Chapter 4 Wesley #2
Fuck. That complicates things. “You think he sent the Russian to kill Dimitri?”
Dimitri growls his displeasure. We all know he’s itching to get his knife in there and settle that debt—this is fuel for that fire.
With a deep sigh, Mac reaches up and tugs at his hair. “That, or he was trying to scoop the hit out from under us—put our relationship with the General at risk or some shit. Force my hand into doing what he wants.”
From what I understand of Felix, it’s possible. He’s smart and careful—he’d manipulate the situation to his advantage and keep his hands clean while doing it.
“Well, it’s a possible new lead if nothing else,” I say. “Add it to the growing list of things to look into. Mac, you keep an eye out for tails or more Russians when you head back to Alfano’s. Dimitri, you dig deeper into the surveillance footage.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll get to work on Alfano’s laptop and see if I can find anything about a history with the Volkevich Bratva.”
Mac rubs his eyes harshly. “I need to shower and grab some sleep, then I’ll get back over to Alfano’s. Someone’s going to find the body soon. Wes and I cleaned up, but I want to be sure they don’t find any of your DNA we might have missed.”
“Good,” Dimitri nods, but there’s a tightness around his eyes.
For a bloke who’s all about that heart-pounding action, the impotence of forced tummy time like an infant must be chafing him raw.
He hates not being able to take the lead—and I’m sure that the mention of Felix’s involvement has prompted a fresh wave of anger that he can’t do anything but stew in until he’s healed.
“Glad to see you’re as unbreakable as ever. You’ll be back out there with us in no time, I’m sure.” I flash Dimitri a grin, and he nods back in gratitude.
“Thank you, my friend.”
“Hey, I’m glad you’re okay too, Big D,” Mac interjects, pushing up from his seat to follow me out the door.
“Look, all jokes aside, I just want to say thanks,” he adds, sounding somehow both sincere and like he’s ramping up to something that’s going to get his arse kicked as soon as Dimitri becomes a bit more mobile.
Dimitri just scowls, rocking back on his pillow to see Mac’s face, like he can sense the other shoe about to be dropped as well.
“From the bottom of my heart. I mean, your ass really took a pounding… you really took one for the team.”
Dimitri makes a dismissive noise.
“Don’t think he likes being the butt of the joke,” I muse loud enough for Dimitri to hear, grinning over at Mac as we exit the pool house.
“You know, I was going to use that one, but it felt a bit too easy—like going in through the back door.”
“Kozye yaichko,” Dimitri calls after us, though it’s unclear which of us is the goat testicle this time.
Still turning over this new information, I grab my lunch, salute Mac on his way up the stairs, and head for my office. Stepping through the threshold into the nerve center of our operation is like being able to take in my first deep breath all day.
Dimitri wouldn’t dare fiddle with the thermostat in here, but the room sits consistently around two degrees warmer than the rest of the house because I’ve filled it with enough computing power that the system can’t keep up.
I don’t mind—I like it warm. It’s never completely dark, either, due to the blinking lights of dozens of single-board computers.
The scent of ozone from electricity consumption is as familiar as it is comforting.
The entire space is comforting, in fact.
It’s decorated all in warm tones, with a soft rug, light-blocking curtains, and a plush sofa where I sometimes catch a nap.
Sleep doesn’t come easily to me and I’m usually in front of the screens later than I ought to be, so there’s also a top-of-the-line office chair that’s perfectly formed to my body and a mini fridge kept well stocked with as much on-demand energy as a bloke could want.
I retrieve a cold can and crack it before sitting at my desk.
It takes a password, a secondary password, a multifactor authentication, and a custom-built fingerprint scanner in my mouse to unlock my private screens.
When I’ve gone through the motions, I see that there’s a message from her in the IRC.
I shouldn’t—I have a million other things to do—but like an addict, I can’t resist. Taking a sip, I open the window.
mermaidav: I have this fantasy…
The liquid slides down the wrong hole. I cough, wiping my lips, and place the can securely beyond the keyboard so I don’t knock it with my elbow in my haste to get my message out.
