4 - Waiting, Phase One

Four Days Earlier

It was so weird to see Shan with kids. It was even odder to see that they looked up to him.

Z was sitting in what would probably be considered the “cheap seats”, if the Rec Center could be said to have cheap seats. It gave her not only a good look at the skating rink, but at the few people in the seats who were sitting watching, presumably parents and family members ready to take the kids home when this was all over. Z found, even after a short amount of surveillance, that she could pick out different types amongst the people.

The “hockey dads” - guys who took it way too fucking seriously - all sat with rigid postures or clenched fists, acting like every kid who stumbled on the ice or took bad potshots at the net were committing some grievous sin. The “hockey moms” - basically chauffeurs - usually looked tired and distracted, although some did other things, such as read mass market paperbacks or knit scarves. The older brothers or sisters sent to pick up their little brother (or sister - Shan had a couple girls on his team, including a pudgy one who was actually an impressive brick wall of a goaltender) usually texted or watched or listened to something on their phone or iPod, their postures reflecting boredom. The older brothers who had played hockey and cared about it did nothing but watch. There was one hockey mom, a Korean woman in her early thirties, who never watched her kid but watched Shan instead, with an almost predatory gaze. He never believed Z when she said that mom wanted to jump his bones, but clearly she did - if it wasn’t for the presence of the kids, she’d have probably tackled him on the rink. Was it wrong that Z would have paid cash to see it?

Shan had haphazardly put on goalie gear (the leg pads and the helmet, but it didn’t look like he was wearing any other padding - maybe he knew they’d never be able to lift a puck into his midsection), and was taking pucks that his kids shot at him. Or towards the net, which was actually a different thing (about one of three kids actually hit him; the rest shanked pucks in wildly variant directions). But Shan always shouted out compliments and encouragement, no matter how far off the mark they were. He was very good with the kids, giving him a “gentle giant” mystique, which made her feel bad for always embroiling him in violent shit, until she recalled that Shan always liked being involved in the violent shit. Oh, he didn’t like hurting people, but he liked the excitement. He was a thrill junkie, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

She was marveling that Shan had a kid named Rajiv on his squad when a woman suddenly appeared in the aisle beside her. She was an older middle aged Asian woman, dressed in a surprisingly neat and conservative dark pantsuit, with a gold silk scarf knotted around her neck to add a little color. Her black hair was cut short and somewhat severe, accidentally emphasizing the roundness of her face. “Excuse me, do you have the time?” she asked.

Z didn’t even look at her watch. “Eight fifteen.” That wasn’t right, but it wasn’t supposed to be. That was the code.

The woman who was her contact with the CSIS, Elena Chen, sat down in the threadbare seat beside her and sighed. “I got held up in traffic. I forgot they were still doing road work.”

“So much for Canadian Intelligence.”

Z noticed her scowl out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t acknowledge it. After a moment, Chen stopped giving it to her. “I understand you don’t want to work with us, but you’re on our soil. If an MI-6 op wants to go off, we have to be involved.”

“I’m just a freelancer. I don’t want to be involved in this at all.”

“But here you are.” They sat in silence for a moment, before Chen said, “So that’s the civilian, Shane Shanahan. He’s a goalie? Well, that explains the brain damage.”

“He’s good, and he’s in. He won’t compromise anything.”

“Did you know I had never heard of petit mal? I had to Google it. And I’m still not sure I know what it means.”

“Look at him. He can handle his shit.”

She stared at him skeptically, like he was a pre-packaged sandwich with a dubious expiration date. “How much does he weigh?”

“Two twenty five, nearly all muscle. I don’t think he has any fat on him.”

She let out a low whistle. “So this and being a bouncer keeps him in shape?”

“He works out a bit. He has no social life. He’s afraid of having seizures in places where you would normally meet people: bars, restaurants, clubs. Too much light and noise contrast can trigger an episode.”

“Doesn’t he work at a club?”

“Yeah, but outside. He only goes in when he’s called for.”

