The Smiling Man Conspiracy (Evils of this World Book 2)

by C. J. Sears

  They weren’t going back to the monsters and the desert. He’d rather risk a fall than be torn apart by one of those creatures. And between Lone Oak and the tests, there were enough casualties that seeing horrific death win again didn’t sit with him. Michael refused to allow these nutcases and their pets to claim himself, Evelyn, or Donahue as their next victim.

  He couldn’t help feeling responsible for what happened to Zachary. Being bombarded with the knowledge of his infection, of losing control at the whim of some damn parasite, the man had tried to redeem himself. But to go out like that, slapped away as if he were a harmless fly by that nightmare creature—Michael couldn’t imagine a more pitiful fate.

  He’d died saving their skins. They never even got the chance to thank him for his sacrifice. Never would.

  “Michael,” said Evelyn, “do you hear that sound? I think the water’s coming back.”

  Now that she mentioned it, he heard the pool filling up with the nasty saltwater. The architecture of this facility wasn’t only absurd but designed to work against their survival. The monstrous creature that killed Cranston’s cohort and probably Cranston himself would follow.

  Michael knew he’d rather not be the one in charge of making this decision, but it was time to sink or swim. If they started now, they might beat the water to the top. Swimming would be less exhausting but far more dangerous.

  His mind made up, he said, “You go first. I’ll follow. My rib hurts, but if it means getting out of here I don’t care.”

  Truth be told, the pain wasn’t that bad. Oh, it hurt. Felt like an elephant had trampled over his chest. But the threat of impending death and an ample supply of adrenaline masked the worst of it.

  “Michael, if I die, please don’t try to avenge me,” said Evelyn as she climbed down the first three rungs. “Don’t look back. Just go.”

  He peeked over the edge and replied, “Don’t talk like that. You’re not dying. I’m not dying.”

  She shook her head. “Be honest. I love you, but you don’t know that. Promise me you’ll run.”

  Her glistening eyes betrayed her fear and the sincerity of her request.

  He couldn’t make that promise. “We’re getting out of here and the first thing we’re going to do—after we kick the Overlord in the nuts—is get two strawberry malts, a pair of cheeseburgers, and a big box of tater tots.”

  Evelyn shared a pained smile. “What about a banana split?”

  “That too.”

  She went further and further down the ladder that was too damn long. Michael joined her, both hands firmly on the rungs as he took each step. His eyes drifted down and, seeing the grimy water pooling beneath their feet, he climbed faster.

  The ladder shook, and the metal rumbled as they descended. Every footstep became an echo. Every echo bounced off the walls and between his ears. The hypnotic repetition would’ve lulled him to sleep if it weren’t so shrill.

  He’d be surprised if he could sleep well after today. Lone Oak haunted his dreams. His imprisonment kept him on edge. Michael didn’t know enough about shock and post-traumatic stress to give any definitive time frame for his recovery, but he knew he was taking some of the things he saw too well.

  One day, the adrenaline and forced bravery would wear off. The unreality and dreamlike circumstances would become a diseased wound. Michael was glad he and Evelyn were together because on that day, he didn’t want to be by himself.

  *

  Zachary flexed his gore-covered fist. What power! He’d caved that creature’s head in easier than punching through wet tissue paper. There was more to the infection than bleeding black and following orders. It was a culmination of the human ideal to be more than flesh, more than bones. He had transcended.

  All the same, he wanted none of that. What good did it do a man to lose his humanity? That was the dream of a lesser soul, a tormented wish from a demented mind like the Overlord. The offer on the table gleamed, but inside it was corroded, dead, less than worthwhile.

  Willow Donahue retreated as he walked toward her. He kept thinking not of her sudden, unusual appearance but of how sorry he was that he’d wasted his last days writing hit pieces on her name. He started to say something, anything, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words. Nothing would be sufficient.

  She was fast, but he was faster. He followed her over the broken glass and into the hall, somehow aware that many ticking clocks were converging on a moment in time.

