Power Trip Page 10

  Things were beginning to solidify regarding this paid thug. The fact that he’d flown to Portland took away any doubt about his role in everything. So if we had solid evidence Richter had killed young Marty and/or was attempting to silence Kyra, then it was my job to take him out of the equation. And it’s not just because he’s a paid killer, because I’m a paid killer. You’re paying me every time you send in your 1040-EZ. No, it’s because Richter signed up to play for the wrong team.

  And don’t think I haven’t chewed on that little distinction many times. I don’t know shit about Richter other than a resume peppered with chaos and death. He might like the same football team I do, he might order the same pizza toppings I would, and he might even be married to a wonderful woman like I am. I think poetry is okay, but what if he comes home from cutting someone’s throat and reads Keats to his wife?

  What I’m saying, in my own tortured, convoluted way, is that to me it’s a very fine line between the guy who kills for an organization like LoGo and the guy who kills for a shadowy organization called Q2. We both took lives, and my mind often struggled to rationalize why my way was sanctioned and Richter’s way was not.

  Granted, my mind had been uploaded and downloaded enough times that there could be a shit-ton of corrupted files causing me to contemplate something the average person wouldn’t think twice about. He’s a bad guy, I’m a good guy, and we’re supposed to leave it at that.

  Wish I could. But this was part of that larger conversation I’ve attempted with Quanta. God yes, I enjoy my work and I’ve always been good at it. Don’t judge my abilities by the number of times someone has killed me. You have to get deep in there to even stand a chance of getting killed, for one thing. For another, we’re back to the video game analogy; if you know you have x-number of lives to play with, you tend to get aggressive.

  The thing is, as much as I embraced the work, it would be a lie to say I didn’t turn it over and over in my head. I’m fascinated by the split running between us, that tenuous line separating me from an asshole named Richter. One of these days I’ll reach a decision. That might be the day I walk away and just sit in the kitchen with Christina. Or it might be the day I double-down on assignments, anxious to truly save the world and rid it of scum buckets.

  I’d keep Richter on my mind long after this whole affair was over. Not in a guilt-riddled way, but more of a philosophical, meaning-seeking way.

  Right now the twins and other rodents of LoGo might suspect that someone was tracking their behavior. Take out their top brute, however, and they’ll know the jig is up. It’s not always a bad play, but it can also cause the rats to burrow a little deeper.

  And as cold and callous as it may sound, there are times in this job when you’re so driven to win the war that you allow yourself to at least consider sacrificing a battle here and there. In this case, Kyra. I’m not saying I’d willingly let Richter kill the poor girl, but we’re calculating bastards in our line of work and we do factor in those possibilities. When you play for the kind of stakes we do, you accept that in war there are casualties. Battles be damned, we want the overall victory.

  That sounds really cold. But throughout history, nations — every goddamned nation on the planet — has conveniently looked the other way in order to get what they want. Say it isn’t so and you’re sadly naive.

  I needed a good long walk after so much driving and flying, so I forced myself out of bed, pulled on a sweater over my shirt, and headed out. In the hallway I pressed against the wall to let a young couple pass with their two oversized suitcases. Closer to the stairs another of the hotel managers was talking with a heavyset man in room 222, apparently checking to see if he’d had the same water pressure issue that people on other floors were having. I hoped that wasn’t going to be a problem in my room. In fact, a pulse-pounding shower sounded good after my walk.

  In the stairwell a guy was actually smoking a joint and he cared not one iota about me seeing him do it. I gave a little wave to him, then pretended to cough as I passed. In the lobby a group of men, easily recognizable as professional conference attendees, were gathered near a TV watching an early and pointless college bowl game and arguing about whether so-and-so would make it as a pro. This hotel was busy as hell.

