Into the Shadows (3 page)

After a few minutes of worthless Q and A, she
looked up at me from her seated position in a Victorian high-back
chair. "What is your highest level of education, Mr. Beck?"

She'd never invited me to sit with her, so I
stood away at a respectful distance. "I received an associate's
degree while in the corps, ma'am."

Even from her seated position, Mrs. Baxter
managed to look down her nose at my answer. "I see," she said in a
condescending tone. "And what rank did you reach?"

"I earned the rank of Sergeant, ma'am;
E5."

Mrs. Baxter wouldn't have cared about the
answer unless I was a highly ranked officer. By the time I gave my
reply, she was looking at my scars. Gesturing with a flick of her
finger at the left side of my head, she asked, "What happened
there?"

"Afghanistan happened, ma'am." A woman like
Emily Baxter had done nothing to earn even part of that story. She
didn't deserve to know about the IED that one of my men tripped.
And I doubt she'd care to know that besides it ripping me up, it
took out two men on my team - two of the best men I knew.

Then it was my turn to ask questions. Did she
know what her husband's 'goons' looked like? Did she know what kind
of car they drove? As for the places listed that she and her
friends were going to, did she go to them often? If so, did her
husband know that? Who were these friends of hers? Did she or they
expect to meet anyone while out and about? Any plans besides those
three locations? A few other questions were asked as well, but by
then she'd gotten irritable and told me to work with the given
information. When Mrs. Baxter went upstairs to change outfits, I
called Gwen to give her an update.

I drove the client to pick up her two
friends. The sedan was wide enough that the three of them were able
to sit in the back comfortably. They both found it thrilling that
their friend Emily had a personal security guard, but neither would
have deigned to sit up front with me. The late afternoon at the spa
was boring as hell. The really sad news was that, for the time and
money spent, none of them looked any better than before. At the
fancy restaurant, Mrs. Baxter grudgingly agreed to take a table
near the bar, where I had to sit to remain inconspicuous. It was
like
she
was doing
me
a favor, the arrogant
bitch.

ANGER

It was at the ritzy, tasteful nightclub where
the situation got a little dicey. After a number of older,
desperate guys kept hitting on the trio, Mrs. Baxter asked me to
join them at their table. With me being there, it deterred most of
the interested men from approaching. Then a young pretty boy douche
came over and asked one of Emily's friends for a dance. The friend,
Belinda, was attractive, but she was also about twenty years older
than him. The guy evidently had oedipal issues.

The song wasn't half over when Belinda was
looking increasingly distressed at being held too closely to the
young guy. I pointed it out to Emily, who asked me to cut in. That
was technically not part of my contract, but it was my duty to keep
the client happy as well as safe. Belinda looked relieved to see me
when I tapped on pretty boy's shoulder. By the look on his face, he
was pissed as hell. With other people around us, though, he didn't
do anything but walk off, glaring at me the whole time. What a
dick.

I led Belinda back to her table, where the
ladies resumed their happy chit-chat over martinis. I acted like I
was enjoying the conversation, but I kept an eye on pretty boy. He
sat at a table with another GQ jerk on the other side of the dance
floor. He was still staring at me. A little while later, pretty boy
got up and moved closer to us, in a position where hardly anyone
else but me could see what he was doing. He stealthily pulled a
six-inch blade from his jacket, made sure I saw it, and then put it
back - one hell of an overt threat. All that hostility over of
Belinda; there was a lot better eye candy in the place.

I made sure I had pretty boy's attention when
I subtly opened my blazer enough for him to see the butt of my gun.
I added a wink, just in spite, and then acted like I was ignoring
him. A few seconds later, just when pretty boy looked pissed enough
to come over to our table, his buddy grabbed him up and pulled him
back to their table. That kid sure knew how to hold a grudge.

Five minutes later I lost sight of the pretty
pair, so I assumed they left. I was relieved. A few minutes after
that, though, just as another round of drinks was being set on our
table, I saw pretty boy out of the corner of my eye. He stood back
in a corner, near the hallway that led to the restrooms. His knife
was in his hand, and he was literally shaking with rage. I had no
idea what his problem was, but the situation wasn't going to end
well.

