Chapter Six
Just after the last corporation lost it's influence over the government, the war, at least the operational part, was over. There were no truces, or signed papers, or celebrations or parades. It was just over. The Section put his file in the inactive stack and that was it. His supervisor, MacGregor, sent for him one day and told him this service had been vital to the reestablishment of the United States Government.
Blaine and Channelle were being rotated out. There would be a substantial pension, plus quarters and a vehicle permit. There had been some discussion of whether Lt. Commnader Channelle Kitka was the property of Section X, or personnel, the section chief informed them. The agent's head swam. Channelle? Property? Rotated out?
"We've decided she is personnel, and she will be rotated out along with you. She will also be allotted a pension. If you will elect to care for her, then we will add her pension to yours. If not, then a caretaker will provided and the pension will be awarded to them."
Blaine could not believe what he was hearing. It was as if he had been issued a piece of equipment and now was required to turn it in. Being separated never occurred to him. Kitka glanced up at him from the next chair and looked away slowly. She trusted him and that was that. Three days later, Blaine and Kitka were standing in the front room of a small house that they had never seen before that was totally devoid of everything. They had a credit chit from a local bank and that was all.
After a year of training, alterations and practice and then more than five years of covert operations, they were let go. They had no idea what to do. For all of Kitka's life and a significant part of Deckard's, they had been told where to go, what to do, now, nothing. Supervisors, specialists, experts and doctors had all guided them from one moment to another. Briefing on the operations, checks on mental and physical health, gear and equipment given out, checked over, more briefing on the place, the time, the target, the obstacles and practice. Then the mission, the completion, the delivery of the pouch, the equipment checked back in, the debriefing and the examinations. Occasionally, he would need recuperation and R&R. They were never unsupervised. They would get together with Bowden and Murphy in some local tavern to kick back, but it was usually full of other Section personnel, guards and the like.
The former Ultra Team remained in that room for a full day. They had been kept in a cage, so to speak, for a long time. Blaine and Kitka got hungry and wandered around the house looking for food. The room led into the kitchen, then the bathroom, then the bedroom, around in a circle. Night fell, and they went outside. Neither one had no idea where to go or what to do.
In time, they learned to live free, but it was hard. Before, they had avoided contact with other people, now there was no point, but they still avoided them. Buying basics was planned out like a drop run. They observed, cataloged, mapped it out and then executed it. They hid from everyone, went out only at night, suspicious of all. Slowly they broke this habit. Deckard's genetic alterations had affected his judgment and his thinking. He slowly brought Channelle and himself out of their old patterns. Hatred, hatred for what they had done to him, grew. Deckard cursed them and decided to break out of the habits they had given him, forcefully. Channelle was nervous at first, but Blaine was her commander, her friend, her master in a way, so she followed suit. In time, they learned to live free, so that it was not so hard.
.
"Ah, yes, them," the computer mogul grinned sardonically. "It had to fail; you cannot mix warm blood and cold blood in genetics. At most, they speculated that genes would not combine, but to turn out so horrorific, my God; I remember that Director Stoltz was very disappointed,"
Haining sat down with a fresh round. The party seemed to flow around them like a river of alcohol with garnishes designed by European and Hollywood bigwigs.
LesPaul paused and looked at Haining, then back at Blaine.
"Go on," Blaine nodded.
With a meaningful glance at his old friend, LesPaul went on.
"Yes, the entire concept of cold/warm blood combination was his idea, Stoltz's and Dr. Wouk's. Seemed to think it paramount to the entire ultra-animal project."
Stoltz and Wouk. The big players. At least back then.
"Wouk, he was in on the splicing project? Was he there when the accident happened?
"No, he wasn't there from I what I saw. We were allowed to watch the replays of the video link. The Director was present. Wouk and Stoltz seemed to be collaborating on most everything. Very clever man, Wouk. Came from a small town in Texas, Galveston, or around there. That in itself was strange, because most Texans went back to their "fatherland" as it were, when it declared independence. He was the one that brought Mallos over and proposed that the project go forward with him."
"I thought that Wouk from someplace in Louisiana."
"Yes, that's what he told everyone but a few people. Texicans inspire such suspicion in others, and Wouk wanted to avoid that."
"And he brought Mallos over? What was the deal with him?"
"Yes, Mallos was a strange one. Quite uncomfortable with the whole idea."
"You mean he knew what they had planned to do to him?"
