But during all of their time together, the real Labyrinth wouldn’t have shown his face, or given any indication of where he lived, how he behaved, even what his voice sounded like. In Anthony Biretta’s shattered mind, there would be only fragments of his past life. For him it would be like waking from a long dream, and the horrible idea that his real life, the one he would have sworn was tangible reality, had been contained in that dream. And he could never return to it.
“Get his leg fixed,” Blair told the police on the way out.
chapter 37
DARK
Manhattan
The area around One Police Plaza had been locked down since 9/11, much to the long-term dismay of nearby residents. The police argued that it would be far too easy for someone to roll down the four-lane Park Row in a white van packed with fertilizer bombs and take out the central hub of the NYPD. Residents complained that blocking Park Row turned an already insufferable traffic headache into an eternal nightmare—not to mention their feeling like they were living in a demilitarized zone.
The Park Row blockades didn’t stop bike messengers, of course. Specifically, one bald messenger with a bushy beard that nearly reached his gut. He stopped out front of One Police Plaza, locked his bike, then raced toward the front doors—where he was immediately intercepted by a new delivery detail. What happened in L.A. had sent shock waves through police departments around the world, and the NYPD refused to take any chances. The bald messenger, whose T-shirt read ALABAMA CORN SNAKE, seemed bemused by it all . . . until the security office looked at the name on the return address (Bryan Hilt) and the team was slamming Mr. Corn Snake down to the concrete, Glock at the back of his head, another Glock at the base of his spine, cuffs cinching around his wrists before he even had a chance to expel the air he’d sucked in on the way down.
The security team had been prepped: Anything that even remotely seemed like it could come from that nutcase Labyrinth—pounce now, let lawyers sort it out later.
And “Bryan Hilt” was on a short list of possible anagrams for the name “Labyrinth.”
Instant red flag, motherfucker.
The box was immediately transported by armed guard down to a police warehouse near the Brooklyn Bridge for inspection.
Mr. Corn Snake could only sniffle blood and watch as his entire life was ripped apart, from his shitty apartment up in Jamaica, Queens, all the way back to Alabama, searching for a connection to the package’s sender.
Dark and Natasha keyed into the Global Alliance safe house in the West Village. The place was well stocked, modern, with several bedrooms around an open living room. The loft was full of the latest technology, flat screens and computers everywhere. Much like the plane, it seemed that Global Alliance HQ could be anywhere Blair needed it to be. As Natasha fired up the computer systems, Dark—still very time dislocated after so many days of travel—thought a shower sounded like a good idea.
“Hey,” he said. Natasha looked up and locked eyes with Dark.
“I’m, uh . . . I’m gonna find a shower,” he told her.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay.” He pulled his gaze from hers. What was that?
Natasha watched and smiled as Dark awkwardly found his way to the bathroom.
Dark peeled off his clothes and fired up the hottest shower he thought he could stand. Under the intense spray in the tiled shower stall, Dark allowed himself to linger in the moment, just letting the water do its job. He was surprised to find that when he got his mind off Labyrinth, he thought about Natasha, could not get that look out of his head. It’s not to say he had sworn off women since he lost his wife, but he also hadn’t been looking. His life was work and Sibby. But now, like any normal man, Dark was thinking about the incredibly beautiful woman in the other room, wondering what she might be doing. He was about to shrug off the thought when he heard the shower door open.
Dark turned as Natasha slipped inside the shower stall next to him, completely naked. He had to wipe his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Then, she stepped up to him, put her hands on his chest, and looked up at him expectantly.
“I thought I annoyed you,” Dark said.
“You do,” Natasha replied, running her fingers down his chest and farther still. She kissed his neck and his chest. “You really, really annoy me.”
“So why are you here?” he said playfully.
“Would you rather I not be?” she said as she nibbled on his ear. “Do you need a reason other than we’re both here?”
Dark did not. Dark pressed her against the warm tiles of the stall, arms pinned to her sides. She climaxed with a muted cry and then slammed Dark back into the wall and began to exact her revenge, her hips slamming into his with an aggression that only aroused Dark even more.
He refused to give in easily, though, and reversed positions once again before deciding that they were clean enough and there was a bed in the safe house and it would be a shame to not use it.
Afterward, as they lay in bed, heavy breathing punctuating the silence, Dark couldn’t believe this had happened . . . in a good way. Natasha stretched her naked body, giving Dark an amazing view, and then rolled over next to him.
“I—um . . .” Dark stammered. Then turned to Natasha and laughed. She smiled . . . an amazing smile. Then saved him from himself.
“It’s not easy . . . to meet people doing what we do,” she said. “We all have needs.”
“So it was just about fulfilling needs then?” he asked.
Natasha hesitated.
“You’re a good guy, Dark. I like you.”
“But . . . ?”
“But let’s not let this be the last time, okay?” Natasha smiled and then slid off the bed, grabbing her clothes. “Oh, and for the record, you still annoy me.”
