Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  “Abigail!” Alfred shouted even as the men holding him twisted his arms in a bid to hold him still. “He’s buying weapons with that money!”

  “What?” She stepped forward, an expression of disbelief clouding her features. “That’s not true!”

  Unable to free himself from the two men holding him, Alfred grunted in mounting anger. “I saw it in his mind,” he said, glaring at Abbott.

  “Of course we’re buying weapons, you moron,” the other man said, making no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice. “There may well come a time when we’ll be forced to defend ourselves.” His voice was urgent, though not angry. “It’s not the most desirable of options, of course, but sometimes we must do unpleasant things in order to achieve our goals. Surely you can understand that, Alfred?”

  Abigail’s expression was one of rage as she balled her fists. “He lied to me, Alfred! I swear he never said a word about this!”

  “I know,” Alfred said, nodding. He tried to free himself from his new escorts, but it was a useless attempt. “I believe you.”

  Stepping closer, Abigail pointed an accusatory finger at Abbott. “You said there wouldn’t be any violence. You said it wouldn’t be like that!”

  “And it won’t,” Abbott replied, “so long as no one forces my hand, but we have to be ready for that possibility.”

  With renewed strength, Alfred jerked his arms free from Abbott’s men, who made no move to restrain him further. “It seems to me as though you’re expecting—maybe even hoping—for someone to ‘force your hand.’ You’re just waiting for an excuse to make some kind of ‘statement.’ And what do you intend to do after that?” His connection with Abbott had been too brief for him to gain a complete reading of the other man’s mind. Only the most surface thoughts had been made available to him, but Alfred was certain he sensed something deeper, something far more menacing, than those few clues he had detected before Abbott pulled away.

  Abbott regarded Alfred with cold eyes. “You do possess a wondrous gift, Alfred. What else has it told you about me and what I intend to do?”

  “Not much,” Alfred conceded, “but it’s enough to tell me I don’t want to be any part of this.” Even as he spoke the words, he eyed the envelope one of the other men had given to Abbott. “I’m finished here.” He looked toward Abigail, sensing that she wanted to go with him.

  “So, that’s it?” Abbott asked. “We say our good-byes and you go on about your merry way?” He nodded to his men, who once more took hold of Alfred’s arms. The third man grabbed Abigail by her right arm. Alfred tried to loosen the grips of the men holding him, but once again was unsuccessful. Turning his attention back to Abbott, he was distressed to see that the man had produced from his jacket pocket a pistol—a Colt .45 semiautomatic that Alfred recognized as like those once carried by the U.S. military—and was now aiming the weapon at him.

  “I’m afraid that’s not likely to happen, Alfred,” Abbott said, offering a humorless smile. “So, you have a choice to make. Sure you don’t want to talk it over?”

  Alfred heard Abigail gasp, and looked over to see her face was stained with tears. “Talk what over? How can we believe anything you say now?”

  Directing an indifferent gaze toward her, Abbott said, “I’m really only concerned with what Alfred might believe. He needs to understand that I’m quite serious about this, and you can help me convince him.”

  In the heartbeat that passed before Abbott began to swing the pistol toward her, Alfred saw what was about to happen in his own mind’s eye.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “You don’t have—”

  His pistol aimed at Abigail, Abbott pulled the trigger, and the sound of the single shot echoed against the warehouse’s walls as the bullet struck Abigail in the chest.

  “No!” Alfred cried, watching as she collapsed, dead even before she crumpled to the floor. She lay face up, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling as blood stained her blouse and started to pool beneath her. At the same time, Alfred flinched as the slight yet still-perceptible mental link—one he had been able to maintain with Abigail whenever in her presence—seemed to rip from his mind, leaving a dark void in his consciousness from which he sensed nothing but his own pain and despair.

  Abbott turned back to Alfred. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming.” His expression told Alfred that the man was rather pleased with his own joke.

