Page 24 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Dennis
A fter the unexpected move-up of our timetable, it was clear we’d have to extract Louie as soon as possible.
With the cable Caz provided along with my unfettered access to Compton, we’ve been able to extract a great amount of data to inform our break-in.
Not only have we learned the location of the facility where Louise is being kept, but we also now know the schedules for many of the staff members within the Windmill who are involved in maintaining her captivity; along with those who would be attempting to glean information from her while Louise was still at the Windmill’s mercy.
It has long been decided that I would initiate the grab of Compton himself.
Ever since Louise’s supposed death, Compton’s been changing gears, preparing me to become the new BSU fall-guy—the figurehead to install as a puppet or patsy after Compton himself can no longer play section chief.
He’d been grooming Louise to be his successor according to the wishes of Lowry—but with Louise no longer an option, apparently they think I am a worthy substitute.
As a result, Compton and I have been spending many more late nights together at the office usually followed by even longer nights at the bar, mostly listening to Compton complain about his wife or about the fact that he’d narrowly missed being a part of a pack with his own omega; due to the nature of his potentially dangerous career.
More than once Compton asked me why I myself gave up the potential for a pack life in favor of becoming a field agent and federal employee; who may or may not have even had time to go on anything more than just mandatory reproductive leave with a single partner.
Apparently, I’d been convincing enough in my explanations of cool disinterest, since he did not press the issue any further.
That sort of stoicism was the kind of thing that guys like Compton looked for in another man they could ‘trust.’ Their uncompromising view of masculinity: no feelings except for anger, hatred, cold composure, or being horny. That limited range was all we were allowed.
I coordinated with the others after the bonding.
The plan was to get Compton to our usual drinking spot after hours, but this time I would pretend to be really in need of advice and support that only he could provide.
I would insist that we take our after-hours drinking to another smaller dive after our more respectable location shuttered its doors.
In addition to information about the Windmill, accessing Compton’s phone and laptop yielded many colorful details of Compton's personal life. We learned all about Compton's vices, the little things he couldn't say no to—the little guilty pleasures he couldn’t help but indulge in.
Compton had a weakness for expensive booze, well-curated cigars, and sex workers of all kinds.
I’d been able to ingratiate myself with him through gifts of expensive spirits and Cuban cigars before he started taking me to some of his favorite strip clubs.
We weren’t so close yet that he’d brought me along with him to any of the brothels he frequented—and he never mentioned any of the escorts or call girls he sampled while at home or on the road; but his phone records had already revealed those secrets to me and the other Saints.
It wasn't hard to get Compton to agree to go to the strip club. The small “Lamplighter’s III” bar was more like a windowless cinder block than a real building, complete with a flickering neon sign advertising “live girls 24/7.”
Once we sidled into our corner booth, I pretended to spill my guts.
I complained about a recent breakup that never actually happened, before I began expressing some fabricated fears about both my career and my love life or lack thereof—all the while slipping doses of an oral suspension of Caz’s own night-night juice into Compton’s $37 glass of bourbon.
By the end of his second lap dance, Compton was snoring so loudly in his seat that the dancer simply gave up, happily taking a fistful of bills from me as a tip and slipping away to rejoin the other girls.
“Sorry, he's just had too much to drink,” I make the excuse, whipping out my phone to give the others a call.
Q and Seb make their way into the nightclub to help me unload the unconscious Compton under the auspices of friends helping their boss—who’d had one too many to make his way home from the strip club to his wife.
In actuality, we bundle Compton away into the back of our nondescript panel van and make our way immediately for the city limits.
As soon as Caz gets his hands on Compton's phone, he sets immediately to the work of making it appear as if Compton is en route to Windmill headquarters for a rendezvous between him and Susan Lowry.
Once we actually arrive at the top-secret facility, there will be a very limited amount of time to get into the depths of the holding cells to liberate Louise and make our exit.
From what we can tell from Compton's phone data, the Windmill facility Louise is being kept at—known internally as “The Country Estate”—is a converted mansion deep in the woods of West Virginia. An architectural marvel surrounded by nearly two hectares of undeveloped, private land.
