The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy)

by Robert Swartwood

  “Yes,” the Kid said. “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t want me ditching my phone right now, I’d hold off on the speeches for the time being.”

  “I just ... I think this is a bad idea.”

  “Do you have Carver’s location?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They probably destroyed his phone by now. Either that or turned it off.”

  The Beachside was now less than four blocks away. Traffic continued past me on the street, their tires hissing on the pavement. The rain continued its light drizzle.

  I paused at the corner, glanced back over my shoulder, then crossed the street to the next block. I said, “I’ll have to call you back.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t call me back. If you do, I won’t answer.”

  “Goddamn it, Ben, what’s going on?”

  “I’m being followed.”

  • • •

  I’M A COMPLETELY different man than I was two years ago. Two years ago I was just a house painter that barely pulled in thirty thousand dollars a year. I had a wife and daughter. I had survived only two semesters of college before dropping out. My life was simple but fulfilling, and that’s all that really mattered to me.

  Then, suddenly, that simple but fulfilling life was stolen. My wife and daughter were taken away. I was thrust into a hell nobody should ever be forced to experience, and many times I was only a few seconds or a few feet from death.

  But then Carver Ellison entered my life. Carver and his men saved me and helped me understand that there was no way to win Simon’s game. That, despite Simon’s promise, my family was already dead.

  Two years ago my life changed forever. It was no longer simple, no longer fulfilling. Before, my only purpose was to love and support my wife and daughter. Then, when they were taken away, when I knew they were dead, I realized I had nothing else to live for. Nothing else except to avenge them. I no longer cared about dying, because already most of my soul was dead.

  Carver trained me well. I was a good student. I studied and trained and did everything I needed to do to become a great soldier. Most importantly, my senses became heightened. When I walked into a room, I immediately assessed the people in there, the number of exits, the different weapons. And I knew when someone was watching or following me.

  That was how I knew right then, as I disconnected from the Kid and slipped the phone back into my pocket, that I was being followed.

  I continued down the block, my pace steady, reaching back for the gun strapped in the waistband of my jeans. I kept the gun concealed in my jacket and continued walking, passing the few people still out and about in the drizzle, the Beachside now almost two blocks away. There was a parking lot coming up. I increased my pace and then turned left, pushed myself up flat against the wall, waiting, listening to the night sounds—the traffic, the rain, the wind—and started counting.

  Nine seconds later—what I had roughly estimated, the person behind me hurrying at a distance of about fifty yards—a figure appeared around the corner, coming fast, and I grabbed the figure by the throat and threw him against the wall and had the barrel of my gun in his face almost instantaneously.

  Then I paused, my shoulders dropping, and said, “Ian, what the fuck?”

  • • •

  IAN LOOKED LIKE he was about to piss his pants. His eyes were real big and he was breathing heavy and it didn’t occur to me until a few seconds passed that I should loosen my grip around his neck. When I stepped back and put my gun away, Ian rubbed his throat like I had completely crushed it.

  “Well?” I said.

  “I had Ronny drop me off.”

  “Ronny wouldn’t drop you off.”

  He ducked his head and nodded. “At the next red light I told him to keep going and hopped out. I ran the whole way back to catch up with you.”

  “I know. You weren’t very inconspicuous about. So why are you here?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  He looked down at his feet, shrugged. “I’m not ... the strongest person in the world. I know that. I know I’m not very brave either. But this ... I want to help.”

  “The girl might not even be there.”

  “I know.”

  “Ronny’s right—this whole thing could get us killed.”

  “I know. But I just ... I have to do this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t”—he swallowed, shook his head—“I don’t want to remember this night and know I was a coward.”

  “You have a piece?”

  His face reddened. “I forgot it.”

  I gave him one of the guns and a spare magazine. Then, frowning at him, I asked, “Didn’t Ronny try to stop you?”

  “He did. But I told him we would be okay. I promised we’d see him back at the house later.”

  I glanced back at the Beachside Hotel only two blocks away, then nodded at Ian. “All right,” I said. “Then let’s keep that promise.”

  14

  The truth was I had no plan. As I’d been nearing the Beachside, no coherent thoughts had been going through my mind. I’d just been seeing snapshots of different parts of my life—Jen and Casey at our home in Lanton, Carver and Maya and everyone else, then just Carver’s face as he choked on his blood—and I think a part of me knew what I was doing. That this was suicide, sprinkled with a touch of valor. That now, without Carver, whatever life I and the rest of us had was over. That so far we’d been living on borrowed time, and it was time to pay up.

  But when Ian showed up things changed. Now it wasn’t just my life on the line. Now I also had to worry about Ian, which gave me some purpose, some goal to try to attain. We would do this together—we would try to save this girl’s life before she was taken to some other place, to some other game—and in doing so we would keep each other accountable. We would keep each other alive.

  So this is what we did the morning Carver died, that Saturday morning around three o’clock, as the drizzle increased to heavier rain and the occasional lightning began streaking the sky nonstop: we split up and hid on separate sides of the Beachside Hotel.

