Into the Shadows Read online

  Do any of them sound like people you'd want to meet? Me neither.

  MOOD

  I didn't sleep well, or for very long. I wouldn't have been surprised if I dreamt about Viggo, or even a hoard of rats whose faces all looked like mine. That sounds creepy - and it is - but it wasn't near as disturbing as the dream I did have.

  I saw a burning pyre in the darkness. Cool night air was filled with the smell and haze of thick wood smoke. Over the crackles and low roar of the flames, a scream pierced the night. I moved forward. A woman was chained to a broken stone pillar in the center of the pyre. She screamed again in pain and fear, howling words I couldn't understand. Licks of flame set her burlap clothes on fire. I smelt burning hair as her body quickly charred. One last word left the tortured woman's melting lips: "Viggo . . ."

  I woke already sitting up in bed, sweaty, breathing hard. I had a feeling the dream wasn't just some horror scene that my brain made up. It felt true. It felt real. My heart ached for my leader; the woman was something special to him. More than the pain for his loss, though, I was filled with a seething rage. I wanted to repay those who wronged Viggo, repay them with pain and death. But how long ago was that? It was likely centuries, a millennia, or even longer. That didn't seem to matter; I was still so angry that my lip kept lifting into a snarl. My unfocused, barely restrained anger made for a long day.

  My first chore of the day was to retrieve my Glock from the police lock-up. While I was there, showing credentials and filling out paperwork, I wanted them to pull me back in for more questioning about the Everett firefight. I wanted the excuse to vent, to yell at them for anything I could think of. They were all courteous and respectful. All that did was infuriate me.

  With it being a Monday, I knew John Crane would be in his office at Silas Security. Normally, I would have at least called him to see where I stood with the company after such a long time off. However, my sour mood told me that I was more than likely fired, even though the prick didn't have the balls to tell me I was. I resisted the urge to go confront Crane about it, and instead called Gwen.

  She answered the business line with a professional tone. I didn't bother with niceties, or even start with a hello. "No more bullshit, Gwen; am I still on the books or not?"

  "Good morning to you too, Leo, and thanks for calling. Would you like to start this conversation over with a better attitude, or would you rather I just hang up on you now?"

  "Goddammit, I'm not in the mood for games -"

  Click.

  I stood in the police parking lot and bellowed profanities for a good two minutes straight. A raving moron yelling at the cloudy sky, that was me. Just about the time I noticed a couple uniformed cops watching me, it started to rain. I got in my car, took a deep breath, and dialed Gwen again.

  "This is Silas Security; how can I help you today?" she answered.

  "Alright, I'm calm now."

  "No you're not, but at least you're civil now," she said matter-of-factly. "So, what did you get into that's got you ready to stab a puppy, or worse, be rude to me?"

  "I didn't get into anything. It's just been a bad day."

  "Leo, it's not even ten in the morning yet."

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. "Call it a premonition, okay? Look, I didn't call to talk about why I'm cranky. Can we let that drop, Gwen? I am seriously not in the mood."

  "Fair enough, Leo. But if I find out you were in some kind of situation and didn't call me, I will fill your house with feral cats."

  I didn't acknowledge the offer or the light threat; I'd heard them before. "Gwen, do you know if I still work at Silas or not? I know you said I'd have to talk to Crane about it, but right now I really don't have the patience to deal with his long-winded shit."

  "And I still don't know, Leo. After the Everett incident, he was ready to give you a raise. Then you went off the radar for a long time. In the meantime, there've been inquiries by a few new potential clients for EP service, requesting you specifically. Mr. Everett also called for the same thing; I think he's hired a detail full-time, but still wanted you as personal security. Crane wants a slice of those pies. If you set out as an independent contractor, that'd be money out of his pocket. Still, you know him, Leo; he's got as much pride as any of you field employees, even Cordell. I'd say Crane will want an apology for you walking away from the job with only an email. Honestly, if you wanted to come back, he'd deserve one."

