Christan shifted, uncomfortable in the black slacks and white formal shirt he wore in deference to the upcoming meeting. He preferred denim and a leather jacket and felt out of place. The meeting was not scheduled for another half hour, so he took advantage of the time. He went first to the Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge at the base of the bluff. The walk was easy and allowed him to check to see if he’d been followed. He saw a few hikers, a family of three, walking in the opposite direction.
The area was one of Portland’s favorite wildlife parks—but it was built on top of a landfill. Christan wondered about a culture that thought it could bury its trash so easily. Trash, whether human or inanimate, had an unfortunate way of resurfacing, even after centuries. He would know, although he didn’t place himself in that category. No, Christan was more in the category of those who buried the problems in places where they remained buried. Although sometimes trash needed to be displayed, and he was fine with that, too.
He followed the hiking trail around to the bottom lands of black cottonwood and Oregon ash, where he stood in the twisted shadows and studied Ross Island. He pretended to admire the mallard ducks that lifted off and settled back with military precision. Molten sunlight glittered on the surface of the water, but the placid river was an illusion: beneath the surface it moved with deadly currents. He watched a few teenagers in kayaks play around some rocks and thought he would never get used to the arrogance, the way humans believed in their invincibility. But they would believe what they wanted to believe, never seeing what was in front of their eyes.
After twenty minutes, Christan retraced his steps and returned to the parking lot. He stood watching skinny-jeans bike riders with packs on their backs, couples holding hands. Two boys on noisy skateboards and an old man on a bench with a newspaper in his hands. Satisfied no one seemed out of place, Christan walked toward the redefined southeast area catering to small craft distilleries.
In the 1830’s, the gritty Port of Portland had been the most dangerous port city in the world. Men—who were either drunk or drugged—were smuggled through the underground Shanghai Tunnels and put on ships, most never to return. During Prohibition, the tunnels had been used for illicit bars and bordellos, controlled by mob bosses, and a few rogue warriors.
Now, modern structures concealed a labyrinth that snaked from Old China Town to the river. Most of the tunnels were controlled by Three and hidden in plain sight. The other tunnels were given over to the tourists.
A few minutes before two o’clock, Christan walked into the industrial space on a quiet side street, housing the stainless steel and copper tanks of a working distillery. The wooden bar was ancient, with the patina of constant use, and had, in fact, been used for over two hundred years. The distillery was part of the financial portfolios Arsen accumulated over the centuries, separate from the acquisitions he facilitated for Three. Registered to four privately owned corporations, the properties had no traceable connection to one another, other than they all sat above entrances to the Shanghai Tunnels, nurtured reputations for supporting public art, and housed entrepreneurial businesses, many of them operated by unique individuals. A small sign on the wall read Dar Distillery.
A tall man, known as Darius, stood behind the bar. He was muscular, with an elegant, lethal grace. His skin bore the golden hints of an exotic heritage, somewhere hot and sensual, his dark eyes making more than one patron wonder what great loss he’d endured. Women sought to ease his pain, men found him interesting, but no one really knew the man. He kept his secrets close, his enemies even closer. And he had enemies; he’d once been Three’s favorite general.
Now Darius considered himself retired.
When Christan stepped through the door, the man’s eyes narrowed. He had a glass and a white bar towel in his hands, but all movement stopped. Christan took a single step across the threshold.
“Heard you were back,” Darius said, not particularly welcoming.
“Heard you made good whiskey,” Christan replied, not particularly intimidated.
“Arsen tell you that?”
“He mentioned it.”
“Arsen wouldn’t know a good whiskey if you poured it on a naked woman and told him to drink.” The warrior set down the glass and towel and braced both hands against the bar. “What brings you here? Tasting Room isn’t open for another two hours.”
“I have a meeting.”
“This going to be a friendly meeting?”
“You have a long memory,” Christan said.
“You have a reputation to uphold,” Darius countered.
Christan remained silent. After a moment, Darius reached for a bottle, selected two glasses and filled them with golden liquid. He held one out.
Stepping forward, Christan accepted the offering. The liquid held the taste of wood smoke, a warm spicy tang, and a trace of bitter chocolate.
“Do I know who’s expected?” Darius asked.
“A representative. I’m sure you know him.”
“You want the basement tunnel?”
“I’d prefer this meeting out in the open.”
The large warrior gestured toward the small walled patio beyond a side door. “One way out there and it’s through me. Should be private if you don’t talk loud.”
After a moment, Christan took the glass and strolled out into the sunny patio. Potted trees filled the corners and created a green buffer. A table and chairs sat in the shade, and he took the chair with his back to the wall. The wait wasn’t long.
A man approached, carrying a black attaché case in his left hand. Christan recognized him from the photo in Arsen’s extensive data base. His name was Phillipe. He was tall, nearly as tall as Christan, with the appearance of an academic. Red suspenders, visible when he settled into the chair, reinforced the harmless image. He was Three’s personal envoy, but those who accepted his role at face value did so at their peril.
“She sends regards,” Phillipe said. Christan lifted his glass and let the whiskey slide down his throat. Phillipe made a slight movement with his shoulder, as if to say Three was far better at silent intimidation than Christan could ever be. “That was a nice gift you left her to clean up.”
Christan nodded, hearing the smooth warning and not giving a damn. He’d found the one responsible for desecrating the cottage. Felt Lexi had been destroyed enough for a while. Wanted to put something back together for her and didn’t ask himself why.
“Does she know what you did?” Phillipe asked, his silver eyes slanted. Christan knew which “she” Phillipe was talking about.
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“Was it necessary to be that messy?”
“He killed her cat.”
“Next time try to make it less obvious. Humans always have their cell phones out, looking for something to post on social media. It’s better to avoid public places.”
A sip of whiskey, nothing visible in obsidian dark eyes. “As she requests.”
Phillipe looked as if he wished to smile but didn’t. There was something familiar, lethal, in that gesture. “Where did you leave the man’s heart?”
Christan shrugged. Three said it herself. There was a monster in all of them and he wasn’t ashamed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before. “It won’t be found.”
They sat in companionable silence, the soft chink of a glass returning to a table, the dull humming white noise of cars in the distance. The man who was not an academic reached down for the attaché case. A moment later he produced a file and pushed it across the table.
Christan flipped open the manila cover and read the top line, printed on plain white paper and positioned above the color photograph of a girl with long dark hair curling around her shoulders. The photo framed a narrow street, and the girl was laughing as she looked over her shoulder.
“She couldn’t drop this off herself and say hello?” Christan asked, referring to Three again, as he read through the one-page document, locked the key details in his mind.
“I think you know why,” the academic answered.
“It would have been a nice gesture.” Christan glanced up as he closed the file. “This is why she recalled me?”
“She recalled you because war is returning, and contrary to your opinion, she prefers peace over chaos. This,” Phillipe indicated the file, “is a recent development.”