by David Beers
Hector pulled them from his pocket and handed it over.
“Here,” Charles said, extending them to one of the bodyguards without looking. The man took it from him and started walking toward the truck.
“Shouldn’t take us long. Want something to drink while they work?”
Charles was speaking, and he stood about six inches shorter than the Mexican, so he had to look up as he spoke. The whole time his mouth was moving, his right hand was too—reaching into the back of his large waistband and pulling the gun from it.
Hector saw it, his eyes widening as the black pistol pointed at him. He didn’t wait or beg, though, and Charles gave him some credit for that. The Mexican simply ran, turning tail and heading right back to the truck’s cab.
This will be good, Charles thought. Charles waddled forward, space opening between him and the soon to be dead Mexican. It didn’t matter. Charles didn’t want to kill him on the gravel. The fall would be funnier if he reached the truck.
Hector leapt up the eighteen wheeler’s steps, swinging the door open. His foot slipped, and his shin collided with the metal step.
That’s got to hurt, Charles thought.
He aimed the pistol and fired. The bullet clipped the side of the Mexican’s head, blowing a chunk of skull from it. The blood fell like a river no longer dammed, pouring out onto his neck, then his shoulder.
Hector paused, his hand still holding onto the door. Charles couldn’t see his eyes, but his back looked as if he was pondering something, like maybe he’d forgotten his cell phone in the warehouse and might need to turn around.
Charles giggled.
The Mexican’s hand slipped from the door handle and he slumped forward, continuing to slowly slide down. The blood kept running from his head, creating a red torrent down the side of his body.
And then, he fell backward, his body hitting the ground with a thump. He stared straight up, his leg bent at the knee behind him, his other leg resting on the truck’s cab.
That was funny. One leg bent and the other on the cab. That was too fucking funny.
Charles giggled as his men went to work unloading the packages.
Charles hadn’t spoken to the man who owned the cargo. Charles rarely spoke to anyone, having underlings do it for him. Insulation against actual conversations was important if the Feds came. Charles knew it wouldn’t matter that much; he’d still spend the rest of his life behind bars, but perhaps his lawyers could bargain a bit.
He needed to talk to the owner, though, because with this many weapons, more money would be shelled out—and Charles wanted, nay needed, a piece of it. Amassing capital quickly was the name of the game at this point, because he was growing too big to escape notice much longer.
He sat down at a desk in the Georgia warehouse and watched as two men dragged the dead Mexican across the parking lot. His blood stretched out in a trail behind them, and for some reason Charles giggled at that, too. He’d have the giggles for a while now; he did every time he killed someone.
“Focus, focus, focus, bucko,” he said to himself.
He reached for the cell phone sitting on the desk and scrolled through it. He had a direct number for his customer, just like always. He paid people to set these things up, a direct number for each customer that went through encrypted connections. Charles didn’t know how it worked, and he didn’t need to. He only needed to know that it worked.
Charles hated speaking with any of his clients, but knew he had to this time. Otherwise, he’d get instructions for the pick-up, someone would show up, then the cargo would leave just as it had come. This was only a stopping point for the owner, at least as far as Charles knew.
He tapped his screen and the phone started ringing. He placed it on the desk, turning on the speakerphone.
“Hello?” someone answered.
“Hi,” Charles said. “Do you know who this is?” The man should, the number on the other end being very specific.
“I do.”
Silence … and Charles didn’t like that one bit. The man said nothing else, letting his words hang in the air as if the conversation might be over.
“I wanted to speak to you about our exchange,” Charles said, feeling uncomfortable for the first time that he could remember. He never felt uncomfortable, no matter the circumstances, and he’d dealt with nothing but criminals for a decade. Yet those two words—I do—just sounded so wrong.
“Okay,” the man said, and nothing else.
“I don’t want to overstep boundaries, but with this much product, I imagine you’re going to need more help.” Charles started his spiel even as his mind reeled from the conversation’s odd feeling. “I’d like to offer my services.”
A pause came over the line and Charles immediately wanted to fill it, but he clamped his teeth down until they hurt, refusing to let his instincts take over.
“That could be possible. Your name is Charles Twaller, right?”
His jaw relaxed.
The man shouldn’t know his name.
“How did you—”
“I like to know who I’m in business with. I knew who you were before a single check was sent, so consider it a compliment. You’re a very competent man, Mr. Twaller.” The voice on the other side of the call was so calm, eerily so. Charles hated every word uttered; in fact, he wanted to hang up the phone. He couldn’t, though, because this was real fucking money. “What kind of services do you offer, Mr. Twaller?”
Anger flared inside the fat man at the use of his name—so casually—as if he hadn’t spent years insulating himself against just such a thing. He did his best to swallow the anger, just like he did the rest of his emotions.
“I can handle most anything you need, I think.”
“You’re not a man who thinks much. I thought you were a man who knew much.”
Was this guy fucking with him? Was he really trying to piss Charles off?