There was a loud crack as a puck hit the Plexiglas behind the rink hard, and while some of the spectators in that area ducked (as if breaking was an actual possibility), Shan seemed unmoved, and actually called out, “Nice slapshot, Scotty! But take a moment to find your target first, okay?” That had missed Shan so badly that the kid might as well have been shooting for the other end of the rink. He would probably get better, but she bet Scotty didn’t have a future as a sniper.

“Hockey players have great bodies,” Chen said, apropos of nothing.

“Really?” Z wondered where this tangent was going.

“Oh yeah. Their faces are often a horror show, but slap a paper bag on their heads and strip ‘em, and they’re some of the best looking straight guys around. Really hard, lean bodies.”

Now Z got it. Chen was joining that one hockey mom who was wondering what Shan was packing under that jersey. “I wouldn’t know. You used to date one?”

“I grew up in Canada. So, yes. And they’re jerks, you know - most jocks are jerks. But nice to look at.”

Z only nodded, swallowing back her initial response, which was all men - jocks or not - were jerks. Women were hardly better. But that was cynical enough to be revealing of her personality, so she didn’t say it. “He’s had a dry spell for a long time. You could probably take a crack at him if you want.”

Chen raised an eyebrow at her for that, scoffing. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m sure he can fight - when he’s conscious - but I’d rather assign you an agent who knows what we’re up against.”

“I don’t want a CSIS shadow, Chen. I don’t want to be followed, I don’t want to be teamed up with someone new. I’m willing to work with you, but on my terms.”

She let out a little huff of a sigh. “They warned me you were difficult. They undersold it.”

“They undersell it to other agencies, and oversell it in house. They’re British - they’re all drama queens.”

That got a small, humorous noise out of her. “They warned me you weren’t a team player.”

“I was always one of those agents you called in when things went tits up. I wasn’t supposed to be a team player.”

She noticed Chen was now studying her out of the corner of her eye, but Z kept her focus resolutely on the ice. “Were you a cleaner?”

Z didn’t answer. She felt that, honestly, there was no need to answer that question. She either figured it out for herself, or she didn’t.

****

Now

The one good thing about being in a forested area was all the good cover it provided. But Z wasn’t happy, mainly because it would have been ideal if she had a sniper rifle. But what she had were two nine millimeters, which weren’t ideal for distance. To use them with any decent accuracy, she’d have to be closer to her targets than she liked. Oh well, it was her fault for getting locked in the trunk of a car.

This was a part Shan wasn’t very good at: waiting. He was used to waiting in one sense, as being a bouncer meant standing around for most of the night, but at least he got paid for it, and there was a nearly endless parade of people - many drunk - to keep things interesting. Here there was nothing to do but birdwatch.

She suggested he take the Jeep and go until she called him, but he refused. He only moved it, hiding it behind cover, and then came to join her where she was waiting for Six to show up.

This went on for a while. Occasionally they talked, but not often. Nothing worthy of note was covered, mainly because Shan had no desire to discuss what he did to those guys back at his apartment. Yeah, he could fuck guys up royal, but unlike most jock boys, he didn’t like to talk about it. Probably because a bit of roughing up lead him to his brain injured status. When you paid the price, you couldn’t be proud of it.

Finally she heard the hum of tires on hard packed earth, and nudged Shan. “Get ready.”

But she knew from nudging him that he seemed almost excessively rigid, and glancing over she confirmed that he was staring out into space, eyes unfocused. Seizure time. Well, you know, he lasted longer than she thought he would. He’d done very well. But she was on her own right now, and she kind of expected that to happen at some point.

She liked working alone. Now she could do stuff and not have to explain it to him.

She laid him out, because, even though he was in a sitting position, she didn’t need him toppling over at an inopportune time.

The car, a white Ford Focus (clearly a rental), came to a stop almost directly parallel to her hiding spot, and she saw two big men in the car, neither Six. She watched them get out, visually assessing them. Both were huge guys, easily beyond six feet, with the approximate width of refrigerators. They walked with their arms slightly held out at their sides, as if the muscles were too bulky to deal with, and both were obviously strapped. Guns sure, but probably knives as well. Both were smoking, one a regular cigarette, one a Galois. She assumed they were both former White Wolf, although she didn’t discount the possibility that the guy with the Galois was simply a Euro-thug.

