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

by Mike McCrary

  Mr. Nice Guy tries to soothe him. Comforting phrases a parent would tell an anxious child. Well-meaning lies saying that everything will be okay. There’s nothing to worry about. Some bullshit about it always being darkest before the dawn. Even Mr. Nice Guy doesn’t believe the shit he’s slinging.

  He’s shaking. Teeth begin to chatter. His temperature is dropping.

  He was fine. His mind was finding solid ground.

  It was going to be okay. Things were going to work out.

  Things are not okay.

  Nothing is ever going to be okay.

  “Murphy.” Mother gives his face a soft slap. “Here.”

  A bright light goes supernova, washing away his view. Some incoherent growls from a familiar source. Murphy’s eyes snap into focus. As the fog drifts, peeling away from his vision, he realizes the small, levitating metal object is a fork. A fork that carries what he assumes is a hearty bite of the world’s best apple pie. Mother sits on the floor next to him in a small, nondescript room. A take-out container of half-eaten pie sits open next to her.

  Wait.

  Did she already eat half of it? Did she take a snack break?

  Murphy thinks about addressing the issue but accepts the bite of pie instead. It’s still warm. The crust melts in his mouth. The apples are soft, but a bit of a crunch remains. He swallows it down as the taste of lingering heaven coats his tongue. Feels the start of a smile. He yanks it back as if joy is kept on a tight leash. Something normal is still in here. Something as simple as a pie is grounding him and his wildfire mind. He’s encouraged, feels at least a little more tethered to the here and now.

  He opens his eyes.

  “Crazy shit-fuck tasty,” Mother says. “Right?”

  Murphy can’t argue. He looks around. The room is bare. Nothing but crushing beige-colored walls. No windows, with only a single steel door that leads to somewhere unknown. His head floods with thoughts of the diner.

  “Did everybody get out of the diner?”

  “Look at you.” She smiles. “Concerned for others and shit.”

  Murphy wants to punch her.

  “They’re lucky as hell,” Mother says. “They don’t know it, but they are. That whole thing could have easily gone the way of a full-blown massacre.”

  Murphy’s head turns, eyes dart, searching for Peyton.

  “She’s over there.” Mother points with her fork.

  Behind Murphy, Dr. Peyton is laid out on a small inflatable mattress. She looks to be unconscious but has received some medical attention. Fresh bandages for her wound. There’s a glass of water with a straw by the bed along with an IV hanging from a stand set at half its maximum height. Murphy can see her blanket rise and fall. The sight of her breathing makes him breathe easier.

  “She going to be okay?” he asks.

  “They didn’t really say.”

  “Who?”

  Mother jams a needle into his neck.

  “What the hell?”

  “Sorry.” Said with zero apology to her voice.

  Warmth flushes through his neck, spreading fast throughout his body. His sight goes white for a fraction of a second, then melts into a jigsaw version of the world. Like looking through a sliced-up waterfall. A metallic taste overpowers the wonderful aftertaste of pie. His eyes fill, he blinks away the tears. Mother wipes under his eyes, scrunching her nose while inspecting the red-stained napkin.

  “You’re a damn mess, kid,” she says.

  “I know.”

  “What are we going to do with you?”

  “Shoot me?”

  “Maybe.” Mother loads up some more pie. “But not today.”

  Murphy opens up like a baby bird so Mother can feed him some pie.

  “Markus Murphy?” a woman’s voice asks.

  Murphy and Mother turn, looking up toward a woman who’s standing over them. The woman is surrounded by tall men in gray suits with perfect hair and serious looks. The woman wears a maroon suit with her shoulder holster in clear view. Mother pulls her hand back, leaving the fork hanging from Murphy’s lips.

  “How is the apple?” Agent Margo Darby gives a thin smile. “Heard it’s to die for.”

  Chapter 22

  “Hi, my name is Markus Murphy.” An insane smile spreads. “What the hell do you want?”

  Agent Margo Darby studies him.

