Page 25 of Warped

Then there’s the last man. The Psi-hound.

Of the four, he is the smallest by far. Frail too. His thin shoulder blades protrude against the fabric of his T-shirt, and his joints are knobby and fragile looking. His head and face are devoid of hair. Even his eyebrows and lashes are gone.

They are, to say the least, an odd-looking quartet, but in a club filled with smoke and booze and half-naked gyrating women,they fail to attract much attention. Nobody gives them a second glance as they stand by the entrance, scanning the room.

The man in the gray suit wrinkles his nose as if he just smelled a fart.

“Bianca would never hang out in a shithole like this,” he says.

It is Mikkelson who answers.

“If the Psi-hound says this is the place, then this is the place. What’s the matter, Stan? Worried that little girlfriend of yours isn’t as innocent as you thought?” He grins. “I doubt it’s the first time you slept with a whore.”

“Watch your mouth,” the man in the gray suit snaps. “Don’t forget who you work for.”

Mikkelson’s smile turns cold.

“I answer directly to the Board of Directors, Stan. You might be higher than me on the proverbial corporate ladder, but when it comes to this mission,I’min charge. Hell, you’re lucky the Board even let you live after a fuckup like the one you made.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that bitch would go snooping through my personal messages like that?”

Mikkelson just shrugs.

“Well she did, and now we’ve got to find her before she tries to tell anyone else about what she learned. The only reason you’re here, Stan, is because you were banging her, and the Board thinks you might be able to persuade her to come peacefully once we catch up with her. Until then, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and let us professionals do our job.Capeesh?”

Stanley’s face burns. He starts to say something, then changes his mind and adjusts his tie instead. The expensive silk is like a security blanket, reminding him of how much money he has, and therefore how superior he is to everyone else in the room.

Satisfied, Mikkelson turns his attention to the Psi-hound.

“Alright, so she came to this dive… then what?”

“Hard to say,” the small man answers in a voice barely audible over the pounding music.

His big, lashless eyes are staring hungrily at one of the dancers on a platform nearby. The front of his pants is tented with an erection. It is the only part of him that isn’t small.

“Can’t get a lock,” he says. “Too muchnoise.”

Mikkelson knows he isn’t just talking about the music.

“Let’s fix that,” he says.

The four men make their way to the bar at the back of the room. When the bartender finally comes over, it is Mikkelson who does the talking. Options are presented. Two of them. The first involves a sum of money. The second involves a gun. Both are displayed, to let the bartender know that business is meant.

The bartender, being wiser than he looks, chooses the money.

He picks up a remote from behind the bar and kills the music. Then, using the PA system, he informs everyone that the club is closing early. The announcement is met with drunken protests, but once the lights come on and the dancers have retreated back to their dressing rooms, the crowd quickly disperses. Soon, the establishment is quiet and still.

“Thank you,” Mikkelson says.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and taps at the screen. A holographic image projects onto the surface of the bar. A miniature depiction of a woman with fair skin and long black hair. Her blue eyes glitter like a pair of sapphires. Her curves are obvious, even under her conservative office wear.

“Have you seen this woman?” Mikkelson asks. “We have reason to believe she came here sometime in the past couple hours.”

The bartender raises his bushy eyebrows and frowns.

“We get a buncha folks in here. All kinds. Can’t expect me to remember ’em all. ’Course, if you were willing to gimme a little more cash, it might jog my—”

“Lundgren.”

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