The Collective

by Jack Rogan

  Sated and content, more than ready to go home, he piled himself into his car and started the engine. A quick pass by Caitlin McCandless’s house and he could be reunited with the reclining chair in his living room.

  Before he could pull away from the curb, his cell phone buzzed. Grumbling, he managed to extract it from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID screen, which read Private Caller. A blocked number.

  Jarman frowned, hesitated a second, then tossed the phone on the passenger seat without answering it. If Monteforte—or anyone else from Medford P.D.—had called him, he would have answered. But an anonymous call, hours after he’d gone off duty? If they wanted him, they’d call back or leave a message.

  He had a date with his recliner.

  On the passenger seat, the phone stopped buzzing.

  Josh stood on the tarmac beside their charter plane. Voss came down the steps he’d just descended, looking around at the planes and terminals of Logan Airport like she had forgotten where they were.

  “Start the day in Florida, finish it in Boston,” she muttered.

  Josh nodded, but didn’t reply. He was listening to the electronic ring on the other end of his phone call, his cell pressed to his ear.

  “This is Bill Jarman,” said the Medford detective’s recorded voice. “I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is a police emergency, please call 911, or call the Medford Police Department’s main number at—”

  Josh ended the call, frowning. He didn’t want to leave a message. What would he say?

  “No luck?” Voss asked.

  Josh shook his head. “Nada. When we’re done here, I’ll try him again. If there’s still no answer, we can call the Medford P.D., get the McCandless woman’s address, and just drive there.”

  Voss nodded. “You got it.”

  Cait stood in the darkened hallway at the back of the house, holding her breath, gun clutched tightly in her hand. The lights from the living room illuminated two patches of the corridor ahead, but at the far end, the foyer was dark. The front door seemed to breathe with menace.

  “Cai—” Miranda began, but Cait held up a hand and shot her a look that silenced her.

  The dining room, which she used as a playroom for Leyla and a computer room for herself, was dark. From there, she could have gotten a look at whoever stood on her front stoop. But to get there she would have to walk the length of the corridor, and with the light from the living room spilling into the hall and the curtains open, anyone who might be watching from outside would see her.

  Miranda came up close behind her and whispered low, “You’re scaring me.”

  David entered his apartment from a set of stairs and a landing that had been built onto the outside of the house when it had been split into two apartments, but in Cait’s kitchen there was a narrow door—locked from the other side—that led to an old secondary stairwell. David wasn’t home, so it would be dark up there. If she could manage the lock, she would be able to get into his place and have a look outside.

  The knock came again, more insistent this time.

  “Come on. What the fuck?” Miranda whispered.

  Cait glanced over her shoulder, looking past Miranda at Leyla’s crib. Through the bars she could see the baby, still asleep, and she exhaled. No way could she break into David’s apartment and leave Leyla down here.

  “Dude!” Miranda said, a bit harsher now. “Overreacting much? What if it’s just someone checking on you? Or the cops?”

  The possibility had occurred to Cait, which was the only reason she didn’t snap at Miranda to keep her voice down. But the police would have phoned first, or so she assumed. And she couldn’t think of anyone who would just drop by her place at ten o’clock to check on her. Maybe Nick would have done it, but he had just tried calling. It wouldn’t be him. Then, of course, there was the small fact of her phone service cutting out, right before that first knock on the door.

  Her fingers opened and closed on the gun’s grip.

  The third time, the knock was followed by a voice.

  “Ms. McCandless?” a man said quietly on the other side of the door. “Federal agents. We know you’re at home and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Cait stiffened, thinking of untraceable license plates and tinted windows. Thinking of Sean dead on a sidewalk.

  “Federal agents?” Miranda said. “Jesus, Cait.”

  But Cait remained frozen on the spot, torn between her paranoia and her suspicions about Sean’s line of work. He had obviously been doing some kind of spy shit for the government. Maybe they had come to talk to her about their investigation into his death. The confusion made her want to scream, and then she remembered the dead phone line and that cleared her mind instantly.