  It felt great to get outside and just walk. The night was pleasant with a clean smell to it, the perfect tonic for airing out my cluttered mind. A running trail looped around the back of some open space and after a few minutes it passed near a cluster of new townhomes under construction. I gazed at them as I walked by, wondering if that would someday be the kind of life Christina and I would share. Out of the big city, out of the high-rise lifestyle, and into a cozy little place with a patch of grass and some lawn chairs.

  Sometimes that sounded good. Settle down, cook out on the grill, quit getting killed. You know, like normal people. I might even buy a hybrid and a Costco membership. But another part of me knew it wasn’t likely. Somehow the suburban lifestyle, as much as I often envied it, wasn’t really me. I’d be more of an imposter than I am now. At least with my job I was an imposter to fool other people. Moving into a townhome in Beaverton — or anywhere with an Applebees and an HOA — would be me trying to fool myself. My mind, no matter how many times it’s been downloaded, has a built-in default that usually prevents that. I could never have a plaque in my kitchen that says Live, Laugh, Love.

  The funny thing is, I grew up in suburban, all-American neighborhoods. I rode a bike to school, had badass backpacks, and stopped at Baskin-Robbins three times a week. My mother’s plaque said Believe. For years that was my normal, until it was all blown to hell. Some people try to return to those comfortable roots. Others are too damaged, scarred to the point they dedicate the rest of their lives to avoiding anything resembling those early days.

  I think I’m in the latter camp, and only flirt with dreams of normalcy. Like that will somehow make up for a mangled history.

  After 30 minutes on the trail I found a different route back to the hotel. Along side streets, little houses were properly settled, most with two cars out front and the signature blue glow of televisions shining through curtains and blinds. I smelled the delicious aroma of something smoking on a grill.

  This time I didn’t daydream at all. The new townhomes and the tiny bungalows fell behind me in the cool night air, and so did the fantasies.

  I turned onto the main road and saw the hotel sign three blocks ahead. Tempted though I was by the Taco Bell, I walked past and finally strolled back into the hotel. Only two of the conventioneers remained at the TV while the others were now boisterously occupying the small lounge. I stopped at the water cooler near the front desk. There were little slices of pineapple floating in the water, which was just exotic enough for me.

  I filled a second cup and nodded a greeting to Michael from Tyler. He asked how my night was and I said fine, then added: “No water pressure trouble in 207, in case you’re still checking.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. So I explained. “You guys were checking on water pressure on the second floor. My room is okay. At least it was when I checked in.”

  “I didn’t know we had an issue with water pressure,” he said with his southern twang. “But I’ll make a note. Thank you, sir.”

  I shrugged and started to go for thirds on the pineapple water, then stopped.

  Holy shit. There was no way. Not possible.

  I dropped the plastic cup into the tiny waste bucket and bolted for the stairs. Taking them two at a time I pushed through the door on the 3rd floor and sprinted down the hall to 322.

  As I knocked a few times and fumbled for the key card in my pocket I heard the TV rumbling away. It took three swipes before the card worked, with me silently cursing the modern technology, then I opened the door and knocked again at the same time. Didn’t want to catch Kyra in her underpants.

  She wasn’t. She was dressed exactly as I’d left her. Only now she was lying on the floor between the two beds, one arm splayed to one side a
nd the other twisted beneath her. A length of nylon was wrapped around her throat and her eyes and tongue bulged.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The phone call with Quanta did not go well. Normally when someone’s in trouble with the boss it involved yelling, cursing, and questioning of parentage. My boss never did that. The head of Q2 rarely raised her voice, and if she did it was simply to make herself heard over my own rambling.

  She let me have it now in the worst way possible. She made it clear how disappointed she was in me. You know, the tactic parents use when they really want to hurt you.

  “You knew Richter was in town for this very reason and yet you couldn’t prevent it?” she asked after we’d already gone through everything twice.

  “I couldn’t sleep in the same room with her, Quanta, and there were no other rooms available on her floor. I couldn’t watch her 24/7. Besides, the girl signed her own death warrant.”

