But now?
Peterson wasn’t the same man he had been. Now it just didn’t matter anymore. Anthony Peterson had changed. He was a man with nothing left to lose, and who this kidnapper was in life didn’t really matter at all to him. Who the mastermind was, if they weren’t one and the same, truly didn’t matter either.
All that mattered now was his death and making damn sure it was as painful as possible.
“Merc?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you happen to bring with you…the axe?”
“Oh, you know it, Anthony,” Merc laughed. “Don’t leave home without it.”
There was a metallic ringing sound, almost like a sword being unsheathed as Merc grunted through the pain of his broken ribs and held the axe up high.
“No! No, please! Don’t. You’ll be a millionaire if–”
Another commando silenced him with a punch.
Peterson could hear him, still gurgling, still whimpering, still alive.
Peterson whispered into the phone, just loud enough to be heard, but sounding immensely serious. “Hey. You. You on your knees there, bleeding and begging and crying. You. The one who had me kidnapped, tortured, killed my wife. Yeah, you. I suggest you listen closely, little man, because these are the last words you are ever going to hear.”
Peterson then paused as the kidnapper often had on their calls, letting the words sink in, letting the terror sink in, before he continued.
“You know something?” Peterson said sinisterly. “You were right the first time. I was setting an example. But you…you had to learn it the hard way. And it’s the last lesson you’ll ever learn.” He clenched his bloody teeth and snarled, “Don’t…fuck…with…Anthony…Peterson!”
Peterson waited for the kidnapper to cry out in fear, then said “Merc, give him the Red Queen Special!”
Pleas and high-pitched screams rang out. They would be horrible and bloodcurdling in any other situation, but Peterson loved every bit of it.
After a few swings, Peterson heard what he was waiting for. His erstwhile captor’s head fell to the floor, bounced once, and rolled to the wall, just past the phone.
“Merc?”
Merc was out of breath but responded, “Yeah?”
“Before you clear out of there, take his head outside, and stick it on a pike.”
Merc laughed a far-too-friendly laugh for the situation and said, “Just like South America?”
Peterson felt the rage dying again, and he shivered at the words. Hoarsely he responded “Yeah. Just like South America. Just like in La Aldea.”
“Ha-Ha! Now you are a vicious bastard, aren’t you?”
But Peterson didn’t feel vicious all of the sudden.
It was a strange sensation, this shifting of mood. The closest thing he had to compare it to was a kid anticipating Christmas all year and then feeling let down once the presents were all opened. There was nothing left to look forward to.
And in Peterson’s case, that was true. He had wanted this revenge moment so badly and he got exactly that. Now there was nothing more to anticipate and he felt himself settling into the darkness again.
The head on the pike, the reminder of La Aldea brought back the visions that had been torturing him all day. The blood and the skulls of La Aldea. Even more than the sadistic kidnapper and his electrified box, those visions tortured him.
And worst of all, there was Susan. Susan was gone. And now, he could see the shape of her face in each of those skulls.
Susan.
And every time the skulls floated up and the jaws opened, he heard Susan’s scream again and again and again.
Peterson shook his head and grunted. “Go through his stuff. See if you can hack into his computer and–”
“We know what to do, Anthony!”
“Keep me posted,” he said and hung up without another word.
32
The Remains of the Day: 10:40 PM
Anthony Peterson’s day was almost over, and Merc knew that meant his time was running out.
His old friend Anthony was told he had twenty-four hours of oxygen. So, when was that time up? That was not an easy thing to pinpoint. Too many variables and this idiot on the floor didn’t quite seem to have been a physicist any more than he was a physician.
“This was one of our biggest jobs in a while,” Anderson said as they rummaged through the room.
“Yeah, big enough to be heard, so we need to get done and get gone,” Merc responded.
Shanks was busy on the laptop, hacking in, and hopefully pulling all of the information he could before the time was up. Meanwhile, Tapping and the man they called Judge were going through all of the paperwork they could find while Skinner and Hollister searched the rest of the building for anything they could find.
Medic walked in, and Merc turned around to greet him. “Hell of a job. Casualties?”
“A lot of injuries. Yourself included. These guys were tougher than expected.”
“And?”
“And two deaths.”
“Damn. Not bad considering all. Who did we lose?”
“Grant and Goldsher.”
“Damn. Let’s get them loaded up. Can’t have them found.” Merc sighed. His chosen line of work was exhausting to say the least. “What about these guys? Any of them ours?”
That was always a possibility with soldiers of fortune. You could be shoulder-to-shoulder with a guy one month and then have his blood all over you the next.
Judge looked up from the papers he was rummaging through and said “Looks like a no. They hired a few outside guys, but most of them were here in the compound training for some time.”
“What are they, like a doomsday cult?” Merc asked.
“Survivalists, maybe? Clearly not very good survivalists,” Tapping joked. “I don’t know. There’s nothing here about an ideology or mantra. They seem to be another group of mercenaries on contract. It’s all about Peterson.”
“All right,” Merc said. “But this is a hell of a lot for one man… one job. Keep looking and make it fast. We need to clear out soon. Holloway?” he said into his radio.
