Mooch saw why, the place was full of black-market parts, and most of the stuff wasn’t even on the market yet. Mooch figured he had a connection with a manufacturer and was testing products for them, or he had a much darker connection.
The screen changed, and without much effort he was in Kirk Weston’s bank account. He drained it and put an alert on all his credit cards. “There goes your one million dollars!” Well, not one million now, more like $856,300.98, living in Bali and the villa took a chunk out of his original amount.
Next, he broke into the FBI website and made Kirk Weston of the Detroit Police Department come back from the dead. He was enjoying the life of a dead man, after all the world believed him to have died in an explosion over a year ago. Not only was he alive now, but he was wanted for murder, even made the top 100 list for America’s Most Wanted. “Congrats, pal… you murderer you.”
Mooch smiled, and he took a big bite from a slice of pizza. He typed with the other hand, and his fingers moved with skillful speed. “Shall we put your face out there, my old friend?”
After Mooch was done with phase one, Kirk Weston’s face was on the six o’clock news, and it went something like this.
“Kirk Weston was assumed dead after he was kidnapped over a year ago but turned up alive just last week. Surveillance footage shows him leaving the scene of a crime in West Hollywood where he is suspected of murdering a family as they slept. This Ex-Detroit detective has a record of violence and abuse. He was suspended upon further investigation into a rape charge when he disappeared last year. Kirk Weston is armed and dangerous, if you have any information leading to the arrest and conviction, please call the hotline on your screen.”
Mooch not only tied him to a open case, but created a tape and tied him in with DNA evidence all somehow ending up in the file and evidence log at the West Hollywood police CSI office. The detective in charge couldn’t remember logging any of this in, and got a butt chewing from the captain for missing important information.
All it took was some creative video editing, a few well placed emails to the local news stations, and last of all some record changes in the FBI database. Kirk Weston now had a past and a not-so-bright future. He would be running from the Feds, the cops, and him. Only thing was, he didn’t even know that Mooch was after him… which made it so much more fun.
***
I hung up the phone and shook my head. Kirk was so stubborn, I knew he was going to try to break out of the hospital and go to the bombed out penthouse across from the Merc building. I left Solomon’s office and took the elevator up to the main level. I needed to suit up and at least be prepared for whatever I might run into.
I was the only one in the lower levels of the building, and as I pulled on the second skin, I felt something, or someone, watching me. I looked around and saw nothing. I was in a small room with glass cases surrounding the room, and hanging in all of them were the suits we called “second skin.” These suits would mold to the host body and could keep your body cool. It was also bulletproof. It was light and thin and could be worn under regular clothes.
I pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a black t-shirt. My blond hair was spiked up, and as I tied the laces to my boots, I looked up and felt that same feeling that I was being watched. “Hello?” I sounded stupid calling out in an empty building, but I couldn’t shake the feeling.
The sounds of machines running and the quiet beeping and clicking of computers hummed in the background, but other than that, all was quiet.
I left the room and turned to go down the hall, and all my senses went off at one time. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I could feel my heart race and then slow as my instincts kicked in. I had a knife in my hand, and I crouched, alert and ready. Standing at the far end of the hall was a man with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He was tall and powerful. Just the way he stood commanded respect.
I looked at him, and he stared at me with an amused expression on his face. He had smooth, white skin, almost translucent, and markings from some sort of tattoo or birthmark crawled up his neck. “Who are you?” I asked.
He didn’t move and just stood, feet planted, as if to keep me from getting past him. When he spoke, I could feel it in my head and ears as if he were speaking right into my brain. It was a weird sensation—unnerving. “Mark, I have been waiting a long time to meet you. My name is Kreios. I was wondering if I may have a word with you.”
My hand gripped the knife at my hip, and as he shifted his feet, all my instincts screamed danger. I rushed forward, but before I could take one step, he closed the distance and took hold of my throat faster than anyone should be able to move. “I am not here to hurt you, but I will if necessary.” His voice was calm and hard. I struggled to breathe as his hand cut off my air supply.
I looked down to my other hand and at the blade that was buried up to the hilt in the side of his neck. I smiled and watched as a line of red blood oozed from the wound. “I pull this knife,” I croaked, “and you die!”
It was his turn to smile. It was a weird smile, as if it was foreign to his face, and I got the feeling that this man didn’t smile all that much. He released his grip on my throat and stepped back. I let go of the knife and gasped for air. He took hold of the knife handle and pulled it from his neck, and I held out my left hand to stop him. He would die if he released the plug and tore the artery open.
“No… don’t!” I hissed.
He flipped the knife over and handed it back to me, handle first. I stared up at him, noticing for the first time how tall he was. He had to be almost seven feet tall, and his arms were thick and defined. I could see muscle ripple as he moved, and a part of me stood in awe.
“I will be fine, I was hoping to bring you into this at a slower pace, but I see you are a man of action.” Kreios took his hand from the cut on his neck and I watched in shock as the wound closed up and sealed over with fresh skin. In seconds, the gash was gone; he wiped the blood from his neck and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Who are you?” I stood up and my mind raced. This was not possible, but then again, the things I could do were not possible.