SpyderMan: Involving a handsome spymaster, no doubt.
mermaidav: lol how’d you know? Actually, this time I was being a bit more philosophical. I have this fantasy about having no responsibilities. No one to answer to, no one to show up for…
A fairly common fantasy these days, especially for those bearing extra responsibilities. Not for the first time, I wonder who she has in her life. And, more jealously, if there’s some twat out there adding weight instead of lifting it.
If she were mine… I’d treasure no possession more.
Fuck. I hate this feeling. I’d give anything to know more about her.
I’ve almost offered it, in fact. I’ve had a draft saved in my email for months now addressed to Vinnie, the guy who vouched for her months ago.
It’s an exorbitant seven-figure bribe in exchange for information about her identity and his silence. I’ve almost sent it half a dozen times.
But that’s not how this works. She deserves her anonymity—it’s an unequivocal promise I’ve made to my spiders, an implied contract with everyone who agrees to sell me secrets. One of my iron-clad rules.
Still, I can’t quite bring myself to delete the draft.
SpyderMan: What would you do?
mermaidav: Don’t laugh.
SpyderMan: I wouldn’t dare.
mermaidav: Well, I’m 50-50 on disappearing into the woods to become a forest witch who befriends crows and inspires an equal amount of respect and fear in the locals… Or… I kind of want to have, like, a homestead. Be self-sufficient. Maybe get some chickens and goats, maybe start a cat rescue.
SpyderMan: Hmm… I doubt the woods have fiber optic internet.
mermaidav: Ha! Good call. I’d sacrifice a lot for my dreams, but I draw the line at symmetrical upload/download speeds.
Warmth blooms in my chest, spreading outward as I shake my head with a grin. We just… get each other. She gets me—everything from her humor to her need to be wired in.
SpyderMan: Precisely. I say, go for the homestead.
mermaidav: See, this is why I like you. You don’t tear down my dreams. Love a man who can roll with the vibe.
SpyderMan: So what I’m hearing is, I’m the man of your dreams.
mermaidav: Lol! You’re too fun to flirt with. You’re going to ruin me for anyone else, you know that?
I have to swallow a sudden thickness in my throat as my blood pounds southward. I don’t even know what she looks like, but she gets me going like no one I’ve ever known. What I wouldn’t give to ruin her, because I’m fairly certain she’d ruin me right back.
SpyderMan: I’m counting on it.
mermaidav: Well... On that note, I have to go… Unless you’ve got something for me?
SpyderMan: Not tonight. Tomorrow maybe.
SpyderMan: If you’re good
A little thrill shoots through me as I type it—a delicate dance around the boundaries of our online friendship.
Make me, I want her to type back. Obviously, that’s not the nature of our relationship, but every once in a while I catch sight of another side of her that appeals to another side of me. So I push, hoping it’ll peek through.
mermaidav: If I’m good? I’m sorry, Sir, but you seem to have mistaken me for some other mermaid.
I throw my head back and laugh.
She logs off. Before I do the same so I can focus, I download our conversation and add it to the private folder buried deep in my personal drive.
There, it joins every other conversation we’ve ever had and the bits and bobs I’ve saved from the jobs she’s done—pieces of code that are truly artistic or have private jokes baked in.
Perhaps it’s a tad pathetic on my part, but when it’s very late and she’s not online to keep me company, sometimes I scroll through our old conversations in a poor attempt to relive the way she makes me feel.
My machine dings with the special sound I’ve programmed in to alert me to a very specific kind of message.
An email from the General. That means the next batch of hits is in, and it’s something of a relief.
The time between emails was longer than usual, making me antsy.
The long-cold trails of our previous hits have become a dead end, so with a fresh batch of names, the odds of learning something about the identity of our mysterious handler are much higher.
I scan the short list of names—only three this time—and forward immediately to Mac and Dimitri, as per my promise. Jeremy Umberlee, Louis Whitcomb, and Madison Cooper.
Time to start my digging. I crack my knuckles, open a fresh can of energy and a new bag of crisps, and settle into search mode.