Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense

by Fynn Perry

  You’ve been shot, Puta! You’ve been shot! said the voice in his head.

  As he fell, he saw men abseil down from the floors above. In an instant, he found that the ends of four M4 Commando assault rifles were pointed at his head. The weapons and the dark olive combat gear were enough to tell him that these guys were FBI SWAT.

  Seconds later, agents in blue windbreakers crowded around him.

  Putas! the voice screamed.

  As he lay in the dirt on the floor, now on his stomach with his wrists cuffed behind him, he watched the body that he had thought had been Lazlo’s being untied and the victim helped to his feet. It wasn’t Lazlo, of course. Lazlo had been somewhere else all along.

  The well-dressed man knew then that he’d been set up. The voice inside him was quiet, but he still felt its presence like an energy. An energy of seething anger, now quietly weighing up its options. One of the FBI agents had told him that the paramedics had been called. Medical treatment meant going to the hospital, and hospitals presented opportunities for escape.

  Cromwell stepped out of his Crown Vic under a canopy of maple and beech trees at the end of a four-hour drive that had finished on a dirt road that had gradually become narrower and increasingly rough until it was no longer passable by car. The last part of the journey had to take place on foot. There was no cell coverage, which was precisely what helped make the location safe, but it meant that any message to Lazlo could only be delivered in person. The message he was bearing was good news.

  He got out of the car and stood still for a moment. It was deathly quiet, uncomfortably so, the only noise to be heard was the sound of his own breathing. He broke the silence by walking. Leaves rustled, and twigs cracked under his shoes. The cabin was located in the deepest part of the forest and had no address, not even a ribbon of a trail leading to it, just GPS coordinates.

  After an hour, Cromwell recognized a familiar tree stump, which signaled to him that he was close. A couple of minutes later, he saw the cabin. Built entirely of wood except for a large stone chimney, it blended in effortlessly with its surroundings. The walls were made of thick logs; the roof was covered in timber shingles and the doors, windows, and shutters were all of sanded and varnished timber. It was the perfect retreat and the ideal hiding place.

  He walked up to the cabin and noticed the door was ajar. Un-holstering his gun, he pushed against the door slowly. As it creaked open, he felt the cold steel muzzle of a gun press against the back of his neck.

  “Drop the gun!”

  He immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Lazlo and felt a sense of relief that his friend was safe.

  Lowering the gun to the ground, he turned around with his hands up. It was Lazlo but bearded, unkempt, and with a distinctly smoky smell about him.

  “Christ, Dan! I nearly crapped myself.”

  “Sorry, George. I couldn’t be sure it was you, and you were armed. You understand, right?”

  “Sure! But listen, the trap worked, and we got the guy who ordered Victor Sanchez to take the hit out on you,” Cromwell enthused.

  “El Gordito?”

  “No, we already had El Gordito in custody. This is someone new in the hierarchy. Big, military-looking guy—Caucasian, not Hispanic. He’d requested the assassin leave you alive but unable to move. He showed up alone at our faked scene hoping to finish you off. The FBI arrested him early afternoon. He was shot by SWAT and taken to the ER. The bullet passed through his shoulder, so nothing critical. He’s refusing to talk, and we had to do extensive searches through classified databases to try and find any record of him. Chapman thinks he could be a private military contractor. It would explain the difficulty in identifying him. Chapman was hoping you might be able to.”

  Lazlo shook his head. “A Black Ops agent and El Gordito?”

  “Perhaps this guy had connections useful to El Gordito?”

  “What about the actual assassin?” Lazlo demanded.

  “We doubled the original payment to Shadow Dragon to cancel the hit.”

  “But you said once a hit is ordered and paid for, Shadow Dragon would probably follow through, no cancellations. Did he confirm the hit was off?”

  “Not yet. But the payment went through to him and it was another million, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Fuck! I hope you’re right!” Lazlo exclaimed. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tipped a cigarette out and put it to his lips. It was getting dark. The trees would soon all melt together as one deep black mass with only a faint glow from the starlit sky above.

