The King of Fear: A Garrett Reilly Thriller

by Drew Chapman

  Thad’s third quality was by far the most important: a love of explosives. Not just explosives, but armaments of any kind. He was a classic weapons geek; two years ago he’d bragged to Ilya that he kept an arsenal in his basement in Baltimore, and when Ilya had called yesterday and said he’d pay for two pipe bombs, Thad had come through for him. Thad had balked at delivering one of the bombs to the Best Buy in Arlington, so Ilya had had to throw in the offer of sex with an escort as a sweetener, and that closed the deal.

  Ilya slipped quietly from his chair, watching as Thad grunted and snorted under the sheets. The young explosives enthusiast didn’t seem to have any qualms about performing the act with a third party in the room; once Ilya had told Thad that he should behave as if Ilya weren’t there, he seemed to lose all inhibitions. To Ilya, that meant Thad was suggestible as well as easily manipulated, which were closely linked personality traits.

  Ilya ran his hands through the pockets of Thad’s crumpled blue jeans—they were lying by the bed—and extracted his keys. Ilya cleared his throat by the door. “Just getting some air.” Neither Thad nor the escort—she said her name was Natasha—looked up from the bed, so Ilya left without another word.

  He found Thad’s rusted Nissan Sentra parked across the street from the motel by clicking the unlock button on the car fob a few times, then searched the trunk. It was empty, so he rummaged through the front and back seats, but found nothing except a few old blankets.

  He considered where Thad might have hidden his guns—guns Thad had admitted earlier he’d brought with him—then popped the trunk once again and peeled back a piece of black rubber that concealed the car’s spare tire. There was no spare tire, but in a blue canvas gym bag were a stack of pistols, maybe half a dozen in all. He took the smallest gun from the pile, pulled back the chamber to see if it was loaded—it was—then stuffed the gun into his belt at the small of his back.

  From the brief glimpse he’d seen, he figured the gun was a .22. Ilya knew how to use a pistol. He had friends in Moscow who carried semiautomatics wherever they went, and often, after they’d been drinking for days without pause, they’d drive out to the forests near Losiny Ostrov Park and fire them into trees or garbage cans or whatever else they could find to shoot at. It wasn’t much of a firearms education, but Ilya didn’t need to be an expert. He just needed to be good enough.

  When Ilya returned to the second-floor motel room, Natasha was gone—he could hear the shower running—and Thad was sitting on the bed, shirtless and in his underwear, drinking a beer.

  “Hey.” Thad looked slightly dazed. “Forgot you were here.”

  “Enjoy yourself?”

  Thad ducked his head as if embarrassed. “She’s awesome.”

  “Multitalented.” Ilya would have to remember to give her a big tip.

  Thad reached for the TV remote control, but Ilya waved a finger in the air. “Not now.”

  “I want to see if there’s news. On, you know, the thing.”

  “There’s news. Trust me. But you don’t need to see it. Not yet.”

  Thad put the remote back down. “Okay. So what’s next?”

  “There’s a lot to be done.”

  Thad bit his lip, as if gathering his courage. Then he spit it out. “I want to meet the others. I have guns for you. But I want to meet other people first.”

  Ilya smiled broadly at the young man, sitting there on the bed in his underwear. Amazing what a little sex could do for a man’s confidence. The worm had turned.

  “And I’m all in with you. You know that,” Thad said.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I don’t mean to be busting your balls or anything; it’s just—I went out on a limb for you. I want to know what I’m getting into. I’m real excited.”

  Ilya sat on the opposite twin bed from Thad and said nothing, deciding that silence was the best play. Thad hung his head after a bit, as if uneasy about his own neediness, and ashamed of vocalizing his wants. Ilya had observed that when people were naked about their needs, shame usually accompanied desire in equal measure. Those emotions made a lethal cocktail when mixed, and that lethality was another tool for Ilya.

  Natasha exited the bathroom, dressed now in a tight T-shirt and skinny blue jeans. She had platinum-blond hair and hooded, sleepy eyelids. She was quite beautiful, and most definitely a pro: her body was clearly her place of business, and her patchy clothing did a nice job of displaying the merchandise.

