Rath's Gambit (The Janus Group Book 2) (9 page)

Rath dropped his Forge on the narrow bed, and heard the mattress squeak as it took the weight. He debated showering, but decided against it – the motel’s hot water would likely run out again anyway. He pulled the thin curtains closed and then sat at the desk, taking out the battered datascroll he had rented from the front desk.

Once online, he ran another search for Beauceron, and spent some time poring over the results list, but it was the same list of articles he had already read. He tried the social media sites again, trying different variants of the detective’s name, but came up empty.

If I was still in the Group, I’d have an Intel Brief that told me everything down to his favorite brand of shoes. But all I have is his name, and the man’s a god damn ghost online.

Rath sighed and closed the search tabs, opening a dating website called
ScapaMeetUp
instead. He logged in, and skimmed his dashboard, then sat up straighter.

Jaymy’s online.

He had discovered her profile several weeks before, using a fake profile of his own, but hadn’t yet mustered the courage to message her. He opened a chat window and then leaned back, screwing his eyes shut in concentration.

He typed
Hi
, and then sent the message before he could change his mind.

He looked at the screen and scowled.
Great opening, moron.

A reply appeared on the screen.

Hi.

Before he could respond, another message appeared:
I like your profile. But I have to confess, I just got out of something serious, so I’m not really sure I’m up for anything yet.

Rath wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
That’s okay,
he typed.
I’m off-planet on business for a while, anyway. Let’s just chat and get to know each other.

Okay. What’s your business?
she asked.

Sales. Boring stuff,
he sent.

Rath shook his head.
And I’m already lying to her, again.

I miss you,
Rath typed, and then deleted it immediately.

Jaymy sent another message.

This is going to seem like I’m brushing you off, but I have to run and take care of something. Message me again sometime?

Rath typed quickly.
Sure! Look forward to it.

Bye.

Her status indicator switched to offline, and Rath signed out, too.

Enough procrastinating. Only one option left to find Beauceron.

He navigated to C4ble’s personal website and downloaded an encryption key, then booted up a chat program. Rath watched as code ran for several seconds, the program listing its operations with dizzying speed. Then a blank cursor appeared, flashing. Rath’s fingers danced across the datascroll.

We collaborated last year on a project involving a medical company. I need your help again.

The response appeared in seconds.

Confirm you are who you say you are.

Rath drummed his fingers on the desk for a second, closing his eyes to recall the details of the Suspensys mission. The expense report came up in his mind.

Things didn’t work out as planned, and I had to take care of it myself. Your invoice came to $155,000, for software and services rendered.

Good enough. So you got another assignment you need help on?

Rath bit the inside of his lip.
Yes. Need to locate a cop on Alberon, has no online presence that I can find, just have his name. Can you do it?

If he has a phone registered in his name, I can pin him down to within three feet of his current location. $50,000.

Rath winced and typed his reply.
I don’t have an expense account this time. Fees negotiable?

Fees are fees – no loyalty discount for repeat buyers.

Rath sat back in the chair, thinking. After a minute, he leaned forward again to type.
How about an IOU?

LOL. Oh, wait: you were being serious?

I owe you one kill, free of charge, no questions asked. Approximate market value: two to five million dollars, depending on complexity of assignment.
Rath hit
Enter
and watched the screen. The cursor blinked silently.

… done. Send me the name.

* * *

Rath slept fitfully, and rose early to check the datascroll. According to the tracking information C4ble had sent him, Beauceron was still in his apartment. But after nearly an hour, Rath saw his location change – the detective was on the move. Rath linked the location feed to his heads-up display and then dressed hurriedly, pulling on his Forge before leaving the motel. At street level, he walked several blocks to an air bus terminal, and waited with a growing group of commuters until the right bus appeared. He stepped on when it arrived, and casually took note of the other passengers that boarded with him.

