by Mike McCrary
Small, the size of a quarter, they can be jammed directly into a subject or flung like tiny Frisbees from a somewhat safe distance. They will plunge knockout juice into a person at the speed of a hypodermic needle upon impact. Murphy has used these before. Hell, they’ve been used on him before. Both recently. He regrips his Glock. Runs through his options again. He’s thought through the possibilities.
Murphy sees no need to dance around the issue a second longer.
Running full speed toward the front of the house, he squeezes off two shots, blowing out the glass of the picture window a fraction of a second before he launches himself. Tucking, turning his shoulder slightly as he clears the window, he lands, rolling on the floor and then up to standing position. The rubber soles of his boots grip the floor as his feet land. He feels blood trickle down his arms and back, burning from the slices he caught from the razor-sharp shards during entry.
A slick, olive-skinned man rushes toward him with a gun raised.
Murphy levels his weapon, holding up a flat palm with his free hand, asking for moment before the shooting starts.
“Irving.” Murphy speaks in as calm a voice as he can find. “Agent Irving?”
Agent Irving nods.
Murphy looks him over, not sure he believes what he’s seeing. Irving’s clothes are torn and bloodied in places. His eyes are dark. Beads of sweat run down from his hairline, and his dress shirt is soaked around his loose-hanging tie. But that isn’t what has Murphy’s heart skipping beats.
There’s something covering Irving’s mouth.
The entire lower part of his face, actually. It runs below his nose, under his chin and along his jawline, wrapping around the back of his neck. It’s made of a hybrid material used almost solely by the military. A breathable, flexible material but stronger than steel.
Murphy’s seen these before.
It was a hostage situation. The cartels use these “closers” on kidnap victims or with people they don’t want exercising loose lips, but who they don’t want to kill just yet. The device wraps around the mouth and jaw, keeping a person quiet, but allows them to breathe and has a setting that allows for food and drink for brief periods of time. More effective than classic cloth. Very hard to remove, more humane, and less permanent than cutting out a tongue. Although, if you try to remove it and get the code wrong, the device will snap the jaw off your face. Again, difficult to remove, but not impossible.
Murphy can do it, but Agent Irving will have to trust him. That might be asking a lot given all that has happened. Making a quick scan around the house, he searches for something. A way to communicate. A pen and paper, something for Irving to write on. Anything. A way to get answers without guns and hard looks.
The house is empty save for a beat-up couch and table that sit along the wall. There are dirt rings clinging to the walls, perhaps marking where things once hung. Outlines buried in the layers of dust, paper-sized squares, on the lone table next to the couch. And small circular imprints in cheap rugs where various tables or chair legs once sat. There’s a power cord still plugged into the wall. This place was cleaned out in a hurry. As if someone knew a storm was coming and they needed to evacuate immediately.
Something catches Murphy’s eye.
In front of the couch, placed in plain sight, is a platinum digital storage device. From where Murphy stands, it looks to have a biometric reader along the front. Seems to require a palm print to access. He thinks of the roof in New York above Central Park. Thinks of how he took Agent Thompson’s eyes to access a different biometric reader.
Irving snaps his fingers at Murphy, getting his attention. He’s holding up a cell phone, moving it wildly back and forth, then stabbing it frantically with his finger. Murphy nods. Irving flips the phone over. On the back, there’s a wide strip of yellow tape with the name MURPHY written in black marker across it.
“Put it on the floor,” Murphy says, keeping his Glock pointed at Irving’s head. “Then kick it over to me.”
The phone spins and skips its way over. Murphy stops it with his foot. The screen is dark and dead, waiting for communication to bring it to life. He looks up to Irving. The man is terrified. He’s fighting hard to seem like he’s keeping it cool, but it’s not working. His gun shakes while pointed in the general direction of Murphy.
Irving holds out a hand, asking for a moment, then motions that he is going to place his hand into his pocket.
Murphy nods permission.
