This is one of those 'rogue ideas' that came to me while trying to sleep ahead of a night shift, but ended up only dozing. I've written a few urban noir stories set in an unnamed location, but, if it helps, the cityscape I 'see' is that from 'Death and the Compass' - the original early 90s TV play.
“Alpha team, clear.”
The four of us stood, facing outwards, covering the neo-brutalist expanse of the underground car park, as Bravo moved past us to take point. Along with Delta team we formed a rolling protective cordon for our charge, Edward Sloan. He walked between us, seemingly unperturbed by our efforts to keep him alive. Ahead of us lay an armoured limo and two military-grade SUVs, surrounded by a shoal of drones to ensure no-one had tampered with our rides.
We’re Maximum Law; private security, bail bondsmen, skip tracers. We police those areas of the city where Metro lacks the manpower or inclination to keep a lid on things. This, though, was a bodyguard gig; three teams, around-the-clock protection, and a client who didn’t quibble about the cost. Sloan – codename ‘Temple’ - had taken the top two floors of the Vandenburg Hotel, which was about as expensive as they come. He stayed alone in the penthouse, with us occupying the floor below, a carpet of sentry pods and sensors covering the hotel roof. Everything he ate, drank or breathed was monitored, and none of the hotel staff got past us, for any reason. All-in all, I was reasonably confident our charge was safe from conventional attack, baring a missile strike or bomb big enough to bring the entire building down.
But fear is infectious and our controllers had a bad case of the jitters. Word was Central had run Sloan’s financials and facial recognition through every database they had and come up empty. The man had money to burn but zero history, like he didn’t exist prior to two weeks ago. The guys who’d taken up his food said Sloan was some kind of share trader, surrounded by monitors showing stock markets around the globe. To my mind that meant he was frontman for some cartel money laundering, or maybe a serious player sporting a new identity to evade past misdeeds. Either way this was an individual with fears for his continued wellbeing – which put us firmly in the firing line.
Not that the gig didn’t have its up-side, however unexpected. I’d met Barbara, a waitress, and she was the real deal. We hadn’t actually been on a date, but when this was done and dusted I wanted her in my life, for sure.
Then, no prior warning, Sloan announces he has to be at the Svenner Glade for 12 minutes past midday. This sounded like a meet, but he handed down zero details. Man, Central really had to hustle, stringing it together, even letting us switch up from semi-automatics to folding-stock assault rifles, with Metro presumably paid to look the other way.
So, the hotel underground car park.
We advanced by teams, safeties off, using a mix of low-light and infrared oculars for maximum visibility. Even when aboard our vehicles, Alpha with Slone in the limo, the tension didn’t ease any. I could see Bryce, riding shotgun, gripping his weapon so tight the knuckles showed white.
“Central, this is Temple two-six, rolling.” I raised my voice slightly. “Chen, stay with one-six, whatever happens. I don’t care if Mother Superior pushing a baby buggy steps out in front, keep your foot off the brake.”
Our driver half-laughed. “Got it, boss. We’re the arboreal express, no stops.”
The three-car convoy surged forward, up and out the exit ramp, onto the boulevard. One-six led us down East Reach towards the Greenswathe, the belt of woodland and parks that historically separated the city into old and new development. We used the priority pay-per-meter central lane, but, hey, money was no object.
Sloan kept checking his watch, so I tried to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll get you to your rendezvous in good time.”
“Rendezvous? I didn’t say I was meeting anyone.”
“Yes, Mister Sloan, but you must have a damn good reason to break cover like this beyond smelling the flowers.” I cleared my throat. “Sir, some idea of who’ll be there, and what security they might have, would go a long way towards avoiding any accidental conflicts. Tension makes for an itchy trigger-finger at the best of times, and adding in the unknown just ups the ante.”
He smiled, and for a moment something about the cast of his features seemed familiar, then it was gone. “I assure you, Carvel, I’m not going to meet someone – although if my associates had realised I’d been here, they would have certainly tried to, ah, disappear me. This close to completion, though, I doubt they’ll bother.”
Regardless of his twisted optimism I called it in. “Central, this is Alpha-One. Information received indicates the primary threat will be a snatch squad. Repeat, snatch squad.”
“Central receiving. Pre-emptive protocols have been adjusted and we’re now monitoring the airfields for any possible rendition flights. Thanks for the heads-up, Alpha-One. Central out.”
Sloan laughed. “Frequently right if for the wrong reasons. I’d heard that about you.”
We swept past our team at the gate and pulled into one of the peripheral parking areas. Once Bravo and Delta deployed, Alpha escorted Sloan from the limo. He immediately set off down a side path, really setting the pace, leaving us scrambling through the undergrowth, trying to at least get alongside our charge.
We reached the Svenner Glade; just an open circle of grass surrounded by mature oaks, with a small whitewashed wooden pavilion off to the right. I stood there, breathing heavily, while my men positioned themselves around the perimeter.
Sloan spoke without looking in my direction. “Please accompany me, Mister Carvel. Just you.”
I followed him out onto the sun-dappled grass, to a point about a third of the way across.
