He felt the kitchen lurch around him as his legs gave way and he slid down the door frame to collapse on the cold kitchen floor.
“You’ve been asleep for five days.”
Chapter 6
Albania.
The Southern Port City Of Vlore.
The dilapidated warehouse stank of old fish and motor oil: odorous remnants of its past.
Brandon Kavanagh stepped up onto the makeshift stage and looked out over the vast space at those who were seated before it, waiting for what he had to show them.
Kavanagh smirked as he studied their faces: terrorists, weapons dealers, leaders of rogue nations. A veritable Who’s Who of international criminals had answered his invitation. What the CIA wouldn’t give to be made privy to this little gathering, Kavanagh mused as he eyed the crowd. One Patriot missile targeted on the warehouse and the war on terror would have been delivered a decisive blow—but that would have been bad for business.
“Good turnout,” said a heavily accented voice from behind him, and Kavanagh turned to see a short, muscular man with dark hair and a bushy mustache entering the warehouse through a side door. The man smiled, removing a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.
“It appears that everyone who received an invitation has shown up,” Kavanagh replied, leaving the makeshift stage. “Thank you again for the use of these lovely accommodations.”
The man smiled again, offering a cigarette from his pack to Kavanagh, who politely refused. “More than happy to oblige a fellow businessman.” He placed a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and set the tip ablaze with a gold lighter.
The swarthy man’s name was Aleksander Berat, one of the most powerful figures in the Albanian underworld. At one time he had been chief of police in Vlore, but then his brother had been killed in an ambush, and Berat had done what any enraged member of the Albanian justice system would have done. He’d resigned his post and gone on a murderous rampage, first killing a fellow policeman who was suspected of complicity in the murder and then eight others he believed to be responsible in some way. Nine deaths, one for every bullet hole in his brother’s dead body.
“Then I take it you are satisfied with the fee?” Kavanagh asked.
Berat puffed twice on the cigarette, then removed it from his mouth so that he could speak. “Completely. But I must admit that I am curious as to why the payment was so much more than we originally agreed. Perhaps you are simply a generous man, Mr. Kavanagh?” He returned the cigarette to his lips and waited for an answer.
Kavanagh smiled. “Generous? Not overly, but definitely cautious. The extra amount is to guarantee your silence and that of your employees.” He again looked out over the crowded room, feeling the crackle of anticipation hanging heavy in the fetid air. “No one must know of this demonstration.” He turned back to the former police chief. “What you see here tonight stays in this room; do I make myself clear, Mr. Berat?”
Berat finished his cigarette and dropped its smoldering remains to the warehouse floor. “Crystal,” he replied, snuffing out the embers with the toe of his Italian loafer. “Albania is a place of many secrets,” he said with a snarl of a smile. “But of course you already know that, for why else would you have chosen it for your exhibition?”
“Just so we understand each other, Mr. Berat,” Kavanagh said, an air of threat hidden beneath the cover of civil conversation.
Aleksander Berat was not a man to be trifled with. It was said that when his brother was murdered, Aleksander died as well, and something inhuman now lived inside the shell of the former police officer. But Brandon Kavanagh was far from average himself and had spent a great deal of his professional life dealing with people like Berat. Kavanagh wouldn’t think twice about eliminating this man, his family, and his business associates if ever they threatened his own interests.
The two men momentarily locked eyes and an understanding passed quietly between them.
“It must be quite an item you are selling,” Berat said, breaking the silence. “Something very dangerous if it has attracted the likes of them.” He gestured with his head toward the gathering. “Something expensive.”
Kavanagh glanced quickly at his watch. “Let us hope,” he said, reaching inside his coat pocket for a cell phone. He punched a preprogrammed number into the phone and waited momentarily. “It’s time,” he spoke into it, then broke the connection and returned it to his pocket.
The side door opened again and a man came in, escorting a pretty, dark-haired girl, no older than thirteen. She was wide-eyed with fear as the man took her arm and pulled her toward the stage.
“Is that what you are selling, my friend?” Berat asked, a chuckle rumbling deep within his throat. “I could sell you four just like her with one phone call.”
Kavanagh smiled. “I seriously doubt that,” he replied. “Have your men secure the building.”
Berat sighed, shaking his head as he signaled to his men stationed around the warehouse. They immediately began to padlock the entrances.
Kavanagh could see apprehension beginning to appear on the faces of his clientele and he stepped back onto the stage to reassure them. “Please.” He raised his voice to be heard from the wooden platform. “There’s no need for concern. This is simply a precautionary measure.”
A buzz went up from the crowd and Kavanagh reveled in its intensity. He had been waiting a long time for this moment.
Someone handed him a cordless microphone. “Can you all hear me?” he asked, his voice amplified by twin speakers placed on either side of the stage. “Excellent. First, I would like to thank you all for coming. I hope that you will find what I have to offer as valuable as I believe it to be.”
He studied the faces of those in the crowd, many reflecting skepticism, but he knew that would not be the case for long. “But I’ll let you decide,” he continued. “Shall we begin?”
