Then the Dark: A Technothriller (Markus Murphy Series Book 2)

by Mike McCrary

  Tinker reaches behind his back, a blink away from pulling his gun. Hiro stops him by grabbing and squeezing his elbow. The drunk slips off, creeping into the smoke of the crowd and out of sight before Tinker can lay into him.

  “Asshole.” Tinker turns back to the bar, throwing back his chilled vodka.

  Hiro nods, confirming, then snatches a cherry from behind the bar.

  Tinker’s jacket buzzes.

  He looks to Hiro. Hiro shrugs. Reaching into his pocket, Tinker finds a phone. One that is not his. Never seen it before. The screen lights up. Tinker and Hiro’s eyes scan over a message sent from an unknown source.

  A message giving them an address along with orders to kill two men at a hotel.

  The time-bomb words dissolve.

  Chapter 7

  Gunshots boom.

  Muted, but the force is still felt.

  A metallic crack of thunder kept under wraps by high-end protective noise-cancelling earplugs. Red’s House of Pop & Pow is a small-town gun range but they’ve stayed up on all the latest in tech. These tiny earplugs are a far cry from the bulky can-like headphones Mother remembers from back in the day. These little babies cancel out the noise that might damage the eardrums but still leave you with the satisfying, clapping crack of power.

  Mother learned to shoot in the woods in Texas.

  She learned her way around a trigger by taking out innocent beer cans that Father drained moments before. He’d drink ’em dry, toss ’em in the creek, then give her some vague form of instruction as far as how to properly handle a firearm. A fond memory she still holds dear. He disappeared shortly after that, but she never discusses any of that. Not with Murphy. Not with anyone. She just does the pop and pow proper like the old man taught her to.

  Murphy chose Red’s House of Pop & Pow as the first stop for some quick anxiety relief.

  He promised they’d resume their pursuit of the perfect slice of pie after this. Talking with Mother is always difficult—to put it mildly—but it has been nicer. Improved greatly since he picked her up from prison. Murphy guesses that makes some sort of sense. Hard to believe he’s thinking this way, but even he has to acknowledge it hasn’t been too bad having her around. Up to a point. Murphy realizes the other, newer half of him is more than likely responsible for this fresh view of time spent with Mother.

  The scars from when he was young are still healing.

  Wounds from the blending of minds run deep and wide.

  The balance is still tricky.

  Dr. Peyton told him it would be. She talked about the rough roads ahead. Told him about the crushing anxiety he would more than likely have to deal with as she gave him multiple bottles of meds, a handful of other scripts to be filled later, and a direct line to her 24/7 if he ever needed her.

  Talking will help, she said.

  He’d nodded in agreement at the time, knowing he would never dial her up, no matter how bad it got. And Murphy has no desire to call her now. Way too early. He’d like to think he can make it a month or two without running to Peyton with every little blip in his fragile state. But too much time with Mother can spike anxiety like nothing else on God’s green earth.

  Murphy squeezes the trigger.

  Feels amazing.

  Been days since he stormed the house in Montauk. Since he fought with the versions of himself, leaving a bloody mess for others to deal with. Blood and bone scattered wall to wall inside that multimillion-dollar home near the water.

  Mother stands two “patriot warrior stations” down from Murphy, blasting at a rapid pace using a new Sig. The slick, black metal gleams under the LED lighting. She’s using the new Dragon rounds Red recommended the pretty lady should use. Mother considered choking the fat bastard out but listened to his pitch anyway. When fired, the rounds give off red and orange swirls of smoke and light that follow the bullet until it reaches its target, giving the so-so illusion of dragon fire.

  Murphy uses his trusted Glock. His old friend. The tiny pinhole of light on his sights glows green. Biorecognition still recognizes Murphy as Murphy. This comforts him on some level.

  Green means go.

  Murphy pushes the button next to him, switching out the targets. An old-time paper target with an outline of a faceless man holding a gun moves silently toward him, gliding along a seamless track in the ceiling. He rips it down, letting it drop to the floor. A new target drops down from the ceiling and returns to the other side of the range.

  Murphy reloads.

