Op File Treason Read online

  “More stew?”

  “Yes please.”

  ***

  After lunch and a tour of The Talon, Diosa caught the lift to the observation deck. As she crossed the deck towards the main lift, two men turned from where they peered out of the observation window. Casually, they followed her to the doors of the main lift.

  “Good afternoon,” Diosa greeted them.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” one responded and immediately Diosa had a regret.

  She’d left her room without weapons. After all, why would she need them on Orbital Station as an inspector for Navel Movement Command?

  Before Diosa could step away, the doors opened and the men charged. Driving her through the opening seemingly in an attempted to slam her into the back of the lift’s car. But Warlock was a Striker Command hand-to-hand combat instructor and didn’t shove easily.

  Spinning around on their out stretched hands as they bulldozed her, Warlock grabbed the collars of their shirts and dropped onto her back. Pulling the men downward, she jammed her feet into their hips and vaulted them over her head. They collided with the back of the lift car.

  One scrambled, crawling to the open doors in an attempt to prevent their victim from escaping. She laughed. He expected her to retreat. But she had eyes only for the knife in the other man’s hand. A boot stomp broke the wrist and the knife fell from his spasming fingers. With the other foot she delivered a low round house kick to the injured man’s temple.

  The other assailant glanced out the closing doors to be sure no one had seen the scuffle. He rose up turning, prepared to…

  Spurting in a red wave, blood from his throat coated Warlock, the injured man, and the inside of the car. Warlock finished the slash, pivoted around, and looked at the other man. Seeing him unconscious on the floor, she typed on her PID.

  ‘Poet. Had trouble on the main lift. Need clean up and somewhere to interrogate the living one.’

  ‘How many are unavailable for interrogation?’

  ‘One. But he died ugly,’ Warlock responded as she eyed the bloody inside of the car.

  There was a delay before Walden answered.

  ‘I’ve locked down the lift for maintenance inspection. Sending you to a storage deck. Second door on your right,’ Walden sent. ‘I’ll bring you clean clothing. You’ve got an hour before the agency clean-up crew arrives to take charge of the body.’

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Warlock reminded Walden.

  ‘Repeat. To take charge of the body. You’ve got an hour then everything goes into the incinerator. Living or dead,’ Poet typed. ‘Unrestricted Agents can’t interact with Station security or leave a trail to be investigated. One hour.’

  The car began to rise as a realization came to Warlock. Secret agents don’t capture prisoners and hand them off to military intelligence or perp walk them to security. Her stomach knotted as the lift stopped and the doors opened on a dimly lit corridor.

  Chapter – 7 The Nature of Your Beast

  “Who sent you?” Diosa asked while tapping the man’s cheek.

  Disoriented from the head kick and the pain in his wrist, the man stared with unfocused eyes at the woman.

  “You seemed confused. Let me help you. Your team lost and your partner is dead,” Warlock said softly as if it was a friendly conversation. “My name is Warlock. What’s yours?”

  “Drake. What happened?” he inquired. “My wrist hurts.”

  “Sorry about that Drake but I needed the knife,” Warlock explained. “Now, why did you attack me. I mean really, a girl alone in a lift car. Sounds like pervert stuff. Are you a pervert Drake?”

  “What? No. Just rough you up and tell you to leave the Master of Transit personnel alone,” he said.

  “Oh gosh, I guess I over reacted,” Warlock suggested. “Tell me who sent you so I can apologize to them personally.”

  His breathing increased and sweat poured from his forehead. Warlock didn’t need her sensor to tell Drake was nervous. When he didn’t reply, she lifted the knife and waved it in front of his face.

  “You know what they say about choosing the size of the knife you carry?” Warlock asked him.

  “No. What?” Drake inquired.

  “It depends on how much blade you want to get stabbed with,” she replied as she tenderly pried his injured wrist free of his other hand. “Save me the trouble of doing a demonstration and give me a name.”

  Between the knife, a hand’s width from his nose, and his wrist in her other hand, he closed his eyes and waited for the pain. When nothing happened, he opened one eye and peered at the woman. She squatted in front of him with an inquisitive expression on her face.

