A Life Not My Own Ch. 02

"Why would I go through all that trouble?" Michael chuckles. "That's very James Bond."

"You could never get close to your brother's murderers but Michael Harrow could go into business with them and when the time was ripe and they had every reason to trust you, you wiped them out," I conclude. "It is called repositioning and positing of assets for a hostile take-over; it is standard practice. Seven years ago, according to Interpol, this is exactly what you did."

"Dom, how many men has Mr. Harrow murdered?" Rachel whispers.

"Do you want me to go and find out? I doubt I could give an accurate figure," I say, "and it has ceased to be a relevant negotiating point. We are all dead anyway."

"This had been a nice theoretical discussion," Michael grins wolfishly, "and it is only a theory. Amusing flourish by the way," he chuckles, "'we are all dead anyway'; Nice."

"This is why I want Ms. Yen in the room, but not your bodyguard. The rest of us are culpable and here by choice. Anyway, I will have your true identity inside six hours," I respond to his wolfishness with a bored yawn.

"I highly doubt it," he sneers. This man never backs down or gives up.

"Listen Michael, I said you were clever, not brilliant," I lecture just to piss him off – and keep his ire aimed at me and not Brad and/or Rachel.

"The real Michael Harrow disappeared thirteen years ago. Consider two years for reconstructive surgery and healing has a German Intelligence Officer dying in such a way that made DNA confirmation impossible," I tell them. "Within a 24 hour time period before that, a mid-level criminal 2-5 years older was murdered fifteen years ago."

"So?" Michael is becoming more and more fascinated.

"So, over the next two years that criminal's friends and contacts slowly die off or vanish – you would have had to use your brother's people during your infirmity, but like the surgical team, you couldn't leave them alive," I reason out.

"All fanciful theory," Michael persists but now no one truly believes him anymore.

"I'm looking to for a man who would be 52~54 years old today because your ego would drive you to pick a younger identity – 18 year old models will sleep with a 42 year old faster than they will a 52 year old. With those criteria we can have this cleared up soon and answers beyond a doubt within three to four days, depending on the German Government's cooperation."

"You are imaginative," he chuckles with obvious menace.

"Germany has a consulate in town," I shrug. "Let's go down there and give a blood sample. When I am proved wrong I'll pay for the billboard that says 'Dominic Umstead is an idiot.' You are bold and brave, so what's the hold up?"

"What would it prove?" Michael snorts. "In this fairy tale all it proves is a German civil servant didn't die. This is hardly the first time I've had to fend off vicious rumors."

"Who did the German's confuse with that guy and there is the piddling matter of the death of the real Michael Harrow?" Brad chimes in. "Maybe you weren't so careful with those first two cases of premeditated murder."

"And I'm sure the British will be intrigued about a German Intelligence operative murdering a British citizen so he can assume that guy's identity," I add.

"Fascinating," Michael stands up. The Valkyrie wannabe opens the glass door from the other side and holds it for him. "You missed your calling, Pierce and Pierce. You are not a financial establishment; you are a publishing house for science fiction."

He walks passes me but stops at the glass door.

"What makes you think she isn't 21?" he questions me.

"Unless you were terribly poor and desperately far beyond hope you wouldn't understand," I explain.

"In my case there was this kind public teacher who lifted me out of my miserable life. Your girl was given a hand too. That hand tossed her into a pit of blood-hungry dogs. The eyes don't lie and I don't forget anything I see. That's how I know; just like I know you don't give a crap."

Harrow laughs as if I just mimicked Billy Crystal parodying Mel Brooks.

"Oh, and ask her what name she wants to be called by and use it or next time we meet I'm going to clobber you with the biggest thing I can lift and hit you in the head, you misogynistic bastard," I threaten.

"It is not going to happen so why wait," he taunts me.

"Parking Garage beneath the building," I suggest. I have lost my damn mind. This man is going to kill me. I am a weekend warrior while this guy does the 'Insanity' workout daily.

Brad moves to follow the three of us – Frosty the Snow Bunny isn't going to miss this fight either.

"Brad, take Rachel and Indira out to eat," I plead. "I call you once I've taken him to the emergency room." Brad chuckles and I've cleverly planted the idea of a hospital being the final destination of this calamity – as opposed to me going to the ocean as chum or a landfill as body parts.