Dark was about to retort when a dual ping ping emitted from both their phones.
New York Post
Breaking: Inside sources claim the NYPD has received a package from “Labyrinth”; city braces for attack.
“Please don’t be the I-told-you-so type,” Natasha said, gathering her clothes from the floor. She didn’t put her clothes back on right away, however. Instead she recovered her cell phone from the counter and started to type.
“I’m messaging one of my NYPD sources right now,” she said.
Dark took the opportunity to dress and, he wasn’t ashamed to admit, wondered if they could have gone again if their cell phones hadn’t interrupted.
“It’s legit,” Natasha said.
“When did the package arrive?” Dark asked.
“Looks like ten minutes ago.”
“And it’s already out there, in the media. Labyrinth’s tipping off reporters just to make sure nobody misses his messages.”
“Let’s go,” Natasha said. “I’ll coordinate with my NYPD contact on the way over.”
“You may want to put on a shirt,” Dark said, turning his back in faux modesty.
“To be continued,” she said.
One cab ride later they were being escorted into the police warehouse where the NYPD forensic teams had set up an impromptu workstation. They were all still skittish about explosives after the LAPD attack. Natasha made quick introductions and asked to see the contents of the package. A tech handed Dark the latest riddle, sealed in a plastic evidence bag:MY BODY TAPERS NICE AND NEAT
WITH BUT ONE EYE I AM COMPLETE
YOU’D JUDGE ME BY MY EQUIPAGE
THE GREATEST WARRIOR OF THE AGE
FOR WHEN YOU HAVE SURVEYED ME ROUND
NOTHING BUT STEEL IS TO BE FOUND
YET MEN I NEVER WAS KNOWN TO KILL
BUT LADIES’ BLOOD IOFTEN SPILL
WHAT AM I?
Dark nodded, then handed the riddle to Natasha. “What else came with it?”
“A really old laptop. I mean, a piece of gear I haven’t seen since grade school.”
The tech pointed to the machine, which was resting on the table. Almost two decades old, if Dark had to guess. T
he thing looked like a giant slab of hard plastic.
“The worst thing is, he doesn’t seem to be giving us any time at all,” the tech said as he lifted the screen to reveal a crude digital timer, ticking down....
2:28:41 . . .
2:28:40 . . .
2:28:39 . . .
“What was the starting time?” Dark asked.
“Three hours exactly,” said the tech.
Labyrinth was giving them the smallest window yet to prevent his next act of violence. This troubled Dark. The other time periods—relatively generous. The more time you gave the police to solve the riddle, the more fun the taunting. Why was he now playing this one so tight?
Because he knows you’re close. He sped up the clock to keep things interesting.
“What was the third item?” Dark asked.
“A legal document from the 1840s. We’ve got a pair of guys from NYU on their way now to analyze it, but apparently this thing claims that the City of New York once paid thousands of dollars—which was a lot back then—in exchange for protection from a Bower gang. The Knife Boys. The historians said the gangs sound real, but they’ve never heard about the city paying them off.”
Dark pondered this. Protection money. A government made to look bad. A riddle that mentioned ladies’ blood. A document from the 1840s, and a laptop computer from twenty years ago. What connected them all?
Natasha approached, riddle in her hand.
“You know the answer to the riddle?” Dark asked.
“At my liberal arts boarding school I was required to take a sewing class,” she said. “And nothing pricks like a needle. Question is, who will Labyrinth be pricking in a little more than two hours?”
“If he continues his pattern, then he’s going to find someone in the financial world guilty of some perceived sin. We need a list of Wall Street types who have made a fuckload of money thanks to some shady backroom deal.”
“Great,” Natasha said. “Our victim list now includes thousands of people.”
“We can narrow it down. Think about the first four victims. All of them had secrets that Labyrinth exposed. The actress and producer—guilty of incest. The oil executive—guilty of spoiling the planet. Talbot—her embezzlement. This will be someone who hasn’t been caught yet. Maybe there are investigations under way, which is how Labyrinth heard about it and chose his victim. But the public won’t know about it.”
“I’ll have O’Brian spin through the files of the SEC. How else can we narrow it down?”
“Don’t forget Labyrinth’s love of celebrity. He chooses his victims because they’ll make great examples. He’s hoping people will cheer him on because they’ll hate the victim, too, and love to see them suffer. So his victim will be prominent. Not a household name necessarily, but on Wall Street, he’ll be a virtual rock star.”
“One thing keeps tripping me up in that riddle,” Natasha said.
“What’s that?”
“The part about never killing men, but spilling ladies’ blood. Maybe the man we’re looking for is a notorious ladies’ man?”
Dark nodded. “Could be. Or it’s the opposite. A prude who keeps his kinks in the dark. And Labyrinth’s trying to drag them out into the light.”
chapter 38
LABYRINTH
Show me a man without a vice and I’ll show you a liar.
Shane Corbett is a liar.
He’s proud of the fact that he doesn’t drink.
