GHOST_4_Kindle_V2

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  From the place where my flesh touched his flesh, the Knightshade began to materialize. I groaned and struggled, feeling dizzy and faint. But I groaned out a last measure of strength. The Knightshade’s shoulder and neck melted into existence. Finally its head. “Now!” I screamed.

  Agent Rezvani fired, putting a hollowpoint parabellum slug right into the Knightshade’s eye. It dropped me. I pivoted, leaped, and plunged the dagger into the thing’s throat. I twisted the blade, jagged it to the right, and then tore it out. The Knightshade gurgled out a final shriek and fell to the pavement. In seconds, any visible part of it melted from Earthveil back into the nether.

  I heard a sound behind me, turned, and found Agent Rezvani breathing in gasps and wheezes. The gun was still raised and it shook in her hand. “Here,” I said, “let me help you lower this. Just take your finger off the trigger. Good. Now breathe, Agent Rezvani. Breathe slowly. You’re hyperventilating.”

  I eased her down to sit on the curb. For a second, I thought she was going to lose it. Her lower lip trembled. She was still breathing way too fast. “That…isn’t real…can’t be real.” Then she vomited.

  “You should feel a little better now. It’s shock. You’ll get past it. But, Agent Rezvani, we should leave now. We’re as far from prying eyes and ears as we can be in a city, but someone’s bound to have heard the dumpster crashing around. And there’s still a body here.”

  She blinked and nodded.

  “Where’d you park the rental?”

  She pointed out of the alley. That was a start. I helped her up and started walking. It was probably the longest walk of her life. At the end of it, I knew I had some decisions to make.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Something like liquid shadow poured over the edge of the roof of the apartment complex near Pompano’s Restaurant. It ran swiftly down the side of the building, momentarily snaking around the drain pipe, seeping into cracks, and diverting past window frames. Without a sound, it was lost in darkness at ground level. And then, a man was there. He stood directly beneath the fire escape and about ten yards from the dumpster. He was very still because he was studying the trash strewn alley, the cracked slabs of sidewalk, and the no loitering and neighborhood crime watch signs. But he saw signs that other men could not see.

  He saw nether.

  And in that surreal twilight, he saw the remnants of a Knightshade. He smelled brimstone. He thought he could just detect the faint echo of a final shriek. He removed black hands from the folds in his vaporous garment and he knelt on the glistening pavement. Something like a hiss came from the man. Then a triumphant grunt.

  He stood and began following the trail of his prey.

  Chapter 17

  Some say coffee is an acquired taste. If that’s true, then I acquired that taste at the moment I was created. The smell of it. The warmth of it. The color of it—it all just makes me happy.

  Special Agent Rezvani looked like she enjoyed a good cup of Joe as much as anyone, but right now, I doubt she could taste much of anything. She was in shock. For how long, I didn’t know. It’s different for everyone.

  She sat across the little round table and stared down at her mug. Steam wafted up right into her face. I’m not sure she noticed.

  We’d driven in silence to a coffee house a safe distance from the alley. Beasley’s Grounds & Sounds. They had a nice selection of brews and blends from all over the world. A couple of guys with guitars had just arrived and were unhurriedly setting up on the shop’s tiny stage.

  I wasn’t in a hurry either. Agent Rezvani might need a good, long while. I waited, smelled the coffee, and waited some more. She looked up, chewed on her bottom lip a moment, and asked, “I don’t understand what I just saw.”

  “Where do you want to start?” I asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is John Spector, but people call me Ghost.”

  “Is John Spector your real name?”

  I tilted my head, narrowed my eyes a bit, and smiled. “It’s my real name here.”

  “Here?” she echoed faintly. “More riddles. How’s that different from just another alias?”

  “I like this name.”

  She shook her head. “Whatever.” Then she lowered her voice. “You were shot in the chest. At first, I thought he missed you, but…”

  “He didn’t miss.”

