Wrecking Crew

EIGHT

They parked at the Copdock freeway service area near Ipswich to eat supper. Carter had chicken and French fries and Stone chose vegetarian pasta with a side salad. They both drank water. After they had finished eating, Stone broke the silence.

“Ed. There’s something else I wanted to discuss.”

“Go on,” Carter said cautiously.

“I’ve met someone — someone special. I want to include her in what we are doing. I’ve told her a about what happened to Charles and little bit about the Wrecking Crew, just in general terms, of course. She says that she wants to help.”

Carter sat back in frustration.

“Oh, Eric! Don’t tell me that you’ve been thinking with your dick.”

Stone held up his hands in supplication.

“It’s not like that — well it is, but not really. Look, she’s a really good person, very genuine — I feel it here!” He thumped his chest with his fist.

“Who is she?” Carter asked sternly.

“Her name is Linda Smart. She lives over in Sawbridgeworth, but she’s probably going to be working from my dojo in Colchester. She’s a fitness instructor.”

“How long have you known her?” Carter asked, always the cop.

“A couple of days,” Stone admitted quietly.

“Jesus Christ!” Carter whispered angrily. “What the hell were you thinking? You know how dangerous these people are. We talked about this.”

“It’s not like that, Ed. We met by accident, it was completely random, we just hit it off — that’s all. I really like her, Ed. It’s early days yet, but I think that we may have something special.”

Carter’s lips tightened again, he closed his eyes to control his obvious anger. Stone said nothing. Eventually Carter spoke again, this time more quietly.

“Well, we can’t go back now. How much have you told her?”

“Only the basic details really. I mostly told her about Charles’ death being a forced suicide, caused by a group of very bad people. It was all generalizations, nothing specific.” Stone sat forward enthusiastically. “Look, I told her that it was a death that had to be avenged. She understands what that means, and she’s on board with it. I don’t want to put her in any danger, but we’re pretty thin on the ground just now. We may need an extra body at some point.”

Carter gave a long sigh, clear evidence of his obvious frustration.

“Ok Eric, but don’t tell her anything else until I’ve met her and Megan’s checked her out.” He gave Stone a hard look and spoke forcefully. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes — I understand,” Stone nodded enthusiastically.

“And no sex either!” Carter said sharply.

“WHAT?” Stone stood up.

Carter pointed a gun like finger with a wide smile.

“Gotcha!”

Stone sat down sheepishly.

“You’ll like her, Ed. I know you will. She’s cute — and really clever. We need her, we need a second pair of eyes on this — I’m sure she can help.”

“Ok — enough said. I look forward to meeting her.” He checked Stephens’s location on the smart phone before glancing at his watch. “Stephens is stopped at a bar in Ipswich at the moment. It’s almost eight, so we’d better get going.”

They travelled to Needham Market together in Stones car. After they turned off the A14 and onto the side road that led to the lake, Carter checked the smart phone again, and announced that Stephens was still stationary. Stone slowed the car as they neared the lake, ready to drive on by, but when he saw that the parking lot was empty he turned through the gate and came to a stop. The parking lot was just a simple flat gravel affair with four picnic benches lining the water’s edge. The parking area was approximately fifty yards on each side, a large square open space surrounded by untidy low-level bushes. The gateway was no more than a narrow gap in a high hedge, making the parking lot almost invisible to any passing traffic. Stone could see why Stephens chose this location to count his money and check his stock.

After turning off the headlights, Stone climbed out of the car and stood for three minutes, carefully looking around. The sky was heavy with cloud, stained a sickly sodium-yellow by the distant streetlights of Ipswich. Even so, the parking lot was almost completely dark. Satisfied that they were not being watched, Stone took the shotgun and the crossbow from the trunk and tucked them out of sight, behind the hedge on the left side of the parking lot. Carter checked the smart phone again, and softly called to Stone.

“They’ve moved, but stopped again. They’re at a different bar — still in Ipswich.”