“Let us talk over a cup of coffee. You do drink coffee, do you not?”
I nodded, and the questions that flooded my mind didn’t let up. I followed him from the building, past the CDC workers, and we walked down a block to the small café I liked to visit with K. How did he know me, who was he, and how did he get into the building? He just walked in as if he owned the place.
“Relax, the answers will come.”
Did he just read my mind?
CHAPTER 7
STIR CRAZY WAS A mild term to describe Kirk. He paced Isis’s room and looked at her as she slept. He could only think of her dying as he sat around doing absolutely nothing, like a lame side character in some boring, subpar movie.
He muttered a curse, opened the door, and looked out into the hall where CDC goons milled about in their bright yellow suits and doctors rushed in and out of rooms with drawn looks on their faces. The place had the smell of death, and Kirk couldn’t help feeling trapped and alone. He didn’t like the feel, the smell, or the hopelessness so apparent in everyone’s eyes.
Moving to Isis’s side, he touched her smooth cheek with his hand. Her eyes fluttered open, he looked into their deep pools of darkness, and his heart quivered in his chest.
“Hey, kiddo, how you doing?”
Isis forced a smile and breathed in deep as if to gain some strength to answer.
“Great.” Her voice was harsh and strained. Kirk took her hand and kissed each finger, and she smiled at him.
“You look like death. You should do your hair or something.” Kirk managed a lopsided grin, and Isis squeezed his hand. “Look, I’m getting out of here. Mark thinks he knows where the antidote is, and I have to help him. I can’t just sit here and watch you—” His voice cut off, and he looked down at the floor.
“No… stay. Please?” Isis pleaded. She was so weak that it
made the plea even more powerful. Kirk shook his head.
“I have to save you; I am not going to sit around. You know I have to go… Isis, you know how I feel about you. I can’t lose you…” Kirk could feel the sting of tears welling up in his eyes, and he fought them back. Standing up, he turned and left the room, not daring to look back, knowing that if he did he would never leave.
With a soft thud, the door shut. His eyes burned, and he allowed a stream to flow down and wiped them away with the back of his hand. This was not the time to cry. She was alive, but not if he kept standing here like a lovesick idiot.
Turning, he walked down the hall toward the elevators, not sure what he was going to do. He had no plan, no idea how he would escape this prison.
As he pushed the down button, a small flicker of a plan came to life in his mind. The doors opened, and he saw a yellow-suited CDC worker standing in the elevator with a sidearm. Kirk glanced at the CDC logo and stepped in.
It took him only a second to size the man up. With the similar height and weight, Kirk figured he would get one shot at this crazy plan, and this was it. If God was out there, he was throwing him a bone—a very large, yellow bone.
***
Evil and the presence of real power is something that will either scare a host or make it a hopeless addict. Mooch found the feeling of power and the evil that hung inside of him like a dark raging storm cloud to be rather wonderful. He liked the voice and the overpowering urge to want something.
Even though the craving was for blood and murder, it was strong and had a cool feeling that he could not describe. He knew that he was possessed or under some sort of demonic influence, but he didn’t care. That was the thing, all he cared about was his next meal—that satisfying meal, and the sound of life as it slipped away.
There is a brief moment when a person dies in which they know the future. The light at the end of the tunnel, or the vision of hell or heaven depending on who owned you, was something that was so pure, so perfect, that the sight of it made Mooch shudder.
It was the look, the way the eyes shadowed over, and as the dying person looked beyond the physical and saw into the ever after, they would transform into their true self. No show, no lies, no best foot forward, but their true, pure self.
How could he stop now? He was, in a way, setting them free, opening them up to the truth and taking away the dross—the blinders people put willingly on as they walk through life. Was it so bad to be true to yourself? Didn’t they all say that was the right thing to do, the way to feel real happiness?
Mooch thought of his high school guidance counselor, and the thought occurred to him. He was now doing what they all said people should do. He was being true to himself and doing what he really wanted. He wanted to kill, to take life, and in some way he believed that the lost life was now his, making him stronger. He would not hide it; he would not pretend to be something he was not.
Is this really the result of the teaching of self-love? Is this the way we all should be? He thought, Yes, this was living—this was the life we should all enjoy. No pretending, just be who you are… yes, and if you wanted to kill or drink beer in church or run around naked, then you should be allowed to do so. Without that freedom, we are all slaves, subject to others and not able to experience life as it was meant to be.
Mooch closed his eyes, and he squeezed. After he heard the sound of bone snapping, he opened his eyes and looked into the eyes of a beautiful woman. She was so scared, and now as her breath escaped her lungs and the life drained from her, Mooch focused on her eyes.
The spark, the hidden person she hid from the world emerged and he, only he, saw it rise to the surface. He gasped in amazement and smiled.
“I love you, oh how I love you, my sweet Kelli,” he whispered. When she heard her name, the little light in her eyes grew to a bright spot, and Mooch pulled her closer so he was only inches from her mouth.
