The Unstable One: A Murphy Thriller Book 1 (Markus Murphy)

by Mike McCrary

  Thompson.

  Thompson was there.

  Their shared mind was able to lock that away somehow.

  Were Murphy’s and Noah’s minds working together to protect themselves from the truth?

  Thompson leans his long, tall body on the roof of his car, waiting, looking over the wreckage with a calculating gaze. He works that steel toothpick between his back teeth.

  Was Dr. Peyton there as well?

  Murphy scratches and claws at the deepest corners of his mind but doesn’t see her. Was she there that night? Questions mount. Burning like wildfire.

  Did she know?

  What did she know and when?

  Can Murphy trust anyone? Is Brubaker the only one he can talk to?

  She’s never lied to me.

  Thompson waits on the side of the road while studying the accident. Soaking up any sounds that may come. There are none. No words uttered. No signs of life seen.

  Murphy bites back the pain.

  Thompson turns to the right, looking over Kate's body resting in the grass about thirty yards from the knots of metal that no one could walk away from. She moves ever so slightly. A small tilt to her head. A tilted look toward the car. Her fingers grip the grass. Murphy can’t believe it—she was still alive.

  Thompson moves into the field. Closer to the car. Murphy hears him count to ten.

  There are no screams. No cries of pain or terror.

  “Perfect.” Thompson stops, looking over the area.

  Thompson glances up then waves off the bloodred light hovering just above him. Sending it cutting through the night. As if it completed a job.

  "Okay." He slaps his hands together. His accent is southern and thick. “We’re on a clock.”

  He circles his finger in the air.

  A line of headlights pours over the highway speeding his way.

  "Let's do this shit."

  Murphy and Noah’s eyes close.

  “Hey, you okay?” a man’s voice asks.

  Murphy feels a finger tap his shoulder.

  “You awake?”

  His eyes crack open. He’s covered in sweat. His hair soaked as if he’s been wandering the streets in the rain. His heart pounds like a sledgehammer.

  The man—Murphy recognizes him as the copilot—unstraps his arms.

  Murphy squeezes his fists closed then opens them quickly trying to work the feeling back into them. His mouth feels dry, throat scratches like sandpaper. He smacks his lips together. On the table next to him is the makeshift date Brubaker pulled together. Murphy grabs his cup of juice, sucking it down as if it were the last bit of liquid on earth.

  “I gotta get back. Wanted to check on you before we landed.” The copilot thumbs beyond the curtain. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Murphy nods as he sits up. His head is on fire. His stomach wound hurts like hell. He almost forgot about his encounter with a knife. He feels worse and better at the same time. As if cut in half and then crudely stitched together.

  “Okay.” The copilot turns to leave. “Thought they killed you or something.”

  “Not yet,” Murphy calls out. “Where’d they go?”

  “We dropped them off in Beirut. You’ve been out awhile, man. We’ll hit New York soon.”

  The copilot moves through the curtain.

  Murphy’s head is a scrambled mess. He’s not even going to try to unpack all that played out in the theater of his mind while he was out. Brubaker wanted him to see it all, that much he knows.

  Who’s running the show in Brubaker’s head?

  Was Kate instructing this as well?

  Trying to find a way to Noah?

  Working together to create a version of Noah. Perhaps like the version of Kate she’s attempting inside of Brubaker.

  The girls.

  Murphy wants to stop thoughts from coming.

  Get out of your head, brutha.

  Think.

  There is only one way to the girls. To Kate. To anything that resembles your life.

  Think.

  Get your head right or this will run us over.

  Beirut makes sense.

  Brubaker and her buddies can work their way through Turkey. Maybe catch, or force, a ride to London or Germany. Maybe Romania. From there, they’d be clear to go wherever the hell they want. He’s sure Brubaker is former military, or CIA, or whatever, but she would know how to move around the globe.

  Murphy knows damn well where they’re headed.

  Only one place Brubaker wants to go.

  New York.

