“Fire,” King said.
Reggie kept his eyes fixed on the beloved face as he pulled the trigg—
Detective Sam Petrie stared at the last of the bodies as the transport company guys hoisted it onto the gurney for its final journey to the medical examiner, and tried not to breathe. The combined effluvia of fermenting garbage and recent death was potent.
The criminalists were still busy collecting and logging evidence. His friend Trish was one of them. She was organizing for the blood-smeared batons to be taken to a drying locker, and filling out all the form 49’s to get the blood samples analyzed for DNA.
This was a weird one. Three big guys armed with knives and guns had inexplicably opted to use batons to defend themselves while an unknown assailant or assailants had beaten them to death, apparently using only bare hands. This pending forensic analysis, but Petrie had a feel for it. He was sure.
Two batons were bloodied. Blood was splattered over the asphalt. One man’s neck was snapped, one’s larynx was crushed and collapsed, and the third’s skull had been bashed in. No witnesses.
Whoever did it had to have been immensely strong, huge, and/or hopped up on a performance-enhancing drug. A drug deal gone bad?
One thing it probably wasn’t was a hardened professional. Not with vomit spattered everywhere. Vomit said raw beginner. But what raw beginner killed three big guys with his bare hands? Why hadn’t the three big guys defended themselves with the guns, or knives? Very
X-Files
. A pack of aliens? A suckermouthed sewer monster? Yeah. Right.
The team of criminalists were wrapping it up. Trish, a petite blonde with a thick tawny braid hanging down over her police jacket, ducked beneath the yellow tape and jerked her chin in the direction of the diner. “Coffee?” she asked. “Got called too early to get my caffeine fix.”
“Don’t you have to go back to the crime lab?” he asked.
“Nah, I’m not on the primary team today,” she replied. “They just needed some extra bodies.” Her eyes flicked to the gurney being rolled up into the transport company vehicle. “Warm bodies, that is to say. So? Coffee?”
“Yeah, sure.” He could use some coffee. He followed her around the corner and back into the diner, which was a mishmash of bright chrome, pink plastic, and weird art. Garish landscapes, strangely interspersed with austere, Japanesy pen-and-ink nature drawings.
Petrie had left his partner, J. D., to interview the employees of the diner, all of whom looked shaken. The cook, Julio, a grizzled Hispanic guy, was behind the counter, propped on his elbows. The waiters sat on counter stools; a big, balding blond guy hunched over his coffee and a thirtysomething redhead with Pocahontas braids, crying noisily while instinctively propping up her bulbous cleavage with her elbows.
Julio poured them coffee without being asked as they approached the counter, and shoved a plate of pastries their way with ill grace. Trish took a cruller and bit in, sighing with delight.
“He took off at about a quarter to five,” Julio was saying to J. D. “ ’Bout fifteen minutes after Sid and Leona here finally dragged their asses in here, half an hour late. As usual.”
Sid slanted Julio a dark look, but Leona, the Pocahontas chick, didn’t seem to notice the dig. “I cannot believe that was happening right next to me!” she lled. “Murderers, right on the other side of the wall! What if I’d gone out the kitchen door? I could have gotten killed!”
“Who took off at a quarter to five?” Petrie asked.
“Bruno Ranieri,” J. D. told him. “Grandnephew of Rosa Ranieri, the lady who owns the place. She’s up in Seattle right now, visiting family. He was working night shift. Left probably right before it happened.”
“You talked to him yet?” Petrie asked.
J. D. shrugged. “Not answering his cell, or at home. His other work number is still after hours. I left messages everywhere.”
“ ’Course he’s not answering,” Sid said. “He’s with that girl.”
J. D. and Petrie both whipped their gaze around. “What girl?”
“The girl he left the diner with,” Sid explained. “She’d been here when I came in to work for the last few nights. This morning, she gets up and leaves with him. Something tells me he’s not gonna answer his phone for a while.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t, if I was him.”
