Hired Guns: A Novel

By Mark Boss

Paroled LA gangster Hector Tombs is putting his life together--but when a rogue scientist murders his girlfriend and poisons eight thousand civilians, Hector goes to war for the antidote. And revenge.

From street fights in Tokyo to gun battles on the African savanna, Hector Tombs must use the skills that put him in prison to save thousands from the grave.

If you like martial arts, firearms and furious action, read Hired Guns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Boss
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466093768

Mark Boss

I write fantasy, science fiction, and thrillers that are epic fun. :)

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Death of Arthur

Monday, 7 January

California, USA

Turgenev hid in the brown winter grass of the hilltop and searched the ground below. You see him?

Sally lay an arm's length away, adjusting the focus on a fat Leupold spotter's scope. An open laptop computer connected to a small antenna sat between them. There. On the perimeter.

The tall commando raised his binoculars. Four hundred meters away, a man carrying a rifle knelt at a chain-link fence outside a Signum Corporation compound of cinderblock buildings and sixty-year-old Quonset huts. The chunky man's arms pumped as he worked a pair of bolt cutters through the fence links.

Gun.

I see it, Sally said.

Why? He's here to steal. Industrial espionage.

Ron ordered us to stay within 800 meters, run this software and observe. That's all I know. The sleepy-eyed sniper leaned into her scope. There he goes.

The man folded the fence back and crawled through. He hustled to the door of the nearest building, slid a card through a wall-mounted reader, and ducked inside.

Turgenev lowered his binoculars. A thief doesn't need a gun. Ron lied to us.

* * *

Hector timed it right. He reached the parking lot by the Quonset huts just as Lisa stepped out of her car.

The blocky young guard straightened the collar of his uniform shirt and hitched up his pistol belt. Hey, Lisa.

Lisa turned, pushed a strand of red hair out of her eyes and smiled. Hey.

Hector put out his hands, glad that his Signum windbreaker covered the gang tattoos on his arms. Want me to carry something?

Thanks. She handed him her laptop, a stack of paper files and a cardboard tube. Lisa lifted her coffee, Signum smart phone and lunch box. I brought the leftover lasagna from Saturday night.

He grinned. That place was good. I should have taken some home, too, but I was hungry. They walked side by side, close enough that he could smell her perfume.

Hector waited while she ran her employee card through the reader mounted next to the door. The door beeped, she tugged it open and they entered Building Four.

He followed her through the warren of cubicles to her desk. She unloaded everything except her lunchbox. I better put this in the refrigerator. They walked into the employee lounge, where Sam, the gray-haired security chief, stood drinking coffee.

Morning, Boss, Hector said.

Miss Lisa. Hector. Sam dropped his empty cup in the trash. Time for us to walk the fence line.

Hector, you want to meet for lunch at the picnic tables? Lisa asked. It's nice out.

Yeah. I'll text you. Hector nodded, and watched her walk away. The sway of her hips made him tremble.

The old guard nudged him. Come on, rookie. The two walked the length of the building to the entrance on the south side. As Hector swung the door open, two loud cracks made him stop and turn around.

Pop. Pop. Gunshots.

Lisa. Hector clawed his Glock 17 pistol out of its holster.

Sam clicked his radio. Gatehouse, shots fired inside Building Four. Go to lock down.

A man screamed, No, Arthur, no! More gunshots.

People boiled out of their cubicles and into the corridor.

The two security guards pushed through the fleeing workers and ran back to the north side of the building. They rounded a corner near the employee lounge. A man in a tan jacket stood firing a rifle into the cubicles in Lisa's section.

Sam yelled, Freeze! Drop it, drop it.

Lisa! Hector bolted forward, crossing into Sam's line of fire. The old guard cursed.

The gunman turned and fired. Hector threw himself behind a metal filing cabinet.

He heard Sam grunt, I'm hit.

Hector sprang up.

The shooter was gone.

Sam lay on his side.

Hector pushed up and got two steps toward Sam before screams erupted inside the warren. He hesitated, and then dashed forward, the Glock heavy in his right hand.

The young guard turned a corner and tripped on a body. A tubby engineer lay on the floor, his neat white shirt soaked with bright red blood. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Pop. Poppoppoppop.

He leapt over the dying man. Lisa? Hector yelled.

A flash of red hair. Lisa peeked over the top of her cubicle. Hector?

The shooter leaned around a pillar and fired.

Bullets lanced through the fabric cubicle.

Lisa fell.

No! Hector swung his pistol up. No time to aim. He pointed the gun. Yanked the trigger.

The gunman jerked. Slumped sideways, the rifle still popping off rounds as he fell.

