But Mattingly never got out of his van. He didn’t even wait around for very long. Instead, he sped away, driving an hour south to his isolated house in Waxahachie, where he promptly turned out the lights and went to bed.
While Luke and Charley got some rest, Kansas Command watched Mattingly through the spyware they’d planted in his devices and the microscopic cameras they’d placed throughout his house. Mattingly did nothing of note.
Until the following evening rolled around.
Then he started all over again.
Once again, he stocked the pouches in the thick Velcro belt wrapped around his stomach with a syringe full of sedative, three pairs of flex-cuffs, and a nine-inch leather billy club with wrist strap. Then, wearing a similar outfit to the one he’s got on now, he headed to the movies. This time it was a 6:45 p.m. showing of Sister Trip at the AMC Valley View 16. When Mattingly took out his phone at the exact same time, right as the studio logo filled the screen, Charley rose from her seat to say something to him, and that’s when the woman sitting right behind him beat her to the punch. Charley thought about saying something to him anyway, just to try to draw his attention. But there was a risk in that. If he chose to follow the first woman who spoke up, her chance of hooking him at a later date would be blown; she’d be exposed.
So, she kept silent, and she watched.
Again, Mattingly followed the woman who’d dared tell him to turn off his phone.
Again, he watched her pull in to her residence, a freestanding ranch-style house.
But this time he lingered. Until another car pulled into the driveway soon after the woman’s, and a man, clearly her boyfriend or husband, stepped out, clad in gym gear matted with fresh workout sweat.
Within seconds, Mattingly was back on the road to Waxahachie.
The qualifications for ending up in Mattingly’s sights were simple—you had to have the nerve to tell him to turn off his phone during the movie. But for the courtship to continue, you had to have something else—an easily penetrated residence.
Patrice Longman and Melissa Esperanza—Kansas Command kept them under digital surveillance just in case Mattingly decided to make a play for either of them after the fact—were both very lucky women. One lived cheek by jowl with her neighbors in a gated apartment complex; the other had a husband with excellent timing. Of course, Charley and Luke would have found a way to intervene before Mattingly managed to snatch either woman. But still, the potential victims had no idea how close they’d been to a monster.
Let it stay that way, Charlotte thinks, forever.
Feeling the first easing of tension she’s experienced in three days, Charlotte settles into her seat and pretends to watch the film.
It’s a halfway decent flick. She just wishes she didn’t have to watch it with a serial killer.
Again.
Luke Prescott’s only heard the term phantom pain applied to missing limbs, not scars that have recently healed. But there aren’t better words to describe the latticework of fiery pinpricks that ignite down the length of his back whenever he’s under stress. They follow the patterns of the old burn marks from the box spring he was tied to almost six months ago now, a box spring heated by flames his abductors had planned to lower him into face-first.
His abductors are dead, the brief flowering of evil they brought to his hometown stamped out by Charlotte and her wealthy overlord, Cole Graydon. But the pain often returns. It’s not debilitating, but it’s humbling. Mainly because it comes on without warning, announcing his body’s separation from his thoughts and producing a sense of powerlessness he’s come to call, against his will, PTSD.
As he waits outside NorthPark Center, behind the wheel of a matte-black Cadillac Escalade that’s been retrofitted to survive a bomb blast and lined with trackers transmitting everything from its location and speed to its interior temperature and CO2 levels, Luke employs the tactics for curbing his anxiety he’s learned over the past six months.
He makes a mental list of the disfiguring injuries he might have suffered had Charley not saved him when she did. He imagines his face gone Freddy Krueger; his torso coated in mottled flesh. Failing that, he can always imagine the slow, horrifying death he might have endured. But he rarely has to go that far.
Gratitude is the best antidote for self-pity.
Stress can be rechristened as excitement; anxiety rebranded as anticipation.
And what is anticipation really but a form of enthusiasm?
The effort needed to flip those coins from one side to the other is sometimes as simple as a few deep breaths.