Stone gave a silent wave of acknowledgement. Pulling a small flashlight from his jacket, he dropped to his knees and began scanning the gravel from a low angle. After a few minutes, he walked across to Carter.

“If it was you, counting money and sorting drugs, where would you park?”

Carter looked around, studying the layout in the gloom.

“On the left, I think. The road angles away slightly, so parking on the left will keep them in the shadows if a car passes. If they need to make a quick getaway, it is easier for a right-hand drive car to make a right turn.”

“I agree,” Stone nodded. “There are several sets of identical tire marks in the gravel, just there on the left. The same car has repeatedly parked here, in exactly the same spot. A little farther back, there’s around thirty cigarette ends on the ground. They’re all the same brand. I think that they will park on the left, and then someone will get out for a smoke. I think it will be Markov.”

“Why Markov?” Carter asked.

“Stephens is the boss; he’d smoke in his car if he wanted. I suspect he doesn’t smoke and won’t let anyone else smoke in his nice shiny Mercedes. They stop here to prepare for the next two stops, and Markov uses the time to get out and have a couple of smokes.”

Carter considered what Stone had said and nodded once.

“Makes sense to me. You’re the expert here Eric, what’s the plan?”

“Well first of all, it’s a good spot for an ambush. It’s secluded, and wherever they park, we’ll only be a few feet away. At worst, if they park on the wrong side, its dark enough and there’s decent ground cover, so I should be able to work around without being seen.”

He pointed to the right.

“I’ll put the shotgun behind that bush. It will be loaded with the safety off. Take the car, park it a little way down the road, and hoof it back as quickly as you can. When you get back, take the gun, and lay down behind those bushes.

“Wait for me to give you the signal,” Stone said firmly, “I’ll be on the left. When they get here, I intend to take down Markov first. I’ll do it fast and hard using the crossbow or my hands, whichever is safest. He’s too dangerous to take chances with.”

Stone patted his pocket.

“I’ve brought some cable-ties and a gag, so I can quickly disable him. After that, we can move on Stephens together. We’ll attack at the same time but from opposite sides of the car. If Stephens is still sitting in the car, come in at a forty-five-degree angle from the rear. That way he probably won’t catch you in his peripheral vision or see you in his mirrors. We have to assume he will be armed, so keep the shotgun handy until I have him secured. Ok?”

“Good plan,” Carter said tensely. He gave Stone a quick ‘thumbs up’, climbed into the car, and drove away.

Stone carefully checked the shotgun, before stashing it behind the bushes to the right of the parking lot. After loading the crossbow, he picked a well-concealed spot behind the low bushes on the left, where he could lay face down on the soft grass. He was ten yards from the pile of discarded cigarette ends. Five minutes later, Carter jogged breathlessly into the parking lot. In the eerie silence, the crunch of gravel under his shoes was alarmingly loud. He stopped after a few paces and looked around uncertainly, until Stone gave him a soft whistle. Carter turned and whispered.

“The GPS shows that they’re on the move. They hit the A14 just as I parked the car; I had to run all the way back. They’ll be here any minute!”

“Ok — go lay down behind the bush. The shotgun’s there. Remember it’s loaded and the safety’s off. Try to calm down, breathe easy for a second, and make sure that you don’t shoot me. Are you clear on the plan?”

“Yes, wait for your signal,” he nodded and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

Stone lay still on the cool grass. He concentrated on slowing his own breathing and bringing his mind into sharp focus, ready for what was to come. Three minutes later the road was illuminated by the headlights of a fast approaching car. It was only the third car that they had seen since arriving at the parking lot. This one slowed as it neared before turning into the parking lot.

As the headlights swept across the bushes, Stone ducked his head and shut his eyes tightly, in an effort to preserve his night vision. The car pulled to the left and stopped about twenty-five yards away, exactly on the position that he had found the old tire tracks. Just before the driver turned off the headlights, Stone clearly saw the license plate. The car was a silver Mercedes and the license number was ANT 02 BET. Anton Stephens had arrived.

