WithJobComesFreeLobsterRollBoston is a town that understands the Irish well. It's not the streets of home, but there are plenty of neighborhoods here where Fallon can almost close his eyes and imagine that he is standing on a street in Belfast. Sure, the Americans here are obsessed with the gridiron game they wrongly call football, and getting good beer here is sometimes a challenge -- Mr. Samuel Adams has nothing on the Guinness family, but at least there is a variety of food not found back in the homeland. Like lobster rolls. Whoever it was that invented the idea of chilled lobster salad on a hot dog roll, Irish or otherwise, it's still tasty. It's not much for warmth on an April day by the shore, though, the site where Fallon has come for a potential job. Two large bites from finishing off the roll, standing on the quiet seashore boardwalk, Fallon turns preternaturally to see a group of large men approaching him and the lobster roll stand, dressed in black business suits and sunglasses. The latter are really an outré touch on an overcast day. “Mr Joyce, I presume?” one of these men, the one that is closest to Fallon, calls, some few yards away from where he stands. Fallon holds his hand up for a moment and quickly finishes off his lobster roll, wipes his hands on his napkin and chews for a minute. He then responds with a slight Irish accent. "Sorry, can't let a good lobster roll go to waste. Only thing better is a Chicago-style chili cheese dog, but seafood sometimes reminds me of home." Fallon glances at the other men, behind the one speaking to him. "So, what I can I do for you blokes?" His eyes take them all in, sizing them up. "Mr. Liam Joyce," the bald man who spoke earlier speaks again. "As we explained briefly in our phone message, we represent an employer that is aware of your skills and history and is looking to secure a contract for your services. Our employer is fond of the Old Country, and would prefer to use somebody from there for such business. And it is said you have a talent for these matters. The firm is looking to use you in future ... matters, but wants to try out your services on a small matter first." Liam is aware enough to perceive that the five men (except the bald man, who is unarmed) are trying to hide their pistols, but they did not hide them well enough to avoid him noticing them. Breast pockets of their suits in each case, all but one of the men has it on the left side. "We need somebody flushed out of their rabbit hole that needs to own up to what he's done," the spokesman continues. "Are you interested, Mr. Joyce?" Fallon watches the bald man for a moment, looking at his face, but keeping part of his attention on the other men. He smiles slightly to himself and responds. "Favors the old country does he," Fallon's Irish brogue thickens slightly. "I'm intrigued by the offer, but certain niceties need to be worked out, if you follow my drift." "I am not sure I do," the man replies. He is poker-faced. "Niceties, Mr. Joyce?" "Hey, Lafferty, I think he means the weaponry," one of the other men pipes up. The bald man, Lafferty, shoots him a disapproving look and then turns back to look at Fallon. "Surely, you understand our need for protection, especially in the rough and tumble rum world we live in." Fallon's eyes glance over the water, his body shifting slightly to take it in; as he shifts his hand brushes the concealed hip holstered Glock, as if reassuring him it's still there, and then his gaze centers back on the bald man, but keeping the five armed men in view. Fallon's voice lowers slightly, the brogue softening as well. "Well, now, I'm used to dealing with armed men, Mr. Lafferty. That's neither here, nor there." Fallon's eyes gaze intensely at Lafferty. "I was referring to matters of value in trade and of exchanges for services. Is that clearer?" "I begin to see, Mister Joyce," Lafferty says. "A token of our goodwill. A retainer, if you will, to keep you interested in this." He gives a nod to one of the men, who slowly and carefully reaches into a breast pocket, and pulls out a brown envelope. "Five thousand Euros, cash. For coming to talk about our offer, Mister Joyce," Lafferty says, taking the envelope from the man and holding it in Fallon's direction. Fallon's eyes take in the envelope, but he continues to watch the men. "Now you be speaking my language, Mr. Lafferty, I'm definitely intrigued." Fallon shifts partially sideways, his left hand reaching for the envelope and his right arm away from them, prepared to draw in case this goes south. The men around Lafferty are tense and nervous but no one reaches for a weapon as the transfer of the money is made. Inside the envelope, are several dozen green hundred euro notes. "You can count them here and now if that puts your mind at ease, Mr. Joyce," Lafferty says. "Or look at them to make sure they're authentic. Neither I or our employer would consider that an insult, since we've not done business as yet." Fallon takes a careful look around the pier, opens the envelope, and ruffles a finger through the notes, giving them the once-over; then he quickly places the envelope in his inner jacket pocket. Lafferty gives a satisfied nod as Fallon checks and pockets the retainer. His eyes go back to taking in the six of them. "When and where, Mr. Lafferty?" "Your prospective employer has an office in the Flour and Grain Exchange Building, next to the Custom house tower. 