by Jeff Olah
“Okay.”
Slightly confused, the man alone in the backseat leaned forward, but didn’t initially make eye contact with Josie. He instead peered out through the windshield, attempting to understand without having to ask.
As Josie continued to stare straight ahead, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she appeared to be mouthing something to herself. As the prolonged silence turned awkward, the man over her right shoulder finally spoke.
“Josie, what are we doing?”
Rolling her neck from left to right and back again, she shifted the SUV into drive and began pulling away from the side of the road. “We’re going to that airfield. There’s someone I need to speak with.”
Noticing that they were still rolling toward the intersection and that Josie hadn’t checked her mirrors or begun to turn the vehicle, the man in the backseat buckled in. “Uh… aren’t we going the wrong way?”
Everything inside her told her to turn the SUV around and make an effort to at least get to the airfield. Goodwin was as unpredictable as he was arrogant and narcissistic. He’d stand by his assertion to leave the city as soon as they’d refueled, although he also respected those who were able to execute his objectives in the face of adversity. He’d want her on that jet for no other reason than to prove he chose the right person for the job. At least that’s what she hoped he’d think.
Josie slowly began to nod. “We’ll get there. But first we’re going to finish this.”
Rolling up to the intersection, she kept their speed below fifteen miles per hour and drifted right. Taking the left turn on a wide radius, she was able to see where the six individuals they were pursuing had moved out of the trees and started up Emerson Way.
Coming out of the turn, another much larger SUV sat in the distance. She hadn’t remembered it being there the last time she came through the area, and this definitely wasn’t one from the lot at the university—she would have remembered it. There was only one explanation and before she could mouth the words, the man with the long stringy black hair sitting in the passenger seat reached for his weapon.
“There they are.”
As the faceless figures twenty yards ahead darted from the sidewalk and into the trees, Josie pointed the SUV in their direction and flipped on the high beams, flooding the area with illumination. She drove to within ten feet of the sidewalk, slammed the brake pedal to the floor, and reached for the door handle.
“Kill them… all of them.”
98
Stepping into the cab of the fueling truck, Marcus Goodwin was breathing hard. He had a smile on his face and staring out over the tarmac, started to laugh. He rested the shotgun he had carried from the jet up against the door, shook his head, and began to lose himself. In between the fits of laughter, he was attempting to voice the absurdity of his current situation.
“They… They… They are actually coming after me. Can you believe those things? They think…”
He couldn’t finish. The laugher took him. Goodwin slapped the dashboard and stomped his feet against the floorboard. He shook with excitement as his eyes tracked the movement of the closing horde. The unsettling scene playing out inside the cab of the fuel truck was in direct contrast to the events happening less than twenty yards away.
As Goodwin lapsed into hysteria, the young man now seated behind the wheel slowly pushed the key into the ignition and eyed the man giving the orders. Dalton couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever seen this man even chuckle, let alone show this level of emotion. It was off-putting, but even more than that, Goodwin actually seemed to be enjoying himself.
Turning his attention out the window over his left shoulder, Dalton felt the immediate need to interject. Goodwin was in between fits of laughter and the younger man took the opportunity.
“Sir, we need to get moving.”
And as quickly as Goodwin’s odd behavior came on, it ended, without so much as an acknowledgement from either of the men. Twisting his unusually large smile into a depressing scowl, he pointed into the night and motioned toward the jet.
“What are you waiting for? Move this thing!”
Turning over the engine, Dalton furrowed his brow as he looked away. He’d been with this man nearly every single day for the last year and although Goodwin’s frequent stress-induced fits of rage weren’t uncommon, this type of outburst was new. Was the self-made billionaire finally giving in to the pressure of destroying the entire world or was this something else? Dalton only hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.
Shifting into drive and looking for a path back to the jet that was at least somewhat free of Feeders, Dalton recalled the man he originally met and the story of his demented upbringing.
Marcus Goodwin hired Dalton away from his former company after the two had spoken for less than ten minutes. The two other interviewers were asked to step out of the room as Goodwin retrieved a black dry erase marker and moved to the mobile whiteboard at the opposite end of the massive conference room table.
Without hesitation, he drew a dollar symbol along the upper left side of the board and turned back to Dalton. “Okay son, what’s your number?”
“Mr. Goodwin… my number?”
“I have a project that I want you to head and I want you to start on Monday.”
Grinning in disbelief, Dalton sat forward in his chair. “Monday as in—”
“Yes, Mr. Dalton. I have an office ready for you on the tenth floor and a team that needs a leader. The only thing I need to know is the number that you want me to write on this board. The dollar figure that it will take to get you here on Monday morning.”
“Mr. Goodwin, while I appreciate—”
Interrupting, Goodwin tossed the black dry erase marker to the younger man, and returned to his seat. “Call me Marcus.”
