FRANKCREED.COM

COMING IN 2012

Devil's Hitlist: Book Three of the UNDERGROUND

Read the excerpt below . . .

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My sister and I brought Barren and Legacy along for added security. e-girl felt more comfy with the additional sandmen, and she said that a happy hack was a good hack.

We wore the best clothes that mission’s storage room had, and approached the target like gentle folk.

Peacekeepers with assault rifles patrolled even the sidewalk outside and anyone who entered were subject to metal detectors, chemical sniffers, and solid mass scanners at the front doors. This was no problem as we had planned for the eventuality.

Both of our escorts wore twin machine pistols on shoulder slings that crossed their chests, so they kept their coats closed and hit the Starbucks next door to await our exit.

I, however, packed only pistols. The little black disc in my pocket foiled all detectors for anything as small as a pistol. At eight AM a suit with a large key ring unlocked the door, and I accompanied e-girl past security and into the huge seventeen floor atrium.

The inside of the James R. Thompson Center is an architectural marvel. The place is hollow in its broad middle with a sloping ramp that runs all around each floor. One in a wheelchair could roll all the way from the top to the bottom unless large circles made one dizzy on the way down. We avoided the chance of dizziness by taking an elevator to the fourth floor where lie the Cook County Hall of Records.

According to the usual bureaucratic operating procedure, one had to take a number—a little slip of paper that printed out from a big plastic spool.

We took a number. Then, even though we were first in line, we had to wait for our number to be called. We also took a seat.

“Now you’re certain he drinks coffee every morning?” I asked e-girl.

“Many cups of coffee. And a Danish,” she confirmed.

I handed her a small blue capsule “Then carry this. Keep it palmed. When I distract him, dump the powder inside into his coffee.”

She shrugged and sighed. “Yeah, sure.”

“Wow, you sure are cooperative today.”

“Because today’s plan is an easy in, easy out, and I have protection. You set up these kinds of Ops all the time and you’ll find me infinitely more cooperative.”

Ten minutes later, a stringy haired woman with large glasses said, “Number one.”

We approached the counter. “Good morning, sunshine,” I greeted her, adjusting the collar of my Polo shirt inside my duster. “We’re here to see the Director of Urban Planning. Could you please direct us to his office?

She pointed to a two meter partition in a corner of cubicles, and warmly said, “Two. Now helping number two.”

As e-girl and I strolled through the Hall of Records’ office area, I muttered, “So far so good.”

Inside the tall partition covered with light grey cloth sat a sumo wrestler of a man at a desk. Behind him was a small waiting area and a glass office. Several men were already with the Director.

As soon as we entered, Sumo greeted us in a deep bass but nasal sinus voice. “Mr. Mahan is in a meeting right now. May I have your name?”

I smiled politely at him as e-girl touched the back of his CV screen, and let her fingers linger. “Ms. Jones is here for her 8:30 appointment. She needs to provide information about her, er, Dick Butkas building.”

“I’m sorry”, said the man, “I don’t have that name today.”

“If you please check, I’m sure that you do,” said e-girl, playing with the jacket pockets on her pants-suit.

“Ma’am, I make all of Mr. Mahan’s appointments, and I’m certain there is no Ms. Jones scheduled for today. Perhaps you’re booked for next Tuesday?”

“Is your job not to check on such things?” I asked coolly.

The man snorted softly and touched his CV screen. “Well . . .” He gawked and moved his head close to the monitor. “Well I do apologize. I am sorry. I see you’re in here at eight-thirty. Sometimes my mind is a steel sieve. If you please have a seat Mr. Mahan will be with you then.”

“No, I think we’ll go right in.” I turned and strode for the Director’s door.

Sumo moved with the speed of a real wrestler and planted himself in front of me like he was ready for a match. “I’m sorry sir, but you are not allowed. This is most rude!”

I gusted a dramatic sigh. “Fine then! We will wait here.”

We took chairs in a seating area with magazines on end tables while a panting personal assistant returned to his desk. He honked his sinuses into a hanky.

You spiked his coffee? I asked my sister.

Yep.

Good. Then just give him a few minutes.

Pretending to read the pages of an Architectural Digest, I spied into the glass office. Mr. Mahan, I presumed, sat behind his desk in a leather executive chair. A grey-haired man sat across from him with his back to us, and on either side of the guest stood what appeared to be professional football players.

Bodyguards? Wondered e-girl. In a Director of Urban Planning office?

I was just thinking the same thing. Large men in this place today.

In just a few minutes the personal assistant’s posture stiffened. He rose from his desk and hurried away with both hands over his mouth.

I chuckled. “You slipped him a maximum strength Ipecac. It’s used to induce vomiting for poison victims.”

“I didn’t! That poor man! I felt bad enough tricking a hard worker into thinking I actually had an appointment today, but you . . . You’re a real jerk!”

“C’mon, Sis. What happened to that let’s-get-out-of-here spirit of yours?” I rose. “Lets make this quick.” I strode to Mr. Mahan’s door and swung it open. “Gentleman, I’m sorry for the interrup—”

The bodyguards stiff armed me back into the waiting area.

That was their bad. I slapped away their offending arms and triggered my electrocutioner shock gloves. They each went down like a dissolved water soluble Ipecac pill, and lay still.

I straightened my collar and returned to the doorway.

Mr. Mahon stood. “This is most irregular! What’s the meaning of—”

A tranq round from my pistol interrupted his forehead and he collapsed back in his chair.

His guest stood and tried to spin on me so I napped him as well. He sprawled bonelessly into the corner.

“So many people trying to be difficult today. Now, Sis, get on that com vision, and get our file.”

“Don’t be so bossy you big jer . . . Oh!”

“What’s wrong? Sis, what is it?”

“Do you know who you just shot?” she asked in a slow breathy voice.

I spoke slow and gusty, imitating her. “My, yes I do! Mr. Mahan!”

“Not him! The other guy!” she pointed at the guest in the corner. “That’s Alphonse Virago!”

That sobered me. “Ward Three’s old Crime Lord?” That’s all I needed—another whole organization of mean people hunting for me. “How can you be sure?”

“Don’t you remember his face all over the Terrorist Webwire when Ward Three was being evacuated? What on Earth is he doing here?”