by Mike McCrary
Murphy could do that.
Did it in Oklahoma about four years ago. He and another killer for dollars had to go in strong. Had to take out a similar safe house tucked away outside Oklahoma City. Small, nondescript, but the house held some homesick KGB, along with a wayward CIA agent, who needed to have their mouths closed forever. Coms were cut. Door was smashed in. Bodies removed like pulling weeds.
Could Mr. Madness and Hiro be so dialed into Murphy’s experiences that they could pull out that skill and execute it?
Seems unlikely.
Not impossible, but that is a second-level type of task that requires detailed work and the knowledge to adapt if faced with unknowns. A technical skill. Far different than a peeling away of morals or softening a view on killing. More than aiming a gun or throwing a punch.
Are they evolving?
Are they adapting faster than I did?
Are they digging deeper and deeper into my mind?
Traffic is thick up ahead. Cars backed up for miles with emergency vehicles parked in the distance. Murphy checks the onboard navigation. An animated icon that resembles a car wreck is shown near the parking garage. The garage where he is supposed to obey the CIA security protocols for the safe house.
That can’t be random. No way that’s a coincidence.
“What’s the wreck up ahead?”
A few soft clicks. “Police reporting shots fired.” A few more clicks. “Agency alert seconds ago. Agent Margo Darby down—”
“Reroute to the original destination.” Murphy checks the load on his Glock. Closes his eyes, searching for the correct combination of words to use. “Ignore stated traffic laws. Markus Murphy confirmed. Verification code… Hard Scramble Six, Six, Alpha, Delta, Four.”
“Verification accepted.”
“Notify the agency. Safe house breached.”
“Message to be sent.” The car’s voice pauses as the wheel turns hard, accelerating in a new direction. “Team is deployed. Will arrive in thirteen minutes.”
“Jesus.” Murphy slams the dashboard. “How fast can we get there?”
“At the current rate of speed, our estimated time to destination is ten minutes.”
“Fuck that.” Murphy grabs the wheel, slams down the gas. “Show me the route.”
A digital map spreads, overlaying across the windshield, taking up most of the passenger side. Faint, but enough to see the map while still being able to view the road somewhat safely. Murphy jerks the wheel left then right, weaving in and out of traffic. His fingers grip the leather until his knuckles pop. Tires scream. Horns blare. His eyes bounce between the road and grids of streets digitally laced on the windshield.
“There.” He taps a street corner on the map a few blocks north of the pulsing blue dot destination. “Reroute there.”
The yellow line alters, showing a new path. The estimated time changes to eight minutes.
Murphy knows he can do it in four—five max.
Knows he can sprint full out to the house in one.
The car jumps as Murphy cuts the wheel hard, pushing the front tires up onto the sidewalk. He lays on his horn. People dive left and right. Screaming, scrambling to get out of the way, flying clear of the speeding bullet of a vehicle. Murphy stomps the gas to the floor, holding loosely to the fading line between control and chaos. The back of the car fishtails as he whips into a wide turn.
A series of black and white patrol cars race past, headed in the other direction as if he wasn’t there.
Murphy’s call into the agency notified local law enforcement that his car was untouchable. A blind spot within the law. Murphy tells the car to have the police close off a three-block radius around the safe house. The car cuts through someone’s yard. A fence explodes into chunks and splinters as Murphy’s car rams through, jumps a curb, catches some air, and lands in the middle of a neighborhood street.
Murphy stands on the brakes, skip-skidding to a stop.
Flying out from the car, he pops the trunk, holstering his Glock behind his back. He grabs the Mossberg assault shotgun inside the trunk that rests next to the platinum digital storage device he took from the house with Irving. Breaking into a sprint, Murphy charges hard down the street toward the safe house.
The sun shines bright.
The air is cool and crisp.
His legs pump like pistons. Acid runs through his veins, his lungs breathe fire.
Nothing seems out of place at the safe house. There are two cars in the driveway, but those CIA specials were there before. Nothing parked in front of the house. Nothing looks or sounds out of place. Murphy didn’t get a full view inside the house earlier, only parts of it, but enough to know the general layout.
