by Ethan Cross
“Wake him up,” Craig said to one of his men, a big black North Carolinian named Landry. The others were out pursuing other leads on Ackerman and Carlisle.
Landry looked down at Garrison and then back at Craig. “Are you sure about this, sir?”
Craig gritted his teeth but said, “Speak your mind.”
Landry stood beside Garrison’s unconscious form and pointed down at him. “This guy’s a federal agent. I’ll back your play, whatever that is, sir, but have you considered how much heat is going to come down on us for this?”
“He may be a federal agent. But an agent for an organization that’s not even supposed to exist. And don’t forget about Bobby.”
“I know, but—”
Craig closed the gap between them within the space of a blink and wrapped his fingers around Landry’s throat. The other mercenary didn’t resist. “What did I tell you when I recruited you to this company? What were the two rules?”
In a choked voice, Landry replied, “We always get paid, and we protect our own.”
“That’s right. We have a code. You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us. Now wake him up.” Craig shoved Landry roughly back toward the unconscious and bound Garrison.
“Yes, sir, but...” Landry hesitated. “What are we going to do with him after he talks?”
“Same thing they did to Bobby. We’re going to kill him.”
59
DEEP BENEATH THE FLOORBOARDS OF THE THIRTEENTH FRET, THOMAS WHITE SAT OVER AN ALUMINUM WORKBENCH, A LARGE MAGNIFYING LENS AND LIGHT IN FRONT OF HIS FACE AND A SOLDERING IRON IN HIS HAND. With surgical precision, he applied the final touches to his newest toy, a device which could increase electrical voltage output based on the readings coming from an attached heart-rate monitor. He finished connecting the final wire and then leaned away from the lens. He placed the soldering iron on the aluminum surface of the workbench and rubbed his eyes.
The newly installed equipment looked out of place in the small room that he had converted into his workshop. The walls were old stone, and the space smelled musty and damp. It was March, but the snow had melted only a week ago, and the temperatures were still barely above freezing in Leavenworth. A space heater hummed in the corner to fight back the chill.
The basement of the Thirteenth Fret housed one of the largest examples of what had become known as the Leavenworth Underground—a series of tunnels and old storefronts and rooms that formed an underground city beneath the Kansas town. Thomas had heard much speculation on the true origins of the underground city. Some said that it dated back to the 1800s and had been used as part of the Underground Railroad. Others cited remnants of old business signs that still hung in front of many of the doorways and claimed that it had been simply a second level of commerce beneath the street or that the street level might have actually been raised at some point due to flooding and this original level had merely been forgotten. Some claimed that the underground city had housed speakeasies and dens of ill repute, which had been in use prior to and during Prohibition. Strangely, the academic community and researchers had largely ignored the presence of the underground city, and many feared that the secrets of the Underground had simply been lost to history.
Thomas White didn’t really care about the original purpose of the tunnels and old stone rooms. He only cared about how well they suited his purposes in the modern day. He had converted the dilapidated old storefronts of the rotting structure into several soundproof chambers where his subjects could be monitored and housed during the course of his experiments.
He stifled a yawn and was about to head to his bedroom when he heard the creak of hinges and the sound of small feet padding against stone. Only one resident of his makeshift dungeon wasn’t locked in his room, and so Thomas had no doubt about who was moving around. He noiselessly followed the sound of the footsteps and watched as his grandson Dylan entered one of the side rooms.
Thomas followed the boy, watching him from the shadows. He had always had the uncanny ability to sneak about and observe people without their knowledge. He enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him to watch someone who didn’t know they were being watched. It could often be like seeing inside a person, beyond the masks they showed to the world, down deep to the real person beneath. It was an intimate experience whose impact could only be eclipsed by staring into the same person’s eyes as the life drained from their body.
Thomas admired the familial traits evident in the boy’s dark hair, naturally athletic frame, curious nature, and the intensely intelligent gleam in his eyes. The boy entered another room used mainly for storage and picked up a jar resting on a shelf. The thing that had caught his attention was a butterfly flitting back and forth inside the small glass prison.
Silently stepping up directly behind the boy, Thomas said, “What did you find?”
The boy gasped and dropped the jar. Anticipating the reaction, Thomas snatched the falling object from the air before it could shatter against the stone floor. He placed it back on the shelf.
Dylan said, “I’m sorry, Grandfather.”
“Never apologize, my boy. Accept the consequences of your actions, but never be sorry for them. I’m glad you found this. I captured it for you.”
A ghost of a smile crept across the boy’s features. “For me?”
“Well, not as a pet, but as an illustration. How does it make you feel?” He handed the jar back to the boy. The monarch butterfly inside tapped against the glass as it tried to escape, its silky orange and brown wings striking an invisible barrier that its tiny insect brain couldn’t comprehend.
“It’s pretty,” Dylan said.
“So it brings you joy?”
“I guess.”
Thomas grabbed another jar from a higher shelf. “What about this?” he said, shoving the jar in front of Dylan’s face.