"Correct. He watched the hatching of his counterpart." He took a small drink of the amber liquid that Haining had set before him. "He was the last one allowed to do that. The last one who was made aware of the nature and design of the program."
The music stopped briefly and then wound up again.
"You," he gestured and took a drink. "The others, were all kept in the dark about what was being done and why. Nevertheless, Mallos knew of the program before he defected. Wanted in, so to speak. Always smoking these black cigarettes, even though it was illegal,"
"Did you ever meet the Director of D, Spotta, or the Director of X, Stoltz? In person?"
LesPaul frowned into his drink. "That was always the strangest part of working there, I thought. You see..."
He stopped in mid sentence and looked as if he had forgotten what to say. His eyes grew wide and glassy, his mouth slackened. A bright red stain spread under his coat under the right breast.
Kitka snapped her head in the direction of the large window opposite them, fading from view. Deckard turned his glance at the same time. There was a small hole in the glass, about the size of coin. Haining was the picture of shock, as he looked quickly from his friend to Blaine.
"There's an assassin on your grounds, call an ambulance, and get your security." He then bolted out of his chair and was out of the room.
.
Outside, about fifty meters from the hole in the window, Blaine and Channelle regrouped, found signs of booted feet and followed them. He stripped off his dress jacket and they ran through the woods, dodging branches, leaping over obstacles, following the signs. Grass stamped down, bushes disrupted and broken. Channelle picked up the scent quickly and followed up a large knoll.
They came to a small brook, the water swashing about the rocks, which was under a small cliff. Looking at the trail, the pursuers spotted their target, a small camouflaged figure, still on the cliff wall. Without his heightened perceptions, he never would have spotted the Trigger. With a gesture of his head, the ultra-cat leapt onto jagged rocks to scale after him. Deckard bounded up a hidden slight incline he knew went steeply right up the side. As he got to the top, and looked down, the assassin vaulted up and over and tackled him. He was clad in head to foot in dark green fatigues, with a black balaclava covering his features. Deckard raked the Trigger's eyes and bucked him off and scrambled to his feet. The Trigger had also recovered and closed in to attack. Deckard pivoted and punched him square in the chest with his palm. The man staggered backwards and pulled a knife out of a forearm sheath. He advanced, dagger in reverse grip. Then, grasping behind him, he halted his attack, scrambling to combat his unseen foe.
Deckard clapped him on the temples and following with a chop across the throat. The assailant collapsed. As the Trigger gasped for air, a quick search was made for palm guns, acid packs and other deadly surpris
es. Satisfied, he placed a knee on the figure's chest and rested all his weight on it.
Channelle deshrouded near the assassin's head, spitting and growling loudly.
The man's gasping became less labored and then stopped.
Startled, Blaine tore the balaclava off his face. Eyes wide open; face frozen in the mask of death. The smell of bitter almonds wafted faintly through the air. Poison. A careful search of his mouth revealed a fake tooth right behind his bottom left canine. It was broken, and a clear liquid was still dripping out of it. Blaine swore at his amateur mistake. He looked at Kitka, whose ears had slid forward. She was regarding him, opened her mouth, and made a statement softly. Nodding, he rose, picked her up and gave the attacker a kick to the sides. Deckard held her across his arms, stroking her head, and walked back to the Haining mansion, thinking.
.
Back on the grounds, the party had broken up for the most part, with a few hangers on. That police had not arrived yet was good. Blaine had retrieved his jacket and managed to look respectable again. He had been expecting to be challenged by Haining's security, but they were nowhere to be seen. The tool used to end LesPauls life was found at the edge of the woods, at the cusp where the finely manicured lawn began. It was a Spass 131A .30 cal caseless rifle with an augmented laser sight and an optical scope.
Blaine put it together like this: The Trigger, always the slang for an unidentified gunman, had bypassed the outer security ring and traversed the woods to the edge. Perching there, he waited for the shot parameter. Once the opportunity presented itself, he vaporized the glass in the path with the modified laser sight, sighted it up, and shot LesPaul, right through the heart, right through the hole in the glass. Trigger would ditch the rifle, then attempt escape. It was a pro job, and if Deckard had not been there, Trigger would have faded into the night with ease.
Deckard had found a spring-loaded grappling hook with a power rewind. That was how he was able to leap over the cliff face. The weapon and the hook were specialized pieces of equipment, but strictly off the shelf, if you knew where to shop. The shot was a difficult one. Trigger probably expected to perch on the grounds all night, perhaps relocating several times. Coincidence that the hit had gone off just as LesPaul was about to hand over the answers. Great timing.