"Dominic, I'm never going to have children of my own but I've always been proud to call you Son," he pats my shoulder paternally.

"Oh – I thought it was because your penis had lousy aim," I smile affectionately. Both Brad and Michael laughed at that and the Glacial Lass had a quick bout of global warming before the Little Ice Age kicked back in.

The three of us get in the elevator, each person putting their back to the corner and Michael at the controls of course.

"This isn't New York but do you want to fight with Roxbury Rules?" I joke.

"Real combat doesn't have rules," Harrow sneers my way. I doubt he's been in a real combat situation his entire life but then neither have I.

"You must be a barrel of laughs in a firefight Mike," I observe. "In combat I like to observe a few simple rules like – don't shoot someone on your own side, don't kill the only pilot when your plane is airborne, when you pull the pin on Mr. Grenade he is no longer your friend – stuff like that." Snow Cone is about to bust a gut, she's fighting so hard to keep it together.

"Your joking bravado does not impress anyone," Michael mocks. "You are clearly terrified."

"Terrified, fearful, doubly-glad that I drained my bladder – I am all that and more," I smile. "You are going to beat me badly, maybe even kill me but no matter what happens I will always be the better man because you are an ape and a throwback and I will always be smarter too."

"In five floors we will see who is smarter," he growls. I look at my phone. "Contemplating 911?" he asks.

"No," I regard him evenly. "In just over two minutes a distress call will be made to 911 and they will be informed that 124 kg of high quality heroin and a badly wounded and bound Airport security guard are onboard your Gulfstream G550."

"What?" he snarls.

"Since you don't have a flight plan, your pilot isn't on board and since there is a wounded law enforcement officer missing and since the Airport has the third highest rate of overtime in the city they can't be sure who is and isn't on duty they are going to board the plane," I smile. "It is okay because two other sources will make similar but not identical calls."

"I don't have any heroin," he state cautiously.

"Yes, but a paranoid egomaniac like you has a small illegal arsenal on the plane which will lead them to impound the plane," I continue. "Now, I know the plane isn't yours – it belongs to a business you control through a shell company."

"I am passed saying 'so' Dominic," Michael allows.

"Until the Blizzard Bunyip gets a name, you haven't earned the right to call me that," I snap back. "Human beings call me Dom or Dominic. Things that ooze out of the dark underbelly of the human experience call me Mr. Umstead."

"Now, as I was explaining; I – me, Dominic Umstead – originated those phone calls from my office, which means they can get a search warrant for my computers and all the data on them, thus everything I have on you including our conversation and the directive to initiate a search into your true identity."

"So much for your data being the sole property of your bosses and your clients," Michael accuses me of duplicity – that's rich.

"That is why I have explained the situation and will explain your options – besides I don't work for you," I pointed out.

"What's to stop me from taking the phone and making you end this program?" he grills me but in a way I think he is thriving on the implicit threat that I care – I file it away for future use; implying I have a future.

"I have little doubt you can break me and have me tell you everything – given time and that's what you don't have," I grin; yes, I am enraging him on purpose. This is part of my hare-brain scheme.

"So you have experience with pain, do you?" Michael asks smugly.

"No," I confess, "but if torturers are anything like assholes, I've got this covered."

"Back to joking, are we?" he says as we are almost to the end of the ride. I shrug and hand Ice-flake my phone and take off my jacket. They both look surprised.

"If it breaks I have nothing to bargain with," I bother to explain.

The door opens and Michael steps out. It would be too much to hope Snow Globe follows him. I can always get a new phone but I only have one life to live. I step out and she is right at my back. I do get the dubious joy of seeing two security guards coming our way at a jog. Brad must have called them. If I escape this without a concussion I'll have to remind him about the wisdom of providing Harrow and Henchmen with two Tasers.

Michael leads me to an open spot and throws his jacket to the ground.

"Why didn't you send Aya Yen out of the room too?" he starts to circle.

"She's a willing participant of a brutal, homicidal criminal enterprise and she deserves whatever you end up doing to her," I tell him. "Besides she just might get you first." Michael laughs; he is a misogynist after all.

This projection is based on these conditions; he has mastered Krav Maga, I was top of my 'college' class at Aikido and I have 5 meters to play with. He is taller, stronger and has greater reach. We are both familiar with each other's style and my strategy allows me to give ground while he has to play the aggressor – something we are, again, familiar with.