  “Oh Drake, you just answered a question I had,” Warlock explained. “If our roles were reversed, you wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me, would you?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t,” he assured her. Warlock knew better because Drake’s vitals spiked at the lie. Then he flinched back as the blade’s tip snapped forward. It never reached his eye but the pressure bending back his broken wrist elicited a response. He screamed.

  “Let’s start over. I’m a Marine and I’d rather kill you outright, than hurt you over and over again,” Warlock advised when he ceased yelling. “It goes against my character. Do you understand the difference?”

  “I think so,” confessed Drake. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

  “See there, you are a smart boy. Now save me from going against my better nature and tell me who sent you,” Warlock suggested. “And this will be over before you know it.”

  Drake opened his eyes wide, looked passed the blade, and into Warlock’s face. Something there made him relax.

  “Klaas Luger. Klaas sent us to get you to back off,” explained Drake.

  “But why? Inspectors only care about the safety of ships,” replied Warlock.

  “A commission from a client,” Drake replied. “Before you ask, I don’t know who it is.”

  “One more question. Where can I fine Mr. Luger,” inquired Warlock lowering the blade. “I still need to apologize to him.”

  “He owns the Red Witch,” replied Drake with a lopsided grin. “You’ll find him at the Witch conducting business. It’ll be fun watching you deal with him or rather how he deals with you. Now let me go.”

  Warlock wanted to release the man. Or, give him the knife and let him fight for his survival. The first wasn’t an option. And hand-to-hand combat, with all the wrenching and twisting, would be too painful for him. And finally, the idea of leaving him alive, just to be thrown into an incinerator, made her cringe.

  “Drake, I appreciate your help,” she whispered. Then she drove the knife up. It entered behind his chin and sliced through his neck and mouth. When the blade entered his brain, he died without pain or realizing the end was coming. “As I promised, it’s over before you knew it.”

  The door opened behind her and she jumped to the side and braced herself. Walden poked his head around the frame.

  “Friend coming in,” he announced moving cautiously over the threshold. “I’ve brought clean clothing and damp rags. From the look of you, they’re needed.”

  Walden came in, hung a clothing bag on the corner of a storage rack and unfolded a damp rag. Warlock allowed Poet to wipe the blood off her face, hands and spots in her hair.

  “You seem very efficient in dealing with this situation,” Warlock ventured.

  “Thank you, I’m winging it to an extent. Turn around,” he ordered reaching up to hold a segment of her hair while he scrubbed it clean of blood. “My last agent didn’t get so up close and personal with his work. But he didn’t wear a skirt and he was a jerk.”

  “Are you nervous?” inquired Warlock as Poet finished and stepped back.

  “Consider the body with the knife through his soft palate, impaling his brain?” he stammered while pointing at the protruding hilt and handle. “It’s a little beyond me. A sight I can’t un-see.”

  “Then go back to The Talon and get me information on Klaa
s Luger,” suggested Warlock.

  “An excellent idea,” Walden said as he backed towards the door. “Leave everything for our clean-up regulators. They’ll haul everything to the incinerator. I’ll message you later.”

  Once her pilot was gone, Warlock unzipped the clothing bag. In the bottom were a pair of combat black boots and, to her relief, weapons. She strapped on and fitted the knife to her left hip and the telescoping baton to her right hip. Then she set the shoulder holster and the pistol aside. Pulling out a black leather maxi skirt, she was pleased to see Velcro strips in pleats giving her access to her weapons. Someone had analyzed her garments from when she investigated the murder of Empress Troops at the POW compound. Again, she wondered at the confidence the agency had in recruiting her.

  The loose jacket easily covered the pistol and the bulges from the baton and the combat knife. Dressed in clean clothing and armed, Warlock left the storage room and headed for the lift and the lounge deck.

  ***

  Fast food restaurants and coffee shops were dispersed around the inner circle of the observation deck. Between the mundane businesses, elaborately themed entrances to lounges and clubs invited Station workers to come and sample a wide variety of entertainment experiences.

