Behind the Mask

by J. D. Cunegan

  “Great.” Lori shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Mind telling the Russian fuckwit who actually started it all?”

  “I don’t give two shits about the vigilante,” Richards said with a wave. “Well, not that one. And see, I have a theory... one where you two are in league with each other, and this whole thing was orchestrated.”

  Lori scoffed and lifted her chin just enough for the bruise starting to form of the side of her neck visible. She leaned forward so more of the overhead light shone on it. “Does this look orchestrated to you?”

  “Unless you can prove otherwise... yes.”

  “How in the world can you—“

  “Because I know who you work for.” Richards leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, who you really work for. Which is why I’m not worried about you blabbing to the Bishop about this.”

  “Maybe who I work for should worry you.”

  “Please.” Richards pushed himself out of his chair and shook his head, pacing in circles around the table and stealing a glance at the one-way mirror. The fluorescent lights didn’t do his wrinkles or the bags under his eyes any favors. “I’ve been dealing with David Gregor for decades. He couldn’t touch me then, he can’t touch me now.”

  Fact was, before Gregor approached Paul all those years ago, he had tried to bring Richards into the fold. The captain—a detective at the time—had told him where he could stick his offer, fully expecting the brunt of Gregor’s empire to come back on him. But that never happened; instead, Gregor had turned his attention to Richards’ partner, the man who at the time was considered one of Baltimore’s most virtuous cops.

  It had all happened right under Richards’ nose, and he never saw the signs until it was too late. That Richards wound up being the one to arrest Paul—while professionally beneficial—was one of those wounds that would never heal.

  “And how did that work for you?” Lori asked.

  “How did murder work for you?” Richards arched a brow. “How much is Gregor paying you, anyway? What’s he giving you that’s worth throwing away your life like that?”

  Lori shrugged, suddenly unable to look at the captain. “Maybe he and I just want the same thing.”

  “But still... this? Murder that leads directly back to him?” Richards shook his head and made a tsk sound. “Either he doesn’t know what you’ve done, or he’s getting dumb in his old age.”

  Lori could do little more than stare at her own hands. Killing Freeman before Gregor’s return from France was not part of the plan; in fact, he had specifically instructed her to wait. But Lori was filled with such hatred and rage over anything even tangentially related to Jill Andersen that the mere sight of Freeman sent her over the edge.

  And now... well, the worst part of this wasn’t the fact that Lori was likely going to jail. She could live with that. But if this brought down Gregor’s empire... if this was what the feds had spent the past decade-plus looking for, and they led him away to a federal penitentiary, she would never be able to live with herself. To be responsible for ruining David Gregor’s life, to bring the love of her life toppling down...

  Lori tried to blink away tears, but they fell anyway.

  Richards tried not to roll his eyes upon seeing the tears trickling down Lori’s cheeks, but he failed. Instead, he shook his head and returned to his seat. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “You love that asshole, don’t you?”

  Lori sat in silence, unwilling to give the captain sitting across from her the satisfaction of knowing he was right. She caught sight of him shaking his head out of the corner of her eye, and while Lori had expected that reaction to anger her, it just filled her with a stomach-dropping sense of guilt.

  “You did this cause of a man?” Not that Richards should’ve been surprised; he had seen plenty of murders over the years that had been motivated by either love or lust. Perhaps David Gregor, wealth and clout notwithstanding, was no different.

  Now there was the anger Lori had been expecting. The condensation in Richards’ voice, the way he clearly judged her because of who her heart decided to latch onto... when he clearly had not been a virtuous man himself... Lori set her jaw and her hands balled into fists.

  “I did it to get rid of her!” she blurted out before realizing that she had, in essence, confessed. Not that it mattered; the detectives working the case already had a rock-solid case. Still, saying the words out loud made Lori want to vomit.

  Richards cocked his head to the side. “Who?”

  He knew the answer. He already knew the answer even before the woman sitting across from him said anything. But he wanted to hear her say it. What he would do after hearing it, Richards didn’t know, but for some reason, he needed Lori to actually say the words.

