Dixon

by Kris Michaels

  His father spun around the poker in his hand. "You think I can't see through the lies? The feelings you had for your brother betray you."

  "Have. The feelings I have for my brother." Dixon watched the vein on the fucker's forehead bulge and pulse in response to the way he was talking back to the man.

  His father's voice lowered to a cold, deadly hiss, "Loving the dead is a weakness."

  "I have many weaknesses. Loving the dead isn't one of them."

  "Don't lie to me. You loved your brother."

  "I'll admit it. He was one of the people I cared about." His mind flitted to Joy and dismissed her mental image immediately. He hadn't seen or heard from her in over a week. The new fuck she'd found was obviously doing it for her.

  His father suddenly moved to his right. Dixon took a step back just as the poker in the man's hand stabbed through the air. There wasn't much that needed to be done. Dixon thwarted the man's violence with a simple block and swat move.

  The older man had made a fatal mistake. He assumed Dixon would roll over and take the punishment. He'd forgotten the training Dixon had been through, the skills he had that were honed to a razor's edge. No, he wasn't that scared boy who would do anything to stop his father's punishments and lessons. Not this time. Dixon twisted the iron bar out of his father’s hand. He spun and used the poker to crack a hard blow against his father's knees. With a scream of agony, the man's legs buckled under him. Dixon threw the poker across the room and stepped behind the old man. He grabbed a handful of the meticulously styled blond hair. "When and where do I meet with Stratus?"

  "Fuck. You. Smith will be here in seconds." Spittle flew from his father's mouth.

  "Smith left. There is no one here." Dixon pulled his weapon and placed the barrel against his father's temple.

  Even on his knees and with a gun to his head the man laughed. "Go ahead. Kill me. Kill me like you killed the cow that gave birth to you. Go ahead! Do it! Step off that ledge and be the man we both know you are!" His father's screamed demands were silenced when Dixon pulled the hammer back. The metallic echo of the weapon only competed against the snapping of the wood in the fireplace and his father's breathless pants.

  Dixon twisted his father's face to the camera tucked away in the corner of the ceiling. "Look up, you stupid motherfucker." Dixon leaned down holding his father so the camera could see both of them and whoever was on the other side could hear his words. His father's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed. A low growl came from his father's chest. The sound wasn't quite sane or human.

  "They've been watching you. You thought you were impervious to Stratus? You're only a pawn in their end game. A pawn that can, and has been, sacrificed. Do you think you are the only play for them? The only one willing to do anything to satisfy a personal agenda? Look at the camera, you stupid fuck. What do you think they see? A mentally ill, deranged old man who would be impossible to control. They don't want you. They want me. I'm the perfect appointment. I've served honorably in the military. I worked for the most respected private security firm in the world, and both my brother and father have tragically died—my brother in a tragic explosion and my father, unable to deal with the grief and suffering of never reconciling their estrangement, kills himself."

  Dixon's anger had died. The old man on his knees was nothing more than a sadistic murderer. A cold-hearted mental case that hurt, humiliated, used, directed and killed to suit his mood and purpose. His father was a monster without a conscience. Dixon knew Stratus had to be aware of what this man had done. His words to his father crystalized his next play. He closed his eyes and called the sanctioned list to mind. His father's bleats of helplessness became white noise. The top of the list Jason had given him, the very first name on the sanctioned kill list, was Harvey J. Simmons, but Jason had trusted him to use discretion and make the man’s death serve a purpose. Dixon turned his gaze to the camera. "You heard me. If this is your next play, turn off that fucking camera and send me someone that can speak for you."

  He knew his father watched the blinking light. Dixon watched it, too. His father's laughter started as a low rumble. "They see your weakness."

  "No, you old fool, they're getting permission." Dixon knew it. The person watching wouldn't have the clearance to authorize the hit, but...

  The red light on the camera blinked red and went dark. Dixon closed his eyes and said a prayer, not for his father's soul, but for his own. He prayed the blackness he was plunging himself into wouldn't consume him.

  A single gunshot echoed...

