Forging the Nightmare: A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller

by J. J. Carlson

  Keith swallowed. “No, uh, problem.”

  “Bygones, right?”

  “Yeah…sure,” Keith said. “Are you a…a cop?”

  “Absolutely not. I avoid pigs as much as possible,” Jarrod said. “I’m just an interested party, that’s all. It’s kind of a funny story, actually, but we don’t have time for it now. I have a vested interest, you might say, in the company you work for.”

  Keith fidgeted, and the cord around his neck responded by tightening slightly. “You mean International Escorts?”

  “That’s the one.” Jarrod chuckled. “I obviously don’t mean your day job. And don’t worry, I am very familiar with the kind of work you do, and I’m not passing judgment.”

  “Okay…” Keith said slowly. “Look, I promise I won’t run. Could you please untie me? These ropes really hurt.”

  “No-can-do, buddy. You see, I need them there to make sure our conversation moves along quickly. I’m a very busy man, you know.”

  “I’ll talk, I promise.”

  “You misunderstand me.” Jarrod held up his index finger. “Actually…it’ll be easier if I just show you.” Reaching down between Keith’s legs, he adjusted the emergency brake. With a groan, the van began to inch its way down the slope.

  “What the hell? You said you would let me go!”

  “And I will. This is just a little extra motivation, that’s all. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you just answer them as completely and honestly as possible, alright?”

  Keith gave a shaky nod.

  “Atta boy!” Jarrod gave Keith a little punch in the arm. “And keep in mind, my BS detector is very finely tuned. Lying won’t do you any good.”

  Keith nodded again.

  “First question. Is Keith your real name.”

  “Yes.”

  Jarrod sighed, then pulled a wallet out of his pocket and held it up. “That was an easy one, and you messed it up.” He threw the wallet into the water and started to reach for the brake release.

  “I’m sorry! Please, don’t!”

  Jarrod rested a hand on Keith’s knee. “Promise you’ll do better?”

  The color drained from the captive’s face. “I promise.”

  “Fantastic. Next question, who pays you?”

  “A friend of mine, his name is Adam Bauer. He pays me twice a month, cash. I get more if I bring in more girls, kind of like—commission.”

  “Perfect. You’re doing great. And who pays Adam?”

  Keith frowned. “Telling you this kind of stuff could get me in big trouble.”

  “More trouble than drowning in the Chesapeake?”

  “I don’t know…maybe.”

  “Keith…can I call you Keith? You don’t have to worry. I am very discreet; no one will find out what you’ve told me.”

  The front tires entered the water.

  “I don’t know his full name,” Keith said, “but Adam calls him Marty.”

  “Marty. Do you know what Marty looks like?”

  Keith shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Shucks. Do you at least know where I can find Marty?”

  The captive shook his head.

  “You disappoint me, Keith.” Jarrod reached down and released the brake. The van lurched forward, and began to fill with water.

  “What are you doing? I don’t know where Marty is, I swear!”

  Jarrod sidestepped into the water, keeping pace with the van. “You’re going to have to give me something. You help me, I help you. You know how it goes.”

  Keith struggled, and the cord on his neck wrenched down. His breathing turned into wheezing and his face flushed purple.”

  “Keith, I told you about the ropes.” Jarrod sighed. “Now you’ll probably suffocate before your face even hits the water.”

  Keith’s eyes were pleading. The water was up to his knees.

  “You know what? I believe you. I think you have it in you to do the right thing.”

  Jarrod plunged into the water and mashed the emergency brake. As the van halted, he re-surfaced and cut the cord around Keith’s neck.

  Keith gasped for breath and began to sob.

  “I feel really guilty for putting you through that,” Jarrod said. “It’s hard to think in stressful situations like this, and I put too much pressure on you. Can you think of anything, anything at all that might help me find Marty?”

  “I—I think so,” he sputtered.

  “Atta boy,” Jarrod said, massaging Keith’s shoulder.

  Keith paused, took a deep breath, then said, “Sometimes when I call Adam, he says he’s on Washington, headed toward Marty. Other times he takes Broadway.”

  “Somewhere between Washington and Broadway? Keith, that’s a pretty big area…”

  “On the south side,” Keith added. “I think Marty’s within a few blocks of the river. Please, just let me go. That’s all I know.”

  Jarrod patted Keith on the back and said, “You’ve been a really big help.” Reaching into the water, Jarrod broke the remaining restraints.

  “You—you’re really going to let me go?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?” Jarrod pulled a phone from his breast pocket. It was wrapped in a soggy plastic bag. “Here, I saved your phone for you.”

  “Thanks,” Keith said.

  “Of course. That’s what friends do. I do have one last question, just for my own curiosity.” Jarrod tapped the emergency call button on the phone.

  Keith glanced warily at the device and said, “Sure.”

  “How did you get that woman—Kathy—to go with you? She seemed a little buzzed, but she wasn’t drugged or anything. How did you convince her to follow you into that dark alley?”

  Keith gave a weak smile. “They always do. Adam says it’s my ‘winning complexion’ that does the trick.”

