Henchmen (18 page)

“Club members,” Jacob interrupts.

“Right, club members,” I say, rolling my eyes.  “The club members opened up on the ATF.  It was like the Wild West for about thirty seconds.  When the dust settled I looked up and it was just me, Eve, and Jacob in an empty field full of dead guys and guns.”

“That’s so cute,” Jessica says, needling Jacob.  “You guys took home a stray.”

“He thought we were in on it at first,” I say.

“He’s a hell of a scrapper,” Jacob says, slapping me on the back again.

“You guys got in a fight?” Jessica asks.  “You seem so close now.”

“It’s a man thing, baby,” Jacob says.

“We got in a fight,” I say.

“Okay,” Jessica says, “I’ll bite.  Who won?”

Jacob and I look at each other, wondering how to respond.  It wasn’t a clear-cut fight.

“I dropped him with a punch,” Jacob says holding up a big, meaty fist, “but he got right back up and kicked the ever loving shit out of me.”

“I got a minor concussion, he got a few bruised ribs and a hyper-extended elbow,” I say.

“It took a while,” Eve says, “but we finally convinced the big lug we weren’t responsible.”

“What happened then?” Jessica asks.

“We loaded up the guns and the money and got the hell out of there before more agents showed up,” Eve says.

“Got to meet Frank and Jean later that night.  I’m sorry about Jean, man, I gave you guys shit, but I loved him like a brother,” Jacob says.  “We’ve all been together ever since.”

Frank pats Jacob’s shoulder and whispers a quiet “Thanks.”

Jessica’s face softens and she says, “I’m sorry, too.  At least we got the bastard responsible.”

“He was a bastard,” I say.

“Where’d Eve find you, Frank?” Jessica asks.

“He and Jean took out an ad in
The Alibi
, it’s a local college paper, advertising their skills.  Everyone thought it was a joke, but it turned out it wasn’t,” Eve says.

“An ad?” Jessica asks.

“Hack computers and buildings, will travel, legality not a problem,” Frank says wistfully. “We thought we were Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Which one of you was Clyde?” Jacob asks with a grin.

Frank shoots him a look, but smiles.  “Ain’t tellin’,” he says.

“I sent them an email and we met up.  I needed some skilled infiltrators,” Eve says.  “The rest, as they say, is history.”

We spend the rest of the evening chatting and joking.  Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.

Downtown Albuquerque is like any other downtown in any other city at rush hour.  It’s full of important people doing important things.  It’s also full of randomly placed one-way streets.  I always forget if it’s the even numbered streets that go north, or the odd numbered ones, so I’m almost always late.  Plus, I never carry cash, so parking is a pain in the ass. 

At any rate, I’m late finding parking, but still have the hustle of youth, so I manage to get a coffee before I need to get to work.

I’ve got on a cheap-ass black polyester suit, a gray shirt and a maroon tie.  I’ve also got a shoulder bag full of random shit, a vest made from Anodyne’s finest weave under the shirt, a sawed-off shotgun under my jacket, and a really dope pair of shades.

One of my first job interviews when I moved to Albuquerque was a job I found in the back of
The Alibi
.  Actually, I found two numbers that I called.  One was to be a phone psychic.  I figured I could lie to people about the future as well as anyone else, but the job required I take a class for $400 or something like that, so I nixed that.

I called the other number, for a company that said they were looking for managers.  Here I am, fresh out of college thinking I can be a manager.  Turned out the job was to wander around to various businesses and try to sell them random crap: kids’ books, stuffed animals, pencils with motivational messages on them, stuff like that.  I would be a manager of myself.  I rolled out with a guy who was one of the more-experienced salesmen, meaning he’d been there for 6 months, and we hit every office park down Carlisle and sold absolutely nothing. I left for lunch, and never went back.

I guess I wasn’t cut out for management.

Point being, these random door-to-door sales guys are commonplace around here.  They all wear cheap suits because they want to look professional, even though they have no money. They all carry shoulder bags filled with an assortment of things no one wants, and they all try to go into places where no one wants them to be.  It’s perfect cover.

It’s 9:15 am when I get into the Simms building. I miss Jessica going in, but catch her coming out.  She’s wearing the same dress she was last night at the bar, but now it’s wrinkled and her legs are bare. Her hair is less-than-perfect.  She looks like she’s doing the walk of shame.

“You’re late,” she says when she sees me outside.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say.

