Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  "I heard you just fine, Sebastian." Gregor stared at the clock straight ahead, focusing on the red second hand as it crept along. He was surprised such clocks still existed in this overly digitized world. It was reassuring, in an odd way. "I'm still paying you to do it."

  "This is a highly invasive procedure." Dr. Lo shook his head. "You are in tremendous shape for a man your age, but David, you are sixty-three years old. There are those decades younger than you, at the peak of their physical ability, who have died as a result of this."

  "But there are those who didn't." Gregor clenched his jaw. "Besides, I know you won't let me die."

  "Of course not." Dr. Lo lifted his chin. "I am very good at my job."

  "Yes, you are." Gregor shook his head and finally looked at the doctor. "But that's not why I put my life in your hands. You know what happens if I flatline on this table."

  The slightest bobble of Dr. Lo's Adam's apple was the only indication that Gregor's threat got through. Dr. Lo had known this man for almost three full decades, and while most of his boasting and threatening missed the mark, this was one instance where the doctor took Gregor at his word. After all, given what had happened to Dr. Lo's best friend just four short years ago... were it not for that, chances were neither man would be in this room right now.

  "I do." Dr. Lo reached for his glasses again and put them back on. "I would not be the doctor I am if I did not voice my reservations."

  "Which you've done." Gregor returned his gaze to the wall. "And I'm telling you to do it anyway."

  "In that case," Dr. Lo said with a sigh, approaching the laptop and tapping a few keys, "I will see you in roughly twenty-four hours."

  With one last keystroke, the machine to Gregor's right whirred to life. A low-pitched hum filled the room, drowning out even Gregor's pounding heart. He watched as a clear mask lowered from one of the device's many arms, fitting perfectly over Gregor's mouth and nose. As soon as the mask latched itself onto the businessman, anesthesia pumped into his nostrils. Gregor's eyes instantly felt heavy, and before he could think of anything to say, his eyes closed and his head lulled to the side.

  Dr. Lo approached and leaned in. The mask fogged each time Gregor exhaled, the slow rhythm enough to tell Dr. Lo he was under. Not everyone reacted as quickly to anesthesia, but Gregor was a special case.

  Which was why he hadn't received just any dose of anesthesia. He got stuff that wasn't even available for public use.

  At the console again, Dr. Lo typed in a series of commands. So much of this procedure was automated anymore. The manual tools on the other side of the gurney were more a failsafe than anything. An insurance policy in case technology did what technology always did: break.

  Dr. Lo had to admit, at least to himself, he hated that. He had always preferred being hands-on. It was one of his favorite parts of being a surgeon in his younger days. Other surgeons saw having lives literally in their hands as cause for pressure and stress. For Dr. Lo, it was an adrenaline rush. An opportunity.

  But this? There were so many ways this could go wrong. And even if it did succeed, Dr. Lo couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that this would come back on him.

  Was his late friend rubbing off on him after all these years?

  Dr. Lo tapped one more key. A scalpel hovered inches from Gregor's chest, just under the junction in his collarbone. With one command, it would make the first incision. Perfect depth, perfect length, all of it. All Dr. Lo had to do was press another button. Surgery was so impersonal anymore. It was truly a shame.

  A red light came on from atop the computer. Dr. Lo cleared his throat and paced around the gurney.

  "This is Dr. Sebastian Lo, recording from my laboratory in Paris. It is 4:37 p.m. local time on Thursday, September 30, 2016. The patient, John Doe, has given his enthusiastic and informed consent and has since been placed under anesthesia. Vitals are strong, and the patient appears to be accepting the drugs without incident. I am about to perform the initial incision and will report in thirty-minute intervals, unless circumstances dictate otherwise. Video surveillance will be running throughout in order to document the procedure should anything go wrong.

  "Now, without further ado... this is Project Fusion, version 2.0."

  CHAPTER 3

  If Daniel Richards didn't know any better, he would've sworn he was in a bad crime novel.

