A host of violent emotions coursed through the city as a Golem, a Siren, and a bewildered, disillusioned human fled the scene of what was commonly believed to be a failed attempt at assassination. The rental car was cold inside, and for a brief moment, shock filled the interior. Sammy had fallen behind the steering wheel and failed to act.
“Sammy. Let’s go.” He just sat there, stunned, shocked.
“I’ll drive,” George announced with his usual granite façade firmly in place. Mute and numb, Sammy got out of the driver’s seat and slid into the back. A flash of black leather slid behind the wheel and the car spurted to life. Looking over his shoulder as he backed the car up, George tossed a frown to the human, “It’s not the end of the world, Sammy.”
Jules wanted to add a sarcastic ‘yet’ onto the end of George’s comment, but instead he let it go. Perhaps he was a bit shocked too. He hadn’t expected the kill to go down, part of him doubted that the Golem had found a man so willing to kill. Jules wanted to vomit, but it wasn’t directly related to the shooting. No, he wanted to vomit because of the way the shooting had affected him; that this simple thought had run through his head: well, that takes the Hatter’s Guild off my back. He couldn’t believe he had even considered it. In the brief moments since the “incident”, his time to think had been scarce, but still, that thought should have been far from his mind. Silently chastising himself, he stared out the window of the car, not seeing the street or the crowds of people gathered there.
Mathew Marques, as always, was dressed to kill. He was tall with olive skin and dark eyes, as if he hailed from
He cut through the Parisian restaurant and towards the man for whom he bore good news. Danilo Metucchi. Danilo drew one’s eyes to him with an almost snake-like charm. It was hard to look away, almost as if you wanted him to hold your attention. His dark black suit screamed money, his shirt, the colour of smoke, screamed cool, and his dark-complexion, haunting eyes, and no-nonsense smirk struck fear. Of course, Marques had nothing to fear, he was this soon-to-be-Duke’s right hand man.
Marques pulled up a chair and took a seat next to Signor Metucchi, scantly interrupting the idle dinner conversation between him and his two Parisian entertainers.
“Signor, I come bearing good news.”
Danilo didn’t speak; instead, he arched a single, dark brow.
“Your advice was correct Signor, business will soon be booming in the
“Excellent.” Despite the conversation being in French, Danilo’s Italian accent was impossible to ignore. “Our people reported this to you?” He didn’t smile though; Danilo would smile only when the time was right. He wasn’t the Duke yet, for him that meant the whole situation was still up in the air. He still had so much more in the works.
“No. We should be hearing from them any moment-,” Marques’ sentence was cut short as his cell phone sprang to life inside his breast pocket. “Hallo?” The conversation was quick, almost militaristic and within a few seconds of his opening the phone, Marques clicked it shut and returned it to his pocket. “Joanna says that everything went according to plan, including the ‘netting’.”
Danilo nodded to Marques as he reached for his rich, red Barolo ’95.
They were in
“Suddenly all that recount news doesn’t seem so bad,” one of the agents mumbled as they drove past vans from more news affiliates than any member of the team knew existed.
“It’s a little late for that, Shaw,” Wetmore didn’t take his eyes from the window. Denny Wetmore’s mind was immersed in the situation at hand, and his hand was lost only to wind up sitting on the grip of a pistol concealed beneath his suit jacket.
“I know, it’s just that –,” Agent John Shaw’s rebuttal was cut short as the team leader’s voice over-ruled.
“It’s just that it’s show time.” All eyes turned to the man whose handsome black complexion refused to believe he was almost forty. Warren Bach was all business. His team compiled of the FBI’s finest was all business.
“Let’s do this then,” Washkowiak tacked on as the doors opened and the team spilled out. Dressed in suits and long coats, sunglasses and concealed pistols, the task force greeted the chill
“Isn’t
“Special Agent Warren Bach, FBI, this case has just become ours.” Bach flashed his badge and ID, but that was as polite a greeting as anyone was going to receive until all the cards were on the table, on his table.