I tensed when pretty boy started coming at
our table, and fast. I was surprised when some big dude stepped out
of the hallway, grabbed him by the neck, threw him back into the
hallway and out of sight. It all happened so quick that I just
stared. One second, pretty boy was coming at me, and then, in the
blink of an eye, some tall silhouette in a long coat yanked him
into the hallway. One of the bouncers saw it too, and ran over to
investigate. I would have gone as well, but I had an oblivious
client to protect.

I told the ladies that there was some trouble
and we needed to leave. As they were knocking back their drinks, I
saw the bouncer come back out of the hallway with a baffled
expression. He scanned the crowd, and then looked back toward the
restrooms. I don't know how he could have missed the pair or how
they slipped away - especially the big dude - but I didn't care
enough to find out.

I dropped the friends off first and then took
Mrs. Baxter home. As a precaution, I checked her motion lights,
cameras, and security system before I verified with her that my
duties were complete.

Gwen called me the next morning to tell me
that the client noted my services as 'acceptable'. Not pleased, not
appreciative - acceptable. What a bitch. Gwen then asked about the
'friction' at the nightclub. Other than me cutting in to save
Belinda, I didn't think Mrs. Baxter noticed anything else that
happened. "What did the client tell you she saw?" I asked.

"Nothing really; I just heard something about
it from a different source," Gwen answered cryptically.

"Yeah, well, nothing to worry about. There
was the possibility of an issue, one that I highly doubt was
connected to the estranged husband, but the threat was removed for
me."

"Aw, that's too bad," she said without a hint
of humor in her voice. Did I mention that Gwen is odd?

PLANNING

John Crane, my boss at Silas Security, called
later that day. Whenever Crane called, it usually meant that there
was a client who was paying top dollar, or that a team was needed
for a contract. Either way, it was big revenue for the company, and
Crane handled those arrangements personally. He told me to come in
to the office to coordinate with the other employees I'd be working
with. I had no problem with that, as long as Jenkins wasn't
involved. Ted Jenkins was an older employee; he was a blowhard who
sported his beer gut like a trophy. I didn't trust Jenkins enough
to guard an empty parking lot.

I got to the office a little early to find
out what Gwen knew about the contract. It wasn't that Crane wasn't
thorough with the necessary info - he was, but Gwen usually had
some juicy tidbits about most clients. I didn't know how she got
some of her information, and she was never forthcoming. With at
least half of my contracts, though, that inside info gave me a
better perspective on the client.

Stanley Everett was the owner of a regional
bank chain. He'd hired EP's from the company before, mainly when he
got death threats from anti-corporate radicals. Everett wanted a
security detail for a dinner party at his home. Wait, not just a
home - a mansion, sitting on three acres in the wealthiest
neighborhood in the city. There were some money laundering
implications swirling around Everett, but the cops and feds
couldn't pin anything on him. A few of his managers and their wives
were invited over for unknown reasons. It was set for that
Thursday; 48 hours wasn't much time to scout, coordinate, and work
out details, but not so bad with only a five-man detail.

The other guys got to the conference room
about the same time as I did. Dan, Craig, Diego, and Cordell; all
good guys, and I'd worked with them before. Dan spent 12 years in
the army, and was tough as nails. Craig was an electronics
specialist with a dry sense of humor. Diego was a former cop;
sarcastic, a crack shot, and had eyes like a hawk. Cordell was a
former Marine M.P.; he was huge, mostly muscle, and had no sense of
humor whatsoever. It sounded like a weird mix, but we all got
along.

We studied overhead google shots of the
property, plus blueprints of the mansion itself. There was an
enclosed security room on the main floor; that's where Craig would
scan monitors and control both team and external communications.
Dan would act as the valet for the guests, and then keep an eye on
the serving staff. Cordell would be the EP for Everett. Diego and I
would patrol the grounds, starting on opposite sides. It was a
standard formation, with all radio contact on a single channel. It
was probably going to be another long night there; I made a mental
note to refill my flask.

