The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (11 page)

“We found the, well, we did . . . together,” mumbled Max, fearing his words were making her emotional. “We share everything anyway. So. Well, ah. Doesn’t matter . . .”

“Sweetheart. Please. Forgive me. Take them both. Please. Please,” she said, angry at herself.

Max grew more perplexed. He had no experience with soft, warm, good-smelling females. He put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Miss Camille, everything’s gonna be all right. I promise.”

Camille dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her sweater. “He was a sonnova bitch, but he was my dad. I loved him. Now he’s gone.”

Max looked to MacIan for help. MacIan had none to offer. He had taken Max with him hoping to show him a world beyond Lily. This was part of it.

Camille shook herself straight. “Guess I forgot my manners, again. Take them both,” she said adamantly.

Max breathed a sigh of relief as the suffocating choice lifted from his chest.

“They’re both yours. One for you, one for your dad. That’s fair.”

Max could only stare.

She nodded to MacIan, and then to the gun safe. “How about you?”

MacIan grinned. “I already have one of those,” he said, pointing to the Magnum, “more or less.”

“Really?” said Camille. The 50 cal. was highly sought after and extremely hard to get.

“It’s old, but it’s mine.” He reached into a pocket-slit in the leg of his uniform and pulled out a tattered Smith & Wesson Special Issue 50 Caliber, the fully automatic version.

Camille’s jaw dropped. “Desert Eagle. Not easy to get one of those.”

“This one was particularly hard to come by.”

Camille changed the subject by tossing the courier’s envelope onto her desk and pretending she hadn’t heard him. She yanked open a junk drawer and dug out what looked like a small flashlight. She turned the pouch until she found the corner with a tiny barcode and waved the flashlight over it before rotating the zipper-lock’s combination. “There’s an exploding ink bag in here. This little scanner disarms it.”

MacIan pivoted onto one of three tall stools, where he could see Max reflected in the giant windows carefully arranging his guns in their cases for transport back to Lily.

Camille pulled a large manila envelope from the courier’s pouch. “And what is this?” she said, holding the hefty envelope up to MacIan. It was stuffed full. She shook it next to her ear, bounced it in both hands, shrugged her shoulders and unwound the flap-string.

MacIan was enthralled. Her movements were delicate, yet deliberate, strong and graceful.

She tilted the envelope to see inside and shook the contents, looking for danger. Finding none, she set the envelope on the countertop and removed a stack of photocopies from it. She lifted one and studied it.

It was a letter. Very old and handwritten, in Dutch. She took another. A copy of a deed from 1648, also in Dutch.

MacIan touched her shoulder. “Let me see that one.”

She handed him the deed.

He dropped it back on the countertop for both to see and put his finger under the only word they both could make out — Tuke.

* * *

O
n the flight
back to Lily, Max held the two gun cases on his lap, imagining his father’s reaction. He could scarcely wait. In the back seat sat two bricks of ammo for each weapon. Camille assured him that when he needed more he had only to ask, and he was sure she would never lie to him. She was the smartest, toughest, most beautiful woman he had ever met. Except for his mom, of course.

MacIan tapped the phone icon on the dashboard, and said, “Barracks.”

Cassandra picked up, “Nationalpolicebarracks, Bedford.”

“Trooper MacIan.”

“What’s up, Shorty?”

“Commander there?”

“Hang on.”

He could hear some crackles and then the Commander was on the line.

“Commander, you were right. Everything points to Tuke.”

The Commander laughed. “Of course it does. Why else would Levi drop off the face of the earth?”

“Don’t know. Camille Gager is searching for a lead to his whereabouts.”

“Camille Gager?”

“The deceased’s daughter.”

“My condolences,” said the Commander with growing agitation. “When will you be back?”

“I’ll drop Max off in Lily, then I’ll be right there. Maybe an hour.”

“Who the hell’s Max?”

“The kid who found the body.”

“You took him with you?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Couldn’t have been better.”

“Glad to hear that,” said the Commander.

Max’s grin nearly swallowed his face.

I
t was
early evening in late winter when Max came rumbling into Pastor Scott’s basement. He was certain his dad would be there waiting for him. He set both gun cases on Pastor Scott’s desk, without a word. Fred nudged closer. Max spun and grabbed him in a thunderous bear hug. “Take your pick, dad. Which one do you want?”

“Which what? What you talkin’ about?”

“Just pick one. It doesn’t matter which one. Just pick one.”

Fred tapped the corner of the larger of the two cases. Max flipped its latches and slid it over to Fred so he could open the lid for himself. Inside, Fred found the Beretta Cheetah, a laser scope, a night vision scope, three 40 round 9mm clips, and a battery charger, all nestled perfectly in their cushy slots. “What’s this?”

