Chapter Text
The smaller buckskin pit bull lunged and caught his white opponent by the throat. Blood stained both of their muzzles and lay in splatter flowers on the sand of the pit. The white dog went down to the shouts of a small but rabid crowd. It was over. Released from the violence, Neal looked up at Sturluson’s face, caught his blue gaze. Blood lust was written in the lines of his mouth and eyes, in the intensity of his stare, in the hand that gripped the steel rail between him and the pit below. It sent a shiver into Neal’s bones.
*
The case came along on Tuesday, heralded by nothing in particular. Monday had been all cold cases. Reams and reams of paper with uninteresting crimes and uninspired criminals had flowed through Neal’s hands while he fought to stay awake. There was nothing in the world more boring than mortgage fraud. By the time he’d gotten home Monday night, Neal had almost talked himself into stealing a Renoir just to ensure he’d never see another cold case as long as he lived.
When he arrived Tuesday morning and saw the team all gathered in the conference room Neal almost pulled a muscle with the size of his smile. Any case was a good case right now.
It had only gotten better. Sitting at the shiny black conference table, surrounded by a team of people that he daily outshone, Peter had presented him a passable case. An anonymous tip had directed the FBI to Vanir Industries. Vanir had begun as a small time manufacturing corp with interests in the US and Scandinavia.
“Five years ago Brokker Sturluson became CEO of Vanir and got the company involved in new investments. Since then their net worth has shot up dramatically.” Peter paused, looking around the room.
“Too much to be on the level?” Neal asked obligingly, rolling a pen between his fingers.
“Ostensibly, no.”
Neal grinned. “So yes, then. We need to get in there and check it out! You know, Nick Halden has been to Sweden...”
Peter cut him off. “Whoa there. Let’s have a little research first, shall we? We need something more to go on before you start your Halden routine.”
Neal sat back, very definitely not pouting. Diana leaned over to murmur in his ear. “More paper trails. How will you survive it?” He ignored her.
Bringing up a picture on the overhead projector, Peter pointed to it. “This is Sturluson.” In his 40’s, Sturluson was blond and athletic, striking, but not handsome. “Diana, I want you to find me everything there is to know about this guy. I want to know what kind of socks he wears. Jones, I want you and Neal to start tracking their taxes, transactions, shipments, etc. Find me something unusual. Then,” he pinned Neal with a laughably stern gaze, “maybe Halden can go play. Got it?”
Neal snapped off a salute. Even paper trails were good if they lead to undercover work. “Yes boss! Whatever you say.” Jones rolled his eyes and the meeting broke up into research.
*
By Thursday they knew that Sturluson was both smart and dirty. Starting with his immigration to America at 10, Sturluson had clearly been determined to make his place in the world. He got a paper route within weeks of arriving in the States and saved up enough to start buying stocks at 13. From there he only moved up, eventually coming away from Cornell University with a MBA at 25.
According to Diana, he had spent the next eleven years moving around from company to company. He rose among the ranks then moved on when he’d plateaued. Only two of the five companies had filed complaints. Neither had been able to substantiate them. There were, however, enough irregularities following Sturluson around that she believed he’d been siphoning money into his own pocket. There was enough cause, barely, to follow Sturluson and Vanir further.
Jones and Neal turned up similar results. There were no glaring irregularities in Vanir’s paperwork. What they did find were little pockets of money appearing here and there before disappearing just as mysteriously. There were hotel bills with no accompanying flight plans and shipments of goods that seemed never to move once they’re reached Vanir’s warehouse. There was nothing that could be clearly called criminal but many little questions that Peter agreed added up.
Their first clear breakthrough on criminal behavior turned up when Neal and Diana pivoted toward looking at Sturluson’s hobbies and possible in-routes for Halden.
“Dog fighting?” Neal’s lip curled. “I’m not going to a dog fight.” There was no force on earth that could make him watch dogs rip each other apart.
Peter sighed. He, Jones and Diana were gathered around Neal’s desk with Diana’s latest find. “It’s Sturluson’s only permeable hobby. There’s nowhere to ski, events involving ancient Swedish mythology are a bit thin on the ground and we’re not dressing you in drag. Sturluson’s not into much outside of work. Dog fighting is what we have.”
“I could try to get hired into the company straight out. Everyone needs marketing people these days.”
Peter shook his head. “Not Vanir.” He hitched a hip up on Neal’s desk. “Getting you hired without an in will take weeks, and Hughes is not going to devote weeks to a case as flimsy as this. We need you in tomorrow.”
Neal’s stomach did an unpleasant roll. He’d never seen a dog fight in person but he’d seen some of the dogs once. A Bulgarian man in possession of a very fine, very historically significant set of letters had bought himself a number of ex fighting dogs as canine guards. A few well-placed tranquilizers had eliminated any danger but Neal had never forgotten their mangled faces. They were so maimed that they barely looked like dogs any more. He thought of The Island of Dr Moreau. Those dogs were screaming as well. There was no way he wanted to see dogs get like that right in front of him.
“Peter,” he pitched his voice low and leaned in. “I just can’t see this working. Who hires someone at a dog fight? It’s all low level crooks and sadists.”
There was sympathy on Peter’s face but no give. “This ring isn’t like that. This is a classy little operation for the rich sadists who don’t want to hang out with poor ones. You’ll fit in fine. Impress Sturluson enough and he’ll take you.”
