Running With The Horde (Book 2): Delusions of Monsters (17 page)

The Past

“Nancy?”

“Yes, Mr. McCloud?”

“Two double espressos, please. When you get a minute.”

“Right away, sir,” Nancy’s voice belched through the speaker on his desk phone.

William Jamison McCloud scanned the document again, still convinced what he was reading couldn’t possibly be real.

“So what do you think, Bill, should we place a few calls, see if we can get Fox and Scully involved?” asked the man seated across McCloud’s desk. “Shit, what am I talking about? I’m sure those two are already smack dab in the middle of something as big as this.”

Bill glanced up from the paper into the grinning face of his right-hand man, Derrick Lewis. Bill trusted exactly two people in his life. The first was himself and the other was Derrick, the man was rock solid, both physically and professionally. Bill felt silly even showing Derrick the message on the paper and now the man was having a bit of fun at his boss’s expense. “90’s television dramas aside, what do you think?” Bill asked.

The big man chuckled and shifted in his seat, which was too small for his large frame, “I think it sounds crazy as shit. Honestly, are you fucking with me?”

Bill smiled and sighed, “No, but I’ll give you this much, Derrick, it does sound like shit.”

He calmly placed the paper on his desk and covered it with a green folder as the office door opened and Nancy entered with a tray. The two men smiled blandly at her in patient silence as she arranged the espressos in front of them.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two boys were up to something,” Nancy said in a motherly tone.

“Ah, Nancy, my dear, Derrick and I were just discussing nothing more exciting than the finer points of Minneapolis bureaucracy,” Bill assured.

“I’ll bet you were,” Nancy tittered, “Well, don’t cause too much trouble; you know what happens when you stir the pot.”

“A shit storm,” both men said in unison. They all shared a polite laugh at the old joke as Nancy took the empty tray and made her way out of the office.

“She still has no idea what you used to do?” Derrick asked, the porcelain espresso cup looking comically small in his hand.

“Oh, I think she has her suspicions. She’s just too polite to ever vocalize them. She does her job well and discreetly and that makes her a precious commodity.”

“Here, here,” replied Derrick before sipping from his cup. “So what are we gonna do about this thing?”

“We’ll do what we always do. Find out who the players are and assimilate ourselves into the game. First things first, I need you to reach out to your military contacts. See if you can confirm any of these troop movements. Even though it sounds like the plot of a bad science fiction novel, my source on this was solid. That doesn’t mean it’s for real but Chip believes it could be. I owe the man the courtesy of checking it out.”

“What are you gonna do while I’m doing that?” Derrick asked.

“Check in with a few folks from the old days starting with Shipman, if something odd is brewing he will either know about it or be in the center of it.”

“I thought you hated that dude?”

“Hate is a strong word, besides, a good conspiracy makes for strange bedfellows.”

Derrick nodded and finished the rest of his coffee in one large gulp. “You ever regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“All this old-school cloak and dagger shit?”

“Ha! No, I don’t regret it, I live for it. Anyway, its only old school to young people like you. For me it’s just the way it is. Besides, someone has to play guard dog to all these sheep in wolves’ clothing; it might as well be me.”

Derrick took his leave, anxious to complete his task. Bill knew the man thought it was a fool’s errand and he didn’t really blame him, the whole notion was ridiculous. As he listened to Derrick’s footsteps fade away down the hall, Bill took his coffee and turned his chair so he could gaze out the window of the Foshay Tower.

He hadn’t been truthful with Derrick, he was full of regret. The choices he had made professionally over the years had cost him dearly on a personal level. There wasn’t a day that went by he didn’t brood over his failed marriage or his lousy relationship with his only child. That child, who was a grown man now, a bitter malcontent living out a bland existence just a few short miles away. Bill took that burden on his shoulders as well. After all, he should have been there for George more than he had been. He had ineffectively tried to be the chisel that shaped him into a proper man. But that ship had sailed long ago and now he could only offer the occasional unsolicited advice and hope his son hadn’t truly lost the genetic lottery the way it seemed he had.

