The Loop
Page 1
THE LOOP
THE UPGRADE SERIES #3
Wesley Cross
Contents
JOIN THE UPGRADE SERIES
Publisher information
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
JOIN THE UPGRADE SERIES
Also by Wesley Cross
JOIN THE UPGRADE SERIES
To receive free books, get behind the scenes stories, and be the first to hear about new releases—sign up for the newsletter.
See the back of the book for details.
Publisher information
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published by
Cerberus Prints
PO BOX 90399
Brooklyn, NY 11209
1
The Station
She wanted to stab him right through the eye. The foot-long needle hovered an inch above his relaxed face, the silver tip trembling with tension over his closed eyelid. She could almost feel how the initial resistance of the cornea would give in with a soft, wet plop and how the needle would then accelerate through the posterior cavity. It would then slow down as it punctured the retina and pushed through his brain all the way to the back of his skull. There it would stop, scraping the inside of his head.
His death would be instantaneous.
His eyelids fluttered, the bulges of his eyeballs moving under the skin breaking her trance, and she quickly put away the needle. Then came shame and fear.
“No,” she said to herself. “I cannot kill him.”
She gazed at the contours of his naked body. He was sculpted like some ancient god of war—the massive plates of his chest rising and falling as he breathed, his arms as thick as an ordinary man’s thighs lazily thrown above his head.
The man stretched, the ripples of flexing muscles running through his colossal body, and opened his eyes.
“Cal? Is that you?” His thunderous baritone filled the suite, bouncing off the walls. It sounded clear and crisp, as if he were awake for a long time.
“Good morning, Jay,” she said, keeping her voice level.
“Morning to you too. Would you be so kind as to make a cup of coffee? I’d like to take a shower.”
“Of course. Hungry?”
“Not yet.” He winked at her and walked to the shower pod at the end of the suite, his feet stepping on thick, white synthetic rugs with the grace of a dancer. “I’ll work first.”
She watched him through the glass as he slathered himself with a pine-scented liquid soap. When he finished, he turned the water jets to their maximum output, letting the hard spray wash off the foam and massage his body. Even in such a mundane task as washing, his movements were precise, full of purpose. It was almost as if whatever he did at that moment was the most important thing he would ever have to do in his entire life, and he was determined to do it perfectly. It was fascinating to watch.
It drove her insane.
She ground the coffee beans—half French roast, half hazelnut, just as he liked—and set the coffeemaker to ninety-eight degrees Celsius. By the time he finished the shower and came out from the steamed-up glass door, wrapped in a soft Egyptian-cotton bathrobe, a large cup of black steaming liquid was sitting on top of the glass of his computer desk.
“Oh, I love the smell,” he said, and an easy smile stretched his lips. As he walked to the desk, the smile transformed into a frown.
“Something wrong?”
“C’mon, Cal,” he said, pointing at the polished deep-black obsidian coaster. “You know I don’t like when you put the cup right on the glass. It leaves stains. Is it so hard to remember to put it on the coaster? It’s right there.”
“I’m sorry, Jay,” she said. “I must have spaced out. Somehow, I never remember that, but I’ll try next time.”
“That’s okay,” he said. He picked up the cup, drew a sharp breath smelling the drink, and then took a few long, greedy gulps. Then he set it back on top of the obsidian coaster. “No one makes better coffee than you do, so all is forgiven. What will you do while I’m working?”
“I’ll watch some telly, if you don’t mind. There’s this new show that I’ve been meaning to watch for some time.”
“I don’t mind at all, just don’t turn up the volume,” he said. He sat down behind the desk and touched the surface, powering up the computer. A gigantic monitor, its curved screen stretching from edge to edge of the desk, blinked to life and flashy graphics faded in and then out, giving way to a large table of data. Multiple columns filled with strings of numbers and letters filled the screen. The desk itself illuminated as several buttons, graphs, and symbols appeared on its surface. The man’s fingers started to fly over the virtual keyboard, rearranging the figures in the data table. “What’s the show about?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said you were going to watch a show,” he said.
She thought she heard some annoyance in the way the pitch of his voice got a little higher toward the end of the sentence.
“Oh. It’s a murder mystery,” she said. “There’s this serial killer who works as a forensic scientist for the police. He uses his job for the department as a cover for his own murders.”
