Deviant (Karma Police Book 4)

by Sean Platt

  Darius nods.

  I leave the room, shutting the door behind me and joining Rich on the other side of the mirrored wall.

  “So, what’s he hiding? Get anything? Did we get anything on The First Front or Niko?”

  The First Front? What is that? And who the hell is Niko?

  Obviously, I can’t ask him any of these questions.

  “Just Ben’s name so far,” I say, hoping like hell that that wasn’t a piece of information I should’ve already known from the dossier.

  Rich nods. “Well, it’s confirmation that he’s working with them. That they’re behind this. Now we just need to find them.”

  I follow Rich back into the room.

  Darius is looking at us. “Who the hell are you people? You’re not cops, so why are you holding me?”

  “No, we’re not cops,” Rich says. “We’re CIA. But we can make this problem go away, or we can do the same to you.”

  His brow furrows. “What do you mean ‘go away?’ Y’all gonna kill me?”

  “No, but we can send you somewhere less friendly, a place where you’ll wish we had killed you. You don’t want that, do you, Darius?”

  He says nothing, his eyes back on the table.

  “Listen, I know this isn’t really you. You’re not the terrorist type,” Rich says, his voice calm and reassuring. “Someone put you up to it. Tell us where we can find them and we can work on securing your freedom.”

  Darius says nothing.

  Rich nods. “You’re loyal. I can respect that.” He paces in front of Darius, “I used to have this uncle, Vito. He was, as you can probably guess from the name, Italian. I know I don’t look it, what with the pale complexion and all, but I’m half Italian, on my mom’s side.

  “Anyway, Uncle Vito was an old school tough guy, pulled himself up by his bootstraps, hustled to make a business for himself, and all that jazz. But his son, Stevie, was a bit of a prick. He was thirteen, and I was seven. We were fighting over a Babe Ruth baseball card that our grandfather gave to me, Stevie thinking it should’ve gone to him because I was only seven. He was big into baseball. Like he lived and breathed it, had been collecting cards since he was seven.

  “Vito walks in on Stevie kicking my ass, and he grabs Stevie by the back of his collar, smacks him right upside the face. Hard, too. And then he makes Stevie apologize. He also told him to hand over his entire card collection to me.

  “I know, pretty fucking extreme, right? Stevie cries, whines, and begs his father not to make him give his cards away, but Vito won’t relent. He tells him to do it and do it right now.

  “So Stevie brings me his books and boxes full of cards, then hands them over while crying his eyes out. Then Vito tells us both something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘family is the most important thing in the world. The minute you let things come between you and your family, well, that’s the minute you’ve turned your back on them.’”

  Darius is staring at Rich, waiting for something that relates to him.

  “I can understand that kind of loyalty. But this isn’t that, Darius. Because look around. Your family isn’t here. They weren’t with you at the data center. They sent you and your girl to do a job they weren’t willing to do themselves. You know what they call a guy like you, Darius? A patsy.”

  “I ain’t a patsy,” Darius growls.

  His thoughts are back in my head.

  “Gotta keep my mouth shut. Ben’ll find a way to get us out of here. He won’t let them hurt us. I know it.”

  Rich leans on the table, his palms flat on the surface, “What about Janet? Is she a patsy? Did they maybe use her to get you to do something?”

  “She didn’t have nothing to do with this. It’s all me and me alone.”

  Rich pauses, then pulls a phone from his pocket and dials. “Bring her in.”

  Rich hangs up.

  Darius stirs in his seat.

  Her is obviously Janet. I wonder what Rich is planning to do. People are usually separated while being questioned. It’s a great way to turn one against the other. But this isn’t a routine investigation, and we’re not regular law enforcement.

  Moments later, Janet is ushered in by a guard, hands cuffed behind her back. Darius tries to stand, but there’s a low buzz from the shock collar around his neck. He winces then collapses back into his seat.

  “Baby!” she cries, trying to move toward him.

  The guard grabs Janet’s cuffed hands, reining her in.

  “Thank you,” Rich says.

  The guard leaves and closes the door behind him.

  Rich turns to Janet, then to Darius, a pleasant smile claiming his face.

  “Good, we’re finally all together. Maybe we can make some progress now. Please, would you care to take a seat?”

  Rich leads Janet to the table, tells her to slowly sit down as he steadies her to make sure she doesn’t fall.

  “Everything’s gonna be okay,” Darius says, looking into his girlfriend’s worried eyes.

  Rich claps his hands once, “Ah, that’s what I like to hear — optimism! And yes, you’re right, everything will be okay. I only require a sliver of information which your boyfriend has rudely refused us so far.”

  Rich stands behind Janet and continues to talk. “I merely need to know where The First Front is hiding.”

  Janet shakes her head. “We don’t know any First Front. This is all a big misunderstanding.”

  Rich steps closer to her and sets his hands on Janet’s shoulders as if he’s about to give her a massage.

  She flinches.

  Rich keeps his hands where they are, though he doesn’t move to do anything — yet.

  Darius’s eyes narrow on Rich.