  “Okay.” Tries another question, pointing back toward Peyton. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Darby continues looking him over in silence, as if he hasn’t said a thing. Murphy thinks of when Mother did the same thing to him. People want to see if they can get a look at the second person inside of him. It’s annoying as hell, but Murphy gets it to a certain extent. He tried to do the same with that wackadoo Mr. Madness. He lets her stare for a few beats, until he can’t take it anymore.

  “You done?” he asks. “Think you can answer me now?”

  “Apologies.” Darby shrugs. “You do understand how fascinating you are, right?”

  “He’s a wonder, all right,” Mother chimes in.

  “You know…” Darby turns to her, but her eyes look toward the men in gray suits she walked in with. “I think you should get checked out. I saw you take that nasty dive across that table.”

  “Don’t. Don’t shepherd me off to some bullshit—”

  “I’m only suggesting that you might have some injuries that are currently being masked by adrenaline and/or a deep, understandable concern for your son.”

  “Oh, you can suck a—”

  “Mother,” Murphy cuts in. He’d like to talk with this Agent Darby that Peyton has told him so much about. Like to chat to her without Mother’s help. “She’s right. You should get looked at.”

  “What?” Mother’s face is turning redder by the second.

  “Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Safe side?” Mother laughs. “Like that’s a thing you know anything about.”

  “Mother, please.” Murphy tilts his head toward Darby.

  Mother gets it. Her son wants to work her alone. She doesn’t like it, but she moves along with the men in the gray suits who tower over her like trees. She made sure to pick up the container of pie before she got up. Murphy shakes his head.

  “Don’t touch me,” she says as she’s escorted away.

  The agents exit with Mother through the steel door. As they do, through the doorway Murphy sees what looks like a pretty nice house. Seems to be well-furnished with some style and a curated, decorator’s touch. He even caught a whiff of something cooking, along with the sound of a television playing.

  “What the hell? I’m going out there.” He waves his arms around. “This room is shit.”

  Darby motions for an agent standing near the door, asking the last remaining man in gray to get them some coffee and a couple glasses of water. The man obeys without a hint of question or attitude. The way these guys respond to her isn’t lost on Murphy.

  This Agent Darby is without question the person running the show.

  She’s the one running Peyton, which in turn, means she’s trying to run him. He’s making an assumption, but even in today’s so-called modern world an African-American woman in the CIA has had to bury more than a few bodies to get where she is. Literally and figuratively. Murphy feels he can safely assume Margo Darby will go from peaceful to nuclear in a snap.

  “To answer your second question—and I will get to the first one, the one about what the hell I want—I don’t know about Dr. Peyton’s wounds. She’s resting now, and my guess is she’ll be okay. We have some expert medical professionals in another room.”

  Agent Darby lowers, sitting with her legs crossed on the floor next to him. She did it in a single, smooth motion, gliding down to the floor without a hint of awkwardness or strain. Murphy takes note that this woman is strong inside and out. Yoga, maybe. Perhaps a Western and/or Eastern martial arts discipline she picked up. She moves like a boxer, but there’re other influences there to be sure.

  “And I ass
ure you”—she holds up a hand—“we have extra security protocols here at the house.”

  Murphy detects a slight hint of a Southern accent when she speaks. It comes and goes with certain words. Nothing crazy, but it’s there.

  “Why on earth would we need extra security, Agent Margo Darby?”

  “Darby is fine.” Darby rubs her chin.

  “Darby it is.”

  “We believe Dr. Peyton might be a target.”

  “Do you?”

  “Believe you are as well.”

  “Been a target for quite some time.”

  “True, but not like this.” Margo Darby thumbs toward the other side of the room. “I like Dr. Peyton, I really do, and we will do everything to help her. But, if I’m being honest, this does give me an amazing opportunity to talk with you. One you and I might not have otherwise.”

  One of the agents in gray enters holding two cups of steaming coffee, another close behind holding two glasses of ice water, and a third with cream and sugar. Darby mouths a thank you, then waves off the men in gray as she turns back to Murphy. She waits for the door to shut, then pauses as the faint hum of white noise is pumped into the room.