  Ilya motioned to her, and she bent near him, ear to his mouth. “Take a few days off. I’ll send you another thousand dollars to pay for it. Have fun, go to the beach. But stay out of sight.”

  She smiled, pleased. Natasha—or whatever her name really was—had no idea what had transpired back at the Best Buy. Ilya had hired her to be Thad’s escort. He’d told her to meet Thad at the Arlington mall and then to bring him back to this motel room and fuck him. She hadn’t seen Thad plant the pipe bomb, had no idea anything had happened, and wouldn’t, probably, until the police caught up with her. Or when she bothered to turn on the TV news. Either way, that would not be a fun moment in her life.

  She grabbed an Orioles cap from the dresser, slipped wide sunglasses onto her face, blew a kiss to Thad, then sauntered out the door. The moment she was gone, Thad seemed to deflate.

  Ilya stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve acquitted yourself well, and people have noticed.”

  “They have?”

  “Absolutely.” Ilya patted Thad’s shoulder gently. “They’re very pleased, and they want to meet you. But first let’s do a thought experiment together.”

  “A thought experiment? What kind?”

  “Close your eyes with me.” Ilya kept his hand on Thad’s shoulder and watched as Thad took a deep breath, then closed his eyes obediently. Thad was a submissive, a beta. Ilya closed his eyes as well. “Picture a city,” he said, lowering his voice. “A modern city full of buildings and cars and traffic lights. There are men in suits hurrying down the streets. There are policemen. Crowds. Women on their phones. Can you see that place?”

  “Sort of.” Thad’s voice was uncertain. “Yes, now I can.”

  “This city has rules. Things you can and can’t do. Forbidden things. Some people are allowed to do them. Rich people, powerful people. But not you. You have to do as you’re told, be subservient to the rulers of this city.”

  “Okay,” Thad said quickly. “I see that.”

  “How do you feel about those people? About that city and its rules?”

  “I don’t like it. Don’t like the rules.”

  “What would you do to those men in suits? To those policemen?”

  “Nothing. I’m afraid of them.”

  “Don’t be. They can’t hurt you now. You’re safe. I’m with you in the city. What would you do to them if you weren’t afraid of them?”

  “Kick them. Hit them. Maybe . . . shoot them.”

  “Good. That’s good. And if I told you that’s what I wanted as well, would that make you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we are in this together, you and I. We are part of a team. Destroying their city, making ourselves happy. Are you with me?”

  Thad hesitated, and Ilya opened his eyes and looked down at the young man sitting on the bed. Ilya could see Thad pressing his eyelids together tightly, concentrating hard, fighting to come up with a response.

  “Yes,” Thad said. “I’m with you.”

  “Good. Now I want you to do something for me.”

  Ilya took his hand off Thad’s shoulder and reached behind his own back, pulling the handgun from his belt. He tugged a blue bandanna from his pocket and wiped the grip with it, making sure to rub all the gun’s surfaces with the cotton. He kept talking as he did this. “This is an important thing, Thad, and it will unite the two of us in the destruction of that city. It’s a powerful thing I wan
t you to do, Thad. The people who have been watching us will be very pleased when you do it. Very pleased.” Ilya lowered his voice, talking slowly, falling into an easy, hypnotic rhythm. “You’ll make the grade. Be part of everything. You’ll be accepted.”

  “Okay.” Confidence rose in Thad’s voice.

  “Raise your right hand, Thad, up in the air, but keep your eyes closed.”

  Thad raised his right hand.

  “Keep your eyes closed and then grab this thing that I’m going to put in your hand. Grab it and hold it tight and know that what you are doing is the most important thing you could possibly do, and that I will be so proud of you, forever and ever.”

