Codename

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack wasn't taking this seriously. So I stretched up, got my arm over his head, and trapped his neck under my armpit. I grabbed my sleeve and cinched the guillotine choke, flexing my biceps. Done properly, it pinched the carotid and cut off the blood flow to the brain. The choke would knock him out, but he'd be fine, as long as I didn't hold it too long.

  He tapped me on the shoulder, as if we were sparring and he'd given up and wanted me to release him. Not likely. I continued to flex, waiting for him to go lax.

  And then I was being lifted into the air and slammed into the ground.

  My ribs screamed, head ringing, breath knocked completely out of me.

  Not only was he fast, he was strong.

  Jack stood, rubbing his neck, blinking.

  And the bastard had both pieces of the Glock.

  "Sorry," he said. "I was blacking out there. Did I hurt you?"

  I kipped up to my feet, snapped my hips, and launched into a spin kick, nailing him in the side. He braced for the blow, then slipped the slide back onto the grip of his Glock, pulling it back to chamber a round. I followed with a lunge kick, aiming for his wrists, putting all I had into it. I caught the gun, knocked it away, and was following the arc of its flight when Jack body-tackled me.

  Again, he pinned my back to the ground. But it wasn't as cute this time. Less sexy, more ouch.

  And then his face was inches from mine. He didn't seem amused anymore.

  He seemed pissed.

  I recognized the steel in his eyes, because it was a look I saw all the time. In the mirror.

  Jack–who'd been taking it easy on me, who was funny and cute even though he dressed terribly–had the eyes of a stone killer.

  Farquart

  Colin Farquart hadn't forgotten how noisy evenings were in the city, especially when spring weather finally arrived. Taxi cabs honking. Music booming from a nearby nightclub. Random shouts from the street below. When he was a kid, he could sleep through it. Of course, back then, he could sleep through anything. As an adult, he would inevitably find himself down at the corner bodega buying earplugs, except even the highest decibel rating was never enough.

  This time he'd come up with a better idea. This time he'd opted not to stay in the city at all.

  Farquart piled hotel pillows behind his back, leaned against the headboard that was attached to the wall, and pulled out the prepaid cell phone he'd just purchased. He flipped it open and punched a number into the speed dial.

  The Blackberry 8700 he'd placed on the top of the television gave a short chirp.

  Farquart punched in a sequence of numbers, 042969, Norma's birth date. For a moment, he just stared at the phone, wondering what she was doing now. How she was going to celebrate her upcoming thirty-seventh birthday. If she ever stopped to wonder about him. He pushed enter, and the Blackberry purred, the vibration lasting several seconds.

  His insurance policy. He'd heard plenty of stories about double crosses in deals like these. That wasn't going to happen to him. He'd thought of everything.

  Just a few more details, and he would be ready.

  After the incident on Plum Island, he'd expected things to move a lot quicker. But instead of months, years had crept by. Opportunities had been wasted. What seemed like great contacts had dissolved into vapor. He'd almost lost hope.

  But the World Wide Web, specifically darknet, had caught up with his ambitions, and he was able to find a suitable buyer.

  Farquart returned the phone to his left pocket, nestled next to the jeweler's pouch he'd picked up. He looked down at the greasy takeout burger that was supposed to pass for his dinner. His stomach roiled. Wadding it up in napkins, he tossed it into the trash and checked the window for the fourth time in as many minutes.

  Nothing unusual. No one knew he was here. He was safe.

  Now he had only to wait until after hours. Then he'd finish his final preparations.

  Settling back onto the bed, he flicked on the hotel room's boxy little TV. The snow of static obscured the news anchor's face, as she blathered on about spring in Central Park.

  After this was over, Farquart would go someplace quiet. A four-star hotel, maybe on a beach. He'd eat lobster and watch the news on a giant flat screen. And one night, when he'd had too much to drink, maybe he'd get up the nerve to call Norma again.

  Jack

  Playtime was over. Jack had lost his temper, letting the darkness out for a moment, but with Chandler pinned under him he quickly recovered.

