by Sam Jones
Two men guarded Billy. He was stripped down to nothing but his jeans, his hands taped to the arms of a wooden chair and his shoeless/sockless feet bound by duct tape to the legs. When he fully came to, all he could think to say was, “Fuck” and “Me.”
Get it together, he thought. Get it together…
“He’s up,” Lowe said to someone behind him, his voice echoing off the walls.
Billy leaned to the left around Lowe to get a view of the man approaching him: a toned, pasty-looking bastard with a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes, casually moving up to Billy with his hands behind his back and a neutral expression on his face.
It took Billy a second to realize that the guy fit the exact same description as the perp Maria was looking for in connection with her missing girl.
“Son of a bitch…”
The sideshow act stopped a foot shy of Billy and looked down, the two connecting gazes and waiting for the other to break.
“Holy shit,” Billy said, eyeballing his almost reptilian appearance. “You are a hard sight to drink in, my friend.”
The ghost-colored man had no reaction. “Comfortable?” he asked coolly.
Billy took a beat. “Duct tape is a little tight. Mind loosening it?”
The pale-faced guy looked Billy over like he was a used car up for sale. “My name is Mr. Thompson,” he said.
“Sweet,” Billy replied with a bored inflection.
Mr. Thompson stepped forward, placed his index finger under Billy’s chin and lifted his head. Examining. Judging. Weighing. In a slivery tone, he said, “You’re a very slippery character, William.”
Billy let out a groan. “Please don’t call me that.”
How many times do I have to ask people?
Mr. Thompson tilted his head to the side like a canine. “Would you prefer that I called you ‘Billy’?”
“I’d actually prefer if you cut it with the Bond villain bullshit, Edgar Winter, and skip to the part where you tell me what the hell is going on.”
Billy felt it was an accurate (and kind of funny) reference.
Mr. Thompson, however, merely squinted, completely oblivious of whomever Billy was referring to.
“Forget it,” Billy huffed.
Pull it together.
Calculation…
Control…
Mr. Thompson withdrew his finger from Billy’s chin and started pacing around him in a circle. He flattened his hands and rubbed his palms together, patting them every few moments, his goal to do nothing else but kill the time. After one full circle, he stopped in front of Billy.
He said, “I understand you fought in the war.”
Billy gave him nothing. All he did was stare. He was cold, tired, hungry, and a wee bit pissed, and he damn sure wasn’t going to dance to this freak show’s tune.
To hell with him.
Mr. Thompson continued to press him. “Marines, yes?”
Again, Billy didn’t utter a word.
Eat me.
After a few seconds of dead air, Mr. Thompson realized that Billy wasn’t going to answer. “Okay,” he said, stepping back and letting it go. “So be it.”
He walked away.
Lowe stepped into his place, clicking his tongue repeatedly and shaking his head at Billy. “You really like playing with your food,” he said to Mr. Thompson. “Dontcha?”
Mr. Thompson had no reaction.
“Where the hell did you get that guy?” Billy asked Lowe.
“Took out an ad in the personals,” Lowe said.
“Nice,” Billy snickered. He thought back to Maria’s story about the missing Analena Rodriguez. “Rumor is that he might’ve killed a couple of working girls. One’s still missing. You know anything about that?”
“Not a thing,” Lowe said.
The hell you don’t…
Billy craned his neck and looked around the room—no sign of Maria.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Lowe forked a thumb over his shoulder as he leaned against one of the green metal beams directly to Billy’s left. “She’s playing with my buddy right now in the other room.”
“I swear to God—”
Lowe held up his hand. “Spare me, soldier boy. Shit’s about to hit the fan with you. I’d suggest you focus on the three inches in front of your face.” He pointed to Mr. Thompson. “See that guy over there? He’s about as sick as sick can get, and he’s just chompin’ at the bit to do his little routine on you. The only way you can spare yourself from having that happen is the responses you give to the boss man’s inquires.”
“And where is Mr. Fabulous?” Billy asked. “I’m dying to meet him.”
Lowe took another couple of steps forward, now four feet away now from Billy.
“He’s wrapping some stuff up,” he said. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
“He paying you good?”
“Really good.”
Billy took a beat. “He must be,” he said. “Asshole was ready to blow you to hell back at that bus station.”
“Come on, Billy,” Lowe said. “That wasn’t a real bomb.”
Billy frowned.
Lowe stepped back.
A few seconds later, the rusted metal door twenty feet behind him screeched open. A figure stood in the doorway whispering orders to someone off to the side.
“Speak of the devil,” Lowe said as he moved to greet the new arrival.
Billy had a hard time making the new guy out. He was about thirty-some-odd feet away, his face a little out of focus due to the dim lighting inside the warehouse. The figure stood in the doorway and exchanged words with Lowe for a few moments, his head turned away and voice lowered to a whisper.
Then he entered the room and made a beeline for Billy.
“Special Agent Reese,” Lowe said, walking alongside the man. “This is Mr. Kruger. I believe you two have met before.”
The man’s face came fully into the light.