He's a lot faster than I recall him being last night but that was his ego was making decisions back then. This time he's pure predator and I'm the prey but Michael should remember some of the hardest things to kill in the animal kingdom are the hunted. To the untrained eye, our combat looks like a 2nd grade slap-fest at x5 speed. It is really him trying to get close without being thrown and me trying to throw or lock him up without letting him inside my guard.

I flip him but he manages to get a partial connect with his heel to my throat. I stagger away as he breaks my grip on him. He rolls up, I block, he pile-drives through into my left side, and I lock his arm up and put the back of his head into an SUV. Michael damn near introduces my sternum to my spinal cord.

I twist my lock and something gives painfully in his wrist but I can't hold back his head-but and palm strike. I do my level-best to make the fall become a roll; even so I'm not back to my feet before his foot comes in, snake-like and takes away my wind. I'm closer to twenty and he's past fifty but training counts for more at this moment. I can block his feet, he's got one good functioning arm but he puts an elbow from his bad arm to my temple and I know I'm fucked.

I take several more strong kicks and more of the power is getting passed my wards. His sudden mistake is giving into his raging ego. He uses his advantage to grab the back of my head and pull me up so he can spit his wrath into my ear. I can't see him but I have excellent hearing.

"You are going to regret crossing me you pathetic pu-," he almost finishes before I drive the back of my head into his face. His quick reflexes save his nose; I drive his teeth into his tongue, nearly cutting it off and flooding his mouth with a hot spray of blood.

This time when he kicks, I catch his foot and spill him on his ass. I'm back to my feet when the taser hits me. If I was 6' 8" and 280 lbs. I might walk this off too – but I'm not so I don't. My lips contort in soundless agony as the proscribed amount of Mother Nature's Wrath courses through my body. When the device stops crackling I'm a puppet with his strings cut.

Michael Harrow, always the sportsman, proceeds to kick me repeatedly when I'm down. My rubberized, 'good to 300 feet underwater' watch chimes success to my battered eardrums.

Though I can't see the action, I am pretty sure where the White Rabbit disposes of the security guards; it was her with the taser pulling the biased referee bit.

"Sir, are you sure you want to kill him? Too many people know and you've worked too hard to let this idiot stop you now," White Horny Owl pleads.

I use the respite to force myself to a kneeling position but before I can make it to my feet, I catch Michael's shoe just below the diaphragm and almost collapse backwards. The second kick doesn't come though Michael is cursing up a frothy, slurred storm.

"Sir – sir, the phone," Snow Babe is shouting at him and since I'm not catching another kick, I can assume she's pulling him away.

"Let go of me you whore," Michael snaps. She does so and Michael grabs me by the front of my shirt and shakes me vigorously. "Make that program go away." I take the phone.

"How many Dwarves were there?" I groan.

"What?" Michael snarls.

"Seven," the girl answers; I hit the seven button.

"If you fucked this up," Michael snaps at his servant – not me.

"Fuck Dude, have a little fantasy in your life and pay attention to who you have standing around you," I cough up some blood. "There isn't a girl in the English speaking world that doesn't know Snow White and the Seven Dwarves."

"That's what you called her at the start of our meeting," Michael observes. "Which means you planned all this," he kicks me in the ribs again. "I don't like being used."

"You happiness is not something I worry about," I mumble once I can right myself. I'm essentially defenseless now and Michael is still very angry.

"Why do it, you moron?" he grumbles.

"I had to buy the time necessary for Rachel and Brad to get free of this building," I sigh painfully.

"How sure are you that they have left the building?" Michael glares at me with his twisted smile. "Ms. Yen may have taken exceptation to the whole game and acted in her best interest."

"No sounds of gunfire and no building-wide alarms," smile a bloody smile. "Because I know something you don't – again." Michael kicks me yet again, though I roll with this one and don't get something broken.

"I should feed you your phone," Michael seethes, pulling out his own. "I could have them killed right now."

"Listen up, you Neanderthal," I groan and groan louder when he kicks my arms I've blocked with. "There was no threat – it was a bluff. Such an investigation would have destroyed Pierce and Pierce; I would not destroy my home; I had to convince you I was to get you out of the building."