  "Okay, this has been interesting," he said. "But I've got other things to do. And now I've got to go hunting for my gun in the dark."

  "I'll help."

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  "Let me up. You're messing up the Armani."

  "Armani... sheesh! Should've thought of that before you decided to play rough."

  "You got something against a woman protecting herself? I just needed a weapon."

  "Lady, you are a weapon."

  Jack stared down at her, unsure of what to do. He couldn't hold her for the cops – he had a feeling she was about as anxious to talk to them as he was – if he could even hold her at all. She was a slippery little thing.

  He didn't have handcuffs or a rope to restrain her. And even if he did, he wasn't going to leave her all trussed up in Central Park at night.

  So either he had to release her and let her walk out on her own, or he had to carry her out. Neither option appealed to him.

  "You're trying to decide if you should kill me," Chandler said.

  Where'd that come from?

  "I'm not going to kill you."

  "You sure? I see it in your eyes."

  Jack forced any remaining blackness back, sending it back to its hidey hole. As he did, Chandler ceased struggling. Her body relaxed for a moment. And then her pelvis ground against him.

  "Well, this is awkward."

  "I give up," she said.

  "You give up? This is an odd way to admit defeat."

  "What's wrong with making love not war?"

  "Chandler–if that's your name–you may be the weirdest woman I've ever met, and I've met my share of weird ones."

  "You can keep your gun. It's eight meters to the northeast, next to that clump of lilacs. I'll go find another one. If you get off me and I'll give you a thirty second head start."

  Jack studied her face. She looked the picture of innocence. Truthful. Sincere.

  Which meant it had to be bullshit.

  "What's the catch?"

  "I have a small favor to ask first."

  "Which is?"

  "Kiss me."

  Jack almost rolled his eyes. But her face remained earnest. And her pelvis was pretty insistent.

  "You're serious?"

  "Kiss me, and you have my word I'll leave without any further problems. We'll go our separate ways. I promise."

  "What is up with you?"

  "You beat me. I'm submitting to the alpha male. Just a quick kiss, and then I'm gone."

  Chandler angled her face to him and closed her eyes, her lips parting slightly. A faint, warm sigh came from her mouth, smelling lightly of peppermint. Crazy… totally crazy. But…

  Ah, what the hell…

  Jack gave her a small kiss, and her mouth captured his, her neck craning up. For a nanosecond he was concerned she'd try to bite him, but then her tongue was touching his, and a small moan came from her throat, and Jack didn't care if he was being played or not because this woman could kiss.

  Then she went lax again, pulling her head away from his, a question in her eyes.

  Well, a deal is a deal…

  Jack slowly got off her, arms raised to block as he rolled to a squat. Chandler scooted forward, but she didn't go on the attack. Instead she gave him a tiny peck on the chin, running her hands over his hips, his knees, his legs.

  "See you around, Jack."

  She winked, rolled backward away from him, sprang to her feet. When she scooped up her baton, Jack thought she was going to come at him a
gain, but she waved it and jogged off into the night in the opposite direction of his gun.

  Talk about Looney Tunes.

  Jack stood, finding his Glock exactly where Chandler had said it landed.

  All-in-all an unproductive, and very strange, night. Maybe fifty bucks from the mugger, and the gold chain was probably plated. And a pretty good kiss, but hardly worth all the bruises he'd have in the morning. Bruises that had already begun to ache, informing Jack that the rest of tonight's Central Park charity event would have to be delayed. He pocketed the gun, heading toward home, and immediately recognized something strange about his gait.

  A problem with his ankle.

  Or, rather, something missing from his ankle holster.

  My Semmerling.

  While Chandler had been making goo-goo eyes at him, she'd managed to run off with his backup piece. Chambered for .45 ACP, not only did the LM4 pack a bigger punch than the Glock, but was hard to find and cost about six times as much.

  Jack blew out a stiff breath, irritated with himself. Now he'd have to go get his gun back.

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out the wallet–Chandler's wallet–that he'd lifted from her during their kiss.