Or at least that’s what the Graydon-approved therapist he’s been talking to for half a year now has assured him.
Cole was wise enough to integrate Luke’s therapy into an overall training regimen designed to turn Luke into a one-man fighting force and pivotal asset to Charley’s ground team. If the therapy starts to make Luke feel broken and crazy, he’s almost instantly distracted by a personal training session in hand-to-hand combat or firearms proficiency or a course in drown proofing of the type offered to Navy SEALs. Over the past six months, at various Graydon facilities throughout California, Luke has received training from some of the finest security experts in the world, and the result has, in the opinion of one expert, left him at the threshold of special ops qualifications. To say nothing of the body it’s given him. A body about which Charlotte has said plenty, all of it complimentary.
And therein lies another source of healing gratitude.
Preparing for action while his girlfriend lures a human monster into her trap is exactly what Luke’s wanted since he started training. It doesn’t matter that Cole granted his request out of guilt. (Cole was the one, after all, responsible for the security failures that led to Luke’s abduction.) What matters is that Luke’s finally part of the team. And if the scars along his back are the evidence of what he needed to go through to gain access, then so be it. He’s happy to consider them a brand instead of an injury that’s yet to fully heal.
“Hey, bro,” the voice in his ear says, “how do you get a nun pregnant?”
Luke’s brother, Bailey, isn’t telling his favorite joke to amuse; he’s sending a signal that Cole is up to something at Kansas Command, something he didn’t share with Luke and Charlotte in advance. Jokes, especially the ones so bad they make you cringe, have always been their code, a sign that Bailey’s about to impart secret information in the presence of others. When they were kids, it was the location of a stolen pack of cigarettes they didn’t want their mother to know about. Today, it’s the movements of the mysterious and morally suspect people for which they both work. They’d call them dad jokes, but they never really had a dad.
Luke gives the agreed-upon response. “You’re really gross, you know that?”
“You’ve always had a sensitive stomach for such a big dude.”
Translation: Whatever’s happening at Kansas Command is suspicious but not major.
Luke says, “Still, can’t you ever come up with a joke that I could tell in, like, mixed company?”
This cues up the next code. If Bailey tells the joke about lawyers and dogs—What’s the difference between a dead dog in the road and a dead lawyer in the road? There are skid marks in front of the dog—that’s a signal there’s someone in the bunker he doesn’t recognize, someone who doesn’t seem to have a clear operational purpose.
If, on the other hand, Bailey tells his lawyer and God joke—What’s the difference between a lawyer and God? God doesn’t think he’s a lawyer—that’s a sign that while the bunker’s staffing seems ordinary, Cole’s planning something in Luke and Charlotte’s immediate field of play they didn’t agree to ahead of time.
Like deploying a strike team in their vicinity after Charley specifically asked him not to.
His brother is silent for a beat, then says, “Honestly, I’m a bigger fan of doctor jokes than lawyer jokes. But they’re all stupid. Know any good ones?”
“Doctors?”
“No, doctor jokes. Ones that are really funny, not just gross ones about ball doctors or butt doctors or headshrinkers.”
Headshrinkers. None of this is their code; Bailey’s improvising. By not giving their code responses, Bailey’s eliminating those possibilities. No strangers at the bunker, no unplanned field operations. Instead it’s a third option.
Involving doctors.
There’s a doctor at the bunker.
A doctor they’d all recognize—Noah Turlington.
Son of a bitch, Luke thinks, but he does his best not to say it, in case Cole is listening in.
“They’re just jokes, dude. Don’t freak out. Oh, by the way, it looks like she’s hooked Mattingly, so I’ll give you a warning when the movie starts to wind down.”
“Um, hi, that’s actually my job,” Shannon Tran cuts in.
“We’re a team, Shannon, remember?” Bailey responds. “That’s why we spent all last month doing trust falls and making pottery together.”
