Noir Fatale

by Larry Correia

I don’t remember much about the rest of the trip down to the river and back up to the apartment over his office in DC. Inputs from the rest of the world came back slowly, but by the time he pushed open the door to his flat, I could hear the gentle whirr of the ceiling fans.

  “Come on in,” he said. “It’s not as nice a place as yours.” He sounded a little self-conscious about it. I almost wanted to smile. Almost.

  “Where’s my gun?” I asked, my voice still sounding strange to my ears.

  “Here,” he said, pulling it from his pocket and holding it out to me. I wrapped my fingers around its small, familiar weight, and put it in my own pocket. Then I sighed and made my way to an overstuffed chair.

  “I never shot anyone before,” I said softly.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Martel said, and he sounded genuine. I met his eyes again, let him see me gathering myself enough to give him a small smile.

  “Better them than us, I suppose.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “That’s exactly right. You just remember that, sweetheart. And don’t worry about the cops. When we go talk to the FBI, we’ll tell them about being followed by those thugs. I’ve got all their data. I’m sure they’re listed as Rothesky’s known associates. And my PI license includes license to carry, so I’ll say the gun was mine. They shouldn’t fuss at you about that.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t much care about breaking Alexandria’s gun laws, but I knew he wouldn’t like hearing that.

  “I just want this to be over,” I said instead. Martel came over to my chair and bent to wrap his arms around me. I hugged him back, hard.

  “Me too,” he said softly. “It will be. Soon.”

  I nodded again, then took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s see Eddie’s painting.”

  Martel let go and got to his feet. He disappeared back into another room while I pulled my vape out of my pocketbook. I took a deep, calming hit and waited for him to return.

  I wasn’t waiting long. Martel came back with a small parcel, still half-wrapped in self-sealing plastic. I looked up at him, puzzled. He shrugged and looked a bit uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t know where to put it,” he said, handing it to me. “It’s not exactly my style.”

  I chuckled and blew out a cloud of vapor, then dropped my vape back into my bag.

  “Eddie would have a fit anytime I blew clouds anywhere near his art,” I said by way of explanation. “He’d accuse me of trying to destroy his canvases with moisture.” I let some humor leak into my tone as I took the parcel and began to strip away the layers of protective packing material.

  “Ah, Eddie,” I sighed as the painting revealed itself to me. It was definitely his. Bold strokes of bright, aggressive color assaulted my eyes, and it took a moment for me to find the coherence, the composition of it. But it was definitely there. As I considered my brother’s handiwork, details leapt out at me: a shape like and yet unlike an anchor in the middle. A fence. Ripples of water. I let out a gasp and raised wide, excited eyes to Martel’s.

  “I know what this is!”

  “What, the painting?”

  “Yes! You were right, this is a local scene. See the water here? That’s the Potomac.”

  “I figured that much. But what’s the rest of it?”

  “See this?” I said, pointing to the anchoresque shape in the middle. “I know that shape. Down at the end of King Street, near the water. On…Strand, I think? There’s an art gallery known as the Torpedo Factory. I think it actually was one during the war. Not this last one, World War Two, almost two centuries ago. Anyway, there’s this sculpture outside, with a plaque and things. That’s what this looks like! Ray…I think Eddie hid whatever he had in the old Torpedo Factory Art Gallery.”

  Martel nodded slowly.

  “Okay,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “Okay. So, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go down to this Torpedo Factory and check it out. Alone.”

  I looked up quickly.

  “What?” I asked.

  Martel’s chin was set like a brick in mortar. “Sweetheart, Rothesky’s people are looking for you. They probably killed Eddie. They definitely tried to kill us. You’re not going back to Alexandria today…maybe not for a while. They still don’t know what I look like. I can get down there, move around, check things out. In the meantime, you stay here, where it’s safe.”

  I opened my mouth like I wanted to protest, but then closed it without saying anything.

