by Jack Soren
Reese suddenly grabbed the camera and shoved his face up against it.
“It . . . it keeps watching me,” he hissed, furtively looking around. “When I try to sleep, it sends things to . . . to touch me! Please . . .” Reese trailed off like he’d realized there was no point in continuing. Umi watched a tear track down Reese’s hairy cheek. It was under her orders that Reese was being prevented from sleeping. And despite his deserving the punishment, she was finding the results fascinating.
She reached out and ended the call, the conversation failing to hold her interest. She took a sip of her tea and thought about which call she should make next. She closed her eyes for a moment as she swallowed.
It really was the best cup of tea she’d ever had.
TATSU KOGA—NOW DRESSED in loose-fitting pajama pants, Converse sneakers, and an oversized hoodie that said “WHAT THE FUKshima” across the front—sat against the base of a pillar using her duffel bag as a pillow. The white earbuds that snaked out from under her raised hood plugged into her phone, but it was all for show. Her phone’s games and music were silent. She’d learned a long time ago that this was not only the best way to be left alone but also the best way to listen and watch the world around her. It made her invisible and unapproachable, which was best for everyone concerned.
Her flight had landed at JFK Airport over three hours ago. That was expected. But now, as her connecting flight taxied out onto the runway to take off for Tokyo International Airport, she was still sitting in the passenger waiting area.
She was posing as just another student traveler waiting for a long-delayed flight, but in truth she wasn’t booked on any flight yet. Umi’s instructions had been to study the files she had sent to Tatsu’s phone and wait for her to call with Tatsu’s new destination. Tatsu didn’t know where she was going next and might not for quite some time, but she knew what she was going to have to do once Umi knew where Per Broden would be long enough for Tatsu to connect with him. She really wanted to be back by Umi’s side for the coming event, and she might still make it, but that would have to wait for now.
Umi had rescued Tatsu when she was young and lost, and she would do anything for the matriarch. And she had already proved it, time and time again.
Tatsu pulled up Per Broden’s picture again on her phone’s screen and examined it, memorizing every detail.
He was a funny little man on the surface, but his files told a different story. According to the reports, he was intelligent, perceptive, tenacious and, as of late, dangerous. He’d spent most of his life in law enforcement in Stockholm; first for the police, then for the Swedish Security Service. He excelled at puzzles and had an incredibly high success rate, almost as high as his IQ. Though apparently as the years went on, the violence associated with his cases had increased. He’d finally retired five years ago and now worked as a kind of international private investigator, still picking and choosing the most enigmatic cases he could find. And apparently Tatsu’s recent work had caught his interest. She smiled slightly when she imagined the little man trying to figure out what “Dead Lights” meant.
Tatsu closed her eyes, turned on her side, and tried to calm her mind. But as had happened for the past few weeks, when she closed her eyes, she saw the face of the man she’d killed in the Houston bombing. She didn’t feel remorse, exactly, but she continued to wonder why she hadn’t delayed the attack. The bombs that had leveled the building were on timers, and she’d had a kill-switch app in her phone. All she would have had to do was tap her screen, and the timers would have stopped. When the man was done whatever he was doing in there that late at night, dressed the way he was, she could have restarted the timers and still have completed her mission. But she hadn’t. It hadn’t even occurred to her at the time.
She knew there were a lot of good reasons for not stopping the timers, of course. If the man had noticed the stopped timers and fiddled with them or reported them, the mission would have been in jeopardy. And for all she knew, he’d been sent there to stop her. But that last part was a stretch and doubtful.
Of course, he wasn’t the first person Tatsu had killed and wasn’t even the first person she’d killed for Umi, but he was the first person she’d killed because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was aware that he might actually not be the only one. She hadn’t done a full search of the other facilities she’d bombed in the past few weeks, but she’d always been assured that the premises were vacant. Of live people, anyway. But there was a difference when you actually knew, when you’d looked a person in the eye—albeit through binoculars—watching as his life stopped.
Tatsu’s thoughts were dragged away by voices nearby. While she was only pretending to be waiting for a delayed flight, there were large groups of people scattered around benches and tables throughout the airport who were doing it for real. At a bench across from her, a couple of girls in their teens sat with backpacks in their laps looking down at the busy concourse several meters below, their demeanor plainly showing that traveling was something new for them. Behind them, three young men in their early twenties laughed to themselves. Every now and then one of them would step forward and harass the girls for a bit before stepping back to shoulder punches and nods of approval from his compatriots. And each time they did it, they got more brazen.
Throngs of people still streamed by, but they either didn’t notice the scene or were pretending not to. If it continued, Tatsu knew where it was headed. She had been like the girls for a short time early in her life, before she’d learned to push back. Naive or not, the girls’ wide-eyed, frightened looks said they knew what was building as well. She thought about closing her eyes again, but she couldn’t get the bullying out of her mind.
