Messiahs

by Matt Rogers

  King closed the gate via remote control as soon as they were within the grounds, and had to wonder whether he was paranoid. Alastair Icke, Gloria Kerr, Keith Ray … they were all gone. There was more to organised crime than just those individuals, but a certain vile subsection of the underground network had been reduced to ashes. No one had traced it back to them, and after a quick scan of local news Violetta revealed that their war against corrupt cops and judges never came to light.

  Powerful people in the know had swept the grittier details under the table.

  There were certain matters the public didn’t need to know about.

  Now they piled out of the car and went inside to see whether anyone had forced entry while they were gone. Before they’d left for Nassau, they’d placed stray hairs in surreptitious locations throughout the house, most importantly on the doorknob to the room that served as Violetta’s intelligence centre. Every hair was still in place, exactly where they’d left them. Given their history, they had to be so cautious it bordered on paranoid. Their enemies were in the highest tiers of black operations, and the only thing that separated them from discovery was Alonzo. They trusted him, but he could be compromised at any moment, so they had to employ due diligence.

  Satisfied the compound was secure, Violetta said, ‘I’ll get to work pulling up anything I can find on Mother Libertas. You two have work to do.’

  King looked at Slater. ‘A trip to the doctor’s?’

  Slater said, ‘You read my mind.’

  He dropped his suitcase on the sofa and fished inside a small sealed pocket for the two vials of Bodhi, which they’d already scrubbed clean of their saliva. He and King had tucked a vial each into their gums for the short trips through airport security on each leg of their journey back to Nevada. With body scanners unable to see through human skin — only clothing — all it came down to was their ability to act like everything was normal.

  The number one giveaway of drug smugglers is nervousness, irritability, odd behaviour.

  After the lives King and Slater had led, the pressure of a TSA screening was minimal, if nonexistent. They’d been their charming, charismatic selves, joking and smiling with the agents without so much as the slightest slur to their speech, and no one had given them a second look.

  Now Slater said, ‘I’ll ring Pressfield, let him know we’re coming.’

  Violetta said, ‘You sure he’ll be okay with this?’

  ‘You know what he’s already doing for us, right?’

  ‘I’m sure he has limits, no matter how nonsensical they might seem. Be careful not to overstep your boundaries. He’s okay supplying you two. He might not like it happening the other way round. He might not want you bringing drugs to him.’

  King said, ‘You don’t understand.’

  She looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘He’ll do whatever we ask him to.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because his reputation’s on the line. The first time we approached him with our requests for performance enhancers, it was bribery. As soon as he accepted our offer, it became blackmail. Because if he refuses, we threaten to bring him down with us. He’s carved out a nice life for himself. He’s making a good living for his family. There’s no way he’s going to jeopardise that.’

  ‘Is that fair?’ Alexis said. ‘I mean, ethically.’

  Slater said, ‘Come on. You should know by now you can’t get anywhere in our world without compromising.’

  He saw her eyes, watched her flashing back through her recent kills.

  A mercenary in the upstairs bedroom of this very estate.

  An enforcer on Grand Bahama who’d stormed their villa.

  And finally a Bahamian labourer named Zidane. She’d killed him accidentally, punting him in the jaw with the toe of her boot after he’d tried to rape her. In suitably unpredictable fashion that was typical of the fragile human anatomy, her kick had found the right place on his skull to rattle his brain in just the right way to shut his lights off forever.

  She’d killed three people in a surprisingly short time frame.

  So Slater was right.

  This world was messy.

  She said, ‘Do what you’ve gotta do.’

  Slater looked at King and jerked his head for the front door. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘We’ve been home for ten minutes,’ King said. ‘Can’t I make a coffee?’

  Slater glanced at Violetta. ‘He doesn’t learn, does he? Some partner. Like he’s rubbing the magic of caffeine in your face…’

  She rolled her eyes.

