Into the Shadows (2 page)

Sherrie was done giving me free drinks, and I
got the feeling that Tanya wasn't in the mood for any supply room
grunting. She and I weren't an item at all. Our few quickies were
simply a matter mutual attraction, and if she'd broken up with yet
another boyfriend. I finally got off my ass and gathered some trash
to bring to the dumpster in the alley out back. Oh, the glamour of
nightclubs.

WALLET

When I opened the back door, I immediately
saw a group of people huddled together in the alley, close to the
side street. It looked like three guys were surrounding a smaller
figure pressed up against the wall. Fuck, it was the losers and
that girl, Macie. The sound of the door and the light pouring out
gave me away, damn it. From the diffused glow of a streetlight
behind them, I saw a glint off the blade that the loudmouth had in
his hand. Well, shit.

I let the back door close behind me, making
me less of a target in the dark. I stepped out into the alley and
set my feet in the slush just as the loudmouth started coming my
way. He was waving his little knife and was saying something, but I
didn't pay attention to the words. I was focused on his movement,
which was like a monkey with a concussion. When he got within ten
feet, he came at me faster. Footing wasn't good out there and he
slipped, bringing him to me off-balance.

It was easy to block the loudmouth's awkward
swing with my forearm. I wanted to make quick work of him in case
his buddies came to help. I brought my knee up into his solar
plexus, making him fold with a grunt. As he bent over, I grabbed
him by his coat and hair and rammed him headfirst into the brick
wall next to me. He crumpled with a moan and I stepped over
him.

The other two were still standing close to
the girl. One of them still had a hand on her shoulder or maybe her
neck. I wanted them to just run off, but I guess they still had
some liquid courage in their systems. Because of the soft light
behind them I couldn't make out their expressions, but I could see
the frosty plumes of their quick breathing. They were nervous.
Good.

I marched forward with purpose. One of the
two - the scowling guy, I think - stepped away from the girl and
started to say something. I ignored it. Before he could decide what
I was going to do or how to react, I swung out with a size-13 boot
and caught him right in the nuts - fair fight, my ass. It took a
second for his pain to register. The last guy ran into me from the
side. He was thin, and his charge was weak. I used his momentum,
planted a foot, and hip-tossed him. There was only an inch or so of
wet snow, not nearly enough to soften the impact when he landed
hard on the flat of his back.

The guy I racked was against the far wall,
bent over and holding his crotch with both hands. My training to
neutralize and secure kicked in; force recon habits die hard. I
stepped over and brought a knee up, catching the guy in the
forehead. He reeled back a couple wobbly steps and then dropped. I
turned back to the skinny guy I'd flipped. He was just getting back
to his feet, groaning with one hand on his back. One quick punch to
where his jaw met his ear and he went down like a sack of shit. I
looked back; loudmouth was still down and out. It was suddenly very
quiet.

The girl was still standing against the wall.
Rather than being frozen with fear, or maybe even sobbing from it,
she was leaning casually against the brick wall and looking at
something in her hands. "Are you alright?" I asked as I stepped
over to her.

She didn't answer right away, continuing to
study the object in her hands. It was an unfolded wallet. There was
hardly any light to see, so I didn't know what she found so
interesting.

"You should be more careful," she said, still
looking down at it.

"What the hell are you talking ab - Hey, is
that mine?" I patted my back pocket. Empty. "That
is
mine!"
I snatched it out of her small hands.

"Sorry," she replied nonchalantly. "It fell
out while you were thrashing my assailants. You should put that in
a safer location."

"Thrashing your assailants?" I asked while I
made sure nothing was missing out of my wallet. "Who the hell talks
like that?" And I seriously doubted my wallet just fell out of my
back pocket.

Macie shrugged. "I do, sometimes. I like how
people used to talk a long time ago."

"Yeah . . . okay, whatever; are you sure
you're alright?" I put my wallet into a front pocket of my
jeans.

She opened her jacket and looked down at
herself. With the minimal light, I could just make out her
cleavage. "No, not a scratch," she answered. "I suppose I should
thank you yet again . . . Mr. Beck."

