by Dwayne Gill
Rick darted down the hall until he found the door of the room where he’d heard the voice coming from. He burst through and saw Dr. Brewer standing in the center with wide eyes, holding a phone in one hand and a pistol in the other. Rick smiled and tossed his assault rifle to the side. I won’t be needing this, he thought.
Brewer appeared momentarily emboldened by Rick’s disarming. The doctor dropped his phone as Rick charged forward but couldn’t ready his gun in time. Rick grabbed Brewer’s gun arm, punched him in the stomach, and slammed the man to the floor, all in the same motion. The gun fell out of Brewer’s hands as Rick picked him up by the throat and threw him across the room, slamming him into the wall. The doctor didn’t move, but Rick walked over, wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, and snapped it sideways.
Rick’s two men finished clearing the building, confirming it was empty, and they all walked outside. There were cars parked on the road, while others passed slowly, all witnesses to the chaos. Rick didn’t mind the spectators; in fact, he wanted them to see every moment of this.
The two male agents were barely conscious on the ground, while the woman was sitting on the concrete driveway, barely able to hold her head up. Rick walked over and slapped the female agent hard in the face, causing her to fall sideways. “Watch,” he said to her. When she couldn’t comply, two of Rick’s men grabbed her and maneuvered her head into position, forcing her to watch what was coming.
As Rick stood over the two male agents, one of them looked up at him and frowned. When Rick raised his pistol and shot the man between the eyes, and then the other, screams erupted from witnesses down the street, and the drivers of several vehicles peeled away.
“Agent Flanagan,” said Rick, looking down at the woman’s credentials. She looked up at him wearily but with disdain and spat weakly in his direction. She was shaking and crying, causing Rick to chuckle at her fragility. “Look at you. You’re pathetic.” He kicked her in her face, causing her to fall backward. He knelt over her, grabbed her by the shirt, lifted her into the air, and slammed her head-first into the concrete. Flanagan didn’t move.
Rick stepped forward, intentionally stomping on Flanagan’s lifeless head as he walked toward a group of lingering motorists down the street. Cars were still passing by slowly, their drivers inspecting the scene, while pedestrians stood in shock, some taking photos with their phones or filming. Rick wanted to give the crowd the grand finale they deserved, so he raised his rifle and fired at everything in sight. Drivers scrambled back to their cars as he picked them off, while the vehicles rolling along screeched their tires to flee. One driver slammed into a parked car and the horn sounded, depressed by its dead driver who slumped against it. Utter chaos ensued as people ran for their lives while Rick made a game out of killing them. He let some make it all the way to their driver’s door before shooting them, and he intentionally wounded others, letting them live to tell the tale of what happened today. There were groans and desperate screams from all along the street, and Rick saw a woman kneeling over her wounded husband, begging him to hold on. Rick fired at the ground surrounding the man, causing dirt and debris to fly upward, which caught the wife’s attention. Her face contorted with fear as she made brief eye contact with Rick, who waved his weapon out in front of him, making it do a sinister dance in the air. He could see the woman mouthing words to him, which he assumed were begging him to spare her husband’s life. Rick put two bullets into the man’s left leg, and he watched curiously as the wife frantically lay on top of her man, shielding him from further assault.
Rick couldn’t help but smile at the clueless sheep. This woman was an example of what he despised so much about people and their emotional bonds. The lady was dumb enough to sacrifice her own life for her husband, who probably wouldn’t live anyway. It sickened Rick. He aimed his weapon and emptied his clip on the couple, and the wife rested on top of the unmoving husband. Strangely, Rick hoped the wife would live, knowing she’d never sleep another night without seeing his face.
Chaos abounded on the street as people continued fleeing for their lives, but few would escape Rick’s massacre. This is beautiful, he thought.
