5 - Greetings From The Great North Woods

In the end, she decided that she could kill in front of Shan, just not in any way that suggested execution style. Which left her with a bit of problem, because these guys just weren’t resisting.

But she did agree to keep in touch with Chen, and hadn’t bothered for long enough that CSIS were probably starting to doubt her intentions. At least Shan had some hockey tape in his Jeep. They used it to tape the thugs’ wrists behind their back, and taped their ankles together up to their calves. Just because he was bleeding so much, Shan taped up the bullet wounded knee of the more severely injured guy. Shan advised him to tell the doctors not to just rip it off as they might take skin with it, but for his kind advice he got a hearty fuck you. So they both agreed that the doctor should rip off the tape as hard as humanly possible.

She then called Chen and told her where to pick up these assclowns, and went through their car for clues.

They ended up having to do some math. The rental papers in the glove compartment listed the original mileage of the car, and then they noted what it was now, and subtracted the amount of miles it would take to get here from Vancouver. (Shan knew, since he drove it and wasn’t unconscious in the trunk of a car at the time.) With the amount of mileage left over, they tried to figure out where these numbnuts may have come from. Because they ran low on ideas, she called Chen and consulted her. Chen, for her part, thought they were both fucking nuts.

Chen still found them four potential sites. The best looked to be an auto junkyard that was suspected of being a chop shop as well as a source for illegal passports. Second best was a low rent bar; third best was a park. The last was a mall, which was highly unlikely, and yet would be good if you wanted to get lost in a crowd. Also, it had a “sporting goods” (read: gun) store, in case they needed to load up with some new shit in a hurry.

As soon as she hung up, she started the rental car and followed Shan’s instructions to get back to the road. “How long was I out?” Shan asked. He was attempting to put the safety back on the gun he grabbed, and he wasn’t doing well.

“Not long.”

“Are you sure? I seemed to have missed a shoot out.”

“There wasn’t a shoot out; I prevented one by shooting them in the back. Give me something with repeat action, and I can take out an entire platoon by shooting them in the back. It’s cowardly, but a hell of a time saver.”

Shan gave her a suspicious look, but seemed to accept that and let it go. The entire key to their relationship was his willingness to let shit go. “So, is your name actually Zero?”

“Zero’s a number, not a name.”

“That’s what I said! But those guys back at my apartment said that you changed your name to it in England or something. It seemed improbable, and yet, still like something you’d do.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“So, are you named Zero?”

She glanced at him sidelong, trying to gauge his response. “Would you like it to be?”

He stared at her in surprise. “It’s an option?”

She shrugged. “Sure, why not? I can always use a new name.”

He looked briefly confused. “So it’s not your name?”

She shrugged. “It could be.” There had to be a limit to how much she revealed to him. It was really better for him, although he would probably object to that.

He frowned at her, dark brows becoming stark lines over his icy blue eyes. “Why won’t you tell me your name? I’ve known you for years. I’ve looked down the barrels of more guns than …” He made a vague motion with his hand, one that went on longer than it should have, and he had a desperate look in his eye. His transitory aphasia was making itself known once more.

“Sorry mate, but I have no idea what word you were goin’ for there. Hot dinners? Than in your entire life? I’m sorry, I never meant to drag you into all that shit.”

It took him another minute, but he finally got his voice and mind back on track. “Okay, doesn’t matter. My point was - is - I’ve never known your real name. Don’t I deserve to know what it is by now? I won’t blab.”

She sighed, trying not to be too obvious about it. Telling him there were things he was still better off not knowing sounded condescending, although it wasn’t intended that way. So she just skipped that part. “I haven’t had a real name for years, Shan.”

“Bullshit. Your parents named you, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, but I got rid of that name around the time they got rid of me. I didn’t want it, and they didn’t want me. We were even. Ever since then, I just pick up names and throw them away when I don’t need them anymore.”

“What do you mean they got rid of you? Your parents put you up for adoption or something?”

“Naw. By then I was too old. My mother just told me to get out, and I did. I left my name at the door. A name is nothing, a designation, but it’s not you. It’s just somethin’ to write on the death certificate.”

He shook his head in despair and rubbed his eyes. “Are you wanted by some government?”

“America, and probably Egypt. I’m not so sure about Syria or Serbia; time and regimes change, you know. Hard to keep track.”

Shan stared at her for a very long moment, but she deliberately avoided his gaze. “You’re making that up.”