Neal opened his mouth, hoping another argument, a better argument, would jump out but Diana cut him off.
“Neal, I know that this is,” she paused, looking for a word, “disturbing, but this is what we’ve got. You know very well that we need a business man, and nobody's going to buy that you just happen to like Norse mythology too. Besides, with you as a witness we’ll be able to close the ring down. Just as soon as we’ve got Sturluson we can send this to the NYPD and have them make a raid.”
The stomach thing was getting worse. They were serious about this. He really had to go and watch a dog fight. He looked up at Peter again, searching the familiar face for some weakness, some chink he could drive a chisel into to break down the whole mask. He knew this was just as disgusting to Peter as it was to him. No man who let a dog walk all over him like Satchmo did could be okay with a fighting ring.
It was there, somewhere in the set of Peter’s mouth. Peter didn’t like making Neal do this. He hated it in fact. Neal saw the flaw and didn’t strike. Peter knew what he was asking. That, it turned out, was enough. Neal nodded.
“Alright. When are we doing this?”
“Now. Go home, get dressed, get ‘Halden’. We’ll clear things with the Marshals and have a GPS watch sent over for you. There’s a fight tonight in the Bronx and you’ll be there.” Peter laid a hand, briefly, on Neal’s shoulder. It said, ‘sorry’ and ‘cowboy up’ because this was Peter, after all. Neal smiled a little, then got up and went home to get into Nick Halden’s skin.
*
At 7:15 Thursday night, everyone trooped out of the office and down to the street. A Shelby Cobra sat at the curb like a glowing silver mask. It was a clear night; a scattering of the brightest stars were just visible in the livid city sky. There was a strong smell of asphalt in the air as the city breathed out the day’s warmth. Nick was tingling head to toe and very, very alive.
Peter handed him the keys, which were his, after all, and he climbed into the car, which was also his. The silk shirt he wore he’d bought in Italy, his shoes had been given to him by a mafioso. He Belonged here, he would Belong at the fight. When he turned the engine over there was a growl that matched the new streak of cruelty in Nick. He looked over at where Peter stood on the sidewalk watching him. Nick gave him a tooth-bearing grin that wasn’t friendly at all, and peeled out into traffic.
The ride to the Bronx was startling only in its swiftness. Before he was entirely ready, Nick had arrived at a warehouse along the river with plenty of other shiny cars parked around it. Subtle, this was not.
There were a knot of people outside the side door, all standing together under its orange-yellow industrial light. Most were smoking. All were dressed in the casual elegance of people who had never looked at a price tag in their lives. Nick strolled up, picking out a pretty redhead smoking in a Cynthia Rowley dress. It moved languidly in the faint river breeze.
Nick leaned up against the bricks next to her and smiled over. “Think I could have one? I keep trying to quit, but...” he trailed off with a boyish expression of chagrin.
The redhead looked him up and down. She had a small mole on the outer curve of her eye socket, just under one cinnamon brow. It made Neal want to sculpt her. Nick pushed the urge down.
She smiled and pulled a cigarette out, handing it to him with a brush of fingers. She lighted him, he admired her rings - none of which were a wedding band - and they fell into a shallow but pleasant conversation. Neither brought up the upcoming fight, though Nick doubted that it was reluctance on her part. There was a thin vibration in her that he recognised as the first anticipatory buzz of adrenaline. She was making the feeling last out here in the dark with a smiling stranger. He played along.
Her name was Leanna, she was from Charleston, South Carolina originally, had moved to New York for a position in Ernst & Young, liked old movies and would probably go home with Nick if he asked. He didn’t intend to. Try as he might, Neal’s disgust couldn’t be deleted. Nick hid it. When the cigarettes were ash and a warmth in the blood, Leanna put her hand on Nick’s sleeve. Her nail polish clashed with the crimson shirt.
“Shall we go in?”
An edged smile. “Lets.” Nick crooked his arm for her and they moved through the steel door covered in scratched white paint and graffiti. Inside there was a large space with a sunken pit in the center. The surrounding area of chairs, makeshift bar and benches was only faintly lit with yellowed bulbs, but the pit had a huge light above it shining starkly white. There was no question as to the focus of the evening. This was an atmosphere of enthusiasts.
Nick made for the bar. It was only correct to buy Leanna something - a cosmopolitan, as it turned out. If he had a glass of Merlot himself, it was only to warm his rigid limbs. They strolled, Leanna chatting with regular acquaintances, Nick introducing himself and being only unobtrusively charming. He was waiting.
It paid off. A few minutes later Sturluson arrived with another man, both of them in business suits. Nick made no immediate move. He watched Sturluson get himself a drink and wander to the side of the pit. His companion made the same rounds that Leanne was, but Sturluson seemed uninterested in his fellow fans. When Leanne was deep in an anecdote about her drunken escapade with an ex, 4 dogs and a mounted police officer in Central Park, Nick made his way over to his quarry. Leaning forward against the steel rail, Nick stared down and the empty pit for a long moment before looking over at Sturluson.
“Takes a while for them to get going here, does it?” That air of cruelty was back and strong in his voice.
Sturluson glanced over at him. “There must be mingling.” He watched Nick watch the pit.