  Slater started for the door. ‘The sooner I know what’s in this Bodhi shit, the better. Make your coffee later. We’ll swing by Starbucks on the way to Pressfield’s clinic.’

  He knew full well that King would rather make himself vomit than drink Starbucks.

  King followed him to the garage.

  13

  The private practice was in Summerlin, only a five minute drive from The Ridges. It was a small but exclusive place, catering to the wealthiest residents who lived out west and wanted the fastest results and the most discretion.

  King and Slater had a deal for a different sort of discretion.

  They walked straight in, and Slater fed his name to the receptionist, who recognised him anyway.

  The young woman said, ‘Noah’s finishing up with a patient now but he’s on his lunch break in fifteen minutes. I’ll let him know you’re here. Is that okay?’

  Slater nodded. ‘That’s fine. We’re in no hurry.’

  They technically were, but complaining about it achieved nothing and would only serve to make her standoffish. Sometimes politeness is the key to expediency.

  They sat in the waiting room, out of place amongst frail or overweight Summerlin residents riddled with a variety of medical issues, most of which could be relieved by actually paying attention to what went into their mouths instead of opening their wallets for the best medical care every time something went wrong.

  Finally Dr. Pressfield appeared in the hallway. He didn’t come into the waiting room and announce their real names, mostly because he didn’t know them. Instead he met Slater’s gaze and jerked his head toward his office, then disappeared back down the corridor.

  King and Slater got up and bled past the reception desk, trying not to draw attention to themselves.

  Slater still heard someone grumble. ‘They just got here…’

  They didn’t need directions — they’d been here before. Pressfield’s office had his name on the door, and it stood apart from the rest of the doors in the clinic. Most of the doctors were GPs. Pressfield’s expertise was a little more … specialised.

  Pressfield shook their hands as they entered, and King closed the door behind them. Pressfield was a small man with a no-nonsense attitude. He was in his fifties, with thick black hair shaped in a sharp widow’s peak and a handsome wrinkled face.

  He said, ‘I must say I’m surprised you’re here. I thought we were four weeks away from the next cycle.’

  King said, ‘We are. It’s not about that.’

  ‘What’s it about? I don’t have a whole lot of time today. I only just managed to squeeze you in.’

  ‘With what we pay you, you’ll squeeze us in whenever we ask.’

  Pressfield said, ‘What do you want?’

  Slater took the vials out of his pocket and handed them over. ‘We need these tested as soon as possible. Cancel an appointment if you have to. This takes priority.’

  Pressfield took the vials and turned them over, one by one. ‘What is it?’

  King said, ‘Why do you think we’re coming to you?’

  Pressfield narrowed his eyes. ‘So you’re really going to pretend you ordered this stuff off the dark web without a clue what was in it. I thought you’d at least know loosely what you were buying. Isn’t that what you’re using me for? To ensure the purity before you have a wild night?’

  Slater said, ‘We have no idea what’s in it.’
<
br />   ‘So sample it yourself.’

  A still snapshot flashed like an effervescent nightmare in Slater’s mind. Jace’s eyes wide in splendour, bringing the gun to his temple with his skinless hand.

  He said, ‘We’d rather not.’

  Pressfield said, ‘Where’d you get it?’

  Slater didn’t respond.

  King stayed mute, too.

  Pressfield tutted. ‘This is a highly unusual request.’

  ‘We don’t care how unusual it is,’ Slater said. ‘We’re here to pay you to test it. Is there a problem? Should we go elsewhere?’

  Pressfield smirked without lifting his eyes. ‘I doubt you’ll find a deal like ours anywhere else.’

  ‘You think you’re the only doctor in this city up for sale?’

  Pressfield grimaced, like he didn’t want to continue down this road. It was one thing to risk your medical licence, it was another to openly discuss it. ‘I’ll need to take it into the lab.’

  ‘Can’t you do it here?’ King said. ‘Surely you have the means to test it in this clinic.’

