John Gilstrap - No mercy

Jonathan never did understand why Boxers and Venice hadn’t found a way to get along, but he’d decided years ago to stay out of it. He led the way to the War Room-a paneled conference area with every conceivable electronic gadget lining the walls and ceiling, plus more embedded in the teak conference table. When they entered and Jonathan pushed the door closed, Boxers helped himself to a seat close to the LCD video panel at the head of the room and placed his scotch on the table.

“Use a coaster,” Venice commanded, and she slid one across to him.

He glared and placed the leather disk between the sweaty “I can’t tell. Tibor was famous enough to turn up over a million hits when I searched for him. I can say, though, that a search for Tibor’s name and Conger’s name turned up nothing.”

Boxers asked, “But because he’s so famous, isn’t it fair to assume that they knew each other? Or at least corresponded?”

Jonathan shook his head. “They might have corresponded, but they certainly had never met. We see that in the video. Conger didn’t know who he was.”

Venice turned to a transcript she’d made. “As for the weapons,” she said, “what was that line from the video?” She riffled through the sheets. “Here. When they were talking about whether Hughes brought the ‘items’ and he holds off, wanting to see his son-Thomas, is it?”

Jonathan nodded.

“Right, he wanted to see his son Thomas. Hughes says, ‘Your side of the bargain is an inanimate object, my side is a human life. My son. They don’t equate.’ To which Conger replies, ‘Your side of the bargain, as you say, is actually thousands of lives, Mr. Hughes.’” She looked up to see if they had drawn the same conclusions. “It makes sense,” she said.

Jonathan leaned forward and pulled at his lower lip. “If Conger had a bug up his ass about his assumption that Carlyle Industries was manufacturing chemical weapons, the thing he’d want most in life would be to have a sample to show people.”

“But nobody would ever step forward to do that,” Boxers said, taking up the line of logic.

“ Could anyone step forward?” Venice asked. “Does Carlyle actually make chemical weapons?”

Jonathan stepped in. “If it was true, Ven, it wouldn’t be something we’d be free to discuss. All that matters is Conger thinks it’s true. What better way to get the proof he’s looking for than to kidnap the child of one of the workers? What was Stephenson Hughes’s job there, anyway?”

Again, Venice answered from memory. “His job title is senior contract administrator. A paper-pusher. He earns just over a hundred thousand a year, and his wife doesn’t work.”

Jonathan scowled. “Why would they kidnap his kid? Why wouldn’t they go after some senior executive? Or at least someone with direct access to the project?”

Boxers scoffed, “As if your job title ever reflected what you do for a living. Or mine, for that matter. For all we know, he could have been the grand imperial poobah of special weapons.”

“And he certainly implied that he had what Conger was looking for,” Venice said. “Even if he never handed it over.”

“That was probably his contingency plan,” Jonathan agreed. “Like we said before, handing the stuff over was the only hedge he had to keep Thomas alive.”

“They’d have killed him anyway,” Boxers grumbled.

Jonathan shrugged. “Of course they would. But what choice did his dad have? It’s why kidnapping works so well as a bargaining tool.”

“Let’s get back to Fabian Conger,” Venice said, returning to her notes. “He’s a member of a group called the Green Brigade. Sound familiar?”

Jonathan cocked his head. “It does. Why?”

She so loved having the upper hand in these things. “Remember the name you had me research? Christine Baker?”

Jonathan poundand side of the deep rectangular room, easily stretched twenty feet into the darkness. Along the back wall, a raised platform, a couple of music stands, and some dormant amplifiers were evidence of a recent live band performance. Four-legged wooden tables crowded the the place in the front and along the right-hand side.

“We’re not open yet!” a male voice called from the kitchen behind the bar.

Jonathan put a finger over his lips to signal Boxers to remain quiet. “Stay near the door here,” he whispered, and then walked farther into the bar. He intentionally moved a chair just to make some noise.

“I said we’re closed!” This time the voice shimmered with annoyance, and a few seconds later, its owner appeared in the kitchen doorway. “We don’t open for another half hour.”

Andrew Hawkins looked exactly like the picture that Venice had been able to pull down from the Internet. Although shorter than Jonathan had expected, at say five-eight, Hawkins wore his long hair in a ponytail, and sported a mountain-man beard. Jonathan pegged him as midforties, and figured the gnarly nose evidenced a close familiarity with the product he served. Whatever friendly demeanor existed for his customers was nowhere to be found for his early morning gate-crashers.

“Good morning, Mr. Hawkins,” Jonathan said in a tone that was equal parts cheer and menace.

Hawkins’s tired, pale blue eyes narrowed as he tried to make a connection. “Do we know each other?” He tensed as he caught sight of Boxers’ towering hulk blocking his exit out the front door.

“In a manner of speaking,” Jonathan said. “We’ve got the Green Brigade in common.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hawkins replied a little too quickly. “Now I’ll be happy to serve you in a half hour.” He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“He’s bolting,” Jonathan said, but Boxers was already out the front door, on the way around back. Jonathan took the more direct route. He planted his hands on the polished mahogany of the bar and vaulted his feet over, scattering glassware and a sealed plastic container of olives, cherries, and lemon wedges onto the webbed rubber matting on the floor. Ahead, from the other side of the wall, he heard the sound of running feet and clattering pans. That meant Hawkins was not lying in wait just on the other side of the door, which in turn meant that Jonathan could crash through the door with abandon.

Half as wide as the bar and grille, the kitchen was a place that no customer should ever see. Jonathan recorded it as a blur of greasy walls and food-spattered floors as he watched the back door to the alley close. Three seconds later, he hit the door at full speed, slamming the crash bar and launching the door open with enough force to rip it free of the automatic-closer hardware. A glance to his left showed Boxers turning the corner doing his best to run, and a glance to the right showed Andrew Hawkins sprinting for all he was worth, but already slowing.

Jonathan tore after him. After ten strides, he’d cut Hawkins’s lead in half. “If you make me catch you, I’ll make it hurt!” he yelled to the little man. “I just want to talk!” Behind him, he could hear Boxers lumbering to catch up.

Hawkins at first sped up his stride, and then gave up, drawing to a trot and then a walk as he raised his hands in surrender.

Jonathan fought the urge to tackle him anyway, and instead opted to keep his distance. Without looking at Boxers, he made a sideward waving motion to indicate that he should likewise show restraint.

Stopped now, with his hands still raised, Hawkins turned to face them both. He looked both frightened and embarrassed. “Running’s not as easy as it used to be,” he said, sheepishly.

Jonathan kept his voice calm. “Put your hands down. We’re not cops, and we’re not your enemies. We only want to talk.”