  My lip curled again - an apology? If John Crane knew half of what I went through, that fucker would be apologizing to me. So what if Gwen was right? I sure as hell wasn't in the mood to be sympathetic. Besides, she said something that got my attention: independent contractor. I'd evidently gotten a good reputation from the Everett contract, and was in demand with at least a few people. And if I wasn't asked to work directly for Viggo, it might be something to fall back on.

  Instead of discussing apologies with Gwen, I ignored her opinion and asked, "Who were the potentials that asked for me by name?"

  "Leo, you know that they're possible Silas clients. Telling you would be like treason or something."

  "Oh give me a break, Gwen. You may be a loyal friend to some of the staff, but not so much to John or the company. And, like you said, they asked for me personally, so Crane probably won't get them to sign a contract without me anyway." There was silence on the line. I pushed. "I just want to know who they are. I won't do a thing with the info without talking to you first, okay?"

  She hesitated. "I don't know, Leo. Let me think about it. I'll talk to you before the end of the week."

  Pushing Gwen any further would have been futile, and I probably would've started yelling again. I wanted to keep what friends I had. It wasn't fair to put her in that position, but I was feeling mean and selfish and cared less than I normally would have. Sometimes, I was a real prick.

  DOJO

  I had to safely get rid of my pent up aggression, but my dojo didn't open until the afternoon. I wanted to get in a fight, but I wouldn't disrespect the dojo or myself by looking for a victim there. For lack of alternatives, there was equipment back at my place that I could vent on. I headed back home through the rain, sipping from my flask and screaming at stupid-ass drivers. That morning's dream and those awful screams haunted my mind, keeping me full of dark emotions.

  I gave the heavy bag in my basement a beating. In fact, once I started concentrating on my punches and strikes, I noticed the power and speed of my attacks. I was denting the bag much deeper than normal, and my combinations were quicker than they'd ever been before. I should have been wary of how I had a greater capacity to hurt someone, but my grim mood had me reveling in my newfound abilities. I made a duct tape target on the bag, imagined it was Emmeline Le Meur, and pounded the shit out of it until the leather split. As therapy goes, it was a temporary fix.

  It was a long workout, and I felt physically drained afterwards. I dragged my sweaty butt upstairs, had a shower and took a nap. No dreams plagued me, and I woke a few hours later. I still felt surly, but not as aggressive as I did before. Since I damaged my punching bag but still ad some anger to vent, I decided to go to the dojo after all. I hoped that environment might balance my mood a little. If nothing else, Phillip Aoki and his dad (I always had trouble with his name), who both owned the dojo, were always cheerful and infectiously mellow. I needed some mellow right about then.

  Back when I'd finished active duty and came home, I joined the Aoki Dojo. I already had an instructor-qualified black belt through MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts Program), but demoted myself to green belt for Phillip's classes. I don't really give a shit about belts; I only wanted to learn katas and get back in shape after the last time I was wounded. A little over two years later I moved on to private instruction and individual training. Mostly, I did practice drills and sparred with random students. I faced off against Phil's dad a few times; I learned that the small, older man could toss me around like a dead cat.

  I wouldn't say the Aoki's were my friends, but we kn
ew enough about each other for mutual respect. They weren't thrilled about some of my more aggressive tactics, but they couldn't find much fault in their effectiveness, either. I could go into detail about training regimens and other details, but who gives a shit, right? I went at least once a week (normally), got some type of workout and practice, then cleaned up and left. I didn't get close with any of the other students. Most folks didn't want to get too chummy with the scarred-up Marine who sometimes forgot to pull his punches.

  Phillip was in the lobby when I got there. He greeted me with a smile and a handshake, and mentioned my absence. I gave him the same bullshit as I gave to everyone else, and then said I needed to pay my monthly dues. He went and got a ledger and, after double-checking, told me I made an online payment that covered the rest of the year. I mumbled some lame excuse of being forgetful, all the while thinking that Barnabus had indeed taken care of every detail. I owed him for that.