And it’s you I’ll come for, he thought, suddenly certain that he was going to kill this man at some point.
“I can handle what you need done,” Charles said, his voice turning flat.
“You might be right. Perhaps we should discuss this in person? I won’t go forward unless we do, as what I’m asking is delicate.”
“When are you available?”
“I can be at your warehouse in two days.”
“Be here at eight in the morning.”
Charles hung up the phone, not waiting for the man to say one more goddamn word.
He stared at the cell phone for a few seconds, his cheeks growing red and his breathing more rapid. His face twisted into a horrific grimace of red rage as he reached for the phone again. He raised it into the air and slammed it on the desk, the plastic edging immediately breaking and scattering to the floor. He brought the phone down again and again, until there was nothing but wreckage in his hand.
One of the workers outside had stopped and was staring through the warehouse window at his boss.
Charles looked out and he went back to unloading.
Chapter 2
“Three months and we haven’t heard anything.”
Christian Windsor nodded. There were things he could say, but none of them mattered. Tommy Phillips was quiet as well, sitting in his wheelchair, both of them across from the FBI Director, Alan Waverly.
“Very few leads.”
Christian nodded again, not looking over at Tommy. There had been a time, not so long ago, when this conversation would have been directed at his partner—at both of his partners—and Christian would have been the proverbial third wheel. No longer, though.
The meeting had been scheduled two weeks ago, the intention for Christian and Tommy to report on the single criminal they chased nearly around the clock. They had their recommendations, were ready for Waverly’s questions, and needed him to make a decision on how the investigation would move forward—as Christian and Tommy were at a crossroad, and at odds on which way to proceed.
However, all of that was secondary
for Christian; he had something else he needed to bring up, perhaps something more important in the long run.
“Sir,” Christian said in the Director’s silence, “it may be time to find someone else for my spot.”
Alan Waverly leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He looked to Tommy. “Did you know he was going to say this?”
“Yes,” Tommy whispered, which was the extent of his volume. The ability to speak louder was beyond him, and would be for the rest of his life.
“You two are thick as thieves. Not a word from you on it, huh, Tommy? There was a time when I would have gotten a heads up.”
Christian thought Tommy would have shrugged, had he been able. He couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all. Two years ago, when Tommy could have moved, there’s no way he would have shrugged in front of the Director for any reason, but time had changed all the men in this room. Time and Luke Titan.
“No one is replacing you, Christian, and I don’t want to hear anything else about it.”
“Sir, it’s been three months.”
“So?”
“I’m not sure I’m capable anymore.”
Christian had thought long and hard about this conversation. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, his days spent chasing Luke and his nights spent contemplating what he was now saying.
“Why aren’t you capable?” Waverly asked.
“I’ve been near him three times, and each time, he’s gotten away. Three different South American countries, and each time, people died.”
He didn’t need to say anything else about that. Venezuela had been a disaster, Luke having wired the entire yard with surface explosives. Christian had gotten close two times before, and Luke had killed people during his escape—but not like Venezuela. It became an international blunder, with the cable news networks showing a cell phone recording of the explosions on a nearly endless loop.
“You carry those deaths on your shoulders, don’t you?” He turned to Tommy before Christian could answer. “Do you agree with him? That he needs to give up his position?”
“No,” Tommy said.
“And you’ve told him that?”
“Yes.”
Waverly looked back to Christian. “You’re not resigning and I’m not replacing you. It’s as simple as that.”
Christian didn’t know what to say. He felt nothing at the decision. Even as he stayed awake the past two nights, he hadn’t felt anything other than cold logic. Except that wasn’t a feeling, more a frame of mind.
“Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Christian said.
“Good. You’re staying. Three months doesn’t mean anything, Christian. Do you know how long some of those guys have been on the Most Wanted List? Years. I have people still looking for them, too. I get a monthly read out on Robert-fucking-Fischer, and he’s been on it since 2002. Three months is nothing.”
Christian was silent but held the Director’s stare. He was able to do that with ease now—hold anyone’s actually. Most of the time other people looked away first, though that probably had more to do with the circular scar on his cheek than anything menacing in his gaze.
“I’m not going to massage your ego, Christian, but no one else could have done what you’ve done. I’m not taking anything away from you, Tommy, but you’ve only been back six months. Christian, you’ve been at this for 18 months, and you’ve nearly caught him three times. That’s once every six damn months. If I could have you overseeing each one of my most wanted criminals, I wouldn’t have a Most Wanted List. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Christian nodded. It was odd, hearing this from what amounted to the FBI’s CEO, yet not feeling anything about it. He hadn’t been at peace with leaving, because he knew that he could never truly leave the hunt for Luke. He may not orchestrate the FBI’s chase, but he would go after him. Forever, if need be. Two years ago, Luke had gone on and on about his insane purpose. Christian had his own now.
“Good. I don’t want to hear anything else about it. You can resign when Luke is dead or captured. Now, let’s talk about what leads we have.”