The boy recoiled as the large wolf spider in the bottom of the jar scurried toward his face and leaped against the glass. “No! I don’t like spiders.”
“But why? Why are you afraid of something so small? It can bite, yes, but it can’t truly hurt you. It’s just a small animal following its instincts, same as the butterfly.”
“I don’t know. It’s just ugly and scary-looking.”
“Okay. Now, what if I asked you to kill one of them?”
“Why? I don’t want to kill either one.”
“But I need the jar back, and if we let either one outside right now, it will just freeze to death.” A small lie, but Dylan wouldn’t know any better.
Dylan seemed to consider this, his small brow furrowing. “I guess I’d kill the spider, then.”
Thomas grabbed a cotton ball and tipped a bottle of ethyl acetate against it. He used a pair of tweezers to pick up the soaked ball and extended the tweezers, handle first, to the boy. “Go ahead. Drop this into the jar, and it will kill the spider.”
Dylan hesitated but then took the tweezers, unscrewed the lid of the jar, and dropped the cotton ball inside. Thomas placed his hand over the air holes in the jar’s lid and encouraged the boy to watch the show. The spider sensed the danger and flailed about the bottom of the jar, searching for an escape. It spasmed and fought but eventually succumbed to the toxic fumes and curled in on itself.
“Is it dead?” Dylan asked.
“Yes, you killed it. Does that make you sad?”
“No, it’s just a bug.”
“That’s right, my boy. Its life was insignificant and so is its death. Go on to bed now. I’ll come read you a story in a moment.”
“Not another scary one?”
“I’ve told you. You have to master your fear. Like you did with the spider. But we’ll see. Go on, now.”
Thomas smiled as he watched the boy head down the hall toward the room he had fashioned for him. He looked back at the dead spider. The boy had easily put a value on one life over another. Thomas had been doing many small exercises such as this with Dylan over the past few months. All part of his education, or re-education. Once the con
cept of placing a value on life was established, it wasn’t a huge jump to establish that no life had value. Dylan was well on his way, but there were still many lessons to come.
Thomas then turned his attention to the butterfly. He unscrewed the lid to its jar, reached inside, grabbed hold of the Monarch, and pulled off one of its wings. He stood there for a moment and watched it flap in a one-winged frenzy on the bottom of the jar. He cocked his head to the side and analyzed its death throes. Then he analyzed himself and why he had felt the urge to tear off the wing in the first place. He determined that it was more out of curiosity than pure malevolence. He had just wanted to watch it suffer and die. Simple as that.
60
THE DIRECTOR SAT AT A TABLE AGAINST THE BACK WALL IN A RESTAURANT NAMED ZATINYA ON 9TH STREET NW IN WASHINGTON DC. It served a unique blend of Turkish, Lebanese, and Greek cuisine. He was about to enjoy a late dinner of garides saganaki—sautéed shrimp with tomatoes, green onions, and kefaloaviera cheese—when he saw Trevor Fagan, dressed in an expensive pinstriped three-piece suit, enter and walk over to his table.
Fagan pulled out a chair, sat down across from him, and said, “Hello, Phillip. As you know, the Ackerman situation was about to resolve itself this afternoon.”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
Fagan ignored the comment and pushed on. “Unfortunately, I never received confirmation or any word from the team afterward. Naturally, any deviation regarding Ackerman is of immediate concern. So I sent out another team to the cabin. They found what appeared to be the aftermath of a shoot-out. Lots of expended rounds and blood.”
This made the Director sit forward. “Did they—”
Fagan cut him off. “Then I sent a team to locate you and the members of your team who were involved with Ackerman, namely agents Carlisle and Garrison. Both of whom are missing, whereabouts unknown. Since you were the only other person aware of the operation, I assume that you tipped them off. I’ve already issued arrest warrants for Carlisle and Garrison. Can you give me any reason why I shouldn’t have you put in chains as well?”
The Director tossed his napkin onto his plate and replied, “Not really.”
“Why? Why would you interfere?”
“Ackerman still has information that could lead us to his father.”
“And to your missing agent, who most likely died months ago.”
“Marcus isn’t dead. He’s out there in a hole somewhere, undergoing the kind of torture that only the Devil could dream up. And he’s waiting for us to save him. That hope might be the only thing keeping him alive. I won’t give up on him.”
“I admire your loyalty. I do, really. But I can’t condone or allow this loose-cannon behavior. We have to have rules, Phillip. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Your actions have placed one of our country’s most notorious fugitives back on the street.”
“This was Maggie’s play, and I trust her judgment.”
“Her judgment is clouded. I need you to help make this right. Help me find her and Ackerman.”
The Director frowned and asked, “Why do you say her and Ackerman? What about Andrew? There something you’re not telling me?”
Fagan steepled his fingers and said, “I’ve received reports from someone inside Mr. Craig’s company that he has Agent Garrison in custody and plans to extract information from him about where Maggie and Ackerman are headed.”
