Of course.
Natasha Garcon’s area of expertise was not forensic science—not by any stretch—but she had observed enough to know how to take samples for later analysis. She raided the back of the ambulance for a scalpel, tweezers, scissors, sterile cloth squares, and plastic bags. Then she gently held Dark’s left hand as she swabbed for samples.
Labyrinth had never left forensic material at any scene, but maybe Dark had pushed him hard enough to make a mistake.
His fingers twitched in her hands. It felt like both yesterday and forever since his hands had caressed her body.
chapter 58
RIGGINS
Quantico, Virginia
The morning after his assault, Tom Riggins woke up and stared at the ceiling, wondering if he should just eat his gun and be done with the whole thing. Or start drinking now to take the edge off the ache he felt from the top of his head to the soles of his shoes. Sure, drinking. Just the thing his fractured mind needed right now . . .
That he wasn’t dead was a miracle in itself. He could have been snuffed so damn easily....
But what had happened?
Riggins’s memory felt like a TV that continued to switch channels every two or three seconds, never lingering long enough on an image to make sense of it. Riggins had experienced plenty of alcohol-induced blackouts, but never anything like this. The inside of his skull felt like it had been cracked open and somebody had scraped his brains out with a paring knife, leaving behind nothing more than some stringy, pulpy tissue.
But the truth was—and this hurt the most:
He’d let himself become a target.
This was the very thing he’d caution Special Circs recruits against—opening yourself up, revealing something about yourself, giving your prey a reason to turn around and start hunting you. Such a fucking rookie mistake. As if Riggins needed further proof that his career was over, that he was no longer circling the drain but actually clogged down inside of it, with the rest of the shit.
Riggins climbed off his own dirty carpet, shuffled to the kitchen, turned on the tap, leaned over, cupped some cold water into his mouth. Rinse, spit. The inside of his mouth felt like the striking surface on a matchbook. That fucker had shot him up with something fierce. Some kind of truth serum, because Riggins had a fractured memory of talking. Talking a lot. Nonstop talking. And Riggins was not a talker.
It came back to him now. His assailant—if it was this “Labyrinth” freak—had been asking him about Steve Dark.
A billion questions about Steve Dark.
Christ, what had he said?
The drugs were one thing. But not everything. It was the patter, too, the way Labyrinth smacked your brain in one direction, then another. Not torture so much as extremely aggressive therapy. The drugs simply made it difficult to keep your mouth shut and block your ears.
Riggins was halfway to the bathroom when the phone rang. He reversed course and picked up the receiver to hear a woman’s voice.
“Agent Riggins?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Natasha Garcon. We met in New York, at the Epoch Hotel.”
“Right,” Riggins said. “Don’t think we were properly introduced. What happened? Is he okay?”
“No, he’s not. He suffered a fall in Edinburgh.”
“A what? And where?”
“He’s still out. I just . . . I just thought you should know. Dark told me he didn’t have any family, besides you. And his daughter.”
Even after the events of the past twelve hours, Riggins was genuinely startled to hear that Dark would ever refer to him as a member of his family.
And equally startled to find himself, just a few hours later, preparing for a red-eye to Paris. No official orders, no official okay from the FBI. Just his own plastic buying a wildly expensive one-way ticket. Riggins sat in the terminal bar, slamming bourbons as fast as the bartender could pour them. He opted to drink himself stupid before flights, because in his opinion, there was nothing worse than flying. As he waited for his flight, he called Constance.
“I need to know what Global Alliance is.”
“Riggins? Jesus . . .”
“And a check on someone named Natasha. Can you do that for me? I know, you’re busy, but . . .”
Constance sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s a last name?”
“What do you think? Gar . . . something. Garces? Garcin? She said it too fast. But if you find Global Alliance, you’ll find her.”
“Where are you, Riggins?”
“Trying to do the right thing, but probably making things a whole lot fucking worse. In other words, the usual. I’ll call you in seven hours.”
chapter 59
RIGGINS
Paris, France
Flying to France was nothing compared with making his way to Steve Dark’s hospital room at the Pitié-Salpêtrière. Hell, Riggins thought. I can hardly pronounce the name of the damned place. When he landed Riggins called Natasha Garcon—who was surprised to learn that he’d traveled all this way. Still, she was able to speak to the staff and put Riggins’s name on the clearance list. The guards at the security checkpoint were more thorough than his last colonoscopy. And even then, they insisted on accompanying Riggins up to Dark’s room, their guns drawn, ready to shoot to kill if Riggins took one step out of place. They didn’t care that he worked for the FBI; they didn’t care how far back he went with the patient. They were employed by this Global Alliance, and they were paid not to take any chances.
“You guys hiring, by chance?” Riggins asked.
They said nothing in reply. Riggins noted they were wearing serious body armor over their black and gray camos, and loaded up with SIG Sauers and MK23 MOD .45-caliber handguns with suppressors and laser pointers.
