by Ethan Cross
He rushed over to the cake table, secured three pieces, and made his way to the kitchen. He explained to one of the caterers about the cake, and she was glad to help. She took the three pieces and said she would wrap them up and leave them on the counter. With a rushed thank you, he hurried back to the stairs, the second floor, and back to the hallway where his supposed friend had betrayed him and called him a fat freak.
Marcus stopped, breathing hard and heart pounding. He sucked in a few gasps and forced his lungs to calm. He listened. The sounds of the party, the air-conditioning, waiters in the kitchen, children giggling and playing in the backyard, the hum of fluorescent lighting, the rush of water flowing through pipes, and there, somewhere beneath it all, the muffled voices of Junior and Eddie.
Marcus followed the sound down the hall and to the point where green became red, public versus restricted, safe versus dangerous. He hesitated at the boundary, knowing that he should turn around. As he stepped across the threshold into the red area, he could’ve sworn that the air grew colder and the light dimmer.
He followed the sound of their voices, needing to know the very thing they didn’t want him to. The murmurs originated from a bedroom on his left, but Marcus waited in the hallway and listened. He knew Eddie would just tell him to get lost again.
Marcus arrived just in time to hear the phrase: “secret passageways.” Junior continued, “My Grandpa Angelo was a real nut job.”
“I thought you said he was the greatest man to ever live?”
“No, he was looney toons. I just told little boy blue that to shut him up. During Grandpa A’s younger years they called him the Butcher; during his older years, they called him the Mad King. He built this place in his older years. My pop had all the entrances to the secret passageways boarded up. But I re-opened this one, so I can sneak around the house.”
Eddie said, “That is so awesome.”
Marcus peeked around the corner and saw Junior opening a secret passageway by twisting a piece of trim and pulling it off the wall. Then he pushed against a portion of the wall, which clicked open to reveal the hidden entrance.
As he grabbed a flashlight from a nearby bookshelf, Junior said, “Come on. Let’s do some exploring. But once we get in there, you stick right by me.”
“Why? What’s in there?”
“Don’t be a baby. Nothing’s in there. It’s just that some of the passageways have been sealed off, others are dead ends. It’s easy to get lost. I thought I was gonna have to spend the night in there one time. Before I got the hang of it. So stick with me, okay?”
“Like glue,” Eddie whispered.
Marcus, although concealed outside the doorway, could still picture Eddie’s face. That moment where his stiff bravado cracked and the scared little boy beneath shined through. Marcus had seen that look on Eddie’s face several times before. It had once been an endearing quality, and somehow, knowing that it was all a cover made it easier to put up with Eddie’s egomania.
He waited for the other boys to leave the room and then gave them a moment to travel down the secret passageway before working up enough nerve to pursue.
Repeating Junior’s procedure, Marcus followed the other boys into the bowels of the Mad King’s castle.
38
Stefan Granger didn’t ascend the last set of stairs up to the small-time pimp’s own version of the Oval Office. Instead, he kicked into one of the rooms on the southern wall and headed toward a fire escape, which he had already scoped out earlier. Most buildings had changed over to inner stairwells rather than external fire escapes, but there were always a few preservation holdouts and those too poor to update.
Granger followed the metal stairs up to the penthouse, but he made sure to stay out of sight. With a quick glance through the window, he saw the pimp dressed in nothing but a pink bathrobe. Faraz held a scantily clad woman out in front of him, his arm tight around her neck, her eyes bulging. His other hand held a gold 9-mm Beretta.
He assumed the woman to be Samantha Campbell. She was needed alive. Granger took aim with the Mac 10, but there wasn’t enough separation between Faraz and Sammy. Even though he was accustomed to the weapon and could control the bursts, his instrument of choice for this assignment simply wasn’t designed for pinpoint accuracy.
The antiviral mask hindered his ability to spit, and so he growled instead. He knew a variety of different attacks, both physical and mental, but he didn’t have time for subterfuge. The police were already en route. Still, he saw no other open moves with his current resources.
Quickly analyzing the situation, Granger stepped behind the bricks beside the window. Then he reached down and knocked. As he had expected, the pimp whirled toward him and opened fire. The window shattered, but Granger was relatively protected behind the wall from a 9 mm. There was a slight chance of a bullet ricocheting off the metal framework of the fire escape. But random instances such as that were also why Stefan Granger had all his clothes lined with a carbon nanotube composite—a revolutionary new material that was pliable under normal conditions but hardened like steel with any impact.
After Faraz finished his tantrum, Granger leaned forward and said, “I’m just here to talk.”
“You seem to let your machine gun do the talking!”
“It was your guys who drew on me. I just needed a word. And they must’ve taken one look at me and decided to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“You lie!” Faraz yelled.
“Think about it. I could’ve killed you just now. I had the drop on you. I could’ve taken you down, but I didn’t. Instead, I knocked on the window to get your attention. I’m only here to talk. Now, can I come out without you trying to shoot me.”
