by Dwayne Gill
Aftermath
Saturday, 9/9/2028, 12:22 a.m.
Virginia
Lance Hart’s phone rang at 12:22 a.m. He’d only been asleep for an hour. When he got a call this late, it was a bad sign.
“It’s Todd. I need you in Boston. Check that. Holiday Inn, Brookline. Two of our favorite men got killed.”
Hart sat up in bed. Todd was deputy director of the FBI, the second-in-command.
“You know I’m in Virginia?” asked Hart.
“I’ll have a plane ready for you and Barkley,” said Todd. “I have locals sitting on it until you get there.”
“Roger that.” Hart hung up and tried to shake off the cobwebs. This was the first time they had a situation with the marked men in some time.
Special Agent Lance Hart was forty-five years old and spent twenty of those with the FBI. Born into a family of cops, he was a sheriff’s deputy when he was eighteen and became a Texas state trooper by the age of twenty. Five years later, he was accepted into the FBI, where he felt his true calling lay. He’d dreamed about being an FBI agent since childhood.
He definitely had the look going for him. Hart was 6’2 and a fit 210, had jet-black wavy hair speckled with gray, and a chiseled jaw. He dressed nice, even when he wasn’t on the clock.
Hart was an exceptional agent from the start, and when Red Delta shut down, they called upon him to lead a new division dedicated to capturing the trainees. He caught every assassin except Cane and Lynks, which haunted him ever since.
Due to his success, the FBI expanded his role; Hart handled cases involving domestic terrorism, which landed him at the heart of the marked men conspiracy.
Hart looked at the clock. Barkley should drive up at any minute.
Ellen Barkley was Hart’s fifth partner since being assigned to Red Delta. The prior four weren’t a good fit, and Hart thought it was because there wasn’t enough excitement to hold the interest of new agents. Aside from the months it took to hunt down the twenty rogue trainees, Hart’s job consisted of a lot of slow days with a significant incident sprinkled in now and then. Many people had wanted a piece of the action in the beginning, especially when the wild theories about the marked men peaked, but the reality of the job proved to be a lot less thrilling than most thought.
Barkley had only been with Hart a few weeks, but she showed a lot of promise. She was only twenty-eight, but she had also been a cop since she turned eighteen. She spent over six years with the Florida highway patrol before being accepted into the FBI, so she earned her way there.
He watched as she exited her self-driving vehicle at the end of his driveway, and the car disappeared around the corner to find a place to park. Hart still didn’t trust the self-driving cars and refused to ride in one, though he realized someday he may not have a choice.
Barkley was a feisty-looking woman; she had dark skin, a caramel color that brought out her dark eyes and thick, wavy black hair. She grew up in rural Florida and had a strict upbringing, but made the most of her opportunities and was a brilliant girl. Barkley maintained her Southern accent, and Hart would sometimes jokingly call her “Aunt Jemima,” after the syrup brand. She had a great sense of humor and a beautiful, genuine smile, so it was easy to work alongside her. She seemed to enjoy the job, too, unlike Hart’s previous partners. What he liked most about her, however, was her toughness. She had a reputation stretching back to her days with the Florida highway patrol for not backing down from anyone.
“Ready to go?” asked Hart as he exited his front door.
Barkley smiled. “Ready.” Hart could tell she was excited about going.
They were on the plane headed out of Richmond International Airport by 1:30 a.m., so they made decent time. The plane would land at Logan International Airport at 3:20 a.m., putting them at the hotel before four. Not bad, Hart thought.
“So what do we know about these marked guys?” asked Barkley.
Hart wondered how much Barkley knew, apart from what she saw in the media. Although they’d been a focus of his for years, he and Barkley had yet to discuss them. “When you say marked guys, do you mean the two at the hotel? Or the men in general?”
“The big picture,” said Barkley. “I want to pretend like I’ve heard nothing about them before.”
