Behind the Mask

by J. D. Cunegan

  “You won’t find anything on there.” Anthony shook his head. “Stan never saved anything on that machine. Even bullshit puff piece notes were stored away on three different flash drives, a cloud account, and a separate email address.”

  Jill shook her head. “Has he always been that paranoid?”

  “Miss Andersen, in our line of work, it’s called being thorough.”

  And really, was that any different than Jill’s former job? Her cases had always been about finding the truth, using the clues provided to piece together what had happened. Honestly, was what Erikson did any different? Sure, the end result was different: he published his findings for the city to see, while Jill always hauled someone off in handcuffs, but the nuts and bolts? The nitty gritty?

  Jill and Erikson were more alike than she cared to admit.

  “How bad is this?” Anthony asked. “How much trouble is our boy in?”

  “More than he realizes.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The subbasement in the bowels of the hospital was a good twenty degrees hotter than the rest of the building—if not more. Erikson stumbled through the threshold, the heavy metal door slamming against the wall as he fell forward and scrambled to get back up. He tried to ignore both the furnace to his right and the shotgun pointed at his chest, finding it easier to focus on how hard it was to maintain his balance with only one good arm at his disposal.

  The pain was so overwhelming, combined with the stifling heat, that Erikson had trouble keeping his feet under him. His legs wobbled and he swayed on his feet. The only benefit was if the Russian man decided to pull the trigger, he would have only a slightly harder time blowing Erikson to bits.

  Small victories.

  “Stop,” Piotr ordered.

  “You’re a crappy date, you know that?” When all else failed, humor was Erikson’s crutch. It had gotten him in trouble more times than he cared to admit over the years, but it was one habit he never quite kicked. “You’re probably one of those bill-splitters, aren’t you? Gonna make your date pay for their meal, and still have the balls to expect them to put out.”

  A shotgun blast startled Erikson into silence, and when he flinched, his weak legs gave out. He crumpled to the cold floor with a grunt, pinning his broken hand against his chest and gritting his teeth. He looked up only to find himself staring down the barrel of the shotgun.

  “Silence.” The hand cradling the weapon tightened its grip. “Do not make me pull this trigger before getting any answers.”

  Erikson burst out laughing, despite himself, doubling over. Movement out of the corner of his eye brought the laughter to a halt, and Erikson used his good hand to shield himself—for all the good it would do.

  “Whatever you want,” he said, “you won’t get from me. So you might as well pull that trigger right now and be done with it.”

  Instead, Piotr smashed the butt of his weapon into Erikson’s face. Blood poured from the reporter’s nose as his head flew back and he fell to the floor unconscious.

  ERIKSON GROANED AS he regained consciousness, his head seemingly swimming in a pool of molasses. It took several blinks before his vision cleared. He was still trapped underneath the hospital, only now he was tied to a rusty gurney. The cuffs chattered when he tried to tug on them, and Erikson swallowed a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He felt something tugging on the back of his right hand, frowning when he saw a needle under his skin and a line running from his hand to a bag over his shoulder.

  “Ugh,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Dumbass...”

  Piotr pushed to his feet, shotgun still tucked in his right hand. He approached the gurney, cocking his head to the side and unsuccessfully fighting the smirk on his face. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re a dumbass,” Erikson grumbled, turning his head to the side to spit. He felt like he had a handful of cotton balls stuck in the back of his throat. “You want information out of a guy, the last thing you do is drug him up.”

  The grin on Piotr’s face grew as he reached for the line between the bag and Erikson’s hand. He grabbed a small lever that was attached, holding it up in the reporter’s line of sight. “Think of it as a reward,” he said. “You give me what I want, I up the dosage. You screw with me, I turn the drip off.”

  Erikson’s eyes went to the bag. The drip was slow, almost agonizingly so, and for the first time the reporter noticed his hand was no longer screaming in agony. Maybe it was the morphine; maybe it was the fact that Erikson still couldn’t shake the cobwebs in his head. But he glanced at Piotr again, grimacing at how the other man rested his thumb on the control switch.