  *

  Kasey wished she could take a breather. After weeks of rooting through files, narrowing down a list of suspects, and convincing the Director of BOPAC that she needed to bring in Llewyn Finch, it was finally over. She had the sample, the test data, and the source of the leak was dead. Once she entered the command code, she’d bury the facility under tons of rock.

  She couldn’t sit and she couldn’t leave. The company wouldn’t like her letting a few witnesses escape. They might even send someone to mop up her mess like she’d cleaned out Marcus. But they’d tried to kill Llewyn despite giving her every assurance they wouldn’t, so to hell with them.

  Not once had she thought about aborting the mission. Not even when he’d been shot. She’d been angry, had tried to kill the stupid bastard who’d put Llewyn out of commission, but she never hesitated in doing her job.

  Why should she? It wasn’t like there was anything left for her out in the cold, cold world. There was no picket fence, no children, no cuddling by the beach with Llewyn in her future. No dinner parties, no romance, no happily ever after. And it was her damn fault.

  There was a time when she could’ve had all those things. Now? It wouldn’t be the same, even if she’d tried. And she had tried, despite her better judgment. His rejection hurt.

  She’d never deserved him, anyway. What good were they for each other? Him: reserved, neurotic, prone to dive deep into his conscience. Her: the apparent seductress, the voice in his ear. He’d never know the little girl on the inside, the one who wanted all those things he did but could never admit it.

  No, it was better off this way. The pride she’d felt in manipulating him, her words silky smooth, there was no love in that. He’d almost died, might still die, because she’d led him around by her finger.

  Better to give him the hope of a future, a woman who didn’t have the connections and affiliations that killed good men.

  The camera feed showed the redhead run into the pool chamber. Zachary closed in on Donahue. Two of the remaining test subjects were on the opposite side of the water. One of the freaks was there too, hidden in the depths, waiting for his next victim to cross.

  “Well, that’s not fair,” she said, glancing at the control board. “Have to give them a fighting chance, don’t I?”

  She punched in a few commands—stupid Marcus leaving a certain piece of paper around—and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the electronic locks turn green.

  Kasey viewed the monitor, readying herself to switch on the failsafe when the time was right. She watched Donahue bolt through the door and rejoin the couple.

  The thing in the water surfaced. Zachary didn’t stop, didn’t even turn, landing with a splash in the massive pool and swimming toward the other side. Looking at another feed, she saw a cat-like monster scurrying through the vents.

  Donahue disappeared off-frame. She took that as her cue. Thirty minutes of disassembly. Plenty of time to reach minimum safe distance. Kasey could do it in ten.

  She typed the override code for the failsafe into the system: END GAME.

  The prerecorded voice wouldn’t put fire in a person’s step, but Kasey thought the message was clear: get out now.

  For Llewyn’s sake, she hoped to God Donahue was faster than she looked.

  *

  “Attention, the emergency containment procedures have been activated. Self-destruct protocol is in effect. Please evacuate the area. This sequence will commence in five minutes.”

  Donahue hated the robotic female voice and the blaring alarms. She d
idn’t need the extra incentive to move. The monsters and whatever Zachary had become were more than enough.

  She hadn’t got a good look at the creature in the water, but it meant business. Michael and Evelyn said as much. And Zachary—he was infected.

  The sympathy she felt was automatic, but there was nothing she could do for him now. If he was already performing feats of strength and resiliency, then he was too far gone.

  Why did he have to be so damn fast? Her thighs burned so hard from running she’d scraped them raw. Adding the countdown only exacerbated the pain.

  At least she hadn’t had to swim through the nasty water. God knows she wouldn’t have made it back through that. She guessed the alarms and the self-destruct had something to do with the electronic locks disengaging.

  She didn’t know where Kasey was and wasn’t sure if she cared. Okay, that was a lie. She cared, even if abandoning her to chase after Marcus was a stupid decision.