“The frozen guy, Arthur. Arthur’s daughter, Camille, gave it to me. They were arms dealers, back when dinosaurs — like you — roamed. Look. Look at this one.” Max popped the second case and raised the huge Smith & Wesson Magnum 50.

Pastor Scott gasped. Even he recognized this weapon.

Fred stared blankly. Max handed the big gun to him. Fred took it, weighed it, gripped it, aimed it, and broke out in a silly little dance.

“That one’s for you, dad.” Max squeezed each word out, trying not to tear up.

“Holy Moses on a Moped,” yelped Pastor Scott.

Fred held the outsized chrome revolver to his chest. “I’ve seen a few of these. Not this model, the black one. The automatic.”

“The Desert Eagle?”

“Yeah. Desert Eagle.”

“Saw one of those, too,” said Max. “Guess who had one up his sleeve?”

Fred watched his son, his love, his heart, and heard something like the boy’s voice going on about the guns, but his thoughts were of a younger, less worldly boy he once knew. He so was proud of Max for going out in the world and coming back to their insignificant little village with a treasure he himself could never imagine. But the gift beyond treasure was written on Max’s face, in a script only a father can read. The excitement and joy pouring from Max was not about guns. It was about having brought something home. It was about giving something of unimaginable value — to his father.

An all-consuming wave of relief folded over Fred. He’d come to the end of something. He had achieved the most important thing he could. He’d created a good man.

He could die in peace.

I
t was
dark by the time MacIan arrived at the Bedford Barracks; he couldn’t tell the parking lot from the forest.
The forest is in constant stand-by,
he thought,
waiting to take back every insult we’ve visited upon it.
The forest is patient.
A trait he hoped to someday develop. He parked his Peregrine near the loading dock and ran inside. Cassandra and Commander Konopasek pounced on him — yelling over each other. Cassandra prevailed. “Camille Gager called about three minutes ago, in a panic.”

“She OK?”

The Commander jumped first. “She’s fine.”

Cassandra cut him off with a scathing look. “She said something about a system failure and a warning and she needs you to call her.” She lifted the phone and a questioning eyebrow.

MacIan nodded anxiously.

While Cassandra dialed, the Commander put his hand on MacIan’s shoulder. “How’d it go up there?”

“Arthur Gager was hired by Harbinger to find Tuke.”

Cassandra put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Got her.”

“Put her on speaker,” said MacIan.

“Go ahead, honey.”

“MacIan?!”

“What happened?”

“After you left, I gathered all the files and names and anything I thought might help us find Tuke. I started to search articles and news stories about him, on my computer. MacIan! This guy’s more than I ever thought. Not just a tech-weenie genius.”

The Commander gave MacIan an I-told-you-so smirk.

“The articles mentioned several dark-web sites where I thought I could find a lead. So I pulled up one with a forum for people who were developing things for The Massive.” She paused to take a breath. “All of a sudden, my whole computer system went down — the screen turned acid-green, then black, and it restarted. Rebooted from scratch. I thought the power had gone off, but all the clocks in the house were right. It was just my computer.”

Her trio of listeners hung on every word.

“They had control of everything. I couldn’t think. Then a message popped up, ‘This is the Tuke Massive. We know everything about you and your father. Our condolences.
We had nothing to do with his death.’

“I nearly peed my pants,” cried Camille.

“I like this girl,” mumbled Cassandra.

Camille continued, “There was a reply window, so I typed in > ‘What should I do?’

“An answer popped up, ‘Do nothing. We have business with your friend, MacIan.’”

MacIan looked shocked.

“They know everything,” said Camille. “And I didn’t know enough to put together even one simple question. I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. But I wasn’t afraid. They said to do nothing and that’s exactly what I was willing to do. But then, another message popped up, ‘Tell MacIan to look on the front seat of his Peregrine.’”

MacIan burst through the doors and bounded down the steps toward the loading dock, yelling, “Secure! Secure!” But the Peregrine did not respond. MacIan skidded to within ten feet of it and the cockpit dome opened, on its own, but the warning lights that would have normally flashed didn’t. The Commander rushed up from behind and he put his arm out to stop him. The Peregrine was now a hydrogen land-mine. MacIan approached to within an inch of the driver’s seat. He looked in and could see a shiny rectangular object sitting on the passenger’s seat. “It’s a computer.”

“Is it safe?”

MacIan took a deep breath, knowing how deadly the Peregrine was when protecting itself, then reached in and removed the computer. Nothing happened. He stepped back and suddenly the Peregrine went into secure mode; lights flashed, three beeps. It was back to normal and in his control.

MacIan showed the computer to the Commander, and said, “It’s safe — for now.”

“What’s happening?”

“Someone sent us a message.”

“What message?”

“They can take my Peregrine anytime they choose.”

“How can that be?”