Hart smiled. “You’ve likely heard many fanciful stories. Do you want what I know or what I suspect?”
“Both,” she said.
“I’ll start with what we know. The men are normal citizens who leave everything and either disappear or turn up in another part of the country. They all have identical markings on their right forearms, they seem to unite under some philosophy that aims to buck the system, and they seclude themselves from society. The men either work for themselves or hold obscure, mundane jobs.”
Barkley nodded along like she’d heard it all before, and she likely had. Hart continued. “Then there are the crazy ones. They go on some kind of rampage that makes no sense, then they disappear again.” He waited a second. “Then there are the dead ones. We’ve recovered them occasionally to ‘test’ them. Rumors that the men were superhuman sparked the government’s curiosity, but I think they were interested in the origin of the markings.”
“What happened with the tests?” asked Barkley.
“They determined the men to be normal mortals, and they said the markings turned out to be of natural origin, meaning they were tattooed in some nontraditional manner.”
Barkley frowned. “That seems a little vague,” she said.
“Welcome to my world. It can be very frustrating,” said Hart.
“Did you ever talk to any of them?” asked Barkley.
“The ones I interviewed seemed fed up with society and government, but I never bought their story. Their statements seemed too rehearsed, like people quoting Bible verses.”
“Like some kind of creed,” said Barkley.
Hart nodded. “Exactly. It’s not only their statements, it’s their actions. It’s bizarre that so many of them followed the same pattern. They quit their jobs, left their family, disappeared, acquired the marking. It seems like an organized movement.”
“And the ones that turned violent seemed to support your suspicion,” said Barkley.
Hart shifted in his seat so he could see Barkley more clearly. He hated airplane seating. “Well, that’s the thing. It didn’t support it. The crazy ones didn’t reflect well on the others, but it wasn’t enough to brand them all bad. It’s like punishing a whole religion for the actions of the extremists.”
“I get that,” said Barkley. She was munching on peanuts now. “Unless there was some kind of decree by the group that promoted violence.”
“Believe me, I am… was convinced that they were all part of something bigger, but I couldn’t prove it,” said Hart.
“If they’re an organized group, wouldn’t they have a leader?” asked Barkley.
Hart liked her reasoning, which was a big reason she earned a spot in the Bureau. “Exactly my thoughts, Ellen. There were lots of rumors about that too. In fact, the CIA believed they tied the men to the Russians.” Hart cracked open a bottle of water and took a sip. “Once Red Delta shut down, the focus shifted from the marked men, and those leads evaporated.”
“I’m sorry,” said Barkley. “Maybe we’ll get answers today.”
Hart hoped so.
The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes, and Hart recalled an event that bothered him even now, years later.
“The worst case I worked was four years ago in Chicago. It was a sleepover for a high-school girl. A man came into the house and shot everyone, then supposedly shot himself. It was a massacre. Ten dead, including one adult. The maniac crushed one girl’s head; he stepped on it and cracked it like a walnut.”
“I remember that. The Sleepover Massacre,” said Barkley. That’s what all the news outlets had dubbed it.
“That’s the one. He killed a few victims with one shot, but most were shot at least twice, the second fired by a diffe
rent weapon.”
“A second gunman?” asked Barkley. “I heard nothing about that.”
“They kept it quiet, but I knew it right away. I never bought the suicide, either, but because it was one of the marked men, someone took the body, and it was a wrap.”
“So you never found the second gunman?” asked Barkley.
“Nope. But it gets even stranger,” said Hart.
Barkley leaned forward in her seat.
“The daughter that lived in the house. The one the sleepover was for. Jordyn was her name. She survived.”
“Huh? What happened to her?” asked Barkley. She wore a look of disbelief.
“She survived a bullet to the head and was in a coma. We were hoping she’d wake up and tell us something, though the doctors were doubtful. A week later, someone tried to kill her at the hospital.”
Barkley’s mouth fell open. “Did he kill her?”
