“I need to see The Fixer.”
Bunny eyed her suspiciously.
“He’s busy.”
“He’ll see me,” she said firmly, waving a sheet of paper. “This is important.”
“Give it to me,” Bunny said, holding out a hand the size of a shovel, “I’ll pass it on.”
“I need to explain some things to him. This is important. The Boss won’t like it if you keep him waiting.” She took a small step forward. “Now get out of the way.”
Bunny stared at the paper for a moment as his pea-sized intellect struggled to come to a decision. Finally, he mumbled for Becka to wait. He spun around, tapped respectfully on the door, and then went into the office. Becka heard low voices and a short laugh, before Bunny reappeared and waved her forward. For once, he stood aside politely to allow her to pass unmolested.
“Becka!” The Fixer greeted her happily with a wave of his arm. “What can I do for you?”
She thought carefully for a moment before deciding on the best way to deliver her bad news.
“As a matter of course I have a number of alarms in place around the internet. Call them triggers if you will. Little programs that watch for activity that would suggest someone is searching for us. Occasionally I’ll get the odd nibble. Usually it’s just coincidence — a lucky combination of words in an email, or someone searching for demolition experts. However, this morning when I checked my ‘fishing net’, I discovered a shitload of very specific searches.” Becka waved the sheet of paper in evidence.
The Fixer sat up in his seat, immediately attentive.
“Are you telling me that someone out there is searching for us?” he asked.
“Absolutely! There’s no doubt about it,” she said firmly. “Some names related to the Charles Rathbone case were being searched.”
“Who’s doing it?”
“I don’t know,” Becka admitted quietly. She braced herself for the inevitable explosion of anger, but The Fixer gave a surprising response.
“Really? But you’re the best there is, Becka. Why don’t you know who’s searching for us?”
Becka shrugged.
“It’s hard to explain the detail in words that you, or anyone else without a degree in computer science, would understand.”
The Fixer nailed Becka with an ice-cold stare and spoke a single acidic word.
“Try.”
Becka desperately searched her mind for a suitable analogy. She held up a finger to indicate that she had an idea.
“It’s like there’s a ghost. Imagine looking at a security video. You can see things moving, you can see footsteps on the carpet, someone opening doors, but there’s no image. I can see that someone’s been looking for us, but I can’t see who it is,” she said, holding her hands up in defense.
“I think I understand,” The Fixer said nodding gravely. “Someone is covering their tracks rather well.”
“Yes!” Becka nodded enthusiastically. “Someone good, someone very good — but I’m better, and given enough time I’ll find them. I promise.”
“Ok, well done.” He gave her a soulless smile and waved her away. “Keep me informed.”
Becka nodded and placed the printout on the desk. She left without saying another word, unwilling to prolong the meeting any further than was strictly necessary.
In the corridor, Bunny was waiting for her. He was leaning casually against the wall, leaving a deliberately small gap for Becka to pass through to get back to her office. She almost made it through, but at the last moment, his right arm shot out, blocking her escape. Then he brought his left hand onto her bottom, and began squeezing and needing, without tenderness or sexual interest. Becka tried to push his hand away, but he was too strong. A moment later his right hand grabbed her breast, as she knew it would.
“Get off me!” She hissed.
Bunny said nothing, but his uncaring smile revealed his gold tooth as his hand slithered mercilessly down her body until it forced its way between her thighs. He cupped Becka’s bottom with one hand and her crotch with the other, grinding painfully and lifting up until she was forced to stand on tiptoes. She grabbed his wrist to try to relieve the pain, an action Bunny immediately misinterpreted as one of pleasure.
“You like that?” he leered.
“Oh yeah, Bunny — you’re the man of my dreams,” She teased mockingly. “Do me baby — go on, do me!”
Bunny dropped his hands.
“Get on with your work — bitch.”
She stepped away quickly, sick to the stomach with humiliation and frustrated by her inability to stop his sick bullying. When she returned to her desk, Becka closed her eyes and thought about how to vent her anger by finding whoever was stalking the Wrecking Crew. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, her eyes snapped open. With a smile, she began to tap computer code into her keyboard.
The Fixer stared at the sheet of paper that Becka had left on his desk. The list of numbers and dates was gibberish to him, but he understood the implication. Someone was after him, and that made him very unhappy. He was The Fixer. He knew people in high places. He was untouchable. He ran the Wrecking Crew. He went after people — people didn’t come after him. Anger boiled into his throat, anger, and fear. Not for himself, and the money, but for the possible loss of power.
When he started out, his motivation was naturally all about money, and he had made a lot of money over the years. However, in the time since he had formed the Wrecking Crew he had discovered that the use and abuse of power was a far more addictive drug, than the pursuit of wealth. In those quiet moments of solitude at the end of a day, The Fixer silently admitted that he got an almost sexual pleasure from wielding such a powerful sword. He was a champion facilitator — he made things happen. Losing that supremacy was something that he feared perhaps more than death itself. He had always expected that one day the party would end; it was something for which he had carefully planned. There was a private jet on standby, and he had sufficient resources to ensure a long and happy retirement. Nonetheless, if he was being honest with himself, the prospect of living a life without such unlimited power was something that chilled him to the bone.
On top of the creeping fear of some unknown hackers exposing the Wrecking Crew, he was starting to suspect that he had lost one of his best resources — The Chameleon. He had called Chameleon in the usual way, providing good information about the two new targets, and triggering the killer with his code word. By yesterday, The Fixer had expected to hear that both contracts had been completed successfully. Because the confirmation was overdue, and at least one target was definitely still alive, he had tried to contact Chameleon several times, but his calls all went unanswered.
In itself, this lack of communication was not suspicious. To complete a particularly difficult assignment, sometimes his assassin needed to remain out of contact for several weeks. Both of the current targets were simple, uncomplicated hits — something that Bunny and Kitten could probably have done. Yet Chameleon had failed to deliver. Something was very wrong, and now Chameleon was missing. The Fixer did not believe in co-incidence. A missing assassin combined with the report that Becka had just delivered, made The Fixer wonder if the party would be over sooner than he had expected. Something had to be done. He needed information quickly, and he needed eyes on the target. What he needed was surveillance. He strode across the room, threw open the door and shouted loudly for Peter White.
NINE
Stone and Carter stood side-by-side staring in disbelief at the contents of the Mercedes trunk space. A young woman lay curled up on a tartan blanket. She was a petite red head, wearing a ridiculously tight white party dress, platform shoes and, quite obviously, very little else. There was a black gag tightly knotted across her mouth, and her hands and feet were secured together with cable ties that were almost obscured by red ribbon gift-wrapping bows. She was panting hard and staring at the two men with wide terrified eyes.