The government probably already had all of Cassie’s information, especially if the BSI agent had done his job properly. But to the best of his observations, the agency wasn’t actively monitoring her, and she hadn’t been escorted back to one of its facilities. He knew that he had to use this mysterious gap in their procedures to his advantage and retrieve Cassie as soon as possible.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Rho murmured. He was leaning against the wall, obscuring his face with his shaggy locks. Both of his hands were in his pockets as he tried to seem as nonchalant as possible, but he knew that he was a suspicious figure in this neighborhood. “Light’s out.” He nodded toward the windows that they believed belonged to Cassie’s apartment. “There’s been no activity from any of the people we’ve seen go in, and she’s not been here either.”
Sone sighed as he reached into his pocket to check the time on his phone, only to realize that it wasn’t there. He must have dropped it either during the fight or as they’d fled. Thankfully, it had no vital information on it, but its loss was inconvenient. “Just a few more minutes. She might not have gone straight home.” But as soon as he’d voiced it, he knew that he was lying to himself.
Rho spat on the ground angrily and shook his head. He had opened his mouth to reply, when he caught sight of a movement and turned his head. Sone followed his gaze and spotted a petite woman striding purposefully toward them. She was wearing a short dress, fishnets, and high heels, and he wondered why she had decided to stalk this part of town; escorts knew to be discreet and to take a taxi to their destination. Despite her tawdry makeup and attire, the woman was trying to be inconspicuous. “Mr. Lionhart says he can get you out of the city,” she whispered when she reached them. Her voice was husky, either from sickness or from having smoked too many cigarettes, and was not helped by her thick accent.
“Lady, er… Miss, we’re not interested,” Sone replied and turned back to look at the string of windows.
The woman licked her lips and repeated, “Mr. Lionhart says he can get you out of the city and the BSI won’t know. But you have to go now.”
“What?” he asked, finally catching the name that she’d repeated. His father had mentioned the name several times during SION’s infancy, and the memory served to validate her message.
Her eyes flitted about nervously. “His offer’s only good for now. He says if you don’t come, you gotta find your own way out.”
“The girl’s not home. I know you don’t want to, but we can always come back and try again with less heat,” Rho reasoned. “This might be our only chance to escape. It’s better for the girl, too.”
Sone mulled over the idea, and as much as he hated to admit it, Rho had a point. They had lost Antithesis and her handler for the moment, but until they knew how they were being tracked, Sone’s actions were more likely to bring the BSI down on Cassie. Antithesis might be tracking them to the SoHo apartment now. If they left the city undetected, they could regroup and maybe contact Cassie and convince her to meet them at another location. She’d clearly needed some time to think about her options, and this would allow her to do that. “Fine. Let’s go,” he agreed. The woman nodded nervously and started back in the direction from which she had come.
- - -
“Connor! Come with me!”
He started and looked up from his computer screen to see the face of his supervisor, William Terrance. He quickly saved the file he was working on and followed the burly man back to his office. The chair behind the desk howled as Terrance swiveled it to face him, and it squealed again in protest when he sat down. Connor took a much quieter seat across from the desk, and as he slouched into it, he folded his hands casually across his lap. “What is it, boss?”
“I know you’ve never been wrong before, but I think we need to reassess the Starr case,” Terrance said, sliding a plain folder across the desk toward him. “Agent Johnson and Antithesis tracked VSION terrorists Sone and Rho to New York City, where they confronted them.” His slight scowl was all Connor needed to see to surmise that the pursuit had been against Terrance’s orders. If he remembered correctly, Sone liked to flaunt his sonic powers to bait the BSI into combat or retreat in an attempt to use Blackout as a shield; BSI agents were to avoid publicly exposing Others at any cost. “They were unable to apprehend the two, but one of the terrorists dropped a burner phone. It didn’t have much on it, except for Starr’s home and work addresses and her schedule,” he told him. “I want to know why they were after her.” He gave a casual, almost consoling shrug. “Maybe you were wrong. Maybe we should bring her in after all.”
“Yes, sir,” Connor replied, slightly puzzled. He’d recommended training the girl, which meant they should have already escorted her to Plum Island. It was his normal procedure to follow up on his cases and see how the subjects were adjusting to their new lives, but the Brian Chamberlain assignment had consumed his thoughts. Antithesis had personally collected the child, and without any ceremony, he had been euthanized at the containment facility. Marilyn’s body had also been retrieved and would be dissected and studied alongside her son’s for a brief time before its disposal. Connor had taken the next week off, determined not to learn how the death had affected the sister or father, and following all of this stress, he’d completely forgotten about Cassiopeia Starr.