  ‘I can test it here, but all I’ll be able to say is, “Yes, these are drugs.” Immunoassays — the methods we use here — aren’t sensitive enough to pick out some of the higher-tier stuff. I’m guessing this is some designer shit.’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Slater said, remembering Jace throwing his head back, struck by something otherworldly.

  Pressfield nodded. ‘Exactly. So I’ll go do a Mass Spec on it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mass Spectrometry,’ Pressfield said. ‘Its compound detection sensitivity is off the charts. And it can pick up multiple compounds in the same analysis, which basic methods like the ones we have here can’t. Would you wager there’s more than one substance in these vials?’

  King looked unsure.

  Slater said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then leave it with me. I should have the results before the end of the day. Then we can organise to—’

  ‘After you test it, destroy it,’ King said. ‘We don’t need it.’

  Pressfield hesitated. ‘Then why do you need to know what’s in it?’

  ‘Best we leave that unanswered,’ Slater said.

  He saw the glint in Pressfield’s eyes.

  Slater said, ‘Take it yourself if you deem it safe enough. You’re the expert, after all. Consider it payment.’

  Pressfield said, ‘What sort of degenerate do you think I am?’

  King rolled his eyes, like that was self-explanatory.

  Pressfield said, ‘Give me a few hours. You sure you don’t want this back?’

  Slater said, ‘We’re sure. But no matter what the test shows, don’t underestimate it.’

  Pressfield zoned in on the truth. ‘Did you see someone else take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Slater could only shake his head. An explanation wasn’t possible.

  Pressfield grimaced and glanced at the vials in a new light. ‘Might give them a miss, then. I’ll call you when I know.’

  King walked out, and Slater followed.

  14

  When they got back to the estate, they went to the kitchen and found Violetta hunched over the laptop, her eyes wide with strain.

  King said, ‘Where’s Alexis?’

  Violetta looked up. ‘Where do you think?’

  The thwack of a boxing glove smacking a heavy bag echoed down from the second floor. Their upstairs training room was at the very end of the house, separated from the kitchen by a labyrinth of rooms, a grand staircase, and ample insulation. But the impact of Alexis’ punches still sounded sharp, like they were in the room overhead.

  Slater said, ‘That’s my girl.’

  Violetta said, ‘You’ve created something you can’t control.’

  ‘You calling her Frankenstein’s monster?’

  ‘She’s too pretty for that,’ Violetta said, then looked Slater up and down. ‘But you as Frankenstein, sure.’

  King rounded the kitchen island, draped his arms over Violetta’s shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek. There was more affection there now. A child was something that transcended the simple physical and emotional bond that most relationships consist of.

  Slater didn’t know the feeling personally, but he hoped some day he would.

  He said, ‘You look pale, Violetta. What have you found?’

  She nodded, relieved someone had noticed the fact she’d blinked probably five times in the last thirty minutes. Now she turned away from the screen, her eyes nearly watering from the strain. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘That’s the problem.’

  King stepped away from her, ran a glass of water under the sink tap, and drank half of it. He frowned as he looked out the window. ‘The web is completely dark?’

  ‘Completely,’ Violetta reiterated. ‘There’s always something. I mean, look how much I found on Dylan Walcott before we even touched down in The Bahamas, and he had everything to hide. “Mother Libertas” is a dead keyword. There isn’t a single mention on forums, message boards … nothing. “Maeve Riordan” is the same deal. Remember when Keith Ray tried to expunge his record from online databases so it looked like he never served as Clark County Sheriff? This is like that, but an actual blanket instead of the janky attempt Keith made. There was still so much I could dig up on the sheriff. Here there’s … not a whisper.’

  ‘So it’s a tiny movement?’ Slater said. ‘It hasn’t taken off yet?’

  Violetta chewed her lower lip without realising. Her eyes were back on the screen, flicking over search results. King and Slater didn’t need to pry. They knew she wasn’t operating on the level of a simple Google search. She had methods of retrieving any scrap of data that had ever been placed on a cloud server. She was thorough, methodical, and she knew exactly how to dig in the right places. They didn’t underestimate her, so they didn’t doubt her confusion.