“Agent Brimworth, Secret Service. You can have your people follow me. The suspect is already in custody and his condition has stabilized. Both his weapon and a rental car believed to be the suspect’s have been seized and are being held as evidence.”
“Excellent.” Agent Bach didn’t smile though, he just waved for his team to follow. “Has anyone interrogated the suspect?”
“He was unconscious for the longest time, he only recently came to. What came out of the guy didn’t make much sense.”
“Insane?”
“I’d put five to eight on it.”
“I’ll take those odds.”
“Do you know something that I don’t, Agent Bach?”
“Sure, maniacs don’t use lever-action weapons.”
The Secret Service Agent didn’t laugh; rather he just shook his head. “Must be FBI humour.”
George Pruent had transferred funds to Old Sammy’s account in the event of an emergency of this magnitude. It was only three thousand dollars, an amount too small to be noticed immediately by either human or Golem agents, but when “an attempt had been made on the newly announced President-elect,” three thousand dollars can go a long ways. With Sammy and George still in the city where this “horrible situation” occurred, and with a possible connection still hot, a get-away was needed, and fast. “An attempt on the President-elect,” that’s what all the radio and television stations kept blaring, that and praising the Secret Service for its quick reaction and interviewing person after person who each claimed that the recent events were both “terrible and unbelievable.” They didn’t even know the whole of it. Hell, they didn’t even know the half of it.
George struck up another cigarette as he started pacing about the Motel 6 room, pacing like a tiger in a cage too small, a hungry tiger. The room already reeked of bitter smoke; this was the Golem’s sixth cigarette since Jules had dropped him off here. They’d agreed it would be better that the Siren went his own way, just as Sammy and George would once they reached Washington, D.C. They had a hell of a drive ahead of them. The sound of a car engine drew George’s long finger to the curtains and he peered outside. It wasn’t Sammy. George went back to smoking and pacing as Headline News prattled away in the background.
Location Undisclosed
“Joanna” cursed as she hung the phone up. They were stalling. Ken Morrison was dead and the Golems and various New Worlders had been set up to take the fall and now her contact, Marques, was holding back on his end of the deal. This wasn’t fair. It’d been nearly a year since she’d expressed interest in getting away from this, away from the cheap imitation of life that a New World Siren faces.
Perfect blue eyes fell to the cold, silent phone and her hand almost went for it. No. “Joanna” composed herself. Were she to be accepted into the
The temporary crime lab had been set up with record speed. While Bach was off with a small group of the task force, Shaw, Wetmore, and Smith had already set to unravelling the situation at hand. Phone call after phone call had been made, each following various procedures that, according to Wetmore, “just got in the fricken’ way.” They tested each path that could lead to harbours of knowledge. With the primary suspect, at least the triggerman, already in custody, the team was lucky, they had a starting point.
Their man’s name was Gary McManneth, though he’d used various aliases to acquire a rental car a room at a Motel 6, in which he stayed for a long enough time to receive mail there.
“I think Bach might be wrong about this guy not being crazy, Denny.” Tim didn’t look up from the glowing screen of his laptop.
“Oh yeah, you find something on him?” Wetmore asked as he continued to scroll through the security footage from the Regan building.
“He stayed at a Motel 6 for over a month.”
“Jeez Smitty.”
“Ug, there’d better be coffee on. It’s far to fricken’ cold out there to be
“Over there in the corner. But stay away from the cream and sugar-,”
“Smitty, if you start with that ‘real men drink their coffee black and carry their wallets in their back pocket’ shit again, I’m going to beat you.”
“I’m just saying Denny-,”
“No, I’m just saying ‘shut up.’ I did my time in a Ranger Bat. I can put whatever I damn well want in my coffee and you can’t say anything. Roger?” Wetmore grew a little tense, you could see it stressed about his eyes as he turned away from the camera footage that was all so routine, so routine that it hurt to look at.
“Here’s something. Our man’s a member of the NRA.” Shaw’s background check was finally starting to turn up some leads.