  Warlock exited the main lift at the observation deck and walked the circuit until she located The Red Witch. Next door, she entered a coffee shop and purchased a cup of java. Halfway between the observation windows and the entrance to the nightclub she selected a table, sat, sipped and waited for intel from Walden.

  Analyzing the area of operation, Diosa realized the public entrances were inadequate for resupplying the businesses. There must be service lifts and rear doors closer to the core for the task. As the nightclub was closed during the afternoon, her entry needed to be from the service entrance.

  ‘Klaas Luger should be in prison,’ Walden sent. ‘Long record of arrests but no convictions. Witnesses have disappeared or refused to testify. Charges include trafficking in prostitution, drugs, gambling, money laundering, and just being a menace to the public. The last is my observation. He owns The Red Witch and five other establishments. Klaas is a dangerous man. Known to travel with two bodyguards, both former combat Marines. Warlock, be careful.’

  ‘Going to talk, not fight,’ she assured him in a return message.

  ‘Recent history dictates otherwise. Both Klaas’ and yours,’ Walden responded.

  Warlock thumbed her PID, selected a new job title and headed for a door marked ‘authorized personnel only’. A swipe over the reader and it popped open. She stepped over the threshold and strolled down a long unadorned hallway.

  The hallway ended at an open space close to the core. Beyond the curved bulkhead, the main air shaft, service lifts, and utilities servicing Orbital Station ran from the top deck down to the flight hangers. Four entrances from the hallway’s exit, she located the rear door of The Red Witch.

  “We are closed, lady,” a man stocking shelves grunted out.

  “Health Inspector. Is the owner here?” Diosa inquired announcing her assumed title.

  “No. But the manager is at the bar,” the man replied pointing at a short hallway on the far side of a small kitchen.

  Diosa pulled off her eye goggle and stuffed it in a jacket pocket as she headed in the specified direction. From the stark storage area and the well-lit kitchen, Diosa pushed through the door and stepped into The Red Witch.

  Long strips of green and black cloth lined the walls. They waved in a gentle breeze making the bulkheads ripple. There were two reasons for the cloth. One was ambience. The other assured patrons of a steady air flow in the nightclub, an important item for residents of any Station. Behind the bar, neon lights outlined a witch on a broom.

  Diosa walked to the bar where a man with his back to her bent over an open case. He didn’t hear her approach. Looking down at the drink menu she read a few of the Red Witch’s specialties. One Eyed Goat, it made her chuckle as she only had one eye. Eye of Newt, Alchemy, Talisman Toddy, The Toad, Hemlock, Scale of Dragon and, the one that made her gag, Blind Warm.

  “And they’re all served in our custom glasses,” the man explained when he turned around to find an attractive woman standing at the bar reading the menu. Behind him on glass shelves were skull shaped glasses, little cauldrons and root shaped mugs made of ceramics. “We’re not open for another hour but if you come back, I’ll fix you one on the house.”

  “The theme is interesting but it looks pretty drab with all the green,” commented Diosa. “I thought it would be more eccentric.”

  “It’s early, but why not?” he said. Reaching behind the bar, he opened a metal box mounted on the wall and pulled a button. The lights dimmed until he threw a switch. Then the green behind the bar and the green cloth on the walls all turned red. The mugs and glasses on the glass shelves all glowed different florescent colors. “Look behind you.”

  Diosa spun around. The floor and all the tables and chairs glowed with stars and pentagrams. On the walls, the green and black cloths now waved in shades of red and shiny black. Glancing up at the light bars causing the shapes to be revealed and the colors to glow, her sensor sent a shock to her neural interface. It traveled over her optic nerve and the stimuli exploded in her brain. Then her mind shut down and Warlock didn’t feel the impact when she crashed to the floor.

  Chapter – 8 Klaas Luger

  “I’m sorry Mr. Luger. I turned around and she was there,” the manager’s voice drifted to Diosa’s ears. “The next thing I knew, she collapsed on the floor. We were so close to opening, I didn’t want to disturb our early guests. So, I brought her to your office. Her pulse was strong and her breathing regular. You want me to call the medical deck?”

