Behind the Mask

by J. D. Cunegan

  Richards, lightheaded, leaned back against the edge of his desk. "Just one?"

  "DNA came back on our vic," Stevens announced, handing a single-page printout to Richards. "Turns out he's one of ours?"

  Richards' frown deepened as he took the paper and studied its contents, closing his eyes once the information sank in. "You've gotta be kidding me."

  "Detective Adam Jonas, worked Vice out of the Fifth," Stevens explained, scratching at his mustache. "Was deep undercover, tryin' to do all the work no one in Narcotics will."

  Richards shook his head. That fog had cleared far sooner than he would have liked—and the rolling in his stomach made it even worse. "Captain Foley confirmed that story?"

  "Said he figured somethin' was up when Jonas didn't check in after midnight." Stevens stuffed his hands into his pockets, hoping to relieve some of the weight on his shoulders. The last thing the BPD needed was a dead cop. Not that anyone in the city would care; every other story on the news anymore was about how this cop was crooked or that cop killed a guy or a former detective was actually a costumed vigilante...

  "Anything on our tipster?" Richards asked with a knowing look in his eye.

  Stevens shook his head with a rueful smile. "Let's not open that can o' worms, Cap. That can wait til after we find out who killed a cop."

  Assuming the tipster isn't also the murderer...

  As soon as he thought it, Richards mentally kicked himself for it. That couldn't be possible, could it? He wanted so badly to say no, but he had already lived through one Andersen turning to murder. Hell, he had fallen down that path himself... and no matter how many times Richards told himself he did what he did for Jill's sake, the truth was that the bloodshed was weighing on him. Robbing him of sleep, chipping away at his peace of mind. The evidence was still tucked away in that locked drawer behind him, and he swore it was burning a hole in it.

  They're gonna find out one day. She's gonna find out one day, and you deserve whatever hell she gives you for it.

  But that didn't matter. Richards would do it all over again if it meant protecting Jill. And that was probably the hardest part of this whole ordeal over the last couple weeks: the fact that he couldn't do anything. But he couldn't focus on that right now; the fact that his squad's most recent case involved a fellow cop brought with it a slew of legalities and other issues that he would have to contend with... because whether the Baltimore Police Department liked it or not, he was still captain of the Seventh Precinct.

  Who now had a dead cop on his hands.

  CHAPTER 9

  FOR ONE THING, JILL was glad to feel the pavement under her feet again. Not that she could afford to let down her guard. As she weaved through the rest of the downtown throng, Jill had to keep her head down, even as the oversized hood hung low enough over her face that it came down to her nose. She didn't trust the dye job on her hair or the skin graft on her face to keep the facade. Not with how much her face had been plastered on almost every newspaper and television station in the weeks since her revelation. Seemingly every photograph or piece of video footage featuring either Detective Andersen or Bounty had been in constant circulation, and Jill scowled from beneath her hood, fully expecting one of the passersby to put two and two together.

  Yet no one seemed to be paying Jill any mind. A man brushed past her, their shoulders smacking together... but he did little more than toss a distracted sorry over his shoulder as he scrolled down his smartphone. For once, the apparent rudeness worked to Jill's benefit, and she released a breath as she slipped into Mick O'Shea's.

  A smile tugged on her lips as she took in the familiar din, her hands coming up to remove the hood before Jill stopped herself. Many of the faces at the bar were familiar to her, as was the faint aroma of whatever was on tap that night and whatever was sizzling away in the fryer in the back. Scanning the area to her left, Jill frowned at each booth that didn't contain her target.

  But finally, at the last one, she smiled.

  Crossing the distance between the entrance and the back corner, Jill stole a glance over her shoulder and shook her head when she locked eyes with a waitress. Once Jill let herself sink into the all-too-soft cushioning, she finally let her shoulders relax and she lifted her gaze to the man sitting across from her.

  "Hey." The smile returned, however brief. "Hope I didn't keep you."

  Ramon Gutierrez offered a one-shoulder shrug before polishing off the bottle of Bud Light cradled in his right hand. There was another bottle to his right, thick with condensation. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual, but Jill couldn't tell if that was a trick of the overhead light or something else. "Any trouble coming here?"

  "Nope." Jill reached for the other bottle, letting the cold seep into her fingers before taking her first swig. "Just an abundance of caution."

  A silence fell over the former partners after Ramon ordered himself another drink. Ramon had sworn up and down that he held no ill will toward Jill for what she did, and she wanted to believe that since he was still willing to communicate with her, but there was definitely a bit of distance between them now. She should sense the tension coming from her former partner. His request to meet was the first time he had responded to Jill since her resignation.

  She hated the way that knowledge sat down in her gut, and she chewed her lower lip as her fingers toyed with the label that was starting to peel off the bottle. Stealing a glance at Ramon, she saw him rubbing the back of his neck with a grimace. The bags under his eyes were definitely not because of the light.

  "Look, Ramon—" she started.

  "We got an ID on that man you saw," he interrupted with a shake of his head. "He's a cop."

  Jill had brought her bottle up for another sip, but it hovered just inches from her lips as her former partner’s words sank in. "What?" Her brow furrowed. "You sure?"