  What would happen if Erikson overdosed on morphine?

  Of all the seemingly useless knowledge he had gathered over the years—most of it was related to a story he was writing at the time, honest—that was one fact he never gathered. Erikson decided he didn’t need to know that particular fact.

  “What do you want?”

  “Everything you have on that story you are writing.” Piotr returned to his seat, shotgun splayed across his lap. One hand rested on the weapon as the other cradled the lever controlling the morphine drip.

  Erikson arched a brow. “You’re kidding.”

  Piotr flicked the lever with a knowing grin. “How long do you think it would take for the drugs in your system to wear off and the pain to return, hm?”

  “Maybe an hour or two?” Erikson shrugged. He honestly couldn’t remember, despite having penned an expose’ several years ago that linked a local hospital to morphine overdoses. Of all the details Erikson remembered from that story, how long morphine’s effectiveness lasted wasn’t one of them.

  Piotr pursed his lips. “Patience is not a luxury I can afford right now.” He flicked the switch again with a shake of his head, leaning forward. “Besides, I think an overdose would be much worse for you, no?”

  “I dunno how they do things back in Mother Russia,” Erikson muttered through gritted teeth, “but here in America, journalists don’t give up their stuff.”

  “Even if it means their life?”

  “Especially when it means their life.” Erikson lifted his head, his vision finally clear enough that he could make out Piotr’s features. Even in the relative dark of this subbasement, he could see the determination in the Russian’s eyes and the almost robotic way in which he carried himself.

  Curiosity threatened to override survival instinct, which was likely the bane of every journalist Erikson had ever met. It was why his college roommate had been killed almost a decade ago while embedded with troops in Afghanistan, and it was why Erikson found himself down here now.

  “I do not want to kill you,” Piotr announced, as if that made this all okay. “There is only one man whose death would give me joy... but if I have to kill you to kill him, then so be it.”

  Erikson sucked in a deep breath, rolling his eyes to stare at the ceiling. The medicine was pumping into his bloodstream now, to the point where his head was once again spinning. Erikson clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. Were one hand not broken and the other stuck with a needle, he would have balled them into fists. Breathing became labored and a layer of sweat coated the reporter’s forehead.

  “Project Fusion.” Piotr’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”

  Erikson kept his mouth shut. He didn’t trust anything he said to make sense at this point, and he was worried if he opened his mouth, the contents of his stomach would spill out onto the floor and all over himself. Besides, there was a point of pride in staring someone down and refusing to give them what they wanted.

  Was it smart? No. But it was how people like Erikson did things. He would never betray a source like this, not in the face of a court order and not in the face of a strange Russian with a shotgun and a grudge.

  He certainly wasn’t about to betray Jill like this.

  “Sounds like,” he spat through clenched teeth, pausing to gather his breath, “sounds like bad science fiction.”

 
With another flip of the switch, Piotr grinned. Erikson hissed as his back arched off the gurney, his muscles taut and rivulets of sweat rolling down his temples. Piotr tossed the morphine control to the floor and stomped on it, breaking the device into several pieces. The drip was now a steady stream of drugs into the reporter’s bloodstream, and Piotr watched as Erikson writhed and shuddered in agony.

  “Your loyalty is admirable,” Piotr said, pressing the shotgun against Erikson’s forehead. “However foolish. You are going to die tonight regardless. Tell me what I want and I will make it quick.”

  Erikson gritted his teeth again, biting the tip of his tongue this time. He glared at Piotr as best he could, blood dripping down his chin. His entire body quivered, his limbs thrashing against their restraints. “Fuck,” he gasped, eyes rolling back into his head again. “Fuck you...”

  As the morphine continued to pour unabated into Erikson’s body, his convulsions became more violent. His skin turned ghost white, the sweat pouring down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and his fingers twitched, hands begging to close in on themselves. Erikson fought to retain consciousness, but as more of the drug pumped into his system, the darkness closed in on him.

