The Kasparov Agenda (Omega Ops Legion Book 1) (3 page)

Gathered in a boardroom within the walls of the Chital Co. Tower were about two dozen bodies, watching the press conference on a big screen television. They watched in disgust as Bruce boasted about the Legion driving down crime in New York. Samuel Turly clicked the remote to pause the tape. He pointed at the screen, his finger visibly shaking from anger. He waited. No one said anything. “
Do you hear...this man speaking?” Again, there was silence. “Do you hear him?!” screamed Turly.
He looked around the room, positively livid.
Turly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a luxury silver ballpoint pen. He fiddled with the top end for a moment until it popped off to reveal a one-inch ceramic blade. Brandishing the pen around the room, he bared his teeth in fury. People within striking distance slowly edged their chairs away. Turly screamed angrily and slammed the pen on the table, driving the blade into the wood.
 

Samuel Turly was the North American speaker for the global criminal network he and Scorcher were a part of. Highly intelligent and meticulous, he has been on the most wanted list of several law enforcement agencies for the last fifteen years. The agencies tied Turly to several illegal activities including international drug trafficking, arms dealing, and the acquiring and distribution of classified intel that breached the national security of multiple nations. There was no doubt that Samuel Turly was a dangerous man. The pen knife remained lodged in the table, and everyone’s attention was on Turly. “Bruce Kasparov is a problem.”

“And I got the solution right here!” Ronaldo Hernandez stood up from the table and cocked back his .45 calibre. His accent was heavy, and he did not speak English particularly well. “Me and a couple of guys will find this Kasparov and put a bullet in his head—and then there’ll be peace and love all around.”

“Sit down you
dirty hippie
,” snarled Ramon Salazar.

“What you say to me?!” Ronaldo snapped back. “This man is on your side of the border—
your problem
. I took plane here to meeting, to find out what’s being done ‘bout it. He hitting our clients, and our drugs ain’t flowing freely no more, meng.”

“Yeah, he’s on our side of the border, and
you
haven’t tangled with him,” sneered Ramon. “I was at the press conference
in person
. If it was that easy to shoot him, I would’ve done it right then and there.
A bullet won’t stop him
.
”
 

“That’s bull!” Ronaldo yelled defiantly. “Then you send a whole army at him! Where’s your leader, this Scorcher? He’s allowing all this to go down on his watch.”

“He’ll get here when he gets here,” growled Ulysses Frost, one of Scorcher’s heavy-hitters.

Ronaldo quieted down a little under Frost’s menacing gaze, but kept on the attack. “Way I see it, you need new management. Alvarez has the pipeline set up from Columbia to the States via Mexico. All you do is distribute and maintain clients. Now you can’t do that either! I hear this Scorcher is supposed to be so-so scary, so why isn’t he putting the scare into the competition stealing our clients? Right-right-right! ‘Cause he’s under Kasparov’s boot. When I hear the name Scorcher, there’s no fear...he’s a joke!” Ronaldo paused his angry tirade to catch his breath. He looked around the room, red-faced and breathing heavy. “Who’s going to respect an outfit being led by clown named Scorcher? Is this name meant to cause fear and panic?”

“You tell me...” The man known as Scorcher had arrived, although from first glance, it was clear he was anything
but
human. His presence created an ominous still in the room. He was a towering figure that looked capable of strangling a rhino with his bare hands. Ronaldo looked up at Scorcher’s face and gasped. Where he expected a face was some sort of misshaped animal skull with dark, leathery skin stretched over it. Framing his head was a lion’s mane of rose-colored hair. A cybernetic enhancement was strapped over his right eye; the left had the appearance of a chunk of golden amber. Two large horns jutted out of his skull like a bull...or like the devil himself. Scorcher looked at Ronaldo and gave him a big smile, baring his fang-like teeth. Ronaldo whimpered.

“I guess you got your answer about the fear and panic. Now...want to see why I’m called Scorcher?” He held out a massive gloved hand in front of Ronaldo. Flames erupted from Scorcher’s hand and danced around his palm and fingers. “Ready?”

“No, stop!” Ronaldo cowered, covering his face with both arms. “Please!”

“Scorcher,
enough
. Sit down; we don’t have time for your
shit
right now,” Turly muttered.

