Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  Paul frowned again. "I don't understand."

  "We're here for a cleansing. Baltimore has become a prime breeding ground for corruption and duplicity. We aim to weed it out. The cops taking money under the table and looking the other way. Politicians selling out their constituents with one hand while they're using the other to ask for their vote. The pious who do not practice what they preach. We must rid this town of the vermin, and we believe you would be an asset to the cause."

  Though he was loathe to admit it, Paul hung on every word the other man said. It sounded great; it sounded like the sort of thing Paul would've gladly been a part of in his younger days. And though he selfishly wanted nothing more than to turn his back to it all and go back to spending the rest of eternity rotting in a wooden box, his lifelong sense of duty gave him pause. The same drive that led Paul to become a cop in the first place was the only thing that had him chewing over this man's words—that and the fact that he couldn't get up from this chair, let alone leave the room.

  But still...

  "Sounds shady." Paul shook his head. "Guessing if this was on the up-and-up, we wouldn't be having this conversation in the dark, with me strapped to this chair."

  "This task force is highly illegal," the man admitted. "That doesn't make what we're doing wrong."

  Paul chuckled in spite of himself. "Breaking the law for the greater good kinda runs in the family."

  "We know."

  "So, what happens?" Paul swallowed thickly, eyeing what appeared to be a metal incubator on the opposite side of the room. There was a viewing window near the top, but it had fogged over. "What if I say no?"

  "We let you go. No questions asked."

  Which, on the surface, sounded good. But Paul was supposed to be a dead man. After all, it was the state that killed him. How would it look if he resurfaced? Even if he did manage to wade through that, what would he do with his second chance at life? He had no assets, no income, no way to get one. No family, even. How long would Paul last on his own before death came calling for him again? For better or worse, his best bet was probably to stick around with this Collective.

  "Because I wouldn't be a threat," Paul said. "I'm either an asset to you or I'm nothing."

  "That's a crass way to put it, but yes, I suppose that's true." Dr. Sebastian Lo undid his tie the rest of the way before folding it twice and setting it beside his laptop. "We're going to ask a lot of you, Mr. Andersen. We're likely going to ask you to do things you won't be comfortable doing. But if you buy in, if you believe in the cause as passionately as we do, then I promise we can do some real good in this city. And you might even find some measure of peace in the process."

  That wasn't likely... because the only thing that would give Paul peace, aside from death, was the love of his children. And no matter what he did going forward, he would never have that again. Nor should he; his children were heroes. One worked in law enforcement and doubled as a superhero. The other was doing fine work in the District Attorney's office. Despite everything Paul had put them through, Jill and Brian were good people, far more capable of great deeds than him. He didn't deserve their forgiveness, and he would never seek it.

  But if he was alive again... he had to do something, right?

  "Besides," Dr. Lo added, "when it comes time for us to take down David Gregor, we'll let you handle him personally."

  Well, now... that was enticing.

  CHAPTER 45

  Present day...

  When Daniel Richards came to, the first thing he saw was a Sig Sauer pointed at his face.

  He chuckled, then rolled onto his side with a wince because okay, that hurt. Was this what a concussion felt like? Because if it was, Richards could do without it. The pounding in his temples, the roiling in his gut, the spinning room... and that damn cough. Okay, so the cough had already been there, a perpetual nuisance for the last month or so. But the rest of it? That was new.

  Especially the person holding him at gunpoint.

  "Gotta say," Richards muttered, a hand over his eyes, "never thought you to be a turncoat."

  "You wanna know how I've gotten as far as I have?" Jeff Downs asked, cocking his head and flicking off the safety. "I know how to read a room."

  "So, when you helped us with the Buckner case..."

  "It was a way to stick it to Saunders." Downs lifted a shoulder in that devil-may-care way he had been known for in his uniform days—not so much since transitioning to upper administration. "I already knew he was on the take with the Ukrainians. I needed to bide some time—but that didn't mean I couldn't make his life difficult."

