The man had known where to find The Fixer. That said a good deal. Altaer sipped his beer, temporarily ignoring the newcomer as he eyed the three other men at the table. It had been three hours since they had started playing, and he had his run of good cards. Now the odds had turned against him. He could play out a bad hand to his benefit, but it probably was not worth it. Besides, he hadn’t bet much this hand, so he wasn’t losing much either. Altaer slapped his hand down.

“Alright. I’m out boys. ‘Night.”

As he moved off, he headed into the back corner and slid into a booth. The man who had come to get his attention sat down opposite him. Altaer didn’t need to take his measure. Mitch Downings had crossed paths with him before. He was a skinny blond with broad shoulders and a narrow face. Just a dash shorter than Altaer and fit, although far less muscular. He wore khaki slacks, oxfords, and a casual blue pinstripe that gave the impression of a laywer having leisure time. Which was not far from the truth.

“Mitch, you’re a smart piece of work. I’m sure you’ve heard that I’m not technically still in business anymore.”

The man flashed a small smile. “Technically and literally are two different things.”

Altaer smirked, then searched his pockets for his wallet. He was wearing his down-time outfit of jeans, a black t-shirt, and black dress boots. As a waitress passed he passed several bills. “Settle my bill and keep the rest as a tip. I have a feeling I’ll be heading out soon.”

After she was gone, Mitch took his hint and spoke up again. “I’ve come to you because the feds think I’m just a conspiracy theorist and the local law is moving too slowly to do any good.”

Altaer murmured a brief thanks as one of the guys from the card table brought him the beer he had forgotten. He took a swig, and raised his eyebrows at Mitch.

“Cut to the chase, man. I know you’ve always come to me on the up and up. Don’t need to clear your name or anything.”

Mitch did as he was told. “I was working the numbers for a case of minor business fraud when I came across an odd trail of money – figuratively, of course. There – “

Altaer raised a hand. “I also am well versed in economics and the work of a forensic accountant like yourself. Since you haven’t come to me in a few years, let me refresh your memory. Who, what, where, and why.”

The accountant sighed. “Traffickers. Drugs, blood money, and humans. Maybe weapons too. I don’t know where they stand along the line – producers or consumers. One of the bosses works a day job in a local real estate firm, and I’ve followed him to a run-down farm outside of town.”

Altaer grunted, and remained silent for a moment. Mitch waited, slightly nervous. The Fixer broke the silence. “The ‘why’ is the same as usual, of course. All of their financial info. Everything I need for the funds transfer.”

Mitch withdrew a folded manila envelope from his back pocket. “Right here. Already came prepared. When do you want to do it?”

Altaer shrugged and finished his beer. “Now’s business hours for that world. You’ll ride with me and give directions. I’ll need you to help with the cover, too, until I’ve gotten a feel for things. You’ve kinda been a bit vague about what I’m going into.”

Mitch frowned momentarily. He had hired The Fixer five times before, and had only gone with him once. He was not rigged for the sort of danger this assassin handled, but still…The Fixer also exuded control and security to those on his team. “Okay. Deal.”

They left through the back door, and approached Altaer’s car. Mitch’s jaw dropped open at the sight of the Lykan Hypersport. Altaer chuckled at the man’s astonishment as he popped open the trunk and unlocked a silver reinforced contained that had been fitted inside the truck. Mitch began to walk over to him, and Altaer warned him off.

“Best you don’t see inside this trunk, Mitch. Just sayin’.”

In a matter of seconds Altaer slapped the trunk shut and walked around the car. He had changed into his standard tactical clothes. His more extravagant assassin’s garb was mainly used for RHG and extreme or unusual targets. It was inappropriate for his normal work. What he wore now consisted of a pair of fitted canvas pants that had been dyed to a deep uniform rust brown that required little imagination to determine the nature of what stained them that color. His shirt was tight cream colored longsleeve v-neck of some unusual material, tucked into the pants. A thick belt encircled his waist. This entire outfit was covered by a massive oilskin duster with a copious hood. Worn tan combat boots polished to a meticulous luster protruded from the bottom of his pants. There were no visible signs of weapons, but Mitch knew that The Fixer almost nevered showed a weapon except for his pistols on occasion.