“Huh, really?” He stopped working for a moment and turned around to look at her. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy something like that. You’ve always been into documentaries and historic reenactments, but this is new.”
“I didn’t think so either,” she said. “But I watched the first episode, and now I’m really enjoying the show. Especially the clever ways he comes up with of how not to get caught.”
“Okay.” He turned back to the computer screen. “Whatever floats your boat. Don’t turn up the volume, so it doesn’t distract me. This work is too important. I can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
“It isn’t,” she said.
“Excuse me?” He stopped working and turned around again. “Did you say it was not important?”
“No, of course not. I was going to say it wasn’t a good idea to make mistakes. Your work is of paramount importance, you know that.”
“Right.”
He kept looking at her for a few more moments, as if expecting her to continue, but she remained silent. A frown creased his features for a split second but then disappeared as quickly. He turned back to the monitor and started typing again.
She watched as he worked—the long strings of numbers and letters dancing from one column to t
he next, rearranging into patterns visible only to him. His fingers moved with an ever-increasing speed until they were flying over the keyboard at a pace that seemed almost impossible.
“Jay?” she said. “Would you like to have breakfast now?”
He grimaced, the pace of his typing slowing down ever so slightly, but not entirely stopping, and shook his head instead of answering.
“Are you sure? I could make you your favorite—sunny-side-up eggs and French toast.”
He shook his head again, furiously this time. A deep crease appeared on his forehead as if it were being split in two, and the pace of his typing slowed to a crawl. He drew a slow, loud breath, and his fingers accelerated again—moving letters and numbers into complicated combinations.
“It’s almost ten o’clock, Jay,” she continued. “I know you think it’s not a big deal, but you must be hungry, and as you know—”
His massive hand slammed the glass surface with a sound of a gunshot. The coffee cup jumped and tumbled on its side. It rolled off the top of the desk, leaving a black stain on the transparent surface, and then fell on the white rug with a soft thump. A dark spot developed around it as the synthetic fibers absorbed the remainder of the drink.
“You scared me, Jay. Why would you do something like that?”
“What’s wrong with you today, Cal?”
He stood up, moved the chair aside, and glared at her. At seven foot two and three hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, he would’ve been a frightening sight for most.
She didn’t feel a thing.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m confused and upset by your reaction. You seem angry.”
“Of course I’m angry. How can I not be?” He threw his hands in the air. “Everything you do today seems to be so—”
He paused, looking for the right word and not finding it. Finally, he lowered his hands. His entire body seemed to deflate. He still looked like a Titan cast among regular people, but the expression of anger was no longer distorting his face and was now replaced by confusion instead.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t know why you reacted this way.”
“I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I apologize,” he said and bent over to pick up the coffee mug.
“No need.”
She watched him walk to the kitchen area of the suite and place the mug into the dishwasher. His posture lacked the dancing grace of a panther from earlier. The slumped shoulders, the way he dragged his feet as he walked, indicated that he was experiencing some shame over his outburst.
“Making you angry was the last thing on my mind.”
“I know,” he said. “And I am sorry.”
She lied, of course. Making him angry wasn’t the last thing on her mind.
It was the only thing.
2
New York
The large parking lot in front of the apartment complex was dark. The only source of light—the two light poles on each side of the cement rectangle—had been broken since before Mike Connelly had moved here. He pulled into his designated spot, turned off the headlights, and killed the engine. The radio, set on a classic rock station, continued to play and Connelly leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. It had been a long, tiring shift, and before he could call it a day, he still needed to get in touch with his handler at the International Serious Crimes Directorate in Paris. But tomorrow was Sunday, his only day off, and for now, it felt good to keep his eyes closed for a few seconds.
The rapping of somebody’s knuckles on his window awakened him with a jolt. There was a young bearded face looking into his car, and Connelly rolled down the window an inch. Just enough to let the cool night air in.
“What can I do for you?”
“Would you help out a man fallen on hard times, brother? A couple of bucks maybe? Something to eat?”
The stench of piss and rotten teeth seeped through the small gap. A small bone was hanging on a brass chain around the man’s neck, and Connelly recoiled as he recognized a human phalanx. He threw a quick glance in the rearview mirror and sure enough, there they were—a few shadows crawling through the lot around the large SUV parked right behind his car. He thought he glimpsed an iron pipe.