She let them start moving out towards the clearing before she came out of hiding and advanced in a low crouch towards the Focus. She hid behind it and waited for them to say something, but neither did. They were such pros that they knew you didn’t talk when approaching an unknown situation. She glanced up at the side mirror, making sure their huge backs were turned to her, before standing up and shooting at both of them, a gun in each hand like she was a hero in an action movie.

It was as cowardly as shit to shoot someone in the back. But when you were dealing with mercenaries, there was no room for honor.

Bullets punched through both of them, shock startling yelps out of them as sprays of blood burst from their shoulders, chests, and legs. She wasn’t going for the fatal neck shot (you couldn’t be sure of a fatal head shot with a nine from this distance, but if you took out the carotid or the jugular, it was goodnight nurse, even if you used nothing more than a ballpoint pen), not yet, but she was prepared to as soon as she deemed it necessary.

One was hurt worse than the other, and you could tell which one, because the one with more surface injuries reached for his gun even as he hit the ground. Ignoring the sick ache in her head, she ran up and kicked the gun out of his hand as he pulled it. “Don’t you fucking move,” she snapped. “Unless you want me to shoot your balls off too.”

It was the Galois smoking one who still had some fight left in him. The other thug was curled up in a fetal position, whining, “Fucking cunt, you shot my knee!”

Galois had bristly black hair and eyes as brown as mud, his gaze flat and full of hate. “I knew it was too good to be true. They said they had you wrapped up like a Christmas present.”

“Yeah, I’m fucking Santa Claus.” She was tempted to kick him in his bloody thigh, where a bullet had penetrated (but not exited; he was only bleeding from the back), but she had stepped back after kicking the gun from his hand and had no desire to get that close again. He may have had four or five bullets in him, but the wounds were all minor, and he was a big guy who knew his life was at stake. He would fight like hell to live, and she didn’t need to get into direct combat with him. “Where’s Six?”

He sneered up at her, his eyes showing that, in his mind, he was crunching numbers, trying to figure out if he could tackle her before she could put another bullet in him. Since he didn’t move, he must have figured the answer was no. “What the fuck, d’ya think this is 24 or somethin’? You torture me and I spill my guts? Fuck you! You’re gonna kill me anyways.”

“I’m doin’ you a favor, mate. I could kill you quick, or leave you to die slow. Up to you.”

“I’ve already made my choice.”

“So is this why torture never works?” Shan said, coming up, holding out another nine millimeter Glock he’d gotten from the Jeep. His eyes still had the glassy sheen of post seizure consciousness, that fuzzy half way glance that said he barely knew what planet he was on, but he was with it enough to come help her, which she had to give him credit for. See, CSIS would have been happier to have him as an agent; he was a team player all the way, and never let a friend go it alone, even when he was half-conscious and severely disoriented. Z knew she was living proof that it was hard to teach that kind of knee jerk loyalty - either you were born with the tendency or you weren’t.

“No. Torture never works ‘cause people make shit up. They tell you what you want to hear so you stop shovin’ wires up their urethra.”

Shan and the two men on the ground all winced. “Please tell me you just made that up,” Shan asked. His voice still had a thick, slow fuzz to it - again, typical post-seizure problem - but since the guys on the ground had presumably never heard him speak before, they’d never notice it. They’d just presume he was a slow talker.

“If that makes you sleep better, sure,” she offered. He gave her a wide eyed look of shock.

Galois craned his neck up at him. “Are you the brain damaged fuck buddy? Why ain’t you dead yet?”

“Fuck buddy?” Shan repeated in confusion.

“I think Six is the only guy in the world who thinks I’m straight.”

“Well, you do give off a kinda manly vibe.”

Galois snorted a laugh. He tried to smother it, but not very hard. She wasn’t going to hold it against Shan, because, hell, she knew she came off as pretty butch. It was part of the job.

Shan was getting better. He noticed the guy in the fetal position, holding his bloody kneecap and gritting his teeth against the pain. “Um, should we call an ambulance or something?”

