The Hard Core

by Allen Manning

  Roland laughed, covering his face with his hands. The mixed emotions, frustration, hopelessness, resignation, still swirled in his mind. The pills would take effect soon.

  Grinding his teeth, he felt the muscles in his jaw, working rhythmically, helping him regain focus. In his quest for answers, someone reached out to him, offering help. A stranger promising a way to the truth. Roland’s mystery contact was able to access files outside of his reach.

  More and more every day, what Silver Creek did to him started to feel like a setup. The altercation happened out of the blue, with several inmates he had never crossed paths with before.

  Facing an extended stay, the visit from the INSEC recruiter felt more like a way out. A chance at turning his life around. But everything his mystery contact brought to him just clued Roland in on the truth.

  This morning was no exception. Roland’s face softened, curving up into a smile. Genuine happiness. The sliver of light, showing an end to the darkness.

  Silver Creek’s warden, Vincent Treadwell had been implicated in a conspiracy to frame inmates at the for-profit prison, pressuring the victims to accept INSEC’s offer. The man had been found dead before his trial, so the case slammed into a dead end.

  But Roland had a meet set up now. A time and place, three days from now. It would provide the battering ram he needed to blast through and find the truth.

  An image flashed through his head. A man on his knees. A gun to his head. Roland squeezed his eyes shut, teeth bared, jaw clenched.

  A gunshot. The warm spray of blood on his face. A scream in his ears. It was his this time. Sucking deep breaths through flared nostrils, Roland balled up his fists and counted down from ten with each drawn out exhale.

  The scene came back, fuzzy around the edges, but the central focus burned into the back of his eyes, clear as day. The woman. The town’s matriarch. Her head snapping to the side as a rifle round burst through the skull. Roland wrapped his arms around his head, pulling down as he fell to his knees.

  He wanted to tear his eyes out. But that was ultimately useless. The horror had been imprinted deep. Men and women lined up against a wall. Not soldiers. Not a threat. Just children, teens, and the elderly. Their only crime was defending their home against marauders.

  Roland’s memory replayed the massacre in full. INSEC soldiers firing burst after burst of 6.7mm caseless rounds. Bullets designed to pierce hard barriers and still shred the intended target’s soft tissue.

  The constant chatter of rifle fire echoed through his skull. He lay on his side, jaw tight, saliva pooling next to his face.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  Birds chirped at the other end of Travis Chambers’ office. Digital songs from his computer, letting him know a new message had arrived. The ceramic mug clanked on the glass tabletop as he set the still-hot coffee down, walking over to answer the incoming correspondence.

  Weeks ago, someone started digging around for information about the Silver Creek privatized prison, a facility owned by the CARR Group. Care and Responsible Rehabilitation. Travis suppressed a mocking laugh thinking about the meaningless name.

  He had reached out to the stranger then, offering help and hoping to find a former inmate willing to add to his spotty data file.

  The CARR Group’s Chief Executive Officer, Faust Kingston, sat comfortably in Travis’ top five list of dirtbags he wanted to sweep up. His days as a Vice detective in Miami instilled that need for bringing down guys like Faust, willing to step on anyone to get ahead.

  Now, with his considerable reach, and contacts in the Central Intelligence Agency and the United Nations, Travis had far more resources at his disposal, allowing him to bear down on human waste like Kingston.

  He was ready to reel this kid, Roland, in now. The fact that he had been recruited by another organization of interest, International Security, only sweetened the pot. Two for one deal, he thought. Take the CARR Group down, and add ammo to the fight against INSEC.

  With Roland ready to meet, their best chance would be to bring in some support that could not only keep him safe, but also put the information the kid had to good use. Due to recent events, he had one name at the top of mind. John Stone, a member of the recently decommissioned Hostile Response Division.

  Travis kept in communication with Parker Lewis, another HRD recruit. He was the computer expert working with Stone when they needed fast answers to solve tough problems. Parker could arrange a meet to have John escort Roland to a safe place.

  While they pick the kid’s brain for a while, Travis would have time to make all of the arrangements to put the data to work. He returned to his coffee, scooping his phone off the table, and making the call.

  CHAPTER

  3

  John arrived at Parker’s apartment in the morning. The narrow halls and cramped rooms squeezed in around him, but the small space seemed tailor-made for Parker, who moved with a strange grace around his cluttered belongings.

  Even though the two worked late into the previous night, John was clean cut, his face freshly shaved and his mustache groomed. Parker still wore the same clothes, twisted and wrinkled.

  “Did you really write up a program to simulate a cork board for all the connections?” John settled into the creaking chair, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.

  “I bought this one. There were more important things that needed my attention,” Parker said.

  “Complete with the red threads between connections, I see,” John said.

  Parker smiled, fingers flying across the keys. He swiped a finger across the touchpad. “Unfortunately I didn’t make as much progress as I had hoped. None of the names really pop out in any meaningful way.”

  “So this Blanchard guy is a dead end?” John leaned forward to get a closer look at the monitor.

