Wired by Richards, Douglas E.
“What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself. What is bad? All that is born of weakness. What is happiness? The feeling that power is growing, that resistance is overcome.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche, Philosopher (1844-1900)
PROLOGUE
Bill Callan extended his silenced Ruger .45 and crept soundlessly toward the woman calling herself Angela Joyce. She was seated at an old wooden desk with her back to him, busily manipulating an expensive laptop computer. She was undeniably cute, reflected Callan, not for the first time. But he liked his women on the sleazy side, and her look was too wholesome for his taste—even though her appearance was probably the only thing wholesome about her. And she was too smart for his liking as well. Far too smart.
Her driver’s license pegged her at twenty-seven, but she looked younger, as if she had just finished college. Except for her eyes. There was a maturity there, a street savvy, far beyond her actual age or appearance that suggested this soft-looking girl had seen her share of hard times.
Why did she need to hire two mercenaries to protect her? Not bodyguards, but mercenaries. And how was she able to afford them without any visible means of support? She had fed them a story about having been the girlfriend of a mobster who wasn’t prepared to let her go, but Callan hadn’t bought it for a second. So he had made a study of her. And sure enough, his investigation had hit pay dirt. Pay dirt far richer than he could ever have imagined.
The girl was so engrossed in the computer she was completely oblivious to Callan’s approach. He cleared his throat and she spun around, startled. “Oh,” she said in relief, noticing it was him, but her relief was short-lived as she saw the gun pointed at her, ominously fitted with a silencer. “What’s going on, Bill?” she said anxiously. And while she kept her face passive, Callan had an unmistakable sense that her agile mind was racing; evaluating these new circumstances and weighing possibilities.
“You need to come with me,” said Callan evenly. And then, raising his eyebrows he added, “Kira.”
Her eyes widened for just an instant before she caught herself. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “Why are you pointing that at me? And why did you call me Kira?”
“Because that’s your real name,” he said simply. “Kira Miller.”
She shook her head in annoyance. “If this is your idea of a joke, Bill, it isn’t funny.”
Callan ignored her. “Catch,” he said, tossing her a set of car keys. She snatched them from the air with athletic ease, her gaze never wavering from his.
“I took the liberty of removing the pepper spray from your key ring,” he told her. “Let’s go. You’re driving.”
“Where’s Jason?” she asked.
“He’s in the garage,” replied Callan with a sly smile. “Waiting for us.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about!” she snapped.
Callan closed the gap between them in the blink of an eye and shoved the long barrel of the silencer roughly against the side of her head. He reached out with his other hand and grabbed her chin, forcing her face mere inches from his. Callan was a muscular six-foot-three and his meaty paws were enormous.
“For a smart chick, you’re just not getting it,” he hissed. “Things have changed. I don’t work for you anymore. I’m the one giving the orders now! You’ll do as I say or I’ll break you in half.” He gave her chin and lower face a quick, powerful squeeze, so strong that several of her teeth cut into the inside of her mouth, drawing blood. “Have I made myself clear!” he whispered through clenched teeth, finally releasing her chin.
She rubbed her chin and glared at him with such a feral intensity he expected holes to appear in the back of his head.
“Admit your real name is Kira Miller or I’ll break your left arm,” he growled fiercely.
She continued to glare at him as she considered his threat. “Okay,” she said finally. “So I’m Kira Miller. So what? I’m paying you and Jason a small fortune to protect me, and you’re putting that in serious jeopardy.”
Callan laughed. “You think?” he said sarcastically. He shook his head. “Thanks for your concern, but I won’t be needing your small fortune anymore. I’m trading it for a large one.” He grabbed her arm and shoved her in the direction of the garage. “Let’s go,” he barked. “I’m not going to ask again.”