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"Our Policy Is Deceit, Betrayal and Death"
12/2/2009
I.
The man on the floor of the hotel room was alive. Closing the door to the hallway behind him, Jeremy Bane paused to continue watching and listening. He was already certain no one else was in the suite, but long-held habits of prudence led him to check the bathroom and closet with one hand on the butt of his gun. Finally satisfied, he went back to crouch over the stupefied man he had come so far to see.
Jeremy Bane was wearing his usual outfit. Slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket, all black. None of the dozen small weapons and gadgets concealed in his clothing showed. There was no visible sign of the matched silver daggers under his sleeves. The Dire Wolf was a gaunt man just over six feet tall, with short black hair and heavy brows over a pair of cold grey eyes that remained watchful. He glanced around again once more suspiciously. The hotel suite featured a dining area with a round table and four comfortable chairs, separated from the main room by an open wooden framework.
On the dining table was a nearly empty bottle of Hennesy's Triple-X, a half-empty pitcher of water and two tumblers. The smell of the cognac was heavy in the air, since some had been spilled.
Facedown on the chilly floor was a man who did not respond to Bane shaking him. Davis McNeil was a few inches over six feet tall, muscular in a subdued way that showed through his white T-shirt and dress pants. Bane turned him over onto his back, taking his pulse and placing his free hand on the man's chest. Both pulse and breathing were steady and strong, which was a relief. McNeil's mouth was wide open and he started snoring in the new position.
The agent's face was much as Bane remembered it from ten years earlier. Dark red hair, thick and unruly. An angular, bony face with ragged eyebrows and thin lips. But the jawline was not as firm as it had been, there were deep lines around the mouth and the skin looked dry and unhealthy. Bane tried again to roust the man but received only a low mumbling for his efforts.
"The hard way, then," he said out loud. Grabbing McNeil under both arms, Bane lifted him up to his feet with an ease that revealed he was much stronger than he looked. The Dire Wolf hauled the agent through the open bathroom door and positioned him on his knees with his head in the gleaming shower cabinet. Holding him that way, Bane reached up and turned on the water. First fairly hot, then adjusting it to become gradually colder. McNeil sputtered and gasped, tried ineffectually to struggle and eventually accepted the icy pounding.
After a few more minutes, the agent said clearly, "All right. All RIGHT! You've made your point."
Bane let him sit up and handed him a towel. As McNeil rubbed his head dry, the Dire Wolf stepped back and regarded him unsympathetically.
"I could have been a STIGMA agent coming in," the Dire Wolf said. "You'd be the easiest hit ever."
"Oh, shut up," grumbled McNeil. He stared up through bleary green eyes and made a scoffing noise. "Jeremy? Really, Jeremy Bane here?"
"It's been a while," the Dire Wolf said. He reached down to take McNeil's hand and yanked the big redhead up to his feet. "Come on. We need to talk."
"What time is it? Noon yet?"
"It's seven o'clock at night," Bane told him. "Tuesday."
"Ah, plenty of time then," McNeil said. He finished drying his face and ran fingers through his hair before tossing the towel on top of a hamper in the corner. Davis McNeil took a few deep breaths to steady himself and walked firmly out to join his visitor.
He made a wounded noise as he saw Bane emptying the cognac bottle and tumbler in the sink, then rinsing them out. "Here now! That's uncalled for."
"You have been sent here to die," the Dire Wolf snapped.
McNeil dropped heavily into one of the chairs by the dining table. He took a long gulp of the water and sighed. "You look exactly the same, Jeremy. How come you don't go downhill like the rest of us?"
"Did you hear what I just said?"
"No."
Bane came over, pulled out a chair and sat down facing the redhead. "Let this sink in. Your chief sent you here to be killed. The Mandate wants to be rid of you."
"Nah. Not with my record."
"You were one of the best," Bane agreed. "You broke up the Speckle brothers gang. You stopped the Question Mark project. You even brought in Wither, although he later got away as usual. But honestly, Davis, all that was too long ago."
McNeil poured the rest of the water from the pitcher into his tumbler and studied it. "Admittedly, I have been in a bit of a slump lately."
"You had two assignments this year and you screwed them both up. In the first, you almost got yourself killed and spent two weeks in the hospital. The second job, you almost got everyone else killed instead and your chief had to send in back-up. It's the drinking, why kid yourself? The Mandate sees you as a liability."
"Say, how do you know all this? You aren't cleared on any level as far as I know." McNeil asked.
"I have methods that ordinary Human security can't stop," said Bane. "You've heard of Tel Shai. Never mind that now. The question is, what is going to happen to you?"
McNeil sat in sullen silence, staring down at his shoes.
"Now," Bane went on, "I know why you're here in Denver. I know you have a detached partner, as they call it, another Mandate agent who is standing nearby if he needs to intervene. Harry Huber. He is part of the plan to dispose of you."
"You know.. it's coming back to me about when we worked together. The thing I liked about you, Jeremy, was that you always had a plan or two ready."
The faintest smile showed on the Dire Wolf's face. "I have a plan right now..."
