by A J Jameson
“I’ll get a glass of water,” said a Charlie member, taking leave.
“He is,” Law cleared his throat. “He is,” he had to stop again, beating his chest with a fist. “He’s tied exclusively to Dragon’s Throat, which, I shouldn’t need to remind you, is still active.”
“So, he’s a loose end?”
“Precisely, Marek.” Another coughing fit overtook Law and he eagerly accepted the glass of water.
“But I gave the order to offer him a job,” Marek said. “That’s my word, Law. I can’t break it. Give him an interview, at least.”
Law handed back the glass of water. “Nightshade. That’s the end of it. Good work, Caden,” he said, and left.
“Sorry it didn’t go your way, Marek,” Caden said, his squad members gathering up their toxicants. “I don’t want any bad blood between us.”
“Don’t worry about it, you’re just doing your job,” Marek said, but couldn’t hide the sting from his words.
Zyta approached Marek but didn’t say anything until the room was empty of Charlie squad. “What about an appeal to Law’s decision?” she asked.
Marek ran a hand through his gelled hair. “The right to appeal is more of a passive creed. An illusion. I don’t know of a single case when somebody appealed an executive decision.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s an illusion,” Zyta said. “What’s the point of having a right if we never exercise it? I mean, part of our mission statement is to protect the rights of citizens.”
Marek gazed at the memory of Nightshade on the long table. When he finally spoke, he was surprised at how weak and shallow his voice sounded. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s right.”
“What?”
“This Axel guy’s been giving us hell for a long time now. Maybe getting rid of him is the best solution. Even if it means I’m breaking my word.”
“Your word? What about taking a person’s life?” Zyta’s said, her voice screeching at a high decibel. Marek grimaced. Yolanda’s steady tap tap tap of the keyboard in the next room fell silent. “You’re just like him. Meet some resistance without an easy solution?” Zyta shrugged. “Kill them.”
Marek cleared his throat. “Fine. We’ll vote as a squad, majority rule. Just know that I’m with Law.”
Zyta nodded. “Yolanda?”
“I’m with Marek,” she said, and then resumed her keyboard symphony.
“Don’t give me that look. You still have two votes unaccounted for. Get them and then get back to me. I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk around C3U?” Zyta asked.
“No, outside. Give your votes to Yolanda, she’ll get them to me.”
“But it’s not…” Zyta lowered her voice. “Not the weekend.”
Marek cocked his head. “I seem to remember an operative just last week, going to visit her boy—”
Zyta covered Marek’s mouth with both hands. “Okay, you’ve made your point. I’ll get back to Yolanda with the votes. Just…don’t ever mention that again.” She removed her hands.
“Deal, but only if the last time you saw me, I was headed to the vehicle test range.” Marek extended a hand.
Zyta shook it. “Deal. And I have your word now, so don’t go…” she trailed off, a gloominess invading her features. Then she stiffened her upper lip. “You’ll be able to keep your word and give an interview. Eduardo will back my vote, I’m sure of it.”
“And Ivan?” Marek asked.
“I’m sure I can convince him.”
Marek nodded. “We’ll see,” and then left Zyta by herself in the briefing room, the life of an enemy weighing on her shoulders.
The Interview
Chapter 12
The tailor returned with Axel’s customized blazer. Navy blue to “complement the grayish hue of your eyes,” he had said. And he was right.
“Good call on the blazer, Mom,” Axel said, peering at himself through the multi-angled mirror. His feet appeared longer in their chest-nut brown, cap-toed dress shoes, and his legs looked perfectly straight in their freshly pressed gray slacks. His torso was robust, thanks to the blazer’s slightly padded shoulders. And then came his head.
Facial hair: gone. Long blond hair: cut short and styled in the fashion of a business professional. Eyeglasses: unchanged (thank God). And of course, his MI in one ear, and a Bluetooth in the other.
Barely able to recognize the person in the mirror, Axel began to fancy himself a robot. He even had a battery pack attached to his belt, shining a bright yellow.
“I knew you’d look snazzy in a nice sports jacket,” his mother said. “Now remember to smile and ask questions during your interview. They like questions.”
