by CJ Lyons
He emptied a mason jar of nails, grabbed a few foam Sheetz cups from a pile of trash on the floor, shredded them into the jar, then poured kerosene from the space heater over the foam.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked.
“Jellied gas, the Brits call it.” He carefully stirred the melting Styrofoam to evenly distribute it. “Napalm. Well, its bastard cousin.”
She gasped. “You want to burn us alive?”
“Believe me, lady, playing with fire is the last thing I’d enjoy.” The smell of the kerosene and melted foam burned his nostrils and scratched at the back of his throat. Flames dancing in delight, searing his flesh. Memory cramped his stomach with nausea. But if they were going to get out of here he’d need to renew an old acquaintance.
Fight fire with fire.
Or, in Darius’ case, crazy with more crazy.
<><><>
Jenna tried not to feel guilty about leaving Walden at the hospital, but secretly she was elated. Yeah, it sucked for Walden to be left behind, but he didn’t need her to babysit. She re-loaded her AR-15 and SIG Sauer, pocketed the rest of her spare ammo—not as much as she’d like, but not as if she had time to go shopping for more—hopped into the front seat of the Tahoe, weapons close to hand, and set the radio in the front cup holder.
“What’s my fastest route?” she asked Taylor.
“Use your lights and sirens, take the bus lane up Fifth,” he directed.
“I thought Fifth was blocked,” she said as she pulled out the ER parking and turned down the hill.
“It is, but not until you get up past Penn. I’m going to have you turn before then.”
“Just don’t land me in the middle of a traffic jam.”
“If we can get you out of Oakland, traffic looks clear.” He paused. “Weird. Traffic cams look like the residential areas are quiet but there’s now a new surge of people heading towards the bombsites in Squirrel Hill and Point Breeze. You’d think they’d be going the other way.”
“Lookee-loos,” Jenna diagnosed. “Steer me clear.”
She followed his directions, weaving through back streets and sometimes down alleys seemingly at random, encountering little traffic. The streets Taylor led her through were peaceful, quiet. With the cell towers' overcapacity, not even Morgan could get through to disturb her.
It’d been weeks since Jenna had felt this relaxed.
How sick was that? Headed into a gang war was more calming than her day-to-day existence juggling work and Morgan? She shook her head. She was leading one fucked up life, thanks to Saint Lucy. And to Morgan, the girl-wonder-psychopath.
Taylor’s voice crackled through the radio, interrupting her thoughts. “Okay, here’s where it gets tricky.”
Jenna straightened, at full alert. “How so?”
“Looks like the only route not blocked is Frankstown Avenue.”
“Why would they block everything except that one road?” Jenna asked.
“I’m guessing it’s their escape route.”
“I think the SWAT guys call that a fatal funnel.”
“Not much I can do about it,” Taylor said apologetically.
“So you want me to navigate through a crowd of gangbangers? Thought you were supposed to be some kind of a genius.”
“Hear me out. It looks like they only left a few men to guard it,” Taylor said.
“Really? And how accurate is your data?”
“No traffic cams there, so all I've got is satellite imagery from twenty minutes ago.” He quickly added. “It’s the best I can do.”
“What about that drone Lucy asked you about?”
“They’re still getting ready to deploy. It will be at least another ten-twenty minutes before we get any images. Do you want to wait? It’s your call.”
Jenna thought. She knew the smart thing to do would be to wait. But she was Lucy and David’s only back up. Twenty minutes could mean life or death. Besides, she was the one who’d found Andre and maybe the cartel’s command center. It was only fair that she be there during the takedown.
“Give me the route. How tough can a couple of Rippers be?”
<><><>
Morgan held the front door open for Nick. He didn’t hesitate crossing the threshold. Didn’t seem alarmed that she was behind him. Was he a fool? He hadn’t seemed like one in the sessions with Jenna that she’d overheard.
He looked around the living room of the pseudo-Frank Lloyd Wright split level. “The people who live here—”
“I didn’t kill them. If that’s what you’re asking.” She gestured for him to sit in one of the leather chairs grouped around a coffee table. “Why? Would that have been a deal breaker?”
He gazed right into her eyes. Not many people could do that. “Yes.”
His nonchalance was irritating. “Don’t worry. They’re visiting their kids in Florida.” She sat down. Finally he did as well.
“You’re not afraid of me. Why aren’t you afraid of me?” She was genuinely curious. Usually she didn’t really care about what was going on inside anyone else’s head. But Nick intrigued her.
“Why should I be?”
“You said you knew who I was. Then you know I’ve killed people. Lots of people.” Three. Nothing compared to her father’s total, but three more than the majority of the population had.
“I know you’ve killed. For your father.”
She frowned, not sure she liked his implication that her father had some kind of control over her actions. But it had certainly been more than with her father. “Do you think I can’t kill without him?”
“I know you can.”
“You should be afraid.”
“You have no reason to kill me. It’s not in your best interests. And you’re smart enough to put your own safety ahead of a few seconds of cheap, meaningless thrills.”
“You think life is meaningless?”
