Recovery Agent, page 1
Recovery Agent
Pam Uphoff
Copyright 2024 Pamela Uphoff
All Rights Reserved
ISBN
978-1-962073-04-2
Cover Image
Design by P. A. McWhorter
Image elements from Midjourney AI
This is a work of fiction.
All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional.
Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
The Killer and the Kid
Chapter Two
The Grieving Family
Chapter Three
Remembering
Chapter Four
It’s Private
Chapter Five
Old Memories
Chapter Six
Somewhere Safe
Chapter Seven
Family Feud
Chapter Eight
The Observer
Chapter Nine
No Good Deed . . .
Chapter Ten
Research
Chapter Eleven
Family Planning
Chapter Twelve
Legalities
Chapter Thirteen
Trust
Chapter Fourteen
Unique Works
Chapter Fifteen
The Guardian of the Family Fortune
Chapter Sixteen
An Active Farewell
Chapter Seventeen
Time to Quit
Bonus Scene One
Bonus Scene Two
Bonus Scene Three
An Excerpt from the Next Book
Other Works from Pam Uphoff
Chapter One
The Killer and the Kid
June 15, 3738
At least this time the “experts” called me quickly.
The boy should be in reasonably good shape . . .
The killer slid through the crowd with little difficulty. People always did get out of his way. He was above average in height, and muscular. But not that far off average. It wasn’t even the three scars across his right cheek and his body language. His glow was very subdued, but allowed to leak at the frequency people picked up subconsciously as “predator on the hunt” that had people shifting uneasily and letting him past, usually without glancing his direction, as that might catch the hunter’s attention. And around here, there were a lot of predators to avoid.
The faint beep in his right ear was getting faster. One hundred feet.
I really hate Holstein. It’s got the worst of the underworld. Organized crime, overwhelmed by the sheer mass of freelance criminal gangs. Run away mischlings plus ordinary bad grow-ins, with a fringe of amygdala grow-ins, drug-addled lords, and crazies.
The criminal “Muddies” down here in the district that floods regularly, are the most dangerous. They don’t even have to pretend to be civilized, like Uptowners.
A glance between the open air stalls showed the red line of the spring floods on the buildings. Six feet. Amazing that these old buildings are still standing. All concrete, of course.
The iron rich soils leave hard to remove stains. On buildings, and clothes.
In the security recording, three of the kidnappers had reddish stains on their pant cuffs.
So here I am and I am getting close to the injected locator. Ahead, to the right.
He tapped the phone to save the directional line, and kept walking. A quarter of a mile onward, and the direction was to the right and slightly behind. The new line crossed the old just a few hundred feet away.
The killer closed the deliberate leak in his mental shield and walked on a few steps. Two buildings, the space between maybe three feet wide. A gutter down the middle to channel the rain. Dry today. He slipped between stalls and walked down the little space. No trash. They don’t block runoff. Even these people know better.
He pulled up his hood, tugged it down over his forehead, turned up his collar to cover his face to his eyes and powered up the smart cloth, changed to the next pattern and color. Concrete. Red mud-stained gray in a camouflage pattern. He switched the cloth off and the color froze.
He poked a minicam around the corner, the view on his phone . . . an alley, mostly garage entrances, garbage bins, some trash . . . one car coming from the right, a garage door opening . . . very nearly at the right place.
The car swerved a bit to make the swing into the garage, and he took advantage of the driver’s presumed attention to not scraping his fenders to slide around the corner and close in.
The building across the street from him had three garage doors. To the right of them, a man sized door opened, and a man stepped out to stare suspiciously at the car. The killer slipped across the alley and took a knee behind a garbage bin. Checked the locator. Right beside him.
He turned the detector . . . and at least one floor higher. A glance up confirmed that there were no windows. Three floors. So. Door it is. He reached into his pocket and brought out a strip of hex wafer. Tiny hexagons of an electrical conductor, in a honeycomb of insulating material.
The car disappeared from view, the garage door closed. The suspicious man looked both ways up the alley, then pulled the door open and stepped back inside.
He whipped around and slipped the hex wafer between door and jamb as it shut.
Not only would it keep the door from latching, any electrical contacts between door and jamb should be uninterrupted. In theory.
The killer opened his shields to incoming glow. There was the man inside, walking away, angry glows up above. One bright speck . . . frightened but alert and doing something that was pissing off a hell of a lot of people.
Either the close man was the only person in the garage, or the others had really hard shields.
He opened the door and slipped in. Only one car. He ran past it, spotted the man starting to sit at a desk, a makeshift security station, spinning around . . . He hit the guard with a stun impression, rushed up to catch the man and prop him up in his chair. Good enough to pass a first glance. The security feed showed four men trying to break down a door . . . somewhere. Other camera feeds showed a break room with a coffee machine, a small table. Empty halls.
A small room with a metal framed bed jammed diagonally across, braced against the door. A small figure shoving the corner of the bed frame so it couldn’t be jarred loose.