  “You took up smoking again?” inquired Cromwell.

  “Well, there are boxes of smokes lying around, and I had nothing to do but wait,” replied Lazlo.

  “They were my father’s stash,” said Cromwell, laughing.

  Lazlo clicked open his lighter and tugged at the flint wheel. A spark ignited a tall flame. He didn’t need to cup his hands around it as the air was perfectly still. He pressed the end of the cigarette to the flame and heard the crackle of the tobacco catching fire as he drew in the smoky air. The end of the cigarette burnt bright orange.

  Suddenly, a spray of blood hit Cromwell in the face as the side of Lazlo’s head exploded.

  Twenty-Seven

  Five hundred yards away, part of the forest floor moved. Wearing a tight, forest-print camouflage outfit, Shadow Dragon got to her feet and slung her Remington 700 PSS sniper rifle over her back and prepared for the twenty-five-minute run that would take her to the Jeep, which she had parked a little way behind the FBI agent’s Crown Vic sedan. It had been an easy kill. Cromwell had led her right to him, and the location could not have been better––isolated and with no wind. Perfect. He would never catch her. She had a five-hundred-yard start on him, but she didn’t need it. Cromwell would waste valuable time, after the initial debilitating shock of losing his friend, in deciding when it was safe to emerge from the cover of the cabin. He would feel the need to drag his friend into the cabin to spare him being ripped apart by a bear or wolf. It would take him around forty to fifty minutes to get back to his car by foot, and then he’d have to drive for twenty minutes to reach cell coverage. Over an hour and a half would pass before he could alert anyone to the assassination and get help. She would be long gone by then.

  To Shadow Dragon, reputation was everything, and she had built it on one simple, brutal rule. If a client ordered and paid for a hit, it would get done. 100 percent certainty. No cancellations, no matter what. In the shady, dishonest world of her clients, there were often more parties interested in a hit than just the buyer. Thanks to her rule there was no possibility whatsoever of a buyer cancelling, keeping the cancellation secret from the other parties and blaming her for the non-execution. A dead body was irrefutable proof of her effectiveness. It kept her reputation intact, her prices high, and her bloodlust satiated.

  Her clients could only reach her through referrals and vetting services made available via trusted and specialist criminal organizations. Given that the acceptance of her cancellation rule was a key element of the vetting, she had reacted to the requested annulment of the hit on Lazlo with frustration and fury. Then, on further reflection, she became curious as to how her longstanding system had failed her.

  The FBI might have some of the best intelligence specialists, but the techie on Shadow Dragon’s payroll was no slouch either. She only knew him or her as ‘Anonymity.’ A mutual business partner had introduced them online. All she knew was that ‘Anonymity’ was one of the top ‘Black Hatters’––the street name for cyberpunks who maliciously hack government and corporate sites for fun or money. Anonymity hacked for money and asked no questions. Shadow Dragon paid well.

  The computer outlaw had also been able to break into The Path to Paradise server, not through a known backdoor but by brute hacking force, and had confirmed that someone had taken control of the account of the buyer nicknamed La Tarántula. Anonymity had identified that the account was under the control of the FBI and, specifically, a Senior Intell
igence Operative named George Cromwell. Shadow Dragon hadn’t cared that the FBI was involved— she was going to make good on the deal and keep her reputation intact. The FBI would eventually lead her to her target. She just had to wait it out.

  For all his good intentions, Cromwell had eventually led her to Lazlo’s door. He was no lightfoot in the forest, so he had been easy to track. The next kill would be much more challenging; crowds, cameras, police patrols, and tight spaces to work in. She was going back to New York City.

  Two Hours Earlier

  There was a knock at the door, and Special Agent Chapman entered the captain’s room. John got up from the chair in front of the captain’s desk, expecting that Chapman would sit down, but he remained standing.