“Nope. An orderly saved her life. He was a big, tough guy who saw what was happening and fought with the man. He chased him out of the hospital then down the road in his car. But the assailant ran the orderly off the road and killed him.”
Barkley shook her head. “That’s so sad,” she said.
Hart remembered it like it was yesterday. He’d never forgotten the bravery the orderly showed that night.
“So what happened to the girl?” asked Barkley.
Hart frowned. “She disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. A few days later, with police detail posted, she vanished. No one’s seen her since.”
Barkley looked exhausted, and Hart knew the feeling. Although he handled it better now, at the time he took cases personally. He took months to bounce back from Jordyn’s birthday massacre.
A few minutes later, Hart saw Barkley nod off, and he followed suit. Neither woke until the plane touched down in Boston.
When Hart exited the plane, he listened to a voicemail Todd had left him while they were on the plane.
“Perfect,” said Hart.
“What’s wrong?” asked Barkley.
“We have another dead body, about twenty minutes from the hotel.”
“Another marked guy?” she asked.
“Afraid so,” said Hart. “It’ll have to wait. Let’s go to the Holiday Inn first.”
◆◆◆
3:50 a.m.
Detective Michael Perry of the Boston PD had been at the hotel since twelve thirty. The first officers who responded discovered the markings on the two dead men, so they followed protocol and notified their captain, who alerted the FBI. The Boston cops had been sitting on the scene for over three hours now, and the situation was getting worse. Perry smiled as Hart and Barkley drove up.
“It’s your turn to deal with this mess!” he joked. Hart knew Perry from years ago; they worked together on a terrorist threat in Boston.
Hart looked around; cars were lined up along Beacon Street, a traffic officer letting a few pass at a time. “What’s going on, Perry?”
“The cars? An EMP blast stalled a bunch. You should’ve seen the chaos; everyone on the third floor of that hotel wanted out after the incident, but cars were stalled for a block in every direction.”
Hart couldn’t believe it. “That’s not supposed to be possible.” EMPs weren’t strong enough to disable electric cars.
“Well, welcome to hell, buddy,” said Perry. “Anything’s possible here. We’ve been working in the dark. Flashlights and lanterns.”
“Were you able to interview anyone on the third floor?” asked Hart.
“Several,” said Perry. “My guys were rounding them up right after, but no one saw anything. Some said they heard the commotion from their room, but someone shouted and said to stay inside. So they did.”
Perry reached into his pocket, pulled out a white hand towel, and wiped his forehead. “I don’t know how much longer we can stall, Hart. We’ve had the tow trucks waiting for hours now, but they need to pick up these dead cars. Traffic has been terrible. I wonder how the insurance companies will handle this.”
“What about the cars in the parking garage?” asked Hart.
“They’re fine,” said Perry. “I guess the lower level saved them from the blast.”
“Let’s look inside,” said Hart.
The inside was haunting without light. Hart and Barkley didn’t know what to expect, as they weren’t given many details. Perry led them to the third floor, where Hart immediately smelled burned flesh.
“No wonder everyone wanted to leave this floor,” said Barkley.
“Just wait till you see him,” said Perry.
The man lay on his back with half his face missing, the flesh torn away. His right hand was resting on his mouth and chin, likely showing the struggle to stay alive in his last moments.
“This burned him.” Perry was holding a cutting torch attached to a portable gas container. “One of the guys kicked it, so we don’t know what its exact position was.”
Amateurs, thought Hart.
The second body lay close to the edge of the hallway, also on his back.
“Someone stabbed him in the jugular,” said Perry.
“Did you recover the knife?” asked Hart.
“No sign of it,” said Perry.
Hart looked through both the men’s pockets but found nothing; no wallet, no ID.
Perry sensed what he was after. “We’re running their prints,” he said.
Hart nodded. He crouched and looked at the man’s right forearm and saw the infamous mark. As he inspected, he also saw the left hand, which looked funny. Hart raised it and saw the burn. He stood up and walked to the door of room 313.