Sipping his drink carefully, he took in the view from one of the oldest and smallest high-rise buildings in Minneapolis. In spite of the craziness of the message Chip had sent him, Bill could almost smell trouble in the air. The kind that could bring chaos and turmoil to the city that he loved.

He was too damned old for this nonsense and the hell of it was, he was supposed to be retired. Quasi-retired anyway. A person never really retired from the type of government work he’d built a career doing. He was sure someone from the old days was always keeping tabs on him. Making sure he didn’t talk.

When it became clear to the agency that he didn’t have the heart for wet work anymore he’d been slowly transitioned into more of a consultant role. Then one day that work dried up without warning. No official decommissioning or even a letter of dismissal, just done. Like he’d never been a government agent at all. Something drastic had happened at the top of the bureaucratic food chain. Between himself and a handful of colleagues, they had never been able to learn what it was. In truth, he was happy they hadn’t killed him outright. He knew from personal experience any death could be made to look like an accident.

Instead he used his considerable savings to open his own private security company. His clientele were mostly wealthy corporate leaders worried about espionage or infidelity. But occasionally things got ugly. Which was why he had Derrick. The man had been a godsend when Bill found him looking for work after ten years in the military. They’d been a dynamic duo ever since.

He glanced down at the memo with a frown. The goddamn thing couldn’t be real but if it was then he’d only just begun to glimpse the tip of the iceberg. Just like the Titanic, he feared it was already too late to change course.

…

Bill was sweating profusely as he sat in the lobby of Shipman and Associates – Attorneys At Law. The sunlight streaming through the open blinds was roasting him like a Christmas ham. Loosening the thick knot on his seven-fold silk tie, he adjusted his light-weight suit jacket in his arm. He relaxed his normally rigid posture and tried to find a modicum of comfort in the thinly padded metal chair. Aside from the elderly receptionist, he was the only person waiting. Somehow all the chairs in the room managed to capture both the sunlight and the heat from the furnace in equal intensity.

As he glanced around the shabbily appointed waiting room he couldn’t help but be amazed by the lengths his old colleague would go to make his guests uncomfortable while they counted off the wasted minutes waiting for an audience with his lordship. The stained carpeting, the drab outdated wallpaper and lack of cellular service were all part of a carefully crafted incubation process rooted in pointless cruelty.

But in spite of his cynicism toward Shipman, Bill suspected the temperature of the room was due largely to the ancient receptionist wrapped up like a mummy in a wool cardigan sweater behind her desk. Only her mottled forehead and wisps of fine white hair were visible from his seated position.

“Mr. McCloud?” Lost in thought as he watched dust motes dance on a sunbeam Bill missed it the first time when the woman called his name. “Mr. McCloud!” she repeated. This time loud enough to capture his attention.

“That’s me,” he replied as he stood hastily to his feet, stretched and approached the tall oak desk. The desk was so large, he wondered briefly if the receptionist had to use a stool to climb into her office chair.

“Yes?” she asked as she looked up from her book.

“You called my name?”

She stared at him with a cross expression on her face as she gently stroked her embroidered book marker.

“And you are?”

“Bill McCloud,” he replied with a hint of impatience at her apparent senior moment.

She glanced down at her ancient appointment book and adjusted her spectacles to read it, tracing down the list of carefully written cursive names with one boney finger. “Ah yes, here you are, Mr. William J. McCloud. Do you have identification?” she asked.

“Are you joking?”

“I do not joke, sir.”

Bill sighed but dug through his jacket pocket until he located his wallet. He handed over his identification. She stared at it with great intensity as if she suspected fraud. He half expected her to pull out a black light to further inspect it. “Are you satisfied, ma’am?” he asked after he tired of waiting.

“Rarely, young man,” she replied with the slightest of grins. “However, I believe your identification is in order. Mr. Shipman will see you now. You may proceed to his office. Through the door, at the end of the hallway, you will find his name on the door.”