  “We intercepted a hit that was ordered against Lazlo on the dark web. It came from an IP address belonging to one of El Gordito’s lieutenants, Victor Sanchez.”

  The captain stared in surprise. “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “I’m telling you now, Captain,” said Chapman. “Look, this is an FBI operation. We appreciate you cooperating, but we’ll only update, not share strategy.” This was delivered slightly less arrogantly, in a more conciliatory tone.

  The captain sat back in his chair. “Go on,” he muttered.

  “We got administrative access to the website where the hit was contracted. One of our guys masqueraded online as the assassin and intercepted communications with the buyer. The buyer logged in for the last time earlier today and changed the terms of the hit, wanting to have Lazlo bound and shot, but alive so he could finish him off. We accepted the terms, set up a trap, and caught him,”

  The captain gave a sigh of relief.

  “With El Gordito in Rikers now, awaiting arraignment,” Chapman continued, “we figured one of his men would show up, but instead it was someone we’ve never seen before. This guy’s a real hard nose, disciplined, quiet—has the look of a stone-cold killer. By the way, he took a bullet to the shoulder. I would say he’s no stranger to pain or interrogation. He’s in Interview Room 1 now, and I’m about to question him.”

  “Got a name?” the captain interjected.

  “That’s just it, he’s not coming up in any databases. Like he doesn’t exist. We’re now going through other channels. He’s definitely ex-military. He could be a private contractor involved in black ops, which is why we’re having trouble finding his identity. That might make him very well connected at the government level.”

  He paused as if allowing the captain to digest all that he had just heard. “Don’t worry, Lazlo’s safe and the actual hit on him was called off,” he added.

  The captain nodded. “Good. What could this guy’s connection be with El Gor…” He stopped himself. “I don’t want to know. It’s all yours, Chapman. This is too rich for my blood. I’m just glad I took Lazlo off the case when I did.”

  “You’re welcome to sit in. It’s your precinct, after all.” Chapman smiled. “Just don’t ask him anything. That’s my department.”

  The captain declined and remained seated.

  John got up and followed the agent out of the room.

  One of Chapman’s subordinates approached him just before he entered Interview Room 1, handing him some documents. There was a brief, excited exchange between them, and then Chapman eagerly entered the room. Seconds later, John entered the adjacent observation room.

  John immediately noticed that the detained black-ops man was possessed, and it suddenly occurred to him that, this time, it really could be Santiago’s spirit doing the possessing. Maybe he had just been wrong about thinking that El Gordito had been Santiago’s host, but he had not been wrong about the narrative. The sheer scale and impact of the Spider’s Bite production was so massive it had to be part of The Game. And this guy, who clearly from appearance and attitude would not fit in as one of El Gordito’s all-Mexican henchmen, was nevertheless involved in the drug lord’s operation and possibly at a high level. He felt his heartbeat quickening and the instinct to run came on hard and fast. Even if it meant putting his own existence at risk, he had to stay and find out if his plan of taking down El Gordito’s drug business had done anything to disqualify Santiago’s presence in The Game—if the spirit of the evil drug baron might now be closer to being banned from the Earth forever.

  The detained man’s mind was buzzing. There had been no reprieve, no covert operation to extract him from the hands of the FBI. Not even a lawyer sent. Vargas had assured him that Lazlo wouldn’t become a problem, but he now was. A serious problem. A problem that threatened the existence of the biggest narcotics empire that the world had ever seen. His need for revenge against a cop who didn’t know his place, and who dared to threaten his business, had somehow got the better of him. The voice in his head, the one that had made his anger build to the point of wanting to go and kill Lazlo by his own hand, was now quiet. But it was still there inside him, humming with energy––just like those damn robots in the fulfillment center he had financed as a cover for the world-changing, drug-making business.

  Chapman started the questioning, reading from a piece of paper. “You were a hard man to identify, Mr. Quinn.”

  Quinn was shocked that they now had his name, but he said nothing.

  “And it’s been even harder to pull any records on you. In fact, they appear to have been deleted.”

