Constant in All Other Things

by

Fakeminsk

 

Chapter One

 

"Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent."

Much Ado About Nothing

 

I stood there with the gun pointed straight at Tom's head.

The weight of the pistol felt comfortable in my grip. A few weeks ago I would've sworn that I'd never seen a handgun before outside of a movie or the TV. The thought of holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified hysterics. But now, the fucking thing felt easy and normal nestled in my hand. I'd once again grown used to the feel of the cold metal, the weight and the heft of the weapon.

I'd grown used to a lot of new things in the last two year. The flash of colour on my painted nails curled around the pistol's grip. The sweep of long, blonde hair at the edge of my vision, and the sweetness and stickiness of the gloss on my lips. The precarious balance and high arch of the 4-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos I wore were comfortable now. Hell, I'd even gotten used to the breasts, their feel and weight and heft—to the way they moved and the pretty bra that nestled them.

But that empty feeling between my legs? Not that . . . that I would never get used to, and the bastard responsible now sat tied to a chair, face bloodied and back bowed, and I stood there and pointed the gun at his head. There was a simple beauty to the composition of the image: my slender bared shoulder, dainty outstretched arm and delicate silver bracelet flashing in the sun, with red-tipped finger pressed against the trigger, the tip of the barrel trembling only slightly with indecision; and then a few feet up empty space, and finally Tom's face, eyes squeezed shut in fright. A simple straight line, inevitable, necessary. My hand, the gun, his face, a death. Revenge.

The moment he opened his eyes I'd shoot.

"Don't do this," he pleaded. The bastard kept his eyes squeezed shut. "It doesn't—it doesn't have to be this way."

I didn't answer. The gun started to feel heavy. I was a lot weaker than I used to be.

"Cindy," he said. "Please."

"My name's not Cindy," I hissed.

He took a deep, shaky breath. "David," he said.

"Say it again." I wanted to shout at him, but my voice came out hardly louder than a whisper. "And open your eyes."

"David," he repeated, louder. He opened his eyes. He stared straight at me. His eyes were blue but so clear they seemed nearly transparent. They were the most attractive feature of a very attractive man; a woman could easily lose herself in those gentle depths. I had. "I'm so sorry," he said.

But I am not a woman. I squeezed the trigger.

 

"You're doing the right thing," Agent K said, gripping me by the shoulders and staring me straight in the eyes. "Trust me."

"Yeah, sure," I said. Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one heading out there, in front of that court full of people, in front of fucking Jeremiah fucking Steel, and accusing him of murder in the first—and more. This guy wasn't some small-fry crook who'd knocked over a liquor store . . . he was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, a pharmaceutical magnate and all-around nasty guy rumoured to be involved in all kinds of shady stuff.

Don't get me wrong. I don't scare easily. I could tell you stuff I've done that'd knock your socks off, really weird shit nobody knows anything about. I'm not particularly proud—or ashamed really—of my past, and I've been through some very harrowing shit, but even I knew better than to mess with fucking Jeremiah fucking Steel.

Agent K didn't need to tell me I was doing the right thing. I'm an asshole, I'll admit that straight off. I'm not a nice guy. I look out for myself. I've done some nasty stuff when I've had to, and screwed over many an asshole who tried to cross me. Hell, I'll fuck over a nice guy, even, if it's got to be done, if it's worth it. Sometimes. But start with me and I'll finish it—always.

And this attitude's done me well in this new business world I've found myself in the last few years. Hell, it's a whole different world than when I was a kid, running with the gangs and all that shit. It's not necessarily any nicer, though. Oh sure, there's swanky suits and air-conditioned hallways and some mighty fine ass walking through the office, often ready for a quick tumble if you drop 'em the right line—but there's also a lot of self-serving pricks and political shit that I haven't figured out if I love or hate yet. I thought I was a jerk until I started working at NeoPharm, but some of the people I work with even make me feel good about myself. And yeah, I said NeoPharm. You buy their products. It's a subsidiary of this-and-that and part of Jeremiah fucking Steel's corporate empire.

I didn't know that when I got the job, of course. I wouldn't have taken it if I'd known I was working for such a scum bag. That's my problem, see: I've got this whole moral code thing that gets in the way from time to time. It's a bit shaky, this moral code of mine. It's not like I've ever sat down and thought it through or made a book of it; it's not the bloody Hagakure or anything like that. I'm no damned samurai. But I know what I think is right, and what I think is wrong, and always do what I think is right, and avoid what I think is wrong. Always. Almost always, anyway. So, for instance, I'll never, ever backstab a friend. Ever. Way I see it, that's the worst thing a man can do. It's not like I've got that many friends, you know? You've got to watch out for the few that you've got.