“Okay then.”
When they finally approached Dark’s room, Riggins was treated to one more pat-down—“Seriously, fellas?”—before he was allowed inside. Riggins thought it was a lot of effort for what was sure to be an anticlimax. Garcon had told him that Dark was still unconscious, and Riggins expected to spend the next eight hours sitting next to Dark’s bed in a dim room, wishing like hell he could smoke.
But Dark was propped up in the reclining bed, IV tubes still snaked up to his arm. There were heavy circles under his eyes, and Riggins had never seen the man look more beaten or tired . . . but he was awake. That was huge.
“Riggins,” Dark said weakly.
“Hey. You’re up.”
“Yeah,” Dark said. “Natasha told me you might be visiting, so I figured I’d better snap out of the coma, otherwise I’d have to listen to you rambling on and on in my subconscious.”
Riggins forced a smile. “I’m going to probably ramble anyway.”
“Figured.”
“So what happened? And what’s this Global Alliance bullshit you’ve signed up for?”
Dark recapped the basics—how he was recruited, and the hunt for Labyrinth thus far, including their encounter in Edinburgh. Riggins listened to the way Dark talked about their battle. How the bullets seemed to pass right through him. How he moved with preternatural speed and strength. Riggins bit his tongue so hard he thought he might sever it. He remembered his attacker—how stealthy he was, and how absurdly powerful. There wasn’t a chance to mount a proper fight. The motherfucker was all over him like a wild animal. Shooting him up. Pulling open his brain . . .
“And he was ready for me,” Dark said. “Me, personally. Because under another mask, he wore a replica of a Sqweegel mask.”
Riggins felt his stomach go instantly cold. “You’re fucking kidding. How the hell . . . ?”
“Sqweegel was big news five years ago. It would not take much to dig up that piece of my past. But the way he spoke . . . it was like he knew a lot more about the case than had ever appeared in the papers.”
“Huh,” Riggins said, but his mind was racing. The shattered memories of his assault were making sense now. Oh fuck were they making sense. The attack.
He remembered more of it now. You’re going to tell me all about Steve Dark. Shit, what had he told that bastard about Steve Dark?
Dark continued. “Strange thing was, he didn’t want to kill me. He dropped me out of desperation—because I was about to blow his face off. It’s like he wanted to mess with my mind, throw me off the hunt.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not one of his targets. He took me seriously enough to try to neutralize me, but he also didn’t want to bother killing me. He’s extremely precise with his targets, and extremely precise about explaining himself to the world. That’s the thing about this one, Riggins. He’s not like the other sickos and freaks we’ve chased down over the years. Look at the people he’s targeted so far. All guaranteed to grab maximum headlines.”
“We’ve chased other sick bastards who liked to see their handiwork show up in the press,” Riggins said.
“But not like this one. He’s ideological more than homicidal. He’s not even killing everybody. That’s what worries me. A Level 26 killer typically uses a trail of victims to build toward something greater. The question is, what’s Labyrinth building?”
“No idea,” Riggins said, only half-listening, because the other half of his brain was furiously putting together the pieces of his assault, and the horror and shame were building. There was one awful secret about Steve Dark, and for five years Riggins had kept it buried in an iron vault deep within his mind. Had Labyrinth dug it up and forced it open with a crowbar of truth serum and relentless questions?
“Hey,” Dark said, “I am glad you’re here. That means a lot.”
“What did he tell you?” Riggins asked. “You said he knew things about Sqweegel that weren’t in the papers.”
Dark was silent for a moment before saying, “It’s not important.”
Riggins squeezed his fists so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms, drawing blood. Fuck. Labyrinth knows. He knows and he told Dark the truth to gain a tactical advantage. And now Dark knows . . . and that’s the one thing Tom Riggins swore that his surrogate son would never, ever know.
That Sqweegel, their greatest nemesis, and the man who had killed Dark’s foster family and beloved wife, Sibby, was a blood relative.
What was that doing to his mind? Riggins almost couldn’t bear to look Dark in the eye for fear he’d give himself away. The guilt. The shame.
“Riggins.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, look at me.”
Riggins did. “I’m going to be fine. I’m bruised as hell and that rattled the tapioca of my brains around a little bit . . . but I’m going to live. You’re acting like I’m about to check out or something.”
“Yeah. No. Sorry . . . look, I’m just hungover and tired. You know me. I can’t fly without getting shitfaced.”
“Well, down a bunch of coffee. Because I have a favor to ask.”
Riggins was again surprised. Dark, like any bitter child, had made a point over the years of letting Riggins know he didn’t need him or his help for anything, ever again.
“What do you need?”
“I want you to find Natasha and help the rest of the team catch this son of a bitch,” Dark said.
“What, me, join your superspecial fancy spy team? You’ve got to be kidding, right?”