  This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

  She might not know it, but she'd just declared war.

  Rasmus

  The call came just as Rasmus entered the mayor's home office. He'd wrangled an excuse to collate documents in the five-story Beaux-Arts limestone mansion just off Fifth Avenue tonight. The caller ID on his cell said the number was blocked. That might mean…

  "Jack?"

  "That's me."

  Rasmus stepped to the bay windows and looked out on East 79th Street. He'd been praying for this call since the encounter in that seedy bar. If Jack didn't come through, he'd have to find somebody else or risk the meet on his own. With backup or without, the exchange was going down tomorrow. But the very fact that he'd called at all was a good sign.

  "You've decided?"

  "Let's do it. Where and when?"

  Rasmus silently pumped a fist high into the air. Yes!

  "To be determined. I'll let you know as soon as I get the details."

  "Do that," Jack said and clicked off.

  Rasmus allowed himself a few seconds of his Happy Dance, then sobered. He hadn't secured the payoff yet. That was the next big hurdle.

  Chandler

  I headed southwest, circling the softball fields. I moved quickly this time and with purpose, no longer trolling for a mark but instead hoping to avoid further attention, especially Jack's. I knew nothing about him beyond that he could handle himself in a fight, had a smart ass sense of humor, and was a good kisser, and that was enough to make me feel uneasy. It could have been coincidence that I'd run into him in the park, simply two predators drawn to the most likely spot to find their particular taste in prey. Or it could have been something more.

  I aimed to find out which.

  I emerged on West 63rd. I was pretty sure Jack wasn't following, but I avoided my hotel on the off chance I was wrong.

  Besides, I had a stop to make.

  One nice thing about New York City was it, like the song said, never sleeps. Heading south, I took my usual indirect route to make sure no one was following. I passed two drug stores that were open twenty-four hours, and when I came to a third, I slipped inside. I quickly gathered what I needed; a small tool kit with hex wrenches, a tube of graphite lubricant for stubborn locks, a kabuki brush for applying makeup, a pair of latex gloves, an unlined notepad, a roll of clear packing tape, a box of protein bars, and a liter of water. I brought my loot to the register and dipped my hand in my jacket for my wallet.

  The pocket was empty.

  Shit.

  I'd used the kiss with Jack to steal his backup piece. He'd obviously had the same idea about my wallet. I gave the clerk my best pitiful look. "Is there an ATM nearby?"

  The clerk, an older woman who looked like she'd never enjoyed a good day in her life, grunted and shoved my purchases to the side. "Few blocks down."

  I headed back into the night and continued down Broadway. I didn't have an ATM card, but I did have the cash sewn into the seam allowances of my clothing. I just needed a moment to access it.

  Jack's theft was annoying to be sure, but it wouldn't set me back.

  Foot traffic started to pick up the closer I came to Times Square, and within a few blocks I stepped to a shop window next to a loud Irish pub. Pretending to peruse a collection of posters depicting the Manhattan skyline, I worked at the hem of my jacket with my fingernails.

  "Hey, pretty lady," a voice said from behind me.

  I glanced up, sized up the idiot and his posse of friends stumbling out of the bar – four drunken idiots in all – then went back to the posters and my seam picking.

  "That isn't very nice. I said you looked pretty. That's a compliment. The least you can do is give me a smile."

  "The least you can do is go away."

  "Oh, come on," a bigger guy said. "My friend is just being nice."

  "Yeah, what's up your ass, bitch? It sure ain't me."

  The group laughed.

  I glanced back at the men. Twenty-something, not very bright, out for a good time. They'd been barhopping, no doubt, their cheeks rosy, eyes a little glassy. Looked like they'd already dropped a day's pay on booze.

  But it wasn't that late, and I was willing to bet they planned on dropping more.

  "I don't like being called bitch."

  "Then don't act like one, bitch."

  "We were just being nice. Does it hurt so much to be nice back?"

  "Nice to you?" I said, raising a brow.

