by Ethan Cross
He looked over at the CIA agent, Yoshida, who was leaning calmly against one of the metal tables, arms crossed and looking bored.
“Still no help from the agency on this?” he said.
Yoshida shrugged. “Your hostage takers are possible foreign nationals and suspected terrorists. I’m merely here to observe and be of assistance if required. We are called the Central Intelligence Agency. You may need some intel. After all, we are on the same team.”
“Did you practice that speech in the mirror?” Nic said.
Yoshida just smiled back and locked those cold, dead eyes onto his. But Nic wasn’t interested in getting into a staring match or a pissing contest. He turned his gaze to Burke, who had his back to one corner of the room as if trying to melt into the wall and become invisible. Nic had been watching the young doctor since they had entered the vault room. Burke had spent most of the time playing on his iPad—doing what looked like sketching of some kind—or twirling his fingers anxiously through his shaggy blond hair.
“Dr. Burke, do you have any thoughts on why Agent Yoshida would show up here?” Nic asked.
Burke looked up from his drawing, eyes wide with surprise, fear, or a combination of the two. Burke shot a cautious glance in Yoshida’s direction. “Like he said. Intelligence and stuff?”
Carter chuckled. “It’s okay, Burke. We’re all aware that Mr. Loria and Agent Yoshida are liars and bullshit artists.”
Loria looked like he’d been slapped. “You can’t speak to me that way. We have been nothing but—”
Carter ignored the GoBox executive. “And they know that they’re keeping us in the dark just as much as we do. What’s the chatter online involving the CIA and GoBox?”
Burke looked pale, like he might throw up. But he said, “The rumors are that the CIA uses GoBox, even helped found it, to act as their personal repository for classified, potentially damaging documents and to hide away black budget and illegally obtained funds.”
Carter grinned with obvious pride. “Thank you, Dr. Burke. Any comment on that, Agent Yoshida?”
Yoshida’s smile didn’t falter. “Such allegations are baseless conspiracy theories, but even if all that was true, what difference would it make? What bearing would it have on this situation? And don’t act like your self-righteous FBI and the DOJ don’t have secret task forces and hidden funds. We’ve all heard rumors about groups like the Shepherd Organization.”
Carter shook his head. “The SO isn’t a secret. They’re just a simple think tank.”
“Exactly. And the CIA would never hide funds or conduct operations on US soil. All that would be illegal and unthinkable.”
Carter gave a little chuckle and a shake of his head. “I think we’re done here. We need to get back to Henderson and do what we can to save a building full of people whose lives are in danger, likely because of some clandestine bullcrap that’s going on there that you two have full knowledge of. I’ve been doing this long enough to feel the temperature of a situation. These guys are stalling for time right now, but they’re about to turn up the heat. They’re about to do whatever it is they came for. If we don’t get out in front of them, people are going to get hurt or die. Good innocent people. The kind we swore to protect. And if that happens, and I find out that you’ve been protecting your secrets over those lives, then I’m going to personally drown the both of you in their blood.”
PART TWO
Chapter 35
Kruger watched in disgust as Dr. JoAnn Raskin opened her bag and retrieved the small vials of liquid. It took every bit of his self-control not to snap the doctor’s neck. What she was a doctor of, he had no idea. He simply knew that her expertise was in death.
Through clenched teeth, he said, “We’d better not have a repeat of last time.”
Standing up to full height, the unpleasant little woman glared at him. Raskin was American-born. Even if he hadn’t heard her speak, Kruger would have known her origins from the cocky, self-righteous, and entitled way she carried herself. She had stick-straight red hair that seemed unnaturally thin to him, like she was old beyond her years. He guessed she was in her forties, but it was difficult to tell with her angry little face always scrunched up into a scowl.
“We’ve been over this a thousand times,” she said. “What happened that day was not because of my work. It was because of your incompetence or negligence or just plain stupidity.”
“I told you that I followed your instructions to the letter. You killed those people, not me.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Again, we need each other, so we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
He imagined all the different ways he could kill her. Then he saw their faces. Women, children. All bleeding from their eyes, their mouths, their noses. How he was forced to hack off their heads, their limbs. He felt a thousand wildebeest stampeding through his chest, all of them kicking and clawing to get out. His breathing became increasingly erratic.
Dr. Raskin’s scowl deepened. “Take a chill pill, big man. We still have a lot of work to do. I can’t have you losing your shit on me now and going through some whiny PTSD panic attack. Where the hell are those burgers?”
Kruger reached to the small of his back where he kept his hunting knife in a concealed sheath. He pulled it free and held it out in front of him. He towered over the red-haired doctor like Goliath over David. Like David, Dr. Raskin showed no fear.
She narrowed her eyes at him and said, “Do it. See how your retirement plan works out for you without me.”
He smiled. “I’m not an idiot, doctor. I’m well aware that sometimes partnering with a devil is a necessary evil.”
“I’m the devil, huh? Flattery will get you nowhere with me. So, you just wanted to show me your knife? It looks a bit oversized. You compensating?”