  Chapter 10

  "Do you need anything else?" Smith hovered at the door. For the first time, he didn't drop his eyes to the floor when speaking to him.

  "Where is the control room for the camera system?" He couldn't afford to stop and think about what had transpired less than two hours ago. The man cocked his head. The mannerism reminded Dixon of a puppy trying to understand what he's seeing. "Do you know where the control room is located?"

  Smith shrugged. "It isn't upstairs."

  Not in the mood to play games, he snapped, "Is there a downstairs?"

  Smith's eyes widened momentarily as if taken by surprise at his outburst. Dixon sighed and dropped into his father's chair. "Look, I can't play twenty questions with you. I'm racing against time here. You made your call on your loyalty when you helped me get rid of the damn body, so stop being stingy with information. What do you know?"

  "He has redone the entire downstairs. I don't have access. It has the same retinal scan as his safe. I believe that is where the control room is located."

  "Can we break down the door?"

  "No. Reinforced steel. It is the lock or C4."

  Dixon blew out a lungful of air. "Don't fucking tempt me."

  "Do you want me to make some calls?" Smith crossed his arms over his chest. "I know some guys."

  Dixon chuckled and wiped his hand over his face. "That sounded very Godfather of you, man."

  Smith chuckled and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. "Well, your old man is swimming with the fishes, and it is about time. The man was an abomination."

  "He was." Dixon agreed. He leaned forward and ran his fingers through his hair for the hundredth time since the trigger was pulled. "We need two cans of black spray paint, and I need five burner phones. Go to the neighborhood bodegas and pull the oldest pay-as-you-go cells they have from the back of the shelves. I want the type with SIM cards."

  "Yes, sir."

  As he turned to leave, Dixon stopped him. He pulled out his wallet and handed the man five one-hundred-dollar bills. "Pay for the damn phones." The man was his father's enforcer and as such, simply took what he wanted. The owners of the bodegas, mostly new immigrants, couldn’t afford the continuing loss.

  Smith stopped and came back for the money. "Times, they are a-changin’, hey boss?"

  "Like you said, it's about time." He listened as Smith exited the house.

  Dixon flopped back into his chair. The last moments of his father's life spun through his mind on rewind. Stratus had turned off the camera. He'd made his play. His plan was to tie up his father, stick him in a closet and contact Guardian. His old man would be interrogated, and Dixon knew he'd crack. Once he’d been given the latest designer drugs, his father would tell Guardian whatever they wanted to know. Did he want his father dead? Fuck yes.

  His father's sudden burst of strength was surprising, but not uncontrollable. He pushed the man forward, and his father had twisted with Dixon's weight landing on his chest. The scramble for the gun was quick, and Dixon was in control. When his father grabbed at the gun, Dixon removed his finger from the trigger and pushed his knee into the man's throat. The bastard was choking and damn near unconscious when he managed to thread his finger through the guard. He snarled at Dixon as he pulled the trigger and blew his brains all over the office wall.

  Dixon ran his fingers through his hair. Fuck, the bastard took himself out, and now Dixon had nothing to give Guardian. He was literally starting
the fuck over.

  Dixon had vaulted to the camera in the office and had thrown his suit jacket over it before he'd recalled Smith with the office phone. As his father bled out on the Brazilian cherry floors, Dixon went from room to room and draped or covered every camera. When Smith arrived, the man glanced from his father to Dixon. Dixon still held the gun in his hand. He had no idea what loyalty Smith had to his fucking father, and he wasn't going to find out while unarmed. The man crossed his arms over his chest and asked if Dixon had called the clean-up crew yet. When Dixon admitted he hadn't, he offered to help remove his father's lifeless body. Even if Stratus wanted to record the movement with cameras in the local area, they wouldn't be able to do so. Smith was smarter than he looked, and he covered their tracks. A black van with blacked out windows had pulled up to the back alley of The Residence.

  Smith said he'd called the removal crew that Dixon's father had used. The driver of the van took them to the local mortuary his father owned—a legitimate business with obvious side benefits.

