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

by Mike McCrary

  Murphy grabs a fistful of Mr. Madness’s hair.

  Lifts up onto his toes and then pulls down fast, yanking Mr. Madness down hard using all the force and strength he has. Murphy wraps his free hand around the clenched fist that holds the knife. Holds the blade steady, moving it up and pushing through Mr. Madness’s throat.

  Murphy releases.

  Mr. Madness stumbles back as his fingers slide and fumble at the blade. Fighting to pull it free from his neck as his fingers slip helplessly off the handle. Blood pours down the white shirt and loosened tie. His eyes spread wide. Gurgling nonsense tumbles out from his lips as Mr. Madness falls to his knees.

  Murphy grabs the shotgun and rushes to his mother’s side. Her face is pale. Her body shakes and twitches. There’s a pulse. Weak, but there’s a sign of life.

  He checks his phone. No signal. Still jammed. He can’t count on when the CIA will arrive. Murphy runs to the basement door. As he moves down the stairs, he can hear Tinker yelling. He’s upset. His voice crackles. Sounds like angry pleading.

  “No,” Tinker yells. “No more.”

  Hiro stands by his friend. The body of the gray suit lies at his feet. Hiro’s face is wrecked with an expression of hopelessness. Tinker’s eyes are full of tears, his cheeks flushed red. The same lost man Murphy talked to before. A man who has given up. Hiro sees Murphy as he reaches the last step.

  Murphy levels his shotgun on Hiro. Hiro raises his gun on Murphy.

  “It’s over,” Murphy says. “We can all walk out of—”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Spits flies from Tinker’s lips. “Do it, Hiro. End all this.”

  Hiro shakes his head no as tears roll down his face.

  “Do it, man. Please,” Tinker begs. “This only ends one way. You know it too. I don’t want this. The thoughts, the memories of death, the fucking weight of all the suffering we’ve caused.”

  “Put the gun down, Hiro,” Murphy presses. “He’s wrong. I can help—”

  “Help?” Tinker yells. “Is that a serious statement?”

  Hiro keeps his gun on Murphy but his eyes on Tinker.

  “This is the rest of our lives.” Tinker’s heads drops down. “I can’t do this.”

  “Come on, man.” Murphy moves slow and easy toward them. “Let’s talk.”

  Tinker looks up to Hiro. “You can’t do this either.”

  Hiro nods as his stare slips over to Murphy. Cold. Empty.

  “No!” Murphy screams, rushing toward him.

  Hiro turns fast, firing a shot between Tinker’s eyes, then jams the gun under his own chin.

  Murphy closes his eyes as the single, soulless blast of the gun echoes through the basement. Hiro slumps to the floor peacefully, as if he were lying down for much needed rest. Murphy drops the shotgun, wrapping his face in his hands. They’d rather die than have him inside their minds. That’s a hard truth that will stick with Murphy for a long, long time.

  There’s a string of quick buzzes.

  It’s the phone he got from Ernesto’s place. A new series of messages.

  Get to the vactrain station. The new, fancy one.

  You’ll get your destination once you get there.

  Tell no one.

  “Who the hell are you?” Murphy whispers, cutting through emotions still fresh and raw.

  A new realization hits him, knocking him loose from the carnage and the messages from the unknown sender. The cell signal in the house is back up. Murphy races up the stairs, pulling his personal phone.

  As he calls in to the CIA emergency line, he moves fast, grabbing towels from the bathroom. He inspects Mother’s wounds, describing them to the agent on the line. Every second counts, and if the medic coming can get a head start, then there’s a chance. Dressing her wounds the best he can, he knows the CIA will come storming into the safe house in minutes if not seconds.

  He looks to the mystery phone with the cryptic messages.

  He has to leave. This has to end.

  One way or another.

  “They’re coming, Mother.” He brushes her hair away from her eyes. “They’ll take good care of you. Hang on, you scary bitch.”

  Murphy places a pillow from the couch behind her head.

