Twelve

by Dustin Stevens

  Around the room people sank back into their seats. Many continued to exchange confused glances.

  “You see, once we discovered the presence of the real Kelly Mandrake as a mole, we had him eliminated. That left us a man short.

  "In his place, we decided to invite both the Honeycutt brothers. This way, you all still get to see a full slate of fighters.”

  A middle-aged man with a blonde ponytail stood and asked, “So why are they in the same cage together? And why weren’t we made aware of this before wagering?”

  Winston paused just the slightest moment before pressing forward. “You weren’t made aware of them because the second Honeycutt isn’t an option for betting. He is merely here for your sporting entertainment.

  “And he is in the same cage as his brother because there is no way either would have agreed to compete against the other. Don’t you worry though, we have already put plans in place to ensure they don’t spend the night working as a team.”

  Winston retreated for a moment as a low hum again settled over the room. Before any more questions could be presented, Winston stepped back to the microphone.

  “And with that, let the games begin!”

  Forty-One

  “This can’t be good.”

  Will walked forward and wrapped his hand around one of the thick iron bars. He pushed forward against it, then leaned back and pulled with all he had.

  It didn’t budge.

  Heath turned to try the door behind them. It didn’t even have a handle. He pressed a shoulder into it and pushed.

  As expected, it was rock solid.

  Slowly, the brothers turned and looked at each other.

  “Just to get this out of the way right now," Will said. "I’m sorry for whatever I’ve gotten us into tonight.”

  Heath shook his head. An apology was not high on the list of information he wanted at the moment. “I think it’s safe to say this isn’t a benefit. Judging by the other people that just took their places behind these doors, I’m guessing it has nothing to do with your position as a firefighter.”

  “Or yours as a doctor.”

  “They had no idea I was even going to be here. Whatever has us here has to be about you.”

  Will drew his lips tight and exhaled. “Thing is, with the exception of you, I’m about the most boring twenty-something alive. I go to work, I go to the gym, I go home to my family.”

  “I’ll go out on a limb and say it wasn’t Jenna or Maggie that got us here.”

  “Right, so that leaves work?”

  “Or the gym.”

  Will rolled his neck back and stared up at the ceiling. “We’re being watched.”

  “What?” Heath asked.

  “Don’t look. In the ceiling, there’s a camera.”

  “Can they hear us?”

  “Doesn’t appear to be a microphone attached, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t somewhere else.”

  The two brothers paused and weighed the situation for a moment.

  “So what do we do?” Heath asked.

  Before Will could answer, a loud buzzing sound filled the room. Behind them, the iron bars swung open.

  “I guess there’s only one thing we can do.”

  Forty-Two

  Will and Heath fell in beside one another and walked through the iron door. The narrow concrete hallway fell away before them, dropping a full story underground and curving around to the right.

  As they walked, the bright fluorescent lighting was replaced by single bulbs screwed into the ceiling and protected by wire grates.

  The path continued for over a hundred yards until the features changed again. Underfoot the ramp stopped, leveling out on a mud floor. The walls and ceiling expanded to over ten feet wide and were dug directly from the earth.

  Wooden braces supported the walls every fifty feet. Iron grates hung from the ceiling, serving as torches for the darkened hallway.

  “Did we just stumble onto the set of a bad mining movie?” Heath asked.

  “I was thinking the same thing. I would have dropped a quote in here, but the only movie with mining in it that came to mind was Zoolander.”

  “I had October Sky. Neither really seem fitting.”

  “Agreed.”

  The brothers slowed their pace a bit and moved forward. The air in the hall was dank with moisture and hot from the torches. Beads of sweat began to form on their brows and drip down their faces.

  Before them the path expanded again, giving way to a fork in the road. Matching hallways stretched ahead to the forward left and forward right.

  “Decisions, decisions,” Will said.

  “Um, bro...”

  Ahead, a man dressed in black stepped from behind the wooden supports in each of the hallways. They moved to the middle of their respective paths and stood with their arms crossed.

  “Bro? Did you just go Paul Walker...” Will let his voice trail off as he found what Heath had already seen.

  “I think I’m starting to figure what is going on here,” Heath said. “All those people upstairs showed up for dinner and a show.”

  “And we’re the show.” Will gritted his teeth and glanced back the way they came. “No point in going back up that way, is there?”

  The two men in black unfolded their arms and started walking forward.

  “None that I can think of," Heath agreed.

  The brothers backed up a few steps to give themselves some space.

  “When was the last time you fought?” Will asked.

  “Med School. I had to give it up when I became a surgeon. Too much invested in my hands to risk breaking something.”

  Will watched them grow closer. “Alright, well let me give you the two minute crash course. The world has changed in the last five years. No more boxing. I know that was your thing, but it’ll get you killed nowadays. The key is to keep moving, and use your legs as much as possible.”

  The brothers both flexed their hands and readied for a fight.

  “Got it," Heath said. "Anything else?”

  Will bounced up and down a couple of times in place. “Yeah, always be the aggressor.”