Eventually, she sighed, took her silent earbuds out, and shoved her phone into her duffel bag. She casually got to her feet and, with her generation’s signature slumped shoulders, walked around a set of benches so she was coming up on the men from behind. As she did, she slowed her pace so she could time reaching the men just as one of them made another incursion into the girls’ space. She’d accidentally bump into him and send him over the railing, slamming down onto the marble floor below. Then she’d dissolve back into the crowd that would gather to witness the terrible accident.
But before she could reach the men, someone called to them from down the concourse. The bullies said one last thing to the girls before turning and hurrying to meet up with their waiting friends. Apparently, their flight was finally boarding. Without missing a step, Tatsu swung around the pillar just past the girls before heading back to her bag. She took out her phone, sat down, and was “asleep” again moments after putting her earbuds back in.
She dreamed of the little man who stood between her and her family. For the moment.
Chapter Six
London
11:35 P.M. Local Time
LEW SAT IN The Stag’s Horn pub around the corner from his flat, a place he went so often he didn’t even have to verbally place an order. He’d just sit down, and pints would appear on his table. It was the kind of magic Lew liked. He’d been there longer than he should have with a job staring him down in the morning, but “should” rarely entered Lew’s vocabulary.
He was still pissed about the argument with Jonathan earlier though not at Jonathan. He was pissed at himself. The fact that Jonathan had wanted to walk with him in public meant his partner was feeling a little lost, and he’d tried to take advantage of that.
Lew spun his cell phone on the table in front of him with one hand and gripped a Guinness in the other like he’d fall down if he let go. He was trying to decide who he should call—Jonathan or Emily.
He knew he could just show up at Jonny’s in the morning, and they would pretend nothing had happened. Which was probably what he was going to do. But he knew the class act would be to call him and apologize, or at least confirm he was going to show. No
t that Jonny needed him for this one. Or any of the jobs, lately. Which was kind of the point. Lew missed the excitement and challenge—and the paydays—of being The Monarch, but more than that, the types of jobs they’d been pulling lately was making Lew feel . . . unnecessary.
On the other hand, he knew he shouldn’t call Emily. He was trying to stay away from her to keep her safe, but he was having trouble with the follow-through on that idea.
“Don’t do it, Lew,” he said to himself.
He’d had Emily’s contact info up on his phone’s screen for a while now. He kept swinging his thumb toward the call icon, but then he’d argue with himself and end up dropping his phone onto the marked-up table where he’d spin it some more. With each attempt he had to argue harder, and for the past two beers the argument had moved out of his head and into actual speech. He knew he kept getting side glances from the few patrons left at this hour, but he also knew no one would approach him. Lew had spent most of his life fighting in one way or another, but the ironic thing was his size and body language meant he usually didn’t have to.
He didn’t think it was a booty call. Well, he hoped it wasn’t, but he hadn’t seen Emily in months, and lately, he’d been having trouble getting her out of his head. Jonathan didn’t know it, but Lew and Emily’s romance had never really ended. They weren’t a couple anymore, but they still had a connection, unlike anything either of them had ever experienced in their lives.
Lew downed the remainder of his dark brew and waved for another. While he waited, he picked the phone up again. Just like all the other times he swung his thumb over the call button, but before he could swing it away this time, his phone buzzed and rang. It startled him and he dropped it on the table again. He smiled and grabbed it, sure Emily had been feeling the same way and was actually calling him. They did that a lot, had the same idea at the same time. But when Lew turned the phone over, he saw a face he hadn’t seen in a year. He pressed the answer button.
“Shrimp?”
“Uncle Lew!” Natalie’s voice screeched. He knew it was her, but in just a year she was already sounding different. He missed being “Unca Lew,” even if she wasn’t his actual niece.
“What the hell are you—”
“Oh my God, I’ve been dialing and dialing. I musta called like a thousand numbers. I didn’t think I’d ever find you!” Natalie’s words ran together like spaces weren’t something she could afford.
“You’ve been what?” Lew said, trying to force himself to be more sober. Though not so hard that he didn’t nod a thank-you to the barkeep for bringing him another Guinness. “Um, how exactly did you get this number?” As much as Lew had wanted to give Natalie his number, he’d known how Jonathan would react if he ever did.
“Emily gave it to me months ago, but my art supplies leaked all over the notebook I wrote it in. I only had the first half of it.”
Lew had accused Emily on several occasions of calling Natalie, but she’d always denied it. Being right didn’t give him any pleasure. He did smile at the idea of Natalie’s systematically dialing all the possible numbers until she found him. She was a lot like her dad that way.
“Why didn’t you just call Emily and get the number again?” Lew asked, a bad feeling stirring in his gut.
“That’s the thing, Uncle Lew. It’s Emily. She’s . . . I think she’s hurt. Bad.”
The shock raced through Lew’s system faster than the Guinness. He fought to breathe against the squeezing in his chest. His knuckles turned white on the glass in his hand, and he forced himself to put it down before he crushed it.
Natalie told him what she’d heard through the phone hours ago. When the phone had been knocked from Emily’s hand and under the sofa, the connection had continued and Natalie had heard every word, every punch, and every shot.
“I knew it was him. I’m sorry, I tried to call Dad like a billion times, but he wouldn’t answer. I’m so mad at him! You’ve got to find her, Uncle Lew. You just have to.”
