The next photo showed the dead body of Mohammed Dior lying next to a heavyset man with a hole in his forehead. From the photo, it looked like it was in a restaurant or café.
“He was shot and killed by a professional in the middle of the lunch hour at a popular café here in New York.” My mind began to run through the news accounts and newspapers, but I didn’t remember seeing any story about it.
“And, yes, as you’ve guessed, there was no news story or anything other than a blurb on page five in one newspaper. The FBI and CIA believe it was Taras Karjanski. We also have information that he is still in New York. If we are going to get this guy, we need to act fast. Any and every lead is being looked into, but so far, he’s a ghost.” Solomon sat down and we all looked at each other.
Kirk raised his hand and held up a copy of the Washington Post.
“Did you all see the headline this morning?” Solomon pulled up a copy of the paper on the hologram in the center of the table and nodded. “I think this note is directed at you guys.”
I scanned the paper over and looked at the detective. He said gravely, “If you look at the wording, the words World, Justice, and Agency all are in it. I think this Chaos person is trying to talk to you.”
Solomon looked over the note and made a quick phone call. I was impressed. For Kirk to pick up on that was a good sign.
“Very good, Detective. We will be looking into this further with another team. In the meantime, Taras Karjanski is top priority. You two will be working together, and I am sure we can wrap this up in a timely manner.”
We discussed our options and the only thing missing was where to start. Kirk spoke up and said, “I know someone that might be able to help us. Ever hear of a kid named Mooch?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE DARK FEELINGS THAT surrounded the Red Dog’s mind made him shudder. He tried to shake off the feeling, but couldn’t. Sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, he sobbed. Shoulders jerking up and down, his mournful groan filled the room. He let out everything he couldn’t talk about, or even allow himself to think about. The dark thing in the back of his mind, the passenger, the evil conscience, bellowed for him to stop, but he just needed to cry.
After a few minutes, he calmed himself and stood up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. If someone ever found him in this state, it would be the last thing they would ever see. Taras didn’t see his tears as a weakness, but a way to keep a hold of his true nature that was slowly slipping away. He didn’t know why he had these irregular bouts of tears, and he didn’t even know why he was sad. He wondered if it was his way of rebelling against what he was becoming. Or maybe it was the penance he had to pay for who he was and what he had done.
His wife was gone, on her way to Rome. He wouldn’t see her for a few days. After heating up a cinnamon roll in the microwave, he sat down to a cup of coffee and the newspaper.
He smiled when he saw the morning paper. Bomb in a mall. He found it amusing, yet he couldn’t help feel a little jealous. He would never admit that to anyone, not even to himself. Now this amateur was sending the newspapers notes and threatening to kill more if they didn’t pay attention.
Taras knew that was why he was so much better. He didn’t need the recognition and the fame. He didn’t need a personal fan club to make him feel like a success. He had a plan and a set goal in mind. This Chaos was out of control and subject to passions and feelings. He felt free without that.
The poor, helpless rat of a detective was dead. It closed out a cat-and-mouse game that he had rather enjoyed. He’d miss the little pest, always lurking over his shoulder and thinking he was so smart. Not so smart now, are you?
Taras took a cab to the airport. It was crowded, and this time he didn’t waste time taking a plane with all the other boring people. He had a G5 waiting with his own pilot whom he had known for years—an Arab who defected to the States when he was fourteen. The schools in California taught him everything he ever wanted to know, and now he was a very successful pilot.
The morning air felt good as it ran through Taras’s hair. He walked with determination as he crossed the tarmac toward the waiting plane. A warm breeze filled with the scent of jet fuel and sticky buns from the airport’s cafeteria made Taras a bit hungry, and now his small meal didn’t seem like enough.
“Morning, my old friend. You look well,” said the man with dark skin and jet-black hair standing in the doorway of the G5.