  “You’re rattled,” he said, nodding. “I can see that. Stay here, relax. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I swallowed hard, and then gave a tiny nod of assent. He stood up.

  “Wait,” I called out, and surged to my feet. The canvas and plastic slid to the floor with a clatter. I threw my arms around Martel’s neck and took his mouth with my own. He met my kiss with a feverish heat as his arms wrapped around my body like steel bands.

  “Be careful,” I whispered against his lips.

  “You got it, Betty,” he whispered back, and let me go.

  I stepped slowly away and picked up the painting, then watched him walk out the door.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  I listened to Martel’s key turn the ancient lock. His footsteps echoed away down the hall toward the cramped stairwell.

  One more deep breath, and then I began to move. First things first: the painting. I turned to his credit chip of a kitchenette table and set the painting down. Using only my fingernail, I scratched gently at the thick bead of paint Eddie’d left on the corner of the canvas. Sure enough, it lifted and tore easily down toward the middle.

  A dark brown eye and the world’s most famous enigmatic smile looked up at me through the rent canvas.

  Excitement like lightning sang through me. I carefully and quickly rewrapped the parcel, then pulled out my burner phone. A few minutes later, I had a luxury hover cab en route to take me to Union Station. From there I’d take the mag rail to Dulles Shuttleport, and then we’d see.

  While I waited, I typed out a quick message on my phone for Martel to see when he got back.

  I don’t expect that you will ever forgive me, and I don’t imagine I can blame you. I can only hope that the gift I left for you at the Torpedo Factory will be of some comfort. Those books are, in fact, Rothesky’s actual expenditures. All of them, in excruciating detail. As promised, this should be enough evidence to make the FBI sit up and take notice. You’ll be safe, and Eddie will be avenged. I’m sorry to have to ask you to do the dance for me though. But something tells me you’re a fine dancer and will have no problem at all. Do us both a favor. Don’t bother trying to find me. The dream is over now. All that’s left is a memory to comfort me on long, lonely nights.

  Thank you,

  Betty

  My phone buzzed to let me know that my hover cab was waiting. I took one last look, remembering the taste of bourbon on his lips. Then I put the phone on the table, gathered my brother’s treasure up under my arm, and went out to catch a mag rail train in the steamy mess of a DC afternoon.

  The Privileges of Violence

  A GRUNT’S EYE VIEW STORY

  Steve Diamond

  My father was a piece of trash, but never let it be said that he was a quitter. Most of what I learned from him boiled down to ignoring everything he said and did. But never giving up? That was from him. Well, that and a weakness for beautiful women.

  I had a small office in the Directorate S building in Cobetsnya. That office—along with new living quarters—was my reward given to me by the Chancellor to the Tsar. If anyone asked—which no one with any measure of intelligence did—I’d cleaned up a small mess caused by one of the Tsar’s enemies. In reality, there had never been any mess. I’d simply followed the Chancellor’s orders to…remove…one of the Tsar’s up-and-coming political rivals.

  Easy. Clean. By summer, no one would even remember that potential rival’s name.


  No one besides me, that is. But that was my secret. My knowledge. A man in my profession can never have too much secret information.

  My office wasn’t much bigger than an average closet. But in the Directorate, that was a blessing in disguise. Less space for spies—from within the Directorate, and from outside—to ply their trade. I had a desk. It even had drawers. My own chair, and another opposite me on the other side of the desk. I had one item on the surface of the desk: a clock. It had been a gift from my mother before my father had beaten her to death.

  I’m told he was rotting in a prison in the northern, frigid wastes of the Tsar’s Empire. With any luck, he’d frozen to death and had been used as mortar for the prison walls.

  The clock was small and elegant, just like I remembered my mother. Midnight approached, and along with it, the limits to my stamina for the day…or perhaps “night” was more accurate. I put the unfinished reports from the “mess” I’d cleaned up in my desk and shut the drawer. The Chancellor didn’t want any record of what had actually happened.

