The Hit
Chapter 4
No, this can't be possible, Drake thought as he stared at his phone. Launchpad can't be a hitman. It was the most unbelievable thing he had ever witnessed.
Launchpad. The guy who couldn't be left in the same room as a Chinese finger trap. Drake had to call the fire department because Launchpad got his head stuck between the bars of a banister. Twice. His best friend still thought Napoleon Bonaparte was a type of ice-cream. There was no way that Launchpad could ever be a hitman.
But then, small doubts wiggled into Drake's brain. Launchpad had been acting strangely that day. He had been lying to Drake. And then there was the incident where Launchpad was creeping down Negaduck's stairs with a mysterious briefcase in hand. But even then, it didn't make sense. If Launchpad was a hitman and he got that briefcase from Negaduck, then it was Charity's fiancé that had sent out the hit. Why would Jim Starling want to knock off his own girlfriend?
Well…besides the obvious.
I can't believe it, Drake thought, not able to deny it any more. My best friend is a hitman. I don't know how I'm going to deal with this?
Maybe you should protect your client, you idiot, a voice in his head berated him.
Looking up, he realized he hadn't been paying attention. Charity and her friends were nowhere in view. Dropping the duffle bag and the giant, pastel unicorn plushie that Launchpad had won, Drake raced in a panicked zigzag in the direction they were last heading.
Had it all been a cover? Had Launchpad been pretending all this time? Drake had answered an ad two years ago for a room for rent. He had moved to St. Canard after bombing it with the Duckburg police, and he needed a cheap apartment. That's how he and Launchpad met and became best friends. Launchpad's carefree, loyal, optimistic and forgiving nature had won Drake over quickly. He had never had such a good friend before. And in return, Drake helped Launchpad with minor things: passing his driving test—how a man in his twenties could go without a driver's license was beyond him—finances, picking up girls in bars, normal stuff like that.
Was that all a lie? Was that Launchpad just an act, a clever disguise to cover up his insidious, dark side?
Drake dialed Charity's number, urging her to pick up. Where are you? Where are you? Please say you're still alive.
He saw the red hair and tall form of Launchpad first before the girls. They were flocking around a photo kiosk, looking at pictures of groups of people riding the roller coaster they had just been on. Launchpad was reaching into his back pocket.
He has a gun! Drake screamed in his head, charging at the larger duck. He rammed into Launchpad with all his force just as he was taught, aiming below his target's center of gravity. It was like running into a pile of bricks; he had managed to topple Launchpad over but he would be feeling it later.
The girls screamed and backed away.
"Drake, what the crap?!" Charity shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"
Feeling dizzy but still thinking, Drake shouted, "Get back!"
Sunny and Martha flanked Charity although they seemed to huddle behind her than stand by for support. Charity placed hands on her hips. "Why are you attacking Launchpad? Are you crazy?"
"I said get back," Drake yelled even louder, aware of how much of a scene he was making. He could feel Launchpad moving underneath him, and he put pressure on the larger duck's neck, pushing him down. He pointed to a gift shop not far away. "Go into that building right now and wait for me."
Realization dawned on her face, and she obeyed.
His training at this point dictated him to draw his own gun. He perceived a threat to his client, and he needed to protect her. He had never done this not once, not even when he spent a half year with the Duckburg PD. He'd only used his gun at the shooting range. But could he pull his gun on Launchpad?
His friend remained on the ground, stiff and still. His head was turned a bit so he could look at Drake through the corner of his eye.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," Drake ordered, his voice deep and heavy.
Launchpad spread out his arms.
Drake looked at the crowd that was forming around him. No, it would not be smart to show them that he had a gun. He could start a riot that would inevitably make him look like the bad guy. Plus, Launchpad was cooperating.
But Drake couldn't help but remember just how big and strong his roommate was. They had occasionally arm wrestled and sparred at the gym. Launchpad could easily over-power him.
"Stay back," Drake warned the crowd, hoping to sound official enough that they would obey. He was given more space, but not enough to bring out his weapon. Instead, he patted down Launchpad, looking for a gun. After running his hands in the obvious places where a gun could be stowed—the chest, legs, around the waistband of the pants—he found nothing but Launchpad's keys and wallet, which must have been what he was reaching for.