Zeroing In
October 2, 2028
5:00 p.m. EST
Miami, Florida
Barkley arrived at Dr. Ringo’s clinic as it was closing for the day, so she waited in the parking lot for him to emerge. The rest of the staff poured out of the building while Ringo followed five minutes later. Barkley had a photo of him she’d found online, realizing now how outdated it was.
Dr. Ringo was sixty-two and looked every day of his age in person. Someone had taken the picture of him at least ten years ago, and the doctor hadn’t aged well at all. Aware of the threats against Dr. Brewer, Barkley wondered if Ringo had experienced the same intimidation, which might explain his ragged appearance. Worry, stress, and guilt could be culprits responsible for such an abrupt plummet in a person’s physical and emotional health.
Barkley drove over to the only remaining vehicle in the lot, assuming it was his. Ringo glanced at her, paused, and walked on again, never taking his eyes away as her vehicle inched forward. To avoid spooking him, Barkley lowered her window and dangled her credentials, though she doubted Ringo could recognize them. When she parked beside his car, he stopped and squinted at her but didn’t say a word.
“Ellen Barkley, FBI.”
Ringo looked like he’d seen a ghost and likely would’ve run away if he’d been ten years younger. Instead, he shrugged and walked on again as Barkley exited her car.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” asked Barkley.
“What’s this about?” asked Ringo.
“I’d prefer privacy,” said Barkley, though she was much more concerned for their safety than anything else. She’d watched closely behind her on the way, wary of anyone following.
“We can go back inside if you like,” said Ringo.
Along with his physical depreciation, he seemed to carry around a certain apathy, like he’d recently lost someone or was at a low point in his life. Ringo led her back into the clinic and down a hallway until they reached his office. The first thing Barkley noticed was a refrigerator in the corner like the one Hart had described being in Brewer’s quarters.
Ringo motioned for her to sit as he did the same, and he leaned forward on his desk, looking at Barkley. “What can I do for you, Agent?”
Barkley had thought long and hard how best to approach this, knowing she only had one shot. Hart had sent her a bunch of information about Brewer to use against Ringo, so that was exactly what she would do. Barkley slid a photo of the case of syringes across the desk, and upon seeing them, Ringo’s face went pale. He tried to cover his tell but was a few seconds too late.
“You know what these syringes are, don’t you?” said Barkley. Ringo shook his head but was too anxious to execute a casual denial. “Don’t lie, Doctor. I know more than you think. But I’m probably not here for the reason you assume I am. If you cooperate, I can help you.”
Ringo stared blankly ahead, not exactly caving, but Barkley could see the wheels turning. The doctor knew he was in hot water.
Barkley slid another photo of Brewer’s list of names to Ringo, but he didn’t look down at it. “You don’t want to look because you already know what you’ve done,” said Barkley. “I know these marked men have threatened you and your family. They did the same to this doctor in Chicago. I’m here to give you the same chance we gave him. Cooperate, and we’ll help you and your family. We can keep you safe.”
Ringo looked at her with tears in his eyes. “You can’t protect me or my family. In fact, you’ve likely issued us a death sentence just by being here.”
How much do the marked men torment these men? thought Barkley. Brewer had been equally terrified when Hart spoke to him. “Well, this doctor in Chicago is safe, and his family too. We’re bringing down the men behind all this.” Barkley felt bad about lying, although she hoped there was a shred of truth to what she
was saying. If she, Hart, and Plumber could get their own government back, what she promised wouldn’t be far-fetched. “No one will even know I’m here, if that’s what you want. This is off the record, and I can give you time to weigh your options. For now, though, I really need something from you.”
Ringo looked at her weakly. “What?”
“Look down at the photo,” said Barkley. After the doctor examined it, Barkley said, “That’s a list of the people the Chicago doctor injected with the syringes over a three-year period. I need a list from you, just like this one.”
Ringo exhaled, and Barkley sensed he was relieved it wasn’t something more complicated. He nodded and turned to his desktop, an ancient piece of technology Barkley was surprised still existed. She heard the strange hum of the old machine as it powered up, amused by the sounds of the fans and hard drive spinning. The modern desktops were barely audible, but this one was at least a decade old.