“You go ahead and come in real slow, but if I don’t like any twitch, I take you down.”
“Fair enough,” Granger said as he climbed inside, the Mac 10 still in his hand but his arms raised up in surrender and the weapon’s barrel pointed at the ceiling.
Which was, in reality, an attack position.
With a flick of his wrist, he could direct his fire back to the pimp, but most people without a law enforcement or military background didn’t recognize such a threat.
Faraz said, “So talk. And part of what you want to talk about better give me good reason not to kill you.”
Sammy wailed and cried as Faraz loosened his grip enough to allow her to breathe. With the woman now facing him, Granger could see that she wore a crotch-less Wonder Woman costume. He said, “It’s okay, Ms. Campbell, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Her response was only more blubbering, but she did look up and make eye contact. In that moment, he saw confusion, and he realized his mistake.
The room was only lit by candle, but with the low-light glasses, Granger could plainly see that this woman was not Samantha Campbell.
With a roll of his eyes, he bent his wrist to reacquire his target and squeezed the trigger. The result was one dead entrepreneur and one dead employee on the floor. He had wasted precious seconds assuming this woman to be his target. They possessed the same blonde hair and same artificially enhanced forms. Still, he cursed himself. His father had always preached against assumptions.
His gaze swept the room, and he listened for any sounds. But the police were close, and the sirens made it impossible to listen for an individual’s breathing. He didn’t have time to play hide and seek, and so he stitched a line of bullets high into the walls all around the room.
Then he listened for the whimper.
When hunting, fear was often the most effective method to draw out one’s prey.
He aimed the machine pistol at the source of the small cry.
“Come out now, or I open fire,” he said, bluffing.
Samantha Campbell stepped into the light. She had been cowering on the opposite side of her employer’s bed. Sammy, as her sister had always called her, was naked in all the spots she should have been clothed, while black leather covered all the patches of skin th
at could have acceptably been exposed.
Through a zippered opening, she said, “Please don’t kill me. I didn’t see anything.”
“Remove the leather from your face.”
She pulled off the zipper-clad mask.
With positive visual confirmation on his target, Granger lowered his weapon and said, “Don’t worry, Ms. Campbell. I’m here to take you to see your sister.”
The young woman’s surprise exceeded her fear, and she asked, “You know my sister? Are you the one who took her?”
“Don’t worry. Everything is going to be just fine.” His eyes searched the room for her regular clothing, but not seeing anything else, he reached down and pulled the pink bathrobe from the dead man’s shoulders. He held it out to Sammy. “Put this on.”
“It’s covered in blood,” she said, tears streaming down her face.
Granger examined the garment and saw the spots where bullets had pierced the fabric and then penetrated the pimp’s flesh. Blood had rushed from the wounds and stained the robe. He said, “It just makes it look like pretty red flowers. Put on the robe, or I’ll give you a few blossoms of your own.”
Once Sammy had on the robe, he rushed her down the fire escape and away from the building, heading toward the Buick. He was unarmed now, having discarded the Mac 10 in Faraz’s penthouse. It was a street gun, no serial numbers. Perfect for a job like this. He half-carried the terrified woman as she stumbled and dragged her feet. Luckily, his own strength was more than adequate for the task.
When they reached the Buick, he turned to Samantha Campbell, and in his mind, he overlaid an internal diagram of a woman’s brain and spinal column onto the side of her face. Then he struck her in the temple with a blow designed make her head rotate, twisting the spine and disrupting function between the upper brainstem and the higher brain, causing unconsciousness. Once she was out, Stefan Granger popped the trunk and deposited Sammy inside. Then he slid in behind the wheel and headed for the compound, his assignment complete.
39
Corin Campbell would have normally backed away in horror at the sight of Tia’s mutilation. The young Asian woman, who didn’t look to be over eighteen, had only a mangled nub where her tongue should have been. Corin wanted to run as fast as her deceptively strong little legs could carry her.
Unfortunately, Corin was behind enemy lines with two broken legs, and she could do little more than look away and tremble.
Sonnequa said, “This is your world now, baby girl. You’d best get used to it.”
“Get used to it?”
“This is your life now. I’ll explain the rest of the rules. Only ask questions if it’s pertaining to that specific rule. Nod if you understand.”
Corin nodded.
“Good.” Sonnequa pushed Corin’s wheelchair over to the massive window. “Nice view, isn’t it? You can have a decent life here, Corin. A quiet life, perhaps. But not an uncomfortable one. As you can see by the view.”
“And that is a view of where?”
“Northern California, and that’s as much as you need to know about that right now. The first rule, as you heard, is no communication of any kind unless the Master is present or you are acting under his orders.”
“Where is the Master? Is he here all the time?”
“He joins us for dinner most evenings. The time varies depending on his schedule. It’s always a five-course meal. Prepared by us, of course, but the Master often brings in takeout to give us a break from even those duties.”
“So he’s not here right now?”
“Sometimes he is. And sometimes he isn’t. Doesn’t really matter. Rules stay the same.”
