by Mike McCrary
A message popped up on his tablet a few minutes ago letting him know someone would take care of the car. Murphy leaves the laptop covered in the trunk so the government geniuses can do their worst.
Murphy is able to stay inside his head long enough to keep his angles tight. Staying clear of the most likely camera views. Making the dark his friend. The night air helps. Cool and steady. In and out of his lungs like a calming force.
Trying to strong-arm a return to sanity.
A local jazz martini bar is up the road. Murphy saw the joint on the way in. Nice place that’s working hard to seem edgy among the wealth of the area. The buffet of exotic cars in the lot destroys any veneer of grit.
He keeps to the side of the road a few feet to the inside of a tree line.
The cool air is nice, but the calming force of whiskey would be better.
He knows he needs to stash his things before going into the bar. Strolling in looking like a half-crazed drifter will not play in a place like this. Checking around his feet, he sees a gathering of leaves and crap from off the trees. He covers his bags in the debris. He’ll get them after his drink.
Inside the bar is a small gathering of men and women. Murphy counts five, six if you include the bartender. Bartender seems like he could give Murphy the most trouble. Six feet, give or take, pushing two-fifty, and who the hell knows what he has hidden under the bar.
Slugger?
Shotgun?
Two of the five bar patrons are deep into their sixties. They sit and drink in silence. The other three are in their forties. Wealthy-fit from yoga, hiking vacations and whatever trendy class is working today. Two women and a man laugh with a certain half-in-the-bag sway to them. Multiple dead soldier martini glasses laid to waste in front of them.
Murphy keeps his eyes on the hands and eyes of the bartender. He takes a seat at the corner of the bar. A spot where Murphy can keep everything in front of him and nothing behind him.
The bartender rolls his eyes.
Murphy is forcing him walk to the other side of the bar when all the seats are clearly open. Part of this is because it’s the location Murphy wanted to be seated, the other is he wanted to see the bartender move. It will tell him a lot. The bartender is slow. There’s a limp brought on by size and weight, or maybe some athletic injury that’s been hard on his knees over the years.
This was all in a blink of an eye—the people in the bar, the bartender, and the best location to sit. All processed and assigned a value. Decisions made. Actions taken in seconds. It’s not lost on Murphy that he was able to set aside the war inside his head long enough to access the potential points of failure in this bar.
His survival instincts override the conflicts between his dueling personalities.
“What?” the bartender huffs.
Murphy’s dark heart glows bright seeing the whiskey is at the other end of the bar. It’ll send the bartender back where he just hoofed it over from.
“Whiskey.” Said with a bit of asshole placed on the word. Resets, then pulls some cash. “Get yourself one too.”
Mr. Nice Guy throwing him a bone.
The bartender takes the cash and nods with an eighth of a smile.
“Hope you won,” he says before shuffling his big ass to the other side of the bar.
“What’s that?”
“Whatever brawl you were in.” The bartender points to his eyes. “Hope you got some good shots in.”
Murphy looks up, sees his reflection in the mirror just behind the bottles. There are lines of dried blood under both eyes. Muted red splitting the dark bags that hang below his eyes. He shifts to the right slightly behind a bottle to avoid seeing himself.
Toys with the idea of killing the bartender.
He might ID him when the cops come. And they will. The cops will canvas the area asking if they saw anything the night Buckley died. The bartender now has a reason to remember his face.
Murphy shakes off the urge.
Reassures himself that he is somewhat protected by Thompson and Peyton.
He lays down some more cash, picks up his drink and heads to the bathroom. Thankfully, it’s a single serve men’s room. Locking the door behind him, he turns on the water.
The sound soothes him.
He could use a large dose of soothing right now. He wets his fingers then rubs away the crusted brownish red streaks under his eyes. It flakes and falls into the sink. Mesmerized, he watches it spiral away.
He dries his hands then his face.
One question still eats away—What does Brubaker want?
Pulling his phone, he taps one of the only two people the phone can reach.
“Two things. Nonnegotiable.” Murphy grips the phone until his knuckles crack.
“I’m listening,” Thompson says.
“I want to talk to my mother, and…” Throws back his whiskey. “Get my ass to Baghdad.”
Chapter 18
The fourteen-hour flight was far from pleasant.
He was asleep for a goodly portion of the trip. Nestled in the back of the private jet while lost in the embrace of some damn fine sedatives.
Dr. Peyton had them waiting for him at his seat on the flight. She also included a few injections to be administered by the attendant on the flight. Murphy would love to know what the hell is being pushed through his veins, but he knows at this point in the game they’ve pumped and jammed so much shit into him that questioning the ingredients label is a lost cause.
Calling her an attendant is a bit dismissive. She has a gun, and looks like she’d eat your heart if she chose to. She, Murphy and the pilots are the only people on the plane.
At first, he tried to get some intel from the heart-eating CIA attendant, but she possesses the personality of a middle finger. Murphy assumes Thompson has a small team in place, and she is part of it. It would need to be small given the nature of all this. More than likely made up of people like the big boy from the hotel, this woman, and perhaps a handful of others. Contract, former military and CIA perhaps. Maybe there are a few researchers left from the grand experiment. Maybe not. Unclear how many died during that nasty escape.