3rd floor, office 312. Say, tomorrow at noon, Mr. Joyce?" "I'll be there, Mr. Lafferty." Fallon then steps back and walks away. He takes his time walking away from the pier and heads two blocks over to a taxi stand. (Not the closest one.) He drops to one knee and pretends to fix his shoelace while he surreptitiously looks for tails. Seeing no one following him, Fallon takes a taxi to a corner four blocks from his bar, and takes his time heading to the place, making sure he hasn't been followed. He steps in the front door, nods to Reilly, the bartender, and steps up to the bar. "Aye, Reilly. Can I borrow your laptop and can you send Bridgette back with a pint of Smithwicks and a double Jamesons?" Reilly nods and hands Fallon the laptop from below the bar. Fallon sits in his booth and begins researching the Flour and Grain Exchange Building - planning a reconnaissance of the location tonight before he heads to the meeting tomorrow. Over his drinks, looking at the laptop, Fallon finds lots of pictures of the Flour and Grain Exchange Building. A pink castle-like building with a pyramidal roof, the building is about a century old, seven stories tall, and sits at the junction of Milk and John Fitzgerald Surface Road. If Fallon needs to bail, there are plenty of directions and routes that he might run, if he were so inclined. Fallon tosses back his Jamesons and downs his Smithwicks, picks up the laptop after erasing his history and returns it to Reilly. "I'll be around later." Fallon steps out and walks to his appartment, again making sure he isn't followed. Fallon checks his door for the hair he left across the crack and finding it, opens the door, locks it, does a once-over of the apartment and then grabs a banana off the counter, eating it as he goes about his business. He then crashes for a few hours. --- In the evening, Fallon steps out into the street, flags down a cab and heads to the area surrounding the Flour and Grain Exchange Building. He walks it and checks the area, finds a pub or coffee shop to sit in and observes the building from the window, drinking some tea. There are a couple of establishments surrounding the Flour and Grain Exchange building. One of them, the Bean and Leaf, has some overpriced food on the menu, but the view of the building is the best of the several options Fallon has to observe and watch matters. Ten minutes before noon, Fallon sees a familiar figure, Lafferty, cross the street and head into the building. Fallon takes a last sip of his tea, stands up, drops a fiver on the table for tip, and steps out onto the sidewalk. He stops, rolling his neck and stretching his shoulders to wake himself up. After a quick glance around for observers, he crosses the street, following Lafferty into the Exchange. Fallon is pretty confident that no one is watching him as he crosses the street and enters the lobby of the Exchange itself. Once he is inside, his preternatural ability to pick people out shows that one of the people sitting in the lobby, a youngish man, maybe 25, is studying him more than the smartphone he is ostensibly playing with. And, as it so happens, Lafferty is standing at a bank of old-time elevators, waiting with a frown on his face. He turns to look at Fallon's entrance. "Ah, Mr. Joyce. So good that you are here," he says. "I might suggest the stairs if neither of us wishes to be late." Fallon nods. As they head to the stairs, Fallon remarks, "Is the lad with the smart phone in the lobby yours?" "You have a good eyes, Mr. Joyce," Lafferty says. "My employer, and your prospective employer, feels it is a good idea to have an eye on the comings and goings of people in the building. Wouldn't you think that a wise strategy?" "Aye," Fallon acknowledges. The staircase is relatively narrow but Lafferty leads Fallon up two flights to the third floor, and down a corridor lined with frosted-window offices, until he reaches 312. "Ireland Consulting Services" is the name of the company emblazoned on the door, and Lafferty knocks once before opening it and leading Fallon inside. The entire area beyond the door is an executive office, with a leather-backed chair behind a large, boomerang-shaped desk, the chair and its occuapnt facing away from the door. "Welcome, Mr. Joyce," the occupant says as the chair smoothly turns around. The voice is a dead giveaway before the chair turns around. It's not a man at all, but a red-haired middle aged woman. "Or do you prefer the name Fallon?" she says, steepling her fingers. Fallon pauses, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side; it is the only sign that he is slightly thrown by this revelation. He quickly recovers. "Fallon will do ma'am, Mr. Joyce is not a name I need thrown around lightly, too many people might take