Tricks and Traps (Gray Spear Society Book 7)

by Siegel, Alex

  "She was young then. Your age. Eventually, she decided the CIA wasn't treating her right, and she quit." He smiled. "And, of course, she had to burn a bridge or two on the way out. She can't just walk away from a dispute. She's not satisfied until she sees her enemies totally humiliated. That's usually right before she kills them."

  Sheryl shook her head in dismay.

  She spotted a woman being helped down the stairs from the third floor. Her eyes were glassy, and her legs wouldn't hold her weight. Two guards held her by the arms and were carrying her towards the exit. They didn't seem the least bit concerned about her poor condition.

  Hauling out the garbage, Sheryl thought.

  "How long are we going to stay here?"

  "A couple of hours," Aaron said, "at least."

  "Yes, sir." She sighed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Smythe and Tawni walked into Roger's Restaurant in Farmington, Illinois. They were wearing Chicago police uniforms. Tawni was growing weary of this particular cover story, but she couldn't argue with its effectiveness. Nobody questioned a cop. She was starting to like the aura of authority the costume gave her.

  The small restaurant had eight tables, but the patrons were seated at the counter. There were three men dressed like farmers. A pudgy waitress wearing a pink apron was serving them from behind the counter.

  "Excuse me," Smythe said in a commanding tone. "We're looking for a guy. Perhaps one of you gentlemen will recognize his face."

  The farmers looked at him with surprised expressions. They had probably never seen big city cops in their rural town.

  Smythe showed them a photograph. "We believe this man lives around here, but we're not exactly sure where."

  "Is he in trouble?" a farmer asked.

  "No, but he has information we need urgently. Lives are at stake."

  "I know him," another farmer said. "He's the assistant pastor in the Methodist church."

  "Really?" Smythe raised his eyebrows. "That's strange. You're sure?"

  "I see him every Sunday. Walk down to the stop light, turn right, and keep going another two blocks."

  "Thank you."

  Smythe and Tawni hurried out of the restaurant.

  The weather was even warmer and muggier here than in Chicago. She was wilting in the heat, but she shrugged it off. Legionnaires weren't supposed to complain about such trivial things.

  The town of Farmington was tiny. Most of the businesses were clustered around a single intersection. Tawni was tempted to think of the residents as dumb, white country folk, but she knew that was a racist view. These people were probably just as smart as anybody else. She wasn't interested in meeting them though. So far, she hadn't seen a single black person in town.

  The farmer's directions took Tawni and Smythe to a red brick church. She liked the big stained-glass window in front.

  "I hope it's air-conditioned inside," she said.

  They went to the front door and knocked, but nobody answered. The door was locked. They wandered around to the back to look for a covert point of entry.

  A middle-aged man was weeding a garden. He had sparse gray hair, gray eyebrows, and thin lips. His blue coveralls were dirty. Tawni recognized him as Dr. Santiago from his picture.

  Smythe immediately drew his gun. "Vidal Santiago, we need to talk."

  Santiago straightened up. "It's been years since anybody called me by that name." He wiped off his hands.

  "Tell us about Indian Head. We know you were a lead scientist."

  "Why would the Chicago police care about a top secret CIA project which happened in Maryland?" Santiago cocked his head. "I'm guessing you're not really cops."

  "That's correct," Smythe said. "Nonetheless, we want answers."

  "Why now? That project was killed a long time ago. All the records were destroyed. The people were ordered to forget everything under threat of imprisonment. It's shocking you even know the name."

  "Your old buddy Cantrell continued the research. He built a casino and filled it with very unusual games. Very addictive games."

  "No." Santiago's eyes widened, and his face became pale.

  Tawni walked over to him. God's wrath was scorching her guts and filling her body with tingling strength. Darkness caressed her skin like a swarm of black moths. She wanted to rip out Santiago's throat with her teeth.

  He looked at her and gulped. His face showed terror.

  "Tell us what you know, doctor." Her voice had a deep resonance that sounded strange to her.

  He shook his head. "I don't want to remember. I came here to escape that past. I needed to put the guilt and shame behind me."

  "Is that why you work in a church?"

  "I figured it couldn't hurt."

  "It won't help you either," she said. "Start talking."

  He lowered his gaze. "Come with me."

  Santiago led Smythe and Tawni to a tiny, white house behind the church. It wasn't much bigger than a large tool shed. They went inside. There were only two rooms and one was the bathroom. The other served as a bedroom, kitchen, and living room.

  "My home," Santiago said. "It isn't much, but it's all I deserve."