  Mother takes aim at her target, unloading a few quick dragon blasts.

  She smiles. Still got it. It’s been a while since she pulled the trigger but it’s still there. They don’t allow a lot of access to guns in prison. Well, none, actually, but she never really thought about it long enough to miss it. Always been somewhat indifferent to guns. Saw them as necessary, at times, but she doesn’t long for them as some do.

  Mother glances over to her son.

  Her whatever he is now, she thinks. What’s happened to him is a lot to take in. A ton to accept. Not sure she gets it all, but she does believe him. She sees the change. The difference in him isn’t night and day but it’s unmistakable. A mother knows when there’s a change in her son. She’s heard parts of things he’s said in his sleep too.

  Pressing down the button, the target draws to her, running along its track. Pride rises up inside of her as she inspects her fine work. Two in the chest, one in the neck, and one somewhere north of the faceless man’s head.

  Murphy blasts away. Rapid. Without pause.

  He’s in another place. Mind and body are not sharing the same location. Mother watches the intensity. She’s seen it before. Saw it at a beach house in California, just before the feds took them both away to prison. There’s a lot of baggage between them, to put it mildly, but they’re here now. Free folks out shooting guns, eating pie, and rolling across the countryside in a cherry red Porsche 911. Not too shabby. Not at all.

  She pulls down the target.

  “Well, look at that.” Showing it off to Murphy. “Who’s the badass in the family?”

  Murphy doesn’t answer.

  Doesn’t even glance her way. He’s a billion miles away. Thoughts pull and tear inside his healing mind, as if a chain was pulled, opening up the cage door of his rampaging recollections. Everything pouring in, flooding into his mind’s eye. He jams his hand down on the steel counter, bracing himself.

  “Hey.” Mother watches him. “You okay?”

  Murphy’s fingers press on the cool surface as if trying to poke holes into the steel to hold on to.

  “You in there?”

  Murphy’s teeth grind.

  “I’m talking to you.” Mother gives him a shove.

  Murphy jolts loose from his strangle-trance. Shakes his head. Mother shoves her target into his face, showing off her efforts.

  “Yeah? Like that shit?” She smiles huge, seeing the light return to his eyes. “Nice, right?”

  Murphy cracks the slightest of smiles. He nods, ejecting the magazine of his Glock, letting it drop clanging off the steel counter. He checks the chamber, then motions to the unseen cameras he knows are there. The door buzzes open. Murphy exits.

  “Really?” Mother holds her arms out in frustration. “We’re leaving, I guess?”

  Mother looks to Murphy’s target.

  The target’s head has all but been removed, hanging on to the track by a shred of paper. Carved off by well-placed bullets. There’s also a single shot that stands out.

  A gaping hole to the crotch.

  Mother is fairly sure her son took the balls first.

  Murphy cuts down the street.

  His mind a synaptic bonfire. He was better. Felt so much better than he had before. The past was drifting farther and farther away. Where it belongs. But digging into the dirt of his mind has unearthed some wriggly worms. His hands begin to shake. He shakes them back. Opening one of his bottles of pills, he dry swallows one of the reds. Thinks of Dr. Peyton. She’d
know what to tell him. He doesn’t want to hear it.

  He feels Mother behind him as he moves down the street.

  Hopes it’s Mother behind him.

  Mr. Nice Guy is no help right now. None. Murphy used to be able to blame the holes in his psyche on him. Mr. Nice Guy was a wonderful catchall for the troubles of his mind. Now, he’s in the same mental soup as Murphy. They are one now. Same mix. Same mess. Not long ago there was a gap—more like a chasm—between them, but today there is little to no line that separates them.

  Unstable together.

  “Where we headed, tough guy?” Mother calls out, huffing with her cigarette-abused lungs being pushed harder than they are used to.

  Murphy shoves open the door to the gym that caught his eye on the way into town.

  A rusted metal bell clanks as he storms in like he owns the place.