Outlined against the brighter backdrop of the skyline, Stone could see the silhouette of two people in the car. The driver was a man of medium height and build, Stone guessed that this was Anton Stephens. The second man was so large that his shoulders were wider than the seat, and his head almost touched the interior roof. For three minutes they remained seated, apparently chatting together. Over the sharp tick of the engine and exhaust pipe cooling, Stone could hear music from the car radio, soft voices, and the occasional shared laughter. When the passenger door opened, it triggered the interior light, seemingly as bright as a spotlight in the darkness. Stone quickly shut his eyes to protect his night vision. When he looked up again he could see the massive bulk of Alexis Markov standing just a few feet away. He was facing directly towards where Eric was hiding.

Markov seemed to be staring directly at Stone, and Eric started to think he had been spotted huddled behind the bushes. Then the giant Ukrainian casually opened his zipper, and with a loud sigh, he relieved himself against the nearest bush. Stone remained motionless and concentrated on breathing through his mouth as the stink of warm urine floated past. Markov finished with a grunt and a few shakes and after zipping up, he turned to face the lake. A few seconds later, he lit a cigarette.

Although the lighting was good enough to hit a stationary target from such close range, Stone decided that there was no need to use the crossbow. He did not want to needlessly take a life, or risk causing a noisy injury that would alert Stephens to their presence. With the advantage of surprise and his martial arts skills, Stone felt that he was close enough to tackle Markov quietly and quietly.

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the Ukrainian’s broad back, Stone used his arms to push up from the soft grass, silently bringing his knees forward until he was in a crouch. He waited for a moment, then slowly stood upright, bouncing gently on the balls of his feet to prepare his legs for what was about to follow.

Stone waited until he saw the cigarette glow brightly, indicating that Markov was drawing another deep lungful of smoke. Intent on closing the gap as quickly as possible, Stone took several quick steps towards the Ukrainian. Perhaps he heard a slight crunch of gravel, or some lizard like sixth sense, but at the last moment Markov started to turn to his left — by then it was too late.

Stone had planned to deliver a sharp punch to the back of Markov’s neck, with a blow that was most likely to knock the giant Ukrainian unconscious. Seeing that his quarry was alert and turning, Stone instantly changed his plan in to a full-force attack. Sprinting forward, Stone drove his entire weight through his right shoulder and arm, into the side of Markov’s neck, with a forearm elbow strike. With all the force of a swinging sledgehammer, the strike landed perfectly on the target.

There was surprisingly little noise, even though bone had met muscle with such incredible force. Feeling as if he had just struck a brick wall, Stone stopped dead and rocked backwards, but Markov seemed completely unaffected. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Stone was just preparing to deliver a second attack, when the giant man silently crumpled to the gravel and lay still.

Stone quickly rolled the Ukrainian onto his stomach and secured his hands and feet with some cable ties. A quick search for weapons revealed a switchblade and a pistol. Stone put the knife in his pocket and then checked that the gun was loaded and ready to use. At that moment, Carter slipped silently to his side.

“Jesus, Stone,” he whispered, “I’m glad that wasn’t me you hit!”

Stone dismissed the comment with a shrug and pointed to the car, indicating that Carter should take the right door while he took the left. As they moved into position, their soft footsteps were drowned by the deep base still thumping from the car’s sound system. Stone looked at Carter and mouthed a three-second countdown, and with a shared nod, they moved into action. Carter stepped forward and tapped on the driver side window with the shotgun. As Anton Stephens spun to his right in surprise, Stone used his left hand to snatch the rear passenger door open. In one swift movement, he slid into the car and pushed the gun barrel into the depression behind the drug dealer’s left ear.

Stephens instantly tried to shout for Markov, but he quickly fell silent when Stone rapped him sharply on the back of his head with the pistol. Carter opened the driver’s door and leaned in with a wide smile.

“It’s no good shouting Stephens, your pet monkey’s sleeping.”

Stephens turned to Carter and gave him a venomous look.

