Scary Intel

By Kaysee Renee Robichaud

The black ops agent codenamed Athena had the target in her sights. When Vulcan's Forge wanted a man dead, they sent their best and Athena tops that list. The end of the target's story should have been one trigger squeeze away. Unfortunately, the bullet did not accomplish the job. Instead, it revealed mysteries Athena had never encountered before.

Newly promoted field operative Parnik "Venkat" Venkateswaran thinks she knows how the missions for the secretive Malleus Librum Society are supposed to go: Recover books of ancient, blasphemous lore and bring them to the Society's vault. However, when the book in question serves as the basis for one diabolic man's supernatural defenses, a simple acquisition mission takes on dangerous permutations.

Initially working at cross purposes, Athena and Venkat must learn to trust one another and pool their resources if they ever hope to triumph over a impossibly powerful mastermind, his cult of zealous maniacs, and his seemingly otherworldly guardians . . .

Scary Intel is the first adventure in Kaysee Renee Robichaud's Bookworm Brigade series of dark fantasy novels, which follows the supernatural sleuthing and book-obsessed Malleus Librum Society's efforts to remove forbidden lore from the public sphere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twice Told Tales II
• Release date: Aug 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463952238

Kaysee Renee Robichaud

"Kaysee Renee Robichaud ... balances perfect amounts of ... eroticism and adventure." -- Julian van de Camp,Wings of Steam BlogKaysee Renee Robichaud has been publishing her erotica and romantic fiction since 2008, through such well known book pulishers as Circlet Press, Ravenous Romance, Cleis and Alyson Books. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including the Lambda Award finalist Women of the Bite, edited be Cecilia Tan. An audio version of her story "Adrift" appeared as episode 226 of the Nobilis podcast."Kaysee Renee Robichaud's [writing is] intense, nuanced ... poignant, [and] moving..." -- Sacci Green, Erotica RevealedKaysee Renee has lived all over the United States, but currently resides in southern Texas, where the winters are actually a lot like her childhood autumns. The summers, though, are pretty rough. She is eternally grateful for air conditioning, though a little sweat is good for the fiction."Kaysee Renee Robichaud [tells] a ... playful story, written in a breezy style." -- Jean Roberta, Erotica Revealed

Book preview

Scary Intel

A Bookworm Brigade Novel

By: Kaysee Renee Robichaud

Dedication

To TKR, my prince.

ATHENA

No matter how simple an operation seems, The Drill Sergeant said, it can become complicated in a fraction of a second. The key to being an effective operative is flexibility and constant focus on achieving the mission objective. Fight another day if you must, but never stop fighting.

I centered the crosshairs on my rifle's telescopic sight two inches below the target's chin, allowing myself a brief smile for another mission accomplished before I pulled the trigger. Seconds after I squeezed, the whole mission took a sudden turn into spooky land.

The target's name was Jeeves Peabody, but despite the name, he was no droll butler serving a feckless British aristocrat. This man served no one but himself.

This Jeeves Peabody was a WASP from Pittsburgh, philanthropist to the public and in secret a human trafficker and murderer with not only Russian Mafiya ties but connections to numerous fringe groups, those scary end-of-the-world sorts of societies that sometimes make news when they reveal new uses for Kool-Aid. He did not look like a mastermind. No goatee, for one. He kept his salt and pepper hair well groomed. If he had a publicity flaw, it was his teeth. They were that off-white color developed by men who prefer eating meat and smoking cigars to regular brushing. He wore suits with name brands that were five tiers higher than JCPenny, and he played the role of philanthropist to the hilt. However, I had spooky intel. Pictures of this man viewed him standing over dead drug mules in Mexico City. Smiling in the same beatific way normal people reserved for a medium rare steak, a fine glass of Malbec, or a warm Imperial Stout. I was ninth in line to try and take this man down. He had proved to be a regular Rasputin.

I saw my shot. Took it.

My rifle kicked against my shoulder in the familiar way. The sound suppressor issued a hand-clap loud report, all but inaudible to my quarry who sat at a table at a benefit event almost 1100 yards away, raising a glass of what might have been water or perhaps a seven-and-seven to his lips.