Luke’s pretty sure Bailey and Shannon have done nothing of the kind, and it’s no shock that his younger brother, one of the country’s most wanted fugitive hackers until Cole Graydon essentially made him disappear off law enforcement’s radar screens, is having trouble getting along with his new coworkers. Bailey would have trouble getting along with a Ragdoll cat.
“I’m Luke’s primary point of contact with Kansas Command, Bailey. I don’t care if you’re family.”
“Cole said we’re allowed to talk,” Bailey says.
“You’re allowed to chat during downtime, not direct his movements.”
“I have nothing to do with my brother’s bowels.”
Shannon says, “You’re being gross and inappropriate and you’re ignoring the chain of command.”
“Uh-huh. Does our chain of command allow you to keep eating my Nutella out of the break room?”
“Um, try the small army down the hall.”
“They know who ate it or they ate it?”
“Ask them,” Shannon says. “It should be fun for everyone.”
“Yeah, smooth move, pinning your compulsive eating on a room full of heavily armed trained mercenaries with nothing to do.”
“You bring up your Nutella every ten minutes and I’m the one who’s eating compulsively? And you have your own office with a door you can lock, so why are you so afraid of a bunch of Navy SEALs who could kill you with their bare hands?”
“Only a sadist would call what I have here an office.”
“When’s the first date, guys?” Luke asks.
“Never,” Shannon answers. “Bailey, I’m serious. Do not direct Luke’s movements.”
“I didn’t direct his movements. I told him how much of the movie was left. Also, just FYI, I’d rather drown in my urine than call this place Kansas Command. It sounds like a country-western bondage club.”
Before his brother can raise the topic of any other unpleasant bodily functions, Luke says, “So we’ve got a positive ID on Mattingly?”
“We do,” Shannon says. “Charley’s back in her seat, so now we sit and wait and see if he tails her out of the theater. In the meantime, how about we cool it with the dirty nun jokes?”
“It’s not dirty,” Bailey protests.
I gave you a chance, Shannon, Luke thinks, but there you go baiting him again.
In what sounds like her most derisive imitation of the world’s worst man, Shannon says, “How do you get a nun pregnant? Fuck her. Hu hu hu.”
“You didn’t have to use the f-word, Shannon. And the lawyer ones are better anyway.”
“I do not even want to know, so don’t bother. Just please . . . be quiet until the movie’s over and we have something to do.”
A silence falls. Luke watches two parents with several excited toddler-age children emerge from the skybridge that connects the top level of this parking structure to the mall. One of the kids runs ahead, a towheaded little boy no older than four, but the father springs on him the second before he races in back of a parked pickup truck that just started its engine.
“Oof,” Bailey says, “that was close.”
His words are another reminder that for the time being Luke’s eyes are not his own. Whatever he sees is being transmitted through his contact lenses to a satellite, which then bounces it down to the bunker in Kansas. Luke’s also reticent to call the place Kansas Command, but for a different reason—it conjures images of old movies about nuclear war that terrified him as a kid.
“For an hour?” Bailey finally says. “I’m supposed to just be quiet for an hour?”
“I don’t know, Bailey, go hack something!” Shannon barks, and behind her words Luke hears a burst of raucous music and excited talking from amplified voices. It’s got to be the movie playing inside the theater, the one being transmitted through Charley’s TruGlass and the audio from her earpiece.
“Oh my God,” Bailey whines, “are you actually watching this terrible movie?”
“It’s good.”
“It’s terrible. The oldest sister makes me want to jump out a window.”
“Go ahead,” Shannon says. “Get a running start.”
“We’re underground.”
“Hence the running start,” Luke says.
“The movie’s fine,” Shannon says. “You’re just a dude.”
“Yeah, that’s me. I’m a regular surfin’, drinkin’, bikini babe lovin’ dude.”
“Bailey,” Luke says, “it’s so good to hear you integrating with the team.”
Shannon laughs. Bailey doesn’t.
“My job is not to integrate. My job is to go where all of you can’t. And last time I checked, I go alone.”
Shannon has no response to this, and neither does Luke.