Beauceron’s location was still changing rapidly, and Rath surmised that he was on a vehicle himself – likely his own private air car, given the direct route he followed. Rath’s air bus was headed in roughly the same direction, but after nearly fifteen minutes, the detective’s progress slowed dramatically.

He’s on foot.

Rath reviewed the Alberon transit map in his heads-up display, and switched to a different bus at the next stop. Three other commuters got off at the same stop, and one boarded Rath’s new bus, as well. Rath studied the woman’s reflection discreetly in the window glass of the bus.

Are you a commuter, a cop … or a contractor?

At the next stop, Rath exited at the front of the bus, and watched in his peripheral vision as the woman stepped through the rear doors, too. Rath looked around, confused, and then hurriedly climbed back on the bus, smiling sheepishly at the other commuters, as if he had mistaken where he was. When he glanced back along the bus, he saw the woman was back on board, too.

Well, that rules out commuter. Shit.

Rath sorted through his memories, thinking back to his visit to the police station the day before. He recalled the faces of the police officers he had seen around the station, one by one. Their faces moved through his mind like a slideshow of portraits until he found her.

So you’re a cop. And a sneaky one – following me from the station, and through an identity change, too. But did the cops send you … or did the Group send you?

The majority of passengers disembarked at the next stop, and Rath followed suit. The streets were becoming crowded, as workers made their way into office buildings for the morning. Rath let the flow of foot traffic sweep him along. In his jacket pocket, his hand wrapped around an EMP grenade he had built for emergencies. As he approached a crowded corner, Rath triggered the grenade, then picked up his pace, jogging around the corner and out of sight of the woman following him. He stopped abruptly, leaning against the wall of the building as if ill, and rapidly transformed himself. He aged several decades, shortened and greyed his hair, and lightened his skin tone dramatically. He saw several passersby shoot him worried looks, but he ignored them. He slipped off his Forge, letting it dangle from one hand, tossed his jacket aside, and turned back in the direction he had come, joining the moving throng just as the female cop rounded the corner and stopped.

Rath saw her eyes scanning the crowd as he approached – they fell on him for a second, and then moved on. She was still searching the street uncertainly when he brushed past her and continued back around the corner. 

9

Beauceron slid into the booth, adjusting his sport coat and then taking several minutes to read over the diner’s menu, though he knew it well enough. When the waitress stopped at his table, he ordered juice and cereal, and then took out his datascroll. He pulled up the local newspaper, and briefly considered checking the jobs in the
Classified
section, before turning instead to the crime blotter, as he usually did.

He was halfway through a raisin bran muffin when a man came into the diner. Beauceron ignored him at first, but instead of taking a seat, the man scanned the room for several seconds, then made eye contact with him. Beauceron turned back to his datascroll, and flipped through another page of reports.

“Mind if I join you?”

Beauceron looked up – the man was pointing to the seat across from him. There was something very familiar about him. Beauceron realized that he recognized him, but he couldn’t place him. The man didn’t wait for a response, but instead sat, placing his pack on the seat next to him.

“Do I know you?” Beauceron asked.

“We’ve met,” the man nodded. “A few weeks ago, in fact. But it was just briefly.” The man pushed his sleeves up, and Beauceron caught sight of a grey bracelet on his left wrist. A cold shiver ran down Beauceron’s spine. He had turned his service weapon in when they forced him to resign, and though he had never really liked carrying the pistol, he suddenly felt its absence acutely.

The man saw the expression on the detective’s face, and held his hands out to the sides, palms open. “Don’t worry, Detective Beauceron: I’m just here to talk.”

Beauceron cleared his throat. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

The man cocked his head to one side. “Contractor 621, for the past eleven years.”

“And before that?” Beauceron’s left arm was under the table; with great care, he reached into his pants pocket, slowly sliding his phone out.

“Before that I was nobody.” The waitress walked over, but 621 waved her away. “Please put your phone on the table where we can both see it.”

Beauceron complied, shooting the contractor a look.