  Ramon nodded and ran his hands up and down his thighs. "He worked Vice out of the Fifth. Guy named Jonas." He stole a glance over his shoulder and then checked to make sure the waitress wouldn't be approaching any time soon. The din of the establishment meant no one would overhear them, yet it wasn't so loud that Ramon had to yell to make sure Jill heard him. It was one of the many reasons he loved O'Shea's. "He was deep undercover, trying to bring down Gregor's drug ring."

  Jill pushed her half-empty bottle aside, her stomach far too sensitive after hearing that news. The loss of a cop was always cause for mourning—hell, in her own way, Jill even mourned the deaths of the four officers who had killed Devin Buckner. Somewhere, the man she watched die had left behind loved ones... and if he was that far undercover, Jill couldn't help but wonder when the last time was he had seen them. Had he hugged family members? Was there someone special waiting for him, someone who would now have to face the rest of their life without his reassuring presence?

  Jill cradled her arms over her stomach, biting her lower lip to quell the emotion. She wasn't a cop anymore; what right did she have to mourn one? Then again, her father had always said that once one had worn that badge, they were always part of that fraternity.

  But was that always true?

  Was it true of him?

  Hell, was it even true of her?

  "Still nothing on the suspect," Ramon added with a rueful grin. "Unfortunately, masked man in all black isn't much to go on."

  "It has to be the other vigilante," Jill said before grabbing the bottle again and downing what was left in it. "He's aligned with Gregor, and we already know he's willing to kill.”

  Ramon cringed as the phone in his pocket buzzed to life. He hated the thought of potentially facing off against a strange, dangerous superpowered man... especially now that the BPD's own resident superhero was more a fugitive than anything. As temperamental as that reality had made the Seventh Precinct at times, the prospect of trying to arrest of murderous cyborg was even worse. Ramon fished the device from his pocket, smiling when he saw a message from Jorge. But since it wasn't the sort of message that was safe for public consumption,
Ramon stuffed the phone back into his pocket just as quickly.

  "I know that move," Jill said with a quirked brow. "You better cut yourself off now, or you won't be up to the task when you get home."

  With a blush and an eyeroll, Ramon actually managed a chuckle. Clearing his throat, desperately hoping that was the end of the ribbing, he leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "I don't care what Blankenship or anyone else says," he muttered, "the Seventh just isn't the same without you."

  "I know." Jill offered a sheepish smile, mostly because she didn't want Ramon to see just how deeply the distrust of some of her former squad mates bothered her. She didn't have the time or the energy to worry about that, not while being on the run and trying to figure out how to make her rapidly diminishing dollars last as long as possible. In a way, being incarcerated was appealing—simply because it meant food, a bed to sleep on and access to health care should she need it. The fact that Jill even thought that was a sad commentary on so many levels.

  "They don't suspect anything, do they?"

  Ramon shook his head, rising from his side of the booth and slipping on his leather coat. "Nah. Far as they know, we haven't talked outside of you informing me about Jonas' body." He reached out and gave Jill's shoulder a squeeze, letting his touch linger. "You be careful out there. Ring if you need me."

  Jill watched over her shoulder as Ramon walked out of O'Shea's, silently glad that even with all of the upheaval in her life—much of it self-inflicted—she still had Ramon's friendship. It was oddly clandestine now, and the tension was still there, but the fact that he hadn't taken her brash decisions personally was a source of great relief.

  She had fully expected Ramon to be one of the ones to try talking her out of turning in her badge and revealing her secret identity, yet he actually did the opposite. It proved not just how well he knew her, but how much he respected her.

  Noting that the waitress was clear on the opposite end of the establishment, and no one at all was paying any attention to the back corner, Jill slipped from the booth and pushed her way through the rear exit. She cringed when the door banged against the brick wall spilling out into one of downtown's many alleys, immediately turning to her left and sprinting off into the night. She rounded the corner without watching where she was going, running face-first into what felt like a brick wall. As she collapsed onto the pavement, unconscious, the masked man from the night before stood over her, dropping the rusty pipe he had been carrying and balling his hands into fists.

  After scanning his surroundings, the man removed his mask to reveal blue eyes and blond hair—not to mention a nasty red gash along the right side of his face.

  "Why in such a hurry?" the man asked, a thin Russian accent coating his words.

  CHAPTER 10

  AS SOON AS JILL OPENED her eyes, her head began to throb. Turning her head ever so slightly, she cringed at the stabbing pain at the base of her skull. Blinking the stars out of her eyes, Jill slowly pushed herself onto her elbow and frowned at her surroundings. She was in an abandoned warehouse, but it wasn’t the one she had been hiding out in; that one boasted the faint aroma of rat feces, while this one had a decidedly fishier smell. Her guess? She was somewhere close to the Inner Harbor, but tucked away in an alley deep enough that no one would come poking around in search of her.

  Of greater concern was the man crouched down next to her. His mask was in a heap on the floor, and Jill found herself face-to-face with a man who, facial scar aside, looked as far from intimidating as anyone could. His skin was smooth, which told her this man was likely barely out of his teens. His eyes, a striking blue that pierced through the relative darkness, held a mirth that sent a chill down Jill’s spine.

