The Infiltrators (4 page)

The first time Chris drew blood was
when he was fifteen, and he had spent that entire night chanting
aloud that he would either kill the next person he heard call him
that or he would kill himself if he lost the nerve.

The next day, as if fate were testing
him, Freddie Big Ears, greeted him with a warm clap on the back and
a “Good Morning, Son of a Whore!”

No sooner had Freddie turned his back
than Chris let a butcher knife slip from his sleeve—a move he had
practiced in unison with his chanting—and then plunged it somewhere
in between the spine and the shoulder blades, and Freddie let out a
howl that could have been confused with a wolf’s.

Once he crossed that line, there was no
turning back, and Chris began hacking and slashing away in a frenzy
and then finally caught Fred right in the throat with a poke.
Around that point, Joshua Evans had said, “Sonny . . . calm down,
man!”

Like a beast calmed by some
magical incantation, Chris’s countenance immediately lost its
ferocity. He put the knife back inside his sleeve after a quick
couple of wipes against his boot, and looked menacingly at everyone
as it went up his sleeve, as if saying,
I
can just as easily pull it back out.

The effect of the sound of “Sonny” on
Chris had not been lost on the other two hooligans together with
them that day, and within a day or two more and more people began
testing it out on him.

Over the next several years, Sonny had
to reinforce his preference for the abbreviated form of his name by
attacks even more vicious than the one against Freddie, but as of
the present moment, it had been a good five years since the last
reminder had been necessary.

Sonny was no tough guy in a fair fight,
but he had an uncanny ability to ambush. Ryan Sims, the next man
after Fred to call him “Son of a Whore” to his face, had found this
out the hard way.

After saying it to him, he had stood on
guard, staring Sonny down.

Sonny seemed as calm as a blade of
grass on a windless day. Fifteen minutes later, however, when Ryan
turned his back just slightly to demonstrate how he had climbed
into a window the prior day, the knife had fallen into Sonny’s hand
too quick for anyone’s notice, and a half second later he jabbed it
halfway to the hilt into Ryan’s armpit. The scream he emitted
passed into legend, but it was short-lived.

There was no wild hack and slash attack
this time. The knife had been pulled out and traveled the full
distance of Ryan’s throat in less than a blink.

Sonny was pondering these happy
memories while he strode down the street with Jack Hillmeyer, the
man in charge of five blocks of Sivingdel street corner real
estate, and he aimed to put on a good showing today. Being around
Jack was kind of like being in the light of the brilliant sun after
a few days cooped up inside the house with the flu.

He oozed energy, confidence, and
charisma in a way that made everyone standing around him feel a few
inches taller. Sonny hadn’t exactly held too much love in his heart
for his slain compatriots, and he was hoping that with a good
performance today Jack just might put him in charge of the next
crew.

“We’re close,” Sonny said in a
half-whisper.

Jack stopped and spun around to look at
him.

“Here’s the deal,” he said with those
powerful eyes boring into Sonny’s skull—“You make it quick—wham,
bam!!” he finished, his lips smacking together in a way that made
it unnecessary to drive the point home by clapping, one of Jack’s
favorite tools of emphasis.

There was no need to go over the finer
points of the setup. They had drilled it to the point of agony last
night, and if Sonny didn’t have it down by now, he never
would.

Sonny gulped and began walking in the
lead position, Jack just inches behind, and several other toughs
behind them, sundry weapons barely concealed within their long
coats.

It was around 9 p.m., but the lights of
the surrounding businesses—most of which were of a nocturnal
nature—prevented the men from being shrouded in complete
darkness.

“Mr. Sonny,” a calm voice
exclaimed.

Sonny turned around quicker than a
cat.

Zelven was there, just finishing the
task of lighting an unusually long cigar, his back resting lazily
against a building, his eyes full of energy.

“Mr. Ritmer,” Sonny replied
uneasily.

“You’ve brought some colleagues,
perhaps even your wholesaler. Fantastic. If he can beat my buying
prices, I’ll gladly become his retailer. If I can beat his buying
prices, I hope he’ll see reason and become my buyer.”

Zelven blew a large, perfectly shaped
circle of smoke towards Sonny, and as it passed his head, he
couldn’t help but feel he was seeing a noose approach and wrap
around his neck.

“Well, won’t you introduce your
friends?” Zelven asked. “I see you are rather popular.”

The men had stretched out in a line
long enough to block most of the alleyway.

Sonny’s heart was beating so loudly, he
almost wanted to yell at it to shut the heck up because he was sure
Mr. Ritmer could hear it thundering inside his chest.

Without even intending to actually drop
the knife into his palm, he made the slightest twitch with his
right fingers, as if wanting to make sure they had not gone numb
and lost their ability to do their deed. A hundred witnesses
scrutinizing Sonny would have seen nothing, but no sooner had they
moved than Mr. Ritmer said, his eyes never having left Sonny’s,
“Ohhhh, you don’t want to do that now, do you?”

A twinkle danced in his eye. Sonny felt
like he was about to throw up.

“Oh, just do it, would ya?!” Jack said.
“He’s alone for Kasani’s sake!”

Somehow, Jack’s contempt overrode
Sonny’s fear, causing the knife to drop into his palm.

No sooner had it dropped, than he felt
a sharp sting in his eye. Jack, standing next to him, heard a
slight “whoosh,” but what caught his notice more than anything was
the sudden spurt of blood that went flying out of Sonny’s right eye
and his quickly crumpling body.