He looked around the glade. “It was dark when I was last here, so I didn’t appreciate just how little it had changed.” He pointed towards the pavilion. “There will be a statue of Greta van Lears on that spot. But when you meet her, don’t say anything - she has a big enough ego as it is.”
“Sir?” there was a hinky vibe to all of us, and I could feel my palms were slick with sweat.
My charge turned to face me. “I used the name ‘Sloan’ so as not to be too obvious. It’s my mother’s maiden name. The woman your son will marry.”
I stared at him. “I don’t have-”
“You would have met her, regardless. Barbara, I mean. Some couples seem fated to be together, so you can tweak the circumstances somewhat. Causality may be a bitch but it’s quite broad-brush at times.” He smiled, although I could see sadness in his eyes. “We overlap but I don’t remember you, apart from video and pictures. You more than live up to your reputation.”
Oh, man, this was bad. Sloan was clearly unhinged, with a real ‘end-of-days’ aura about him. I raised my rifle.
“Alpha-One, what the hell are-”
I killed the channel. Several of my men turned to aim at me, others at Sloan. My voice came out as a harsh rasp. “What the hell is this sh*t?”
“In the spirit of private enterprise I was able to, uh, step in and exploit a period of extreme market volitivity. I pre-empted the biggest known trades and lodged the profits in a bank with a great future ahead of it. The type of understated, discreet establishment that will surrender the contents of an account to anyone with the correct pass codes, no matter how long the funds have laid there, accruing interest.” He smiled again. “Avarice may be its own reward, Jon, but I also got to meet you. Please believe me when I say that’s worth far more to me than financial gain.”
His watch beeped.
“But now, sadly, our time together is at an end.”
Behind him, in the centre of the glade, a mini-twister appeared out of nowhere – but one shot through with glittering light, like it contained flecks of prismatic glass. The leaves of the surrounding trees remailed undisturbed.
Edward Sloan, or ‘Carvel’, if he was to be believed, tipped me the wink. “There are bad times coming, Jon, but you’ll get through them.”
I could have pulled the trigger, I suppose, or tackled him to the ground, but did neither. Instead I stood and watched as he walked forward into the vortex – and vanished.
The twister winked out of existence.
I dropped my rifle to the grass and stood, arms held out at shoulder height. Some of my men started to close in, aiming, well, everywhere. My encrypted mobile rang.
“Jon, this is Gustav Hunter at Metro. We’ve met twice before.”
The voice in my earpiece worked Robbery-Homicide, so I guess Central figured this wasn’t going to end well and had brought the cops in ahead of time, as they saw it.
“Jon, we all watched the live feed. What the hell just happened?”
I started to laugh, feeling the tension drain away like a tap had been turned on.
“You’re the goddam detective, Gustav. You tell me.”
“Alpha team, clear.”
The four of us stood, facing outwards, covering the neo-brutalist expanse of the underground car park, as Bravo moved past us to take point. Along with Delta team we formed a rolling protective cordon for our charge, Edward Sloan. He walked between us, seemingly unperturbed by our efforts to keep him alive. Ahead of us lay an armoured limo and two military-grade SUVs, surrounded by a shoal of drones to ensure no-one had tampered with our rides.
We’re Maximum Law; private security, bail bondsmen, skip tracers. We police those areas of the city where Metro lacks the manpower or inclination to keep a lid on things. This, though, was a bodyguard gig; three teams, around-the-clock protection, and a client who didn’t quibble about the cost. Sloan – codename ‘Temple’ - had taken the top two floors of the Vandenburg Hotel, which was about as expensive as they come. He stayed alone in the penthouse, with us occupying the floor below, a carpet of sentry pods and sensors covering the hotel roof. Everything he ate, drank or breathed was monitored, and none of the hotel staff got past us, for any reason. All-in all, I was reasonably confident our charge was safe from conventional attack, baring a missile strike or bomb big enough to bring the entire building down.
But fear is infectious and our controllers had a bad case of the jitters. Word was Central had run Sloan’s financials and facial recognition through every database they had and come up empty. The man had money to burn but zero history, like he didn’t exist prior to two weeks ago. The guys who’d taken up his food said Sloan was some kind of share trader, surrounded by monitors showing stock markets around the globe. To my mind that meant he was frontman for some cartel money laundering, or maybe a serious player sporting a new identity to evade past misdeeds. Either way this was an individual with fears for his continued wellbeing – which put us firmly in the firing line.
Not that the gig didn’t have its up-side, however unexpected. I’d met Barbara, a waitress, and she was the real deal. We hadn’t actually been on a date, but when this was done and dusted I wanted her in my life, for sure.
Then, no prior warning, Sloan announces he has to be at the Svenner Glade for 12 minutes past midday. This sounded like a meet, but he handed down zero details. Man, Central really had to hustle, stringing it together, even letting us switch up from semi-automatics to folding-stock assault rifles, with Metro presumably paid to look the other way.
So, the hotel underground car park.
We advanced by teams, safeties off, using a mix of low-light and infrared oculars for maximum visibility. Even when aboard our vehicles, Alpha with Slone in the limo, the tension didn’t ease any. I could see Bryce, riding shotgun, gripping his weapon so tight the knuckles showed white.