  My latest promotion put me at the topmost levels of the Directorate. The new apartment was nice, as was the increase in rations, but I couldn’t help but feeling like I was still falling short of my potential. “Directorate” was the short name for the Directorate of Surveillance and Observation. Our job was to watch the citizens of Kolakolvia and prevent them from harming the Tsardom or themselves. Standard policing. It was easy work. Boring even.

  But there were always rumors. Rumors of hard-working, trustworthy individuals at my level in the Directorate being placed in another organization—one run personally by the Chancellor. More power. Better housing. Extra rations. Real work beyond which I was currently executing. Hunting down the Tsar’s true enemies.

  I needed to be part of that organization, if it existed. No matter the cost.

  With nothing more for me to do for the day, I closed and locked the door to my office before making my way toward the exit. The Directorate S building stood several floors high. The carpet was well worn, and the plaster on the walls peeling. If you knew where to look, you could see the bloodstains from former Directorate officers who hadn’t done their jobs well enough.

  I walked by the closed door leading to my partner’s office. I didn’t like having a partner, but that was a requirement of the job. I figured it was to breed paranoia and distrust rather than do any actual good. My partner’s name was Vasily Bodlen. A brute of a man, he preferred to solve all issues by breaking bones. I could appreciate that attitude in many situations, but I also found words and threats to be equally effective, and much less strenuous. Threaten to put a man’s wife in a prison camp, or murder his son…it all worked rather well.

  Bodlen had left early, leaving me all the paperwork. It was odd. As single-minded as he was in doing his job one broken bone at a time, he never went home early. I’d ask him about it tomorrow. He’d been gone a lot lately, saying he was on jobs he couldn’t talk about.

  I took the stairs down to the ground level and pushed my way through the entryway doors. Neither set of two guards on either side of the door acknowledged my leaving. They never did. Guards at Directorate S knew better than to disobey even the smallest of rules. No one wanted to chance being turned into one of the Cursed as a punishment.

  The grounds between the doors and the outer fences were devoid of any brush or stone. The Chancellor insisted the “killing ground” be kept clear.

  I pulled my coat closer and walked the distance to the outer gate, then turned left towards my assigned housing. Spring in Cobetsnya—the capital city of Kolakolvia—was essentially winter with slightly less snow. This late in the evening—or perhaps better to say this early in the morning—my coat did little to keep the chill from seeping into my bones.

  The paved road of Alexandr Prospekt stretched out before me and behind me, running for miles in both directions. It was the main boulevard that bisected Cobetsnya from west to east. The road was wide enough for carriages to pass each other six across. There was talk of putting a rail system through the middle of it, but I doubted that would ever happen.

  Directorate S resided in a void along Alexandr Prospekt. No buildings allowed for a city block surrounding it: Chancellor’s orders, and what the Chancellor ordered, the Tsar approved. Government-assigned housing began immediately outside the one-block perimeter.

  I wasn’t overly jaded, nor was I patriotic enough to be blind to the ugliness of the housing complexes. Large, gray, and identical from one to the next. My rooms were only a few blocks up the road.

  The cold was bitter, and my breath exploded from my mouth like cannonfire. I should have worn a hat.

  Scuffing to my right.

  Muffled cries.

  In Cobetsnya, most civilians learn to keep walking when unfamiliar sounds reach their ears. You never know what lurks in shadowed alleys. If you are lucky, it will just be some starved citizen waiting to kill you for your food vouchers.

  If you are unlucky…well…it may be something wanting to eat your corpse or steal your children.

  I had a hunch the sounds I heard were of the more natural sort. If what hid in the shadows was unnatural, I’d probably already be dead. I walked beyond the mouth of the alley, then stepped quickly to the bordering wall and pressed myself against it. I wished I had a pistol, but the Chancellor didn’t let Directorate officers carry them. It’s always about control.

  I pulled a long knife from its sheath under my coat. Moonlight glinted off the curved blade. A butcher’s blade for butcher’s work. I wasn’t the best with it, but I’d been trained well enough.