“Oh Lord.” Rudisill laughed. His chuckle carried more than a slight bit of
“The Democrats are going to have a field day with that.” Price’s comment came out with more than a bit of
“Oh my gawd,” This phrase had been often uttered by Shaw and more often imitated by the likes of Tim and Denny. This time was no exception as both launched into a slightly mocking tirade. It broke the tension that had swept in on the cold night air. Johnny Shaw put an end to the crude character ersatz, his voice powering over the other two Agents. “Shut up you two. Try to act professional for just three minutes. Know what I realized?”
A crypt-like silence slipped over the trailer. Each team member paused in their hacking through mountains of information and turned to face Agent Shaw. In the end, Denny Wetmore gave in and asked, “No, what?”
“Kennedy was shot from a window, with a lever action rifle, and three shots were fired-,”
Warren Bach broke through the door as groans were issued and disapproval was the consensus feeling. “We’ve got one hell of a case here.” Along with the fresh burst of cold air, Warren Bach brought with him a no-nonsense sensation that spread over the group without a word issued, and with his comment he brought about a notion that each member should tug at his gloves a bit and prepare for some tough digging.
“So ah, what do you have here? Psycho working alone? Conspiracy? Shaw’s Kennedy copy-cat idea got any merit?” Timmy leaned back in his chair and turned away from his computer screen for perhaps the first time in an hour.
“This guy’s not leaving much of a paper-trail. Everything’s been done in cash. Motel. Rental car. We don’t know yet how he got from his home of record,” Shaw paused as he thumbed through a stack of printouts, “
“We’ll figure him out. Ben,” Bach never called him Washkowiak, it was too much of a mouthful, “and Ramos are monitoring security conditions with our boy Gary. We don’t want Johnny’s Conspiracy ‘Ruby’ to show up and off the guy before we can get everything out of him. Shaw, Wetmore, Smitty, how are backgrounds coming?”
“Good.” “Working through some thick stuff here.” “Guy’s a ghost, Top.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Jim, Price, you two ready for some more leg work?”
“Sure thing.” Price just nodded.
“Get in touch with the people at that Motel 6. Also, call the Bureau’s field house in
“Yeah?”
“Try to stall the press.”
“On it.” Denny’s fingers pounded out various numbers on a telephone keypad as he nodded to Bach.
They were running smooth tonight and
Outside of
They’d been on the road for nearly an hour when the news of the raid reached George Pruent’s elongated, pointy Golem ears.
“The dramatic raid took place at a Motel 6 just outside of
“That was our hotel wasn’t it?” Sammy didn’t expect George to answer. “I don’t know which is scarier, how close we were to ‘him’ or how close they were to us.”
“Tell me Donna, does it appear that this was an action taken by an individual?”
“Well Jim, it’s really hard to say at this point. But I think it’s safe to say that from its posture that the FBI isn’t ruling anything out at this point.”
Jim wasn’t halfway through thanking Donna when Sammy changed the channel and sped off into the quite dark night.
It was already the morning after in
“You’ve all the documentation?” Danilo asked. His appearance was cold, colder than the morning, much colder. He was dressed warmly in a thick, dark jacket and scarf; sunglasses fashionably in place and his latte sat not far from where his hand rested on the table.
“Of course. We’ve proof enough that this assassination was planned by New Worlders and involved their inability to deal with Golems.” Marques didn’t participate in dressing warmly. His leather jacket was thin, made more for fashion than utilitarian purposes. Leather hides the lumps of firearms amazingly well. He too, was decked out in sunglasses, a pair of Futuris. The dark rims and slightly mirrored lenses giving him an almost Chow Yung Fat appearance.
“Excellent. Have it all prepared for tomorrow evening. I’ll arrange for an emergency meeting tomorrow night.”
Marques nodded and sipped at his café au lait.
“And ‘Joanna’?”
“Signor, consider her taken care of. The Hatter’s Guild has our ways.”
“Excellent.” The word rolled off with a sense of finality that sounded a great deal like a death gasp.