  No way she will call him from anywhere else on the planet. She is on a clock. Working a plan. She wants him to bring Peyton and Thompson to a place of her choosing. She wanted him to remember. Wanted him to know what Thompson and Peyton have truly done.

  To him.

  To them.

  The wheels skid, screeching as the plane touches down.

  Noah doesn’t know what to do.

  Murphy knows exactly what to do.

  Chapter 31

  Murphy waits for the elevator to reach the roof.

  Shoulders raised up tight.

  Foot tapping like a machine gun.

  Lusting to be cut loose.

  Peyton and Thompson wanted to meet somewhere where eyes wouldn’t be on them. This apartment building fits the bill. A once luxury living destination that isn’t what it used to be. The nosedive to the economy has made it hard to rent a place like this. A ripped sticker clings by the numbered buttons telling passengers to vote for Biden. Another message urges them to make America great again. Still, far nicer than any place Murphy or Noah grew up in.

  He knows this building.

  Remembers it well.

  Knows it was constructed shortly after the 1929 market crash. Heard it was, at one time, home to famous mobsters Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello. Murphy knows he personally kicked the shit out of some mobbed-up guys here once. Maybe about a year ago. Maybe longer. The brain is working its way back online, but things are still hazy and out of reach. Dates and times are difficult to assign. Both minds fight for equal time. Thinking for two.

  He attaches a suppressor to his Glock.

  Murphy raged off the plane from Baghdad and then into a car they had waiting for him. Very kind of Peyton and Thompson. Noah tried to calm himself down. To reason with Murphy. Tried to present a case for rational conversation. A let’s hear them out style of meeting instead of what Murphy is thinking. Murphy only heard the buzzing of a fly. Noah’s words were doomed from the start.

  Dim numbers light as he passes each floor.

  Each ding thunders like a big bass drum in his ears. One after another. He clinches his fists tighter and tighter. His nails dig into his skin. Muscles vibrate. Part from excitement. Part from fear.

  The final ding booms.

  Rooftop reached.

  Doors open. The tunnel vision of a killing machine takes over. Murphy explodes out of the elevator. Hasn’t felt this alive in days.

  Confident. Mad. Ready.

  Shafts of light from the setting sun carve up the rooftop. Oranges blend into reds and blues with smears of purple filling the gaps.

  The roof is open, and empty. The damp stink of the city below is ever present. A chilling bite of wind kicks up, working its way over and through his body. Murphy barely notices. His body heats like a furnace.

  Moving quick.

  A march with extreme purpose.

  He shakes his shoulders, keeping the grip on his Glock loose but in control. Sets his jaw. Sounds from the protests below thump a muted cry. Muffled, but their anger can still be heard even from this height. Central Park sits just over the edge of the building.

  Peyton and Thompson stand toward the park side of the roof.

  They turn as Murphy storms their way. Peyton grips her tablet tight.

  Thompson holds on tight to his arrogance.

  Murphy burns white hot, unable to mask his state of mind.

  Doesn’t want to.

  T
hompson looks to the gun in Murphy’s hand. Instant recognition of the unmistakable violent energy moving his way.

  Thompson reaches for his gun.

  Murphy twist-snaps Thompson’s wrist without hesitation. Thompson’s gun slips loose from his grip. Murphy takes the knee. The crunch of bone, the dull pop of ligaments echoes, spreading out along the empty roof.

  Thompson lands hard on his back. Face twisted in pain.

  Murphy kicks his gun away, sending it skidding out of reach. Peyton takes a step back. Face frozen. Hand moving toward her screen.

  “Don’t.” Murphy’s finger is in her face. “Do not do a damn thing.”

  Murphy stands over Thompson. Watches him hold his knee with his only functioning hand. Spit flies from Thompson’s lips as he tries to communicate through the pain. Murphy raises his gun. Communication is a waste of time.

  Easy.

  Don’t redline just yet.

  “You killed them.” Murphy crouches down, wrapping his hand around Thompson’s throat while jamming his gun to Thompson’s forehead. “Go ahead, lie to me. Tell me you didn’t.”