Sure, I was not primarily a sniper by trade, but I knew enough to perform the job. He should have died. A 7.62mm high velocity shell fired from a Dragunov Sniper Rifle, the model not my favorite but chosen to implicate another bad man known to the target's allies, should have had more effect than causing him to reach up to his neck as though swatting at a pesky mosquito.

Swatting was the only effect I saw.

"What. The. Hell?" I asked the air because no one else was around.

When a target was classified unkillable, I expected the reputation to be hype. Sometimes life enjoys showing us how shortsighted we really are. The Drill Sergeant who prepared me for the grueling and often unsavory tasks I performed for the ultra-covert Vulcan's Forge organization, often lectured me on the dangers of overconfidence. After graduation I assumed I had my own abilities pretty well identified. We all know what assuming does, though.

I tensed my finger for a second round, just to make sure, but by then someone at that benefit banquet started making a scene, pointing and screaming. Pointer’s finger traced a line to the hole in Houston's Embassy Hotel conference room's picture window my cartridge made joining the festivities. Attendees hopped to their feet like fools, making targets of themselves. A general panic ensued, erasing a clear line of sight to Peabody and therefore making another shot impossible without adding collateral damages. While the sniper I was implicating might have fired anyway, I was not so heartless.

From the scant view I had through the scope, Jeeves seemed to be in no hurry. He did not rise with the others. He did not rush. In fact, he finished drinking his beverage, set the glass down with a careful motion. Raised his napkin to his lips. Spit out a bit of something distasteful. Dabbed at his neck. Set his napkin atop the glass. Only then did he rise and join the group's trend toward the exit.

I remained glued to the scope. I should have been breaking down the weapon and making good my escape. The cake job should have been done. Instead I was staring at the target's high backed chair, wondering what the hell went wrong. Only when the table was empty did I get a good sight of the seat where he had been. Something small and metal winked among the ice cubes.

My cartridge. When he was daubing his neck, the son of a bitch had wiped it off like it was a crumb. I muttered three invectives and then cleaned my prints off the weapon and dumped it next to the stairwell before scuttling down four flights and out to the waiting escape vehicle.

I dialed my handler Mercury when I merged onto the Beltway 8, heading east toward the safe house in Humble, a suburb north of Houston. He answered on the third ring: Hello Helena, how's Honolulu? I was not Helena and Houston was no Honolulu. This was the code phrase to establish identity and the situation. The active voice modulation disguiser was perfect; I barely noticed it.

I marveled anew at his alacrity with tongue-twister code phrases, not even a single stumble. I replied, The trip down was a bit bumpy, but I slept most of the way. That let Mercury know I was who his phone said I was, and that I was not in duress. Unfortunately, Hawaii is a bust, might be time to see if Portland is as rainy as they say.

I'm sorry to hear that. The disguiser was so seamless that I could detect the hint of concern coloring my handler's voice when he asked, How's the weather on the islands? Good for travel?

Clear skies, I replied, not even a tenth of a percent chance of rainfall here. Despite monsoon season.

In an instant, Mercury calmed. Not the cake walk you expected, eh?

No need to rub it in.

Rest up. Call me when you get near the airport, he said. I will try to have an itinerary for you.

Despite the fact that I had never met him and never heard his real voice, I could not exist without Mercury. He was a primo handler bar none. Our coded phrases were well used and comforting. In that simple exchange, he got the gist that the work was unfinished, and that I was game for a second attempt. The cities were fictions. No way was I going to Portland, either Maine or Oregon. The target was in Houston for one more day, and then he was on his way back home. I would hit him again here or make my way up to the Pitt.

Failure tastes like kale, way too bitter to be palatable. A certain sort of person can suck it up and move on. Not me. The Drill Sergeant schooled me well in the importance of carrying through on mission objectives. Scumbag Jeeves belonged dead, and I was going to make him that way. I passed the exit ramp for JFK Boulevard with its airport signs and then crossed over highway 59/69. Soon enough, I passed a fairly new strip mall with a Gold's Gym and a Denny's restaurant, my mnemonic triggers to tell me I was near the turn off. The light at Ralston Road was interminably long, almost two minutes before I could get going into the safe house's subdivision. I endured.