  They shared it.

  Violetta said, ‘They have a drug they’ve seemingly bioengineered from scratch. They got funding from Walcott, which must have been some time ago. They have a kid they convinced to fly to Nassau on a kamikaze suicide mission just to send a message to anyone looking to fuck over their finances in future. So Jace was a throwaway. They must have plenty of fanatics. And they don’t exist. Not even a morsel of information. That’s not luck … that’s careful planning. If I had to guess, I’d wager they have access to someone important. They’ve got a guy or a girl who’s wiped every trace of them from view, but actually done a respectable job of it. Like their own internal KGB.’

  Slater’s phone rang.

  He fished it out.

  It was Pressfield.

  He held up a finger, motioning for Violetta to hold her next thought, and answered. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Pressfield said. ‘I’m good at my job.’

  Slater flashed back to every delivery they’d taken from the doctor, the comprehensive chemical breakdowns of the steroid microdoses that he didn’t need to provide but included anyway, the professionalism with which he conducted his duties, no matter if they were legal or not. He had to concede that Pressfield was indeed talented, and a hard worker.

  Slater said, ‘What did you find?’

  Pressfield said, ‘It’s a speedball — uppers and downers — but I’m confident in saying I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s engineered so precisely. There’s Dextroamphetamine for intense focus and energy, pure MDMA — that’s ecstasy, molly — for an added surge of euphoria, and Benzodiazepine to suppress pain and anxiety. The Benzos level the rush out and make it tolerable. You take this and you’re on a one-way flight to cloud nine. And the dosage is massive. Whoever designed this … if they got the amounts wrong, the consumer would be overwhelmed, barely lucid, lost in wonderland. But if I’m analysing it correctly, at these doses you’d keep your motor reflexes intact and still feel the biggest high of your
life. You’d be superhuman for a short stretch. I can’t imagine how addictive it’d be.’

  Slater soaked in the words.

  They perfectly mirrored what he’d seen happen to Jace.

  He said, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Seems to be,’ Pressfield said. ‘Like I said, you’d need a genius pharmaceutical scientist to concoct this. I don’t know where you got it from, but if I were you I’d warn them not to produce too much. The authorities get their hands on one of these vials and there’ll be a full-blown investigation. Warrants, searches, you name it. You hear me?’

  ‘I’ll be sure to give them a stern talking to,’ Slater said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want these back?’ Pressfield said.

  ‘Destroy them,’ Slater said without hesitation. ‘Or have yourself a wild Saturday night. It’s none of our concern.’

  ‘I appreciate your discretion.’

  Slater hung up, knowing exactly what Pressfield would do.

  We’re all human, after all.

  Violetta said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Dextroamphetamine, MDMA, and benzos. Engineered to perfection, he says. The most intense, most lucid high of your life. The sort of thing you could give someone and make them believe anything you say.’

  He left it there, letting their imagination do the rest.

  ‘If they’ve had access to Bodhi for some time,’ King said, ‘and the backing of Walcott’s financial empire from the get go, then there’s no chance they’re still a tiny grassroots movement.’

  Violetta said, ‘Which means silence on the Web is far more sinister than it is coincidental.’

  Alexis came downstairs and sauntered into the kitchen, coated in a thin sheen of sweat. She’d pulled her hair back in a tight bun, making her jade eyes shine.

  She said, ‘What have I missed?’

  King said, ‘There’s something brewing in Wyoming, and there’s nothing we can find on it unless we go there.’

  Alexis turned to Violetta. ‘You okay with that?’

  ‘This is bigger than us,’ Violetta said. ‘This is an extremist movement who ordered the gutting of a gangster in public just because they suspected he was linked to Walcott’s demise. If they’re willing to do that, what else are they capable of?’