It’s a two-story home with a basement. If he’s lucky, he can get access through the second story and work his way down. Attempting to kick in the front door might get him and others inside killed. If Mr. Madness and friends are inside, they might be waiting for him. Maybe they aren’t even there yet.
Murphy pulls up, slowing down to a jog. He tries calling one more time.
Nothing.
If they cut the lines and jammed the phones, then they are close to the house, if not inside. He looks toward a dilapidated home next door. One he knows has been abandoned for some time. Darby made a point of telling him how secure the safe house was in this forgotten neighborhood. Weeds and grass have grown tall and out of control in the front yard, which has a weathered, beaten-down For Sale sign off the sidewalk. He zeros in on the door. A detail that’s out of place. There was a lock on the door before. A bulky one with a bio reader left by a real estate agent.
The lock is gone.
A curtain moves ever so slightly. He’s been made.
Murphy races to the front door of the safe house. He waves his hands wildly at the door for the security cameras to see. Hopefully they won’t shoot him. He beats his fists on the door. There’s no telling what Mr. Madness and Hiro have planned next door. Time is up.
One of the CIA gray suits opens the door. Murphy—never thinking he’d be glad to see these assholes—shoves his way through, slamming the door behind him.
“The house is blown.” Murphy owns the room. “All coms have been cut. Darby was attacked. Bad guys are next door. Lock this shitbox down.”
The Gray Suits scatter. Training and protocols kicking in as if a cord had been pulled.
“I need a gun.” Mother stands next to him.
“You certainly do.” Murphy snaps at a passing Gray Suit. He holds up two fingers, then presses both fingertips against the barrel of the Sig Sauer the CIA agent holds.
Murphy turns back to Mother. “You still mad at me?”
“Never stop being pissed at you.”
The Gray Suit comes back with two Sig Sauers and a handful of loaded magazines. Murphy shoves a gun in Mother’s hand along with two mags. Mother takes the gun with a motherly sneer.
“I’ll deal with your bitch-ass later.” She checks the load.
“Peyton?”
“Alive, but shitty.” Mother pushes her chin toward a room behind her.
Sidestepping a Gray Suit who’s rushing up the stairs, Murphy moves fast into a small room, where he finds Peyton is sitting up in bed. Dragging her feet over the side, she carefully lands them on the floor as her teeth grind. With one arm in a sling, she pops some pills with her good arm.
Murphy raises his eyebrows. “You good?”
“Amazing.” She holds her hand out. “Give me a goddamn gun.”
Murphy tosses the Sig and an extra mag onto the bed next to her.
Two shots crack upstairs. A dull thump sounds.
“Here we go.” Murphy puts a hand on the doorknob. “This door opens without a knock? Keep firing until they or you are dead.”
Peyton gives a half-hearted thumbs-up as he shuts the door.
Murphy checks the corners of the living room, leveling his shotgun on the stairs. A young Gray Suit with his gun raised takes what cover there is near the front door
. Murphy knows Mr. Madness and Hiro can come at them from any and every angle. He motions for a young agent to move clear of the window. There’s a faint sniff of gunpowder from upstairs. The entire house has fallen into a chilly silence. The drops of quiet that fall before chaos.
Murphy’s fingers tingle. There’s an itch to his skin.
They’re here. He can feel Mr. Madness’s disease. Hiro’s cold brutality is with him.
Still, there has to be more than just the two of them. They’d need a small team. Not impossible, but unlikely they could take on Darby and make it back here in time to stage a full-on assault on a CIA safe house. Not out of the question, but unlikely even for those who share Murphy’s mind. One helluva big bite for those two to choke down.
Murphy’s thoughts jump to the night at the house in Montauk.
Thoughts race to the one who came down the stairs. He wasn’t like the others. He was weaker than the rest. He was deformed physically, possibly mentally. Peyton said some of them turned out like Mr. Madness. Some like Hiro. One like Lady Brubaker. Then there were some who weren’t as strong. The lesser ones of the pack. Not without utility, but not first-string starters in the big game either. Darby, Peyton—even the late Agent Thompson—didn’t know for sure how many split-heads there were out there in the world.