  My hope was for only one assailant. More than that, and I’d have to be lucky. But that was the job, and I needed to make a name for myself. Recognition comes to the ruthless.

  When I entered the alley, I went in crouched, and with my blade ready to paint the walls a more lively color. Six quick steps put me into the shadows, and I saw a man straddling a separate, prone form. The man had a knife in his hand—a small thing, easily concealable—raised to strike down. He turned as my blade took him in the kidney.

  He screamed in pain, and turned to slash at my throat. I blocked it with a forearm to his wrist, then ripped my knife free. His body had turned so he completely faced me, so I jabbed him three quick times in the abdomen. On the last, I pulled the blade to the right, gutting him.

  To the man’s credit, he didn’t give up, even as his blood and intestines spilled out. His head lashed forward, caught me on the cheek. If I hadn’t turned my head at the last moment, my nose would have been flattened. His off hand caught my wrist, but I could feel him weakening. I kept his own knife from my throat, and inexorably pushed my gleaming blade to his face. The point sank into his left eye. I expected another scream, but it didn’t come. I twisted my knife, he spasmed, and it was over.

  The man collapsed to the ground, and for the first time I got a clear look at the other figure.

  She’d pulled herself to the west wall of the alley, knees pulled to her chest. Long, golden locks of hair spilled over her eyes, and a purpling bruise was emerging on her left cheek. She stared at her fallen assailant, mouth open, eyes wide.

  “You…you…”

  “Killed him,” I said. “Yes. I did. Are you alright?”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded.

  “Hospitals don’t open until the morning,” I said. I bent over and wiped my knife on the shoulder of the dead man’s jacket. “I’ll give you a moment, then I’ll take you to my place. You can stay there tonight.”

  As I began searching the man’s pockets, I saw her nod out of the corner of my eye. A quick glance showed her eyes still closed. Her lower lip trembled a little, but that was to be expected. She straightened the skirt over her legs over and over.

  “Did he—”

  “No,” she immediately interrupted. “That’s not what this was about…though I suppose he might have gone that way…after…”

  She trailed
off, and I didn’t feel like pursuing it further. The man’s pockets were empty. Completely empty. It didn’t make any sense. He should have had identification papers. Food vouchers. Maybe actual currency. I didn’t even see the sheath for the knife. I pushed up his sleeves checking for tattoos. Nothing.

  “Check under his collar,” the woman said. At the sound of her voice I looked up and found her staring at the corpse. Her expression was sad and horrified. “I thought I saw something when he was…when he…”

  “It’s alright,” I said. “I understand.”

  I pulled down his collar and saw the tattoo the woman had mentioned seeing. I didn’t recognize the design. Three overlapping circles that formed a sort of triangle. The middle where they all overlapped was filled in.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  She shook her head.

  I stood up, then held out my hand to the woman. “We should leave. We don’t want to be around the body too long. Never know what will show up.”

  “We’re just going to leave…it…here?”

  “Would you rather we attach strings to it and walk it home like a marionette?”

  She flinched. “No. It’s just…did you have to kill him? So violently, I mean?”

  “I prefer his death to yours or mine.” I wiggled the fingers of my extended hand. “Come. I think we both could stand getting cleaned up. I’ll make us tea, and you can tell me what you were doing out so late.”

  She took my hand, and I pulled her up. Standing, she was almost as tall as I. She smiled slightly, then glanced again at the body and winced. I put my arm around her and steered her out of the alley.

  “By the way,” I said, “my name is Kristoph Vals. I work for Directorate S.”

  “Helena. Helena Sarchev. Thank you for saving my life.”

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  She was weak-kneed the remaining distance to my home and had to be supported as she walked. I didn’t speak, nor did she. When we reached my assigned housing, I helped her up the stairs to the third floor, steered her around the loose board on my doorstep, unlocked my door, and helped her inside.