  His eyes locked with Piotr’s once more. The vigilante had cocked his head to the side with a squint, lowering his shotgun. It was almost as if he was studying the reporter, taking in every twitch, every grimace of pain. Piotr had seen his share of death over the years, but this was the first time he had made it a point to watch as his victim clung to the last strips of consciousness.

  It was, for lack of a better word, fascinating.

  Erikson opened his mouth, tongue and bottom teeth covered in blood, as if he were about to say something...

  Which was when his entire body slacked.

  Stanley Erikson was dead.

  CHAPTER 36

  “Is it just me,” Earl Stevens asked, “or should a hospital never double as a crime scene?”

  “Especially a homicide,” Ramon agreed as the pair arrived at University of Maryland Medical Center, where the emergency ward had been blocked off in more yellow crime scene tape than either detective had ever seen. Juanita Gutierrez and several members of her forensics staff were tending to the dead, pulling spent bullets out of walls, and slipping shell casings into clear plastic bags.

  Juanita lowered into a crouch, examining a doctor who’d had the right side of his head blown off. Even with her years on the job, Juanita couldn’t hide the look of disgust on her face, carefully sifting through viscera in search of clues.

  “Quite the rampage,” she muttered.

  Daniel Richards stormed into the emergency ward, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and studying the carnage around him. He pursed his lips and shook his head, loosening the tie around his neck before pulling it off and stuffing it into his pockets. It was going to be another one of those nights, he could already tell.

  “Who the hell shoots up a goddamned hospital?”

  “Figure that’s part of our job, Cap,” Stevens said.

  Richards’ narrowed his gaze, glancing over his shoulder. “Where’s Watson?”

  Ramon and Stevens shared a glance before they both stared at the floor. They weren’t sure exactly how much the captain knew with regards to the rift between Watson and Blankenship—to say nothing of her abrupt disappearance and jaunt overseas. He had enough on his plate as it was. But they couldn’t just lie... could they?

  “Hi’s off trying to track down Whitney,” Stevens said.

  Richards sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Gutierrez, call Watson and tell him to get his ass down here. I need all hands on-deck.”

  Stevens glanced over Richards’ shoulder before moving to intercept a woman who had ducked under the crime scene tape. She kept her head down, an oversized hood covering her hair. “Sorry, miss. This is an active crime scene. I’m gonna have to ask you to—“

  “It’s me, Earl,” Jill whispered, lifting her head just enough to let her former colleague see her metal eyeplate.

  “Jesus fucking...” Stevens sighed and stole a glance over his shoulder before grabbing Jill by the arm and leading her back out into the waiting area, which was its own disaster area. The reception desk was in shambles and there was entirely too much blood on the floor. Only once they were near the vending machines in the far corner did Stevens release his grip.

  “You got a death wish or somethin’, Andersen? You know how many cops are here?”

  “What the hell happened here?” Jill shook her head and swallowed the lump forming in her throat, trying to glance over Stevens’ considerable shoulders to take in the carnage. “Where’s Stan?”

  Stevens’ frown deepened. “Who the hell is Stan?”

  Jill scanned the waiting room one more time, satisfied that she and Stevens were still the only two in the area. She shook her head with a sigh, realizing—not for the first time—how ridiculous this all was. “Stanley Erikson,” she explained. “He’s a writer for the Sun.”

  “The fuck does he have to do with anything?”

  “He’s been poking around for a story.” Jill shook her head again. “The kind of story that gets you in trouble. He contacted me about it, but before we got anywhere, the other vigilante attacked. I brought Stan here for get him some medical help, and we were going to go into hiding afterward.”

  Stevens turned to Ramon, who had joined them in the waiting room. The younger detective hadn’t yet looked at Jill, but her heart lurched into her throat when she saw him. The last time they had been in the same room together, he had barely been able to look at her.