  She turned and grabbed Miranda’s arm, stepping with her into Leyla’s room. The shades were drawn so that the morning sun wouldn’t wake the baby early, but it also meant no one could look in and see them. Cait grabbed Leyla’s baby sling and slipped it on.

  “Listen to me,” she whispered, face up close to Miranda’s.

  Miranda wasn’t looking into her eyes. The other woman could not tear her gaze from the sight of Cait’s gun. Cait grabbed her friend’s face and forced her to look up.

  “Miranda, listen! We don’t know who they really are, and they’ve cut the telephone line. Haven’t you ever seen a movie? Look, if I’m being crazy, then they’ll go away, maybe leave me a business card or something. But if I’m right, then they’re not going to just—”

  Whump!

  Whatever struck the door then wasn’t a fist. Someone had kicked it, or slammed it with a shoulder.

  Miranda’s eyes went wide with fear, but Cait had run out of time to reason with her or calm her down.

  Whump!

  She always kept the door fully locked, chained, dead-bolted … but none of that would last more than a couple more kicks.

  A heartbreaking wail rose from the crib. All the noise had finally woken Leyla, and now the baby lay crying inconsolably.

  “Pick her up, Miranda,” Cait snapped. “We’re leaving!”

  Shaking, Miranda reached into the crib. Cait glanced again at the drawn shades in her daughter’s room, then stepped into the hall. With the gun pointed at the ceiling, she motioned for Miranda to hurry, watching the front door. To her left, her bedroom door stood open, as did the bathroom door on her right. Both rooms were dark, but a breeze blew in from her bedroom. She leveled her weapon and scanned the room, then glanced at the windows, which she had left open. It looked undisturbed.

  She turned right, into the living room, swinging the gun in an arc, ready to fire. Behind her, Miranda whispered comforting words and cooed to Leyla, whose crying had diminished.

  Cait spotted a face outside the front living room window.

  “Miranda—”

  The next word out of her mouth would have been Go.

  But just then the front door crashed open with a splintering of wood. She spun to see Miranda standing in the hall, brown eyes staring toward the front of the house in fear.

  Miranda turned back toward Leyla’s room, instinctively shielding the baby with her body. The first bullet struck her in the right shoulder and she went down on her knees and spun halfway around, but still somehow managed to hold on to Leyla.

  The second bullet took her in the back of the head, kicking her forward in a spray of blood. She landed on top of Leyla, sprawled on the carpet.

  All Cait could hear was her daughter screaming. Or maybe it was her own voice she heard.

  A window shattered in her living room and a shot rang out, but she was already in motion. Whoever had shot at her from the window missed. She spun into the corridor, already taking aim, but she didn’t stop. Instead, she let herself slam into the wall and pulled the trigger. Two dark-suited white men had come through the door. She shot the first one through the throat. Blood fountained from the wound as the bald man staggered
, dropping his gun and reaching up to try to staunch the bleeding.

  He fell backward into his partner, costing the other man two seconds and his life. As he tried to shove the bald man aside and get a clear shot, Cait put two bullets dead center in his chest.

  Numb. Cold. They killed Miranda. They’d reaped what they’d sown. Still, it made her sick—and it wasn’t over.

  A third man appeared just beyond the front door, a tall black man who looked strong enough to break her into pieces. Cait took a shot at him, but he spotted her in time to jump aside.

  That was all right. She wanted him outside the apartment.

  Heart hammering in her chest, heat flushing her face even though the rest of her still felt cold, she flipped over Miranda’s corpse without looking at her. Grief and tears would come later, when there was time. War had taught her that, and more.

  Leyla’s cries became shrieks. Red-faced and wide-eyed, the baby kicked her feet on the floor. Her pajamas looked wet, and the smell told Cait that her diaper had leaked. She only vaguely registered this as she scooped Leyla up and darted through the open bathroom door. If they became trapped in here, they were dead.

