by David Beers
Charles took the elevator down and walked out onto the gravel parking lot. The guards followed behind him, all fifty of them, and they knew exactly what Charles wanted. The man in the baseball cap needed to understand who was in charge, and where the power resided in this relationship. Charles walked straight forward, heading toward the black car and the man standing next to it. The guards circled out around him, all of them carrying their weapons.
The sunglasses hid the man’s eyes from Charles, but he didn’t appear to notice the armed men walking out around him. He was looking up at the sky.
“I’ve missed Georgia,” the man said.
“How was your trip?” Charles asked as he reached the car.
“It was fine. You brought quite a crowd.”
The black sunglasses stared down at Charles, their opaque nature blocking the man’s thoughts, but seeming to speak their own: nothing you do here can hurt the person behind these.
“I’ve got enough men to solve any problem you have.”
“Shall we go inside?” the man said as his face scanned the guards.
“Sure, I’ll show you your product.”
Charles turned and led the way inside, listening carefully as the man walked behind him. He hadn’t breached the subject of the man’s name yet, but he would soon.
“Here you are,” Charles said as they entered the lower floor of the warehouse. Large boxes sat on top of one another, creating massive squares atop wooden pallets. They covered half of the 10,000 foot warehouse.
An arsenal.
“It looks like a lot now that I’m standing in front of it,” the man said, his voice as calm now as it had been outside. He was goddamn staring at an armory larger than most small countries possessed, and he sounded like he was ordering coffee.
“Before we go any further,” Charles said as he turned, “I need to know who I’m dealing with.”
“You weren’t able to find out?”
“Not everything,” Charles said, lying and hating that he had to. And it’s you I’ll come for, he thought.
“That’s good.” The man hadn’t turned to look at Charles, but stood gazing at the boxes.
Charles saw two options in front of him. He could kill this person right now and deal with the consequences, or he could play this fucking game and see where it led.
He felt the gun pressing against his back, almost burning like a brand. It wanted to be freed, allowed to put a bullet through the man’s goddamn baseball cap.
Charles smiled at the thought: the guy standing here staring, when all of a sudden a hole opens up in the side of his head. He giggled, envisioning the blood bubbling out and falling down the man’s shoulder.
“Something funny?” the calm man asked without turning.
“No, not yet,” Charles said. “Now, who are you?”
“This is a delicate subject for me, Mr. Twaller. I’m not trying to be coy, but only need to stress why it’s so delicate. You see, if my identity were revealed to certain entities, my life would be over, and those entities would pay a lot of money to accomplish it.” The man turned then, removing his sunglasses as he did. Everyone was taller than Charles, and this person was no exception. He stood maybe 6’1”, and looked down at Charles with brown eyes that were harder than baked brick. “I want to make sure that you won’t be tempted to tell such entities, Mr. Twaller. A man in your position, well, he could probably arrange to be paid without actually revealing his own identity.”
Charles swallowed, his lips pursing.
“It’s nothing personal,” the man said.
“I don’t care if you’re fucking Jimmy Hoffa. I didn’t get to where I am by ratting.”
“Very true.” The man smiled, his white teeth looking closer to those of a Great White Shark’s than a human’s. Charles felt a chill run down his back and his nipples grow hard at the sight of them. “My name is Luke Titan, Mr. Twaller. Dr. Luke Titan. Have you heard of me?”
Charles looked at the man, seeing through the beard and the hat for the first time. Perhaps this man had some cosmetic work done on his face, but Charles wasn’t sure how he’d missed his identity. Luke Titan—Dr. Luke Titan—had been all over the news a few years ago. His face had been as famous as the President’s for a little while, and Charles started laughing as he realized he’d almost killed one of the most wanted men in the country. He’d almost put a fucking bullet right through his skull, and that was hilarious.
Charles giggled, his big belly bouncing up and down over his belt.
“Oh, God,” he said in between his laughter. “You really are Luke Titan.”
The doctor kept smiling. “I really am.”
“And … and …,” Charles was trying to talk through his laughter, but was out of breath, yet couldn’t stop giggling. “And I bet you want to go to war, don’t you? That’s what all this is for! You want the blood to wash right up to the goddamn FBI doorsteps!”
LUKE HAD PICKED the right man for the job, even if he hadn’t been 100% sure based off of the man’s resume. Charles Twaller’s curriculum vitae read like what Luke imagined an arms dealer’s might, if there was a Harvard and Goldman Sach’s for arms dealers. Mr. Twaller worked with all the right people, and had an impeccable reputation—if perhaps a bit too freewheeling with the drivers that delivered his cargo.
That was what actually sold Luke on Charles Twaller. The murdering of the drivers. Luke didn’t want a Harvard type in charge of what came next; he needed someone with a bit more … unpredictability. The dead drivers made Luke think Mr. Twaller might be that man. He was button down and professional all the time, except for the few cases where he could kill in cold blood and get away with it. Of course, the man had killed other people—even been to war with a rival once—but all of that was business. The dead drivers weren’t business. They were pleasure.
