Web of Lies

by Michael Cross

  “That’s my name. My actual name is Justice,” she giggles. “Justice Cabrera.”

  I shake my head. “Great. That’s just great.”

  “You know what they say about making assumptions.”

  “Shut up,” I growl. But I can’t stop the grin from stretching across my face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’ve spent the entire morning sitting at the dining room table, going through and analyzing the data on the thumb drive I was given to see the case they’re building. Their intention is to get her on white-collar crimes—insider trading, stock fraud, tax evasion. It’s serious stuff sure, and it will definitely knock her down for a minute. But there is nothing here that’s going to put a stake into the heart of this particular vampire.

  For people like Eleanor Vogel, this case will be little more than a blip. She’ll pay a heavy fine and maybe—just maybe—and do a month or two in some posh country club posing as a white-collar prison. Maybe. Having the sort of money and influence Eleanor Vogel—not to mention her entire family—have, means justice for her, is not the same as for we mere mortals.

  No, if she’s ever convicted on these charges—and that is certainly not a guarantee either—the most likely outcome is she pays the fine, the story fades from the news cycle in a week or two, and then it’s business as usual again like nothing ever happened.

  “It’s a solid strategy but an endgame that’s weak as hell,” I mutter. “You need something that can really take her down. Something she won’t be able to get up from.”

  I pull up the Call’s website again and search for Vogel again, doing a deeper dive into the archives to see if there’s anything I can use. There are plenty of articles that allege a large number of things. But I stop scrolling when I see a headline that catches my eye.

  “Vogel’s Boyfriend Approves No-Bid Deals with DOD.”

  I look at the date and see it was published about two months ago. And according to Publius, in addition to Hardwick, Vogel was having a second secret affair with a married man. This time, the married man was Avery Kent—the current Secretary of Defense and also a member of the Hellfire Club, as evidenced by the pictures of him at the Hardwick fundraiser, also wearing the white flower lapel pin.

  In the article, Publius goes on to allege that Vogel leveraged her relationship with Kent to secure a number of very lucrative no-bid contracts for her company. We’re talking tens of billions of dollars.

  It’s all speculation and innuendo. There are a couple of photos of Vogel and Kent talking together at some other DC soiree, but it looks more like a conversation between colleagues than a tryst. The last photo on the page is of Kent and Vogel entering a brownstone together. It’s suggestive and interesting, but it’s hardly proof of anything, let alone an affair between the two.

  The next article I read though, is even more explosive. The headline reads, “Vogel’s Business Model: Perpetual War,” and it alleges that Vogel is providing arms to various extremist groups in the Middle East—weapons being used against innocents in the area and U.S. troops alike. The scheme, as Publius lays it out, is that by sponsoring these extremist groups, the U.S. government will need to continue buying her weapons.

  It’s an allegation that if true, will not only take Vogel down—permanently—it will also destroy Avery Kent. It is the sort of charge that cannot be ignored or swept under the rug by the Hellfire Club. It could actually land them both in prison for a very long time.

  The problem, though, is proof. The articles are definitely eye-catching. But like the photos of the affair between Kent and Vogel, they prove nothing. I want to believe the allegations. I want to believe that Publius is as well connected as they seem to be. But I won’t do anything without evidence.

  I get to my feet and stretch my legs, walking around the living room as I ponder my next moves. I wonder how it is the Tower doesn’t know about the connection between Kent and Vogel. I mean, Kent would be an impressive head to hang on their wall. How could it be possible an anonymous blogger can trip onto this information but an organization as well connected and funded as the Tower doesn’t?

  As I move around the living room, my eyes fall on the photo of the dark-haired woman and the little boy again. Picking it up, I stare at it closely, trying to force myself to make the connection. To feel something for them. But they remain as blank and anonymous to me now as they did the first time I saw the photo.

  I set the picture down and clench my fists, my teeth gritted so hard I could probably crack a diamond between them. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make myself remember a damn thing. That massive opaque spot in my memory is infuriating, but there’s nothing I can do to crack it.

  I walk through a connecting door and into the garage. After slipping my shirt off and flipping on the music, I wrap my hands, and as the hard-driving blend of guitar and drums of Metallica’s “Battery” ring out, I start throwing kicks and punches at the body bag hanging suspended from the ceiling. James Hetfield’s gruff, growling voice fills my head, blocking out all other thought as I flow through a routine that I don’t consciously remember learning, but one that my body seems to follow instinctively. Muscle memory. The only things that seem to be coming back to me.

  By the time I’m done with my workout an hour later, I’m covered in sweat, my breathing ragged and muscles sore from the exertion. I unwrap my hands, dropping the wraps onto the table, and pull a bottle of cold water from the small refrigerator. I take a long swallow. My heartbeat begins to slow, but my mind continues to spin.

  I shut off the music and walk back into the house, still deciding on my next move. I can’t let an opportunity as big as this go by the boards. As the Secretary of Defense, Avery Kent is in a position to do a host of terrible things. And if he’s in bed with Vogel—both figuratively and literally—and on board with her scheme, then he needs to be taken down along with her.