( the rest of the story )
12/2/2009
I.
The man on the floor of the hotel room was alive. Closing the door to the hallway behind him, Jeremy Bane paused to continue watching and listening. He was already certain no one else was in the suite, but long-held habits of prudence led him to check the bathroom and closet with one hand on the butt of his gun. Finally satisfied, he went back to crouch over the stupefied man he had come so far to see.
Jeremy Bane was wearing his usual outfit. Slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket, all black. None of the dozen small weapons and gadgets concealed in his clothing showed. There was no visible sign of the matched silver daggers under his sleeves. The Dire Wolf was a gaunt man just over six feet tall, with short black hair and heavy brows over a pair of cold grey eyes that remained watchful. He glanced around again once more suspiciously. The hotel suite featured a dining area with a round table and four comfortable chairs, separated from the main room by an open wooden framework.
On the dining table was a nearly empty bottle of Hennesy's Triple-X, a half-empty pitcher of water and two tumblers. The smell of the cognac was heavy in the air, since some had been spilled.
Facedown on the chilly floor was a man who did not respond to Bane shaking him. Davis McNeil was a few inches over six feet tall, muscular in a subdued way that showed through his white T-shirt and dress pants. Bane turned him over onto his back, taking his pulse and placing his free hand on the man's chest. Both pulse and breathing were steady and strong, which was a relief. McNeil's mouth was wide open and he started snoring in the new position.
The agent's face was much as Bane remembered it from ten years earlier. Dark red hair, thick and unruly. An angular, bony face with ragged eyebrows and thin lips. But the jawline was not as firm as it had been, there were deep lines around the mouth and the skin looked dry and unhealthy. Bane tried again to roust the man but received only a low mumbling for his efforts.
"The hard way, then," he said out loud. Grabbing McNeil under both arms, Bane lifted him up to his feet with an ease that revealed he was much stronger than he looked. The Dire Wolf hauled the agent through the open bathroom door and positioned him on his knees with his head in the gleaming shower cabinet. Holding him that way, Bane reached up and turned on the water. First fairly hot, then adjusting it to become gradually colder. McNeil sputtered and gasped, tried ineffectually to struggle and eventually accepted the icy pounding.
After a few more minutes, the agent said clearly, "All right. All RIGHT! You've made your point."
Bane let him sit up and handed him a towel. As McNeil rubbed his head dry, the Dire Wolf stepped back and regarded him unsympathetically.
"I could have been a STIGMA agent coming in," the Dire Wolf said. "You'd be the easiest hit ever."
"Oh, shut up," grumbled McNeil. He stared up through bleary green eyes and made a scoffing noise. "Jeremy? Really, Jeremy Bane here?"
"It's been a while," the Dire Wolf said. He reached down to take McNeil's hand and yanked the big redhead up to his feet. "Come on. We need to talk."
"What time is it? Noon yet?"
"It's seven o'clock at night," Bane told him. "Tuesday."
"Ah, plenty of time then," McNeil said. He finished drying his face and ran fingers through his hair before tossing the towel on top of a hamper in the corner. Davis McNeil took a few deep breaths to steady himself and walked firmly out to join his visitor.
He made a wounded noise as he saw Bane emptying the cognac bottle and tumbler in the sink, then rinsing them out. "Here now! That's uncalled for."
"You have been sent here to die," the Dire Wolf snapped.
McNeil dropped heavily into one of the chairs by the dining table. He took a long gulp of the water and sighed. "You look exactly the same, Jeremy. How come you don't go downhill like the rest of us?"
"Did you hear what I just said?"
"No."
Bane came over, pulled out a chair and sat down facing the redhead. "Let this sink in. Your chief sent you here to be killed. The Mandate wants to be rid of you."
"Nah. Not with my record."
"You were one of the best," Bane agreed. "You broke up the Speckle brothers gang. You stopped the Question Mark project. You even brought in Wither, although he later got away as usual. But honestly, Davis, all that was too long ago."
McNeil poured the rest of the water from the pitcher into his tumbler and studied it. "Admittedly, I have been in a bit of a slump lately."
"You had two assignments this year and you screwed them both up. In the first, you almost got yourself killed and spent two weeks in the hospital. The second job, you almost got everyone else killed instead and your chief had to send in back-up. It's the drinking, why kid yourself? The Mandate sees you as a liability."
"Say, how do you know all this? You aren't cleared on any level as far as I know." McNeil asked.
"I have methods that ordinary Human security can't stop," said Bane. "You've heard of Tel Shai. Never mind that now. The question is, what is going to happen to you?"
McNeil sat in sullen silence, staring down at his shoes.
"Now," Bane went on, "I know why you're here in Denver. I know you have a detached partner, as they call it, another Mandate agent who is standing nearby if he needs to intervene. Harry Huber. He is part of the plan to dispose of you."
"You know.. it's coming back to me about when we worked together. The thing I liked about you, Jeremy, was that you always had a plan or two ready."
The faintest smile showed on the Dire Wolf's face. "I have a plan right now..."
( the rest of the story )