  “How…could you heal from that? I mean, that’s a punctured lung, muscle damage. Gah, would’ve put most men in the hospital…or killed ‘em.”

  “I am not like other men.”

  She laughed, but her mirth was laced with pain. “I’m a Special Agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have degrees in Criminology, Forensics, and Law. Given my in-depth training, I was able to figure that much out, thanks. How’d you heal yourself? What was it…some kind of stem cell serum? And the light…crap, what was that?” She put her head in her hands and seemed to be staring through her fingers into her coffee.

  “It’s who I am…how I was made. I heal fast. I can take a beating and keep going strong. It would take a lot to end me.”

  She glanced beneath the table. My silver case was there. When she looked back up, I could see the wheels turning. “I…I get it,” she said, thinking out loud. “You’re government too, aren’t you?”

  I said nothing.

  “You’re some kind of genetically engineered soldier. That’s why you’re so strong. That’s why you healed like that. I bet you’ve got all kinds of advanced gadgets in that case of yours, don’t you?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “So who are you working for? You’re not FBI. Or maybe, you could be some rogue division no one’s supposed to know about.” She waited. I said nothing. “No? Not the Bureau? I didn’t think so. So what, then? CIA? NSA?”

  I shook my head.

  “Delta Force? Seal Team Six? Some super black ops unit reporting to the President himself?”

  “Higher up.”

  “Higher up than the freaking Executive Branch?” She whistled.

  I shrugged.

  “What about that guy in the invisibility suit? He was huge. I didn’t see his face very well, but what was he, some kind of terrorist?”

  “You might say that.” I sighed relief inwardly. She hadn’t seen as much of the Knightshade as I’d feared.

  She wiped her forehead. “Unbelievable. You mean we’ve got enemies who can just appear and disappear?” I nodded, and she asked, “Well how do we stop them?”

  “The same way we just did.”

  “Okay, so tell me this: why are you on the Smiling Jack case?”

  “Following orders.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “It all makes sense now.” She shook her head and laughed. “That’s why Barnes was being such a moron.”

  “Who’s Barnes?” I asked.

  She stared at me. “You’re kidding, right? Ulysses Barnes?”

  I shook my head.

  Agent Rezvani let out an exasperated sigh. “He’s the freakin’ Deputy Director of the FBI. He’s also the reason I’m down here on my own. Now, I understand why. He’s probably catching all kinds of heat from the higher ups—your higher ups. No wonder the FBI won’t reopen the case. Whoever you’re working for is probably clamping things air tight.” She was quiet a minute. I saw her glance furtively over her shoulder. “So…your superiors…they don’t mind me working this case…working with you, I mean?”

  “So far, so good.”

  Special Agent Rezvani took a long overdue sip of her coffee, smiled at the taste, and nodded.

  This was going a lot better than I expected. It was always best to let people answer their own questions. Answers they could come up with on their own were much easier for them to accept. But, as shrewd as Agent Rezvani seemed to be, I wondered how long her answers would satisfy her. Probably not long. She’d remember some detail from the attack in the alley, something she wouldn’t be able to reconcile. And then, she’d come asking again. Good investigato
rs always do.

  “Smiling Jack posted the video,” Rez said absently.

  Back to the case, I thought with relief. “The woman with red hair.”

  Rez nodded, and I thought I saw a hint of despair in her eyes. “But there was a second video too,” she said. “Another victim.”

  “Tell me.”

  “A young blond woman, very slight, shorter than the other. Almost angelic…and he killed her. She was in the pictures on the camera…you know?”

  “We’re moving too slow,” I said, my voice tight. “He’s killed two of six already, but…but I think I’ve got something.”

  I told her about the ship I’d seen the day I found the camera. I told her about Spinnaker Sales, G, and the knee-jerk hit someone had put on me. I told her about Gray at the Four Seasons Marina and about the berth registered under Dyreson Industries. Finally, I told her that I was planning a little visit Friday night.

  “You could have told me some of this before,” she objected. “The yacht, the hitman…”

  “I’ve just learned all this myself,” I said. “Besides, you thought I was the killer before.”