“I see you had time to get a coffee,” She tells me, her hand out.  I hand her the coffee.  She takes a sip and wrinkles her nose.  “Jesus.  Next time get some coffee with your cream and sugar.”

“I like my coffee to taste like coffee candy,” I tell her.  It’s true.  “How’d it go in there?”

“That Robinson guy is a serious nightmare of a boss.  He glared at me the whole time, and he looked like I had offered him a dead rat when I tried to give him a cup of coffee.  He actually told me to get ‘the poison’ away from him.”

“’The poison’?” I ask.  “Think he knew what was in it?”

“It didn’t seem like it, he just pushed the cup away, but didn’t warn the other guys to not drink it.”

“Did Brance buy the story?”

“He was in seventh heaven.  He was about to shout it from the rooftops that he fucked me last night,” she says.  “He actually tried to give me a kiss when I left.”

“Is he a good kisser?”

“I gave him the head turn just before he could plant one,” she says.  “I don’t think his buddy Mills will need the coffee.  He looked like he was about to have a heart attack.”

“He is, or something just as bad.”

“Well, yeah.  I guess so.”

“Did they both drink some?” I ask her.

“Yeah, both of them took a sip before I left.  Neither acted like anything was off.  Do you have my shoes?”

I pull her Vans out of my bag and hand them to her.  She leans on me and switches her heels out for more comfortable shoes.

“Oh, God.  That’s much better,” she says.

“I’d better get in there.  Eve’s in the café.  Jacob’s across the street and Frank’s been looping around the block,” I say.

She takes her necklace off and hands it to me.  “I found this in my dad’s box.  I don’t know what it is, but maybe it’ll bring you luck.”

She hands me a necklace on a silver chain.  Dangling off the chain is a longish charm that doesn’t quiet look like it belongs on a necklace.  The pendant is about six inches long and painted bright red.  It’s got a rounded top that she’s attached the chain to, and the top tapers down a point, almost like a blunt dagger.  I put it around my neck and loosen my tie to drop it under my shirt.

“Thanks.  I’ll get this back to you.”

“Good luck,” she says.  “See you soon.”

She looks nervous for a moment, fidgeting with her hands and shuffling her feet.  Without a warning she reaches up, gives me a kiss on the cheek and disappears without saying a word.  Between the necklace and the kiss, I decide there’s no way this operation can go South on me.

And with that, I walk into the Simms Building.

The Simms building is its usual beehive of activity.  There are a bunch of offices in this building, most of them full of people doing normal things like processing insurance claims and selling packing supplies, and everyone starts at the same time.

Of course,
saying
you’re starting at 9am doesn’t necessarily mean you’re
actually
starting at 9am.  New Mexico is the land of
mañana
and promptness just doesn’t exist here.

I keep my eyes open for anything out of the ordinary and weave my way through the foot traffic.  Most people are in real suits while others are in jeans and T-shirts.  Everyone recognizes my uniform, though, and they go out of their way to avoid making eye contact for fear I’ll try to sell them something.  One guy bumps into me, probably on purpose, and gives me his best “bring it” face when I turn to see what was up.  I don’t have the time or the inclination to deal with him, so I mutter a “sorry,” and keep moving.

I hear him say, “Fag,” as I walk away shaking my head.

To make things look right, I go into a few of the open places on the first floor and half-heartedly try to sell the poor people inside a book or a pencil or something.  Each of them gets that
look
as soon as I walk in the door.  It’s the look that everyone gives salesmen, homeless crazies, and political canvassers; the look of horror that something less than human has walked in and must be dealt with.

I actually did manage to sell a copy of “Goodnight Moon” so maybe I have a bright future in sales ahead of me.

It takes about ten minutes, but I finally make it around the door that I’ve been subconsciously avoiding.  The lobby is clearing out as people finally decide to get to work and the door lurks in front of me like a gray monolith.  Once I step through it, there’s no coming back.

I take a beat to catch my senses and get into the right headspace, and open the door.

Inside it looks like every other government office I’ve ever been in.  There’s an American flag in the back of the office on the right, a New Mexico flag on the left, and pictures of the current President and Vice President on the walls.  There must be a million of those pictures printed up every four-to-eight years.  You know how Election Day is always the day after the first Monday in November, but the President doesn’t take office until January 20?  I think that’s because they need the time to print all the pictures for all the government offices.

Brance is on the left, decked out in his black BDUs and vest. Mills is on the right, dressed exactly the same way.  Robinson is at his desk in the middle of the room, right behind a mural of the US Seal on the floor.