  Quinn’s mouth twitched in a half-smile.

  “But don’t think we won’t get them eventually.” Chapman paused, as if deep in thought for a moment. “Let’s forget the past for now. I’m more interested in the present. Why did you sanction a hit on Detective Lazlo?”

  No response.

  “Lazlo was obsessed with Miguel Vargas’s operation in New York and was working to pin anything he could on the Mexican. Therefore, anyone who would want Lazlo dead, is most likely going to be connected to Vargas. Follow my train of thought?”

  “Seems like you have an overactive imagination, Special Agent,” Quinn said, placing a sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘special.’

  “What’s your relationship with Miguel Vargas?”

  No response.

  “We have Vargas, a.k.a. El Gordito, and his men in custody while we prepare charges against them for drug trafficking and multiple counts of murder. Most of what we need is in here.” Chapman pulled out the two ledgers from the pile of documents he had been given before entering. “Vargas’s accountant, Pablo Barrera, known simply as ‘The Accountant,’ did all his books for him. I really do mean that literally. No computers. Real books. I have them here.”

  Quinn maintained his stoic expression.

  “We might not have full access to your records online but if you have any business connection to Vargas it will be in here. Of course, we were never meant to see these ledgers,” Chapman said with a smile. “Just as we were never supposed to find the drug manufacturing laboratory located in a secret basement under the fulfillment center that Vargas owns.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I think you do, Mr. Quinn. I think you know everything about Vargas’s operation. It’s why you ordered the hit on Lazlo and turned up to finish him off. That’s personal. You were there to punish him for interfering in a billion-dollar business. A business that you have a stake in.”

  “You’re reaching, Special Agent. You have no actual proof against me, just theories. You would be wise to release me. I work for some very powerful people. It will save you a lot of embarrassment. People like me don’t go to jail.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Chapman countered. He indicated to the ledgers again. “The income from the drug sales was washed through a gang of smurfs. We have a list of all the bank accounts used right here. We’re drilling down through all those transactions. The funds are being funneled into various companies, that much is obvious, but we’ll get to the end beneficiary. We always do.”

  There was no reaction from Quinn. After a few moments, Chapman got up and headed for the door.

  Jus
t as he was leaving, he stopped and turned toward the silent figure. “As I’m sure you know, the drugs were being produced through the use of genetically engineered strains of yeast at the secret facility under the guidance of a scientist––the only person alive capable of using so-called synthetic biology to, in essence, brew heroin and cocaine. You wouldn’t happened to know where he is, would you?”

  Chapman didn’t bother to wait for the inevitable lack of response. He exited and closed the door behind him.

  John remained in the observation room. If he had finally found Santiago’s spirit—and he knew it was only a possibility at this stage—he wasn’t about to take his eyes off his host.

  Chapman returned to Interview Room 1 after about forty minutes. John noticed he was wearing a satisfied smile as he returned to the chair he had occupied earlier.

  “So, Mr. Quinn. We’ve already traced some of the drug money that was laundered. As I outlined earlier, it turns out it was indeed ‘smurfed’ by a crew of low-level money handlers depositing cash into a variety of bank accounts. The accounts were opened by a number of citizens using multiple fake identities. We would have never guessed these citizens would be part of the laundering chain if we hadn’t intercepted a stack of IDs with their photos on them, a few days ago. Isn’t it rather beautiful the way the pieces come together?”

  Silence.

  “Anyway, these citizens made the transfers from their accounts to several accounts held by various companies registered in the Cayman Islands and ultimately in Panama. Those companies then sent the money back to a company registered right here in the US. A company known as Tactical Consulting.” Chapman paused. He looked at Quinn, who stared back, emotionless.

  “That’s your company, Mr. Quinn. You are taking the proceeds of El Gordito’s drug distribution empire. And you’ve been making some pretty big payments to some other companies. We’re still looking into those but, rest assured, we’ll find out who you have been paying off.”