  Thad opened his hand and Ilya quickly slapped the gun into it, grip in his palm, forcing Thad’s index finger around the trigger. Thad’s eyes popped open in surprise, but it was too late. Ilya pushed the gun against Thad’s temple and, with his finger over Thad’s, pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the gunshot was clean and loud, but not quite as loud as Ilya had expected it to be. The bullet was small caliber and came out the other side of Thad’s head in a spray of skull, hair, and blood. Ilya let go of Thad’s hand, and the young man slumped over onto the bed, blood soaking into the sheets. The gun was still clutched in his fingers.

  Ilya looked at the body and considered that this was the second human he had killed in two days, and what did it say about him that rather than feeling guilt or even pleasure at the killing, he instead felt a sense of momentum? Both deaths, he decided, could be laid at the feet of Garrett Reilly. The clerk had died because of Reilly’s interference, and Thad because of the need for Reilly’s punishment. Garrett Reilly and Ilya Markov were becoming linked, their destinies intertwined.

  There would be more deaths, and they would come faster and faster now, one after the other, until everything was settled and perfect. This was fine with Ilya. It was, ultimately, exactly what he wanted.

  MIDTOWN MANHATTAN, JUNE 20, 2:52 P.M.

  The midtown traffic was putting Robert Andrew Wells Jr. in a bad mood. Or maybe it wasn’t the traffic; maybe it was the sun and the heat. Or perhaps it had been the hour he’d spent tiptoeing around Phillip Steinkamp’s stifling apartment, paying his respects to Steinkamp’s widow, eating the homemade canapés and finger food. Sitting shivah was such an odd way to commemorate the dead—couldn’t the Jews just have a service and put people in the ground?

  He winced at his own irrational prejudices and looked out the window as Park Avenue sped past his limo. Thomason, his assistant, was in the seat next to him; Dov, his Israeli bodyguard, was in the front next to the driver. Thomason was fielding calls and Dov was giving the world at large his usual do-not-fuck-with-me scowl.

  Wells hadn’t known Steinkamp that well. He’d had dinner with him a few times and met him at a few conferences, but Steinkamp lived in a different social milieu from Wells. Steinkamp was a government functionary, albeit a high-level one—and his slightly dingy apartment reflected that. Wells was a corporate titan. His $40 million, two-story apartment on Madison Avenue reflected that as well.

  “Sir, Peters again, Operations.” Thomason’s voice snapped Wells out of his reverie. His young assistant was holding up one of his many cell phones.

  “What does he want? And can you not use that tone of voice?” What was it about Thomason’s subservient demeanor that so set Wells off? Did it have something to do with a status mismatch, and the uneven vicissitudes of class? Or was it just that Wells didn’t like people who sniveled?

  “Sorry, sir.” Thomason waited a moment before continuing. “Peters wants to talk about the ATM changeover.”

  “Right.” Wells took the phone. The Operations team wanted his permission to take half the automated teller machines in Manhattan off-line to switch out their operating systems—the ATMs ran on old Microsoft XP platforms, and the programming was beginning to show its age. The Operations people wanted to rejigger all the machines with some fancy, new system that would let them control everything from a central location, cutting the bank-branch labor in half. That would save money and allow better real-time monitoring, which, according to the Operations people, anyway, was a good thing.

  Wells wasn’t so sure. Now did not seem like the time. Hadn’t the bank run in Malta been caused in part by a hack of the bank’s ATMs?

  Wells fingered the ribbed casing of the cell phone. “Run it by me one more time.”

  “Sir, we will close down half the ATMs in Manhattan at midnight,” Peters said quickly. “And upgrade all software remotely with immediate on-site follow-ups. We have fifty-three separate teams to do this.”

  “Our people?”

  “Mostly. With some independent contractors.”

  Wells frowned. Contractors had to be vetted and verified. His security people told him that every day. Trust no one. “Those contractors are cleared?”

  “Every single one. And after the switchover, we’ll have a much more robust reporting algorithm across the entire city.”

  Wells sighed. Robust. He hated that term. This was a robust system, that was a robust response. Fuck robust, he thought. Did robust help those idiots in Malta when depositors came rushing for their money?