“No.”

Galois now sneered up at Shan. “You don’t have the slightest fucking idea what she is, do you?”

Shan glanced at her, but not in a way that suggested he was surprised by the comment. Shan had made peace with never quite knowing who she was, and actually he seemed happier not knowing, adopting the theory ignorance was bliss, or at least a good friendship. He was correct. “What are we gonna do with ‘em, then?”

What a very good question. With Shan standing right here, an eyeball witness to whatever she did, what was she going to do with them?

How far did Shan’s loyalty go?

3 - Locked In The Trunk Of A Car

Five Days Earlier

She ended up meeting Shan at a Tim Horton’s not far from the rec center, after one of his afternoons coaching. His hair was still wet and combed back like he was a villain in an old Miami Vice episode, his face slightly flushed from exertion. It was obvious this gig tired him out and depleted his energy, and yet it was equally clear he got enough joy from it that quitting would rob him of his will to live. Z wondered how long he could keep it up before something had to give.

And if you weren’t sitting across from him, where you could see his brain surgery scar peeking out from under his hairline, you’d probably think he was the most normal guy in the universe. He was sitting there, eating a box of sour cream glazed Timbits and drinking the largest café mocha they had, while she picked listlessly at a cheese croissant and had already surrendered the coffee she had no intention of drinking to him. Caffeine was one of the few drugs he could have, and by god, he had it a lot.

He didn’t stop chewing or slurping a moment while she broke it down for him, his eyes almost fever bright in his reddish face. He’d probably only just taken his pills, as he usually took them afterwards. He nodded at everything she said, so casually she wasn’t sure he understood her. “You do hear what I’m sayin’, yeah? These guys are professional killers. They don’t leave witnesses, and they’ll likely kill anyone who gets in their way. I think it’d be best you leave town for a while.”

He chewed on a Timbit like a cow chewing its cud, and shook his head. “Nope. Stayin’ here.”

“Shan -”

“Why do you even try and warn me off? You know I’m too stupid to avoid a fight.” He flashed her a brief, crumb filled smile.

“Cut that out. You’re not stupid, you’re differently abled.”

“Ha.” He took a swig of his café mocha. “Do you really think I’d leave you alone to face off with a buncha bloodthirsty bastards? I mean, I know I should, but the guilt’d kill me. And by the time I came back, the game would be in progress, and I wouldn’t know the play, and I’d make things worse. So better I’m in at the beginning than back at the front.” He paused a moment, looking down at his Timbits. “At what point did I stop making sense?”

“I think after bloodthirsty bastards. But if it’s anything, I know what you were goin’ for.”

“You always know what I’m goin’ for. That’s why I like you, even though you regularly scare the shit out of me.”

“I scare the shit out of most people. Shows they have a sense of self-preservation. Speakin’ of which, I’m willing to buy you a ticket to Michigan to visit your family. I really think you should take it, mate.”

He shook his head vociferously. “My family is my lawyer brother, rich as shit and twice as smelly, and my mother, who has Alzheimer’s and is in the best home my brother decided to pay for. Last time I visited her, she had no idea who I was, and my brother and his anorexic Olsen twin of a wife treated me like I was retarded. I’m surprised they didn’t have a special padded helmet for me to wear around their house. I’d rather face assassins than them.”

“Sounds like my family.”

“They’re assassins?”

She snorted a laugh. “Might as well be.”

He nudged the box on the table, tacitly offering her one of the doughnut things, and she shook her head. She knew lots of people raved about them, but she’d never been much of a doughnut person.

She also knew she probably wouldn’t be able to talk Shan out of this - he was a big goofy Saint Bernard of a person, always eager to get in and help even when he didn’t understand the situation, and capable of great feats of strength even when you’d already written him off as a harmless goofball. In short, he’d have made a great hockey player or president of a minor Pacific island nation. Still, in good conscience - whatever shreds of one she had - she had to try. “Look, mate, these people have killed, and are always willing to do it again. Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Kill. I know I’ve told you never to aim a gun at someone you have no intention of killin’, but I also know you think I’m bein’ a weirdo.”

