No Flesh Shall Be Spared (61 page)

He slowly looked around him, glancing over the headstones and foliage of the cemetery. God, this was a depressing place; a dark and lonely dumping ground for people who felt the need to warehouse their past. The idea of squandering good land and good resources just to remember people seemed downright stupid to him. Let the dead be dead and let them fade in the memory of the living in their own good time.

He laughed, deep and with resonance. These were macabre observations coming from a man who made his living dealing with the living dead. He’d seen too much life and too much death to think of it any other way.

The cemetery where he now stood was obviously old, most of its headstones dated back to the early Forties. Once manicured lawns now stood abandoned, its landscaping left to be choked by weeds and kudzu. A lot of the marble structures were blackened at their seams, mildew and rot patiently eating away at the expensive, polished stone. Monroe, who’d had no real family to speak of other than a girlfriend, did, as it turned out, have an aunt who had left him a deed to this burial property in her will. Its placement—in this cemetery, in this plot, in this manner of procurement—implied a grave that was soon to be forgotten. At any rate, it was a joke burying what was left of Monroe in a casket. With what remained, a Tupperware container would have sufficed.

If he allowed himself to think about it, Masterson was almost impressed by how Cleese had moved in such an unexpected direction. A direct frontal attack was not something Masterson thought he’d been capable of. It was a smart move. He supposed that Cleese would be heading his way next. It’s what Masterson would have done: minimize the liabilities, take out any competition. And that didn’t even take into account the whole revenge angle.

But then again, Masterson thought that Cleese just might give him a pass on this one, preferring to observe him from afar. He could all too easily imagine Cleese watching him spend the rest of his life in paranoid anticipation of the death he’d be dealt rather than simply just killing him and having done with it.

He’d want to fuck with him.

It’s exactly what he’d done that first day in the Orientation Room back at the Compound.

Which brought him back to Monroe. That stupid shit had pushed things way too far. He’d compromised them both by not being able to keep his fucking mouth shut. Wishing Cleese good luck… for chrissakes! He’d pushed Cleese and poked him and prodded him until the man had no choice but to react. And then there was that outburst at the Training Hall. He might as well have admitted to complicity in the whole mess. What an arrogant prick. He pretty much slapped a target on Cleese’s back and signed his goddamn name to it.

It was right after the initial meeting at Corporate, Monroe told him about deciding to give Cleese a clip of blanks during a match. He wanted to "step it up a notch." Masterson thought it was too risky and had too much potential for blowback, but Monroe was intent on showing Cleese who was in charge.

But it had been Weber who gave the go-ahead. He said it was a solid show of force and would "set the tone" of their relationship.

They all knew it would make great television.

After that, Cleese had been a wild man; totally unchained. He’d fought harder than ever and his ratings soared. Everyone should have been happy. They were all making a ton of money. Upper management and Mr. Weber had decided—with Monroe’s cheerleading—to throw yet another challenge at Cleese. For no other reason than to show him who was in the driver’s seat here.

Once and for all.

The results had been mind blowing. Ratings for that night’s match and the subsequent replays were astronomical. Merchandise revenue went through the roof. Hell, even some station affiliates that were starting to whine about the level of violence on the shows had fallen into line. Cleese had overnight become the most popular fighter The League had ever known.

It was all too perfect.

And then, in the same evening, Cleese up and disappeared.

The selfish bastard.

Masterson had by now arrived at his car, a sleek black Lexus LFA. The car had been a gift from Mr. Weber as a sort of reward for Cleese completing his training in record time. The car was low to the ground with a 4.8 liter, 552 horsepower V10 engine that would purr like a kitten or growl like a beast depending on the person behind the wheel. The car was magnificent.

Masterson hated the damn thing.

Every time he looked at it, all he could think of was Cleese.

And doing so always made his sphincter tighten.

He took a deep breath and looked at the cemetery around him as he dug in his pockets for his keys.

