Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  Which made it even more urgent for Jill to figure out who was under that mask, where they were, and how she was going to make sure they didn't kill anyone else.

  "Good news is," she added, "these guys are cocky. If I had to guess, they're probably gonna call their next shot. They probably think they can call out their next target and execute them before we can even get a location, let alone actually find them."

  Ramon sighed. "They're mocking us."

  McDermott shrugged. "More or less."

  "They'll slip up." The ghost of a smile crept onto Jill's face as she turned around again. "McDermott, keep calling overseas. Maybe we'll get lucky. Ramon, let's go pay our friends at the Seventh another visit."

  CHAPTER 10

  Brent Weir had been an officer with the Baltimore Police Department for the past seven months, most of his work with the Narcotics unit out of the Fifth Precinct. He had already become a decorated officer in his short time on the force. Two months ago, he saved five children who had been held captive by a heroin pusher in West Baltimore, freeing them from days of starvation and being trapped in a room that smelled of feces and animal blood. The local news stations had hailed Weir as a hero, the sort of cop the department would be glad to ride all the way to better PR and, maybe eventually, higher public trust.

  Only now, Weir was tied to a rusty chair, his bottom lip split open and his right eye swollen shut. His left wrist was broken, reset only so his captors could tie it to the back of the chair. His ankles were also tied to the chair, and the tape was so thick that Weir couldn't find any wiggle room. He was lightheaded. A puddle of vomit was on the floor to his right.

  He felt the dried blood caked into his skin. It tugged every time his left eye blinked. A dull throb in the back of his head hinted at a concussion, which was actually the least of his concerns. Weir had no idea where he was, and he hadn't seen his captors aside from their military fatigues and black ski masks.

  Weir couldn't even tell how long he had been here. Had it been less than a day? Longer than that? Did the BPD even know he had gone missing?

  Loud footsteps caught Weir's attention, and he lifted his head only a few inches before a sharp pain jolted the side of his neck.

  A red light flickered on in front of Weir. A single bulb hung overhead, only illuminating a couple feet around him. The floor was dusty and blood-stained. Wherever Weir was, it smelled industrial. There were so many aromas mixed together, none of them pleasant, and they tickled his gag reflex. If there was still anything in his stomach, Weir would likely hunch over to throw up again. As it was, the best he could manage was a violent, dry cough, one that tore at him each time it racked his body.

  His ribs howled in pain. Chances were, at least one was broken. That was but one of the many physical maladies Weir had to deal with. They were so numerous at this point that he had become numb to them. Not physically numb—he was still in quite a lot of pain – but Weir’s nerves weren’t frayed because of that. It was the uncertainty of the situation, not knowing where he was or why he was here or who his captors were...

  But the red light was new. Weir, ever the cop, latched onto that in the faint hope it would be the key to setting him free. He had lost count of how many movies he had seen and books he had read where the hero—facing insurmountable odds—cracked the case with that one seemingly insignificant clue. Unlikely though it was, that hope was all he had in the moment.

  Instead, the footsteps came to a halt and a cold blade pressed against the officer's neck. Despite himself, Weir flinched.

  "Good evening, Officer," a muffled, digitally altered voice greeted. A second set of footsteps emerged, heavy against the wooden floor. Combat boots matched the fatigues.

  Weir, not daring to speak, focused instead of steadying his breath and trying not to show just how scared he really was. He refused to tremble in his captors' presence. He wouldn't even so much as whimper if they began beating on him again. Whoever these men were, they were almost robotic—in execution and demeanor. Were it not for the hot breath against the side of Weir's neck, he wouldn't have thought his captors human. They were clearly professionals, as if they had spent their entire lives training for whatever all this was.

  They wanted Weir to piss himself in fear. No matter what happened going forward, he would keep his head held high. They could break his bones, but they would never break him.

  "Camera's on," a second voice announced. "We're live."

  "Good evening, fine citizens of Baltimore," the voice that went along with the blade at Weir's throat began. "This young man is quite the hero, isn't he?"

  Weir cringed when his assailant tugged on his hair. He felt a couple follicles pull free from his scalp, steeling himself against what was sure to be the warm trickle of blood. His stomach lurched, but Weir clenched his jaw and stared at the red light. He straightened his back. His good hand balled into a fist. His broken wrist throbbed, but still Weir kept his mouth shut.

  What was that saying the British had? Stiff upper lip?

  "Saved five children from an amateur drug lord." The robotic voice sent a violent chill down Weir's back, and the blade scraped ever so lightly against his stubble. "Only to give them back to parents who were, at best, neglectful. At worst? Well... their father was arrested just yesterday on child molestation charges."

  Weir gasped, genuinely surprised at that revelation. He had meant to follow up with the children he saved in the days and weeks after their ordeal, but life had gotten in the way. The job had taken over, the way it always did. A mountain of paperwork inevitably followed the ordeal, then the routine of being a cop took over. The next case, the next victim, always came first.

  Weir had wanted to pick up the phone, make good on the promise he made to those kids, but... what had his silence wrought?

