“You know how to get in whenever you make up your mind.”
“Yep.”
Caspian
Present Day
Twenty-four hours back in the States and Cas was already feeling like he’d never left. Wiredwas still open and, from the looks of the parking lot, still thriving. Eighties music poured from huge speakers, the bass throbbing in Cas’s ears loud enough to drown out his thoughts… Thoughts of Jonah, of nights spent on the dance floor while Jonah and Madi conducted shady backroom deals involving metal briefcases or duffle bags full of weapons. Jonah’s life was everything Cas had dreamed of when he’d plotted out elaborate storylines for the video games he’d one day design.Grand Theft Autohad nothing on Jonah and Madi.
Now, it was Cas melting into the crowd, allowing the writhing bodies to carry him across the busy bar to the hallway in the back. That was where the real action was. Very few people registered the door to the backstairs, unless they needed it. It wasn’t hidden, but the dried blood paint color caused it to sort of disappear against the club’s dirty walls and dim lights.
Cas yanked the door open, taking the steps two at a time, giving a two fingered salute to the manager as he passed the small rectangular window of her office. She squinted, a spark of recognition in her gaze, like she was trying to place him, but his name escaped her. It was for the best. As long as he had this thumb drive burning a hole in his pocket, he preferred to remain forgettable. Those guys from the other night clearly had zero qualms about killing him or anybody else who got in their way. Cas needed to know why.
Cas ignored all the other rooms on either side of the hallway, the silence eerie after the music down below. At the very end of the corridor was a heavy door that looked similar to something one might find in a bank vault, except it was painted a dizzying shade of neon orange. Cas banged hard enough for the metal to reverberate against his fist, likely disturbing several people in the hall attempting to conduct their own nocturnal business deals.
“Who goes there?” a high-pitched voice warbled.
“Open up, Red. It’s Casper,” Cas said, using his hacker moniker, the one Red had given him years ago.
“Who?” the voice asked dramatically.
Cas rolled his eyes. The Red Queen was the owner of Wired and famous for his love of games, theatrics, an almost savant-like ability to crack any computer system, and his incessant paranoia. Red had taught Cas everything he knew about coding while Jonah played spy versus spy down the hall. Red had loved having Cas as an acolyte, and Cas was usually willing to play Red’s games, but not tonight. He needed information, and he didn’t have time for Red’s lunacy.
“I don’t have time for your shit, tonight, Red. Open up. I need information, and I can pay.”
“How do I know it’s really my sweet little Casper? Last I heard, he got merked by some nasty Russians.”
Jesus.Word really traveled fast in their circles. Criminals liked their tea spilled piping hot, which made Cas wonder if there was already a contract out on his head. “Listen, asshole. I don’t have time for this. Let me in or I leak photos of you and the Mad Hatter playing hide the carrot. Think Levi knows who you’ve been letting in your rabbit ho—”
Red yanked the door open and dragged Cas inside, slamming it shut and leaning against it. The Red Queen’s palace never failed to give Cas a minor boner. It was every nerd’s dream. A ninety-inch plasma took up the majority of Red’s wall. A huge custom desk sat in the center of the room with six monitors on top and some major hardware hidden beneath. In the corner of the room, there was a cot that barely looked strong enough to contain Red’s six-foot-seven, three-hundred-plus pound frame.
Red hadn’t aged a bit. He wore heavy drag makeup and a red beehive wig as if he’d just come from off stage, but his outfit said otherwise. He had on a white v-neck t-shirt stained with orange Cheeto dust and a pair of threadbare sweatpants that had holes in all the wrong places. Cas dragged his gaze away, moving toward the interior. Flying toasters floated across all the screens as Red moved from the door and settled his large frame into the oversized chair, shoving his hand back into said bag of Cheetos.
“You’re alive,” Red sing-songed.
Hearing falsetto come from a man so large would never stop unsettling Cas, like when his mother played “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”by Tiny Tim. Still, Red was a good guy. A weird guy, but trustworthy. He didn’t play favorites, but he didn’t narc on people, either. Everybody knew not to ask him for information about another client.
“The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,” Cas mocked, falling onto the oversized, plush purple sofa and leaning his head against the armrest.
“Well, I’m relieved to hear it. Haven’t seen you in forever, Cas.” Red took a hit from his vape pen. “We were starting to think our boy had left us for good,” he said on an exhale.
Cas wrinkled his nose at the scent of weed, but it disappeared as fast as it came.
Red offered the pen to Cas, who shook his head. “Nah, man. But thanks. I gotta stay clear headed. I’m not dead yet, but those Russian fucks are persistent.”
“So I hear.” Red pulled his wig off and set it gently on the mannequin head on his desk, leaving Cas to stare at his pasty bald head. “What is it I can do for you, my little ghostling?”
Cas tossed the thumb drive to Red who caught it with surprising gracefulness, plugging it in and bringing it up on the big screen. He frowned at the generic list of names. “What am I looking at?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Cas prompted. “This is what they killed my Turkish friend over, but I can’t find a single reason why.”
Red pounded on his keyboard rapid fire, screens shifting faster than Cas’s eyes could process for a solid fifteen minutes. “I don’t get it. It’s just a bunch of nobodies,” Red finally said, leaning back in his chair, a rare frown appearing on his round face.
Cas swung into a sitting position, his voice rising. “That’s what I’m saying. I dove so deep into the darknet I needed a goddamn shower when I crawled out, but there’s not so much as a whiff of these guys being anything but what they seem. They aren’t dealing arms, drugs, trafficking people over the border. I didn’t find any hidden bank accounts, any hint that they’re CIA or Mossad. Nothing. Nada. Fuck all. Dick. So, why the fuck are a bunch of Russians trying to kill me over what appears to be a corporate softball list?”
Red shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you, sugar tits. Can I make a copy of these names? I can do some more digging. In the meantime, you should go to this massage parlor and make an appointment with Annie.”
Cas watched Red scrawl something on a sticky-note, frowning at the sudden change of subject. He recognized the name of the place, one known for their…extended secret menu options. “Uh, look. I appreciate a good rub and tug as much as the next guy but I’m more into Andys than Annies, if you know what I mean.”