  He tugged the black hood further down over his eyes, shielding himself from the wind howling off the Chesapeake Bay. At this late hour, crowds at the Inner Harbor were sparse. Apparently, there were hours when even tourists' dollars dried up. The low clouds, threatening to douse downtown Baltimore in several inches of rain over the next twelve hours, also kept the crowd to a minimum. But once the weather passed, the people would be back, taking in the best the city had to offer—many of them oblivious to the seedy underbelly.

  Was Richards part of that underbelly? The older he got, and the more things he did, the less certain he was that the answer was "no."

  Richards, captain of the Seventh Precinct following a decorated if not complicated career as a uniformed officer and then detective, had long ago convinced himself he was on the right side of the moral divide. He was all too familiar with what dirty cops looked like, and he had never been one of them. But recent actions had him wondering otherwise, as did the bags under his eyes and the near-persistent ache in his chest.

  The hacking cough didn't help matters.

  Straightening from his latest coughing fit and glancing over his shoulder, Richards let an unlit cigarette hang from his lips. He hadn't lit one in several months, but he hadn't quite gotten over the physical habit of putting one of those cancer sticks in his mouth. And he would be lying if he said the urge to strike a match and end the cold turkey experiment wasn't there.

  The person he was waiting for was another line-straddler, and it bothered Richards how comfortable he was with that. He would be the first to admit to doing things he wasn't proud of in recent years. Sleepless nights were becoming more frequent with age, and if he was being honest with himself, Richards was surprised Evelyn hadn't noticed. Because if she had, she would have cornered him and said something. But each morning, they had coffee and breakfast together, and she always saw him off to work with the same smile and kiss on the cheek he had enjoyed for nearly thirty years.

  But in recent weeks, that smile had come with a different look in her eyes. Richards couldn't place it, part of him thought he was imagining it. But it haunted him, nonetheless.

  Richards reached for a lighter in his pocket, cursing under his breath when he realized there was none. He cursed again, louder this time, admonishing himself for trying to fall off the proverbial wagon. He had already tried to quit six times; this was the time that was supposed to stick. If nothing else, the savings on his life insurance premium should have been motivation enough.

  He sighed and stared down at himself. Richards had gained weight since his last cigarette—because apparently, nicotine was an appetite suppressant. Add the fact that most of Richards' meals came in a greasy bag, too late at night, chased with too many snacks and too much alcohol... was it any wonder most in law enforcement eventually faced a litany of health problems?

  "Those things will kill you, you know," a muffled voice said from behind Richards.

  The captain cocked a sideways grin and shook his head. Removing the cigarette from his mouth, he instead tucked it behind his ear. "Only if I light 'em."

  Silence fell between the two. If it weren't for another gust of wind and a seagull cawing in protest, they would have been surrounded by complete quiet. The night lights of downtown Baltimore were little comfort against the turmoil brewing overhead. Rain began to fall, first in a steady tap tap tap before building into a roaring downpour. Richards rolled his eyes and folded his arms under his cloak.

  "Don't suppose this is the night you finally tell me who you are," he muttered, raising his voice above the rain.

  The figure stood beside Richards, decked in a tan ove
rcoat that reached his knees, a black mask covering the lower half of his face and a wide-brim hat and sunglasses taking care of the rest. Were this the middle of July, such a look would be foolish. But Richards had to appreciate the old-school ingenuity. There were more high-tech methods of hiding one's identity these days, but whoever this was decided to ignore them.

  "You'll know when you need to know."

  "Was there a point to you calling me out here?"

  "You were supposed to bring down Saunders. I didn't give you that tape just so you could use it as leverage to save the girl."

  "Saunders will get his." Keeping his gaze straight ahead, Richards bit his lip. He hated whenever his informant brought up Jill. The way he talked about her sat heavy in the captain's stomach, and he balled his hands into fists on instinct. Just because Richards was willing to use this man for information, that didn't mean he trusted him. "I just wanted to watch him squirm a little first."