“Your first time here?” Nick nodded, eyes still on the pit. He showed no enthusiasm for the conversation. “Where have you been going?”
“Jersey. Less refined, maybe, but they get to the point.”
Sturluson nodded. “You pay for your amenities, I suppose.” He toasted Neal with his glass. “I think you’ll like the action though.”
Now Nick could turn and give Sturluson his attention. “I’ve heard good things. Are the dogs in decent shape?”
Sturluson nodded, a grin crawling across his face. “Real fighters, the lot of them. They don’t throw things here either. All the dogs are vicious; any one of them can win.”
“Good. I like a straight gamble.”
“You have any money down yet?”
Nick shook his head. “I want to watch the first fight before I decide if this is where I want to spend my money. How many matches will there be?”
“Six, and you’ll bet on them. This is exactly where you want to be.”
Nick raised his brows. “Oh?”
“You’ll see.” Sturluson put out a hand. “Brokker Sturluson.” When he said his name a Scandinavian depth crept into his news broadcaster accent.
“Nick Halden.” They shook. Sturluson’s grip was strong, just barely this side of an intimidation tactic. Nick ignored it completely. “What do you do when you’re not waiting for the dogs?”
“Manufacturing, investments. A little of this and that. And you?”
Nick sighed. “Nothing right now. I fell on the wrong side of a budget cut.” It wasn’t hard to add a thread of bitterness to his voice. Neal was feeling quite bitter about life just now.
Before he could go into his pitch, the light above the pit went dark. A second later it was on again, illuminating Sturluson’s wide grin.
“Here you go. They’re getting to the point.” Well-dressed men and women converged on the pit, circling it like jackals around a kill. A hand slid along Nick’s elbow; Leanna was back. Below, a short black man with salt and pepper hair walked to the center of the pit.
“Ladies and gentleman, the first fight will begin in one minute. It’s Zero verses Garm. Get any last bets in now. The minute the dogs are out, betting is closed!”
“‘The wolf shall fell the father of men.’” Sturluson murmured. Nick looked over. The man’s attention was fixed firmly below. After a moment he looked up. Catching Nick’s gaze, he smiled. “Garm is mine.”
A flurry of betting broke out around them. Leanna placed money on Zero.
“It’ll be Zero for sure,” Leanna told Nick, her cheeks flushed. “He’s a big one and he’s won four fights so far.” Her grip on his arm was tight and warm. That faint vibration in her had turned into a quake. Nick was half surprised that he couldn’t actually hear her heart hammering. Neal wanted to shake her.
The energy peaked and crested as two dogs were led, growling and wild, into the pit. Leashes snapped off, handlers fled and the fight was on.
Nick tried to watch, couldn’t and gave the field to Neal. Neal’s hands creaked where he gripped the rail, wanting to scream, to run, to be anywhere but here, watching the sickening fight below. The bigger white dog, Zero, seemed to be winning. He mauled the buckskin dog’s muzzle, tore at his flanks, bit his leg. There was blood everywhere. Then tumble of white and tan fur filled up Neal’s eyes. The smell of blood and excited human clogged his nose. He wondered how mad Peter would be if he vomited.
The buckskin suddenly lunged up and caught the white dog’s throat. In moments it was over. All that was left was the sickening excitement in Sturluson’s eyes.
*
Warm, clean and alone, Neal exited the steaming bathroom and flopped boneless across his bed. The duvet was soft and welcoming. Neal pressed his face into it and tried to forget the evening. There had been hours of blood and money and the taste of the whiskies that Sturluson had stood him. It had gone on so long that, horribly, Nick had begun to get used to it. The fighting had become background. Some of the rush of undercover work returned while he courted Sturluson and arranged himself a meeting for Monday morning. Coming home, shedding Nick, the faint taste of adrenaline had made it that much worse. Who the hell could get used to dead dogs? Neal, apparently. He pushed his face harder into the bed until he could barely breathe. What a fucker of a night.
The apartment door opened. Neal didn’t look up. “Go away Moz,” he said through cotton and down.
The bed shifted under him. “I’m not Mozzie,” Peter said, “flattering as the comparison is.” His voice was dry and light. Why shouldn’t it be? He hadn’t had to scrub the smell of the warehouse off his skin.
“Go away Peter.”
“Nah,” Peter said. “I think I’ll stick around a little while.”
Neal scowled into the duvet. “You have all the recordings. I’ll make a statement in the morning.”
“Not the point.” Peter didn’t elaborate and silence fell for a few minutes. Neal could feel the muscles in his back unknotting. Suddenly the warehouse was far away and he was dozing.
A warm hand landed lightly on his shoulder blade. “Sleep well, Neal.”
Mostly there already, Neal smiled, sighed and let go.
*
Saturday was mostly writing up his report, drinking good espresso and taking a long stroll through as much of Manhattan as he could. Sunday, Neal got a call and went to a command performance at the Burke house for dinner.
He brought a bouquet of dahlias for Elizabeth, a six pack of cheap beer for Peter and a little stuffed alligator that squeaked for Satchmo. He knew that Peter would give him a look for that; Neal didn’t usually bring Satchmo toys. The dog had quite a few too many.
Elizabeth greeted him at the door smelling of lavender perfume and marsala. She bussed him on the cheek, took the dahlias and herded him into the dining room.