He was beginning to think that the text was some sort of deranged trick or prank when he opened up Launchpad's wallet, finding a large roll of one hundred dollar bills. A chill ran down his back.
"Where did you get this money?" Drake demanded Launchpad, determined to get the truth now.
Launchpad didn't say anything, his eyes darting around nervously.
"Launchpad, you better tell me who gave you this money!"
"It was Mr. Starling," Launchpad admitted.
Drake swallowed, keeping the pressure on Launchpad's back constant. "So he paid you to kill Charity?"
"What?!" Launchpad sounded fearfully. "No, I would never hurt her. I would never hurt anyone…intentionally."
"Unintentionally?" Drake growled.
"Driving's hard, okay. But I'm getting the hang of it. I only hit two cars this week," Launchpad confessed. "Or was it three?"
"What did Starling want you to do? What were his words exactly?" Drake asked, shaking Launchpad's shoulder.
Even under so much pressure, Launchpad was able to do his signature, clueless shrug. "I don't know. He said he wanted me to cheer Miss Charity up. He said he would pay me to take her out."
"Take her out?" Drake repeated with a frown. And then things clicked, the double meaning behind those words.
And he knew exactly what had happened. Somehow, Launchpad and Negaduck were talking to each other, and Launchpad was hired as a hitman, but the tall duck must have misconstrued the entire conversation as something far more innocent. And knowing how roundabout and indirect "gangster talk" could be, it was one-hundred percent possible.
Drake sighed, not only relieved that his best friend wasn't a secret murderer, but also at the thought that if he couldn't figure out how to get Launchpad out of this mess, it would likely bet that one or both of them would be killed in the process.
Perhaps Drake could talk to Negaduck and persuade him that this whole thing had been a big mistake. Oh yeah, Drake could see it now. All he had to do was go up to Jim Starling and say, "Excuse me. You know my friend that you hired to kill your girlfriend. Well, it turns out he's made a mistake and he isn't actually a psychotic man-slaughterer. Here's your money back, and we promise not to tell anyone, especially the police."
That definitely wouldn't end well.
"Drake? What's going on?" Launchpad asked, hardly moving a muscle. He sounded frightened.
Drake scanned the crowd again. His line of sight to the store where he sent Charity and her friends was blocked. He needed to do his job, but Launchpad also needed him.
He climbed off of his friend, bending down and whispering, "Get up, and do everything I say."
Launchpad did, his head hanging slightly.
"It's okay, everyone. False alarm," Drake told the crowd, holding up his hand. "Everything is fine."
He read the faces that circled him, seeing that a majority of the crowd didn't believe him. There were a few on their phones, maybe calling the police. Looking over heads, he could see a couple of men coming from the entrance of the park. By the way they walked, they must be security.
Drake grabbed Launchpad's elbow and pulled him through the crowd of spectators, dodging groups of children and families as he tried to disappear in the numbers. As he marched, he pulled off his sunglasses and tie, stopping at a trash bin. He took off his jacket, pulling off his shoulder harness and gun at the same time. Wrapping everything in his jacket, he shoved it deep among the food packages and wrappers.
"Drake, what is going on?" Launchpad asked again. "Did I do something wrong?"
Drake loosened a few buttons on his shirt, ruffling his hair. There. He should fit in with the crowd a little more. "Launchpad, head to the restroom on the east end of the park. I want you to wait for me behind the building. Don't go anywhere else. Don't talk to anyone. And don't follow me. Do you understand?"
Launchpad's eyes were wide, but he nodded.
"Good. I'll be there when I can," Drake said, rolling up his sleeves. He watched as Launchpad took a few steps before saying, "East is in the other direction."
"Right," Launchpad said, looking like his usual carefree self.
Well, at least his friend's spirits were high. Now Drake had to deal with his client.
Turning around, he gazed at the crowd. Nobody was looking at him. No fingers pointed in his direction. As Drake passed by the security team that was questioning a few witnesses, nobody even glanced his way. He sighed in relief as he made his way to Charity and her friends.
Inside the store, the three girls were huddled in a corner. They fingered some of the merchandise on the racks and shelves, but were whispering together. At least they weren't looking conspicuous.
Sunny caught sight of him first, her eyes widening. She tapped Charity's shoulder, whispering something in her ear.
Both Charity and Martha turned and their eyes grew larger than the cockatiel's.
