Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) (19 page)

‘He asked about an angry ex. I’ll bet he thinks I’m up in Vermont with some new flame, shaking the paintings off the walls. I could hear the leer through the phone.’

‘You played it up nice. Let him go looking for the mythical jilted ex-boyfriend. Nothing about the dead guys?’ I wondered.

She shook her head. ‘Not a word. I can’t imagine it slipped his mind, so what happened to the bodies?’

I had no idea. The most likely answer was that the organization did a quick cleanup when the team didn’t report in, but how they moved three corpses and cleaned up the gore without leaving a trace or drawing stares, I couldn’t say. Or maybe Doors and his buddies had bought a few cops, and were keeping things quiet that way. That was one reason I had her cut the conversation short. If the investigation was legitimate, her excuse made sense; but if the detective were somehow involved, I didn’t want to give him time to trace her cell phone signal.

‘I’m beginning to realize just how much I don’t know,’ I said.

‘So what do we do about that?’

I shrugged. ‘I’ve hit a bunch of dead ends, and even those brought down more heat than I wanted. I have an address for a business that’s probably a front.’

‘They have a website?’

‘A typical one. Vague mission statement, in the finest corporate inspirational language, list of services that somehow omitted strong-arm tactics and body disposal. Nothing distinctive. I’m hesitant to go online again. I’m not the most tech-savvy person, and they tracked you down through the forums.’

‘Well, I wasn’t exactly being careful. I’m a professor of languages, I’m on there a lot. Anyone can trace the ISP of visitors to a site if they’re paranoid enough to want to—’

‘Which I think we can safely assume they are.’

She paused and thought, chewing her bottom lip. ‘If we could get onto one of the computers at that address you’ve got...’

‘You think they just have this stuff on a computer? It’s probably pretty secret stuff.’

‘Showing your age,’ she smirked. ‘People put everything on their computers. Trust me. The horror in the eyes of a freshman who just realized she left her cell phone in the classroom is a memorable sight.’

I chuckled. ‘So, how could we get a look at that info?’

‘It depends. Somebody who knows what he’s doing could hack in to most companies through their website. These guys might be a bit security conscious for that. Maybe if we could actually get into the boss’ office.’

‘You think there won’t be security on his machine?’ I asked.

‘Not as much. Think about it. The boss probably employs a computer guy;
he
isn’t a computer guy.’

‘How do you know he isn’t?’

‘Almost a statistical certainty. The kind of guy who gets promoted to boss is going to be a manager. That very seldom translates into a guy who’s really good with computers.’

‘You can say the same about EMS,’ I observed, thinking of Marty.

‘Whoever’s their computer guy, he’d put the most security on the website, since anyone can stumble across that. He’d probably set up firewalls to keep someone from accessing sensitive info remotely. But chances are he’ll compromise with the boss’s machine, so he doesn’t have to hold the guy’s hand every time an email comes in. Plus, he’ll figure anyone that gets into the boss’s office is supposed to be there.’

‘We’re assuming these clowns operate like a regular company,’ I said. Most companies didn’t field heavies with knives.

‘Every organization works the same way, more or less,’ said Sarah with a shrug. ‘University, corporate outfit or Thugs Inc.’

‘That makes sense,’ I replied. Another thought occurred to me. ‘Even if we get to the boss’s computer, won’t there be a password?’

‘That’s easy enough to get by. You can just go online and download a recovery boot disk.’

‘Whatever that means,’ I said. ‘So if I got into his office with this disk, I could just bypass his password and download his files?’

She nodded. ‘You think you can get in, get a look at his computer?’

‘Probably. I’ve done a lot of sneaking around in my long and checkered career.’

‘Behind enemy lines or into bedrooms?’ she asked with a curl of her lip.

‘More of the first and not as much of the second as I’d like. Anyway, the building is a front. It’s supposed to be an import company. It’s not like they can have barbed wire, attack dogs and armed guards walking the perimeter. Even in Philips Mills that would cause talk. It’s in an old converted mill, most of which is vacant. There’ll be a way in.’

It may seem odd that I, as a self-confessed coward, spent so much time in the notoriously dangerous job of reconnaissance. The lone commando, the sniper, the Special Forces team member, operating behind enemy lines, performing feats of daring and courage.

The truth is that it’s only statistically more dangerous than any other kind of fighting. And, to an individual, statistics mean nothing.

In any army, your fate hung on the decisions of the commander and the whims of chance. Every time you take enemy fire, there’s a chance, however small, that you will be hit. Even a good battle plan exposes troops to some risk, and if you show up for enough battles, sooner or later, you’re going to stop some nasty piece of metal.

Off on my own, I could gauge risks for myself and move when I thought it was a good idea, not when somebody gave an order. I had a lot of faith in my self-preservation instincts. Operating alone or in a small group had its perils, but the guys who got killed doing that were the ones who got careless and forgot the limitations, forgot they were outnumbered and started to believe that they were elite unstoppable supermen. Once you start thinking the enemy isn’t good enough to beat you, you get reckless, and then you get killed.

You don’t succeed at those kinds of missions by being a tough, macho, bloodthirsty superman. You succeed by being smarter and sneakier than the enemy.

Chapter 20

HUDDLING IN THE WEEDS AND BRUSH overlooking the canal in the cold of the wee hours, a flash drive, thumb drive, CD and floppy disk in my pockets (to cover all the bases), with enough code to hopefully get into the computer in question and enough space to copy what I needed, I felt sneakier, but I wasn’t sure about smarter. I also had a name badge from one of the thugs at Sarah’s—the one who had been asking the questions, who had the address on the note in his pocket. The one whose throat I’d cut. There was a magnetic strip on it; maybe it would open doors. Okay, so I might be walking into another of their info traps using the badge, but I had to start somewhere.