And so, I didn't need this Agent K telling me I was doing the right thing. I mean, I saw Jeremiah fucking Steel blow some guy's head off, right there in my building. Some guy? Might as well call Big Al's Supremo Nachos Deluxe a Doritos chip with a slice of cheese on it. That dead guy wasn't just anybody: it was Georgio Antazzi—yeah, that guy, the son of the mob boss, the apple of his eye, the High Street golden boy. All kinds of implications there, you know? Mob connections, murder, some of the scintillating dialogue overheard between the two before Georgio became a red smear across the floor, and of course, what they were up to before Tom and I stumbled into the room. . . .

Yeah, Tom, my best friend. He was there too. He shouldn't have been, of course. It was more-or-less my fault. That's not true. It was entirely my fault. I was going to have to explain that too, I guess, in court, why Tom and I were somewhere we shouldn't have been. He's also a witness. Between our two testimonies, Agent K figures there'll be enough on Jeremiah-fucking-Steel to take him down, and hard, especially with all the extra inquiries that'll be launched into his shady dealings, let alone the backlash he'll suffer from his power mongering allies and enemies.

So, yeah, chance to take down this guy? Of course I'm going to do it. Even if only half the rumours are true, the guy had it coming. It's the right thing to do. Not heroic, not brave—just the right thing.

Problem is, doing the right thing can get you killed. Pissing off a guy like fucking-Jeremiah-fucking-Steel can get you worse than killed. I'm kinda lucky that way. I don't have any family to worry about. The few really good friends I do have I haven't seen in years, and they can take care of themselves. Hell, I pity the dumbass that goes after them. Like I said, I wouldn't backstab my friends, not even for something this important, and wouldn't endanger them through my own idiocy. And as for myself—well, normally I wouldn't be too worried. I can make myself disappear pretty good if I've got to. Remember? Tough childhood. But this is different. This is . . . you know, Steel. Powerful man. Even if only half the rumours are true, you don't get away from this guy. And I'm pretty sure the rumours are only half the real story.

But there's that stinking code. Gotta do what a man's gotta do. He started it—I'm going to finish it. In court. Besides, K's promised me some witness protection program help. I've got my doubts, but who knows? Maybe they can hide me somehow really good. Otherwise, I'm a dead man.

"You ready?" K asked.

I took a deep breath and checked myself over in the mirror. "Yeah."

 

It went well. Of course it went well. I'm a good-looking guy. No, seriously, I am—and I don't mean that in a conceited way. But hey, good-looking people get treated better, everyone knows that. Ask that sexy chick flaunting it when she steps into a store. Who d'ya think gets better service, her or the little mousy one scurrying along in her shadow?

Well, it's not as extreme for guys, but yeah, I get listened to, and treated well, and it's not fucking fair but there you have it. The only thing that works against me is my height. I'm only five-foot-five-and-a-half, though I drop the half because it's pathetic to hang on to that extra bit of height. I'm a bit short for a guy but couldn't care less, really. If some girl thinks I'm too short to date, that's her loss … really. But otherwise I do well. I'm not too big into the fashion thing but keep myself looking good, wear nice clothes and I've got just a touch of that long-haired bad-boy thing going on, left-over from my teen years, I guess. I keep my face smooth, though truth is the best I can manage is some rough stubble after a week or so—I call that my 'artistic' look. Swap the clothes and it's also my rugged look. I've got green eyes girls seem to love, flecked with grey. I look younger than I am, and that boyish-charm thing can manage wonders, sometimes. I keep myself in shape. Actually, I keep myself in really good shape—I guess some habits die hard. And I've got money. Not loads, I'm no millionaire, but I'm better than just well-off, and chicks, they love everything that a man with cash represents.

It helps that I'm a smooth talker when I've got to be. I don't like doing it too often, because it feels very phoney to me, but it's a necessary skill when clinching a marketing deal or convincing a chick to come back for the night. So working that court over was easy. I didn't lie, of course, but there's a way of giving details that make them more impressive, more vivid. I had the courtroom hanging on every detail as I explained how Tom and I got to the top of the office tower, and why we were there and finally what we saw, while we hid in that executive secretary's office.

