Blind Justice

by Ethan Cross

  Black leaned his head against the wall as the implications of such a weapon became frighteningly clear. “Can you imagine dropping that crap into a bunker? The soldiers inside would slaughter each other, and all you’d have to do is mop up.”

  With a grim look on his face, Munroe added softly, “Or imagine if a terrorist released such a weapon into the air at a crowded football stadium.”

  PART FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Sitting behind his massive glass and steel desk, Brendan Lennix cradled the empty $10,000 bottle of Macallan 1939 in one hand and a picture of his family in the other. Three kids and a beautiful wife. Their smiling faces taunted and judged him. What would they think of him if they knew the truth?

  All he had ever wanted was to make the world a better place. He wasn’t a monster or a megalomaniac. He didn’t long for world domination or destruction or even wealth and power. He simply wished to cure disease and make people smarter.

  Focus wasn’t just any other drug. It was a revolution, his legacy to the world. The next step in human evolution didn’t stem from mutation, as in the X-Men cartoons that his son liked to watch. The future of humankind truly hinged upon a movement that some called “cosmetic neurology.”

  He imagined a world where a simple pill could make the populace more intelligent and more productive. The possibilities didn’t end there. As they probed deeper into the potential of the human brain—using the extra edge of the newly expanded capabilities and brilliance that Focus unlocked—they could find ways to reduce hatred and elevate compassion. Endless possibilities. A new frontier of thought. A better world.

  The demand was certainly there—from an aging population fighting memory loss and dementia; from overwrought parents bent on giving their children every possible edge; from anxious employees in an efficiency-obsessed, smartphone-equipped office culture where work never really ended.

  It would have been beautiful, but now Ramon Castillo had twisted and corrupted his vision. He had made a deal with the devil to achieve his goals, and the devil had come to collect payment for his side of the bargain.

  Lennix picked up the burner cell phone he used for off-the-books communication and stared at the display. An unsent text message containing an address scrolled across the screen in small digital letters.

  Pike had come to him requesting the address to an FBI safe house. Lennix Pharmaceuticals, through their new contracts, had employees that could access secure information on several government servers. Once they had been given access to one part of the system, his expert computer specialists could poke around in other areas. He had used them to get all kinds of information, but nothing like this. Nothing that would directly result in the deaths of innocent people. Innocent kids, just like his own.

  It seemed that to push the send button on the message was to forfeit his soul, his lofty ideals, and his dreams of a better world. But what choice did he have? They would kill him if he didn’t cooperate. He was sure of that. But his concern wasn’t only for his own life.

  With one last look at the picture of his children, he pressed the button to send the message.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  From the passenger seat of a gray cargo van parked across the street, Oliver Pike scanned the average-looking colonial-style home located in the Windbrook neighborhood of Clinton, MD. He estimated that the girls would be in one of the upstairs bedrooms and that they would have four FBI protectors in the house, three on the lower level and one on the second floor. He relayed that information to the strike team in the back of the van. Almeida added, “Remember. We need the girls alive. No screw-ups.”

  The five members of the strike team, all clad in black tactical gear and balaclavas, gave curt nods of understanding. These men weren’t simply street thugs. They were all former special operations soldiers that Pike had recruited with Brendan Lennix’s money. Almeida returned the nods and said, “Get to work.”

  The five members of the team piled out of the van and glided across the street like living shadows. They moved with confidence and grace and blended effortlessly with their environment.

  Pike climbed into the backseat and, leaving the sliding side door open and facing the property, readied his Stealth Recon Scout sniper rifle. A long sound suppressor extended from the weapon’s muzzle. As the strike team set breaching charges on the front and back doors, Pike watched the property through his scope, looking for signs of life.

  Through his headset, he heard the voice of the strike team commander. “Ready to breach.” The commandos would blow the doors, toss in flashbang grenades, and then sweep through the property, killing anyone that wasn’t one of the extraction targets.

  He pushed his throat mic and said, “Breach the doors.”

  Through the scope, he watched the front door blow inward, the flashbangs explode with bright pops, and the black shadows melt into the chaos.

  ~~*~~

  A stocky but muscular Hispanic man named Miguel checked his watch and stroked the coarse hairs of his mustache as he stared at the dumpy, little ranch-style in Stafford, VA. Miguel had been given specific instructions on what time to enter the house. Almeida didn’t want to tip off the FBI that they were coming to the safe house, and so the two extractions had to be coordinated. The stocky man was just glad that he had to deal only with a boy and his mother and not a house full of trained FBI agents.

  He nodded to his partner and said, “It’s time. You go in the back. And remember, we need the boy alive and unharmed.”

  “What about the mother?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  ~~*~~

  Sitting on the bed with her back against the headboard, Makayla Munroe drew on her sketchpad and thought of how much this whole situation sucked. Chloe laid on the carpet beside the room’s other bed. An earbud cord dangled down Chloe’s face as she frowned at her Algebra homework. Makayla had finished her assignments an hour before. The homework made things suck even more. What was the point of being stuck in protective custody if you didn’t even get out of homework?