“I’m going to rip your fucking balls off and feed them to my dogs, you cun—”

His words were instantly cut short as Carter smashed him full in the face with the butt-end of the shotgun. Stephens recoiled away from the blow, and then slowly sat up, shaking his head. He was starting to swear again, but Carter hit him twice more in quick succession. As Anton Stephens slumped forward, bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth, Stone grabbed his left arm, pulled it through the gap in the seats, and bent it back and upwards until the drug dealer began to scream in pain.

“Ok, I’ve got him,” Stone said, easing the pressure very slightly.

Carter shut the driver’s door, quickly walked around the car and jumped into the passenger side.

“Well, this is cozy,” Ed said as he switched off the radio. “Now, you scum sucking low life, we’re going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer honestly and fully. If you don’t, my friend here is going to rip your arm off and beat you to death with it. Is that clear?”

“Fucmph… ” Stephens mumbled through bloodied lips.

Stone lifted Stephens’ elbow until the drug dealer began to wail again. Carter leaned in closer.

“I’m an impatient man, Stephens. You have but one chance to co-operate. Answer ‘yes’ if you want to live.”

“Y-e-s… ” Stephens croaked softly.

“Good. Now, let us begin simply,” Carter said lightly. “You recently arranged for some people to follow and watch Charles Rathbone. Who ordered you to do this?”

“I don’t know,” Stephens answered slowly. He screamed loudly as Stone again added pressure to his twisted shoulder. “Ah… ah… please… honest, I don’t know.”

“Explain,” Carter said, waving for Stone to relax his grip.

“I have a marketing business… it’s legit. About a month ago, I got a call from a man calling himself ‘Mr. Smith’. He wanted some local talent to keep an eye on someone — offered me a grand a week, so I accepted. The next day an old guy walks up to me in a bar’s parking lot, right in front of Alexis. Bald as brass he gives me an envelope and says, ‘Here’s your instructions and payment for two weeks’, and then he walked away. I’d never seen him before or since.”

“Describe him,” Carter ordered.

Stephens responded instantly.

“He was a tall guy, thin face, old… probably sixty… goatee beard, long dark trench coat and a tweed hat…, what d’ya call it with the rim and a feather on the side?”

“Do you mean a trilby hat?”

“Yeah… one of those.”

“Tell me about the instructions,” Carter snapped.

“There was cash in the envelope and directions to send someone with local knowledge to a parking lot in Colchester at 10am the next day— that was it. I sent one of my people, Darren Jeffers, so he could pay off some of his debt like. They kept him for two weeks and I kept the money. End of story.” Stephens sat up and relaxed slightly.

“Where is the envelope — the money and the directions? I want to see them.”

“All gone. The money’s spent, and I chucked the envelope. The directions was all on one page of paper, computer printed — that was it.”

Carter turned towards Stone and raised an eyebrow, inviting him to ask any follow-up questions. Stone shrugged, indicating that he had nothing to add. Like the good cop that he was, Carter got Stephens to go over his answers a second time, just to check his story for holes and lies. Everything checked out — and they still had nothing. Ed sat back, lightly resting the shotgun on his lap while he thought about what to do next. Everyone relaxed slightly.

Suddenly there was a flurry of activity. The drug dealer’s right hand appeared from his side clutching something. Stone shouted ‘Gun’, and tried to dive forward into the narrow gap between the seats. In the tight space of the car, Carter ineffectively jabbed sideways with the shotgun. Restricted by the seat back, and at the extreme limit of his reach, Stone grabbed Stephens right wrist, squeezed hard and twisted sharply. There was a single gunshot, deafeningly loud in the confines of the car. Before Stone could improve his grip, Stephens managed to wrench his arm away and then he flung open the door and jumped from the car.

Stone scrabbled at the unfamiliar handle for a second, before he managed to open the off-side rear door of the Mercedes, so he was already several paces behind Stephens when his feet hit the gravel. As he sprinted across the parking lot, Stone realized that somewhere during the struggle in the car, he had dropped Markov’s pistol. The drug dealer’s first instinct had been to run, but in his panic, his chosen escape route had taken him away from the road and directly into the shallow waters of the lake. Realizing that either he must surrender, or fight, Stephens chose to do the latter. He turned towards Stone and raised the gun.