  “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

  “You’re right, I do.” Richards leaned forward, grabbing his glasses and placing them back on his face. Only they were lower on his nose this time, which allowed him to peer over the frames at Lori. “And I want you to listen to me. I don’t know what your problem with Andersen is, and frankly, I don’t care. But if you or your billion-dollar boytoy do anything to her, there will be hell to pay.”

  Lori rolled her eyes. “Right, like the cops are gonna give a damn about her now.”

  A knowing smile crept onto Richards’ face. “I wasn’t talking about the cops.”

  CHAPTER 33

  “I don’t like this.”

  Jill shook her head. “I don’t, either, but it’s our only choice.”

  Stanley Erikson sucked in a deep breath, his hand still cradled against his chest. His fingers were shattered, the result of his brilliant idea to punch the other vigilante in the head. To say nothing of the shoulder that had popped out of joint before that. Jill had pushed it back into its socket on their way here—and that was an experience Erikson hoped to never repeat—but it still hurt.

  The hand was far worse, though; it felt as if his hand had slammed into a solid metal wall, and at the very least, he was staring at several weeks of one-handed, hunt-and-peck typing. And with newspaper deadlines coming earlier and earlier these days... for the first time in his life, Erikson was considering if voice-recognition software was worth his time.

  “I still think you’re being paranoid,” he whispered.

  “I prefer the term vigilant.” Jill pushed Erikson out of the shadows, which spilled out to the emergency entrance at the University of Maryland Medical Center. “I’ll be back.”

  Erikson frowned and looked over his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got a Russian to hunt.”

  Jill slipped deeper into the shadows, disappearing and leaving Erikson on his own. He sighed and shook his head before wandering through the entrance. The emergency ward’s waiting area was far too packed for the late hour, and Erikson felt a pang of guilt for the overworked nurse at the check-in station he was about to disturb.

  “Uh, hi,” he began. “I, uh... need a doctor. Think my hand might be broken. And I kinda, uh... messed up my shoulder pretty bad, too.”

  Without looking up, the nurse began typing away on his keyboard. A silver name tag on the lapel of his light blue scrubs read Tafoya. “Name?”

  “Sam McDowell,” Erikson lied.

  AS EXPECTED, ERIKSON had several fractures in his hand. Even better, the doctors had given him something for his shoulder. There was no lasting damage there; the main concern was his hand. Now that he was comfortable—as comfortable as one could be in an emergency ward cot, hopped up on pain medication and cradling their hand in a sling—all that was left was to wait for Jill to come back. Then again, how she planned on sneaking into a hospital without anyone noticing her was beyond Erikson. She wasn’t exactly the master of stealth, from what he could tell, and he didn’t want her risking arrest on his behalf.

  Almost fifteen years ago, prior to beginning a long-term, deep-cover assignment, Erikson had leveraged every government contact he had to create a new identity
. New name, new Social Security number, everything. It had served him well not only in researching and writing that piece, but also now, when he needed medical attention but also didn’t want the other vigilante being able to figure out which hospital he was holed up in.

  No sitting ducks for Erikson.

  “And how are we feeling, Mr. McDowell?” Erikson’s ER doctor, a chipper man named Reyes, asked as he pushed aside the curtain separating him from the other patients.

  “Need to get my temper in check,” Erikson joked, lifting the sling. “Punching file cabinets is clearly bad for my health.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it, no,” Dr. Reyes agreed. “The good news is, you won’t need surgery. Your fractures are clean, which means they’ll heal just fine on their own. Just gotta be careful with it for about three weeks.”

  “Too bad I’m not left-handed.”

  The two men shared a laugh—one that was interrupted by the explosion of gunfire. Nurses and patients alike screamed. Doors burst open, trays carrying medical supplies toppled over when those trying to flee knocked them over. Dr. Reyes pulled the curtain back, recoiling when he saw one of the nurses fall face-first, blood trickling from a gaping wound in the side of her head.