The hole in the glass was smooth around the inside edges, confirming the method of Trigger. While he was examining the hole, he felt a presence at his back. He whirled around to find Haining staring at him.
"Did you get him?"
"Yeah, I got him."
Haining nodded. "Good. Linda is pretty upset. Tracey is upset. Everyone's upset."
"Sorry. I didn't know this would happen."
The businessman looked surprised.
"You think this had something to do with you?" It was genuine.
"Why," Deckard narrowed his brows and bent his head forward. "What do you think caused it?"
"LesPaul's rivals, of course." He seemed incredulous that Blaine would think otherwise. "Attempts have been made before."
"At your parties?"
"Well, not at my parties, not until now, anyway, but three years ago, Bob Sothersby was hit at the Southwester Deb Ball."
"Sothersby?"
"Yes, he was the CEO of Magmatrax Video Enterprises."
This was the type of job the Section would coordinate. The Infowar. It had not ended. The other side had just been crippled enough to make men and women like him unnecessary. It had not ended for the other side. Maybe it would never end.
"I see." Channelle rubbed up against his leg. "I've got to go before the police show up."
"Yeah, I understand."
"Try not to mention my name, unless they press you." He turned to go. "One more thing,"
"Yeah?" Haining look tired and haggard. He needed some sleep and a vacation.
"Fire your security company."
Haining nodded, looking at the ground, hands in pockets. Deckard and Kitka made for the parking lot.
.
Sometime after they had gotten used to seeing others and being seen, the two ex-agents were in a bookstore, looking at magazines, which were in a rack by a rear door. They weren't really were looking at the magazines, but had picked out a citizen at random and were following him, as he ran his errands around the town square. After so many years in the dark, laying in wait for more sinister targets, this was their idea of light entertainment. The subject was male, mid forties, medium height, slightly overweight. He was wearing a gray pin stripped suit, blue shirt, black shoes, and a hat.
The hat looked to be made out of animal fur of some type and was shaped vaguely like an envelope on his rounded skull. Judging from his purchases, he was married, had at least two kids, had an important anniversary coming up, and enjoyed scale modeling and sailboats. It was the hat that drew their interest. Every time Channelle got even slightly close to it, her neck would stretch out, her nose high in the air. After a few seconds of sniffing, she would sneeze three times. She looked so comical when she sneezed, that Deckard could hardly contain his laughter. He would then whisper: "Bless you." To which Kitka would glare at him.
She was going through her sneezes when their subject picked his magazines and went to the register. Blaine hastily grabbed one and followed him. They had yet to learn the subject's name, and if he used a credit card, they could learn it off that. If he used a chit and it was on with the pursuit. Sure enough, his card was slid out. A cursory flick of the eyes and, Aha, Herman Rand! The end of the trail. The end of the chase. Herman paid for his copy of 'Collectables Digest' and wandered out of the store. They stopped outside and sat on a bench. It was a warm day, a breeze bringing cooler air and interesting scents.
Kitka yawned in only the way that cats can. Deckard caught it and yawned too. He then noticed a sign on the lamppost that he'd been looking at without really seeing. It was for a dog and cat show at the city coliseum that very day. Nodding, Blaine jumped up and ran for the train, trying to outpace his companion, but not quite making it.
.
It was a large show, with several different types of animals, not just cats and dogs. The lemur reminded them of Shea, but it did not display any interest in them. The cats were wide and varied. The one that drew the most attention was an Abyssinian male cat named Caesar. He was the largest domestic cat that Blaine had ever seen outside of Channelle. His sand colored coat was dusky and smooth. His kennel had several blue ribbons on it. On their approach, he rose from the ball he'd been rolled up in and stretched.
Eyeing Channelle with interest, he stuck his nose between the bars and they traded nose bumps. Blaine set her down so she could check him out better. He'd received a number of compliments on her and some inquiries on her breeder.
"No, I just found her one morning. She's a mix." He would reply.
He turned around to stare into the eyes of a woman that had been looking at him. She was a tall, slender girl and had short black pageboy style hair. Her figure was thin, almost boyish.
"Nice cat." The girl tilted her head. She looked vaguely oriental and was dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, carried nothing in her pockets and had no purse. She came closer.
"I said 'Nice cat"," She came even closer. She smelled like exotic spice. Ginger, maybe.
"Thank you. So is yours."
She was surprised for a moment, Her rosebud shaped mouth opened for a moment then closed.
"How did you..."