  He and Smith rode with the driver of the van in utter silence. The driver backed the vehicle into the loading bay and waited until they unloaded the body, which was wrapped in a body bag Smith had produced. Dixon wasn't going to ask why a body bag had been so readily available.

  They watched the van depart and then entered the facility using keys that Dixon had pulled from the desk drawer on Smith's direction. "You trust him." It was an observation, not a question.

  "With my life. He is a logistician. He works for people who are not to be seen. He is known and trusted by all. We have used him before. Too many times."

  Dixon followed Smith has he pushed the gurney to the freight elevator. They traveled to the basement, into the crematorium and watched as the gas flames ignited. "Do you want to say any words?" Smith motioned to his father's lifeless body.

  Dixon thought of the horror the man had brought into his and Drake's lives. He thought of the senselessness of his cruelty and the pain he'd inflicted to gain even the slightest advantage in whatever scheme he was working at the time. No, there was nothing he could say about the man. Nothing he would say. When a person left this life, they left a void in their loved one's hearts, a sense of loss and of sadness. This man left nothing. No one would mourn him. Dixon shook his head slowly and stepped aside. Smith dragged the body bag to the conveyor belt and lifted his hand to start the process. Dixon stopped him. He walked over to the bag and unzipped it so he could see the bastard's face. He nodded to Smith and walked beside his father until the heat of the crematorium became too much. His eyes followed the body, never taking his gaze off it. He wanted to make sure the motherfucker was gone. Forever. The door opened, his father's body entered and then the door closed.

  "Do you want to wait?" Smith stood beside him. They both stared into the flames.

  "When will the door open?"

  "Only after the process is complete. There will be nothing left of him. Maybe bone fragments." Smith put his hand on Dixon's shoulder. "He isn't coming back."

  Dixon's huff of air was one of disbelief. "That bastard has haunted me my entire life. If there is a way for the motherfucker to come back, he will do it."

  Smith chuckled. "Never had one rehydrate and come back to life. Your worries...at least about him, are over."

  Dixon stood and walked around his father's office. There was nothing in it that would lead a person to believe he was a monster. Nothing. But Dixon knew. He glanced at the hardwood floor. Smith's people had come in and cleaned the splatter of blood and brain that had hit the floor, wall and bookcase.

  Dixon examined the work carefully. He saw a small speck of blood on the shelf and another on the book above it. The clothes he'd worn had been stuffed in the bottom of the old man's body bag and were now ashes. Dixon went to the kitchen and got a bleach-based cleaner and a paper towel. He returned to the office and swiped the tiny spots of blood that had escaped the cleaning crew's attention.

  Because it was something to do until Smith returned, he inspected the bookcase, going over every spine of every book to ensure nothing of that bastard remained. He moved to the side where the bookcase fit against the wall. The crack next to the molding wasn't anything that would normally draw his attention until he noticed that it fused at the base of the shelf where the shelves stopped and a built-in credenza started. He ran his fingers over the crack and followed the trail with the bleach-soaked paper towel he'd been cleaning with. Dixon glanced at the backing of the shelving unit and grasped the framing at the side and pulled.

  The shelves moved effortlessly. He pulled and moved out of the shelving's way. Dixon's gut dropped. The bastard. He saw pictures of him as a boy. The fucker had filmed the torture-slash-training sessions. He moved closer and inspected the photos. So many damn photos. His body froze, and only his eyes moved. There were photos of him in Louisville. When he was in college. Pictures where Drake was with him, and the bastard had cut Drake out or taken a black marker and blotted him out. There were pictures of him doing a flight inspection of a small aircraft they'd learned to fly. He swept over the pictures. The fucker had never stopped tracking him, at least not until he'd gone into the military. He turned his attention to the other photos. These were of a small boy...maybe eight or nine. Dixon had the distinct feeling this little one was unhappy. Not one of the pictures were of the boy smiling or playing. He pulled down a picture of the boy and who he suspected was his mother. There was a cityscape in the background. He didn't recognize it, but he knew Jewell's programs would be able to find the city and hopefully the boy and his mother. He needed to find the boy and make sure he was safe. He pushed the shelving unit back into place.

