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

by Mike McCrary

  He can’t freeze. Cannot allow a replay of the diner.

  “I’m CIA. Former CIA, I guess is more accurate. Even though there was no formal separation,” Emma says. “You probably guessed some of that.”

  Murphy alternates his focus between her hands that sway by her sides and the top of the hill up ahead. Thinks he hears a road nearby. There’s a dog barking off in the distance. Maybe the smell of meat on an outdoor grill.

  “You escaped the lab with Ernesto. Right? They don’t have a record of you.”

  “True, I did leave the facility with Ernesto, and no, I doubt seriously there’s any record of me. Not an accurate one at least.” She holds another branch for him. They aren’t far from the top of the hill. “I am a lot like you. Did you know that?”

  “You used to work with Agent Irving. Didn’t you?”

  “Very good, Murphy. Heard you were a sharp one.”

  “You were killed.”

  “Yeah, died badly, I’m afraid. Hurt quite a bit, but probably deserved some of it.”

  They’re reaching the top of the hill but still unable to see over the edge clearly. She checks the time, then holds up a hand, signaling for him to stop. Murphy slows, digging his feet into the ground. His feet are spread shoulder width, ready to launch or bolt. He previsualizes pulling his gun. Inside his mind, he can hear the gunshots echoing across the woods. One of their bodies falling to the dirt.

  “I’m going to say some things to you now.” Emma locks in on his eyes. Her mood has shifted from playful to painfully serious. “And what you say in return is so very, very important.”

  Murphy stares back. Clucks his tongue, then confirms with a nod.

  “Like I said, I am a lot like you. I don’t share your mind like Mr. Madness or Hiro or even dear Tinker. But I am—what do they call it—a split-head.”

  Murphy’s back stiffens. Spine becoming a steel rod.

  Her jacket buzzes. Comes from her inside pocket. She bites her lip and nods, as if the buzz is telling her something she’s been waiting to hear.

  “Come on. Almost there.” She motions for him to follow her up to the crest of the hill.

  Murphy’s heart pounds inside his chest.

  “The only place where Ernesto was ahead of Peyton’s work was with the long-term transition of the mind. He figured out how to avoid what Tinker, the others, and perhaps you experienced with—”

  “The crashing.” He doesn’t want to acknowledge anything he’s struggled with.

  “That’s right. Ernesto knew that pure Murphy, meaning you as the alpha, was too much. It wouldn't hold over time when mixed with opposite personalities. Mr. Madness and the others, the ones who shared your mind, they were stable people before you showed up. They had their problems, of course they did, everyone does, but they didn’t have Markus Murphy-sized issues.” Emma pauses. “You see, Peyton didn't try adding the alpha to others. She didn't add you to multiple people. No, she did the opposite. She added a nice, kind, compassionate human to you. Very different. She's a dutiful scientist. Took it slow. She wanted to help people. Do things the right way. Humane, even.”

  “God forbid.”

  Emma shrugs.

  As they reach the top of the hill, they can see a modest home below with a high redwood fence surrounding the backyard. From this vantage point, they can see down into the yard with a stretch of road about forty to fifty yards away from the house. A Labrador barks near the rear door of the house. There’s a trail of smoke drifting out from an outdoor grill. Smells amazing. Looks and feels like a home most everyone would want to live in.

  “You ever get angry?” she asks.

  “That a serious question?”

  “You’re right. Strike that.” She resets. “Do you ever feel angry about what they did to you?”

  “There a point to this little stroll in the woods?”

  “Getting there, but I would really like to know—do you ever feel angry at them? For what they turned you into. Surely both sides of you are, at the very least, moderately pissed off.”

  Murphy is all too familiar with the anger she’s talking about. That will always be there to some extent, but he’s laid it to rest the best he can. He won’t let her bait him into something here.

  “Like you said, the past is in the past.”

  “Fair enough.” Emma checks the time again.

  She puts her hands up, motioning, asking permission to reach behind her. Murphy wiggles his fingers, moves his hand in a ready position, then nods. Nice and easy she pulls a pair of high-powered M22 binoculars from behind her back. Murphy knows these. Military grade. Used by the Marines.