Though we’d had difficulty finding out who had originally owned the property, this much was clear; half of the facility is housing for the out of town higher-ups and hosting luxurious clandestine conferences for the Windmill, and the other half is dedicated to imprisonment, torture, information extraction, and disposal of problematic witnesses—be they government agents, freelancers, or even former Windmill employees.
Of course, there is also the matter of Frank.
Even with using Compton as our key to enter the Windmill’s forbidden realm, there is no guarantee that we won't encounter Frank in our attempts to free Louise.
If everything goes to plan, we will be able to get in, get Louise and get out before the Windmill are any the wiser.
Once they discover we’ve snatched Louise from under their noses, we will have a new problem.
We’ll start our lives on the run; staying away from Compton and out of the Windmill’s reach, but we’ve decided to cross that bridge when we come to it.
As long as we have Louise, we will find a way.
When everyone is ready, Q helps bring Compton out from under anesthesia. To give us the rest of what we need.
“Where the fuck am I? Who the hell are you?” Compton groans as he comes to, squinting up at Q from his place slumped over the back bench seat of the panel van in the same clothes he'd left work in.
“Oh, come now, Compton. It's been a few years, but my face is not exactly one that you'd forget,” Quentin purrs acidly.
Compton blinks away the bleary sleep from his eyes, rubbing at his face with the backs of his hands.
We hadn't bothered to cuff him here in the van—unarmed with the four of us—it seemed completely unnecessary.
As his senses begin to sharpen and he returns to himself, Compton's eyes widen, his posture straightening—his mouth hanging open slightly and disbelief.
“Beckett?” Compton blubbers dumbly.
“That's right, Eddie boy. It's me.”
I can see the pulse in Compton's neck jump as his eyes land on me.
“McBride, what the hell is going on here!?” he barks, spittle foaming at the corners of his lips.
“Take a deep breath, Ed. You're in no immediate danger, provided you cooperate with us.” I do my best to infuse some of my calm into Compton.
“The fuck I am!” he blusters, his clumsy fingers moving to the empty holster under his arm before his hands move to his seat belt as if he's going to do something, and I let out a single cruel laugh.
“Let's spare us all a little embarrassment.
Shall we? You're going to want to cooperate with us, Compton. We have you outnumbered. Caz has your phone, I have your duty piece, and Seb has a hypo full of night-night juice if you start to make a fuss in the back of the van. If you work with us, nobody will hurt you.”
Now, it's Compton's turn to laugh.
“You boys are way out of your league. If you think that I'm worried about you dip-shits against the Windmill, you've got another thing coming.”
Before I can say anything else, one of Seb’s hands snaps out—the heel of his palm making contact with Compton's nose.
Compton screams out, but not loud enough to cover the sickening crunch, which gives way to a splattering of blood down the front of his white suit shirt.
“Fuck!” he roars, hands moving instinctively to his face to try to stay the blood, but as soon as he touches his nose he only cries out again—realizing it must be broken.
“The great thing about taking you hostage, mon ami —we don’t actually have to bother making fingerprint caps or retinal lenses,” Seb growls, his patience long spent.
“If you decide not to co-operate,” he snarls, grabbing Compton’s bloody shirt front with one hand and flicking open his trusty butterfly knife with the other—holding it flat against Compton’s cheek threateningly, “Then we just take your hands and your eyes with us in little plastic baggies.”
Compton actually lets out a little squeal and forces his eyes shut.
“You’re all fucking crazy!” he screams as Seb allows the pointed tip of his blade to pierce the full round of Compton’s cheek.
“You still feeling tough, Eddie? Or are you gonna be a good coward and cave to save your own skin?” I press, unwilling to relent.
“Alright, alright! I’ll cooperate—just get the fucking knife out of my face,” Compton cries.
Seb and I exchange a glance. Good, we have him right where we want him.
Once he’s been reeled back from the edge of hysteria, we explain the plan to Compton along with his part in it.