"Drake?" Charity asked, looking astonished. "What happened? Where's Launchpad?"
"And what happened to you?" Sunny asked, her finger bobbing up and down. "You look…normal." She smiled. "And I like it. What do we need to do to make this the permanent uniform?"
Drake hesitated, not just because of the flirtatious comment, but because he hadn't prepared what he was going to say. He couldn't tell the truth. The girls might call the police, and then Launchpad would really be in trouble. On the other hand, he had to tell Charity that her boyfriend wanted her dead. But how could he do that without getting Launchpad involved? Would they really believe that this was all a misunderstanding?
"Drake, I'm waiting," Charity said, tapping her flip-flopped foot.
"I'm sorry about the trouble, Miss Charity," Drake said, dropping into his professional tone. "It appears I was given some bad information. I ran a background check on your driver, and I just got the results. When I saw that he was a convicted felon, I jumped to the wrong conclusions. It turned out he served some time in jail but for felony tax evasion."
Was that believable?
"So, then where is Launchpad?" Martha demanded with hands on her hips
"He…quit. I'm sorry. I take all the blame," Drake said with a stoic face.
The three girls exchanged worried glances, although he couldn't guess what they were thinking. Did they suspect that Launchpad was hired to be a hitman?
"Way to go, Dopey Drake," Charity snapped, tossing her hair back. "Launchpad was someone who wasn't actually boring, and now he's gone." She crossed her arms, glaring daggers at Drake.
Sunny and Martha performed a perfect mimic.
"Again, I'm sorry. And despite how early the day is, may I suggest that I take you home?"
"Might as well," Charity said with a pout. "Although, do you even know how to drive a limo?"
Drake raised an eyebrow. Did she really think he was that incompetent that he couldn't drive? Besides, if Launchpad could do it, how hard could it be?
The three girls marched out of the shop and toward the exit. As Drake opened the door for them, Sunny gasped, "Wait! Where are our clothes?"
Drake looked down at his empty hands. "I dropped the bag in the park," he admitted.
"What? Those are two thousand dollar shoes that Charity was wearing? And her top was a Valentino! You have to go back for them," Sunny insisted, looking desperate.
"Sunny, it's okay. I don't mind," Charity said with a shrug.
"No! It's a travesty to let those beautiful clothes waste away at a poor man's Mickey Mouse World lost and found," Sunny cried out. "Now go back and get them."
"But…" Drake said.
"Go!" Sunny ordered, pointing her finger.
He really shouldn't leave Charity and her friends alone; that would be unprofessional and dangerous for his client, but going back for the duffle bag would be the perfect cover to talk to Launchpad. Besides, he could retrieve his gun and jacket.
Keeping his face grumpy, he closed the door on the girls and marched away as if angry. Once he was back inside the park, he bolted into a sprint, racing to where Launchpad was waiting.
"Drake," Launchpad called out from the shadow of the restroom. "What is going on?" "I'd like to know the same thing," Drake said. "Launchpad, what was in that briefcase from this morning? And don't lie to me."
Launchpad's head hung down. "Ten thousand dollars."
"TEN THOUSAN—Ten thousand dollars?" Drake started yelling, but lowered his voice. "Launchpad, did Mr. Starling give you that money?"
"Yes," Launchpad replied.
Drake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where is the briefcase?"
"In the trunk."
"Look, we don't have a lot of time to go over the details, but I need you to trust me, LP," Drake said. "You're…you're in really big trouble."
"Why? What did I do? Is Miss Charity mad at me?" Launchpad asked.
"No, but…there's just too much to explain. Here's what I want you to do. You're going to stay in the park and get something to eat. Don't talk to anyone. After that, you'll call a cab," Drake said, creating the plan as he went.
"What about the limo?" Launchpad asked.
"I'm going to drive Charity and her friends home," Drake said.
Launchpad winced. "Are you sure? Do you even know how to drive a limo?"
"I have a driver's license. I'm sure I can drive a limo," Drake grumbled.
Launchpad looked skeptical.
"Once you call the cab, you're going to have the driver take you to the Holiday Inn on the south side of St. Canard. You're going to get room 305. If that's not available, 307 or 309. Now give me your cell phone." Drake took the cell phone, pulled out Launchpad's wallet from when he confiscated it earlier and gave it to his friend. "I promise that once I have Charity taken care of, I'll meet you there."