Still attempting to put this conversation into perspective, as well as collect his thoughts, Dalton stared back toward the board. “Uh… I don’t quite know what to say. I wasn’t completely prepared for this.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Goodwin said. “How about you go up to the board and write the number yourself. I’ll even leave the room if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
“No sir, it’s just that I wouldn’t be simply leaving another job. I was under the impression that you knew I was the founder of—”
“Yes, the company you started that produces those cute little games for smartphones. I’ve familiarized myself with your company and am willing to pay you for it as well… hell, I’ll even let you keep it.”
“Mr. Goodwin… uh Marcus?”
“You retain ownership and then just have someone else run it for you. I hear your COO is more than capable.”
Turning his gaze from the board to Goodwin, Dalton paused for a beat and then took in a deep breath. “Monday?”
Goodwin smiled. “Can I get you here sooner than that?”
Dalton returned the gesture. “Just one question, what exactly will I be working on?”
“You’ll get all the details once we get your NDA and Non-Compete signed, but for now, welcome to Project Blackmore.”
In the years since that first meeting, Dalton had learned more about Marcus Goodwin than was probably healthy. For reasons still unknown to him, the wealthiest man alive had grown to trust him with even the most intimate of details. Maybe it was the fact that Dalton rarely shared anything outside his own professional life, and maybe it was simply Goodwin’s way of avoiding anything that resembled actual therapy. Either way, the evolution of their relationship had more than a few unusual twists. Glancing across the seat at Goodwin, he recalled the night he nearly turned in his resignation.
He’d only been with BXF for one-hundred-eight-six days. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. The pair sat in Goodwin’s penthouse office, exhausted after fourteen long hours with the planning committee. They had finally broken ground on Blackmore and would start laying the foundation of Building One the following day.
It could have been
the stress finally taking its toll, the lack of adequate sleep, or possibly the copious amounts of alcohol the pair had begun to consume, but for whatever reason, Marcus Goodwin opened a door to a part of his life few had ever known. And for a young James Dalton, it was a door he wasn’t completely sure he wanted to step through.
Just past midnight and in a rare moment of vulnerability, Goodwin cradled his 64-year-old scotch and let his eyes drift to the carpet. He kept his gaze away from Dalton as he began to share his story.
He talked about starting BXF with dirty money and how he’d made close to a million dollars while sitting in his college dorm room. He then moved back in time and detailed his first years in foster care and how he’d attended six different high schools.
Without missing a beat, Goodwin threw back what remained in his glass, set it on the table to his right, and finally met Dalton’s eyes.
“We’re you aware of how I came to be a child of the state?”
Dalton had heard rumors, but he figured they were constructed out of fear and jealousy. “I’m not sure that I do.”
There was no hesitation, no halted thoughts. His voice came out slow, with each word drawing on the momentum of the one before. Goodwin wanted to tell his story and he was now lost to the experience.
“When I was ten years old, my father killed my mother while I sat on a sofa less than ten feet away. He then turned the gun on himself and blew his brains all over our living room.”
Dalton sat up quickly in his chair, but fumbled for a response. He couldn’t adequately process what he was feeling. It wasn’t necessarily shock and his only thought was to escape the moment. “Mr. Goodwin, you don’t need to—”
Goodwin continued before the younger man could finish. “I’d hated my father long before he killed my mother and himself. He knew this and wanted me to feel pain every single day of my life. Did you know that my father once told me that it made him happy knowing that I was afraid of him? That he enjoyed seeing the fear in my eyes?”
Pausing, Goodwin bit into his lower lip and let out a long breath. “The funny thing is, I’d often pray that my father would die. That he be taken from our family. Every time he put his hands on me, every derogatory insult about my weight, every comment about not being worthy of being his child, pushed me closer to wanting to end his life myself. I just never had the courage.”
Dalton wanted to speak, to change the direction of the conversation, to somehow find his way out of this rabbit hole he was currently falling through. But instead, he stared back at the man who had shed only a single tear and waited.
“If I’d have done it myself, put that gun to my father’s head and pulled the trigger, my mother would still be alive. Although not much about my own life would have changed. As a child, I would have spent a few years in prison, possibly a few more in therapy, but as it stands, I ended up doing those things anyway. Unfortunately, I also had to lose my mother in the process.”
Shifting in his seat, he fought for the right words to end his awkward confession. “I was afraid of that man, and because I couldn’t manage to pull together the strength to do what I needed to do, my mother paid the price. Two days later, while sitting in a hospital bed, I told myself that I would never let fear have control over my life again. It had taken from me something that could not be replaced, but would never do so again.”
It was Goodwin’s last statement that stayed with Dalton to this day, the reason he was almost too patient with the man who may have just ended all of humanity. And as he drove across the tarmac heading for the jet, he watched the crowds begin to descend on their ride home. Taking in a deep breath, his hand shook as he reached for the pistol sitting in his lap.
“Mr. Goodwin… are you ready for this?”
99
Snow had once again started to fall. They’d been granted nearly two straight days of moderately fair weather, but it appeared that the storm that had devastated the area a week earlier had now returned. The quarter-sized flakes drifted slowly from the sky, gently collecting along the windshield as Frank cocked his head to the left and watched the dark blue mid-sized SUV slide to a stop, not thirty yards from where his friends had entered the treeline.