“We know what the torch was for, don’t we?” said Hart.
“Yes. These guys tried to burn through the door,” said Perry.
“Who stayed in this room?” asked Hart.
“A college kid named Natalie Lawrence,” said Perry. “She was supposed to attend a lecture at MIT later this morning.”
“Any idea where she is now?” asked Hart.
Perry shook his head. “She left all her clothes and bags in the room but took her purse. No one saw her leave. One of her friends showed back up, said they were all out tonight until about eleven thirty. She traveled by plane here, with friends, so she didn’t have a car. They watched her walk into the hotel.”
“Look at room 310,” said Perry. “The front desk clerk remembered a guy coming in last night, said he looked dangerous and asked about the rooms on the third floor.”
Hart perked up, excited about a real lead. He walked across the hall to 310 and noticed the door open. He stepped inside but saw nothing out of the ordinary. When he went to exit, however, he noticed a hole in the half-open door at about knee level. He squatted and looked through the hole, noting the angle. “Excuse me for a second,” he said to Barkley, and she backed into the hall. Hart shut the door and looked through again.
“It offers a perfect view of 313,” said Hart. “I think he waited for those two guys.”
“So you think he was here to save the girl?” asked Perry.
“Yep,” said Hart. “It makes sense. Our two guys came down the hall with a cutting torch to break into her room, but first they set off the EMP. And 310 guy is waiting for them, but now he can’t use a gun, so he kills one with the torch, the other with a knife. But there are two weird things.”
“What?” asked Barkley.
“One, these guys didn’t bring guns; either that or the hero took them. But it makes sense they wouldn’t bring guns if they were using an EMP.”
“What’s the other thing?” asked Barkley. “You said two things.”
“Oh, right,” said Hart. “Look at 313’s door. The two men almost burned through it, but not quite. The locking mechanism still works.”
“Natalie opened the door for him,” said Barkley.
“Yes. Which means she may have known the guy in 310,” said Hart. He pointed at the two bodies. “We don’t know how
they got here do we? Did they have a car?”
Perry shook his head. “We don’t know.”
“Get those tow trucks rolling then,” said Hart.
“Now?” asked Perry.
“Yes. If any vehicles are left unclaimed, they may belong to our pals here,” said Hart. He walked over to the two bodies, back to Natalie’s door, then back to 310. “Didn’t you say there were no cameras on this floor?”
“That’s right,” said Perry.
“Well, I wonder who this belongs to,” said Hart as he reached above 312. He peeled a small camera off the wall and examined it. “This is high-quality security. No average Joe could afford it.”
“It wouldn’t belong to these two,” said Barkley.
“That means it’s his,” said Hart, referring to the guest in 310. “He didn’t expect the EMP.” Hart pocketed the camera and walked the hallway until he found the second one and bagged it too. “Perry, I think I want to talk to that front desk worker.”
“Sure thing,” said Perry. “He got a good look at our mystery man. We have a sketch artist working with him.”
Detective Perry escorted them downstairs into the office where the clerk was being interviewed. He was just a kid and looked unhappy to be there. Agent Hart approached him and gestured for him to sit down. The clerk sighed and sat reluctantly, realizing he was in store for another round of questions.
“You got a good look at the man that stayed in room 310?” Hart asked.
“Yeah, I did. I’ve been describing him to the sketch guys,” said the clerk. “All morning.” He emphasized the last part.
Hart smiled at the kid. “I’ll tell you what. You answer a few questions, and I’ll let you go home.”
The kid’s face lit up. “Okay, that’s a deal. What do you need to know?”
“Describe him for me. And did anything seem strange about him?” Hart asked.
“He was a big guy with a bald head and beard. He had on a black trench coat.” The kid paused to get his bearings. “He looked dangerous, like he could kill me with a single punch. He had cold eyes.”
“What’d he say to you?” Hart asked.