  She poked her head out and saw the man in her doorway again. He took a shot at her and missed. The bullet pinged off the bathroom door hinge even as Cait fired back, blowing out his knee. Her aim had been for shit—she had intended to kill him—but at least it took him down for a second.

  It was long enough for her to slip Leyla into the sling around her neck. Then she was up and good to go. Baby urine soaked through the sling and into her shirt, damp against her skin, and Leyla kept screaming, but neither of those things bothered Cait. Her baby was alive, and nothing else mattered.

  She poked her head out again and spotted a skinny young blond weasel coming through the door. The guy dropped to the floor behind the huge bastard with the ruined knee, using him for cover. His human shield had regained his wits enough to start reaching for the pistol he’d dropped, despite the agony of his knee. Staring at her, fury in his eyes, he grabbed the gun and started to aim. She shot him.

  The weasel darted into the darkness of the dining room. Cait didn’t wait to see what he would do, or who would come through the door next. She had a moment’s respite and she used it.

  Left arm holding her screaming daughter against her chest, she ran back into the living room, head ducked low. A shot boomed, shattering a framed photo of her father on the wall as she ran past, and then she was in the kitchen and heading for the back door. Nobody had tried breaking that one down yet, but she wasn’t fool enough to think that meant it was unguarded. They’d have to be total idiots not to have covered the rear of the house, but she had no choice. She had no idea how many guns were out there, and if the police didn’t show up fast, she was a sitting duck inside the house. If she could get through the backyard alive and push through the opening in the neighbors’ fence that bumped up against the property there, she would find someone home, someone who would let her in, hide her and Leyla, help keep them safe until the police arrived.

  All she knew was that she had to get her baby away from the bullets.

  Cait hauled the door open and kicked the screened storm door wide. Its springs creaked loudly, but no one shot at her. She hurled herself out into the night, gun hand sweeping the yard for targets, and nearly stumbled when she spotted two dark-suited men—they’d obviously been guarding her back door—sprawled in the yard with their throats cut, blood glistening black in the moonlight.

  Beyond them were three others, olive-skinned men in street clothes who trained their guns on her. Cait aimed back, breathing hard, chest tight with fear for her baby, but nobody fired.

  One of the men—clean-shaven and darkly handsome—put a finger to his lips to keep her from crying out.

  “Give us the child and live, or die and we’ll take her from your cold hands,” the man whispered. They were the most hideous words she had ever heard, yet his voice was melodious, almost pleasant, and he spoke in an accent that was all too familiar.

  He was Iraqi.

  Jarman drove up Boston Avenue, pleasantly full of chicken wings. The Cajun rub were the best, but he knew he would regret them later, along with the huge order of fries dusted with Cajun spices. Already his belly had begun to rumble queasily. He imagined his breath must be hideous now—a combination of beer and spices that would wilt houseplants and humans alike.

  Just a quick pass by the McCandless house, and then straight home. Tomorrow he would take a fresh look at the weird pieces of the puzzle surrounding the attack on Jane Wadlow and her niece’s baby. In the light of day, with a good night’s sleep and a fresh cup of coffee, maybe he would see something he had missed. Or maybe he would find it easier to accept that some mysteries were never going to be solved.

  He doubted it, though.

  Even as this thought crossed his mind, he spotted the car parked just ahead—a black Lexus with dark-tinted windows. Probably nothing, Jarman thought, but the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he let his beat-to-shit Saturn coast a little, slowing down.

  The car parked right in front of the Lexus was a charcoal-colored Saab. Same tinted windows. Brand new. Both vehicles looked as though they had just rolled off the lot.

  “What’s this, now?” he muttered.

  He had the radio up loud, ’80s alt-rock playing on The River, but now he turned it down and tapped the brake, approaching Cait McCandless’s house at a crawl, peering into the darkness between houses and the deeper shadows thrown by trees and cars along the road.

  A block and a half from Cait’s apartment, he heard the first shots.