an interest." Fallon watches her eyes for a long moment and then continues. "How may I be of service, ma'am?" "Lafferty." "Yes ma'am?" Lafferty says. "Go take a walk to Boston Common. Now." Lafferty only hesitates a fraction of a moment. "Yes ma'am." He gives a nod to her, a tip of the head to Fallon, and then heads out of the office. It's a good thirty second before the woman speaks again. "Now, Fallon. My name is Aislinn Regan. I am sure Lafferty spoke elliptically about what I need done, and I did pay you five thousand euros to sit in that chair there." Her Irish accent sounds old world and authentic. "There are people in this world who aren't the same as ordinary folk, Fallon. I'm not talking about the rich, I am talking about people who are just a little bit ... different. These people often think they are above consequences, too, because they are different. Stronger, smarter, faster. "One of these special people has been hiding in South Boston, avoiding the repayment of some rather large favours he owes me. I need someone who can bring him to me. Someone with skills to match him. Someone like you, Fallon." Fallon looks at the chair and then at Ms. Regan for a long moment, then he sits down. "Are you certain it's me you want, ma'am? My specialty doesn't lend itself to retrieval." Fallon pauses for a moment as if searching for the perfect word. "Removal is more my area of expertise." Fallon shifts forward in the chair. "When you say different, you don't mean special training?" "I do not mean special training," Regan says. "Although he has training as well. There are people who are extraordinarily blessed with special gifts. Training enhances and makes use of these gifts, but those gifts are there even without it. "As far as choosing you, Fallon, sometimes one must use the tools at hand. I know of few people here in Boston as enhanced as Mr. Jacobi and yourself, and to send a mortal to face Jacobi would be worse than futile." Fallon's eyes close as he ponders what he's just heard. "You have a file on Mr. Jacobi? I'll need to know the target." He pauses for a moment. "You want him alive, I'm assuming." Fallon looks at Ms. Regan as he says this last. "I do have a file on him, if you are going to accept the contract," Regan says. She drums a few fingers on the curved desk, making a rat-a-tat sound. "I've already taken the liberty of making a copy of that file for your use. "I do not think he should die for his sins," Regan continues. "I think you would find it difficult to kill him, even so, and the attempt would earn you Jacobi's lasting enmity. You are not being paid enough to gain that distinction." She smiles thinly. Fallon smirks at that. "And that brings us to the very next question I'd be havin', how much will I be compensated?" "Let's consider your talking to me a retainer of 10% of your total fee. So, another 45 thousand Euros," Regan says. "I suspect that you exercising your talents against such a target as Jacobi will be a side benefit to taking this job. You might even discover a thing or two about yourself that you did not know. "Shall we sign a contract and give you a copy of the file, Fallon?" she adds with a smile. Fallon's face takes on a slight frown. "I don't like contracts, they leave records and records make paper trails, and ... evidence. I'm not much for leavin' evidence. I will, however shake your hand on it, if that will do. If not, no hard feelings and I'm sorry for wasting your time." Fallon stands and puts his hand out over the desk towards her, waiting patiently. "Shake my hand?" Regan looks at Fallon curiously. "Perhaps I have had a foot in another world for too long," she says in a tone of self-reproach. "I offered a contract to avoid some of the ..." She pauses a moment, "Difficulties. If you wish to shake my hand ..." She rises from the desk and offers her hand. "We certainly can formalize the agreement this way." Fallon takes her hand and firmly shakes it. There is a brief tingle as he does so, like touching a doorknob after being charged with static electricity. "To business then, so, what can you tell me about Jacobi? You have done business with him in the past? Any insight before I look at the file?" He pauses for a moment. "Speaking of the file?" Regan rises, opens a cabinet and pulls out a large manila folder and sets it down. "Yes, I've done business with Archie Jacobi for decades. It is almost a pattern, between him and I, that we have these bouts where he tests the boundaries of our contracts and agreements. Why, once upon a time, he even did a number of jobs for me similar to the one you are doing for me now - to deal with a not so young woman with the same sort of special inheritance the two of you have who thought too little of our business arrangement. "He may try to tempt you to abandon the commission," Regan says to Fallon. "His tongue is as dangerous as anything else he might wield." Fallon responds as he looks at the large manila folder. "I don't tend to get into conversations with targets, but I'll take that into account." The folder has pictures of an older man with