  Chapter 29

  The Newark Station is bustling at this hour.

  Murphy received another message after he parked the car.

  There’s a ticket waiting for you at the kiosk.

  The vactrain ticket says it’s taking him to Chicago. Whoever bought the ticket paid for a premium private car and the max acceleration/deceleration upcharge. Murphy’s heard these are twice the cost of a normal ticket and the speed makes for a less comfortable ride. Not his favorite, but it means one thing is for certain—the person pulling the strings is on a clock.

  This person is concerned that every second matters.

  Another message buzzes.

  A car is waiting for you on the other end of this joy ride.

  The idea of being led around by the nose isn’t something Murphy loves either, but he also knows he has to give to get in this situation. Good options are funneling quickly to zero. Murphy takes the ticket and heads toward a small crowd that waits near a platform. His CIA credentials—makes Murphy laugh to think about it in those terms—allowed him to bring his Glock along for the ride as long as it was unloaded. He keeps it tucked behind his back, under his shirt, but the fact it’s there gives him some small bit of comfort.

  He’s fifth in the queue to enter the high-speed train.

  He tries to ignore the aches and pains that fire through his body. As the adrenaline fades, the realities of the physical toll of all that’s happened is taking hold. On the ride to the station, he received word Mother is in surgery, as well as Darby. The doctors are optimistic, but when you’re dealing with bullets along with going under the knife for a considerable length of time, it’s hard to predict how the body will react to trauma. Let alone the mind.

  Breathing in and out, he clenches his fists and releases them quick in an attempt to unwind his tangled tension. After a few minutes, Murphy’s boarding number is called. He heads into the waiting vactrain and is escorted into his private car. The seats are plush with deep leather accented with polished hardwood. They’ve worked hard to give the illusion of luxury living in a vacuum tube. A modern Orient Express is probably the best way to describe the attempt. There’s a harness with thick straps imbedded in the seats that takes away a bit of the luxury veneer, but Murphy knows it is more than necessary.

  Murphy straps in, snapping the harness over his shoulders, tucking his feet into the slots under the seat. A notification flashes across the window in front of him coupled with an AI-generated voice that matches the question projected on the glass.

  Is Chicago your destination?

  “Yes,” Murphy grunts, growing tired of talking to these damn machines.

  The vactrain has already begun to move forward, swaying slightly side to side.

  Distance to destination is 778 miles.

  Time to destination is 23 minutes, 37 seconds.

  Murphy grips the armrests of the seat. He doesn’t enjoy this form of travel. Can’t argue with saving time, but it is not his favorite by a long shot. The train begins to move through the underground labyrinth of tunnels on its way to the artery that will send Murphy firing off to Chicago. Strapped into a high-speed form of transport that rockets people around like cattle riding a bullet stuck on a bolt of lightning. A bland, lemon scent fills the car. It borders on antiseptic, but the anti-nausea medication released into the air is also a necessity.

  Departing the station in one minute. Heads back, please. Rapid acceleration begins in 59 seconds.

  A padded restraint slides out from the top of the seat and extends across Murphy’s forehead, holding his neck against the headrest. Murphy thinks of a rollercoaster he loved as a child. Of how the metal bar restraint would come down over him and his skinny frame. He guesses this is something from Noah. A comforting memory that’s tr
ying to soothe him.

  The train jolts, stops, jolts again and stops, settling into a grove Murphy guesses is the primary tube. He looks through the glass in front of him but there is nothing to see. Complete darkness with a long red light that runs seemingly into an endless horizon.

  Three.

  Two.

  The long light turns yellow.

  One.

  Green.

  Murphy’s body feels like it’s being sucked deep into the seat. The world is nothing but constant, rushing darkness through the glass. There’s no sense of the incredible speed, more like he’s being held down by an incredible force. He tries to lift his arms even though he knows it’s no use. After a few moments, the acceleration ends and there’s no real sense of movement. Only the occasional break in the racing dark that surrounds the glass.

  Murphy tries to parse what’s happened over the last few days.