He doesn’t smoke.
He doesn’t do drugs.
He doesn’t consort with whores.
He doesn’t watch online pornography.
He doesn’t eat junk food.
He doesn’t even cheat on his taxes.
Nonetheless . . .
Shane Corbett has a vice.
He’s just very, very good at hiding it from the world.
But not from me.
I can pry secrets out of anyone.
I’m sitting at a table near the front of the restaurant, alone, sipping a latte, when Shane Corbett enters, black umbrella tucked under his arm, slender white phone in his hand. He looks impatient. He’s here for an important business lunch. I know this, because I’m the one who arranged this lunch, through one of my many false identities.
I called and made the reservation.
I chose the specific table—the most high-profile one in the place.
And just a few minutes ago, I walked by that table and squeezed an untraceable liquid into Shane Corbett’s water goblet.
Shane Corbett, having no vices whatsoever, is an absolute fiend when it comes to water, drinking it compulsively, as if the fluid can wash away at the evil corroding his veins.
Ha.
Shane Corbett is shown to his table and chooses the exact seat that I predicted he would choose. (Shane Corbett hates having his back to the entrance of any eating establishment.) After handing his black umbrella to the hostess without so much as glancing at her, he smooths out a few minor bumps in the tablecloth with his long, manicured fingers and compulsively glances at his watch.
And then he takes a large gulp of water.
Even a little would have been enough.
I suppose that if something as simple as murder had been on my mind I could have taken his life at this very moment.
But I have something special in mind for Shane Corbett, the man with no vices.
Look at him.
Fist up to his mouth, as if to stifle a burp.
No, not a burp.
Something worse.
The rumbling in his stomach has started in earnest now, the panic flits across his face—
He’s not sure he’s going to make it.
He bolts from the table, his hips knocking into other tables as he goes, rattling goblets and silverware, but Shane Corbett doesn’t care about anything right now except getting inside a toilet stall immediately.
I put down my latte, stand up, straighten my trousers, stretch my back a little, then casually follow him into the men’s room.
The sound of Shane Corbett’s retching assaults my ears as I open the door. There is an embarrassed executive at the sink, pumping pink foam soap and pretending like he doesn’t hear the pitiful hurling and gagging.
I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes a bit. I tell the executive,
Some people just can’t handle their Bloody Marys.
The exec relaxes, returns a polite smile, takes a paper towel from the basket.
I call out,
Come on, Charley. Let’s get you to your room.
I find Shane Corbett in the third stall, the one closest to the tiled wall. He is delirious, vomit and drool hanging from a trembling lower lip. He doesn’t know me, but he’s so far gone he’ll trust anyone who can possibly take away his suffering. So it is easy to guide him to the sink, wipe his mouth, then guide him back out into the lobby toward the elevators.
I tell him,
We’ll take care of you.
The elevator doors close silently.
[To enter the Labyrinth, please go to Level26.com and enter the code: revenge]
chapter 39
LABYRINTH
I leave the hotel room, listen to the door quietly snick shut in my wake. I check the sleeves of my suit to make sure none of Shane
Corbett splattered on me. Vomit, blood, or otherwise.
I kept my distance the whole time, but the ladies were quite motivated.
Things got a little out of control, I must admit.
Understandably so, from the viewpoint of the ladies.
You see, Shane Corbett does have a vice. He’s had it since middle school and it almost sidelined his academic career. Now that he’s older and has piles of money to burn, he can afford to indulge it and no one ever has to know about it.
Except me.
And the women he’s destroyed.
I worked with these women for quite a long time.
A few months, actually, on and off.
They were not hard to find or b
efriend. Their minds opened up to me willingly, almost eagerly, because their confidence had been shattered at a very young age, leaving them impressionable and constantly seeking those who purport to keep them safe. Truth is, they end up gravitating toward the opposite. Those who exploit their weakness and manipulate them into playthings.
I do not exploit them.
I remind them of how strong they once were.
How they once lusted for life instead of running away from it.
And now, after all of these months, they’re good.
And they’re ready to set things right.
The women in this room had every reason to repress it.
The parents.
The lawyers.
The money the lawyers gave to the parents to keep them quiet.
As they got older they buried it deeper still, but it was still there, gnawing away at the insides, and once a month they received a vivid reminder of their one and only date with Shane Corbett.
Bury it deeper.
Repress it.
I helped them dig those memories out.
I taught them how to harness it and channel it into pure unadulterated rage.
I even paid for their flights, hotels, and incidentals.
They were ready.
This wasn’t personal, Shane Corbett. Plenty of others in your line of “work” have similar vices. Is it an accident that the most corrupt, vile men run one of the most corrupt and vile industries? An industry that clearly has no right being in private hands?
But rejoice, Shane, because I’ve made you a part of the solution. It may have hurt, but in the end you’re making the world a better place. You won’t be around to see it . . . but you can die knowing that you got in on the ground floor.
Dark Revelations Page 12