“Abdul Azim, you are looking trim and fit. The wife must be a bad cook, yes?” Taras liked Abdul Azim as much as he could like another human being, and that was saying a lot. He rarely liked people at all, and most of them he loathed.
“Taras, only you call me by my birth name. Most of my friends call me Abe. Are you not my friend?” He looked down at Taras from the top of the stairs leading to the sleek, white G5 with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Well, I’m not just a friend, I’m your brother, Abdul Azim.” He laughed and embraced his friend. “It is good to see you again. What has it been, three years?”
“Four,” Abe said, and held up four fingers.
“Four? Too long. What do you say we get out of this God-forsaken country.” Taras waved a hand back toward the city with a wave of disgust.
Abe nodded and patted Taras on the back. “The smell of America always makes my stomach turn.”
They climbed into the cockpit and, after a briefing with the tower, were soon off the ground and on their way to Equatorial Guinea. Taras acted as the copilot so the tower would let them pass through. The small country on the west coast of Africa was producing close to one billion barrels of crude oil a day. Taras wanted to get acquainted with one of his newly acquired refineries.
* * *
“EMILY DOBSON, I CAN’T believe it’s you!” The tall blonde smiled at Emily as she rummaged through the never-ending colors of lipstick and lip-gloss.
“Uh, yeah,” Emily didn’t remember the blonde or her way-too-bubbly personality.
“Marsha, from York Prep.” Marsha, or whatever her name was, stood looking at her with a classic confused expression on her intelligent face.
Emily faked that she remembered her new—or was it old?—friend. “Yeah, Marsha. How are you? It has been, what...?” Marsha stood five-foot-five and had her hair dyed so blonde it was on the border of being all-out white. She was skinny, as anyone in her class had to be, and had about eight pounds of makeup on, finished off with cherry red lip-gloss.
“Like, ten years! Wow, you look so good. I mean, wow!” The blonde stared with an open mouth and looked Emily over.
“Thank you, you look good, too.” Emily Dobson could act on the spot; it was one of her many strong points. “You still live here in Manhattan?”
“Me? No way, I’m here visiting my mom. She just had to see me. I live in Santa Monica. I’m in a commercial, you know, the one for Campbells.” Marsha shifted on her feet and turned her head, as if that would help Emily remember the commercial.
“Right. Well, good for you.” Emily wanted to run from the store, but this energetic girl was determined to waste her time gabbing it up in the makeup aisle. “Well, look, here’s my number if you ever want to grab a cup of coffee sometime. I really have to go!” She scribbled a number on a scrap piece of paper, pushed it into Marsha’s hand, and started to turn away.
“Oh, right. No problem. Thanks, I’ll call you.” The blonde took the paper and smiled as she turned and walked off to look at the newest music in the Hip Hop section.
Emily sighed, grabbed the Revlon Hint of Rose lip gloss, and went to pay. She still couldn’t remember Marsha or much about her high school experience. Emily had blocked out her childhood, and other miserable memories. High school was terrible and not worth one tear or the time wasted to remember it or anyone there. All the boys had wanted to sleep with her and all the girls had hated her because she’d slept with all of the guys.
Besides, she had much bigger things than high school on her mind at the mom
ent. Her new fantasy was a man named Mark Appleton. He was someone she thought about a lot these days.
Emily Dobson liked to sit and think about what she was going to do when she had Mark in her hot little hands. Killing him would be too easy, she thought. She imagined thousands of different ways to torture him and how she was going to make him beg for death, but she would not give in until she was good and ready. Emily had many things rolling around in her head as she walked the mall looking for the perfect outfit to wear when she met him.
If she was going to meet Mark for the first time, she had to look spectacular! Just wait, Mark. Soon, you and I will be together. Just you and me! The thought of it made her feel giddy inside. Emily felt butterflies in her stomach. She could remember the days when she was scared to even talk to a boy. But not anymore.