  That was an ice-cold thing to say, but I was frustrated. And it was true. Kyra’s instructions had been clear: Go straight to the hotel, don’t stop anywhere, don’t buy anything unless you use cash, and stay off your phone. So what had she done? We discovered that she’d used her credit card to order food, she’d used it in the hotel lounge for some drinks, and she’d even spoken to a friend on her cell phone and casually mentioned the name of her hotel. She didn’t say which location and assumed that leaving out that particular tidbit of info provided adequate security.

  Richter and his buddy — yes, he’d had help on this job — were able to find friends of hers on social media. They contacted a few and claimed to be with Marty’s family, and said they needed to reach Kyra immediately. Something about wanting to get her personal items back to her. All it took was one friend to say she thought it was a Marriott. Then they called each Marriott in the city, claimed to be with Kyra’s credit card company investigating fraud, had anyone with this name used a credit card at the hotel, and bada-boom, within half an hour they had her location.

  Then it was just a simple matter of finding out which room. So while Richter probably waited in the car, his handy helper lifted one of the hotel management jackets and went door to door, asking about water pressure. The bastard looked me right in the eye as I walked past him in the hall. I wondered if this was Parnell, the name I’d seen in the office in Telluride.

  Kyra must’ve checked the peep hole after he knocked and identified himself, saw that he was with the hotel, and opened the door. I’ll bet it wasn’t three minutes later that Richter joined the party and brought it to an abrupt ending.

  That all sounds complicated. It’s not. Every bit of it is easy as hell, basic private investigator stuff that any rookie could’ve pulled off. Just a few phone calls and a willing victim who breaks multiple rules while supposedly hiding out.

  And Quanta was pissed at me.

  It didn’t help my cause that the murder took place while I was out for a walk, daydreaming about retiring to a suburban lifestyle and playing house. Okay, even I had to admit that didn’t look good.

  “Yes, she made mistakes,” Quanta said. “But you have enough experience to know you never expect civilians to operate like pros. You left her alone and then left the hotel.” She paused and I did not fill in the blank space. I was a little mad at myself for letting Richter get the better of me, and very pissed at the cold, stiff young lady who was on her way to a drawer downtown. She practically rolled out a red carpet for her killers. Yeah, maybe I should’ve done more, but who the hell expected them to find her within hours?

  “Nothing left behind by the killers, I’m sure,” Quanta said.

  I confirmed this. “And they did it right. They took her purse and a few other things so it looks like a robbery gone bad instead of a hit. I’m sure the purse will easily be found in a dumpster within five blocks without any cash or credit cards in it. That’ll make it seem fairly amateurish.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Amateurish on both sides, I’d say.” Before I could react to the snarky comment she went on: “Well, LoGo has killed two people so far to safeguard their plans. Two that we know of, anyway. I’ll need you to investigate one of the pieces of this plan.”

  “Which one?”

  “The drones. It’s a sure thing they’ll try to use them to carry devices high enough to create a catastrophic pulse event. The three primary questions we need to answer are: How many drones, in case they’re somehow targeting more than one city; how they’re creating a pulse powerful enough to destroy the power infrastructure; and where this will all be controlled from. I have a couple of people exploring the technology of the EMP, so let’s get you to the man who’s selling the drones to LoGo.”

  “And where is he?”

  Turns out there are countless companies making drones, but only a handful building intricate, specialized machines of this size and capability. Think of them as near-military grade. From the images and specs I’d uncovered at the house in Telluride, Q2 had pinpointed a shop not far from Macon, Georgia. And, not surprisingly, it was run by a former military man with the unlikely name of Harold “Hash” Brown. Yes, I now had to deal with someone named Hash Brown. This is my life.

  By 6 a.m. I was back at the Portland airport, only this time I wasn’t treated to the luxury of a private jet. Because I’d fouled up the Kyra situation and was currently on Quanta’s shit list I was condemned to commercial air travel. Coach section, no less. Even though I occupied a skinny bod, I still winced at the idea of flying all the way across the country crammed into steerage.

