Half Life (Russell's Attic Book 2) (10 page)

“They’re with the Lorenzos,” I answered.

“Mama Lorenzo’s letting that shit go down at my place? No fucking way! No way in motherfucking hell!”

I winced. “It’s my fault. They faked a job meet; I suggested you.”

“Well, fuck you, too, then!”

That was fair.

“Where should I drop you?” I asked eventually.

“Anywhere. I’ll call a fucking taxi.”

I stopped the car. “Listen,” I said. “I owe you.” I would have liked to say I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I’d set up the meet knowing it would almost certainly involve some level of violence. I’d picked Cheryl’s bar for the scene of a probable gunfight—because it was familiar, and unsuspicious, and convenient. “You’ve got a marker. If you ever need a favor, call me.”

“Lady, I’ve got more than a marker. I own your fucking ass.”

Brave of her to say that to someone who had taken over her entire oyster bar tonight and was still toting two firearms, but Cheryl Maddox was nothing if not blunt. “I’ll pay you for the damages,” I said. “And I do owe you, if you end up needing it. Call around. I’m very good.”

“Yeah, I know,” she grunted. “Ain’t all that many women around our world. I know who you are.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You set foot in my bar again, I will get you run out of town.”

“Understood,” I said.

She got out of the car and slammed the door.

Paranoid about screwing up again, I switched cars twice more before driving to one of my bolt holes. I’d thought about breaking into Mama Lorenzo’s Hollywood Hills estate tonight, but I already had a good deal of information to sift through, and I was tired. At least my foray into blackmail was moving along swimmingly—hopefully I’d be able to cross the Mob off my to-do list sooner rather than later.

I stayed up long enough to scribble down everything I remembered, but investigating the veracity of what the men had told me would have to wait till the next day and access to a computer. Besides, even if I’d had a laptop, I hadn’t slept the night before, and the long wait in the dumpster and subsequent gunfight hadn’t exactly been relaxing. I took a moment to text a new burner number to everyone who might need it and slumped onto the mattress.

C
HAPTER 9

“
S
HE’S BROKEN,”
someone said.

No, I’m not,
I tried to protest, but instead of words a lightning flash of agony spiked through me—

I sat by the ocean, the waves soaking me time after time, but I didn’t feel it, didn’t move. A handsome man with dark, curly hair came and pulled at me, cajoled me, almost desperate, the spray lashing his face, and then I was in a dim room and he was frowning at me, and standing next to him was a tall Asian man in a trench coat—Rio—

I shivered like I had a fever, and my teeth chattered.

“We’ll destroy them,” said another voice, right next to me, a woman with strongly accented English, and I was sitting on the ground outside now. “There will be nothing left.
We’ll burn them to the ground and scorch the earth…”

I bolted awake. The wan light of dawn was just seeping in through the blinds, and my watch told me it was still early, too early to do anything useful.

I leaned back against the wall and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t usually dream when I was on the job. When unemployed, all bets were off, but working…the focus of work had brought dead, black sleep, the nightmares only returning once I was off contract.

Lately, the dreams had been creeping into my employed life. Not always, but here and there over the past year.

The past year. Since Pithica. Since Dawna and her psychic attack—or whatever it had been. Since she had crawled into my brain and torn through my memories.

I still wasn’t sure what she had done. I only knew the dreams had gotten worse.

For the millionth time, I thought about calling Rio, demanding that he help me reverse the mental block that made me unable to go after Pithica again. Even if it meant resetting my count with Arthur, I owed Dawna Polk.

But Rio had continued to refuse without giving me a reason, and then disappeared off to corners of the globe unknown to wreak the wrath of God on the guilty, as he was wont to do. Whenever he dropped back in, he met my continued frustration with indifference or mild amusement, depending on his mood—which, of course, pissed me off even more.