They would need some people to carry out what’s going on. There are only a few little bits Murphy could pick up from what Dr. Peyton and Thompson have told him.
They had eyes on Lady Brubaker and her friends. The fact they could scramble a private plane to Baghdad off Murphy’s single sentence is telling as well.
Trust that you can trust no one.
Someone told Murphy that once.
Wishes he could remember who.
As the plane touches down, Murphy marvels at a country that was once laid almost completely to waste. Now, a city of commerce. A desired destination. A measured mix of Dubai and Cabo. Conferences come here. Businesses outside oil thrive here. People travel here to relax and vacation. He reminds himself you could almost say the same things about Germany, Japan, and Vietnam—to name a few.
War creates travel destinations.
Carnage before cocktails.
Like everywhere he’s been since waking up at that shit motel, there’s great familiarity here. Much like he felt when he woke up in New York. Somehow, he knows he’s traveled the globe, yet doesn’t know when and cannot hang on to a single detail. It’s possible he’s seen the world with no memory of it. A little sad now that he thinks about it.
While he slept during the flight, his standard memories resurfaced.
The bar.
The man and the woman. The happiness. The laughter. The woman playfully bit her lip and fired off a thumbs-up. He also played the darker vision featuring himself. The one of dead bodies in a house on the beach.
This time, as the memory played it was even more vivid. More real. He could smell the gunpowder. There was a ring of gunshots still echoing in the air. His face throbbed as if he took a punch. Hands felt numb from speed loading his weapon. The ocean air blew through the curtains giving a layer of peace over the bloodbath.
&nb
sp; This is a memory of Murphy.
The flipping car is still only a flash. A preview of something his mind isn’t sharing.
Not yet, at least.
Nothing like the scene from the bar where he’s watching. Removed from happiness but still a witness to it. No, the beach house is a recollection of something horrible where he was the main attraction, rather than a member of the audience.
What did you do?
I did what had to be done.
You’ve killed a lot people, haven’t you?
Wow, you’re a perceptive pussy aren’t you.
It’s worse than that—you enjoy killing people.
“Shut your little bitch mouth,” Murphy says.
The heart-eating woman raises her eyebrows, lowers her book.
“Not you.” Murphy turns back to staring out the window.
As he sits feeling the warmth of the sun across his face, he can’t believe he’s become that crazy person with voices arguing morality inside his head.
That shit needs to stop.
He’s now a various-minded man. Oh, to be single-minded.
“Any whiskey on this bucket?” Murphy asks.
“Put a bottle in your bag.” She returns to her book. “For what it’s worth, I hope you kill her.”
“What’s that?”
“That woman—Brubaker—hope you kill her.”
Murphy nods, considers asking for more, but doesn’t. He assumes Lady Brubaker and her friends are responsible for the deaths of a few friends of Agent Heart Eater.
Makes Mr. Nice Guy feels slightly better about this trip. Not much, but marginally. A thin veneer of nobility via murder helps a bit. It’s a slippery slope, Murphy knows, but if Mr. Nice Guy finds comfort in the “killing for a cause angle” then maybe this can work.
The plane slows to a stop.
“Oh yeah.” She hands Murphy a phone with a small scrap of paper taped to the back. “Call your damn mother.”
Chapter 19
Murphy moves through the lobby of the resort.
Taking it all in while continuously scanning for two people.
Eryk Pruitt and Lady Brubaker.
He can’t, however, shove aside how impressive the lobby truly is. Best he can tell it stretches the length of several football fields. A giant fish tank rests in the center with two large sharks circling the blue as if watching over the lobby. There’s a waterfall gently falling in the distance, with several restaurants in view. The place is buzzing with families rushing to the pool. Young-money-sexy-people from around the world casually glide across the marble as if they own the place. Even the air seems like it was handcrafted by a team of experts.
On the way from the airport, the driver told Murphy that Baghdad has made a concerted effort to step up its hotel and resort game in recent years. Tired of losing money to Dubai, Singapore and the like. A perfect place for a single, master of the universe, technology CEO to hang out and recharge with a homicidal prostitute.
No less than three kindly people have asked to help with his bags, but Murphy felt it best to carry his own shit. There are some very strict laws in this country. Some still carry consequences that involve limbs being removed. All of his firearms have been carefully stowed on the plane back at Baghdad International with Agent Heart Eater.
He’s also not excited by the prospect of some hotel employee discovering his bag of doctor-prescribed knock-out-a-psycho injectors and other bids and bods he’s got on him.
He can’t think of the last time he didn’t have a gun.
Then again, he still doesn’t remember much before a few days ago.
No, ladies and gentlemen, for the duration of his stay Markus Murphy will be armed with a knife, cash, military-grade sedatives and unrelenting charm. Part of him is arrogant enough to think that’s enough. Part of him wants to get to his room as quickly as possible, pull the curtains and order room service.