  Downs had wound up in the hospital for his efforts, the victim of an attack at the hands of the four police officers who had killed Devin Buckner. They had tried to do to Downs what they did to the teenager, but Bounty had intervened.

  Still, the message seemed to have gotten though; after the attack, Downs clammed up—leaving those investigating Buckner's murder to face the BPD brass on their own. Richards had lost his best cop because of it.

  He still hadn’t forgiven his superiors for that.

  "In a way, I have you to thank," Downs added. "When you confronted Saunders with that tape, we had the proof we needed. In a way... you helped lead The Collective right to him."

  Richards lulled to the side and coughed several times. Rough, body-racking hacks, the kind that left him drooling onto the floor and wincing with each breath. The kind that made Richards wonder if he was going to crack a rib—or worse, if he should see someone about it.

  Assuming he survived this.

  "So instead of going to the press or the authorities..."

  "We took matters into our own hands." Downs' jaw clenched and he tightened his grip on the gun. "Haven't you been paying attention, Daniel? The whole reason we exist is because we can't trust them!"

  Richards managed to get back into a sitting position without barfing all over himself. So there was that. He closed his eyes when the room started spinning again, and he wondered if he was imagining Downs' speech too. He hoped he was. He hated to think he had put decades of trust and respect into a man who could cut someone's head off. Regardless of what the victim had actually done—and he didn't know that anyone was arguing Commissioner Saunders was a good guy—no one deserved to be in The Collective's crosshairs.

  Richards suppressed another cough. "Am I next?"

  Downs dropped into a crouch, pulling Richards' phone from his pocket and tossing it at the captain's feet. "No offense, Daniel, but... I've got my sights set a little higher." He jutted his chin at the phone. "There's a message on there. You should listen to it."

  Snatching the device off the floor, Richards went through the paces of getting to his voicemail before bringing the phone to his ear.

  "You should’ve listened before," Downs added, watching Richards fumble with his phone. "I told you a certain someone needed you to protect them from themselves... and it seems I was right."

  Richards flinched when the digitized voice telling him to press one startled him, and he wondered if that was the head injury messing with him. Because if his head wasn’t bothering him, then that masked man who had been helping Richards for weeks had been setting him up for a fall.

  Jeff Downs really was a prick, wasn’t he?

  “Fucking turncoat,” Richards muttered. He glanced at his phone again, and once he pressed one... his blood ran cold.

  Jill had been crying, he could hear it in her voice. Perhaps she still was when she had left the message. The fact that she had bothered to call him at all was of momentary comfort—at least, until he heard her admit that Paul Andersen was back. His stiffened and locked eyes with Downs, wondering if the other man knew.

  All Downs did was smile. A tight-lipped, smarmy expression Richards wanted to slap off his bald, wrinkled head.

  It was impossible. It had to be. There was no way Paul Andersen was even alive, let alone associated with these jackals. But Jill wouldn't lie like this, and he doubted that she had lost her
mind to the point of hallucination. If she said Paul was back...

  I just... just stay safe, okay? Wherever you are, just stay there and do what you're told until we bring down The Collective.

  Richard couldn't help but laugh at that. Because oh, the irony.

  And Dan? I love you. Even after... well, everything.

  Blinking back tears, Richards swiped at the screen before pressing the green button with the phone silhouette. It was instinct at this point; on the rare occasion he missed a call from Jill, he always called her back as soon as he could. Especially now, with her reaching out to him like this despite what had gone down between them... he couldn't not call.

  A gunshot rang out and the phone flew out of Richards' hand. He recoiled, watching his now-broken device skitter along the floor.

  "Ah-ah-ah," Downs said with a shake of his head. "No unwanted guests now."

  "Why?" Richards arched a brow. "Afraid she'll tear down the whole lot of you?"

  "More like we're not ready for her." Downs shrugged. "Not yet. But soon."

  Richards sat up straighter. "You wouldn't."