I lay back down and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use, so instead I spread my guns out in pieces on the floor and set to work. I’d cleaned the sniper rifle before storing it and I’d only fired it a few times, so most of what it needed was a minute inspection to ensure nothing had gotten banged up in our tumble to safety, but my 1911 needed more care. I took longer than I had to, rubbing off every bit of residual crud and coating each nook and surface with oil until the coefficient of friction dropped enough for the glide of the slide to feel slippery. I reassembled it, guiding each piece into place with more deliberation than it required, then loaded it, chambered it, popped out the magazine to add one more round, and stuck the newly cleaned gun in the back of my belt without clicking the safety on. The thing had a grip safety; I wasn’t worried.

The hour was almost decent when Arthur called this time.

“Trouble,” he said, without apologizing for the time. “Just got the second confirmation. Your tip is right. Plutonium—someone’s after it. For serious.”

“That was fast,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Not sure of this yet, but the rumor is someone called Ally Eight,” he said grimly. “You heard of them?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m pulling in every resource on this. We got to get more intel. This is real. Ain’t found out if they got it yet—maybe they’re still looking. But I got two sources confirming the inquiry’s out there. Plutonium-238.”

“Wait, back up—238?” My brain whirred. “Are you sure that’s what they said?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Isotope arithmetic tumbled through my head. “Ha! I told you so.”

“Told me what? Ain’t this a big deal?”

“Plutonium-238 isn’t fissile.” I didn’t have nuclear trivia memorized, but the equations for fissility unfolded in my head, laying out the information for me. “You’d need 239 for a bomb.”

Arthur didn’t speak for a good handful of seconds, and then the breath gusted out of him like he’d collapsed in relief. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You got no idea how scared I been.”

“I told you, terrorism is statistically trivial.” I might have been gloating a little bit. “It’s not a—”

“Okay, okay, shut it, you were right. What’s 238 used for, then?”

“I have no idea,” I said. Nor did I care very much.

Unless…unless I could snake the job of obtaining it. On second thought, the gig would probably pay a heck of a lot better than Warren would, and since I might be well on my way to having Mama Lorenzo taken care of…

“I’ll find out,” I amended. “But I don’t think it can be anything dangerous, so relax. Thanks, by the way. How much do I owe you?”

He made an inarticulate sound. “Russell, you got to stop trying to pay me for every little thing. I wanted to find out about this, too. ’Sides, it’s what people do for each other.”

“Your experience with people is very different to my experience,” I said. “Let me know how much time you spent. I’ll talk to you later.”

He heaved a sigh. “Good-bye, Russell.”

I hung up and dialed Checker, running right over him when he tried to greet me. “Plutonium-238. What’s it used for?”

“Why, good morning to you, too, Cas Russell. Yes, I was awake, thank you for asking. Are we speaking again?”

“Temporarily.”

“Couldn’t live without me, huh?”

I was still mad at him. “Don’t push your luck.”

He laughed. “Two thirty-eight. So, an ultra-quick Internet search tells me…hmm. Radioisotope thermoelectric generators, which provide electricity for things like space probes and pacemakers, and radioisotope heater units, which provide heat for ridiculously long amounts of time and are also used for things like space probes. Basically, mini-heaters or generators or batteries that will last forever, that’s 238. The half-life is almost eighty-eight years, so it can provide power for a heck of a long time. Though not very much.”

“What does that mean?”

“As far as I know, and my quick skimming is supporting this, atomic batteries have about enough juice to power a wristwatch. But they’re way too costly for that. They’re only used for some pretty specific things.”

I graphed protons and neutrons in my head. As long as the 238 isotope wasn’t anomalous for some reason—“Alpha decay, right?”

“Right on,” Checker confirmed. “What’s all this about, anyway?”

“Someone’s looking for it. Hey, can you find out about a group called Ally Eight for me? At least, I think it’s a group. Could be a person.”

“Spelling?”

“No idea.”

“You’re helpful. Are they the ones looking for the plutonium?”

“Possibly,” I said. “That’s the rumor, at any rate.”

“Well, let ’em look, as far as I’m concerned. It isn’t actually dangerous. Unless you eat it or something, but drain cleaner’s a lot cheaper. And it seems like it’s kind of impossible to find anyway—I’m still skimming, but nobody’s producing it anymore, not even Russia. Too expensive.”

