The Price of Disrespect (Gray Spear Society Book 6) (32 page)

"For carrying a couple of guns?" Cobby sneered.

"I'll find other crimes to pin on you. For example, I might 'discover' five kilos of coke in your van."

"Where is my van?"

"Police impound," Aaron said.

In fact, the van had been towed back to headquarters. Norbert and Nancy were already stripping it down as they searched for evidence.

"Nobody better touch it. That's Clear Path property."

"Wouldn't think of it. So what do you say? Are you going to talk to me?"

"Fuck off," Cobby said. "Give me your phone. I need to make my call."

Aaron unlocked his phone and handed it over. "Just press the numbers. Don't touch the other buttons."

Cobby stared back at him.

"What?"

"This is a private call," Cobby said.

"Sorry." Aaron quickly left the interview room.

He immediately went down the hall and entered the darkened observation room next door. Smythe and Odelia were standing there in business suits. Through the one-way glass, Aaron saw Cobby dialing.

Smythe opened his own phone. He pressed the speaker button and held it out.

Aaron heard a ringing. The twins back at headquarters were tapping Aaron's phone and playing the sound through Smythe's phone. Aaron would hear the entire conversation.

A male voice answered, "Hello?" He sounded like an old man.

"This is the Handyman," Cobby said. "I'm in trouble. I'm not in my shop, so I can't call the boss. I need you to do it for me."

"What happened?"

"I was arrested. The FBI knows about us."

There was a long pause. "Are you calling on an open line?" the old man said finally.

"Just call the boss! I need to get out of this damned jail right now. I'm at the station at West Ogden Avenue in Chicago."

"You didn't tell them anything, did you?"

"No!" Cobby said. "Of course not. Do you think I'm stupid? I have to hang up. Bye." He closed Aaron's phone.

"Who did he call?" Aaron said.

Bethany replied through Smythe's phone, "I'm getting the address now, sir. It's a truck assembly plant ten miles southwest of the city."

"Strange."

He heard typing in the background.

"Clear Path owns the plant through a foreign subsidiary," she said. "I'll text the address to you."

He nodded. "Thank you. That's all for now."

Smythe closed his phone.

Aaron faced him and Odelia. "Check it out and be extremely careful. The enemy knows we're coming. I'll finish up here."

"Yes, sir," Smythe said.

He and Odelia left.

Aaron returned to the interview room. He took his phone back.

"Do you have anything to say to me?"

"No," Cobby said.

"Are you sure? You might want to beg for forgiveness and mercy. This will be your last chance."

"What do you mean?" Cobby furrowed his brow.

Aaron stared at him. "My people are already tearing apart your van for clues. I'll send them to your shop later. If I want to interrogate somebody, I can snatch the man you left in the hospital. My two best operatives are on their way to the truck plant. In other words, I have plenty of leads to push my investigation forward. You've become redundant."

"Who told you about the plant?"

"You did when you made that call."

Cobby's eyes widened and his face grew pale.

"So," Aaron said, "we come back to the question. Any words before you die?"

"The FBI doesn't whack people in police stations."

"You still think I'm FBI? You're not that lucky." Aaron felt the Lord's anger burning in his belly.

Cobby licked his lips. "If you kill me now, the police will know you did it."

"I have friends here who will squash any inquiries and erase any surveillance recordings. The Chicago police are experts at covering up embarrassing incidents such as finding a dead body in an interview room. Nobody knows my real name, anyway."

Cobby looked towards the door.

"It's unlocked," Aaron said. "Go for it. But first, I want to hear how dangerous the Nonsectarians are. How many powerful allies you have. How stupid I am to fight you. That's the tradition, isn't it? The desperate bravado of a doomed man. Come on. Lay it on me."

Cobby shrank back in his chair. He was shivering.

Aaron leaned forward. "Or maybe you want to justify your crimes with some hackneyed philosophy. Let me guess. You're anarchists which means you believe in the supreme power of the individual. Trials of fire and blood make us stronger. Mortal conflict brings out the best in men. From death springs new life. Does that sound right? Am I close?"