“Neal’s here!” She called up the stairs. There was a thump from above. Elizabeth returned to the kitchen from which glorious smells were emerging.
“Can I help?” Neal asked, petting an excited Satchmo.
“No, I have this. Peter’s mother loves chicken marsala so I’ve perfected the recipe.”
Neal got up anyway and wandered into the kitchen. Satchmo followed him to the threshold then sat and whined. Neal smiled despite himself. He pulled the inelegant lump of the alligator out of his coat pocket and bent, showing it to the lab. Satch wiggled with his whole body. Neal held it out and Satch snatched it, running over to his bed and curling up to mouth his new friend. When Neal looked up Elizabeth was watching him.
“Oh honey,” she said and leaned forward to brush her fingers through Neal’s hair. She didn’t ask any questions, for which Neal was profoundly grateful. “On second thought, why don’t you set the table for me.” She turned back to the bubbling marsala. “I believe you know where everything is, yes?” she asked archly.
Just like Friday night, Neal could feel the tension draining out of his spine. “Of course,” he agreed, putting a wink in his voice.
By the time Peter joined them a few minutes later, Neal had the table set with all the best china and a pair of candles merrily burning away. Peter raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He accepted a beer, sat down and watched Neal and Elizabeth chat about her latest catering disaster. Neal could feel eyes tracking him as occasionally got up to wander into and out of the kitchen, over to the sliding doors, back into the kitchen then out to the living room. The frenetic feeling was gone, but it was nice to meander. Neal suspected he was doing something embarrassing like establishing his territory. Fortunately, Peter either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t comment. He was good like that.
Elizabeth kept up a steady stream of light conversation, mainly revolving around her last event. It had been a fundraiser for the CBLDF and had kept her highly entertained throughout. During a story about one very rich guest in a tux and red cape, Peter got up, walked over to where Neal was heading back to the kitchen once again, and caught him by the shoulders. He steered Neal to a chair then gave him a light push. Neal sat. Peter went back to his chair and beer. Smiling to himself, Neal stretched his legs out long and crossed his ankles.
Dinner was languid, punctuated by glasses of wine and easy smiles. Peter waxed poetic about baseball while Elizabeth and Neal poked fun just for the reactions. Neal told harrowing, alleged stories and Peter poked back. The marsala was delicious. No one discussed the case, or any recent cases. Work had been left outside this house that smelled of mushrooms and dog and peace. Neal enjoyed himself immensely, forgetting about bloodied dogs and blue eyes.
*
Monday, as Mondays are wont to be, was a rude surprise. Nick arrived promptly at 11:15 for his meeting with Sturluson. Vanir was based in Chelsea, owning the entire 5th floor of the Tuckfield building. The front desk was polished steel, and the rest of the office had the same icy shine. Sturluson’s desk was blonde wood, but giant pictures of fjords dominated the walls and a general blue theme made the large office seem much colder than it was. Nick took a seat in the steel chair across from Sturluson and put on his best ‘hire me, hire me right now’ smile.
Sturluson leaned forward. “Good to see you, Nick. I was hoping that our chat wasn’t just fight talk.”
“I never say what I don’t mean,” Nick told him, leaning in as well. “I’m looking for something new, something I can sink my teeth into.” An unbidden image of the little buckskin dog rose in Nick’s mind.
Sturluson nodded. “And I’m looking for someone with fire in him. These days too many people sit back and expect a company to grow all by itself. I want people on my team who want to yank themselves up and take Vanir with them.”
“Watch me,” was all Nick said. It was all he needed to say. Sturluson had seen himself in the walking mirror that was Nick Halden and he was happy. Nick was in.
There was no desk ready but with Nick’s fervent profession that he wanted something to do as soon as possible they stuck him on an extra desk in the corner of the main flat of office and hooked him up a phone. An understudy named Greger handed him a client that was backing off from Vanir and told him to get them back. It took Neal six phone calls and three hours to pull them back in.
Nick set the black phone back in its cradle and sat back. His chair was deeply uncomfortable, made for a person significantly smaller than Nick. He arched, popping his back. Test one was finished. He closed the folder - ice blue like everything else - and stood. Greger had one of the perimeter offices with windows and real walls. For the moment Nick was out in one of two cubicle typing pools. He strolled over to Greger’s office, smiling at people and taking in the company as he went. There appeared to be about 15 workers in the cubicle sections and 6 window offices, including Sturluson’s. It was a sensible little operation for investments, though how and why Sturluson had made that jump with a company that had been primarily manufacturing industrial parts Neal couldn’t yet see.
Greger was a thin little man with white blonde hair and a startling grin. He looked like a whippet. When Nick knocked he looked up from his computer.
“Come in. Having any problems?”
Nick suspected that Greger would enjoy his problems far too much. “Not too many,” he said, ingratiating. “Here’s Canix. They’re in for the steel plant and they’ve upped their investment to 3 million.”
Greger’s smile fell, giving him a distinctly sour expression. “Great. Listen, we don’t have much else for you just yet. Why don’t you go see the boss and go home? We’ll have a full load for you on Wednesday.”
“Are you sure? I’m happy to throw in with anything you’ve got.”
“I’m sure.” Now Greger was all but glowering. Nick shrugged, tipped his hat and took himself back to Sturluson.