  Fuck easy.

  Blew past the redline hours ago.

  “Who?” Peyton’s expression drops.

  Murphy keeps his eyes on her. Watching, closely noting her responses.

  “Not a clue what you’re babbling about, boss,” Thompson coughs out.

  “I’ll clarify.” Murphy leans in, inches from his face. “You killed Noah and Kate. They were alive after the crash. You could have gotten them help.”

  “You’re crazy.” He turns to Peyton. “He’s crazy.”

  “No shit.” Murphy regrips his gun. “You didn’t even try to help them. Chose not to bother, not part of your agenda. You drained what was left of their minds before they died, then wheeled them in as your CIA sponsored experiment. Big winner from your talent search, right? You fucking piece of shit.”

  “What is he talking about?” Peyton asks.

  “He’s insane. You know this. He’s out of his damn tree.”

  “They were perfect. No real family. Both military. They had something to tap into. Easier, simpler to connect minds with some common ground to string together, right? Murphy and Noah. Lady Brubaker and Kate.” Murphy stands, pulling Thompson up with him. “Who was Brubaker? Government sponsored murder queen? Wait, let me take a swing at it. Contract killer who played the part of a high-end call girl to bring in men that needed to die. Close?”

  “Wait... wait. Please. Stop.” Peyton steps in. “Lady Brubaker was assimilated with you.” She turns to Thompson. “Murphy was the only alpha profile used. Who is Kate?”

  Murphy studies Peyton’s face.

  Watches every move.

  He reads her confused, frightened expression. Lost and reeling. Murphy can see her eyes drifting. Her buzzing mind trying to break down what she’s hearing. Working overtime to understand the unthinkable.

  “You said…” Peyton swallows. “You said you mapped Noah’s thoughts, then he died in the hospital. You never said anything about—”

  “Peyton.” Thompson shakes his head. “I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. He’s gone full-on psycho. You knew there was a high probability of meltdown.” He motions to her tablet. “Pop his top. Now, before he—”

  “Murphy and Brubaker, they probably had a common ground too. Sound logical? Rational?” He’s talking to Peyton as much as Thompson. “Explain. Talk to me like I’m five.” Murphy searches her eyes for the slightest hint of bullshit while he rants. “Brubaker is around the same age as Murphy. Probably in training around the same time. Probably the same place, but never met. Tell me I’m way off on this.”

  “Oh my God.” Peyton is reeling. She begins pacing. “They couldn’t match the personalities between the sexes. Too much biological difference to overcome, no matter the similarities. The baselines would be way off.” She stops. Her eyes dance. “Holy shit. How did I miss that? They must have discovered it during their trials. They had the alpha; they had the killer they wanted, but they also didn’t want to be limited to only males.” She nods ever so slightly, processing as she speaks. “They probably tried, but they didn’t synch up. We only worked with Murphy or our side. They needed a female. They found a new alpha in Brubaker.”

  She locks eyes with Thompson.

  “Tell me that’s not true.”

  “Peyton…” Thompson scrambles for something, anything to say.

  “Also needed a stable female mind to match with Brubaker. You must have thought you hit the jackpot when you found Noah and Kate.” Murphy presses the gun harder to Thompson’s head. “You killed them both. You mixed my mind up, lied to me, then hoped like hell that my battered brain would never connect the dots. Never once thinking that she would lead an uprising and bolt. That she and I would chat over hamburgers.”

  “Thompson. Please, tell me he’s wrong,” Peyton pleads.

  “Look.” Thompson turns to Peyton, Murphy’s gun still pressed between his eyes. “This was never going to work if we continued down the path we were on.”

  Peyton stumbles back, her hand over her mouth.

  The truth slams into her.

  “Your work needed to be escalated,” Thompson says. “You deserved to see it come to life.”

  “Don’t.” She barely gets it out.