She simply shrugged. She wasn’t - well, maybe Serbia; was that even a country anymore? - but it didn’t matter.

“Are you saying if I Google your real name, I’ll find you on a wanted list?”

“No, under a coupla different names. Told ya, I change ‘em all the time.”

He raised his hands up and let them fall on his lap, a gesture of frustrated surrender. “Either you’re making this shit up to freak me out, or you’re just trying to freak me out, period.”

“No mate, swear I’m not. I’m just bein’ honest. Maybe ‘cause of the head injury.”

“Yeah, I was wondering about that. Maybe we should stop at an ER first?”

“Can’t. We’re already here.” She nodded down the road at a large chain link fence topped with looping curls of barbed wire. There was a sign so dirty you could barely see “Aaron’s Auto Hauling & Recycling” scrawled on it, or the hours of operation written underneath. She idled the car on the cracked asphalt ribbon some eight meters away from the chained and padlocked gate. It looked dark amongst the hulking hills of junked car bodies and the scree of loose parts, although there seemed to be a wan yellow light where she imagined the main building to be. “So what’s wrong with this picture?”

Shan studied the gate with well hidden but still obvious alarm on his face. “I … don’t know. They’re poor housekeepers?”

“It’s on the sign, right above the “Closed Sundays” line.”

He leaned forward, squinting his eyes to see through the built up dirt and grime. “Umm … “Open 11 to 8 Six Days A Week”.”

“What time is it?”

He looked at his watch. “Seven twenty.” She waited for him to put two and two together, and while he did, she reached in the duffle bag they found on the floor of the back seat. It contained a professionally sawed off shotgun, loaded, with several spare shells. Now this was a proper gun, not a pussy nine millimeter. Oh, well, they were fine for some people, but she wanted something guaranteed to put someone down for a long time. She laid her wonderfully phallic gun across her lap, barrel pointed towards her car door, ready for action. “They may have closed early for some good reason.”

“Maybe, but it’s a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?” She started backing the car up, heading back down the small choppy road until she came to the intersection where it met the paved street.

“We leaving?”

“No, we’re gaining momentum.” She confirmed he was wearing his seatbelt, then gunned the engine before pushing the gas pedal down as far as it would go. Shan let out a surprised yelp and braced himself, hands wedged up against the dashboard, as the car met the gate.

The impact was a jarring thud accompanied by the scream of twisted metal and the soft noise of shattering headlights, but the barrier gave, the chain snapping and the gates swinging open as the damaged car roared into the wrecking yard. One of the front tires popped, possibly on a piece of metal sticking down from the now crumpled front end - she felt the head of the car going soft, the traction mushy and the steering sluggish - but she simply let up on the accelerator and wrestled the beast into some semblance of direction, refusing to lose control now.

The car fishtailed on the hard packed dirt, the rear slamming into one of the dead car cairns and causing an avalanche of small parts in their wake as she navigated the path between the car corpse hills, headed towards what now resolved itself into a low shack like building with a tar paper roof. “You’re fucking crazy,” Shan shouted, as the car was now rattling and making noises that suggested imminent death. (But what the fuck did she care? It wasn’t her rental.) She only grinned, because pronouncements like that always made her laugh. Of course she was crazy - she used to work for the government, didn’t she? That was pretty much a prerequisite.

She slued the car to a stop just beyond the shed, kicking up a huge cloud of dust that looked like smoke. As she killed the engine, it made a noise that could have been interpreted fairly as a death rattle.

Shan stared at her in wild eyed horror. “Couldn’t you have at least warned me?”

“What, and spoil the surprise?”

He scowled at her, not in the mood for jokes. “What if these people are innocent?”

“Then I’ll apologize,” she said, opening her door and sliding out, grabbing the shotgun and letting it hang next to her leg.

But it turned out there was no need for apologies. Shan had barely opened his door when the shooting

Because I put a teaser for Scorched Earth Policy in the last run, I thought I’d put a teaser for the next in the Infected series here. Why not?

****

1 - Signify

Everyone had at least some dirty little secrets that you hid from your boyfriend or girlfriend; that was to be expected. But some were just honestly unbelievable.

“You really think I’m letting you off the hook for this?” Roan asked, slipping under the sheets. Dylan turned over on his back to face him, scowling sourly.

“You are such a dick sometimes.”

Read the rest of this entry »

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?