The Infiltrators Page 6

  His toady bodyguards dropped their vicious frowns just slightly, as mean smiles traversed their cruel mouths.

  “Let me tell you, Tim. That ain’t exactly what I call an ingenious plan. I mean I ain’t no grand master strategist or nothin’, but if I wanted somebody dead, and I wanted it done inside a building, I’d probably want the guy THERE INSIDE THE BUILDING!”

  Rob threw his arms out to either side with a smile while looking around at his bodyguards. They were just waiting for the order to throw Tim off the seven-story building atop which they were currently enjoying the afternoon sun.

  Tim gulped nervously. “Lefty . . . he—” Tim paused as he noticed he appeared to have the undivided attention of Rob. That was a good sign because he had never seen a man brought before him under bad circumstances walk away in one piece unless Rob got that look on his face. But on the other hand, even then a fellow’s odds were only about fifty-fifty.

  “Lefty started drinkin’ that day, Rob. And I mean early. By about 2 p.m., he was drunker than a skunk, and he just kept fillin’ his glass. Lefty hadn’t told me anything about him bein’ behind the killins, but he did tell me that he planned on inviting you tonight for somethin’ real special. He laughed every time he said ‘special.’

  “Sometime around four, he just fell flat on his back passed out. While he lay there, he started cryin’. He said somethin’ like, ‘YOUASKED FOR IT, ROB!’ Then, he would just start mutterin’ to hisself.

  “I sat there waitin’ until about eight, and that was when Lefty woke up. He sat back at the table and just went right back to drinkin’. I asked him, ‘Wasn’t you supposed to bring Rob over here? You said you had somethin’ special for him.’

  “He said, ‘Noo, you fool. Rob’s my brother. I couldn’t do that.’

  “He seemed real angry when I asked him, and I didn’t think it smart to ask again.

  “He just went back to drinkin’ and said ‘Brothers have to stick by each other ALWAYS’ about a dozen times.

  “I just sat there watchin’ him drink, and then all of a sudden, some guys came bargin’ into the room and wasted everybody except me.

  “Then the guy asked to speak to Lefty because he wanted payment for the job and had somethin’ to sell to Lefty too.

  “I told him Lefty was sittin’ there deader than a hammer, and the man—Mr. Ritmer’s his name—was pipin’ mad. He asked me how he was supposed to get paid now that Lefty was dead.

  “I wasn’t sure quite how to answer that question, seein’ as it was him that killed Lefty, not me, and plus, I didn’t know what their business was.

  “He musta seen I was confused because he went ahead and explained everything right then and there. He said Lefty had told him to just kill everyone except Lefty and the thin guy sittin’ at the table.

  “That’s when—”

  “Hold your horses,” Rob thundered. “Then why did he kill Lefty?”

  “Mr. Ritmer said Lefty was supposed to go relieve himself right at the time the attack was to happen. I guess he figured I was the thin guy but thought you was Lefty, since you both kinda look alike, and it was dark.”

  “And why were you supposed to survive?” Rob asked menacingly.

  “I didn’t think it too smart to ask Mr. Ritmer that. For all I knew, he may have thought it over and decided killin’ me made better sense, no matter what Lefty had said.”

  “Aghh,” Rob said in exasperation which he chose not to explain and then motioned for Tim to continue.

  “Mr. Ritmer was pretty mad, and he said, ‘Take me to Lefty’s boss, or we’ll throw you out this window.’ I told him, ‘Look, mister. I’m as good as dead if I take you to Lefty’s boss without permission, so just let me go talk to him, and tell me what you want me to say.’

  “He said, ‘Tell him I want payment for the job I did for Lefty, and I want to make him an offer—all the Smokeless Green he wants, twenty percent cheaper than whatever’s he’s gettin’ it at.’

  “I say, ‘How do I find you?’

  “He says, ‘Tell him we’ll meet this Wednesday at precisely 11 p.m. in the alley next to Georgie’s Pub.’

  “I say, ‘Well, I’ll tell Rob, but I can’t guarantee nothin’.’

  “He said, ‘I can guarantee you something. You’ll be there, or you won’t make it to the next sunrise.’”

  Rob swallowed the last morsel of his mammoth-sized steak and looked at Tim with predatory eyes. No juicy steak was now vying for his attention. Rob had twenty years of mean street experience to inform him whether Tim was going to walk out of this meeting alive.

  Rob gave a quick exhale out his nose like an irritated bull.

  “It stinks, Tim. It stinks to high heaven. It’s too damn complicated. But that’s good for you because it’s just a little too damn complicated for you to have come up with.”