  “So, let me get this straight, you just accidentally wander into a secure facility? Accidentally breach security measures and accidentally murder a bunch of people?” Rich laughs. “You two either have the world’s worst luck, or you’re the worst liars I’ve ever questioned.”

  “We want a lawyer,” Janet says.

  “You don’t get a lawyer. That’s not the way things work anymore. Not with terrorists.”

  Darius shouts, “We’re not terrorists!”

  “The law would say differently. Now, are you going to give me what I need or will Janet have to suffer?”

  Rich’s hands circle her neck.

  She tries to squirm away, but he tightens his grip.

  “Get your hands off her!”

  “Tell me where they are!” Rich barks.

  “We don’t know!” Janet shouts again.

  Rich slowly chokes her.

  Darius shouts, “Stop it!”

  Rich shakes his head, his gaze steely, still strangling his victim. “Tell me.”

  Janet gags, fighting for breath and struggling to stand, her face turning purple. Rich’s hands keep her seated.

  Should I intervene? He won’t kill her, will he?

  No, he won’t.

  He can’t.

  I stand my ground, staring helplessly, hoping Darius will say something to stop this man. Surely Rich won’t go all the way. Surely this is something they do, a routine they’ve worked out like Good Cop/Crazy Cop.

  If I intervene, it’ll screw Brooke big time.

  And yet, if I do nothing, I might allow Rich to kill a woman in cold blood.

  At first, Darius screams in my head, “He’s not gonna kill her. He’s not gonna kill her. He’s gotta be bluffing.” Then, “Oh, my God, he is going to fucking kill her.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell you!”

  Rich releases Janet’s neck.

  She gasps for air, her eyes tearing up, staring defiantly at Rich, and then at Darius, heavy defeat in both of their eyes.

  Rich rests his hands on Janet’s shoulders and says, “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t know where they are. My main contact is an old dude named Kotke.”

  “Kotke? That a first or last name?”

  “Hell, I dunno. That’s how he introduced himself: Kotke.
”

  While Rich is acting like he doesn’t know who Kotke is, a flash of something in his eyes says otherwise.

  “And where did you meet?”

  “Online. A support group for people with … problems.”

  “What kind of problems? Erectile dysfunction?”

  “No. People with powers. The group helps us control them, gives us a place we can vent about the shit we go through. They help protect us from people like you.”

  Darius glares at Rich, one minor act of defiance, an attempt to retain some control. But inside, Darius knows that he’s lost. He already gave Rich what he needed. And now he’ll be at the man’s mercy.

  “What else?” Rich asks.

  In for an inch, in for a mile.

  Darius spills his guts. “We were sent to install a thumb drive.”

  “And what was on this thumb drive?”

  “A virus, I think.”

  “You think?” Rich shakes his head. “And why would you want to install a virus in this data center?”

  “I don’t know. I swear. He just wanted it done.”

  “Kotke? You’re sure about that?”

  “Yeah, Kotke.”

  “Good. See, I told you this wouldn’t be so bad.” Rich smiles and pats Janet’s back. “You two are this close to getting on my good side.”

  **

  After the interrogation, Rich thanks me for my assistance then heads to the Briefing Room where he can coordinate with other agents to find and capture Kotke. That should lead to the others. Judging from the conversation, Kotke once worked with AD, and it’s a bit of a surprise that he’s involved with The First Front.

  I blow off a lunch invite from two other agents, telling them that I have a headache and that I’m going out to get some fresh air.

  I spend my lunch hour walking around AD, letting Brooke’s memories fill me in as I go.

  The Institute has twelve levels above ground and another five below — that I know of. Brooke has clearance for only two levels, and judging from the amount of security in this place there’s no way to breach security on the off chance that Chelsea’s here.

  Memories color the gaps, painting more of a picture of what’s happening here.

  AD is a front for the CIA Black Ops division working on top secret projects that most reasonable thinking people would associate with crackpot conspiracy theorists rather than the actual federal government. Most of it has to do with various components of psychic warfare using Deviants. They pick them up, interview them, and …

  The and is the question.

  I head back to my office after lunch, close the door, search for info on the data center that Darius infiltrated with Janet, and come up empty.

  I type in Chelsea’s name and get a hit, a link to a file.

  I click it, my heart racing.

  I’m greeted with a message that reads:

  INSUFFICIENT SECURITY CREDENTIALS

  PLEASE ASK YOUR ADMIN FOR ACCESS

  Um, no. Not going to do that.

  So, she has a file. Does that mean Chelsea is here? Or at least was?

  I click around until I find some names I do have access to — people that Brooke has questioned.

  There’s a case of a girl who could turn invisible for short periods of time. There’s a file on a young man with nearly impenetrable skin. There’s another one with a young woman with telekinesis. Many files have a category reading “GENERATION” with a number beside it: one through three, followed by a designation indicating either mother, father, maternal grandmother, maternal grandfather, paternal grandmother, paternal grandfather, alongside the relatives’ names.

  I wonder if this is how many generations of Deviants there are.

  If there are generations of these powerful people, why hasn’t the American public, beyond the conspiracy theorists, heard anything before now?

