Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  Mercy

  The Night Man Chronicles

  Brett Battles

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Enjoyed What You Read?

  About the Author

  Also by Brett Battles

  MERCY Copyright © 2021 by Brett Battles

  Cover art copyright © 2021 by Robert Browne

  All rights reserved.

  MERCY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information about the author, please visit www.brettbattles.com.

  Created with Vellum

  This one is for Corri.

  A friend and a fan and a fellow BHS graduate,

  whose life, like so many others’ during the pandemic,

  ended much too soon.

  Chapter One

  You know what I hate?

  Unpopped kernels in my popcorn.

  I’m chomping away and all of a sudden I bite down on one, and my tooth feels like it’s going to split in half. I swear I can still feel the sensation hours after this happens.

  Why am I thinking about popcorn right now? Because I’m sitting in a storage room next to one of those big, glassed-in, theater-type popcorn machines, and even though it’s clean, it still reeks of butter and stale popped kernels. It’s mounted on a cart so it can be wheeled into whichever banquet requests it. The room holds a bunch of stuff like that, separated into themes. The popcorn machine is part of the Hollywood theme. I’ve also seen a Western-theme grouping and a Vegas theme complete with roulette and craps tables.

  Where am I that would house all these kinds of things in a single storage room?

  Why, El Palacio Banquet Experience, of course.

  From its brochure:

  Choose from our nine distinct banquet halls for your next wedding, party, or company event. We offer full catering and a themed experience you will remember for a lifetime.

  Why am I in a big building full of banquet halls, especially since no one’s throwing weddings or parties these days? That would have to do with something else I hate—people who take advantage of other people, especially ones who are going through hard times.

  I can’t do anything about the popcorn smell, but I can address the asshole problem. In fact, it’s kinda become a specialty of mine.

  El Palacio Banquet Experience is in Santa Ana, California, which is south of L.A. in Orange County. The city is the marginally smaller and less famous neighbor of Anaheim, home of Disneyland. The banquet building is a locally owned place that, according to research my friend Jar and I have done, is booked solid months in advance when a pandemic isn’t raging across the planet.

  I’m here to make sure the damage the business suffers does not extend beyond the effects of the mandatory shutdowns needed to keep the virus in check.

  Which brings us to Marco Tepper and Blaine Lawson.

  These two pieces of work have been causing trouble down here, south of what we sometimes affectionately call the Orange Curtain. They’ve been smart about it, and for the most part have been good at mixing up their tactics to keep the police from connecting the string of crimes they’ve committed.

  They seem to be operating with two distinct goals. The first is enrichment by theft. To that end, they’ve hit over a dozen businesses but never two alike, and never ones that are within five miles of another they’ve robbed.

  As for their second goal…let’s call it stress relief. These crimes occur at places where they can bust up a lot of things and spray-paint the walls. They probably steal a few things while they’re at it, but it’s not the primary goal.

  What the businesses all have in common is that they have closed for the pandemic. This means it’s often days—and in one case, almost two weeks—before the crimes are discovered. Even worse is the fact they’re small businesses, whose owners are already hurting from the lost income of being forced to close and can’t fall back on corporate help.

  I try not to look at the news too much when I don’t have to, so Jar’s the one who brought to my attention the articles about the crimes. Most were small mentions in local papers or community websites. Only a couple showed up in the Orange County Register, but even then, neither article was very long.

  “I think it is the same people behind each of these,” she said.

  On first blush, I was skeptical. Like I said, no two crimes have been committed in the same way. But I trust Jar’s instincts so I couldn’t just dismiss it out of hand.

  It took us a week to tie everything together and another four days to uncover Marco’s and Blaine’s names.

  Turns out they’ve been playing a variation of the bully game since they attended middle school together. They’re twenty-seven now.

  Marco is the only one who’s gone to college. He’s smart but has a temper that can get the better of him. Which is why he was kicked out of school for behavioral issues and didn’t graduate—apparently, he hadn’t reacted well to the grade a professor had given him. To be honest, after reading his school file, Marco’s lucky the cops weren’t called in.

  Since high school, Blaine has burned his way through a series of entry-level service jobs, none of which he could hold on to for more than a year, and most not even six months.

  Marco has been able to get better jobs, but his ability to stay in them is on par with his friend’s.

  When the virus hit and everything shut down, both were let go from their positions. Instead of finding other jobs, they apparently decided to take advantage of others’ misfortune. I’m sure this string of burglaries and vandalism isn’t their first foray into this kind of behavior. They’re too good at it for that to be true. I do think, however, the pandemic has allowed them to accelerate their activities.

