Darkest Storm: Dusty Miller, #3

Chapter One

Calling the business Anti Stalker Services might not have been my best idea. Really I should have picked something with a better acronym. Stalker Assassination Services would have been ideal but it probably would have got me arrested.

I'd come into some money a while back, don't ask, and it had given me the freedom to only take the jobs I wanted regardless of whether the client could pay. Which a lot of them couldn't.

Stalkers are bullies. I've never been big on people who pick on those weaker than themselves. Although I'll help anyone who needs, it my preferred clients are women being stalked or victimised by men. Watching my alkie father knock my mother around for a large chunk of my childhood probably had something to do with it. He killed her in the end. I was too young and scared to save her. But I'm not that scared little boy any more.

The law was laughably ineffective in dealing with stalking and harassment. Years of austerity and underfunding had left the police gutted and bleeding, and the law wasn't on their side. The stalker pretty much had to almost kill their victim before they could do anything. Most victims would understandably prefer the problem dealt with sooner than that. Which was where I came in. The cops had to operate more or less within the law. The stalker could get hurt 'resisting arrest' if it came to it, but they couldn't kick the shit out of him as a deterrent, and if that didn't take they couldn't shoot him in the head with a scoped rifle. I was less constrained.

After the events of the previous year, I said don't ask, I'd moved out of the smoke up to North Three, the big conurbation that sat roughly where Milton Keynes had been before the riots a few years back. Since the police up here had never known me as a bank robbing killer for hire we'd had more chance to come to a rapprochement. Keep it on the down low, don't rub our faces in it, make sure you don't hurt any civilians, and you can do what you want was pretty much the strength of it.

The job I was doing that day looked to be reasonably easy and clean. I didn't even need a gun. I was sat in a little cafe in one of the old village centres North Three has subsumed, the fluffy kettle or some such. I had a little pewter pot of tea, a toasted teacake, a laptop and a free wifi connection. To the untrained eye I was clearly a writer, or a blogger or something like that. The only other customers were two old ladies sat behind me discussing gardening, and the occasional suit dropping in for hot coffee to go.

I was watching the waitress, Becky. She was a little cutie, her black hair pulled back in a braid, dark eyes flashing above a white toothed smile as she greeted customers, lips pink and inviting. Plump but curvy, watching her bustle about was no hardship. I kept telling myself that she was too young for me, but the truth of it was that I would have in heart beat, except that her face reminded me of someone. Seeing her looking at me from a pillow in the morning would have torn my heart out . Also trying to fuck the clients was hardly good business. So since my last friend with benefits took a job in Chile, I'd mostly stuck to one night stands interspersed with long bursts of celibacy.

Becky's problem stemmed from the fact that waitresses are expected to be friendly. They smile, they chat, they remember their regulars, may be they even flirt a little with the male customers. Most men can tell that it's business not personal, and even those that can't mostly take being told. Of course the occasional guy just won't take no for an answer until it's forcefully explained by someone like me.

I scanned the street beyond the cafe windows for a moment. Still no sign. Protection is a lot easier if you know who the threat is. In this case I was looking for a scruffy young man called Jase. He was a brickie's labourer and had made the mistake of thinking that manual trades made him a hard case. He was going to be disabused.

I looked back at the laptop, I was scanning a news piece about America. Since the dirty bombs a few years ago the States had been in the shit. Losing most of your government was a hard hit to take but electing a bunch of fascists in a knee jerk response wasn't the brightest idea either.

Flicking my eyes off the screen, I scanned around again. I caught Becky's glance and smiled. She smiled back but it didn't touch her eyes, the poor girl was terrified. I promised myself that Jase would either end the day in the cells, in a hospital ward, or if he really pissed me off, in the ground.

Back on the screen I kept scrolling. It seemed that since the Undesirables Act had passed last year, the Protect and Defend party had been busy locking up their opponents. Always in the name of national security of course. It wasn't a good place to be left wing, or coloured, or Muslim, or gay. In fact to be anything other than a white cis gendered male. I grimaced. I had friends out there.

The editorial let me know that opinionated journalists were also on the hit list. It was packed with far right justifications, they weren't persecuting homosexuals, they were curing them. The politically misguided were being educated to see the error of their ways. It was the spirit that had made America great. Yadda yadda yadda. Fucking idiots.

I closed the window and clicked across to a writer's site for my cover. There was a you-tuber I'd found. Jenna something or other. I'd never thought of writing a book. My past was too classified to be a memoir, but she was interesting, and very hot. Although again her big dark eyes would tear a hole in my soul if I watched too long.

I'd just started watching a video on love scenes, mostly because I wanted to hear her say 'cock' when the door opened and Jase swaggered in, complete with a ugly mouth breathing tattooed side kick. Talking of cocks. His arsehole mate took a table by the window, while Jase pimp rolled to the counter.