“I have enhanced hearing. And you weren’t all that subtle about it.”

Beauceron kept his hand on the holophone. “Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

“Because I can help you take the Guild down, once and for all.”

“That’s the exact same lie you told to the Tactical Response Team, right before you nearly killed all of us. Corporal Kitchener is still in the hospital with a dislocated hip from being yanked out of the cab of your truck, I believe.”

The guildsman winced. “True. I imagine that was painful. But consider this: I could have simply killed him, and blown the truck up. I went to a lot of trouble to make sure all of you survived.”

Beauceron found himself surprised – despite the numerous times he had reviewed the event in his mind, he had not considered that aspect. “Why didn’t you kill us?”

621 shrugged. “Because I’m tired of killing. I’ve got enough innocent lives on my conscience as it is.”

Beauceron looked at his phone, then up at the contractor.

“You can make the call,” the assassin told him. “I won’t stop you. But I won’t be here when they get here, either. And you’ll lose your chance to take down the Guild.”

Beauceron’s eyes narrowed, his finger resting on the phone’s power button.

He’s been betrayed by his own organization, who kept the money they promised him, and then tried to kill him. He’s the subject of a galaxy-wide manhunt by the Interstellar Police, for the murder of Senator Reid. What could possibly bring him out of hiding, and seek me out? What’s his motive here?

“Why are you coming forward now? Why me?”

“I need your help. And I’m serious about taking down the Guild.”

“You want revenge.”

“Revenge would be nice,” 621 allowed. “But I’d settle for just getting them to leave me alone. They’ve tried to kill me twice already, and I doubt they’re going to stop. Dismantling the whole organization is the only way I can think of to do it.”

“So turn yourself in, go public with your story,” Beauceron suggested. “You’ll still be held accountable for your crimes, but you might be able to work out a deal in exchange for testifying against the Guild.”

The contractor shook his head. “No. I don’t have any evidence, and I don’t know who to trust. The minute I turn myself in or go to the media, the Guild will have a flood of contractors after me. Right now the only thing keeping me alive is a low profile. I have to neutralize the Guild first.”

“How?” Beauceron asked.

The man squirmed. “I don’t actually know. I escaped from the Guild because I was warned by another contractor, who had a plan for all of this. I was supposed to meet that person where we originally met, but … the contractor never showed up.”

“You want me to help you find them,” Beauceron guessed.

The other man nodded. “Yeah. With your resources and training, I thought we could find them together.”

“Resources?” Beauceron shook his head. “They fired me. I’m not a detective anymore.”

“Oh.”

Beauceron swirled the juice in his glass and then took a sip, eyeing the guildsman with distaste.

“I’m sorry,” 621 said. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

“Except Senator Reid.” Beauceron put his glass down. “I don’t want your pity.”

The contractor tried a different tack. “This could be your chance to get your badge back. I don’t care if you’re a cop anymore or not: you know how to find contractors. You caught one years ago, and nearly caught me, twice. If anyone can help me find another contractor, it’s you.”

“No,” Beauceron said. “I’m not in the business of aiding murderers.” He picked up the phone and activated it. The assassin caught Beauceron’s wrist in his hand, holding it over the table between them.

“Please,” he pleaded. “I can’t stay off the Guild’s radar much longer. Either the police will catch me, or the Guild will, and either way, I’ll end up dead.”

“It’s no more than you deserve,” Beauceron told him.

“I know.” The contractor sighed. “Believe me, I know. They train us well – thousands of simulated kills. But your brain knows it’s not real, you know? I think it’s the smell – the smells in the simulator aren’t very realistic. And then you kill someone in real life, and you smell their bad breath, or the gunpowder, or the sweat on the back of their neck … and it’s real. I can see their faces, every single one I killed. When they were alive, and how they looked … after. What they said to me, what I did to them.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to see them anymore. I don’t want to remember. I’ve thought about killing myself, many times. I came very close, once.”