“We’re not interested in anything you have,” Robinson says by way of introduction.  Mills and Brance both glare at me.  There must be a school security guards go to that teaches them the “cop face”: the expression they get when they talk to anyone in anything even remotely approaching an official capacity. 

Robinson has mastered the “you’re completely beneath contempt” expression that officials of all stripes seem to perfect over time.  He’s wearing a dark suit with a dark tie, and he’s moved his coffee to the extreme corner of his desk to get it away from him like it was some kind of poison.  I know it’s Starbucks, but it’s not poison.  Well, I guess it is poison, but he doesn’t know that.  Some people are so hard to please.

“Well,” I say, getting all into sales mode, “let’s not rush to conclusions.  You have kids?  I have books for kids you wouldn’t believe.”

Brance peers at me.  “Hey, didn’t I kick your ass last night?”

The hell you did, dumbass.

“Sorry, man, I’d had one too many drinks, I was way out of line,” I say.

“Dumbass.”

He’s holding an H&K MP5SD, a common submachine gun that various military groups use.  It’s the suppressed variant of the standard H&K MP5.  He has a Taser strapped to his waist, and a bullet-proof vest on, so it’s probably not a great idea to antagonize him.

“Whoah,” I say.  “Is that a machine gun?”

“It’s an assault rifle,” he says derisively.

Actually, it’s a submachine gun, but we don’t need to debate technicalities right now.

“That is cool, man.  Where can I get one?  It’d be great for home defense, am I right?”

“These are not for civilians,” he tells me.  “And I doubt you could handle it anyway.”

Just in case you’re wondering, the MP5 is actually a very well-behaved weapon.  Almost anyone can pick it up and find it relatively easy to fire.

“It is time for you to leave,” Robinson says.

Jesus, when is that drug going to kick in?  I hate making small talk.

“No, wait.  I have got to show you some of this,” I tell him, walking over to his desk.  I start pulling things out of the bag and setting them on his desk.

“This book,” I say, pulling out a copy of some kids’ book.  “Kids love this book.”

I keep pulling things out: a cheap-ass MP3 player, a teddy bear, a calendar with Studs of the Year, an Asia CD, an extremely low-end tablet computer that may or may not work, a pair of fake Oakley sunglasses that look like the real thing.  Each thing I pull out, I drop on his desk and with each new thing Robinson scoots back a bit further. 

Clean freaks are so easy to push around.

The phone is on the left and the button is right in the middle.  I’m trying to put things between him and the phone and button, and so far it’s working.  I pull out a 32oz tumbler, and manage to push the button off the desk.

Brance and Mills are starting to look glassy-eyed.  Thank God.

“Look at this.  Every office needs pencils, right?” I say pulling out some sparkly pencils.  “There is no reason a pencil can’t be fun, right?  Sparkly, man, they’re great.”

Robinson finally holds up his hand.  “Something is not right, here.”

“No, it’s cool.  They’re supposed to sparkle,” I say, “Look, I’ve just got a couple more things here.  C’mon, man, you’ve got to find something interesting in here.  Please, if I don’t make a sale today I’m gonna get canned.”

Robinson shakes his head.  “First that girl comes in and brings him coffee,” he says, pointing at Brance.  “Now, you’re here.  Not one single soul except the three of us has been here in years, and now we have two visitors in one day.  What is going on here?”

Remember how I said security is a human issue, and most humans don’t understand or care enough to maintain the security protocols as they’ve been laid out?  It’s because most people can’t think their way through the problem.  Unfortunately, every now and then you come across someone who takes it seriously, and can think through the situation.  Deceive, inveigle and obfuscate, I guess; there’s no backing down now.

“What’s going on is you are missing out on some seriously good stuff!  Look.  Seriously, what do I have to do here to get you to buy something?” I look over at Mills who’s swaying slightly.  Brance is about to fall.  Once they go down, Robinson will know something is up and that will be bad.

“All right, I get it,” I say.  “You don’t want to deal here, I get it.  Look.  My company just got us some cards, so if you ever, and I mean ever, want anything, you call me and I’ll get it.”  I make like I’m patting my pockets, looking for business cards that I don’t have. 

Well, I have one, but it says “World’s Best Lover” and I don’t often give it out. 

As I reach down with my right hand to look in my back pocket, I nod toward Brance.  “What’s going on with that guy?”

