Collision Course, CH07 (Patreon)

Liaison is housed in a converted three-story tenant housing building. The floor plan Asir obtained has the ground floor as the social space. One large room, except for the waiting area, restrooms and the kitchen, and three offices. The bar serves expensive alcohol for those who need to artificially boost their confidence. The kitchen, expensive food for those who need to know the body they’re buying to use for a few hours. The restrooms are large. The offices are perfunctory, used for nothing more than giving the appearance business takes place there.

What I want will be in the safest place the person in charge can arrange. That means a safe requires modifying the structure of the building to support it. They did what they could to hide where the work took place, bribing the city so they wouldn’t have to register the new plans, but for the quality of the work they required, an architect had to look the building over and design the plans, marks where and what changes were needed.

The plans were never logged with the city, but the architect forgot to delete one drafted email containing them. That is all Asir needed. If what they are looking for is out there, they will find it. So long as they are paid enough.

It took me three hours of studying the plans to locate the safe in a room on the second floor. Again, the changes were subtle, but the architect had to mark what materials to use to support the extra weight, and it’s an easy internet search to find out what any material can support.

The time needed kept me occupied while I waited for the boy’s pimp to come demand why I hadn’t returned him yet. He might not care what state I returned the boy in, but he would want his property back. I was starting to consider otherwise when he showed up at the motel’s door. Because I showed him an ordinary businessman with a large bank account when I bought the boy’s services, he is here alone. Whatever muscle he has will be in the parking lot, waiting for a signal.

The room is small enough he knows at a glance the boy isn’t here. Instead of calling in his muscle for support, he assumes the potential threat they represent is enough to make me reveal the information or to extort money. A man like him will not care which. When I don’t play the role of the scared businessman, instead of calling in his muscle, he takes out a gun, a Taurus 85.

I have it out of his hand before he does anything with it. My next action is to break his neck. Boxes shudder in their chains. Joy at killing, regret at not making the man suffer. Anticipation of more violence to come. I still them with a thought. There is nothing to be gained by wasting time making him pay for the pain he inflicted. He will no longer do so. That is all that matters.

A glance outside tells me which car is his. Especially in this neighborhood, the extravagance stands out. Only one man in it. One contact in the pimp’s phone called Bruiser. A message to come up and the man leaves the car.

His neck is also broken before he had the time to do more than register the body of the pimp on the bed. Then they are naked, in the bathtub; soaking in a lye solution. By the time my night is over, there should be little more than bones left which, once ground to a powder, will be easy to dispose of in the closest flower bed.

* * * * *

I park next to a red Camaro ZL1. The bright color will pull the attention away from my sedate Nissan Maxima. I exit and smooth the mauve silk jacket. Benoit is someone who takes care to look good, that his clothes fit well and gives the impression of a man who is in control. Even if no one can see what I am doing, I crack the boxes needed open, and I become him now. I adjust the silver tie over the black shirt, using my reflection on the driver-side window to ensure it is perfectly centered.

The ensemble cost just under five thousand, not including the express charge. The clip-on earring is another thousand. Those, with the confidence in my walk, reinforce that I am in control. I am in charge.

Enough that I am almost through the door before the bouncer stops me. A look is all it takes for him to remove his hand. He is a showpiece. There to look tough, intimidate any who doesn’t know enough to recognize his lack of power in not misbehaving.

Three seconds is all it would take for me to kill him. He wouldn’t even have the time to reach for the Colt M1911 in the holster under his arm. A box vibrates and I quiet it. Benoit is not a man who uses physical violence. He doesn’t need to.

“Quoi?” I demand.

“ID,” the man replies. “Please,” he adds at my glare.

“Tu c’est pas qui j’suis?” a roll of the eyes in annoyance. “You don’t know who I am?” the French accent is thick.

“Policy, sir. Even if I know you, I have to see ID.”

I hand it over, grumbling in French. He looks it over, checks his tablet, hands it back.

“I have to search you.”

Another roll of the eyes, but I spread my arms and legs. His pat down ends with grabbing my crotch. It’s cold and clinical, but not something like Benoit could tell, so I raise an eyebrow, which he ignores. This level of security is why I didn’t bring my Desert Eagle. The only thing he hasn’t checked is the sole of my shoes, and I didn’t have the time to modify them.

He opens the door. “Have a good evening Mister Tiboult.”

I glare at him for mispronouncing the name but go inside.

A door on the left leads to the waiting area, but it is closed. Tonight is not a busy night by the club’s standard. The short hall leads to the meet-and-greet room. Large with booths for does demanding darkness. A few tables close to the kitchen. The purpose of the room is for the guest to meet the staff and each other.

