Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  A black van screeched to a halt in the mouth of the alley, hitting the former Special Forces agent and sending his body tumbling down the road. Immediately, six commandos dressed head to toe in black, carrying semiautomatic rifles, emerged. They pointed every weapon on Ramon, and when he looked down, he was greeted with the sight of six red dots on his chest. Sure, he was wearing a bulletproof vest, but could it hold up against that much gunfire? To say nothing of the eventuality of these commandos aiming for parts of him not protected by the vest.

  Before Ramon could react, the lead commando tossed a black sheet over Dr. Lo's head and yanked him out of the agent's grasp. The other five kept their weapons trained on Ramon and his detective back-ups, to the point where all three of them dropped their weapons and raised their hands over the heads. Ramon could only watch as Dr. Lo was tossed into the back of the van.

  The van sped off into the night, tires squealing in protest, as Ramon's phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled for it before finally swiping at the touchscreen and bringing the device to his ear. "Gutierrez."

  "You're needed back at headquarters," Agent McDermott ordered. "Immediately."

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 52

  Brian Andersen rarely ever stared at his phone willing it to ring, but he had been doing that ever since his sister told him they were going to exhume his father's grave. He hated the idea, for several different reasons, even though he understood it. While he was blissfully on the periphery of this latest development in the Collective case, just hearing about the details was stressful enough. He didn't want to believe that his father was back, because that brought up several questions that were uncomfortable to ask and impossible to answer. Questions that would have Brian rooting around for something stronger than his favorite beer.

  Which was just what he needed, to develop a drinking habit on the outset of his first political campaign. As if opposition research on him wasn’t already easy.

  All Brian wanted was a quiet night at home with a couple beers, dinner, and TV. A call from Jill had the potential to ruin that, but at least then he would have some concrete answers. Clarity was in short supply right now, so if Jill could provide some, he wouldn't be too picky about it coming on a rare night off.

  Which was why the three taps on the front door were so annoying. That wasn't Jill's knock. She always made sure to give at least five raps on the door, and sometimes there was a pause between knocks two and three. In his experience, the longer the pause, the worse her reason for visiting.

  Leaving his steaming plate of chicken and rice, Brian rolled his eyes. Whoever this was, it wasn't his sister, and they were likely ready for an earful.

  But when Brian opened the door, a half-empty beer in his hand, his stomach churned and his mouth hung open. He certainly hadn't expected to see the face greeting him on the front stoop, and the shock of the moment was so great that he felt it pressing down against his shoulders. He blinked several times, fought the urge to rub his eyes until they were raw. Because what he saw before him was impossible.

  Wasn't it?

  His eyes told him Paul Andersen was standing in front of him, leaning against the doorframe and favoring his shoulder. But that was impossible. Paul was dead... wasn't he? Brian had seen the video, same as everyone else. But the seed of doubt had always been there. There were explanations that had left open the possibility that Paul Andersen had not returned to the land of the living.

  Yet there he stood. Brian just now noticed his father holding a gun, the barrel trained on Brian’s chest. Looking his father in the eye, Brian’s heart skipped a beat. Paul’s eyes were coal black, which was almost as unsettling as the dried blood caked into his face.

  To say nothing of the cracked skin falling in flakes.

  "Dad?"

  Jill had never called to tell him the news. Maybe she didn't know. Brian shook his head. No, of course she knew. How could she not when she was the one leading the exhumation of his grave? If Brian's eyes were to be believed, she likely found an empty casket. Why wouldn't she tell him that? Had she decided to keep that fact from Brian, or had she gotten so swept up in her investigation that she hadn't had a chance?

  Brian wanted to believe the latter. Really, he did. Brian also wanted to believe the wounded man standing before him wasn't really Paul, but deep down, he knew better.

  He would know his own father anywhere.

  "Hello, son," Paul said with a grimace, labored breath coming out of his nose in a wheeze. His hand shook when he tightened his grip tightened on his gun. "It's... it's good to see you again."