  Then again, who was to say his captor was even telling the truth? For all Weir knew, that was a fabrication, part of this perverted show. Then again... Weir's gut told him this was genuine. After all, he was a cop. One of the first skills he learned was figuring out when someone was lying. The man with a knife at his throat, for all his apparent faults, appeared to be telling the truth. Somehow, that knowledge felt even worse than the bruises and the broken bones.

  "What kind of cop saves a child from one hell, only to damn them to another?" The masked man made a tsk sound and shook his head. He then elbowed Weir in the side of the head. Weir listed and nearly toppled over in the chair with a grunt, biting his tongue to keep from screaming. Blood filled his mouth. Stars flashed in front of his good eye. His temples throbbed. Unconsciousness threatened to take hold, but it proved elusive.

  "This man is no hero." The masked man's grip tightened on his blade, yanking on Weir's head until he was sitting upright again. "In fact, he is as dirty as the rest of them."

  Weir opened his mouth to protest, having heard enough from this jackal. It was the same urge he felt whenever anyone had the nerve to badmouth other cops. He felt the need to defend not only his profession, but those who chose to join him in the ranks. Never mind the blood dried into his skin. Ignore the broken bones.

  Then again... the knife, the dark, the throbbing in his head... all of that helped Weir keep his thoughts to himself. Instead, he stared straight ahead, taking in the red dot and nothing else. He masked his fear and pain, determination and resolve etched into his youthful features. Chances were, these fools could see right through him, but if anyone was watching, and they could see he wasn't afraid...

  Well, that was something. Wasn't it?

  Besides, if this ended the way Weir thought it would, his colleagues would be the ones watching this. Repeatedly pouring over every detail for the clue that eluded him. If nothing else, Weir wanted to be strong for them. He wanted them to see that these cowards wouldn't beat him to submission. That for all their bluster, for all their supposed might, they were nothing more than animals in masks.

  He was the truly strong one. His death wouldn’t change that.

  "We cannot
let this stand anymore," the masked man continued. "Our city is under siege, and only we can save it. It started with Councilman Franco, and it continues with Officer Weir. But to do that, we need your help. Collectively, we can eradicate the corruption, defeat the evil. Make no mistake, this will be difficult. We are going to ask you to let us do the unthinkable. We will commit acts you find abhorrent. We already have. And in return, we promise a lively, vibrant Baltimore free from violence and hatred. A Baltimore cleansed of drugs and undue influence. And it starts today. Right now."

  A gunshot rang out. Weir and his chair fell to the floor before he could register what happened. Weir's midsection felt as if it was on fire, blood pouring from his body and sticking to his dingy clothes. Weir gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling, flexing his good hand to give his body something other than the searing pain to focus on. The light bulb nearly blinded Weir—before the masked man stood over him, blocking it out.

  "We are The Collective," he announced, "and this, fellow citizens, is our opening salvo."

  The last thing Weir saw before his death was a large blade coming down to cut clean across his neck.

  CHAPTER 11

  Much to Brian Andersen's dismay, he couldn't do his job without the occasional media appearance. Not that he hated the media—well, most of the time—but as a naturally shy person, the prospect of speaking before a gathering of people and a cluster of microphones was almost enough to make him break out in hives. The only thing worse was having to meet with the press to give an update on a high-profile murder. He supposed detailing Councilman Franco's murder was easier than having done so for his boss, Ramona Parish, but only marginally so.

  The dead cop just made this even worse. What he had feared was now reality. They weren’t dealing with mere serial killers; rather, they were face-to-face with serial ideologues.

  Fact was, Parish was the reason Brian was on these steps, having made this decision, in the first place. Ramona Parish has been Brian's professional idol, and he had watched as she was gunned down on live television while giving a press briefing—not unlike the one Brian was about to give—in which she was announcing murder charges filed against four Baltimore police officers. Some thug, anxious to make a statement, had shot her in the head. With a sniper rifle.

  Brian would never be able to close his eyes again and not see Ramona's lifeless body or the hole blown into her forehead. He was forever haunted by that image, and he feared no amount of medication or therapy would ever fix that.

  And yet... her purpose, her drive, was why he was still here. Oddly enough, it also reminded him of his sister.

  As he wheeled to the cluster of microphones, Brian couldn't help but scan the skyline. The sun peered over the edge of a skyscraper to his left, and Brian lifted an arm to shield himself from the rays. He squinted, as if he would be able to see a sniper from this far out. But after his mentor's very public murder, he was on-edge every time he had to meet the press at the steps like this. Why they couldn't conduct these press conferences indoors was beyond him.

  Seeing the rough outlines of a security detail, some of which included military-trained snipers, put Brian at ease. He cleared his throat and tapped a finger against one of the mics, flinching at the feedback and shaking his head.

  Even now, he couldn't help but wonder: could his Army brat of a sister suss out would-be snipers?

  "Obviously, the news of Councilman Franco's murder is shocking," he began. "Actually, 'shocking' doesn't quite cover it. My PR guy tells me this is the part where I'm supposed to offer thoughts and prayers to the family, but that just feels... rehearsed. I'm supposed to tell you we're doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this, and we are, but to actually say that feels too self-serving for my liking. And before I've even had a chance to properly inform you all of Councilman Franco, these jackals have now added a cop to the body count."