  This small town has been stuck in a time warp of sorts. Nice to see, actually. This red brick gym is no exception. Murphy half-expects to see gray sweatpants and people beating on sides of beef. He made note of every business as they drove in. Took note of the cars in the parking lots. Looking for abnormalities. Seeking the things that might not match up. Things that might tell him if there was someone or something out of place. If there were forces here that might do him and Mother harm.

  That, and keeping his eyes peeled for the world’s best slice of pie.

  The gym has a pulse. The air has a feel to it, along with the stink of sweat and aggression. A lot has changed over the years. Equipment has improved. So have styles of exercise, along with nutrition and the pharmaceuticals of vanity, but one thing still holds true—boxing is still a hand-to-hand thing.

  This is classic boxing. Not to be mistaken for the newer, zero-rules fighting style that has all but taken over the betting and entertainment world. This new age of controlled combat doesn’t allow for guns or knives, but blunt objects have recently been allowed. Death isn’t marketed as part of the entertainment, but fighters have died in the past and others will die in the future. No, what is being taught and practiced here in this gym is the “sweet science,” as it was once known. It’s making a comeback, from what Murphy has heard. Boxing in its purest form is rising in popularity. As most nostalgia eventually does.

  That is what stood out to Murphy.

  An old-school boxing gym in today’s modern world. There’s not a single screen in here. No real sign of tech. He doesn’t even see anyone on a phone. The flap of gloves pounding heavy bags, the dull pop of punches landing, provides a rhythm to the place.

  Murphy smiles big.

  The meat of his mind scratches at a memory. One of him in a ring in Singapore. More like a dirty alley surrounded by a ring of people waving cash and shouting for someone to kick the shit out of him. The simplicity of the fight is what Murphy loved. The results were immediate, and they were not up for debate. The taste of blood. The hurt. The adrenaline spikes. It was all there.

  It’s here now too.

  There are two rings being used. Fighters circle around one another throwing heavy punches and testing lighter ones as well. Bags and equipment are scattered around the available open area. One ring is livelier than the other, however. There’s a medium-build man cut from stone with fast hands playing some poor sap like a set of skin drums. The poor sap’s head snaps back with each stick of a jab. His body caves with each quick fist planting itself into his body. He’s mercifully dropped to the mat with a left hook Murphy saw coming a mile away.

  Mother looks around the place.

  Enjoys the beef show. The sweat dripping, sliding down the ripples of young muscles. It’s a helluva view, to be sure, but she’s more concerned with the look that’s returned to her boy’s eyes.

  “You want to work off some of that pie, I get it, but maybe we can go for a walk in a park later.”

  “Hey,” Murphy barks to the young fighter left standing. “You looking for some more work?”

  The fighter looks him up and down with a dismissive smirk, then turns away from him. Murphy spreads the ropes, climbing into the ring.

  Mother closes her eyes, shakes her head.

  No. No. No.

  An older man moves up quick on Murphy, putting a hand on his chest. Murphy’s heart pounds with excitement. The first spark of conflict he’s had in a while. Murphy holds his hands up, signaling he meant no harm.

  “Just been on a long drive, friend. Traveling, ya know?” Murphy says with a smile. “Wanted to let off some steam. Maybe help you keep your boy here warm.”

  “You fight?” the older man asks, looking him up and down. “You don’t seem the sort.”

  “Oh, I fight.”

  “You get hurt, I get sued into dust—not cool, brutha.”

  “Not to worry. Got no interest in anything like that.” Murphy looks past the older man to the fighter. “He’s good, but my bet is that I’m better.”

  “Let’s do this,” the fighter says, now interested. Interested in shutting him up. “Let him go.”

  “Murphy?” Mother raises a hand, as if she had a question at a seminar.

  “We’ll leave in a moment, Mother.”

  The fighter’s friends snicker.

  “He won’t be long, little mama,” the fighter says. “Might want to call someone to help you carry his body out.”

  “Bitch, I’ll tune you up myself.” Mother starts to climb into the ring.

  Murphy puts up his hand with his eyebrows raised, requesting her to please stand down. Steam is almost visible rolling out from her ears, but she agrees.

  Removing his shirt, Murphy reveals the tats and scars that decorate his body.