  I went for one of the cars near the corner, a Honda Civic. I got on the ground to see if anything was rigged up underneath. Next I glanced inside, looking for an alarm, something that might make noise if opened. There was nothing there, so I tried the door. Unlocked. I opened it and slipped inside, shutting the door so the interior lamp wouldn’t be lit more than a few seconds.

  I had put my earpiece back in. Ian—presumably in a car or truck of his own on the other side of the hotel—did the same. After about thirty seconds, I heard his voice.

  “Ben?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You set up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You in a car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You notice anything strange about it?”

  I glanced around again, the light not very good, but I immediately understood what Ian meant. The car was spotless. Not exactly brand new, but it was clear nobody was regularly using this thing. No scattered CD cases on the floor or balled-up fast food bags. No menus or car dealership flyers left under the windshield tossed in the backseat.

  “This isn’t good,” Ian whispered in my ear, and I agreed with him. This wasn’t good at all.

  I called the Kid.

  He said, “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Ian’s with me now. We’re scoping out the hotel. I think every car in the lot is a decoy.”

  “Say that again?”

  I told him how the Neon was spotless, how Ian’s was too.

  The Kid said, “Dude, I told you it was a fucking setup.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. Is there any way to get some eyes inside? Like can you hack into the security system and let me know if there’s even anybody inside this thing?”

  “If this was a regular functioning hotel, sure I could. But the way this thing’
s set up, I doubt there is any security going on.”

  “Can you at least check?”

  “Fine. Give me a few minutes.”

  He clicked off.

  I asked, “Anything on your side yet, Ian?”

  “Nope.”

  I nodded, figuring as much. After we had peeled out of the parking lot the first time around, until Ian and I returned, maybe ten minutes had passed. More than enough time for whoever was inside this place to disappear. For all we knew, we were staking out an empty building.

  The Kid called back. “Nada.”

  “Figures. Have you talked to Ronny yet?”

  “Yeah. He’s back on 95, headed north.”

  “Good. Is he pissed?”

  “Let’s just say you’re not his favorite person right now.”

  Before I could reply, a delivery truck pulled into the parking lot. Its headlights momentarily splashed the front of the hotel as it pulled into Ian’s side of the lot.

  In my ear, Ian whispered, “You watching this, Ben?”

  I said into the phone, “Kid, I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “What? What the fuck’s happening now?”

  “Put a dollar in the swear jar.” I disconnected the phone and asked Ian, “What is it doing now?”

  “I think ... yeah, it’s coming toward you.”

  The delivery truck was indeed looping around the hotel. Its headlights now splashed the tall grass and palm trees out by the beach before shining on this side of the parking lot as it made the turn. Brake lights flared as it came to a stop, more or less in the same place Ronny had parked the SUV not even a half hour ago.

  The passenger’s side door opened and a man jumped out. He headed toward the back of the truck. He opened the back doors, and four men piled out. They were all wearing black. All five of them headed straight for the entrance.

  “What are they doing?” Ian asked.

  I didn’t answer. I squinted and leaned forward. Tried making out what was happening now in the hotel lobby. It was difficult because I couldn’t use the windshield wipers, but I could make out one of them—it looked like the one from the passenger seat—was pointing at different places in the lobby. He pointed at one of the other men and motioned for him to come with him as he walked away.

  “Ben?”

  “Hold on.”

  This wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. Then again, I hadn’t really been expecting anything.

  Ian whispered, “What are they doing?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  Then, when two of the men brought out one bagged body and placed it in the back of the delivery truck, I understood.

  “They’re the cleaners,” I said.

  • • •

  I STARTED COUNTING the bodies they were bringing out—a second body, then a third. I was counting the other men, too. There were the four from the back of the truck, plus the passenger. The driver stayed behind the wheel, sipping something from a Styrofoam cup.

  The five men were heading back to the delivery truck when another pair of headlights splashed the front of the hotel.

  “You watching this?” Ian whispered.

  Again I didn’t answer. I was too busy wondering why they’d stopped with the three bodies. What about Carver?

  “Ben, it’s coming your way.”

  The headlights this time belonged to an SUV. Not the same Chevrolet Ronny drove, but a GMC Yukon. It came to a stop right behind the delivery truck. Like before, a man got out of the passenger’s side. He wore glasses and a black baseball cap. He walked up to the back of the delivery truck. Talked to a few of the men standing there. One of them lit up a smoke.

  They stood like that for about a minute, just talking, when the man who’d come from the Yukon took a step forward to look inside the truck. He nodded and turned back around, shook everyone’s hand, clapped them all on the back. The four men piled in the back of the delivery truck again, and the truck’s passenger shut the door. He said a few more words to the man who’d come from the SUV, then hurried over to the front of the truck and climbed inside.

  As the delivery truck pulled away, the Yukon moved up to take its place. The Yukon’s passenger stepped up to the driver’s side and spoke briefly to the driver. He stepped back and waited until someone else came out of the back, also wearing black. They appeared to speak briefly before turning and heading into the hotel lobby.