I kinda did too well, though. I got carried away by my own eloquence. It wasn't the conversation I overheard, or even the fight or the whole gun-to-head thing that set Jeremiah off. The man in question took that very well. The dude had to be nervous as hell but hid it well behind this fucking smirk the whole time. I think that's what got me. That goddamn smirk. I hate arrogance. I really do. It pissed me off so much I added in some details that, strictly speaking, weren't necessary.

Jeremiah fucking Steel got a bit angry when I got to that bit. I think his exact words were: "You're a dead man, David Sanders!" Shouted in front of everybody. It took half-a-dozen men to hold him back from throttling me. Well, from trying, anyway. The dude's not small.

They rushed me out of the courtroom into a small side room. Agent K was waiting for me there.

"We've got to get you out of here," she said. One thing about K—she's a looker (in that short-haired, kick-your-ass, lesbian kind of way) but not big on small talk.

"Hey, I'm feeling okay," I said. "Thanks. Nice crowd, good security. So yeah, I'm feeling pretty good about myself."

"No time." K shook her head. "You know what kind of man you are dealing with. If he has threatened to kill you, he is sure to carry it through. Not just for revenge. He can not afford to look weak in front of his allies… and enemies." She hesitated for a moment. "Why did you include those other details?"

I shrugged. "Dunno. The bastard was just pissing me off."

K sighed. "You embarrassed a very powerful man in front of many very powerful people, Mr. Sanders. Your testimony was enough to put you in a very precarious position, but now . . . I fear Mr. Steel will stop at nothing to make an example of you. Even if made in the heat of the moment, he has no choice but to stick by his words. That was not just a threat, it was a death warrant."

She's not so good at inspiring confidence, this girl. I gave a nod. "So what do we do?"

"First? We get you out of here. Then we relocate you, give you a new identity, and make you disappear. And quickly, before Mr. Steel's has time to declare open season on you."

"Then let's get started."

Without another word she walked over to a corner of the room and bent down for a large duffel bag. I enjoyed the view as K's tight skirt strained against the rounded firmness of her ass. Hey, like I said, she was a real looker, even if she went in for that real severe look, what with the long skirt and mannish jacket and clunky heels. But even in the face of imminent death I wasn't about to stop what's only natural and healthy. In other words, I popped a quick boner. Hell, the danger just adds to it, you know? I enjoyed a little fantasy that involved me coming up behind her and several choice lines from my favourite porno, until she straightened up and turned around.

"Enjoying the view?" she asked dryly. Sharp eyes, this woman. We'd only met a few times, in arranging for my court appearance and in keeping me safe and hidden before the trial and there was something very off-putting about her, to be honest. Like she knows more than she's letting on. The fact that she didn't respond to my charms didn't help either. That was her name, by the way, as far as I know. K. It had to stand for something but I'll be damned if I knew. I had this feeling that she didn't particularly like me.

I gave a little shrug. "So how do I get outta here alive?"

"With this." She dropped the bag on the table. It looked heavy but she moved it without much effort. She zipped it open, reached in, and pulled out. . . .

"A dress?" It was a sexy little number, red and strappy. "What the fuck, you're gonna disguise me as a chick?"

She looked at me oddly. "Don't be idiotic." She reached deeper into her bag and hauled out a heavy vest. Bullet-proof Kevlar. "I think this would prove more helpful, don't you?" she said, handing it to me. "Unless you've got your mind set on the dress, of course. I've got some darling heels in here that match."

"Very funny," I said. I slipped on the vest, its weight reassuring. It'd been ages since I'd last worn one.

"There is a car waiting nearby. When I give the signal they will come around the side of the courthouse. We leave by a side entrance. You should be exposed for no longer than thirty seconds. Other agents, dressed similar to you, will leave by alternate exits simultaneously, hopefully confusing anyone keeping watch. Once we reach the car it will carry us to a safe location where we can begin to process your relocation and new identity."

I nodded.

She handed me a heavy green sweater from her bag. I pulled it on over the vest. It was a bulky Gap thing—nondescript, and it hid the vest. I wondered if Tom went through something similar. He was a tough guy, but he didn't have my . . . background. I'd've been shitting myself, probably, if I hadn't been through some rough times as a kid. I wondered where he was right now. He'd had his court day before me. I had no idea how it'd gone—it wasn't easy to get news while in hiding, you know? Hopefully fucking Mr. Steel hadn't been as pissed off with Tom as with me.