Irving pulls out another phone that’s identical to Murphy’s, only the yellow strip on the back has IRVING written across in black marker. A cat meows, rubbing against Murphy’s leg. He almost shoots it but shoos it aside instead.
“I can get that thing off your face.”
Agent Irving shakes his head no.
“I can. It’s not easy, but I can take it off and we can talk like civilized folk.” Murphy points his toe toward the phone on the floor. “I don’t know what the hell all this is about, or who did this to you, but I can help you.” Murphy swallows, forces a disarming smile. “Will you let me help you?”
Irving keeps his gun on him. Eyes floating. Distant.
Murphy’s losing him.
“Look, man. I was driving around eating pie before all this shit. Things weren’t perfect but I was doing okay, ya know? Didn’t ask for any of this, believe me, but some people just can’t let other people be happy. I’m guessing those happiness killers are people you know pretty well, right?”
Irving’s phone buzzes in his hand.
Murphy’s phone vibrates, bouncing on the floor.
Their lock eyes. Breathing stops. Agent Irving starts to raise the phone to read the message.
“Wait,” Murphy calls out. “Don’t look at the screen yet. Whatever it says, whatever asshole set this up, we can work this out. Me and you.”
Irving’s stops just shy of bringing the screen all the way up to eye level. His stare is a thousand yards out into nothing, neither looking directly at the phone nor at Murphy. Murphy knows this moment is a delicate dance along a razor wire.
“Did someone bring you here?” Murphy asks.
No response. Irving stands staring back at him like a blank slab of meat.
“Hey,” Murphy barks. “Give me something, man. I’d love to ask you some questions. Easy ones. Give me a head shake or a nod. Simple yes-or-no stuff. Then, we’ll check whatever the hell is on those phones together. At the same time. That sound reasonable?”
Agent Irving’s eyes shift to meet his. Murphy nods, hoping for a connection.
“Okay.” Murphy takes a deep breath, lowering his gun. “Did someone bring you here?”
Agent Irving stares—a beat that seems to last forever—then lowers his gun as he nods a yes.
“Cool. We’re doing good here. Was it Mr. Madness? Was it Hiro?”
Shakes his head no.
“Who, then?” Murphy lets slip out, then waves off the question. “Sorry. How many people brought you here?”
Agent Irving holds up the phone, raising his index finger.
“One?” Murphy’s mind fumbles. “Ernesto?”
Head shake.
“Was Ernesto here?”
A nod.
“Is Ernesto alive?”
No.
The phones buzz again.
“Did this person give you these phones?”
Panic tears roll down Irving’s trembling face as he begins to lift the phone again.
“Wait.” Murphy bends down to pick up his phone. “You’re doing great. Thank you so much. But—”
Agent Irving snaps his fingers again at Murphy. His eyes direct Murphy with an ever-so-slight tilt of the head toward the far wall. Murphy squints. There’s a tiny red dot above the couch just below a dirt ring. Barely larger than a pinprick, but there’s no mistake that it’s a camera. The one who did this is watching.
Murphy nods back to Irving, knowing he’s fresh out of time.
The phones buzz again.
Murph
y picks up the phone, then stands up. He grips his gun. An apologetic stare is shared between them. They each look at the screens of their phones.
Murphy reads: If you can get that off him, great. But if you kill him quick…
Murphy lowers his phone. Fights for focus. Fumbles through the forest fire raging inside his mind. Whoever is pulling the strings knew he’d come here. Wanted him to come here. Murphy looks across the room. He needs to know what Irving knows. Time is a luxury Murphy does not have.
The phone slips away from Agent Irving’s fingers.
Face pale, shaking, he raises his gun.
Murphy whips his arm to the right, firing multiple shots into the wall. Blasts out the area where he saw the camera. Bullets zip past Murphy as he dives, rolling clear. Agent Irving turns, taking aim, spit flying from his mouth as he screams.
Murphy fires a single shot. Irving’s shoulder explodes, almost separating from the body. Irving’s gun bounces to the floor. Springing forward, Murphy knocks Irving’s gun away, sending it spinning into the far corner.