“Central, this is Temple two-six, rolling.” I raised my voice slightly. “Chen, stay with one-six, whatever happens. I don’t care if Mother Superior pushing a baby buggy steps out in front, keep your foot off the brake.”
Our driver half-laughed. “Got it, boss. We’re the arboreal express, no stops.”
The three-car convoy surged forward, up and out the exit ramp, onto the boulevard. One-six led us down East Reach towards the Greenswathe, the belt of woodland and parks that historically separated the city into old and new development. We used the priority pay-per-meter central lane, but, hey, money was no object.
Sloan kept checking his watch, so I tried to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll get you to your rendezvous in good time.”
“Rendezvous? I didn’t say I was meeting anyone.”
“Yes, Mister Sloan, but you must have a damn good reason to break cover like this beyond smelling the flowers.” I cleared my throat. “Sir, some idea of who’ll be there, and what security they might have, would go a long way towards avoiding any accidental conflicts. Tension makes for an itchy trigger-finger at the best of times, and adding in the unknown just ups the ante.”
He smiled, and for a moment something about the cast of his features seemed familiar, then it was gone. “I assure you, Carvel, I’m not going to meet someone – although if my associates had realised I’d been here, they would have certainly tried to, ah, disappear me. This close to completion, though, I doubt they’ll bother.”
Regardless of his twisted optimism I called it in. “Central, this is Alpha-One. Information received indicates the primary threat will be a snatch squad. Repeat, snatch squad.”
“Central receiving. Pre-emptive protocols have been adjusted and we’re now monitoring the airfields for any possible rendition flights. Thanks for the heads-up, Alpha-One. Central out.”
Sloan laughed. “Frequently right if for the wrong reasons. I’d heard that about you.”
We swept past our team at the gate and pulled into one of the peripheral parking areas. Once Bravo and Delta deployed, Alpha escorted Sloan from the limo. He immediately set off down a side path, really setting the pace, leaving us scrambling through the undergrowth, trying to at least get alongside our charge.
We reached the Svenner Glade; just an open circle of grass surrounded by mature oaks, with a small whitewashed wooden pavilion off to the right. I stood there, breathing heavily, while my men positioned themselves around the perimeter.
Sloan spoke without looking in my direction. “Please accompany me, Mister Carvel. Just you.”
I followed him out onto the sun-dappled grass, to a point about a third of the way across.
He looked around the glade. “It was dark when I was last here, so I didn’t appreciate just how little it had changed.” He pointed towards the pavilion. “There will be a statue of Greta van Lears on that spot. But when you meet her, don’t say anything - she has a big enough ego as it is.”
“Sir?” there was a hinky vibe to all of us, and I could feel my palms were slick with sweat.
My charge turned to face me. “I used the name ‘Sloan’ so as not to be too obvious. It’s my mother’s maiden name. The woman your son will marry.”
I stared at him. “I don’t have-”
“You would have met her, regardless. Barbara, I mean. Some couples seem fated to be together, so you can tweak the circumstances somewhat. Causality may be a bitch but it’s quite broad-brush at times.” He smiled, although I could see sadness in his eyes. “We overlap but I don’t remember you, apart from video and pictures. You more than live up to your reputation.”
Oh, man, this was bad. Sloan was clearly unhinged, with a real ‘end-of-days’ aura about him. I raised my rifle.
“Alpha-One, what the hell are-”
I killed the channel. Several of my men turned to aim at me, others at Sloan. My voice came out as a harsh rasp. “What the hell is this sh*t?”
“In the spirit of private enterprise I was able to, uh, step in and exploit a period of extreme market volitivity. I pre-empted the biggest known trades and lodged the profits in a bank with a great future ahead of it. The type of understated, discreet establishment that will surrender the contents of an account to anyone with the correct pass codes, no matter how long the funds have laid there, accruing interest.” He smiled again. “Avarice may be its own reward, Jon, but I also got to meet you. Please believe me when I say that’s worth far more to me than financial gain.”
His watch beeped.
“But now, sadly, our time together is at an end.”
Behind him, in the centre of the glade, a mini-twister appeared out of nowhere – but one shot through with glittering light, like it contained flecks of prismatic glass. The leaves of the surrounding trees remailed undisturbed.
Edward Sloan, or ‘Carvel’, if he was to be believed, tipped me the wink. “There are bad times coming, Jon, but you’ll get through them.”
I could have pulled the trigger, I suppose, or tackled him to the ground, but did neither. Instead I stood and watched as he walked forward into the vortex – and vanished.
The twister winked out of existence.
I dropped my rifle to the grass and stood, arms held out at shoulder height. Some of my men started to close in, aiming, well, everywhere. My encrypted mobile rang.
“Jon, this is Gustav Hunter at Metro. We’ve met twice before.”
The voice in my earpiece worked Robbery-Homicide, so I guess Central figured this wasn’t going to end well and had brought the cops in ahead of time, as they saw it.
“Jon, we all watched the live feed. What the hell just happened?”
I started to laugh, feeling the tension drain away like a tap had been turned on.
“You’re the goddam detective, Gustav. You tell me.”