  She shrugged. “It’s my job to be suspicious.” She glanced outside, then back at me. “I’ll do some checking on Dyreson Industries.”

  I nodded. “I’m going to the marina. G said Gray takes the girls out Friday nights.”

  “Count me in,” she said. “There anything else?”

  “The reason I was at the hospital the other day was to find out about Smiling Jack’s murder weapon,” I explained, sipping my coffee. “I met a cardiac surgeon, Doctor Shepherd.”

  “Doctor Shepherd?” she echoed. “Tell me he looks like the guy on Grey’s Anatomy.”

  “Grey’s what?” I asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Uh…okay. Anyway, Doc Shepherd thinks the blade was originally used in the nineteenth century for abortions.”

  “Abortions?” she echoed thoughtfully. “We have experts in the Bureau—that wasn’t their take. They ran it through every database known to mankind, called historians and medical professionals, and the consensus was that the blade was for abdominal surgeries—old, yeah, but for a very different purpose. You sure about this Doc Shepherd?”

  “Doc Shepherd’s as solid as they come. Has enough diplomas, awards, and commendations to wallpaper a room. He’s a top of the line heart-cutter from a family of surgeons. One of ‘em collects surgical instruments. This blade is pretty obscure. Maybe only a couple just like it. It even has a name: Cain’s Dagger.”

  “Ominous ring to it,” she said.

  “Agreed.”

  “If he’s right,” she said, “that changes things.”

  “I agree, but what’s your take?”

  “Well, we’ve gone from a very methodical, very intelligent killer to a very methodical, very intelligent killer with a mission.”

  “I thought so, as well. Go on.”

  “First of all, the killer’s going on camera. That says, ‘Look at me. Look what I’m doing.’ Or maybe it says, ‘Ha, you can’t catch me.’ But now, if what your surgeon says is right, well, it’s not like Smiling Jack just happens to have this kind of rare blade in his kitchen. He’s using it to make a point. Probably one of those far right, Christian fundamentalist whack-jobs.”

  I waited a few beats, then said, “I’m not certain yet. Doc Shepherd wasn’t either.”

  “What? Why not? Those Pro-Lifers have killed abortion doctors before.”

  “This isn’t the same.” I had a feeling I knew where this conversation was headed. A gurgle of rage began to make itself known in my gut.

  “Wait,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “you’re not a Pro-Lifer, are you? If so, I didn’t mean to offend—”

  The rage gurgled again. “You mean, you’re -not- Pro-Life?” I asked. “What happened to Protect and Serve?”

  Agent Rezvani scowled. “That’s local law,” she said. “FBI is Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity.”

  “Okay,” I said, “But what have you got against life?”

  Her mouth snapped shut, opened and shut twice more before she said at last, “I’m not getting into this with you. Keep your views; I’ll keep mine. But, if your Doc friend is right, I think it’s a virtual certainty that Smiling Jack is trying to send a message that is in -some- way related to abortion.”

  “Agreed.” She was right…up to a point. But her take on the Fundamentalist as whack-jobs as Christians? People take the name of God and do a lot of horrendous things. But that doesn’t make them Christian any more than a bumper sticker does. Smiling Jack and his accomplice, whoever they really were, somehow I just didn’t think they were screwed up Pro-Lifers. But, then again, I couldn’t entirely rule it out. The eternal battle between how we want things to be versus how they really are. I gave a growling sigh.

  We sat in silence long enough for the coffee to stop steaming.

  “Look, Spector…”

  “Call me Ghost.”

  “Ghost…fine. Look, I know whatever secret organization you’re working for, I know you can’t say much, but there’s something I don’t get.”

  Uh, oh. Here it comes.

  “I mean, if you’re some special op military outfit, I could see you going overseas and nailing some terrorist leader. I could see you being in Florida here to take down a drug cartel. But Smiling Jack? Why take on a domestic case that no one believes in? Why throw a man with your skills out here to put this killer behind bars?”