  I took the company’s pre-paid ticket and then upgraded to business class on my own dime. Not cheap, but so worth it. Even better, the person in the aisle seat never showed up so I had the small row to myself. Perhaps the universe decided I’d suffered enough lately and was delicately balancing the books.

  Whatever the reason, I was happy to put my large leather seat back and watch a really stupid movie while enjoying my business-class breakfast. With a mimosa. Two of them. Total chick drink, I know. But they’re free up there in the movie star seats so you almost can’t say no.

  Criss-crossing the country was a drag but at least I was returning closer to home. I hoped to gather as much intel as possible and then get some time with Christina, even just a couple days. Maybe I’d bring her some Georgia peach jam.

  I walked out of the Atlanta airport into a fine mist of rain. It took a little longer than usual at the rental car counter, but at least Poole wasn’t mad at me. She had me in a Mustang convertible. I made a mental note to bring her a jar of jam, too.

  My first stop was to a bank where a wad of expense cash and bait money waited to be picked up. I always felt like a hotshot carrying around manilla envelopes stuffed with C-notes.

  By the time I neared the factory shops on I-75 at Locust Grove — yes, Locust Grove — the rain had let up so I was able to drop the top and enjoy the late-fall afternoon. It was muggy but I love the smell of Georgia. The combination of red cedar, white pine, and live oak trees creates a fresh, vibrant scent I could recognize with my eyes closed.

  On the flight I’d had time after the movie to do my homework on Sgt. Brown. He and his team made and brokered all sorts of similar gear, and sold the requisite camo clothing you see at army surplus stores. Background snooping by Poole had turned up a somewhat-sordid side hustle, the kind of stuff you find in back room negotiations. I mean, he wasn’t selling rocket launchers to overseas terrorists, but there was a hint of arms being peddled to militia groups in rural areas of the country.

  I got the feeling Hash Brown didn’t necessarily cotton to these rebels when it came to politics, and he wasn’t advocating anarchy on any level. The man probably just appreciated making a few bucks fueling rebellious dreams. Lots of people squawk, but Brown was betting on the idea that they were all squawk and no action. You know, the people you see in photos holding an automatic weapon. It’s easy to pose, but when actual lead is ripping through the air the average person will cower and piss their pants. I did my first ti
me.

  When I got within ten miles of Brown’s Surplus and Supply I began looking for lodging. I spied a motel off the road that reminded me of Norman Bates’ place, and overpaid for a bed and bathroom. Then, before it got dark I decided to drive past Brown’s just to have a look. I pulled up close enough to the door to see they opened the following morning at ten.

  Time for dinner. The motel clerk who checked me in, a woman who looked 65 but was probably 52 — thanks to the copious cigarettes you could smell on her — had told me I’d be plum foolish to pass up Racey’s. I didn’t want anyone to think me plum foolish, so I tracked it down and crawled into a worn booth with a filthy, ketchup-stained laminated menu. The daily special, paper-clipped to the top, was “Kat Fish and Racey’s Hush Pups.” Tempting, but one of my rules is to never order fish from a restaurant with more than five pickup trucks parked outside. More a guideline than a rule, really. Racey’s had at least seven supercabs in the parking lot. I ordered a burger, medium well.

  As she brought me another beer the server, Shelley, asked what brought me in. I mentioned I was interested in visiting Brown’s Surplus. Did she know much about it?

  “Hell yes,” she said. “My ex-husband works there. Has for near 4 years. Better stay employed, too, so he don’t miss a child support payment.” She cackled and gave me a wink.

  I pretended to find that the funniest thing I’d ever heard in my life. Now that we were pals I asked, “What can you tell me about Mr. Brown? Good guy?”

  “Hash? He’s a sum-bitch. But I like him. Went out a few times.”

  I began to see that the dating pool south of Locust Grove was only ankle deep. When she gave me a smile and another wink I got the feeling I was getting sized up to become the new daily special.