"What is going to save you now?" he gloats over me. "You've lost your leverage."

"The response time of the LAPD and the fact this has all been on camera," I point out.

"That's a lie," Snowy Owl denies me. "We are outside of the camera angles."

"Yes, but this area is infamous for the young mothers that all park here on Saturdays. All their SUV's have rear angle cameras, which ARE pointing right at us and have been broadcasting to my systems and the security desk since the beginning." I get a kick for my troubles and I'm feeling weak and woozy.

"Sir, you need to get going," Snow Grouse," is becoming insistent. Michael howls out his rage, gives me one more swift kick then punches me as I topple down to the ground, defenseless and prone. Michael moves to his Lamborghini and races away while I crawl to my phone and call Echo, telling her what hospital she can come get me at. Sure enough, three patrol cars arrive too late.

I claim a cloudy vision and an uncertain memory which allows the paramedics to take me away. At the emergency room they determine I don't have a concussion, internal bleeding or broken ribs but it wasn't for lack of trying as I have a fracture to my skull, three ribs and both ulna bruised. They give me some kick-ass painkillers so that I'm nice and toasty when Echo and Lydia are shown in.

We are pretty quiet as we get into the car but then my phone rings. It is Brad, who is remarkably upbeat considering – we have the Harrow account - $22 billion. We are in the big leagues now and Brad doesn't know the half of it. He wants a rundown but I tell him I'll be in the office real soon, which the ladies don't like.

I un-lockdown my office, find Harrow's true name and share it with Brad. Brad is catching up with Rachel and they both have some local, top-notch security for the next few weeks. Aya Yen has left for her home but will be back in a few weeks. Harrow is going to Western and Central Europe for a few weeks but will be back as a semi-resident soon enough – and he expects results.

I make a note to put Michael on my Christmas bomb list. I reformat my external systems before heading home. We sweep the car for bugs as a standard precaution but the girls explode with questions when we exit the parking garage. The first and dumbest thing they do is ask me if I want out.

"That would make the beating I took pointless," I groan as the pain-killers hit their limit and the low-scale pain becomes a constant. "I expected and planned for this; as you recall I told you I needed to drag Harrow in. Now, he's not going to kill me until I admit he's the better man – this will not happen."

I have them stop by Keystone Security where I pick up a few things before heading home. "Ladies, I have something to help us all out in this," I tell them between flashes of pain from the body blows Michael landed on me. "Here are the cars you will need to use if we are going to work together; Echo you get the Continental GT Speed and Lydia you get the Range Rover L405."

"We can't accept these," Echo insists even as she's salivating over one of the fastest cars ever built. If she likes that, she's going to love the fact that it is not street legal – it can reach speeds in excess of 300kph, not that anyone would admit to that.

"Oh fuck yeah!" Lydia goes the other way. "Is there anything I need to know about this model?" she giggles.

"We can't keep these," Echo refuses to budge.

"Lydia, yours is the security model," we ignore Gloomy though I can't ignore how much standing and breathing hurts – breathing hurts all the time right now. "Bullet resistant glass, layered Kevlar panels on all four sides, the roof, hood, and undercarriage."

"Run-flat tires," Lydia claps joyfully, "onboard electronics detector and well as chemical sniffers." Lydia is starting to salivate. "Can I keep this at home Dominic? Please, please!"

"Sure you can," I look at Echo's partner become very happy. I produce the two cards I had picked up as well. I hand one to each officer.

"We can't accept these and we can't accept the cars – Lydia," Echo is still very stern. "Police officers can accept gifts."

"The kids will love this," Lydia pleads. "Consider all the skanky cars we've had to drive, let us live a little Echo."

"Besides, they are not a gift, they are your covers because you can't hang out with me if you look like – excuse me – middle class wannabes," I explain. "Your speech and mannerisms are fine, but you've got to look like you are flaunting wealth, thus the cars and the cards."

"What about the cards?" Lydia smiles at me in a way that says I've made her New Years, Easter, her Birthday, 4th of July, Thanksgiving and Christmas all at once.

"It is a credit card except it is tied to ten different accounts at ten different banks. These accounts transfer money between them to cover purchases and to conceal your buying history. It is virtually swipe-proof and is pretty common at the executive level. I'll handle the balance so don't worry unless you go hog wild."