Sturluson was talking on the phone, guttural Swedish phrases rolling off of his tongue. Nick listened, but made nothing out of it. The language had never been a real interest for him. All he could do was order food and ask a lady to dance. After a few minutes of calm growling, Sturluson hung up and turned to Nick.
“Tired of us already?”
Adrenaline. There was a landmine under his feet. Nick leaned forward. “Give me something.”
Sturluson laughed. “Greger’s jealous already? You must be doing well. It usually takes him a whole week to stop liking someone.” Nick relaxed slightly. “I tell you what, take a walk with me.”
Sturluson shrugged into a coat while Nick dutifully followed him out of the office. He tipped his hat to the receptionist who smiled like a thin, blonde shark. Then they were out of Vanir and back on the streets. Colors lept out from all directions and noise swamped the cool buzz that had taken over Nick’s mind since he’d arrived at Sturluson’s office. God what a place, Neal thought briefly, no wonder he needs to cut loose after a day of that. Sturluson was all about the extreme; total icy calm or wild abandon. Nick could see very little in between. It was unnerving.
Nick was ushered around to Sturluson’s Saab. He climbed in, noting the distinct ‘new’ smell of the car. He doubted that Sturluson owned cars long enough for it to fade. They peeled away from the curb, passed two taxis and headed out of Manhattan toward Jersey. For a minute, Nick’s stomach turned. There were a number of dog rings in Jersey; after all that was where he’d ostensibly been a member. Could any of them be running this early? Nick hadn’t researched rings well enough. It had been too stomach-turning. They turned off in Hoboken and Nick abruptly remembered where Vanir’s warehouses were. The panic left him slowly. That was the thing with taking on a persona, fast emotions were noticeable. Nick slowed himself down, smoothed himself through everything.
They parked at a two story warehouse identical to the ones all around it. In the little fenced courtyard two trucks were being unloaded. Crates were hauled by men and forklifts into the shadows of the building. A sharp smell of gasoline permeated everything. An older man was standing by the truck talking to one of the delivery men. He was focused on an iPad, taking down whatever the deliveryman was saying. Sturluson, Nick in tow, walked over.
“Problems, John?” The old man looked up, squinting through thick rectangular glasses. He shook his head.
“Nah, not really. The last half of the rebar shipment won’t be here til Wednesday, but it doesn’t matter. We don’t need it moved out until next Thursday.”
Sturluson frowned but didn’t comment. He left the man to his organizing and strode off into the warehouse. Nick smiled briefly at John but the man didn’t look up. He was going to have to go charm someone in a bar tonight; the last time his smiles had failed so regularly was prison.
Just inside the warehouse was a glassed-in office. Sturluson made for it directly. There were two occupants, a young man who looked like a linebacker and a very skinny woman with a crew cut. The both looked up when Sturluson entered.
“Boss,” the young man said. “What brings you?” He had a strong Norse accent.
“Finn, Max, this is Mr. Halden.” Nick nodded and tried the smile again. The man - Finn? - returned it. Max twitched. Nick noticed a swastika patch on her ratty jacket. He fought back his own twitch.
“Max is our IT department, Nick. She’s the best but I can’t get her to come into the city for anything.” Sturluson looked almost fond as he gestured at Max. Nick hadn’t thought him capable.
Max grunted. She typed something with flashing rapidity and grunted again. Finn grinned over her shoulder at them.
“She means ‘hi, nice to meet you’” he told Nick.
“Clearly,” Nick agreed, making his smile warmer. Max was someone important here. She continued to type, completely tuned into her own world. Sturluson didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he discussed shipments with Finn and gave Nick a rundown of the imports and exports that Vanir handled.
After a few minutes Finn offered a tour and they left the office area, Max still typing away behind them. Friendly as a retriever, Finn pointed out the sections where raw materials came in, where finished goods came in and where they exported the few things made by clients in the States. It was all clear and organized, no obvious unclaimed piles or extra rooms. If they were smuggling then they were doing it properly. No loose ends for Vanir. Sturluson stayed mostly silent, occasionally checking his phone while Finn escorted Nick around. It was by far the most pleasant interaction Nick had had in Vanir so far. He relaxed, taking in the information pouring out of his guide.
*
Inside of a week, Nick had an office and a reputation. Neal had a headache and the firm idea that something was very wrong at Vanir. Mostly this was based on the glimpses of financial irregularities that he caught. Mostly. The other part of it was a bone-deep buzz that never left while he was in the office or near any other Vanir employee. Nothing in the situation looked dangerous, but no matter how he tried, Nick couldn’t relax into the work. Something set his adrenaline rushing at every smile and word.
The first issue he told Peter all about. He meticulously tracked every scrap of evidence he could find. Peter needed evidence fast if Hughes was going to keep this up. Both of them agreed that Vanir was up to something, but they needed better evidence. Whatever was going on was well-covered and not as clearly related to shipping as either of them had thought. Vanir did not seem to be smuggling, or if they were it wasn’t the main issue. Something else was going down. All this he and Peter chewed over every night when Neal came home, smelling of cologne and adrenaline-sweat. Twice Mozzie dropped in, looking over the rather pathetic evidence and snarking. The second time he stayed after Peter left.
"What’s really going on? Are you doing a job without me?” Mozzie swirled a cab sauv in his glass and took an appreciative sip. Neal scowled at him.
“I’m not doing a job - just playing the good consultant.”