  Which, ultimately, is what helped Jar and me identify who they are.

  “Three blocks away,” Jar says over the comm in my ear. She’s been watching for their arrival via the camera on our drone, which is flying high above the banquet hall building.

  “Copy,” I say.

  The time for waiting is over.

  I exit the storage room and walk down to El Palacio’s main lobby. Normally, the place has a few security lights that are always on, but I’ve killed the power to them so the only light in the entire facility is the little amount wandering in through the windows. Thanks to my night vision goggles, I have no problem seeing.

  The banquet building has multiple entrances, but I know exactly which one Marco and Blaine will use. They’ve tipped their hand. It’s a door in back. I could meet them there when they arrive, but I want them to get a little comfortable first.

  My gut tells me that before they start their reign of destruction, they’ll come to the lobby and scope every
thing out first. That suits me fine. I trade the large storage room for a maintenance closet at the edge of the lobby, just large enough for a bucket and a mop and a few shelves filled with cleaning supplies. And me.

  What I like about the closet is that its door is painted to look like the rest of the wall, so it’s all but invisible to the casual glance. It doesn’t even have a doorknob. A push on it pops it open.

  Once I’m closed inside, I lift my goggles from my eyes, turn on my phone, and activate the app that will allow me to view the video feeds, not only from the drone but also from the cameras I’ve placed throughout El Palacio.

  Thanks to my day job, I have access to a wide array of…let’s just say items not available to the average citizen. I’m not saying you wouldn’t be able to buy cameras and drones, but I doubt they’d be the same ones I can get. Then there are some of the other items I have with me that you could never lay your hands on.

  Working in the world of intelligence and secrets has its advantages.

  Being inside El Palacio—or, in Jar’s case, just outside—has nothing to do with how we make our living, however.

  This is what we do between jobs. A hobby, if you will.

  “Here they come,” Jar says.

  On the drone shot, a dark gray Dodge Durango is coming down the street that runs behind the complex. It’s the latest in a series of vehicles Marco and Blaine have stolen. This is the third job in a row they’ve used it, which means, if they’re sticking to their pattern, they’d be dumping it for something new before the night is over. But they will not be sticking to pattern.

  The Durango turns down the side of the property, then across the front, and finally down the other side before turning onto the back road again, the two vandals checking for potential problems. The only vehicles in the parking lot that surrounds the building are five identical delivery vans with the El Palacio Banquet Experience logo on the side. This, I’m sure, is exactly what the men were hoping to find.

  They park the SUV on the street, directly across from the door they intend to use. They have no need to worry about being seen by neighbors. This is a business district, and all the shops and restaurants in the area have also been closed for a few months.

  The reason we know which door they’ll use has to do with a visit Marco and Blaine paid El Palacio three days ago. The complex is surrounded by cameras outside. Technically, no one should be able to approach any of the businesses without being recorded. When Marco and Blaine showed up previously, they were dressed in the uniform—stolen from a former job—of a heating and AC repair company. Using the industrial ladder they’d brought, they climbed onto the roof, where they readjusted the cameras to create an uncovered corridor to their selected door. Since the cameras are not actively monitored, no one caught the change.

  Well, we did. But we’ve left the cameras as they are, because their current positions serve our purposes, too. We have placed our own camera in a spot that allows us to see the door and the area that runs from it to the street.

  I switch to that feed in time to see Marco and Blaine climb out of the Durango. They are dressed in dark clothing and each is carrying a bag that I’m sure contains the tools and cans of spray paint they plan on using inside. They are both wearing face masks, which, in the current climate, makes them look like pretty much everyone else.

  Blaine’s head swivels from side to side as they approach the building, while Marco’s gaze stays fixed on their destination. When they reach the door, Marco crouches down to pick the lock.

  I’m looking forward to seeing how they deal with the alarm. While all the other places they hit had security systems, no alarms have ever been triggered. Jar and I have a pretty good theory as to what’s going on, but this will be the first time we see Marco and Blaine in action.

  It takes Marco an excruciating two minutes to get both locks undone. I had them open in about twenty seconds. Of course, picking locks was part of my training. Whenever it took me longer to open a lock than the time limit my mentor had given me, he was fond of saying, “You’re dead. Do it again.”