  Murphy nods, acknowledging that this is no ordinary house. This is one set up specifically for the CIA’s wants and needs. Darby nods back, picks up her coffee, then starts in with her conversation.

  “Want to tell me what happened with you today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw the security footage from the pie place. Not sure I love the idea of living in a world where Pete’s Perfect Pies needs six eyes in the sky to feel safe, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s more important is what I saw. And what I saw was that you froze up when you could have taken those guys out.”

  “Interesting interpretation.”

  “Your mother saved your ass.”

  Murphy bites back a response. Fairly obvious Darby made that remark to get a heated retort. He did the same with Mr. Madness. Murphy has no desire to let Darby have what she wants.

  “Maybe I didn’t feel like hurting anyone.”

  “Sure.” Darby holds back a laugh. “From what I’ve seen, that would be a first for you.” Darby resets. “That needle your mother jammed in your neck, the one Peyton tried to hand you at the diner, you feeling any better?”

  “Better is a loose term, but I’m trending toward normal.”

  “Whatever normal means, right?”

  Murphy doesn’t bother responding.

  “You’ve got questions for me. As I have for you, but I can wait.” Darby takes a sip of coffee, making a that’s good face. “So please, fire away. Might not have all the answers, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Doesn’t really matter, does it? You’re only going to tell me what you want me to hear.”

  “So you’re familiar with how we work.”

  “Painfully.”

  “Look, man.” Darby leans in with her best I’m going to level with you expression. Murphy’s seen this with agents in the big bad CIA. She’ll toss in some profanity soon to show that she’s opening up. “We’re the fucking CIA. We do sneaky shit. I can’t and won’t tell you that there are not manipulations at play when I speak with you. Can’t help it. I’ve been at this a long, long time. It’s become like breathing. But what I can tell you is that we do want the same thing.”

  Her Southern drawl has ticked up. Murphy makes a mental note of it. Not sure what it means, if it’s some sort of tell she lets slip from time to time, or if it’s just part of the Agent Margo Darby show.

  “Enlighten me, Darby. What do we want?”

  “Well, I want to keep you alive.”

  “That’s a big one, sure.”

  “Can always add to that list, if you like. Could work on keeping Dr. Peyton alive. Or, perhaps even your dear, sweet mother.” Darby leans back, taking another sip of coffee. “But if you don’t feel like you can trust me, then you can trust that it’s in my best interest to do everything I can to keep your heart beating.”

  “Okay, super special agent Darby.” Murphy doesn’t trust her at all. Everything Peyton said about her is spot on, but he does like her style. “I do have questions.”

  “Again, I might have answers. Bear in mind that some of those questions might have answers you’ll have to find for both of us.”

  “Who is Mr. Madness?”

  “Wow. Not sure I know that dude. That is kind of a cool name, however.”

  “Glad you dig it.”

  “Is it too over the top? Mr. Madness?”

  “Prefer not to judge.”

  Darby presses her lips together with a slight nod. She raises one hand, circling a finger in the air. The door opens. One of the boys in gray enters and she motions him over. She spins her finger around in a few more quick circles, then points down to the floor, clearly communicating that this guy needs to do something they’ve discussed previously. The man in gray pulls a small, flask-sized bottle of whiskey from inside his jacket and hands it to Murphy.

  Murphy recognizes the brand immediately.

  The good stuff.

  “I understand from Dr. Peyton this is how you prefer to communicate.”

  Murphy inspects the label. Loves the feel of this bottle in his hand. Memories flood in. Surprisingly good ones, mixed in with a few he hasn’t assigned an emotional tag to yet.

  He shared this whiskey with his wife when they worked together at a steak house. Murphy pushes back, shoving that one back deep into the abyss of his mind. This bottle is also the same brand of whiskey he and Peyton shared at the hotel that day in New York. The day he was told his mind was born from two men.

  One a highly skilled killer.

