Hard Wired

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Ignoring the shelves and workstations that cluttered the basement, the chemicals and glass and equipment, Dent closed in on the two men.

  “Take whatever you want, man,” the one on the left blurted out, throwing the bag he had been holding to Dent’s feet. A few tightly-wound stacks of cash spilled out. Dent’s left index finger squeezed, and the man dropped with a bullet in his chest.

  The remaining man wet himself.

  “I got no gun, you bastard!” he shouted. “I’m no threat to y—”

  Right index finger, man’s forehead. The body dropped, bag still clutched to its chest.

  Job done, Dent stepped over the bag of spilled cash and made his way back up and then out of the dead house. He walked past the two trees out front with bullet holes, the sap already congealed and healing the wounds, and stood at the edge of the gently curved driveway, waiting.

  Three loud growls of well-maintained machinery drew his attention. He watched as they sped their way up the small tree-lined street and stopped in front of Dent.

  “Is it done?” the biggest of the three men said as he kicked the chrome stand down and stepped off his motorcycle. The other two did the same.

  Dent nodded.

  The men were all dressed the same, dark blue jeans, leather jackets with their MC name emblazoned on the backs as well as patched on the front right breasts. Black and white bandanas in lieu of helmets. Uniform-like in their similarity.

  The big man with the scraggly brown-going-grey beard, the leader of the MC, stepped toward Dent, toward the man who had just killed six men like it was nothing. This ruthless bike leader had seen it all but, even so, when he stopped three feet away, Dent noticed his body was tense, his eyes darting from Dent to house and back.

  The MC leader reached slowly into his leather jacket and produced a manila envelope folded over and rubber-banded tightly. He took another step closer and handed it over.

  Dent accepted his payment for the contract. It was only a trifle compared to what one of the bags offered to him in the basement had contained. One of those bags likely would have been enough to buy another house.

  “You want some of the stuff inside?” the leader asked. “Now that we’re taking over their business I can afford to offer you some perks for helping out.”

  Dent raised the manila envelope before him and said, “This was the terms of payment for the contract. Nothing more.”

  The leader’s scraggly beard swayed as he shook his head. “I know, just saying I could show my appreciation for you helping us expand our business. Saved me from losing my men in the process.”

  The leader was a big-time drug runner, using his bikers to ferry drugs and cash all across the States. Dent doubted the loss of his men, if they were to have taken this house on their own, would have affected the MC’s business drastically. But a smart man knew when to contract out, when to keep his soldiers safe.

  And Dent knew enough about soldiering. These men all wore similar clothes, patches and insignias denoting their allegiance. They were drug pushers, violent offenders, murderers. And they all stood for the same thing.

  “A contract is a contract,” Dent reaffirmed, pushing his hands and envelope into his jacket pockets. He turned and walked downhill, to where his Escalade was parked about a quarter-mile away. The three bikers watched him go, the leader saying something about “just trying to be friendly.”

  Dent didn’t respond.

  Yes, Dent knew all about soldiering. The U.S. once supplied him and others similar sets of clothes, patches, and insignias denoting their allegiance.

  The MC leader had it all wrong, Dent thought. Being friendly didn’t suit Dent. Friends didn’t fit in well when one was contracting out for varying allegiances. Friends could just as easily become liabilities.

  Or become part of the terms of the next contract.

  III

  Dent closed the garage and headed inside. Two steps into his house and he was assaulted.

  Fifth flew into him and wrapped her arms around his waist. She then began mumbling into his chest, her breath hot, her words indecipherable.

  He pried her off, and she looked up at him. He’d spent enough time with her to know she expected something from him, knew that she was acting out of the ordinary. Perhaps something was wrong.

  “How was your day?” he asked, thinking that would be what he was supposed to say in this situation.

  She pulled away and punched him in the side. It was a solid hit. Good form, planted feet with shoulders and hips leading the momentum, fist angled down slightly to align with her forearm. Just like he’d shown her.

  Apparently his response was not what was required when a fourteen year-old girl on the run from dangerous parties wraps her arms around him and cries into his chest.

  “How was my day?” she said. “How was my day? That’s the best you can muster?”

  Dent shrugged, then pulled out his guns and placed them on the marble countertop before opening the fridge and rummaging through it. His hand closed around the carton of orange juice and he yanked it out just in time to avoid having the door slammed closed on his arm.

  Fifth snagged the carton from him, turned, and went to the cupboards near the sink. She spoke as she pulled out two glasses and poured. “Somebody found me, Dent.”

  “Who? How?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t know.” She capped the carton and slid a glass over to Dent across the counter. He snagged it easily and took a sip.

  He noticed she didn’t drink, though she held the glass with two hands. He could see the orange liquid lightly sway and churn, trembling with her arms. He stared at her.

  When she realized he wasn’t going to ask anything else, she opted to elaborate more on her answers to his logical queries.

  “I don’t know exactly who it is, but they got to me through my EB, sending me messages that have no contact info.”