  “We’ve still got that initial connection, but the problem is, that thread is pretty thin,” Parker said. “Look at this list. There are at least a dozen names on here, all with some vague tie to Pryce Windham, but we need that missing puzzle piece that will complete the picture.”

  John sipped his coffee. “Barrett Anderson. Rebecca Flair. They connect to Windham. Looks like this Anderson guy has a link to Damien Blanchard as well.”

  Parker pressed his lips together, shaking his head. “All tenuous at best. Anderson is a weapons guy. The only evidence we have is a purchase of various small arms through a subsidiary owned by Windham.”

  “Seems substantial to me.”

  “The problem is, Windham had a large number of security forces on his payroll,” Parker said. “Buying guns from someone wouldn’t automatically implicate them in his nefarious plots.”

  “Let’s just keep these names in the list of possible leads,” John said before emptying his mug. “Want some more coffee?”

  Parker pulled his phone from his pocket as it buzzed, no longer muffled beneath him. “Hold on, I gotta take this.”

  John nodded as he walked over to refill his cup. The pleasant aroma helped clear out the grogginess. He returned to the full-screen presentation, sipping the hot liquid as his eyes traced a path along the spiderweb of vague connections.

  Parker returned, pressing his palms to his head, still clutching the phone.

  “Is everything alright?” John asked.

  “Wow,” Parker said.

  John waited for a moment before replying. “Can you, maybe, get to the point? Something’s got you in a good mood.”

  “That was a guy I know. Well, know is a little generous. He’s one of the guys I reach out to when—”

  “Parker.”

  “Right, sorry. That call was about a guy that needs our help.”

  John raised his hands up to shoulder height, shrugging. “Care to elaborate?”

  “This guy, Roland Forrester, was serving time in prison,” Parker said. “Got recruited by a defense contractor in exchange for a reduction in his sentence.”

&n
bsp; “Your contact?” John asked.

  “No, that dude probably works for The Company,” Parker said, using the nickname for the CIA. “Roland is currently with International Security. INSEC.”

  John straightened up at the mention of the name. “The former Spetsnaz unit working with Ratcliffe. They had support from INSEC.”

  “INSEC is Anderson’s company,” Parker said. He shuddered at the memory of being interrogated by the Russian mercenaries.

  “I thought you said Anderson was a weapons manufacturer,” John said.

  “He’s got fingers in lots of pies, John.”

  “So the guy that needs our help. Where does he fit in all of this?” John asked.

  “The prison where Roland was serving time, Silver Creek.”

  John started to say something, but Parker raised a finger to interrupt. “Silver Creek is owned by the CARR Group. The CEO there is Faust Kingston.”

  “Blanchard,” John said.

  “Right,” Parker replied. “Faust strengthens the connection between Damien Blanchard and Barrett Anderson. This is big. I don’t care if you call it the law of attraction, the Secret, or Space Star Ordering.”

  “Space what?” John asked.

  “This is more than just some crazy coincidence,” Parker continued, ignoring the question.

  “You think this is magic? Spirits offering up the evidence we need?”

  “Either that or my place is bugged,” Parker said, scrolling through the new data. “Through Faust, the CARR Group has been feeding inmates into INSEC, offering them a chance to reduce their sentences, in exchange for service.”

  “That can’t be legal,” John said.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not. At least not for the inmates they’ve been passing through the system.”

  John put his coffee down and crossed his arms. “So we’re just supposed to help this Roland guy?”

  “In exchange for help in solidifying the connections on our nice little board,” Parker said.

  “How do you know you can trust your contact?”

  “I, well, I can’t. Not for sure. But he’s helped me before, and the stuff he sent me always checked out.” Parker shrugged. “I’ve been looking into him, but it’s tricky. He’s got some resources at work protecting his identity.”

  John sighed, looking out the window.

  “This could point us in the right direction, though, John.” Parker sat back at his computer, typing again.

  Closing his eyes and dipping his chin, John pulled inward, reflecting on his options. If Roland’s situation provided a legitimate chance at building a better case, John knew they couldn’t afford to let it slip through their fingers.

  Not to mention, this felt like something Marvin Van Pierce would take on, just because it was the right thing to do. The man was all about second chances, so if Roland was in trouble, and needed help, it was John and Parker’s duty to offer their protection.

  “Alright. Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” Parker said. “There’s a plane waiting for us.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Chicago, Illinois

  Light spilled into the Bentley as the door opened, no longer holding the brightness at bay with its tinted window. Faust Kingston shielded his eyes and stepped out into the morning sun. Slipping on a pair of designer sunglasses, he strode into the entrance of the four-star hotel.

  The low murmur of early morning guests and the clicking of dress shoes on the marble flooring lent a certain professional atmosphere to the spacious lobby. Faust found his men, securing a corner of the area, and sat at one of the tables.

  “Get me a cappuccino,” he said to one of his security men, unfolding the newspaper he grabbed from the small end table.

  Filthy things, newspapers. The ink rubbed off onto sweaty fingers and always had a way of making it onto clean clothes, shouting to the world I’m a slob. He hated them, but Faust liked the extra barrier they provided, deflecting unwanted stares and gawking.