white-blond hair in a variety of covert-looking shots, ranging from him leaving a Boston brewery to strolling along a beach. All of them look like telephoto lens work. There are some documents in the dossier on known hangouts and residences that Jacobi has employed, and a list of known contacts as well. With this information, Fallon has any number of leads to start with, depending on his preference. Fallon pauses thoughtfully for a moment. "What happened to the young woman in question?" "In that incident?" Regan smiles. "She eventually repaid her debt. Unfortunately, some years later she drew the attention of ..." she pauses a moment and gives Fallon a dead serious look. "A monster. That monster slew her. The police ruled it an act of random gang violence in New York City, but I know better. It was a Terileptil." Fallon's head slowly comes up, he cocks it to the right side and looks at her. "Really, one of those reptilian aliens from Dr. Who?" He pauses for a moment. "You're kidding, right?" "No," Regan says, the seriousness of her tone unmistakable. After leaving the office, Fallon begins reconnoitering the known haunts of Jacobi. He offers a hundred bucks to a few of his street contacts to call him if they see him. He gives out a new prepaid cell number and keeps it on him. With the inkling of a plan, he begins putting his kit together. He heads to a hardware store and picks up some duck tape and heavy-duty cable ties. He calls his weapon supplier, Gregor, putting in an order for a Mossberg Hushpower Kit and a Mossburg Pump 12 Gauge with a pistol grip stock, along with some Beanbag rounds and Taser XREP rounds. Luck is with him; instead of getting the gun and ammo in a week, as would be the normal, Gregor can get the items tomorrow for Fallon. "Just happened to be talking with a dealer about the Mossberg, looking to put it in stock," he explains at one point. "You're going to get the first of them." Fallon also studies the file on Jacobi to get a feel for him and his habits. He also adds a Taser X3 Triple Shot, a couple of back up 21-foot Taser cartridges and a hand-held stun gun to his arsenal. Jacobi in the past has does a lot of traveling on behalf of his clients. The fact that these trips are often to Switzerland, or the Cayman Islands, starts to paint a picture that he handles financial transactions, mainly. His contacts also tell Fallon that there is a bit of diplomacy to his work, keeping the police turned away from some clients' less than legal operations. He's a fixer, and very well connected that way. But now he has been refusing commissions and only undertaking the bare minimum of previous contracts. He is holing up, or at the very least reducing his exposure. He's cut back on his usual vices, the only really notable one that he still undertakes is a weekly drive down to Mystic, Connecticut. Word on the street is that he has a yen for the pizza there. But the trips to the illegal gambling dens? The flights to Monaco? He's stopped those, and the street is getting nervous as to why. All sorts of rumors are being floated. So, Fallon finds out when his next trip to Mystic, Connecticut, is, figure out what routes he can take, and set up an ambush. He waits for confirmation from his contacts first and then rents a car and drives down there. Two days later, Fallon discovers that the next trip for his mark is going to be that coming weekend. As the weekend approaches, his contacts confirm that Jacobi is definitely going to take a trip to Connecticut, if for no other reason than to "clear his head." He has a few routes to get to Mystic, but they do converge after a while. Finding a spot outside of town or within town is a trivial task for Fallon. He follows up with his contacts on where Jacobi goes when in Mystic. He drives down there and gets to Mystic, a couple of days before Jacobi, and scouts out the routes to and from those places, searching for a secluded and quiet ambush point. Fallon takes a shot from cover at the tire, and hits it. The car tire blows. Jacobi rolls the car to a stop on the side of the road. Warily, he gets out to inspect the situation. Now, Fallon gets his shot in with the beanbag and hits him at full strength. It's a good enough shot, given Fallon's skill, that he nearly knocks Jacobi out with one shot. Jacobi twists his ankle as he is hit, stumbling to the ground as he pulls out a small pistol. He fires in Fallon's direction, but the shot goes wide. Now, the car is stopped, Jacobi is on the ground, with a twisted ankle, but with a pistol. Since this is a secluded area, no one has twigged to the fact there is a gun battle in play as yet. Fallon fires the taser round at Jacobi, moving in on him, but to Jacobi's left so that he has to track his gun across his body to fire at him. Fallon never takes his eyes off his target, he listens for any disturbances in the area, but his gaze never leaves Jacobi. The tazer shot hits Jacobi square in the chest. He takes the injury and goes down, falling unconscious. Fallon meets no resistance in binding and getting Jacobi into the trunk of the car. As