Alright darlin, he drawled at Becky, You got something hot and wet for me today ?

Can I help you ? The older woman behind the counter interceded, as I stood and moved round my table.

Not you, you ugly cow. yours'll be like an octopus that's been flayed against the.. Fuuuuck.

That was the moment when I rabbit punched him in the side of the neck, sending him to the floor. I snapped a knee cap into his face as he tried to rise, then turned to face tattoo boy as he scrabbled round his table and lunged at me.

I let him come, when he was six steps away I upturned a chair and booted it into his path. Moving too fast to stop he tangled his legs and crashed to the floor. I took a casual step forward and kicked him in the side of the head twice. Not hard enough to kill, but enough to stop him getting up for a while.

I turned back in time to see Jase coming back to a crouch, I got a good handful of his greasy lank hair and smashed his head against the side of the counter.

As he slumped on the floor, stunned, I reached out a hand and snagged the coffee pot off the hot plate. Staring into his eyes, I slowly poured boiling hot coffee over his groin. He screamed and clamped his hands between his legs.

Hot and wet enough for you ? I asked, as the old ladies at the back table applauded.

–

Half an hour later Jase and his mate had staggered off to the nearest casualty unit. I'd made it clear that they'd had a really unfortunate accident and that saying anything else would have immediate and fatal consequences. I'd also made it very clear to Jase that if he didn't leave Becky alone, next time I was going to tear off his scalded cock and balls and make him eat them.

I let Becky hug me her thanks, careful to step back before I showed the inevitable biological reaction to having an attractive woman in my arms. No need for thanks, I said. If you need me again, call.

As I moved to pack up my laptop, it chimed, incoming email. I span it round and clicked to open the list. One new message Marybeth1998@gmail.com. I clicked to open it Steve it started Aldo and Joe really need your help."

Chapter Two

BA Flight 174 levelled out at 38,000 feet, cruising at 480 knots. About nine hours to Atlanta . My wallet was still in shock from laying out a ball clenching £5,740 for a first class round trip ticket. I strongly doubted I'd be coming back this way, but for some stupid reason round trip was two grand cheaper than one way.

I had two reasons for taking the high road. One going First gave some semblance of privacy, and being British Airways it was less likely to be bugged or have its Wi-Fi monitored than an American flag carrier, or at least if it was, it would be by the British security services who probably wouldn't share their take with the yanks the way things were these days.

Secondly received wisdom suggests that if you're up to no good you don't want to draw attention to yourself. So you travel cattle class, you wear nondescript clothing, you eat the plastic airline food. Double bluff. Clearly the smart mid thirties businessman in the linen suit flying first and sipping Sancerre with his canapés couldn't be anything but the successful property trader he said he was. No problems, there's no one here but us yuppies.

I reclined my seat and tried to follow the soldiers adage, Sleep when you can, you don't know when you'll get another chance.

–

Dream fragments ripped across my sleeping mind.

"You want to live sir you'll learn and learn fast. Corporal Martinez speaks with a calm certainty. FNGs die, and officer FNGs take their whole unit with them."

Think being an exchange officer makes you special ? Not in my book, Sir.

Not that way sir, this way, then more quietly, fucking officers.

You'll do for me sir, you're not half as useless as most we see through here.

Jesus Christ there's so much blood, I cram another field dressing in to the gaping wound in his side and scream for a medic as gunfire roars around us. Tell... tell Maria... His voice fades to a whisper and what I'm to tell her is lost as Corporal Martinez's life dribbles away into the Afghan sand.

Maria standing in the rain, her dark hair wet and her eyes shining as the bugler plays taps, and the 21 gun salute is fired, as we say goodbye to a coffin full of concrete blocks. I'd never tell her but we couldn't get her older brother's body out. We were lucky to extract the living.

On the roof of the Empire State Maria nodding furiously, tears of joy in her eyes, as I kneel in front of her, holding her hand, the one with the ring.

Kissing her good bye as I leave for the Saudi desert, her lips soft on mine, her hands gripping my battle dress shirt.

Maria again in a hospital bed her skin like ancient parchment, blood weeping into the bedding as patches of it slough off, her hair falling out in clumps. Making me promise look after Aldo. Tears falling from my eyes like rain as hers close for the last time.. no , Maria.. MARIA"

–

My body snapped upright with a jerk, Jesus . Just a dream. Just the dream again. Mr Dawson ? Sir are you alright ? The first class stewardess knelt at my side, Mr Dawson ?

I struggled back to reality and pulled the leaver to raise my seat, before looking into her eyes, grateful that it was the blond one, Chloe, not her dark haired colleague. A deep shuddering breath as I reminded myself what identityI was using. Mark Dawson, 32, property developer and playboy. Get a fucking grip Dusty.