Murphy glances to the door that leads downstairs to the basement where Tinker is secured. Somewhere in all this, Mr. Madness and Hiro will make a move. They want Murphy, but they also came here to free their friend.
God knows what else they want.
The front door cracks. The walls shake.
Something slams into the door. As if an unhinged bull wants inside. They’re trying to ram their way in. A bold move. Questionable way to go. Won’t be easy to bust through, maybe impossible; the CIA doesn’t put in doors the big, bad wolf can easily blow down.
Maybe that’s not the point.
They found a weak point upstairs to exploit; now they want to control the front. Even if they can’t breach the door, they want them to know they are there. Close off an exit. Murphy guesses they sealed off the garage somehow, the only rear exit.
The door cracks again.
Murphy looks to Mother. She readies her Sig, stepping up beside him. He motions to the young Gray Suit near the door. They lock eyes. Murphy points to the door. The Gray Suit swallows hard, looking like he’d rather do anything else. He gives a nod as his trembling hand moves toward the bio reader to the left of the door. His other hand hovers over a square metal button just above the reader.
“Markus Murphy,” a voice booms from upstairs.
Mr. Madness.
“Do it,” Murphy bark-whispers.
In a single move, the Gray Suit scans his palm and jams the button with everything he has. The door flies open. Two men in tactical gear stand with a battering ram pulled back, ready to strike at the door again. Faces stunned and blank. Eyes dull and weak. Murphy and Mother open fire, cutting them to shreds.
“Shut it.” Murphy pumps his shotgun.
The Gray Suit punches the button again. The door slams shut. They hear the sound of the bodies falling outside.
“Come on down, little Miss Madness,” Murphy booms back. “I can do this shit all damn day.”
The house returns to its previous eerie silence.
Murphy rushes over, checking the windows. Clear outside save for the two sacks of meat bleeding out on the porch. He leans down, speaking into the ear of the Gray Suit.
“Talk to me,” Murphy says. “We have anyone at the back?”
Gray Suit shakes his head no.
“How many upstairs?”
Gray Suit holds up two fingers.
A sound spins them both around. A body in a bloodied gray suit rumbles down the stairs. Glides down, sliding over the steps, then lands in a heap near Mother. The agent has been shot twice. Killed and his body tossed down the stairs. A clear message sent that cannot be misunderstood. Mother’s body begins to shake. Not from fear. From rage.
Gray Suit now holds up only one finger.
“Move to the basement. They’ll go for their buddy.”
Gray Suit scrambles down into the basement with his Sig ready. Murphy looks to Mother. She regrips her gun, taking in a deep breath. Murphy readies his shotgun. The Gray Suit on the floor in front of them stares back with eyes wide and lifeless. What’s left of his blood seeps away from his body.
A clunk from upstairs. Something thumps, rolling down the stairs.
Murphy and Mother take aim.
A severed head tumbles, bouncing, skipping every other step. Removed at the neck, the head comes to a rolling stop near Murphy’s feet. Mother holds her mouth. Holds back the tears flooding her eyes.
Murphy stares, dialing in, recognizing the man’s face. It’s the large mountain of a CIA agent who brought him and Darby pie in the basement. Another body comes sliding down the stairs. The suit soaked in blood. Jacket up where a head should be.
Mr. Madness has come undone, much like Brubaker, Murphy thinks.
Mother moves toward the stairs, gun raised. She’s had enough.
Murphy makes a quick scan over the headless body. Something is off. This is the body of a man with an average build. The suit doesn’t fit. Loose, far too big. The body does not match the head of the man Murphy knows. Murphy reaches for Mother, but she pulls away from his outstretched fingers.
The headless body pulls the jacket down. Mr. Madness twists at the foot of the stairs, flipping onto his back. He squeezes off two blasts.
Mother’s body jolts, flying backward.
