Behind the Mask

by J. D. Cunegan

  “You need to be careful,” Jill said, nodding in the direction of the hospital. “All of you. I don’t think you guys are properly equipped to handle Piotr. If he wants to evade you all, there’s not much you can do about it.”

  Richards raised a brow. “That your way of telling me to let you handle it?”

  Jill smiled despite herself. “I was trying to be diplomatic.”

  “I don’t like being pushed to the sidelines,” Richards admitted, approaching Jill and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Never have. But I’ve seen what this... Piotr is capable of, so unless things get too sideways, we’ll focus on solving all those murders. But if I ever have a chance to put a bullet in his brain, you best believe I’ll pull that trigger.”

  Jill covered her former boss’ hand with her own, giving him a sad smile. She appreciated the lengths Richards was willing to go for her, even after she had turned in her badge. Such loyalty was hard to come by anymore, and she knew better than to take that for granted.

  It also made her miss Brian. She needed to pay him a visit, see how he was doing. She was probably going to be on the receiving end of another tongue-lashing, but she was tired of letting things hang in the air between them.

  He was the only family Jill had left. She needed to start treating him like it.

  “I love you, Dan,” she said.

  “Right back atcha.” Richards smiled in return, but it dimmed when he gave Jill’s shoulder a squeeze. “I gotta get back to the precinct. Hopefully, there’ll be some coffee to go with my booze.”

  Jill huffed a laugh. “Be careful.”

  Richards tossed a wave over his shoulder as he walked off into the night. Jill’s smile faded as she watched him leave, her mind going back to what Erikson’s death meant. Had Piotr acted alone in that, like he had suggested, or was he more closely aligned with Gregor than he let on? The latter made more sense than the former, but Jill had learned enough as an investigator to never outright dismiss a possibility until it was proven impossible.

  She also couldn’t remember if Erikson had any family. He had never mentioned one, and Jill didn’t remember seeing any evidence of one in his office. There were no framed photographs, no mementos on his desk or the walls. Had he been so driven in his professional life because that was all he had?

  Jill sighed, but before she could start walking, she felt the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her head. She froze in place once her arms went up—more out of habit than anything—and Jill swallowed a knot of dread.

  “That’s it,” a familiar voice mocked. “Keep those hands up.”

  Jill frowned, fighting the urge to turn around. Her ears had to be playing tricks on her, because there was no way...

  “Whitney?”

  The barrel drew back from Jill’s head—before the butt of the weapon slammed into the base of Jill’s skull and knocked her face-forward to the ground. Jill groaned at the pain, hands curling to fists before another blow knocked her unconscious.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Do we really have to do this again?”

  When Earl Stevens and Hitori Watson strolled into Interrogation One, Lori Taylor met them with little more than an eyeroll and a shake of her head. Were her wrists not bound together, the brand-new chain connected to the center of the table, her arms would probably be folded across her chest. The disdain rolled off of her in waves, and she didn’t bother hiding her glare when the two detectives sat down across from her.

  Stevens tossed a black voice recorder still encased in a clear plastic evidence bag onto the table with a sigh, scratching at his moustache. “See, the things is, we keep finding out all sorts of interesting things about you.”

  “Yeah, I’m fascinating.” Lori cocked her head to the side. “And what is that supposed to be?”

  Instead of answering, Watson grabbed the device and hit the play button. The conversation between Lori and whoever had been on the line with her—it was clear this was a phone call—played, and Lori’s face shifted from disgust to fear as the words played out. She leaned forward in her seat, her hands balled into fists as her lower lip started trembling.

  She shook her head when the recording stopped. “That son of a bitch...”

  “So not only do we have you for one murder,” Stevens said, grabbing the bag again, “but now we have you on conspiracy to commit. On an undercover cop.”

  Watson shook his head. “You know how many years you’re looking at?”

  “Can you even count that high?” Stevens asked.

