The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright Page A

papers that were stapled together, and found the one she was looking for. “This is our contract with Harbinger.” Her finger zigzagged up and down it. “We’ve been working on this for three months. Since a little after Levi Tuke disappeared.” She hoped MacIan had miraculously remembered who Tuke was, but he remained shamelessly unaware. “You don’t know about the Nobel Prize thing?”
    MacIan pursed his lips.
    She crossed to her father’s big leather chair. “Levi Tuke won the Nobel for some automated, economic, governmental thing. A decision engine of some kind. I think? Yeah, a decision engine. A major innovation for his game, The Tuke Massive. One of those Massively Multiplayer Online Games. A social game platform that’s morphed into something dangerous — who knows why? We’ll leave that to the big-brains. Oh, and he’s a Quaker.”
    “Social games?”
    She shrugged, and he made a puzzled face.
    “I’m from Pittsburgh. Lots of Quakers, but I don’t know anything about social games. Never heard of them.”
    “Whaddya know, a man who can admit he doesn’t know everything.”
    “I’m a devout idiot — practice every day.”
    Now she, too, felt an awkward pleasure, despite the circumstances. But this was her house, she’d say whatever she wanted. “The Massive? I should’ve paid more attention. But I will figure it out, and when I do I’ll let you in on it.”
    MacIan was listening intently, which caused Camille some discomfort. “Levi Tuke accepted the Nobel Prize, made a crazy speech — no one’s seen him since.”
    “Not a crime to disappear.”
    “It must be terrific to be so big,” said Camille. “Is it fun knowing you can kick every ass in a room?”
    “Yes, but it’s a burden.”
    She could only imagine, but it made her smile. “Harbinger’s Releasing Division is after him. Corporate cops and lawyer thugs. They filed a civil suit, claiming to own the distribution rights to that game, and they want it. What they really want is for him to show himself. That’s all they really want. But if Tuke isn’t around, he can’t negotiate, and he can’t be assassinated. He’s in the wind and the whole shebang is stuck. So they hired us.”
    “Do they?”
    “Do they what?”
    “Own the distribution rights.”
    Camille laughed with a tiny snort. “No. And! Or! What’s the difference? If they sue Tuke, he has to show up in court. Expose himself. He could get hit by a bus. I know several guys who’d take that gig.”
    “Where is he?”
    “That’s the question!” she said, leaning over the papers on the desk. “My father could find a Presbyterian on the Hajj. And you’d think a guy as famous as Tuke, everyone knows who he is, except you of course, ‘you’re not from around here,’ would have a hard time lying low.”
    A dark hush fell over Camille, as she fixed on a photograph above the credenza and wilted. MacIan moved to catch her. She latched onto the desk and steadied herself, without his help. He saw the photo in a simple chrome frame. A snapshot of her in a prom dress standing next to her proud father. Arthur Gager looked fit and the teenaged Camille was cute as can be. The picture had been taken in front of the windows in the living room. On the glass behind the father-daughter duo hung a large hand painted banner, “Class of 2036”.
    MacIan cleared his throat and waited for her to look up. “Me too.”
    A questioning look glazed her face.
    “Class of ’36,” he said. “Go Orioles.”
    The goofy look on his face nearly made her laugh. But that would have been extremely inappropriate — considering the circumstance. She just looked at him.

    * * *
    M acIan left Camille’s , his head spinning, bound for the NPF barracks in Bedford. He would have preferred to stay, but didn’t know how to extend his visit. Now that he was free of the morbid circumstances of his duty, he could think of nothing but her. As his Peregrine rose above her building, a brilliant light