Mathew Marques didn’t waste time. Not long after the petit déjeuner was finished Marques was on the phone and the fate of “Joanna” was no longer a secure one.
The florescent lights had long been lowered and the darkness only added to a very long day and made an incredibly compelling argument for Agent Ben Washkowiak to go to sleep. He wouldn’t let it though; with his arms folded across his chest, Ben got up and paced about the hall briefly. Ramos still had another two hours of sleep before his shift and this hospital was eerily quiet. The door opened with a slight sigh and Ben slipped into Gary MacManneth’s room. The assassin had stabilized some time ago, but he was still being held here at the hospital in the event that complications should arise. ‘In the event of complications’ those were the doctor’s words exactly and they made Washkowiak sick.
“Piece of shit.” No mercy for the wicked, an old philosophy but it left Ben knowing exactly where he stood. And where this bastard lay. This bastard was definitely on the wrong side of the line.
“Don’t be so hard on him. I haven’t had a chance to get into his head yet.”
“Sir.” Ben was a bit shocked; he hadn’t heard
“Relax Ben, it’s early.”
“Yes sir.” There were a few seconds of silence as both digested the conversation. Ben broke it. “How did the raid go?”
“There weren’t any accomplices, not that had fingerprints. Rudisill and Price are still down there; it’ll be a miracle if any of us get any sleep tonight. Everyone who works at the hotel is being called into for interviews and we’re checking the phone registry, the hotel registry, and we going to have his laptop looked at.”
“Any hope?”
“Yeah. Actually I think we’ve got a couple of solid leads. There was a great deal of cash there, some false identification, and get this, Inderal.”
“The migraine medicine?”
“Uh, yes, actually. But I’m told that it’s also a beta-blocker, like antropine, only on a smaller scale. It would seem our man drugged himself up to avoid getting nervous between shots.”
“And you objected to me calling him a piece of shit?”
“He might have a fragile psyche, I wouldn’t want that damaged before we start digging into him.”
“Ri-ight.” Agent Washkowiak’s sarcasm elongated the pronunciation and Bach got the picture clearly.
“Stay alert tonight, Ben.” It was Bach’s way of admitting that the early hour allowed for some sarcasm and his way of backing out of the conversation. How convenient a change of subject can be.
“Always, Sir.” Bach shut the door on his way out, leaving Ben alone, in the dark, with the gunman.
“The situation in the
Marques was a mystery to many. He was almost never in the spotlight, never claiming fame. No, his hands were behind the scenes and he had many fingers in many pies. This is what made him trusted, dangerous, and a powerful ally. Marques is one of the few known members of the Hatters’ Guild, an oxymoronic position, he often served as the public conduit for a secret organization. He was the go-to man, the one who gets things done, and now Mathew Marques was in his prime.
“The New Worlders have been let off their leash for quite some time and have accomplished significant progress. But along with this progress they have also tread dangerous lines. Now those lines are vanishing and the Sirens of the
At the moment, Marques’ hands were full with the situation of the New World Siren, Joanna. She was smart. Marques knew little about her. Aside from a few phone conversations and a casual meeting once, her identity was a large blank spot. But that didn’t stop him. Her death would bring closure to the situation, severing any potentially damaging ties to Signor Metucchi. Cut the loose ends and burn them shut.
“Brothers and sisters, I say that the
Danilo smiled as the room erupted into cheers.
“We must remove this dark seed of insurrection from their minds, we must not let their ranks descend any further. We must pick up our
The room was ecstatic as plotting minds began to cut apart the
“Smear her name.” His voice was cold, ruthless. “Draw her out and set her up to be killed. There must not be a link traceable to the Hatters’ Guild or to… I do hope you understand. Understand this, ordinarily she’d sweat, we would make it so, but in this case a quick death is preferable. Excellent.” Marques hung up the phone and glanced about his sparsely furnished Parisian flat. “Joanna. Joanna. You were but a means to an end. Traitors never do win.” His olive skin drew back and a jackal’s grin greeted absolutely no one.
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