Atta boy!
No other cameras in the offices or bedrooms or whatever they are.
A quick look around the machine shop beyond the cars. No one there, then an electronic sweep of the stairs. Nothing. Which makes sense, with the flood stains six feet up the walls.
Up the steps to the door . . . no alarms. Sloppy.
He eased the door open, stuck his minicam through for a look around. Two men on the right, looking away.
The killer stepped out and eased toward them. Silent . . . stunned them from twenty feet away.
Then up the stairs, switching on the adaptive camo. Then a hallway, one open door. A glance in at a fancy office, stun the man at the desk. A faint headache starting.
Up the next flight of stairs, follow the sound of cussing and threats. The four big guys were focused on the door; they never saw him coming. Or sensed him. Natives or chipped.
And no need for silence. Not that he didn’t have a suppressor on the gun, but this wasn’t a movie, with tiny little pews to let the audience know the gun had been fired.
Four shots, four dead.
He raised his voice. “I really hope you’re Aristarkh Portnov, else I’m in big trouble. Umm, sorry, safe words. Red Brown Venice.”
A faint scraping noise through the thick door.
He lifted his hood a bit and lowered the collar, so the “scars” showed, and shoved the door part way open. “Can you get through? Follow me quietly.”
The boy looked like his pictures, apart from the brown hair being tousled, and a bruise on one cheek. The kid squeezed through and eyed his rescuer. “Nice camo.”
Oh, I like this kid.
“Let’s see if we can slide out of here without any more shooting.” The killer slipped down the first stairs. Clear, and the next.
Most Mud gangs have dozens of gunners, just lolling around with nothing much to do.
Down to the garage. They must be off in the other cars.
A quick sweep of the car, nothing odd, keys in it . . .
“Are you going to steal their car?”
“Can’t think of any reason not to.”
The boy grinned and ran around to the passenger side. The killer started it, found the button to the garage door, and they were out of there.
Two blocks away he handed the kid the tosser phone. “Press one.”
“Michael.” A crisp home accent.
“Uncle Mike!” The boy started grinning.
The killer leaned enough to be in range of the mic. “Meet us at Fifth and Giebler.”
A half mile away, outside the mud district, and on the fringes of the high crime area.
He spotted a car idling, Home plates. He made an illegal turn to swing around, passenger side to their driver’s side.
The kid had spotted what must have been a familiar car, and was bailing even before he said “Go!”
The man stepping out of the car, whipped the kid around behind him.
The killer leaned across the car and caught the man’s gaze. “Contract complete.”
A nod. “Complete.” The man shoved the car door closed, followed the kid i
The killer was gone before they were moving.
Chapter Two
The Grieving Family
Friday, June 15, 3738
Junior Detective Falk Asch was being ignored as the widow attempted to explain, and the great nephew attempted to get her to shut up. Their lapel cams were no doubt recording everything.
Director of Distribution Lord Mikhail Portnov had collapsed at his desk, and been ambulanced to the hospital, where he had died an hour later.
Senior Detective Ermolai Lagunov was trying to explain over the noise. “There will, of course, be an autopsy, but at this point it appears to be a stroke. Now, if your son,” looking at the widow, then back to Lord Artur, “and nephew, or whatever, has been kidnapped, why was this not reported to the Police?”
“They said they’d kill him if . . . and Mikhail called a private company that is supposed to be very good . . .” The widow slid out of her chair to crumple onto the floor. “What will they do when they hear that Mikhail’s dead?”
Lord Artur, tall, blond, and irritated, glared at her. “I dare say we’ll be contacted, and we will turn everything over to the police.”
She looked up, then, red-eyed, no makeup . . . “You want him dead, so you’ll inherit when your great-grandfather dies. You probably hired the kidnappers!”
“How dare you!” He stalked over to her. “Stupid servant! Mikhail was insane to marry you!”
Falk winced. This was supposed to be a simple “talk to the next of kin and express regrets for a perfectly natural death. Hang around and make sure their family was around for support, then leave” sort of visit.
Well, I was hoping for something challenging . . . but a kidnapping . . . coming in too late . . .
Lord Artur hauled the widow to her feet, his other arm drawn back to slap . . . Falk stepped in and blocked it.
“Sir, I know you are distressed, but please refrain from . . . excessive displays of emotion.”
The lord’s eyes narrowed, then his attention jerked around at noise from the entry.
Running feet, a boy catapulted across the room to throw himself at his mother. “What happened! The radio said Dad was dead!”
The widow was crying again. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“This guy rescued me. He killed four of the kidnappers, and then stole a car from them, so we could get away. He was cool. And scary. He had these scars on his cheek, like he’d been clawed and a reactive camo suit and . . .”
Falk was not the only cop there suddenly riveted.
Detective Hans Clemens pushed forward, and knelt beside the boy. “What did the scars look like? Describe them. Or show me!”
The boy reached out to Clemens’ face, and with three fingers like claws, traced paths across Clemens right cheek, from just below the eye down and back.
