Set After the events of Shattering Occam's Razor
Gentleman John Marcone had not expected a telephone call that morning about the Senator's residence. His appointment of a surveillance team over the man's apartment was a largely symbolic gesture. He did it because not having done it would have been a sign of weakness or having admitted defeat, but he was entirely cognizant of what an utter and colossal waste of manpower it was to try and involve himself in the Senator's business.
Kinsey had proven to be utterly beyond Marcone's normal methods. The man couldn't be bribed as he was already richer than God and blackmail had proven a useless gesture. It wasn't that there wasn't any dirt on the man, he was more crooked than any politician Marcone had ever met. Unfortunately the actual application of any potential blackmail against the Senator would irk his allies.
Marcone was not foolish enough to bring his organization into the spotlight for the groups Kinsey worked with. Kinsey held the purse strings for a number of "contractors" working for the US government who could only charitably be called mercenaries. His people were good at tracking down information, but even they struggled to keep up with the constantly changing shell companies and shifting bank accounts involved in their operation.
Losing Kinsey would likely mean the loss of millions or even billions of dollars in DoD funding for groups whose stock in trade was the annihilation of entire governments. He was careful to let the Senator know that he was a power in the State, but avoided overtly angering the man. If pressed, Kinsey had the required resources to make Marcone's life substantially more difficult than he cared to deal with.
Kinsey was a frankly terrifying man, if Marcone was being honest with himself. The Senator was so utterly and devotedly committed to self-delusion that he could justify any combination of actions resulting in immediate benefits to himself within the auspices of some sort of "higher calling" or "greater cause" to provide a post-hoc moral framework for whatever he wanted to do in the first place. Marcone's line of work had introduced him to many men like that. Few had the sort of faculty for interpersonal action and feigned empathy required to make them more than mindless thugs.
The man made Marcone's skin crawl. He had precisely the right personality to have excelled as a human trafficker or fixer, paired with the full resources of the United States Government behind him. Even if Marcone had been so inclined, it wouldn't even be worth effort to kidnap one of the Senator's relatives. Marcone was convinced that Kinsey would have just let the person be murdered to boost his popularity in the coming election.
He didn't even have the common courtesy to have an interesting vice. The most exciting thing Marcone's people had ever witnessed him doing had been attending a benefit for a local youth group where he tried, and spectacularly failed, to play basketball. Petty though it might have been, Marcone went out of his way to make sure that footage made the news.
So, when the men he'd contracted to watch the Senator's apartment insisted that something had "gone down" at the Senator's apartment that they weren't willing to discuss over the phone, Marcone's first instinct had been to push the meeting with them back to Thursday. There was an infinitude of tasks more pressing than getting briefed on the rigidly boring Senator, especially given the void left after Harry Dresden burned down the Velvet Room.
Thankfully, the persistent rumors surrounding Harry Dresden left most of Chicago's underbelly with the impression that it had been Marcone who'd ordered the scorched earth methodology employed by the wild Wizard of Chicago. In truth, Marcone hadn't the foggiest idea why Dresden had seen fit to take out his largest competitor in Chicago, though he suspected it was likely something as simple as "because someone pissed the Wizard off royally," but he wasn't about to let his people know that. Hendricks knew, of course. Hendricks could be trusted, implicitly.
So, when Hendricks emphatically asserted, "No, Boss. This really can't wait." Marcone took him seriously.
The boy Hendricks led into the room looked pathetically small by comparison to Marcone's bodyguard and confidant. Most people who weren't professional bodybuilders looked miniscule next to the former Marine, but the boy was slender even for a teenager. Professional peeping toms didn't need to have much in the way of upper body strength.
The boy was a caramel-skinned lad of apparently Latino heritage. He was perhaps sixteen, wearing clothing that bore all the signs of having been given to him as a hand me down by some relative. It was faded and ill fitting, bearing the logo of a local restaurant that had gone out of business five years earlier if Marcone's memory served. He was doing a decent job of trying to seem tough, but Marcone could tell that the boy was terrified.
It seemed likely that the body had been the unlucky victim when the survelience team had drawn straws. If they felt Marcone was going to like what the boy was bringing he'd have been seeing all five of them, rather than only one of the five people who lived in the apartment Marcone rented in a building adjacent to the Senator's penthouse.
