by Captain Sammitch
New York
Suleiman Dahyahri had been a cabbie in the Big Apple for twelve years, and he liked to think he could spot trouble a mile away. So when he saw the guy hailing him, he didn't think too much of it. After all, he looked like just another day trader on his lunch break - neatly tailored suit, Italian shoes, expensive-looking briefcase and notebook computer - and got in without saying too much. "Thirty-third and Westminster," he told Suleiman.
"That will be eight dollars twenty-five cents, sir," Suleiman informed him.
The man gave him a ten. "Keep the change."
"Thank you very much, sir." Suleiman noticed the man never removed his black sunglasses, not even as he began working on his computer. "Another day at the office?" Dahyahri asked.
"Not exactly."
Suleiman smiled. "Bogged down by a project, then?"
The man chuckled. "You might call it that." He shifted in his seat. "I'm looking for some people in the area."
"What is it that you do, Mr., ah..."
"Smith. I... well, it's sort of a human resources job. I locate people and connect them with people who might be looking for them."
"For employment?"
"Not really, but the details aren't important." The man looked out the window as the cab rolled past Yankee Stadium. "So how are they doing?"
Suleiman laughed. "They demolished the Indians last night. Twelve to three."
The man chuckled. "Doesn't surprise me. No good sports franchises come out of Cleveland anyway."
A few minutes later, the cab reached its destination, an old brownstone in a row of similar flats. "I hope you find those people you are searching for," Suleiman said as the man got out.
"I hope so too," Smith said to no one in particular as the taxi pulled away. He stepped up to the door of the brownstone he had set up shop in, fumbled with his keys, gave up on them, and placed his right hand over the lock. He focused and was rewarded with the muted thunk of the lock turning. He went inside and set his things down.
The girls were somewhere in New York. But in a city this size, he definitely had some serious searching in front of him...
The funny thing is that not only was Phil Smith unknown to anybody he encountered, Phil Smith was unknown to Phil Smith.
It had been almost four months. He remembered the hard tile floor, littered with used paper towels. He remembered the sounds and smells of the travel plaza. He remembered the map, showing him that he was somewhere on the Indiana Toll Road. But other than that, he hadn't been able to remember much of anything.
Including who he was or what he was doing.
He had been wearing khaki pants, a grey turtleneck, and a leather jacket. In the back pocket of his pants was a wallet containing $433 in cash, two credit cards, an ATM card, and an Ohio driver's license. All the cards and the license listed his name as Phil Smith.
He was afraid to go to anyone. Not because he didn't think they could help, but because he had discovered two very unsettling things about himself.
He could read other people's minds.
And he could move things with his own.
It had taken a string of chance incidents to find that out, and he didn't want to think about any of those. But after a few weeks, he decided that whatever his powers were, they weren't going away any time soon, so he might as well learn to control them and use them to his advantage.
And so it had begun. Searching for your identity didn't exactly pay the bills, but Phil had developed a knack for finding people who were in trouble and helping them out. And for that, he usually received a little bit in return. After three months of that, he had built up a fair amount of spending cash - and developed quite a bit of skill at being a private investigator of sorts. He had done everything from tracking spouses accused of infidelity to roughing up small-time street gangs, and most of it involved good old-fashioned police work.
And then one day, on the subway in Pittsburgh, he had run into Mike Flannery. Mike seemed like an ordinary, everyday businessman. But he had a secret. His only child had been kidnapped, probably by an Internet stalker. And Mike didn't have any idea what to do. Phil had read the papers and knew there had been a string of similar kidnappings on the east coast and stretching as far west as Ohio, and his hunch was proved correct when he "heard" the thoughts Mike Flannery emanated.
At first Phil thought it best to leave things alone. The FBI was on this case, after all, and Phil didn't want to attract any unneeded attention to himself. But whoever Phil Smith really was, he had a pretty overdeveloped sense of duty, because his reservations didn't stop him from introducing himself and basically taking the case.
He had made the difference for Sabrina Flannery, but he knew there had to be other girls. And thanks to the information he got from one Juan Rodrigo Castral - after a few broken bones and a very thorough ass-kicking - he knew approximately where they were.
Thr frightening truth was that there was in fact a ring of kidnappers who stalked victims online. Once they caught them, they used them in very graphic BDSM kiddie porn films that were then distributed over file-sharing programs to thousands, if not millions, of eager viewers. And the information Castral had yielded suggested that a few of them were right here, in New York.
So Phil had rented an old brownstone downtown and set up a sort of home base from which he followed the leads he had and hunted down the other members of Castral's gang. It wasn't easy - after the news broke that Castral had been found and brought to justice, the other members of the ring put their work on hold and went deep underground. But that wasn't quite enough to make Phil Smith give up.
Because in addition to his known powers, from time to time fleeting memories would pop into Phil's mind. Skills he didn't even know he had would manifest themselves, although Phil had no idea how he did the things he did. As a result, Phil was even ahead of the FBI on this particular case. But he knew it wouldn't be too long before somebody found out about him. And if that happened, Phil wasn't sure he would like the outcome.
There was a knock on the door. Phil closed the lid of his notebook and answered it to find a FedEx guy carrying a long brown carton encased in orange plastic. He signed for the package, closed the door, and carried it inside. Phil removed the plastic and stripped the tape off the cardboard carton. He cut the paper-thin lead liner away from the packaging and found what he was looking for: a long hardshell gun case.
He opened it to find his prize. It was a powerful rifle with a big, night-vision-capable scope sight and a large, elaborate silencer. This rifle wasn't made for hunting deer or birds. It was made for hunting the kind of animals Phil was currently after. And he knew that eventually, the time would come to use it.
He only hoped he would be ready when the time came.