Jack prepared to yell and then charge
but immediately felt a sharp sting in his throat. The words didn’t
come out. He brought his hands up to his throat, and they were
immediately showered with spurts of blood.

WHOOT! WHOOT! WHOOT! WHOOT!

The sounds came out in quick
succession, and one by one the line of men began to crumple over,
blood jetting from their eyes or throats.

A minute later, a wagon filled with hay
came by. The driver got out and began to inspect one of his horses’
hooves, while three men slid out from underneath the hay, picked up
the bodies, shoved them under the hay, and then hid themselves back
under the hay. A few people took notice, but paid little attention,
as the nonchalant nature of the men’s movements seemed so natural
despite their abnormal actions.

Zelven extinguished his cigar and put
it carefully into a coat pocket. He had sold quite a few pounds of
Smokeless Green tonight, and at the prices he was selling, he knew
his corner was going to become very popular quickly.

This would no doubt lead to another
visit. Perhaps the next one would be with more reasonable people.
There were ways of dealing with those who preferred violence to
negotiation.

Chapter 8

Righty felt an odd sense of
anticipation as he and Halder neared the cabin. He was worried by
the fact it seemed his curiosity was greater than his fear of his
overly capable guest, thinking perhaps he was little more than a
moth being drawn to the flame.

He breathed a sigh of relief as to
Halder’s intentions when he offered no qualms about being the first
to walk through the door which Righty now held open for him, though
another part of him wondered if he had not made a fatal error by
declining to send a coded message to Harold to have this man taken
out during their stroll over here.

He made a mental note that following
this meeting, should he survive it, Harold would be given a code
word for precisely such an attack.

Halder readily sat in the chair that
Righty pulled out for him, and Righty walked quickly to the chair
seated across from Halder, barely suppressing the urge to run over
to it.

He sat down and looked Halder squarely
in the eye. Halder’s gaze was as calm and impenetrable as before.
No twinkle, no sneering glare of triumph; just calm, indecipherable
energy.

“Well, let’s get to it,” Righty said.
“I’m not used to sitting across the table from a man more dangerous
than myself. I can’t exactly say I like it. But here we are, and
I’m dying to know just what in the hell a man with your skills is
doing as a ranch hand and not working in the service of some
luxurious king who can shower you with riches for your unrivalled
services. Just what in the hell do you want with me,
stranger?”

For the first time, a flash of emotion
came across Halder’s eyes. It was difficult to interpret, but it
seemed like a bolt of lightning breaking the calm of a clear day
followed by the arrival of thunder and ominous rain.

Righty felt more than one hair lift
itself just a tad off the back of his neck, and he again questioned
the wisdom of not calling for Harold to dispatch this monster while
he had the chance.

Halder leaned forward on the table, his
eyes boring into him like a pair of sharp drills.

“You’re in danger, Mr.
Simmers.
Real
danger.”

Righty gulped. Somehow he couldn’t
muster the false indignation in attempting to tell this man that
his real name was Mr. Relder, not some Simmers alias he had used
ages ago.

Lies, it seemed, would be incinerated
by this man’s gaze as easily as dry hay by a fiery
torch.

Righty leaned forward, holding the
man’s gaze steadily.

“I know that,
Halder
,” Righty began,
allowing a little derision to adorn his guest’s name so that he did
not think this alias was any more believable than Righty’s, which
he had so blatantly refused to recognize. “I knew that from the
moment I sold my first bag of this stuff, and the lesson has been
reinforced many times over. Danger is the very ether surrounding my
entire existence. Do you think I don’t realize that everything I
have out there could be taken from me at a moment’s notice? Do you
think I don’t realize I’m in constant danger from the forces of the
state, the agents of rival gangs, or even the treachery of my own
men?

“Are you here to lecture me
on the dangers of this business to which
I
have risen to the top, while you’re
no more than a damn ranch hand?!!” Righty thundered.

“Huuuuuuuu!”

Air whistled out of Halder’s mouth as
though a punch had gotten past one of his catlike blocks and
delivered a powerful blow to his solar plexus, knocking the wind
right out of him. But the quickly appearing smile on his face
immediately showed he had been levelled by some unintended
humor.

“THE TOP?!!” shouted Halder, now
standing and looking down at Righty like a schoolmaster with some
fool student.

Righty felt a combination of powerful
anger and shame wash over him, as he immediately sensed this man
excelled him in all things and that he must somehow kill him right
now, even if he had to unabashedly summon the help of Harold and
all the konulans to aid him in the process.

Something—perhaps a sincerity, but
Righty couldn’t put his finger on it—in the man’s gaze soothed his
anger just enough to prevent an all-out battle from taking place at
that moment, but his face and neck still burned red.

“THE TOP?!” Halder repeated, with as
much emphasis as before but less derision.

Halder leaned forward towards Righty
several more inches and told him, “You’re nothing more than a pawn
for forces whose power and methods are as unknown to you as their
existence!”

“And I suppose you’re part of those
mysterious forces, or otherwise you wouldn’t know, would you?”
Righty shot back angrily. “Look, stranger, say what you’ve got to
say, or get the hell off my land!!”

“I could do that,” Halder said calmly,
stepping away from the table and sliding the chair underneath it.
“I could step outside that door, disappear from sight in minutes,
and you’d never hear from me again. Is that your wish?”