“There’s an override protocol to retrieve a Peregrine if anything happens to its pilot. Only top command has access. They call it the Big Red Box. Maybe two or three people on the whole planet have their own Big Red Box.”

“Bad guys?”

“No. They’re friendly, but way up the NPF chain of command.”

“How do you get that?”

“This kind of shit only runs downhill. They gave the Peregrine back to me, and threw in a computer.”

MacIan and the Commander dashed back into the barracks and headed for the conference room. As they passed Cassandra, MacIan pointed at the phone.

Cassandra nodded.

“Camille?” said MacIan.

“Yes.”

“They dropped off a computer. As soon as we have a look at it, I’ll call you back. OK?”

“Don’t make me wait.”

“Never.”

He hung up, trotted after the Commander, and, looking back at Cassandra, said, “You coming?”

* * *

M
acIan and Commander Konopasek
rushed into the conference room a step ahead of Cassandra, but she shoved her way to the head of the table, motioning for MacIan to hand over the laptop. “Gently,” she said. The Commander sat next to her, seconding the motion. MacIan slid the computer to her and watched over their shoulders.

The blank screen fluttered into the back of a man’s head and noisy office chatter filled the conference room. The head spun around and a kindly face greeted them. “Oh, there you are,” he said, adjusting himself in the frame.

The Commander’s chin nearly hit the table. “Levi Tuke?”

“Yes, sir. Commander Konopasek.” Tuke had the doughy demeanor of most techies and the buoyancy of most billionaires, but he sounded like a man with far too much on his mind.

The Commander gasped. “You know me?”

“I’ll never forgive you!” he said, with a playful glint in his eye.

The Commander’s eyes narrowed.

“You destroyed my sister in the tenth grade spelling bee. You look just the same.”

“He is a good speller,” Cassandra admitted.

MacIan winced as the Commander suddenly answered a question no one had asked. “I’m OK. You?”

Tuke shifted from kindly to concerned. “You should be worried. Very worried.”

“I’m worried about my Peregrine,” said MacIan.

“Trooper MacIan. I’m on your side. I have several of my own.”

“Do you have a Big Red Box?”

Tuke aimed a dismissive grin at MacIan, and continued, “Unfortunately, we’ve come to the turning point a little sooner than we’d predicted. Things are moving quickly. So I’ll be brief.”

Someone yelled, “That’ll be the day,” and the room erupted in laughter. Tuke laughed, too. “A revolution is upon us. It brings the potential for paradise. The paradise you all know in your heart of hearts we can build. You know it’s doable.

“For decades, certain . . . people outside the walled cities have been making things out of sight, and out of the hands of the corporate state. Amazing things. Things that will make humans hundreds of times more productive. In the end, productivity is all that matters, if providing sufficiently for humanity is your goal. But! If these technologies fall into the hands of the corporate reptiles, all that productivity will be siphoned off for their extravagance. Unfortunately, these technologies cannot mature until they scale to a global dimension. Uncorrupted by big government and big business.”

“And what’s your part in all this?” asked MacIan.

“I’m a kind of gardener, I guess. I wish. A game-theory permaculturist. Focus on the soil, and everything else takes care of itself. But my game network morphed into a digital infrastructure for collaboration on a massive scale. The Massive has gone virtually unnoticed, because it started out as a gaming network. But now it crosses every border and runs all the way down into the deepest parts of the darkest webs. Billions of players. The largest single grouping of people on earth. Young, educated, vital people with a keen interest in the future, who are no longer willing to sit on the sidelines as it all goes for naught. They’re not interested in ideology. Just results, corrections, more results. People who grew up after the Eternal Debate, who’d rather try and fail than perpetuate a half-century stalemate.”

Cassandra laughed. “You just realized the game is rigged?”

“We’re gaming each other all the time, so the primary function of government should be making the game fair, but that would mean taking away that advantage — that distortion. A distortion that’s the cause of all our problems. A distortion that causes advantage to accumulate. Their phony representatives’ only function is to preserve that advantage. But now this top-heavy game is about to topple over. Allowing them to continue is suicidal.

“But! If they discover what we’re up to, or if we revert to violent tactics from their playbook, we’ll end up right back in their pockets. So! We must deploy before they sense a threat.”

“Too late,” said Commander Konopasek. “They’re looking for you. We have a case involving one of them.”

“Arthur Gager?” said Tuke.

“You know Gager?” asked MacIan.

“No. But I know he visited the Chinese Factory. You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah, I saw it,” said MacIan. “He tracked you to Lily.”

“Did he?” said Tuke. “That just goes to show you how foolish they are. I’m not worried about them finding me.”

“What do you worry about?” asked Cassandra.

“Variables.”

“Variables?”

“Variables. Wildcards.” He took a deep breath and exhaled with mild exasperation. “People like you.”