  What is she up to?

  Afraid he already knows the answer.

  A black Tesla sedan with blackout windows pulls to a stop on the road that lies up and to the right of the house. Pointing toward the car, she nudges him to take a look through the M22s. Murphy fights his shaking hands, placing them to his eyes. The car window lowers.

  Brubaker sits in the passenger side. She stares directly at him. Void of expression.

  Everything inside of Murphy stops.

  Lungs stop drawing air. Thoughts shut down.

  “She’s the one who was added to me. Brubaker was put into my mind.” She smiles. “Only, I’m the newer model. One created with the lessons learned. Adjustments made from mistakes made. I will not crash. I’m the mix of two similar minds with updated, improved science.”

  The Tesla’s window goes up.

  Murphy’s hand drops to his side, his fingers barely clinging to the binoculars. As if someone wiped his soul clean from his body.

  “And to be clear, I’m someone who was not so nice to begin with.”

  She checks the time once again, then looks to the house. She gives Murphy another nudge. His lifeless body moves forward a few steps. Emma looks down at his feet. There’s a rock with a black stripe painted across it. Murphy’s feet are just behind the rock.

  “Move closer,” she whispers in his ear. “But not too close.”

  Murphy takes a step, moving past the rock with the black stripe.

  “Good.” Emma stands behind him speaking in a calm, soothing tone. “You can have the US. We only want the rest of the world.”

  “What the hell are you talking—”

  “Brubaker and I have things set up. Things are in motion. We have lots of friends overseas. Jobs. Big jobs, exciting moves we can make.”

  “You think I’m going to let you two just bounce out of here?”

  “No, I don’t. That’s why we’re here, Murphy.” Emma raises Murphy’s hand, making sure the M22s reach his eyes one more time.

  The door of the house below opens.

  Murphy holds his breath.

  The man and woman from the park step out carrying two baby girls.

  His girls.

  “You are now standing within fifty yards of your girls. The CIA will be here in minutes,” Emma says, glancing toward the striped rock. “I just need you to know that I know where they are. I wish them no harm. Brubaker doesn’t even know they are here. Don’t worry, I made sure the sight line from the road can’t see into the backyard. Those girls, that’s really her only true weakness.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” he says, voice breaking.

  “No, no you’re not, and here’s why. If I even think you’re coming after us, I’m going to carve up everyone in that house. Even the goddamn dog.” Emma steps back. “This is a peace offering, Murphy. A chance. An opportunity for you to do the right thing.”

  “You set up the ambush at the safe house.” His eyes close.

  She nods. Checks the time one last time. The CIA will be there soon.

  “You wanted everyone focused on the attack at the safe house. Made it easier to get Brubaker out of the hospital.”

  “Easier, but not easy.”

  “You wanted us all to kill one another.”

  “You’re running out of time, Murphy.”

  “You wanted Mr. Madness, Tinker,
Hiro to kill as many of us as possible. Wanted us to kill them. Then, you’d deal with whoever was left.”

  “Needed a result. An answer so I could form a reasonable, properly measured action. Somehow, I always knew you’d be the last one standing.”

  Emma shrugs, shoving her hands into her pockets.

  What’s a girl to do?

  “If I’m being honest, it was more like we ran out of time. I wanted to kill you today. Knew you’d be a tough out, love a challenge, really hoped Brubaker and I could do it together. Kill you, start clean, and it would be this little bonding experience for us. But, there’s a bit of a soft spot when it comes to you. Guess we both have it in a way. However, that bitch they stuck in her head gnawed away some of her edge.”

  Murphy moves toward her.

  Emma waves a finger at him, then points to the girls laughing, playing in the yard below. The dog runs between them. The man and woman have smiles so big they can be seen even from where they stand.

  “Brubaker and me? We’re so alike and so different at the same time. Like sisters in that way.”

  Murphy watches the girls. His girls. Feels something inside unhinge.