Given Pruitt’s status and wealth, Murphy is guessing he should be easy to track. Look for multiple well-dressed employees and where they flock to. Seek out the high-end services areas of the grounds. He’ll ask the front desk about their luxury packages.
Then, he’ll ask what’s above that.
He’ll take a quick tour and ask if they have dedicated staff for the VIPs. Ask about what’s available at the pool for people cut from a better cloth. Private dining options? Keep probing until he finds where they hide the upper crust from the commoners.
Murphy enters the mirrored elevator.
He holds himself perfectly still, then looks up letting the elevator scan his eyes. The top floors require special access.
Murphy got a sweet penthouse suite.
He decided he needed something special so he, ya know, could be in the same general area where Pruitt and Brubaker might be located. Since someone else is picking up the tab, what the hell? It also helps with getting information. Helps with the narrative he’s one of the them. Part of the money crowd. At least that’s the story he’s pitching to management and whoever else requires a dose of bullshit.
Murphy doesn’t remember much about himself, but there’s this strong sense that money wasn’t part of his upbringing. Neither side of him. There’s an odd tension; he’s not completely comfortable with all this luxury. Feels undeserved. Unnecessary. Maybe one side of him lived well in recent years—death and chaos does pay well—but Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy were both raised shitty.
No doubt on that one.
So, he grabs a champagne glass off a passing tray.
Murphy doesn’t know how far ahead of him Lady Brubaker is right now. Pruitt may already be dead for all he knows. But the quick math dictates that she only has about an hour jump on him, at best. Not like she could drive that sweet-ass, stolen Mercedes here. She can’t speed up how long it takes to get to Baghdad from NYC, and he’s guessing, she doesn’t have access to a private plane.
But she might.
Everything is a big fat question mark right now.
The dead hedge fund douche said he thought she was a high-end prostitute. Stands to reason that’s her angle. From what he’s seen she’s attractive, smart, manipulative. Wealthy, unattractive men have a hard time not paying up for that menu.
She’ll more than likely use that as her ticket with Pruitt. Maybe that’s how she’ll make the introduction. Open a conversation with the common connection they share with the hedge fund douche.
She’ll leave out that she cut him open, of course.
Never let the truth fuck up a good story.
Murphy lets his bags bounce on the bed. He’d like nothing more than to crawl in between the crisp sheets and nap-out for a few days. That much both sides of him can agree with. The room service menu on the table by the bed is calling his name. Bet there are some good movies he could watch. The room is immaculate. The temperature is perfect.
Dammit.
The sprawling hotel suite is stark white with slight hints of chrome, perhaps platinum, peppered here and there. There’s a long dresser made from polished concrete and two red leather chairs between the window and the door.
The room looks lab clean. Plush. Expensive. A living magazine. Looks like a picture from someone you hate who’s living better than you.
Murphy pulls out the phone he got when the plane landed.
The handwritten note stuck to the back simply reads:
Your mother will call from prison in 3 hours and 26 minutes.
Chapter 20
Doesn’t leave much time for Brubaker hunting.
It took about an hour to get to the hotel from the airport.
Murphy does not know why Mr. Nice Guy wants to talk to this woman. This mother. Mr. Nice Guy screams out from the cheap seats. He’s worming his way into Murphy. Mr. Nice Guy wants to connect with family.
Of course he does.
Sad sack.
That guy wants to chat with her, but Murphy isn’t interested in that clown’s need for answers. The need for emotional closure or whatever-the-hel
l is not something Murphy yearns for.
It is Murphy’s mother for fuck’s sake, and Murphy isn’t interested in connection.
The two sides of him seem to have become more divided since he left New York. Seemed for a moment like the two made some progress, but perhaps not. Is this the tricky balance Dr. Peyton talked about? Or is this how it is supposed to be. Two warring factions in his mind working against one another to find the best, most stable middle ground.
Sounds about right.
One of them wants to hunt and kill.
The other wants to run to Mommy.
Again, the mommy in question is actually the mother of the one who wants to hunt and kill.
The ins and outs are exhausting.
Murphy’s mother—like everything else in his mind—floats without weight. Untethered. He holds no clear recollection of her. Only a feeling toward her, and it is not a positive one.
Maybe he left things badly last time they saw one another. Certainly possible—anything is possible right now—but if a brief conversation with her will soothe Mr. Nice Guy’s bullshit and allow them to take care of the task at hand, then so be it.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” the man asks.
Murphy snaps out of his trance.
The nice, thin man with the most delicate of features at the front desk has been very helpful. Murphy barely remembers chatting him up after leaving his room.
The delicate man from the front desk is showing Murphy the massive infinity pool that seems to bleed into the Tigris River even though the river is miles away. An optical illusion that works well. A peaceful oasis to kill for. The temperature is cool, for around here, but still warm enough to hang out by the pool.
“The private cabanas are located over there.” The tiny man points to a line of what amounts to high-end tents guarded by palms. “And beyond that wall is the exclusive pool for our special guests.”
“Oh yeah, how special?”
“Very special, sir.”
“May I see?”