  “Peyton.” Thompson fights to reason with her. “Someone had to do what needed to be done. The needs of the project were too damn specific.”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  She’s so angry she’s vibrating.

  Murphy pulls the gun back from Thompson’s head.

  “Oh please.” Thompson waves his one good hand, dismissing her shock. “You know damn well that we couldn’t have a living subject. Now way to cover all that up. What if they talked? What if they told their story to the entire world?”

  “No,” Peyton says. “We could have done something—"

  “You would have been waiting years for the perfect people to conveniently die of natural causes exactly when you needed them to. It may never have happened. The reality of it all is ugly as hell. You set an impossible task of finding the right subjects with a list of qualifying criteria a mile long. I did what I had to do for all concerned. And yes, that includes me. But don’t deny this worked… on a certain level. Your dream worked, Dr. Peyton. The scientific implications of this are endless. You did it.” Thompson holds his arms out wide. “You’re welcome.”

  “So… he’s right?” Peyton’s eyes go blank. “They were alive?”

  “It had to go that way. Those people—” Thompson says.

  “They’ve got names, motherfucker.” Hair on the back of Murphy’s neck stands up straight.

  “Tap the screen, Peyton. End this and we can start over. We learned so much from what’s happened. We can do better.” Thompson’s face is red. His words race. “Listen to me. Those two were headed down a dead-end life. You should have seen the way they lived. That house they lived in. Buried neck deep in unpayable debt, shit jobs they were going to lose. Seconds away from homeless. We gave them an opportunity. To do something with their lives. Be part of history.”

  Murphy knew what he was going to do before he even got off the plane.

  Just needed to see her face as he asked the questions.

  “I can’t believe this.” Peyton wraps her face in her hands.

  “I spared them. That life was headed straight to shit.”

  Murphy pulls the trigger.

  Not sure which side gave the order.

  Chapter 32

  A whispered zip tears through Thompson’s head.

  His body goes limp, flopping down in front of them.

  Red mist drifts, disappearing into the cool air.

  Peyton wilts. Her eyes wide. Mouth open yet unable to scream.

  She looks to Murphy. Finger raised about to tap.

  Murphy turns his gun on her.

  “Don’t.” He shows her his forearm where the devil once liv
ed. “It’s not going to do what you think.”

  Her body shakes. Her control is all but gone.

  Almost.

  They both know she can still blow out the back of his skull with the touch of her skin on a glass screen. Murphy knows he is still her only source of data. The only living thing that can tell her about her life’s work. He also knows that will only take him so far.

  “What have you done?” she asks.

  “What does it look like?”

  “This isn’t happening. What the hell—”

  “Think you told me once—There are a lot of things we’re about to explain. They will seem very strange and we understand completely.” Murphy clucks his tongue. “Now. The we in this discussion, the one we’re having at this moment, is your buddy Murphy and his brain-bro Noah.”

  He now puts the gun between her eyes.

  “Got only one thing to ask you.” Murphy needs to be sure. “Did you know?”

  “No.” Peyton trembles, barely scrapes out the answer.

  “Did you know?” He presses the gun to her head.

  “No, Murphy.” Her eyes are full. She wipes them clear. Not willing to cry. “I didn’t know what he did. I’m sorry any of that happened. I can’t believe I’m a part of it.”

  His phone buzzes.

  He lowers his gun, replacing it with a raised finger as if politely asking for a moment.

  “It’s her,” he says.

  “Who? Brubaker?”

  He nods as he answers. The call only lasts a second, maybe two.

  “We’re going to meet her.” He thumbs toward the edge of the roof. “Down there. In the park.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Pretty sure you know the answer to that.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she barks, searching for control. “No way in hell.”

  “You are, and you will.” He smiles. “This is how this is going to go, Dr. Peyton. You get to be my personal genie. You’re going to grant me wishes—a shit-ton more than three—and if you do not, I’m going to cut the people you care about most into chunks.”

  She freezes.

  “But let’s not dwell on the unpleasant part of who I am, okay?”