God… what a shithole.

Suddenly, his cell phone chirped in the left, breast pocket of his suit coat. Transferring his keys to his other hand, he reached into the folds of his jacket and retrieved the small black gadget. His finger slid across the front screen and the phone did the rest. He held the phone to his ear and stared across the bonnet of the Lexus.

"Masterson," he said.

Inside the earpiece, a familiar voice spoke, its tone sounding tinny through the small speaker.

"Masterson…? Weber."

Masterson stood a little taller, a result of years of standing at attention when a superior officer spoke. When he realized no one was around, he relaxed just a bit.

"Yes, Sir."

"I asked these fucking morons for an update on this Cleese thing and, well… these fuckers couldn’t find their asses in the dark with a flashlight and a map."

"Yes, Sir."

"So… what do you have for me?"

Masterson paused and thought. He hated having nothing to report, but… well, he had nothing to report. Cleese had, by all accounts, vanished off the face of the earth. His crib was empty. The dump he lived in back in San Francisco was a meth lab now. Hell, even Weaver claimed to not know where he’d disappeared to. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The money.

No one in the organization could explain how Cleese had managed to vaporize with the amount of money he did. There were supposed to be fail-safes to prevent that sort of thing. Once again, Cleese proved himself to be a lot smarter than anyone gave him credit for.

"Masterson?" the voice in his ear asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"The Cleese thing…"

"Well, Sir, we’re still looking into it. So far, there’s not much to go on."

The voice on the other end was silent for a long time. With each passing second, Masterson felt another bead of nervous sweat crawl down his back. To his surprise, Weber’s response was not the one he anticipated.

"Well, no matter… Given enough time and resources, we’ll find him."

"I apologize, Sir. I take full responsibility. This whole thing has been a bit of a bust, Sir."

"Nonsense! Have you
seen
the latest financials? Revenue is still climbing. Merch is as well. The Internet is buzzing and people are talking, man. I think Weber Industries can survive some errant bone-breaker walking off with some pocket change, don’t you?"

Pocket change? Masterson heard the sum Cleese had disappeared with was a lot more substantial than "pocket change." Rumor was… he could have bought himself a small country with what he’d taken.

"Yes, Sir, but… we did have losses."

"Well, sure… But anything worthwhile comes at a cost, now doesn’t it? And if that cost is an employee or two, well…" and he laughed under his breath, "those are acceptable losses. Look, if we gain this kind of revenue and are able to clean our yard of some troublesome debris, well…" another laugh. "Hell, that’s a win-win by my count."

"Yes, Sir."

"We’ll weather this, Masterson. We’ll live… and we’ll thrive. And soon enough, we’ll find that rat bastard and get my money back."

"Yes, Sir."

"Besides… I have a few new ideas I’m working on that’ll make this shit look like a Three Card Monte game. Some new shit, Son! A few new games to play…"

"Yes, Sir."

"Speaking of…"

"Sir?"

"I want you to hit the nearest airport… what is that," the sound of papers rustling could be heard over the speaker, "Chicago Rockford International?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Ok, we’ll set up travel. Just get there as quick as you can."

"My car, Sir…"

"We'll send someone for it… or fuck it! We’ll buy you another one. I just need you on a plane to Tampa ASAP. The choppers are all committed to something else."

"May I ask, Sir…"

Weber sounded as if he’d already moved on to the next item on his "To Do List."

"There’s a new fighter I want you to retrieve. Ball of fucking fury, from what I hear. Then again, I also hear he’s as smart as a fuckin’ stump, so… he’s perfect!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Ok… we’re done. Call me when you have this guy. Geddit?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good!" and the phone went silent in his hand.

Masterson shut the phone off and slid it back into his pocket.

Damn… here we go again.

He turned back toward the Lexus and ran his hand over its painted surface. Once again, the vehicle brought up memories he’d have rather left alone. And even though Mr. Weber didn’t seem overly concerned, Masterson knew he’d not feel totally relaxed until he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cleese had been contained.

