spectacle.

  This was Garrett’s first visit to Club Coliseum’s underground and he was impressed. Two empty booths overlooked the battlefield below, but nothing stirred within the depths of the arena. Four carved totems were symmetrically erected around a central grate in the floor. This, he knew, was the devastating flame throwing trap. The other golem deterring contraptions changed from week to week, but the flame thrower was a fan favourite and a mainstay of the arena.

  A stocky man to Garrett’s right leaned in and offered a hand. “I’m Maxey!” he shouted above the din. “This here’s my posse.” He jerked his head to the men beside him. Garrett nodded at Maxey’s four beer bellied pals. “I’m the Germinator’s biggest fan!” he continued. “I know you own the Germinator. I was wondering if me and the fellows could get an autograph?”

  Garrett nodded and glanced Coral’s way to make sure she had heard the request. “No problem,” he agreed. “You got a pen and something for me to sign?”

  “Actually, we was hopin’ for the Germinator’s autograph after the fight,” clarified Maxey. Garrett felt his face flush and made an effort to laugh it off. “Ya, of course,” he said “after the fight, then.”

  “Right on!” agreed Maxey and turned his back to Garrett.

  Garrett tried to think of something to change the subject, but thankfully the lights dimmed and a hush washed over the crowd. A spotlight bloomed from the metal rafters, illuminating an iron grate leading to the underbelly of the pit. Unhurriedly the grate wheeled upward. A detonation of ungodly screeching tones and lyrics blanketed the cavern. A palpable shudder ran throughout the stands and Garrett felt his bowels clench.

  “Kill your father, slay your mother,

  Hack your sister, stab your brother.

  Dig you a hole to Hell,

  No one to bid you farewell!”

  A metallic screech echoed from the depths of the entrance tunnel and a lumbering behemoth of iron crept through the opening into the arena. The crowd held its breath, as the spotlight followed Johnny I.Q.’s newest creation. The music screamed overhead.

  The Golem’s massive upper body was enclosed in double plate steel and polished to an eye piercing shine. The undercarriage of the creature was a rotating tread design, never before witnessed in the arena. The monster rumbled forward insidiously, the treads groaning louder than the music. Instead of a left arm, a menacing spiked chain rotated around a thick guide bar. The monster’s right arm was a six foot in diameter circular saw. With no warning, both appendages erupted into activity. The circular saw screamed a whining promise of death and the spiked chain gurgled a throaty roar up to the hollows of the vaulted ceiling. Slashing the air in a synchronised dance of defilement, the creature wheeled itself across the ring. The chainsaw arm shot out, connecting with one of the wood columns. Smoke and wood chips shot into the sky and the crowd pulled back in fear as the pillar collapsed in an explosion of dust.

  “Wow,” yelled one of Maxey’s pals, “right through that Vellian oak. I’m taking this guy.”

  Maxey looked unimpressed and elbowed Garrett in the ribs. “My Germinator’s faster than a post, ain’t he?” he squealed. Garrett stared at the devastation. As the dust settled to the coliseum floor, he could only agree with Maxey’s pal. Outwardly, he remained silent.

  “Spill your guts, rake out your eyes,

  Covered in maggots, crawling with flies.

  I’ll saw your bones, suck out your liver,

  Die, dog, your soul I’ll deliver.”

  The iron contraption rolled to a stop beneath its designated booth, its left tread sending up a spray of sand as it rotated to face the length of the battlefield. From the underground archway, appeared Johnny I.Q. He waved to the crowd and they roared their approval. He carried a box contraption with him, its multicoloured lights flashing brilliantly in the darkness. A smattering of boos echoed about the bowl of the stadium, but the scrawny man dismissed the taunting with a rude gesture and climbed to his booth. The spotlight was killed and the arena once more went black. Thankfully, the screeching music died with the lights.

  Seconds later, the spotlight hummed to life again, sighting in the closed portcullis of the underworks. This time the beat that filled the stadium was calmer and folksier, a fiddle drawing out the rhythm.

  “The Dean of Clean is coming, its time that scum fled,

  He’s mopped up better men than you; rest assured they’re all dead.

  He can scrub your balls or shave your face, clean the toilet too!

  But if you dare to stand in his way, he’ll make a fool of you.”

  Garrett tried
to hide his face as the fiddle squawked out a frenzied jig. He could feel Coral’s eyes on him. “No,” he said, anticipating the question. “I did not authorise that music.”

  “I like it!” she said in his ear. “It’s catchy!”

  The arena grate reeled upward and P.C. appeared from the depths of the stonework. The crowd gave a warm cheer. The robot’s apron was tied around his head and he jogged up the ramp into the amphitheatre. He delivered several punches to his imaginary foe, his feet flying in a flurry of well timed sidesteps. The crowd roared again and Merle appeared from the passageway, his wings buzzing to catch up to his ward.

  “Clog in the toilet, plunge, boy, plunge.

  Germinator will sop it up with his sponge.

  Turn and fire detergent into your eye.

  Sweep you under the rug.

  Don’t even try.”

  The fiddle squawked its final fantastic resonance and faded as P.C. took up position below Merle’s booth. Full lighting was restored to the ring as the little dragon fluttered to his spot.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of all races and nationalities, we welcome you to this week’s sanctioned amateur bout. Put your hands together for the return of one of Golem Wars greatest ever owners, Jonny I.Q!” A few anti-Johnny calls were drowned out by a cacophony of cheers.

  “Fighting out of the blue corner and weighing in at Forty-seven hundred pounds, with a reach of one hundred and ninety-eight inches, he sports a professional record of four wins with no losses. Let’s hear it for the Sergeant of Saw, Cassadia’s pride and joy, the Lumberjack!” Again the crowd went into hysterics of worship.

  “You’ll get him this time, Johnny!”

  “It was only one loss!”

  “Circumcise that metal prick!”

  “Fighting out of the red corner and weighing in at a trim two hundred and seventy-six pounds, with a reach of four hundred and eighty inches, we welcome once again, Deep Cove’s very own, the Dean of Clean, the Pope of Soap, The Germinator!” The applause was polite, but Lumberjack’s physicality and awesome weapons had sucked the enthusiasm from P.C’s followers.