  Grunting in rage, Alfred strained to free himself from the two men holding him, only to wince in pain as one of the men clocked him along the side of his head. Stars danced in his vision and he sagged, coughing. “You son of a bitch,” he whispered, the words spilling from his mouth.

  “That I am,” Abbott said, raising the pistol so that it was once more aimed at Alfred. “So, about our unfinished discussion.”

  Whatever he said next was lost amid the cacophony of an immense explosion that rocked the entire warehouse. Alfred felt himself thrown to the floor as the blast rattled the metal paneling and white-hot air surged overhead, and he rolled onto his stomach and threw his hands up to protect his head.

  A second explosion tore through the warehouse on the heels of the first, sending roils of flame through the air above him and he felt the heat on his exposed skin. Dark smoke rolled through the warehouse and he gasped for breath. All around him, debris from what once had been shipping crates and assorted warehouse detritus littered the floor. Lying among the wreckage were three bodies—Abbott’s men—but not Abbott himself.

  His ears ringing so loudly that he could not hear even his own wracked coughing, Alfred crawled to Abigail, hoping to drag her body away from the chaos. He paused as he came abreast of her, his heart leaping into his throat as he once more beheld her lifeless eyes and the expression of surprise and pain fixed on her beautiful face.

  No.

  The single word tore at his soul as he reached out to brush her cheek, emotion overruling logic and reason as his mind searched for some sign, some link, that she might still be alive. He found only nothingness.

  Dear, sweet Abigail.

  The sound of tortured metal rending from somewhere overhead snapped him from his mournful reverie, and Alfred looked up in time to see the steel beam smashing to the floor close enough to cut through the ringing that still assaulted his ears. As the beam settled onto the floor, he turned his gaze toward the ceiling, feeling his mouth drop open at the sight of the roof ’s entire network of beams and roofing panels beginning to buckle.

  Get out!

  The command echoed in his mind as Alfred jerked his head around, searching for a means of escape. To his left, one of the warehouse’s walls had collapsed, offering him a way out. Scrambling to his feet, he navigated through the remains of the storage bay and its contents until he found himself in the narrow hallway connecting the warehouse to the building’s front offices. Behind him, sections of the roof fell to the floor in a rolling crescendo that echoed through the confined passageway. A fresh burst of dust and other pollutants blew into the hall, enveloping Alfred in a thick cloud.

  Gagging on the contaminants clogging his lungs, Alfred huddled along the wall of the hallway, the ringing in his ears only now starting to fade. He peered into what remained of the warehouse, its roof now partially collapsed and shrouding the majority of the room, still not quite believing he had managed to escape with his life. What had caused the explosion? Some unstable munitions or other materiel stored within the warehouse? Was it possible that Abbott and his men had fallen victim to their own carelessness?

  Alfred sat huddled against the wall for what seemed like several minutes, listening for signs of any other survivors but hearing nothing. How many people had been in the building? He had not seen Darren Abbott since the explosion, but the man’s threats still echoed in Alfred’s ears. Had fate not intervened, Alfred was certain he would not have survived the night.

  “Twenter.”

  The single word was hoarse, barely audible, but it chilled Alfred nonetheless. He turned to see Darre
n Abbott, blood running from a nasty gash on the left side of his head, staring at him with unbridled hatred. His left arm hung limp at his side, but he still carried the .45 in his right hand, the muzzle of which was aimed at Alfred’s chest.

  Alfred held up his hands, knowing the gesture was useless. How had he failed to detect Abbott’s presence? Had the explosion so rattled his senses?

  Doesn’t really matter now, does it?

  In the distance, Alfred could hear sirens. How much time had passed since the explosion? Long enough for police or the fire department to respond? For a brief moment, he almost allowed himself to hope they might arrive in time.

  “There’s nothing I can do to hurt you,” he said, keeping his hands where Abbott could see them. “If you leave before the police arrive, I’ll have no way of knowing where you’re going. I’m no threat to you.”