  Marco rises back to his feet and the two men talk for a moment, the door still closed. The moment Marco pulls it open, I switch to the camera I put in the back hallway. A beep-beep-beep emits from the alarm control panel just inside. Marco strides up to it, confident and unhurried. After he opens the panel, he pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, glances at it, and punches a code into the keypad.

  The beeping stops.

  Marco probably thinks this is the most ingenious part of his plan. But it is the weak point that first led Jar to think all the crimes were connected. Every single place he and Blaine have broken into has an alarm system from the same company—SecurTrax Solutions, based in Costa Mesa.

  We knew Marco and Blaine—well, probably only Marco—had either figured out a way to hack into a SecurTrax system, or they’d gotten their hands on the access codes for each of their targets. Looks like it’s option number two. Which means there has to be a third person in their little operation. Someone who gives them the codes, and who subsequently removes any traces of Marco and Blaine using them from the SecurTrax log systems. We know this is true because there’s never any record of the alarms being shut off.

  Now that we know for sure what’s going on, it should be simple enough to figure out who this inside person is, but we’ll leave that job for the police.

  Marco and Blaine have turned on flashlights and are walking down the hall. Every time they pass a door, they peek inside but do not enter. Just like I predicted, they are taking a look around before they start rampaging. They’re probably looking for the main office, where they can find info on anything that might be worth stealing.

  As they near the lobby, I can hear their voices without the aid of my electronic bugs.

  “Hey! Look at all this!” Blaine says.

  His eyes are on the glass cabinets displaying several antique urns along the back wall. I’m sure he’s imagining the fun he’ll have smashing them up.

  “Come on,” Marco says. He points across the lobby to the hallway leading to several other banquet rooms. “The office should be over there.”

  They walk past my door without even glancing in my direction, and head toward the other side of the room.

  I slip my phone into my pocket, pull my black ski mask over my face, and retrieve from my bag the two specialized guns I’ve brought with me.

  Up to this point, Marco and Blaine have remained pretty much unscathed. The only problem they’ve run into happened at a kitchen supply store in Brea, where, unbeknownst to them, a security guard had been recently hired. Luckily for Marco and Blaine—and not so much for the guard—they saw the man first and beat the living crap out of him. He’ll live, but he’s still recovering from his injuries.

  Marco and Blaine are unaware of my presence. And they won’t be as lucky this time. Have I mentioned I don’t play fair?

  As soon as they enter the office, I sneak out of the maintenance closet, walk past the office door, and stop three meters down the dark hall to wait.

  Between the sounds of drawers being opened and closed, I can hear the two men talking. I haven’t heard any smashing yet. I’ve been afraid I might have to let them do a little of that before I act, but hopefully that won’t be the case.

  When Marco’s voice turns excited, I know they’ve found something of interest. He follows this up with, “It says it’s in the storage room. Come on.”

  The office door swings inward, and two flashlight beams dance into the hallway. One of the beams momentarily points in my direction, but the men’s attention is aimed toward the lobby and neither notices me.

  I let them take a couple of steps away from me, then I clear my throat.

  Both men jerk in surprise and whip around.

  Marco snickers at the sight of me. “Oh, buddy, are you in the wrong place tonight.”

  I have no doubt they’re going to rush me, but before they can, I point my guns at them.
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  This is not what Marco expected. His expression switches quickly to one of innocence. “Whoa, hold on there. No need for any trouble.”

  He takes a tentative step toward me, so I raise the gun that’s trained on him a little higher. This stops him in his tracks.

  “Why don’t you put those down,” he says. “And we can talk about this.”

  There will be no talking. Just like they will never see my face, they will never hear my voice. Not now. Not ever.

  “I can take him,” Blaine whispers, as if I can’t hear him.

  “Shut up,” Marco hisses back, then to me says, “No one’s going to rush anyone. Now please, lower those guns, buddy. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Needless to say, my hands remain in place.

  Marco’s eyes narrow. Poor boy. I’m trying his patience.

  For a second, his gaze slips from me to the gun. Then he does a double take, his eyes returning to my weapon. “What the hell are those?”

  It’s not an unreasonable question.

  My guns are not the bullet-shooting kind. They’re dart guns, but nothing like the kind I had as a kid that dispensed plastic darts with rubber suction-cup tips. The darts these hold are carbon-fiber tubes topped by a needle that can deliver all kinds of drugs into a target. My colleagues and I often fill them with a knockout drug like Beta-Somnol. But that’s not what I’m using today.

  “Those don’t even look like guns,” Blaine says. “They look like toys.”

  They don’t look like toys, but they do look odd. I’ll give him that.