Charles Brokaw - The Lucifer Code

She ignored him. ‘Are you still there, Qayin?’

Wisely, Lourds thought, Qayin didn’t answer.

‘Do you want to get out of here?’ she whispered.

‘I’d love to,’ Lourds whispered back, ‘but I think you may be getting a little ambitious. All they have to do is wait until you empty your pistol, then they’ll jump you before you can reload.’

‘Okay, Professor, you’ve been impressing everyone with how knowledgeable you are about languages. Since we’re in my field of study now, I’ll be giving the lessons. Just make sure you take notes. There’ll be a test at the end.’

‘What are you going to-’

She rammed the pistol’s hot muzzle under Lourds’ jaw and declared, ‘Either you let us leave or I’m going to blow Professor Lourds’ head off.’

The Emerald Nightclub

Trenton Street

Boston, Massachusetts

United States of America

16 March 2010

Dawson felt naked without a car, but Boston was a hard city to get around in one. He took a cab from Logan International after deplaning from a private charter. His early dinner with the vice-president already felt like yesterday instead of just hours ago.

He pushed his cuff back and checked his Rolex. It was 11.54 p.m.

‘Don’chu worry, mon,’ the Rastafarian cab driver called from up front. He had long dreads and smelled of ganja. ‘Dis town, she be live at night. T’ings still gonna be happenin’. You have good time. You see.’

Dawson ignored the man. The driver had Bob Marley on too loud, but the music seemed to fit in with the neon life tucked into the dark corners of the city.

The.40-calibre pistol on his hip felt good, dependable.

‘Dis club,’ the driver said as he pulled up in front of the address, ‘she small, but I hear she be rockin’.’ He pumped his fist in the air and grinned.

‘Glad to hear that.’ Dawson stepped out of the car and peeled bills off a roll.

‘You lookin’ for college girls, mon? ’Cause I hear this place be tight with ’em.’

‘Yeah.’ Dawson handed the man the fare. He was wearing jeans, a rugby shirt and a mid-thigh length suede jacket. He was vain enough to know that he could pass for late twenties in the bar light.

The Emerald Nightclub sat between a Chinese laundry and an electronics shop. Residential floors were above it and most of those lights were out. Neon tubing spelled out the bar’s name across the curtained windows. There was no queue, but there was a big bouncer at the door. He was black, had a shaved head and gold chains and a club shirt under a Sean John coat.

Dawson turned his collar up against the cold north wind and walked into the bar. The bouncer gave Dawson a cursory glance, then waved him through.

Inside, the club was jumping – packed wall to wall with college students, the noise level was deafening. ESPN filled the large television screens behind the bar. Basketball games were still playing on the West Coast, and Baseball Tonight was covering spring training.

Brigid MacKenna filled drink orders behind the bar, moving smoothly and efficiently. At nineteen, she was trim and lean, maybe a couple of inches over five feet tall and little more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. She hadn’t her sister’s statuesque build and height. She wore her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and looked younger than nineteen.

A group of young guys, probably athletes judging from the letter jackets, sat at the bar and flirted with her. She seemed to enjoy the attention, but she kept working.

One of the seats near the end was free. Dawson sat and reached for the bowl of nuts on the bar. He shelled the nuts and ate them, building a pile of fibrous hulls in front of him.

‘Hey,’ Brigid greeted him a few minutes later. Her skin glowed from the fast-paced work she’d been doing. Her smile was almost electrifying.

‘Hey,’ Dawson said and smiled. ‘You’re working too hard.’ He flattened out his ‘A’s to mimic the Boston dialect.

Brigid jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate a short, squat man in his forties. The guy had forearms as big as Popeye’s.

‘Tell that to my boss,’ she said.

‘Real slave driver?’

Brigid nodded, then asked, ‘What can I get you?’

‘Sam Adams.’

‘Want a glass?’

Dawson waved the offer away.

Brigid reached below the bar and pulled up a bottle of beer. She set it down and opened it, then moved it onto a napkin in front of Dawson. He slid a twenty-dollar bill across the bar.

‘Keep the change,’ he said.

The kitchen and supply room were directly behind the bar. With the crowd on hand, Dawson felt certain Brigid would have to go back there soon.

He was right.

When she did, he followed her into the short hallway. The kitchen was to his right and the supply room was to the left. Bathroom and the back exit were in the rear.

Brigid stepped into the supply room and turned on the light. She took down an armload of packages of napkins and two bags of unshelled peanuts. When she turned around to leave, Dawson blocked the way.

She tried the smile first. Girls her age always did. But she caught on quick that approach wasn’t going to fly. So she tried authority.

‘You’re not supposed to be back here.’

Dawson kept his face expressionless. ‘Do you know where your sister is?’

That caught her attention, but she tried to bluff her way through it. ‘I don’t have a sister. I have two brothers.’

‘You have zero brothers,’ Dawson told her. ‘You have one sister. Cleena MacKenna.’

‘You need to get out of here.’ She took a step forward as though she were going to bull her way past him. But he didn’t move and she stopped short of touching him. All her bravery evaporated.

‘I know where your sister is,’ Dawson said in a flat tone. ‘But I don’t have a way of getting in touch with her.’

‘If you don’t leave, I’m going to scream.’

Dawson slapped her face with his open hand, hard enough to knock her back on her heels. She dropped the packages she’d been holding.

‘You need to shut up,’ he stated, ‘and listen to me. If you scream, you’ll never see your sister again. I promise you that.’ He moved his jacket enough to show her the pistol holstered at his hip.

Brigid held her face in her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She shivered in fear.

‘You’ve got a way to contact your sister when she’s out of town,’ Dawson said. ‘Just nod your head. If you try to play me, I’m going to put you in the hospital.’

She closed her eyes fearfully and nodded.

‘Good.’ Dawson reached into his shirt pocket and took out a business card that only had a phone number handwritten on it. The writing wasn’t his. ‘I need you to call her now.’

Trembling, Brigid wiped blood from her mouth and nodded.

Dawson smiled to show there were no hard feelings. ‘If she’s not there, leave her a message. I want her to call me back at this number.’ He stuck the card on top of a box of bottled beer. ‘Tell her if I don’t hear from her in the next couple of hours, she’s never going to see you again.’

Brigid shook as she cried silently, but she nodded in understanding.

‘Hey, Brigid,’ a deep voice said. ‘What’s taking so long? Those bums are outta nuts and they’re startin’ to get rowdy.’

The man with the Popeye arms came round the corner and looked at Dawson and Brigid. Dawson turned to face him.

‘Hey, what’s goin’ on here?’ he demanded.

Dawson hit the man in the throat with the Y of his hand, then drew his pistol and whipped the man down to the floor with three blows. The man didn’t even have a chance to cry out before he was an unconscious heap.