  I know Delta isn’t going to like the fact that I’m freelancing on this op. But the one thing she’ll have to understand is that when the conditions on the ground change, the parameters of an op change along with it. And this revelation, if true, is an absolute game-changer.

  Besides, if I confirm this information, the powers that be are going to owe me one. They won’t be able to be anything but ecstatic to claim a target like Kent. That would be one hell of a feather they can stick in their cap, and at the same time, would be a devastating blow to the Hellfire Club.

  So—how to confirm the information? I can sit here on my laptop and read articles until my eyes cross. Or, I can go straight to the source. I can’t imagine it’s going to be easy to convince Publius to talk, let alone meet with me. Somebody doing work at the level they are, for as long as they have, have got to be as cautious and careful as a spy. In a lot of ways, they are.

  But if I’m going to make the connection, expose Vogel, Kent, and Hardwick, and take all three of them off the board in one fell swoop, it’s critical that I talk with Publius directly. I think that is the one person in this world who might be able to give me what I need to pull this off. I guess I’m going to have to be extra convincing.

  I sit down at the table again and pull the computer over to me. I go back to the Call’s homepage and find a ‘Contact Me’ link. There’s an anonymous email link, so I pause and tap my finger against my lips, thinking about what to say. I need something that’s going to interest Publius enough to overcome the misgivings, fears, and doubts they will undoubtedly be having.

  I let out a long breath and direct the reply to a secret email account I created. After another moment’s thought, I start to type.

  I work for an organization that’s working against the HC. I was in Maine. Your story about B’s CoD spot on. Can fill in blanks for you. Need information from you (re: Vogel/Kent connection). Let’s meet in Chi and swap stories. ~ Echo

  Hopefully, that’s enough to get Publius’ attention. If not, I’m going to be stuck in neutral. The original op, as it was planned, simply isn’t adequate. That situa
tion has changed, and I have a chance to take a big swing here.

  And goddamn it, I’m going to take it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’ve already driven by Vogel’s house a couple of times to get a feel for the place. She’s got an estate out in Glencoe—one of the richest zip codes in the country. Predictably. It’s all palatial estates, expansive grounds, high walls, and high-tech security systems.

  Not the easiest nut to crack, but not as impossible as Vogel Tower, which is encouraging. It’s just going to require a little outside the box thinking. We’re going to need a plan to get into that house somehow. Which is why I’ve got Justice digging up what she can.

  I still have very mixed feelings about training her. Aside from the problems it’ll cause me if the Tower finds out, there’s the issue of Justice herself. She’s young. Enthusiastic. Eager. I know she’s hungry, but that sort of ambitiousness can lead her to rush things. To cut corners in her rush to get into the field. And the last thing I want is to be responsible for another human being. I can’t even get my own shit squared away at the moment.

  Until I hear back from either Justice or Publius, I’m in a holding pattern. And needing something to occupy my mind, I find myself in Washington Park. Far from the manicured lawns and towering estates of Glencoe, this area is a bit more—run down. It’s also the home of the Sixtieth Street Rollers. Not the best place for me to be in, but better than sitting around the house bored out of my skull.

  As I drive through the neighborhoods, I see houses in various states of decomposition nestled beside apartment buildings that aren’t faring much better. The better maintained ones have bars on their windows and some of the original paint still left on the walls. There are shuttered businesses on the corners covered in graffiti.

  Everywhere I look, I see a pair of dice—a six and a zero. I assume that’s the tag for the Sixtieth Street Rollers. I’m definitely not in small-town Maine anymore. This place carries a quiet yet noticeable tension. Not even the dim light of dusk does anything to soften the rough edges around here. If anything, it makes it look even worse. More dangerous.

  But there’s nothing for it. I’m here for a reason, so I better get to it. I find a place to park and get out of my sleek Dodge Charger, suddenly realizing this might not have been the best car to take to a place like this. I take a look around, then lock up, hoping it’s still here when I get back. In this neighborhood, there are no guarantees.

  I pass by a couple teenage kids standing on a street corner near a liquor store. They both shoot me hard looks, but neither of them says anything when I glare at them. All bark, no bite. I walk down the street, past empty shops and others that seem to be hanging on by a thread. The only things that seem to be thriving here are payday loan stores, pawnshops, and disreputable-looking pizza places.

  On the other side of the street is a convenience store. The windows are all dirty and grimy, and posters announcing music artists, missing kids—most of them yellowing and cracked—are stuck to the glass. Beneath the flickering fluorescent lights over the doorway, I see a couple of guys who might be exactly what I’m looking for.

  I cross the street and approach the pair. One is tall—maybe six-three, and rail-thin. He’s got dark skin, is as bald as the day he was born, and has a snarl that seems like a permanent fixture on his face. The other is shorter, stockier, and corded with muscle. He’s got a wild shock of hair on his head with a bleached streak running through the center of it and a goatee.

  And both of them are sporting tattoos of the dice I see on the walls everywhere I look around here.

  “You lost, white boy?” the shorter one snarls.

  “Nope. I actually think I’m right where I need to be,” I reply and then point to their ink. “Sixtieth Street Rollers, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” says the shorter man. “What’s it to you?”

  “Been looking for you.”

  “That right?”