  In a flash he rushed forward and snapped a direct palm thrust into his attacker’s chest. He could feel the air rush from the man as he stumbled back a few quick steps.

  Beside them the second attacker came flying in with an attempted heel kick at Heath. Heath spun out of the way and shot a hard elbow into the man’s solar plexus as he went by.

  As he wheeled back to Heath, Will shot a high side thrust kick under the man’s chin. He flew backward off his feet and landed in a heap without moving.

  The first fighter saw the kick and charged at Will while his back was still turned. Just as he was about to bury his shoulder into Will’s kidneys, Heath delivered a hard forearm shot to the bridge of his nose.

  The man stumbled backward, clawing at the wall for balance. Before he could brace himself, Heath grabbed him by the nape of the neck and smashed the side of his head into the wooden support. He crumpled into a heap on the floor, blood running from his nose.

  For a moment, both brothers stood drawing sharp breaths.

  “Was that sweet chin music I saw there?” Heath asked.

  Will cracked a half smile. “Did you just reference professional wrestling?”

  Heath shrugged. “You’d be surprised what gets left on in the OR Lounge sometimes.”

  “Right. Was that a forearm shot I saw there?”

  “There are twenty-seven bones in the hand. Two in the forearm. Which do you think are stronger?”

  Will’s smile remained as he shook his head.

  “Right or left?”

  Will glanced down both hallways. “Well, the hallway we just came down wrapped us out to the right. I’m guessing towards the outside of this maze of horrors?”

  “So keep right and stay on the periphery for awhile?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Together the brothers moved down the right hallway. Both o
f their attackers remained motionless on the floor behind them.

  Forty-Three

  “Chester!” Winston’s voice arrived before he did, reverberating through the office.

  Chester stood red faced behind his desk, clutching a tangle of papers against his chest. Around him, images of the fighters were displayed on the sprawling banks of televisions.

  “What the hell is this?!” Winston bellowed.

  Chester wrestled the papers down onto the table. “Well, sir, it appears our men made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? A mistake? Forgetting to put gas in your car is a mistake. This is a monumental fuck up!”

  Chester shrank from Winston, who stood panting with his face bright red. Behind him, Rosner entered the room. Again he pulled his glasses from his nose and wiped them down. The silence of the room was exacerbated by the muted violence on the screens all around them.

  “How?” Winston asked.

  Chester smoothed the papers out in front of him. “It’s his brother. Dr. Heath Honeycutt.”

  “Doctor?”

  “He’s a surgeon at OHSU.”

  Winston clenched his jaw and drew in a long, slow breath.

  “Explains the resemblance,” Rosner said. “Twins?”

  “Um, no sir. Heath is older, though only by ten months.”

  “So, Irish twins,” Rosner said.

  Winston made a face and turned to glare at Rosner. The face only grew angrier as he found Rosner placing his glasses back atop his nose. “Again I ask...how?”

  “It...it appears that Heath arrived just after all the fighters. He showed up at the gate, said his name was Honeycutt, they let him in.”

  “That’s it? That’s all it took?”

  “Well, they asked for ID...” Chester mumbled.

  “Which confirmed his name was Honeycutt and that he looked like the man we briefed them on,” Rosner interjected.

  Winston closed his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling. In one movement he lowered it and turned his gaze towards Rosner. “I’m sorry, is this amusing you? You do realize what this could do to us, right?”

  “Of course, but you do realize that this is a golden opportunity right?”

  “How, exactly?”

  “A mistake has been made," Rosner said. "Just as mistakes are made in business. We show them we’re calm under pressure, can think on our feet. All those other clichés that people seem to think apply here.”

  “So you think we can make this a positive?”

  “We already have. We accepted that he’s here and we offered plausible reasoning. It’s not like he’s getting out of there alive anyway.”

  “I, I don’t know sir," Chester stammered. "I saw their first fight. The Honeycutt’s looked pretty good to me.”

  Both men swung their gaze to Chester.

  “That’s why nobody cares about your viewpoint,” Winston spat. “They were supposed to look good. Everybody does in the first fight.”

  Chester’s eyes fell. “Oh. I just thought...”

  “You weren’t thinking, you worthless fool,” Winston spat. “The seasoned fighters we hired are for protecting the grounds. These guys are patsies. Designed to make our guys look good.”

  “And make our guests become much more bold with their pocketbooks,” Rosner inserted. “Honestly Eric...we’re paying this guy?”

  Winston smirked. “Have you bothered to look at any of the screens around you?”

  Chester took a long, slow scan of the monitors around the room. On each of them, contestants were pummeling someone dressed in black. In the case of Boucher and Maake, they were drawing an inordinate amount of pleasure in doing so.

  “So what do we do?” Chester asked.

  “Get rid of him,” Winston spat.

  Rosner stepped forward between them, his gaze locked on the bank of screens before him. “Let’s not be hasty, Eric.”

  Winston followed his gaze to the screens in front of him. On one in particular, Toulson was annihilating an opponent. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying before we go orchestrating anything, let’s let this play out a little bit. Maybe one of them will do it for us.”

