C21 Box Set

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

Dressed in a worn hoodie and pants which had definitely seen better days—over the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d left the hotel for the last time—Dylan cautiously approached the smallest of the IE Global buildings. When he’d asked why two layers of clothes, Mars has said, “Think about it. You’re trying to disguise yourself, but would the kind of man you used to be really want to wear something you dug out of a dumpster next to your skin?”

Dylan grimaced. “Probably—no definitely not.” He’d finger-combed his hair before they left the cabin, and hadn’t shaved, giving him the ‘I’ve been living on the streets’ look necessary to back up what he was going to tell Mr. Webb.

While he and Dylan were eating breakfast, Mars called the company to make certain Webb was there. When they got into the city, he dropped Dylan off in an alley, three blocks from his destination, saying, “You can do this.”

Stoutly, Dylan had replied, “I know I can.” He tapped his ear. “And I know you’ll be close and listening.” He had a miniature earbud, with the transmission loop hidden on the back of the watch Alastair and Mars had given him at the same time they’d given him a new phone to replace the one Mars had destroyed when Dylan first met him. If asked, Dylan would tell Webb the watch was the only thing he had left from his time with Tommy and he couldn’t bear to part with it.

Now, after taking a deep breath, Dylan opened the front door to IE Global and walked in. The receptionist, sitting at a desk directly ahead of him, took one look and said, “We don’t give handouts.”

“I’m not looking for one, ma’am. I have to speak with Mr. Webb.”

Her look said ‘As if’ but she did ask, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am. If you could tell him a friend of Mr. Samson’s is here to see him.”

“Name?”

“Just tell him I was very close to Samson. He’ll understand.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Please? It’s important.”

Looking dubious, she picked up the phone. “Mr. Webb there’s a—” she glanced at Dylan with disgust, “—homeless man here who says he was a very close friend of Mr. Samson’s. He insists he has to talk to you.” She listened, nodding. “Tall, blond, looks like he hasn’t shaved recently.” After a moment she hung up. “Mr. Webb will be out in a minute.”

When the door to one side of the reception area opened, Dylan saw a man of perhaps forty, in shirtsleeves and sporting a crewcut. The man, Dylan presumed it was Webb, took one look at him and said, “Come,” before turning and walking down the hallway. His tone of voice was so like Tommy’s when he was in total control mode, that Dylan had to resist the urge to leave the building as quickly as possible. Only the knowledge he had a job to do made him follow.

They entered an office before Webb said, “I’m surprised to see you, Mr. Russell. I’d have thought you’d be halfway across the country by now. Sit and tell me why you’re here.”

Dylan didn’t sit, as he replied, “I know what you do here.”

Webb shrugged. “I’m a sales rep, just like Tom was. Why do you care?”

“I wouldn’t, except I know what else you do.”

Webb was seated by then. He looked up at Dylan in question. “Exactly what do you think you know?”

Dylan began to pace nervously—partly an act, partly because he really was too jumpy to sit. “You know about my relationship with Tommy.”

“Only after reading about it in the news, after you murdered him.”

Dylan flinched. “It was an accident.”

“Oh really? It’s hard to accidentally break someone’s head.”

Taking a deep breath, Dylan said, “Okay, yeah, it wasn’t quite accidental.”

“Sit, and tell me.”

Dylan looked around anxiously, as if something had just occurred to him. “You’re not going to…to record this or…or…”

“No, Mr. Russell, I’m not. This is a legitimate business. Why would I have hidden recording devices?”

“I had to be sure before I say anything more. If the police…”

“I understand your concern. Whatever you tell me stays right here.”

Dylan went over to sit on the edge of the chair beside the desk. He clasped his hands, staring down at them. “Tommy and I broke up, maybe six months ago. But…We ran into each other at a bar. Not to sound cliché, but the spark was still there. We talked for a while, over drinks, and in the end I went home with him.”

“And killed him. Interesting way to reignite a relationship,” Webb said sarcastically.

Dylan tried to smile. “We—” he feigned embarrassment, “—we ended up in bed. It was what happened afterward that…that. Okay, I’m not being quite truthful. Tommy wanted us to get together again, as a couple. I said I was willing to, on one condition. Just before we broke up, he got very drunk one night and—” Dylan looked straight at Webb, “—he told me what he really did for a living. It didn’t involve being a sales rep. He said he owned IE Global and it was a front for another, much less legitimate business.”

“He would never reveal that,” Webb spat out. “Not even to a lover.”