There was just one chance, one tiny glimmer of hope. Stone knew that if he stopped or tried to turn, he would surely die. It’s quite easy to shoot a target that is static, or moving laterally to your eye line, but it’s much more difficult to shoot someone who’s running directly at you. Many well-armed hunters have been killed by charging Lions, simply because they lost their nerve and fumbled the shot. Stone knew this — he knew that it was his only hope. He let his momentum carry him unswervingly forward, and he prayed that Anton Stephens would fumble his shot.

As Stone’s feet hit the water, Stephens panicked. Suddenly realizing that his target was approaching very fast, he tried to step backwards to widen the gap. As the water resisted his legs, the drug dealer lost his balance and, in desperation, pulled the trigger. The shot went high and wide, missing Stone’s head by a couple of inches. Stephens was still staggering backwards into deeper water and trying to lower the gun, when Stone hit him with a flying tackle to the neck.

Stunned by the massive impact, Stephens fell backwards into the water, with Stone landing squarely onto his chest. He grabbed the drug dealer’s right hand, which was still holding the gun, and pushed it safely under the water. Then he seized a handful of Anton Stephens’ hair and forced his face under the surface.

The cold water instantly revived Stephens, who took an involuntary lung-full and then started to struggle as he realized what was happening. Twisting the gun hand, and simultaneously pushing down on his head, Stone held firm with gritted teeth, as the man struggled for his life. At first, he fought violently, kicking and bucking wildly in a desperate effort to raise his face from the water, but Stone had the upper hand and in less than a minute Stephens lay still. Stone waited for another minute to make sure that he was dead then he slowly dragged the limp form out of the water and back towards the car. Carter was waiting, his face a grim mask.

“You hit?” Stone asked, panting for breath.

“I don’t think so.” The gun was still clutched in Stephens’ dead hand. Carter reached down and prized it free. “Where the hell did this come from?”

“Must’ve been stashed down the side of the seat — are you sure you’re not hit?”

“No, I’m fine… it looks like there’s a decent hole in the door though.” Carter pointed at Stephens. “What are we going to do with him?”

Stone shrugged noncommittally.

“Was there anything else you had wanted to ask him?”

“Not a word — nothing,” Carter replied, shaking his head. “It’s a bit late now, even if I did.”

“Perhaps we can get something more useful out of Markov,” Stone suggested.

“Unlikely,” Carter said grimly, “Markov’s dead. His neck’s broken.”

“Sorry — lucky punch I guess.” Stone said pulling an apologetic face. “He sensed me coming and started to turn, I had to hit him harder than I’d intended.”

“You won’t see me shedding any tears.” Carter gave a somber smile. “Before anyone else turns up, we should put them back in the car and push it into the lake. If they ever find the car, the local police will probably think it’s just a drug deal gone wrong. Then they’ll probably all go out and have a party to celebrate.”

“Ok,” Stone nodded.

“First though, you’d better search the car, just in case there are any clues to be had. I’ll search these two. Take any cash and valuables, watches, cell phones, take the lot,” Carter instructed, “but leave any drugs you find. The water will take care of that.”

“Shouldn’t we go and search his house as well?” Stone asked.

“I wish we could, but I think it’s just too risky — given… ” Carter waved a hand vaguely at the two bodies. “Anyway, in my experience, this kind of low life rarely works from an office at home, or keeps tax records in a neat file. If there’s anything, it’s here in the car. This is his office.”

“Ok, you’re the boss!”

Five minutes later, they had searched both bodies and carefully wiped the car clean of fingerprints. Between them, they had filled a shopping bag with a substantial haul of cash, two Rolex watches, two billfolds, two cell phones, some rings, and several parking tickets. Carter turned to Stone and pointed towards the rear of the car.

“We had better put them in the trunk.”

