Apocalypse Cult (Gray Spear Society) (13 page)

One of them stepped forward and examined Aaron and Marina closely. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and thick brown hair. He wore a white shirt with sweat stains under the arms, and blue slacks that were a size too small. His body had some softness around the middle, but he could hardly be called fat. Aaron judged him to be around forty years old.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

"Who is asking?" Marina said.

"Daniel Hoskins, Drug Enforcement Administration."

"I'm Carol Withers, Chicago police."

Hoskins glared at her. "Really?"

"Really." She showed him her badge and identification. "I'm with the Narcotics and Gang Section. We're investigating the Church of One Soul. You must be here for the same reason. Is this a DEA stakeout?"

"Yeah. And you are?" Hoskins looked at Aaron.

"Alex Dempster," Aaron said. "I'm a private eye. Detective Withers asked me to help her identify a suspect." He handed over one of his new business cards.

Hoskins examined the card critically.

Aaron's heart was pounding but he maintained a calm exterior. The cover story only had to survive long enough for them to get away. Marina was so composed she appeared bored.

"It's strange," Hoskins said to her. "We're working with the Chicago police on this case. In fact, I talked to your entire unit this morning, and I don't remember seeing you."

She didn't blink. "I missed the meeting."

"I ordered your sergeant to keep his people away from here unless I called for backup, and I didn't."

"Sorry. I didn't get the word." She shrugged. "We'll leave if you want."

"No. You stay right here. I'm calling your sergeant now. This is unacceptable."

He took out his phone and walked a few paces away.

Aaron glanced in all directions. The two federal agents behind him still had their guns drawn, and there was another man in front of Aaron, not counting Hoskins. If Aaron tried to run, he would certainly get shot, and he wasn't wearing a vest.

Marina stood as still as a statue. He couldn't detect the smallest sign of nervousness in her expression.
She's good at this
, he thought.
Better than me.

Hoskins returned. "The sergeant never heard of a Carol Withers. Tell me who you really are."

"I am who I am," Marina said, "and you have to let us go. We didn't commit a crime."

"I have enough probable cause to arrest you."

"For sitting in my own car on a public street?"

She wore a gray business jacket over a white button-up shirt. He pulled open her jacket, exposing a revolver in a holster, and quickly snatched the gun away.

"For carrying a concealed firearm." He held the gun near her face. "And for impersonating a cop."

"I'm a real cop," she said, "and that's my service weapon. You're making a mistake."

"I'll check out your story. In the meantime, both of you can cool your heels in jail. Tomorrow morning, we'll talk again. Unless you want to tell me the truth now."

She kept her mouth shut. Aaron followed her lead and also remained quiet.

"Take them away!" Hoskins ordered.

* * *

Victor parked his car in front of the White Rabbit Gentleman's Club. A neon sign showing a white rabbit in a tuxedo stood above the front door. It was a Wednesday night and still relatively early in the evening, so there were only a handful of cars in the parking lot.

He stepped out of his air-conditioned car and into the muggy night air. Instead of going into the club, he walked around, examining the other cars. He quickly found the one he was looking for: a black Cadillac with blue tinted windows.

He checked to make sure there were no witnesses. Then he drew his gun, a Glock 19 with an oversized suppressor. He shot the nearest lights, throwing long dark shadows over the Cadillac. The gun made a popping noise, no louder than hands clapping.

He smashed a side window on the Cadillac using his elbow, reached inside, and unlocked the doors. A car alarm wailed. He quickly moved away and ducked down behind another car.

A few minutes later, a man came out of the club, cursing softly to himself. He wore a red silk shirt, black slacks, and expensive Italian shoes. He turned off the alarm with a key fob. When he saw the damage to the window, his cursing grew louder.

Victor revealed himself. "You're Joey 'the Ham' Setola, right?" He aimed his gun at Joey's head.

Joey looked at Victor with wide eyes. "Who da fuck are you?"

"Nobody important. Get in the front seat."

"But the broken glass..." Joey said.