"I'm sorry. I messed up again," Launchpad said, hanging his head.
Drake rubbed his head. "No, it's partly my fault. I should have told you about Nega—I mean, about Jim Starling. I thought that the less you knew, the better it would be. But don't worry, pal. I'm going to fix things." He patted Launchpad's arm before racing off to the other side of the park, dropping Launchpad's phone into the nearest garbage can.
First he looked for the duffle bag, finding it laid out on a bench near where he dropped it. He was thankful nobody had taken it to lost and found yet. The giant plush unicorn on the other hand was missing, which was for the best in Drake's opinion.
On the pretext of reorganizing his things, he rested the duffle bag on the garbage can he had dropped his things in, pretending to reach into the bag but instead grabbing his jacket and gun. The jacket had some grease and ketchup smeared on it, but that wasn't something a dry cleaner couldn't take care of. His gun was still wrapped safely inside.
He shoved both of these under his arm, shouldering the bag and running to the exit. At the limo, he shoved the duffle bag in the back with the girls—who were playing on their cell phones—and got into the driver's seat, putting his jacket and gun next to him.
"Took your time, Drake," Charity muttered.
Drake rolled up the window divider before he felt safe enough to put on a grumpy face. Well…grumpier. His heart raced and his stomach twisted in a knot. He had to sit and just breathe for a minute before starting the limo and backing out.
Turns out that driving a limo was harder than he thought. It took him three tries just to back out, and several times, he almost hit other cars changing lanes.
He dropped off Martha and Sunny first before heading to the classy apartment complex where Charity lived. Her apartment was near the top, and it almost had as tight of security as Negaduck's estate. Of course, it was owned by Starling, so the guards were on his payroll. Was Charity safe there?
Instead of dropping her off like he always did, he followed her inside.
"I can find my own way from here, Drake," Charity grumbled as the doorman let them in.
Drake anticipated the lovebird protesting his presence. "It's within my job description to occasionally inspect your apartment for threats."
"What threats?" Charity asked.
"Threats," Drake repeated flatly, following her to the elevator.
"No, you are not coming up with me," Charity said worriedly. "My apartment is a mess. I have…lady things all over."
Something inside Drake snapped; it was most likely the stress that made him choose his next words. "As much as you like to think otherwise, I am not interested in ogling your underwear. I'm not into you. I just want to do my damn job," Drake yelled as the elevator doors closed.
Charity leaned back, eyes wide and stiff. Slowly, she reached out and pressed the button for her floor. For a moment, Drake thought she was cowed enough by his outburst, but then she muttered, "Looks like somebody got a little heat stroke today."
On her floor, Drake waited for Charity to unlock her door before he pushed his way into her apartment.
"Hey, at least give me some time to clean up before you infringe on my privacy," Charity demanded.
Drake started a security sweep but paused. The front part of the apartment was a living room/dining room and kitchen combine into one large area, decorated in neutral colors and stainless steel appliances. It was as neat as a pin with everything in its place. It didn't even look as if someone lived there.
He turned to Charity to see if she was pranking him but the lovebird was on her couch, stuffing something under the cushion. When she looked up, she glowered.
"See, I'm safe. Now you can leave," she insisted, pointing to the door.
"I got to look at the rest of the apartment," Drake said, heading down the hallway.
"Of course," Charity growled, following after him at a run. She beat him to her bedroom door, rushing in and throwing the covers of her perfectly made bed over something that sat on top, covering it. She looked around the room nervously.
Drake did the same although with discerning eyes, looking for anything out of place. But strangely, the bedroom was just as tidy as the rest of the apartment. Surprisingly, there seemed to be no decorations other than the furniture, which was a beautiful matching set that consisted of the bed, dresser, mirror and nightstand. There were no pictures, no posters, no anything that fit in with Charity's giggly, vapid nature.
Not that that was his concern. As Drake went to the window to check for possible sniper locations, he caught Charity out of the corner of his eye snatching something on her nightstand and slipping it into the drawer. Next he checked her walk in closet, surprised how little her clothing filled it. He had expected it to be filled to the brim with designer clothes, purses and shoes stacked to the ceiling. Instead, only a tenth of the closet—which was big enough to be a bedroom—contained clothes. The dresses and shirts were hung with care and organized by color, and the dozen or so shoes that Charity owned were lined up as neatly as soldiers.