  Lori’s eyes danced between the two detectives before landing on the evidence bag. She had been sloppier than she thought; first, she forgot to erase security cam footage that caught her shooting Joel Freeman in the head, and now she had apparently let her phone calls be recorded. She was so much better than this... wasn’t she?

  She was intelligent. She wouldn’t have graduated from both Harvard and Georgetown otherwise. Yet there sat proof of her own ineptitude. Her life was over, which by itself might not have been that tragic. But if Lori’s fall precipitated the crumbling of David Gregor’s empire... could she live with herself?

  Would he let her?

  Then again, if there was a way to save her own hide and make sure he didn’t come for her once everything went south... no. No. She couldn’t do it. Could she? Lori chewed on her lower lip, stealing a quick glance of herself in the two-way mirror. The lights in this room were murder on her complexion. Having spent however many days in Holding didn’t help, either.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, Lori?” Watson asked.

  “And who was on the other end of that call?” Stevens added.

  “I want my lawyer.” Lori let her fists unfurl, staring straight ahead as she flexed her fingers. She tried to work the tension out of her shoulders, but the knots wouldn’t loosen. A bead of sweat rolled down her left temple. “I’m not saying another word until he gets here.”

  Stevens shook his head. “Better hope he shows this time.”

  WITH EVERYTHING THAT had gone on in the last two days, Ramon had nearly forgotten about the black flash drive Agent McDermott had left him. The device promised to give answers about Piotr, the Russian vigilante who apparently had all of Jill’s physical abilities, but none of the charm or wit. But he wasn’t sure if McDermott could be trusted; after all, Ramon was well aware of the age-old tradition of the FBI storming in on local law enforcement, taking over and taking credit. Was that what this was?

  But only McDermott had surfaced to this point. And he had made a point to tell Ramon what he wasn’t there for. Still, something about the agent rubbed him the wrong way, even as he slid the drive into his computer.

  His phone chirped, signaling a text message from Jorge. Know you’re working—having dinner with Mitch tonight. Ramon grinned, not just because his fiancé had that effect on him, but he loved how seamlessly Mitch had integrated into their lives. She was thriving at Coppin State, having found a passion in psychology, and that environment had helped her in mourning her grandfather’s murder.

  Then again, having caught the bastard responsible had helped.

  Save me an egg roll ;)

  Ramon pocketed his phone after setting it to vibrate. The folder had automatically opened on his monitor, and Ramon frowned at just how much of it was in Russian—the one language Ramon didn’t take in high school. He wondered if Mr. Fancy-Pants FBI Guy knew Russian.

  But then, in an instant, all of the Russian translated into English. Ramon hadn’t hit a key or clicked on his mouse or anything. The text had just... changed.

  “Weird,” he muttered under his breath.

  Skipping over the video file—because just from the thumbnail, Ramon could tell that was footage of Piotr’s Project Fusion procedure and he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for that—he instead clicked on a folder with the vigilante’s name on it.

  Again, Russian morphed into English on its own, without prompting. Ramon shook his head, instead clicking on Piotr’s mugsh
ot to enlarge it. He was classically handsome, even knowing what Ramon did about him, though Piotr also appeared to be the Aryan poster boy. Blond hair, blue eyes. That whole bit.

  But Ramon needed actual facts. Where was this guy from? How had he gotten roped into Project Fusion in the first place? And for that matter, how did an FBI agent come across all of this and just decide to hand it to the BPD, no questions asked?

  Moving on to some of the other files, Ramon found that many of them were in Russian—and they weren’t translating like the actual folders. Ramon rolled his eyes at the predictability of it, but he did notice that each document and form had the same six signatures at the bottom.

  Three of them, Ramon didn’t recognize. One was the Russian president at the time. The other two? None other than Dr. Trent Roberts and Joel Freeman.

  While disappointed David Gregor wasn’t one of those names, Ramon consoled himself with the fact that there was now a concrete connection between the other vigilante and Freeman. Closing each of the files, Ramon had every intention of tracking down someone who could speak or read Russian... before he found a sub-folder labeled Translations.