As they settled into the stunning interior, Altaer pushed the power button. The engine revved to life as a red HUD appeared across the windshield. The driver interface in the center dash generated a holograph in the air beside Altaer. Mitch fastened his five-point harness as he tried to wrap his mind around the technology in this vehicle. When they took off, he struggled to give directions fast enough to match Altaer’s breakneck speed. The thirty miles were covered in a handful of minutes.

Altaer sat in the car for a moment in front of the farmhouse. It was a large structure, originally an impressive Victorian. Now it was in a state of disrepair that rivaled the barn and sheds on the property. Weeds riddled the fields and gardens. Overall, there did not appear to have been any actual work on the place for decades. The house itself, however, did have lights on. The Fixer drawled out his evaluation.

“Welp…seems like you’ve certainly got the right place. Just follow my lead, and don’t talk unless you have to. Oh, and if I tell you to do something, do it instantly without question. Got it?”

Altaer swung out of the car before Mitch could respond and walked around to open his door. They traced the dirt path that wound between the tangled mess of poppies, Queen Anne’s lace, and Bermuda grass. The paint on the white and teal porch flaked considerable under their tread as the boards creaked. Altaer knocked twice heavily on the front door. A man dressed in jeans and an old white t-shirt came to the door. He was probably in his mid-thirties. His body indicated the kind of “plush” fitness of a man who spent most of his time sitting, but still wanted to look good. He did not open the door wide.

“Can I help you?”

Altaer dropped the hood on his oilskin. The man’s eyes flashed across the figure that stood in front of him. Tall, powerfully built. Dressed in clothes that suggested an inclination towards concealment. Eyes that could drill holes in a battleship, and a pair of scars to serve as a silent list of credentials.

“Heard that you were in business. We’d like to be paying customers. Cold hard payment, of course.”

The fellow looked past Altaer’s form – made far larger by the draping duster – and studied Mitch. He brought his gaze back to Altaer.

“Well now, I could use some money for this old farm of mine. Why don’t you gentlemen come inside and we can see what kind of deals we can put together.”

The interior was kept as befitted a rundown farmhouse, but there were hints – a little silver here, a chandelier hung with fine crystal -- that its owner was doing better than it seemed. Mitch was directed to a lumpy sofa while the “farmer” hung back near Altaer to shut the door. He spoke in a hushed voice.

“Where did you hear I was doing business?”

Altaer snorted. “I’ll let you look at me and then figure that out yourself. And you can drop the gig.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. Apparently he found in Altaer whatever he wanted to see. He jerked a thumb towards Mitch.

“What about him. He on the inside?”

Altaer responded with a smirk. “Just an upmarket swank who has probably gotten sick of screwing his hand and sniffing sticks of glue in his cubicle. He’ll be fried in fifteen minutes, but I’m not complaining about playing along in this kind of stuff.”

Their host gave a wolfish grin and led Altaer into the den, where Mitch had been joined by a pair of men sporting Glocks. Altaer leaned against the back of the couch, not wanting to sit down. The host cleared his throat.

“Ahem. It’s fine boys. They’re legit.” The men relaxed as he turned to Mitch. “Now, sir, from what you’re friend here told me, you’ll be wanting something to give you a great night. What exactly can I do for you?”

Mitch gave a confused look and dodged the question expertly. “Hmm. I’m not sure I can decide.”

Altaer gave a guttural laugh. “We’ll take all of the company you’re offering – and I mean everything. Plus a nice spread of your top goods. I’ll take care of paying for it all before we leave in the morning. This’ll be an all-nighter.”

The boss’s eyes sparkled with the glee of a merchant who has just made the sale of the month. “Oh I can certainly do that. I had a few tentative appointments for tonight, but…we can cancel those, of course. First come first serve, after all. Right this way.”

They were led out of the den to the other side of the house. A hefty security door sealed this suite off from the other rooms. When swung open, the stench made Mitch gag. Altaer and the boss exchanged a mocking glance. It was the smell of the forbidden being committed a thousand times over in the same place. They central room was surprisingly nice, in a gaudy sort of way. He shut the door behind them, then moved about opening doors and shooing the occupants of the rooms into the center. He then unlocked a safe and swung the doors wide open, revealing piles of powders, pills, and liquors. A single desk was on one side, topped with a fancy humidor and filled with drawers that had “tools of the trade.”