After a few minutes of clicking, Ringo asked, “Do you want these names in any kind of order?”
Barkley thought back to her conversation with Lynks. If Swelling and the others were being held at a Miami address, it was likely a house that belonged to a marked man. Even better odds were that the family had long abandoned the home and moved on, because most of the turned men moved to another part of the country. Often, the wives couldn’t afford to remain living there because the turned husband had been the primary breadwinner. It stood to reason that their best chance was finding a turned man from years ago, giving the family fallout plenty of time to take effect.
“Oldest to newest,” said Barkley. “When did you start injecting men?”
Ringo cringed at the question. “Almost four years.”
Barkley shivered. This list would likely be longer than Brewer’s. Ringo clicked more before sitting back in his chair, waiting for the printout. Ten pages later, the doctor scooped up the list and slid it to her.
One hundred names per page, times ten pages. One thousand men. Barkley was astonished, and Ringo read her anxiety. “I had no choice,” he said.
“Yes, you did,” said Barkley. “But I can’t judge you.”
“What will happen now?”
“I’ll be in touch,” said Barkley. “Right now, there’s something far more important I need to do with this list.”
After leaving the clinic, Barkley drove until she reached a restaurant, pulled into the busy lot, and parked. She figured the busier the establishment, the safer she’d be for a few minutes. After taking photos of the list, she called Lynks. “I’m gonna send you these thousand names.”
“A thousand?” asked Lynks. Neither one of them had expected there to be so many, which could make his search even harder.
“I’m hoping there’ll only be a handful of marked men who still live in Miami,” said Barkley. “Focus on the oldest turnings from almost four years ago. Those two factors may narrow it down.”
“This is gonna take a little time,” said Lynks. “I was thinking maybe a few hundred.”
“That’s fine,” said Barkley, eyeballing the restaurant. “I’m starving. I’ll call when I’m done eating.”
*
October 2, 2028
6:00 p.m. CST
Chicago, Illinois
Hart wanted to vomit. He’d hustled back to Chicago from Wisconsin Dells to find Lindsey and her team, along with Brewer and some other local agents, massacred. Bodies and shot-up vehicles lined the street, detailing just how disastrous the attack had been. Hart didn’t need to do any guessing to figure out who had been responsible but was still shocked the marked men had been this bold.
Hart still hadn’t informed Barkley, Cane, or anyone at Calvin’s, but everyone would know soon enough on their own, for it was taking center stage of national headlines. Initially, it would appear the attack hadn’t been in the best interest of the marked men. However, because the syringes had been taken and the sole witness to the dealings had been killed, the only remaining evidence was possessed by Hart, who was perceived by many to be a dirty agent. Plumber trusted him, but right now that did little for their cause.
The streets were swarming with Chicago PD officers, but no one whom Hart knew well enough to approach. He wanted to keep a low profile, especially in Chicago, so he’d disguised himself as best he could and parked his car a few streets down. He could only see the carnage from afar, but it was telling, and he already knew the details from speaking to Plumber, who’d alerted him in the first place.
Hart felt a load of guilt for Lindsey’s death and regretted not being there, though judging by the aftermath, he wouldn’t have survived. It should have been me and not Lindsey, he kept thinking over and over. She’d only been there to help him, like she’d been doing for the past few weeks. I never should’ve involved her in this. Hart knew she was in over her head, for she hadn’t seen enough of the marked men to appreciate their brutality. Hart should’ve known they’d be watching Chicago closely, seeing as it was the city Cane and Daniel had been active in for some time.
Another unfortunate consequence of the massacre was losing seven trusted agents needed to pull off Bowman and Webb’s rescue. Hart had already been having doubts about their chances of success, but now they’d be even more undermanned. Plumber was gathering the rest of the agents Hart had recommended, but it was only a dozen. Raiding a CIA facility with so few seemed like a suicide mission, especially because they didn’t know what they were walking into.