  “If we’re going to start tonight, sir, I’ll need to let our teams know by six this evening.”

  Wells checked his Piaget. It was 2:58 p.m. “What could go wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Peters said without hesitation.

  There was silence on the line. Wells waited out his VP of operations, watching the city pass by, taxicabs and livery trucks, knots of students and gaggles of tourists, the glare of the sun washing out the glass façade of a skyscraper.

  “Some customers could be inconvenienced,” Peters finally broke in, admitting that there was no such thing as foolproof. “But people who get money from ATMs at three in the morning are not our top-line demographic. And word is, JPMorgan Chase has already instituted all of these changes at their ATMs. No offense, but with that kind of head start on us, they may eat our lunch in terms of efficiencies.”

  Wells shook his head. Ah, that was his play. The competition will eat our lunch. Appeal to your boss’s desire to win, to keep the stock price high, and to not get ousted by a disgruntled board of directors.

  “Sir?” Peters said.

  Wells touched the smooth glass of the backseat window. The glass was hot from the sun. New York had been intolerably hot, and it was only late June. What would August be like?

  “Can I tell everyone we’re good to go?”

  Do what is right for you, for your company, for your stockholders, Wells thought. Ignore the naysayers and the snivelers like Thomason. Be strong, be bold, trust your instincts.

  “Yes,” he said. “Good to go.”

  NEWARK, NEW JERSEY, JUNE 20, 3:01 P.M.

  The moment Garrett heard the news about the pipe bomb, he grabbed his wallet and ran for the elevator, figuring he would take his chances on a shuttle flight to DC. But Patmore wrapped Garrett up in his arms and dragged him back down the hall. Garrett ordered Patmore to let him go, threatening to break his nose with the back of his skull.

  Celeste rushed out into the hallway and begged Garrett to calm down. “You’ll never make it onto the plane. They’ll be waiting for you at the TSA line.” A woman from the real estate company down the hall was peeking out from her door. “Please come back into the office. Please.”

  He knew Celeste was right. He might not even make it to the airport. Surveillance could pick him up at a myriad of places: the tunnel, the PATH train, Penn Station. Driving was a possibility, but the team had no car, and no way to rent one unmonitored. There was always Greyhound, but surveillance would be just as much of an issue there. He’d be arrested long before he set foot in Washington, DC.

  He shook loose from Patmore and stalked angrily back into the offices.

  “No one died,” Mitty said, comin
g in from the other room. She’d been the first to find the AP report online: a bombing at a suburban-DC Best Buy. Four injured. No reported fatalities. Now she was tracking every new bit of information. “That’s what the news is saying. That means she’s alive. She’s okay.”

  Garrett let out a long breath. He nodded, relieved but not satisfied. “Did you try her phone?”

  Mitty shook her head no. “It’s a bombing, Gare. She’ll be surrounded by FBI agents. They’ll be all over her. We call, they’ll answer.”

  Celeste took Garrett by the hand. “She’s in the hospital. With doctors. They’ll take care of her. There’s nothing we can do for her right now. You know that.”

  He did know that, but it didn’t make it any easier.

  “He knew we’d be right behind him,” Garrett said, pacing the offices while the rest of the team watched, Patmore standing at the front door just in case Garrett tried to bolt again. “He knew we’d track that credit card, and he wanted us to follow him.” Garrett stopped by the window and stared out at downtown Newark. “He’s smarter than I gave him credit for.”

  “And scarier,” Bingo added.

  “But he doesn’t know where we are now. Where you are. So we’re safe here, at least for the moment,” Celeste said. “He’s not all-knowing.”

  Garrett stared down at the plaza below. His head had begun to throb—the pain flared when the stress increased. He massaged his scalp, trying to relieve the ache. Then he saw it: a pair of black Newark Police SUVs pulling up to the building plaza, followed by half a dozen police cars. SWAT officers, clad in black tactical gear, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, piled out of the SUVs and ran toward the building lobby. The rest of the police officers, two dozen in all, brought up the rear, with more cars pulling up to the sidewalk as he watched.