She no longer struggled, her life was slipping, and any moment Mooch would see what he craved. What it craved!
Squeezing harder, Mooch cut off her air supply completely. Not that it mattered. He had slit both her wrists, and the blood loss was taking its toll.
“It’s okay, you’re free…” Mooch watched, and as Kelli looked beyond him and into the world he knew had to be there, a look of pure horror crossed her face. Mooch looked confused and turned to look at whatever she was staring at. Standing a foot from him, shaded by some unnatural dark force, was a tall, winged thing. It was not only standing behind Mooch, but it was coming out of Mooch’s body. The long barbed tail hooked around his midsection and the stench that filled the air made Mooch gag.
Dropping Kelli, Mooch screamed and scrambled away on his hands like a crab. The thing took him by the shoulders and forced him back to his task. Mooch grabbed Kelli and finished the job, unable to control his own hands and feet. Weeping, he took one last look into her eyes and saw that now, unlike before, there was nothing.
Dead and dark, the life in her eyes was gone. Mooch looked back over his shoulder and saw nothing but the dingy alley he was kneeling in. Cars passed by just feet from him and the dead girl. He cried and laughed at the same time. It felt so good, and yet he was torn. This was wrong—no, it was right, so right. He was free, free to be…
***
Every time I made plans or thought I had it all figured out, something or someone would break into my world and change everything. I was on a mission: find the antidote, save Isis, and recreate the antidote so we could stop the virus. Simple, and yet, here I was sitting in a café, sipping coffee, and staring at a strange man who I was beginning to believe was not what he appeared to be.
The small space that housed the café had big windows facing the street. Small tables ran the length of the windows, and one other row of tables ran down the middle just behind the cash register. One other person sat at a table two down from where we sat, and he was buried in his newspaper and unaware of our presence.
The place was empty, which would seem unnatural, but these days New York was not feeling well. The city had a cold, maybe the flu, so people stayed home, and kids were banned from school until the threat was determined to be gone. A little, gray-haired woman refilled my cup, and I nodded at her. She smiled and gave a warning look to Kreios.
Kreios drank no coffee, but instead sat looking out the window.
“I am a direct man, Mr. Kreios.” He turned at the sound of my voice as if he had forgotten I was there. He was so mysterious, and I was burning with questions.
“Kreios. You may call me Kreios.”
“Kreios—where to begin? I mean, you healed!” I glanced around, noticing that my voice was too loud. “How did you do that? Who are you, and how do you know who I am? You just walked into the lower levels as if you owned the place… What do you want?” I rattled off my questions like a car salesman going on about the options on the latest SUV.
Kreios stared at me and then said in a calm, powerful voice. “Mark, I know you have questions. I can answer most of them, but some of them will make no sense to you. Some, I will have to show you rather then tell you.”
I got the feeling he was asking my permission about something but just leaving out the details of exactly what I was giving him leeway to do.
“I have traveled far to see you, and I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
And there it was—he wanted something. “I don’t have anything of yours. I’ve never seen you before.” I leaned back in my chair and fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers.
“I am not accusing you of stealing. In fact, I believe you do not even know what it is you have, and no idea it is not yours.” He folded his hands and placed them on the table. “But first, we must have a little talk.”
I felt like a child sitting in front of the principal. He had this way about him, the way he stood and moved as if he were a thousand years old and this interaction was a pain to him, as if he was far too busy to bother with the likes of me. “Before you go into y
our little talk, you have to tell me something. How did you heal like that?” I leaned closer, looked into his eyes, and noticed that they were dark, almost black in color.
Kreios touched his neck and sighed. He was a large man, and this sigh made him seem more human. I didn’t know why, but I thought of him as something other than human, at least not all human.
“I am not what you think I am. I will not go into that now, just know that I can heal very fast. If you want to test out your theory and try to kill me, I would urge you not to waste your time. I cannot die, at least not by your hand.” I stared at him, and my eyebrows rose.
“Are you telling me that you’re immortal? Like some sort of vampire or highlander or something?” My tone was mocking, but somehow I believed him. What was he? His skin was pale, almost white, and he had huge forearms and shoulders. In a fight, I would put my money on him. Not only was he built like a bodybuilder, he was quick and nimble. I’d seen it with my own eyes—he could move like a panther, and for his size, it was crazy.
“In your human terms, yes. I cannot die. Let’s just say I am here for two reasons: one is to recover my property, and the other is to stop you from destroying the world.”
Just when I was starting to believe this guy, he pulls out that line. I could believe he had a healing power, maybe some experiment or maybe he was like me. I had abilities, well more than just one. I could glimpse into the future and the past, and I could emit some sort of energy out of my body, kind of like a weapon. I did not know what else, and controlling what I knew about was still a learning process.
Kreios looked at me with his dark eyes, and I could see in them the truth. Whatever he was telling me, he believed it to be so. Unwavering and steady. With this, I decided to trust him and go along with his story in order to find out what he was talking about. He knew about me, and I didn’t know how much he knew. Did he know about my abilities?
IN YOUR DREAMS (Mark Appleton #3) Page 5