  I asked Phillip for a class schedule, but said I was only there that day for solo training. Hardly any other students were there at the time, so I didn't have to worry about distractions. I changed into my regular blue gi and went to the empty advanced-practice room to work up another sweat.

  It was a while later as I was working on strike combinations when I sensed someone else in the big room. Phillip was leaning against a far wall in a casual pose, but he had a serious look on his face. "What?" I asked while catching my breath.

  He studied me for another few seconds, and then asked, "Are you taking some type of supplements?"

  "Huh? No . . . not unless granola bars and whiskey are on the list. Why?"

  Phillip cocked his head slightly to one side. "Without some new performance enhancer, I'm not sure what could explain what I just saw. You're more fluid, and you almost knocked that practice dummy off its base."

  Well, shit. My brain scrambled for a quick excuse. Because of my shitty mood, I also took offense way too easily that I was under scrutiny. "It's the first time I've been here in a while, so maybe you forgot I'm faster than I look. Do you have a problem with me getting better?" There was no way that I was going to use an excuse - a lie - like steroids to explain my heightened physical abilities; that shit was for cheaters.

  "No, no problem; I simply noticed a dramatic rise in your core power. But that's not the reason I came back here. I wanted to tell you that two detectives have inquired about you, twice now - a big man and an even bigger woman. They stopped in last week, and then yesterday. They said you were involved in a shooting, but wouldn't say more about it."

  That info didn't make any sense to me. "Detectives came here? I was questioned and cleared over a month ago." When Phillip's eyebrows rose, I explained. "I was part of the security detail at the attack on the Everett mansion. You probably saw it in the news." Damn; more shit I did not need. "Did they leave a number with you?"

  "Actually, no; I found that strange, although the man said his name was Cantrell." He took a deep breath and pushed it out. "I worry for you, Leo, but I don't want to be part of anything that would dishonor my father's business, or the other students. I'm sure you understand that, yes?"

  Thinking about it from Phillip's perspective, I nodded and said, "I don't want to bring any trouble or bad press to the dojo. I'll try to take care of it." I bowed to him and then went back to the locker room to clean up. While I showered, I thought that maybe I was wanted as a character witness for somebody else's problem. I found out that evening how wrong I was.

  RIZZO'S

  I brought all of my guns to the range I always shot at, hoping that emptying magazines would knock the edge off my temper. In the back of my mind, though, I kept wondering about the cops Phillip mentioned. Not focused on my aim, some of my shots strayed. That, in turn, pissed me off all over again. It was a vicious circle that I couldn't escape.

  At home, I looked up all of the nearby police stations and jotted down all of the desk numbers. I called each of them and asked for a detective named Cantrell. None of them had one by that name. Okay, someone was fucking with me . . . again. I supposed it could have been some mundane thing, but I ruled that out as wishful thinking. It obviously wasn't any of Viggo's people; why would it be? Besides, they knew my number and where I lived. It could have been Le Meur, who might've pulled some legal strings. I tried to imagine the connections and clout it would've taken to put detectives on my ass.

  That line of thought led to a conclusion that chilled me. If Le Meur had pull with the cops, she could just as easily have had the same influence in the court system or the DA's office. If those detectives decided to detain me, I could be held for at least three days on trumped up charges - long enough for Le Meur to get me back under her control. Or, she could have me prosecuted and I could spend a very long time in jail. When someone has command over the good guys and the bad, people like me tended to be fucked.

  I called and left a message with the ShadoWorks answering machine, telling Viggo about my situation. Then, not really wanting to, I called Shawn for advice. He sounded groggy, but I didn't care. I told him about my dreams, and about two supposed detectives looking for me.

  "I have dreams about big V sometimes too, dude," he said with a sleepy voice, "but not totally intense like what you're sayin'. Don't sweat it - they'll probably mellow out. And you said you got a couple a' plainclothes checkin' you out, too? Whoa, dude, that's kinda heavy. All I can say is call big V and stay off the radar, bro. For a while, don't go anywhere you normally do. Oh, and hey, dude, I'm gonna send you a couple free tickets to a big show, and Glazefinger is in the line-up! Take it easy, dude."