Senior Detective Lagunov hissed. “Orlov the Assassin! Where was this?”
“On Holstein.”
They all looked around. A tall man was standing just inside the doorway to the parlor. Dark-haired, looking a lot like the widow.
“Lord Mikhail called the Vyaz Private Investigation Company. They viewed all the recordings of the abduction, got the frequencies of the implants. Said they’d put their best on it. Late yesterday we got a call to send someone Ari knew and trusted to Holstein, and an address where to wait. I went.
“At ten this morning, my phone rang. Unknown number, Ari on the other end, recognized my voice. Then another voice told me where to meet them. Nineteen drove there, a car pulled up and Ari jumped out. I hustled him to the beacon plaza and we just caught a Portal from Home. We heard the news on the way.”
Falk pointed at the man’s tie tack. “Is that recording?”
“Yes.” He touched the right side of his head. “And I’ll download what I’ve got.”
Oh, an Exec.
“And you are?”
“Michael house Gorky, property of Lord Mikhail Portnov . . . s estate, now, I suppose.”
“He’s that stupid bitch’s little brother.” Lord Artur scowled from one to the other. “And the second servant I’m going to sell. After her!”
The widow’s arms tightened around the boy. “Best wait for the reading of the will, Artur. There just might be a few surprises in there!”
“I’m Mikhail’s executor!”
“You were. Ten years ago. He rewrote his will after Aristarkh was born.”
Lord Artur stiffened. “We’ll see about that!” He turned and shoved past Falk and stormed out the front door.
Senior Detective Lagunov growled. “All right. In view of the possible involvement of a man on the most wanted list, we’ll be needing some official statements. Asch? Call this in, we’ll be needing more men.”
Falk nodded, reaching for his phone. No. Kidding. “Killer” Orlov. We don’t even know his full name, or if he is actually Family Orlov.
Chapter Three
Remembering
Friday, June 15, 3738
Mike handed over the tie pin recorder and downloaded his entire memory file.
About the only thing about this damned plate I could ever actually use. Lord Mikhail saw no reason to pay for the training, and . . . all the healing Impressions I threw on myself might have affected it . . .
Then he started typing everything he remembered, organically, along with impressions, opinions, context . . .
The family tree, and history.
The current 2 Portnov, Lord Aristarkh Ermolai Portnov, was two hundred and thirty-one years of age and “not well.” He and his brother, the current member of the 300, were the total of generation one.
Generation two consisted of the three elderly sons of Portnov—Avdey, Andrei, and Avksentiy.
Lord Mikhail had also been generation two. And his ten-year-old son, named after his grandfather, was the sole member of the third generation.
Generation Four had thirty-eighty members. Artur was the oldest of that generation, at eighty. He had two younger brothers. The rest of that generation were distant cousins.
The current 2 Portnov had broken up the original Portnov square, over a century ago. The back half had been split between his sons, the two half brothers Anisim and Mikhail. The older brother was long dead, his son—the same age as his uncle Mikhail—had squandered his inheritance and sold his quarter of the original square, before he died. Lord Artur was the oldest of his three sons.
The newly deceased Mikhail Aristarkh Portnov, had been 6 Portnov. A hundred and twenty years of age. The ten-year-old Aristarkh was his only son. His quarter of the original square was intact, the mansion very large, but not up to “Family House” standards.
Senior Detective Lagunov put aside the transcription to skim the family history . . . “So until the kid was born, Lord Artur was four old men away from inheriting the Family House and Trust, and five away from Joining the 300?”
Mike nodded. “And working, no inheritance to live on. When Nika got pregnant, Lord Mikhail, of course, had a blood sample of hers taken to separate out fetal cells. When the DNA results came back showing him as the father, and the fetus male, he married her.”
He hesitated . . . shrugged. “She negotiated for him to buy me from the Gorky Trust, and for me to get an exec chip. I’m three years younger than her.”
“Do you know the terms of the will?”
“Almost everything to Aristarkh. A trust fund for Nika. Some cash to his three great-nephews. I think the wording was along the lines of ten percent of his cash and investment accounts split three ways among them. But that’s hearsay. I have not seen the will.”
“Do you know how much that will be?”
“No, sir. I am not involved with the accounting side of things.”
The detective eyed him. “What do you do, then?”
“Read lots of obscure news items and give the Lord synopses of anything interesting.” He hesitated . . . “It might have been make-work, as he really didn’t need a young untrained Exec. I also got sent on a lot of errands, and acted as Ari’s valet, tutor . . . babysitter when he was younger, although he also had a Nanny.”
Lagunov looked around as another man stuck his head in the door. “The boss says this is all yours. Daniil Vinogradov’s tied up for a few days.”
Lagunov caught Mike’s raised brows. “Captain Vinogradov is good at kissing up to high rankers and getting information out of them. He’d just love Lord Artur, where I see a greedy ass who’s not going to be a good guardian for his young . . .” He looked at the chart, “Uncle?”