Every identified Other was escorted to the facility on Plum Island to undergo a final analysis regardless of their skills or level of control. The fact that Cassie wasn’t already at the facility confused him because he thought an elementalist would’ve been a priority for collection. It was possible that Angel and Antithesis had been otherwise engaged and that they were necessary accessories when the BSI agents took Others into custody; this was standard procedure that had been put in place to protect the staff, even if the individual accompanied them willingly.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“Yes,” Terrance replied. “Take the folder with you. You might need it.” He took a deep breath in an attempt to stem the disapproval that was bubbling into his voice. “Agent Johnson knows they left the area, but he lost track of them. Maybe you’ll see something he missed.” Connor nodded, grabbed the folder, and started to leave. “Oh, and, Connor? Sorry about the kid.”
Connor hesitated in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck briefly before replying. “Yeah? Had to be done.” He didn’t want to invite further conversation, so he made a quick exit. “See you, boss.”
- - -
The video showed the young woman, who would be later identified as Elizabeth Singh, peering cautiously outside the elevator and studying both ends of the hallway like a timid deer. The surveillance camera was mounted in the elevator, so it did not pick up her pursuer, if there was even one. She began to press every button frantically, and she pounded on the close door mechanism, which failed to obey. She paced nervously back and forth, again peering into the hallway, and then sank into a crouch in the corner, covering her head with her hands as if to block out whatever was affecting her. Finally, she stood and sprinted into the hallway as if demons were on her tail. At this point, the video resembled another mystery that had occurred some years earlier at a different hotel across the country. The other girl, Elisa Lam, had also behaved bizarrely in an elevator before her decomposing body had been discovered in a water tank on the roof.
What the camera didn’t show was Elizabeth’s path after she fled the elevator. First, she took the stairs, skipping steps until she reached the roof level, and after a brief struggle with the locking mechanism, she burst into the sunlight. This is where the video resumed, though it was clearly captured by another camera that was located on the ground. Why someone was filming this might be questioned, but it would become a part of the greater mystery.
Elizabeth stood at the edge of the roof, hesitating several times. She appeared to change her mind, stepping back from the precipice,
only to return shortly thereafter, almost as if it were against her will. When she stepped off, it appeared that she had been driven to do so; it was as if the great impact that awaited her was preferable to whatever had pursued her to the roof. The video also depicted her body’s collision with the ground, and while the inclusion of the moment of her death was in poor taste, it ensured that the video would go viral.
Jack hoped that the media would also latch onto the story. Elizabeth Singh had been a beautiful young woman whose suicide had been dismissed when it had originally occurred years ago, but this new video evidence should inspire amateur sleuths and conspiracy theorists to reexamine the incident and create a public outcry that the case had been mishandled. Jack did not intend for the obsession to persist any longer than a few months, especially since no one would work out that a potent combination of pheromones had caused a certain young lover to jump to her death, but it would hopefully engender enough curiosity that its true message would be heard—that he had more evidence on Amanda Darling-Whitcomb’s activities than she knew, and he would use it against her if she continued to be coy and uncooperative when it came to his requests.
Part IV
Code Name: Zenith
Pierce had been so foolish and complacent. He had known that he would one day need to leave his current comfortable, familiar life and begin anew, but he’d always assumed that this change would be at his own discretion. He was meticulous—almost obsessive—when it came to planning his hunts, and he never believed that physical evidence would cause his downfall. According to his plan, which had now been spoilt, he would come to the decision that it was time to move on to new hunting grounds. He would take the funds he’d funneled into a private account, fake his own murder, frame Madeleine for it, and begin a new life in another country. He’d considered returning to his homeland of Britain, but he’d probably head south to Australia or another former colony; it was conceivable his earlier English crimes had been discovered during the past few decades, so it was better not to needlessly risk his freedom by returning to his mother country. Additionally, blending in with an expatriate community with similar accents might make him less conspicuous than he had been when stalking his prey in the United States. Instead, the police had somehow discovered their latest victim, and his sloppiness had allowed them to trace the trail back to their lair. It was only a matter of time before the police put the pieces together and determined that he and his wife were the perpetrators, and then after a drawn-out investigation and trial, he might be convicted or acquitted. Either way, his future hunting prospects would be ruined, and he might begin to age in the interim. Pierce needed to eschew the limelight entirely.
This was the reason he was heading back to New York City with his wife. He could diminish suspicion if he acted normally, which meant returning home to report to the university and to check on their children. However, his desire was to empty the joint account that he shared with his wife and flee before the authorities had the time to gather evidence and obtain a warrant. While not ideal, he could seek refuge in a European country that refused extradition until he could secure a new identity.
His current obstacle was the lack of a solid plan. It was clear that he still needed to frame Madeleine for his murder, but if he could pin their kills on her before he fled, this could provide additional insurance against a likely police pursuit. The challenge was how to accomplish this with the same diligence with which he’d stalked the beasts. Madeleine was intelligent and resourceful, and she was probably pondering her own escape; she’d see him coming if he wasn’t cautious.