He really didn't understand women.
Closing the closet, he found Charity no longer in the bedroom. As he exited, he nearly ran into the lovebird as she left the bathroom.
"Go ahead and check," she offered, gesturing inside. "Make sure I'm safe from assassins oozing out of my toilet and killer clowns in my drain."
Ignoring the sarcasm, Drake did a quick sweep. "Your apartment is secure," he announced, walking to the front door. As he opened it, he instructed, "Lock the door behind me and don't let anyone else in."
"Oh, darn. There goes my plans for having a rave," Charity said sarcastically, placing her hands on her hips.
Drake slammed the door on her, although waited until the sound of the deadbolt engaging before he stormed off. Back at the limo, Drake opened the trunk, finding the briefcase that Launchpad had carried, taking it with him to the front of the vehicle. Once behind closed doors, he opened the case.
He had expected to find money inside, but he wasn't prepared for seeing so much of it laid out in neat, suspicious bundles. He quickly closed and locked it.
"What have you gotten us into, Launchpad?" Drake said to himself, resting his forehead on the steering wheel.
He had to find a way to keep both of them alive, which seemed an unrealistic goal since Negaduck hated to be crossed. If it wasn't for that text message, things would have been different.
Drake's eyes widened. The text message! Negaduck had hired Launchpad, so the text couldn't have come from him. Then who was it that contacted him?
Pulling out his cell phone, Drake stared at it for a moment before bringing up the text and replying, Who is this?
Charity leaned against the door after locking it, sliding down to the ground. Oh, boy, that was close. If she had known that Drake was going to go all police state on her apartment, she would have hidden her toys a little better. If the infrared goggles, secret spy ear plugs, and high tech computer hadn't given her away, her glock would have.
And normally she would have welcomed a whole evening to herself. Pretending to be a spoiled socialite was exhausting, but when Drake ordered her to remain behind doors, she had a sudden itch to go clubbing. That man was infuriating.
However, she couldn't deny that without the bodyguard uniform and those stupid sunglasses, he was sort of, kind of attractive in that serious, rugged way. That is, if a girl went for that kind of thing.
Hissing between her teeth, she banished Drake Mallard from her thoughts and marched to her bedroom, grabbing her laptop from where she had hidden it under her blanket. Opening it up, the screen brought up a private chat room, one that Martha had set up where only they could communicate. If anyone but the best hackers in the world tried to find their signal, they would only be directed to a dummy server that was routed to an empty apartment several floors down that belonged to some guy named SmoovDude98 who only watched bad porn.
Once her computer connected, Sunny and Martha appeared on screen.
"Okay, call me crazy, but does anyone else think that Dopey Drake totally killed Launchpad?" Martha was quick to say. "Should we maybe try to contact someone or wait to see if a body is found at the amusement park on the six o' clock news?"
"Don't say that. That's bad karma," Sunny argued, pushing her head closer to the camera. "And I hope nothing bad happened to Launchpad. I liked him. He really knows how to treat a girl."
"I think you girls are missing the point," Charity said. "Drake was acting as if Launchpad were a threat. Which means, there might actually be someone out there trying to kill us."
"You mean, kill you," Martha pointed out. "We're not dating a psycho."
Charity ground her teeth together. "If I read the situation correctly, Launchpad must have been hired as a killer. And since he has been driving us around for…almost two weeks, he's clever and patient because I never picked up any kind of vibe from him."
"Clever? You are talking about Launchpad, right?" Martha asked. "When I offered him some of my cotton candy, he told me that he's had enough fiber in his diet today."
"It's all been a ruse to put us at ease," Charity insisted. "One of the most brilliant I've ever seen."
"Posing as a himbo. The dastardly villain," Sunny said sarcastically.
"Which means we need to be more on our guard," Charity said, pulling out her glock from its harness and checking to see if it was loaded. "And we cannot waste any more time. I need to either break into Negaduck's safe or find out what he's keeping in that basement. Tomorrow, I need to drug Drake so that I can get a good look around the estate."
"Whew, you're cold girl, talking about drugging the guy who saved your life," Martha said.
"He was just doing his job," Charity said with a hard voice. "It's not like he's doing it through altruistic motives. He needs me breathing to get his paycheck."