For a brief second Billy thought that he was having a heart attack. The man, Kruger, stepped into full focus about five feet shy of Billy, a joyous glint in his eye as he approached him with open arms.
Billy’s mouth was open. For a moment he forgot how to speak.
He was staring at a ghost.
A dead man.
It can’t be…
Eventually his ability to communicate returned, but Billy was still limited in his responses due to the shock.
“You,” was all he could manage to muster.
Kruger, a.k.a. Michael Dodgson, but best known as the supposedly dead Special Agent Andrew David Sykes, crouched down, winked, and said, “Hey, buddy. Long time, no see.”
28
BILLY WAS DUMBFOUNDED. He quickly entertained the idea that he was hallucinating, but then just as quickly dismissed it. Andy Sykes was alive. His best friend, the man he had been hell-bent on avenging was still among the living, and worst of all: he was the bad man in charge.
And he had severely screwed his face up with plastic surgery.
Why? Billy thought. How?!
Sykes—or “Kruger”—got out of his crouch and stood up, his hands slipping into his pockets while he let Billy soak in his new reality. “You’re looking good, Billy,” he said. “How’re you staying in shape these days?”
Billy smiled incredulously. It was the first time he had seen his friend in almost a year. And yet, here he was, still breathing and asking frivolous catch-up questions right out of the gate. He wasn’t sure how to react. A hurricane of emotions was swirling around inside of him. His skin felt like it was on fire. He was equal parts curious, furious, and confused.
Just take it easy…
Patience.
Calculation.
In the distance, faint sounds of stadium-like cheering started ringing out, Billy cocking his head to make it out.
“Oh, yeah,” Kruger said, picking up on Billy picking up on the noise. “Happy St. Paddy’s Day.”
For a moment, Billy was taken off guard by the f
act that it was a holiday.
Man, I’m really losing track of the days.
“Parade’s going on right now,” Kruger said. “Chicago goes all out celebrating all the Irish, alcoholic bog-trotters that fester here.”
“Bog-trotters,” Billy said. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”
Kruger shook his head. “We’ve got a rich history of boozed-up elders, don’t we? All those prick Irish ancestors of ours left us with a boatload of personality quirks.”
“Pot calling the kettle black…”
A few moments passed. The two friends kept their eyes glued to one another while they waited for the other to speak. After about ten seconds, the moment finally came when Billy was able to fully articulate what he was thinking: “What the fuck, Sykes?”
“I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions—”
“You’re goddamn right I do!” Billy practically screamed. “What is this? And what in the hot hell did you do to your face?”
Kruger ran a finger over the surgery scars. They were subtle, only the trained eye could pick up on the nips and tucks and folds and cuts. Only the people closest to Andy Sykes—at least what was left of him—could spot the lies carved into his face.
People like Billy Reese.
“I told them to give me Robert Redford’s jaw,” Kruger said. “What do you think?”
“Well, I think they botched it,” Billy scoffed. “You look like an asshole.”
And then Billy had a thought as he looked at Sykes’ scars.
The remains that were sent. The bits and pieces of Sykes.
Sykes cut them off on purpose…
Kruger laughed. Genuine laughter. The only kind his old friend could elicit from his otherwise prickly and cold demeanor. “I love you, man,” he said. “Really. You’ve always been an honest guy.” He pointed a prideful finger at his Billy. “I could always rely on you to be truthful.”
“To be honest right now,” Billy said, “I’m a little pissed off. I’ve been trying to nail the guys who did you in for months. And here you are. Boom. Still alive.”
“Well, I’d say the outcome was better than you imagined it would be.”
“Explain it.”
Kruger waited a beat.
Billy kept pressing. “You faked your death,” he said. “Right?”
“I did.”
“You knocked off Castillo too. And then took over his business. Am I tracking everything so far?”
“So far, yeah,” Kruger said.
“Then what’s with all the smoke and mirrors, brother? Tell me the point. Tell me what this is all about.”
Kruger didn’t reply.
Billy grew impatient, his restraints feeling tighter, his skin turning raw and red as he tugged at them.
“It’s complicated, Billy,” Kruger said. “I can’t tell you everything. I can’t tell you anything, really. And I can’t get you out of this. You walked into a situation that you shouldn’t have been messing around in. You shouldn’t have tried to avenge me.”
“That’s a bunch of bullshit. Of all the people you knew who would try and settle the score on your behalf—it’s me.”
“I know. I know, Billy, but…I’m sorry. I can’t let you leave here alive. You know that.”
Billy’s head felt like a balloon. Everything was happening so fast. Life was marching to a new tune, and Andy Sykes—Kruger—was the bandleader.
“I just need to know what you know,” Kruger said. “And then I’ll end it. Quick.”
“I thought you were dead, man,” Billy said. “I know nothing other than that, apparently.”
“I wish I could just take you at your word…” Kruger said regretfully.
He took a step back.
More time passed.
“What was with that fake bomb bit at the bus station?” Billy asked.
“Come on, Billy. It was an easy way to get you to lay down. Hell, I didn’t even know for sure if you would piece together that Hector was going to Chicago. I played a hunch putting that toy in that locker. Just means I know you better than I thought I did.”