You know, standing there just before K hauled me out of that room, with a higher-than-normal chance that I was about to get gunned down like some clay pigeon, I think what bothered me the most was that I'd probably never see Tom again. K was going on about procedures and I only listened with half an ear. I was thinking about my friend. Somehow I knew the guy was okay. He was a good guy. But with this relocation thing, chances are we'd never meet each other again. Man, I hate losing friends. It wasn't the first time, you know? But it still sucks every time.

"Are you ready?"

K was looking at me expectantly. Even in civilian clothes she looked like a fucking CIA agent, if you ask me. What's the point of me putting on this shitty sweater if I'm hanging around with someone who just screams "secret agent"? I took a deep breath. Calmed the jitters in my stomach. Focused. Nodded.

She made the call. Pulled me forward. We walked quickly through the back corridors of the courthouse. Bland white walls and flickering fluorescent lighting. Nondescript surprised faces flowing past. The sudden pungent smell of gasoline. A solid metal door, red and pitted and cool to the touch. Another deep breath and I felt coiled like a spring. God, I was loving this. We pushed through the door.

I didn't even manage a step before the first bullet hit.

 

"Mr. Sanders?"

The voice reached me through layers of pain and darkness. I took a shaky breath. I didn't hurt—it fucking hurt. Those vests are great at stopping bullets, but not so great at stopping the bruising. It'd even been one of those really cool high-tech new ones, but of course the shooter must've had a really cool high-tech gun. I wasn't dead, but the way I felt I kinda wished I was. I knew when I looked down my chest would be a Rorschach test of black and blue. Good thing I heal quickly.

I opened my eyes. K was watching me closely. She didn't look all that sympathetic, but the moment she saw I was awake she reached out of my line of sight and brought back a glass of water.

"Can you sit up?" she asked.

Yeah, wonderful bedside manner, a real Nightingale, that K. Pain flared across my chest as I struggled to raise myself. Just like I expected: one massive bruise. My whole chest and upper abdomen was a purple and yellowed mess. The bastard who shot me must've been close. K placed some pillow behind me to prop me up. My vision swam momentarily and my head throbbed with the effort. I reached up and found a sticky spot near my temple.

"These will help with the pain," she said, and for a moment, as she handed me the glass of water and two white tablets, she actually looked worried. Who knew the frosty secret agent could actually show concern for my well-being? I popped back the pills and the glass of water.

"You're tougher than I imagined, Mr. Sanders," she continued, that moment of sympathy apparently gone. "The assassin was standing right outside the door when you stepped through. He fired two shots that both caught you right over your heart. The impact sent you back into the doorway. Your head connected with the edge of the doorframe. A third bullet caught you in the side and the last one in the back, before the assassin was . . . dealt with."

It was hard to focus on what K was saying. My vision swam for a bit. I must've hit that doorframe pretty damn hard to mess me up like this. Like I said, I'm in good shape, and I'm pretty tough. Then again, four bullets at point-blank range? I was lucky. Very fucking lucky. Vests aren't the best thing in the world from the side. Even really cool high-tech ones. I must've spun after hitting the door, spreading the second double-tap between my side and back. No wonder each breath was like sucking on a hot coal.

Bloody fucking Jeremiah fucking corporate evil overlord fucking Steel.

K handed me another glass of water that I eagerly drained. I shook my head, nearly knocking myself doing so, and breathed deeply until my vision stopped swimming and the buzzing in my ears eased off. I still felt like shit, but my head cleared a bit. There was still a faint worrying hum in the back of my mind, kinda like a mild concussion but a bit different somehow. Mostly I just felt really tired. Yeah, funny how four bullets to the midriff'll knock the wind out of you.

K pulled up a chair and sat next to me. She looked the same as before: same clothes and minimal makeup. Too bad, really: she'd be damn fine if she tried a little harder. I looked around and saw that I was propped up in a dirty single bed in a small, plain room with peeling and yellowed wallpaper. Probably some kind of safe house or something. Still, the question had to be asked. "Where the hell am I, K?"

"I pulled you into the car and we managed to escape before any more of Mr. Steel's agents could open fire. The driver took a very indirect route; it is unlikely that we were followed to this location. However, it would be unwise to stay here for any length of time."