  But that scar... the stories it could tell...

  “Oh, good.” The man’s voice was chipper, the slight hint of a Russian accent buried within it. “I was hoping you would wake up soon.”

  Jill almost asked where she was, before clamping her mouth shut at the realization of how stupid that question would sound. Though this was her first time seeing the man’s face, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was the other vigilante. His black bodysuit alone, outfitted with the finest Kevlar she could never afford, gave away that much.

  “Why am I not dead yet?” she asked, cringing when her voice threatened to give out.

  “Why would I want you dead?”

  This man had to be joking... and yet, the quirked brow and the slight frown told Jill otherwise. She forced herself into a sitting position, rubbing a hand along the back of her neck. “Well, you work for David Gregor. It’s a pretty easy assumption to make.”

  “The old man is a means to an end,” the man answered with a one-shoulder shrug. “I am Piotr.”

  Was the pain in her head causing Jill to imagine things? Had the man who had hit her upside the head with a pipe and knocked her unconscious just introduced himself to her? She frowned in a combination of pain and confusion, resisting the urge to shake her head until the throbbing subsided. She caught sight of her katana out of the corner of her eye; the weapon was propped up against the far wall, still buried in its leather sheath.

  It was hopelessly out of her reach. It was also not tucked into its usual hiding place like it was supposed to be.

  “What do you want?” It was pretty much the only thing she could think of to say. Nothing else seemed appropriate.

  “You and I have a lot in common,” Piotr answered.

  That much was true, at least on the surface. He was a black-clad vigilante, much like Jill... but she drew the line at killing people, while this man apparently had no such qualms. He had dispatched of four disgraced police officers in a public display that was as brazen as it was sudden, and she had seen him slit another man’s throat two nights ago with such ease that she wondered how many times he had done that before. Honestly, she was surprised he hadn’t yet pulled that trick on her... even as her hand went up to her neck.

  “If you count fashion choices, sure,” she said.

  Piotr’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. “What do you know of Project Fusion?”

  Jill’s heart skipped a beat, and she had to will herself into keeping a neutral expression. She felt the pit open up in the bottom of her stomach, and her hands tightened into fists for no other reason than to hide how much her hands had started to shake. She opened her mouth, but whatever words she was planning to say got stuck in the back of her throat. Instead, she shook her head and stared at her captor.

  It made sense, if only in hindsight. She had seen the video footage of the van careening into the bay, the way Piotr had leaped from the speeding vehicle and rolled his way back to his feet without so much as a scratch. The way he had moved the first time they fought, his allegiance to Gregor and his fascination with her. Jill could try to deny this all she wanted, but the fact was that Project Fusion was the only connection that made sense.

  Ramon’s theory held water after all.

  But still...

  “I know it tanked years ago,” she said with far less conviction than she had hoped.

  “No.” The ghost of a smile played on Piotr’s lips. “It did not.”

  THREE YEARS AGO...

  The small town of Noril’sk, east of Moscow, had been the perfect base of operations for Project Fusion—particularly in the winter months, when the snow pile was such that all structures were buried under feet of it. The underground facility was already nearly impossible to find, but the occasional assist from Mother Nature made the secret that much easier to guard.

  Particularly after the project was officially shut down a year prior. The story was that David Gregor, upon discovering that six Russian soldiers who had undergone the procedure had died hours later, pulled his funding and Project Fusion went under. The lack of funds, and governments of the world recoiling after the mishap, spelled the experiment’s doom.

  The truth was... somewhat more complicated.

  Piotr Sokolov’s entire life had built up to this
point. From early childhood, he had been tapped as special, with the Russian government taking such a keen interest in him that he was removed from his home at the age of five. Instead of attending school like others his age, Piotr had spent his formative years in training. Combat, espionage, covert ops. Other children were learning how to read and write; Piotr was learning the finer points of a sniper rifle and how to affect international diplomacy from the shadows.

  The KGB had approached Piotr when he turned 14, handing him his first assignment: the assassination of a low-level British operative in Crimea in an effort to prevent Russia’s annexation. Piotr had been so swift, so quiet, that no one realized his target was dead until he had already fallen face-first at the table and blood began seeping onto the wood.

  To this day, no one knew who had killed the man.

  Piotr had always been nothing if not efficient and a quick learner. He outpaced nearly all of the others in his unit in terms of physical combat and mental acuity. Which was why, upon Piotr’s return, the KGB identified him as a potential candidate for Project Fusion. Piotr, with no friends and having long forgotten any link to his past life, leapt at the opportunity. Because even if the procedure killed him, what was he losing?

  If he survived, he would be front and center in Russia’s return to superpower status. Doing so with the help of an experiment the Americans had tried and jettisoned? That was just the proverbial icing on the cake.

  As he lay unconscious on the cold metal slab, naked and completely exposed, Dr. Trent Roberts stood over him and pushed his black-rim glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He had long ago tossed aside his tie, resigning himself to the fact that this project would take the better part of a day... and that was before the recovery time. All told, if Piotr survived, he wouldn’t be conscious again until the day after next.