  Abbott frowned, shaking his head. “I’d like to believe that, but I have no idea how much of my mind you read. I can’t take any chances. If it’s any consolation, this isn’t personal.” He even sighed as he raised the .45 until Alfred could stare down its barrel.

  Then Alfred felt a rush of air pass him, as though he was on a sidewalk too close to the street as a large car or truck passed him by. An instant later he watched as a huge, red line appeared across Abbott’s throat, reaching from side to side. Blood began to pour from it, streaming down his chest and adding a dark, wet stain to his dust-ridden shirt.

  What the hell?

  Abbott’s eyes were wide with surprise, and he dropped the pistol to reach for his throat even as he gasped for breath. Alfred heard nothing but a sick gurgling as the man fell to his knees, blood spattering the dull gray carpet before him. He dropped face-first to the floor, his body continuing to convulse for another few moments before finally becoming still.

  Horrified at what he had just witnessed, Alfred lurched away from Abbott’s body, backpedaling away from the dead man until he could regain his feet before turning and scrambling up the littered hallway. He had run only half a dozen steps before he felt a hand on his collar, yanking him to a halt. The corridor echoed with his shriek of terror as he was pulled backward and slammed into the nearby wall. A knife pressed against his throat, and Alfred flinched as he got his first look at his attacker. He closed his eyes and waited for the sting of a metal blade.

  Nothing happened.

  Alfred opened his eyes, beholding Darren Abbott’s apparent murderer. It was a woman, shorter than he was and dressed in a black, form-hugging bodysuit that emphasized her lithe, athletic physique. She wore a cap on her head that concealed her hair, and she glared at him with bright green eyes, saying nothing as she kept him pinned against the wall.

  “Please.” The single word was a hoarse whisper, his vision blurring as tears filled his eyes. A ragged cough shook him, a product of the smoke and dust he had inhaled.

  She said nothing, instead reaching up with her other gloved hand to grasp his jaw and turn his head from side to side, as though trying to determine whether she recognized him.

  Alfred’s body jerked as his mind connected with hers, filling with bursts of red and black, a kaleidoscopic jumble unlike any he had previously encountered. He fought to push past the urgent, primal emotions that drove her, but found himself slamming into some kind of mental barrier. It seemed somehow to be imposed upon her, another separate consciousness infiltrating her own and connecting to her every thought.

  Only with effort was Alfred able to circumvent this obstacle, allowing him access to the woman’s innermost thoughts. He saw within her the people she had killed—including Darren Abbott and his men—as well as the people she planned to kill in the future. Some of the victims appeared selected based on self-preservation, a desire to protect herself from those she considered a threat. Others were targets for reasons she did not possess or understand. No, he decided, that was not correct. The reasons were there; they simply were not hers. This woman was not acting entirely of her own free will.

  My God, his mind screamed. She’s a 4400!

  She was being impelled to seek out these individuals, though Alfred was able to sense the confusion and doubt that troubled her. Despite these concerns she pressed forward, burying her emotions and proceeding as though she were nothing more than an automaton, acting based on the wills of others. Was she being controlled by the same people who had abducted her, who had taken him? With horror, Alfred realized this woman might represent a danger much greater than someone like Darren Abbott.

  The sirens were getting closer, and it was obvious his assailant wanted to leave before the authorities arrived. She released her grip on his face, and Alfred sensed that she had no intention of killing him. His feeling was verified when she stepped away from him.

  “You are not a target,” she said simply, before turning to leave.

  “Wait! What does that mean?” Alfred shouted, trying to make sense of the jumble of thoughts swimming in his mind from their lingering mental link. Gesturing about the warehouse, he asked, “You did all of this? Why?” Outside, he could hear the engines and sirens of fire engines as the huge vehicles pulled up to the building. There were only seconds remaining before firefighters would be here.

  She stared at him, her jade eyes cold and all but lifeless. “It does not concern you,” she said before stepping away. Then, she just disappeared before his eyes, the only evidence of her presence being pieces of paper and other small detritus kicked up in her wake. Even before the litter began to settle once more to the floor, Alfred realized that the residual connection he felt after linking with someone had dissipated, telling him the mysterious woman was gone.