  “I’m going in,” I said.

  “What? What’s happening? What’s going on over there?”

  I watched the Yukon for a few long seconds, then opened the door and quickly stepped out. Crouched down and started forward, weaving through the cars. As I did I took out my gun, jacked a round into the chamber.

  “Ben?” Ian said in my ear. “What’s happening?”

  I took my earpiece out, shoved it in my pocket. Kept moving forward, closer to the hotel and the Yukon.

  I stopped at the last row, crouched behind a BMW. I peeked around the fender at the Yukon. The driver was definitely the only person inside. He just sat there, leaning back in his seat, smoking a cigarette. His attention appeared to be focused on the glass doors leading into the hotel lobby, which was a good thing, because as I got up from my spot—my phone starting to vibrate in my pocket—I quickly made my way across the small expanse of wet pavement, my gun held down at my side. I went straight for the passenger’s side door and put my fingers underneath the handle, prayed to whatever gods there were out there that it wouldn’t be locked.

  It wasn’t.

  The driver, a young guy with long sideburns, was in the process of taking a drag of the cigarette when I opened the door. The cherry on the end lit up brightly, reflected off the window, and for an instant the reflection was the only thing I concentrated on. Then he started, dropping the cigarette like it’d burned him, reaching for the gun in his shoulder holster.

  He said, “What the—” and I jammed the barrel of my gun into his stomach, pulled the trigger twice. Both times his body jerked, his eyes widened, and it looked like he was going to say something else. But his face quickly paled and he leaned forward a bit. He coughed up blood, his body jerking, going through the motions of shutdown. It took longer than I would have liked, standing there with the door open, keeping the gun aimed at his chest in case he tried something else. Finally two minutes passed and he was dead.

  I stared past his body toward the glass doors of the lobby. It still appeared deserted. I leaned back and looked at him for a moment. He was still wearing his seatbelt so his body was sagged forward only partway, like he was a marionette. The cigarette he’d dropped was smoldering on his lap, a gray wisp of smoke doing pirouettes toward the ceiling.

  I backed out of the Yukon, quietly shut the door. The sound wasn’t loud but still I tensed. After all, I’d just fired two rounds into the man, but it had been straight into his stomach, and I was fairly certain the close proximity muffled the shots. At least neither of the two men came rushing outside, guns blazing, but that didn’t mean they weren’t inside now, waiting for me to enter.

  My cell phone had stopped vibrating somewhere in the process of opening the Yukon’s door and shooting the driver and waiting for him to die. I was tempted to take it out, check who had called, the Kid or Ian. But time was passing too quickly. If the girl was in fact inside the hotel—and for some reason I felt that she was, that she was very close—it wouldn’t take long for these two men to bring her outside.

  I hurried directly up the walkway toward the automatic glass doors. I kept the gun at my side, at a position where I could bring it up in less than a second if need be.

  Behind me, footsteps.

  I spun, the gun now in both hands, aimed right at the man approaching me. The man with long hair hiding under his blue Red Sox cap.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  “What?” Ian whispered. “You just disappeared. I tried calling you.”

  I motioned at the Yukon behind him. “I was busy.”

  He g
lanced back, saw the body slumped in the seat. “I can see that,” he said. “Now, what’s the plan?”

  I headed toward the glass doors again, Ian now beside me, his gun out.

  “There is no plan. But there’s two of them. I’m pretty sure they’re here to take the girl.”

  “So we take them out once they hit the lobby?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I stepped close enough for the electronic eye to catch me and quietly open the doors. We walked inside. The lobby was completely silent. The only things that filled it were the lost echoes of the gunfire that played out here not even a half hour ago, the still lingering smells of cordite and smoke. And floating somewhere in here, maybe still on the third floor, trying to make its way outside into the drizzle and lightning-dotted night, Carver’s last word flitted about like a butterfly minutes out of the cocoon.

  15

  We waited in the lobby, near the bank of elevators. We took up positions behind the pillars, Ian on one side, me on the other. We didn’t wait long before we heard the dinging of an elevator and the whoosh of parting doors. Footsteps on the carpet, a hushed noise, and then they appeared, the two men dressed in black walking on either side of the girl.

  One of the men wore glasses and a black baseball cap, the Yukon’s passenger. He was on my side and the first one to die. Like the driver, he too attempted to reach for his holstered weapon when he saw me, but he never got the chance.

  I stepped around the pillar and leveled the gun right at his head. Fired a round into his face. At that exact moment Ian did the same to the man on the girl’s right. First my gunshot, a half-second later Ian’s, and then it was silent once again in the lobby.

  That was when the little girl started screaming.

  Only she wasn’t screaming so much as sobbing, those tears that I’d at first thought she had wasted now returning full force. She just stood there, no taller than four feet, her body covered in a long dark coat. There were blue flip-flops on her caramel-colored feet, and her long ragged hair was jet-black.