Hector ran forward and shot the gunman twice more in the chest. Blood mushroomed across the tan sport coat. The man lay still.

Hector raced into Lisa's cubicle. Be alive. Just be alive.

Lisa lay on the carpet, her red hair spread around her face like a halo. There was a small hole in her forehead. Two more in her chest.

He knelt to touch her face. A trickle of blood ran down the freckles across her nose. The blood reached Hector's fingers. He bit his lip.

She didn't look like she was sleeping. Not with an ugly hole in her head. She looked dead.

She was dead.

Tears flooded his eyes. He tried to focus on her face but it was like his head was under water. He couldn't breathe.

Hector sucked in a huge lungful of air and stood up. Walked back to the shooter. Pointed the Glock at the gunman's face and pulled the trigger until the slide locked back on empty. Smoke hung in the air. Hector tasted gunpowder. Coughed.

Hector stepped closer and kicked the dead man in the crotch. You killed her, you killed her! He kicked the dead man over and over. When the man's glasses came off, Hector stomped them with his heavy boots until he couldn't raise his leg.

He bent over gasping. He thought he would vomit, but all he could manage was a dry, painful heave. The man on the floor looked so ordinary. So fat and dull and regular.

Then something gray and wet slithered out of the dead man's mouth. The thumb-sized creature slid down the shooter's cheek onto the floor.

* * *

Turgenev recognized the muted cracks from inside the building below as gunfire. The tall Russian listened to his radio scanner. Security called police. A tactical team comes.

Sally took one more look through her spotter's scope, then collapsed the tripod and wriggled back from the crest of the hill. How soon will they arrive?

Unknown. This is far from Los Angeles. Turgenev tucked his equipment into a daypack. He was careful with the binoculars, which were Zeiss, and most expensive. Ron must explain himself.

Good luck with that. Sally pulled off her scrunchy, shook grass leaves out of her ink-black hair, and then retied her ponytail. I'm hungry. Let's get lunch before we report in.

Da.

* * *

What the hell is that?

Hector reached for the creature. The organism glistened beneath a coating of blood and mucus. It inched across the carpet like a slug. Hector hesitated.

What if it's poisonous?

He looked around and spotted a sandwich in a plastic bag on the floor. When he turned to grab the bag, the windows in the west wall shattered. A tremor shook the building. The lights went out.

Hector snapped the bag open and dumped the sandwich on the rug. Across the cubicle warren, the door swung open and one of the gate guards dashed inside. He yelled, Building Three just blew up! Evacuate now.

Hector called over his shoulder, Okay, I'm coming. He wrapped the bag around his hand and picked up the slug. Tucked the bag in his pocket and ran to where the gate guard stood by Sam.

Hector knelt next to his wounded boss. I got this. Go evacuate the other buildings, Hector said. The guard ran.

Sam lay on his back, a bright pool of blood beneath him. Hector squeezed his arm. Boss?

Hector? Sam's eyelids flickered. Did we get him?

Yeah, Boss. We got him. Tears dripped off Hector's nose. He pressed on the wound above Sam's heart. The old man groaned. Hot blood seeped between Hector's fingers. He gagged.

Sam's face relaxed. His eyes went flat and he died.

Hector rocked back and slid up the wall until he stood. He walked to the door, blood dripping from his fingers.

Outside, a thin woman in a lab coat lay on the sidewalk. Smoke rose from a cigarette in her limp hand.

Hector recognized her because she always made a point to ask about his computer classes. Dr. June? He checked her pulse. Nothing.

He staggered to the parking lot. A jolt shot through his heels--a deep thump that shook his heart in his ribcage. Hector's feet left the ground. His arms wind milled through empty air. He smashed down on the asphalt, hands over his head while debris fell out of the sky.

* * *

Hector opened his eyes and saw shoes.

Blurry shoes. Mostly black leather trainers and high-top boots.

He rolled over and sat up. The blacktop was hot beneath his palms, but the ground had stopped moving. Cops, guards, firemen, and civilians ran past.

His ears rang, but he could still hear shouting.

Someone touched his arm and he looked up. An EMT in a white, short-sleeved shirt squatted next to him.

Are you injured? she asked.

What? No. Hector shook his head. I don't know.

She pulled him to his feet and steered him through a swarm of first responders to an ambulance. The vehicle's siren was off, but the lights still rotated and Hector looked away, suddenly nauseous.

She sat him on the back bumper. Is your leg injured? Let me take a look.

What? Hector looked down and realized the right knee of his uniform pants was split and soaked with blood.

Is that Lisa's blood? Or Sam's?

The EMT used a short pair of scissors to cut open his pants leg, but Hector pushed her hands away. Don't bother.

