The Infiltrators (2 page)

Righty almost left the paper on the
bench, but thought better of it, tucking it away inside his coat as
a souvenir. With a smile on his face, a whistle on his lips, and a
spark in his step, he headed towards the city park. There would be
a donation tonight, all right.

Chapter 4

Senator Hutherton was in a black mood.
The reports of a return to normalcy and suspension of martial law
in Sivingdel were not exactly the ingredients for this senator’s
happiness. Here he was dragging his feet through interviews while
the crisis in Sivingdel was already yesterday’s news, and the
governor’s unexpectedly assertive actions had already sapped the
political will out of everyone in the senate and out of the
president himself to go in there with a heavy-handed
response.

Hutherton’s sole comfort was that The
Two for Two Act was law, and that was a reality regardless of
whether the cowards in government had lost the guts to go into
Sivingdel and find out who was really responsible for the recent
crimes. Hutherton didn’t believe for a moment that the guilty had
been captured and punished, at least not all of them.

He would get his two hundred new
agents, bide his time, and then find out what really happened. He
could sense that he had a powerful nemesis. He could almost see the
man, perhaps seated and gloating. Perhaps sitting pensively and
thinking about his next move. But of one thing he was sure. There
was a bold leader behind the recent attacks, and he was going to
bring about the arrest and execution of this individual if it was
the last meaningful achievement he accomplished in this
life.

A profile of his foe began to emerge.
He was no seasoned criminal. No twentieth-generation crime boss,
this man. The crimes were far too brazen for that. They were the
acts of a madman. A man who thought no rules applied to him and
that he could crush anyone in his path.

An in-betweener?

Yes, he bore all the traits one would
expect from an in-betweener. True crime bosses knew their place.
They came to an agreement with the police, and the police set the
terms. And when there were disagreements, they were handled
delicately. No professional crime boss would ever think he could
box the ears of the state and expect a good outcome. This man had
to be a newbie, no doubt riding a wave of riches brought about by
the illicit drug market, something whose profits made the old
rackets of extortion and loan-sharking look like a child’s lemonade
stand.

But this newbie is
winning.

Hutherton groaned aloud, then braced
himself for his next interview.

“Come in!” he barked.

Chapter 5

Zelven and Hutherton had far more in
common than they could have realized, though their current
perspectives on the situation could hardly have differed more
drastically.

They shared the same foe and just a
very short time ago had been on top of the situation. Then, they
had seen their fortunes reversed in the blink of an eye.

But while Hutherton lamented the cruel
twist of fate, Zelven relished it and saw in it deliverance from
over a year of cruel boredom.

Life “at the top” for Zelven had turned
him into little more than a courier overseeing the delivery of
large amounts of Smokeless Green to wholesaler George Hoffmeyer
each month. The death of Heavy Sam had crippled the once seamless
money-making machine atop which Mr. Hoffmeyer sat, leaving
Hoffmeyer with considerable difficulty moving the incoming product
through his distributors.

When Hoffmeyer suddenly disappeared,
that meant things were going to get interesting for the Metinvurs
in Sivingdel. Two of Heavy Sam’s former distributors had
subsequently killed each other in a mutual ambush attempt, taking
out around thirty of their associates with them. Most of the
surviving elements of Sam’s organization had already dissipated or
outright switched over into Mr. Brass’s organization.

Thus, there was going to be no attempt
to rebuild the once formidable group that had ruled Sivingdel’s
underworld with an iron fist. The upstart Mr. Brass had taken
over.

Zelven had already sent his swiftest
messenger back to the king to acquire detailed orders, but he knew
that at a minimum he had full authorization to do whatever it took
to heavily infiltrate Brass’s business and impose surveillance upon
him so that Brass’s fate would be henceforth no safer than that of
a man standing head in noose atop the gallows with the Metinvurs’
hands on the trapdoor lever.

It was a cool night, and Zelven had
already spotted a pack of four street peddlers whose furtive
glances, menacing scowls, and quick movements suggested they were
not selling silverware.

Zelven walked up towards the tallest of
the bunch, a mean-looking cuss with a scar on his left cheek. His
eyes turned predatory as Zelven neared, and he shot at least three
wild-eyed glances back to his compatriots, no doubt assuring them
to ready brass knuckles, switchblades, and clubs, should this
unrecognized patron prove himself less than a Grade A
customer.

As Zelven got closer, the man’s chin
lifted, and his eyes grew as they looked down the slopes of his
cheeks towards his mysterious guest. As Zelven got closer still,
the man took no pains to hide the fact his right hand had gone back
towards his waistband, and in fact a smug grin communicated that he
hoped this had been noticed.

“State your business, friend,” the man
said in a voice that was calm but with thinly concealed
aggression.

“This spot’s taken,” Zelven
replied.

“That’s right. It shooooore is,” the
man said, almost singing his words.

The man took two steps towards Zelven.
When he took his third, Zelven’s two hands shot up towards the
man’s shoulders quicker than a cobra strike, pulling him towards
him and delivering a knee to the groin with the power of a
sledgehammer. As the man doubled over in pain, Zelven brought his
right forearm under his chin, placing it directly against his
windpipe, reinforced his right hand with his left, and then jerked
upwards.

The man’s windpipe collapsed, and then
Zelven quickly lifted him up and smashed him down on top of his
head.