Staff members are dressed in modest suits. That they be men or woman, nothing extravagant is exposed, but I watch as a woman slips a hand in a slit in the side of a suited man and feels up his chest, skin to skin. The customers need to know what they are paying for, after all. At a table, a man’s hand disappears inside a woman’s pants pocket, and he intently watches her face as she tries not to react to what he is doing to her.

That is the most overtly sexual thing happening right now, but the air is thick with the possibilities. Nearly every man in the room shows how they are affected, and even some women. The staff looks me over as I cross the room toward the bar. They smile at me, position themselves to invite a test of what they offer. They can’t initiate the contact, but they can make it nearly impossible for someone to resit them.

Make one of the others resist them. I reach the bar without even glancing at one of them. “Perrier,” I tell the barman, showing him a twenty-dollar bill. Drinking it will give me the time I need to get a sense of the room. Work out the ebb and flow. Tell me when I can reach the stairs without attracting undue attention.

“Really?” the man leaning against the bar next to me says. “Water, in a place like this?” he sips his drink, cognac, by the glass and smell. “You should take advantage of the liquor they stock.” Brown jacket and pants, sea-green shirt, black oxfords.

“Dere is too many pleasures offered to dull my senses with alcohol.” He looks me over. The surprise at my accent doesn’t hide the intensity of his gaze.

He shrugs. “I guess so.” He turns and leans back against it, looking the crowd over. He’s too alert, too attentive. The smudges on the crystal glass indicate he’s held it for a while, but he’d barely drunk any. He only acts like he’s one of the customers.

He’s lean where the guards placed discreetly along the walls are massive. They attract the attention so he can do his work. He doesn’t have a holster under the jacket, but if he’s competent, he doesn’t need a gun to subdue one of the people in the room.

“Do you come here often?” I ask, turning to watch the room. “Do you have a recommendation?”

He quirks a smile. “What are you into? This place has everything. If you can imagine it, they can provide it.” He brings the glass to his mouth but stops it short of his lips touching it. “They can probably provide things you can’t even imagine, if you feel adventurous.”

“Women,” I answer. “White, delicate.” Benoit likes to assert his power, likes to be the one obviously holding that power.

Couples go up the stairs and the guard at the bottom doesn’t pay them any attention, but the man next to me watches them carefully. He is the one noting who comes and goes.

“Not what I pegged you as.” His glass touches his lips, tips up, then down. The level in the glass hasn’t changed.

“Et quoi do you believe I should like?” there is an edge to my voice, clear annoyance. Big men are always judged. I, same as Benoit, have had to endure it all my life, but unlike Benoit, I don’t care.

He looks me up and down, then shrugged. “I figured you’d want someone you don’t have to worry about bruising.” He raises a hand. “Not violence, but look at the callouses on your hands. That isn’t the usual mark of someone gentle.”

“Mon travaille requires that I use my hands,” I reply. “This does not mean I cannot be gentle. What do you prefer?”

He grins without looking at me. “Not delicate women, that’s for sure.” He takes another sip, and this time when he levels the glass, some of the cognac is gone. He hides the reaction well, only the tightening of the eyes gives away he doesn’t like it. He catches his breath and straightens. “I guess I better mingle, see if tonight I’ll find what I’m looking for.”

“Bonne chance.” I raise my bottle to him and drink. I take one of the cloth napkins and wrap it around the bottle as I drink from it again, watching the man walk through the crowd. While his attention is divided is the best time. I wipe my prints off the bottle as I wait for my opportunity. Already tightening the chains around the boxes.

When his back is to me, I head for the stairs; the guard doesn’t look my way during the approach, and the man is still occupied talking to one of the customers, tall and muscular. As soon as I reach the top, I silence the boxes completely. I don’t need the distraction. I put on gloves as I walk toward the door. Each door has the same lock. A digital Samsung that requires a keycard and the correct code. The staff will have those, as well as the cleaning staff. They also have an internet connection for override, but that will not help me; it is monitored.

I open my wallet and take out the credit card-shaped wafer. I connect it to my phone and insert it in the keycard slot for the door I want. I run the program the Locksmith included with the card.

I would have researched the lock. Given enough time, I would have uncovered the master code, the one lock manufacturer keep secret, and I would have used that to get in. The Locksmith doesn’t bother with such things. He designs keys that simply find what they need to unlock a door within the lock.

Five seconds after I insert the key, the lock beeps and I am inside. I close the door behind me and put the key away. When this is over I will dismantle it, try to reverse engineer what the Locksmith does. I don’t expect to succeed, but one day I will learn their secret.

The office contains a wooden desk with a computer on it to one side, a chair behind and in front. To the other side, a sitting area with plush chairs on each side of a low coffee table. The entire back wall is covered by one large bookcase. There are no cameras or motion sensors.