  Dr. Reyes dropped to his knees, his professional instincts kicking in, but the sound of a shotgun being cocked stopped him in his tracks. He looked up and saw a male figure, dressed head to toe in black, approaching. He cradled a shotgun in both hands, his heavy boots stomping along the blood-stained floor.

  ER patients stopped running and instead took to hiding wherever they could find space, and Dr. Reyes caught one of the nurses texting for help out of the corner of his eye. He then locked eyes with his patient, shaking his head before reaching for the woman in front of him.

  He pressed two fingers to the side of her neck. Nothing. Dr. Reyes hadn’t expected any different.

  “Step away from the body, doctor.”

  Erikson frowned, because even through the mask, the Russian-tinted voice sounded familiar. No way in hell was Erikson going to just lie here and let that son of a bitch come after him. If he was going to be gunned down, it was going to be because he stood up to the man.

  Fortunately, the pain meds weren’t affecting Erikson too much. He pushed himself out of his cot with a grunt, taking a moment to ensure his legs wouldn’t give out on him. He saw Dr. Reyes’ eyes widen, but he simply rose his arms and stared straight ahead. Erikson yanked back the navy blue curtain with a scowl, shaking his head.

  “Real big man,” he said. “Shooting up an ER.”

  With his gun still pointed at Dr. Reyes, Piotr removed his mask and grinned. The only thing more disturbing than the scar on his face was the way he smiled. “Ah, the reporter. Just who I was looking for.”

  “And you found me.” Erikson glanced over Piotr’s shoulder. “Which means you can let everyone else go.”

  “I could.” Piotr lowered his shotgun before grabbing Erikson by the arm and yanking him out of the ER bay. With a yelp when his shoulder twinged, Erikson stumbled and regained his footing, only to feel the business end of Piotr’s weapon pressed against the base of his skull. “Walk.”

  Erikson frowned, his good arm raised above his head. “Where?”

  Piotr jammed the shotgun harder against the back of Erikson’s head, and the reporter stumbled forward. “I will tell you when to stop.”

  The two men passed through what was left of the double doors separating the waiting room from the rest of the emergency ward. But before they truly crossed the threshold, Piotr stopped. Turning around, he sneered at Dr. Reyes, who was hunched over the dead nurse, shaking his head.

  Without a word, Piotr lifted the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The right side of Dr. Reyes’ head exploded in a mess of blood and skull fragments.

  “Get any ideas,” Piotr warned as the two men began walking again, “and that will be you.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The downtown offices of The Baltimore Sun should not have been this easy to break into. Then again, most security protocols weren’t designed with people like Jill in mind. Everyone assumed an intruder would go for one of the ground-level entrances; Jill’s abilities and expertise told her a top-down approach was both more effective and hardly ever accounted for. After all, who in their right mind would climb up to the roof of a downtown building and then find some roundabout way to work themselves down to a lower floor?

  Then again, chances were the building had a silent alarm of sorts. For all Jill knew, she had triggered it and someone was on their way after her. Which meant she had to find whatever she could in Stanley Erikson’s office and get out fast.

  Besides, the longer she left him on his own...

  Erikson’s office was clean—perhaps too much so, as if someone had recently taken great pains to make sure there was nothing out of place. The corkboard on the far wall was blank, the desk completely free of overstuffed folders and loose sheets of paper. Even the computer monitor had been turned off.

  Either Erikson had put a contingency plan in place before meeting with Jill tonight, or she wasn’t the first person to break into this office to snoop around.

  Even a cursory examination of the drawers revealed nothing of consequence. Jill’s instinct was to conduct a more thorough investigation of the contents, but she knew she likely didn’t have time for that.

  And sure enough...

  “Stop right there!”

  Raising her arms, Jill fought the urge to roll her human eye. It wasn’t the security guard’s fault; he was just doing his job. But he didn’t have the training or the skills necessary to take her down—and knowing that, Jill hoped to avoid a confrontation with him if at all possible. She squinted and shielded her eyes; if he didn’t shine that flashlight somewhere else, she might have to re-think that.