“Yes, Mom, I will,” Axel said, unable to wipe away his ridiculous grin.
“Would you care to see more of our selection, sir?” the tailor asked. “We’re having a sale, accompanying purchases half off.”
“No, thank you. One is enough,” Axel said. Then to his mom, “Is Dad excited about me getting a job?”
“I texted him the good news earlier…but he hasn’t responded. You know how he doesn’t like distractions at work.”
The store associate spoke softly, “Sir, would you like for me to ring up your items?”
“Axel, he wants to close the transaction,” Little Eye said. “Give him the blazer.”
“I’d rather wear it out,” Axel said, and found his wallet. It was bulkier than normal, its compartments filled to the gills with high-value bills. Should he buy a bigger one? No, it wasn’t necessary.
“I’m afraid that’s against company…” the associate trailed off, mesmerized by the currency in Axel’s hand. “Can I interest you in a new pair of shoes? Or perhaps a watch?”
“Why does Dad still work?” Axel asked. “Are the lottery winnings not enough?”
“You’re being too flashy,” Little Eye said. “I warned you about waving your money around. We can’t afford to be on anyone else’s radar. Now hand the man another bill and thank him for his assistance.”
“Oh no, we get plenty from the lottery. Enough for food, bills, dinner dates.” Axel handed the associate a $100 bill and thanked him for the assistance. He accepted the tip with grace and allowed Axel to make his own way to the exit, springing forth at the last moment to hold the door. “Your father needs to feel a sense of accomplishment. It’s the only reason he still goes in. Oh, and don’t worry about your weekly allowance. It won’t change one cent until you get your feet on the ground with this new job.”
Axel joined the bustle of people flooding the sidewalk. “You need to end the call with your mother,” Little Eye said. “I’ve spotted Banshee at the location you regularly meet Jordan.”
“She’s there now?”
“Who’s here now?” Mom asked.
“Oh sorry, Mom, I was talking to Little Eye. I have to go.”
“I’ve disconnected the call,” Little Eye said. “I told you to never incorporate my name into any conversation with anybody.”
“I know, I’m sorry, excuse me, pardon me. Little Eye, I need a new route. The sidewalks are too congested.”
“Stop saying my name!”
“Okay, I will. But help me, Jordan’s in trouble.”
“Next alley make a left.” Her voice was steady again. Robotic, almost. Like my head.
“He doesn’t seem to be in trouble,” Little Eye said. “They’re just talking, well, signing. Descend the stairs to the subway coming up on your right.”
Axel did as he was told. The underground subway platform was eerily desolate. Axel took advantage of the opportunity and began sprinting. “She’s probably asking him about the adoption process. She’s trying to take him away.”
“Or she’s inquiring about us,” Little Eye said, Axel barely able to hear her words above the echoing clack clack clack of his dress shoes. “Asking about your address, maybe. Take the stairs on the left and make a left at the street. She’ll be one block down.”
“Here…already…” Axel
said between pants.
“Slow down, Axel. You’ll need your wind if you’re going to confront her.”
“I can’t…slow down…I have…interview.” And then Axel was looking at her: Imogen “Banshee” Ayton. Nineteen years old with at least three confirmed murders under her belt. Five foot, six inches, around one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Favorite apparel included V-neck shirts, elbow-length sleeves, and black jeans, often shredded at the thighs or knees.
She hunched over, giggling at whatever Jordan was communicating with his shape-shifting hands. Humor, Axel thought. But could Jordan be funny? Could Axel ever understand if Jordan was trying to be funny? A new uncertainty afforded by Banshee. Imogen.
“She’s armed,” Little Eye said.
“I see them,” Axel confirmed, just now noticing the faintly glowing blades tucked behind Imogen’s waist belt, and the small firearm fastened to her ankle.
“This meeting has become too sensitive,” Little Eye said. “Lives are at stake. Inform the custodian of the threat and I’ll alert law enforcement.”
Axel watched in awe as Imogen weaved her hands to build on whatever joke Jordan had just made. Jordan fell about himself in a fit of laughter before she had finished. They were bonding. And Axel wanted to be part of it. “No, I want to learn what’s so funny.”