"Yes." Cobby cleared his throat.

"Good. Then this is the point where you make your move. Do you go for the door? It's almost within reach. Do you scream for help? You'll be dead before anybody can save you. Or maybe you attack me? Yes. You look like a guy who never runs from a fight." Aaron flexed his fingers and popped his knuckles. "Let's do it. It's a shame you won't get the slow, ugly death you deserve, but I have more important business to attend to. I have to make this quick."

Cobby launched himself out of his chair. Aaron slipped around behind him, grabbed his head, and twisted. There was a loud crack as Cobby's neck snapped. Aaron kicked him in the lower vertebrae and yanked his head down, breaking his spine. Cobby's face slammed into his butt as he bent double the wrong way.

Aaron dropped the body, and it twitched a little before dying. He smiled grimly. Killing a man with his bare hands was a rare treat.

Whistling to himself, he left the room.

Chapter Thirteen

Roger Gains sat at his desk. Like everything else in his private quarters, it was white.

He was using his computer to read the daily reports from his underlings. Every executive in his multinational empire was required to send reports to him. Weekends, holidays, and sickness were no excuse. If he didn't see something every day from an executive, that man or woman was immediately fired. He read every word of every report and sent them back with comments or requests for more details. He also corrected spelling and grammar. He was a stickler for proper use of the English language.

Computers enabled him to manage his empire without ever leaving home, and he was very appreciative. He also liked that they were clean and couldn't infect him with a disease. He had five in his office: one to use and four as backup. The spares were still in their hermetically sealed, white boxes.

Today the reports didn't hold his attention. He just wasn't interested in currency risk, supply chain shortfalls, or union negotiations. The recent difficulties with the wave generator project were distracting him. He had fought mysterious enemies before, but this time it felt different. He was afraid for some reason.

One of his white phones rang. It was the emergency line again.
Twice in one day,
he thought. He picked it up.

"Sir, this is Dr. Rascher."

"What's wrong?" Gains said.

"The Handyman was arrested by the FBI. He's in jail."

Gains took a moment to contemplate the enormous implications of that statement. "How did you find out?"

"He just called me."

"From jail? On an open line!?"

"Yes, sir," Rascher said. "He sounded scared."

"Sloppy. He should know better. Where is he?"

"West Ogden Avenue in Chicago."

Gains quickly looked up the address of the police station using his computer. "I'll take care of it. You're at the research facility?"

"Yes."

"Tighten your security. Lock everything down. We're having problems, and I don't want them to spread to you. You may already be compromised."

"I'll keep both my eyes open for trouble," Rascher said.

Gains hung up the phone. He rubbed his temples as he considered what to do. Clearly, his first task was killing Ted Cobby. Calling the doctor from jail was an unforgivable mistake.

Gains picked up another phone reserved for this purpose.

A man answered, "This is the Housekeeper."

"Ted Cobby," Gains said. "He's in jail. 3315 West Ogden Avenue, Chicago."

"Yes, sir."

Gains hung up.

He turned his attention to the problem of dealing with the FBI. That issue could not be resolved with a quick phone call, but a call was the right place to start.

He looked up a number with his computer. He picked up the handset for a third phone and dialed.

"Congressman Cisneros' office," a woman responded.

"This is Roger Gains. Put me through to the congressman."

"Yes, sir!"

After a moment, a man with a deep and powerful voice spoke, "Mr. Gains! What can I do for you?"

"I have a problem, Henry. The FBI is being a pain in my ass. They're harassing my people in Chicago. I honestly don't understand what this investigation is about. You know me. All of my enterprises are completely legitimate. At least, that's what I thought. I was hoping you could make a few inquiries on my behalf. I need to know what's really going on. If there is a criminal in my organization, I'll be happy to cooperate fully with the FBI."

"I'll get on it right away. Good citizens like you shouldn't be the victim of a witch hunt."

"Thanks," Gains said. "I knew I could count on you."

"And I'll be able to count on your continued support in the next election cycle?"