Stone popped the release, then walked to the rear of the car and lifted the trunk. He stood stock still for a moment, reflecting that suddenly he didn’t feel so bad about taking two lives after all. Curious at the delay, Carter walked to his side and stood staring — open-mouthed. Eventually Stone broke the silence.

“Well there’s something you don’t see every day.”

Becka was not happy. She had some information that she needed to give to The Fixer but she was of the opinion that he would see the information as bad news — and The Fixer had a reputation for receiving bad news very poorly. She had tried to apply the corporate ethos, ‘Don’t give me problems, bring me solutions’, but the information was new and too important to delay until she had a solution to offer. She took a deep breath and walked along the corridor to The Fixer’s office. Bunny was acting as sentry, sitting casually on a chair outside the office door. As usual, Kitten would be outside patrolling the grounds. As she approached, Bunny got up and stood with his arms folded and legs wide, completely blocking the corridor.

Becka hated and feared the two bodyguards. In her considered opinion, they were both violent morons who smelled of cheap aftershave and sour body odor. More than anything, she particularly despised Bunny. Although he was probably impotent because of his excessive use of steroids, he liked to cop a feel whenever he could. Some time ago, she had realized that The Fixer was aware of what Bunny was up to and, although he didn’t actually encourage it, he certainly did nothing to stop Bunny’s repeated groping.

Perhaps he was secretly afraid of his two bodyguards, and rather than risking confrontation, he permitted Bunny to grope Becka as a sick category of employment benefit. Some people had a dental plan; Bunny was able to grope her tight young body whenever he wanted. Bracing herself for what was to follow, Becka walked forward until she was face to chest with the giant bodyguard, but just out of groping range.

“I need to see The Fixer.”

Bunny eyed her suspiciously.

“He’s busy.”

“He’ll see me,” she said firmly, waving a sheet of paper. “This is important.”

“Give it to me,” Bunny said, holding out a hand the size of a shovel, “I’ll pass it on.”

“I need to explain some things to him. This is important. The Boss won’t like it if you keep him waiting.” She took a small step forward. “Now get out of the way.”

Bunny stared at the paper for a moment as his pea-sized intellect struggled to come to a decision. Finally, he mumbled for Becka to wait. He spun around, tapped respectfully on the door, and then went into the office. Becka heard low voices and a short laugh, before Bunny reappeared and waved her forward. For once, he stood aside politely to allow her to pass unmolested.

“Becka!” The Fixer greeted her happily with a wave of his arm. “What can I do for you?”

She thought carefully for a moment before deciding on the best way to deliver her bad news.

“As a matter of course I have a number of alarms in place around the internet. Call them triggers if you will. Little programs that watch for activity that would suggest someone is searching for us. Occasionally I’ll get the odd nibble. Usually it’s just coincidence — a lucky combination of words in an email, or someone searching for demolition experts. However, this morning when I checked my ‘fishing net’, I discovered a shitload of very specific searches.” Becka waved the sheet of paper in evidence.

The Fixer sat up in his seat, immediately attentive.

“Are you telling me that someone out there is searching for us?” he asked.

“Absolutely! There’s no doubt about it,” she said firmly. “Some names related to the Charles Rathbone case were being searched.”

“Who’s doing it?”

“I don’t know,” Becka admitted quietly. She braced herself for the inevitable explosion of anger, but The Fixer gave a surprising response.

“Really? But you’re the best there is, Becka. Why don’t you know who’s searching for us?”

Becka shrugged.

“It’s hard to explain the detail in words that you, or anyone else without a degree in computer science, would understand.”

The Fixer nailed Becka with an ice-cold stare and spoke a single acidic word.

“Try.”

Becka desperately searched her mind for a suitable analogy. She held up a finger to indicate that she had an idea.

“It’s like there’s a ghost. Imagine looking at a security video. You can see things moving, you can see footsteps on the carpet, someone opening doors, but there’s no image. I can see that someone’s been looking for us, but I can’t see who it is,” she said, holding her hands up in defense.