He just hated loose ends like that.

A cold chill abruptly slithered down his spine and gooseflesh migrated across his forearms. Despite himself, he took one more cautious glance around, first to the left and then to the right. All the while, his eyes kept scanning the area just in case. It would be just his luck that Cleese wasn’t gone for good and had instead decided that some Amateur Hour assassin-esque shenanigans were in order. He slowly scanned the grounds and surrounding foliage of the cemetery, its headstones jutting up from the ground like severed thumbs.

It
seemed
all clear. But in the end, who could tell?

Masterson laughed under his breath.

Motherfucker.

It suddenly dawned on him just how vulnerable he was standing out here, not to mention in his everyday life. He knew how easily any person—shit, even a President or his brother—could be gotten to. Cleese had proven that once already.

Having watched Cleese in the pit for some time now, he had a pretty good idea of what was in the man’s repertoire; bold and unexpected surprises notwithstanding. As he thought about it, he was pretty certain that, if Cleese really wanted him dead, he would die regardless of any precautions he might take. Masterson had seen that fact clearly in the other man’s eyes that day when he tossed Monroe into the pit. Cleese was like a shark in that respect. Once he’d locked in on his target, nothing and no one could get in the way of his objective. It was the very reason that he’d been chosen for the League to begin with: the ability to kill, without remorse and without hesitation, and to not stop until the target was terminated.

So, what the fuck? Why worry, right?

Right?

Masterson reached down and dug his keys out of his pocket.

He silently wondered whether or not he’d see it coming when the time came.

Monroe hadn’t.

As he slid his key into the car door’s handle, he tried to imagine how it would go down.

A rigged door lock?

He cautiously turned the key in the lock.

Trigger switch on a door hinge?

With a pull, he opened the car door.

Pressure trigger-switch that would go off when weight was applied to the seat?

He slid into the car’s seat and put both hands on the wheel.

Poisoned food?

He glanced over at a crumpled fast-food bag containing a half-eaten burger and a rapidly chilling order of fries sitting on the floorboard.

A cut brake line?

He pushed once, then twice, on the brake pedal.

A bomb wired to the starter?

He slid his key into the car’s ignition.

So many ways to die.

Masterson hesitated a moment and looked around. Still all clear. Not a soul to be seen. The place was silent except for the far off singing of birds and the gentle swishing of the trees in the breeze. He was alone in this City of The Dead. He smiled slightly as he felt icy fingers of dread run up and down the back of his neck, dancing there like cold regret.

He shivered, despite himself, and abruptly chuckled under his breath.

He looked back in the direction of Monroe’s grave and slowly turned the key.

Far off across the cemetery’s fields, under an old bent walnut tree, a silhouette sat as if meditating atop a black Suzuki GSX1300R motorcycle. The man and his machine were hidden from view within the shadows and the both of them watched the man in the tailored suit as he talked on his cell phone before climbing hesitantly into his automobile.

The figure in the shadows absentmindedly scratched at the curve of his jaw line and then leaned upright. With a flick of a switch, the bike’s ignition caught and the engine roared to life. The rider zipped up his jacket and pulled a small, silver MP3 player from his pocket. He slid the headphone buds into his ears and pulled a full face helmet over his head. Looking down, he scrolled through the tracks on the player until he saw what he was looking for; a little something for the road. He hit "Play" and tucked the small square of metal back into his pocket.

In the small earpieces, a dulcimer played soft and rhythmically within the confines of his head. A woman’s plaintive voice cried out and a synthesizer wailed mournfully. Electronic drums thrummed a low rhythm which seemed to perfectly match the vibration of The Busa beneath him.

~ * ~

I walk with phantoms and leaves are burning at my feet.

I walk with phantoms.

Sometimes they rage

Sometimes they fade.

Some must watch while some are

Singing the hum of the walking dead.

~ * ~