"Can we just take a moment and appreciate casual-look Drake?" Sunny changed the subject. "Please tell me you go a picture of him, Charity."
"Oh, he took my breath away. And did you see his eyes," Martha added. "Smoldering orbs of—"
Charity snapped her fingers a few times. "Hey, focus, girls. Did you hack into the DMV and get the information from his driver's license."
"Right here," Martha said. "He's a whopping one-hundred and eighty pounds. I'm certain that's mostly muscle."
"Without his jacket, you can really see his biceps," Sunny said. "Any chance of persuading your boyfriend to make wear that all the time." She grinned.
"You girls are impossible," Charity said with a roll of her eyes. "I'll let you know if it all goes according to plan. Martha, if you could, see if you can find out who's trying to kill me. Perhaps we could tip off Negaduck, and that could keep him busy while we rob him blind."
"That kind of information is going to be on the dark net," Martha said with a worried expression. "I'll try, but it'll be risky."
"Do what you can, but only if you don't give us away. Our identities are the highest priority," Charity insisted.
"What am I going to do?" Sunny asked with a pout. "Martha gets to do everything."
"I still need something to break into that safe. Haven't you found me a gizmo or something?" Charity asked.
"From what you told me about the safe, Negaduck likes things old school. Either you have to find the combination by ear or blow it with explosives," Sunny explained. She gave a wicked smile. "I've got some C4."
Charity frowned. "No explosives."
"You're no fun." Sunny played with the long feathers on her head. "However, maybe I can whip up some high tech headphones. If I can amplify a microphone to pick up soft sounds, then anyone could find the combination, even you Charity."
"Har, har," Charity mock laughed. "When can you get them to me?"
"I may be a genius, but I am only one woman," Sunny said modestly. "It may take me a few days. In the meantime, you'll just have to look for the bank records or break into the basement."
"Or find me a laptop or tablet inside the compound," Martha added. "If you find one, maybe I can hack into it."
"Alright. Looks like I have a busy day tomorrow," Charity said. "Get some rest girls, although I'm doing the heavy lifting."
"Be careful," Martha said.
"And see if you can get a picture of hot and sexy Drake," Sunny added.
"Good bye!" Charity said and slammed the laptop closed.
Fenton drummed his fingers on his desk. It was agony to wait. And depending on how everything panned out, he would either see a body on the news or he would have to wait a police report came in about the hitman being arrested. Or the hitman could have taken Charity Loveatte's body and hidden it somewhere, in which case it would take days for a missing person to be reported. Or maybe the bodyguard killed the hitman and dumped the body in the bay, and there would be no news about it whatsoever.
Meanwhile, he was assigned to watch over the hotline in case anyone called in a tip about The Nanny and those three missing girls. He wanted to be a team player. He wanted to help find those girls. It was his job as the low-man on the totem pole to do these mundane jobs, but he needed to know what had happened after he sent that text message.
The stared enviously at Agent Donald, who was talking to the parents of the missing kids, preparing them in case The Nanny called. Agent Beaks was standing nearby, looking smug since he was assigned to the case.
As he waited for the phone to ring, Fenton busied himself with paperwork. Files had been piled all over for him to inspect, and those that had passed par, were waiting to be cataloged and placed into boxes which would be shipped to the storehouse where they would never been seen again.
A beeping noise disturbed his mundane assignment, and Fenton jumped, reaching for the phone. But the beeping only happened once, and it didn't sound anything remotely like a phone. Where had it come from?
The screen on the burner cell was lit up.
"Oh, shi—" Fenton almost shouted, but clapped his hands over his beak. When he got the burner from Gyro, he had intended only to send the two text messages, but once they were sent, his superior told him not to leave his desk under any circumstances; it was a matter of life or death. He had taken the phone with him, but thought nothing of it but to return it to Gyro at the end of the day.
He hadn't expected the bodyguard to text him back. But of course the bodyguard would text him back. He was given a mysterious text telling that a hitman was after his client. It would be stupid not to text back.
As he picked up the phone, Fenton had the wild hopes that it would only say, "Hey, thanks for the heads up, pal."
Who is this?
A direct and intelligent answer. He had hoped that the bodyguard would assume Fenton was one of Jim Starling's men, but that would have been too easy. Maybe he should reply and say he was Bulba. No, that would be dumb. Maybe someone lower on the food chain.