"Yeah, great." Sunlight beamed in through the open door leading into the room. I must've been out for awhile. I gently probed my chest—it felt a bit like tenderized beef. I should've hurt more, but those pills of K's worked fast and seemed to be keeping the pain at bay. It wasn't the pain that worried me, though, but rather something else. "Uh, K? I'm not feeling so hot." I'm not big on whining. Sick, hurt, I don't tell a soul. Call it a male pride thing, but I'm big on the 'stiff upper lip' way of life. So if I say I don't feel good, it's a big thing.

Like this one time at work. I don't mean my earlier work—the teenage year stuff. I mean once I entered the corporate world. Once, I got this really bad flu. Like, over 40 Celcius temperature kind of sick, with swimming vision and that 'I can see myself doing shit' kind of feeling. But I didn't tell nobody. There was work to do and an important presentation to make to a client, and I got through it. Afterwards I passed out for something like 48 hours straight. When I got back to work I'd earned my first promotion and suddenly had a secretary and all that jazz. She was a real hottie, too. I think that's when I met Tom, and the whole friendly rivalry thing started.

K nodded. "I see." She stared me straight in the eyes. It was a bit eerie, really. When you think about it, people almost never stare you straight in the eyes. It's a challenge, in a way. Or a sign of intimacy. I'd be damned if I'd look away, but it actually made me a bit nervous, the way she looked at me. She looked a little hungry. Or angry. "Mr. Sanders, I want you to understand that I will do everything I can do to keep you alive."

I nodded. I already knew that. One thing about me, I'm a good judge of character. Usually. I know who my friends are, as few as they are. I know who's a proper fucker and who's likely to screw me over and when someone's a phoney and a liar, usually within a few minutes of meeting someone. And I know who I can trust.

"And Mr. Sanders? I need you to trust me."

And the thing is, I'm not a trusting person. Tough childhood. I've been screwed over far too often in the past. But staring K straight in the eyes, lying battered and bruised in that bed, my head all foggy and buzzing—somehow, I felt I could trust her. I trust my instincts. Usually.

"This is just a temporary safe house," she said. "To call the medical facilities here 'limited' would be generous. Those shots you took were at very close range. Even with the vest, I'm concerned for your well-being. Especially with the shot to your side."

"Yeah, and?"

"You may need professional medical assistance. But I fear that to bring you to a nearby hospital would place your life at greater risk."

"Yeah, and?" Okay, I'll admit it: once I've finally admitted I'm sick, I'm a proper wimp and jerk. My pain suddenly becomes the worst pain anyone's ever suffered through, ever. I was hurting, and according to K, maybe dying or something. I wasn't big on words—I just wanted to get better.

K gave me a long look. I stared back at her blearily. "I have a proposition for you," she said.

She'd done a pretty good job of getting me to the hearing alive and out of the courthouse—even considering I'd been shot four times. I mean, this was fucking Jeremiah friggin' Steel; I couldn't help but wonder how many other agents (maybe A through J?) turned down the assignment because they were afraid of the guy. But not K. I wouldn't say I trusted her implicitly, but even with the whole dyke thing going on she seemed to actually have a clue, compared to most other federal agents I'd met. Besides, who said shit like "I have a proposition for you," anymore? People just don't talk that way. But K did. I liked her.

"Yeah? What is it?" I tried to sound brave and tough but could hardly stay awake.

"I fear you won't like it, David." I think that's when I really started to worry—when she called me David. I certainly woke me up a bit. Every communication we'd had, every meeting, she'd called me Mr. Sanders. Just like she called that bastard Mr. Steel, and Tom, Mr. Smith. Strange woman, K. So if she was suddenly calling me David, then this had to be bad.

She gave a sigh. She pulled out a thick folder, one of those plain beige ones. "This is you," she said. I looked at the folder and focused and eventually could read my name. David Sanders, age 25. Yeah, that's me. She flipped it open and the top sheet of paper had a picture and a small summary of who I was and where I'd come from. I swear, the picture was from my ID photo at NeoPharm, looking just a bit goofy. I had to strain to read the summary of me, and it looked at lot like a basic CV, just with some extra details. I had to choke down a laugh when I looked through my educational and childhood history. Nothing about the gangs and . . . the other stuff. Which is what I'd been promised, of course. Just a nice, ordinary high school history, complete with passing grades and a smooth ticket into university and a slick degree.

"And this is who I suggest you become." K hesitated a moment and slid a second folder in front of me. It was much newer and thinner. I flipped it open.

There wasn't much to read on the cover sheet. Only a name and an age, really:

Cindy Long. Age 20.

  

  

  

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