J. D. and Petrie exchanged glances. “Who is she?” Petrie asked. “Do you know her name?”
“Nope. She was hot, though. Black hair. Glasses. Nice tits.”
“Don’t be gross, Sid,” Leona roused herself to snap. “God, I wish Bruno were here. I’d feel safer if I had a black belt ninja type like him around right now.”
Petrie studied her. “Who’s a black belt ninja type?”
“Oh, Bruno’s amazing,” she said, mistily. “He’s got, like, these muscles that just go on and on, and he does kung fu, like what you see on TV. Kev does, too, but he’s older, and he’s taken.”
“So Bruno Ranieri is a trained martial artist?” Petrie said.
“Leona!” Julio hissed. “Stop being a goddamn cow!”
Leona’s eyes got big, her gummy lashes fluttering as her gaze darted from here to there. “Oh, my God,” she squeaked. “You don’t think that . . . oh, my God, no! No way! Bruno would never . . . he’s, like, only the sweetest guy in the whole world! He would never—”
“Don’t get upset,” Petrie soothed. “We just want to get all the facts. So, this Kev you mentioned. This is another Ranieri? A relative?”
“Sort of,” Julio said reluctantly. “Adopted. His last name is McCloud, now. Used to be Larsen. Long story. But you can forget about him. He’s out of the country, traveling with his girlfriend. Australia, New Zealand, someplace like that. So leave him be.”
“I don’t mean to bug anybody,” Petrie said mildly. “But can I have the phone numbers? Rosa Ranieri, Bruno. Kev McCloud, too, please.”
Julio roused himself, grumbling, and went to the phone on the wall near the kitchen entrance. He tore off a scrap of paper that had been taped to the bottom of it, slapped it down on the counter. “Home, work, and cell for Bruno. Home, cell, and all the McClouds’ numbers for Rosa. And this one here’s Kev’s cell number. But he’s gone.”
Petrie slid the slip of paper into his pocket. “Thanks.”
“This is Bruno, right? Nice.” They all turned at Trish’s voice. She was looking at a framed magazine cover that graced the wall over the dessert counter, sipping her coffee and gnawing her cruller.
“Yeah, that’s Bruno,” Julio said reluctantly.
Petrie strolled over. Aod-looking dark-haired guy flashed a charming, dimpled smile at him from the cover of the
Portland Monthly.
“I remember this cover,” Trish told him. “The guy is megacute. Most eligible bachelor? Yum. I’d take him.”
Petrie leaned closer. “Wait a second, I’ve seen this guy. He was mixed up in that weird shit that came down in Beaverton last year, right? When that billionaire got offed, what was that guy’s name?”
“Parrish,” J. D. supplied, joining them and staring at the photo. “None of them ended up being charged with a crime, though.”
“Huh,” Petrie muttered, staring at the guy’s very white teeth, all of which were prominently featured in the picture. “Interesting.”
Trish’s phone buzzed, and she whipped it out. “Yeah? . . . Uh-huh . . . no shit . . . yeah, OK. I’ll be there right away.” She dropped the phone into her pocket, rolling her eyes. “Duty calls. Suicide, over on Wygant. Some clown blew his brains out and managed somehow to set off some kind of explosive device and shoot out the neighbor’s bedroom window at the same time. Big mess.”
“Wow. Takes talent,” Petrie observed.
“Big-time.” Trish kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the glass over the magazine cover. “Bye-bye, dimples,” she crooned.
“You do know those are just a genetically inherited defect in the underlying facial muscle tissue, right?” Petrie told her.
Trish popped the last bite of cruller into her mouth and chewed it, her face blank. “Come again?”
“Dimples,” he explained. “It’s just a bifid major zigomaticus. The muscle attached to your cheekbone.” He indicated on his own face.
Trish gave his cheek a condescending pat. “Aw. You’re just jealous because you don’t have any. Don’t worry, Sam. You’re still cute.”
“It was just an observation,” he called after her.