  “But EBs are secure. Are you sure it wasn’t your phone?” It would have been an easy mistake for someone to make, grabbing the wrong item and mistaking one for the other. He wouldn’t make such a mistake, but he was dealing with a young person here.

  She whipped her EB out of her pocket and threw it across the kitchen at him in response. That, he knew, was anger.

  He caught her EB, gave her an apology.

  She raised her eyebrows, sighed, and then relaxed.

  He was getting used to finding the proper responses with her.

  “It was my EB, Dent. The message flashed across the screen. And since it wasn’t sent by normal means, I took a screenshot and saved it in a file of its own. It’s labeled ‘Otto.’ ”

  Dent thumbed through her folders, found the Otto file then opened it up. And there it was: GET HOME ASAP. TROUBLE. GET DENT. He read it one more time and stepped forward to hand her EB back.

  “Why Otto?” he asked.

  “The message was sent by some type of automated system that won’t allow replies. Figured it was better than naming it ‘Another person trying to kill me or kidnap me.’ ”

  “Otto does seem easier,” Dent agreed.

  “And?”

  Dent tilted his head to the side, a habit he’d picked up from the girl. She did it whenever she didn’t know an answer to one of his questions — or when she pretended she didn’t know the answer to his questions. He still hadn’t figured out the nuances that told him when she was pretending or not.

  She took a heavy breath. “Someone got a hold of me, on my secure EB, and warned me of danger. They knew your name, and know we’re together.”

  “If they know you’re with me, then that’s a good thing.” He pointed to his guns back behind him. “No one would be foolish enough to come after you with me here.”

  “Then what does it mean?”

  Dent ran through the possibilities. Her mother, Suzi Takeda, was still in Japan last he heard, running her company, Takeda Int’l, and no doubt still working on the illegal engineering and development of eTech. Grant Chisholme, the most powerful a
nd influential man in the U.S. and possibly the world, was clear across the country in California. Charon, Dent’s old handler from the years after Dent had been discharged from the military branch of the Department of Unfair and Unwilling Practices, had gone silent after betraying Dent four months ago. They all had long reaches and all had reasons to personally see Dent dead and Fifth reacquired.

  And then there were any number of illegal eTech peddlers that would enjoy seeing the military-trained man who could not be influenced by such technology out of the way. Those people lived with the fear that Dent would one day come knocking and end their highly illegal, highly profitable ventures with a bullet.

  “It could be a number of people who want me dead and want you in a laboratory to be studied,” he told her.

  She threw her hands up, spilling orange juice over her shoulder in the process. “Dammit, Dent,” she exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be comforting me, not bragging about how many enemies you’ve made!”

  “I don’t think I was bragging.”

  “I don’t think you’re getting my point.”

  “And I told you to watch your language. I don’t think girls your age should be using such foul language.”

  “You kill people for a living. I don’t think anyone of any age should be using such foul actions.” She crossed her arms at her chest. Dent knew it to mean that an argument here would be fruitless.

  He walked over, put a hand on her shoulder, and moved her aside so he could rip off a paper towel to wipe down the orange juice she had spilled. He talked while he cleaned.

  “The message was more of a warning, not a threat,” he said.

  “How can you be so sure?” She scooted over so he could wipe down the hardwood floor.

  He gave a final wipe and stood, handing her the soiled napkin. “First, this messenger—”

  “Otto,” she said as she threw the napkin in the trash behind her.

  “Otto,” Dent said, playing along, “told you to get to me. Any person wishing you harm would tell you to do the exact opposite.”

  “What if that’s just what Otto wants us to think?” she asked, chewing her lower lip.

  Dent simply stared at her.

  “Fine, fine,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ve watched too many Jason Bourne movies over the past month. No evil mastermind is that … conniving.”

  “Conniving?”

  “Yeah, you know, devious, secretive—”

  “I know what conniving means. I didn’t think you did.”

  “Spend more time with me and you’ll find I’m a walking dictionary app.”

  Dent stared at her. “Is that one of those statements that you tell me I am supposed to read into?”

  “No, Dent. That was a joke.”

  “Wasn’t funny.”

  “Nothing’s funny to you.”

  Dent conceded the girl the point.

  “And second?” she prompted him.

  It took him a moment to realize she was bringing him back to the original conversation, and he obliged her by continuing to explain, “And second, if this,” she shot him a look, “Otto knows how to find you and nobody has approached you, then it is safe to assume that he poses no immediate threat to you.”

  She stared into her glass, at the remaining orange juice, obviously running through a list of scenarios in her own mind, though he was sure her scenarios were much more far-fetched than any he could ever come up with. The muscles in her neck loosened and her lips pursed out. And then, after downing the last of the juice in one final gulp, she came over and put an arm around Dent.

  He patted the top of her head.

  “I’m not a dog, Dent.” Her words were serious but her tone was light.

  “No,” he replied, going along with her. “A dog would be much easier to care for and wouldn’t complain if I put a leash on it.”

  The girl laughed and pulled away. “Sometimes I think there’s hope for you yet.”