“No. Not at all. I think life is precious. Sacred even. I think the momentary excitation you get from taking it is meaningless.” He took a deep breath, his gaze traveling up to the vaulted ceiling as if in deep thought. “Your father. He was out of control at the end, wasn’t he? Chasing that adrenalin rush without a care for his well being… or yours.”
He was right. Too right. Morgan didn’t like that. She was used to being the only person in a room who saw the whole truth. “I’m not my father. Who’s to say what I might enjoy?”
His gaze locked onto hers and he crossed his legs, getting comfortable. “You’re right. You’re not your father. And you’ve his experience to learn from. That puts you ahead of the game.”
Silence as he waited.
“Does Lucy know?” Morgan asked. The question came half out of pride, half out of shame. Why couldn’t she stop watching Lucy and her family? If she wanted revenge she should have just taken care of them all ages ago. She told herself she was waiting, wanting them to suffer. That was a lie. They weren’t suffering. They weren’t scared.
They were… happy.
“Of course she does. Megan spotted you too. Until tonight, I’ve been the only one without a Morgan sighting.”
“It’s not a game!” She jumped to her feet.
He shook his head slightly as if chiding himself. “I didn’t mean to imply it was. I was making fun of myself. When I’m with my patients I’m usually the most observant one in the room, but compared to Lucy and Megan—well, let’s just say they run circles around me. It’s hard coming home and being treated as the absent-minded professor.”
There was just enough bitterness in his tone to let her know he spoke the truth. “Your IQ is higher than Lucy’s.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “IQ isn’t everything. Look at you. You haven’t had formal schooling but you’re brilliant. Anyone who could hack into a database and find my IQ, who could elude the authorities as long as you have—”
“My father used to say that the University of Life was the only school worth attending.” Again with her father. Whose footsteps she rea
lly didn’t want to follow, not leading right into a jail cell. If Morgan had one goal, it was to never be caught like he had been.
Then why was she so obsessed with Lucy and her family? With taunting Jenna? Risking everything playing these games when she could be half way across the country doing whatever she wanted? She had to be nuts, because she couldn’t understand this compulsion. And she wanted to. Needed to. So she could regain control of her own life.
“Don’t you want to talk? Analyze me, fix me? Isn’t that what you shrinks do?”
“I don’t want to change you, Morgan. I’m not going to try to fix you. You are what you are.”
She squinted at him, suspicious. “You don’t think I need therapy?”
He chuckled. “Only thing therapy would do is fine-hone your acting skills. So, no. I don’t consider you a good candidate.”
“You think I’m hopeless, then. Beyond redemption.” Anger spilled over into her voice. Usually she didn’t feel emotions, not this strongly, but Nick’s calm Zen-like demeanor and refusal to cower before her was infuriating.
“Not hopeless. I wouldn’t say that. You have a remarkable intelligence. Abundant talent. Why would I think that’s beyond redemption?” He seemed honestly concerned about her answer. As if he cared.
Had to be an act. No one cared. Not her mother. Not her fathers—either of them. Never had. Never would. It was just Morgan against the world.
The only problem was… deep down inside, she wanted more. She wanted what Lucy’s daughter got without asking; she wanted to belong, to be part of something bigger. Even though in the end she knew she’d ruin it. She couldn’t help herself. It was in her nature.
“You ever hear the story of the scorpion and the frog?”
He nodded, a smile playing across his face, making him look younger. “You’re saying that because of your nature you can’t change.”
“Something like that.”
“Seems an awfully abrupt conclusion to make. After all, scientists and philosophers have been arguing about nature versus nurture for centuries. You’ve made up your mind after what, thirteen years on this earth?”
“Fourteen,” she corrected him. Wondered why she did—usually she encouraged people to believe her lies. Anything but the truth. That she guarded, kept for herself. Not with Nick. Which made him dangerous. Almost as dangerous as Morgan herself.
“You think I can change? Stop being a sociopath? Prove it. Tell me how.”
“I didn’t say that. I believe there are some traits hardwired into our brains.”
“Like sociopathy?” She’d read every book available on the subject, taken Hare’s test, probably knew more about it than he did—hell, she lived it, saw up close what her father did. She was the world's expert on sociopaths.
“Like sociopathy. Brain scans on young children who grow up to be sociopaths show aberrant anatomy and activity, particularly in the amygdala and prefrontal cortex.”
“I know.” She waved her hand impatiently. “I’ve read Wallace and Raine.”
“But you want to know what it means for you, Morgan Ames.”
“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes at him, slid her knife from its sheath. “Tell me the truth. If I’m going to be like my father and this,” she twisted the knife to reflect the overhead light, made the shadows dance across its polished blade, “is all there is, then I want to know. Now.”
To her surprise, he brushed off his knees as if they’d just finished tea and crumpets, and stood. “I’m sorry, Morgan. But I have a patient who needs me and I don’t have the time tonight.” He smiled at her, a gentle smile that crinkled the edge of his eyes. Not made up. Genuine. He meant what he was saying. “Call me if you want to talk. But I think you know the answer already.”
She feinted with the knife. He ignored her, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. “Take care of yourself.”
He walked to the door, opened it. Morgan ran after him, still holding the knife. “No,” she shouted. “Don’t go. You can’t go. I won’t let you.”