"Present your report." Marcone steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on his desk. He'd made sure to put his desk on a raised platform within the construction site that was currently serving as his office, it put anyone with whom he spoke at a disadvantage. They had to look up to see him, and virtually had to shout to be heard over the workmen all around him. Any law enforcement officers with a directional mike would be hard pressed to record anything of use over the sounds of construction, even if they were wearing a wire. And that was assuming someone could get past Hendricks with a wire to start with.
He walked up to Marcone's desk and started laying out photos. The first photos were of what looked less like a guard detail and more like a full military occupation of downtown Chicago. Senator Kinsey's apartment building had been locked down tighter than fort Knox, complete with guard posts and – Marcone blinked briefly in shock. That couldn't be right.
"Tanks." Hendricks jabbed a meaty finger down to the photo. "Something is going down that was serious enough for the Senator to ask for someone to mobilize Abrams to Chicago, and for that someone to actually say 'Yes' to something that insane."
"Helicopters too." The teenager interjected, tossing photographs of several Apache helicopters circling around the neighborhood. "There was more but we stopped being able to watch after a while. The fire department evacuated the building."
"Why?" Marcone kept his face a scrupulous blank mask while internally he was looking at the photos in utter bafflement, trying to keep his face as stoic as possible. These people weren't from the National Guard, these were active deployable units. The sort of unit that weren't even legally able to operate on US soil without a Presidential say-so under the auspices of an imminent threat to national security.
"They said a bomb went off in the Senator's apartment. But it wasn't like no bomb I've ever seen." The boy held up a photo of a bright white pillar of light shooting up from the Senator's apartment and into the sky. "They started evacuating the building and searching every building in the neighborhood for more 'bombs' that the terrorists might have left."
Marcone looked to Hendricks expectantly. The man shrugged. "I got no idea, Boss. If it's a new group in our territory I've never heard of them."
"Unfortunate." Marcone spoke the word the way most men used vile oaths. One of the greatest strengths one could apply in maintaining a criminal enterprise was to be well appraised of any threats to the stability of one's domain. He was reasonably confident that he had adequate information on the existing political factions within Chicago's underworld, but one couldn't plan for every eventuality. If this was some sort of political group or lone-wolf terrorist, even the best network of informants might not have caught it. "Did they use a name? Something to indicate the origin of the attack?"
"The cops helping the soliders never said who caused it." The boy offered eagerly, glad to be in Marcone's good graces. "But something had them rattled even before that light show. Arguing with them felt like a quick way to get shot. The others are asking people from the Senator's building to see if any of them saw anything while they're waiting to be let back into the apartment."
"Hell of an operation, to force a whole Chicago block to evacuate." Hendricks grunted. "Takes a lot of pull to do that."
"Five blocks." The boy interjected. "They evacuated everything within five blocks of the building. They were searching people for cameras too – didn't let anyone leave with them. I had to smuggle out the photos, it was pure luck that I'd already printed them out and hid them in my textbook before they evacuated us."
Marcone frowned. It would take a profane amount of manpower to even begin to try that in the sort of upscale neighborhood the Senator lived in. Logistically it wasn't that hard, but one had to be willing to piss off essentially everyone with money and influence in Illinois to do it. There would be consequences to this for the person who initiated it.
"Yes sir." Said the boy, nodding emphatically. "Five blocks in every direction from the building sir."
Marcone arched a brow in pleased surprise. "You were good to bring this to me. Go back to the others. Find out what you can, and have someone report to me in two hours. I want regular status updates on what's happening. In person, I don't want to risk anyone catching on to my interest in this matter."
"Yes sir." The boy smiled, giving another nod that was closer to a bow. "I won't let you down sir."
The boy walked out of Marcone's place of business, the sort of spring in his step that could only come from the overconfidence and illusionary omnipotence of youth. Hendricks waited for the boy to actually leave before letting lose a tirade of swear words. "Five blocks? Five fucking blocks? That's thousands of people they moved at fucking gunpoint!"
"Our police and FBI contacts haven't indicated any specific threats that might impact operations." Marcone considered the matter, scratching at his close-cropped hair in confusion. "I feel like at least one of them should have caught wind of something requiring a midwestern re-enactment of Desert Storm."
Marcone turned right to the various televisions stacked to his right. The 24 hour news networks were played in perpetuity while he did business, as well as a couple of channels showing updates to the stock market. Precisely none of them had even hinted at a full military invasion of Chicago. "Someone is keeping this quiet. Someone very, very important."