per his plan, he is soon driving north back toward Boston and his delivery for Regan. However, just as he crosses the Rhode Island-Massachusetts border, Fallon hears a voice ... a voice in his head. "Can we stop and talk?" Fallon pulls over into a secluded rest area and closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to relax. He then opens them and says "Why?" His face stone calm, he looks over the secluded area as he pulls out and checks his Taser. He waits calmly for a response. The mental voice comes again. "Why?" the voice says. "The why is that for you to have caught me, you clearly are the same nature as I am. And I would talk to you before you possibly make a mistake or lose an opportunity. "Or do you trust the witch to have told you the entire truth? She sent you, didn't she?" Fallon listens for a long moment to the silence outside of his head, thinking. Then Fallon queries the voice in his head, "Who might 'she' be, Archie?" "That witch. Regan. Anubis's daughter. "I suppose the fact that she's the daughter of a God too is one of those details she didn't care to mention, did she?" Fallon looks out his car window, he brings his fingers up to his eyes and uses them to wipe his eyelids, as if to clear away sleep or stress. He takes a deep breath and then opens his eyes again. "Daughter of a god? The next thing you'll tell me is that you're the son of a god." Archie doesn't immediately answer. Fallon pauses for a moment, in thought. "Since I was brought up a good Catholic lad, I'm having some issues with the blasphemous elements of this conversation. "Not that I have a problem with someone being proclaimed the Son of God, although that's something I've had issues with in the past few decades." He closes his eyes and whispers as if to himself, but Archie hears. "With everything I've seen and some of the things I've done, I'm not sure if Man deserves to be saved, anymore." Fallon nods his head as if to pray, but shakes it off, and eyes himself wearily in the rear-view mirror. His aviator glasses hide his soul-weary eyes from himself. "When she spoke of specially skilled people, I thought she was selling me a line, Archie. The fact that you're speaking into my head is buying you some credibility, but don't push it. I'm not sure I'm buying what either of you is selling, but she's paying me to bring you back, Archie, and that buys her some loyalty." Fallon cocks his head, "listening" for Archie's response. "Money is a powerful way to ensure loyalty," Archie sends after a long moment. "I apologize, I didn't quite realize you were as unknowledgable about some things as you are. That's not your fault, of course. "Yes, I am a Scion, Archie, a child of a God. Just like Regan is." He pauses a moment and then continues. "And just like you, cousin." Fallon smiles a small, sad smile. "There's the hook: you too are a member of the children of the Gods." Fallon looks out the window into the empty rest area. "Sell me another one, Archie, because I'm not buyin.' Although I would like to know, what the 'Witch' as you called her, wants with you?" "Regan and I have had our fates entangled for years now. What she is particularly on me about right at this moment is a question that I don't have a good answer to. Some turn I have done her in the past, or the response to the response to a turn she did me? You might say that this is a game we play, but we're on the board as much as influencing other pieces. Although there is supposed brotherhood and sisterhood amongst the various gods and pantheons, there's plenty of rivalry, 'round. You know, get two gods of storms in each other's face, and you get a rivalry that goes down to their children. "Even if Regan and I are Princes of the Universe, and you, too, there's only so much room in this world, and all the worlds that touch it," Archie finishes. Fallon shakes his head, weary and angry. "So, now I've been dragged into the middle of your chess match within a chess match. What if I don't want to play?" Then Fallon frowns and continues. "If Regan is Abubis'" whoever the hell that is "daughter? then whose son are you?" "Whether you wish to play or not is unfortunately immaterial. You will be played, not only by fellow Scions, but titanspawn as well. As you grow and develop, they will be drawn to you, whether you will or no. And the threat seems to be growing, something that my father is concerned about. "Thus, to answer your question, I, Archie Jacobi, am the son of Mercury. Hermes, in the original Greek. I wager that even if you have not heard of Anubis, you have heard of my father." Fallon sighs one last time and starts the car. "It's time to carry on this discussion with Regan present. I want to get the rest of my money and then get some answers. Like, how the hell Regan found out about me, when I didn't even know. How the hell you can tell? And who else is out there?" Fallon is ready to drive away and then says. "I'd offer to let you out of the trunk, but I'd like Regan to believe we haven't spoken yet." Fallon pulls out onto the highway. (Continued in Revelations and Unmaskings) |