Mozzie raised a brow. “You look like a cat on a hot tin roof.”
“I do not look like Elizabeth Taylor.”
Mozz cocked his head. “No, I could see it. The hair, the eyes. You could do Taylor.”
Neal coughed then laughed. Elizabeth Taylor, really. Something tight unwound in his shoulders. It was good to have Mozz around.
“You do, though. Something’s up; something’s got you spooked. What’s going on?”
On the other hand... Neal thought. Mozz was just too damn observant. “Nothing’s going on.” Mozzie just stared. Neal sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Better. What do you think is going on? Is it the Suit?”
“No, nothing like that. Peter’s fine.” Mozzie harrumphed - actually harrumphed and Neal wondered about him sometimes. He ignored it. “It’s Vanir. Something about them just...” He trailed off and shrugged.
“The dog fights?” Mozzie had heard about that and expressed his opinion volubly on his previous visit.
“Partly. There’s something about him - them actually, all of them. Nearly everyone who works there is just... off.” There was the feeling, as Nick worked in his office, that any one of them would not only be happy to shoot him but might do something very disturbing with the blood spatter afterwards. They seemed wild. Like people who would have bathed in the blood of gladiators a few millennia earlier. Mostly it was subtle, hiding in the way Greger enjoyed a rare steak too much and the utterly cold eyes of the receptionist.
“Vampires?” Mozz asked, baring his teeth over the wine. Neal went back to scowling at him. “Have you told the Suit?”
Neal shook his head. “It’s just a feeling.”
“And your feelings about people are utterly unreliable and never amount to anything.”
Neal ignored him. “Do you have anything useful to add?”
Mozzie leaned back. While he thought, Neal pulled out the chessboard and set it up. Chess, at least, was clean. There was never any blood in chess.
Mozzie took white. They played, Neal castling early then breaking it in a mad run after Mozz’s queen. It failed, but he got a bishop out of it.
Drumming his fingers on the table, Mozz looked up. “What was the name of that IT woman?”
“Max.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing anyone told me.”
Mozzie finished off his wine and Neal’s last rook. “What did she look like?”
“5’6, white, very short hair, dark blonde or light brown. Sharp nose, thin mouth. Kind of sharp all over.” Neal snagged a scrap of paper and sketched as he continued. “Wore a jean jacket and plain white shirt underneath. The jacket was ratty with patches. I saw a swastika, a Swedish flag, a gun of some kind - maybe a an AK47?” He put a few more stroked lines on the sketch and handed it over.
Mozzie looked it over. “Can I take this with me?”
“Sure. Think you’ve got something?”
Mozz shrugged. “Maybe. You said Sturluson liked her?” Neal nodded. “And he didn’t like anyone else?” He nodded again. The only moment he’d seen Sturluson look even half as fond was when he’d looked at the dog he’d bet on before the fight. “I’m going to guess there’s a reason why, then. And I’m further guessing that it isn’t a warm fuzzy reason. I’ll see what I can do.”
Neal nodded. It was something, anyway. Mozzie checkmated him.
*
In the end it was Mozzie who’d had the right idea. The next day he dropped by with a raft of information about one Maxine Stahl, alias Sindri. She was, he told told Neal, one of the foremost hackers of the early 2000’s. She’d been successful with a few viruses, but infamous for a worm program that had ripped through a Gothenburg bank taking almost 1 million US dollars with it. She’d then disappeared a few years ago with nothing but rumor credited to her since.
That must have been when she’d moved to Vanir. Interestingly, she, like Sturluson, had a habit of referencing Norse mythology. She’d named the worm program Jormungandr and two of her viruses had been Gungnir and Mjolnir. Neal wondered if that was how they met. There was one more interesting fact; Finn Stahl was her brother.
Neal gave it all to Peter over the phone.
“Great. So she’s hacker-ing money for Sturluson?”
“I don’t think hacker-ing is a word, Peter.”
“You knew what it meant, didn’t you?”
Sigh. “Yes and yes. I think she’s the reason it’s all hidden so well. They aren’t smuggling, they’re skimming money electronically.”
“Wonderful. Prove it.”
“Yes master, right away master.”
“Cute. Try to wrap this up, will you? Sturluson gives me the creeps.”
“You? Try dealing with him every day! I’ll do what I can.”
“Alright. Be careful. I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”
*
It was a Saturday. This was, to Neal’s mind, kind of perfect. Sturluson had no concept of weekends, so Nick could come in and ‘work’ without looking too strange. About half of the office worked on a more usual schedule and would be gone. With fewer peons to stumble across him, Neal might actually be able to wrap the case up before Monday. He put on his lucky blue tie and headed downtown.
The receptionist was gone but inevitably, Greger was onsite. The man was rarely anywhere that Sturluson wasn’t. He gave Nick a sour look from the door of his office. Nick headed straight for his own office, settling in with a cup of very nice kona coffee and a file on a new Swedish client. For the first hour or so he worked steadily as a proper Vanir employee. Around 9:30 he heard Greger leave his office and the door to Sturluson’s office open and close.
Neal bolted up out of his irritating, ergonomic chair and made for Greger’s office. He never spoke to Sturluson for less than fifteen minutes. Now was Neal’s chance. Greger would have access to employee records.
He opened Greger’s laptop and slid a flashdrive into a port. A program popped up immediately, courtesy of Moz, to cover his tracks.