Scorcher laughed. “I wasn’t going to do anything; we’re all amigos here! Isn’t that right, you spic prick?” Scorcher’s head turned to Ronaldo, presumably staring at Ronaldo with his ‘eyes’. “I just like the grand entrances.”

“Yes,
we know
,” Turly said impatiently. “Now sit down, the Master is not pleased with you—with
us
.”

Scorcher found a seat beside Tony Calzone: a mob boss in Scorcher’s pocket. Tony shuddered as Scorcher sat down beside him.

Gregory Pike leaned over to Tony from the other side. “You got a problem with freaks?” Tony looked at Pike: he was a hulking figure with yellow skin, fiery red eyes, and a face like a gargoyle. His upper body was adorned with shimmering emerald and dark green armor. The material was unlike anything Tony had seen before. He never bothered to ask what Pike’s story was, and frankly speaking, Tony wasn’t even sure if Pike was from this planet.

“Tony has no problems with freaks.” Scorcher grinned. “Deep down, everyone here is a freak—why else would they be in this room of sociopaths?”

“Well, Scorcher?” Turly questioned, interrupting Scorcher’s banter. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Yeah, I heard about Kasparov…” mumbled Scorcher.

Turly shook his head. “It’s bad enough he’s running through our forces here in New York, but he has interfered with a very important operation in Kosovo. The authorities have Zamir.”

Scorcher sighed. “Well, you know how dealing with Kasparov is. And it’s not just him—all his other Legion buddies as well...teaming up with the police...the feds!?”

Turly scowled. “Kasparov is an important figurehead that we need to remove. If we take him out, his allies that rally under him will be demoralized. But you have failed to deal with him, Scorcher. You couldn’t keep that dog on a leash, and now he’s interfering on an international level. And this isn’t the first time.”

“Well, what the hell do you want from me?!” barked Scorcher. “He’s too
goddamn
powerful. Every time I run into him, he gains the upper hand.”

Turly smiled grimly. “
I know
. That’s why we’ve recruited some extra muscle. In fact, the arrangements are being made by the Master as we speak. This fighter is being flown in from Thailand and is scheduled to arrive this weekend.” Turly walked slowly alongside the meeting table and leaned in, his face mere inches from Scorcher’s disfigured visage. “Together, you’re going to
crush
Kasparov,” whispered Turly. “And any of his ‘
buddies
’
who get in the way.”

***

Thursday, October 7th, 1999

Queens, New York, 7:15 a.m.

Oswalt Fletcher surveyed the mess in front of him, positively disgusted. “Ah hell, this just ruins my freakin’ day. Schucker, you should see this—goddamn!”

“I know… I saw.” Henry Schucker was a middle-aged cop who had been around the block more than a few times. He appeared indifferent to Oswalt’s revulsion due to his attention staying with the witness he was questioning. The two police officers were at a bloody crime scene: the front of a dark green sedan was crumpled around a street light. The driver was dead in his seat, and the passenger had flown through the windshield, several feet out onto the sidewalk. The vehicle itself was riddled with bullet holes, and another body was under the left rear tire of the vehicle. “What did you say your name was?”

“Quetzalcoatl, the holy feathered serpent of Queens.”

Henry stared at his witness, stone-faced. “Right… You mind if I just call you Q?”

“Whatever you like, Occifer.”

Henry Schucker sighed. “Well, Q...can you tell me anything else—number of attackers, what they sounded like, anything at all?”

The tired man looked at Schucker with bloodshot eyes. “Nawww… I sleeping, thinking, then everyone yelling, and I tell them, hay! Hay! Stop yelling, they are disturbing a deity, but they no stop and...” Henry’s eyes trailed to the forensics team combing the perimeter of the sedan; they had already picked up a handgun, presumably belonging to the man under the tire.

“Occifer, did you hear?”

Henry refocused his attention. “What’s that?”

“When I woke up my bottle was gone. I think they stole it.” Henry knew when he was beat. He politely ended his questioning and walked over to the crime scene.

Oswalt turned to Henry. “So, what did we get from our
‘
witness
’?”
 

Henry sighed. “Not a thing.” Q sauntered over to the officers and tapped Oswalt on the shoulder.

“What?”

“Got a light?”

Oswalt narrowed his eyes, annoyed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Zippo. “Here.” Q graciously accepted the lighter, feeling the weight of it in his hand.