  Brian paused to study each face looking back at him. Most of them were familiar, even if he didn't know the names that went with them. A couple faces were hidden behind bright television lights or buried in their smartphones or notepads. The shutter of a camera kept going off, and Brian hoped the lens wasn't powerful enough to show just how poor a job he had done shaving that morning. He grabbed the rubber wheels on his wheelchair, letting his nails dig in. If nothing else, having that anchor calmed him.

  Somewhat.

  "My office is well aware of the rumors and the reports surrounding Councilman Franco’s extracurricular activities," he continued. "We are also aware of the allegations our murderers levied in their most recent video. We have been in constant contact with both local and federal authorities in the hopes of separating fact from fiction. Right now, the only thing we know for certain is that another one of our public servants has been killed in cold blood. Franco was a man who had not only served his country, but after that, he had decided to serve his community. Brent Weir was a young cop with a promising future, and as I understand it, his wife is expecting their first child. This has happened far too many times in this town, and we must not, we cannot, lose sight of that."

  Under normal circumstances, the reporters would be falling all over themselves to be the first to shout their questions. It would get to the point where they were all shouting on top of each other, voices drowning out other voices in a cacophony of noise and confusion. But the reporters in attendance now were silent, glancing at each other as if to dare someone else to speak. Whether it was solemnity out of respect for these two murders, Brian couldn't say. But for the first time, he felt a pang of pity for the reporters gathered in front of him. Maybe they were all human after all.

  Then again, maybe they were still in mourning themselves. It had only been a couple weeks since Stanley Erikson's murder. Brian had never met the Baltimore Sun veteran, but his death had been grisly, and he understood the man had a connection to Jill. Brian couldn't help but notice the spot Stanley would normally hold in gatherings such as this had been left empty.

  "What's the status of the investigation?" one of the female TV reporters, a redhead, asked.

  "Authorities have not provided our office with an update, but as I said earlier, both local and federal law enforcement are working on this," Brian answered. "Our police are working on solving Franco's murder, and the FBI is involved to add context to the rumors of his connection with the Ukrainians. As of now, given the disturbing videos that have been broadcast to this point, my office's priority is identifying potential future targets and ensuring their safety."

  "So, you expect more attacks?"

  "I believe the initial videos have made it clear The Collective is just getting started."

  "Who are some of those potential targets?"

  Brian rolled his eyes, glad he didn't catch sight of whichever reporter asked that question. If Erikson were still here, he would've shouted something mocking at the man. But Brian held his tongue. Something told him that having it out with a reporter wouldn't be good for his political future (and God, did he hate that thought). "Respectfully, I'm not gonna answer that. I'm not about to do The Collective's job for it."

  Those surrounding Brian were adamant this was good for him, that giving him a chance to be forceful in public would show people how serious he was in cleaning up the city's mess—and potentially deflect any criticism that he had known his sister was a costumed vigilante and never bothered to prosecute her. Brian, deciding he never wanted to be that cynical no matter how far this run went, preferred to focus on the fact that a local politician and a police officer had been killed. Two families had lost a loved one, and the city had lost two faithful servants.

  After all, last Brian checked, he was still the Assistant District Attorney. Technically, he was the only District Attorney, acting as the head until the special election ran its course. If he won, he was DA for the rest of the term. If he lost, he had the option of staying on as Assistant DA or letting his opponent pick a successor. But all that meant, for the time being, was that Brian was responsible for
coordinating with law enforcement with regards to their investigations and any charges that might result.

  "We all know what today means," Brian continued, pausing and glancing down at his lap. Not that his prepared notes were there—he had left them in his office—but not having to look everyone in the eye for a few seconds calmed his nerves. "How horrific these deaths are, how important it is we find The Collective and we make sure they can't hurt anyone else. Justice still means something in this city, and they – we – need to be reminded of that. Which is why..." He looked up again and sighed. "Which is why I'm officially announcing my candidacy for the vacant Attorney General seat."

  An excited murmur came over the previously silent crowd. Reporters talked amongst themselves, when they weren't scribbling into their notepads or tapping away on their tablets and smartphones. Camera shutters clicked in unison, flashbulbs entirely too bright for Brian's liking. If nothing else, his staff of two would love this. And Brian understood why. He couldn't deny that successful convictions in this case would help his campaign, but he also couldn't afford to think in those terms. He couldn't keep a scoreboard. That was what the meager campaign staff was paid for.

  "I understand your concerns," he added before another question could be shouted at him. "I get that you're scared. The evidence I've seen and the videos that have followed are... I'm not sure 'harrowing' is a strong enough word. The Collective is trying to capitalize on a lack of public trust right now, and it's up to us to stand up to them and show them what the real heroes in this town look like." Brian grabbed the wheels again. "We have to show them no one's above the law."

  "Does that include your sister?"

  "Can you account for Commissioner Saunders' whereabouts?"