Calm down, sir. It's okay. Just let me look. She pulled the material aside with gloved hands. Looks like a pretty bad gash, but this isn't a gunshot wound. You're lucky.

Lucky? I wish he'd shot me through the fucking heart. Hector sank back against the truck door.

The EMT looked at him. I need to check the other survivors. She turned and jogged away.

* * *

Chapter 2: Revenant

Friday, 11 January

Los Angeles, California, USA

Hector sat outside CEO Steven Corrada's office, on the top floor of a tower in the center of Signum's twenty-acre corporate campus. His security guard identity card got him to the fifth floor, but no further.

The L-shaped waiting area held two waist-high cactus plants, a mute television tuned to Fox News, a table of wrinkled periodicals and a dozen uncomfortable chairs. Hector tugged at his necktie, still dressed in the thrift-store suit he'd worn to the funerals that morning.

The talking head on the television shifted left and a popup window above her shoulder showed footage of the aftermath of the attack on the Signum offsite. Fire trucks, ambulances, a SWAT van. Hector looked away.

A yawn split his head so wide his jaw popped. A tall McDonalds's cup rested on the carpet between his feet. Silver duct tape sealed the lid.

Corrada's curvy secretary came back from the soda machine. She wore a snug T-shirt with the logo for a Brazilian Jujitsu school on it. With her platinum hair and skin tight warm-up pants, Hector thought she looked like a stripper, but a very fit stripper who could subdue him in ten seconds.

He stood. Could you check again with Mr. Corrada? It's important, Hector said.

The secretary rolled her eyes. I'll let you know when he's available. You don't have an appointment and Mr. Corrada had a very tough morning. He went to a bunch of funerals. Maybe you heard we had a shooting at one of our offsites on Monday?

Hector stared. Have you even watched the coverage? I was there. He pointed at the television. Every thirty minutes they show video of me at the offsite.

She looked up from buffing her nails. Those people got shot. I don't see a hole in you.

I didn't get shot. I took down the shooter and--

And what? You want a medal? She flipped her hair. No, I get it. You're here for money. Something bad happened to you so you figure someone owes you, and Mr. Corrada is the nearest billionaire you could think of. You know people died at that offsite? Families lost husbands and mothers, but oh, you're the victim.

Victim? The cops are treating me like a suspect. They interviewed me twice. Kept me at the station until midnight.

Sucks to be you. She picked up a highlighter. Mr. Corrada is busy the rest of the day. Your lawyer can call for an appointment. Why don't you crawl back to wherever you came from?

Hell no. Hector took the to-go cup and marched around her desk. She grabbed his arm, but he bulled past and opened the door. Steven Corrada looked up from his desk. Reading glasses he never wore in public slid down his nose.

Who are you? Steven asked.

I'm Hector Tombs. I work here. We need to talk.

The secretary dashed in and planted herself in front of Steven's desk. She flashed a dull-yellow pair of brass knuckles. Bring it!

Hector tried to step around her. Mr. Corrada, you need to see what's in this cup.

Steven's head tilted like the RCA dog. Coffee?

No, call off your pit bull and I'll show you.

Get out! The secretary shot a brass-enhanced punch at Hector's chin, but he ducked. She buried her fist in the drywall.

Steven reached for his desk phone. I'm calling security.

I am security! Hector threw the cup. It hit Steven's desk and rolled into his lap. The billionaire squealed and dove out of his chair.

The secretary yanked her fist out of the wall. Bits of drywall fell to the carpet. Hector jumped back and collided with a wooden bar.

When the cup didn't explode, Steven came to his knees and gingerly picked it up. He shrugged and opened it.

Amy! Amy, stop, Steven commanded.

Without looking away from where she'd cornered Hector against the antique sideboard, the secretary paused. Her eyes gleamed. Yeah? You sure?

I need to talk to him. Please excuse us. Steven grunted as he righted his chair, and then dropped into it. Thank you, Amy.

She glared at Hector. Whatever. Loser. Amy walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Hector collapsed in a leather chair. Sweat sheened his face. That chick is psychotic.

Steven shook his head. Long story. He took a deep breath through his nose, put his palms flat on the cherry wood desk and lowered his voice. Did you show the cops what's in this cup?

No.

So you lied to the police? Steven asked.

No, they didn't ask about a cup. Hector smiled.

Steven frowned. So this is a shakedown?

No. I don't want money. Hector leaned forward. I want information.

Steven squinted at Hector's employee badge. You're a security guard?

Yeah, so?

The plump billionaire taped his keyboard. Hector Tombs. Hmm. Here's your file. We hired you a month ago and--

'We' didn't hire me. Sam Holden hired me. I was working as a bouncer at a grocery outlet until he gave me a chance.