I'm fine Chloe, just a bad dream. I forced a smile. Maybe a drink would help ? Bourbon, rocks, thanks

–

The Georgia heat hit me like a punch in the face, about 25 degrees and climbing. Sticky with it too. Apparently arrivals, even first class business arrivals, didn't rate air conditioning. Under my lightweight suit I felt my shirt start to stick to my back.

Looking around I could see some major changes to Hartsfield Jackson airport from when I was last here. Instead of the sprawling check in station for all passengers in the main atrium , the international terminal now had lanes. Returning citizens to the left, Aliens to the right. I headed to the Aliens lane, suppressing the mental image of green tentacled space beings checking in.

The other change was in the atmosphere. Outbound airport security hadn't been fun and friendly anywhere since 9/11, but coming in from airside used to be all happy smiling staff welcoming you to the good ole USA and the fun happy state of Georgia. Not any more. Now you could taste the tension in the air. Unhappiness, Trouble. Black uniformed Federal Security officers met visitors with blank "don't fuck with me' stares, and M4 battle rifles.

I hoped those were loaded with frangible rounds, otherwise if they fired one in here we'd see bullets ripping straight through their intended target into civilians beyond. Of course rumour suggested that the FS didn't much care about small things like collateral damage.

Harshly worded notices on the walls warned of serious penalties for breaking even the smallest rule. Others told us that citizens of an ever growing list of countries were not welcome and if they had been silly enough to travel this far should report to the holding area for return transport to their points of departure. Welcome to 'the Land of the Free'

Fortunately Britain was still on the good guys list and as a first class passenger I was rapidly facing my designated bureaucrat. I gave him a happy open smile that hid my distaste as I imagined a swastika tattooed on his forehead.

Purpose of your visit to the United States ?

Business, I winked at him and nodded lecherously. Combined with a little pleasure

He ignored my attempt at levity. Nature of your business ?

I grinned and tried to look sleazy, which was depressingly easy. I represent a consortium which intends to make significant investment in America's new dawn of progress

I was worried that I might be over doing the hyperbole but he was nodding along like one of those dog toys you see in the back of cars. I understand that the possession of property from undesirable elements in your society offers many options for the adventurous investor. I'm the… ahh.. advance party to secure these opportunities for our consortium, the better to invest in your countries bright future.

I felt a strong desire for another shot of bourbon to mask the bitter taste of the words, but my fascist friend was nodding and smiling, and swiftly stamped my passport and waved me through to the baggage carousels.

–

Mustang GT350 convertible ? The cute red head on the car hire desk, her name tag said 'Carrie' smiled up at me, as her lacquered nails tapped on her keyboard. Yes sir we can do that, would you prefer midnight black, hot red, or silver ?

Oh I prefer red. I told her, definitely.

She tapped some more. All set up sir. $175 per day, open ended, with a $1500 damage deposit. May I see your driving licence please, and a credit or debit card .

I handed over a photo card drivers license, in the name that matched my passport rather than the one I was born with, a matching international permit and a corporate Amex black. Corporate is definitely the way to go on these things. I hoped that this trip would be easy, but if things went to shit and the car got totalled or dumped, there's no way the card would trace back to me, and since both my passport and my drivers licence were in the name Mark Dawson there were no worries there either.

As she handed the documents back her fingers touched mine and held for a second too long and her dancing green eyes held mine as she added a good choice Mr Dawson, you'll never regret some hot, red, action, and this model has both the power and endurance to meet all your needs

I'm counting on it, Carrie I told her, smiling as I added do you have a number I can call if I need assistance.

She licked her lips as she pulled a post it off her pad and scribbled on it. Call me anytime she said if you need anything, at all.

I grinned widely palming the post it into my shirt pocket and strolled out to the curb where a male hire assistant had just parked the 'stang and was loading luggage into the boot.

He flipped me the keys and gave me a wave as I slipped into the drivers seat and started the engine. I pressed gently on the gas, the engine purring as I eased the car out into the airport traffic system and headed for the exit. As the car hire centre faded in the rear view mirror, I pulled the post it from my shirt pocket and with a moment of regret balled it and flipped it out into the slipstream. My cover personality might be a womanising playboy, but for the real me there was a time and a place and this wasn't it. Plus if the wheels came off this little adventure I wouldn't want the luscious Carrie being asked all kinds of awkward questions by an FS goon squad.

–

Out on the I85 heading south west for the 'bama line, the purr of the engine rose to a growl, then a roar, and finally a howl as I pressed the gas to the floor and ran up smoothly through the gears, glad that I'd chosen a stick shift rather than the sluggish auto. Sure I was risking a ticket, but driving like a granny wouldn't be in keeping with my cover, and anyway it would be a crime not to see what this car could do.

With the needle touching 85 in the left lane I eased off. Clearly the car could do much more but driving over the tonne was hard on the reflexes so I'd save that for when it was really needed.

I mentally reviewed the email again as I drove. Bikers. A protection racket. Pay up or we denounce you to the FS as