"Of course. If you help me with this, I promise all my media outlets will give you favorable coverage."

"I'm very glad to hear that," Cisneros said.

Another phone rang. It was the emergency line again.
Three times in one day,
Gains thought.
That has to be a record.

"I have to go. Somebody is calling. We'll talk later." He hung up one line and picked up another. "Yes?"

"This is the Housekeeper. Ted Cobby is dead."

"That was fast!"

"It wasn't me. He was found in the police station with a broken neck and a broken back."

"Oh." Gains leaned back in his chair. "He was arrested by the FBI."

"It sure as hell wasn't the FBI who killed him," the Housekeeper said. "Getting information about it was difficult. I had to offer money to an old friend in the department to get any answers at all. I'll add that cost to my bill."

"Bill? You didn't do much."

"You put out the contract, and the target is dead. As per our agreement, I get paid."

"Sure." Gains hung up the phone.

He sighed unsteadily. This enemy was definitely different than the others.

He got up to wash the dishes. Scrubbing and wiping things always calmed him down. The dishes were already clean, but they could always be made cleaner.

* * *

Smythe looked out the side window of his car as he drove past the Quick Hammer Truck and Tractor factory. It was a seemingly endless building with few windows. The exterior had dark red brick on the bottom and brown sheet metal above. He guessed it was about forty feet tall, although some sections were shorter and some were taller.

A broad field of mowed grass surrounded the factory. A tall iron fence with spikes on top marked the perimeter of the property. The bars looked thicker than usual, like the bars of a jail.

There was no place to stop that wouldn't attract attention, so he kept driving. The truck factory was in the midst of a vast industrial park. Some of the huge lots were still undeveloped and native weeds populated them.

Smythe pulled into the lot of another factory down the road. He parked in a corner with an unobstructed view of the target.

He and Odelia got out of the car. The sun was setting, so they had to hurry. They retrieved high power binoculars from the trunk.

Smythe looked through his binoculars. The first thing he noticed was the truck factory had very few doors, and those doors were flanked by armed security guards. The wide open lawn meant approaching unseen would be almost impossible. There was no cover near the fence.

"This could be a challenge," Odelia said.

"That's a lot of security for a truck factory," Smythe said. "Where are the trucks?"

The factory had a large parking lot, but less than a hundred cars were parked there, and none were trucks. A sliding, steel gate protected the parking lot, and there was a guard post just inside the gate.

"It's certainly a very big place," she said. "I hate to think about what might be happening inside."

"Do we care? We could just drop a bomb from the helicopter and be done with it. It would have to be a big bomb though."

"We really should take a look inside first. Innocent people could be in there."

He nodded. "You're right, of course. I must be spending too much time with Aaron. When I first met him, he seemed like a regular guy. These days, he's different. He's darker and scarier."

"I guess being a commander does that to a person. Look at the legate. She is practically made of darkness."

"I'd better call him. Getting into that factory will take some planning."

Smythe called Aaron.

The commander answered at once, "What's up?"

"We're at the factory, sir. It's very large and security is tight. It's definitely a place we need to investigate, but getting inside undetected won't be easy. Are you back at headquarters?"

"I just got home. I'll look at satellite photos and figure out a plan. This will probably be a night operation with heavy weapons and armor. That means you have a few hours to relax and grab dinner. Let's tentatively plan on a nine PM entry. Norbert and maybe Tawni will join you."

"Tawni, sir?" Smythe said.

"Or maybe not," Aaron said. "She needs to be involved somehow. That's all."

"Bye." Smythe put away his phone. "We're free until nine," he said to Odelia. "Do you want to find a restaurant?"

"How about a nice hotel instead?" She winked. "We can order room service when we get hungry."

"Sex before a dangerous mission?"

"No better time. Let's go." She grabbed his hand and pulled.

* * *

Aaron stared at the satellite photo on Bethany's computer monitor. It showed an enormous rectangular building surrounded by open grass. Approaching unseen would be difficult at best. There was no cover within a hundred feet in any direction, and he expected surveillance cameras were watching every inch of the lawn.