by Bobby Nash
The Controller smiled, showing teeth. “We don’t like to leave a job unfinished,” he said.
“A job?” Patterson asked. “Are you telling me, for all your posturing, neither of you is actually in charge?”
“Oh, I am very much in charge,” The Controller said. “We are a team and this…” He swirled his hands around in the air as if to take it all in. “All of this is our resume. Once we tick off a few more boxes, our potential clients will see that Blood Shot works and we will become powerful and wealthy men.”
“You’re insane.”
“I prefer jovial.”
“So, you want to sell this Blood Shot serum of yours to assholes like yourself around the world, guys with little dicks who can’t take care of their own enemies by themselves so they turn an innocent, a kid or a grandmother, into a suicide bomb to do their dirty work? Is that about the gist of it?” Jacks asked, purposefully pushing their buttons.
“Think about it,” Gulley said. “I can turn anyone in the world into a programmable assassin. Then, as soon as the job’s done, BOOM! the… what did you call it… suicide bomb explodes, taking itself out of the equation. No muss. No fuss. No evidence that points back to whoever triggered the bomb.”
“Suicide Bomb,” Pearce repeated. “I like it.”
“Feel free to use it.”
“Oh, I will,” Pearce said. Branding is everything these days. “Get up.”
The four prisoners stood, each of them with their eyes locked on the gun in Pearce’s hand. Gulley was still unarmed, as far as they could tell.
“What about the others?” Patterson asked.
“What others?”
“This building is staffed by a small cadre of Secret Service Agents,” she reminded him. “You expect to march us out of here at gunpoint without anyone noticing?”
Agent Patterson pointed toward the door behind Pearce.
“I mean, there’s two right there.”
Pearce fell for the ruse and chanced a look at the door.
There were no agents there.
He arced back around, gun focusing on where Agent Patterson had been, but she was no longer there.
The distraction had bought them a couple of seconds and Jacks and Patterson took full advantage of the time.
Jacks threw herself forward, planting her head in Greg Gulley’s stomach, doubling him over. She wrapped her arms around his legs and they tumbled to the floor together, squeaking as they slid across the linoleum. She made sure she landed on top, a painful position for the man with his legs bent beneath him.
Before The Controller could howl in pain, Detective Jackson punched him in the face, sending blood spatter across his face and onto the floor.
Then she hit him again, not pulling her punches.
In the time it took Metro PD’s finest to take down her suspect, Agent Patterson pivoted on the ball of her right foot. She brought her left foot around in a kick that hit Pearce’s hand at a painful angle that broke at least two fingers.
His gun flew out of his hand and clattered across the floor.
By the time she planted her foot, Patterson followed with a left hook that knocked the former CIA operative off balance. Had it been a right hook, the fight might have been over.
Pearce recovered quickly, faster than she would have expected of a man his age. He swung hard, but barely connected with her jaw.
Pain flared through her face, but she kept her balance.
Jacks threw herself away from her prisoner toward the dropped gun that was lying nearby.
Daniel and Ted grabbed Gulley and held him tight.
He struggled, but wasn’t going anywhere.
Patterson and Pearce struggled.
She kneed him in the groin.
He elbowed her in the chest.
She gasped, trying to breath, stumbled a step back.
Jacks’ hand wrapped around the gun, she pivoted, and fired.
The shot caught Richard Pearce in the chest.
The analyst looked down at the red stain quickly spreading across his shirt as though it was happening to someone other than him.
He looked at Jacks then to Patterson.
Pearce choked out a laugh.
Then collapsed.
Agent Patterson dropped to her knees next to him, her breathing still labored, but improved. She reached out and checked for a pulse on the man’s neck. She wasn’t surprised to find that there wasn’t one. The detective’s shot had hit the man center mass, just like she had been trained.
Greg Gulley screamed at the death of his partner.
Jacks, still on the floor, twisted to point the gun in his direction.
Ted and Daniel continued to hold him tight so he could not run.
Letting out a breath, Jacks lowered the gun.
Although he certainly deserved a bullet, killing The Controller was not in her job description, no matter how strong the urge to squeeze the trigger had been and remained. Her job was to arrest the bad guys and build a case to bring them to trial. They had enough on Greg Gulley to make sure he spent the rest of his life in a concrete square.
She would no doubt be processing everything that had happened to her in the past week for some time to come. As much as Jacks hated to admit it, this was one problem she could not take care of on her own. Professional help would be needed.
The Controller had inflicted a lot of damage and he had ruined a lot of lives. Including her own. She still had no idea how she was going to face her father, mother, or little sister again.
She was going to make sure he paid for those lives by standing trial.
In the days ahead, she would probably regret the decision, but she still believed in the justice system. She still had faith.