On Wednesday, the other guys and I met up at
the Everett estate. It was a block off a main boulevard, with side
roads to one side and rear of the property. The grounds were mainly
level, shaded by mature trees, shrubs along the perimeter for
privacy, and had seven-foot iron rod fencing all the way around.
Diego, Cordell and I interviewed the serving staff while Craig and
Dan inspected every room. We checked out the security cameras,
added a few more, and then checked them again. We only had a few
questions for Everett himself; he was a smiling, upbeat older guy.
If I was rich, I'd be happy, too.

DRINKING

That evening, I had time to hit the dojo. I
tried to get there at least once a week and find a sparring
partner. I didn't go there to upgrade my martial belt or learn any
fancy moves that would be fucking useless in a real fight. I went
with the Marine 'one mind, any weapon' philosophy; to keep limber,
work on my reaction speed, and practice techniques. I wasn't out to
dazzle an opponent; neutralizing them quickly was the objective.
Okay, that, and defense training so I didn't get my ass handed to
me in case that 'neutralizing' idea went to shit.

I remembered to call off work at Keegan's for
Thursday ahead of time, and planned on getting plenty of sleep. A
good workout at the dojo and a few Jack and Cokes afterwards put me
out like a baby.

I didn't think I had a problem with booze,
not like a couple years earlier. I admit that I had a little
trouble after what turned out to be my last mission. I'd seen other
soldiers killed in combat, and in various ways, but seeing Bill and
Rodney all fucked up from that IED got to me. They were my best
friends. I started drinking to erase that image. It was bad for a
couple months after I started my IRR (individual ready reserve) at
home to finish my eight-year military contract.

That was about when my mom started going
downhill. My only sibling Al died in a car wreck on his eighteenth
birthday, and Dad thankfully croaked from a massive coronary when I
was seventeen. So after I left for the Marines, my mom was alone.
She moved in with her sister, but my Aunt Donna passed away two
years later from an aneurism. Two months after that, my mom's mom -
Grandma Sadie - passed on from heart failure. When I finally got
back to the States, the cancer had just started to eat my mom up.
Not much of a homecoming.

It was four months of watching my mom waste
away until she finally gave in. The sale of Aunt Donna's house
covered the rest of the hospital bills and a nice funeral. There
was a little left over to add to my savings to buy my place
outright, not that it cost much. I didn't need or want anything
fancy, and it was where I did my binge drinking and feeling sorry
for myself. I was pretty much a worthless piece of shit for a
while. I pulled myself out of that slump, but I still kick myself
for getting that low in the first place.

So, that left me as the last of my line of
Beck's. It wasn't that uncommon of a name, but my closest relatives
were like fourth cousins and I didn't even know 'em. Except for
Grandma Sadie, the rest of my family kicked the bucket while
relatively young. I was in no hurry to join them, but there was a
little voice in the back of my head that told me my time might be
limited, too. In one way, it was right.

INTRUDERS

Alright, put these things together: cold
January night, outside in the dark for hours, and trudging around
through five inches of wet snow. What do you get? Me.

Even with a full set of snug long underwear,
my clothes, and a leather jacket with matching gloves, I was still
freezing my balls off out on Stanley Everett's lawn. The outdoor
hot tub we turned on for heat was the only reprieve Diego and I had
from the cold as we individually circled the mansion. Each of us
only spent a minute hovering over the steamy water before moving on
again. It was kind of pathetic.

On my umpteenth circuit, as I was coming
around to the expansive west side yard, I saw movement in the big
bushes against the fence. Five figures came out, almost all at
once. They didn't move like professionals; it was more like
determined amateurs, but they spread out and began advancing. I was
about to radio it in when Craig yelled into our earpieces that
there was movement on the grounds. Even in the dark, it was easy to
see the dark-clothed intruders against the snow, and each of them
had a sidearm. Super.