“They’ve got everything—weapons, money, computers, access.
But they don’t have a manhunter. They don’t have someone experienced in catching Level 26 killers. They need you.”
“Hey, they tapped you. They don’t want your old boss who’s about to be put out to pasture.”
“Riggins, I haven’t even tried walking to the bathroom yet. And when I get there, I have a feeling that I’m going to be pissing a lot of blood. Meanwhile, this Labyrinth fuck is going to be sending more packages, and he’s going to keep going and building toward something that . . . well, that frankly worries the hell out of me. I’d feel a whole lot better knowing you were on the hunt.”
Riggins listened to his words, and knew he should feel the slightest bit flattered—the classic pupil praising the teacher. But the shame and guilt blanked all of that out. So all he could say was,
“Yeah, okay, I’ll help.”
Guardian
Breaking: New Labyrinth threat said to have been delivered to the Vatican.
New York Times
Exclusive: Alain Pantin’s call to stop Labyrinth not with guns, but ideas.
chapter 60
TRANSCRIPT: THE CORMAC JOHNSON HOUR, CNN
CORMAC JOHNSON
Joining us tonight via satellite is European Parliament member Alain Pantin, a man who’s become known as, for better or worse, Labyrinth’s spokesman. Until a few weeks ago, nobody had ever heard of Pantin. He was just one of hundreds of semi-obscure parliamentary members of the EU. That is, until Labyrinth started sending letters and boxes of clues and—allegedly—started killing people, demanding change. I’ve asked Mr. Pantin on the show to explain why he’s hitched his political career to a sociopath and why he thinks Labyrinth’s diatribes are worth listening to. Welcome, Mr. Pantin.
ALAIN PANTIN
Thank you, Cormac. I’m a longtime fan of your show, but I’ll correct you on one thing, I am not Labyrinth’s spokesperson. I have never met this Labyrinth, nor do I represent him in any way.
JOHNSON
But you’re taking Labyrinth’s messages and running with them.
PANTIN
While I vehemently disagree with his methods, there is something to Labyrinth’s messages. Just because a monster tells you that a building is on fire doesn’t mean that the building is not, in fact, on fire.
JOHNSON
The bigger question here, though, is whether we should start basing our economic and political decisions on the desires of a monster. Is that a way to run the world? Are you going to base your campaign on the rantings of a madman?
PANTIN
Labyrinth has called our attention to a host of problems in our world that we should not be so willing to accept, yet somehow we do. We elect people who serve their own interests or those of the highest bidder. I’m sick of it. You should be, too, Cormac.
JOHNSON
You are up for reelection this year, are you not?
PANTIN
I am. And as I campaign, I’m going to remind myself of why I’m running—which is to represent the interests of my constituents. Not just the rich, or the influential constituents. And while the attack on the senator was shameful, look at the allegations that have surfaced in the days since WoMU. Do we want someone morally and ethically compromised to speak for so many?
JOHNSON
Allegedly compromised.
PANTIN
Semantics. And that’s what people are tired of. Tired of their courts failing them, tired of seeing CEOs, men who have destroyed the lives of others with their scheming and fraud, given a slap on the wrist and a posh cell in a minimum security prison. People are tired of it. Look at the protests around the world. People have begun to question their leaders and are starting to have frank discussions about accountability. Look at the wave of protests in the Middle East, in London, South America, Greece.
ON-SCREEN: The interview cuts to b-roll of the protests around the world. Many of the groups feature signs with Labyrinth’s messages and quotes.
JOHNSON
Why do you think people seem to be getting behind Labyrinth in such large numbers? Police are fairly certain he’s nothing more than a serial killer.
PANTIN
I think that people see in Labyrinth . . . a voice. They see someone, at long last, taking up their cause. Most people feel powerless, and they see Labyrinth as at least doing something about it. He is forcing a dialogue that most leaders would prefer to not have. He’s giving a voice to all those who can’t be heard. People are tired of the corruption. I’m tired of the corruption. [Looks at the camera] Aren’t you?
JOHNSON
Thank you, Mr. Pantin. We’ll be right back after the b
reak to take your calls. And from the way this board is lighting up, I’d say you good folks still have a lot to say about the matter. We also want to extend an open invitation to Labyrinth himself. If you’re watching, give us a call.
PANTIN
If Labyrinth’s watching, I’d encourage him to take a rest. Let the people forge their own destinies.
JOHNSON
We’ll be right back.
chapter 61
Global Alliance HQ / Paris, France
There wasn’t a single new package this time.
There were five packages.
All were delivered in late afternoon, which was the perfect time to introduce it into all aspects of the news cycle. Breaking on the Web, covered on cable and network news, and full stories in print the following morning. After the attack at the WoMU conference three days ago in Europe, the media was primed like never before. Not only were they expecting a new package, but they were on tenterhooks waiting for it.
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