“Ah, but he did. I told you he was drunk. He was trying to impress me so I wouldn’t leave him. It might have worked, if he’d been a different man. But that’s neither here nor there at the moment. As I was saying, after we made love, he said he wanted us to get back together. I told him I’d consider it on one condition. I wanted in on the arms trafficking part of his business. I said I was tired of holding down a boring job at the hotel. Do you know what his answer was?”

“Not unless you tell me,” Webb pointed out, now watching Dylan like a hawk.

“He said I was a stupid weakling who was only useful to him as someone to f**k. It was the only reason he wanted me back. That I didn’t have the guts it took to be part of his life in any other way.” Dylan paused, pretending he was trying to get himself together to finish his story. “When he said that, I blew up. He was standing there, looking at me like I was less than dirt. I said, ‘I’ll show you who’s a weakling.’ I only meant to scare him when I shoved him. But he laughed. So…”

Webb snickered. “So you killed him. That part I believe. The rest, not so much. And even if I did, why the hell would I let you become part of our operation?”

“I…” Dylan worried the corner of his lip. “If I’m arrested, I’ll tell the cops everything Tommy told me—and he went into detail.” He looked straight at Webb. “He was doing his best to impress me about how important and clever he was. He told me about the warehouse. How it appeared to be like the rest of them but it wasn’t. About how the four of you who ran the operation had special hired help who were the only ones allowed inside. The one thing he didn’t tell me was where you ship the arms, but I can make a pretty educated guess.”

The frown on Webb’s face deepened into a scowl. “You know you’re playing with fire. I could kill you, here and now, and tell the police you came here begging for help, and then attacked me when I told you to get out.”

“You could,” Dylan agreed. “But if I don’t get in touch with a friend by ten tonight, he’ll take an envelope I gave him to the FBI. I suspect they’d be more than interested in the contents.”

“How cliché, to use your word. However, I’m not willing to take the chance you’re telling me the truth about that.” Webb drummed his fingers on the desk, eyeing Dylan speculatively, then got up. “Wait here.”

Dylan wanted to salute and say, ‘Yes, master,’ but resisted. It wouldn’t fit in with the persona he was presenting to Webb. So he nodded, and Webb left.

At least he didn’t deny he was involved in gun trafficking—or that Tommy was. It’s on record now. He was about to touch his ear, an instinctive gesture, and stopped. Mars had warned him there might be hidden cameras in the room. Instead, he leaned back casually as if he knew he’d won.

The door opened a few minutes later and Webb came in with two other men. “Mr. Russell, meet my partners, Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith.”

Why not just go for Mr. Pink and Mr. Orange? Dylan was tempted to ask, but didn’t, only nodding at them.

“We have a few questions for you,” Mr. Jones said, leaning against one of the file cabinets. He examined his fingernails before asking, “Where have you been since you left the hotel Tuesday evening?”

Dylan waved a hand over what he was wearing. “Where do you think I’ve been?”

“Apparently, living on the streets,” Mr. Smith said. He was standing as well, his arms crossed over his massive chest.

“Got it in one.”

“Don’t get smart with us,” Webb barked out.

“Sorry. Okay. I left work Tuesday knowing there was an arrest warrant out for me. I knew I couldn’t go back to my place, and I figured if I checked into some motel…Well, the cops aren’t dumb, you know, and I’d have to show ID and use my credit card. So, anyway, I was driving aimlessly, saw a bar, pulled into the lot. I needed a drink—badly. I was going to go in the back way, which was on an alley. Saw a couple of homeless guys and got the idea. I mean, no one pays attention to them. Right? I found some stuff in a dumpster by one of those thrift shops.” He barely smiled. “There was no way I was going to change clothes. Who knows where this has been.” He tugged at the hoodie. “So I put this and the pants on over what I was wearing.”

Smith looked at Jones and Webb, getting nods from them both. “Okay, reasonable story. Not sure I totally believe it, but I’ll buy into it for now. You’ve spent the last two nights crashing in alleys?”

“Yeah, and trust me it’s no fun.”

“So you decided to come here and try to blackmail us into bringing you into the organization,” Jones said.

“Blackmail is such an ugly word. I need money, I figure there’s got to be some way you can use me.”

Webb tapped his fingers together. “We’re considering it. It would be grunt work. Sorting and hauling.”

“In other words, being a warehouse man.”

“Exactly.” Webb glanced at the others. “Smith suggested, since you can’t be renting an apartment, you can crash in the motel across the street from the warehouse. Would that work for you?”