“Axel—”
“No.” But he did wait for a pair of passing pedestrians to take cover. He’d get the jump on Imogen. Get close enough to stop her from running away. And not get stabbed in the process. “Hello, Imogen.”
But she didn’t react in the way Axel had anticipated. No sharp head-turn or stutter-stepped recoil. No surprised wide-eyes or quick grasps for a weapon. She just glanced at him, her posture remaining slightly slouched to accommodate Jordan’s small stature. She got Jordan’s attention and launched a succession of hand signals. Axel picked out one word: friend. It was almost as if Imogen slowed down purposely for Axel to interpret the sign; index fingers extended, pressing against each other to interlock before rotating both hands and interlocking again.
Jordan nodded, then signed Axel hello. Axel returned the greeting.
“I remember you,” Imogen said, her voice thick as oil. “And I remember the disgusted look on your face when you first heard me talk.”
“You didn’t like it,” Axel said, consciously neutralizing his facial expression. “I saw it in your eyes. Squinted and venomous, like the fangs of a cobra.”
Imogen grew solemn at the remark. Hurt, Axel realized, and he had a sudden urge to apologize.
“I was…nervous,” she said, strands of hair swaying in front of her green eyes as she glanced down. She cleared the strands and smiled something between coy and empowerment. “You mentioned a boat during our last run-in.” She rubbed her neck. Did it hurt to talk? “I know it wasn’t random. So, what do you know about me?”
“Well…” Axel glanced at Jordan and gave him a reassuring smile. “I know you were involved—”
“No, Axel, don’t say anything that incriminates her,” Little Eye said. “She’s too erratic. Unpredictable.”
Axel considered the bright-yellow blades tucked at the back of Imogen’s waist, their points crisscrossed like her index fingers were a moment ago: friend. “I know that you break the rule of life, but only dispose of those who prey on the weak.”
Her eyebrows raised as her mouth parted—surprised—followed by a step back—getting ready—and her hands reaching behind her waist. Her daggers seemed to glow brighter, as if anticipating their impending utilization.
“Please don’t stab me,” Axel said.
“Axel, you need to leave, now,” Little Eye said.
“How did you…” Imogen reached for Axel’s face and yanked off his eyeglasses. She tried them on. Then she stared at Axel’s watch and belt. “You saw that I was armed, and came anyway?” She turned to Jordan and signed goodbye. Jordan resisted, and the two went back and forth. Eventually Jordan reached through the bars of the fence and gave Axel a hug. Imogen laughed quietly at the motion and shook her head.
“Axel, you have to leave. I’m picking up threats from her body language,” Little Eye said.
“No.” Axel signed Jordan one last goodbye. “I came because you’re dangerous and you were alone with Jordan.”
“I would never.” Imogen tossed the eyeglasses at Axel. They fell to the ground. “I came here…” she shook her head, violently, as if denying some other voice that only she could hear. “Okay, so you know I killed that perv at the harbor, right?”
“No,” Little Eye said.
“Yes.”
That was the wrong answer. Imogen arched her back, her hands swooping behind her at impossible speeds. But she didn’t draw her daggers. Instead, she seemed to be waiting for a reaction from Axel. Would he fight or take flight? Or stand still, frozen by her velocity to kill? “But you didn’t tell anyone, did you?” she asked, hands still hidden.
“Axel, walk away,” Little Eye demanded.
“No,” Axel said.
“Are you okay?” a pedestrian asked, addressing Imogen.
The venom behind her eyes evaporated and the coy smile from earlier returned. She nodded. The pedestrian smiled back and continued on his way.
“I also know where you live,” Axel said.
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” She picked up Axel’s eyeglasses.
“I planted a tracker in your pack of cigarettes that night at the club.”
She flipped the eyeglasses this way and that, examining their design. “I know where you live, too. 1808 Artifact. Followed you from the ice cream parlor.”
“Axel, you need—” Axel removed his MI.
