Henchmen (15 page)

“It turns out that being super-strong and bulletproof is really not as useful as you might think. If you’re shaking down drug dealers for money, it’s probably sufficient, but Eve’s not really interested in that.  She’s thinking big and wants to hurt the government,” I say. ”She needed some specialists to help see things through, and stumbled onto all of us.  She says she was drawn to us, but I don’t know what that means.  Anyway, I think you’re the final piece.”

“It’s good to know I’m useful,” Jessica says.

“You’ve proven your skills,” I tell her.  “Look, Eve is a good boss.  She actually cares about us.  Sure, this job is going to entail killing an awful lot of people, and probably wreaking havoc on a global scale. Frankly, it’s a job I’m interested in doing.  The U.S. government was supposed to be of the people, for the people, and by the people, but it’s wound up being of the people, for the rich and by the corporations.  They don’t care about the people anymore, unless the people have enough money or power to be interesting.  They keep us sated with bad TV and religion, but it’s all smokescreens and mirrors.  They’re not interested in anything but more power.  Not all despots take over with military might; the best ones give you an imaginary enemy, and then distract you with emotional issues.”

“I can’t say I disagree.  I saw what they did to my dad, all in the interest of a new weapon, but how will killing Congress set the change anything?” she asks me.

“All the corrupt bastards will be gone. The corporations won’t have their lapdogs anymore.  People will be forced to help themselves, and think for themselves.  Once the people see what happens to corruption, maybe they’ll help to root out more corruption.

“I hate to say it, but at this point change can only come through the barrel of a gun.”

“What about the President?” she asks me.

“What about him?  People like to say the President is the most powerful man in the world, but he has to go to Congress for anything he wants.  Congress is the power in this country - they’re the only ones who can make laws, issue currency, and declare war.  Granted, the executive branch has been growing in power for decades, but the President still needs Congress to get anything done.  Even if it doesn’t throw the country into anarchy, Congress needs a cleansing,” I tell her.

Jessica thinks about it for a while.  She’s young and hasn’t had as much time to become as disillusioned with government as I have.  Her life has been touched, and not in a good way, by government, but not in the same personal way mine was, or Frank’s or Jacob’s or Eve’s was.

I let her walk through it in her head and keep my fingers crossed she agrees.  Because if she doesn’t, and decides to high-tail it out of here, that will be a problem.  I’ve come to like her over the past couple of days. If she splits, I’m the one who has to kill her.

“You said this Brance guy works with another guy?” she asks me.

“Yeah, at least one that we know of,” I tell her.

“Do you think we can get hold of some fast-acting poison, or knockout drops or something?”

“I imagine Jacob has some contacts that could get us something for the right price. Why?”

“If we’re going in there, it might be easier if the guys inside are already indisposed.  Take them some tainted coffee in the morning, and let it take them out,” she says.

Good, she’s on board.  I wasn’t worried.  Honestly.

“Good idea.  Let’s pitch it tonight.”  I tell her.  “In the interim, there’s an action movie marathon on the TV.  Up for some entertainment?”

We spend the rest of the day cheering on large men breaking the backs of evil doers all over the world.  I’ve had worse times.

We lucked out: Brance is a creature of habit.  Leaves at 5 p.m. every day, arrives at the Copper Lounge by 5:30, has two drinks, goes home by 7:30, at work again by 9 in the morning.  No apparent friends, no apparent family.  He’s somewhat congenial with the bartender.

I guess he wasn’t paying attention in the OPSEC classes.  If he had been, he would have known you should never be predictable.  Once someone can predict your movements, they can take advantage of you.

Like we’re about to.

Tomorrow night we’ll take advantage Brance and he’ll love us for it. Jessica will seduce the secrets out him.  I’ll probably get punched and everyone will get a drink.  For a brief, shining moment in time, Brance’s tiny life will expand and he’ll be the man he’s always pretended he is.

“We need some artillery,” Eve tells us, pointing at Jacob and me.  “See what you guys can dig up tomorrow.  It’s not much time, but I’m hoping Jacob’s contacts will come through.”

“What kind of arty do we need?” Jacob asks her.

“A shotgun, with some incendiary rounds.  Sawed-off, preferably,” Eve says.

“Dragon Breath,” Jacob says sagely.  “I know a guy.”

“You want incendiary rounds in a sawed-off shotgun?” I ask, incredulously.

“Trust me.  You need to be able to conceal a double-barrel shotgun, and you need to be able to hit the guy behind the desk hard.  He’s not human,” Eve says.  “I’m not completely certain of what he is, but he is most definitely not human.”

“What makes you say that?” Frank asks.

“It’s a feeling I get sometimes,” she replies.  “You’re just going to have to trust me on this one.  We can smell our own.”

Smell our own?  One of these days I really need to sit down and press Eve on exactly what she is and what she wants.  I’ve tried it before and it didn’t work, but hope springs eternal.

“Sawed-off’s gonna make a huge racket, boss,” Jacob tells her.  “Do we want everyone in the building to know we just slaughtered someone?”

“The walls are double thick, the door is pretty hefty, and that’s a fairly loud building,” Frank says.  “If the door is closed, you should be good.”