  He fights the urge to touch one scar in particular. One he got from a stab wound delivered by a loved one. Well, the one he got at a resort in Iraq, care of Lady Brubaker. The violent act was oddly mixed with a loving one. He thinks of a bar he used to work at. A favorite memory. Mr. Nice Guy’s favorite memory of him and his wife sharing a drink. Something shifts inside him. An unwelcome slide in emotion.

  “Hey.” The fighter pounds his gloves together. “We gonna go or no?”

  The older man holds some gloves out for Murphy to put on.

  His eyes gloss over as he stares down at the gloves. Thoughts adrift. It’s been days since he thought about her. About Brubaker and the other woman’s mind that’s buried deep inside hers. The mind of the woman he loves so dearly.

  “What the hell, man? We doing this or what?” the fighter chirps. “Second thoughts? Not feeling so strong now?”

  Mother sees the shift in her son. Fights the urge to call out to him.

  Murphy looks at the fighter. At his silly little grin. Murphy’s mind whips another direction.

  He slips on the gloves.

  Cracks his neck. Nods, waving the fighter on. The older man steps aside, shaking his head as he exits the ring. Mother watches. The other people from the gym now gather around the ring. Whispers made back and forth. Money exchanges betting hands. The buzz that filled the gym seconds ago has all but disappeared. The only sound now is Murphy and the fighter.

  They circle, sizing one another up. Murphy thinks of the two hundred ways he can snap this guy’s bones. Ways to make him beg. Thinks of how he can kill everyone in the gym, burn the bodies, and be on the road before pie time.

  Murphy jabs.

  The fighter’s neck pops back. He didn’t even see the punch until Murphy’s fist returned home. The fighter shakes it off, considers it lucky. Murphy tags him again. Then again. The fighter returns with a jab and cross. Both find nothing but open air.

  Mother grins. Reminds her of when he was a boy. Kicking the shit out of neighborhood bullies who thought they were tougher than tough. Murphy was the tough kid. Made mean by his world. Later, trained by the best of the best.

  Murphy punches, weaves, thumps the ribs of his opponent, then breaks his nose with a thundering right. Blood pours from the fighter’s nose. Murphy stops. Blood also trickles down from a cut below the fighter’s right eye
.

  Murphy remembers the bleeding from his own eyes.

  The hotel room in Bagdad. The alley in New York. The blood tears that would roll down from his eyes without warning. A symptom, he was told, from the mixing of his minds.

  Murphy lowers his gloves slightly, a lost expression on his face as his eyes connect with the fighter. His body frozen.

  The fighter seizes the opportunity, throwing a lightning-fast jab tagging Murphy’s jaw. Murphy cracks a grin. Takes another punch, feeling the slosh inside his skull. These jolts of pain feel like an escape. A sweet form of release.

  Murphy mouths the words, do it.

  The fighter takes a step back, confusion spreading.

  Murphy takes a slow, half-hearted swing, missing his target wildly.

  Mother looks on. What the hell is he doing?

  “Drop this clown,” she barks with arms wide.

  The fighter steps in, unleashing a furious flurry of punches. Building confidence with each flap of glove on skin. Murphy takes it all. Accepting, absorbing the blows one by one. Taking them in like oxygen. His body jerks left and right. Neck whips. Blood drips. Pulsing, swelling skin as a relaxed smile spreads wide.

  He is the reason the CIA has Brubaker now.

  Murphy set her up to be captured in the middle of that street in New York City. He set up the mother of his children. How could he do that? To her? To his family?

  “Hit me as hard as you can,” he begs.

  The fighter sticks him with a crunching right.

  “Harder.”

  Another right.

  “That it? Tell me you can do better. Come on!”

  The fighter looks for the knockout.

  “Murphy, dammit,” Mother screams. “Snap out of it and finish that sack of shit.”

  Murphy pushes away the sound of her like ignoring a bug near his ear. His guard is nonexistent. Hands lowered. Not even pretending to block the assaulting waves rolling in from the fighter’s fists. Mother rushes to the side of the ring, slaps her palms down hard on the canvas sounding like a bass drum.