"A guess."
She smiled and put one hand on her hip.
"Well, my name is Monica. Monica Dominetta." She offered up her hand.
"Deckard Blaine." He took her hand and shook it.
Monica walked over to where Kitka and Caesar were being acquainted. She leaned down, cooing in cat talk, stroking Channelle's head and sides.
Apprehensive, he moved to intervene. To his surprise, Channelle began to purr loudly. It drew looks from others. Deckard was impressed with Monica's ability with animals. Usually, Kitka showed her fierce side, before
she allowed any familiarity.
"What a sweetheart!" Monica exclaimed.
"Yeah, she's that."
At his voice, Channelle turned over on her back and squirmed on the table.
"Oh, she's just darling." Monica stood up.
"Looks like she likes you," he commented, as Channelle stretched and then ran the side of her face along Monica's thigh.
"Cats and I understand each other very well."
Blaine could feel his heart beginning to thump. He could almost feel his stripes growing darker and he tried to reign in his heart response.
"Yes, I can tell that."
Kitka ran her cheek along Monica's thigh again.
Looking down at his partner, Deckard shook his head slowly.
"Looks like we have to keep you."
Monica opened her mouth in mock scandal, both hands on hips.
Deckard could feel his stripes throb with heat, tension.
Monica laughed in a clear ringing tone.
.
It had been two weeks since the cat show, but Deckard couldn't stop thinking about Monica, who seemed so familiar, even at first glance. They had killed time slowly, almost torturing it to death. She possessed no file of interest. Standard stuff, but it looked flat on the page, giving no hint of what she was really like. He knew her height, weight, address, etc, etc, etc. He longed to know more. What exact color of brown her eyes were, for example. Was she ticklish? What type of books did she read? What was her favorite color? Food? Movie? What the hell was happening to him? Was he in heat or something? They had made some more small talk at the show and then she had been called away to the judges table and he and Kitka had left.
As he pondered, Channelle began to strip wood off the front door. Perplexed, he opened it and she went out. Following her, she lifted her nose high and began to trot along the sidewalk, turning her head this way and that. She turned at the end of the block and he had to almost run to keep up. Then she caught the scent she had been searching for and took off running. Part Cheetah, she could obtain high speeds easily, and Blaine had to bolt to keep her in sight. He ran after her through neighborhoods and streets. They ended up in front of a small house, not unlike his own. Channelle was pacing up and down, meowing, almost howling, loudly. Before he could get to her, the door opened. Monica Dominetta stood there, hands on hips, mouth opened in mock scandal.
.
Inside, her small hands ran themselves down his back, as they embraced in a lingering kiss. Channelle lazed along the floor, as Caesar groomed her face, purring, his eyes almost closed. Monica began to undo Blaine's shirt, but he stopped her. She looked up at him.
"There's scars....and er, tattoos. It's not, uh," He said breathlessly.
She merely smiled and undid his shirt anyway. His stripes were as dark as they got, as his heart pounded in his chest. Monica traced them along his chest, his stomach, and lower. She halted at each scar and kissed it. As she did, he could almost remember how he got them: two bullet holes in his left arm, one in his chest, the knife slashes and stabs on his back and stomach and right shoulder, rope burns, the wounds made by falls from buildings, trees, through windows. She stood up, and took a step back. He was naked before her. No one but the Section medical staff had ever seen him this way. Deckard had never felt so defenseless, even through he had his claws, and super enhanced constitution, reflexes, structure and his experienced and highly trained Ultra Cat in the same room. Monica looked him up and down and smiled. Deckard was motionless. She began to slip out of her clothes. Her skin was smooth and olive colored and firm. Her toenails were painted the same dark purple that her fingernails were. Monica had no bra, only white panties with small red hearts all over it. She took his hands and wrapped him around her. Deckard could taste her breath, which was like a dark red wine.
"I..." He began.
"Shhhhh."
Deckard was gently pushed down to the rug, her following him, kissing him, her skin hot against his.
Monica cried out softly when she slipped onto him. She smothered him with herself, as she gently rose up and down. Blaine grew drunk on her breath, her skin, and her touch. Her nails raked across his chest, and he hissed out, arching backwards. His claws extended and found purchase in the thick rug they were on. He began to lose touch with reality, as things went faster and faster. There was no floor underneath him, no roof above. Vertigo grasped him and spun his senses like a top. There was nothing in the universe, except Monica, him and their passion. Time seemed to speed up and images assaulted him. He saw the background roll past jungles, cities, buildings, and deserts. Monica sang out a word that had no meaning except to him and her. There was a rumble of thunder in his ears and lightening cracked above him. She collapsed on his chest, panting, drenched in the effort.
