Embracing the Shadows (15 page)

It was all a matter of going with the best
option. Gwen had the recognition software and could compare the
faces against anyone in her databanks. She also got info from a cop
once in a while, but there was no guarantee he/she could or would
use police technology just for her. Even if that did pan out,
having an FBI agent as a reliable contact would be pretty damn
handy anyway.

The last connected note from Viggo was a
short list of directives. Find the assholes (he called them
culprits). Subdue them by any means necessary. Make sure that at
least one of them survives my attack. Depending on location and
circumstance, I was to either bring them to Viggo or call him and
he'd come to me. He made it sound simple. Experience told me that
it hardly ever was.

I had plenty of time to kill. So, after a
workout and a drink, I decided to take care of my car issue. Per
Viggo's order, I left the Audi where I first saw it in Elmwood
Cemetery. A thunderstorm was moving in, so I jogged over to the
office/crematorium by the gate and waited under its awning for the
taxi I'd called. I didn't check the weather beforehand, and didn't
bring my umbrella. I'm a moron.

The rain was coming down in sheets by the
time I was dropped off a few blocks from the thunderdome. That was
twice that I stood in the rain fumbling with my keys while my cat
stared at me through the window, the asshole. After changing into
dry clothes, I took the Jeep out one last time.

Miss Loretta was outside watching the late
morning lightning show when I showed up. We talked from our
respective porches; I promised I'd mow my lawn when weather
permitted. I boxed some other personal shit to bring with me,
wanting to make the thunderdome feel more like mine - like
home.

TRAEGER

The name 'Traeger's Trading Post' made me
think of a quaint, western-style shop. That mental image was way
off the mark. Set out on the far side of one of the city's
southeastern suburbs, the building was the size of one of those
long cattle barns. There were two warehouses attached to the back
of the main building, forming a huge U. The parking lot out front
had plenty of room for customers. I parked close to a big iron gate
on one side of the lot, where I guessed larger items came and went
from the back. The place sat on an acre at least, and the back half
was surrounded by security fencing. Quaint, my ass.

Inside, everything was behind a counter that
bordered the interior of the long rectangular building. Like a
jewelry store, only as long as a football field. And when I said
everything, I meant everything. That place had it all. Trading
cards, guns, watches and rings, guitars, electronics, artwork,
tools, CDs and DVDs, toys, housewares . . . the list went on and
on. There were also touchscreens to see the images of the big items
like cars, motorcycles, tractors, boats, ATVs, mowers, appliances,
and furniture.

Everything from backhoes to butt-plugs, Traeg
had it. Yeah, he even had a backhoe. There's a joke in there
somewhere about backhoes and butt-plugs, but I'm not clever enough
to find it.

Traeg and I talked in his office, where I
told him about the Quinn incident before we moved on to a possible
car swap. When I explained my lack of info, he said, "So you don't
know who or where they are. Not yet, anyway. That sucks. Have you
got everything you need for every possibility?"

"Uh, I've got stealth gear, good weapons and
enough ammo. Is that what you mean?"

"Sort of, but I was really thinking more
along the lines of surveillance equipment. I've got some cool
gadgets. I could cut you a good deal, Leo."

I couldn't stop myself from grimacing. "Damn,
I don't know, Traeg. Even with the deal you'd make for me, those
kinds of toys are pricey. I'm not exactly rolling in the
dough."

"Alright, tell ya what, we can go with a
loaner option for now. Let's go look at some stuff I have in mind."
We went out to the sales floor, where he showed me some stuff that
would be pretty handy in general for the kind of work Viggo wanted
me to do. Traeg offered to let me borrow anything I wanted for a
small, non-refundable deposit. If I broke it, I bought it. If I
wanted to keep something, we'd work out a payment plan. Deal. I
chose night vision goggles and a powerful sound amplifier with a
small parabolic dish. Just to cover my bases, I bought an
expandable steel baton. Enter your phallic joke here.

As for cars to trade my Jeep for, Traeg
didn't have many to choose from. Then again, he knew a way to write
up the paperwork for any of them as a company car for ShadoWorks.
All I needed to provide was my fake ID. I couldn't get a better
offer than that.