Through gritted teeth, the Director said, “Extract? You mean torture. And you’re going to ‘condone’ some mercenary revoking the civil rights of a federal agent?”
“Let’s not get too dramatic, Phillip. We both step all over people’s civil rights every day. The Shepherd Organization itself is a violation of those rights. But to answer your question, no, I’m not going to condone it. Unlike you, I insist on people beneath me following orders, and I don’t allow them to go off half-cocked on their own personal crusades. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want you to come with me to collect your agent before Mr. Craig does something that we’ll both regret. Then I want you to order him to tell us where to find Agent Carlisle and Mr. Ackerman.”
“I get the sense that Craig won’t give Andrew up easily, especially if one of his men was hurt during that gunfight you described. He seems the type to hold a grudge.”
Fagan cocked his head to the side and said in his typical smug tone, “You have a gun, don’t you?”
61
AFTER TUCKING DYLAN IN AND TELLING HIM A STORY ABOUT THE SPANISH INQUISITION, THOMAS WHITE DECIDED TO CHECK IN ON HIS SON. He keyed up the feed from the night-vision surveillance equipment embedded in the ceiling above Marcus’s head and stared at his youngest child. Marcus was naked and curled into the fetal position along one wall of his cell. Thomas pressed a button to initiate a violent electrical shock. He couldn’t resist the urge to smile as Marcus’s body convulsed. But once the initial shock stopped, Marcus didn’t scream out in anger. He simply whimpered, curled back up into a ball, and tried to go back to sleep.
Thomas chuckled. He had physically broken the boy, but there was still much work to be done on his son’s re-education. It would have been much easier to initiate the changes physically through surgery, as he had done with his apprentice, but those were invasive procedures, which produced the desired effects but also erased any trace of the person’s identity. It had taken many subjects and years of experimentation to perfect that procedure, but his current apprentice had so far been an unmitigated success. He had started by operating on the temporal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for the storage of episodic memory, then he had moved on to precision scarring and removal of certain sections of the left and right medial temporal lobes, the amygdaloid complex, and the entorhinal cortex. It was a long and painstaking process, but the end result was the perfect soldier—never complaining, never questioning, but still retaining enough humanity to blend in and complete its objective. Once his current project was complete, he planned to share his research with the world over the Internet. He suspected that terrorist groups and governments alike would find his methods and data useful.
But he would need to take a different approach with Marcus. He wanted to give his son a gift—to show him a world without fear—not steal the essence of who he was. He wanted to set him free, not turn him into another automaton. He would break Marcus’s mind, body, and soul. He would pour out all that he had learned and everything he was and recreate him in his father’s image.
Thomas checked his watch and looked back at Marcus. It was time that they started the next phase of treatment. But for that, he would need another subject to be used as an illustration, in much the same way that he had used the butterfly and spider during his discussion with Dylan. In this case, however, the subject would require slightly more work to procure. Still, he had time to do so this evening and be ready to start phase two the following morning. He had grown accustomed to sending his apprentice out on errands such as this, but sometimes there was nothing quite as exhilarating as rolling up his sleeves and getting his own hands dirty.
He clicked off the monitor, grabbed his coat and keys, and locked Dylan’s door on the way out. After all, the boy possessed his grandfather’s insatiable curiosity, and Thomas couldn’t have his grandson exploring unsupervised.
*
Audrey Moynihan’s eyes were red and puffy from crying. She still couldn’t believe that Brad was leaving her. After all she had done for him. After all they’d been through. How could he just walk away as though it all meant nothing? She had supported him while he went back to school to earn his degree, working two jobs to help with his student loans. And now that he had finally gotten his dental practice off the ground and they were seeing a return on the substantial investment, he had decided that he “needed a break.” She suspected that he planned to spend his “break” with the perky blond hygienist who had recently started in the office, but she had no proof of that. Maybe they had simpl
y grown apart. Maybe—
Something struck the underside of her car as the wheels bounced over a large object in the road. Audrey locked up the brakes and let out an involuntary yelp. Her Hyundai Sonata skidded to a halt, and her gaze flew to the rearview mirror.
Her heart pounded, and her breathing became short and erratic. She searched the road for whatever she had hit. When she spotted it, she screwed her eyes shut and repeated, This is not happening, this is not happening. Then she said it to herself out loud like an incantation that when invoked would take back the last five minutes of her life.
It was a person. She had hit a person.
Audrey kept her eyes closed tight, not wanting to look again, not wanting to confirm her fears. Maybe it was a small deer? Or a large dog? Or anything else other than another flesh-and-blood human being. She cursed, not for the first time that day. This was Brad’s fault. If she hadn’t been distracted ...
There was no point in thinking such thoughts, she told herself. It made no difference. It was done and over. She forced herself to look again.
This time she was sure. She could see the clothes. The flesh. The undeniable, unmistakable shape of a person lying in the road. A person who wasn’t moving. A person who was most assuredly dead. A person she had killed.