He turned to the man standing beside the teenage girl and nodded. The man gripped the girl’s arm and pulled her to center stage, where he positioned her beneath spotlights that had been rigged from the ceiling. Despite the damp conditions, the girl was dressed in a short denim skirt and a sleeveless T-shirt, and her teeth chattered as she looked about the cavernous room. Not entirely from the cold, Kavanagh imagined.
“This is Amy,” he said into the microphone. “She is thirteen years old, five-foot five, one hundred and four pounds soaking wet.” He smiled at his irreverence, certain that his audience was on the verge of losing their patience with him. “Say hello to the nice people who have come to meet you, Amy,” he said to the frightened girl, and held out his microphone so that she could be heard.
“Hello,” she squeaked, her voice trembling with fear.
A man in the crowd, who Kavanagh recognized as Salim Yasir, a weapons dealer, suddenly stood. “What is the meaning of this?” he raged. “You promised a weapon and you present to us a frightened child? I will be a part of this foolishness no longer.” He started to leave, two bodyguards in tow.
“Wait,” Kavanagh commanded. “Just another moment of your time. I’m sure you will not be disappointed.”
Yasir turned and glared at him, then at the others in attendance, and realized that he was the only one prepared to depart.
“I will give you fifteen minutes,” he said haughtily, throwing himself into his seat, arms folded across his chest, daring Kavanagh to impress him.
“Now, where were we?” Kavanagh returned his attention to the teenage girl. “Ah, yes, Amy.”
She flinched as if struck.
“Are you afraid, Amy?” he asked.
The girl nodded, looking like she was on the brink of tears.
“I’m sorry for that,” he told her, sounding most sincere. “And I’m sorry for what I’m about to do now.”
Kavanagh raised a hand and six men moved forward from where they had stood within the shadows at the edge of the platform. They had been another service bought from Aleksander Berat—six of the most vile, twisted men in Albania. Bera
t had used his connections in the police force to choose from a variety of monsters serving time in Albania’s archaic correctional system.
The six joined Kavanagh on the stage, and he knew that Berat had done his job well as they stared at him with dark, dead eyes devoid of any human emotion. They were animals. All they knew was that they were to be paid this evening for a reprehensible act, and they were more than happy to oblige.
“Do you see that girl?” Kavanagh asked them. He pointed to her with his microphone. “I want you to hurt her. I want you to make her wish that she had never been born.”
They grinned like sharks and slowly made their way toward her.
Amy turned to run, but Kavanagh stopped her with a single command. “Stay where you are.”
She trembled uncontrollably, her cheeks stained with tears as the six monsters circled her like hungry hyenas closing in on defenseless prey.
“Are you frightened, Amy?” Kavanagh asked into the microphone.
“Yes!” she shrieked, frantically swatting at the men’s groping hands. The criminals were laughing now, amused by her terror.
Kavanagh turned his attention to his audience. “Watch,” he commanded.
Amy had fallen to her knees, burying her face in her hands as the six men closed in around her. Casually glancing over to the side of the stage, Kavanagh saw that Berat looked like he was going to jump from his skin. The Albanian was sweating profusely, eyes wide in shock. Not such a monster after all, eh, Aleksander? Kavanagh observed, now ready to begin the true demonstration.
He removed the phone from his pocket once again, punched in some numbers, waited a heartbeat, and then spoke. “Activate,” he said, a smile of excitement threatening to dispel his serious expression.
He carefully watched his audience, wanting to see their reaction, to feel the vast room thrum with excitement as they saw what he was offering them.
“Are you still afraid, Amy?” he asked, without turning toward her.
“No,” replied a voice no longer trembling with fear.
“Then show me.”
And he listened to the sounds of violence that suddenly erupted from behind him: sounds of skulls being fractured, of limbs yanked from their sockets, of bones snapping like pieces of dry wood. Of grown men begging not to be hurt.
Brandon Kavanagh did not have to turn around to know what was happening on the stage behind him, nor did he have to hear the screams of six dying men. All that he needed he saw in the eyes of his audience and in the stupefied expressions on their faces.
And he basked in the recognition of his genius.
Chapter 7
The June sun felt awesome on Madison’s bare skin.
It was the first day that made her honestly believe summer really was just around the corner, and she wanted to take full advantage of the beautiful day.
Madison reclined on a lounge chair in her aunt and uncle’s backyard, wearing her favorite bikini top, a pair of gray shorts, and sunscreen, basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. She was in that bizarre place, not asleep, but not fully awake either. Some of her best thinking had been done in this weird in-between state, and at the moment her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the last week.
A shadow moved across her eyelids, and her skin felt suddenly cooler. She was waiting for the cloud to pass when somebody cleared his throat.
“What!” she said with a start, shocked to open her eyes to find a figure standing over her.
“Sorry,” Tom Lovett said, shrugging and stepping back.
Madison grabbed a button-down dress shirt from the ground beside her chair and slipped it on over her bare shoulders, suddenly shy. “How long have you been standing there?” she asked.
“Not long,” he answered. “I wasn’t sure if you were asleep. I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Yeah, right,” she joked. “You just wanted to get me back for the Frisbee incident last week.”
He laughed, and she noticed that he had a really nice smile.
