by Ethan Cross
~~*~~
Chapter Eighty-Two
Marcus could feel the grim reaper close by, hovering in the shadows, watching with hungry eyes. And he couldn’t blame this screwup on anyone but himself. Except maybe Eddie. Trying to say something to save their lives, he offered, “I was drummed out of the NYPD a lifetime ago.”
Pausing a moment, Marcus analyzed the room and their available options. Ackerman had already made his play with one of the guards, who had rushed from the room seeking help with his dislocated shoulder. The other gunmen would be on edge, and even Marcus’s big brother couldn’t outsmart a bullet.
Taking his seat behind the black-and-gold desk, Oban Nassar said, “Once a cop, always a cop.”
Ackerman said, “Do I look like a cop to you? Don’t worry about him. You can deal with me if you don’t like my associate’s previous profession.”
“I don’t know anything about either of you.”
Marcus asked, “What did Eddie tell you? I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.”
With a nod to some of his men, Oban said, “It doesn’t matter what Mr. Caruso had to say. I don’t trust anyone. So if you really want to do business with this company and myself, then you’ll have to prove yourself with something more than words.”
The door to the office opened and two of the armed guards carried a hooded and bloody man into the room. They laid out a plastic sheet and propped the hooded man up in a wooden folding chair in the center of the plastic. Then they placed a small stand between the desk and the hooded man. An ornate box rested atop the stand. Marcus gauged the dimensions and estimated the box was large enough to hold anything from cigars to a .45-caliber Colt 1911 pistol.
The hooded man smelled like vinegar, and Marcus could hear him softly whimpering beneath his covering.
Marcus asked, “What’s in the box?”
Oban replied, “This man has stolen from Mr. King, which means that if you wish to do business with us, then he has also stolen from you. But more than that, he has endangered our operations and leaked information. Consider this your job interview. Pass or fail. Anyone with whom we would want to do business already knows what’s in the box and what they need to do with it.”
Ackerman said, “Oh, I see. He’s wanting a freebie, Marcus. Would you like the honors or shall I? Wait, are we responsible for cleanup as well, because I refuse to cleanup afterward for free. Plus, I would need to grab my overalls from the car—”
Oban said, “We’ll discuss those details once the interview is complete.”
“That’s all well and good, but you see, I’m a professional. I don’t go around rubbing DNA evidence with dead men. Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’d be all for scooping out this man’s intestines and bathing in his blood, but only if I’m assured the proper methods of disposal will be implemented after the fact.”
It took Marcus a moment to realize that his brother’s rambling was actually orchestrated to buy him time to formulate a plan, and so he decided not to waste the opportunity. He analyzed every aspect of the situation, every variable, every action they could take, every consequence, every outcome, every motivation, every flaw to be exploited.
They couldn’t shoot someone just to prove themselves, no matter the circumstances. He could take the gun and use it to shoot his way through the five men armed with assault rifles, but that sounded like a good way for everyone to get very bloody.
He forced himself to look at the scenario from Oban’s perspective. What was the underworld COO trying to accomplish? Even by suggesting that they execute this man, Oban was making himself vulnerable for prosecution under the RICO guidelines established by the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. As federal agents, they could arrest him on the spot for such an order. And not only Oban, but under RICO statutes, they could also go after everyone affiliated with Oban. A mistake like that could topple Mr. King’s whole empire like a house of cards.
Unless that was the whole point…
If they did have some kind of micro transmitter and listening device embedded in their clothing, then a SWAT team would already be storming the building. Or if they left and made a move, they would be revealing themselves as cops.
Marcus’s mind flipped through the possibilities at rapid speed, disregarding ideas, searching for a solution.
As he replayed exactly what Oban had said, he realized that the COO had actually not told them to harm the hooded man at all. He had merely suggested that a friend of their organization would know what to do.
Which also meant that the box couldn’t contain a loaded gun. If it did, that could be used as evidence against Oban and re-open the RICO possibilities.
And that clue lead Marcus to further examine the hooded man sitting atop the plastic.
Ackerman was still arguing about some small aspect of the proposed murder. But Marcus, having found his solution, interrupted and said, “How about I tell you how this plays out, Mr. Nassar?”
With steepled fingers, Oban said, “By all means, enlighten us.”
“The box contains a gun. Probably one loaded with dummy rounds, otherwise the weight would be off. You’re an intelligent man, not the type to make mistakes. A man like you would be intimately familiar with the RICO laws. If you actually thought we were cops, you wouldn’t risk prosecution. But you haven’t really risked anything, have you?”
Oban said nothing in reply, and his expression gave nothing away.
Marcus continued, “That brings me to our hooded guest. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice your hands, body language, and bone structure, Eddie?”
He let the revelation of the hooded man’s identity hang in the air a moment. Then the man whose face was hidden beneath the black cloth started laughing. Eddie Caruso reached up and removed the hood from his head. Chuckling and shaking his head, Eddie said, “After how much fun we had last night, Marcus, I simply couldn’t resist flying out and surprising you. Plus, it gave me a chance to check on my business interests on the west coast.”