Fortunately, it took several hours to drive home, which ensured that he had enough time to formulate a new plan. He finished urinating, zipped up his pants, and started his trek back to the car where he has stopped it by the side of the road. The air was cool, the forest was still, and the fall leaves crunched under his feet as he passed through the undergrowth. One might believe that a forest would be an appealing place to conduct a hunt or butcher an animal, but it was far too open and had too many escape routes. He could also easily overlook vital evidence, as he had done with the last animal’s cell phone. However, if containment wasn’t an issue, he would have liked to hunt in open ground like this simply to see if he was as skilled there as he was in an urban environment. Just once, he’d have liked to see whether he could have chased down his prey instead of luring it like a spider into his web of beauty and charm.
His wife had reclined the passenger seat and had likely settled in for a nap beneath her jacket. She rarely stayed awake when he drove; she often made the trip by herself, so she especially enjoyed the occasional break that he provided when he accompanied her.
Crack! He imagined he could hear his crown breaking as his vision suddenly went black and he saw stars. Thump! No, it was a meaty noise reverberating directly through his skull into his eardrums and being transformed into something sharper and more fragile than the real impact. The first strike dropped him to his knees, and the second threatened to invert his world into one of pain. His wife was quick, and he could hear her soft soles scraping against the gravel as she positioned herself behind him for the killing blow. Her strikes had only stunned him without disabling him, and his vision returned in time to see the side of their car turn crimson due to the sudden spraying of his newly opened artery. Madeleine did not realize the true power of their cannibalism, for she underestimated his resilience and relinquished the tire iron in favor of a carving knife. It wasn’t even a clean cut, as she’d been taught to make, and her sloppiness was likely due to the hasty nature of her assault.
She was caught unaware when he clutched her wrist, which was still clasped around the kitchen knife. She tried to move against him and drive the knife deeper, but he wrenched it free from his flesh and threw her off. If he were merely human, he knew he’d have been dead within seconds, and regrettably, even his ability to heal couldn’t combat catastrophic blood loss. He covered the wound with one hand and started after Madeleine, who didn’t even bother to murmur an excuse as he took the knife in his free hand. She had murder in her eyes, just as he did, and yet her participation in their hunts had never required physical confrontation. It was his job to kill and her job to cook. Even though his head still pulsed angrily and he could feel his strength draining through the warmth escaping between his fingers, she was no match for the physically younger man. Her only chance had been to take him by surprise, and she had blown it.
Their gruesome dance took them into the forest, which was now painted in various shades of scarlet. He didn’t have the strength to move her body, let alone sanitize the scene, which would have proved an impossible task anyway. He could not conceal evidence this time; he could only hope that law enforcement would assume that the amount of blood he’d left at the scene was indicative of his own death. Though the bleeding had slowed, it had not stopped, and he felt faint. A desperate hunger rose within him, and he briefly considered devouring some of his former love before immediately discarding the idea. A whole body would raise fewer questions than a partially consumed one, no matter how her flesh might rejuvenate him. He would survive this if he remained patient and meticulous.
His plan was in motion, even if it was not the one he’d conceived or preferred. Another motorist would drive by the scene, see something amiss, and report it, and he would become officially dead. But he was currently unfunded and trapped within this country. He had a small window in which he could retrieve funds from his joint account without raising the suspicion of the authorities. He needed to move so he could place some distance between himself and this site. He would use the driving time to devise a cohesive plan. He was resourceful, and he would survive.
- - -
The trio had to walk a few blocks before the prostitute deemed it safe enough for them to take a cab. She smiled and tried to make small talk with the cab driver, but Sone noticed that she was still tense and that she tried to take up
the least amount of space next to the two men that she could during their ride. He wondered if she knew what he and Rho were or if there was something else at play. Regardless, it wasn’t his place to make her relax; if he knew how to turn fear of Others into respect, he’d be a part of the propaganda team.
When they arrived at a string of warehouses, the woman paid the cab driver and then motioned for the two of them to follow. The car’s headlights briefly illuminated their path before it disappeared, leaving dingy streetlamps to do the bulk of the work. With her clicking heels echoing like a horse’s slow clopping gait, she walked quickly down the long avenue. Though the briny scent of the air indicated that they were somewhere near the docks, a wall of metal shipping containers obstructed any view of the estuary that must be nearby.
When they reached their destination, the woman flung the warehouse door wide open and hastily ducked in and off to the side. Sone didn’t even have time to become suspicious before he saw a small blond figure wrap his hand firmly around Rho’s throat. The slight man was surprisingly strong, because Rho couldn’t even put up a fight, and he didn’t make a sound as the man squeezed his trachea as if he were testing the ripeness of a tomato. A dark vapor, which was perhaps a trick of the dim light and the dropping temperature, seemed to flow from Rho’s body into the newcomer. As Sone watched in horror, his partner’s skin became withered, and his mass seemed to evaporate.
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