  Jarrod nodded. “I thought so.” He set the phone on the dash as it connected to emergency services. “Dialing for help,” he explained. “Don’t worry, they’ll have plenty of time to get here. I’ll leave your arteries intact.”

  Jarrod’s dark fingers elongated into talons. Lunging forward, he dug them into Keith’s face.

  34

  Emily placed her phone in the insulated box in San’s living room. It had become a habit whenever she came for a visit, whether or not the topic of discussion was classified. Today, the conversation would require it.

  Seeing her dour expression, San asked, “Is everything alright? Is this about Jarrod?”

  Emily sat down on a leather sofa. “Partly. Have you talked to him lately?”

  San shook his head. “Not since the last time you were here. I think he’s busy looking into…well, you know.”

  “Yes,” Emily said, “the prostitution ring. I was hoping he might have stopped in to talk to you. I’m worried about him.”

  “You think he’s grasping at straws with this?”

  “I think he is making excellent progress in his treatment, and this investigation of his might derail our efforts. If he gets fixated onto a conspiracy, it could hinder his recovery. He needs to learn how to cope with his loss, not look for someone to blame.”

  “Maybe,” San said. “I guess I was so shocked to hear about what he found, I didn’t really think about it. I mean, kidnapping women to turn them into prostitutes? Maybe on some level I was rooting for him.”

  Emily sighed. “Jarrod is a trained killer, not a trained detective. This sort of thing should be left to the police.”

  San shrugged. “Maybe it’s still a big problem despite the police. I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to stop these sorts of things, but it’s obviously still going on.”

  Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s true. I just don’t think violence is the best solution.”

  San raised an eyebrow. “I know this will sound insensitive, but you do work in a weapons research facility…”

  Emily cracked a half-smile. “I can see your point, but I don’t think it’s the same.
Yes, we are making weapons, but it’s for the purpose of global stability. We aren’t focusing on street thugs. Sometimes violence is the answer, I just don’t think residential neighborhoods are the place for it, and I don’t think Jarrod should be the one to decide when it is necessary, especially in his condition.”

  “He seems to know what he is doing, and whether it’s right or wrong in his own mind.”

  “That’s not enough,” Emily argued. “He should not be out there maiming criminals without any supervision or oversight.”

  “Oversight? By who? The government? By people like Wagner, who would send him off to war?”

  “No…Maybe. That’s—” Emily sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”

  San crossed his arms, giving her a chance to collect her thoughts.

  “I just want Jarrod to get better,” she said. “I would love for him to be out protecting people and hunting bad-guys, but not yet. Not until he’s healthy. Imagine if he blacked out in the middle of a fight, what they might do to him.”

  San thought for a moment. “You’re right. If I see him, I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a pause, he added, “Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

  Emily frowned. “I also wanted to vent about work. You aren’t around the office anymore, so I don’t have anyone to complain to.”

  San laughed. “Wagner getting on your nerves?”

  “Every single day. Project Lateralis is moving into the final stage, and I haven’t even seen the bio-automaton because he’s so worried about compartmentalizing everything.”

  San nodded. “So he’s trapped you in Mental Conditioning to work on the interface. How is that going, by the way?”

  “Really well. The pilots say they can control it as if it were their own body. Of course, I have to take their word for it, because Wagner won’t let me see it in action.”

  San put a hand on her shoulder. “Sometimes the most brilliant minds are also the most unappreciated. But try to stay positive. Someday, Lateralis will take soldiers off the battlefield, and it will be because of you.”

  Emily smiled. “I hope so.”

  35

  The tiny shop was tucked into the corner of a dirty, unlit alley. Other than a sliding hatch on the doorway, the shop was windowless. Locals knew to avoid it; the people who frequented the shop were often ill-tempered and violent. Such was the case that evening, evidenced by the shouts that penetrated the heavy wooden door.

  “That isn’t my problem, Marty,” a man in a tailored suit growled. He slammed his fist against the counter. “You are responsible for the cash flow from this area. Excuses about some ghost won’t save your ass if you don’t get us our money!”

  The man behind the counter stood six inches shorter than the man in the suit, but betrayed no signs of fear. His arms were crossed over his black t-shirt and he stared up at the man over his round glasses. “Look, it’s not my fault the brokers aren’t doing their job. And I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

  He turned to grab some papers from the shelf behind him. “Someone has them on edge. If you have a cash flow problem, you need to take it up with the product pushers. I don’t have the time or the manpower to deal with those buffoons. And unless I’m mistaken, it’s your job to persuade the employees if they aren’t producing. That is why I called you. Save your theatrics for someone who cares, Jacques.”

  The big man tilted his head on his large neck and smoothed out his tie. “And what I’m telling you, Marty, is that if there is no ‘ghost,’ and you’ve been skimming money off the top, I will feed you your own guts.”

  Marty, still unmoved, held the papers up, inches from Jacques’ face. “Your mastery of the English language never fails to impress. Here are the names and addresses of all the dealers and known clients in this area. Happy hunting.”

  Jacques snatched the papers and shoved his way out the door. Three of his men were waiting outside. Their attire contrasted sharply with his. They looked like blue-collar tradesman, and each of them carried a weapon that could be purchased at any hardware store.