  "Yeah. Like give us a smile," said the first, stepping close, crowding my space.

  "Or a kiss," said another.

  "Or suck my dick," said a third, thrusting his hips toward me.

  I focused on Mr. Pelvis, the cocky, big guy who looked like he spent most of his time in the gym. Probably compensating for the shrinking effects of steroids.

  "I bet you guys are hoping to get lucky tonight."

  "A sure thing ain't hoping."

  "You ever hear that women don't like to be harassed?"

  "Oh, come on, you like this. You're flattered." He ran a hand down my arm.

  "We like being touched by strangers even less."

  "Well, I'd like to be touched by you. Can you guess where?"

  "The nose?"

  I struck quickly with the heel of my palm, feeling his cartilage crack and slip sideways. He cupped his hands to his face, blood bursting through his fingers, and stumbled backward, almost bringing down two of his buddies.

  "Hey!" one of them said, as if what I'd done had just dawned on him. He lunged for me, trying to grab my shoulders.

  I struck again, another blow to the schnoz. A broken nose wasn't the best way to drop a skilled opponent, but for the uninitiated it was splashy and scary and hurt like hell.

  Number three took a swing.

  Dropping to a squat to duck the swipe, I extended my left leg, sweeping the third man's legs out from under him and sending him hard to the sidewalk where his head bounced on his neck. Back on my feet, I eyed the fourth.

  "Well?"

  He held up his hands, palms out in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

  "No? But you did have the bad judgement to hang out with these losers."

  "I don't even like them much. It's peer pressure. I respect women."

  Bullshit. As if he'd had the excuses all racked up and ready for use.

  "Which is why you rushed to my aid, right? I tell you what, I'll let the four of you off easy. Just give me your cash."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Every dollar."

  "Go to hell," said one of the nose bleeders.

  I let out a heavy sigh and wriggled the ASP baton from my pocket. "I just beat the hell out of you with my bare hands. Imagine what I can do with this."

  I snapped it open with an authoritative snikt
! that drained the blood from their faces. Resistance vanished.

  "So, unless you want more where that came from, you'll give me your money."

  "Fine, fine," said the only man left unscathed. He emptied his pockets, and when I waggled the ASP at the others, they followed suit.

  I stuffed the cash, quite a nice amount of it, in my jacket pockets. Either they hadn't had as much to drink as I'd previously thought, or these guys were planning on blowing half their week's pay on partying tonight. Too bad they had to be stupid.

  I turned to leave, then glanced back. "Women don't owe you anything. Got that?"

  "Yeah."

  "Sure."

  A half block away, I heard a mumbled fuck you.

  I turned and looked at them.

  They ran.

  Some assholes never learned, but instead of wasting more time teaching them the basic tenants of feminism, I continued walking west. I didn't stop back at the first drugstore, instead choosing another location that wasn't too far out of my way. There I collected the items on my original list. Then, backtracking twice, I finally made it to my hotel. After a quick sweep of the room, I deadbolted myself inside and plunked down on the king size bed.

  Nice.

  Not having eaten since I boarded the plane, I wolfed down two protein bars and half the water. Then tugging on the latex gloves, I pulled out Jack's pistol to take a look.

  A Semmerling LM4.

  Cute little thing. And fairly rare, only six hundred or so in existence. A .45 caliber in a compact package. The manually operated slide was not the most convenient to use, but the weapon's small size and big stopping power couldn't be beat.

  Truth was, I'd always wanted one.

  I set the Semmerling on the desk and fished the graphite powder and kabuki brush from my drug store bag. I dabbed up a little powder with the soft brush, then fluffed it delicately over the barrel, handle, and slide of the weapon, highlighting several smudges.

  Next I ripped off a length of clear packing tape and smoothed the sticky surface carefully over each smudge. When the powder had adhered, I peeled the tape free and positioned it and the graphite powder fingerprints on the notepad's plain white sheets.

  They came out nice; Jack kept his gun clean. Eight partials in all, five with decent ridge detail, no doubt some of them mine.