  The other a kind, smart-ass bartender with a family.

  His mind was on fire that day. The confusion still burns inside him most of the time. At that hotel bar they drank this whiskey and spoke with hard words, and even harder hearts, as Dr. Peyton did her best to explain how Murphy’s life had been forever changed.

  Will this conversation be the same?

  Will things become better or worse?

  “Peyton said something.” Murphy lifts his eyes to Darby. “Right before Mr. Madness stopped by. She said she needed to tell me something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Any idea what that might be?”

  “None.”

  Murphy inspects her focused expression. One that gives him nothing. She may have no idea what Peyton wanted to say, or Darby may know exactly what she wanted to tell him.

  They lock eyes for a beat that seems to last for hours.

  “Now.” Darby holds her hand out, asking for the bottle. “Let’s pour a little goodness in our coffee and have ourselves a nice chat.” Her thin smile and Southern charm are working overtime now. She thumbs back toward the door. “Maybe see if my boys can get us some of that lovely pie.”

  Chapter 23

  Super special agent Margo Darby—he isn’t sure of her actual title—and Murphy talked for about an hour.

  They poured whisky in their coffee.

  They ate some pie brought to them by a large mountain of a CIA agent.

  Darby just left the room, saying she needed to take care of some things. Some important, time-sensitive items. She also wanted to give Murphy a few moments to let all they discussed soak in.

  Murphy can’t argue, there’s plenty to unpack here.

  Darby said she wasn’t completely sure how Mr. Madness found him and his mother, but she has some ideas. Of course she does. There were only a handful of people who knew Peyton was coming there to find Murphy.

  Three to be exact, according to Darby.

  Agent Margo Darby is one. Dr. Peyton, who’s slipping in and out of consciousness due to that gunshot wound she sustained while visiting Murphy, and a young agent whose body was found in the trunk of a stolen car.

  Darby’s eyes glistened a bit when she spoke about the young agent. Tears welled as she talked about how he had worked for her
for almost two years now. Just a kid out of The Farm. Could be bullshit. Darby’s feelings can more than likely be flipped off and on like a light switch. Feelings manufactured and inserted during training at that same Farm facility. Murphy has come to know that these people can be world-class Shakespearean assholes when called upon.

  She said the young agent was killed and then discarded. It’s the way the body was left that’s curious. It was done in a surprisingly sloppy fashion. Hasty. The body was hidden, but not hidden well. The scene had all the markings of a pro—no readable prints; no eye in the sky video; no trail of breadcrumbs leading anywhere solid—but this pro was someone who was in one hell of a hurry.

  Darby’s words.

  Could mean several things. Could mean the killing was random. Nothing to do with anything. Could mean the body was left to be found as some form of diversion or even a statement. Or—and this is the one Darby is leaning into—the killer didn’t want to take the young agent’s life, but the killing was viewed as a murder of necessity by someone who knew what they were doing. An unwanted killing by a killer who needed to move fast, for whatever reason.

  “Why do you think that?” Murphy asked.

  Darby told him about a man named Ernesto. Discussed who Dr. Ernesto was and his involvement with the “other side of the equation” as it’s come to be known. How Dr. Ernesto played the same role as Dr. Peyton’s but on the darker CIA side that created people like this Mr. Madness, Tinker, and Hiro.

  “Like Brubaker?” he asked.

  Yes.

  Murphy thinks of Mr. Madness. His rage that bubbled under his skin. How his emotions flared when it came to the subject of Brubaker. The man’s feelings bounced and pinged off the walls of the diner.

  In spite of that, Mr. Madness was there for another reason. He and the other two, Tinker and Hiro, were there with the intent to kill. Based on what Darby is saying, they were there to kill Murphy and Peyton. Mother would have been a bonus, he supposes. Murphy didn’t tell Darby about the affection Mr. Madness expressed for Brubaker. Doesn’t know what it means, or how it will be helpful, but Murphy held back that little piece of information when he was talking with Darby on the floor while sipping whiskey-coffee and eating pie.