  Brian stared at the bottle sweating in his hand. It was his first drink of the night, something to have with dinner to calm his more-frayed-than-usual nerves. Yet right now, neither the drink nor the food cooling on the kitchen table held any appeal to him. Still, the bottle was a better sight than the gun. Brian's free hand gripped his wheelchair, nails digging into the rubber and his knuckles turning white.

  He opened his mouth. Nothing came. He tried again, but no matter what his brain came up with, Brian couldn't give it voice. What did one say when faced with a formerly dead relative?

  "Can your old man come in?" Paul tried to smile, but it looked more like a cringe. His skin was paler than usual under the porch light, and he stole a quick glance over his shoulder. Brian's eyes followed. "It's been a rough night."

  "Rough night," Brian repeated.

  Paul's eyes returned to their normal color and diverted to the floor. "You're right. Whatever I'm dealing with pales in comparison to what I put you and Jill through."

  "Still putting us through." Brian set the bottle on a nearby nightstand, having half a mind to turn around and wheel himself back into the kitchen. Leaving Paul standing on the stoop, broken and bleeding, watching his son leave him there without another word held a certain appeal. But what was to stop Paul from pulling the trigger if he did that?

  "Drop the gun, Dad."

  "I was at peace when they jabbed that needle in me."

  "So, what happened?" Brian couldn't help himself. Chances were, he wouldn't believe whatever his father told him. There had already been enough lies between them, and Brian didn't want another added to the list. Yet he couldn't keep from asking the question. He didn't want to know, but he apparently needed to. "How did you get from being executed to bleeding on my doorstep?"

  "I don't have all the details," Paul admitted, "but I think it's the same thing that gave Jill her powers. A man named Dr. Lo brought me back to life that same night, and I was groomed for The Collective once I regained my bearings."

  Brian's hands balled into fists, and he fought the urge to gag. To say this was all too much would be the understatement of the century. "So that video was real."

  "All of them were." Paul stared at his feet. "Dr. Lo promised me a second chance... and all I've done with it is add to my body count."

  Brian frowned when his father doubled over, gritting his teeth and hissing in pain. His skin had taken on a gray hue now, and if Brian didn't know any better, he swore he could see cracks in Paul's flesh. "So why are you here?"

  "Pretty sure I'm dying. Again." Paul dropped to his knees, a trail of blood oozing from his nose. He looked up at his son with bloodshot eyes, his good arm cradled over his midsection. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He straightened and removed the gun’s safety. "Whatever it was they did to bring me back... I don't think it was permanent."

  Brian arched a brow. "What is this? You're looking for forgiveness? Gun’s not helping your cause any."

  "Among other things." Paul coughed, a violent gesture that wracked his entire body. He dropped the gun, and they both flinched when it went off. Fortunately, the bullet went outside and appeared to hit nothing.

  Paul collapsed, falling halfway into the house. Blood pooled on the floor under his face, and he grimaced when he tried to push himself upright with his good arm. Eyes flashed black again before returning to normal.

  "Jill..." he muttere
d, "Jill's with Gregor. If the sun rises tomorrow and they’re both still alive, I'll be surprised."

  Brian tightened his grip on his wheels. "Where are they?"

  Paul rolled onto his back, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Don't worry about your sister. Gregor's in no position to do anything to her. With any luck, she'll do what I can't."

  "...Meaning?"

  "When Dr. Lo brought me back, he dangled the ultimate carrot in front of me: revenge against David Gregor." Paul grimaced as he positioned himself into a sitting position, his back against the open door. He broke into another coughing fit, doubling over and vomiting blood onto the stoop. Each hack and gag burned up his throat, and Paul couldn't fight the tears streaming down his face, even if he wanted to.

  When he looked up at his son again, his eyes were sunken. "He promised to let me handle Gregor once and for all."

  "And instead, you pawned him off onto Jill." Brian shook his head. "You're a fucking coward."

