by C. J. Sears
She grinned. “That’s why I brought these,” she said, holding up a plastic-wrapped square no larger than the palm of his hand.
“Kasey, if that’s what I think it is, I’m getting out of this car right now and walking home.”
“Ha. It’s a remote listening device. I, uh, borrowed it from the JTTF.”
She tore open the package and showed him the goods, explaining what each piece did.
“This goes inside the subject’s room,” she said, presenting him with the bit that seemed to be a cross between a cockroach and a miniature microphone.
“Lovely.”
“And we’ll listen in on these,” she added, handing him one of two wireless ear buds that looked industry standard. “These things have decent range, but they’re low-tech compared to what the NSA and CIA are working with.”
“I’ll take your word for it. How’re you going to get the bug inside without being seen? There’s got to be cameras in there. Not to mention I bet he has guards posing as staff and I don’t think you can waltz in without a key.”
One of the building’s residents got out of his car: an acne-covered teenager who lived with his parents. He held a keycard in his hand.
“There’s always a way,” Kasey said, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her shirt and putting on her best air of seductive innocence. “How do I look?”
“Like you’ll give someone a happy heart attack,” he said, knowing her plan. Her playbook was nothing if not characteristic.
“Good.”
With a sway in her hips, she strolled toward the apartment building. Finch admired her walk. Poor kid wouldn’t know what hit him.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, feigning forgetfulness, “but I misplaced my key. Can I use yours?”
“I…we’re not supposed to…”
She leaned forward and let him take in the scenery. “Please,” she begged.
Moments after ogling her, the star-struck teen let Kasey through the door. He was spellbound. She worked her magic well. She always did.
Finch waited in the car, secured the piece in his ear. With luck, he’d be hearing feedback any second. The quicker they put this mole nonsense behind them, the faster he could get away from the big freeze and curl up under the warmth of his comforter.
A distorted wail of static went off like a buzzer in his ear. Finch yanked the piece away, checked to see if he was bleeding. He wouldn’t have been surprised. Damn thing was worse than the poet at the coffee shop.
Kasey opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. “No guards that I saw. Nobody said a word to me. Other than Romeo, I guess. Are we getting anything?”
“Yeah,” Finch said, cupping his ear, “hearing loss. What frequency did you set it on?”
“Sorry, I should’ve warned you it might do that. There should be reception now.”
They listened intently. All he heard was the sound of boots stomping on carpet. Sinclair was not light on his feet.
Minutes passed. Snow drifts piled in, blanketing the road in dazzling white. Soon, it would be almost impossible to traverse. Without four-wheel drive, he didn’t think this model would make it through the dual layers of ice and snow.
“Were you followed?”
They were getting something. Finch didn’t recognize that voice, but it belonged to a woman. It was soft but demanding.
“I don’t think so. You’ve got the money?”
Sinclair. He knew the cadence, knew the outer edges of veiled threat encasing a cold, unfeeling demeanor.
“Right here. You get what I asked for?”
“Yeah, yeah. Keep your panties on.”
“That’s not our arrangement.”
What the hell? Was Sinclair part-timing as a prostitute? Finch couldn’t believe his ears. Mr. Law and Order speeding through traffic for some late night loving—it was too perfect.
“I know our arrangement. Five grand a head. Extra if there’s more than one of them. You said there were two this time?”
Okay, he wasn’t talking about sex. The director might be onto something.
“Yes. Should make great test subjects. Would’ve been three, but the leader met an unfortunate accident with one of our, uh, creations.”
“Which one?”
“Does it matter? They’re all freaks.”
“Can’t Chuckles keep control of those damn things? It’s his project.”
“You know how emotional he gets around them. He refuses to detach. Those creatures should’ve been incinerated years ago.”
Finch looked over at Kasey, who was equally amazed at the rush of information and the steady indictment of their boss. What was going on? Some kind of experiment, but for what purpose? Did this have anything to do with the missing persons? And who was Chuckles?