"Mmmmmmmm," her arms folded themselves around his neck, as he lay there, nearly in shock, letting reality slip back slowly into place.
.
Things began to make a little more sense to Deckard Blaine after that. His grasp on life was a little easier, his perception more fluid. Channelle, perceiving his calm, was also calm. Monica breezed into their life and breathed color into them. She stopped by to drag them to antique stores, get ice cream or with a new movie disc. Curious about their past, but never prying, Monica became their confidant and accessory after the fact. It was she that came calling on the door the morning after the midwinter ball.
Blaine was flicking through images of known hit men that fit the profile of the trigger of last night. He stopped at one, then another. Monica crept up behind him and was about to place her hands over his eyes.
"Hello, Monica," Deck said, without taking his eyes off the screen.
"You're no fun," an exasperated sigh.
Grinning slightly, he flipped to another image and dossier.
She pulled up a chair, flipped it backwards and sat down. She was used to his moments of concentration.
"How did you know it was me?"
He pointed at the security display above his desk. It showed eight different camera angles around his house.
"Aha, a paranoid,"
"Yyesss," He stopped at one file. This was the one. He had made the ID. Dark crew cut hair, thick eyebrows, and deep-set, soulless eyes, thick jaw, unmistakably the Trigger. Blaine nodded grimly.
"Oh, cutie!" She leaned closer. "Whose he?"
"A used car dealer. He made a particularly bad deal last night at the Haining estate. His last, I fear."
"Hmmmmmm." Monica tried to sound interested, but he knew she would rather be watching butterflies or something like that. She had no head for the business, which suited him just fine.
"Did you catch the news this morning?" He turned to her.
A shake of the head, grave dark eyes twinkling at him.
Figures. "Good." He kissed her lightly on the lips.
"Is it important?"
"No, not to you and me, anyway," Book marking the file, he closed the program and powered off the cradle.
"Channelle?" An inquisitive eyebrow.
He looked up. Channelle lounged on a shelf that was high on the wall.
She was upside down, watching them. Monica put her hands on his waist and drew him closer.
"What was that all about anyway?"
"You don't want to know, trust me."
"Are you in any kind of trouble?" She bit her upper lip. "Last night? Are you hurt again?"
"The only kind of trouble I run into around here is you."
He tickled her suddenly. Giggling and screaming. Something discovered.
.
Sometime later, as they lay together, she stirred and murmured.
"Huh?"
"'I said I was going to miss you,"
Silence. Monica leaned up on an elbow.
"You're going away, aren't you?"
Silence.
"Well, I'm going to miss you."
"I'm not staying away,"
Silence.
"I just have this drop to make, and,"
He stopped with his use of old words. Before he could begin again, she put a slender finger to his lips.
"I know you do. You have this thing and it's like the other things that you have had to do. All those scars. You've had a lot close ones, haven't you?"
He could do nothing but nod. He was naked before her, like when they met. This time it was his soul.
"Well, I'm going to miss you." A pause.
There was a throaty sound from the foot of the bed. Channelle was curled up on one corner.
.
After Declaration Day, Texas was ready to stand on its own. It had its oil fields, industry, meat packing plants, farms, cities, beaches, businesses, politicians, army, navy, police and citizens. It also had organized crime. It this case, it was not the La Cosa Nostra, or the Yakuza, or any of the other oft mentioned names, real or imagined, in law annuals, but a new consortium, known as the Triumvirate, but those that referred to it, and that was not often, called it the Texas Tri. The Tri had members in all occupations. They had struck a bargain with the Texan government. If allowed to operate in peace, they would keep crime under control. A certain number of innocents might be affected, but on the whole, the majority would be left alone.
The state gambling casinos would be run fairly, to a point, to launder money. The illegal aliens would be run out of that state, or killed; to make sure crimes committed would profit the Tri. The Longshoreman union would provide fair wages, benefits, and hours to insure that contraband was delivered. The criminal underworld would be policed by the Tri. Any crime was carefully controlled. Average people were safe from outright murder and rape, but maybe not from break-in or muggings. Insurance was made mandatory for home and autos. The insurance agencies were Triumvirate controlled. The shipping companies were Triumvirate controlled. Everything was Triumvirate controlled, hand in hand with the Texican government, but not too much, not too little.