“Got a cigarette?”

Oswalt snatched his lighter back. “Pfft, get the hell outta here, guy.”

A black Lincoln pulled up to the curb. John Varick got down from the driver’s seat, followed by Bruce Kasparov from the passenger side. “What do you guys got?” Varick questioned.

“Not a thing,” Henry repeated.

Oswalt walked towards the new arrivals, meeting them halfway. “Hold it right there. This is a crime scene, if you can’t tell, so stay behind the yellow tape.”

Bruce glanced from Oswalt to Varick, grinning.

Henry tailed behind Oswalt. “Hey, relax, Fletcher—they’re here to help. This is John Varick.”

“Oh…” Oswalt responded, slightly dejected. “The
Legion
guy.”

“And a cop among other things,” Henry remarked, shaking hands with Varick. “Good to see you, John.”

“A former cop,” Varick corrected, “—in Germany.”

“When or where, we’re on the same side in the end,” Henry pointed out.

Oswalt’s eyes darted up and down the sidewalk, distracted. “Be right back; I’m gonna go down the street and get a coffee.” And with that, Oswalt trotted off.

Bruce was both puzzled and amused to see Oswalt leaving. “What’s his deal?”

Henry scratched his head. “He’s new—transferred from L.A. division. Still getting used to the environment, I suppose.”

“By the way, this is Bruce Kasparov,” Varick introduced.

“Honor to meet you, Captain,” Henry said, extending his hand. “Of course, I already know
who you are by reputation.”

Bruce shook Henry’s hand. “Likewise. You and Roy do good work—where is he, by the way?”

“Roy Cameron? He’s off on another case; that’s why I got Oswalt tagging along with me for this one.”

Varick stepped over the yellow tape to get a good look at the sedan. He squatted down to examine the bullet holes. He walked around to the back of the car and saw the frame around the licence plate. “It’s one of Solly’s company cars.”

“Jack Solly?” Henry questioned.

Varick nodded as he peered into the car where the driver was still buckled.

“Well then, it’s pretty obvious this is Scorcher’s handy work,” Bruce deduced. “He’s already begun sinking his teeth into the rival New York factions.”

Henry was puzzled. “Solly’s dirty?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Bruce stated grimly.

“I consider that slander, officers.” An elderly man walked towards them, followed by a tough-looking individual that had the presence of a bodyguard.

“Speak of the devil,” Bruce said, sneering at Jack.

“Ah, Captain, how are you?” He extended a hand which Bruce did not shake. Solly smiled.

“What are you doing here, Solly?”

“These were my employees. I was informed a short while ago about this tragedy.” Solly glanced at the crime scene: his eyes flickered from the body on the sidewalk, to the driver in the car. He then eyed the man under the car tire, and the cogs in his head began to turn.

Bruce gauged Solly’s expression. “Not one of yours, I presume?”

“No—h
e isn’t.
”

“Know who he is?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“You sure? Not a friend of Scorcher’s you’ve tangled with before? Guess he was the unlucky one who didn’t get away after his crew iced your ‘
employees
’.”
 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Solly stated sharply. “And you would be wise not to speak so boldly.”

Varick leaned into Bruce. “Don’t give him too much, now, ” he muttered.

Bruce scoffed at Solly, then turned his attention to the man accompanying him, whom he also knew. “And it’s mighty bold of you to walk around with riffraff thugs like Wells over here,” Bruce said snidely.

Zerneck Wells balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth. “We’re not here to make trouble.” He was determined not to lose his temper.

“Wells is head of my security detail,” Solly informed.

“Head of security...
Fascinating
.” Bruce walked up to the sedan and popped open the trunk with a hard kick. He looked inside and smiled. “Care to explain these, Solly?” Bruce lifted an M4 assault rifle out of the trunk. “Trunk’s full of them.”

“I have no knowledge of those,” Solly replied simply. “Whatever my employees are involved with after hours, I have nothing to do with.”

Bruce shook his head, tsking. “You don’t know much of anything, do you?” Solly scowled darkly at him. Bruce turned to Varick. “Ready to head out? Have any other questions for our friends here?”

“Nope, let’s go. Keep us in the loop if anything develops on this, Henry.”

Henry nodded at Varick. “Will do.”