Instead, he wrote: A friend. He set the phone down, getting back to work. He didn't expect another text to come through so quickly.
Why does Jim Starling want his fiancé dead?
Fenton dropped the phone, his eyes wide. He looked around the office, seeing if anyone noticed his behavior before bending down and fumbling to pick up the phone.
How did the bodyguard guess that the hitman was hired by Negaduck? Fenton hadn't mentioned anything about Negaduck. And he didn't have an answer. In fact, the whole scenario seemed ridiculous. Why did Negaduck want to kill his fiancé? And why was an FBI agent having a text convo with the bodyguard to save Negaduck's fiancé from Negaduck's hitman?
I don't know, Fenton typed back honestly. This time, he waited for a reply but didn't get one immediately. He went back to work, thinking that this would be the end of it. His shift was ending soon, and he could return the burner to Gyro who would wipe it and it would be as if Fenton had never texted Drake Mallard. Obviously, if the bodyguard was texting, then Charity Loveatte wasn't dead.
For now.
As he organized his desk, the phone beeped again. As he reached for it, another hand enclosed over the device.
"You know you're not supposed to answer personal messages while on duty," Agent Beaks said with a smirk.
Fenton had to quickly calculate what would be the best way to get his phone back without causing a scene or doing anything to give Beaks the idea of looking too closely at the burner. The phone wasn't password protected, so anyone could look at those texts.
"Any word on The Nanny?" Fenton asked, turning the conversation away from himself. "It looks like you and Agent Donald are quite the team."
Beaks straightened up and held his head up high. "Yeah. I'm thinking if things go well, we could end up as partners one day. We'd be an unstoppable team. Can you see our faces on the news?"
Playing to the gray parrot's ego was working. Even though Beaks still held his phone, it was no longer the focus of his attention.
"Who knows?" Fenton said, leaning back in his chair, oozing more confidence than he felt. "Agent Goldie is getting close to retirement. And you're the obvious replacement."
Perhaps he laid it on a little too thick, because Beaks gave him the suspicious eye. "Don't you go thinking you can win me over with a few sugary words," he said. "I'm watching you, Baby Agent."
"Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I like my little desk." Fenton patted the wooden corner. "But I was going to suggest that you tell Agent Donald to check the past kidnappings with The Nanny. It seems as if she always is hired through a baby-sitting agency. We might find something about her through her hand-writing samples with the psychological profiler. But you probably have already figured that out."
"Oh, yeah. That was so obvious," Beaks said, his tone false. "I was going to do just that when you distracted me." Beaks began walking away.
"Uh, my phone," Fenton asked nonchalantly, reaching out an empty hand.
Beaks glared and clapped it into Fenton's palm. "And don't let me catch you doing it again."
Once Beaks had his back to Fenton, he let out a heavy sigh, put the phone on silent, and placed it into his pocket. He couldn't risk anyone seeing the burner again, so he would wait until he was relieved by his replacement to read the text.
Almost an hour later, another junior agent took his place at the hotline, and Fenton was able to leave. But first, he had to return the burner to Gyro. As he walked in the direction to Gyro's office, he checked the text message, finding more than one waiting for him.
Who the hell are you? How did you know about the hitman? And how did you get this number?
Why are you helping me? Do you have any connections to Charity Loveatte?
Do you work for Jim Starling?
Why aren't you answering?
Please. I need help. My best friend's life is at stake. There's a reason you don't want Jim Starling's fiancé dead, which means you are a good person, I hope. Please, help us.
Fenton stopped in the middle of the hallway, staring at the phone. He had intended to break FBI protocol to save a life, and he had. But had he unintentionally put others in the line of fire?
One thing he knew for sure, he couldn't give the burner back. He had to do something.
But did he? Negaduck's fiancé's role in the criminal world was gray area at worst. Her only crime was that she had poor taste in boyfriends. But the bodyguard? What kind of bodyguard would take a job from Negaduck unless he was knee deep in the mud already? Nobody worked for Negaduck unless they had a list of priors or were at least suspected of a few felonies.
But what did the FBI know of Drake Mallard? He was a self-employed security personnel who had two registered guns and had worked for the Duckburg PD for a few months. Everything had checked out. It wasn't a fake ID. But why would an ex-cop work for the city's most dangerous crime boss? He either owed the mobster money or he was an idiot.