  I nod. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  I don’t say anything as I step closer to the pair. I stand a few feet back from them, adopting a casual pose and trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. I stare at them in silence as the two men before me radiate hostility. As we stand there, a middle-aged woman and her elderly mother come out of the store. She looks at me, then the two men in front of me, and puts her arm around the older woman, hustling her away as quickly as they can move.

  I turn back to the two men who are still glaring hard at me. I can tell both of them are packing. I can see the telltale lump of the guns beneath their shirts, tucked into the front of their pants. The taller one lifts up his shirt to show me the butt of his gun and gives me a grin, showing off the gold tooth in the front of his mouth.

  “Like what you see, man?” he spits.

  “Not particularly.”

  Gold tooth grins. “Oh, boy got jokes.”

  “I ain’t laughin’,” the shorter man snaps, then stares at me. “What do ya want?”

  “I want to know who killed Sherise Williams?” I say bluntly.

  The two men look at each other then back at me. Their eyes narrow, and they sneer at me. The tall man’s hands hover near his belt. I can see his fingers twitching. They know something about the killing. I can all but smell it on them.

  “What are you, a cop?” the short man growls.

  I scoff. “Do I look like a cop?”

  “Yeah,” nods the tall man. “You do.”

  “Smells like bacon to me.”

  The two share a laugh like it’s the funniest thing either of them have ever heard.

  “I want the name of the shooter,” I say.

  Their laughter stops, and they glare at me with rage in their eyes.

  “Why the fuck would we ever tell you anything?” snaps the guy with the gold tooth.

  The air between us crackles with tension and the promise of violence. I knew it could—and probably would—come to this. And that’s fine. I can get the drop on a couple gangsters, that’s not what concerns me. What does is getting the information I need.

  “Because I’m asking nicely,” I answer. “For now.”

  They cackle again, punching each other in the shoulder like this is all a great joke to them. Their laughter fades again, and they turn their eyes back to me.

  “You ain’t even got no gun I can see,” the shorter man says.

  “Don’t need a gun to drop a couple of punks like you.”

  Both of them stiffen, the smiles dropping off both of their faces. Gold-tooth’s hand hovers even closer to his gun. He looks primed to make a move. Shorty puffs his chest out, a sneer curling a corner of his lip upward. He’s the tougher of the two, and probably the least likely to give anything up. It makes my next move simple.

  “That right?” he asks.

  The words barely clear his mouth when I drive my fist into the middle of his face. I hear a sharp crack and watch his head snap back violently. A soft grunt escapes him, but he’s out before he hits the ground with a meaty thud. The gold-toothed guy is trying to pull his gun, but it gets stuck on his belt loop. It wouldn’t have helped him anyway though, because I drive my fist into his gut.

  His breath bursts from his mouth, and he doubles over, letting out a stuttering groan. I raise my knee with force, smashing his nose beneath it. I have his gun in my hand before he hits the ground, and when he rolls over, he’s staring straight down the barrel. I pull back the hammer and glare down at him.

  “You have five seconds to give me the name of the shooter,” I growl. “I want to know who murdered that little girl?”

  “I don’t know man. I didn’t do it,” he shouts.

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t know!”

  I step forward and grind his fingers beneath my boot, prompting a howl of pain from him. I lean down, putting all of my weight on his hand as he screams in agony. I cut a glance around and don’t see anybody. But in this neighborhood, I doubt anybody would step in anyway. An
d the cops—well, I probably don’t have to worry about them. I turn back to the man on the ground.

  “Tell me who pulled the trigger, or they’ll be washing your brains off this sidewalk for the next month,” I sneer, putting as much malevolence into my voice as I can.

  He cries out again as I keep grinding his hand beneath my boot.

  “Do you understand?” I punctuate it with a sharp kick to his stomach.

  He nods, his face a mask of pain. “Okay, chill out! I heard it was Deion,” he cries. “He didn’t mean to do it. He and Julio had a beef. Fuckin’ kid got in the way.”

  “Deion got a last name?”

  “Franklin, man,” he grunts. “Deion Franklin. Now get off my hand!”

  I leave my foot there, stooping down to grab Shorty’s gun before he wakes up. I linger there for a long moment before taking a step back. I quickly unchamber the round and drop the clips, slipping them all into my pocket. I toss both guns on the ground beside him.

  “You’re dead, man!” he shouts. “You’re fuckin’ dead. You hear me?”

  Gold-tooth starts to get to his feet, his face twisted in rage. I step forward and deliver a vicious kick to the man’s head. He goes limp and falls to the ground, out cold. Turning around, I head back to the car, trying to figure out what to do now that I have the piece of information I came for. The first thing I need to do is get Deion’s location.

  I’m not afraid of either of those two clowns going to the cops. Guys like these two aren’t the type who will look for outside help. No, they’ll want to handle business themselves, but I doubt Gold-tooth is going to say too much. He’s definitely not going to tell Deion that he dimed him out to me, which is a break for me. It means Deion won’t be expecting me.

  But those two clowns will definitely have their buddies on high alert, looking for me as I look for Deion. Which means I need to make my next moves carefully.

  Chapter Sixteen