  “Because he’s got to be stopped,” I said, keeping my voice low and even. “But, Special Agent Rezvani, there’s something you need to understand: I don’t plan on putting Smiling Jack behind bars.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  As a Special Agent tasked with solving violent crimes, Rez had seen her share of peculiar events. She’d been the first on the scene to uncover a serial killer’s “trophy room.” She’d witnessed terrorists being virtually disintegrated by advanced tactical weapons while hostages remained unharmed. She’d even seen an ultra-secret surveillance drone aircraft in action, a sight that had left her breathless and precipitated more than a hundred UFO reports to local law enforcement. But she’d never seen anything like what she’d witnessed in the alley earlier that evening.

  This Ghost character, John Spector, or whoever he really was, had fought with virtuosity against a murderous foe cloaked in invisibility. He’d healed from a chest wound that would have disabled most others. And he claimed to work for someone higher than the Executive Branch.

  Anything at that level, she knew, was ultra-classified and meant to stay that way. But she couldn’t just drop it, couldn’t just not investigate. Besides, she thought, I’ve already rankled all my superiors. Might as well push it up the line.

  She opened her laptop, clicked to the Bureau site, and went through the ten step sequence that would grant her access to the classified databases she wanted. After half an hour sifting of names and info, she found exactly zero information about her John Spector. Ironically, the FBI employed a man named Jon Spector. But he was 5 foot 3, with a thinning black comb-over, coke bottle glasses, and enough spare tires to outfit a Humvee.

  Weighing the risks for at least three seconds, she decided to go a little deeper. There were other government databases she could access from the Bureau site. She had the clearance, barely. But some of these agencies were known for being obnoxiously protective of their records. Knowing the next three clicks would leave an indelible digital trail, she clicked anyway. I hope this doesn’t come back to haunt me, she thought, rolling her eyes at the pun.

  The ‘weighted search’ began. A gray pinwheel appeared in the center of the screen as the computer worked and the internal protocols and calculations used by the databases checked and rechecked Rez’s query. After five minutes of supercomputer convolutions, the application came back with two hits. Both were marked Top Secret and carried Directive 7 Restriction, thankfully just within her reach.

  The first file concern
ed a captured French spy nicknamed Spectre. He’d run a high end brothel in D.C., and many of his employees had gathered some pretty embarrassing intel from certain government officials. Eyebrows raised, cheeks reddening, she thought, Interesting, but not what I was looking for.

  The second file seemed more promising. It concerned a special operation in Afghanistan, codenamed: Ghost. In 2009, the US had sent an elite unit into the Khyber Pass in the Safed Koh Mountains where a particularly aggressive al Qaeda leader named Khalid al-Maghreb was rumored to have built his center of military operations.

  Rez looked at the dossier and the only photos provided. One of the men in the unit might have been John Spector. He was taller than the others and very pale. Behind sunglasses and camouflage BDUs, it was impossible to tell for sure. Apparently, the team carried out its mission, leaving al-Maghreb buried in the rubble of his own base. But before the team could be extracted, they met unexpected resistance and fled into Pakistan. And there, on the outskirts of a town called Landikotal, the team had been ambushed by al-Qaeda sympathizers…and killed. There were no survivors.

  Rez sighed. Not only had she struck out but she’d absorbed a ton of information she wished she’d never read. Bleary-eyed and exasperated, Rez clacked the keys ten times harder than she usually did and performed a simple web search. The results flashed onto the screen. Rez sat up straight and leaned toward the screen. Having come up empty on the classified pages, Rez couldn’t believe what she saw.

  867,000 hits. Some of the pages were duds, just compilations of ghost stories and hauntings where people had misspelled specter as spector. But the third page of links had his name: John Spector. Rez clicked the link for realghoststories.weebly.com. It looked like some of the others, a combination of text entries and peculiar photos. She almost clicked back to the search page, but froze as she read one of the accounts dated just the previous year.