Okay. Steven scanned the file. You have a criminal record, Mr. Tombs. Theft, assault. Jail. Were you in a gang?

For a while.

You finish high school?

Hector glared at the older man. No.

Your file indicates you're a student at Los Angeles Mission College. How'd you get in?

They let me register as a 'special student.'

What are you studying? Law enforcement? Steven chuckled.

Computer science. Hector crossed his thick arms. I'm a programmer.

They teach programming in juvenile detention?

No. After I got out of jail, my roommate in the halfway house taught me. He's a software engineer. Hector leaned forward and pointed. Tell me what's in that cup.

Steven stared into the cup for a minute, and then put the lid back on. Maybe we should have you sign a confidentiality agreement before we continue.

Maybe you should stop stalling. You remember Arthur? Carried a rifle? Shot all his coworkers?

Of course, Steven replied.

I asked around. Arthur wasn't some disgruntled nutcase. He was a Senior Systems Analyst. People like that don't just snap. That thing in the cup freaking crawled out of Arthur's mouth when he died. I saw it. Now I want to know what it is.

Steven turned to the window and looked out at the gray-yellow smog of a Los Angeles winter day. Yeah. He sat back and fiddled with a fancy ink pen. I know what's in this cup, and I think I know who built it.

Built it? It's not natural?

I meant it's bioengineered. Grown by design. Steven smiled. Do you know who Stuart Sutcliffe is?

No. Does he work here?

Steven chuckled. No. He played bass for the Beatles in the early 1960s. He quit to become a painter before the band became huge.

What does that have to do with all this? Hector shifted in his chair.

Steven ran his fingers through his thinning hair. When I dropped out of Berkeley my junior year, I was messing around with short wave radio, analog and digital signals, cellular technology and all sorts of stuff. I met Ron Haraldson at a party. He was an engineering student. He'd just come back from Las Vegas. Cheated a casino out of $42,000 using some blackjack scheme where he and a half dozen other math wizards counted cards. Guy was brilliant.

Okay. Hector eyed the sideboard. A glass bottle of water sat in a bucket of ice. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Ron was flush with cash. We took a couple of girls to get beer and cruised out to the beach. He had this big black box in his Camaro. It was a telephone. I was amazed. He let me call some friends. The handset weighed about three pounds, but there I was, rolling down the road with the T-tops off, calling people from a car!

That was it. I woke up the next morning and started drawing diagrams and making notes. Using his blackjack money, we started Signum a month later. Steven spread his hands and sat back. The chair didn't creak.

"So how come Ron's picture isn't on the wall out front? How come he isn't on the cover of Wired magazine?" Hector asked.

Steven tapped his pen. "Because he quit just before I took the company public. Sure, he pulled out a few hundred thousand in profit. But me? I made millions. And then hundreds of millions. I've been on the Forbes 400 list so long I don't check anymore."

Hector popped his knuckles. What does that have to do with the shooting?

We screwed around with a lot of stuff back then. Ron had all sorts of weird hobbies. He had fish tanks and terrariums in his place. Saltwater, freshwater, fish, eels, snails. Hell, he even had a seahorse. Girls used to go nuts over that thing. His mom was going through chemotherapy at the time. Ron started looking at different ways to deliver drugs to the human body. Instead of a shot or a pill that hit you all at once, he thought about using a parasitic organism modified to release beneficial medicines into its host.

Host? You mean like an alien inside you? Hector shivered.

Basically. Ron got really into it for eight or ten months. You have to realize this guy is a genius. He modified a slug that could live in your colon and trickle LSD into your bloodstream for a solid week. Then we got a phone contract and I hired more marketing people and the mobile phone business gathered steam. And Ron's mom died. All his work ended up in boxes. We just forgot about it.

And after all these years, you took one look at that thing in the cup and knew what it was? Hector shook his head. Bullshit.

No. After all these years, I put together my own team to work on it. I did that four years ago. Think of it! These things could deliver a low dose, continuous stream of medicine to people with Parkinson's, or cancer or diabetes.

How far along was your team at the offsite? Hector asked.

Far, except for some glitches in the software. We've been testing them on animals for months. I'm putting together a petition for human research, Steven said.

So this thing got loose in the lab and crawled into Arthur's mouth while he was napping at his desk and made him bring a rifle to work the next day?

No. Steven tipped the cup so Hector could see the dead gray thing inside. This isn't one of ours.

Then it must be his. Ron Haraldson, your fifth Beatle.

Steven shut his eyes. Yeah.

Damn.