“Alright. Here you go. Five grand each, plus a bonus for the pair.”
“Here’s your list.”
“Excellent. We’ll start a week from tonight.”
“How close are you to perfecting the formula?”
The one who wasn’t Sinclair laughed. “Perfection is in the process. With any luck, this group will be the final push we need to go to market.”
“Conroy, you’re a life-saver.”
That was the wrong thing for him to say. “You idiot! I go through all this trouble to get a voice modulator and you’re shouting my name to the rooftops.”
“C’mon. No one’s listening. I sweep this place for bugs every day. Plus, I got you guys the Lone Oak parasite, didn’t I? It was my man that rooted it out.”
Finch froze. Kasey didn’t notice.
“Results are inconclusive. We isolated the control gene, but few of the subjects have taken to it. Most bodies won’t accept it. Without the symbiotic relationship, it’s been a difficult road.”
Rage unlike anything he’d ever experienced manifested in Finch’s core. He tore the piece from his ear and threw it to the floor for the second time.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
Half-listening to the conversation, Kasey turned to face him. “What’s the matter with you?”
Trying to restrain his anger, Finch answered, “That last case I investigated? The one with the dead girl and the cult? That was Lone Oak. Sinclair used me.”
“What are you talking about?”
Finch exploded. “He. Used. Me. That bastard knew what I’d find in Lone Oak. He set me up. Kasey, over four thousand people died because of me, because Sinclair sent me to that godforsaken town. I was his damned bloodhound. He didn’t care about Jane Harley or any of those people. He wanted the parasite. And for what?”
“Llewyn,” Kasey said, placing her hand on his thigh to calm him down.
“I thought it burned with the rest of town. When Rhinehold died that should have been the end of it. I don’t know how they acquired it, but by God, I’m going to find out.”
Kasey didn’t stop him when he got of the car. She watched him march over to the building, gun drawn. She didn’t flinch when he stupidly shot the entrance door lock. The mechanism short-circuited. He stepped through the threshold.
Torn between nerves and excitement, she merely raised her own pistol and followed Finch. Packed snow crunched underfoot. Preparing for the worst, Kasey slipped inside the apartment complex to support a man who hadn’t loved her in five years.
TRUTH
Sinclair didn’t have time to get out of his recliner when Finch kicked the door of his apartment and trained his Browning M1911 on the assistant director’s head. He made his intentions clear, concise, and to the bullet point.
“If you move two inches to the left, I’ll shoot. If you sneeze, I’ll shoot. Break wind without asking permission? I’ll shoot.”
“Holster your weapon, Agent Finch. That’s an order.”
Finch cocked the gun. “No. One more command and you’ll be pissing lead and blood.”
Kasey approached Sinclair, her own Glock 22 poised to fire. “Where’s your friend?”
“I don’t know w
hat you’re talking about,” said Sinclair.
“Check the bedroom,” Finch said, not taking his eyes off of his boss, “if they didn’t jump out the window, that’s where they’re hiding. Be careful.”
Kasey nodded. “Don’t do anything rash, Llewyn. We need him to talk.”
“As long as he cooperates.”
She skirted around the corner and disappeared into the bedroom. Finch scowled at Sinclair. The man wisely shut up and stayed put while Kasey searched the apartment. Seconds later, she returned empty-handed.
“Whoever it was, they’ve vanished. Must’ve gone down the fire escape and took off.”
With one hand aiming the gun, Finch rustled through his coat pocket. Flex cuffs. He tossed his prize to Kasey. She caught the plastic straps in midair.
“Tie his right arm to that table leg.”
Once she secured Sinclair, Finch sat down on the loveseat across from the recliner. Kasey shut the door before joining him.
“You know I can break these, right?”
The gall that man had to pretend he was in control.
“Not before you get shot in the face,” said Finch, wary of any sudden movements.
