Jimmy stood off to one side of the meeting room. He had answered the phone again, and it was a reporter again.
"Look, Tania. I am just an agent. People have problems. When people have problems that they can't get fixed any other way, I provide a solution. All you liberal do-gooders preach about how Big Brother will take care of everyone from womb to tomb, but none of your grand ideas have ever worked in the real world. When people can't even get the police to get rid of a bunch of sleaze like this Montbello Snow Crew, they run out of options very quickly. No, violence isn't always the best answer. Sometimes, however, it is the only answer that works. Maybe you ought to talk to those people in Montbello. This gang has killed quite a few of them who tried your nice, peaceful ways of getting them to leave. They decided they didn't have any other choice, and I think they were right. The only thing the Montbello Snow Crew could understand was the rapid and violent application of force. I was able to provide the solution that worked for the people of Montbello."
After a few more moments, Jimmy finally got rid of her.
"Jesus Christ! Don't those vultures have anything better to do?" he shouted to no one in particular.
He then looked at everyone else in the meeting room. Martina was sitting in one of the chairs, her crutches stacked on the table. She looked pretty miserable. She's lucky to still have that leg. It sounds like they almost weren't able to get the bleeding under control. Ellen was sitting across from her, moving stiffly from the wounds in her chest. Good thing she had armor. Even Campbel managed to get wounded while flying. Those assholes got pretty lucky with the machinegun. It coulda been worse, though. Michael and Jesse got off easy -- neither one had been shot, although they had dealt quite a bit of punishment. God called down fifty caliber fire from the heavens. Boy, I bet that was a mess.
"Well, guys, I guess you're famous. Congratulations. Now everyone knows there're some good guys who don't wear badges around here. Pepper, thanks for not wasting any civilians this time."
"Hey, no problem, maann."
"So, you got rid of the bad guys, you managed to get bandaged up, and it's time to take a break for a couple of weeks. Let's get everyone healed and go see if you can make some more friends."
Jimmy's phone rang again.
"Jimmy the Fixer," a pause. "No, I don't want to make a statement for the press. I've already talked to one of you."
Jimmy disconnected the call. "Dammit! I have got to get an admin!"
"Goddammit, Norton! Who the hell are these people and how the hell did they get anti-tank weapons?!? I want these bastards off the street and out of circulation yesterday, got it?"
Special Agent Wayne Norton had never seen his boss, Carla Simons, lose her temper. She had stormed into his office after getting Norton's preliminary report.
As best as his agents and the local police had been able to figure, the mercenaries had attacked the Montbello Snow Crew, set fire to a methamphetamine lab, and fairly effectively obliterated any sign that the gang had ever existed. At least, if you ignored the forty corpses scattered around one city block, all signs had been eliminated. There was strong evidence that the mercs used a helicopter with some sort of minigun, at least one military machinegun, an anti-tank rocket launcher, a .50 caliber rifle, and a 7.62mm sniper rifle. Not to mention, of course, at least a couple of 9mm submachine guns. This mercenary outfit could outgun most local SWAT teams without breaking a sweat.
"Ma'am, we're working on it. The locals think these mercs are heroes. They don't trust police, since they haven't had any real protection in about a year. The only lead we have is this Jimmy 'the Fixer', and we can't find a damned thing about him anywhere. We have his business card, but it only has a phone number and an e-mail address. I doubt we can get enough of a case to bring him in for anything, since he probably wasn't dumb enough to be a shooter. We probably can't lean on him enough to get him to crack, since he knows he's clean."
"Fine. What else do you know, Norton?"
"Well, we recovered a photo ID for a 'Martin Bond'. It was in one of the rentals we recovered. The car had been shot pretty good. The other car had been rented by Martin Bond, as was that Hollywood helicopter. Funny thing is, the picture looks like that Eddie Baxter guy the Denver Police want."