“I don’t like guns.”

“I know, but this time out you may be forced to use one.”

He shrugged and shook his head at the same time. “Why? Guns and other weapons are your strength, not mine. Mine’s hand to hand. I mean, you don’t play hockey and rugby for years without learning how to fuck someone up royal.”

“You played rugby?”

He nodded, chewing another Timbit. “During the off seasons. I liked to think it kept my stamina up when there were no rinks to skate at. Don’t know if it did or didn’t, but I could decapitate someone with my elbow.”

“Nice. Ever play a sport that didn’t involve physical violence?”

He looked out the window at the people walking by on the street, and he was so unfocused for so long that she thought maybe he’d had a seizure. But finally he looked back and said, “Volleyball.”

He had one. Imagine that. “Sometimes these guys know better than to try to go mano a mano with a big slice of guy like you. If I was comin’ up against you, I’d go for the distant take out, and that’s assuming I know nothing about you. I’m just goin’ on your size alone, mate.”

“But have you factored in the brain damage? Most people think I’m pathetic. That knocks about a foot off my height and about a hundred pounds off my weight.”

That was true, and she was counting on that. But how long would that last? “You’ll be able to use it once, maybe twice. But by then word will be gettin’ around, and you will be considered a legitimate target.”

“But that’s why you have my back, right? You’re the major enforcer anyways, I’m just the wing man.”

She sighed heavily. “Is it all sports metaphors with you?”

He shrugged. “It’s easiest.”

She felt herself sliding off the topic, as she often did around him. She wrestled it back under control. “Look, if you’re gonna stay, then we’d better come up with a plan.”

“A plan for what?”

“For when they come after you. They’re gonna come after me first, so I might not be able to help you right away. We need to be ready. You sure you wanna do this?”

He nodded before gulping down more coffee. “Just lay out the plan. With all this caffeine in me, I can’t help but remember it.”

She certainly hoped so. His life might depend on it.

*****

Now

The seat started to give.

She found she got a second wind as soon as she felt the give, and kicked harder. Finally the seat gave and crashed open into the body of the car. It was a relatively small car, so she was forced to squirm her way out of the trunk, but at least it didn’t smell like tires. It was still stuffy, though.

The ties were hard plastic, but they hadn’t done a thorough job of frisking her, and she still had her boot knife. She had to contort a bit to reach the knife and get it out, and then contort some more to actually slip the blade between the ties and saw through one. It made her feel better to get her feet free, although it didn’t help her one damn bit.

Getting the ties off her hands was another thing, but before struggling with that, she popped open a door for some fresh air, and a more unobstructed view of her surroundings. Which was about as helpful as not opening the door.

She was in some beater car in what looked like a scrub lot, something overgrown with Scotch broom and blackberry bushes, with a towering, slightly diseased looking pine tree blocking the car from wherever the road was. There was a road, though; she vaguely heard the noise of cars in the distance. This was an excellent place to dump a body.

But where the fuck was she? She could have been in some shithole part of Alberta for all she knew. And what was the plan here? They could have killed her while she was out - honestly, they should have; you didn’t back off on an opponent when you had them down - but instead they dumped her in the trunk of a car in the middle of nowhere. Why? Were they coming back later to riddle the trunk full of bullet holes?

No. She was a gift - a gift to Six. He wanted to kill her himself. Wow, how busy did a guy have to be to wait to kill someone he’d wanted dead for years? Was she no longer his number one priority? She was heartbroken.

She was sitting on the edge of the back seat, half out the door, trying to saw through the ties on her wrist (boy, this was awkward; it was her own fault though, as she was out of practice), when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel coming her way. She quickly got out of the car, kicked the door shut, and crouched down behind the far side of the car. She had to know how many people were here before deciding on a method of attack.

But she saw, as soon as it entered the clearing, that it was an old olive drab Jeep with a slight rattle in the engine, which was very familiar. A quick but thorough scan revealed that it was indeed Shan by himself. As soon as he looked around, she stood up and waved the knife at him. He turned off the Jeep, which ticked for a minute like a dying clock, and as soon as he opened the door, he said, “Do you know I’ve been all over this fucking forest? That guy couldn’t give directions to his own house. And aren’t you supposed to be locked in the trunk anyways?”