“You’d never get away with it,” the assistant director said, his eyes narrowed in contempt.
Some of the living room’s furnishings were pricey stuff. A high definition television, maybe 4K, wall-mounted, hovered above an electronic fireplace. The oak coffee table had a noticeable mahogany red finish. The loveseat and recliner were both real leather.
“Nice place you got here,” Finch said, ignoring Sinclair’s comment, “easy to afford when your new employers are giving away thousands of dollars like free samples at the supermarket.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” their boss repeated like a broken record.
“We heard everything,” Kasey said, showing him the cockroach-shaped listening device, “so don’t play coy. I imagine the director won’t be pleased when he learns how you’ve been supplementing your salary.”
“What have I done, Agent Alexander?”
A sizzling wave of anger washed over Finch like the rising tide. “Oh, let’s see. You’re receiving funding from some kind of experiment. You’re in cahoots with someone named Chuckles and someone else named Demi. You lied and sent me on a suicide mission to uncover a nightmare creature for nefarious purposes. Does that clear things up?”
“You don’t have the whole story.”
“The hell I don’t. I’m the only one whose knowledge of what happened in Lone Oak is perfectly damned straight. Do you know what it’s like when you’re responsible for the death of thousands? Do you have the faintest clue what it’s like to wake up every morning knowing you should’ve been consumed in an inferno? Do you have the foggiest concept in your pea-sized brain how it feels to be violated by memories of screams, of watching people you know die or turn into some kind of freak monster with no mind of their own? Do you?”
Sinclair was at a loss for words. Kasey caressed his shoulder. He wasn’t finished.
“No, you don’t. You sat in your ivory tower and made a few business transactions. You schemed behind the back of your own company. I almost died, and you cared about nothing but a parasite. For what? Tell me, what could you possibly hope to gain from all this underhanded bullshit?”
Outside, the cold north wind howled. The windows frosted over as night descended. Inside the well-insulated apartment, Finch’s questions stifled Sinclair.
His frustration, all the pent up anguish he’d harbored for two months, hadn’t faded by the time his boss responded.
“I’ll tell you the truth if you put down your gun.”
Finch laughed. It was anything but sincere. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”
Sinclair sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. Where do you want me to start?”
“At the beginning,” Kasey said.
Finch nodded. “How long have you been working for them?”
“Since the McAlister case. When that maniac killed those kids two years ago, I started poking around in the FBI’s files. Turned out they were hiding pertinent facts about the investigation.”
“The parasite?”
“Yes. The case should’ve fallen under our auspices, not the FBI. That’s when they approached me.”
“Who?”
Sinclair shook his head. “No names. Like us. I think they’re government operated.”
Incredulous, Finch said, “You spilled that awful fast. Mind explaining why you think they’re part of the government?”
“They knew everything about me and my family. Our records are supposed to be sealed. Only another government agency could’ve accessed that information without us learning about it.”
“Sounds like you’re making excuses,” Kasey interjected.
Finch agreed. “They dug up some dirt. So you spat on everything we stood for and turned traitor. You’re no saint.”
“No, I’m not,” he admitted.
“Why do it? How do you go from serving your country to dealing in the criminal underworld?”
Sinclair shifted in his chair, straining against the flex cuffs. “You might say they gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Which was? They give you five thousand dollars per head. What else do you get in return? Your life? Is this not the first gun to your head?”
Tears welled in Sinclair’s eyes. “My daughter was dying. Leukemia. They promised to cure her if I cooperated.”
Finch didn’t know he had a daughter. He didn’t want to believe him. “You’re making that up.”
Shaken, Sinclair roared and tried to stand, “I don’t tell you everything about my personal life, Agent Finch. It wasn’t your concern.”
“Settle down,” Finch said, shoving the muzzle of his gun into his boss’s forehead. He sat back down.
“That’s beside the point,” said Kasey. “What are they planning?”