  Downs pointed the gun at Richards' forehead. It was a move he liked because of the fear he would see on the victim's face. The fact that Richards showed no such fear, his face a blank canvas, rubbed Downs the wrong way. "Come on, Daniel. Did you really think The Collective would tear through this city and not set our sights on her? She's the inspiration for all this!"

  "She'd be flattered, I'm sure."

  "Don't get me wrong." Downs kept his weapon trained on the captain, even as his grip loosened on it. "She's got the right idea. She'd probably agree with us that things are all wrong in this city. She's just not willing to do what needs to be done."

  "What needs to be done," Richards repeated with a hiss. "You freaks ever actually listen to yourselves?"

  "I'd argue we're the only ones who are." Downs dropped to a knee, stabbing Richards in the forehead with the barrel of his gun. He pressed until the chamber left an imprint on the captain's skin. "If I thought there was a chance she'd accept, I'd invite her into the fold tonight. Shame, really."

  "She would never do that." Richards shook his head. "She's too good for people like us."

  Downs frowned. "Like us?" He cocked his head to the side and squinted, as if deep in thought, before his eyes lit up. "Oh, right! Yes, I remember that little stunt of yours back at the docks. That was quite the mess you made, Captain. No wonder I saw your name on the list."

  "Go ahead." Richards sneered. "Send your thugs after me. Probably what I deserve anyway."

  "Oh, Daniel... the pity party really doesn't suit you."

  In one swift motion—far swifter than Richards had moved in years—he pulled his weapon from its holster and cold-cocked Downs upside his right temple. The other man grunted and staggered, his Sig Sauer clattering against the floor. Richards reached out to kick the gun clear across the room before aiming his at Downs' forehead.

  Richards took far too much satisfaction in seeing the blood running down along the side of the other man's face. He wasn't sure what that said about him, but he thought it best if he didn't swell on it.

  "This ain't pity." Richards cradled his weapon in both hands, sucking in a deep breath to push the pounding in his own head to the side. "I made peace with my fate a long time ago. And while I probably deserve what you would do to me, I'll be damned if you jackals are what do me in."

  "So, what are you waiting for?" Downs didn't even bother lifting his hands above his head. "Pull the trigger."

  Downs was calling his bluff. Richards knew Downs was calling his bluff. Downs probably knew Richards knew Downs was calling his bluff. And yet...

  "You don't think I will."

  "Of course, you won't." Downs rolled his eyes. "You're the goody-goody one, acting like that badge we gave you actually means something."

  "Because back when they gave it to me, it did."

  "Point is, you and your girl Jill? You're the same. You talk a good game, you strut around, preaching about truth, justice, the American way! But you refuse to admit... that American way? The red on our flag is from all the blood we spill so we can keep what's ours."

  "Don't lecture me about blood, boy." Richards clenched his jaw and removed the safety. "This country spilled plenty of my family's over the years. Slaves either worked to their death or killed by Union soldiers after their masters forced them to fight. Civil rights activists who revered a good man who had a dream, until both he and they were gunned down."

  Downs shrugged. "Yet here you are, a cog in the same machine that’s already taken so much."

  "Maybe." Richards lifted his chin, glaring down his nose at the other man. "But you're wrong about Jill. She's nothing like you all, and she's certainly not anything like me. She'd let your lot live, placing her faith in a system that does nothing but let people down. She'll pay for that. And she knows she'll pay for that."

  Downs laughed. "And still, she won't do what needs to be done."

  "No, she won't." Richards pursed his lips. "Because she's a hero, you see. She's not like us."

  Downs squinted. "Us."

  Richards pulled the trigger. Downs dropped without a sound, a red dot in the center of his forehead as a pool of crimson grew underneath him. The door burst open as Richards holstered his weapon, Mahoney and three other captains barging in. They stared wide-eyed, first at Downs, then at Richards, before reaching for their weapons.

  Richards raised his hands. "Gentlemen, we need to talk."