  Tim surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief while attempting to maintain a posture of granite.

  “BUT,” Rob began icily, “that don’t mean you ain’t involved. It just means you ain’t the one who thought of it. You could be workin’ for whoever is. As a messenger, but still workin’ for him.”

  Rob grew silent. There were quite a few factors preventing him from ordering Tim to be sent on a seventy-foot plunge over the side of the building. Lefty had been an ambitious SOB his whole life, and he had cheated Rob far more than the couple times Tim was aware of. Rob, in fact, had been considering offing his brother for quite some time but had always invented an excuse for himself at the last second.

  One thing was clear—whoever these guys were who had knocked around his toughs as if they were a team of fifth-grade sissies, they were nobody to mess with. Their prowess screamed ex-military, but even that was inadequate. Just how in the hell Lefty got connected with a group of guys like this without his knowing about it was unsettling.

  Maybe they’re just climbin’ up the ladder.

  Yes, that was possible. After all, the first guys to get knocked off were dirt-level corner dealers. Then, their crew leader, their supplier, and the supplier’s bodyguards. Next, Lefty and his bodyguards.

  So, maybe they had just contacted Lefty because he was next up the chain.

  But how was Lefty so stupid as to not get out of there?

  Conscious and subconscious thoughts merged, as he began to see his and Lefty’s conflicted relationship march before his eyes. Their brutal fistfights, often followed by sincere, albeit temporary, reconciliation. Lefty’s envy as Rob always seemed to be a step ahead of him.

  Maybe he really did have a change of heart but was just so drunk he forgot to get him and his men the hell out of there.

  He wished he could tell himself that was absurd—that Lefty wouldn’t get that drunk. But his drinking had been getting worse and worse by the month, commensurately with his envy, or so it seemed.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Tim’s story seemed plausible, and if he didn’t keep Tim alive and take him to the meeting, it could be his last chance to meet Mr. Ritmer on his terms. Tim’s absence could raise suspicion, and he didn’t want to do that needlessly.

  After all, he could have his men check every surrounding rooftop for bowmen or crossbowmen or anyone for that matter, and he would only go through with the meeting if the roofs were both cleared of enemies and filled with his henchmen.

  His misty gaze regained its hawk-like nastiness once he reached his decision:

  “Mr. Ritmer and I agree on one thing. You will be at that meeting, or you won’t make it to the next sunrise. After that—we’ll see.”

  Rob looked towards his bodyguards. “Keep an eye on him. He stays with us till the meetin’.”

  Tim gulped.

  Chapter 11

  Righty’s ego was stinging more than a little as he flew away from the ranch, leaving from the thickness of the surrounding woods.

  He had gone from feeling like king of the world one minute to feeling down in the dirt with the lowest beetle.

  But his boxing days had taught him
how to take a lot more than a physical whipping. He had simultaneously learned how to deal with the emotional wounds left by having his ego crushed like a piece of rotten fruit underneath a wagon wheel.

  When Righty had put on enough muscle in the boxing gym to start giving out some whippings of his own, and sparring partners would complain he was hitting too hard, there were many present to vouch for the fact Righty had taken ten times worse without ever complaining.

  In the stillness of the night, he would sometimes cry bitter tears, as he reflected on his helplessness against the bigger guys and the humiliation and pain of getting the wind knocked out of him, getting his head rattled like an empty can, and getting his ribs sledgehammered by Big Fred’s massive fists.

  He imagined himself climbing a rope. Below, swam sharks and other nasty creatures. Above, lay a beautiful green meadow full of soft lush grass better than any luxury bed. A peaceful afternoon breeze would cool him while he enjoyed the picturesque beauty of the mountain range beyond. A bubbling brook ran nearby and would provide water to his soothing throat and throbbing, rope-chafed hands.

  But, as he climbed, bees stung him. The stings hurt, but he knew he only had two choices. Keep moving up or fall to the sharks.

  Though it varied greatly in the extent to which it could revive his wind-battered spirits, it never failed to at least pull him into the gym five days a week. And once he stepped foot inside the hot, smelly room full of grunts and groans, he brought to his mind again the rope, the sharks, and the meadow.

  As he flew through the air—a meeting with Pitkins on his schedule—he found to his surprise how powerfully he was having to focus on the old rope metaphor to lift his spirits. He had been hit today by more than just a blow to his ego.

  A danger had been brought to his attention, one that made even the very real threat he had faced from Heavy Sam and still faced from both aspiring kingpins in Sivingdel and rival kingpins from other cities look like the threat posed by a growling, thirty-pound mutt.