He rested the knife in his massive hands and held it out for her inspection. The blade stretched out to ten inches and was two inches wide. Its edge was sharp as a scalpel, and he could wield it with just as much precision. The handle was made of bone, intricately carved into the head of a lion. The lion wasn’t roaring or bearing its fangs. Its eyes were closed. It looked peaceful, as if it were asleep or dead.
“I crafted this knife myself,” Kruger said. “The handle is made from the bones of the first lion I hunted and killed.”
“Did that make you feel like a big man? Shooting some poor, defenseless animal?” Raskin asked.
He laughed. “I would hardly call a lion defenseless. A typical male lion weighs over 400 pounds. His back teeth, called carnassials, are like razor-edged scissors that allow him to carve large chunks of meat from his kills. His eyes are six times more sensitive to light than a human’s, allowing him to see through the darkness. His roar can be heard from miles away. He can run for short distances at fifty miles per hour and leap nearly forty feet. His claws can reach lengths of almost twelve inches from base to tip. And I didn’t hunt him with a gun, doctor. Only a knife.”
“Bullshit.”
“Every year, on the anniversary of my mother’s death, I hike into the heart of the savannah, and I kill one of the lions, using only this knife.”
“That’s idiotic. Why would you do that?”
“When I was a boy, the lions devoured my mother while I listened to her screams. They took her from me, so every year I take retribution from their pride.”
Raskin looked doubtful. “How would you even get close enough to stab it?”
“It depends. Sometimes I kill a few large wildebeest first, cut out some of the entrails, and hide inside the pile of carcasses.”
“Like with the tauntaun in The Empire Strikes Back?”
“What is a tom tom?”
Raskin rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I forgot you’re a savage.”
“Oh, you have no idea how savage I can be,” Kruger said. “With the trap set, I wait for my prey. Even from inside the pile of carcasses I can hear the lion approaching. Their breathing is so powerful, so menacing. You can feel it vi
brate your chest with each of his exhalations. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was a much larger beast. Or something mythical. Like a dragon. But I know my prey well. I let him take a bite, and if things work out perfectly, I stab him through the eye, killing him instantly.”
“I’m surprised you don’t consider an ambush like that to be cheating.”
“There are no rules in survival.”
“What if things don’t work out perfectly?”
“If he sees through the ruse or I’m not quick enough or one of a thousand other things go wrong, then we engage in mortal combat, a fight to the death, one apex predator against another.”
Raskin laughed. “If he’s such a warrior, then how do you possibly beat a lion?”
In a flash of movement, Kruger slashed the knife in front of Raskin’s face, removing a large patch of red hair from the left side of her head.
“Because I’m even more of an expert with my claws,” he said. “A lion is the king of beasts. His only competition for prey comes from a pack of scavenging hyenas. And even in numbers, they’re no match for the lion.”
Raskin’s lip quivered with rage, as her hand reached up to the fresh bald spot on her head. “Is there a point to this story?”
“Yes, doctor. You see, I’m the king of beasts in this food chain, and you’re just a hyena, an opportunistic scavenger. Trust me, Doc, you don’t want me to get my claws into you.”
Her lip curled into a cocky sneer. “If you’re the king, why are you running away?”
“Even a lion knows when to retreat, especially when that’s better for the pride as a whole,” he said.
“That’s all very fascinating, but from here on out, keep your knife in your pants or I’ll—”
With two flicks of his wrist, Kruger cut gashes into both sides of Raskin’s neck. Not too deep, but enough to cause pain and spill her rancid blood.
“I need the knowledge in your head, but that leaves many other body parts I could cut off without compromising the mission,” he said.
Raskin held her hands to the sides of her neck, trying to stop the flow of blood. For the first time since the discussion began, Kruger saw fear in her eyes.
“You don’t have the time to torture cooperation out of me,” she said.
“It would be an inconvenience, but a little pain goes a long way. And remember, my claws are sharp. I’ve had a lot of practice with them.”
“You crazy Neanderthal,” she whispered. “We had a deal. Partners.”
“That’s true, and I try to be a man of my word. But for your own sake, I would strongly suggest that, from here on out, you remain a silent partner.”
Chapter 36
Isabel’s one-bedroom apartment sat in the center of Jo’burg’s Maboneng district. The entire neighborhood had once been warehouses and factories, but the industrial had given way to the artistic, and the area was now known for its street art and restaurants. Even South Africa’s most famous contemporary artist, William Kentridge, had his studios in Maboneng, which got its name from a Sotho word meaning “place of light.”
Isabel wouldn’t have normally been afraid to enter her apartment. Nowhere in Jo’burg was immune to crime, but Maboneng was a step up from the city’s average district. However, considering the events of the day and the anonymous threats she’d been receiving to drop the case, Isabel was always on guard, always vigilant.
She unlocked the door and then checked her makeshift security system. Unable to afford anything fancy on her meager constable’s pay, she had invented her own system that was basically free. She had taken five pieces of paper and placed them between the door and the jam on the hinged side. Each piece of paper had a random number written on it, creating a combination lock of sorts.