The impact spins her around, sending her into the wall. Everything inside Murphy freezes. The world slows. As if life was running a quarter of its normal speed. He watches Mother slide down the wall, spreading her blood like a broad brush as she reaches the floor.
No! Murphy screams inside his head.
It’s happening again. This feeling, identical to what happened at the diner.
Mr. Madness pushes himself up from the floor, shedding the ill-fitting jacket.
Murphy stands like a statue, watching him as he gets to his feet. His mind rages, pleading for his arms to raise his shotgun and remove Mr. Madness from the planet. His body fails him. Disobeying every signal fired off from his burning mind.
Mr. Madness cocks his head, looking Murphy over.
His knowing stare bores through Murphy. The woman with that magnificent green lizard on her neck said there was a possibility of this happening. The possibility of the great Markus Murphy shutting down. Again. She’s been right about everything so far. Crashing, she called it. And it’s happening right before his eyes.
Mr. Madness loves it. Loves that he’s here to witness the end of Murphy. He takes it in, wants to soak in the moment. Embracing how fragile Murphy is at this snapshot in time. It’s almost impossible to accept how helpless he seems.
This man.
This man who tried to take her. Who tried to take and discard the love of Brubaker. Mr. Madness would cherish all of her with endless, effortless gratitude.
Hiro walks down the stairs.
Murphy can only watch as his large frame swallows the stairway. Hiro steps over the severed head and body that lie at the foot of the stairs as if they were spilled milk. Mr. Madness says something to Hiro, but Murphy can’t make out the words. Hiro stares blankly at Murphy, then raises his gun while going toward the basement door. Going after his friend.
Mr. Madness turns back to Murphy.
Ponders the moment, then slips his gun behind his back. He shows an ever-so-slight crack of a smile as he pulls a knife from his ankle. A Ka-Bar. Murphy knows this type of blade well, therefore so does Mr. Madness. Murphy knows he wants to feel this. Wants to take in the unmistakable feeling of taking Murphy’s life with a blade. Tactile. Primal. The desire to remember this moment forever burns deep inside of Mr. Madness. He so badly wants to hold on to the moment he removes Murphy’s life from him. The moment Mr. Madness kills the alpha.
&nbs
p; Murphy looks over the blade as it inches closer and closer.
Raise your shotgun, asshole!
Do something!
Gunshots ring out from the basement. Murphy knows Hiro has already won.
Mr. Madness steps closer to Murphy. Holds the large knife gently, like an egg. Playful.
Murphy’s mind is reduced to globs of misfiring emotions failing to connect. Watching, he takes in everything as if it’s happening to someone else. Front row seat at a movie that will not produce a feel-good ending.
The shotgun slips from his fingers. Accepting the ending as eventual.
Mr. Madness watches the gun fall to the floor. Almost disappointed he’s being denied the fight he’s imagined. The one he dreamed of while waiting upstairs. No matter. He grips the knife tight. Ready.
He glances toward Mother. She’s balled up by the wall. Blood starting to pool. She doesn’t have long. A new sound enters Murphy’s mind.
A voice.
One that cuts through the collection of endless nothingness.
One he hasn’t heard before, or that he has forgotten. The voice isn’t his own. It is not the voice of Mother, Noah, or even Kate. It’s two voices. Tangled, woven together, forming a single soul-melting sound. Angelic voices wrapped and coiled into one.
The combined sound of the girls fills his mind.
He’s never experienced this sound inside his head. New, yet achingly familiar at the same time. His splintered mind has blocked the memory of how wonderful they sound. Their laughter as he played with them. The joyous sound of a child discovering a new world. It’s amazing. A staggering memory of auditory bliss. Perhaps one his mind protected him from before.
Murphy’s fingers tingle. Electricity rips through his veins.
Mr. Madness stands inches from him. Blade raised. Smile big and wide.
Murphy clucks his tongue.
Mr. Madness stops. His chest tightens as his sick smile fades. Confusion surges. There’s a new look in Murphy’s eyes. A light now shines in eyes that were dark and lost only seconds ago.