Jim Butcher - Side Jobs

Will looked up and gave me a quick nod of greeting. “All set?”

“So far. You’re sure you won’t have a problem getting out?” I asked.

Will snorted. “Claws, fangs. It’ll sting a bit, when it tears out the hair. Nothing serious.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had his legs waxed,” Marcy said in a nervous, forcedly jovial tone. She might have looked like a skinny little thing, but the muscles showing on her legs were lean and ropy.

Will tore off the end of the duct tape and passed the roll to me. He sat down on the open floor in the back of the SUV, the seats of which had been folded away to make room for the “prisoners.” He stripped out of his shirt, leaving only a pair of loose sweats. I started wrapping him.

“Tighten your muscles,” I said. “When I’m done, relax them. It should leave you enough room to maintain blood flow.”

“Right,” Will said. “Houdini.” He contracted the muscles in his upper body and the duct tape creaked. Damn, the kid was built. Given that I was more or less leaning against his naked back to reach around him with the roll of tape, it was impossible not to notice.

Dresden hadn’t been muscled as heavily as Will. Harry’d had a runner’s build, all lean, tight, dense muscle that . . .

I clenched my jaw and kept wrapping tape.

“One more time,” I said. “I meet the contact, then bring him here.” I held up the SUV’s remote control fob. “I’ll disarm the security system so you know we’re coming. If you hear me say the word red , it means things aren’t going well. Get loose and help me jump the contact. We’ll question him, find out where the other specials are being kept. Otherwise, sit tight, and make like you got hit with tranquilizer darts. I’ll shadow you back to their HQ.”

“What then?” Marcy asked.

“We’ll have to play that by ear,” I said. “If there aren’t many of them, we’ll hit them and get your people out. If they’ve got a lot of muscle, I’ll make a call. If I can get a large force here, they’ll run rather than fight.”

“Can you be sure of that?” Will asked.

“Dresden said that to the supernatural world, bringing in mortal authorities was equated with nuclear exchanges. No one wants to be the one to trigger a new Inquisition of some kind. So any group with a sense of reason will cut their losses rather than tangle with the cops.”

“The way they didn’t tangle with FBI headquarters?” Will asked.

I had sort of hoped no one would notice that flaw in my reasoning. “That was an act of war. This is some kind of profit-gaining scheme.”

“Come on, Karrin,” Will said. “You’ve got to know better than that.”

“This is a professional operation,” I said. “Whoever is behind it is depending on distraction and speed to enable them to get away with it. They’ll already have their escape plan ready to go. If a bunch of cars and lights come at them, I think their first instinct will be to run rather than fight.”

“Yeah,” Marcy said, nodding. “That makes sense. You’ve always said supernatural predators don’t want a fight if they can avoid one, Will.”

“Lone predators don’t,” Will said, “but this is an organization. And you might have noticed how a lot of supernatural types are a couple of french fries short of a Happy Meal. And I’m talking about more than here, tonight. More than Georgia and Andi. More than just Chicago.”

I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward, his eyes intent. “I mean that if Dresden just blew up the Red Court . . . that means the status quo is gone . There’s a power vacuum, and every spook out there is going to try to fill it. The rules have changed . We don’t know how these people are going to react.”

A sobering silence fell over us.

I hadn’t followed the line of reasoning, like Will had. Or rather, I hadn’t followed it far enough. I’d only been thinking of Dresden’s cataclysm in terms of its effect on my city, upon people who were part of my life.

But he was right. Dear God, he was right. The sudden demise of the Red Court, with consequences that would reach around the whole world, would make the fall of the Soviet Union look like a minor organizational crisis.

“So, what?” I asked. “We back out?”

“Are you kidding?” Will said. “They took my wife. We go get her and anyone else they’ve taken.”

“Right,” Marcy said firmly, from where she lay on the bed of the vehicle.

I felt a smile bare my teeth. “And if they fight?”

Will’s face hardened. “Then we kick their fucking ass.”

“Ass,” said Marcy, nodding.

I finished wrapping Will in the duct tape. He exhaled slowly and relaxed. He took a few experimental breaths and then nodded. “Okay. Good.”

“Lie down, both of you. I’ll be back with the buyer.”

“Be careful,” Will said. “If you aren’t back in twenty minutes, I’ll come looking.”

“If I’m not back in twenty minutes, there won’t be much point in finding me,” I said.

Then I shut them into the SUV and headed for the park.

BUTTERCUP PARK WASN’T exactly overwhelming. There were grass, playground equipment, and a tree or two on an island bordered by four city streets. That was pretty much it. It was the sort of place my low-life persona would choose. It was out in the open, and there was not much to break up the line of sight. It was a good location for criminals with mutual trust issues to meet up. Each could be sure the other was alone. Each could be reasonably sure the other wouldn’t start shooting, right out there in front of God and everybody.

The park, as it should have been, was empty. The surrounding streetlights left little hidden on the green grass, but the playground equipment cast long, asymmetric shadows.

A man sat on one of the swings. He was huge—the biggest individual I’d ever seen. He was heavy with muscle, though it was an athlete’s balanced build—made for action, not for display. His hips strained the heavy flexible plastic seat of the swing to the horizontal. He must have been better than seven feet tall.

He was quietly sitting there, completely still, watching and waiting. His head was shaved and his skin was dark. He wore a simple outfit—black chinos and a thin turtleneck sweater. If the October chill was bothering him, it didn’t show. I stomped over toward him in my Munster boots. When I was about thirty feet away, he turned his head toward me. His gaze was startling. His eyes were blue-white, as on some northern sled dogs, and looked nearly luminous in the half shadows.

He lifted his eyebrows as I came closer, then rose and bowed politely from the waist. I realized that he wasn’t seven feet tall. He was more like seven foot four or five.

“Good evening,” he said. His basso rumble was unmistakable. This was the person I had spoken to earlier.

I stopped in front of him and put a hand on my hip, eyeing him as if I wasn’t much impressed. “As long as you brought the money, it will be,” I drawled.

He reached into a cavernous pocket in his pants and drew out a brick wrapped in plastic. He tossed it to me. “Half.”

I caught it and tore open the plastic with my teeth. Then I started counting the money, all of it in nonsequential Ben Franklins.

A trace of impatience entered my contact’s voice. “It’s all there.”

“Talking to me is just going to make me lose count and start over,” I said. “What am I supposed to call you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “No one. I am nothing to you.”

“Nothing it is,” I replied. The bills were bound in groups of fifty. I counted one out and compared its thickness to that of the others, then flipped through just to be sure Nothing wasn’t trying to short me by throwing some twenties into the middle of the stack. Then I stuck the money in my jacket pocket and said, “We’re in business.”