  "Better a coward than a murderer," Paul muttered through chattering teeth, glancing skyward. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the blood on my hands. The look on my victims' faces before I delivered the final blow... I don't deserve to be here. I deserve whatever the afterlife has in store for me."

  Brian turned away. He couldn't look at his father, though he couldn't tell if it was out of disgust, hatred, or pity. Probably all three, because this situation was nothing if not complicated. "I hope there's a Hell."

  "So do I." Paul turned to look at Brian, his bottom lip splitting open and the crack running down his chin. "Because I deserve it. Because even that... would be better than this."

  Brian scrubbed a hand over his face, through four days' worth of stubble, and stared at nothing in particular. Turning his gaze to the ceiling, Brian muttered a few choice words to himself before regarding his father again. The man looked as if he were wasting away in front of Brian's eyes, clothes baggy and more cracks forming in his skin. "What do you want?"

  "Would dying with a little dignity be too much to ask?"

  Brian almost laughed. The absurdity of all this was just... his father had come to his door and held him at gunpoint, like he was really about to shoot his own son. And now Paul was talking about dying with dignity? Asking his son to grant him one last wish after making it pretty clear he’d intended to kill him?

  To say nothing of Brian having been on The Collective’s radar.

  The word "yes" nearly spilled out of Brian's mouth before he could stop it. He wanted so badly to say yes. In fact, the word was still on the tip of his tongue, itching to escape. Yet whenever his brain told him to say the word, he didn't. Instead, he sat in silence, watching his father cough up more blood and scratch at the side of his neck until flakes of skin fell to the ground like snow.

  "Please." More blood oozed from Paul's nostrils. "Do your old man one last favor."

  "Was your little cult going to kill me?"

  Paul wiped at his nose and stared at the floor.

  "Answer the question, Dad." Brian wheeled closer to his father, fighting the urge to grab a fistful of hair and tug on his head. The shape Paul was in, that might pop his head off. "You went on live television and told this city I was your next target. Why should I help a man who would kill his own son?"

  "It was..." Paul’s back arched and he hissed. "It was never about you, son... I was... I was never gonna lay a hand on you."

  "And the others?"

  "They only did what I told them to."

  Brian arched a brow, his blood running cold. "You ordered the mass shooting at the Inner Harbor."

  Paul’s eyes widened as much his dried, flaking skin would allow. "What? No!"

  "You’re lying."

  Paul grabbed the doorframe and pushed himself back to his knees. An icy chill sat in the pit of his stomach, and Paul sucked in a deep breath to keep the bile from tickling the back of his throat. His hands shook, blood oozing from his fingernails. He gritted his teeth, unable to get back to his feet. His broken ankle felt like it had separated completely from his foot, and even the thought of trying to put weight on it nearly made him sick.

  Paul locked eyes with his son. They kept their color, even as a gash opened on Paul’s forehead. Another gash opened on the side of his neck, and he felt the warm trickle of blood against his skin.

  This wasn’t right. None of this was supposed to be happening. Paul was... there was a stone in the city with his name on it, and he was supposed to be under it. But he wasn’t, and the entire reason for his return... Paul couldn’t even get that right. All the blood he’d spilled, the lives he’d taken, and when it came down to it, he couldn’t bring down the one man whose death he wanted on his conscience.

  Was this his punishment? Was his second chance being ripped away because he didn’t deserve it?

  Paul gasped, mouth wide, reaching for his son.

  Despite every muscle in his body rebelling at the idea, Brian wheeled toward the front door before leaning down and wrapping an arm around his father's shoulder. Paul returned the favor, and Brian shivered at just how cold his father was. Paul's fingers felt like ice along Brian's shirt, and his weight made maneuvering in the wheelchair toward the sofa more difficult than usual.