  Opening that folder as quickly as the finger on his mouse would allow, Ramon bit down on his lower lip and leaned in closer to the screen. It was the same jolt of adrenaline he always felt when stumbling upon something that could break a case wide open... but the adrenaline morphed into dread and nausea as his eyes scanned over what someone at the FBI had clearly pieced together.

  Conditioned for war since the age of five.

  Lethal in hand-to-hand combat.

  Proficient in long-range firearms.

  Exceedingly loyal to Mother Russia.

  Current known body count: 15.

  Victims include parents Katrina and Vladislav.

  Russian President personally recommended Piotr for Project Fusion.

  Ramon’s stomach churned the more he read. What was this, the Cold War all over again? Russia hadn’t been America’s international boogeyman since Ramon was a child, and yet he was staring at a conspiracy halfway across the world that, as far as Ramon could tell, stemmed from the fact that Project Fusion’s first success story was an American. What was next? Russia meddling in American elections?

  Ramon needed to talk to Agent McDermott. Only problem was, he had no way to get a hold of him. It was almost as if Agent McDermott had been a ghost. He had showed up, handed Ramon the flash drive, and disappeared just as quickly. Where had he gone off to? What was his endgame?

  Ramon supposed his former partner was a solid backup plan, but he still felt awkward talking to her. It had gotten slightly better in recent days, but he still wasn’t sure how he felt about everything.

  Ramon looked up as Watson and Stevens returned to their desks. He closed out all the windows on his screen and unplugged the flash drive before sliding into his coat pocket. “How’d it go in there?”

  “Bitch lawyered up,” Stevens grumbled.

  Ramon smirked. “Cause that worked so well the first time?”

  “Not that it matters.” Watson shook his head. “We’ve got video of her committing one murder and audio of her setting up another. Short of catching her in the act, that’s the best we could ever hope for.”

  Ramon narrowed his eyes. “Then why do you look like someone just ran over your dog?”

  CHAPTER 41

  Jill rolled onto her back with a groan, pressing a cool hand to her forehead as her vision slowly became clearer. She found herself in yet another dark warehouse, but unlike most of the others, this one didn’t have any of the foul aromas that gave the place character. Jill blinked out the bleariness as best she could, frowning when the memory of how she wound up unconscious in the first place came back to her.

  That frown only deepened when she saw Whitney Blankenship standing over her, a Sig Sauer cradled in both hands.

  “This has to be a dream,” she muttered.

  “Stay right where you are,” Blankenship ordered with a quirked brow. Her thumb rested on the safety, and it took just one flick for it to be turned off and the trigger to be active.

  Having already experienced being shot once in her life, and not feeling the need to relive it, Jill stayed on her back, lifting her hands.

  “Okay,” Jill said, her eyes flicking back and forth between the gun and Blankenship’s face. “Any minute now, you’re gonna say something that makes all this make sense.”

  “Shut up.”

  Or not...

  As Blankenship turned her back to Jill, a slip of paper fell to the floor. It was folded in half, the inside facing Jill. She leaned in, only to find the words Play along scrawled across the surface. Glancing Blankenship’s way again, Jill fought the urge to frown, keeping her hands right where they were.

  “This city worships you,” Blankenship said with a shake of her head, staring through one of the nearby windows. The glass was cracked and a chilly breeze came in off the bay. “Fucking kisses the ground you walk on. Only thing I can’t figure is... why?”

  If this was an act, Blankenship was a damn fine actor. Honestly, she had missed her true calling in life. The anger practically spilled from her mouth with each word, and Jill wondered where it all came from. Had Blankenship always felt this way, or had it all bubbled up in the weeks since Jill turned in her badge?