"Who is important enough to actually do that?" Hendricks grunted. "Other than the President, I mean. The freaking Governor can only ask for the National Guard."
"I don't know." Marcone replied, the very real possibility that it was a Presidential Order more alarming than he cared to admit. "There is too much happening in my city lately that I don't know about. Too many moving pieces."
"You want to do something about this, Boss?" Hendricks asked, the unease in his voice palpable. He didn't like the idea of doing anything that might risk running afoul of anyone serving in the armed forces. Frankly, Marcone didn't either – they'd both served as Marines before returning to the civilian sector, after all.
"No." Marcone mused, considering the matter. "It's premature to take any actions regarding this. If it is a terrorist threat we'd only be getting in the way of bomb defusal efforts. Moreover I don't want my operations getting conflated with a terrorist threat, even tangentially. We'll keep track of it for now, but I think that we're better off focusing on consolidating the operations formerly controlled by Bianca. She didn't follow the rules, and I want to make sure that its understood that anyone who wants to continue operating in my city needs to discontinue the more disreputable practices she allowed."
"Sure thing, Boss." Hendricks nodded, putting down the image of the pillar of light as though it were no longer worth his interest. Marcone liked that about Hendricks, the man never questioned Marcone's plans. When they'd both been in the Marines and Hendricks had been appointed as Marcone's commanding officer, it had come as a breath of fresh air when the newly minted Lieutenant actually listened to Marcone – apparently understanding the reality of Marcone's seniority of experience if not seniority of positional authority. Since leaving the Marines, the two had stayed together – Hendricks' choice to follow Marcone into whatever career he entered almost a foregone conclusion.
"Thank you, Hendricks." Marcone collected the photos and tucked them into the pocket of his jacket. He wasn't sure what to do with this knowledge yet but having the visual reminder with him would help as his thoughts percolated. "Is there anything else I need to know?"
"The Wizard isn't doing well. It wasn't in your daily brief, I had to weasel it out of the team we've got on him – but their worried. I mean more worried than just in general to be following the sort of guy who can burn down a building with his brain." Hendricks shrugged. "Something bad happened at the Velvet Room. Don't know what, exactly, but he's doing bad."
"Define bad." Marcone groaned. The last thing he needed was for Harry Dresden to start losing it.
"Somewhere between a sixteen-year-old girl who just got dumped before prom and Private Pyle." Hendricks cracked his knuckles one by one, working his way through the joints one by one. It was a nervous tick that showed up when the man was genuinely worried. "It sounds like PTSD. A major case of survivor's guilt."
"Well, he did kill all of Bianca's crew and a sizable number of her guests." Marcone snorted. "Anyone would walk away from that a bit shaken."
"We made sure the police didn't go after him for it, like you said Boss. It would be bad for your rep if 'your' hitter went to jail for axing your rival, but I'm worried that the guy is going to axe himself soon." Hendricks grunted.
"Ah – that would be unfortunate." Marcone groaned. Harry Dresden's entirely undeserved reputation as a hitter within the criminal underworld was equal parts useful and infuriating. Harry Dresden was vocally and pathologically opposed to everything that Marcone stood for, but that same pathology meant that he was more interested in Marcones rivals than Marcone himself. So long as the Wizard continued to busy himself with literal monsters, Marcone could be reasonably confident in his own safety from the Wizard's wrath.
As long as Marcone fanned the flames behind the rumors suggesting that Dresden was on his payroll and Dresden continued to destroy entire rival organizations single handedly, the Wizard could deny his connection to Marcone wholesale and everyone would assume that the Wizard was simply employing an elaborate cover story. The side effect of this, however, was that Marcone was as institutionally invested in Dresden as he might have been if Dresden were actually employed within his organization.
Harry Dresden was an irascible, unmanageable, and ungrateful member of his organization but in order for Marcone to capitalize upon the Dresden's rumored position as Marcone's deadliest assassin, Marcone was required to maintain the illusion that Dresden was in his employ. In effect this meant covertly acting in the Wizard's welfare, without his knowledge or consent.
While Marcone never actually paid any of Harry's bills, he ensured that the organizations requiring the Wizard's bills be paid were 'predisposed' to allowing the Wizard additional time or unreasonably equitable payment plans. There were several bodies in the Great Lakes of Marcone's rivals who'd had the audacity to try to assassinate the Wizard to send Marcone a message. The Wizard Dresden was not a tool Marcone would allow to be removed from his arsenal without due cause.