Murphy jams an injector into Irving’s neck. His body thrashes once, then his eyes flutter and fade as his body goes limp. It’s not as powerful as ketamine but it’s not Tylenol PM either.
Murphy hopes like hell the combination of the gunshot wound and the injection doesn’t kill him. He needs answers from Agent Irving. He’ll never be free of this if he can’t—
The phone buzzes again.
There’s a whirring. A mechanical grinding coming from Agent Irving’s jaw.
“No. No, no, no.”
Murphy looks to the phone.
Cute. Can’t have Irving talking to you.
Irving’s head twitches. Jerking down until his chin is lowered into his chest as the tension from the “closer” device ratchets tighter and tighter. Murphy closes his eyes. He knows the horrible sounds that will soon follow. The soft cracks. The cutting of meat and muscle. Murphy shoves himself back with his heels as he hears Irving’s temporomandibular joints pop. If the code isn’t entered, it won’t be long until the device will sever his head from the spine. A code Murphy does not have.
Blood will blanket the floor.
Murphy takes some comfort in the fact Agent Irving won’t be conscious for his horrible death. Whoever is out there knew the possible outcomes of this situation they created. Murphy turns it over and over in his head. Even if Irving had killed Murphy, Irving was going to die. This person rolled the dice thinking maybe Irving could take Murphy out, but if he didn’t, Irving dies either way. Or at the minimum, Irving keeps Murphy busy. Distracted. Keeps Murphy away from—
Another message buzzes through to the phone.
We’ve found a nice, safe house to visit.
Chapter 27
Margo Darby is a little over a mile away from the safe house.
She’ll park in a garage a few blocks north after circling the area around the house, checking for tails and obvious abnormalities. Been a while since she was a field agent, but the moves are still the same. Those types of lessons learned are not quickly forgotten. This routine is good, but it is less than perfect. You can check a location a thousand times and nothing will be there, then find the devil himself lurking in the shadows the one thousand and first time you look.
The cameras in the garage are monitored by AI, with a rotating team of human CIA to spot-check. The CCTV feed is disabled when needed. Meaning when Darby enters and leaves the garage. Also, not out of the question for some footage to simply go away. From the garage, it’s a short walk down a short street past some casual shopping and dining on the verge of bankruptcy. Then it’s another fifty yards down a back alley that spills out into a lower-middle-class neighborhood that’s long past its prime.
Perfect for a CIA safe house.
The house isn’t completely secluded but there’s enough space between the homes to avoid prying eyes. Also helps that four out of the six houses on the street are abandoned. The CIA owns the other two. Homeless wander the streets, sleeping on porches and occasionally swatting at things that aren’t there. The few people who do live nearby are hardworking, pushed-to-the-limit families who keep to themselves, their doors and curtains pulled tight and mouths closed. The house next to the safe house has been deserted for months. The bulky lock from the real estate agent still hangs on the front door. Murphy had made a comment about envying the agent’s unbridled optimism.
Darby hopes Murphy found something at that house Tinker gave up.
Hopes he finds anything, really.
He hasn’t checked in since he arrived. She didn’t expect a play-by-play from the man, but she does wish this split-head asshole would throw her a bone. Even though she’s been at this a long time, she still gets the jitters at times like this. The unknown can be a constant in this line of work, but it still gets to her from time to time. And this time, there’s a metric shit ton of unknown that can and will cause a lot of pain and suffering.
She’s received word from the safe house that Dr. Peyton is awake and alert.
Great news.
Murphy’s mother is being a complete pain in the ass.
Expected.
And Tinker has shut down completely. Nonresponsive. Won’t talk and is refusing to eat.
“Come on, Murphy,” she mutters to herself as the autonomous car turns the corner for her last pass of the area before entering the garage.
She’s looked over everything she has available on the way over. Scanning emails. Pictures. Video footage. There’s nothing new, but she keeps at it, hoping to see something she or other agents have missed before. Brubaker is still nonresponsive, lying in a heavily guarded room at a military hospital. Darby just got off a call updating her status. Vitals are good, but she’s still out like a light.