At the far end of one of his warehouses, just
past a pontoon boat and some outboard motors, were the cars. The
first one in the row was a pimped out Cadillac Eldorado. Uh, no.
The next car surprised me: it was Shawn Riordan's IROC-Z. Again,
no; I liked the vibe of Glazefinger, but that didn't mean I wanted
to sit in it. Next was a BMW sedan. I thought Viggo would like me
choosing another German car, but, like the Audi, it was too nice.
Next to last was a '71 Plymouth Hemi Cuda; I bet the owner cried
letting that baby go. I always wanted a muscle car, but it wasn't
practical. And it was purple, for fuck's sake.

The last choice was the only sensible one.
The big blue Dodge Ram 1500 4x4 was less than five years old, not
too many miles on it, with only had a few dings and dents. It was a
regular cab, and had an attached matching blue camper shell. The
only flashy parts to it were the slightly oversized tires and
big-ass V8 engine. It was worth more than the Jeep, so Traeg
offered me a no-contract payment deal. For coming off as a
hard-nosed bastard, he was actually a really good guy.

Back in the office, Traeg offered me a drink
to conclude our deals. He was a rum man, so I just kept to my
flask. I asked him about the perks of working for Viggo for so
long. The first word Traeg could think of was "lucrative". He
mentioned how Viggo started coming in with rare coins, unstamped
bars of gold and silver, small antiques, and a steady supply of
fine jewelry. Our commander never haggled much; he just wanted cash
and was content with the going rates.

I hinted at the question of Traeg's physical
perks. "One thing's for sure," he said with a rare grin, "my dick
hasn't turned all big and ugly like some of those damn rats of his
have. Shawn worked for him the longest, at least around here; I
heard a rumor that Viggo's kept some minions around for a long,
long time. Anyway, Shawn was fast, fairly tough, and stronger than
he looked. That kid had skinny arms. I'm not quick, but I got
Viggo's tough skin. A few years back, some punk tried to rob me
with a crappy little revolver. I swung a tire iron, he let off a
round. He still talks with a stutter. I got a bruise on my
arm."

Laughing, I said, "You probably didn't need
the tire iron."

Traeg shrugged. "I might be a little stronger
than normal, but nothing to brag about. And I'm not shit compared
to our boss. I once saw him hit some other vamp with a car." Traeg
leaned forward in his chair to emphasize his point. "He wasn't in
the car - he swung it."

"A car . . . He beat up someone with a car.
You have got to be shitting me."

"I shit you not. That other vamp was a tough
mother; one of Viggo's punches put him down, but not out. When he
started to get back up, our boss grabbed a compact Toyota by its
tow hook and swatted him into the side of a building. I tell ya,
Leo, that wall looked like a Jackson Pollock mural with a body
smashed into it."

I'll admit it. When I got home that rainy
afternoon, I had to look up who Jackson Pollock was to know what
the hell Traeg was talking about.

COMPARISONS

"That's not the news I was hoping for, Gwen."
She'd finally me called back a few hours after I got home. Her cop
contact wasn't an option.

"What can I say, Leo? Does 'too damn bad'
work for you? He's a desk sergeant. He can't go waltzing off and
start playing with databases that most likely have restricted
access anyhow. Oh, and since it'd be for personal use, he'd be
lucky if they only fired him."

"Okay, I get it," I said with a sigh. "I
don't want you to abuse your friendship. If I knew his position or
rank or whatever, I wouldn't have put you in a bad spot. Sorry."
Just to lighten the mood, I playfully asked, "Who is this friend of
yours, anyway - a special fella?"

"That's none of your beeswax, mister. Look, I
can still run your faces through my ShadoWorks software. The
chances of getting a strong match in my system are slim, but it's
worth a shot, right? All that I ask in return for my handy programs
and awesome skills is that you have to tell me what you're working
on. I want every juicy detail."

I showed up at Gwen's place an hour later.
I'd already forwarded the videos and notes about Quinn Industries
to her, so all I brought with me was dinner. While we ate chicken,
I talked about Traeg and his pawn shop. Gwen turned on her facial
recognition shit and did a comparison run with the two terrorists.
The best choice it found for the guy was a 34% similarity match,
and a 21% match for the woman. We studied those comparisons. It
wasn't them.