  The light reflected off her eyeplate, and the guard recoiled with a shake of his head. He kept the flashlight on, but he lowered the beam ever so slightly.

  “Keep your hands right there,” he ordered in a shaky voice. “Right where I can see them.”

  “Take it easy, Smith,” an unfamiliar voice ordered, and Jill watched as a slender man with a balding head and thick-rimmed glasses walked into the office, patting the guard on the shoulder. “Stand down.”

  Smith frowned and arched a brow. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll take it from here.”

  Staring at Jill, clearly still skeptical, Smith turned off his flashlight and slid it back into the leather holder on his belt. Backing out of the office, he leaned in. “You holler if I need to call for backup.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The man offered a tight-lipped smile and his hands were buried in his pockets. “Thank you, though.”

  Once Smith left, the man shut the door behind him before regarding Jill again. He gave a soft, if slightly unnerving smile before pursing his lips. “So... you’re Bounty.”

  Jill’s hands balled into fists. “And you are?”

  “Oh, my apologies. I’m Anthony Spencer, news editor.” The smile grew ever so slightly. “I’m sorry, it’s just... one thing to hear about you all the time. To actually see you, up close and personal like this... it’s remarkable.”

  Yanking one of the drawers open again, Jill dropped into a crouch so she could thumb through the folders. Nothing caught her attention. “No offense, but I’m not really looking to start a fan club.”

  “You’re here because of Stan.” Anthony smiled again when Jill scowled at him. The eyeplate was unnerving, but the editor wasn’t about to let her know that. “Please. I was a journalist once upon a time. Why else would you be in his office?”

  Jill closed the drawer, satisfied there would be nothing of interest to her in there, and stood upright again. Her hands curled once more into fists, she crossed over to the front of the desk before folding her arms over her chest.

  “You know something?” she asked.

  “I should’ve known Stan was in trouble.”

  Jill
cocked her head to the side and studied the man standing in the doorway with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He more closely resembled a marathon runner than someone Jill figured would’ve been a newspaper editor, but the badge hanging around his neck wouldn’t lie.

  “First, he tells me about this story,” Anthony muttered, shaking his head. “Billionaires and Russians and secret experiments... and then, earlier tonight, I tried calling him and it went straight to voicemail.”

  Jill’s blood ran cold. “That unusual for him?”

  “Stan never misses a call.” A sideways grin crept onto the editor’s face. “Holidays, vacations, guy’s got Orioles playoff tickets... doesn’t matter. Hell, one time he picked up while he and his ex-wife were in the middle of... well, you know.”

  Jill arched a brow. “Bet that was awkward.”

  “There’s a reason she’s an ex. Two things a guy should never do during sex: call out another girl’s name and answer the damn phone.”

  A rueful smile tugged on Jill’s lips. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Approaching Jill, Anthony’s frown deepened. The office was far cleaner than he remembered, definitely cleaner than Erikson typically left it. In fact, all of the notes and threads the reporter had on his corkboard were gone. Truth be told, the office felt naked without it, and the implication sat like a weight in the pit of Anthony’s stomach.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Anything Stan had on that story,” Jill answered, pushing herself off the desk and giving the dark office another once-over. Her inner detective was working overtime, partly to knock off the rust that had come from weeks of atrophy. Yet no matter how thoroughly she studied her surroundings, nothing popped out. “We met tonight and got ambushed.”

  Anthony felt as if his heart were going to burst through his throat and out his mouth. “Is Stan okay?”

  “Clearly, he’s getting close.” By not answering the question, Jill was probably giving Anthony the only answer he needed. She sank herself into Stan’s seat; it was infinitely more comfortable than the chair she’d had back at the Seventh. A brief pang of jealousy tugged at Jill before she shook it off and turned her attention to the computer. “Someone’s scared.”