  “If you touch them—”

  “Murphy—”

  “—you better kill yourself before I get to you.”

  “Come on, now.”

  “Tell me you understand what I’m saying to you, Emma Cain.”

  “Oh, I understand completely, Markus Murphy. But you need to understand the beauty of what I’m saying to you. None of us—you, me, or your girls—none of us have to die or experience an ounce of pain. You are in absolute control of that.” Emma snaps her fingers, bringing his hard stare back to her. “Do not give me a reason to come back here.”

  Murphy pulls his Glock.

  Green means go.

  Emma flips three small injectors before he can level his weapon. Two in his neck. One in his chest. Murphy feels himself peel away from the world upon impact. He rips the one from his chest. His knees give out and he slumps down into the crunching leaves as he reaches for his neck.

  Emma pulls his arm back, away from the two injectors, while easing him down.

  He remembers the night in New York when he did the same thing to Brubaker. Flipped the same injectors into Brubaker’s neck, putting her down in the street like a wild animal.

  His eyes lower like thick doors made of lead.

  Emma leans down, stuffing something into his jacket.

  “Easy now,” she whispers, her lips close to his ear. “You’ve done good. Time to rest. Time to carve out some peace for yourself.”

  Murphy fumbles to hold on to consciousness that’s sliding away from him. His fingers dig into the grass as he tries to drag himself closer to her. Globs of light collect, swallowing his vision.

  “Wait?” slips from lips.

  Emma Cain waves goodbye, then skips away toward the Tesla. And Brubaker.

  His mind screams like a madman. Veins pulp and pop along his neck while his body lies motionless, seemingly to sink into the ground underneath him.

  His fingers release the grass as the dark takes hold.

  3 WEEKS LATER

  Chapter 31

  Murphy chews on a slice of pizza as he towels off from his shower.

  His work uniform is spread out flat-guy style across the bed.

  A bed he still hasn’t gotten proper sheets for yet.

  There’s a pair of secondhand-store jeans, a navy-blue T-shirt, black workout socks and a pair of high-dollar sneakers that cost more than a car payment. The T-shirt has the words Johnny Psycho’s written in some form of bloodred neon font on the front. A cartoonlike logo of two hands firing off double-barrel middle fingers on the back.

  Johnny was kind enough to give Murphy his job back. Well, he only worked there for an hour or so, and his hiring was really because the feds leaned on Johnny pretty hard, but it was long enough for Murphy to show what he could do. Aside from almost killing a couple of assholes while working the front door, Murphy demonstrated some skills behind the bar.

  Behind a bar is where Murphy has found the most comfort since all this started.

  It was only for a moment—only a blink in time, really—but Murphy felt a calming connection with the rhythm of the work. The feel of being the eye of the storm, without the anxiety of constant death. As brief as it was, it was refreshing to see how everyday working people lived. Murphy had never tended bar, or even ever had a real job per se, but Mr. Nice Guy was a pro at slinging sauce.

  Looking back, that was the first time the two blended. Their minds mixed together during their time at the bar, and it was at a time when they had no idea that was what was happening to either of them. It was before Peyton explained their new lives. Crazy to think of it as a simpler time, but it was without question before everything turned upside down and was lit on fire.

  There was comfort in the ignorance of the madness to come.

  Also, working at Johnny Psycho’s makes perfect sense considering Murphy has no real marketable skills other than murder and mayhem. All these points made it a pretty easy decision to reach out to Johnny when Murphy hit New York.

  Johnny—the gravy-voiced proprietor of Johnny Psycho’s—hid any reluctance he might have had and hired Murphy on the spot. They’d hit it off when they met that first night, before things traveled north of crazy. Murphy made it clear he was a bartender and had no interest in muscling drunks or working the door. Johnny agreed but made him promise that if things went shithouse with a full-on bar brawl Murphy would jump in and crack skulls if needed.

  Murphy thought that was fair. So far the tips have been good, and the clientele and coworkers have been okay. It hasn’t been long, but it feels like he’s settling into a version of normal. Something that some people might consider an honest life. A simple life. Simple and honest sounds nice. That was the entire point of his move to the city.