  "Yes, well. Something tells me the commissioner won't be a problem for much longer."

  Richards finally turned to face the other man, head-on, removing his hood and quirking a brow. For the moment, the pouring rain didn't bother Richards—even as it ran down the front of his glasses and dripped off the frames. In a way, that sounded like a threat. Despite Richards' issues with Commissioner Saunders, a threat against the man in charge of the Baltimore Police Department was still something he had to take seriously.

  But what if it was actually a warning?

  Richards' intuition, normally something he could set his watch to, left him in the cold on this one. He might not have trusted the informant, but he had been reliable to this point.

  Opening his mouth to reply, Richards instead broke into another coughing fit. He doubled over, the brunt of the rain drenching his cloak. Each hack brought with it a sharp pain in his ribcage. Even as Richards cringed and struggled to catch his breath, the informant was motionless. He didn't even so much as glance at Richards once he cleared his throat and was once again upright.

  That had been the fourth such fit in the past week and a half—and the second tonight. Were Richards not stubborn as a mule, he would've already booked an appointment with his doctor. But that was one more complication the captain didn't need.

  Then again... let the next coughing fit happen at home. Evelyn would force him to see the doctor.

  "You know something," Richards said once he found his voice.

  The informant lowered the bill of his hat even further, rain water pouring from it like a mini waterfall. The hat was now so low on the man's face that his sunglasses weren't even visible. He tugged on his gloves, stretching them tight over his fingers. The meticulousness with which he moved annoyed Richards, mostly because he knew the informant was stalling. Which, in a downpour like this, was uncalled for.

  "Your girl's started something," the informant finally said. "Problem is, she doesn't realize it. Not yet. But there are forces out there, desperate to clean the filth from this city. And they're not shy about how they do it."

  Richards frowned. He had been afraid of this. "Copycat vigilantes?"

  That was the last thing Baltimore needed.

  "Not exactly." The informant tilted his head to the side and tapped a finger to his chin. He didn't even appear to notice the rain, even as Richards was now so soaked that he was shivering. "A storm is gathering, Captain. Has been, behind the scenes, for a while. And I'm afraid this is something even she can't handle."

  Richards' frown deepened. "Any idea who?"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The informant reached out and placed a hand on Richards' shoulder, ignoring when the captain flinched in response. "I suggest you leave the city."

  "You don't know me." Richards pushed the hand off his shoulder. "Or you wouldn't say something like that."

  "You can't protect Andersen if you're dead, Daniel." The informant turned his back to Richards, as if he were about to leave. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and glanced over his shoulder. "She's going to need you before this is all over."

  The informants' use of Richards' name made his blood run cold. His eyes widened in response and he shook his head. Whatever bravado Richards had felt the first time the informant had opened his mouth was gone. Instead, he felt the familiar weight of dread in the pit of his stomach, the sort of sensation only half a bottle of scotch could get rid of. He shivered again, and this time, Richards wasn't sure if it was from the rain or the dread.

  "She doesn't need me," he muttered with a shake of his head. "Not anymore."

  The informant walked away. "Sure, she does. Someone has to protect her from herself."

  CHAPTER 4

  "I understand that, Mayor, but I have an 11:00 I cannot miss."

  Commissioner Jackson Saunders' phone was tucked between his broad shoulder and his barrel neck as he rolled his eyes at the voice on the other end. He’d barely had a chance to finish his morning coffee and the mayor was already on his ass. About what, he couldn't tell. Closure rates in the city were improving. Public opinion had... well, improved wasn't the right word, but at least the locals weren't taking to the streets en masse for one reason or another anymore. The vigilante had even kept a low profile in recent weeks, and as much as Saunders wanted her behind bars, he had his reasons for leaving that alone.

  Reasons the mayor didn't need to know.