  Maybe the blonde was already outside with the man himself in handcuffs. Maybe she’d triggered the alarm although that seemed like a leap of faith. Whatever the case, Donahue didn’t have time to go looking for her.

  Knowing Zachary was on her ass, she pushed against her limits, propelling herself through the hallway and up the stairs. Michael and Evelyn ran ahead of her, exhausted to the point that she could see them keeling over.

  She yelled at them to keep going in spite of how tired they were. Only ragged breaths and bits of spit left her mouth. She couldn’t even form a word much less a sentence.

  Her foot touched the top step. She could see the inside of the study. With the failsafe on, she bet all the defense measures were offline again. If she could will herself to hop over the second floor railing and get outside, all she’d have to do was start the car.

  Except Kasey had the keys.

  Something grabbed her arm and wheeled her around. She swung her fist as hard she could into the chest of Wayland Zachary. The punch landed with a thud. He didn’t even recoil.

  “Run,” she told Michael and Evelyn, “and don’t look back.”

  They didn’t argue. Their anxious nods were the last thing she thought she’d see.

  Zachary’s grip remained. She tried to wriggle loose, anticipating an attack that never came.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You deserved it.”

  She had no time to process what that meant. He flung her into the study, almost onto the second floor itself.

  When she realized what he was doing, when that door closed, she wanted to scream. It was wrong, damn it, she was wrong. There was still time to save him.

  Zachary had made his choice. It was cruel. It wasn’t just. But it was his to make.

  *

  An unusual comfort overtook Zachary as he sealed the door shut, the kind that only comes when a man repays his final debt. Donahue, Michael, and Evelyn were safe from the horrors of the testing facility.

  He was not. He heard the suctioning cup footsteps of the water creature. His smart watch told him that another beast was climbing through the ducts to get at him.

  Let them come. He’d fight until his last breath. Whether they killed him or he killed them, it was only a matter of time before they were all corpses beneath the stone.

  For a man whose life had been nothing but disappointment and second place finishes, Wayland Zachary could think of worse ways to go.

  *

  The night was dark when Donahue, Michael, and Evelyn emerged from the house. The streets were slick, and the air smelled of dank dog. At least it wasn’t raining anymore.

  It was a damn sight better than the claustrophobic tunnels of the underground testing facility.

  The car was still there. Where was Kasey?

  “You came in that, right?” asked Michael.

  “Yeah,” said Donahue, “but I don’t have the keys. The woman I came with has them and she’s missing.”

  Closer to the car, Evelyn said, “There’s something stuck in the windshield wiper.”

  It was a note. A warning from the Smiling Man? No, it was signed by Kasey. Where was she? Why hadn’t she started the car?

  “The keys are in the ignition,” said Michael, peering through the driver’s side window.

  Donahue threw the note in the passenger seat and got inside. She didn’t even fasten her seatbelt. Peeling out of the driveway, she listened to Evelyn reading the note.

  “It says ‘I can make my own way. Llewyn chose his. For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen him happier than when he talks to you. God bless.’”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Donahue as she drove through Fairvale, passing the fire crews and police cars that were sure to be piling up at the decimated Maverlies estate.

  “Wait,” said Evelyn, “there’s something else. ‘P. S. Even I didn’t know his middle name was Squall! Good luck with that.’”

  Donahue slammed on the brakes. She’d almost run a red light. In the distance, she heard the boom of the house exploding and collapsing inward.

  In spite of all that had happened, all the death, all the pain, all the sacrifice, she couldn’t help it. As if on angel wings, the laughter carried her away from Fairvale and back to Washington.

  EPILOGUE

  Llewyn Finch walked into FBI Deputy Director Phil Lamarck’s office on the morning of Christmas Eve feeling better than he had in months. The doctors told him he’d made a miraculous recovery considering his injury. With his bandaged shoulder he looked like a war hero.

  Willow and Director Rossiter accompanied him inside. He couldn’t put into words how glad he was that she stayed safe. But he knew she would be. Call it a premonition.