  “You swore to uphold the law, yet you spit on its face every time you put on that suit.” Blankenship turned to stare at Jill again, shaking her head and clenching her jaw. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “Maybe it’s the concussion,” Jill muttered, “but I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

  “Oh, you got jokes now.” Blankenship paced in a circle around Jill, keeping her gun at her hip. Which was an upgrade over having the damn thing pointed right at her.

  “What the hell, Whit?” Jill kept her eyes on the weapon, her muscles taut. Jill was certain she couldn’t outrun a bullet, but if memory served, Blankenship was the worst marksman of her former squad. As messed up as it sounded, Jill could use that to her advantage if she had to.

  “Everything was fine when we all thought you were just a cop,” Blankenship explained. “Sure, you had daddy issues, but what cop isn’t just a little messed up in the head?”

  She dropped to a crouch near Jill’s head, and Jill had to crane her neck to keep her line of sight. She didn’t much care for the hate and disgust on Blankenship’s face, but she wasn’t about to lose sight of that gun. While Jill wanted to believe she wouldn’t pull that trigger, the past few weeks were full of enough surprises that she knew she couldn’t count on belief.

  “But then we find out you’re some superhero.” Blankenship shook her head. “Bodies start piling up, other cops start taking matters into their own hands... this city practically foams at the mouth trying to figure out who or what you are.”

  “And that’s my fault how?”

  “So busy trying to make everyone see you’re not your daddy, you can’t even see the damage you’re causing.” Blankenship smacked Jill in the side of the head with the butt of her gun, grinning when she drew blood. “Gregor was right about you.”

  The sound of his name on her lips hit Jill harder than the blow to her head. She stared up at her former colleague in stunned silence, her mind too shaken to form any words. Instead, Jill just shook her head as her brow furrowed into a mix of disgust and confusion.

  “What—“

  “You’re just in the way.” Blankenship began pacing again. “You think you’re helping, but you just make things worse. And now you’ve got a friend running around, doing all your dirty work for you?”

  “He’s not my friend,” Jill spat through clenched teeth.

  “Please.” Blankenship shook her head. “I had my way, you’d both be tossed into the Chesapeake and we’d finally get back to normal around here.”

  “What did he promise you?” Jill asked, slowly gathering herself, getting back to her knees and keeping her hands up the entire time. �
�What did David Gregor offer you that lured you to the dark side?”

  It made no sense. During the Devin Buckner case, Blankenship had been one of the most outspoken against police brutality, speaking up whenever a cop was even thought to be corrupt. Now she was taking money from the shadiest billionaire on the East Coast? There wasn’t just anger in Blankenship’s eyes, either. Her dark irises were a swirl of conflicting emotions, and Jill’s mind went back to that slip of paper.

  Play along.

  Was this all an act? It was damn convincing. Blankenship should really have considered a career change. Hollywood was more her game than West Baltimore.

  Jill got back to her feet, never once breaking eye contact with Blankenship, her hands still up on either side of her head. If Blankenship was going to pull the trigger, she was going to do so on an unarmed, passive victim.

  “He pay you to kill me?”

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  The male voice cutting through the darkness caught Jill off-guard. Her eyes scanned her meager surroundings until they centered on a cloaked figure and another man in a wheelchair emerging from one of the back doors. Once they appeared from the shadows, the cloaked figure removed its hood, revealing Captain Richards. Brian, Jill’s older brother, was at his side.

  “Detective Blankenship,” Richards ordered, pressing the button on a palm-sized remote in his hand. “Holster your weapon.”

  “Yes,” Brian added. “No shooting my sister, please.”

  Blankenship’s shoulders sagged as she placed the gun back in the holster on her hip. Jill released the breath she had been holding, lowering her arms and giving her brother and former boss as menacing a glare as she could muster—assisted by the silver eyeplate on the left side of her face. Her hands balled into fists and she approached the pair.

  “Okay, there better be a damn good explanation for all this,” she said. “Not a fan of having a former co-worker bludgeon me in the head with her service piece.”