She somehow saw my name on my driver's
license. Invasions of privacy kind of piss me off. "Unless you
wanna stick around for the cops," I said through nearly gritted
teeth, "maybe you should leave."

"Maybe you're right," Macie said lightly. She
strolled a few paces out to the sidewalk. Just before she passed
out of sight beyond the next building, she wiggled her fingers at
me in a lazy farewell gesture. "Have a good night, Leo Beck.
Perhaps we'll meet again soon." And then she was gone.

I believed I had another complimentary drink
coming my way.

HOME

I left it up to Keeg, who decided to call the
cops anonymously just to get the scumbags out of the alley. We
doubted those three were going to press charges and have to admit
that they got thumped by one guy. I had another quick drink to
mellow out before I went home. I drove my Jeep (mine wasn't a
lemon) the five blocks back to my house, hoping that I didn't hurt
those guys too bad. I mean, yeah, they deserved an ass-kicking, but
maybe they had kids waiting at home for them. I think I got that
worry gene and a streak of conscience from my mom. Or maybe it was
in spite of my dad, who knows.

My house wasn't much, but I liked it. I had
to; it was paid off. My place was hemmed in pretty close by bigger
houses on either side, which made it look smaller - less of a crime
target. Not that I'd had any problems; my street was actually
quiet. It was a simple two-bedroom A-frame with a nice front porch
and a small yard. I kept it looking good, too - paint job,
landscape pavers, you get it. Otherwise, I think Miss Loretta, the
sweet, middle-aged, 400 lb. black lady next door would have ripped
me a new one.

The familiar scents of Pledge and gun oil met
me as I walked in. Ah, home. Nothing I owned was too fancy or
high-end, although I did have my necessary vices. I had to budget
for ammunition for the firing range, dojo fees, a supply of Jack
Daniels, and frequent barber trips (high and tight, a military
habit that never died). My barber talked me into growing a goatee
to draw attention away from my scars; I didn't know if it worked,
but I liked the look. Miss Loretta did too, and that was enough
validation for me.

I mentioned the aromas of Pledge and gun oil
before. The reason for the latter should be obvious. One of my
courses for force recon was scout sniper training. I kept up with
it after I got out, so I splurged on a scoped Remington 700. For
home defense, I have another Remington: an 870 Super Shorty
12-gauge. Damn, that thing is fun. For my private security gigs, I
wore a Glock-19 in a shoulder holster. And then I always carry a
little Ruger LCP in my pocket. I keep each of 'em in good
condition. I wasn't a fanatic or a survivalist; I just never wanted
to be unprepared.

As for the Pledge . . . it triggered good
emotions. Besides, I like the smell of it; is there anyone who
doesn't? I also liked having polished tables. That doesn't mean I
was a clean freak - far from it. Being messy was one of the
freedoms of bachelorhood. Mostly, though, the aroma of Pledge
reminded me of my mom. Weird thing - she cleaned when she was
happy. Mom wasn't allowed that luxury very often, so it was always
a welcome fragrance.

I fixed myself a drink, pulled the Ruger out
of my pocket, sat back on the couch and inspected my wallet one
more time. Everything was there, even the money. I couldn't figure
that hot girl out, but a fair guess was that she was a bored
college student high on something and out for a thrill. She'd
gotten those three morons all worked up, probably on purpose. There
was more to the story than just untouched drinks, but it was over
and I didn't care. If those three weren't clumsy and half-drunk, I
could have had a real problem. Luck favors the militarily trained,
I guess.

I set my wallet aside and settled into the
comfort of my living room. Half of the décor - throw rugs, coffee
table, and wall art - was claimed from my mom after she passed
away. A framed photo of my older brother Alexander (I called him
Al) hung near the front door; he died when I was eleven. There were
also a few mementos from my time overseas, and a glass case that
displayed my medals and mission ribbons. I'd surrounded myself with
things from my past, items with both good and bad memories. You
might use the word 'bittersweet'. You might also be gay.