“And have the cops find me before I finish signing in?”

“We own it, so you won’t be a registered guest.”

Dylan made a pretense of thinking about it. He had the feeling it would give them another way to keep him under their collective thumbs but he could deal—he hoped. “That sounds fine to me.”

“Good. Come with us and we’ll show you around your new workplace.”

This it too easy. I’m going to end up just like I said to Mars, a prisoner, or dead.

Dylan followed Webb, while Smith and Jones fell in behind them, making him feel like a prisoner on his way to his execution. After leaving the IE Global office building, they crossed a small grassy area and then went down between two banks of warehouses to one at the end.

Webb opened the only door on that side, using a keypad. Stepping inside, he beckoned for Dylan to join him. There was a scanner—it reminded Dylan of the ones at airports—a foot in front of the door. Now I’m in deep s**t. It’ll pick up the earbud and my watch and—

“Take off anything metal, and empty your pockets.” A man dressed in fatigues said, appearing beside Webb. He held out a small plastic box. Dylan did as he was told, then walked through the scanner, every muscle tense—as much as he tried to relax them.

When he got to the other side, the man nodded, telling Webb, “He’s clean.”

How the hell? The only thing Dylan could think was the earbud was pure plastic, even the battery. For all he knew, that was possible.

One by one, the man handed back the items from the box, examining each one thoroughly first. “Nice watch,” he commented.

“Thanks,” Dylan muttered, putting it on. He sighed deeply. “My only memento from my ex.” He grimaced when Smith smirked and said, “Other than the blood on your hands, figuratively speaking.”

“All right, Mr. Russell, although I think at this point I can dispense with formalities and call you Dylan,” Webb said. “We’ll show you around and introduce you to your coworkers. This,—” he thumbed toward the man in fatigues, “—is Dan. Either he or his counterpart, Joe, will be on duty here when you come in, and when you leave.”

Dan went to a desk by the scanner, coming back with a clip-on badge he handed to Dylan. “You’re to wear this at all times.”

Dylan clipped it to the pocket of his hoodie before following Webb, feeling marginally more certain the men believed his story. The warehouse, at first glance, looked like any normal one, with rows of tall, metal storage racks filled with cartons. Then they turned the corner to the next aisle. There, on the racks, were row after row of metal cases. Webb opened one to show Dylan the weapon inside. Dylan had no idea what it was, other than the fact it looked very large, and very dangerous.

Across from the storage racks were tall cabinets with heavy meshed doors. Webb unlocked one. It was filled with at least a dozen assault rifles, according to Webb. Another cabinet held smaller arms, at least two dozen of them.

“These are our showcases for potential buyers,” Webb explained. “Each item has a number. When a buyer decides what he, or she, wants, Max or Enright—” he pointed to two men standing at the far end of the aisle, “—get the items. Your job will be to work with Ben stocking the shelves when we get a delivery.”

Dylan gulped. “There’s a hell of a lot of weapons here.”

“Of course there are. Arms dealing is a big business,” Jones replied with a dry grin.

“How come…?” Dylan frowned.

“How come it’s a big business? Or how come we can get away with this here in the city?” Smith asked.

“I guess what I mean is, why haven’t you been shut down?”

“Because we know what we’re doing, and who we’re dealing with.” Smith put his two massive hands on Dylan’s shoulders, staring hard at him. “If someone even thinks of ratting us out, they’re dead before they can make the call. Before you leave today, Dan will add a little extra something to you phone so we’ll know at any given time where you are, and who you call.”

Dylan snorted, even though the thought they’d be monitoring him scared the hell out of him. “I don’t have any friends, and damned few acquaintances. I suspect those I did have want nothing to do with me, now that the cops are looking for me.”

“Your loss, our gain. It means we have you by the short-and-curlies, since we can tell the cops where to find you.” Smith’s smile was predatory as he released his hold on Dylan.

“Message received,” Dylan said dryly before turning to Webb, the man he figured was in charge with Tommy dead. “When do you want me to start?”

“Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. Show up at six. Mr. Jones, please take Dylan across to the motel. But not until Dan modifies his phone.”

With that, Webb and Smith left. Dylan followed Mr. Jones back to where Dan was stationed, noting as he did a rolling door he presumed opened onto a loading dock. He handed Dan his phone. A few moments later, it was returned. Then Mr. Jones took Dylan across the street to the motel, after checking their route to be certain there were no squad cars on the street, or anyone who seemed too interested in them.