  There was no way Halder was bluffing. Righty had probably learned more about how to read the human face during his last several years of dealing with cutthroats and traitors of the vilest sort than he had in his decades of prior life experience. He felt he had transformed almost into a human hound dog, his eyes scouring every part of a man’s face, eyes, and soul, looking for the slightest trace of trickery.

  Halder’s prowess at combat alone was sufficient to quickly cross off the possibility of braggart and blowhard. And his impenetrable eyes and intense countenance reinforced the point.

  But treachery?

  That remained a topic of intense internal discussion. On the one hand, he could have struck down Righty while they spoke in the privacy of his cabin, so assassination seemed it could be eliminated from the list of possible motives Halder had for being at his ranch.

  But maybe he’s here scoping out the place until bringing some of his buds down to take it over for themselves?

  And so he decided to reveal himself when he could have just lain low until his cronies arrived? And he decided to warn you about the fact they’re coming for you . . . all to make their eventual arrival easier?

  No, that didn’t make any sense. This guy was really sore with his past pals. His stated motive—revenge against them—made the most sense.

  But why?

  That was what bothered him. If he didn’t know why he was sore, he had no way of knowing how long this resentment would last. He didn’t like the idea of forming an alliance with someone whose only motivation for helping him against a very dangerous organization was his resentment.

  Suppose they patched things up?

  Yeah, that would be real swell, wouldn’t it?

  Sorry, Mr. Relder. My friends and I have had a bit of a reconciliation, and your ranch is now surrounded by two hundred men as deadly as myself. I’ll tell you what—for old time’s sake, I’ll hold them off for five minutes while you hightail it the hell out of here and leave your multi-billion falon ranch behind. If you’re quick and quiet, I think you’ve got a fighting chance.

  He had already assigned a rotating detail of five konulans to watch Halder day and night, monitor every conversation, and alert him immediately if he attempted to leave the ranch. He had also ordered about fifty konulans to circle the perimeter of the ranch and alert him immediately of any suspicious visitors.

  As for Harold, he had gone ahead and assigned a kill command. If in Halder’s presence he ever said “My head itches today” and began to scratch his scalp, Harold would drop from the sky at several hundred miles per hour and take care of the problem.

  But this wasn’t enough. What if he had said too much when he told him his ability to disappear wasn’t as absolute as he might think? Perhaps his organization used birds for spying, and he would notice something suspicious about the konulans.

  What if he took them out with his crossbow before they could come and warn him and the next thing he knew he was stalking him in the woods and watching him get on Harold?

  If that little rat bastard manages to ambush and kill Harold, you’re through. And that means your family too . . . .

  “WE NEED PHOLUNGS!!” Righty suddenly shouted to Harold as they cut through the air at almost two hundred miles per hour.

  Righty expected Harold to be taken aback by the odd, spontaneous request.

  “I’ll begin the hunt for chicks tonight. I’ll have to raise them from birth if we’re to have any chance of their loyalty. It will require me to travel far to the northernmost parts of Dachwald. That is the only place I know of that pholungs still exist. It won’t be easy. They usually only have about three eggs per clutch, and the strongest sibling often kills the weaker ones while mama’s off hunting for worms and lizards.

  “Even to just find five or six, it could take me longer than a week.”

  “BLAST IT!!” Righty shouted furiously.

  There were several konulans riding on Harold’s back with him in order to conserve their energy.

  Righty looked down at them immediately once he heard one of them muttering away about something.

  “We know how to find pholung nests,” Little Roger said.

  Harold gulped. He had been less than honest with Righty and had planned on surprising him by finding pholungs far faster. But if he had done that, it would have raised questions amongst the pesky konulans, and they just might have figured out he was once a konulan they knew quite well: Chip.

  “I can’t spare Harold for more than a night. NOT RIGHT NOW!” Righty said, surprised at how hysterical he sounded.

  “Could you find at least one pholung chick per night, Harold?”

  “He can!” Little Roger said happily. “‘Cause we’ll show him where to go.”

  Chapter 12

  When Righty arrived at Pitkins’ door for his lesson, he was brimming with excitement. This was just the kind of thing he needed to get his mind off today’s lousy trajectory and maybe even replace it with a happy ending.

  He rapped on the door quickly, and to his relief he soon saw Pitkins standing before him, a grin on his face and seeming like he too perhaps had a genuine enthusiasm for today’s lesson. Perhaps he also had cares that only swift strokes of the sword and body slams to the mat could assuage.

  “Mr. Simmers - how’s my favorite student?”

  “I’ve seen better days, that’s for sure. But here I am and hoping to change the course of this one.”