Running Dark

11

KARL TARRANT WALKED INTO A SMALL PATHWAY BETWEEN TWO ramshackle houses close to Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. It was eleven o’clock at night, and the working crowd, what little existed in this neighborhood, was long gone. The seasonal spring day had faded into a crisp evening. Cars whizzed down the street, each one hitting a metal square in the middle that covered a pothole. The repeated clanging sound frayed Tarrant’s already jangled nerves. His teeth chattered in response to a chill that was not from the night air but from within. He hadn’t had a hit in over thirty-six hours. His hands shook and his head ached as he waited for the one thing that would make all his pains go away.

The African in the overcoat strolled toward him as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Tarrant felt a mixture of relief and disgust. Relief because his physical troubles were at an end, disgust because the man had botched the job Tarrant had hired him to do. The man stopped before him.

“Here.” He handed Tarrant a bottle marked IBUPROFEN. The bottle actually contained black-market OxyContin.

Tarrant was outraged. “One bottle? That’s it? What the hell am I going to do with one bottle, eh? Won’t last a week.”

“Relax. I put ten more in a bag and left them in our usual spot. I just figured you’d be hurting by now and thought I’d bring you some relief.”

Tarrant snorted. He shook out two capsules and swallowed them. They stuck a little on the way down, but he didn’t care. He needed them, not water. “Glad you’re so thoughtful. I only wish you’d done what I asked you to do.”

The African shrugged. “We got her with the pen, didn’t we?”

“What about the bomb? Who the hell did that?”

The man grinned. “I set that up. A little one, really. Took out the area around the track. Was a well-controlled explosion. I am good.” The man’s white teeth glowed against his dark skin, and his eyes gleamed with the touch of madness that afflicted all true arsonists. Tarrant thought killing the guy wouldn’t have been the worst thing that could happen, except for the fact that he’d have to find another dealer.

“I don’t know how a simple stick could turn into such a disaster. We could have stuck her anywhere,” he said.

“But now they think it’s tied to the bombing. Worked out well, don’t you think?”

A man emerged from the shadows thrown by the trees lining the sidewalk. Streetlight beams traversed his body at an angle from shoulder to ankle, illuminating the muted silk tie, soft blue shirt, and dark suit that looked custom. Tarrant noticed that the African quieted in respect as the man approached. The newcomer stopped just short of the pathway’s entrance, his face shrouded in the shadow of an overhanging eave. Tarrant felt his stomach turn. He thought the nickname of Vulture fit the man’s thin, hardened features. The Vulture paid handsomely, but Tarrant detested him. He was evil incarnate.

“It did work well. I have to compliment you.” The European-accented voice held no trace of sarcasm. The African exhaled softly, as if he’d been holding his breath. The Vulture turned to Tarrant. “And we could not stick her anywhere. It had to be at the peak of the race in order to assess the chemical’s effect on the human body during extreme exertion. A little human clinical trial minus the federal oversight. And what about the chemical you love so much? I trust you’ll be feeling better soon?”

Tarrant nodded. His throat was dry.

The Vulture held up two thick white envelopes. “Here’s another five thousand for each of you and detailed information on the next job. I need you to persuade a certain gentleman to halt his operations in the Red Sea. Or, more specifically, in the trade route through the Gulf of Aden.” Tarrant took one of the envelopes and shoved it into his pocket without looking at it. The Vulture had never shorted him.

“Dead persuaded? Or just hammered-into-the-pavement persuaded?” Tarrant said.

The Vulture shrugged. “Beaten first. Homicides draw too much attention. Of course, if the beating doesn’t work, you can escalate the force. I’m aware that you have a reputation for killing people by accident.”

Tarrant snorted. “Once my temper gets away from me, I have a hard time pulling back.”

“If you end up killing him, be certain that his vice president gets the message, too.”

“Is it true that you want us to stick the runner again?” the African asked.

“I understand that she got up and finished the race.”

The African nodded. “She ran away, fast. Real fast. Is that what she was supposed to do?”

“Yes. But we also expected much more erratic behavior as well. No one seems able to confirm that aspect. If she was behaving within the bounds of normal, then the dose may not be enough.”

The African frowned. “I hit her hard. Gave her every last drop. I thought the drug works better on fit people. Enters their system faster. If that’s true, she should have turned into a lunatic.”

The Vulture shook his head. “She did not. Not at all. Dose her again.” He looked at Tarrant.

“Whatever. We’ll get it done,” Tarrant said.

“Good. I’ll be in touch.” The Vulture sketched a wave with his hand, walked to the curb, and reached a hand into the air, as if he was hailing a cab. Tarrant was just about to inform him that there were no cabs willing to risk this particular neighborhood at that hour of the evening when a large black sedan pulled up and halted. The Vulture swung open the door and disappeared inside. The car drove off.

“That man is a psychopath in a suit,” the African said. “I won’t be crossing him.”

The drug was in full flower now, giving Tarrant a feeling of bravado. “He’s just a rich guy in good clothes who’s afraid to do his own dirty work,” he said.

The African scoffed. “I’d like to hear you tell him that to his face.”

Tarrant shrugged. “He’s gone now.”

“But he’ll be back. Let’s just be sure we get this Gulf of Aden guy good. I don’t want to fail the Vulture. He’d start his testing on me. I wouldn’t make it a week.”

“We’ll get him, don’t you worry.” Tarrant grinned like a fool all the way back to his car.