  The pencil drawing in the sketchbook depicted a girl in a hooded sweatshirt. The girl stared at Makayla over her shoulder with haunting monochrome eyes. Wisps of hair blew out from beneath the hood. Her lips bunched together in a tight line. The girl looked sad.

  She felt a resonance from the picture, the same kind of energy that her dad always talked about when he visited an art gallery. It was her best work yet. She wished that her dad could actually see her pictures but wondered if he would feel that energy from it like he did with the works of the masters.

  A series of impossibly loud explosions sounded from beneath her feet. A cacophony of gunshots followed. It sounded like World War III down there. Chloe stared toward the door, eyes wide with fear, the earbuds still dangling down her face.

  Chloe seemed frozen in terror, and Makayla was also afraid. But strangely, the fear didn’t paralyze her. Her mind instantly started thinking of what to do and didn’t allow her to worry about what would happen if they were taken.

  What would her dad do?

  Something unexpected.

  Makayla dropped the sketch pad on the bed and grabbed her sister. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

  ~~*~~

  Will Black finished a set of push-ups and then stood and flexed in front of the mirror attached to his dresser. Freshman football practice started in a little over a month, and he needed to bulk up if he wanted a spot on the team. Everyone said he was big for his age, and he could be a linebacker, but he preferred offense. He wanted to be a running back and score touchdowns. He just hoped that he had inherited some size from his Uncle Jonas. When Will had been young, he remembered his dad calling Jonas, “Mountain.” Then Jonas would smile, throw out an insult, and call Will’s dad, “Foothill.”

  He wondered if he would ever see his uncle again.

  A
knock on the front door, barely audible over the heavy metal music blaring out of his speakers, drew his attention. He turned down the stereo and heard his mom open the door. A few seconds later, she screamed. And then the unmistakable pop of a gunshot echoed through the small house.

  ~~*~~

  A female agent, her hair tied back in a tight pony tail and a black pistol in her right hand, swept into the room just as Makayla opened the window. “What are you doing?” the agent said. “Get away from the window and stay down.” Then the woman shut the door behind her and slipped back into the hallway.

  Makayla pushed the window open the rest of the way and looked out. They could climb onto the roof over the back porch and then drop to the ground. “Come on, Chloe. We’re leaving.”

  Her sister looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “The agent said to stay here.”

  “I don’t care what she said. We stay, and we’re dead.”

  Chloe started to cry and stepped toward the bedroom door, away from the window. “No, we do what we’re told!”

  Makayla grabbed her sister by the arm and said, “You’re going out that window. Even if I have to throw you out.”

  ~~*~~

  Will stood in shock for a second. What was happening? A robbery? Quickly regaining his composure, he realized that it didn’t matter. His mother was in danger, and he needed to help her. But how?

  Then he remembered his father’s old shotgun. A Remington 870 pump-action twelve gauge. His mother didn’t really want him near the gun, but she had told him where she had hid the weapon for instances such as this.

  His mother’s bedroom sat just across the hall, but the possibility of being shot as soon as he opened his bedroom door made it seem like much farther. Taking three quick breaths, he inched open his door.

  Footsteps in the hall. Coming toward him. He had to move.

  Ripping open the door, he sprinted across the hall and slammed his mother’s door behind him. Then he twisted the lock and moved to the closet. Someone slammed into the bedroom door and shook the frame, but he ignored that.

  Get to the gun, he kept telling himself.

  Inside the closet, he felt around on the top shelf, pulling out articles of his mother’s clothing. His fingers wrapped around something metal, cold, and round. The barrel of the shotgun. He pulled the weapon down and aimed it toward the door.

  The entire doorframe shook from an impact on the other side.

  He suddenly realized that he had no idea how to work the gun. His mother had never shown him, and he wasn’t even sure that she knew. Was it loaded? Was there a bullet or shell or whatever it was called ready to be fired?

  He felt around the gun for a safety and found a button near the trigger. He pushed it to the position that showed red. That surely meant that it was ready to fire.

  The door shook again, but this time it burst inward. Pieces of the door frame exploded into the room as the wood cracked under the weight of the stocky Hispanic man coming through the opening.

  The man raised a gun.

  Will pointed the barrel of the shotgun in the man’s direction and screamed, “Don’t move!”

  The man raised his hands but didn’t release the weapon. “It’s okay, kid. We don’t want to hurt you. Be cool.”

  “What do you want? Where’s my mom?” He shook the shotgun at the intruder for emphasis.

  The man took a step forward, and out of fear, Will jerked back on the trigger.

  He expected a huge boom, followed by the intruder flying back out of the room in a spray of blood. Just like he’d seen in the movies.

  But nothing happened.

  He pulled back on the trigger again and looked down at the weapon in horror.

  As he did so, the Hispanic man leapt forward, ripped the shotgun from his grasp, and slammed the butt of his pistol against the side of Will’s head. Pain pounded through his skull, and he saw spots.

