Book 2: Chapter 17: Behind Blue Eyes (1/2)
Smoke puffed repeatedly from the man's lips, drifting outward and upward into the night sky. He followed it upwards from his seat on the hotel balcony. As the smoke spread, it began to shimmer. Water vapor desublimated into frost, trapping tar and ash, and black snowflakes rained down to the ground.
Coldeyes watched them fall.
He was a tall Caucasian man, stretched out on a wicker lounger in his night clothes. He kept his dark hair trimmed short, in an almost military cut. His face was thin and sharp, with narrow eyes and lips. He was a lean man, but with more strength than one might credit to his frame. And his eyes, they were the color of the frozen tundra. Blue so light that it might be mistaken for ice.
He hadn't always been Coldeyes. His father had called him Johnathon Smith. An unexceptional name given by an unexceptional man. In a world filled with special people, young John had seemed destined for mediocrity. Power had altered that path, the same way it had so many others. Now it was a constant fight to keep what was his. And to win what should be.
He was taking some personal time, to reflect on recent events. There were decisions that needed to be made, and only one man could make them. Calm was required. Tranquility. Detachment. Failure was simply a fact of life; it would take more than a few setbacks to render him irrational.
He took a slower drag of his cigar, and breathed out white smoke. His eyes followed the cloud as it drifted. The temperature plummeted at his will, a carefully practiced routine of cold and colder, forming a feather-light net of ice that drifted in the wind. He watched it float away, keeping the net solid until it was out of sight.
Pitting his will against the law's of nature and coming out on top always cheered him up.
Coldeyes' mood settled. He reached for his phone and made the call. It was answered in moments.
”Hey boss,” the familiar voice of Roman Ricci greeted him. Roman was a long-time follower of Coldeyes, and one of his more trusted men. That honor might change, depending on how this conversation went. It was Roman's responsibility to look after operations in Texas. Coldeyes had trusted him to monitor their expansion, and ensure that things did not get out of hand.
They were pretty far out of hand, so Coldeyes was inclined to think Roman had failed, utterly, at the job.
”Roman,” he greeted back. ”Are you with him?”
”Yeah boss, made it into town just this afternoon. Zim is with me now.”
Coldeyes considered, then said, ”Good. Put me on speaker, please.”
He heard a brief scratching sound, then the distinctive pop of a thumb tapping the receiver.
”Zacarias,” he intoned. ”This is Coldeyes.”
”Mr. Coldeyes sir! It's a-an honor to meet you— to speak with you!” an unfamiliar voice with a slight Hispanic accent stammered back.
”I hear there have been some setbacks there,” Coldeyes replied, getting straight to the point.
”Ahh, a few hitches, sir,” Zacarias acknowledged hesitantly.
”Walk me through them,” Coldeyes ordered. ”Start from where things went wrong.” Their answers would determine whether this clusterfuck was a result of well intentioned short-sightedness or unforgivable stupidity.
”Where things went wrong?” Zacarias paused. ”Well, Webb was feeding us information on Bartholomew. His health, when he was being transferred. Stuff like that. Everything seemed to be going okay, but he was getting squirrelly as time went on. I got worried he was a rat.” A pause. ”Well, I knew he was a rat, but I thought— I was worried he was ratting on the wrong people, see?”
”There are ways to find that out,” Coldeyes stated flatly. ”Ways that don't involve a mess. Subtlety, Zacarias. You understand subtlety?”
”Yes sir.”
”You could have slow played it,” he continued, his voice bearing down on the man. ”If the feds hadn't reached out for help yet, they weren't about to now. You had time to work with. Now that's not the case. Now you've gone and tried to kill a cop. This isn't what was discussed.”
”No sir. I'm sorry. I thought—”
Coldeyes cut him off. ”No, thinking is what you were not doing. Roman, are you still there?”
”Yeah boss?” his old subordinate's voice spoke up.
”Is Zacarias able to hear me?”
There was a slight shuffling on the other side of the line.
”Yeah. Want me to send him out?”
”No,” Coldeyes said. ”He should hear this. Did you approve the hit on Webb?”
James Webb had been a lucky find. The man was, or rather had been, a prolific gambler, and had gone deep into debt with half a dozen different loan sharks, all of which were owned by Coldeyes' Crew. As an organization that spanned several states, the FBI were always a concern for the gang. Having a mole in the organization, low level and local though he might be, had been a blessing. And a curse. It was Webb's existence that had first spawned the idea of reaching out to the People, and ultimately, lead to this disastrous series of events.
It was Webb who had informed Coldeyes' men that Andros Bartholomew had been captured. The man was a known associate of the People, and the idea was floated that the elusive group might pay to have him back. Coldeyes had reached out to Echo, his contact with the elusive organization, and a deal had been struck.
Money for freedom. A generous sum, at that. Coldeyes was a practical man, and had no issues being paid for a hard day's work. The People were even willing to provide the muscle for the breakout, assuming the transport could be hit while traveling. All the gang had to do was supply the information.
Now Webb was dead, and possibly compromised before that. Coldeyes' reputation was on the line. This made the man very, very unhappy.
He asked again, calm, despite his harsh words, ”Did you know about the catastrophically stupid assault on a civilian mall in broad daylight, all to kill a single man?”
”Afraid not, boss,” Roman replied apologetically. ”One of Zim's boys caught a photo of Webb and some cop on one of those online gossip rags the kids love so much. I've seen the photo myself, now. I can kind of understand where Zim is coming from. It doesn't look great.”
”He should have confirmed it, first,” Coldeyes stated.
”I agree. He got ahead of himself. Tried to take some initiative. I might've done the same at his age.”
Roman had never been that stupid, but the fact that he was defending the younger lieutenant was a good sign. Coldeyes valued loyalty over competence, even if only just. Both were useful, and both could grow over time, but only one would make a man die for a future that wasn't his own.
”Last count was a dozen dead civilians,” Coldeyes pointed out conversationally. He normally preferred to avoid collateral damage, but he hadn't specifically given any orders to that effect. He saw no need for anything harsher than a polite question as to motives. The extra attention it brought to them was unfortunate, and if things hadn't escalated in the way they had, this might have been a very different conversation. As things stood however, twelve dead civilians was barely worth mentioning.
”I know boss. Things didn't go exactly to plan.”
”Why all the collateral damage?”
”Zim told his people to send a message,” Roman explained. ”The newbloods, they've never really had a chance to play around with their kit. He set 'em loose and things got out of hand. You remember how it is at that age. Hot-blooded.” He laughed. ”Or cold. They're hungry for more work.”
”That's good, that's good, but Roman.” Coldeyes paused for emphasis. ”Discipline. Hmm? Focus. I want you to round up whoever was in on that, and teach them the way we do things. They need to understand the consequences of acting out. If they can't control themselves, they have no business being on my payroll, understand? Do that for me, Roman.”
”Course boss.”
”Good.” Coldeyes took a drag of his cigar, and breathed out, enjoying the flavor. ”Now for actual business. The mess with the two police. Were you consulted at all on that?”
He should have been. Coldeyes had put the man in charge of all Texas operations. If his people were making big plays without his say so, there was a problem, there.