Because it was a Friday and Gwen refused to
work weekends, we both had time to chill out and talk about all the
new stuff we had in common. The rain had let off, so I took her
outside to show off my new truck. "Huh," she grunted with a shake
of her head. "Big weapons and now a big truck . . . Exactly how
small is your penis?"

Glaring at her, I replied, "I'm also the
proud owner of a cat. Does that balance the testosterone
scales?"

"Depends," Gwen volleyed. "How big is
it?"

I opened my mouth to answer, and froze. I
wasn't going to win that one. Luckily, an incoming phone call saved
me. It was the ShadoWorks number. When I answered, all Viggo said
was to be available for the next evening, and to be ready for any
number of scenarios. He then told me he wanted to talk to Gwen. I'd
forgotten about that GPS tracker app in my phone.

By her answers, I could tell he was asking
about the two 'culprits' and the recognition software. She told him
the results, listened for a second, and then handed the phone back
to me. "Yes sir," I said.

"The disappointing outcome of Ms. Solomon's
search has altered my plans. I am making arrangements as we speak.
By dawn, there will be details of new duties in your Planner. I
will want you at your best tomorrow evening. Am I understood?"

"Yes sir." Basically, if I was drunk or hung
over the next night, I was in deep shit.

As I put my phone back in my pocket, Gwen
curiously asked, "Well . . . ?"

"Well . . . I guess I have the night off.
Something's going on tomorrow, but I'm not sure what. I might slip
you a clue if I figure it out."

"You're such a turd. Get outta here; go get a
good night's sleep. And you better give me an update."

"I'll make you a deal," I said as I climbed
up into my truck. "Tomorrow I'll tell you all the particulars, and
then you tell me all about your desk sergeant boyfriend." I pulled
out of Gwen's driveway with her still standing there, staring
daggers at my grin.

I fought the urge to stop in at Keegan's for
a drink or three . . . or seven. Hardly entertaining the slim
chance of Tanya wanting to churn some butter with me, I went
straight back to my place. I wasn't proud of my willpower. Hell, I
thought it was a lost opportunity to enjoy my freedom, but Viggo
had set his expectations. As well as my deep loyalty, there was the
fact that he could kill me with his pinky finger. I had all sorts
of incentives to follow his order.

By the time that I'd cleaned my guns, put in
a good workout, and scooped Thunder's neglected litter box, it was
late and I was exhausted. I crawled into bed after a shower,
wondering what was planned for the next night. I didn't wonder
long; I was out like a light in a few seconds.

As usual, I dreamt of Viggo. That night,
though, it was different. I was at one end of a long and roughly
carved stone hallway. It was lit from above by a string of bare
bulbs, which were powered by lazily hung extension cords. The
hallway walls were lined with dozens of thick wooden doors on both
sides, and all set closely together. I didn't see Viggo, but I
heard him speaking. The only words I remember were the ones he'd
said to me and Traeg not too long before. "I have always had a
tendency to hoard . . ."

AGENT

Following the day of rain, the next morning
was clear and relatively cool for mid-June. Too bad none of the
damn building's windows would open. I went ahead and did some
chores - a load of laundry, gave Phillip more supplies,
blah-blah-blah - before seeing what Viggo had in store for me.

In the Planner, the new message told me to be
at a given address at 10:00 that night. There weren't any details,
so I figured I'd bring nearly every weapon I owned. The heavily
armed Boy Scout, that's me.

While my PC was on, I browsed local news
headlines; stupid and ignorant are two different things, and I
couldn't afford to be both. Okay, so . . . The Royals won again.
There was more vandalism in another utility tunnel, this time under
a manufacturing complex. A big charity run was coming up. A leaking
gas line caused a house explosion. The mutilated body of a man was
dumped onto the lawn of the late Stanley Everett. The headlines
were basically: good, bad, good, bad, and holy shit.

Needing directions to the address Viggo gave,
I found out the place he wanted me to meet him at was in a suburban
strip mall. Not exactly dramatic or secluded, was it? I was
expecting something a little more clandestine than a vacant store
between a deli and a nail salon.

With an afternoon to burn, I found a
different barber for a high-and-tight haircut, ironed some slacks
and a shirt, and otherwise hung out with Thunder. Speaking of my
cat, I was getting nowhere with that Gift of Fauna thing. I didn't
want to let Viggo and Barnabus down, but it didn't look good.