Eve points at Frank and nods.  Decision made, I guess, even if I don’t think it’s a great one.

“You’ll have three targets to take out,” Eve tells me.  “Deal with the guy behind the desk first, then worry about the guards.  You’ll have armor, but keep your head down.”

I guess I’m going in.  Probably alone.

“Why not go in force?” Jacob asks.

“The door is a huge choke point.  If we try to go en masse, we’ll be sitting ducks,” I say.  “The only option we have is to be sneaky.”

“Speaking of which,” Jessica says, “If I can get Brance working for me, I can take him coffee in the morning.  We spike it with something and that could eliminate a target - more targets, if I bring in coffee for everyone.”

“Won’t he get curious if you show up in the morning bearing coffee?” Frank asks.

“He meets some girl at a bar and she brings him coffee the next morning?” Jessica says.  “He’ll let everyone in the office believe he banged me the night before.  It doesn’t matter that it didn’t happen.  All that matters is that his buddies think it happened.”

“Ok, good plan.  Jacob, check with your contact, see if he’s got anything that will work.  I don’t care if it’s lethal or nonlethal, so long as it’s fast-acting and can be hidden in coffee,” Eve tells us.  “Frank, there’s a keypad out in front of the door, can you seal the door with it?”

“I’ll need a closer look at it, but probably,” Frank says.  “At the very least, I can probably trigger the lock and smash the keypad with a hammer.”

“Good enough,” Eve says.  “We need to do some shopping.  Jessica, you need to seduce a guard, so we need to find you something appropriate.”  She points at me, “We need to find you a cheap suit so you can blend in.”

“Ooh, goody. “ I say.  “Can it be something from the J.C. Penney polyester line?”

“It will be something suitably tacky,” she tells me.  “Now, how about dinner?”

Meeting with any of Jacob’s friends is always an adventure.  If you’ve never had the opportunity to hang out with a contingent of people popularly referred to as “gun nuts,” you certainly need to.  They’re great fun, and usually have a whole assortment of toys at their disposal.  Mr. Smith, as he insists on being called, is one of Jacob’s many contacts in the weapons-dealing and general anti-government world.  He lives way out in the middle of nowhere with the rest of the survivalist types. It allows him space so he can quietly test all kinds of crazy weapons.

Mr. Smith’ house is set far off the main drag, hidden behind a small forest and over a hill.  The main drag, by the way, is dirt and gravel, and is completely impassable in the winter. Or after it’s rained. Or if you don’t own a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

These guys are never what you expect.  For some reason, I always expect gun and explosives dealers to be twitchy and hairy, like bears hopped up on crystal meth and armed to the teeth. The truth is these guys are generally smart, well spoken, and often ex-military.  Mr. Smith is clean as a whistle, and he looks like the quintessential ex-Marine-gone-mountain-man, right down to his pressed flannel shirt and khakis.  His hair has obviously grown out since his days in the armed forces, but the discipline has remained unchanged.  Actually, he kind of looks like the Brawny Guy. 

The new Brawny Guy one, not the guy from the Eighties with the porn mustache.

Also, he drives a Land Rover which is the vehicle of choice for people who want to go anywhere at any time and not spill their macchiato.

Jacob and Mr. Smith go way back. I’m not certain how or why and I really don’t want to know.  There are aspects of Jacob’s past that are probably better left alone.  I’m kind of the outsider here, so I keep my mouth shut and listen.

“Jacob, my old friend.  How are you today?” Mr. Smith asks.  Damn, even his speech is formal.

“Doing well, buddy.  Doing well.”

“I trust your friend here is safe.”

“I can vouch for him.  We’ve been working together,” Jacob says.

“Thank you.  I appreciate that. Just know - he’s your responsibility.”

I have a bad feeling about that.  Jacob gives me a knowing smile that says, “I’ll make it quick, buddy.”

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Mr. Smith asks.

“We need some specialized tools.  Do you have a sawed-off shotgun and some Dragon’s Breath rounds?” Jacob asks.

“Kind of pedestrian, but I think I can help you.  I trust you have payment.”

Jacob holds up the brief case.  It’s a Fendi.  More to the point, it’s a Fendi full of cash.  Even more to the point, it’s a Fendi full of cash we stole from a drug dealer.  What’s the point of working in villainy if you can’t occasionally show the other villains who’s the boss?  We found a couple of guys last night doing a brisk trade in crack down the street from the motel. I shot one of them, and Eve crushed the other’s skull.  Most of the time the crack dealers don’t keep much cash on them, but we lucked out. They hadn’t had a chance to turn their profits back into more crack, and with high school district track meet in town, they’d had a banner evening. 

What?  You think you need to be a pro athlete to get “performance-enhancing” drugs? 

We netted about 50k last night.  Should be enough for what we need.

“Cash is always good, and I must say I approve of the case. But I have to ask. Any idiot can procure a sawed-off shotgun and Dragon’s Breath rounds with minimal trouble.  Why come to me?”

“There’s something else,” I say.  “Do you have any sort of fast-acting anesthetic or poison that can be dissolved in coffee?”