“We have one report from a small Mexican town called Temisco,” Tommy said. “It’s about an hour or two outside of Mexico City. We sent down two agents at the beginning of the week.”
“Any news from them?”
“Nothing substantial. They’re just beginning to make their rounds. Trying to keep a low profile.”
“Still no more letters?” Waverly asked.
Christian shook his head.
“No,” Tommy said.
Dear, Christian,
I wish I could say it was nice seeing you, but we both know I’d be lying. You’re insatiable, Christian. Your need to find me—dare I say, kill me?—is impressive, if a bit frightening.
Do you still see the other? The one that bleeds from his eyes and lives only in your head? What does he say about your quest? Do you still think about Veronica? The love you lost, even while managing to keep her alive? I’ve tried to keep up with her, Christian, but the Witness Protection Program has managed to shroud her even from me.
How about your mother? What does she think of you now? She once had a quirky, genius, and sensitive son. What does she have now? I imagine your quirkiness will never leave, but is your genius corrupted? Is your sensitivity dead?
I dream about you, Christian. Not often, but sometimes. It’s always the same. The world is on fire around us both, buildings ablaze and people dying. Tommy is there, too, though his life has already passed. You and I are looking at each other and we’re not speaking. We only stare in silence, the heat baking against us both.
What do you think that means?
The mind is a powerful tool, as you’re well aware. Our mind tells us things through dreams. The original etymology of dream meant ‘sleeping vision’. That’s what I’m having when I sleep and you appear—a sleeping vision.
Fire is coming, Christian, and sooner than I wanted. It’s going to rain down, and everything you know will burn. You brought this on yourself, with your inability to let me live on my own terms. Yes, I would have returned at some point and began again, but not yet. Perhaps I would have shown some mercy, Christian; we will never know now.
Mercy isn’t coming with me. Only fire. Only blaze. Only chaos.
I will see you sooner than I had hoped, though I know not sooner than you hoped for.
Yours,
Luke Titan, MD, PhD, Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Top Ten of America’s Most Wanted
There had been other letters over the past two years, but that was the last one. Luke proclaiming his return and threatening Christian, as well as everyone he loved.
“Okay,” Waverly said. “Give me a situation report. What are you guys thinking?”
“He’s not lying,” Christian said.
“ … And?”
“We have some disagreement between the two of us, sir,” Tommy whispered.
“Let’s hear it.”
“He,” Tommy said, unable to point, but clearly speaking about his partner, “thinks Luke isn’t coming alone. I think he is. I think he’ll come and try to take us out one by one.”
“Why do you think he’ll bring a crew, Christian?”
There had been serious arguments about this between Tommy and himself. For the past three months, they had spent their time researching the possibilities, trying to understand how Luke would arrive (at the same time, both hoping he wasn’t already on the way—or worse, already here). All the research pointed at two possibilities, and Christian was diametrically opposed to Tommy on which one was correct.
“He said it in the letter. Everything is going to burn, and he can’t do that by himself. Not the way he’s describing it. If he comes alone, we won’t stand in a ring of fire, with buildings burning and people dying. It’s too much for just one man to achieve. Even him.”
Waverly’s brow furrowed as a quizzical look ran across his face. “You guys have been looking i
nto this for months, and you’re basing it off of his letter?”
Christian nodded. He had nothing else to say. He spoke the truth, even if no one else saw it.
“What about your mansion?” Waverly asked. “Have you seen anything in there?”
Christian’s mansion—that place which resided in his head, holding everything he experienced in life and allowing him to make seemingly impossible leaps of logic—had changed dramatically. Christian wasn’t afraid of it, as he had been previously. He held no feelings about it one way or the other. However, the top floor—the one dedicated only to Luke—had been silent on this matter.
“No. There’s nothing.”
Waverly’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Christian. After a moment, he turned to Tommy. “He telling you the same? That he’s not seeing anything in his head?”
“Yes.”
“I’m right here,” Christian said. “You’re basically accusing me of lying, with me right across from you.”
Waverly smiled and leaned back in his chair. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been deceptive, would it?”
Christian said nothing.
“How would he have a crew of people?” Waverly continued.
“There are a couple of ways. He could hire them, though that doesn’t feel right to me. The other primary way would be to create some form of cult. A group dedicated to him and whatever he wants.”
“That sure as hell sounds like him,” Waverly said.
“I don’t buy it,” Tommy said. “If Luke were amassing some sort of group around him, it would be hard to hide it for long. The entire world knows his face; he isn’t like the others on the Most Wanted List. He’s Luke Titan. He can’t very well create a compound, even in a foreign nation, without attracting the authorities.”
“That’s true,” Waverly said.
These arguments were old between Tommy and Christian, both of them hashing everything out over countless nights, and still ending up on opposite sides.
“He’s not coming by himself,” Christian said. “He did that last time, and now he’s on the run. When he returns, he’s bringing people with him.”