  “No. Get back to the club. I’ll have one of the leathernecks call if she doesn’t come around soon,” Klaas ordered. Then in the other direction, he instructed. “Check her PID. Find her name and see if she has a medical condition. And remove the pistol. I don’t fancy getting shot by a partially conscious party girl.”

  A hand grabbed her PID while another hand slid the pistol from the holster. With awareness returning, Diosa waited for them to search her and take the combat knife and the baton. When they didn’t, she opened her eyes.

  The bright office light hurt and she squinted.

  “I see our Princess is awake,” Luger announced. “How are you feeling?”

  “Her name is Diosa Alberich,” a voice off to her right stated.

  “I know that name,” added a voice from her left. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Shut up. You’re paid for muscle not for your opinion,” Luger scolded. “But I know the name. This must be my lucky day. I have a client who hired me to mess her up and warn her off. Diosa Alberich, right here in my office. How convenient.”

  Diosa pressed her hands into the cushions of a couch and sat up. She let her hands drop down by the sides of her thighs. Raising her head, she saw a fat man in a loud suit standing in front of a chair. A glass coffee table was the only thing separating them. Quick glances to her left and right and she caught views of two beefy men.

  Probably Klaas Luger’s bodyguards, she thought.

  “I heard you wanted to speak with me, Mr. Luger,” Diosa offered in an innocent voice. Her tone was passive but her thumbs separated the Velcro strips in the creases of her skirt. While her fingers reached through the skirt, she said softly, “I’m here, let’s talk.”

  “That’s not how it works Alberich,” explained Luger. “I call some associates and they have a talk with you. I collect a fee and after you’re released from the medical deck, you leave Orbital Station. That’s how it works.”

  “It seems so cold and impersonal,” replied Diosa as she unsnapped the blade and baton. “Couldn’t we work something out? How about you give me the name of your client. I’ll go speak to him and straighten this out.”

  Luger laughed so hard, spit rolled out of his mouth and his belly shook.

  “You don’t rise
to my position without scruples,” Luger boasted. “I’m a man of my word. An agreement is an agreement and I gave my word. Besides, I already collected the Pesetas. Sorry, negotiations are closed.”

  “That’s a real shame,” Diosa said as she pulled the knife and baton from their sheaths. “I had planned to disprove Poet.”

  “Who is Poet? And what’s this disprove stuff?” asked Luger.

  “Alberich. Diosa,” exclaimed the bodyguard on her left.

  “What are you going on about?” demanded Luger. “Shut up while I’m talking.”

  “Master Sergeant Diosa Alberich!” the bodyguard shouted. “It’s frigging Warlock!”

  “It’s what?” Klaas growled.

  “Step away, boss,” the bodyguard screamed as he dove towards the couch. But Warlock wasn’t sitting there any longer.

  At the recognition, Warlock slid the weapons from the slits in her skirt. Pushing off with one leg, she slammed the other foot on the table top and launched herself at Klaas Luger. In midair, she locked her right arm around his neck and used the anchor point to swing her body around and behind the fat crime boss. Although Luger was probably twice Warlock’s weight, he jerked back from the momentum and pressure.

  The chair tipped as Warlock slammed her feet into its back. Tipping over, the seat smacked Luger on his broad butt. Combined with the force from Warlock’s weight and the leverage from the chair, Klaas was lifted off his feet and propelled backwards. He might have landed on his back but Diosa released his neck, grabbed his hamstring and pulled. The additional pressure accelerated his fall and he tumbled over, landing face down on the carpet.

  Warlock leaped on his back and pulled his hair forcing him to his knees. With an arm back around his neck, she looked at the bodyguards.

  “Marines, halt!” Diosa ordered in her command voice. “I don’t know your retirement plan but if you go for your guns, your boss won’t be here to sign the checks.”

  One bodyguard was half raised from the couch and the other had stepped forward as his boss disappeared behind the overturned chair. Neither had gone for their pistols.