  He fell against the wall and slid to the floor beside the closet. The intruder stood over him, and the man’s hot breath smelled strongly of peppermint. The Hispanic man stroked his mustache and smiled. Then he pumped back the shotgun’s grip with a loud crunch. “You didn’t jack a shell into the chamber, kid. Better luck next time. Now get up. We’re going for a ride.”

  ~~*~~

  Sitting beside Pike in the van, Almeida listened to the concussive pops of gun fire from inside the house, patiently waiting for a situation report from the strike team once the agents within the average-looking suburban house had been dispatched. He looked over at the neighboring homes. He wondered what those people were thinking at that moment. Did they hold any suspicion that they lived next door to an FBI safe house? He supposed not, otherwise the place wouldn’t be very safe.

  At his side, Pike said, “I think I just saw the kids drop into the backyard.”

  Almeida’s gaze shot to the rear of the house, and he indeed saw movement. In one motion, he pulled his pistol and jumped from the van.

  ~~*~~

  A tall wooden fence surrounded the backyard, obscuring the neighboring homes, but Makayla had seen from the window that an alley and more backyards laid on the other side of the fence. She threw open the gate to reveal the alleyway. She shoved her sister through first, but then she heard pounding footsteps coming from the front of the house.

  “Run, Chloe!”

  She let the gate swing shut behind them and sprinted down the alley beside her sister. Chloe was slow, and Makayla easily passed her up.

  The sound of the gate tearing open blasted down the alleyway, but she dared not turn back. She ran faster than she ever had in her life. Her lungs felt like they’d explode, and her calf muscles burned, but she kept pushing.

  The end of the alley was in sight just ahead. But what would they do once they reached it?

  “Mak!” Chloe screamed.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot your sister,” a voice said from behind her. A man’s gravelly voice.

  She stopped moving forward but didn’t turn around. The end of the alley lay just ahead, beckoning her, taunting her.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” the man said. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please don’t make me.”

  She turned back and looked into her sister’s terrified face. Tears streaked down Chloe’s reddened cheeks. Makayla didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to say. But the words came to her on instinct. “It’s okay, Chloe. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Sitting at his desk and surrounded by super hero memorabilia, Joey Helgeson jabbed at the keys of his keyboard, typing in a flourish. He thought of the girl from the coffee shop. She was so beautiful and sexy with her blue hair, nose ring, and the Little Mermaid tattoo that ran up her forearm to her bicep. He read the letter back to himself, but halfway through, he stopped and clicked the delete icon.

  He wondered what the hell he had been thinking. He couldn’t express his feelings in a letter. No one writes letters anymore.

  He could track her down on Facebook. Everyone was on there. Hack her account, get her e-mail, phone number, credit card, bank account, learn more about her, get an edge…

  He shook off the idea as he realized how quickly his status of secret admirer could be upgraded to full-blown stalker.

  His phone vibrated against his leg, and he jumped out of his chair. Ever since that man had invaded his world, he had been on edge. Never feeling safe, not even in his own home. Inhaling a calming breath, he sat back down and answered the phone.

  He immediately recognized the voice, and it caused fear to seize his body.

  “Hello, Mr. Helgeson,” Almeida said. “I have another message, and so I figured that I would pass it along through my favorite courier.”

  Joey’s voice cracked as he said, “Who’s that?”

  “That’s you, Mr. Helgeson. Try to stay with me. I’ve
kidnapped Munroe’s daughters from the FBI safe house, and as a bonus, I’ve also taken Jonas Black’s nephew, a boy named Will. Tell your friends that I’ll trade the lives of their loved ones for the flash drive and Sergeant Corrigan. Now, listen to the following instructions carefully. In fact, you may want to write this part down.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Antonio de Almeida sat in the passenger seat of one of the black Mercedes GL550s traveling to the meeting point. One of his own men drove—Miguel, the same man who had captured Will Black. Pike occupied the backseat with Brendan Lennix. Almeida had insisted that the CEO take a more active role. The other GL550 contained four men from Pike’s team of professional mercenaries. Almeida chose a location in rural Virginia—a dead end road surrounded by thick foliage—for the exchange. Of course, he never intended to actually trade anything. As soon as they had Corrigan and the drive in hand, he would order the men to open fire. Munroe and Black had been given every opportunity to walk away, but he regretted that their innocent family members would also become some of the first casualties of this war. Collateral damage, however, was an inevitable fact of any conflict.

  Almeida rolled down the window. The crisp air carried hints of the fires that had been burning recently in the Shenandoah National Park. They pulled down the long dirt lane to the spot he had outlined to Joey Helgeson. When they reached the proper location, only one man stood in the dirt cul-de-sac—Jonas Black.

  The GL550 rolled to a stop, and Almeida stepped out. “Mr. Black, where are your friends?”

  “They’re waiting at the real site of the exchange.”

  Almeida laughed. “I can just imagine the way this conversation went down. Either you or Munroe insisted that you establish dominance and change the location to a place where you had complete control of the surrounding environment.”