In the yellow glow of the lamp I always left
on, I noticed there were missed calls and messages on my phone. I
hardly ever brought it with me to the bar, and normally left it
plugged in on the end table. The first was from my friend Hector;
he and his family lived across the street. Hector and his wife Anna
left a message inviting me to a dinner at their house. I couldn't
really refuse the nice offer, but Anna's cooking always turned my
ass into a volcano.

The other message was a text from Gwen
Solomon, my coordinating contact at Silas Security. She'd arranged
all my simple security training and licensing tests when I first
got on, and, platonically speaking, we got along great from the
start. I always thought there was something a little odd about
Gwen, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe it was her dark
sense of humor, which sometimes went over the line into morbid. One
day, as we were finishing a chat on the phone, she said, "Don't
hurt anybody out there, Leo. But if you do, tell me all about
it."

Gwen's note warned me that there might be
some short-notice, short-term client contracts I might have to deal
with. Since I had training or commendations in various methods of
keeping myself and my unit alive, plus ways to make any opposition
pretty much the opposite of that, I was preferred for some
contracts. Short-term jobs sucked. Short-notice sucked donkey
balls.

I sighed and slouched back into my couch. I
was thinking about getting some sort of regular job when I dozed
off. I had a dream of sitting in a cramped cubicle, doing the same
paperwork over and over; God, what a nightmare.

BITCH

I had my regular Saturday night shift at
Keegan's. Everything went fine; no assholes, no weird hotties.
After we locked up, Keeg had me tell Deb about the alley fight the
night before. Not that I wanted to, but there were free drinks
involved.

Sunday afternoon was spent over at Hector and
Anna's. I brought drinks for everyone. Their three little kids were
well-behaved like always, and they hardly stared at my scars - they
were used to them. The enchiladas were good but hot as hell. After
thanking them for a nice night, I went home and chugged a half
gallon of milk.

Mid-morning Monday, I got an official call
from Gwen about a client who wanted executive protection (EP),
starting in the afternoon. There's normally more advanced warning
for that, but rich clients tend to not give a shit. Gwen waited
patiently while I got all the cussing out of my system. Oh, and the
client used the term 'bodyguard', which we frown upon - it makes
pros sound like those fat thugs that famous Hollywood jackasses
hired. With the feeling that it was going to be a crappy
assignment, I went to the office and signed off on the client
contract and an unmarked company sedan.

Gwen told me about the client while I looked
through the file. Emily Baxter was a rich housewife who was
divorcing her husband. She came from money, and married it too. Her
lawyers were better than her husband's; she was getting more than
her share and he wasn't happy about it. Mrs. Baxter had been
worried about her soon-to-be ex's security goons threatening her,
hurting her, or worse, but she got tired of hiding in her big
house. At least for one day, she wanted out.

There was a child from the marriage, but she
was in college out on the east coast. Okay, one less thing to worry
about. The problem was, Mrs. Baxter was going to spend the day and
evening with two friends; they planned on going to a spa, then
dinner, and possibly some cocktails at a classy club afterwards.
She'd given the names of those places, but I had very little time
to scope them out beforehand. Not to mention that the client was
including two unknown people into her plans. A lot of shit could go
wrong.

I got moving and glanced at a few details
while I drove. Gwen noted the specifications 'business casual' and
'no interaction'. That meant Emily Baxter wanted me to blend in and
not be obvious security, and that I was to remain near but not part
of her group. That type of detail is tough to pull off most of the
time; with short notice, even more so. It also meant she was more
than likely a real bitch.

Each of the places that the client listed had
some security risks, but nothing that couldn't be managed if she
followed my suggestions. I went home and put on slacks, dress
shirt, and a blazer. As usual, my Glock and little Ruger came along
with me, plus an extra magazine for each. Gwen had already made a
map for the best routes to each location, so I studied it while I
got ready. Just before I drove over to the Baxter residence, I
filled my pocket flask with straight Jack; it was probably going to
be a long day.

Emily Baxter was a snobbish woman in her
early forties. I bet she was pretty a decade or two ago. She'd been
emailed a brief dossier on me, but had some questions that I doubt
she really cared about the answers to. Ol' Emily just keeping her
bitch skills strong, I guess.