Finding the files was absurdly easy. They weren’t hidden. Presumably, they were therefore unimportant, but Neal downloaded them anyway. It never hurt to be sure. From there he looked through client files and projects. That was where he struck gold. Most had straightforward names - companies or boringly numbered projects such as ‘Rebar Shipments 703’. One, however, hidden away in the middle of the project files, was marked ‘Draupnir’. Neal had looked up the name Sindri after Mozzie’s revelations and run across the treasures of Asgard. Odin’s was draupnir, a golden ring that produced 8 more of itself every 9 days.
Opening the file, he found lists of numbers. At the bottom was another file labeled ‘Sindri’. Neal backed out, downloaded everything, and pulled the flash drive. On steady, silent feet, he walked back to his office. By the time Greger returned to his office, Nick was quietly arguing with the head of investments for Fjalar industries.
At noon, Sturluson dropped by his office and the three of them went out to lunch. As always, Greger chewed violently on his blue steak. Today it didn’t bother Nick. He was out. In just a few more hours he could turn the drive over to Peter. He was certain the team would find what they wanted in it; every nerve told him he’d made his goal. Greger could be just as creepy as he wanted. It wouldn’t be Nick’s problem tomorrow.
He ordered a wasabi tuna, savoring each bite. The thrill of undercover work was back. While they ate he quizzed Sturluson on new investment strategies. He shone. Sturluson picked at his cod and devoted his full attention to Nick, feeding the high. They moved from business to pleasure, discussing world travel and what to see in each country. Sturluson maintained that the best dog fights on earth were in Italy while Nick discussed its beautiful women. Greger glowered.
The first hint that all was not as copacetic as he thought was when he walked back into the office to see Max perched on the receptionist’s desk. She swung her skinny legs and looked at them all through slitted eyes. Pale skin flashed through the rips in her jeans.
“Hello Max,” Sturluson greeted her. “Thank you for coming in.” She shrugged. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Ja.”
Greger moved up close behind Nick. He could feel the heat of the man’s body through his suit jacket.
“And?” Sturluson prompted patiently.
“Fed.”
Sweat pricked out along Nick’s scalp. He slowed his heartbeat intentionally, breathing deep and easy.
“Ah,” Sturluson said. “What a shame.”
Something hard poked Nick in the back. He did not need to be told what it was.
“Mr. Halden, if you would follow me back downstairs, please?”
Nick Halden was not known for giving up. “What is this? Are you calling me a fed?” He opened his mouth to go on but Max cut him off.
“Neal Caffery. Imprisoned 2005, released as a criminal consultant 2009. Working in the white collar division of the FBI under Reese Hughes. Supervising Agent is Peter Burke.”
“Size 10 shoes,” Neal added. He gave her his best smile. Max did not smile back. The gun in his back pressed harder, forcing Neal to arch his spine. “Killing feds isn’t recommended,” he said, half turning his head to eye Greger over one shoulder.
“No, Mr Caffrey, being caught killing feds isn’t recommended.” Sturluson’s voice was as blandly pleasant as Greger’s face was feral. It made for an eerie combination. He returned his attention to Sturluson. “I’m sure we can avoid all of that, however. Follow me please, and we’ll see what we can do to remedy this situation as easily as possible.”
It was bullshit. Fine, grade A, businessman bullshit. Sturluson’s eyes were gleaming because he smelled blood. Neal would not survive his idea of a remedy.
That meant nothing to lose. Neal smiled and kept his hands easy by his sides. “Of course. I might be... persuaded to forget all about this.” They might not buy that, but they might buy his calm enough to think that he wouldn’t make a scene. All he had to do was get outside. One gun couldn’t control a situation on the street.
Apparently someone else knew that.
“Ingen, vänta. He will run. Han är smart.” She slid off the desk and strolled over, hands in her jacket pockets. She stuck her neck out and looked Neal over. She should have looked comical, ostrich-like. She didn’t. Her eyes were an unpleasant grey that seemed to be sizing him up for a meal.
Abruptly, one hand whipped out of her pocket. Before Neal could do more than start he felt a prick in his bicep. There was a needle in her hand.
“Godnatt,” she said. Neal strongly suspected that it was a terrible cliche.
“So unorig... inori... huh.” He swayed where he stood. The carpet was made of water! Why hadn’t anyone told him? You can’t stand on water. He collapsed to his knees. Can you kneel on water? He began to tilt over, then there was nothing.
*
When he woke, everything was dark and cold and he was naked. His mouth tasted of sugar and copper. Neal levered himself up, then fell down again when the ground moved. Somewhere nearby a car horn blared. Truck. He felt for the GPS watch. Gone of course.
Neal hauled himself over to the side of the truck, encountering nothing along the way and took stock. He was stiff enough, and a little sore in the joints, but could feel no real injuries. He curled into himself for warmth, tucking his feet under his thighs.
How soon would Peter begin to look for him? He supposed that it depended on what they’d done with the watch. It they’d been smart and left it somewhere Neal might go it could be well into the night before Peter got alarmed. It had only been 1:00-ish when he was taken. That was far too many hours wherein people might try to kill him.