  New York City.

  A place he could disappear into.

  Pulling on his clothes, he tells the wall screen to shut off some random cooking show that’s been playing in the background as he got ready for work. He can’t watch the news. Music only jars loose memories or makes him want to dance—odd but true—and he’s found the lull of people arguing while cooking shit to be perfect white noise for him. He slides his Glock behind his back until he feels the soft click of the holster. Adjusting his T-shirt, he grabs an ID that says he’s Blake Harper from Hoboken, along with a couple of the prepaid credit cards the CIA gave him.

  He knows it’s all closely monitored. The ID, the cards, Blake Harper, Murphy, his mind and body, all of it. Everything he’s done or will do has been and will be watched, analyzed to death, and dissected. Not much he can do about it, so Murphy tries to find peace with it. Tells himself it’s like he’s a global superstar sensation and the CIA is the paparazzi. All bullshit, but it gets him through the day.

  None of this is perfect.

  Perfect is unobtainable.

  The agency was kind enough to set him up with some funding to get him started on this new life of his. Allowed him to get into this New York apartment and pick up a few things. Got himself a good bed, a so-so couch, and the best media setup he could find. Also bought three plates, four cups, and two bowls. A pan. A pot. Four sets of forks and spoons, along with a butcher block of high-end knives. He figured the knives could serve multiple purposes. There’s a baseball bat in most rooms, his assault shotgun in the hall closet, a Ka-Bar secured under the bed, and he sleeps with his Glock under his pillow.

  His work uniform is oddly similar to his everyday garb.

  It’s by design. Less decisions. Less to think about. A nice compromise between the minds of Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy. Murphy can appreciate the military aspect of a uniform—although he’s come to enjoy nice clothes—and Mr. Nice Guy Noah likes the casual, unpretentious feel of it. The closet holds a variety of black and navy-blue T-shirts, jeans, a good winter coat and a lot of sneakers.

  He’s foun
d he likes sneakers. Nice ones. Expensive ones. Doesn’t mind a cheap T-shirt, but for some reason, he feels the need to pay up for footwear. Maybe it’s from his time spent racing through city streets and unknown terrain. From having to go from zero to a hundred at a moment’s notice. Rarely go wrong with a nice pair of athletic footwear.

  He doesn’t really care about the reason why.

  Figures he’s earned some fucking cool shoes.

  He blends into the masses that fill the street as he steps out from his building and into the chilly air. The horde of New Yorkers moves like a rolling river pouring out to destinations that vary from as close as a few blocks away, to the Bronx, to Staten Island, to Philadelphia or everywhere in between. A setting sun lowers like a fireball, hiding between the towering stacks of rock and metal that line the city. A cool, bordering on cold, breeze blows. Murphy jams his hands into his pockets.

  He didn’t tell them anything about Emma Cain.

  Or Lady Brubaker.

  During the hours of debriefing, he held to his story that was led to the house near the woods and was attacked from behind by someone unknown. Explained that he had no idea the girls lived there—that much was true—and told them he had no intention of ever going back there.

  That was also true, to a certain extent.

  The CIA extended their radius, their leash on Murphy. If he gets within one mile of the girls, or the man and woman who adopted them, the CIA will be notified. The alert level will intensify as he moves closer to them. If he gets within a hundred yards, a full-on assault team will be sent in. Murphy seriously doubts they would have the time to scramble a team in time if he were so inclined to try and test it, but he gets what they’re saying.

  So, that’s why Mother lives slightly over a mile away from the girls now.

  She finally got out of the hospital—still needs a surgery or two after that attack at the safe house—and she checks in on the girls from time to time. Peyton told Murphy they weren’t tracking Mother, at least not yet. A blind spot in the chaos, Peyton called it.

  Murphy didn’t tell Peyton about Emma Cain either.

  He did, however, tell Mother. Which is why her relocation was such an easy sell. Murphy told her everything Emma said to him. The threat that was made abundantly clear.