  “I’m sorry, sir, this area is reserved,” he heard one of his security personnel saying to someone.

  Faust peered up over the edge of the page. “That’s the guy I’m waiting for, you buffoon. Let him through before I give him your job.”

  “Of course, sir. My apologies.”

  “And where’s my cappuccino?”

  Just as he finished his question, a walking wall of muscle returned, taking comically small steps, holding a comically small cup and saucer. Faust jerked his head toward the table where the man set his drink down and returned to his post.

  “Well don’t just stand there, have a seat,” Faust said to the man that had arrived to meet with him.

  The guy couldn’t have been more than five and a half feet, maybe one thirty. He nodded and walked over to take the only other available chair.

  “You don’t look like a Sergei, ”Faust said. “Especially with the—” He gestured to his own face.

  “That’s just my nickname,” Sergei said. “I’m in the cyber warfare division, and since Russian hackers are kind of a thing right now, they started calling me that.”

  “Yeah I was about to say, they don’t get many Mexicans in Russia.”

  “I’m from Cuba,” Sergei said.

  Faust scrunched up his face and shrugged, not caring for the insignificant details. “Let’s stop wasting my time here. What have you got?”

  Sergei adjusted in the chair, pulling his backpack into his lap. He pulled a few sheets of paper from the rear pouch, handing them to the CEO. Faust folded the newspaper and retrieved the offered evidence.

  Kingston wiped his gaze across the page, skimming only for relevant points. His eye caught several references to his company, the CARR Group, and one of their former inmates, Roland Forrester.

  “What’s this Forrester guy got to do with me?” Faust snapped.

  “He was one of the inmates serving time at Silver Creek, before the shutdown,” Sergei said.

  “Yeah, it would be kind of hard to serve time after that.”

  Sergei waited a beat before continuing. “He signed with INSEC almost two years ago, in exchange for shortening his sentence.”

  “So he’s one of your guys now. How’s that my problem?” Faust asked, interrupting again.

  Sergei waited another moment before continuing. “Yes. He is currently employed by International Security. However, since his last tour, he has been nosing around online, searching for something.”

  Before Faust could butt in again, Sergei leaned in to point out relevant notes on the pages he had given him. “It’s not a big deal. We go to great lengths to scrub incriminating evidence from the internet. But this time, someone contacted him directly.”

  “Who?” Faust squinted, looking for more names on the report.

  “We don’t know,” Sergei said. “That’s what this report is about. Roland’s setting up a meeting with this mystery contact, in person.”

  Faust studied the information, his jaw working in small circular patterns. “I’ll have this issue handled by the end of the week.”

  “Thank you,” Sergei said. “Although, time is critical here. Sooner would be better.”

  Faust snapped his head to the side, eyes alight with fire. “Don’t tell me how to handle my business you little puke.”

  Sergei shrank back in the plush chair as the man stood over him, malice dripping from his words and posture. After a long and excruciating pause, Faust straightened up, buttoned his jacket, and adjusted his tie.

  “Tell your boss, I’ll handle it,” Faust said, regaining his composure.

  * * *

  Faust slammed the car door shut, not waiting for his driver’s help. He rolled up the privacy screen and retrieved the phone from his pocket, initiating a call. He shook his head and wiped absently at his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Get Troy on the phone.”

  Leaning back in the seat, Faust turned his head, watching the city scroll by throug
h the dark glass. The CEO glanced down at the wrinkled pages sitting in his lap. If Roland Forrester had any damning evidence, he wouldn’t be reaching out to some random snooper on the web.

  Probably just some reporter, looking for a scoop to take another shot at me, he thought. Still, his best option was to bring in his head of security, Troy Spragg.

  “Yeah, hey. Just shut up and listen,” Faust said. “I need you to handle a situation we’ve got. Former inmate. Silver Creek, before we shut that place down.”

  He wiped a hand across his clean-shaven chin and cheek, as Troy responded. “Just get it done. His name is Roland Forrester, find that guy. You know what to do.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Detroit, Michigan

  Detective Chance Hunter leaned back in his chair, raising his arms. In one smooth snap of his wrist, the yellow, balled up page arced two desks over, dropping into the middle of the wastebasket.

  “A three-pointer, right at the buzzer,” he said. “Isiah Thomas for the win.”

  “Your talents are wasted behind that badge, Hunter,” Detective Holbrook said. His partner grabbed a jacket, heading for the exit. “And your references are about twenty years out of date,” she added.

  Chance chuckled and logged into of his computer, cleaning the clutter from the desktop. His day had just started. Finishing up a few reports, he organized his notes for the latest case, ready to tackle another lead.

  The drawer of his desk rattled open, and he picked up the holstered Beretta 96 A1, securing it to his hip. The cool fabric in the sleeves of his Detroit Lions jacket sent a chill up through his forearms when he slipped it on. The phone in his coat pocket buzzed as he snapped the bottom two buttons.