The man gestured grandly towards the assortment of “goods.”

“There you are, boys. It’s all yours. When your done just open the door and I’ll be notified you’re ready. Stay as long as you like.”

The man stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him. When he was gone, Mitch breathed out what he had been wanting to say.

“Dear God. I – I –” Mitch paused, at a loss for words. After a moment, he tried again to express his horror. “This is disgusting. Vile. We have to help these poor souls.”

Altaer gave a course grunt. The poor souls were an assortment of slaves. The adults were all women, the oldest maybe thirty. The youths were both boys and girls, and ranged from their late teens down to maybe five years old. All in all, there was maybe twenty-five of them. Altaer searched their gaze, and ground his teeth. His voice was sullen.

“Help them. Heh, yeah. Mitch, step over behind the door of the drug safe. Face the wall.”

Mitch began walking, but when he looked back he saw The Fixer slipping a fearsome-looking gun out from under his duster. Questions spun through his mind, but he did as he was told without speaking. As soon as he was behind the door of the safe, he heard The Fixer give a two-second burst, followed instantly by another. In a moment there was the sound of men pounding on the door, met with a sustained firing for several seconds.

“Come out.”

When he stepped out, his first sight was The Fixer sitting behind the desk. The gun was lying on one side, an empty barrel-shaped magazine lying on the ground where he had exchanged it for a fresh one. His face was flat.

The next sight made him gasp. All of the slaves were lying dead in a tangled heap, their bodies riddled with huge bullet wounds, their eyes frozen open in death. He froze as he locked eyes with a girl. She was not even a preteen yet. Three bullet holes were stitched up her side, with a fourth having nearly decapitated her. Beside her lay a six-year-old boy that resembled her greatly – a brother, perhaps. He had been staying close to her when the bullet that removed the top of his head did its work. Eventually, Mitch stared at The Fixer shocked.

“Why…?”

Altaer did not answer. He opened the humidor and extracted the best cigar he could find, and began smoking it. A silver flask was taken out of his pocket, and the smell of whiskey wafted around him. He remained in that silence for a time, puffing hard on the cigar. After a few minutes he downed several gulps of whiskey, then splashed the rest on one wall and some furniture. He flicked the remaining half of the cigar onto the alcohol and it flamed to life. Drawing up his PP19 Hellhound from the table, he motioned Mitch out of the room. The wall had been shredded by the hail of fifty-caliber bullets to the point that they could push through the shattered remains with ease. The men on the other side looked as bad as the wall. They moved to the car in silence, and began driving.

Altaer finally spoke. “You think I’m a monster for doing that, don’t you?”

Mitch hesitated, then decided that Altaer would not kill him. His voice was small. “Yes…I do. I wanted to help them. Give them hope. You killed those men easily – we could have saved all of those slaves and given them the life they deserve. The slavers deserved to die…those people were innocent.”

Altaer gave a cynical chuckle. “Hehe. Then perhaps I am indeed more monster than man. In here.” He pounded a fist against his heart. “But that’s what made me one. I got my start in life in one of those houses.”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “Dear God. No…” He caught himself before he said no wonder you are an assassin, but he still thought it.

Altaer rounded a curve so quickly the tires screamed for traction. “No wonder. I know. You know what we call places like that? Hell Houses. Slaves owned by traders, individuals, workhouses, fight groups…they all have hope. They have some slight hope of life. In there – there is nothing. They have lost their humanity because it has been ripped out of their souls. Most of them would have killed themselves. Or they would have become someone like me. A monster, as you say. Life itself would have been as much a hell as the living death inside those walls. You see that I shot innocents, slaughtered children. I gave them a one-way ticket to the only heaven they will have ever known, a final peace and rest.”

Altaer dropped him off at the bar’s back lot in silence. He drove back to his apartment in silence, parked in silence, then began walking the streets in silence. Eyes watched him. Eyes that flashed with the fire of his whiskey, and glazed with their inner consuming wretchedness. Eyes that he had blown out of their sockets in four seconds of mercy.

As he walked, he laughed. He forced himself to funnel all of his emotion into a laugh that rang across the abandoned streets that surrounded his house. As he laughed, he ran. And as he ran, he wept.