  Maybe they have.

  Maybe it’s one of those things I can’t remember from my old life.

  But I don’t think so.

  Along with each case, there are links to audio and video files. I try clicking on a few, but I’m prompted for a username and password each time. Nothing comes to me — I’m sure this is beyond Brooke’s security clearance.

  Many files have large chunks of black text replaced with “[REDACTED.]”

  There’s also a line in each Deviant’s profile which reads: SUGGESTED ACTION.

  But the suggested action in each case is a letter designation, A through Z. None if it makes any sense to me. And I can’t even click on the letters to learn more.

  What are they doing with the Deviants after their interviews?

  I wish I could probe deeper into Brooke’s memories, but even the fragments feel like buried treasure. The more I learn, the more I want to know, and the more certain I am that I’m somehow involved in this program. Chelsea, too.

  That has to be why I’m in Brooke’s body. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  I do a search for the assassin’s words when describing the Jumpers: Karma Police.

  But of course, nothing appears.

  I search for the term “Jumper” and find a few files regarding suicides, but nothing supernatural.

  I search “The First Front” and get several linked files, but none that open with my clearance.

  Of course.

  As I stare at the insufficient credentials message, a horrible feeling creeps over me.

  What if someone is monitoring Brooke’s computer? What if I’m looking up a bunch of files I’d have no reason to be investigating all at once?

  Something else occurs to me as I stare at the insufficient credentials message: how much more I might be able to see with someone else’s login info.

  Someone higher up the food chain.

  Rich!

  Maybe I can pluck a username and password from his head. It’s risky as hell, especially for Brooke. Her entire life could be ruined by my actions.

  But for Chelsea, the chance is worth it.

  I stand from my desk, leave my office, and walk quickly down the hall.

  Rich’s door is wide open, but he’s not at his desk.

  I go to it.

  The computer is on, screen unlocked.

  I quickly enter.

  I type in Chelsea Caldwell.

  Her file appears.

  But then there’s movement in the hall outside the door.

  Shit!

  I try to get something from the giant blocks of text on the page, but there’s too much to digest in such short time.

  I scroll down to SUGGESTED ACTION and see only K.

  Is K Karma? Or … kill?

  Footsteps come closer.

  Any moment, whoever is out there will pass by Rich’s open door and see me.

  I close the screen and rush from behind the desk.

  I hit the open door and am met by Rich and two armed men. He looks at me, his eyes cold, and says, “What are you doing in here?”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  My heart races and I stare at Rich, trying to manufacture an answer to his question.

  What am I doing in his office?

  He’s staring at me, waiting. So are the guards.

  My stomach is rolling.

  I want to vomit.

  How much do they know?

  Did someone get an alert that Brooke was searching for things she shouldn’t be searching for? Did they see me on his computer? If so, there’s no way out of this.

  I can’t believe I let my needs — to learn more about this place and see if Chelsea is here — come before my host’s safety. I’ve always strived to act within the parameters of my host’s life, and not engage in personal business, particularly the stupid shit that will get them in trouble, or damage their lives in any way.

  They’re staring at me, waiting for a response.

  My God, how much time has passed?

  How guilty do I look?

  My mind screams RUN! But, assuming I somehow escaped this p
lace and its many armed agents, what then?

  The CIA, along with the FBI, has the resources to hunt a person down. Where can you possibly hide from people like this — an organization that probably has an entire division devoted to tracking Deviants?

  “Um, I was looking for you,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  “I had a flash,” I say.

  He says nothing. I continue.

  “The First Front. I had a flash from Darius, and it didn’t make sense at first. But I keep going back to it.”

  “What?” Now he’s folding his arms across his chest.

  “I saw a long, dark tunnel.”

  “A tunnel.”

  “Yeah, old transport or train tunnels.”

  I’m pulling this out of thin air, no idea if there are any old underground tunnels or caves around here.

  “Anything else?”

  I try to get a read on him, to determine if he believes me, or if he’s waiting to interrogate me as to the real reason why I’m in his office.

  “No, nothing else. But I thought that might help.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pass it up the chain and see what they make of it. You ready for another interview?”

  “Another interview? Who?”

  “We got Kotke.”

  I swallow, hoping my anxiety isn’t too obvious. “Yeah, sure, what do you need from me?”

  “I want you to sit on the other side of the glass. Just watch and see if you can pick anything up. I’ll get you if you’re needed. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, following Rich and the officers back to the interrogation room.

  **

  I watch, alone in the adjoining room as Rich waits for the officers to lead their suspect inside.

  The door opens and they bring in a tall, thin man who looks late fifties. Long white hair hangs over his face. He’s wearing black slacks, a bright blue dress shirt, and a loud yellow tie. His hands are cuffed behind him.

  Something about this man feels familiar. I lean forward, trying to get a glimpse of his face, but he’s refusing to look up. He probably knows someone is watching from the other side.

  The officers set Kotke at the table then leave Rich with his prisoner.

  Rich turns on a video recorder mounted on a tripod in the corner then looks at me, though I don’t think he can see through the mirror.