Luke’s words weren’t entirely sarcasm. He actually is relieved to have his brother on the team and not living as a fugitive abroad.
But it’s hardly a relief that Noah Turlington, the jackass who pretended to offer Charley therapy under the name Dylan Thorpe, is at the bunker. Is he monitoring their movements and communications along with Cole?
If Charley knew . . . well, she wouldn’t want to know right now. Not when she’s working, and not when she’s worked so hard to create the illusion she’s working alone.
As for his own feelings toward the mad scientist who set them all on this path, at some point, Luke fears, they’ll have no choice but to abandon their collective anger over how Noah deceived Charlotte into taking her first dose of Zypraxon and neglected to mention the drug had killed every other human who’d taken it.
Zypraxon, and by extension its inventor, Noah Turlington, are what give Charley the power to go after killers like Cyrus Mattingly. And if all goes well tonight, Mattingly will join the other human monsters Charley’s taken out of circulation while powered by the awesome strength Noah’s drug unleashes in her veins.
There’s also the fact that Noah’s last-minute intervention to help Charley a year ago is the only thing that saved Luke from being devoured by flames.
The question’s simple.
How much longer can they all stay mad at Noah Turlington while they continue to enjoy the fruits of his mad science?
The answer isn’t simple at all.
Hopefully, Luke won’t have to give one until this operation’s over, and neither will Charley.
4
Lebanon, Kansas
The bedroom where Cole’s brought Noah is the only one of the three with heavy steel storm shutters covering its windows. The storm’s slacked off, but Cole had the men leave the shutters in place anyway. They’re not necessary to prevent Noah’s escape—the windows don’t open, and the glass is so thick Charley would need several tries to break it even when Zypraxon’s triggered an explosion of super-strength inside her veins. And it’s not that Cole wants Noah to feel trapped. Exactly.
Rather, he wants Noah to feel directed. Channeled. Undistracted by big skies and endless vistas once the sun rises.
If you don’t count the secur
ity team stationed right outside the bedroom door, this is the first time they’ve been alone together.
Cole hasn’t wasted any time.
Seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, rubbing his chin in one hand as if he’s not sure it’s still there, Noah’s still absorbing the impact of the bomb Cole dropped as soon as he drew the bedroom door shut.
“Nothing,” Noah finally says quietly. “She’s got nothing on the ground with her except for . . . her boyfriend.” He says the word boyfriend like it’s puff pastry.
“Correct.”
“And that’s why you’re in Kansas and she’s in Dallas?”
“Yes. We’re close to the geographic center of the continental United States, less than three hours from the farthest coast by plane. But she wanted significant geographical separation between our response forces and the op field.”
“And you thought this was a good idea?” Noah asks.
“Oh, no. Not at all,” Cole answers.
“And you agreed because?”
“Because our target started escalating before I could think of a better option.”
“I’m not following.”
“Zypraxon only unleashes paradrenaline into her bloodstream when she’s absolutely terrified. Not anxious, not afraid. Terrified. If I’ve got ground teams all around her and snipers on rooftops, there’s nothing in her environment that can frighten her badly enough for the drug to start working. And when it comes to her overall security, if one of her targets is capable of inflicting a fatal blow in a split second, what good is a sniper anyway?”
“Surely there were other—”
“There were not. On her last op, she had to injure herself to trigger. Badly. I don’t want her resorting to acts of self-mutilation to try to create the panic and shock she needs to feel before your drug kicks into gear. What if she cuts a nerve to her heart or her lungs before the trigger event heals her? Worse, what if she starts to desensitize to self-inflicted wounds, and then the only way for her to traumatize herself effectively the next time is to hack off one of her limbs? Her fear is the engine that drives this thing . . . for now . . . and that means letting her feel like she’s truly alone with these monsters. She has to become the victim; those were her words. And if she tells me there’s something that shuts down that process, I’ve got no choice but to remove it from the field of play.”
Blood Victory: A Burning Girl Thriller (The Burning Girl) Page 3