"They're screwing around. They probably realized they screwed up and are just thumbing their noses at us. What about that Martina Bond? Did you get to Alex Trenton yet?"
"No, ma'am. He died a few hours before the shit hit the fan in Montbello. Doctors said it was a massive heart attack."
"Bullshit! These mercs must have offed him when they realized they'd left a loose end. Dammit! We would've had someone to look for! What about the helicopter?"
"Some ATF guys went down with one of our agents to look over the helicopter. That was the one the mercs used. It was returned late at night with some bullet holes. It also had stopped at the Denver Hospital -- some attendants remember seeing it unload someone. ATF says someone tampered with the minigun prop and converted it to use live ammo. They say it was a good job, but there were still signs of tampering.
"The owner claims three people came in and picked up the chopper. Two women and a man. They set up the camera mounts and messed with the minigun a little bit before they left, but they didn't open the gun pod up at the airport. I've got the ATF looking over this guy's records very carefully to see what they can do to him to get this chopper out of circulation. This guy even has a fighter plane he rents!"
"Good lord. Find a way to shut that guy down. All we need is mercs with fighter planes. Do you have any good news, Norton?"
"Well, ma'am, a violent drug gang with ties to a Chicago drug cartel has been wiped off the face of the Earth, and no civilians were harmed this time."
"Great. The mercs are looking better than law enforcement. Just great."
Colonel Jeffrey Stevens had put a sign up on the front of The Operator's Club announcing that the club would not open tonight because of a private party. Several of the Thursday night regulars were disappointed, of course, but they were likely to survive. On the main dance floor, about two dozen people milled about, talking and joking while waiting for the evening's entertainment to start. By the bar, several extra seats had been placed.
At seven o'clock, Martina Vasquez-Ordenburg hobbled out to one of the seats and sat down. She leaned her crutches against the bar and grabbed a VCR remote. One of the servers walked up to her to take her order.
"Martini. Shaken. Not stirred."
Michael Conti sat down next to her. "Pepper, you really shouldn't be drinking alcohol with all the antibiotics you're on. Ellen's gonna chew your ass out."
"Shut up, Miguel." "Michael." "Whatever. This is my celebration for still being able to breathe. Anyway, Ellen is too busy helping Jimmy pick out a secretary over there," she nodded towards one of the tables on the far side of the dance floor.
At that table, Jimmy spread out a half a dozen folders and opened them. Ellen looked at the resumes and photos in each of the folders.
"Oh, come on, Jimmy. Pictures?"
"Hey! My admin has to project the right image for Jimmy the Fixer. I can't have someone getting the impression that my operation is some shady two-bit strong arm."
"Okay. How were the interviews?"
"I really liked this one. She had a lot of great ideas, and I think she's got some real talent."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Jimmy!" Ellen exclaimed before taking a drag from her cigarette. "That's the crappiest bottle-blond job I've seen. She couldn't even get a real beautician to do it for her? She's probably fake elsewhere, too."
"I wouldn't have noticed."
"Yeah, right. How about her?" Ellen said, pointing to the oldest of the six candidates. "She looks smart, and she has more experience in PR and as an admin than the other five put together."
"She's old enough to be my mother!"
"Bullshit! She's not even five years older than you are. The last thing you need is some bimbo working for you that you're always trying to get in the sack. Get someone who can think for herself, or you're wasting your money."
"Fine," Jimmy said breathily. "Anything else?"
"What are you going to offer her?"
"I figured two grand a month ought to be good."
"If she's as good as this resume says, offer four at least."
"Four?!? I can barely cover my own cost of living! I don't make that much as a fixer, you know."
"Jimmy, you paid off your Corvette this month. Besides, she'll be worth it. Get that phone number on your business card converted to a land line, and get an unlisted number for your satellite phone. Have you thought about an office?"
"Ellen, you're going to break me. You guys had better start bringing in some good hauls if I am going to keep this gal employed and a roof over my head."