If the Wizard was becoming mentally unstable, however, there wasn't much Marcone could hope to do about it. Dresden loathed Marcone. Any effort Marcone would attempt to help the man was likely to just send the man into an even more dangerous emotional spiral. "A pity, the man had much potential."
"He's not dead yet." Marcone's second in command grunted. "If he does anything drastic, in public I mean, you want us to do anything?"
"Drastic to himself or to others?" Marcone inquired.
"Yes." Replied the redhead.
"You are too soft-hearted, my old friend." Marcone laughed.
"The man's an ass." Hendricks growled, crossing his arms uncomfortably. "But we've seen too many guys who've seen too much, you know? I don't like the idea of someone going down like that. It aint' right."
"Fine." Marcone nodded, earning a half-smile from Hendricks. It didn't take much work to find a Marine who'd come back home and been unable to deal with peace. After the constant adrenaline rush of being "in it," returning to the day to day doldrum of a 9 to 5 just didn't do it for many people. Some re-enlisted, some – like Marcone and Hendricks – sought out dangerous activities at home, and many more just collapsed under the psychic weight of having done and seen too much. Dresden was precisely the sort of pathological boy scout who risked crumbling under the reality of doing terrible but necessary things. "Suicide watch for the Wizard, and someone to put him down if he goes rabid. Make sure they've got someone on call of the distractingly female variety to discourage the former and a team with enough firepower to do the job if it's the latter."
"Sure, thing Boss." Hendricks chuckled. "You know I think this fucker might be more expensive to not have on payroll than it would be to just hire him."
"Don't think it hadn't run through my mind." Marcone agreed emphatically. "But that man refuses to be forced into anything he doesn't think falls within his rigid view of right and wrong."
"You think he had anything to do with that pillar of light?" Henricks inquired. "Feels like the sort of bad ju-ju that goes with the Wizard."
"No… not unless the man can be in two places at once." Marcone disagreed. "Did anyone report him leaving his apartment?"
"Nah, but for all I know he can wiggle his fingers and be somewhere else." Hendricks chewed his lip in irriation. "I hate this bibbidy-boppity-bullshit."
"I still don't think that it was him." Marcone shook his head. "He might have burned the place down or blasted out the windows, but Kinsey is exactly the sort of sanctimonious prick that would appeal to the Wizard's narrow view of the world. That the Senator's openly anti-organized crime would only make it less likely for him to be the source of this."
"I still think we should find out what group did this. I don't like people thinking that they can blow things up in Chicago." The beefy man spoke firmly. "I'm not suggesting that we involve ourselves in anything overt, but we hear things that our contacts in Law Enforcement don't always know about."
"Hendricks – are you proposing that we aid law enforcement in the prosecution of these terrorists?" Marcone chuckled.
"Nah, Boss. I'm suggesting that we find them and put their heads on fucking pikes along the warf." Hendricks grunted. "We've got investments in that same freaking building."
Marcone grinned wolfishly. Hendricks knew precisely the magic words to get Marcone on board with a more proactive solution.
"You are referring to the family of Miss August, I presume?" Marcone replied. Miss August was one of his more prominent madams, catering to the rich and famous. Her girls operated out of their own residences rather than a centralized facility, and ensuring that they were housed in sufficiently upscale lodging had been a primary selling point in marketing them to their intended clientele. Men of means tended to question the morality of hiring a prostitute less often when that prostitute appeared of equal or greater means by comparison.
Miss August was a particularly efficient caretaker for her girls. She kept them off drugs, made sure they were investing their money rather than squandering it, and she made sure that the girls had adequate daycare for their children while they were working. In practice this meant that she had somewhere between eight and twenty of their children in her palatial apartment at all times. Her palatial apartment two floors immediately below the senator's residence.
Bombs didn't discriminate between the old and the young.
"I admit I was remiss in not making that connection." Marcone pursed his lips in thought. "Use some of the discretionary fund we were saving to contract a hitter on Bianca. I think that our friends in the FBI might be able to give us a hint of where to start."
Violence, even potential violence, against children was a sore spot for Marcone. Marcone had one rule above all else. No kids, no matter what you did in Marcone's territory it couldn't involve kids – even accidentally. Kids were verboten to the crime of Chicago.
Someone wasn't paying attention to the rules. Marcone couldn't have that.
This was, after all, Marcone's City.