Victor pulled the trigger of his gun, and a bullet clipped a lock of dark, Italian hair. Joey scrambled to get into his car.

Victor sat in the back seat, taking care to keep his gun aimed at the back of Joey's head. "Face forward. Don't look at me. Keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them. Do anything funny, and I'll blow your brains all over the windshield."

"Are you a cop or just a stupid shit head?"

"You got a mouth for a guy who is an inch away from death," Victor said. "I want information."

"Hey, I'm a made man. I know people..."

"That's exactly why we're talking. Tell me about the Church of One Soul."

"The who?" Joey said.

"Freaky cult assholes with green tattoos on their faces."

"Oh." Joey turned his head slightly. "What about them?"

"Tell me everything."

"Do I look like the fucking internet?"

Victor pressed his gun against the back of Joey's skull.

"Hey! Take it easy," Joey said. "Maybe I do know something. They sell a lot of smack."

"Keep talking."

"That's all I know!"

"This is Chicago," Victor said, "and in this city, people who do business pay taxes. The Church of One Soul is doing a
lot
of business. They must be buying protection, and if it isn't from your crew, then you know who it is."

Joey shook his head slowly. "They don't pay nobody."

"I don't believe it."

"We sent some guys over, but they came back in garbage bags: a bag of legs, a bag of arms, a bag of heads. Lots of bags."

"But you're the Chicago mafia," Victor said.

"Right. We sent bigger guys with bigger guns. The police found the bodies in the lake a couple of days later. All the bones were broken.
All
the bones."

Victor frowned. "Then you just gave up?"

"The boss didn't want to go to war with a bunch of crazies."

"Coward."

"Times are tough," Joey said, "even for us. We got to pick our fights."

"Tell me something useful. I need dirt on these freaks."

"Is that why you busted my car?"

"Yeah."

Joey's face turned pink. "I'm not a snitch, and I'm not some piece of garbage you can kick around. I got all kinds of connections."

"You're just a cockroach to me."

"Fuck you."

"Are you sure you can't tell me anything else?" Victor said. "We're done talking?"

Joey nodded.

Victor holstered his gun. He reached over the seat, grabbed Joey's head, and snapped it around, breaking his neck.
Who is the stupid shit head now?
Victor thought.

* * *

Aaron sat in a holding cell with fourteen other men. There were a couple of loud drunks in the mix, but most were quiet. Like Aaron, they just wanted to get through the long night without any trouble.

He checked the clock on the wall, which showed the time as just after 1 AM. He sighed deeply. There was no television or radio, and the only entertainment was listening to people yell at the guards or each other. Sleeping was out of the question. The cell had a single bench, large enough for three men, and Aaron was not one of the lucky few. So, he paced or stood in the corner.

Memories of being arrested didn't lighten his foul mood. As a cop, he had witnessed the procedure many times, but this had been his first experience as a suspect. First, they had searched him for weapons with particular attention paid to his bodily cavities. All his possessions were taken away and "safely" stored, including his all-important phone. Then came the photographs and fingerprints. Finally, the booking officer had asked him questions, which Aaron had mostly refused to answer. The entire process had taken three long, tedious hours.

He rapped his knuckles on a concrete wall, which sounded solid.
I'm not digging my way out.

"Dempster!" a guard yelled.

It took a moment for Aaron to recognize his own false name. "Here!"

The guard opened the door of the cell. "You're free to go."

Aaron didn't need to be told twice. He retrieved his belongings from storage, but the police refused to return his guns. He hustled out of the police station.

He walked out onto Grand Avenue in downtown Chicago. The cool night air felt like heaven on his face, which was sticky with dried sweat. Only a few scattered windows were lit in the tall office buildings around him. A siren wailed in the distance.

Marina stood on the sidewalk with two men that he had never seen before. The strangers wore silk shirts, very dark pants, and expensive leather shoes polished to a high gloss. She waved for Aaron to come over.

"You can thank these gentlemen for getting us out of jail," she said. She spoke the word "gentlemen" with obvious sarcasm.

"Thank you," Aaron said. "Why?"