  Incredible.

  The word echoed in Alfred’s mind even as he collapsed against the wall and allowed himself to sink to the floor, drained as the emotions of the past several minutes returned. Terror, grief, hopelessness, and despair washed over him. His body trembled in anguish and as he thought of Abigail, tears streamed down his cheeks.

  She’s lost. The single, agonizing thought echoed in his mind. I’ve lost her.

  Alfred heard new footsteps in the hallway. Looking to his left, he saw flashlight beams cutting through the near darkness, and bulky, shadowy figures making their way toward him. As they drew closer, he recognized the distinctive helmets and heavy coats of firefighters.

  “Sir,” one of them said as he came abreast of Alfred and knelt beside him, “are you all right? Are you injured? Is there anyone else in here?”

  “A woman,” Alfred said, his voice weak. “She ran inside.” Reaching up, he gripped the man by his arm. “You have to stop her.”

  The firefighter’s expression was one of concern. “Stop who? What’s going on?” Hooking his hands beneath Alfred’s arms, he pulled him to his feet and began directing him toward the exit. As they walked, Alfred heard the crackle of the radio clipped to the other man’s equipment harness.

  “Building’s clear,” a voice called out from the radio’s speaker. “Captain, we’ve got four bodies in here. Looks like one of them had his throat slit.”

  Feeling the firefighter tense as he heard the report, Alfred turned to see the man’s features darken, and he sensed his suspicion as his grip tightened on Alfred’s bicep. “You know anything about that?” There was no mistaking the accusation lacing the man’s words.

  Still trying to process everything that had happened to him, Alfred did not even try to answer the blunt question. “I need to talk to someone immediately,” he said, now knowing what he had to do. “I need to talk to someone from NTAC.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, Mr. Twenter.”

  Alfred looked up at the sound of the feminine voice, which tore his attention from the canary yellow legal pad upon which he had been writing details of his official statement to NTAC. He set his pen down upon the wooden tabletop as a man and woman stepped into the room, so engrossed was he on trying to make sense of the jumbled thoughts
rattling around in his exhausted mind that he had not heard the interview room’s door open. Both new arrivals wore casual business attire—slacks and jackets—and Alfred could see the outline of holstered firearms beneath their jackets. The man was carrying a manila file folder while the woman held a black leather portfolio.

  “Good afternoon,” Alfred offered as the man closed the door. He restrained an impulse to respond in a less polite manner. Alfred had endured different versions of the greeting since arriving at the NTAC offices earlier in the day and the platitude was wearing thin. After what he had endured the previous evening, there was nothing “good” about the morning or the afternoon, or how he felt about life in general at the moment. “Please, call me Alfred,” he said, rising from his chair.

  “Fair enough, Alfred,” the man said. “I’m Agent Baldwin.” He indicated the woman with a gesture. “This is my partner, Agent Skouris. Under the circumstances, I hope you forgive us if we don’t shake hands.”

  Alfred could not help a small, humorless chuckle. “I guess you’ve read my initial statement.”

  As she pulled up a chair and took a seat, Skouris replied, “Yes, and we want to thank you again for contacting us, especially considering what you’ve been through.”

  The words washed over Alfred but he ignored them. What he had been through? All of it was trouble of his own making. He was ashamed at himself for what he nearly had entered into with Darren Abbott and his ilk, and guilt weighed upon him for what had happened to Abigail. That Abbott was dead did not concern him, and had he been thinking more clearly at the time, he might even have thanked the woman responsible for killing him.

  As for why he was here, the reason for that was simple: Alfred had seen the woman’s mind, the thoughts that tortured her and the strange compulsions that drove her. She was someone NTAC needed to know about. What he had not been prepared to hear was that the federal agents standing before him already knew about her, and had been looking and even hoping for the kind of information Alfred was here to provide.