by JL Terra
CORRUPT
JL Terra
Copyright 2019, Lisa Phillips JL Terra
All rights reserved
Edited by Jen Wieber.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Prologue
Prague. 14 December, 1941
Dense clouds shrouded the city from the rest of the world. Snowflakes floated down to the tiny girl huddled beside the stone that marked the rabbi’s grave. In her hand was a folded paper. The prayer her stepfather had penned in his shaky hand, using the last stub of pencil in the shop.
A glittery flake landed on her cheek. Her body was half-buried in snow, curled against the stone. Her coat was the cast off of a smaller girl, not even big enough to button to ward off the freezing temperatures. Her shoes were too big, one with a broken buckle. Far past curfew she hid there, half asleep in her exhaustion. Eight-year-old Charlota Katzova had nowhere else to go.
The paper had arrived that morning; their names had been called. They were to depart Prague on the train. Her papa would never survive the journey, let alone what awaited them at the other end. And with the rest of her family gone, there was no one to help her.
Men’s voices whipped on the wind through the cemetery. Two frozen little girl fingers flexed, the only indication she’d heard their approach. She had no strength to move. The paper contracted in her grip, the fold as loud as a whip crack. Charlota held her breath. There was nowhere to hide.
The men chatted as they strode along the edge of the cemetery. She kept her eyes closed until their voices faded. Then she exhaled.
The grave was as cold as the ground. No life inside. No hope for Papa. She fought past the ache in her muscles and threw the paper away from her. It hadn’t worked. All those stories of triumph and victory. As though God actually cared what was happening. He didn’t.
They had been forgotten.
A single tear ran down her cheek and froze against her chin. Distracted by the sensation, she didn’t notice she was no longer alone. Not until she felt the heat against her face. Charlota snapped her eyes open. He was bigger than Papa.
But it was not a man.
It crouched, close enough to touch.
Charlota pushed herself up to sitting. She wasn’t scared.
He was shaped like a man, but had no features on his face. Only a blank mask of mud. No eyes. No nose. No mouth. No ears. No hair. No definition below his shoulders except the outline of his body.
He leaned toward her, now at eye level with her. Blank sockets bored into her. Charlota’s breath hitched, but she swallowed and took another, knowing what she was supposed to do.
Before she could begin, it touched her. A single stub of finger against her cheek. Warmth spread from that one spot throughout her entire body. It grew so hot she cried out. He lifted his finger from her skin. Charlota touched her forehead, now beaded with sweat. Her dress clung to her. Cheeks flushed. Had she ever been this warm? It felt like a fever, though she was not sick.
The heat gave her strength to lift both hands. She touched the sides of his face, her palms where his ears should have been. As though some understanding passed between them, he brought his head closer to hers. Charlota breathed on his forehead and whispered the words papa had made her recite.
“You are now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.”
She exhaled once, but it kept coming. Drawn from her against her will. The plume of her warm breath turned from cloud white to glittery silver. Torn from inside her.
Given into this thing.
The pain in her lungs swelled to a ripping, tearing feeling. Like being destroyed from the inside out. The scream filled her head, but no sound came from her mouth. Just that silver.
Her soul.
Charlota fought against the creature. He would take everything that was inside her. Strength infused her then, as the prayers of her people surrounded her like a blanket.
Hope had come.
She closed her mouth.
Charlota lifted a finger. She traced the four Hebrew letters into the clay of its forehead, before she ran out of strength entirely. Or before the next patrol came.
The creature stiffened. The letters were absorbed into its skin. Charlota dropped her hands and watched as the thing began to change.
Mud collapsed in and onto itself as it shrank inward.
Smaller.
Smaller.
Until it was the same size as her.
Features began to form. A long nose. The outline of two eyes, lashes, and lids. Thick brows. The thin set of her lips. Her hair.
Within seconds, her own eyes stared back at her from her own face. It wore her clothes, including the yellow armband over the sleeve of her coat that denoted her heritage. It even had the haircut her mother had given her two years ago.
When it smiled, it seemed as though Charlota looked into a being much older than her eight-year-old face.
It lifted a hand as she had done and touched her on the cheek. Charlota understood at once what was inside this being.
The thing she had called forth was at once both completely her and something so unholy that it would be both their salvation and their destruction.
She screamed.
Chapter 1
Venezuela. Friday, 21:16hrs VET
The man who lay stretched out on the leather recliner didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “I honestly expected you’d get here sooner.”
Eric Tiller didn’t seem like a guy who had once been the darling of the entire CIA. He looked like a middle-aged vacuum salesman who should be using his downtime to visit a gym. Even his hair had given up from lack of energy.