The homeless population had exploded in the last few years, and there’d been a few stories lately about some homeless gangs roaming the city. A few men were killed, a few women raped, and there was even a rumor of cannibalism, which Connelly attributed to the wild imagination of the yellow press. At least until now.
“Sure thing,” he said, unlocking the door and unbuckling his belt. “I have some groceries in the trunk. I’ll give you some.”
“You’re too kind,” the man replied, stretching his lips in a toothless smile.
“One thing, though.” Connelly beckoned the man with his finger and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Can you tell me something first?”
As the man leaned to the window, trying to hear what was said, Connelly swung the door out, slamming it into the man’s face. It flattened the young man’s nose, sending him tumbling backward, and Connelly stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him. There were four other assailants that he could see—three skinny cats barely out of their teens flanking him on the left, and a burly mountain of a man holding what at closer inspection turned out to be a large railroad wrench.
Connelly’s right hand instinctively moved to the small of his back, looking for the butt of the pistol, but then stopped—a full-blown shootout next to his building wasn’t exactly ideal for a man who led a double life.
“You shit,” the man with a broken nose hissed and lunged at him.
Connelly stepped back, dodging the man’s charge, and kicked him in the stomach. As the man doubled, he spun him around like a shield and shoved him into the large man with a wrench. Then the three youngsters were on him and time slowed down to a crawl.
He dodged a hook and buried a cross into one man’s neck. As the body fell, Connelly stepped over him, breaking distance from the other two men. He saw the large homeless man joining the fray, swinging the rusty wrench, and that’s when Connelly finally pulled the gun. The attackers stopped at the sight of the gleaming barrel but did not retreat.
“Get lost,” Connelly commanded in a quiet voice, “and nobody gets hurt.”
“Can you use it?” the big man asked. “I can show it to you if you want.”
“Care to find out?” Connelly pointed the gun at the man’s groin.
“It ain’t over,” the man grumbled, stepping back and turning away. “We’ll catch you some other time.”
“Good luck with that.” Connelly watched as the gang retreated, half carrying the two hurt men, and holstered the gun. He returned to the car and checked it for damage. There was a small dent, the size of a golf ball, on the driver’s door, and the window had a large bloodstain, but other than that the car seemed intact. Satisfied, Connelly rolled the window all the way up, locked the car, and started toward the building. This time the night stayed quiet.
He walked across the parking lot and entered the foyer. The lights were out in the hallway and Connelly took the stairs up to the small apartment on the sixth floor. He’d purchased the place almost a year ago, but the living room still had a few unpacked boxes stacked neatly in the corner by the window.
He took his leather jacket off, poured a cup of cold water, and settled on the couch with a laptop. He checked the time—he was seven minutes late. He logged into an email and opened a draft folder. There was a new email titled Shopping list. He opened it. There was only one line there:
“You’re late.”
Connelly had been communicating with his handler whose name he didn’t know and whose call sign was appropriately Contact via a draft email. Once a week, at a specific time, he logged into his browser and opened the draft folder. There, in the body of the same email, they would write a string of sentences to each other, refreshing the browser to see the other person’s response. When they were done, any lines of te
xt would be erased, and the draft email deleted, leaving no trace of communications. Since they never sent any information through the actual email, there were no fingerprints left on the email provider’s servers either.
“Hello,” he typed below Contact’s line and took a sip of water. Then, after a few seconds, he refreshed the browser.
“Any updates?” A new line appeared below his salutation.
“Nope. Engel has been tight-lipped, and all I’ve done lately is a lot of driving around.”
“You’ll need to embed yourself deeper into his organization,” Contact wrote. “One of the sources we had in the European branch of Guardian has been compromised. Their cover isn’t blown, so they might be able to restart the flow of information at some later point, but for now, they’ll have to lay low.”
Connelly finished his water and put the glass on the floor next to the couch. It was obvious what was coming—Contact would ask him to take greater risks to compensate for the temporary dry spell of his European counterpart. I’d have to be careful, he thought. As it was, he was pushing the envelope by asking more questions than suited his role. He’d have to expose himself even more to continue the flow of information to the ISCD.
“What can I do to help?” he typed.