VENKAT

The old man smiled tight as the binding on an original 1897 edition of Tuscan Songs hot off of Houghton Mifflin's press when he welcomed Parnik Venkateswaran into his office, greeting her by using her full name without a single incorrectly spoken syllable, flub or pause. His reputation as a fastidious man was well earned. As you know, he said, after her perfunctory good afternoon reply, we are in need of a new Field Page. His Scottish lilt lent gravitas to each word, lofty or no. Though you have only been with us for just over six years now, your efforts in both the Society's Cataloging and Acquisitions departments have shown the necessary attention to details and improvisation skills we look for. Your reports are free of surplusage. What's more, your understated eagerness for promotion has not gone unnoticed. The slot is yours, if you wish it.

George Haight's office was comfortably furnished and not a particularly celebratory area, featuring chairs upholstered with darkly oiled brown leather and numerous slender volumes and folios filling shelves along three of his walls. At the focal center of the space, though not the center of the room, waited a massive desk crafted from the finest maple. Atop its surface waited the typical accouterments found on any tech savvy executive's desk, including a high end telephone and a mobile workstation computer connected to both a docking station and a secondary monitor. The surface played home to more old school accouterments as well, including desk blotter, a calendar containing appointments and notes written in a meticulous script, trio of baskets for incoming, resting and outgoing memos and materials, and a pair of featureless white mugs holding pencils (to the blotter's left side) and both blue and black pens (to the blotter's right side). Vents near the ceiling huffed warm air into the space.

To her credit, Venkat managed to restrain her desires to dance around the room and manifested her delight as a simple nod and grin. I am honored to accept this role, sir. She accepted his outstretched hand, and found the grip both strong and reassuring.

The old man himself was a gray haired fellow with intense blue eyes and a fondness for gray Brooks Brothers suits. His ties were never outrageous, though his shirt colors were somewhat daring. Today, he wore robin egg blue beneath his charcoal gray jacket and matching tie. Welcome to the world of Field Page services, Ms. Venkateswaran.

In her Acquisition section outfit of long skirt and long sleeves, cream on top and green below, with a tasteful assortment of ruffles, Venkat felt suddenly underdressed. Didn't something like this require more formal wear? She was wearing comfortable flats, for goodness' sake! Thank you, Mr. Haight.

The hand clasp lasted for a single firm shake and then George Haight, the Master Annotator of the Malleus Librum Society's North American cell, indicated the comfortable brown leather chair before his desk. Your colleagues call you Venkat. May I do likewise?

Of course, Mr. Haight.

I appreciate that. At this, he offered her one of his rare full smiles. The show of teeth cast his face in a new light, making him downright impish.

As she sat down, the old man tapped a button on his phone and bid his admin Shelia to please send him in, now. Shortly after this, the door at the back of the room opened, and a pair of solid soled flats clapped across the hardwood floor toward them. The old man's grin returned, tight and proper, and he indicated another chair. The leather there creaked as the newcomer settled into the space. After the newcomer was settled, the old man said, "FP Venkat, please allow me to introduce you to Marquis Trial, who has been serving as a Field Page for over three years now."

Marquis Trial? The name set her heart running just a little faster. During her tenure in the Cataloging section, she had seen field notes for no less than fifteen of Trial's capers. They were top notch, often dangerous jobs. His reportage was less formal than some, but no less descriptive or useful for the personal touches.

She turned toward the newcomer and found herself suddenly caught short by disappointment.

When reading his reports, Venkat had envisioned the man as a movie star. A Daniel Craig sort of dangerous sexy fellow with close cropped hair and a face touched by scars and lines of experience. Broad shouldered, certainly. Bearing a personality so magnetic and big that it would dominate any room or situation he found himself in.

The real Marquis Trial was a slender looking fellow, trim and