~~*~~
Chapter Eighty-Three
Maggie Carlisle ran the tub up to the point of overflow, and then she sat with her knees to her chest and sobbed quietly, not wanting the FBI protective detail outside the door to hear her. Early that morning, after the briefing at Richmond Station, she had told Marcus that she wasn’t feeling well. She knew he wouldn’t object. He didn’t need her, and she couldn’t bring herself to care what was happening with the Oban Nassar meeting.
As her gaze traveled around the tub, a long-lost part of her brain told her that she was probably sitting in a venerable Pandora’s box of microscopic invaders. But she couldn’t make herself care about that either.
All she seemed able to care about these days—all that occupied her thoughts—was her brother, the man who took him, and the family that was destroyed.
Stretching a naked arm out of the tub, she rummaged through her bag, searching for her flask of vodka. Instead, her hand came back with her switchblade knife.
Maggie had always heard of women committing suicide in the bathtub. They would slash their wrists, and the warm water would cause the blood to flow more quickly or something like that. She had heard the explanation on one of their cases, but she couldn’t recall the details. She suspected that both Marcus and Ackerman could have rattled off the exact reasons. Different parts of her seemed to simultaneously envy, pity, and despise both of them.
Stowing the switchblade, she retrieved her flask and took a long shot of cheap vodka.
She spilled a bit of the liquid into the tub as the sound of a thumping rumble reverberated around the bathroom. Quickly screwing the metal lid in place, she grabbed for her cell phone, which was vibrating against the tile floor of the bathroom.
Maggie didn’t recognize the number, which meant it could have been the call she was waiting for. Leaning out of the tub and sticking the ph
one to her ear, she said, “Hello?”
“Agent Carlisle, this is Baxter. I found your father for you.”
She was struck speechless for a moment but was finally able to say, “That was . . . wow . . . that was fast. I’m impressed, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Mr. Kincaid was my grandpappy. Actually, he was Professor Kincaid, but that’s a long story for another time. You can call me Baxter, cuteness. Or the Bax. Or El Baxterino—if, you know, you’re not into the whole brevity thing.” This made him chuckle uncontrollably and add, “Classic.”
Maggie had no idea what he was talking about at this point. She said, “That’s great, Baxter. Can you send me—”
“My associate has already instructed the magical email faeries to deliver all the pertinents directly to your account posthaste.”
“I’m sorry. Are you saying you emailed it to me?”
“I’m sure it’s already waiting in your inbox.”
“Thank you, Mr . . . Baxter. I really appreciate your help. Please send me a bill to the same address, and I’ll—”
“It’s on the house, cuteness. No worries. But you could let me take you to dinner tonight. Your charming company would be more than adequate compensation for a humble servant’s time.”
Again, the strange private investigator had struck her speechless. Stumbling over her words, she said, “I really appreciate your help and the offer. No offense, but I already have enough . . . big personalities in my life.”
An infectious laugh started on the opposite end of the line. A smile involuntarily crept across her face. Maggie couldn’t help but feel cheered up just by talking with the strange man.
After a moment of chortling, Baxter said, “I can definitely understand that, Agent Carlisle. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. But I warn you, don’t you dare go out on the town with me expecting not to fall madly in love. The fact is that once you go Bax, you never go back.”
She chuckled. “Is that so? Then why are you single?”
“Because I’m picky about who I take out on the town and allow to fall in love with me.”
“It looked to me like you had taken at least two of the ladies in that room today ‘out on the town.’ Whatever that means.”
“It’s complicated. One was an old flame, and the other was a fire not sure whether it wants to spark. I’m not currently in a relationship with either one.”
“Do they know that?”
He laughed. “See, this is why I wanted you to have dinner with me. You’re delightful. What about you and your team leader? What’s the status on that fire?”
“Now you’re just grasping at straws, there’s no way you—”
“The Bax can sense these things. Don’t try to deny it.”
Maggie was quiet a moment, trying to think back on the briefing for what she had done to give away her and Marcus’s relationship. Finally, she said, “That flame is still flickering.”
“Well, Agent Carlisle, it’s none of my business, but maybe you should do some deep pondering on the fact that you’ve been flirting with me all this time, and you just now offered that you’re in a relationship. If I were you, I’d either fan those flames or let them go out.”
~~*~~
Chapter Eighty-Four
The Great Caruso smiled and asked, “Are you surprised to see me?”
Marcus replied, “Oh, Eddie . . . If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”
Ackerman laughed and said, “’Head sewn to the carpet,’ that’s a good one. The victim would need to be drugged while they slept in order to accomplish something like that without waking them, though. Perhaps one of those curare-related drugs.”
“Shut up, Frank. Don’t get me wrong, Eddie, it’s wonderful to see you again so soon, but to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Eddie stood from the metal chair and said to Oban’s guards, “Can one of you please bring me a clean shirt and a more comfortable chair?” The gunman closest to the door nodded and hurried from the room.