  He built a fire in the fireplace before he sat down and started to go through his father's desk. He knew what he'd find. Legitimate business documents, the trappings of normalcy that the man had used as a mirage of respectability.

  The phone rang on the desk. Dixon reached over and picked up the receiver.

  "I believe we should meet." The woman's voice on the other end of the line was smooth and congenial.

  "I wouldn't know why." Dixon glanced up when he noticed movement at the door. Smith stood with two white shopping bags dangling from his big meaty paws. He motioned to Smith to come in and pointed to the chair in front of the desk.

  "It seems the governor is once again in need of a viable interim Senate appointee. From our research, you meet the criteria. We’d like to put you in the vacancy. We are assuming you've made plans to explain the sudden disappearance of your beloved father?"

  "My father died of a massive clot to the brain. Tragic, really. I'm sure the masses will mourn his passing as he was such a benevolent man." Dixon lifted his brow at Smith who snorted.

  "We can make the correct records appear in the correct hands, should you agree to work with us."

  "And if I don't?"

  "Then we'll leave you to your own devices, Mr. Simmons. I'm assuming you have old contacts in a certain security agency that would be able to help you out of this...predicament."

  Dixon scoffed, "When hell freezes over. What is the cost of my appointment, and what is in it for me? If it’s just legitimizing my father's disappearance, I've got that covered."

  "Direct, aren't you?" There was laughter in the woman's voice.

  Dixon was winging this shit. He grabbed at straws and tapped danced faster than he thought possible. "I am direct. What you see is what you get." As if. "I'm divesting the secondary holding company of my father's illegal activities as of this moment. His legitimate businesses were mismanaged, and he bled them to present an ostentatious display of wealth." That much Dixon knew from the time he'd worked at The Residence. "A hard working, upper middle class man with prior military experience and former employment in the nation's security industry is very marketable as an up and coming politician. Having my fingers tied to the underbelly of this city is a liability—for both of us. If you wish to enjoy a mutually beneficial relationship with me, you will replace the
income I would have received from the illegal activities with payments made through shell companies to an offshore account."

  "Why would we agree to this?"

  "Because there are several key votes coming up when the Senate resumes its session. Senator Waxman was a junior senator, but he was active in three subcommittees and was the swing vote on at least three bills."

  "You have done your homework."

  "I'm a certified genius, but then I guess you knew that."

  "We did."

  "Then you won't be surprised when I tell you working with my father has devalued you in my eyes. The man was psychotic. To have considered an association with him, you are either desperate, or you are rash. I am neither."

  There was a long pause at the other end of the connection. Dixon sighed. "Go, talk to your handlers. Next time have someone who can make decisions contact me." He hung up the phone and caught the surprise in Smith's expression.

  "Who was that?"

  Dixon held out his hand for the bags, prompting Smith into motion. Dixon pulled out the burner phones and the two cans of spray paint. He shook a can and popped off the lid. "I believe the woman on the other end was a flunky answering to my new business partners. Thank you for this." He took out his key ring and tossed them to Smith. "If you could go over to my apartment and gather my things. I'll be staying here." There was no reason to go back to the apartment. Joy was a thing of the past. She'd been gone without a word for over a week. She'd moved on. He wished it didn’t eat at him, but at the same time, he wasn’t surprised. All that shit about covering each other’s asses was just her blowing smoke up his.

  Smith caught the keys and bounced them in his hand. "You really a genius?" The man pegged him with a questioning stare.

  "I am." Dixon spread his hands and smiled. "A word of advice? Be careful with whom you align yourself, Smith. You don’t let on how intelligent you are, and that is smart of you. I will need someone like you, and I will not underutilize you or treat you like he did. The pay will make your service to me worth your time." Dixon dropped his hands to his hips and stared at the big guy. "But make no mistake about it; I'm going places. Come with me, or get out of my way. Make a decision. You'll regret standing still." There was a threat in his words, and the look on Smith's face told him the threat had registered.