  Leaving the Bishop L. Robinson Sr. Police Administration Building, known in some circles simply as The Bishop, and hanging a left on the sidewalk, Saunders approached a black SUV idling at the curb. His 11:00 was on the other end of downtown, and traffic was more of a mess than usual thanks to blocks of road work and construction. The end product was touted as a way to further revitalize downtown Baltimore, but in the meantime, it meant hassle and traffic jams for everyone.

  Even important people like the police commissioner.

  "Fine. I'll call you when I'm finished."

  Saunders hung up without another word, cutting the mayor off and stuffing the phone into his coat pocket. He ignored the greeting the man in the three-piece suit whose name he forgot gave him, sliding into the back seat and slamming the door shut himself. Saunders hated being chauffeured around like he was a damn king. Last Saunders checked, he could still drive his own pickup truck, and he was still capable of opening and closing doors himself.

  The security detail he understood, useless though they sometimes were, but the rest of it? Needless crap. Crap that never would've flown in the Army. At least, not back in the Vietnam days.

  "Use the siren," he ordered as the SUV rolled into traffic. "Don't have time to waste on this damn traffic."

  Something cold and metal poked against the side of Saunders' neck and he froze. The window separating the front of the SUV from the back lowered with a low-pitched whirr, and Saunders glanced into the rearview mirror—only to be greeted by the sight of a pair of green eyes staring back at him.

  His driver did not have green eyes.

  Other than the man's eyes, the rest of his head was covered in a black mask. Saunders shifted his gaze to his right, finding another black mask and military fatigues. A handgun Saunders didn't recognize pointed in his direction, the silencer digging into his neck.

  "What the—?"

  "Silence." The masked man's voice was distorted, probably digitally altered. It sent a chill down the commissioner's spine, and his hands went up on pure instinct. The man with the gun chuckled and his shoulders relaxed, but he didn't lower the weapon. "You're a smart man, Jackson. More than you get credit for."

  A thousand retorts flew through Saunders' head, but he kept his mouth shut. Whoever these men were, something told him they wouldn't take kindly to sarcasm. He stole a glance at the front again. The driver was focused on the road ahead, and the SUV swerved to the left. Saunders looked out the window in that direction, his arms slowly returning to his sides. Wherever they were going, it wasn’t where his 11:00 would be waiting.

  He hoped kidnapping was a goo
d excuse for not showing up.

  "Ah-ah." The masked man with the gun shook his head. "Push that button and I pull the trigger. I'd hate to ruin these fine leather seats."

  "Fair enough." Saunders pursed his lips and stared out the window, his left hand inching away from the red panic button on the side of his seat. "Don't suppose you got a name?"

  "Not one you get to know."

  Saunders shook his head. "Where I come from, if someone's gonna kill you, you at least deserve to know who's doin' it."

  "Who we are isn't important." The masked man waved the gun around before the silencer jabbed itself into the commissioner's neck again. "All that matters is the mission. The message."

  "This wasn't part of the deal." Saunders arched a brow but kept his gaze straight ahead. Given recent events, he had expected one of his long-held associations to come home to roost. Not all of his friends over the years had been on the up-and-up, and considering one of his captains knew of his ties to both the Russians and the Ukrainians, Saunders would've been naive to think one of them wouldn't come calling sooner rather than later. After all, he was technically a loose end.

  But if these people were to come for Saunders, then there was no telling what was in store. These masked men, they were going out of their way to keep their identities secret. Somehow, Saunders would've rather the Ukrainians had gotten him.

  "The message," he finally repeated once it was clear he wouldn't get a response. "You ever try throwing a bottle into the ocean?"

  In one swift motion, the masked man flipped the gun in his hand and smashed the butt end of it against the commissioner's temple. Saunders grunted in pain, his head snapping back and bouncing off the window. He slumped forward, unconscious, both temples bloody.

  The driver glanced at the rearview mirror as the SUV merged onto Interstate 83. "Shall I get the studio ready?"

  "Yes." The other masked man wiped the blood from his gun before returning it to its holster. "But not for Saunders. We have other guests to attend to first."