Ben stepped into the media room. “Turns out you’re a hard man to find.”
Not impossible, though. Four months of searching through a series of shell corporations and dummy accounts, stolen identities, and one cartel. Bingo: here they were.
The former CIA agent lifted his glass and downed the contents. He poured another glassful. “I try.”
Whatever birthed this disillusion in the American government, Ben didn’t get paid to care. Just to retrieve the information Tiller had stolen when he left. And to ensure the man had no means of escaping justice.
Tiller’s neck bore the scar of the US government’s last attempt to get him to tell them where he’d hidden it. “So this time they send a single man. An
assassin?” He chuckled. “You don’t look like a SEAL. Army, maybe a Ranger. I’m not sure.”
Interesting guess. Something about Ben gave away a distant slice of his past. It had been nearly twenty years. There was no time to ask what it was, not if he wanted to meet his deadline. Even a minute too late and Ben’s team would be swallowed up by the force of the US military. The CIA was done. Ben was their last resort. Retrieve what had been stolen, and send this man to his final judgment.
Ben said, “Does it matter who I am?”
“If you’re here for the flash drive, you’re out of luck. Can’t give you what I don’t have.”
“Where is it?”
“If Uncle Sam wants it back so badly, he’s going to have to make a deal with me instead of trying to steal it over and over again. I’m tired, Mr. Assassin.”
Ben shook his head. “No deals. That’s why they sent me.”
Maybe one day he’d get a simple assignment instead of sticky mess after sticky mess. Not to mention the inevitable double cross. Usually involving a knife.
You’re getting cynical in your old age.
“You’re out of luck then.” Tiller’s lips twitched. “Off home with your tail between your legs.”
“Where is it?” There was no way he’d destroyed it. More likely the head of the cartel he’d bought this new life from was in possession of it. “Valentino?”
Tiller snorted. “You think I’d give it to that crook? He can’t even get me good whiskey. Why would I give him the only thing that’s keeping me alive?”
“And what a life.” It was about to end.
“I figured you’d be impressed.” Tiller sneered. “Got me a sweet gig, sitting here all day doing whatever the hell I want. Uncle Sam can’t touch me.”
No doubt the whiskey was to blame in the skewing of Eric Tiller’s perception. The scar, though, told a different tale. One Ben didn’t figure would help him to mention. “Last chance, Tiller. I get the flash drive. It won’t stop what’s coming, but you’ll die knowing you did the right thing.”
“As much money as I want. That’s what Valentino told me.” Tiller sipped from his glass. “Living the high life in South America. All the whiskey I want, any woman I want. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised this is the end.”
“You knew the US government would never let you get away with stealing secrets.” Tiller had taken a list of all active CIA agents in Europe. If the information was leaked, every one of those agents would be in danger. Many would be executed within hours. For whiskey and women?
Ben looked at his watch. The screen flashed on—a timer: 00:47
“How long do I have?”
“Couple minutes.”
**
Across the street, Shadrach lay on his belly on a rooftop. He squeezed the trigger on the AR-30. Watched the man fall through the scope of his rifle. Reloaded. Two down; he scanned the compound for the third guard. Found him headed for the wing where Daire was searching.
The heat of the building was like laying on hot coals. Nothing like one of those light step, work retreat self-actualization tests, over in seconds. High fives, congratulations: You stepped across searing rocks. Ordinary folks with their ordinary lives.
No clue what lurked in the dark.
Sweat beaded down his face. He lifted his ball cap and resituated it on his head, then looked through the rifle scope again. Going to hell anyway, why not right now?
The radio in his ear crackled. “Is he out yet?”
His only reaction was a slight exhale. “Mei, doesn’t matter how many times you ask me. When Ben comes out, I’ll tell you.”
“But they’ll be here any second.” Her voice was hard, no trace of worry as she searched the bedroom.
Shadrach knew what time it was. Telling Mei would be a waste of perfectly good words. She knew as well as he did that Ben could take care of himself.
“Thirty seconds,” Daire said over the radio. “Time to get out.”
**
00:26. Ben said, “So where is it?”
Tiller stared at the TV for a long moment. “Safety deposit box. Number 416. First National Bank of Wichita, Kansas.”
Ben pulled the multi-tool from his back pocket and flipped out the knife. Tiller stared at it. Sipped his whiskey. Swallowed. “What’s that for?”
“The CIA needs evidence. DNA. They’ll want to confirm it was really you.”
Ben checked his watch. 00:14. “Ready?”
Tiller didn’t move. Ben strode over, grasped Eric Tiller’s thumb. The spy swung his glass up toward Ben’s face. He dodged it, punched Tiller in the head with the knife handle, and severed the thumb.