  An impossible task, he knows.

  He needs to focus on whoever is at the end of this ride.

  Counting backward, he tries to unspool his tangled thoughts. Attempting to wiggle himself away from his imprisoned mind to find a floating freedom that comes from slipping into the void of a thoughtless state. Needs to empty his bouncing thoughts and find some form of rest. A rested mind will be necessary if he’s going to beat whatever is waiting for him.

  And whatever is waiting for him will require all that he has.

  Suddenly, the car fills with light. A rolling landscape scrolls past as if he’s in a movie playing in fast-forward. The world is a mutating blur of shapeless color. Impossible to identify objects or locations. Murphy closes his eyes, continuing his desire to find the thoughtless void.

  At least for a little while.

  True to the nameless messenger’s word, there’s a car waiting for him as he exits the station in Chicago.

  The sky is dark and cold. A light dusting of snow.

  Murphy slides in as the car’s warm, comforting voice welcomes him. He’s guessing he will not be given the opportunity to switch to a manual driving mode. The car confirms his suspicions are correct when he asks.

  Relax and enjoy the trip, Mr. Murphy. We will be in beautiful Buffalo Grove soon.

  Murphy knows nothing about Buffalo Grove, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s hardly an expert in the burbs. Digging deeper, he’s pretty sure Mr. Nice Guy doesn’t know the area either. He pulls his Glock from behind his back. More to feel it in his hand. He slides in a magazine, a security blanket of sorts.

  The car pulls away from the station and onto the highway leaving the city of Chicago. There’s comfort in the fact this view is moving at a more normal rate of speed. He can make out the city. The buildings. The faces of people. The neighborhoods. The rich and the poor and the absence of a middle. The heated seats feel good on his battered body. His muscles throb over his aching bones. There’s a sandwich on the seat next to him. A nice gesture, but there’s no way in hell he’s eating or drinking anything provided in this car.

  The phone buzzes. Murphy looks to the screen.

  The car will take you where you need to be. I’ll meet you there.

  I’m the woman with a green lizard on her neck.

  Green lizard?

  On a woman’s neck?

  Murphy’s mind spins, flipping through the database of people who populate his mind. Nothing. No one, male or female, with a lizard. Then, like confirming fingers snapping inside his head, he remembers. The diner. The greatest pie in the world. When he first met Mr. Madness. When he and his friends unleashed their special brand of chaos. There was a woman one table over. She was watching them. A bright-green lizard was tattooed on her neck. He didn’t recognize her then and has no idea who she is now.

  Murphy leans back into the seat, gripping his Glock, rubbing the barrel with his fingers.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 30

  The woman with the neon-green lizard neck tat chews the last bite of her burger.

  Their cars are parked on the side of an empty dirt road surrounded by trees. She and Murphy stand to the right of a thick patch of woods. Not much can be seen past the first line of trees and brush. The sun has started cutting through offering some heat to balance out the cool breeze that pushes through the branches. Under normal circumstances, a lovely day. There’s an earthy scent. The work of fungi and bacteria that decompose plant matter, but there’s a different smell in the mix as well. One of caramel and burned sugar.

  Murphy has no idea where this appreciation of the outdoors is coming from.

  Has to be Mr. Nice Guy.

  Murphy begins calculating the likelihood he can pull his Glock and drop her before she gets a shot off. Not out of the question, but he bookmarks the idea, thinking we’re not there yet.

  But we’re not far off either.

  “Need to walk and talk.” She smiles, checks the time, then tosses the empty wrapper inside her car. “That work?”

  She raises her empty hands with palms open facing Murphy. A universal showing of I come in peace. Murphy knows she has a gun tucked behind her back, much like he does. He can also see the outline of her backup piece on her ankle. This walk and talk will be peaceful, until it’s not.

  “Not here to fight,” she insists.

  “No?”