Bill knew full well where Shipman’s office was, he’d been there many times before but he let the lady finish her speech before heading back. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

Approaching the frosted glass door at the end of the hall, he could hear Shipman blabbing away in an animated tone. He stifled a weary sigh because he knew he was likely to be kept waiting again for the duration of call. There was nothing to be done about it. If Chip’s claims had any merit Shipman would know. It was merely a matter of determining what he would have to lose in the information exchange. Doing business with the devil always cost more than a person is willing to pay. He paused outside the door, put his jacket on and straightened his tie. Image successfully maintained he exhaled, opened the door and strolled inside.

Any resemblance Shipman’s office bore to the dingy lobby was immediately lost to McCloud as he stepped into the arctic confines of the room decorated in waspish opulence.

“Flowers is a boorish rube,” Shipman said into his phone with a toothy smile. He was reclining in his leather chair with his gleaming brown Oxfords propped up on the massive mahogany desk. Both the desk and the shoes were polished so well, Shipman’s feet appeared to be rooted in the wood. He flashed Bill a quick look and an apologetic smile. He gestured toward one of the guest chairs situated across from his desk and mimed a talking motion with his hand. His expression was one of feigned annoyance but Bill knew better, Shipman was enjoying making him wait.

“Listen, Swanny, I’ve got to run. I will be in touch if anything develops you should know about.” A pause while Shipman listened to Swanny’s reply with a concerned look on his face. “Very good, bye now.”

Shipman deftly kicked his legs off the desk and hopped to his feet. “Drink?” he asked McCloud.

“Please.”

Shipman strolled to a cabinet behind his desk and poured two fingers of good scotch into a couple of glasses. He walked back to his desk and slid McCloud’s across with a sigh as he sat back down.

When both men had glasses in hand Shipman raised his in a toast. “To simpler times,” he said with a sad smile.

“Indeed,” McCloud replied with his own grim expression. Shipman clearly remembered their time in active service more fondly than Bill did.

“So what brings you to my door on this fine spring day?”

“Cut the shit, Nolan, you know why I am here,” Bill said as he pulled a file from his portfolio and tossed it on the desk in front of his frenemy. Shipman plucked it up and did a quick scan of the information inside. Bill was betting this wasn’t the first time Shipman had seen it.

“Never figured you to be a Bigfoot chaser,” Shipman chuckled.

“Fuck, Bigfoot, is this shit for real or not?”

“You probably would fuck Bigfoot,” Shipman grumbled as he continued looking through the documents. Bill gave him a minute to finish pretending he’d never seen the file before clearing his throat. “Where’d you get this?” Shipman asked as he looked up.

Bill thought he detected a slight tremor in the man’s question. That was unsettling. Shipman was afraid. “What does it matter? Was this some kind of stupid hoax for you and Chip? Having one over on old Bill? Is that it?”

“What if I told you to walk away from this, Bill? Leave the city and head for the hills don’t look back, would you do it?” Shipman asked seriously, locking eyes with McCloud.

“No more than you would if our positions were reversed, Nolan. The only difference is if I was in your shoes I would be trying to expose this thing before they can go through with it not trying to exploit it. You see how crazy this is, don’t you? What about this Syndicate business?”

Nolan Shipman let out a deep sigh and then laughed. “The Syndicate is nothing more than the crazy dream of Chip Fielding’s LSD addled mind. God rest his soul. You really are better than this, Bill, where is your tinfoil hat?”

“C’mon, Nolan, my tinfoil hat is sitting on the same shelf as yours. Now don’t be a hypocrite. You forget I’ve known you since before you had pubic hair. We’ve always known there was a little truth to the rumors of some all-powerful organization pulling strings in the background. There was just too much evidence out there. Shit, we might have been working for them and didn’t even know it! If there is a chance they are going to come out of the closet
now
then we need to be ready for them when they do.”