“Holloway here.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing living. Somebody has even taken to gutting wild squirrels around here. Must be a real sociopath.”
“Disgusting. Must have been a really bored sociopath. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I found a good bit of munitions, actually.”
“Anything we can carry?”
“A few crates. At least enough to reload us for the night without having to head home.”
Merc smiled. “Convenient. I’m ready to hit the rack, though, goddam it. Hell of a night.”
“I second that,” Medic responded.
“Shanks?”
“Almost in.”
“Good,” Merc said and decided to be patient.
He looked at the bodies all around and was happy that he didn’t have to clean all this shit up.
And then, there was the wife. Poor lady. Merc had never met her. Not the previous wife either. Merc was not the kind of associate you brought home to meet the family. Still, Anthony had become a friend, and he felt bad for the lady.
He hunkered down and looked at her destroyed form. Fit body, he could still tell. He reached down and removed the burlap bag covering her head and saw her lifeless face with the gag stuffed in her mouth.
Pretty lady. Shortish brown hair. Maybe dark, but it was hard to tell with the blood. Brown eyes. Nice enough face. Cute. Playful. Not exactly the type he expected Anthony Peterson to be with, but not a bad catch nonetheless…at least from what he could tell in her present form.
“Hey, look around…” Merc pushed the button on the radio to relay this message to everyone. “…look around for any women’s jewelry here. Mrs. Peterson is not wearing any. Must have…taken it off of her,” he said, with a yawn. “I’m sure Peterson would like to have her wedding ring back.”
Merc listened to the
responses of “right” and “copy” and “you got it” before moving on.
Next up was the body of that kidnapper.
“I’m in!” Shanks called over his shoulder, getting Merc’s attention away from the other body.
“Excellent. Location first! Identities and money later. My friend might be dying in there.”
“On it,” Shanks confirmed.
Merc walked over to the wall and picked up the severed head and spun it up to look into its dead eyes.
“Do I know you?” Merc asked thoughtfully. He studied the features and thought about it. The face, or what was left of it, looked like any old grunt out there. Like one of a hundred thousand mercenaries out there. Dark hair, short, but not regulation crew cut. Tan skin, brown eyes. He flipped the head around. No facial hair. No tattoos above the neck. Why bother?
“Hey, Busby?”
“Yeah?” the other mercenary called back from the hallway.
“You’re on pike duty.”
Busby laughed and entered the room just in time to catch the head Merc threw like a basketball.
Then, he returned to the body.
He realized he was just bored. Occupying his time until Shanks, Judge, and Tapping were finished. But…
But who would do this? Who would spend this much money and come up with such a sadistic plan to do all of this?
Sure, Anthony Peterson pissed off a lot of people, but this seemed needlessly elaborate. Hell, he could have just kidnapped the wife, extorted the money, then popped Peterson on the street the next week.
No dog tags on the body. He searched the pockets. Not much to go on. Picture of an exotic girl. Might’ve been a sweetheart. Well-worn. No wallet. Cell phone…smashed by the beating. He might be able to get something off of it later with his equipment at home, but…not much else.
Wrist watch. Expensive, but not luxurious. Durable, like a warrior would wear.
He pushed the sleeve of the headless man up the dead arm. Interlocking tattoos. Tribal. Typical. After Mike Tyson got that idiotic tattoo on his face, every tough guy and his brother wanted a full sleeve of tribal tats in all black.
Tapping spoke up “Merc, I’ve got a delivery location for the container on this paper. Looks like it’s at the pier. Warehouse. No activity. Might have been all bought up?”
“Read me what you got, let me look here.”
Tapping read it to him, but Merc wasn’t concentrating on their conversation.
Out of an equal mixture of comedy and boredom, Merc ripped down the dead kidnapper’s sleeve and looked at the full arm. The tribal tattoo seemed to snake up into a mesh toward the top, all surrounding another emblem…a disk-like imprint.
Merc ran his fingers over it. It was a scar tattoo. No ink. This man had been branded. He grabbed his cell phone and shined the light over it.
“No,” he said aloud.
One thing Merc knew very well from his line of work was scarring. This scar tattoo was over a decade old, and the man was clearly proud of it to frame it like this.
And Merc had seen it before.
Outside was a circle. Inside was what appeared to be an inverted wave with the edge tapering into the form of a blade.
No. He remembered it now. It wasn’t a wave. It was a shark’s tooth.
He grabbed his radio. “Hey, anybody see tattoos on the bodies all around here?”
Folmer radioed back “Yeah, they all have tats it looks like. They’re mercenaries. Well, they were.”
Merc scoffed. “I’m looking for this, specifically. I’m sending you all images. Check for it.”
He snapped the photos with his phone and send them to the group he had created for these mercenaries at the beginning of this mission.
“Checking,” came several responses.
“Shanks, how we doing?”
“I got it!” he said. “Tapping’s right. Abandoned warehouse. I’ve got the address ready for you. Pier and building number.”
“Right, let’s finish this up,” Merc said and turned his attention back to the headless body. “Any word on those tattoos?”