"Interesting story. Agent Hoskins sent our fingerprints and photos to Washington for identification. There was a match in the CIA database. It turns out the agency has been trying very hard to locate me. These two men are spies."

"You must be Aaron Glade," one of the men said.

Hearing his real name made Aaron nervous. "Who are you?"

"Call me Mr. Green, and my associate is Mr. Blue."

Marina shook her head. "Dumb names."

"Why is the CIA looking for you?" Aaron said.

"I was a spy years ago."

"Marina," Green said, "your background is classified information."

Hearing Marina's real name spoken out loud made Aaron even more anxious.

"Aaron is my partner," she said.

Green glowered. "We got him out of jail for you, as you demanded. Now send him away. We have important, confidential business to discuss."

"He stays with me. He hears what I hear."

Green and Blue exchanged glances.

"This won't work," Green said.

"Fine." Marina shrugged. "Go home. I'm sure your superiors won't blame you for failing."

"Be reasonable."

"Which reminds me. We're very hungry. If you want to talk, you'll have to feed us."

Green and Blue walked off to have a private conference.

Aaron leaned towards Marina and whispered, "What's going on here?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "but I don't like it at all."

The CIA agents returned.

"We've decided Mr. Glade will be permitted to accompany us," Green said, "but I hope you know what you're doing. Let's go."

They walked down the street until they found an open sushi bar. Aaron felt underdressed and skuzzy compared to the other customers, but Green asked for a private room, so it didn't matter. Japanese paintings hung on walls made of straw and bamboo.

As soon as a waitress appeared, Marina ordered two servings of every kind of sushi on the menu. Aaron wondered what the bill would look like.

"You're paying," Marina told Green.

Through clenched teeth, he said, "Of course. Can we talk now, finally?"

"When the food is in front of me."

Everybody waited in silence. Aaron was dying of curiosity to hear what these CIA guys wanted. They were a part of Marina's past that he had never even imagined.

Twenty minutes later, the sushi was finally served.

"Now, we can talk," Marina announced.

"Let me go first," Aaron said. "What did Marina do for the CIA exactly?" He took a bite of delicious salmon.

"He doesn't know?" Green asked.

"No," Marina said. "Go ahead and tell him everything. If you don't, I will." She stuffed a tuna roll in her mouth.

Green sighed and turned to Aaron. "She was born with the name Marina Pavlova, but when she worked for the agency, she was known by another name: the Princess of Arms."

"Why?" Aaron said.

"She was one of our best deep cover operatives in Eastern Europe. She gathered intelligence on the black market for weapons."

"In other words," Marina said, "I slept with a lot of greasy, old men who had an insatiable gun fetish. The CIA pimped me like I was a whore."

"Not quite." Green shook his head. "You acquired information that nobody else could get. You hit targets that nobody else could touch. You served your country very well. Yes, sex was involved, but that's the nature of the business."

Aaron looked at Marina with greater respect. Instead of acknowledging his stare, she stuffed more sushi in her mouth and washed it down with tea.

"But then you quit," Green added.

"I had no choice," Marina said with such anger it came out like a hiss. "I realized the idiots in Washington were just filing away my reports. I risked my life to deliver jewels, and the bureaucrats treated them like dog food." Her hand shaking, she took a sip of tea. "I was trying to make a difference in the world. Instead, I only made 'case studies' and a lot of unmarked graves."

"Mistakes were made, but the CIA has a new administration now. Better management procedures and technology. Streamlined operations."

"Good for you."

"Marina," he said, "the agency would like you to come back. You were a star performer once, and you could easily be one again."

She snorted. "You actually want me back? Did anybody tell you how I quit?"

"I heard the story. The new administration is willing to ignore that... unpleasant episode."

"I'm not." She raised her middle finger. "As I recall, the CIA tried to kill me afterwards."

He ate a piece of sushi. Then he said slowly, "After you came to Chicago, you fell off the grid. It's like you stopped existing until tonight. What have you been doing?"

"Making a difference with people who are actually competent," she said in a quiet, tense voice.