She had it all—money, power, and looks. Her long, dark hair was layered and colored a deep mahogany with a splash of brown. She had big brown eyes and a smooth complexion. The plastic surgeons had outdone themselves. Even her family wouldn’t believe the change. She could think of what her mother would have said. “You think too much of your looks. Beauty is only skin-deep.” Yada, yada, yada.
* * *
THE BRIEFING WAS LONG and way more information than I needed. Taras Karjanski was on our top priority list, and Kirk and I were on the case. He still didn’t quite trust me. I could tell when someone had that look. I had a way of reading people. Of course the, “I don’t trust you,” might have been a giveaway, too.
Isis was going to run all our intel along with the detective’s source. He was adamant about using his own contact, so we obliged.
The story of the bombing in the mall was brought up, and it was clear the Agency was a target. Solomon was working on it, and so far, the FBI along with the CIA had a taskforce going full throttle to solve the case.
I wanted to help out, but at this point, it was out of my reach. Solomon had many more agents that I thought were better qualified to handle it than I was. Besides, I was the rookie, the new guy.
The World Justice Agency was under attack from all sides. The FBI and their taskforce were covering up and hiding from the media every case they thought we had a hand in. We still left calling cards, but that was just to keep them on the trail. We were walking a tightrope, and we had to keep silent but we also needed to prep the public for our introduction that was sure to come in the near future.
Then there was Taras Karjanski. He was of the Russian Mafia and had more information on us than even the FBI did. We needed him alive, and we needed him now. He could prove to be the one wild card that the Agency would grow to regret. They had had a chance to catch him when K was kidnapped, but he’d slipped through their fingers. But then again, they had no idea who he was or the level of evil he was capable of back when he was known as The General.
Kirk broke into my thoughts from the passenger seat in my black and silver Shelby Mustang.
“So, is this the new one?” He motioned to the car and opened the glove box.
“Yeah, I like that they went with the old design. It makes it more appealing to old school car guys, like me.” I’d sold my Ascari KZ1 because it drew too much attention. Not that the Shelby didn’t, but in most cases, it fit in with my age and the whole mid-life crisis thing.
“I’ve always wanted one of these, only the original, not the remake.” I liked the detective. I always knew where he stood—no games, no surprises. If he had a problem with you, he’d let you know. “They must pay you pretty well to afford this thing.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed and answered with my usual smart aleck response. “And who said crime doesn’t pay?”
Kirk grunted.
“Taras Karjanski has dropped off the grid so we don’t know where he is or where he’s going. You have any ideas?” I hoped Kirk had something in his head that would shed some light on the lost terrorist.
“I think I might. We need to get to Detroit. I have an old friend we need to visit.”
“Then you are in luck. We can take the next Taxi.”
“Don’t you think flying would be faster?”
I didn’t respond. He was in for the ride of his life. In an hour flat, we would be standing on the doorstep of Mooch B. Striker, the Third.
* * *
KIRK HATED BEING IN the passenger seat. He always drove, and any partner he’d ever had was not allowed to even think of touching the wheel, or the radio for that matter. Now, he had a partner he didn’t know, not to mention he was cooperating with an organization that was breaking the law. And besides that, he didn’t even believe in what they were doing. Well, he did agree that it had to be done, but not this way! He felt compelled by their kindness in saving his life, but he had a secret plan. The only way he would catch Taras and this Red Dog was with their help. He needed them and they apparently needed him as well. But he wasn’t going to let them get away, and he was remembering every last detail that he saw and heard in order to take them out. Bringing down the biggest vigilante group that the world had ever seen would be his early Christmas present to himself.
Mark seemed nice enough, if not a little over the top. But Kirk could be a little over the top at times, as well.
The streets were crowded, and the horn was the weapon of choice as people crawled through New York. After an hour in the car, they came to a run-down building and Mark pulled the car into the alley.
“You aren’t going to kill me back here, are you?” Kirk asked.
Mark laughed and shook his head. “Nah, too easy.”