Smith looks mildly offended. “Gentlemen, I usually only deal in physical weapons.  I find toxins beneath me.  Still, come into my parlor. I may be able to find something you’ll find useful.”

His parlor is a library bigger than some of the houses I’ve lived in, filled floor to ceiling with every book imaginable. Leather-bound volumes with labels printed in gold, all immaculately maintained and presented.  Arms dealing is a lucrative business, apparently.

“Did you read all these, Mr. Smith?” I ask.

“Of course not.  Who would want a library full of books they’ve already read?” he replies.

Mr. Smith offers us Armagnac, which is like brandy for rich people.  It’s quite good.

Smith walks over to a bookshelf in the middle of the room and pulls the corner of a book. The whole shelf swings out, revealing a well-lit room stocked with guns, knives and all manner of explosives.

“Gentlemen,” he says, “welcome to paradise.”

I feel like a kid in a candy store, and Jacob is positively giddy.  There are all kinds of tools of destruction in this place.  The walls are lined with guns, knives, swords, and other accoutrements of killing.  The weapons vary from the mundane, if rare, Franchi SPAS-12 to the more exotic, including a pair of KGB-issued silent pistols.

The silent pistols are just that, silent.  They’re two-shot derringer-type pistols that are literally and truly silent.

Smith’s arsenal is broken into heavy weapons – rocket launchers like the RPG-7 and heavy machine guns, shotguns and assault rifles from every nation, pistols like the silent pistols, and bladed weapons.  If I ever win the lottery, I’m coming back here.

“Do you have any explosives?” Jacob asks.

“No, I sold out of all my explosives last week.  Someone bought 50 pounds of C4 earlier this week.”

“Who buys 50 pounds of C4 at a time?” Jacob asks.

“I never reveal the identities of my other customers.  You know that, Jacob.”

Jacob looks hang-dog, like the kid who was just chastised by his favorite teacher.  “I know.  Sorry.”

“Anyway.  Let’s see now. You need some common items, and some less-than-common items.”  He carefully grabs two vials of clear liquid and holds them up to the light.  “Things like this are not normally my game.  I find poisons to be less than…sporting, but these came across my desk as extras, and I decided to keep them.”

The vials are a few inches long and made from completely clear, colorless glass, topped with what look like brushed aluminum caps.  There’s nothing about them to indicate that each one is lethal.  I’ve never been a huge fan of poisons, either, but I’m also not a huge fan of being gunned down in some office downtown.

“What are they?” I ask him.

“This is a one-off custom poison out of Japan.  It’s a mixture of blowfish toxin and few other choice chemicals.  A few drops will incapacitate a full-grown man in 15 minutes.  Several drops will kill in the same amount of time.  It has no taste, no smell,” Smith tells us.

“How much?” Jacob asks him.

“Fifty,” Smith says.

“How much for the gun and the shells?” Jacob asks him.

“I’ll throw them in gratis,” Smith says.

Fifty grand is no small amount of money, but we’ve got the cash, and we need the goods.  “You’ve got a deal,” I tell him.

We shake hands and Jacob hands him a briefcase full of cash.  He doesn’t care where we got it any more than we care where he came across a toxic arsenal.  The world is a scary place full of scary people. Often, the less you know about things, the happier you’ll be.

“Needless to say, this substance does not come with instructions or any kind of documentation,” he says as he wraps one of the vials in silk and places it in a leather satchel.  “I don’t think I need to warn you that this is dangerous. I can vouch for its efficacy, though.  I saw it tested on…”  He pauses.  “Well, let’s just say I saw it tested on an individual of less-than-savory character.  The results were impressive.  With a dose of ten drops, the subject was incapacitated with 12 minutes.  Termination was within fifteen minutes.  It was quiet and effective.  His nervous system simply shut down and he collapsed in a heap.  Please take care with this substance.”

Imagine that: an arms dealer with a conscience.

He hands the satchel to me and walks toward the back of the room, where he pauses and selects a filigreed, breach-opening, sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun.  The metal is polished silver, and the stock burnished redwood.  Someone loved this weapon, and made it into a work of art.  Smith presents it to Jacob like a sword, bowing slightly as he hands it over.  He then reaches into a drawer, selects three shotgun shells and puts them in a bag.  As he hands it to Jacob he says “Do not use these anywhere that can burn.  Shells like these burned down half of Arizona a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry to be a bother, but you wouldn’t happen to have any flechette rounds, would you?” I ask him.

“Of course. How many would you like?” he replies.

“Three would be great.”

He goes to another drawer, pulls out three more shells, and hands them to me.

“Gentlemen.  It has been a pleasure doing business with you, but I have another appointment soon and it is imperative that my clients do not meet each other.”

“Thank you, sir,” I respond.

We walk out of the parlor fifty thousand dollars lighter, but with some exciting new toys.

“Let me see that shotgun,” I ask Jacob.

We trade packages and I get my first good look the double.  It’s about 18 inches long, and the barrels were been cut by an expert.  The filigree work is a stunning representation of Ragnarök, complete with Thor fighting the Jörmungandr.  I’m keeping this gun.  No matter how this plays out, this will become my Mjolnir.