  The director placed the couple Willow and Kasey rescued into witness protection. Tough kids. After everything the two of them had been through—Lone Oak included—he wished them the best.

  Miss Alexander hadn’t turned up since that night. He missed her sass and flair for life already. Finch knew better than to track her down. If she wanted to disappear, who was he to stop her?

  “Sam,” said Lamarck, glancing up from his spreadsheets, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Phil,” Rossiter acknowledged. “We’re here to discuss an unresolved matter.”

  “This is unexpected. Please sit down,” Lamarck remarked. An open bottle of champagne sat on the table. “May I offer any of you something to drink? It’s aged to perfection.”

  “No thanks,” Finch and Willow said as they settled into their seats.

  “That would be marvelous,” Rossiter replied.

  Lamarck poured a glass for himself and another for his longtime associate and fellow spook. The director sipped his drink and set it down.

  “I hope you know that I can’t rush the process,” Lamarck said, leaning back in his chair. “The joint chiefs of staff are still mulling over how to fold your organization into ours.”

  “This isn’t about BOPAC,” said Finch.

  Lamarck raised his eyebrow. “BOPAC?”

  Rossiter answered. “A pet name made up by Agents Finch and Alexander. I quite like it.”

  “I see,” said the deputy director. “What is this about?”

  “You,” said Rossiter, supping from the sparkling wine.

  “Me?” Lamarck asked, putting the spreadsheets back in the folder. “There’s not much to discuss.”

  “Don’t patronize us,” Willow said, extracting a photograph from her pack. “Take a look at this.”

  He examined it with disinterested eyes. “It’s a picture of the Smiling Man, yes? What of it?”

  “No, it’s a picture of Marcus Maverlies,” said Finch. “Unfold it.”

  Lamarck spread the photo on the desk, exposing the sight of the government official shaking Maverlies’ hand.

  “Recognize anyone?” Finch asked, unable to restrain his smile.

  The deputy director bowed his head. “I see we’ve hit a snag. Do tell: how did you know this was me?”

  “You can change your face and name,” sai
d Willow, “but I’d smell the stench of evil every time.”

  Lamarck rolled his eyes. “Cute.”

  “Keep your hands above the table, Phil,” commanded Rossiter. “I’m older, not stupid. I haven’t forgotten where you keep the Walther.”

  “Come now, Sam. Are these theatrics necessary?”

  “After what you put us through?” asked Finch, indicating his wound. “Yes.”

  Willow rattled off the charges. “Multiple counts of murder. The attempted assassination of a federal agent. Illegal experimentation on human genetics. Espionage. Blackmail.”

  “Being a horrible excuse for a human being,” Finch added.

  Willow nodded. “Yes. Sadly, that’s not something you can prosecute.”

  “Your wit is only exceeded by your originality,” Lamarck said, glaring at them. “And you have no evidence.”

  “On the contrary; we have received what you might call an anonymous tip,” said Rossiter. “Strictly need to know. Can’t let these things get out to the wrong people.”

  “No, I suppose you can’t rely on anyone these days. Did you always know it was me, Sam?”

  “I suspected. But I wasn’t sure until a few days ago,” he said, taking another sip of champagne.

  “So the Silver Fox slips up from time to time,” Lamarck said, baring his teeth.

  “Age comes to us all, my friend.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” said the deputy director, downing his share of the wine. “How many do you have?”

  He gestured toward the legion of armed men waiting outside the door.

  “Enough,” said Rossiter.

  “Well, let’s get on with it,” urged Lamarck, standing up. “It takes a while to get used to prison food.”

  Willow stared at the Smiling Man. “That’s it? No infamous last stand? I feel cheated.”

  “What would be the point? I’m outnumbered. I don’t want to die.”

  Rossiter gave the signal. Twelve federal agents from multiple alphabet organizations filed into the room. They handcuffed Lamarck and marched him away.