At least he has a sense of humor. Someone has to. Kirk felt a slight vibration as he sat looking down the dark alley. He saw the ground open up as a ramp leading underground appeared before them. The underground parking garage was lit with wall-mounted lights. Kirk saw a few other cars parked in the twenty or so spaces. All of them were expensive and looked to be in pristine condition. Hmph, some job.
“You ready for the ride of your life?” Mark had a grin on his face that Kirk didn’t like.
“Sure, it better be good, with all this hype.” Kirk looked around, making a mental note of everything he saw. The garage had a small office with a single door and window off to the right. A short, stocky Italian looked at Kirk with a wry smile.
“You the cop?” He didn’t wait for Kirk to answer. “Well, you aren’t anymore, so no funny business.” The short man spit when he talked, and some of it stuck on his chin like wet spiderwebs.
“Whatever. You just stay on your side of the room and we will get along just fine.” Kirk stood up straight and pulled his shoulders back. The last thing he needed right now was a crazy little Italian going off on him.
“Come on, you two, play nice. Now, Mario, would you mind telling our new friend here about all the wonders of the Taxi?” Mark said.
So the little man’s name was Mario? That fit like a glove. All he needed now was a little red hat and overalls.
“Okay, the Taxi is our way of getting around. In between cities across the world we have underground tubes, if you will. The tubes carry you in this,” he said as he punched in a code on the keypad on the wall.
Kirk liked big-boy toys, but this just about pushed him over the top. The wall split in two, revealing a pod that was equipped with a five-point body harness and a gel-like padding on the bottom.
“Now, after you suit up, I’ll go over the rest. Hurry up, too, I got a tee time in an hour.” Mario grunted through a thick accent. As he waited, he pulled out a fat cigar and lit up. A ring of gray smoke wafted toward the ceiling like a miniature cloud.
Kirk followed Mark back to a changing room where six suits hung behind a glass case. “Now, Mr. Weston, this suit will save your life. Without it, you will be crushed under the G-Force you are going to experience. The suit will pump pressure points all over your body so that the blood will circulate in a somewhat normal fashion.”
The suit was soft, like a synthetic woven cotton. Tiny lumps were embedded in the fabric all over it, and
it was to be pulled over the head, so anyone wearing it looked like Spiderman, or maybe just a freak in a dumb suit.
“You gotta be kidding me? You want me to wear this?” He held up the suit like it was a pink dress and scowled.
Kirk could tell by the look on Mark’s face that he wasn’t kidding. “Fine, but no pictures, or I’ll kill you!”
After they were suited up, Mario explained how the Taxi worked. Kirk just stared and tried to act like it was just another part of the job. No problem. I’ll jump in that pillbox and shoot myself across the globe, underground. Why not?
After Kirk was strapped in, the lid closed, and the air sealed, he let out a sigh. Mark was right behind him. He seemed to like all this high-tech stuff. The two pill-looking devices hooked together like train cars. The countdown sounded and Mario pushed a red button. Of course, it had to be a red button. What next, a red phone to make important calls?
The sound of air pressure pushing in on the tiny capsule made Kirk wonder what he had gotten into. You dumb cop, now you are going to die in a tunnel somewhere between here and Detroit. The smell of bananas and cream filled the cabin. Kirk smiled and closed his eyes. He loved bananas and cream.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE PRESIDENT OF THE Valco Energy Company sat and stared at the two men standing in front of him. His blood vessels looked like they were going to pop right out of his forehead. Taras Karjanski looked over at his friend and partner, nodded, and Abdul Azim pulled out an AR15 Strikeforce and pointed it at the now-sweating president.
“Are you ready to listen, or do I need to put a few more holes in your head?” Taras spoke in clear, solid tones, but didn’t raise his voice. He knew how to control his temper. He just hoped Red Dog was sleeping, or on vacation.
DREAM ON (Mark Appleton #2) Page 8