“You knew it was him? You knew it was who?” Lew was still reeling from Natalie’s detailed description of what she’d heard, and he needed to hear the name, but he was sure he already knew.
“That terrible man that wants to hurt you guys. George. Canton George.”
WHEN JONATHAN AND Lew had decided to settle in London, they’d deliberately gotten flats not only close to each other, but close to where Emily lived. With Canton George still out there and after them, it was a safety issue. They were also close to all the London museums and galleries, and less than five hundred miles from Natalie’s boarding school. That was all well and good, but all Lew cared about was that he was only a ten-minute cab ride from the only woman he’d ever loved.
Lew got out of the cab a few blocks from Emily’s place in Tufnell Park, the cool night air helping to sober him up as he ran toward her place. Though it was more of a stagger as he simultaneously ran and dialed Emily’s number over and over.
This can’t be. It just can’t. She’s too smart for that prick to find—
Lew rounded the corner, and Emily’s flat came into view—or what was left of it. She lived on the third floor. Sometimes Lew would walk by just to see her pass in front of the windows—windows that were now just boards decorated with yellow police tape. His breath was coming in pants, and he was having trouble making his legs move toward the building. His eyes fogged, and he had to blink the moisture away to see what he didn’t want to see. Then it started building in him, quietly at first, but rising.
“ . . . no, no, no, No, No, NO, NO!” And then he was running, his powerful legs slamming the ground with a thwack they could hear all the way back at The Stag’s Horn. Wind buffeted his long duster coat out behind him as he practically flew through the night’s light rain. He pulled out the key Emily had given him and raced up the stairs. He shot down the hallway and didn’t bother with a key when he saw the door was similarly covered in plywood and police tape.
Lew raised one leg and smashed his boot into the plywood. The flimsy material splintered under his force, and he was inside. The smell of gunfire and blood was still heavy in the air.
“Emily! EMILY!” Lew called as he searched every room, but he was the only one there. Back in the living room, he flipped on the lights, and his anxiety doubled. Blood was everywhere—on the walls, the floor, even the broken bookshelf. Lew walked over to it—the shelf he’d made for her—and saw a tuft of hair snagged in the wood grain. With a shaking hand, he pulled it free and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. It was Emily’s. He’d know her hair anywhere. The last time he’d seen it was hanging in his face as she straddled him, smiling and telling him that she hated how much she loved him.
And that broke the spell.
Lew howled and started smashing things. First what remained of the bookshelf, then the plywood over the windows. He slammed his meaty fists into the wood over and over, until blood splashed from his knuckles, mixing with Emily’s blood on the floor. Exhausted, he fell down on the ground, his breath coming in hitches. When he’d calmed slightly, he managed to pull out his phone and dial, fighting for control.
“Hello?” Jonathan’s sleepy voice said. “What time is—”
“J-Jonny. She’s gone, man. It was George. That fucker took her. I . . .” Lew fought for control, pressing the index finger and thumb of his free hand against his eyes, forcing the tears out so he could see. “I think she’s dead.”
Jonathan managed to get most of the story out of Lew as he calmed him down. Lew knew that part of his state was from the drink, but that didn’t help.
“Natalie?” Jonathan said when Lew told him about the phone call. “What the hell was she . . .” And then Jonathan abruptly stopped talking.
“Jonny?” Lew said, getting up and shaking his head to try and clear it.
“Where are you, Lew? Please tell me you’re not in Emily’s
apartment.”
“Uh, well I can tell you that, but—”
“Jesus, Lew, get out of there!”
“Relax,” Lew said. “There’s no way the cops would be—”
Ding.
With the door destroyed, Lew heard the elevator clearly from where he was. And then he realized what Jonathan was getting at. If Canton George’s men had found Emily here, it stood to reason Lew or Jonathan would be somewhere nearby. And if they sat on the place, they might just . . .
Lew heard footsteps coming toward the flat. A couple of sets. Heavy footprints, with no talking. And then Lew was in the moment and moving. He told Jonathan to meet him at his place and hung up. Lew knew he was in no shape to take anyone on, not without damaging himself. And if Emily was alive, he needed to be at full capacity to find her. With fight out of the question, he turned to flight.
Lew grabbed the corner of one sheet of plywood over the window and yanked. The nails squealed but eventually let go, wind and rain washing over Lew’s face. It was too high to jump all the way down, but the overhang above the entrance was only two stories down and looked fairly solid. Lew braced himself, took a few breaths, and slipped out the window. He hung down as far as he could, then let go. As he dropped, he turned so he could see where he was landing, and realized he was going to miss the overhang. He ran through the parachute training he’d had as a soldier, and as he touched the ground, crumpled and rolled.
He’d knocked the wind out of himself, but otherwise he was unhurt. After gathering himself, he headed around the side of the building before running in the opposite direction of his flat. He’d circle back once he was sure he wasn’t being followed and head home.
But something told him it wasn’t going to be home for very much longer.
Chapter Seven
Las Vegas, Nevada