  “Son of a bitch,” he snapped, pulling into a space between two cars, blocking a driveway. He killed the engine, silencing the Smithereens.

  Jarman didn’t have a police radio in the car. He grabbed his cell phone off of the passenger seat and called for backup. It took three rings, and when the line was picked up, he did not wait for the voice on the other end to identify itself. He snapped off his name and badge number and Cait McCandless’s address.

  “Shots fired!” he snapped.

  “All right, Detective. Backup’s on the way.”

  “Good. And someone call my partner.”

  Protocol demanded that he observe and report before taking any action. Screw that. He hung up the phone, jammed it into his pocket, and climbed out of the Saturn, closing the door as quietly as he could.

  Jarman hustled into the cover of a pair of trees, trying to get a view of McCandless’s apartment house, but he was too far away. In a house up ahead, a couple of stoner-looking college guys came out on their front stoop, apparently curious about the gunshots, maybe not really understanding what they had heard or too stupid to keep their heads down.

  “Get your asses back inside,” Jarman hissed.

  They jerked back inside, probably more at the sight of his gun than because he’d ordered them to, but when he reached into his open collar and yanked out his badge—which hung from a chain around his neck—they stepped out again. They figured a cop wouldn’t shoot them, too stupid or too high to realize he hadn’t fired the shots they’d already heard.

  More gunshots punctured the darkness. Jarman darted toward the front of the nearest house and raced across the yards, keeping close to cover. When he was two houses away from Cait McCandless’s apartment, he ran low across the grass to take cover behind a car parked in the driveway, which would give him a better view.

  A skinny little guy in a dark suit went up the stairs and through the front door, gun at the ready. Gunfire cracked in the air like fireworks—Jarman could feel the sounds echoing in his chest.

  Two others stood outside the house, ducked down so they couldn’t be sighted through the well-lit apartment windows. Jarman listened to the shots being fired inside and felt himself torn by indecision. The numbers were against him. At least three people were involved in a gun battle inside the house, and the two apes in the yard were obviously armed. P
rotocol and wisdom said he should wait for backup. They couldn’t be far. He’d called it in at least a full minute ago. Any second he’d hear sirens.

  Any second.

  But he didn’t hear them, and now the gunfire had fallen silent in the house. He cursed himself for waiting, hated the way his stomach churned—though he blamed Sparky’s wings for that—and despised the little ball of cowardice that had curled up like a whimpering dog in his gut.

  Cait McCandless had a baby.

  “Screw it,” Jarman whispered, and he started to run.

  The guy was Iraqi. Maybe they all were, or maybe they were a hodgepodge of Arabic extremists. What the hell had she heard about terrorists killing a family? Something on the news, but she couldn’t remember now.

  Iraqi, okay. But what the hell that meant and how all the pieces fit together, she had no idea. The detectives—Monteforte and Jarman—had asked about Nizam’s family, and if they might try to get custody of Leyla. That alone had been difficult for her to imagine, but this? Cold-blooded murder? Gunfire in her apartment—

  Miranda. Oh, God, Miranda.

  “Fuck you,” Cait sneered, her aim not wavering. “One step and you’re dead.”

  She had the gun pointed directly into the face of the man who’d spoken. Leyla went silent and still, but Cait could feel the baby’s heart beating against her chest. A deathly calm had come over Cait. The war had given her the ability to kill when necessary. She had never wanted to learn that skill or to lose the part of her soul that it had cost her, but she had. Her government had demanded it.

  “They’ll kill you anyway, after you’ve shot me,” said the one who gave the orders.

  “But you’ll be dead.”

  The man lifted his chin. “So be it.”

  Fuck. She hated martyrs. There was no way to get a fair fight with someone who didn’t mind dying for their cause.

  She shot him in the face. Even as the bullet snapped his head back, she swung the gun toward the third man, who still had his own gun out, but she knew she would not be fast enough. He had the drop on her. He would pull the trigger. This close he couldn’t possibly miss. And then the other would stab her to death and they would take Leyla. They would …