Expensive. And difficult to find. This was
definitely
a job I needed to be doing. “Put together some research for me,” I said to Checker. “I want to know where to find some of this stuff. Hypothetically.”

“
Hypothetically.
Sure,” He drew out the word teasingly. “You’re going to try to find some and then sell it to them for a ridiculous price, aren’t you?”

“Less talking and more research, or you don’t get your cut.”

“I get a cut now?” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Is that in addition to my hourly rate?”

“I’m not sure you’re going to get
that,”
I shot back. “I’m suffering sorely from a lack of customer satisfaction. And I’m still mad at you.”

“Then I guess I’m lucky we’re bartering on this one. Hey, I’ll start sticking the plutonium stuff in your folder on my server. Does that work?”

“Yeah, but I need you to set up security on another computer for me first. I can bring one by.”

“What! Another one? What’d you do this time?”

“Someone’s head needed percussive maintenance.”

“Someone’s
head?
When did—?”

“A few weeks ago,” I said. “There was this guy who didn’t want to pay—”

“Never mind,” he said hastily. “I’ve got an extra laptop with me you can have; I’ll text you the address. Honestly, I don’t even know why I bother…
percussive maintenance
…”

“You’re a gem,” I said with no sincerity, and hung up.

I fingered my phone thoughtfully. I supposed I should call Harrington next, let him know he could sleep at night.

Harrington, who had given me the tip in the first place, suggesting he’d heard a rumor about the plutonium. Harrington, who was about as well plugged-in to the corporate underground as it was possible to be. Harrington, who was in a downright panic about the nuclear threat.

Hmm.

He picked up almost immediately, despite the early hour. “Miss Russell. Have you any news on the situation?”

“Yeah, I’m on it.” I paused. “Have you heard of Ally Eight?”

“Certainly,” he said. “They are…perhaps you could say they are competitors to my firm, in the specialties they offer. They mainly represent several different Japanese interests.” His voice darkened. “Are they the ones who are seeking—”

“Maybe,” I hedged. “It’s complicated. I need to meet with someone over there. Who’s their you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Their equivalent of you. If they’re looking for something off the books, who’s their guy?”

“I don’t know a name,” said Harrington slowly. “It may be more than one person. But I could arrange a meeting.”

“Brilliant,” I said. “Do it.”

“If they are the ones seeking—”

“I told you, I’m on it. I’ll call you later and explain.”

“It may take some doing,” he warned. “We are, to some degree, rivals.”

“Just set it up,” I said. “We’re talking about plutonium, remember? Tick tick.”

Sometimes it’s nice when people are paranoid about terrorism. He hurriedly ended the call with a promise that I’d have my meeting as soon as he could possibly arrange it.

I waited for the morning rush hour to die down and then hopped on the freeway and zipped over to the address Checker had gone to ground at, which turned out to be a pleasant apartment complex in North Hollywood. The code Checker had texted let me buzz through the gate into a cheerful outdoor courtyard surrounded by Spanish architecture.

I paused, eyeing the decorative banana leaves and lush succulents, my senses tingling with the echo of the ambush at Grealy’s. It was all too easy to imagine a pipe bomb stuffed into a mailbox or a drive-by peppering the courtyard’s pretty landscaping with bullet holes. I cautiously stepped down the path to where it opened into a first-floor hallway, automatically drawing lines of sight and angles of possible danger.

I turned the corner and spotted apartment 109 at the end of the hall. And approaching the door was a dark-haired woman who was putting a hand into her bag.

C
HAPTER 10

I
DIDN’T
think. The math became a near-light speed optimization of the fastest way to incapacitation, and the woman’s bag hit the floor as the back of her head smacked into the wall next to the apartment door. I was in her face, one hand pinning her wrist, the other forearm across her throat. She was a tall, lithe Asian woman, quite young—a bounty hunter, maybe, or on contract to the Lorenzos—

“You go after me first!” I growled. “That was the deal!”

“Wha…” she gasped, choking against my arm.

The door opened, and Checker’s head poked out. “What are you—Cas, let her go!”

I didn’t.

“
Cas!
She’s not a—I know her!”

I released the woman and stepped back. She coughed, rubbing her throat.