Colonel Stevens walked past the table at that moment.
"Hey, Old Man! How'd ya like to rent your pal some office space?"
"'Old Man'? Son, for you, ten grand a month."
"Give me a break! We both know that you hardly use more than one of those meeting rooms at a time. Really, Colonel. It looks like I need office space for my new admin."
"Admin, huh? Which one is she?"
Jimmy picked up the folder. Stevens looked at her, then looked at the other photos.
"Alexandra Merced, huh? I'd a figured you to go for Bambi over there. What gives?"
"You know, Colonel, a competent admin is worth her weight in gold," Jimmy started lecturing. "Jimmy the Fixer needs someone smart and independent to handle the front office while he is busy. I think Alexandra will work out great."
Colonel Stevens looked over at Ellen for a second, the faint glimmer of a grin bending the corner of his mouth. "Uh huh. Good call, Jimmy," he said as he walked away.
"What?!?"
At what was quickly becoming center stage, John Campbel and Jesse Wapati had joined Michael and Pepper. Pepper grabbed a cordless microphone and turned it on.
"No sheeet. There we were, man," she began in a quiet, dramatic voice that quickly reverted back to her East Los Angeles Latina accent. "We got hired to take out the Montbello Snow Crew, and we wanted to take 'em out good, eh?"
She caught Ellen's disapproving look as she sipped from her martini.
"These guys were bad. They had a couple a machine guns, and some M16s, and they were pissed when we blew up their lab," she pressed the 'Play' button on the remote.
The monitors around the club showed the view from one of the cameras mounted to the exterior of the OH-58 that the team had rented. Campbel showed prominently in the shot as he opened his mouth, waved quickly at the camera, and otherwise vamped for the audience. Several of the crowd chuckled.
Martina continued her monologue for a while, describing in gruesome detail the gangers who shot her legs out from under her and the massive retaliation that they received. Every now and then, one of her teammates would interject something.
"And then the Crew realized that there was a helicopter overhead shooting, so they tried to shoot it down! They shot better than I did a couple days ago, though."
The video showed some holes along the fuselage of the airborne helicopter. It suddenly jumped to the gun camera. The bright muzzle flash of the minigun lit the screens around the dance floor. Above the flash, the streaks of tracers arced towards several people standing in a lawn. They all briefly disappeared in a shower of dirt and concrete chips as the rounds hit. When the dust settled, the gang members were all obviously expiring messily.
Campbel leaned towards the mike. "Yeah, well, the mud-pounders can't have all the fun, right?"
Martina continued her story. She showed a segment of video in which the helicopter blasted a van trying to escape from the crack house. The crowd cheered as the top of the van suddenly turned to metallic swiss cheese and caught fire.
"Okay, then the bad guys shot at our cars. They blew one up with a 40 mil grenade, then they shot the wheel and engine of the other one. So, I was pissed. I also was hurting a lot 'cuz of the bullet holes, ya know? I yelled at Jesse and handed him Knock-Knock, my RPG."
"Yeah. Then I said 'knock-knock' and the bad guys blew up," Jesse added in his stage growl that was practically as famous as his signature double-tomahawk chop was during his wrestling days. "I jerked the trigger, though. I only nailed him in the legs. It was messy."
Eventually, Martina reached the finale. "Okay, so Ellen was at the other end of the street by her self playing sniper, see? And the bad guys were shooting her and making life miserable. Then, Miguel" "Michael" "Whatever, then he got God out and put it on top of the Honda. Then, BOOM! One bad guy turns to mist. Then BOOM! and the other bad guy has a new orfice in him. I love fifty cals, eh? Except that one time in Laos when the other guys had the big machine gun...
"So we wiped out the bad guys and got to be the heroes, eh? Not bad for a night's work. And, I got to burn through a whole belt of ammo! If they didn't shoot me like they did, I would have used at least two, man."
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Last Updated 21 Feb 2000
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