“I also hacked your computer,” he said. She forfeited the eyeglasses and waited for him to continue. “I know you have something inside of you that others don’t. A need for destruction, or infliction of pain. Onto you, onto others. Your hands, your feet. I watched through your webcam as you punched and kicked a heavy bag for an hour, and then proceeded to stab it two hundred and thirty-two times with the daggers sheathed behind your back. You have something inside of you that people don’t like. Same as me.”
The information washed over Imogen, cleaning her pores of secrets she’d harbored for too long. Axel had cleansed her, along with himself, relinquishing all dirt he had on Imogen. Dissipated in the wind. And then the literal wind blew, and Imogen itched her shoulder. She rubbed at it delicately, pulling the fabric of her shirt closer to her neck. “You spied on me?” she asked.
“Yes. Spying is a method of conducting research,” Axel said. He sniffed, curious of the meaning behind her question. But no interpretation came. He needed his MI, but not Little Eye. Or at least he wanted to not need her.
“Did you watch me get dressed, too?” she asked.
Again, the masked meaning. The venom lacing her green eyes remained, but there was a thick glass separating Axel from the threat. Imogen’s words, her feelings…like finding a ship lost at sea with no crew. What happened to you? “No, I didn’t watch. Little I…no, I’m not a…perv.”
“You’re intrusive.” Her voice was a forced gurgle, as if a huge bubble of water had encapsulated her head and she was yelling through the thick liquid. “And you know too much. I’m sorry, I—”
She leaped at Axel, pushing him and herself out of the way of a rampant car. Tires screeched and skidded to a halt. The long, bulky Cadillac swayed on its shocks. Three of its doors opened simultaneously. Out of the driver’s door came a tall woman with blotchy skin and a black chauffer’s cap. “Axel?”
Axel nodded, then put on his eyeglasses and MI. Two bright-yellow firearms gleamed at the woman’s waist. The men that had exited the rear doors had similarly concealed weapons. They were slowly approaching. “What about the woman?” one asked the driver.
“Are you affiliated with Axel?”
Imogen shook her head, her back arched and her hands lingering behind her waist.
“Do you know this woman?” the driv
er asked Axel.
“Yes, she’s Imogen Ayton. We met—”
A hard lash across Axel’s face sent stars dancing in his vision. Then he was being escorted to the bulky Cadillac by one of the men, the driver laughing at his affliction. He was shoved into the rear middle seat. Outside, a struggle ensued. Grunting, gasping, and the sound of a body being slammed against the car’s exterior. “Remind me to enroll you in a hand-to-hand combat session when we get back,” the driver said.
There was an agonized shriek, full of pain and deflation, and then Imogen was inside the car next to Axel, holding her stomach. “Here,” one of the men said, and tossed Axel his eyeglasses. “We’re good to go.” He climbed in, his door closing along with the others. The car jerked into motion.
“Why did you hurt her?” Axel asked.
The driver laughed. And then the two men, both in the back seat on either side of Axel and Imogen, joined in the hysterics. “We probably could’ve let him go,” she said. “But…loose ends.”
“Axel, see if you can keep them talking,” Little Eye said. “I’m running their speech patterns against the data we’ve collected for C3U. So far I have a twenty-seven percent match.”
“Can you tell me more about this interview?” Axel said, feeling like an idiot as the car erupted in laughter.
“Antagonize them,” Little Eye said. “Work them up so they yell and scream, but don’t push too far. You’re in a very dangerous situation.”
“Hey, hands on your lap,” one of the men said to Imogen.
“I have an itch on my ass,” she said, the car falling silent. Neither of the men moved an inch as Imogen reached behind her back. She produced a 10-inch dagger with dual 3-inch winged blades. Scruffing the hair of the man sitting next to her, she thrusted his head forward, toward his groin, and sunk the blade into his spine.
He jerked back violently, then forward again, his initial reaction seeming to have caused additional damage. His door flung open. He tried to flee. Imogen boosted his efforts and shoved him out. Then she was gone. The driver slammed the brakes.
“Why didn’t you check them for weapons you fucking idiots,” she screamed. Axel faced her, and the barrel of her pistol.