The person using this office is overly confident of the security outside of this room. Or, they are paranoid that someone can hack their feeds and find out things they want to keep secret.

I go to the bookcase. Behind the desk, I only need a minute to find the false spine that reveals the lock for the safe. It is an electronic Gardall lock. This will require actually cracking this lock manually.

I reach for my wallet when the lock clicks. I move, but the man is in, closing it before I can get out of sight. Brown jacket, green shirt. The man from the bar. What did I miss? What gave me away? I change direction.

He bats my fist away as he turns. I see surprise, but his reflexes are quick. He kicks at my knee. I raise my leg, take it in the shin and continue with the kick in his side. He moves with the impact, grins, and responds with quick punches. I step back to the center of the room for the maneuvering space. I can’t afford to damage anything. I need to leave the room as I found it and deal with the dead body somehow.

He punches, I catch it and twist, but he turns with it, jumping. His other fist connects with my face as he lands. He beams. He thinks he bested me because of fancy martial arts. Fortunately, he hasn’t broken skin; it still stings. Boxes vibrate. Excitement, pride, anger. I’m too busy to fully still them. So it feels good to have an opponent who can keep up with me. It has been a long time.

I block and finally still them more. I don’t have the time to indulge. Even if he hasn’t told anyone what he was checking, he will be missed. He feints with a kick, but I catch the intended punch. I begin twisting and he readies himself to follow with the motion. He’s off-balance for a second. Long enough for me to let go and grab him by the throat. I tighten my grip to ensure he can call out for help.

He is over the surprise in less than a second, and he has a hand on my wrist, digging his nails in an attempt to force me to let go, but the box containing pain barely moves. It is a box I had to tame early on to survive.

He locks eyes with me, and there is fear in them, but there is more. There is heat in those vibrant blue eyes that rattle other boxes. His mouth opened and closes, but not in panic, not to scream, not trying to breathe. He is trying to speak. I loosen my grip enough for him to catch a breath. His eyes never let go of mine.

When he speaks, it’s a weak wheezing. “I’m wondering something.”

He waits for me, so I respond. “Yes?”

He smiles. “Can you strangle me faster—” the ratcheting of a hammer being pulled “—than I can press the trigger?”

I look down. He had a Bersa Thunder 380 pointed at me. His pants are clearly tented. A few boxes rattle and the words escape before I can silence them. “Where did you pull that from?” the French accent is still there.

His smile broadens. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Now, how about you let go of me?”

He can get out no more than two shots before I break his neck. I can’t avoid being hit, but I can keep them from hitting anything vital. Only the noise will attract attention. There will be blood left behind. I am alive today because of how careful I am. I never leave evidence behind.

He hasn’t shot me, so he wants me uninjured. He will have to reach for a phone. The instant his attention isn’t entirely on me, he is dead.

I let go of him.

He motions for me to step away with his free hand. I take a step back, giving him the illusion of safety. He takes one of his own as he rubs his neck and his cock becomes visible against the tightening fabric. Interesting.

“How did you know I was coming here?” he asks.

“I heard the lock.”

“No, how did you know to be in here before me? I never gave any hints I was coming here. So how did you know? Never mind. I don’t have the time for this. You’ve put me in a quandary. As you can tell, I don’t have a suppressor. My plan revolved around there not being any guards in here.”

“I’m not a guard.” His hand never moves as he speaks. His eyes never leave me.

He snorts. “Nice try. I’ll hand it to them. Getting someone from outside the country was smart, but they should have gone one step further and not use someone who looks like another thug. I will give you this. Unlike the rest of them, you’re…” he rubs his neck. “Actually, a little scary.” He smiles a little.

This is… unexpected. It isn’t a trick. “I thought you were the guard. Here to stop me.” I nod to the bookcase. Instead of glancing at it, he steps and pivots, keeping me in his line of sight while being able to look where I indicated.

“What’s in there?” he asks, putting all his attention back on me.

Even more interesting. “If you do not know, then we are not after the same thing.”

He nods to the computer. “That’s what I’m after.”

He controls his breathing, but not perfectly. He’s still excited. Being strangled turned him on. Not useful at the moment. His states would help camouflage some level of lies, but he has the gun and hasn’t shot me, or tried to call for reinforcement.

“It seems that the best thing for both of us,” I say, “is that we do what we’re here to do, then go our separate way. There’s no need for us to fight.”

I see the hesitation in his eyes. He wants the fight to continue. He takes a breath and another, then puts the gun at the small of his back; the one place I couldn’t see while at the bar.

“Okay, but you need to hurry.” He heads for the desk. “I don’t have all night.”