Why didn't you show the police? Steven shook the cup. They couldn't have called you crazy, you have physical evidence right here.

I needed leverage. Something to make sure you'd talk to me.

Why?

Lisa. A girl at the offsite. She and I-- Hector's voice failed. He cleared his throat hard. And my boss, Sam Holden. Arthur murdered them, but why? You said Ron put LSD in one of his slugs. Could you load one with something else? Something that would screw up a person's brain?

It's possible. Steven nodded. So, what is it you want?

The blocky young man stood. I'm going to find out who did this. I want you to help me.

* * *

Chapter 3: Friendly Tax Preparation

Thursday, 10 January

Temecula, California, USA

Timothy Smiss took a breath and clicked the send button. His email disappeared into the ether. The hacker popped two antacids and slipped down the hall to the other office. He reached behind each of the three computers in the room and tugged a USB flash drive free. Smiss threaded a piece of twine through the three memory sticks, tied the ends, and looped it around his neck beneath his button-down shirt.

Back at his own computer, he activated a program which generated lines of Java code. Not coherent lines, but syntactically correct lines. He hoped it would fool the keystroke logger he suspected they'd planted on his machine. The program was set to pause for twelve minutes at 3:00pm to simulate a bathroom break, then at 5:30pm for a half-hour dinner break. At 10:05pm it would quit altogether and they would think Smiss had worked late again.

Smiss smiled, but his stomach lurched. Someone might come by the office and find his empty workstation. Or call his desk to ask a question. Or...

The hacker shook himself. He finished downloading all the data from his computer, and then disconnected the portable hard drive. The hard drive was the size of a pack of playing cards, but it held hundreds of gigabytes of data. Smiss taped the drive to the inside of his thigh. The duct tape pinched, but he was determined not to lose the drive if he was searched.

He stepped into the hall and shut his door. He heard voices and froze. There were two offices between him and the front door. Smiss trembled.

A long minute passed before he realized it was a radio playing in the next office. Smiss let out a breath and ran to the entrance. The cowbell dangling from the doorjamb clanged, reminding him to lock the door.

He scurried across the half-empty parking lot of the strip mall, climbed into a rental car parked beside his own car, and drove away.

* * *

Friday, 11 January

Pomona, California, USA

Turgenev's cell phone buzzed. The tall Russian put his fork down and flipped open the phone. Ron Haraldson barked, Get out to Temecula. We have a problem.

Da.

Don't you want to know what the problem is?

Nyet.

I get it. You're still pissed about the offsite.

You lied to us, Turgenev said.

I left some things out. Now stop sulking and get out to Temecula.

At the tax office? Turgenev asked.

Yeah. Are you walking out the door now?

Da.

Haraldson hung up.

Turgenev looked at his plate. His lunch consisted of curried tuna fish on honey wheat bread, with a lump of warm couscous on the side and a large, pleasantly firm kiwi. As far away from a plate of army chow as Pomona, California is from St. Petersburg, Russia.

Turgenev looked for his waitress, but couldn't spot her, so he pinned a twenty dollar bill under the salt shaker. The kiwi had to be peeled, and he couldn't do that while driving. He shoveled the couscous into his mouth, wrapped the sandwich in a napkin, stuck the bottle of Dasani under his arm, and tried to get to his car without dropping any of it.

Turgenev cranked the Nissan Altima and activated the aftermarket GPS system mounted on the dashboard. Traffic was normal for Los Angeles, which meant bad to most people, but Turgenev approached traffic in Rome and Mexico City and Boston with equal patience.

Three hours later he pulled into the lot of an ordinary strip mall--a line of eight stores anchored by a big office supply place on one end. Friendly Tax Preparation sat between a smoothie shop and a mom-and-pop pet store. The sign was red, white and blue. A cowbell hung from the door.

While he slipped a full-sized Sig Sauer P226 9mm pistol from under the seat, Turgenev eyed the sign. He'd never paid US taxes so he reasoned he wasn't eligible for any retirement benefits.

Turgenev smiled.

Retirement comes the day I am too slow.

The Russian had visited the office once before and remembered the layout. An empty secretary's desk and four chairs filled the outer room. A long hallway ran along the right side, with three offices, one after the other, on the left. The fourth and fifth doors led to a bathroom and a storage closet.

Turgenev didn't know what to expect after the brief phone call, so as he went through the door he caught the cowbell in his left hand to keep it from clanging, and held the pistol in his right. He wore Level III A+ rated body armor under his golf shirt, and a tiny Beretta .25 strapped to his left ankle. A folding knife was clipped to his pants pocket. It was an Indian knockoff of some high-tech American blade, but it would cut someone's throat just fine.