Hart felt overwhelmed and helpless. Despite his best efforts, he’d done nothing to advance their cause, and in fact, they might be in even worse shape than when they started. He suddenly wished he could just call Cane, give him the address of the CIA facility, and walk away, but that wasn’t an option. Cane was crossing the country, and William and Daniel were overseas, leaving only him and Plumber to finish the job. Bowman and Webb’s life hung in the balance, and they didn’t have time to wait.
Hart had to be in Maryland in a few hours, so he reluctantly left the scene where his trusted friend had just given her life for a cause she didn’t comprehend.
*
October 2, 2028
7:00 p.m. EST
Miami, Florida
Barkley walked back to her car after another disappointing outing. The house she’d just checked had no electricity, long abandoned by its former occupants. The lead had seemed unlikely, as had all the others so far, for the homes had been in highly populated subdivisions. Lynks had reminded her that Tina’s home was in such a community, but this situation seemed different. The marked men would have had to escort three different abductees on separate occasions, which led Barkley to believe the residence they were looking for would be secluded.
“Another dud,” said Barkley. Lynks exhaled as if relieved, for one of the locations would eventually be correct. Every time Barkley had approached a house, there’d been a lot of anxiety for them both.
“Maybe we should wait for Cane,” said Lynks.
“They could be dead by then,” said Barkley, knowing Lynks was aware of it.
Lynks sighed again. “Okay, well, are you ready for the next address?”
“There are too many,” said Barkley. “There’s gotta be a better way.” Suddenly, the thought hit her like a ton of bricks. This house didn’t have electricity but was still owned by the marked man who’d once lived there. What if they left these houses vacant on an as-needed basis? “Can you cross-reference your list against residences that have recently had their power turned back on?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” said Lynks.
“Someone took Swelling on September thirtieth,” said Barkley. “Find me a home that had the power turned on then, or after.”
Lynks sighed. “There are two.”
“Our search just got a lot narrower,” said Barkley.
*
October 2, 2028
7:00 p.m. CST
Naperville, Illinois
Calvin sat on the back patio with Natalie, Jordyn, Taryn, and Kristy afte
r eating dinner, which was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips. They were getting low on supplies, forcing them to improvise until they could go shopping. To Calvin, it was more worrisome for reasons other than poor food choices, for Marcene was the one who usually kept the house stocked by having groceries delivered to the front door. Weeks had passed since they’d had any contact from Marcene or any of her couriers, making Calvin wonder if something had happened.
There were other factors, too, that he’d shared with no one, like her concealing the location of William’s family. Calvin hardly believed the mysterious messenger didn’t know how to find the family, so why not allow Cane to secure them before the overseas trip to rescue William? Because of this unnecessary timing, Cane was now headed somewhere across the country while the others were left facing danger alone. Hart and Barkley were leading the charge instead, for which Calvin was grateful, but this situation demanded Cane and Daniel’s talents.
Calvin was growing more anxious by the hour, feeling the pressure building. He was concerned for Jordyn and Taryn; both seemed distant, especially since Tom’s outburst the night before. Natalie’s experimentation wasn’t paying off, and it seemed the longer it continued, the greater the psychological impact on Jordyn.
It wasn’t only Calvin who was concerned; Zeke refused to leave the panic room, abandoning the shift rotation with Wally and Fletcher. He’d been vocal lately and had appeared to take Tom’s insidious behavior to heart, but it was refreshing to see how much the sentinel cared about Jordyn.
The trickiest part of Tom’s care had been dealt with; they had never accounted for his bathroom privileges. The crew solved this issue by cutting a hole into the metal chair and placing a waste bucket underneath, a crude but necessary action. It was far better than the alternatives, which would’ve had the man soil himself or having to escort him back and forth to the bathroom. Zeke had even taken on waste disposal duties, for which no one was challenging him.