Billy looked away. “Nice. Oh, and by the way, just so you know: I attended your funeral, you sick prick. Lots of people were there. Your family. Your wife. Your fuckin’ kid.”
“Yeah,” Kruger said. “I saw the article in the Times. Whoever wrote my obituary should have his hands sawed off.”
“What about Heather? What about Will? You’ve kept your family in a perpetual state of misery for months now. And why? Because you turned to the dark side? You get swayed by the money and the lifestyle or something? Level with me, you fucking dickhead, ’cause I’ve taken a few punches to the melon in the past few days on your behalf.”
Kruger, again, said nothing.
Billy blew air through his nostrils, fuming at the lack of clarity from his formerly dead friend. “They’ve been living off of your shit life insurance policy,” he said. “Torn to bits thinking that you’re dead. All of us thinking that you were dead, man.”
Kruger kept quiet.
“Why, you prick?” Billy yelled. “Tell me what the hell is going on!”
“You’re right,” Kruger said. “I owe you some answers. But first, I need a few from you.”
“Then cut the bullshit and cut to the chase.”
Kruger got down on one knee like a tee-ball coach and asked, “How much do you know?”
Billy’s squinted. “About what, man?”
“Everything. All of it. How much do you know about me? About the operation going on?”
“What operation?”
“Tell me what you know. What do you know about me? What do the people at the bureau know?”
“What the hell, man? What are you blabbering on about?”
“Do you know anything about the operation? Anything? Tell me now if you do, Billy. I’ll end this. Snap of a finger.”
Billy closed his eyes as he struggled to get a grip on the truth.
It just wasn’t happening.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, Sykes. I don’t know what the hell you’re saying to me…”
Kruger put his hands on Billy’s shoulders, leaned in close, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Billy. Listen to me.”
For the first time in their reunion, Billy felt his friend (fully) return, emitting that same timbre of voice that Billy remembered during the better times. All the laughs, sob stories, and occasional pugnaciousness, which—up until this very moment—had never stooped to anything more than a few insults. Billy looked his friend in the eye and waited to hear the rest of the story as to why that friendship was now dead, his anger swelling and his heart breaking.
“Are you telling me everything?” Kruger asked. “Are you telling me the truth?”
Billy leaned in. “I. Know. Nothing.”
Kruger squinted. “You’re sure?”
It took Billy a moment to reply, no more than a couple of seconds. “I thought you were dead,” he said, calling out to whatever part of Sykes that was still alive. “I just came here to pay it back.” He held back what felt like the start of tears. “I guess I was wrong…”
Kruger patted his friend on the arm. Billy was still the good old honest buddy he always was and always would be.
“Okay,” he said as he started to move away. “Okay, man. I believe you.”
He walked away, his coldness returning.
“That’s it?” Billy said. “What about you? You going to give me some answers? Huh?”
Kruger waited a beat. “No,” he said. “All you need to know is I’m alive, I’m well, and now you’re going to die. The end.”
Billy felt the vein in his forehead pumping, his ears hot and a litany of profanities coming to mind at a rapid-fire rate. “Tell me one thing,” he called out to Kruger. “Tell me how you feel about offing me. About leaving your family to suffer. About all of it. Tell me how it feels to do what you’re doing, Sykes.”
Kruger, half-turned toward Billy, kept his neut
ral gaze. After a few beats, all he said were three words, as cold as the murders he had committed more than a few times over.
“I don’t care.”
Billy could hear the sincerity of the hollowness of what he said, the pure, unedited truth. Despite the fact that Billy had been shot, punched, and kicked around more than most people in the past few days, he had never felt worse in his life than he did this very moment.
Sykes was dead.
Now only “Kruger” existed.
Kruger moved away, pulling Mr. Thompson to the side and lowering his voice so Billy couldn’t make out the words.
“What do you want to do?” Mr. Thompson asked.
Kruger thought about it. “If he knew something, he would have said something.”
“Perhaps we should be exhaustive.”
“No,” Kruger said, glancing at Billy. “I know him. He would’ve talked…He doesn’t know anything.”
Mr. Thompson waited for the order.
Kruger gave it.
“Do him quick,” he said. “Give him that much.”
“And the girl?” Mr. Thompson asked as he gestured toward the door leading out.
Kruger looked in the other direction and mulled it over. “Do what you want.”
Mr. Thompson, wishing for once that he knew how to smile, began reaching for his gun.
Billy could sense what was coming next.
Shit.
He thought of how to get out of it, but he knew the options were nonexistent—he was strapped to a fucking chair.
Death was seconds away, and all he could use now were his wits to pull him out of it, or delay it at the very least.
Come on, man. Stall.
Control.
Be it his gut instinct, or his intricate knowledge of his best friend Sykes, or a combination of all three—Billy started to laugh. But not just any laugh, a very specific, Billy Reese “tell” kind of laugh, a laugh with hidden meaning, about which only people closest to Billy Reese could spot the lie.
People like Andy Sykes.
Kruger looked back at Billy. “What?” he asked him. “Spit it out. Come on.”