  CHAPTER 46

  As heart-wrenching as it was knowing Paul Andersen was alive again—still alive? Did the distinction even matter?—there was also some comfort in it. Knowing unequivocally that the man who had been sneering at her on that TV was her own father... at least now, Jill knew what she had to do. No investigation was going to end this. Even if the Baltimore police and the FBI rounded up members of The Collective and threw them all behind bars, it wouldn't end the threat. Maybe the overall threat would be neutralized—for a time—but for Jill and those closest to her?

  Paul's presence made The Collective personal. Even when they got on camera and pointed to her brother—by name—it hadn't been personal. It had been part and parcel with their tactics to that point, likely little more than a diversionary tactic designed to draw Jill out. And to a degree, it had worked, if for no other reason than Jill had no choice but to take the threat seriously. It very well could've been a tactic to draw her out. But it also could've been a legitimate threat.

  And she didn't need to see Brian beheaded on television.

  To bring down The Collective for good, she had to bring down Paul. On the one hand, it was probably the easiest thing she could do. A murderous fiend, thought to be taken care of, reemerged and needed to be put down again. Given how grotesque this latest series of crimes was, Jilt imagined hardly anyone taking issue with someone doing the deed. But then again... Paul was still her father. Wasn't he? Even if he had put the crosshairs squarely on her and seemed hellbent on making her another one of this cabal's victims.

  Maybe Jill didn't have what it took. Maybe the best she could hope for was to lock him away. But that would never work. Certainly not long-term.

  No, the solution here had to be permanent. And every time Jill imagined herself doing the deed, she felt sick to her stomach.

  She wasn't a killer. Never would be. Never could be.

  But these were the sorts of choices heroes had to make, weren't they? Going by the book hadn't rid her of The Order—mass murder did. The law had done nothing for Jill when she was tracking down the four police officers who had killed Devin Buckner. But another vigilante had emerged from the shadows, only to toss them into the bay and wipe their hands of them. Even now, The Collective was taking people who deserved to be dragged in front of a judge and spilling their blood for all to see.

  Then there was David Gregor, the poster child for the city's corruption. It was the worst-kept secret in all of Baltimore, yet police an
d federal law enforcement had done nothing.

  Because there was nothing they could do.

  If going by the book was enough, Jill would've never put on the black leather and given herself an alter ego in the first place. Superheroes didn't exist in places where the system worked. People didn't dress up in silly costumes and take matters into their own hands when the law was enough.

  Ever the investigator, Jill had a hard time getting past the why and the how of it all. People didn't come back to life. They just didn't. And yet, all evidence pointed to her father doing just that, and Jill couldn't help but wonder... had he planned this all along? Was this why he was so cavalier about his impending doom? Or was he unaware, the victim of someone else's schemes? Neither option sat well in Jill's stomach, and ultimately, the answers didn't solve the problem.

  He was still here, still hellbent on killing his daughter.

  None of it made any sense. Paul might have been a cold-blooded killer, but he had never once turned his ire or violence on his family. Even in the days leading up to his supposed death, Paul held nothing but love for his children, even if it hadn't been reciprocated. Had he been brainwashed since then? Had the process of reanimation warped his psyche beyond recognition? Had—

  Hold on...

  Reanimation. Jill pursed her lips and rolled her human eye, because of course. The puzzle piece was still hanging there, and Jill had ignored it in the aftermath of finding her father’s coffin empty. Dr. Sebastian Lo, who conveniently had appeared in town around the same time The Collective had reared its ugly head. Longtime friend of Dr. Roberts, the only living mind capable of understanding Project Fusion... and the very man who had spoken before of reanimation. Between Paul's resurrection and Gregor's transformation, all roads seemed to point to the not-so-good doctor. Which only left one more question to answer:

  Was Dr. Lo also responsible for The Collective?

  Instinct – the only thing Jill had been able to trust throughout her entire career in law enforcement—told her yes. It was all too easy, in hindsight; after all, Dr. Lo had admitted, to her face, that he had dabbled in human resurrection. Why would be admit to the crime like that?