“Think a trunk can hold me?”

He thought about that a moment. “Guess not. You are the Terminator.”

No, Shan wasn’t legally able to drive due to his seizures, but he used the Jeep only for short jaunts, and only during the day, when there was lesser light contrast. He hadn’t been caught yet, hadn’t been in an accident, and she wasn’t about to rat him out.

Shan came over, and she gave him the knife to finish cutting the plastic ties off her wrists. He did it quickly, but then again, he was stronger than your average bear. She noticed little dark flecks on the bottom of his ash gray sweatshirt, splatters that she recognized as blood. “How’d it go?”

“You were right, they sent over the amateur cleaning squad for me, and I played placid and dumb until I wasn’t anymore. Either I am remarkably good, or they were really shitty at this sort of thing.”

“How much did you hurt ‘em?”

“It ranges from mildly to extremely. But I kinda doubt they’re gonna file charges against me.”

“Yeah. You’d be surprised at how guys wanted by Interpol rarely go to the cops.”

She gave him the knife, and he pulled up his sweatshirt, revealing an enviable six pack of abs and two gun butts. “I have a couple more in the car if you’d rather have one of those.”

“You really shouldn’t stick guns in the front of your pants. That’s how guys shoot their nuts off.” She took both of the guns, as she knew he had no intention of keeping either. One was a Glock, the other was an HK, both nine millimeters. She preferred something with a bit more stopping power, but if you were a good aim, these would do the trick. She had very good aim.

“But it looks so cool on TV.” As she checked the rounds in the guns and tucked them into the waistband of her jeans (not in the front, although she had no nuts to shoot off), he peered at her closely and reached for her forehead. “That looks painful.”

She stepped back, and he stopped. “It’s just a bruise. I’ve had worse.”

“Maybe I oughta test you for a concussion. Is your vision blurry? Do you have a headache? Feel sick?”

“No, yes, no. I’m fine, Shan. You have to have brains to rattle ‘em.”

“No you don’t. I’m living proof of that.”

She gave him a light back hand slap on the arm. “Can it, you. We have to get ready; I don’t know when they’re coming back.”

“What are we getting’ ready for? Please tell me we’re not going all Wild Bunch.”

“No, but we are gonna watch and wait. Six is comin’ back, and I wanna turn the tables on him.”

Shan sighed heavily, rolling his eyes and slumping his shoulders. “You know that’s where shit inevitably goes wrong in movies, right?”

“Hey, if this were a movie, I’d have bigger tits.”

He glanced down at her t-shirt and shrugged. “Yeah, guess so. So what do I do?”

Sometimes it was nice to have irrefutable logic on your side.

2 - Insignificant

One Week Earlier

This time, the meeting was in a movie theater. It was early on a Tuesday afternoon on a sunny but cool day, and this picture was apparently a flop, which would explain why there was only Sir Randolph Frost sitting in the center of the second topmost row of the otherwise empty theater. Z hadn’t really been expecting to find him eating Junior Mints, but he was. This proved he was an old spymaster: always keep them guessing.

She didn’t acknowledge him in any way. She just sat down beside him and put her feet on the seat back in front of her as a loud promo for some network series or another unspooled on the big screen. Never mind that there were only two people in the entire theater, they were going to play this grim entertainment death march out.

Frost leaned over and shook the box of candy. “Want one? The chocolate’s plastic, but I can’t stop eating them.” His hair gleamed liquid silver in the dark, his accent still unbearably Cambridge upper class. In spite of that, he was still the most decent man she’d ever encountered in the spy game.

“No thanks. I prefer unbuttered popcorn.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

“I prefer salt over grease. I thought last time was the last time we were going to meet.”

He popped a shiny black button of candy in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, looking up at the flashing images on the screen and yet ignoring them. “There’s been a change of plans, I’m afraid.”

“That’s never good.”

“No, it’s not. Six leaked word to the Home Office that you were still alive.”

(more…)