Fenton wasn't sure what he could do, but he also lacked a lot of information. He could do one of two things. He could turn the phone in to Gyro and wash his hands of the whole situation. After all, he wasn't even supposed to have saved Miss Loveatte's life in the first place, so he had done his good deed for the day while risking his job. Nobody would be the wiser.
But if he did, people could die. Yes, people who lived in a moral gray area, but they were still people.
If he chose to help Drake Mallard out, he wouldn't just be risking his job; he would be risking his life as well as the FBI's chance at taking Negaduck down.
It was a gamble he didn't take lightly.
Turning around, he punched in a text and hit send.
We need to meet.
Launchpad followed Drake's instructions to the letter. Once Drake left Charity's apartment complex, he went to the Holiday Inn and knocked on room 305. Launchpad let him in, looking worried. The TV was on, playing some cartoon.
"Drake, I'm sorry. Did I get you fired?" Launchpad asked, sitting on one of the beds.
"No, but I'm afraid you are," Drake said, looking at his phone. He still hadn't gotten a text back from the mysterious person. He had rapid fired several texts with questions, but the phone had remained silent since. It had been a mistake to ask for help. He didn't know who the guy was or what his motive could be. He couldn't count on anyone.
"What did I do wrong?" Launchpad asked.
Drake sat on the opposite bed. "You didn't do anything wrong, buddy. It was me that made a mistake. I was trying to protect you. I messed up, and now you're paying for it."
"What about Miss Charity and Sunny and Martha? Are they going to be okay?" Launchpad asked.
Drake smiled. His friend sometimes had too big of a heart. In a situation like this, he needed to think about himself. "They'll be fine. I hope." Drake still had to find out why Jim Starling wanted Charity dead and how to break it to her? Not to mention, he probably had to prove it. Knowing how obstinate the lovebird could be, she would probably demand evidence.
Maybe it would be best to go to the police. But if she had a target on her forehead before, that would almost guarantee it. Even witness protection wasn't enough to hide away from Negaduck.
"First off, Launchpad, I need you to tell me everything. Whatever you can remember from your conversation with Mr. Starling. And why you were talking to him in the first place," Drake said.
Launchpad told everything he remembered, even the confusing bits. When he finished, Drake shook his head.
"Why do you need the money, Launchpad? You've been able to pay your half of the rent," Drake said.
Scratching the back of his head, Launchpad finally admitted his darkest secret. "I don't have insurance anymore."
Drake blinked.
"Nobody is willing to cover my limo, so I'm paying back a few people for hitting their cars. And…I think I'm being sued."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Drake asked. "I would have lent you the money."
"I don't have a way to pay you back," Launchpad argued. "I can't always be the stupid friend. I need to make my own way in the world."
Drake frowned. "Launchpad, you're not stupid." He ran his fingers through his feathers. "I'm the stupid one. I signed a contract, and I'm working for the worst criminal in the world."
"Really?" Launchpad asked in disbelief. "You didn't tell me you got a second job."
Drake tried not to react. He couldn't, not after telling Launchpad he wasn't stupid. "It's Mr. Starling. Mr. Starling is a criminal."
"What? No!" Launchpad exclaimed. "He's so nice."
"He's a terrible, terrible person," Drake said.
"He couldn't be. He and Miss Charity are in love." Launchpad clasped his hands together as if looking at something adorable.
"He hired you to kill Charity. He thought you were a hitman," Drake broke it to his best friend. "That's why he gave you ten thousand dollars."
Launchpad's eyebrows came down in a big frown, but slowly they raised as realization slowly burrowed into his brain. "Oh, crap. Oh, crap. OH CRAP!"
"Calm down, Launchpad. Calm down."
"What am I going to do? I can't hurt Miss Charity. That would be wrong." Launchpad looked at the briefcase. "Do you think if I gave him back the money, that would fix things? I only spent a couple of hundred dollars."
"I don't think that's going to work."
At that time, Drake's phone received a text notification. He pulled it out instantly, seeing the words across his screen.
We need to meet.
Drake considered the words. On one hand, this could be a colossal mistake. This guy could be anyone. They could end up in jail or dead if they relied on this mysterious person.
On the other hand, there was Negaduck, which was absolute, certain, and painful death.
Drake quickly typed out, Where?