Moving to the front of Oban’s marble desk, Eddie leaned on the edge of the massive piece of furniture and crossed his arms. “To be honest, I really enjoyed catching up with you. And I really like the business plan you’re developing. So I thought: Hey, I’ve got a private jet. Why not fly out and make this a personal introduction? It was Oban’s idea to have a little fun with you, but I was happy to play along. And I was right, wasn’t I, Mr. Nassar?”
King’s righthand man nodded and said, “I was most impressed by both your mental acuity and physical demonstrations. The two of you appear to be quite the team, Agent Williams.”
Marcus made his face stone, betraying no emotion. But on the inside, his brain scrambled for a reply. What the hell had Eddie told Oban Nassar? Marcus had always learned that if you weren’t sure what to say, then you should keep your mouth shut. And that’s what he did. He let the silence hang in the air, hoping that his brother wouldn’t break it before one of their adversaries.
After a moment, Eddie chuckled and said, “Don’t blow a gasket, Rainman. I told you that you should have revealed yourself as feds from the start. That’s the biggest reason I flew out. I figured you’d do something stupid like this. But don’t worry, I explained everything to my associate.”
Marcus said, “We appreciate that. Anything come out of that discussion I should be aware of.”
“Well, I told Oban all about your current position within a corrupt federal outfit funded by black budget funds. And how you’re leveraging that to eliminate the criminal competition. I told him you’re a good man to know and do business with, that you have a lot of connections and power. I even explained how you’re a second generation dirty cop. Ain’t that right, Marcus?”
He wanted to scream, to ram his fist into Eddie’s face over and over again, but he remained stone. “I suppose so. It was kind of you to pave the way for us. Did you tell Mr. Nassar that we’re here hunting the Gladiator and have plans to dismantle Demon’s whole network?”
“No, I’ll let you fill him in on the gory details. But I tell you what, it’s a darn good thing I decided to make the trip. Oban was planning to execute you. You see, a few of King’s men have been following you since the Willoughby incident and saw your group head over to Richmond Station to meet with the cops. Oban had already dug up what he could find about you and your team and was planning to have all of you put to bed before you even reached this meeting.” Eddie shrugged and grinned from ear to ear. “You could say that you owe me your lives.”
~~*~~
Chapter Eighty-Five
Corin lay atop an ocean of white silk, weeping, and trying to regain some of her lost fortitude. The pain was now only a dull ache. After administering punishment, the Good Wife had dressed her wounds and given her some type of sedative. She couldn’t imagine the eventual scars that would come from this incident, both physical and emotional. She wondered if she’d spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. If so, Dr. Gladstone would probably have her put down like a horse with a broken leg.
Still, through all the pain, the unbreakable girl at the beach house kept her distance from reality and continued making plans.
Gladstone had mentioned that he was headed to his office to make some calls. That made it pretty evident that he had a communications rig of some kind. But then again, as batshit crazy as Dr. Derrick was, it could’ve meant that he was going to consult with the ghost of Genghis Khan. Perhaps it was best that she just gave up. Perhaps she should just let exhaustion drag her down to sleep and hope to never wake up again . . .
A voice in Corin’s head whispered, Get up.
She needed to find Derrick’s office. She should explore the halls and take inventory, always searching for everyday items that could be used as weapons.
Again, the voice whispered, Get up.
&nb
sp; Despite many attempts to make her body respond to the urgency that her mind felt, her muscles refused to move. Perhaps she should just rest her eyes a moment . . .
She awoke to Gladstone parting her white curtain and saying, “No rest for the wicked, Corin. Let’s go for a roll. And I apologize if I made that sound like a request.”
Fearing the punishment non-compliance would bring, she struggled her way over to the edge of the bed and lifted herself into her wheelchair. Gladstone occupied his own chair, but his was much more sophisticated than her own. She examined his chair for the first real time, admiring its modern design and utilitarian elegance.
As she fell into her chair, Corin closed her eyes and said a quick prayer to a God whom she didn’t really know. Please give me the strength to kill this man.
“Roll with me, my dear,” the handsome young doctor said as he used his tightly muscled arms to roll away from her silk cell.
She had little choice but to follow, but she struggled to keep pace with Gladstone, who seemed to consider wheelchair ballet an Olympic event. She wondered why he was keeping up the ruse. He obviously didn’t require the chair, unless he had some condition where he couldn’t stand for long periods of time. But that didn’t seem to make sense. She wasn’t sure what to think. She wasn’t sure what was real anymore. From time to time, the fact that she was in hell still crept into her mind.
Gladstone was halfway across the ballroom before he realized that she had fallen behind. Spinning around on a dime, he smiled and said, “What’s wrong, Corin? Do you not have the strength to keep up? If so, I would like to remind you that only the strong survive.”
Unable to hold her hate inside, she snapped back, “Is that the way it’s going to be in your new society? The strong preying on the weak, pushing them down to raise themselves up. Sounds like the same old world to me, just a different tyrant.”
As he waited for her to catch up, he said, “I think if you look at all of these so-called tyrants throughout the ages, you’ll find healthy doses of insecurity, mania, religiosity, and, most of all, selfish motivations.”