  Winston watched Toulson unleash a vicious uppercut that lifted his attacked from his feet. The movement carried him high into the air and deposited him backwards onto his neck.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Winston relented.

  Forty-Four

  “Brenda!”

  It was well after midnight on the east coast. Manus knew it wouldn’t matter. Though she’d never admit it, Brenda adhered to a strict rule. If he was working, she was working.

  “Yes, sir?” Her voice was as clear as it had been that morning.

  “I’m sending you an image right now and then we’re hiking back to the cars. I need everything you’ve got on it in the next three minutes.”

  The line went dead in his hand.

  “Nixon, call your crime scene boys and have them get up here post haste. I know it won’t matter any, but if there’s anything that can help us I want to know about it.

  “Stone, mark the body with a flare. I want you guys with us.”

  Manus began walking. “Have your agents remain here and wait for the crime scene crew. Once the crew is done, I want your guys to personally ensure Kelly’s body is taken care of for transport back to Virginia.”

  The smell of sulfur filled the air as Stone struck the end of a flare behind them. A series of red sparks erupted as he buried it several inches deep in the soft Oregon mud.

  Manus strode back for the cars, Marines flanked out on either side of him. Behind them, Nixon chirped instructions into his cell phone.

  “Byrd! Heller!" Manus called out. "Be prepared for any transmissions to be coming your way!”

  A flurry of silhouettes moved against the headlights of the car.

  “Where’s Kelly?” Heller asked.

  “Kelly’s gone,” Manus said.

  Heller’s eyes grew large.

  Beside her, Briggs stared straight ahead. “Incoming transmission from Brenda.”

  The Marines filed into their SUV as Manus swung his front door open and rested his foot on the door frame. In front of him, Nixon snapped his phone shut.

  “Everything set up?” Manus asked.

  “Crime scene is en route,” Nixon said. He jogged over to the fourth SUV, where his men were beginning to pile in. “You men are staying here. That flare up there is a crime scene and marks the body of a fallen agent. Protect them both until the techs get here.

  “Shovani, you’re in charge. Any questions?”

  In unison, the men filed back out of the car and formed a line in front of the wooden gate.

  Nixon dug the keys from his pocket, ran back to their SUV and swung into the driver’s seat. Manus settled in beside him as they turned the car around and headed out. “Where to?”

  Manus pulled the cell-phone from his hip. “Let me find out.”

  “Please tell me that’s not Kelly,” Brenda said as a way of a greeting.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Aw, sweet Jesus,” Brenda mumbled. Manus gave her a brief pause. Brenda was faithful, dependable and a tireless worker.

  She was not made of stone.

  “What have you been able to find?" Manus asked.

  Brenda drew in a sharp breath and when she spoke, her voice betrayed the slightest crack. “The symbol is known as Mjollnir, sir.”

  “Mjollnir? Should I know what that is?”

  “Only if you’re a Norse mythology buff or comic book geek. Mjollnir is the name for the hammer of Thor.”

  Manus and Nixon shot a look at each other. “We’re listening.”

  “The name, Mjollnir means literally ‘crusher.’ Norse mythology says that it was created by the Sons of Ivaldi in response to a challenge from Loki.

  "The hammer is said to be powerful enough to level mountains, yet when needed could reduce in size to be able to be carried inside Thor’s tunic.”

 
Manus kept his head turned towards Nixon as he listened. “I’m failing to see any connection. You?”

  “I’m not done,” Brenda inserted. “I did some digging and found that Mjollnir in this instance most likely isn’t in reference to the mythology, but the symbol itself.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Mjollnir is also the logo for a great many companies around the world. Among them, Mjollnir Excavation headquartered in Forest Grove, Oregon.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of those guys,” Nixon said. “They run a lot of gravel pits and stuff in the area.”

  “That’s not all they run. These guys are into shipping, junkyards, scrap metal, you name it. A veritable empire.”

  Nixon nodded along, then slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Yes! I never would have recognized the symbol as it was drawn in blood on his leg, but now that you point it out it makes sense.”

  “And who are ‘these guys’?” Manus asked into his phone.

  “Founder and CEO is a man named Eric Winston.”

  Manus looked at Nixon. “Anything?”

  “Naw, never heard of him.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Brenda said. “No mention of him anywhere. Doesn’t donate to charity. Isn’t active with any churches. He's almost Google proof. This guy works hard to stay off the grid.”

  “Always a red flag,” Manus mumbled. “Were you able to get us anything?”

  “I can give you the company headquarters address. After that I have nothing.”

  “Alright, send it over.”

  Manus signed off. A moment later, the dashboard GPS came alive and told them to travel back east on Route 6.

  “What’s the plan?” Nixon asked.

  “I don’t suppose you know any judges willing to give us a warrant with slightly less than probable cause do you?”

  A shrewd smile grew from the right side of Nixon’s mouth. Without touching the brakes he pushed the SUV into the grass on the shoulder and whipped the car around in a half circle.

  A moment later they were traveling back away from the city, a tangle of dirt and gravel strewn across the road in their wake.