Running his hand over his face and attempting to make sense of the multiple voices pinging off the interior, he slid the Remington 700 from between his legs and cut his eyes to the right. Cora sat in the passenger seat staring back as their view of the outside world had begun to fade.
“We getting out?” Cora asked.
Frank kept his voice low and leaned in. “No, just me.”
“What?”
Motioning toward the rear of the vehicle, he handed Cora the keys. “They need you here, do not leave them. If we don’t make it back, you drive away… got it?”
Frank reached for the door handle and stepped out. He moved quickly around the rear of the vehicle and stopped near the right front wheel. The asphalt beyond was rapidly dissolving into a mostly white jigsaw puzzle as three backlit individuals stepped out of the blue SUV fifty yards away.
They appeared to solely focus on the trees where his friends had left the sidewalk and had yet to notice as he dropped to one knee and shouldered the rifle. Partially hidden behind the passenger side front fender, he took in a deep breath, closed his left eye and brought his right in behind the scope.
Peering into the scope, he cursed as he tried to bring the three individuals into view. The night sky, combined with the falling snow, was playing havoc with his senses. He was able to catch quick glimpses of two of the silhouettes, but only for a moment at a time. They were moving toward the side of the road and each carried a weapon.
Unable to track the third individual, and with the glare from the mystery SUV’s headlights casting phantom shadows, he attempted to calm his breathing. That wasn’t going to work, he didn’t have enough time. And adjusting the scope was also useless; the three silhouettes had become a blur behind the driving snow.
Turning away from the blinding light originating from the opposite end of the street, Frank once again attempted to bring the scene into focus. He took in another slow deep breath, closed his eyes for a beat, and upon returning to the scope, the world beyond instantly sharpened.
Ethan had run off without any explanation. His mother had begged him not to go. She nearly hyperventilated as he and Griffin trotted off toward the unknown, ignoring the pointed questions about his father. She’d followed Shannon into the SUV ahead of the others, but even as he moved out of sight, her uncontrollable sobbing continued. He still had to walk away, even if she was unable to understand why.
He’d deal with the colossal burden of sharing the details of his father’s murder once he and his friends were safe. Only after he and Griffin ended what was left of Josie and her men. If that’s the way it actually played out.
Partially blinded by the headlights of the mystery SUV, Ethan crouched near the base of a thick pine with Griffin less than ten feet to his right. Both men armed and ready, they waited as the three slamming doors turned into distant footfalls that grew closer with each passing second.
“I can’t see a damn thing… you?”
Standing with his back to a second sizeable tree and craning his neck toward the street, Griffin shook his head. He stared back at Ethan, held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders. They’d run off without much more than their anger and three handguns. They hadn’t accounted for this turn in events. They weren’t ready and as the footsteps stopped four feet from the treeline, and a familiar voice broke through the night.
“If you drop your weapons and come out now, I’ll only kill two of your people. That will even the score for Maddox and Vince. But if you make us come in there after you, I’ll kill all of them. I’d prefer not to, but I’ll let you decide. Ten seconds… and then I have my boys come in and bring you out.”
Ethan leaned into the tree, turned back to Griffin, and spoke just loud enough for his friend to hear. “We aren’t doing this; you know she’s not going to
let anyone live.”
Griffin nodded. “How you wanna play this?”
Ethan turned and peered into the darkness, to where the trees faded and the sporadic flakes of white powder drifted from the low hanging branches. “Any way we can go deeper into the trees and circle back around?”
Following Ethan’s eyes, Griffin rubbed his temple with his free hand. “I have no idea. We may not make it—”
From somewhere beyond the trees her voice interrupted. “Time’s up… but instead of coming in to get you, I think I’ll just have my boys go up the street and take apart your shiny black SUV. You two both stay put, we’ll come back.”
As Ethan turned, Griffin began to step away from behind the tree. Holding his hand up, he asked that his friend hold tight. Slowly twisting his head back toward the illumination cutting through the trees, Ethan caught a glimpse of her silhouette and raised the pistol in his left hand.
Before he could squeeze off a round, the dead silence that had followed her last statement was broken. A quick and familiar crack preceded the explosion of the tree only inches above Ethan’s head, as tiny pieces of bark and fragmented slivers rained down on his face and neck. Flinching, he turned away and slid down into a seated position.
As his heart began to pound in his ears, he searched for a way out, but very quickly realized there wasn’t one. Ethan thought about what he was about to lose and also what he’d lost over the last seven days. Their faces flickered through his mind. The atrocities they’d faced in their final moments were an absolute contradiction to who they were as people. They were here and then just as fast, they were gone. The two men he needed most were now merely a memory.
His best friend, infected less than thirty feet from where he stood, and he was unable to do a damn thing about it. Vivid images of David’s final moments flashed before his eyes as he pushed back into the tree and attempted to focus.