  Shawn made good sense about being unpredictable. I thought about getting a drink later at Keegan's, but I didn't want to bring any unwanted company to their doorstep, either. Just to waste some time, I cleaned my guns and then made an early dinner. I still felt jittery, so I decided to go for a drive around the city. I kept checking my rearview mirror; if those detectives were following me, they were doing a damn good job of staying out of sight.

  I ended up in the crappy neighborhood I grew up in. I drove slowly past my parent's old house; it was a shame how shabby it looked. The tavern where my dad used to get hammered before he came home to terrorize us was just a couple blocks away. What the hell, I felt like tossing a few back, and maybe I'd run into one of my dad's old drinking buddies and kick the shit out of him.

  The dive, still simply named 'Rizzo's Tavern' after all that time, was about what I expected: small, dim, and half full of middle-aged men who didn't want to be bothered. I sat at the bar and ordered a drink from the bartender. He looked like the gruff type who knew how to swing a baseball bat, and not from playing the game. During my second Jack and Coke, I asked him if he remembered Joe Beck. He frowned and said he used to know Joe, and then bluntly told me that he never did like that asshole. That was all I needed to know. I drained my glass, bought another round, and gave him a bigger tip.

  I was just easing into a calming buzz when a woman sat down at the bar right next to me. Well, she was technically a woman, but being tall and built like a heavyweight power lifter didn't help her much. Just at a glance, she was plain at best, and her starched blouse and suit vest made her really not fit in. The red flags were flying. I knew it wasn't going to end well.

  Before the bartender came over to her, she turned to me and asked, "Care to buy me a drink?"

  "Nope, I don't, but here ya go," I said as I slid a bowl of bar nuts in front of her. "That gorilla you call a neck looks hungry." I didn't look at her reaction, or care what it was.

  "Have you always been a rude prick?" she asked in a deeper tone.

  "Nah, I'm learning as I go. Have you always been female?"

  I expected to have my drink slapped out of my hands, or get punched in the head. When neither of those happened, I looked over at her while I drained my glass. The bartender showed up and asked what she was drinking. "Nothing; we're both done," she answered him with her thick features set in a scowl.

  "Oh, we are?" I
said.

  "My partner and I have some questions for you, sir," she said to me as she flipped out a gold badge, and then put it away just as quickly. "You need to come along with us."

  "I won't have no trouble in my place," the bartender warned.

  "And you won't get any," I replied with a sigh and slid off my bar stool. "Big Bertha and I can take our conversation outside."

  "I'm detective Dykowski," she corrected me as she got up.

  I stared at her for a second. "You're kidding, right? Did you . . . nah, it's just too easy."

  The brawny woman slapped her meaty hand on my shoulder and growled, "Let's go, Mr. Beck."

  I walked out trying not to tense up, but I knew it wasn't going to end peacefully. I had no intention of going anywhere with her and her partner. No matter the outcome, it wasn't going to end well for me. My options were a body bag, imprisonment, back under Le Meur's thumb, or, at best, a suspect on the run after assaulting two cops. Needless to say, I sobered up pretty fucking fast.

  LEADER

  I walked out just as the sky was darkening. Streetlights were already on. Dykowski's hand guided me to the side street of the corner bar, where a stout man in business casual clothes leaned against a nondescript Ford in a no-parking zone.

  "Okay," I said as she and I walked toward him, "what's this all about?"

  "Among other things," Dykowski answered, "it's about the disappearance of Sarah Wheeler. You do remember Sarah, don't you, Mr. Beck?"

  I stopped and turned my head to her. "Yeah, I knew her enough to know she was a fucking moron, but that doesn't mean I know what happened to her."

  "So, you knew her fairly well, then," Dykowski said as she moved her big hand from my shoulder to the back of my neck. She applied pressure on her grip when she asked, "Do you remember any of the things she was supposed to teach you, Leo?"