At least for now.
Forty-one
Washington DC
Monday
Catherine Jackson woke to silence.
It had been a week of sleepless nights. She spent her nights pacing the floor, unable to eat or sleep, flinching at every sound. The doctor had offered her pills to help her sleep, but she resisted them. Other techniques had been suggested, but they only worked to a certain degree.
Her family spent a lot of time with her, especially Charisma, who had been over almost every night to watch a movie or two. Jacks didn’t know if Charri and their mother were still fighting over little sister’s not a boyfriend because neither of them would talk about anything of substance in her presence.
Jacks reminded them often that she was no fragile flower. She would not break. Reminders of her past strengths did little to sway them to open up to her so, after a few days, she stopped prying. When they were ready to treat her like her old self, she would be ready.
But she wasn’t her old self yet.
She knew it.
Everyone knew it.
Several of the gang from the precinct had stopped by. Others who couldn’t get away, called. She loved her Metro PD family and appreciated that they had checked on her. Of course, they always ended up talking shop, or softball, but discussing the goings on at work was probably the best medicine for the homicide detective. It kept her mind focused and she had even convinced Carter to swing by for dinner with a stack of their open cases so she could run them with him. They had solved many a case over the years by talking it out together.
The President had also called to check up on her, which she appreciated. President Montgomery was a nice man and her respect for the man grew each time she talked to him. Come the next election, he had her vote.
Daniel had stopped by to see her as well. He was all smiles and nervous humor. She recognized the cover. Daniel was clearly having trouble getting past everything that had happened to them. For all the time he spent working to put criminals behind bars, this was the first time he had ever found himself staring down the barrel of a gun himself. She tried to help, but he needed space to work through things. She understood, so she told him to take as much time and space as he needed. She was hoping it would only be a
temporary break. She really liked Daniel and was hoping to see him again.
If not, she got it. Dealing with the violence of the job was not easy. It was senseless and cruel and not everyone came back from it as well as others. Jacks had seen more than her fair share of good people unable to deal with the stress of the dangerous life they led. PTSD had claimed many a good cop.
On Monday morning, Jacks rolled out of bed slowly, her feet jerking as they touched the cold hardwood. She slipped on a pair of well-worn, thick, comfy socks and pulled on her robe to combat the chill. The weather woman on the late news reported that winter weather was imminent, and that snow could be expected somewhere in the near future. Of course, she had been saying much the same for the past three weeks and they remained untouched by the white stuff. Jacks wasn’t a big fan of snow days. The crazies came out to play, which meant she would have to spend a lot of time crouching over dead bodies in the freezing temperatures and wet, melting slush that had once been snow.
Charri had invited a few of Jacks’ friends over the night before for what she called a little get together. Before little sister snuck out with a couple of her girlfriends and her not a boyfriend to hit a club, she had actually managed to clean up most of the mess. There were still a mess of dishes in the sink to wash, but Jacks was in no rush to tackle that chore.
She had just made it to the thermostat when there was a knock at the door. She upped the thermometer two degrees, the limit of what her bank account could cover come time to pay the heating bill before answering the door.
Samantha Patterson smiled when she saw Jacks and said, simply, “hi!”
“Hi, yourself, Agent Patterson. Come on in out of the cold...”
Patterson stepped through and Jacks closed the door behind her.
“And into the slightly less cold.”
“Brisk.”
“I like to sleep when it’s cold,” Jacks said.
“I read a study about that recently. Sleeping when the temps are low is supposed to help you sleep better or something like that.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Would you like something to drink, Agent Patterson? I could put on a pot of coffee.”
“I came prepared,” Patterson said, holding up two cups from a coffee shop around the corner. She handed one over to Jacks.
Jacks looked at it, sniffing at the aroma.
“The barista said it’s your favorite,” Patterson said.
Jacks took a sip and nodded in approval.
“This could be the beginning of a great friendship, Agent Patterson.”
Smiling, Agent Patterson once again reminded Jacks that her name was Samantha or Sam, not Agent Patterson. She was much better at compartmentalizing than her friend from Metro PD. Sam looked and acted like her normal self, at least until Jacks asked the question that set her teeth grinding.
“How’s your ex-husband faring?”
“Better than I expected. He had a helluva week, but seems to be taking it all in. Let’s face it, he lost his girlfriend, his boss, and probably his job all in the span of a week or two. That’s enough to break most people.”
“You still care,” Jacks teased.
“I’m not a monster,” Sam said with a shrug. “I checked in on him. He told me he was fine and I didn’t need to check up on him.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed he wanted me to leave.”
Jacks smiled. “Fair enough.
“And your recovery?” Patterson asked. “All goes well?”
“Well, I haven’t had the urge to murder anyone this week, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s a start.”