If I’d known for sure that they didn’t know what I looked like, I’d have felt confident just bluffing my way in. Never underestimate the power of a pair of work boots, a shirt with a name stitched on it, a clipboard and a spiel about checking the sprinkler system or backflow device, delivered in a bored, working-class accent. It’s effective, safe and, if you plan the visit for early afternoon when the important people are on lunch, you almost never get questioned. Even if you do, you just make noises about having your supervisor call later and you walk away.

Instead, I was hunched in the cold, dressed in dark, non-reflective clothes, everything metal taped or cushioned so as not to rattle, which would be hard to explain if I were caught.

Not as hard to explain as the .45 automatic tucked in my pocket, though. The last few times I’d met these guys, they’d been quick to get disagreeable, so I decided to reverse the old cliché and bring a gun to a knife fight.

Doors Imports occupied about a quarter of an old mill building on the island between the Merrimack and the canal. The building was too large to believably house a small company, but the rest of it was vacant, and the isolated location made it easy to guard. I ignored the roadway bridge and crept along the old, decrepit railway bridge. Nobody used it, so it was unlikely to be watched, plus the superstructure provided decent cover for a man moving in a crouch. The downside was that it was January, cold as hell, all the steel parts were slick with ice, and the wooden boards were rotten, creaking ominously as I shifted my weight. I could see the black water of the canal through the gaps between my feet.

I told myself this was all reassuring. It’s the easy way that’s most guarded. The lousy weather helped; guards would be huddled in doorways out of the wind, the collars of those stylish Eurotrash trenchcoats pulled up around their ears. I’d chosen the hour carefully: the time when a sentry’s attention is at its lowest ebb, between three am and sunrise, when the body’s reserves are used up, the cold seeps into your bones and sleep leers seductively and hikes up its skirt.

I reached the end of the bridge without plunging through, which was nice. Keeping to the shadows, I slunk across the patch of open ground to the mill. I crept along the wall, looking for a likely way in. I found a broken window near the ground not far from the section rented by Doors Imports. Peering through, I saw a large, mostly empty space, occupied by a few old, rusting machines and piles of old crates and pallets. The far wall sported large overhead doors. Most promising, in the far left corner near the door there was a stack of new cardboard boxes. It looked like Doors was using at least part of the area as a loading dock.

Perfect. The area was poorly lit, unlikely to be guarded all that well, and probably had access to the main offices.

I slipped the blade of my pocket knife between the peeling sash and rotted frame of the window, teased the latch aside, and pried it open. I pulled myself carefully through the opening, and dropped to the floor, crouching in the dark for a moment, listening.

The room was impressive in size, but little else. Once, it housed the busy looms that drove the textile industry, and the dangerous, crowded, tuberculosis-ridden conditions that sparked the Bread and Roses strike.

The years hadn’t been kind.

After the New England textile industry collapsed, a series of small businesses had used bits and pieces of the old, mill buildings. Short lived enterprises carried out in subdivided corners of the vast cathedrals of industry. The brick walls were blackened by soot and diesel dust, and abandoned machinery from a dozen failed startups sat rusting in the gloom. The beams and nooks in the high ceiling were home to legions of pigeons.

In the left-hand wall there was a new door. I could make out the faint red glow of an LED on the fancy new electronic lock.

I also made out an old fashioned flesh and blood sentry.

The ID in my pocket might get me past the one. I hoped my sneaky, underhanded nature would get me past the second.

After a moment to adjust to the feel of the space, I crept carefully toward the door. The sentry was sitting. That’s never a good idea, especially at night. It’s almost always against the rules. Standing your post or walking your post helps keep you alert. Generally, an employer who doesn’t want the guards sleeping doesn’t leave chairs around.

Which is probably why this sentry was sitting on a box dragged against a wall. His chin was on his chest, his collar pulled up around his ears just as I’d hoped. He wasn’t snoring, because that was hard with his head forward, and because it would have been just too theatrical, but he was breathing slow and deep.

As I got closer, I made out a shotgun resting on his knees. It was a 12 gauge pump, just a pistol grip, no shoulder stock, with a riot grip on the forearm.

It seemed that they did have something besides knives, at least when at home base. At close range, which is pretty much a given indoors, the shotgun was a very effective weapon indeed, even if I did disapprove of the lack of shoulder stock.

While unwelcome, it was a good thing to know. My pistol was not quite the advantage I’d hoped. I wanted to avoid a fight if I could, but if one had to happen, I wanted it to be as unfair in my favor as possible.

I ghosted to the door, pulling out the ID with one hand, keeping the other on the hilt of the knife. If the lock made a noise, even a simple electronic bleep, or set off an alarm and the guard woke up, I wanted to take him out before he could recover his wits and ready that cannon of his. Without making too much noise, if possible.

I swiped the card and exhaled in relief when the light silently changed from red to green. The reinforced door with the high tech electronic lock was new, which meant it was strong, but it also meant it didn’t squeak when it swung open. I slipped through, easing it closed.

I stood in a dimly lit hallway. There were doors on either wall, a few inspirational posters hung between them. Twenty feet ahead, the hallway opened into a reception area. I crept up until I saw an unoccupied desk facing the main entrance. Behind the desk were two elevator doors. A directory between the doors had the president’s office on the third floor. On one wall was a mission statement that stressed Doors Imports’ commitment to excellence, but neglected to mention beating up women for information.

Well, it’s not like I don’t leave some things off my resumé.

The hallway continued beyond the reception desk, ending in a door to the stairs. I took them up to the third floor. Elevators are not a good choice for sneaking. The doors chime, the light shows interested parties what floor you’re on, and they tend to be high traffic. On stairs, you can hear someone coming and have a split second to hide. When an elevator door opens, whoever’s on the other side sees you.