  “Check the patient list,” Stevens said. “Look for a Stanley Erikson.”

  “He wouldn’t be under that name.”

  Both detectives frowned at Jill, but Ramon’s cut deeper once he realized who was talking. But he steeled his expression just as quickly, his shoulders hunching as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “He was using an alias?”

  Jill nodded and chewed on her bottom lip. “He knew how deep he was in it, had contingencies in place.”

  Ramon shook his head. “Contingencies for what?”

  “Story he was workin’ on,” Stevens explained. “Apparently, the other vigilante attacked him tonight... which was how he wound up here in the first place.”

  Ramon arched a brow and looked over his shoulder. “You mean to tell me all that is because of a reporter?”

  “Look,” Jill said, shaking her head, “I know how it sounds...”

  “And if we weren’t standin’ in front of a damned superhero, I’d be callin’ the psych ward,” Stevens interjected. He stole a glance over his shoulder; fortunately, they were still alone in the waiting area. “You said the other vigilante attacked?”

  Ramon pursed his lips. “Piotr?”

  Jill’ blood ran cold every time she heard that name, not only because he was every bit the monster she refused to be, but because he was a reminder that her past wasn’t as far back in the proverbial rearview mirror as she thought—or hoped. In a perfect world, Ramon wouldn’t know that name.

  Then again, in a perfect world, they’d still be partners.

  “Jill,” Ramon began with a shake of his head, “his name keeps popping up in all of our investigations. Lori Taylor told us he was in on Adam Jonas’ murder, which corroborates your story. He attacked us while we were interrogating her about Freeman. Now this? Jill, what’s his deal?”

  “He’s aligned with Gregor,” she admitted, rolling her human eye. “Or he was. Now he claims he wants the guy dead.”

  “But what’s his story?” Stevens asked.

  Jill locked eyes with Ramon, silently thankful they no longer seemed to hold the anger she saw the other night when he had her in the interrogation room. “Your theory back when he killed those cops was spot-on.”

  Ramon’s frown deepened. “He’s Project Fusion?”

  “And he’s not keen on anyone but me knowing it.”

  St
evens nodded and folded his arms over his chest. “Which is why he went after Erikson.”

  “Can I shoot him?” Ramon asked in that tone he always used when he wanted to make it clear he was joking. But there was no levity in his gaze, only exhaustion and frustration. “Guy’s not bulletproof, is he?”

  “Asswipe handled you and me with no problem,” Stevens muttered.

  “Yes, broadcast that fact in front of my former partner.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Jill said. “Every bit my physical equal with none of the moral hang-ups.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Leave Piotr to me,” Jill said; it was awkward giving her old colleagues orders, seeing as how she was no longer one of them. Still, when it came to the other vigilante, she was more of an expert than either of them. Not that they would be able to handle him regardless... but still.

  She glanced over Stevens’ shoulder in time to see Captain Richards emerging from the bowels of the emergency ward. “And assume Stan’s been killed until you learn otherwise.”

  “Stevens, Gutierrez,” Richards called out from behind. “You might wanna come look at this.”

  Both detectives turned to regard their captain with a nod. “Be right there, Cap,” Stevens said.

  By the time both Stevens and Ramon turned back around, Jill had disappeared. Neither of them had heard her leave, and they hadn’t turned their backs on her for more than a couple seconds. The two detectives exchanged a glance before Ramon shrugged his shoulders and wandered back to the emergency ward.

  “Sunofabitch,” Stevens muttered before joining him.

  CHAPTER 37

  Even at this late hour, Baltimore-Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport was a sea of activity. Far too many passengers milled about for Whitney Blankenship’s liking; she clutched her shoulder bag even tighter as she weaved her way through foot traffic. The sooner she could grab her luggage and head home, the better. What she was going to do from there, she didn’t know. France had been a bust, and for the first time, Whitney couldn’t see a way out.