Finally, the truck stopped. Nearby, a service door opened in a series of metal-on-metal screeches. The truck moved forward again for a few feet, stopped and turned off. Neal stood, wondering if it was better to try and run now or wait. It sucked to have to run around naked, but it would have a benefit too. There was no way he wouldn’t be picked up by the cops, and cops now would be a godsend.
The truck hatch opened. Greger stood on the floor beside it, gun out. Probably a bad time to run, then.
“Down,” he ordered. He looked gleeful, like a puppy with a new toy to chew on. Neal walked out to the edge and jumped down. He acknowledged neither his nudity nor the gun.
“Walk.” With his free hand, Greger gestured to the left. They were in a loading area with nothing but a steel door on the left wall. Neal opened it and walked through.
He couldn’t stop himself from hesitating when he saw what was on the other side. They were in the dog fighting ring, the same one he’d seen the first night. The door led out onto the sand of the pit. A smaller door on the opposite side emanated growls and yips.
Sturluson and Max stood in the center of the ring next to a simple metal chair. Greger poked him with the pistol and Neal walked forward automatically.
“Have a seat,” Sturluson invited smoothly. Neal remained standing. Greger pushed him into the chair. It tipped back but didn’t fall. The metal was icy wherever it touched Neal’s skin. Greger handed the gun to Max and began to tie Neal’s hands to the chair with zip ties. Max smiled. Neal wanted, badly, to bolt. It wouldn’t fly, though. He knew that Max was willing to shoot him and, given the way she held the gun, unlikely to miss. He remained perfectly still and let Greger work. He moved on to Neal’s ankles, then stepped back and repossessed the gun.
The ties were tight, already cutting into his skin and making his hands and feet numb. He had the distinct feeling that they didn’t care much about how healthy he remained. He glanced around as best he could but saw no one else in the building.
Max stepped around in front of him, wearing the same disturbing smile. She walked straight up to him, standing between his legs to look directly down at his face. He opened his mouth, ready to talk himself out of death one more time, and she slapped him.
“No talking. Liar. Lögnare. You talk too much. All lies.” She chuckled. “Lies like Loki. Loki Liesmith, Cunning One, Tree of Deceits,” she paused, “Scar-lip. The Man with the Tattered Smile.” She laid one finger on Neal’s mouth. It was cold.
“You know Swedish stories, Swedish Gods?”
When she waited, Neal shook his head. She cocked her head and twisted her mouth. “Naturligtvis inte. Americans. Never know important things. You do not know why Loki is Scar-lip?” Again, Neal shook his head.
“Loki told too many lies. Too many pretty words.” With her free hand she reached into her pocket. She pulled out a needle threaded with thick black thread. It gleamed in the pit’s white light.
A hand gripped Neal’s hair and tipped his head back. Sturluson smiled down at him. His pupils were blown, only a thin gleam of blue surrounded them.
“The dwarves sewed his mouth shut,” he purred.
Fuck. It was all Neal could think. Fuck on endless repeat. Something in his stomach seemed to be twisting and his skin was icy cold. He could hear his own heartbeat hammering wildly in his ears. Fuck.
Max clamped her hand around Neal’s jaw, pushing his head back. Pressing his lips together.
“You have to bleed, you see.” Sturluson was still talking. “The dogs might or might not attack you without. If you’re bleeding though...” He grinned down, haloed in the light from above. “Well, they’re very hungry. That should take care of anyone finding you.”
Something thin and sharp traced Neal’s upper lip. “I got to choose how. I chose this.” She sounded delighted. “So fitting.”
It hurt. It wasn’t the pain, though, that was worst. It was the panic. Neal thrashed, but Max’s thin hand was like steel. She didn’t move a centimeter. There was a nauseating feeling of something being drawn through his skin. Another bright spot of pain. Neal whimpered, trying to use his shoulders to jerk away from her. She paused.
“Stop moving. I will put it through your eye.” Neal froze. “You hear me?” He remained perfectly still. “Bra.” Another shot of pain. Another stitch.
Another.
Another.
There was a sound somewhere. It was getting louder. Another stitch.
“Shit!” Sturluson.
“Vad?”
“Sirens. Someone’s traced him.”
“We got rid of the trace. It’s a bad neighborhood. They aren’t coming here.” Another stitch.
Louder.
“The hell they aren’t.” Greger this time. “I’m outta here.” Quick footsteps heading away.
“Damn! Dammit all to hell. Drop it Max, we have to go.”
A whine like a dog denied a treat. Her fingers flexed sharply around Neal’s face, bruising. “Ska vi skjuta honom?”
“Now? Are you crazy? Let’s go.” The fingers released. Neal’s head dropped forward. Footsteps. He was alone.
The sirens got louder, wailing in his ears. He breathed, slow, through his nose. His heart began to slow. A door banging open. Shouting. More footsteps, lots of them. Loud. Shouting above him.
“Neal? Neal!”
A door near him opened. Dogs? No. No barking. Just feet through sand.
“Neal?” Near him now. Peter’s voice. “Jesus.” Low, religious in a way Neal has never been. Asking a question of someone bigger than men. “Bring a medic!”
Warm hands around the back of Neal’s head, cupping his skull. “Can you hear me? Nod, Neal.” He can hear. He nods. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” Thumbs brush wetness away from his eyes. Am I crying? “Neal are you hurt?”
Of course he’s hurt. Can’t Peter see?
“Neal?”
He closes his eyes.