Strange Flesh by Michael Olson Read Free Book Online Page B

answers.
    I’m at my desk, still starfish encumbered, when I feel a sudden twinge of apprehension. I turn off my music and listen. A soft ticking sound comes from my entryway. It stops for a second, and I’m halfway to convincing myself I’m imagining things, but then I hear my door’s dead bolt slide against its strike plate. Someone is breaking into my apartment.
    Given my professional propensity for making enemies within the criminal element, I try to keep two pistols around for ready access. From my file cabinet I grab the one that wasn’t stolen by my recent house guests. I flick the gun’s custom-installed external safety and ease past the corner to take a bead on the intruder.
    There’s a man in my entryway with his back to me quietly shutting the door. He wears a plain gray suit and stands about five foot ten with a triathlete’s build. He hears me come around the corner and turns fluidly.
    The man actually smiles and says, “Nice Glock, bud.”
    Embarrassingly, I yell, “Freeze!”
    He takes no notice of the “nice Glock” aimed at him and starts pulling open his jacket with his left hand. I can’t believe he’s doing this and can only come up with, “Hands up, motherfucker. I will fucking—”
    “Let’s just take it easy, killer.”
    Before I can track what’s happening, he’s retrieved a black object from his coat pocket, like he’s performing a magic trick. I almost fire but am just able to restrain myself. He simply doesn’t seem overtly threatening.
    The object in his hand is a leather tri-fold he flips open and holds out for my inspection. He says, “John McClaren. IMP security. I thought you’d be expecting me.”
    I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “I wasn’t expecting you to break into my apartment.”
    “Oh, I didn’t break anything. But if you want to work with the Imp, we got to talk about hardening your perimeter.”
    He snickers, reviving my urge to pull the trigger. I just shake my head and lower the pistol.
    He looks around brightly and says, “Got any scotch?”
    I decide to just relax and go to the kitchen for some ice. He makes himself comfortable on my couch while I pour us each a slug.
    Still a little suspicious, I use my phone to pull up his online bio. West Point class of ’89. Fought with Special Forces in the first Gulf War. He spent the next decade with KBR and DynCorp. Then there’s a dead space in his CV starting right around our invasion of Afghanistan. In ’04 he set up his own modest security firm, McClaren Partners, which an IMP acquisition vehicle purchased four years ago. His picture matches the guy lounging in my living room.
    I hand him his lowball and say, “Now that we’ve got whiskey, I guess the laws of hospitality say I can’t shoot you.”
    “Well, I’m glad that’s settled.” McClaren speaks with a sunny Georgia twang. He doesn’t use it to apologize. “I been looking forward to meeting you. Did some recon, and I must say I’m impressed.” He rattles the ice in his glass. “I’ve got some former spooks sitting on Billy’s last knowns. A couple ex-Bureau agents doing the normal shoe-leather inquiries. We’ve got plenty of tech people, but none with your shop’s particular, ah, offensive posture. And you, an honest-to-God covert operative too. Just the guy to help us find our Billy.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Boy’s been nothing but trouble since I joined the enterprise. Nothing too serious. Has a fiery temperament, you know? But now he’s got his loving family real worried. Haven’t seen head nor tail of him in over a month.”
    “So I hear.”
    “But you’re on the case now, so I’m sure we’ll find him in no time. ’Course his safety is our top priority. We just want to take care of him. And plus, he’s one of the Imp’s biggest shareholders.” He nods thoughtfully at his drink.
    “What makes you think his safety’s at risk?”
    “Ah, well, I’d say he’s exhibiting what his brother calls