And so Luke had chosen him to hold his weapons in hope that he might take the next contract.
Mr. Twaller was perfect, and Luke saw it as the fat, short man giggled like a schoolgirl, surrounded by millions of dollars in guns.
The past two days had been long, Luke having traveled from Mexico to Los Angeles, and finally to Atlanta. He rented a vehicle and traveled to south Georgia, and now he was driving back to the city. A four hour drive in total, though Luke felt no exhaustion. He was actually excited, because he was going to lay eyes on Christian tonight. He’d seen his old partner a few times over the past two years, but each had been fleeting and unfulfilling.
Tonight, he would have longer to look at Christian. To see the scar that had grown over his face.
Luke never felt at home, though he never felt displaced either; but perhaps for the first time ever, he felt a sense of returning. Not quite to home, but close.
AS LUKE HEADED TO CHRISTIAN, Charles watched his workers unpack boxes. Five teams of five were using crowbars to open them, and Charles looked on as weapons were revealed—shining black like oil underneath the lights above.
Charles looked at the guns, though his mind was far into the future. What was being asked of him would not be easy, and there was a large chance that Charles would be caught or killed. He had to be diligent in his preparations, if he was to make it out of this relatively unscathed.
A lot of people were going to die. The death didn’t bother Charles at all, only the difficulty such a thing created when it came to recruitment. The higher the chances of death, the higher the prices per head. Titan wanted numbers by the end of the week, but Charles already knew them. For most people, the final tally would have been prohibitively high, but Charles believed Titan could find the cash.
Funding would be there, and Charles needed to provide the war … but he could do it. He had a pipeline of mercenaries.
And that’s what Luke Titan wanted.
All out war on the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The strategy was the key to this. It would need to be quick and ferocious. Something that took place over a few days, inflicting the maximum amount of carnage
, and then Charles’s army would disappear.
What was left of it anyway.
CHAPTER 5
C hristian pulled Luke’s Tesla into the driveway. He’d been driving the vehicle for a year and a half, but he never thought of it as his.
Waverly had made sure Christian got it. For years, Christian hadn’t driven, rather taking ride-sharing vehicles. When he left the hospital this last time, he’d asked Waverly for the vehicle.
“I want Luke’s car. Is it impounded?”
Waverly’s brow had furrowed. “I’m not sure.”
“Can you get it for me? Assign it to my department?”
Waverly stared without speaking for a few seconds, clearly judging Christian’s question. He finally nodded, and the car had arrived at the Atlanta FBI office three days later.
Christian stepped from the vehicle and went to his mailbox. There were a few pieces of mail, but no decapitated heads, which was always a blessing. Lord, if he stopped and thought about all the things he’d seen, he might never be able to start moving again.
He didn’t agree with Tommy’s plan, and he didn’t agree with Waverly’s decision on it, either. He might be the leader of his unit, but in the end, there were orders to be followed. At one point, Christian might have shirked those duties, those orders, but no longer.
He and Waverly had sat in the hospital while Christian debriefed on everything that had taken place with Luke inside Mackenrow’s house. Christian spoke with a knife hole carved deep in his face, and his guts nearly yanked out the side of his body. The FBI Director didn’t waiver, though—not in the slightest. He looked Christian dead in the eye for hours, then retired to the lobby when Christian needed rest, only to return the moment he was summoned.
The plan of attack was developed over the next few weeks; Christian had nothing to do with it, was entirely too busy recovering from Luke’s brutal attack.
Waverly came back, though, sitting down in the same chair and looking at Christian with eyes that said they would die before they quit.
“You’re being reassigned,” he said. “You’re no longer in the Exceptional Crimes Unit; you’re over the Targeted Individuals Program. You are the sole employee as of right now. Your mandate, and your entire unit’s mandate, is to find Luke Titan. He is the targeted individual. This unit is a line item all to itself on my budget, and the President himself signed off on it. Do you have any qualms?”
Christian had shaken his head, pain flaring in his cheek as it did anytime he moved.
“Good. The doctors say you’ll be ready to return to work in five months. I expect you there.”
“What about until then? Who’s going to be looking for him?”
Waverly smiled. “I thought you might ask that. Here.” He pulled a computer from his bag. “Don’t get caught with it,” he said as he placed it on the bed next to Christian.
And thus, the Targeted Individuals Program had been born. Tommy joined eleven months later, his own recovery taking much longer, and with much less success.
They had one other employee, Simone Goodfriend. Waverly had given her to Christian and Tommy, though without any debate in the matter. That had been purposeful, and the right move, if the annoying one.
Now at home, Christian unlocked the front door and went inside. He went straight to his bed and lay down on it, putting his laptop on his stomach before opening it. He’d done the same routine since college—when he was working on multiple degrees instead of chasing criminals.
He pulled up the email Waverly had sent after the meeting, outlining the plan of action.
They were so wrong on this, but he didn’t know how to make anyone see it. Luke wasn’t coming by himself, but without more proof, Waverly was taking that route—because in truth, Tommy’s idea seemed more logical. The resources and time it would take to arrange something as massive as Christian’s idea … well, no one believed it possible.