“Hey, are you sure you should be over here?” She looked past him to the fence.
“Why?” He looked confused. “Do your aunt and uncle have rules about you being alone with guys?”
“No,” she said, waving his suggestion away. “It’s just that I went by your house the day after we talked and your mother said you weren’t up for visitors and I haven’t seen you since.”
Tom moaned aloud and ran his fingers through his hair, dropping down to sit in the grass in front of her chair.
“I thought it was an interesting way of blowing me off.” She shrugged. “Having your mom do it for you and all.”
“Oh God, it’s not that,” he said. He buried his face in his hands. “It’s not that at all.”
“Hey, I was only joking,” Madison said quickly. She extended her leg and playfully tapped his shoulder with her bare foot. “What’s wrong?”
Tom looked up at her, and the expression on his face was very serious. Behind his glasses his blue eyes had become intense. “See, I have this condition,” he started to explain. “And it makes my mother a little overprotective sometimes.”
“Condition?” Madison leaned forward in the lounge chair. “What, like you’re sick or something?”
Tom shrugged, looking at the ground and picking at a blade of grass. “Yeah, sort of. I have narcolepsy,” he said. “I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“Isn’t that like the disease where you fall asleep for no reason?” she asked.
He nodded, looking very uncomfortable.
“Oh, crap,” Madison blurted, surprised at how relieved she suddenly felt. “Is that all? I can fall asleep just about anywhere; maybe I’ve got it too.” She made a goofy face and pretended to be dozing off.
But Tom wasn’t laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Madison apologized. “Sometimes I speak before I think. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
He shook his head, still not looking at her. “No, that’s all right. I’m just a little sensitive about it is all. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
He fell silent then, playing with the grass on the ground in front of him, and Madison realized what a big deal it must have been for him to tell her this.
“So, you’ve had this … condition since you were little?” she asked hesitantly.
Tom had pulled up a long blade of grass and was carefully tying it into knots. “Yeah, I had my first attack when I was eight.”
“That must have been tough.” She wasn’t sure what to say but wanted him to know that she was trying to be understanding.
He nodded. “Oh yeah, all the tests and stuff. It was pretty scary for a little kid.” He quickly glanced up from his knotted piece of grass. “You can see where Mom and Dad would be kinda smothering. I’ve put them through quite a bit.”
She moved to the end of the lounge chair, closer to him, fascinated with the idea that this healthy-looking teenage boy could have something dramatically wrong with him. “I don’t want to be rude,” she said carefully. “But what’s it like?”
He looked hard at the ground, thinking about the best way to answer. “It’s not fun, that’s for sure,” he finally said. “I wish I could say you get used to it over time, but you don’t. It’s like somebody has a switch for your life and is turning it on and off whenever they feel like it. It makes you angry that you’re so goddamned helpless.”
Madison resisted the urge to put her arm around his shoulders to comfort him. She could sense his frustration and found herself empathizing with him. Life itself wasn’t so bad; it was the curveballs it threw every once in a while that caused all the problems.
“Is there any medicine you can take?”
“Yeah, lots of medication,” he said, “but no cure. The medicine just helps keep the attacks to a minimum—that and a regular routine of exercise and naps.” He chuckled sadly. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”
Madison shook her head and reached out to take the knotted piece of grass from his hands.
“Not pathetic at all,” she tried to reassure him. “You do what you do to stay well. If you had allergies, you’d take medicine for that, right?”
Tom laughed. “I never thought of narcolepsy as an allergy, but when you put it that way, I guess you’re right.” He looked at her and smiled. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” She playfully threw the knotted blade of grass at him, attempting to lighten the conversation. And then it dawned on her. As she stared at his handsome, smiling face, she realized why she hadn’t seen him for a while. “Oh my God,” she said. “Your mom said you weren’t around, but you were—”
“Asleep,” Tom interrupted, finishing her sentence. “I had an attack that night after we met. It was a bad one, the worst since I was diagnosed with Quentin’s. I lost five days.”
“Quentin’s?” she questioned. “Is that a kind of narcolepsy?”
“Named after the guy who discovered it, I guess,” Tom explained. “Lucky me, it’s a more rare form. Most narcoleptic seizures take you out of the picture for ten, twenty minutes—an hour max. But Quentin’s is a whole other story.” Tom rose to his feet, brushing off the seat of his sweatpants. “I just broke my last record. Who knows, maybe I can get it recognized by the Olympic committee and get a gold medal.”
“It scares you, doesn’t it?” she said suddenly.
Tom chuckled, and for a moment Madison thought he might joke about it. But then he hung his head and turned away, and she knew he was speaking from his heart.
“Yeah, it does. Sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep at night because I think I might not wake up.”
He gazed down at her, and they were quiet for a moment.
“I was thinking,” he started, quickly changing the subject, glancing over at the fence and his yard beyond it. “How about coming over for dinner tomorrow night?”
She didn’t have to think about the answer. “Sure, that’d be great. Your mother’s going to let me in the house this time?” she asked sarcastically.
“Don’t worry about her.” Tom laughed reassuringly. “I’ll make sure she’s on her best behavior.”
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