  “The more time I spend with you, the more I think so, too.”

  She picked up her cup and put it in the sink, next to his. Knowing her, Dent could assume that the cups would stay there until he washed them.

  She asked, “So, what do we do now?”

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Otto doesn’t seem to be someone we need to worry about. It was one message, and it was more of a warning than anything. As long as it doesn’t turn into anything more than that, we continue on as we were.”

  “Okay,” she finally squeaked out. She turned away, making her way to the food pantry. She barely had the left side door open when her pocket chimed.

  Da-ding.

  She slowly closed the door and looked at Dent.

  Da-ding.

  She pulled out her EB, checked the screen, and cursed.

  Dent didn’t reprimand her. It sounded like it was an appropriate choice of a word.

  IV

  “It’s Otto,” Kasumi said, though she knew even Dent could have figured that out on his own.

  He walked around the island counter, pulled out a chair from around the dining table and sat down. She shot him a look as she was forced to pull out her own chair. She sat down next to him.

  They read the message together.

  UTAH. POSSIBLE eTECH. MURDERS. MORE WILL DIE IF NOT STOPPED.

  That was it.

  Kasumi ran her hand through her soft, dark hair that was now long enough to pass her shoulders. This was not what she expected.

  “Why is Otto telling me about something going on in Utah?”

  “Us,” Dent corrected her.

  She scrunched up her face. The message was sent to her EB. It obviously was meant for her. She told Dent as much.

  He pointed to the screen and explained in that droll voice of his, “The first message told you to get to me, warned you of trouble. Otto wanted you here with me to ensure that I would get this second message.”

  “Then why not just send you the message, Sherlock?” she rudely, and sarcastically, pointed out. Her tone flew by him, didn’t even register. But she did make a valid point, and that didn’t fly by him as easily.

  “I don’t know.” He pulled out his own EB and his phone. No messages on either.

  “Well?” she prompted him, wanting to revel in her clever point.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated. His eyes stared at the screen of her EB, but she knew he wasn’t seeing it. He was running through his probabilities and scenarios. She could tell. She let him do his thing, knowing he would come up with something.

  She sat back and wondered why Otto didn’t send Dent the message directly. Why have her be the middleman — no, she would be the middlewoman. Anyways, why even send the message in the first place? If Otto could send messages to secured EBs then he had to be clever enough to call the police. So why didn’t he call the police? If he was afraid of remaining anonymous, he could easily send the police a message as he did to her.

  “Why wouldn’t Otto call the police?” she asked Dent.

  “That’s hard to guess at.”

  She tried a different route. “Why would you not call the police if you knew something bad was going on?”

  He answered quickly, almost too quickly. “Because I don’t trust them.”

  “But they’re the police. That’s what they do, help people and solve murders.”

  His hazel eyes met hers. He either wanted her to draw her own conclusions or he thought the answer was obvious enough for her to already know it. And, she guessed she did.

  She stated, “The police could be in on it or they could be on the take.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off, knowing full well what he was going to say. “It means they’re getting paid by someone powerful. I’m not an idiot, Dent. I know what ‘on the take’ means.”

  He closed his mouth.

  She mentally pumped her hand in the air, congratulating herself for getting used to anticipating his replies. Sometimes it was way easy with him, but most of the time it was harder th
an breaking through a brick wall with her forehead. Oh sure, she’d eventually break though, but by the time she did, her brain would be so damaged that what was the point of even trying in the first place?

  Then he did something that surprised her.

  He asked, “What do you think?”

  The shock and, she had to admit, the boost to her ego, she felt at him asking her opinion on something as big as this, must have shown on her face, so evident that even Dent knew it for what it was.

  “It was sent to you, but directed at me,” he said. “Therefore it was meant for both of us. Right?”

  She let her jaw snap closed and gave it some thought. She mused, “Mystery man knows about murders but can’t call the police.”

  He nodded when she stared at him. Good, he was learning to interact better.

  “He has the ability to do what is supposed to be impossible and hacks into my EB, so we know he’s no amateur.”

  Nod.

  “And … I have no clue what else,” she admitted dejectedly.

  Dent nodded. “And I have no clue why murders have anything to do with us.”

  Kasumi was taken aback. That was callous even for Dent. “You mean you’re not even concerned?”

  “Why should I be?”

  She raised her hands and pointedly said, “Murders, Dent,” turning the word into a four-second long ordeal.

  He spread his hands in imitation and said, “I know,” mimicking her extra-long syllables.

  “Don’t,” she told him, pushing his hands back down to the table with hers. “It doesn’t work for you.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yes, sometimes you are,” she replied, but patted his hand to let him know she was joking.

  “What do murders have to do with us, Fifth?” he asked again.

  Kasumi rolled her eyes, a gesture she knew he was familiar with by now. “Otto came to us for help, Dent. He can’t go to the police, he’s afraid of his identity getting out, and he said there are going to be more murders. He mentioned eTech. He must know about you, thinks you can stop more people from getting hurt.”