Despite that last ditch effort to fight back, he figured the man didn’t overly care. Tiller would be dead, and Ben would be in Kansas searching for a flash drive that was probably long gone.
The glass hit the floor and splintered. Whiskey splashed across the rug.
00:06
Tiller grabbed Ben’s arm with his good hand. “I die, you die.”
“That’s not how this works. I get both the flash drive and visual confirmation you met your fiery end.”
“He’ll come for you,” Tiller said between gritted teeth. “He knows what you are.”
The ground shook as the first missile hit.
**
An explosion engulfed the concrete in flames and the building burst apart. Shadrach didn’t look away as the wave of heat blasted his face. Sweat rolled from underneath his ball cap and dropped off his jaw.
“Clear,” Mei said.
“Me, too.” Daire, Ben’s second in command, wasn’t big on radio etiquette.
Shadrach stared at the building. Ben hadn’t come out yet. What was taking him so long? He muted his mic so neither of them would be able to hear him. “Where are you, boss?” He tapped his index finger on the side of the rifle. Watching. Waiting.
Boom. Another explosion.
Ben walked out of the opposite side of the house. His stride was pure confidence as he ranged around the building. Like it wasn’t in flames, collapsing around him. Unassuming, yet with a complete awareness of what he was capable of. It was hard not to respect a man like that.
Shadrach looked through the scope. Ben lifted two fingers in his direction. He keyed his radio. “He’s out.”
“Good.” Mei’s relief was audible. “Is he okay?”
Shadrach stared through his scope, watching the flames billow.
Good question.
**
Ben hit the sidewalk. No traffic buzzed the intersection. How long before someone showed up to investigate? He walked toward the van. Used the motion to shake off what had settled on him during that conversation with Tiller. Smoke laced the sky now, and palm trees swayed in the hot breeze. Ben enjoyed a good stroll. He could go anywhere. Wind up somewhere nearby, or far away. Slip into any crowd unnoticed. He liked the night.
The anonymity.
The solitude.
He’d been that way since…
He halted on the sidewalk. Scanned.
Mei stepped out of the shadows, right in his path. The young Chinese woman planted her hands on her hips. “Everything go okay?”
Ben wanted to smile. Didn’t. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Your collar is smoking.” She patted it harder than was probably necessary.
Ben brushed her hand away and motioned toward the van. “We should get going.”
“Sure thing, boss. Whatever you say.” She strode over and climbed in, but not before he saw her eye roll.
Ben stared at her back, still fighting that urge to smile.
Would she ever call him Dad?
He shook off the thought and got in the passenger seat. Daire had the engine running, his face flushed from exertion. If not for the jeans and leather jacket, he would look as though he’d just been working out.
Classical music played on the radio. Not so loud they had to speak up to be heard. Just loud enough he wouldn’t be able to hear the clic
k-click of Mei texting on her phone.
Shadrach still wasn’t back yet.
Ben said, “Everything good?”
Daire tapped the steering wheel. “Put two down. The third had a maid cornered. He put up a fight, but I got her out.” Daire’s British accent sharpened his words. Despite his skills as a former spy, his origins bled through when he was upset. Or when he didn’t feel the need to measure his words.
Ben had heard him speak with a perfect southern drawl. Daire could also do a thick Boston brogue, but not the Irish kind. Daire’s coloring lent itself more toward a turban, which somewhat explained all those undercover missions he’d been on in the Middle East, sent there by Her Majesty’s government.
“Did you get it?”
Ben pulled the thumb from his pocket and held it up. He dropped it in the cup holder.
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
Daire’s lips curled up, but he didn’t laugh.
“Like you’ve never severed a limb before.”
“You have no idea, brother.” Daire exhaled. “So Tiller’s dead?”
“Yeah.” Ben twisted to look out the open back doors. Mei was still looking at him funny.
Shadrach climbed in and set his rifle case beside him. The former Marine sniper leaned against the wall of the van and closed his eyes under the bill of his ball cap.
Ben thought that was a mighty fine idea. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. Exhaled.
Daire pulled the van away from the curb. “You’re not even going to tell us what happened with Tiller, or why you have a thumb instead of the flash drive?”
Chapter 2
Somewhere over the Caribbean Sea. Friday 23:37hrs VET
“Kansas, seriously?”
Ben settled into the airplane seat beside Mei. The whole plane could hold no more than six people, one pilot, and no flight attendant. If they flew far enough, the pilot needed a break, Ben would take over for him.
“Some people like it there.”
Mei shook her head. “How do we even know Tiller was telling the truth? If there really is a flash drive with a list of active CIA agents on it, don’t you think the CIA would have found it in a bank safety deposit box in Kansas?”