“But if he’s not here, then how does he know—”
“There are sophisticated surveillance and audio detection systems installed throughout the compound. If you speak to one of the other ladies or attempt to communicate, he will know. Someone is always watching. Trust me on that. Tia thought she was being smart too. She didn’t plan to get caught.”
“If that’s the outside world, right there, and he’s not even here, then what’s to stop us from getting away. We could smash that window and run. All of us.”
“That brings us to rule number two. We have wonderful facilities here. A stocked kitchen abundant with healthy snacks. A swimming pool. Sauna. Gym. Jacuzzi. Lots of books to read. A television with an endless supply of movies. And very little work to do. This place provides us with a life of luxury.”
“As what?” Corin asked. “Sex slaves for some psychotic pervert?”
“If I were you, I would keep thoughts like that to myself. The Master will probably cut you some slack since you’re new. But I would never count on mercy here, baby girl. Not from anyone.”
Sonnequa dug into a pocket of her dress and handed a stack of pictures to Corin. Staring at the first photo, Corin felt the urge to vomit, but there was nothing in her stomach to heave out. She looked away from the photos and asked, “What is this?”
“Keep looking at the photos. Rule number two: don’t ever leave the protection of the Compound.”
“Or what? The Master will butcher you?”
“The Master didn’t inflict those wounds. That’s what happened when the hellhounds—a trained pack of Rottweilers—got hold of a girl who decided to break rule number two. The hellhounds protect the compound from intruders, but they’re also trained to tear us to pieces if we venture outside. You can explore, if you wish. Just don’t try to open a locked door, cause a problem, or step outside these walls. Keep looking through the pics.”
“I don’t need to see any more.”
“That wasn’t a request.” Sonnequa snatched the photos from Corin’s grasp and stuck them up in front of her face. “You look at these, baby girl. I’ve been here the longest. I’ve seen what happens when you defy the Master, and breaking the rules has swift and serious consequences.”
Sonnequa kept sticking photo after photo in front of Corin’s face. “You look at them! These were my sisters. That’s what we are here. A family. You can have a good life here. You just need to be a good wife.”
“A good wife?”
“He has bought you as his bride with his strength and blood.”
Corin felt as if she’d stepped into an alternate dimension. “I’m no one’s property, and I’m no one’s wife. Good or otherwise.”
“Rule number three is a catch-all. Do anything to incur the wrath of the Master, and the sentence is death. He has no mercy for those who defy him.”
“This is insane. I’d rather die than live on my knees.”
Sonnequa slapped her hard across the left cheek and then leaned down into her face. “You best wake up, baby girl. There are much worse things he can do to you than kill you. And when one of us breaks a rule, we all suffer. Things aren’t as dark as they seem now. When you see the Master tonight at dinner, I suggest you show him respect and reverence. You can have a good life here.”
40
Special Agent Maggie Carlisle guessed that Eddie’s office had once been the mansion’s library. Two-story bookshelves encircled the room, with a ladder on rollers providing access to the top volumes. Like the rest of the club, it was something from an old movie. The enormous room held a sitting area with brown leather couches and a desk that looked as if it belonged in the Oval Office. Individual display cases filled with antique weapons from various eras, each with a small plaque, lined a path to the desk. On the way in, Maggie noticed that one contained a tommy gun that supposedly belonged to John Dillinger. She wondered if the collection had been designed to add to “The Great Caruso’s” mystique.
Eddie took his position behind the massive desk and directed them to a pair of leather chairs facing him. As Maggie sat, she noticed the chairs were shorter than normal, as if the legs had been altered to ensure that everyone looked up toward the desk.
She glanced over at Marcus. His nostrils were flared and his lip curled as though they had just stepped into a garbage dump. She had lectured him abou
t playing nice on the drive from the airport, but he often seemed incapable of filtering himself.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Eddie asked.
Maggie said, “We’re here to ask for your help, Mr. Caruso. We work for the DOJ as part of a task force tracking serial murderers.”
“Yes, I’m aware. I had my people check into both of you. It seems that your group’s activities are veiled in secrecy. To be honest, I was surprised that Marcus was still in law enforcement, after being drummed out of the NYPD.”
Marcus said, “My resumé isn’t really any of your concern.”
“Considering that you’re sitting in my office, in my club, I think it is my concern. I don’t like to associate with unsavory types, and the word on the street is that you’ve gunned down more bad guys than you’ve caught. Sounds like you’re nothing but a glorified trigger man.”
Leaning forward, Marcus said, “You heard wrong. I don’t need a gun. I could come across this desk and rip your lungs out with my bare hands.”
“Anytime. Anywhere.”
Marcus smiled. “How about right here and right now?”
Knocking three times on the desk to get the attention of the two little boys, Maggie said, “Okay, I think both of you need to relax. You can go in the bathroom and measure later, but first, let’s have an adult conversation.”
The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, but then Marcus said, “We’re not here to dig up old bones. It was all a long time ago.”
“You still think you’re better than me, don’t you?”