He turned back, said in a sad voice, “There’s your first lesson. You need to know when to let people go. Trust that they’ll come back, be there for you.”
“You said I’m not your patient but you talk like I’m, I’m,” she struggled for a word, “a friend?” Hated that it came out as a question. She was the one with the knife. She held his life in her hand. Why couldn’t he see that?
“No. Not a friend. You haven’t earned that right. Yet.” He went down the steps and got into the car, leaving her there. Alone. Holding a knife with only her own blood on it.
“Good luck,” he called as he backed out of the driveway.
Morgan let him go. She felt both powerful and wistful as he drove away. Her finger caressed the blade. She could have had so much fun with him.
Still could. She went inside and activated the spyware she’d inserted onto his phone. Less than a minute after leaving her and he was calling some patient, acting like she didn’t even exist.
She listened as he left a message, saying he was on his way. The knife blade glinted in the glow of her laptop’s screen, mocking her. He never mentioned her. Not even to boast about his good deed for the evening. As if he’d forgotten all about her already.
He was alive only because of her mercy. Yet it was as if nothing had even happened. She should have known better. Her father always said, no good deed went unpunished.
She slumped in her chair, trying to imagine how the night would have felt if she had killed him.
Nothing. No thrill at the thought. Just… nothing.
Kill a man, save a man… it didn’t matter. It was all meaningless.
Chapter 23
Lucy and Haddad crossed through the alley beside Holy Trinity to reach Ruby Avenue.
“Let’s try around back.” Lucy kept the Remington at the ready, holding it down by her side where her parka covered it. No one seemed to notice as they circled behind a house and slid into the brick-paved alley leading behind Kujo’s.
The houses bordering the alley had either privacy fences or garages as their rear property border, making the alley feel claustrophobic. Three houses ahead, SUVs facing both directions blocked each end of the alley. Kujo’s. Armed men gathered between the vehicles, leaning against a garage, an old converted carriage house, huddled against the wind, sharing a smoke. There were no windows on the garage, at least not on the side she and Haddad approached from.
The house beside Kujo’s had a flat-roofed garage along the alley. On this side of it was a large maple. Hugging the shadows, and moving slowly so as to not attract the attention of the men behind Kujo’s, she and Haddad made it to the tree. Lucy handed Haddad her shotgun. He crouched and gave her a boost up into the lowermost fork of the trunk. From there it was an easy shimmy out across the branches until she could see into the yard behind the Ripper’s headquarters.
No shutters on the windows at the back. Lights blazed from every room and she could make out the silhouettes of naked women and of more men with guns. The yard was empty except for broken pieces of lumber and a pile of trash near the back porch. The carriage house had lights on as well but she was at the wrong angle to see inside. Two men stood guard in front of its door, whetting her curiosity. The small building would make an excellent place to keep hostages. Easily defendable, easy for the Rippers to escape from.
She retreated until she had a good view of the SUVs. With her night vision monocular she could read the plates. One of them was Zapata’s Escalade. Bingo.
Lucy climbed back down, accepting Haddad’s help to get her to the ground silently. They backed out of the alley and around the corner before speaking.
“Zapata’s SUV is there. And there are people under guard in the carriage house,” she reported. “Two armed men on the house side.”
“And three more in the alley. How many inside the house?”
Lucy shrugged. “At least a dozen, maybe more. Women as well but only the men had weapons that I could see.” Or
clothes for that matter.
“So the odds are what, ten to one?”
“If we’re lucky.”
They were both silent for a long moment. But neither mentioned retreat. Lucy thought about it, thought hard about it, fear knotting her gut. Then she remembered the photo of Fatima and her family. The hope in Mina’s eyes, the laughter in her little sister’s.
“We can’t let the bastards get away with it,” she finally said. It was the only answer she had, the only way her job, her world, made sense. The only way she could face her husband and daughter when she got home.
“From the tree you can get onto the neighbor’s garage roof,” she told Haddad. “You cover the men in the alley and slow down any reinforcements. I’ll take care of the two at the door. In and out, easy as pie.”
His smile had nothing to do with pleasure. More like greeting fate. His game face. For the first time since they’d met, Lucy liked the man. “Sounds like a plan.”
<><><>
Frankstown Avenue had definitely seen better days. Vacant lots overgrown with weeds, abandoned service stations and stores, brick single family homes that had broken windows and rusted cars in their front yards. No Christmas spirit here.
Jenna slowed the Tahoe at Finley. The street was empty. A block ahead the road dipped beneath train tracks, going through a narrow stone tunnel. It was a perfect place for an ambush.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got eyes on me yet?” she asked Taylor.
“Sorry, no. They had to divert the drone to help Zone Five. Figured the drone would be the best way to spot the snipers so they can get their wounded out.”
Okay. Injured police officers took priority. Still. “I don’t like the looks of this tunnel up ahead. There’s no movement, but it would be a great place for an ambush.” Hell, it was so dark in the tunnel there could be a whole fleet of Rippers waiting and she’d never know it. She grabbed the AR-15 and used its sights. There was enough ambient light for her to verify that there wasn't any movement. And definitely no vehicles. Finally, some good news.