  “There’s been enough blood spilled. Don’t you think?” She puts her hands down, letting them drop to her side like limp noodles. “Not a violent person by nature. I do violence, fully capable and not afraid of it at all, but I don’t use it as a traditional go-to. I know it’s simply part of the toolbox.”

  “Got anything in that toolbox to cut the shit?”

  “Funny. Heard you were a stitch.” Says this with a fading smile. “Listen. We both know we can kill one another. That has been made abundantly clear. But what’s in the past can stay there as far as I’m concerned. I’m here to talk about the future. Wanted you here so we can discuss a future where we are both alive. Thriving. A future together.”

  “Together? We’re only just getting to know one another.”

  “You’re a full snack, Markus Murphy. That’s for certain.” Smile returns, pouring some syrup on her words.

  “You hitting on me, gorgeous?”

  “Not today.”

  “You’re kinda horrible at it.”

  “I’m on a clock.”

  “Sorry. Hate for you to be late fucking up someone else’s life.”

  “You’re about to be on a clock too.”

  It’s the look she’s holding so comfortably that eats at Murphy. Like a reckless poker player with shit cards, but a gun under the table. She’s holding something, something big.

  Murphy’s chest tightens.

  A constricting feeling that comes from knowing someone you can’t trust has agency over you. Not something he embraces. Not that he’d really thought he had much room to manipulate this situation, but he held on to the illusion he at least had a leg to stand on. This woman has all the answers to all the questions he doesn’t even know to ask.

  “Can we?” She points toward the woods. “Won’t take too long. Promise.”

  “Seems like we’re talking fine here.” He looks to the sky. “Sun’s out. Nice day. Birds and shit.”

  “There’s something you need to see.”

  “Already got a hole dug in the woods?”

  “Just want to talk. Promise.” She checks the time again. “And, again, to show you a little something.”

  Murphy takes a beat. With zero good options, he reluctantly gives her a nod.

  They move side by side into the woods, weaving between the trees. She leads mostly but she’s conscious to stay near him. Sometimes she drifts back to walking beside him, slightly behind him, then she’ll move a few steps ahead.

  It’s a skill Murphy has learned as well. The ability to watch someone without watching them. The way she moves. The way she speaks. Everything has a purpose. Nothing wasted. Every word and each movement of her body is building toward something
for her. This is a person who’s been trained. More importantly, she’s taken to the training and made it part of who she is.

  There’s also a pang of familiarity with her as well.

  They cut a path through the trees while moving in silence. He knows she’s letting his mind fill the quiet. Allowing him to imagine all the possibilities. It’s an effective technique. Leaves crunch under their feet. They move branches aside as needed. Murphy waits for her to say something. This is her show. He doesn’t want to push her for information. No reason to seem anxious even if anxiety is clearly warranted here. Information will come.

  Let her give.

  Give her nothing in return.

  “I’m going with Emma, by the way. Emma Cain,” she finally says, holding a branch back and allowing him to pass. “My name. Still on the fence about it. What do you think?”

  “Nice. Catchy. Going with a kind yet firm sort of thing?”

  “Something like that.” She skips like a child enjoying the outdoors. “Probably color my hair too. Maybe do something about this lizard tat. It’s a bit of an identifier.”

  Murphy nods. “Makes sense. Planning a trip somewhere?”

  “I am. Many somewheres.”

  They reach a bit of an incline. A small hill. Nothing crazy, but enough to start a burn inside the thighs. Murphy so badly wants to slam her head against a tree and scream questions into her smug face.

  Where are we going?

  What the hell are you doing?

  Who the hell are you?

  Emma checks the time again. She turns her focus to an area up ahead. Murphy can see her mind grinding on something. There’s a plan. No question. One he’s strolling into and there’s not much he can do about it. She’s working the math. He feels like he’s forgotten how to add and subtract.

  Murphy grips his fists tight, then releases.

  He shakes his right hand, wanting to keep it loose as possible so he can make a quick play for his Glock if he needs to make a move. Wants a lightning-fast, smooth draw if he needs to go full-on Murphy to take on whatever is over this hill.