It was at that moment one of the man’s
friends approached from Zelven’s right. Zelven stepped forward at
an angle and sent the knife-blade edge of his hand flying into the
man’s throat like a rock from a slingshot. He then grabbed the
man’s left hand—which by this point had grabbed Zelven’s
shoulder—and pinned it against his shoulder with his left hand
while suddenly lassoing his right arm around the trapped
arm.

He then let go with his left hand and
clasped his right. He then stepped backwards with his left foot and
torqued viciously with his hips, ripping the man’s shoulder out of
socket.

He then swiveled back towards the man,
bringing his knuckles against the back of the man’s neck in the
process. He then punched him in the throat with his left hand,
seized his throat, and then kicked his left leg out from under him
with a vicious chopping motion with his own left leg. He slammed
the man’s head against the ground, crushing his skull, and then
immediately did a roll across the ground to avoid what he knew was
an attack from behind.

A club smashed into the stony ground,
and the noise reverberated throughout the street as if from a nasty
firecracker. A knife slid from Zelven’s wrist to the palm of his
right hand quicker than a card into the palm of the most
accomplished cheat.

He blocked the large overhead swing by
grabbing the man’s right wrist. He then brought his knife into the
man’s bicep, slicing it to the bone. He then brought the
double-edged knife up onto the other side of the man’s arm and
pulled down viciously, slicing his tricep to the bone. He then
quickly reversed the grip of the knife from blade up to blade down
and brought it against the man’s throat in the same motion as
throwing a hook punch.

He gave a stiff sidekick to the man’s
chest and avoided most of the ensuing blood geyser.

Before him, he saw an emasculated,
wide-eyed man sitting on the ground, pushing himself away, looking
like a child trying to escape a belting.

“I hope you’re more reasonable than
your associates,” Zelven said calmly, tossing him a small bag
filled with Smokeless Green. “The night’s still young, and there’s
money to be made. You just introduce me to your customers and let
them know there’s going to be a fifty percent discount sale all
week.”

The man nodded uneasily, his eyes still
a quarter the size of the full moon above.

Zelven extended his hand. “Let’s get to
it!” he barked.

The man grabbed it and stood up
promptly, nodding but mute.

Chapter 6

“There’s a new ranch hand that’s been
earning quite a name for himself,” Tim Sanders said.

“They say he has his way with people no
matter what the contest—boxing, sword play, wrestling . . . you
name it.”

“Well, it sounds like he might be a
good man to consider for inclusion in the Ranch Guard. What do you
think?” Righty inquired of his most-trusted rancher.

“Usually, that’s only an option after a
fella’s proven himself for several months, but I’ve gotta confess
I’m itchin’ to see Halder—that’s his name—prove himself. And, if he
can, then, yes, sir, I’d like him to become part of the Ranch
Guard. I’ll make him one of the thirty contestants this
afternoon.”

“How long has he been on the
ranch?”

“Just a little over one
month.”

“How big has our Ranch Guard gotten
to?”

“A hundred and forty-five,
sir.”

“Well, let’s go have a
look.”

An hour later, thirty contestants lined
up, looking like soldiers presented for close inspection. Righty
walked down the line and eyed them all closely.

“If I like what I see, I’ll pick the
top ten of you.”

Some nervous gulps ensued. It was well
known that the Ranch Guard was the place to be if you wanted to
move up in Mr. Relder’s organization. That was the name he was
known by here, and although the original ranch hands had once known
him by a different name—Richard Franklin Simmers to be precise—he
had long ago told them that was an alias and that due to his
growing trust in them, he was going to henceforth use his real
name: David Relder, but “Mr. Relder” as far as they were
concerned.

He knew full well some of the ranch
hands might rightly suspect his story was the inverse of reality,
but they kept whatever suspicions they had private as far as he
could tell, and even his konulans—who had been instructed to alert
him anytime anyone on the ranch used the names Richard Franklin
Simmers, Mr. Brass, or Righty Rick—so far had not heard one
instance of these names.

The ranch hands continued to stand
straight and tall, but a few slight fidgets betrayed their
eagerness to prove themselves. There were stories that those in the
Ranch Guard earned several times the salary of the regular ranch
hands—or even more—and there were rumors too that these men got to
engage in action or at least would at some point in the
future.

Righty had Tim make the matches, since
he was far more attuned to which would be the most even lineups for
the opening bouts. The bouts were randomly chosen by Tim to consist
of either sword play, grappling, or empty-hand striking. The swords
were wooden, but close replicas of the real thing. Protective gear
was used for these matches, and while Righty normally had
empty-hand striking done with protective gear also, he ordered it
off for these matches. If he was going to count on any of these men
having his back, he had to know if they could take a punch, but he
wasn’t interested in seeing any of them having their heads split
wide open from the heavy wooden swords.

If Righty had managed to survey the
contests in an even manner, he would have been happy at what he
saw. There were now hundreds—almost a thousand—men working on the
ranch, and getting a job at the lowest level was no picnic. He
depended on the original ranch hands for that. He had them scour
rural communities for men that were tough as nails, but honest
workers, enticing them with double the wage they could earn
anywhere else.

From there, everyone became an aspirant
to the Ranch Guard. Tim and the other original ranch hands did a
good job of watching the men’s nightly combat classes and picking
the best to vie for the chance at the Ranch Guard.

But Righty was unable to recognize the
overall high level of martial prowess that was beginning to emerge
in this laboratory of violence. Because from the moment he saw
Halder move, he was as enthralled as if he were twelve years old
again watching Jason Sevden thrash Harry “The Cat” Beld. It had
been said that no one could hit Harry The Cat, because his damn
reflexes were like lighting rubbed down with oil.