  It was about three minutes before they reached the sofa, at which point, Paul collapsed into the cushions with a pained sigh. Drops of blood and flakes of dried skin littered the carpet, and Brian gagged at the sight. Cleaning up that mess later was not going to be fun; he briefly wondered if he could convince the BPD's CSI unit to do him a solid, but Brian was never one to abuse public resources like that.

  But it was awful tempting this time.

  "I didn’t order that attack, Brian." Paul stared at the ceiling, biting his lower lip and pressing his good hand against his side. The burn was indescribable at this point. "There was no reason to."

  "Says the guy who publicly threatened both his children."

  "Think about it." Paul hissed and forced himself into as much of a sitting position as his back would allow. "Think about the three people we killed."

  "I’d rather not."

  "Those three?" Paul cringed as the burning rose in his chest. He clutched at his breastbone, but all he got for his efforts was the skin on his knuckles splitting open. "The councilman’s father once threatened to rat me out. The kid cop... his older brother’s serving a life sentence and said he’d use me to get out. And Jackson? Well, that one’s obvious, now isn’t it?"

  Brian pursed his lips. "So, The Collective was more personal vendetta than righteous crusade?"

  "I thought it was." Paul rolled to his side, coughing so violently that his entire body jerked. When he was done, and rolled onto his back again, blood droplets stained the carpet. "But Dr. Lo was just... using me, I guess. Using all of us."

  Brian chewed on the inside of his cheek, studying what was left of his father’s features. Part of him thought Paul was lying, that he had done nothing but lie since that night then-Detective Richards had arrested him all those years ago. But Brian had become quite adept in sniffing out liars in recent years—a hazard of the job—and none of the traditional tells were present here.

  That, combined with how much agony Paul was clearly in... Brian’s issues with his father notwithstanding, he hated seeing such pain. It looked unbearable, and that was before his father had basically vomited blood. It was all Brian could do to keep his own stomach from doing somersaults, and despite himself, he reached out with the intent of comforting his father.

  But the side of Paul’s neck cracked open. Flakes of skin and blood oozed onto the couch, and Brian pulled his hand back. Whatever this was... no one deserved it.

  Not even serial killers.

  "What do you need, Dad?"

  "I'm fine with going to Hell," Paul muttered, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. "I deserve it, don't I? Everything I've done? Just..." He shook his head and sucked in as deep a breath as his lungs could take, coughing twice before turning to look at Brian. "Don
't stop fighting. Either of you."

  "I'm not much of a fighter."

  "You kidding me?" Paul coughed again, the hand that had been over his mouth coming away bloody. "Brian, you... you wouldn't be running for DA if you weren't a fighter..."

  "Jill's the fighter." It didn't matter what Brian had said in front of the camera earlier. He had felt those words at the time, let the conviction behind them buoy him beyond his own fears. It had seemed like the right thing to do, stare the bully in the eye and act defiant. But once the camera went off and Brian was left to his own devices again, the fear and insecurity that had called his brain home since the night of his accident resurfaced—and no matter what Brian did, those thoughts wouldn't go away.

  It didn’t help that said bully was now dying in front of him.

  More than anything, Brian felt like a fraud.

  Maybe Lannigan was right after all.

  "I don't..." Paul sighed and gritted his teeth, arching his back off the couch. He clutched at his chest with a grunt, his nostrils flaring with each labored breath. He swallowed thickly, and when he spoke again, it was in a labored, breathy whisper. "Fighting's not always fists and blood, son. It's... it's..." Again, Paul arched his back, teeth gnashed together to bite back a scream as another crack opened on his cheek. "It's... doing what's right..."

  Brian fished the phone out of his pocket—for no other reason than to keep from having to continue watching his father deteriorate—and pressed it to his ear. He grunted in frustration when his call didn't even ring before the voicemail machine chimed in. Brian rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, both elbows resting on his legs.

  Of all the times...

  "Jill, it's me. Listen... I dunno where you are or what you're doing, but... you need to come home." Brian finally let himself look at Paul again. "Now."