  “Let’s move,” he barked. “This could be a long night.”

  Jacques pushed past the rugged men, then stopped short. There was a man’s silhouette at the mouth of the alley.

  “Can I help you?” Jacques called out as he resumed his bullish gait.

  Jarrod stood motionless, his head cocked to the side and tilted backward. There were black domes over his eyes and black streaks leading into his shirt.

  Jacques stopped three steps away from him. “This isn’t the place for little goth-faced freaks. Beat it before something bad happens to you.”

  Jarrod stayed rigid, as if frozen in time.

  Jacques looked over his shoulder at his enforcers. “Don’t kill him, but I want this punk to be eating through a straw for the rest of his life.”

  Wielding a crow bar, a chain, and a box cutter, the three men surrounded Jarrod.

  The man with the chain moved in close behind him and said, “No use putting up a fight, you’ll just get hurt worse.”

  He tucked the chain into his belt and grabbed Jarrod’s wrist, then looked up into Jarrod’s black eyes and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Jarrod’s head was still tilted back in an impossible position.

  As the man gripped his wrists, Jarrod exhaled. With an almost imperceptible movement, he drew his right leg up and smashed his heel down on the man’s foot. The man cried out and let go.

  On the right, the man with the crow bar took a swing at Jarrod’s chest. Jarrod took a half step toward him and grabbed his forearm before the steel bar was halfway through its arc. Slipping his other hand beneath the man’s elbow, he applied pressure in opposing directions. There was a popping noise, the crowbar clanging against the ground, then screaming.

  The man with the box cutter lunged forward, aiming for Jarrod’s lower back. Pivoting to the left, Jarrod intercepted the blade, redirected its momentum, and forced it into his assailant’s forehead. He kicked twice at the man’s leg, which buckled inward at the knee and a point midway up the femur. The man collapsed, howling in agony.

  Jarrod turned to face the man with the mutilated foot, who was holding the chain like a shield and limping away. The man who had dropped the crowbar was gripping his shattered arm and moaning in pain. There was no sign of the man in the suit, so Jarrod stepped over the man with the misshapen leg and made his way to the back of the alley.

  He knocked on the heavy door. “Open up, Marty. I just want to talk.”

  There was no reply.

  “Marty, quit being stupid. I’m a friend of Adam’s. Put the shotgun down and open the door.”

  After a long silence, Marty called out “What happened out there?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize they were friends of yours. Open the door.”

  The deadbolt retracted and a buzzer sounded. The black armor enveloped Jarrod’s head and he stepped inside.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” Marty said, pointing a shotgun at Jarrod’s face.

  Jarrod ignored the weapon. He grabbed a folding chair, spun it around and sat with his elbows propped on the backrest. “Well I’m not really a friend of Adam’s, as you probably gathered. I’m not even an acquaintance. I really would like to talk, though.”

  Marty jerked his head toward the alley. “What did you do to them?”

  Jarrod looked at the door, which he had left partly open. The men outside were still shrieking in anguished. “Well, I didn’t talk to them, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  Marty smirked, then lowered the shotgun. He set it down on the counter but kept the barrel pointed toward Jarrod’s chest. “They’re idiots, all of them.”

  “But you aren’t, Marty,” Jarrod said, pointing at the man’s chest, “I can tell that. For one thing, it took me nearly a week to find you. I don’t know if I ever would have if it wasn’t for that guy shouting in here.”

 
Marty cursed under his breath and shook his head. “Jacques Barth is a colossal fool. I would be happy if he died a horrible death, if only to preserve oxygen for the rest of us.”

  Jarrod smiled, turning up the corners of his black visage. “He’s still alive, but it’s early. Is he your boss?”

  “Hardly! Marty snorted. “No, I don’t really have a boss. I’m a sort of financial consultant, I don’t answer directly to him or anyone else.”

  “Who pays you?”

  “Well, I’m in charge of moving a lot of money around from various enterprises. I keep a portion of it for myself, and generally no one asks questions.”

  “They trust you not to steal?”

  “Of course! I take pride in my work and my reputation. Besides, if one of these morons tried to do what I do, the FBI would have a case against us in a month.”

  “How do you know I’m not with the FBI?”

  “Like you said, I’m not an idiot.”

  Jarrod nodded. “I like you, Marty.” Rising and leaning against the wall, he added, “I think you can help me get some answers.”

  Marty raised an eyebrow and gave the shotgun a pat. “That depends on the questions, and whether or not I think it is in my best interest to discuss them.”

  Jarrod pretended not to see the gesture and said, “What enterprises do you handle money from?”

  “Direct,” Marty said. “I like that. I move cash from retail drug sales, wholesale prostitution, and the occasional robbery.”

  “The men outside, they were, what? Robbers?”

  Marty shook his head. “They work in security. They move shipments of money and enforce the company rules.”

  Jarrod nodded. “And ‘International Escorts’ falls under…what? Wholesale prostitution?”

  Marty shrugged. “More like retail prostitution. There are other front groups for the wholesale stuff.”

  “Well, that’s the group I’m interested in knowing more about, for personal reasons, of course.”