She turned and winked at him. “Bruno didn’t do it,” she said. “It’s not possible. Those bifid zigomaticus are just too adorable.”
The bell tinkled as the door fell shut behind her. Julio let out a grunt in the sudden silence that followed. “Women,” he said.
The image on the view screen spun and blurred. The device came to rest sideways, showing a partial view of Reginald’s big toe. A rivulet of blood trickled down between it and the second digit.
Neil counted the seconds until the picture disintegrated.
That was that. When Reggie’s heart stopped, the device erased itself, and detonated. A small explosion, just a safety feature to ensure that the coms were thoroughly destroyed and never fell into the wrong hands. He used it with only his own personal operatives.
The feature had never been put into use before. This entire scenario was unprecedented. King had considered his mature, trained adult operatives to be 99.9 percent infallible.
Bruno Ranieri represented that .01 percent of uncertainty. It should hardly surprise him. But Bruno had never had the benefit of decades of intensive training, nor long-term DeepWeave. Neil had written the boy off long ago as an evolutionary dead end. More trouble than he was worth, considering his pit bull relatives.
But he’d managed, in his own crude way, to become exceptional.
King was furious. At Bruno, for slaughting his agents. At Howard and Lily, for lighting the fuse. At Reginald, for being his shining star, and then daring to fail. It was dangerous to get attached, but he was only human. And Reggie had been special series, too. That entire pod had been the very first of his special series, and with their natural genetic advantages, he’d always expected a bit more from them.
Neil had no choice but to terminate Reginald’s life. He had to be rigorous, or what message would he send to his other operatives? He could undermine their psychological stability and destroy them all.
Zoe was huddled on the floor, still naked and gasping. He felt an urge to kick her until she was quiet. He controlled it. One did not kick a finely tuned machine worth tens of millions.
He could understand her being upset, but for God’s sake, she hadn’t even been podmates with the dead agents. Neil fostered the development of familial feelings, raising his trainees in small family groupings. Experience had taught him that family bonding fostered intellectual and emotional health as well as esprit de corps. But Reggie, Cal, Martin, and Tom were years younger than Zoe. She’d never even been assigned with them. No, she was just carrying on. As usual.
Anger piled up on anger as he pondered the logistical nightmare he now faced. He’d already leased Reginald’s services over the next two years to the Amesbury Group, a wealthy multinational corporation, for a staggering sum of money. Now he had to renegotiate the contract. Failure would mean a loss of revenues of well over three hundred million over the course of the next two years alone.
First, basic housecleaning. He punched Nadia’s code into his com. She responded instantly. “Yes, sir?”
“What is your position?” he demanded.
“I’m driving on Airport Way,” she said, her voice very subdued. “I was waiting for Reggie to give me further—”
“Reggie is dead,” he said harshly.
Nadia let out a thin squeak, then a strained silence.
“Nadia?” he prodded. “Are you there?”
A wet sniff and a wobbling voice. “Awaiting orders, sir.”
His teeth ground. Nadia, too. Nauseating. But Nadia at least was justified in being devastated, having lost two podmates in one blow. The fourth of their pod quartet, another female, had been culled ten years ago, at the age of fourteen. Only Reggie, Cal, and Nadia had made it.
Poor Nadia. Bereft of her pod. So sad. But that was no excuse for wallowing in self-pity. “Go to the house on Wygant Street and dispose of his body,” he ordered. “I want no trace of him for the authorities to find. Not so much as a hair or a skin flake.”
“Sir, ah, how do you want me to—”
“Be creative,” he snapped. God, was no one displaying any powers of independent cognition today? “Use acid, use the food processor, use the garbage disposal, use whatever you want! Just be thorough! It’s bad enough that all the others are headed for the morgue!”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. “Ah . . . sir, are you . . . am I . . .”
He sighed, sharply. “No, Nadia. You are not in disgrace. You followed your team leader’s orders. He was the one at fault, and he has paid for the error in full. Understood? Now go do as I said.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. “Thank you.”