“I think I understand,” The Fixer said nodding gravely. “Someone is covering their tracks rather well.”

“Yes!” Becka nodded enthusiastically. “Someone good, someone very good — but I’m better, and given enough time I’ll find them. I promise.”

“Ok, well done.” He gave her a soulless smile and waved her away. “Keep me informed.”

Becka nodded and placed the printout on the desk. She left without saying another word, unwilling to prolong the meeting any further than was strictly necessary.

In the corridor, Bunny was waiting for her. He was leaning casually against the wall, leaving a deliberately small gap for Becka to pass through to get back to her office. She almost made it through, but at the last moment, his right arm shot out, blocking her escape. Then he brought his left hand onto her bottom, and began squeezing and needing, without tenderness or sexual interest. Becka tried to push his hand away, but he was too strong. A moment later his right hand grabbed her breast, as she knew it would.

“Get off me!” She hissed.

Bunny said nothing, but his uncaring smile revealed his gold tooth as his hand slithered mercilessly down her body until it forced its way between her thighs. He cupped Becka’s bottom with one hand and her crotch with the other, grinding painfully and lifting up until she was forced to stand on tiptoes. She grabbed his wrist to try to relieve the pain, an action Bunny immediately misinterpreted as one of pleasure.

“You like that?” he leered.

“Oh yeah, Bunny — you’re the man of my dreams,” She teased mockingly. “Do me baby — go on, do me!”

Bunny dropped his hands.

“Get on with your work — bitch.”

She stepped away quickly, sick to the stomach with humiliation and frustrated by her inability to stop his sick bullying. When she returned to her desk, Becka closed her eyes and thought about how to vent her anger by finding whoever was stalking the Wrecking Crew. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, her eyes snapped open. With a smile, she began to tap computer code into her keyboard.

The Fixer stared at the sheet of paper that Becka had left on his desk. The list of numbers and dates was gibberish to him, but he understood the implication. Someone was after him, and that made him very unhappy. He was The Fixer. He knew people in high places. He was untouchable. He ran the Wrecking Crew. He went after people — people didn’t come after him. Anger boiled into his throat, anger, and fear. Not for himself, and the money, but for the possible loss of power.

When he started out, his motivation was naturally all about money, and he had made a lot of money over the years. However, in the time since he had formed the Wrecking Crew he had discovered that the use and abuse of power was a far more addictive drug, than the pursuit of wealth. In those quiet moments of solitude at the end of a day, The Fixer silently admitted that he got an almost sexual pleasure from wielding such a powerful sword. He was a champion facilitator — he made things happen. Losing that supremacy was something that he feared perhaps more than death itself. He had always expected that one day the party would end; it was something for which he had carefully planned. There was a private jet on standby, and he had sufficient resources to ensure a long and happy retirement. Nonetheless, if he was being honest with himself, the prospect of living a life without such unlimited power was something that chilled him to the bone.

On top of the creeping fear of some unknown hackers exposing the Wrecking Crew, he was starting to suspect that he had lost one of his best resources — The Chameleon. He had called Chameleon in the usual way, providing good information about the two new targets, and triggering the killer with his code word. By yesterday, The Fixer had expected to hear that both contracts had been completed successfully. Because the confirmation was overdue, and at least one target was definitely still alive, he had tried to contact Chameleon several times, but his calls all went unanswered.

In itself, this lack of communication was not suspicious. To complete a particularly difficult assignment, sometimes his assassin needed to remain out of contact for several weeks. Both of the current targets were simple, uncomplicated hits — something that Bunny and Kitten could probably have done. Yet Chameleon had failed to deliver. Something was very wrong, and now Chameleon was missing. The Fixer did not believe in co-incidence. A missing assassin combined with the report that Becka had just delivered, made The Fixer wonder if the party would be over sooner than he had expected. Something had to be done. He needed information quickly, and he needed eyes on the target. What he needed was surveillance. He strode across the room, threw open the door and shouted loudly for Peter White.