Robinson calmly looks over at Brance and says completely nonplussed, “It appears he is dying.  Pity, I hate having to find security guards.”  As he glances over, I pull the sawed-off shotgun out and point it at his head.

The right barrel is loaded with a Dragon Breath shell, and the left is loaded with a flechette shell.  Honestly, until I started hanging around Jacob I had no idea there were so many different, fun kinds of ammunition you could get for shotguns.  Not long ago we both got crazy and decided to see what we could shoot out of his Mossberg 12 gauge.  Silly putty worked remarkably well.

Modern double-barrel shotguns, or “doubles” as the cool kids call them, don’t use the old-fashioned dual trigger model anymore.  They’ve switched over to single selective triggers that can be manual or automatic -  meaning you pull the trigger once, and one barrel fires; pull it again and the other barrel fires.  Mine is set to fire the Dragon Breath round first, followed by the flechette round. 

I also have two extra rounds for each in my coat pockets.  Dragon Breath in the right pocket, flechette in the left.  I can remember this by thinking “Fire sets things right, and flechettes leave nothing left.”  It’s important make things as simple as possible to remember, because when you’re in the middle of a stressful situation your mind turns to mush.  The less thinking you have to do, the better off you are.

Robinson glances at the shotgun pointed at him, looks at me, and smiles.  When someone smiles at you when you’ve got a double barreled shotgun pointed at their face, it sends a chill down your spine.

This is that moment where I should say something witty, but nothing comes to mind and, frankly, I don’t have anything to say to this guy so I just pull the trigger.

And a tiny burst of flame comes out the right barrel, followed by a puff of smoke right out of a cartoon.

No plan ever survives contact with the enemy.

I pull the trigger again and this time it works.  The sound of the 12 gauge flechette round going off in this tiny room is deafening.  Thankfully the door is shut.

Robinson, still sitting in his chair rolls halfway across the room, spinning the whole way.  He’s still spinning when the chair stops rolling.

“Goddamned right!” I yell before I notice the chair is still spinning around toward me.  As it spins back to face me I see Robinson still looking at me.  His tie is shredded and the front of his shirt is torn.  He calmly brushes the tiny daggers from his face and shirt and glares at me.

His arms and legs bulge and rip through his shirt and pants then split into tentacles.  His face distorts into something not quite human, almost like an alien trying to imitate a human when it’s only read about us in books.  The face continues to change and winds up monstrous.  Its huge eyes are bright orange, the color of traffic cones, and have sideways slits splitting them.  Its skin is a deep rubbery green and smooth as latex.  When the Robinson-thing smiles it has a mouthful of needle teeth all pointing different directions.  In the past few seconds he’s grown, and I’m now staring up at a ten-foot-tall monstrosity with eyes like dinner plates and waving tentacles.

The day started out so well, too.

He slams a tentacle into me and the gun slides across the room, and I go sliding after it.  I feel like I just got hit with 400 pounds of pissed-off calamari.  Before he can completely clobber me, I roll out and get my feet under me, and pull a shiny Japanese blade from inside my coat.

First rule of fighting: never go for the gun.  I don’t know why this is so difficult, since we see it all the time in movies.  How many times have you seen the protagonist go after the gun, only to have the bad guy pummel the hell out of them?  It always happens: you go for the gun, you get clobbered.  Besides, the gun’s empty and I’ve got the only shells in my pockets.  Dragon Breath in the right, more flechettes in the left.  Now I’ve just got to get past Ugly with the tentacles, grab the gun, reload it and hope to hell the next round is not a dud.

Against - well, whatever the hell this thing is - a knife is small comfort, but it’s better than nothing.  Big ugly swings a tentacle at me and rather than backing away or trying to block it, I duck under the swing, move in and slash at what would be a rib cage on a human.  On the way back I follow with a slash at the base of the tentacle.  Cutting the skin on his side is like trying cut tires with a butter knife, but the slash at the base of his tentacle (tentacle pit?) cuts deep.  His rubbery skin gives way, and some dark green viscous liquid spews out.  He shrieks and smacks me with another tentacle that I didn’t even see coming.  I slide on my butt across the floor, and he wraps tentacle around his wound.

It’s always best to press the initiative, so I shake the cobwebs from my head and get up and try to close the gap without getting swatted again.  We’re both leery of each other now.  I know he can hit me at will, and he knows I can hurt him.  He’s stronger, though, and I’m not looking forward to what will probably become a long fight.