“Doctor Martin, the head shrinker I’ve been assigned to talk to says there doesn’t appear any residual triggers implanted in my brain. The neurosurgeon agrees with her. I should be back to work in a week or so. My captain suggested I take an extra week just to be on the safe side.”
“And how’s that going?” Sam asked.
“I’m bored out of my skull,” Jacks said.
“I figured. That’s why I’m here. I figured we could run out and grab some lunch if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Sounds good,” Jacks said. “Before we do that, how’s the case going?”
Patterson let out a breath.
“That’s the other reason I’m stopped by.”
Jacks motioned toward the couch and they both sat down.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Jacks said.
“It’s not. I turned Gulley over to my bosses, as instructed. With Corwin and McHenry still in the hospital, I’m technically the primary on this case so I stopped by to check on him and question him again.”
“He not talking?”
“He’s not there.”
“What do you mean ‘he’s not there’?” Jacks asked.
Sam shrugged. “Just what it sounds like. The Controller has been moved elsewhere by someone with a much higher pay grade than mine. I talked to McHenry today and he was outraged. He promised to take the matter up with President Montgomery as soon as he could get to a secure phone line. Until then, The Controller is gone.”
“Sonuva… How does this happen, Sam?”
“I wish I knew,” the agent said. “I can tell you one thing though, I plan to find out.”
“And I plan to help you.”
Patterson held up her coffee cup.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Jacks touched her coffee to her friend’s cup in a salute.
“Then how can we lose?”
Forty-two
Whereabouts: Unknown
Date: Unknown
The Controller woke in darkness.
He coughed, felt the heat of his breath bounce back in his face. He was lying face down on a hard floor, concrete from the cool, rough touch of it. There was no light. No open window to allow even the tiniest sliver of incandescence. Even the lousiest of federal penitentiaries offered its prisoners a glimpse of the outside world that was denied them, an added punishment that rarely befit the crime.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, reaching out to see if he could feel a wall or cell doors, anything that could be leant on for support. His groping fingers found only air.
“Hello?” he called, softly at first, almost timid.
Looking from side to side, his eyes refused to adjust to the inky blackness. Careful, he got to his feet, tested the floor in each direction then took one step, then another.
“Anyone there?” he asked, louder this time.
A bright light bloomed into existence, excising the dark and sending wave after wave of painfully blinding flashbulbs bursting behind his eyes, igniting an instantaneous migraine.
“Good morning, Mr. Gulley,” a voice called out from somewhere.
He tried to pick out a movement, a silhouette, anything, but the only thing Greg Gulley could see were strobe lights flashing against his skull.
“Who are you?”
“Is that really the most important question the might Controller could think to ask?”
“Where am I?”
“Better.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere, Mr. Gulley. You are correct. We do want something from you, something very special.”
The Controller’s big smile glowed against the intense light.
“You want my formula,” he said knowingly, suddenly realizing that he hard cards of his own to play. “You want to know how to make your own Suicide Bomb, don’t you?”
“Your knowledge would be invaluable to our project,” the voice said. “Your Project: Blood Shot is impressive, and we see great potential in it, but our goals are a bit larger in scope.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your ability to control individuals is impressive, Mr. Gulley. Truly. We consider it an impressive first step.”
“First… How many people do you want to control at one time?”
; “For starters, a city. Chicago. Atlanta. Perhaps, New York.”
“That’s…” Gully started to say ‘impossible’ but something told him that sort of answer would be met by a swift and untimely end. If he was going to stay alive and find a way to regain his freedom, he would have to work with his captors.
Or, at least let them think he was working for them.
“A city isn’t as easy as an individual. Controlling one person is easy. I just have to secure specific genetic enzymes, rewrite them, and reintroduce them to the subject with the proper triggers installed. That’s harder to do on a grand scale. I haven’t figured out how to do it yet. Every individual has a different trigger.”
The bright light switched off, sending The Controller back into total darkness.
“That’s okay, Mr. Gulley,” the voice said. “We have plenty of time. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we begin our work in earnest. Everything you need to perfect your formula will be made available to you. Once we can control a city, then we will be one step closer to our final goal.”
“May I ask what that end goal is?” Gulley asked.
“Of course. It’s an ambitious goal, Mr. Gulley, but once you achieve it, we can save the world.”
“I don’t understand.”
“First, we control a city. Then, we can control the country and eventually return this world to its former glory.”
Suddenly, Greg Gulley, the man known as The Controller realized that he was no longer in control of anything, much less his destiny. He was glad the light was gone. He hoped that, in the dark, his captors could not see the terror on his face. For the first time since his capture, he hoped the ground would open up beneath him and swallow him whole.
No such luck.
The End.
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