“What they’re doing…I don’t know everything. They needed me to get a hold of a couple of things. Former federal employees to use as test subjects. Possible locations for the parasite.”
“Why did they need you to find the parasite? If they’re so powerful, why couldn’t they access the same files you did?” asked Finch.
“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t have FBI clearance. I only got in because I knew a few guys from poker games with loose lips.”
“How did you know where to look?”
Sucking snot back into his nostrils, Sinclair said, “When the call came in from Lone Oak, I connected the dots. Similar circumstances. These people were riding my ass, said I had to send someone right away.”
“So you sent me? Figured I was expendable, is that it?”
Sinclair cleared his throat. “I didn’t have all the facts. I wasn’t certain what would happen when you arrived. I sure as hell didn’t think you’d end up calling in a Code Omega.”
“Rhinehold did that.” True, but it was Finch’s fault, his burden to bear. It wasn’t like he could forget.
“Even so. When the Tragedy of Lone Oak unfolded, I thought I was screwed. The town was a wasteland. The parasite was gone. I wouldn’t get the money I needed for Cathy’s treatments and—”
Kasey interrupted him. “But they captured this parasite? How?”
Sinclair nodded toward Finch. “We have our mutual friend here to thank for that. He overlooked a detail or two.”
“Like what?”
“An associate of the company was a friend of a friend with Lone Oak’s coroner. The old fart sent a live specimen extracted from Jane Harley’s body to a college buddy who air-mailed it to a leading biological research facility. Ended up in Demi Conroy’s hands.”
Albert Kruger, God rest his soul, had made a mistake. Everything happened so fast and Finch became so focused on getting out of Lone Oak alive, he’d forgotten.
“Conroy? You mean your handler? The one who skipped town before we barged in?”
“That’s right.”
“Thoughts on where she went?” Kasey asked.
Finch raised the Browning and scooted closer. “Try to be precise.”
Warm blood splashed across the taut canvas of his face. Sinclair’s body slid sideways, rocked by the force of the blast. Kasey shouted something, but the gunshot resonated so loud it muffled her words. He hadn’t heard the glass break, but it must have.
Without him knowing why, the back of Finch’s head slammed into the floor of the apartment. His neck whipped forward as if he’d been flung from a slingshot. A pair of slender arms wrapped around his abdomen. Colors were gone, replaced by fuzzy outlines and barely discernable shapes. A hammer to his temple would’ve been refreshing compared to the blow he’d taken.
Slowly, his senses returned. He heard more gunfire, this time from a light machine gun instead of a sniper rifle. Kasey let go. She must’ve tackled him to get him out of the line of fire. Nice girl. He’d have to remember to thank her when the room finished spinning.
Dizzy, he pushed off the floor. She yanked him back down.
“Stay down! They’re still firing.”
“Who’s firing?” Finch asked, wondering if he’d incurred a concussion.
Bursts of hollow-point rounds embedded in the coffee table. If Kasey hadn’t stopped him, he’d be riddled with more holes than Swiss cheese.
Their assailant continued to redecorate the living room. While his head swam a whirlpool, Finch crawled on his hands and knees toward the kitchen. Kasey crouched by the refrigerator and helped him the last three feet.
“They’ve got to run out of ammo some time,” she said.
Finch crowded next to her, clutching his head and trying to regain his comprehension of reality. His eyes blinked so rapidly it was like he was taking snapshots of the environment.
Sinclair’s oversized frame folded over, a gory meat flower where his right ear should’ve been. The machine gun shredded the recliner’s upholstery to polyurethane bits. Blood pooled around the body, coating the torn foam in a crimson mask.
“Llewyn, think you can make it to the bedroom? The fire escape’s our only shot of getting out of here.”
The door stood ajar about fifteen feet from the edge of the kitchen counter. The shooter didn’t have the angle to nail him dead-on. If he decided to spray and pray through the walls, Finch would drop faster than the Times Square Ball on New Year’s Eve.