Christian stared at the computer for a few minutes and then shut it down. He rose from his bed and walked into the kitchen, pulling his phone out as he went. He hadn’t called his mother in a few days. She hadn’t called him either, and he noticed it as surely as she noticed his absence. Each of them remaining silent, though for different reasons.
Christian had always found it hard to relate to people, but never his mother. Not until Luke shoved a knife through his face, at least. Now, speaking to her …
Everything changed, he thought as he pulled up her number on the phone. Everything changed and there’s only one thing you can do about it. Find and kill him.
But would that change anything back? No.
He held the phone and stared at his mother’s number for a moment, not quite ready to dial. All of this—everything from the scar on his cheek to his inability to communicate with his mother—could be traced back to Luke. The person he had trusted, looked up to, admired … Christian had missed the truth. Stared at it for years and saw nothing but what Luke wanted him to see. And what happened because of it? A lot of people died. And now, Christian thought, a lot more were about to.
He pressed the screen, wanting to force that thought from his head.
“Hey, honey,” his mother answered.
“Hey. Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been a busy few days at work. Waverly came into town.”
“No problem. I know you’ll call when you can.”
Silence fell over the line. Christian felt how great the distance had grown between the two of them—a distance that he’d always felt with others, but never with her. She was his lifeline to the world, what had kept him connected for so long.
“How are you?” he asked finally.
“I’m good. Trying not to worry about you, though that’s easier said than done.”
“Why are you worrying?”
“You really need to ask that?” she said.
“Yes. I’m fine. I’m in no danger.”
“There’s more danger than the physical kind, Christian. But you know that.”
Silence again. All of Christian’s brain power, and yet his mother shut him down with two sentences.
Christian stepped outside onto his porch, closing the door behind him.
“Luke is coming back.”
“How do you know?”
Christian chuckled without mirth. “He wrote a letter telling me. He isn’t too big on secrecy, at least on some things.”
“So, you might not be safe physically either.”
“I ….” But he wouldn’t lie to her, so he let the sentence die. There was no safety from Luke, and Christian knew that now. There was only relentless attack, and the hope that you could be more brutal than he.
“Christian, I’ve got to get some food out of the oven. Will you promise me you’ll be careful?”
He heard the tears in her voice. She rarely showed such emotion, having always been strong for him—helping him navigate the world given his massive insecurities.
And why does she cry, Christian? Because that person no longer exists. The person on the phone isn’t her son, but Luke’s.
“I will, Mom,” he said.
THE MOON PERCHED high in the sky, looking down upon demon and saint alike. Its gaze held firm, casting light on all without judgment of worth.
Luke had once been called a demon. A woman named Lucy Speckle had given him that title, before slitting her own throat. Luke had no use for terms like demon or saint, though if pressed, he would certainly align himself closer to the saintly class.
He stood just inside Christian’s front door, it closed behind him. He breathed in deeply, smelling Christian’s scent. He had missed it, not realizing that until just now. The house was silent, but he could still make out Christian’s breathing pattern. His old partner was asleep, luckily, though he would have still come even if that wasn’t the case.
He walked over the hardwood floor, his feet making no noise. Very few people knew the stealth with which Luke moved, but he was a predator through and through.
He moved along
the house without stopping; his eyes saw all. The silent alarm was most certainly going off, alerting the police to the intrusion, giving Luke only about seven minutes before blue lights and sirens filled the quiet neighborhood. Luke had seen the alarm when he stepped in, and smiled at it. Christian thought Luke might show up one day, having a tailored made alarm so that it wouldn’t ring in the house—just in case Luke might miss it, the police would show and capture him.
Luke reached Christian’s bedroom, the door standing open. He stepped inside and walked to the edge of the bed.
Christian lay on his side, his back to Luke. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, creating just enough illumination for Luke to see Christian’s face. An angry scar stared up at the ceiling, something that would be red in light, but was dark and forbidding now. Luke had put that scar there, and any damage that resided inside Christian’s skull. The knife had left other unseen damage as well, damage which stretched much further and deeper than any blade could reach.
Luke stared with the face of a wolf, though he wasn’t aware of the cruelty he wore. For once, Luke was lost in his head, looking out at the man he’d done so much for.
Minutes passed and finally Luke’s mind overpowered his emotions, ripping him from his thoughts and alerting him to the time.
Luke’s hand darted forward and his thumb rested just over Christian’s scar. He didn’t let it drop, didn’t touch the man’s skin, but only stood there with his finger blocking his view of the red circle—giving Christian the appearance of smooth skin once again.
Luke’s hand dropped back to his side and then he left the house as silently as he’d arrived.
THE SIRENS SCREECHED through Christian’s dream, breaking it apart as a sledgehammer would glass.
His eyes opened and his feet swung out of bed almost immediately after. His hands found their way into his nightstand and he pulled out his pistol, just as he heard someone call from the front door.