The responses of several team members came back in the negative.
“So, you’re the only one,” Merc said aloud.
“Sir?” Tapping asked.
“Nothing.” He pushed the radio button again and gave instructions. “All right, guys and dolls, the plan has changed. Let’s get everything useful we can carry and bring our dead inside with the rest. We’re going to detonate the remaining munitions as we leave. I don’t want any more of…” he paused “…this getting out. Let’s get moving, children, we gotta go get my friend out of his hell hole.”
Everyone responded in the affirmative and began moving double time.
He leaned down again and took another last look, ignoring Shanks.
Impossible, he thought. You should all be dead.
He knew the emblem that tattoo represented. It was the sigil of the people Peterson’s company had been dealing with a decade before.
La Fraternidad del Tiburon. They were the ones who double-crossed Anthony. And that double-cross had been the reason Anthony had rained hell on La Aldea that day ten years back.
“La Fraternidad del Tiburon,” he said. “You were there.”
The sooner he could get to Anthony and detonate this place the better. He suddenly had a very cold feeling as if his blood was chilled, then pumped back inside him.
“Merc. I’m into the account now,” Shanks said. “I’ve got the money here. And there’s more.”
“More? What?”
“I think we see now what Brom Bones over there was trying to tell us.”
“The real guy behind this?”
Shanks brought up the document he had been looking at and focused heavily on the name at the very end of it.
“Harrison S.”
Merc narrowed his eyes, then looked back at the body. He almost laughed. “No. Really?” He then looked up at the far too recent date on the document and said, “No. Not possible.”
“What is it?” Shanks asked.
“It’s time to go is what it is,” he said. “Everybody, let’s double time it. I’m calling the man right now. I want that fuse ready to light and everything worth taking in the trucks. Let’s GO, people!”
He retrieved his phone again and dialed Anthony’s very temporary number.
“Oh, Anthony, buddy, you are going to love this,” he said aloud as he listened to the rings.
33
La Aldea: 11:11 PM
Anthony Peterson had moved back to his sitting position, right in that same spot he had cultivated over the past day. Even in the dark he had somehow sensed where it was and banged the back of his head a few times in that familiar way as he waited, just to get the feeling.
And to keep his head clear. He had been doing quite a bit of thinking since he hung up with Merc.
Plans changed. And this one had evolved.
He had won the final battle, but it was so pyrrhic that he knew he had lost the war.
Susan…
He had lost…Susan.
The one innocent in all of this was Susan.
The kidnappers were conniving bastard murderers. Tom was an underhanded, money-grubbing snake. Merc and his mercenaries were soulless killers. Sully, in life or death, was far from a prince and had been sleeping with Anthony’s wife for God knew how long. Even Evan and Elena were greedy, entitled kids who never worked a day in their lives.
But that was his fault, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t all of it his fault?
And all of it…one way or another…went right back to one man. To Anthony Peterson.
Anthony Peterson was the greatest monster of them all, wasn’t he?
And maybe he did deserve all of this. The rage that drove him had reared its head again today as he relished the sounds of those men dying. There was no more denying what kind of man he was. Maybe he did deserve what he got.
But Susan…she was the sweetest person he had ev
er met. She didn’t deserve any of this. She hadn’t even deserved the things Evan and Tom had said about her. But to die like that? She was the only innocent in all of this. She didn’t deserve to die at all.
But she was gone now.
He had avenged her, but she was still gone.
But still, had he not won in the end, just as he knew he would?
He could scarcely help but think that if Anthony Peterson really had won this final battle…that meant that the bad guy won.
Anthony Peterson was the bad guy. That was the only thing that he and his kidnapper could possibly have agreed on. This all went back to Anthony Peterson, and he saw that clearly now.
Same old story, same old song and dance. Anthony Peterson was as soulless a killer as Merc, as the kidnapper, as anyone. But Anthony Peterson was also an effortless killer. Same as it ever was. He waved a hand and ordered the killings. He never even had to get his hands dirty.
Anthony Peterson understood it all too well now. He really was a bad man.
The phone lit up once more, and after a couple of rings, Peterson picked it up.
“Merc,” he said without checking.
“Anthony! We’re done, and man, we’ve got a lot to tell you. First things first, though. We got your locale.”
Anthony lolled his head in the dark and asked, “Where am I?”
Merc responded “Abandoned warehouse out in Los Angeles Harbor. All he buildings around it are empty. They must’ve bought the whole pier. Pier X it says. Building number…oh, you’re going to love this one. Building number six hundred sixty-six,” Merc chuckled. “We’ll be there ASAP and fill you in on the rest while you get patched up.”
Peterson listened reservedly and took mental notes but didn’t release the line. “Got it.”
“Anthony, there’s more.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean more that I should maybe tell you now. Anthony, the guy, the kidnapper, he’s–”
“It doesn’t matter, Merc.”
“But he wasn’t alone. And he was there!”
“Of course he was.”
“Anthony, he was there, at La Aldea.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Merc. I don’t care.”
Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller Page 22