If someone entered her apartment, the pieces of paper would fall, and even if they tried to put the papers back in order to make it look like no one had entered, the intruder wouldn’t know the proper sequence.
She checked the door and found the small pieces of paper missing. Her breathing grew forced, and she cursed her stupidity. How many of them could be waiting for her? Did Mobius send a hit squad? That didn’t seem likely; Christopher could have killed her earlier. Then who? Angel taking action on his own?
A more disturbing thought struck her. What if the people responsible for the massacre had decided to add her to the list of casualties? What if it was the boogeyman himself, the infamous Kruger? But no, she thought, knowing that she would never see Kruger coming.
She pulled the Px4 Storm pistol that Christopher had returned to her, crouched low, and, with the gun tight to her body for a tactical entry, pushed the door inward. The hinges were well-oiled and silent. The entryway was clear, not that she expected a professional killer to be waiting right by the door.
The one good thing about a small apartment was that there weren’t many rooms or closets to check.
The bathroom was closest. Staying low and to make herself a smaller target, she cleared the room and checked the shower.
Then she heard a noise coming from the living room. She paused and strained to hear the intruder’s movements, his breathing. But instead of breathing, she heard a low and rhythmic rumbling.
Was that growling?
When she finally recognized the sound, she rolled her eyes, walked out of the bathroom, and moved to her tiny kitchen. She removed a plastic container of French onion dip from the fridge and a hand towel from one of the drawers. She moved to the small, square room that the realtor had spun as the “living room”
There, sitting on the couch and snoring his head off, was her father, Elliot Price. She cocked her head at the old man. His beard looked a bit long and unkempt, and it was white, just like the hair on his head. Beyond that, he looked exactly the same as he had when she was a kid. Maybe a few more wrinkles and worry lines, but the years had been kind to Elliot.
She didn’t expect time to be quite so generous with her, but she didn’t expect to live to be her father’s age either. She didn’t even expect to see her twenty-fifth birthday, let alone her fiftieth.
The TV was on, but the sound was turned all the way down. She saw the headline of New Developments in Cosmetics Lab Fire Investigation. Isabel had watched the original report a few days earlier and had paid attention because the lab wasn’t too far from where the massacre occurred, but there didn’t seem to be any kind of possible connection between mass murder and cosmetic research and development. The fire had destroyed the entire facility and as many as five people were believed dead.
Ignoring the TV, she turned back to her father, and a mischievous glee had replaced her dread and fear. She opened the lid to the French onion dip and scooped a large glob out with two fingers. Then, with a widening smile but without making a sound, she jammed the French onion dip up her father’s nose.
He instantly came awake. Coughing, gagging, and cursing.
She laughed as she handed him the towel.
Still mumbling curses, he snatched the towel from her hand. After wiping the dip from his face and nostrils, he said, “I don’t know why it gives you so much pleasure to pick on an old man.”
“I got my twisted sense of humor from you, and you know it. Besides, Papa, that’s what you get for breaking and entering.”
“I have a key. There was no breaking, just entering.”
“Intruding then.”
“Am I not welcome in my own daughter’s home?”
“Not when you were specifically told to stay away. Why aren’t you at Dingani’s house?”
Elliot threw the towel atop her glass coffee table and furrowed his brows. “Dingani? Yes, I thought you had forgotten who he was. What do they call people like him in law enforcement? A pal? A proctor?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, Papa, they call it a partner.”
“But aren’t partners supposed to watch your back, and in your case, keep you from acting like a total moron?”
“Mind your own business.”
“My da
ughter’s life is my business.”
“I also inherited my stubbornness and determination from you. So blame yourself,” she said.
“The determination came from your mother. So did the trait of never knowing when to ask for help or let something go.”
“You’re singing the same old song again. I can take care of myself, and I know what I’m doing.”
Elliot shook his head and scratched at his beard. “You told Dingani you were going to question those drug runners. Just a conversation and you’d let him know when you were done.”
She shrugged. “They were very talkative. I must have lost track of time.”
“Really, Izzy? What about Felix Ginger? Was he talkative?”
“Actually, yes, he was very helpful and hospitable. How did you know—”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re all worried sick about you.”
She sat down beside him on the old brown and yellow couch that she had picked up at a resale shop. It was ugly as sin, but it was hers. She took her father’s hand and said, “I’m a big girl, Papa. This is what I need to do to be whole again.”
Elliot struggled to hold back tears. “And what if this crusade ends your life?”
“Then I’ll have died fighting for something.”
“You’re young. You could have a child of your own.”
She gritted her teeth and looked at the ceiling, which was marred with brown water stains. “We’ve been over this. Why would I bring a child into this world when there are so many already here in need of love? So many kids who were born to a mother like I had.”
“Don’t talk about your mother that way. She was a complicated woman.”
“Complicated? As soon as times got rough, she drained your savings and left us to starve.”
He stood and walked into the kitchen, pulled the vodka from the cabinet and took a swig from the bottle. As he leaned against her counter, he said, “You think I could ever forget what she did. I see her every time I look at you. I’ll probably die in a shack with a dirt floor because of your mother. But I will never speak ill of her, and neither should you.”