Darby can’t imagine what’s going on in Brubaker’s mind.
She can’t imagine what’s going on inside Murphy’s head either.
“Messing with shit that shouldn’t be messed with,” she mutters.
Darby’s been talking to herself more and more since this all started. Maybe she needs someone to work on her head as well. Ever since she walked the war-torn remains of Central Park, she’s felt an odd pushing and pulling from inside of her. The walk-through of Murphy’s firefight in Montauk didn’t help. This entire project—calling it simply a case seems ridiculous—is nothing she’s ever experienced before. She’s grateful for the opportunity, of course. This is one that could push her up and into the stratosphere at the agency if she nails it. But if she fails? She shoves that thought out of her head with both hands.
Her car stops at a light near the parking garage. A message pops up in the left corner of the windshield telling her she’s clear to pull into the garage and park.
“Thanks,” she tells the car, not sure why.
A whispered zip hits the security glass of her back window. Doesn’t penetrate, but the pounding thump gets her attention. She’s under fire.
Darby slams down the gas, taking control of the car.
The reinforced steel of the driver’s door plunks and pops. The fire she’s taking is rapid. Loud. Closer. There are at least two gunmen—one elevated sniper, one on the ground with an assault weapon.
“Shit.” Darby drops down to the floorboard, pulling her gun. “Drive,” she barks at the car.
A calm, artificial voice asks for a location.
“Who gives a damn. Idaho. Fast.” Her training cuts through the fog. “Protocol ninety-nine. Pedal down.”
The car jerks forward as the CIA-enhanced automation kicks in. Darby checks her weapon, hoping the zero-to-sixty estimates she’s been given on this car are correct.
Another two quick zips blow out the rear tires.
The car jerks hard to the left, sending the car into the beginning of a spin. The calm, artificial voice says something about stabilization failure. Darby grits her teeth, bracing herself however she can.
The voice says something about impact.
Another vehicle
slams into the passenger side with incredible force. Darby’s sight goes white, then dissolves into vibrating globs of blurs and smears. She feels blood drip down her face. The car skids, tires screeching to a stop. Emergency protocols are kicking in. The agency was called the second the first bullet hit the glass.
Whoever is out there probably knows that.
Darby pushes herself up, fighting through the swirling slush of her mind. The pounding in her head. The pooling blood in the floorboard.
They’ll want to finish the job fast.
She digs her nails into the leather seat, pulling up, her weapon ready. Through the ringing in her ears, she focuses in on the sound of rapid footsteps. She silently counts to three.
“Open driver door now.”
The door flings open, framing a small man lumbering toward the car with an assault rifle. Darby opens fire. Her aim and sight are a mess. She points in his general direction—hoping any civilians are clear—pulling the trigger.
As the gunman wilts to the concrete, Darby hears sirens wail in the distance.
Her eyes flutter closed.
Grip on her gun goes slack.
Darby slides back down to the floorboard.
Chapter 28
Murphy tries calling Mother again.
Nothing.
He orders the car to try the emergency line at the safe house.
No answer.
Calls Darby one more time. Straight to voicemail.
Murphy has the car pegged at over ninety most of the way. When he switched over to manual mode, he hit a hundred-plus on a several-mile stretch of straight road. He’ll be there soon.
Soon might not be good enough.
They told him some rather lengthy CIA bullshit about using security protocols and parking at a garage a few blocks from the safe house. Going through an alley and blah, blah, freakin’ blah. Murphy will be pulling the car up front today, thank you.
How is it possible all communications to the safe house are dead?
Sure, they might be able to jam cell signals. Certainly, if the CIA wasn’t expecting it. But the emergency line is an old-school hard line. Murphy runs through the logic progression. If whoever is doing this knows the CIA—and they appear to be well-educated so far—then they could be savvy enough to cut or disrupt the hard line.