  Tawni looked at the single bed with its thin covers. The television had "rabbit ears" antenna. A rusty coffee pot stood on a stove with just one burner. The air inside the house was even hotter than outside. She expected it would be very cold in the winter.

  Santiago pulled a cardboard box from under the bed. He put it on a table and opened the flaps.

  "The original machine," he said. "The prototype that started it all. I kept it as a reminder of my shame. It keeps me humble."

  She looked into the box. It contained a very simple version of a monkey machine inside a wire cage. There were just four looping tracks and a single ball.

  "Where did you get the design?" Smythe said.

  "It came to me one night," Santiago said. "The crucial equation just popped into my head."

  "What kind of equation?"

  "A mathematical relationship that describes psychological addiction. It tells you how to build the machines. That breakthrough made the Indian Head project successful. Too successful."

  "What was the original purpose of the project?" Smythe said.

  "The CIA was looking for a new way to interrogate and control prisoners. They wanted an alternative to torture and drugs, a method that wouldn't become yet another public relations nightmare. Indian Head was formed to solve that problem, but we struggled at the beginning."

  "Until this equation popped into your head."

  "Exactly," Santiago said. "At first, I thought it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Then I witnessed the horrible truth. Our test subjects became so addicted they would play non-stop until they starved to death. They became mindless animals. We had to literally rip them away from the machines." He shuddered. "I can't believe Cantrell built an entire casino based on that research."

  "A very successful one. It's packed with gamblers."

  Santiago grabbed Smythe's arm. "This is a disaster. His appetite for power is insatiable. The one casino is just the beginning."

  Smythe nodded. "Typical. How do you stop it?"

  "There is a drug."

  Santiago pulled another, smaller box from under his bed. It contained clear plastic bottles filled with pills. Smythe took a bottle and examined the label.

  "It stimulates specific receptors in the brain," Santiago said. "When you take this pill, the machines have no effect on you. You can think clearly. It can help cure an addiction, too. All the staff members on the project took it twice a day. I snuck these bottles out of the lab and kept them all these years just in case."

  "We have to get these to Jack right away," Smythe said. "We might be able to save him."

  Tawni nodded.

  "Do you remember the night you thought of the equation?"

  "Very clearly," Santiago said.

  "Did you see a strange light?"

  Santiago's eyes widened. "How did you know?
What did it mean?"

  "It meant one of God's enemies invaded your mind," Smythe said. "That equation is a weapon designed to destroy the human race."

  "I don't understand."

  "Is there anything else you can tell me? Did Cantrell have friends?"

  "He had a lot of friends, especially girlfriends. I've never met anybody who was more socially adept. But underneath, he was always a loner. All his motivations were ultimately selfish. It's a shame, really. He's very intelligent. He understood the math, which was remarkable for a man with so little formal training. He was even able to design new machines from scratch." Santiago shook his head sadly. "You have to stop him."

  "We will," Tawni said. "What else can you tell us?"

  "Be careful. He's a tricky son of a bitch."

  "We noticed."

  She raised her hands. Rising shadows looked like black flames burning her fingers. The darkness had the texture of velvet.

  "In the name of the Lord," Santiago said, "what are you?"

  "Punishment. Do you have any last words, doctor?"

  He took a step back. "I never meant to do so much harm. I got caught up in the thrill of scientific discovery. I knew I had found something truly different. It needed to be studied. The knowledge needed to be shared. Is it possible for God to forgive me?"

  "No," she growled.

  She pointed her fingers at his face. Shadows flooded into his mouth, nose, and eyes. He made a little choking noise, and his whole body shuddered. He collapsed to the floor, dead. The flesh on his face was withered and gray.

  Smythe looked down at the corpse. "You're becoming a very scary woman."

  "Thank you," Tawni said.

  He opened his phone and made a call. "Aaron? It's me, sir. We've confirmed God's enemies are behind this. We also have some medicine that might help Jack. I know you're well past the point of forgiving him, but I implore you to reconsider. I believe these pills will work, sir... Yes, I understand... I'll see you back at headquarters." He hung up.

  "What's up?" Tawni said.

  "Aaron and Sheryl are still at the casino waiting for Jack to show his face."

  "They've been there a long time. Is Aaron still going to kill him?"

  Smythe shrugged. "I don't know. We'll see what Aaron decides when the moment comes. Our orders are to go home, but first, let's burn this place to destroy the evidence."

  She checked the cabinets and discovered two full bottles of vodka. She smashed the bottles on the wooden floor. He used a cigarette lighter to ignite the spreading pool of alcohol.

  He grabbed the box of pills as they left the house.

  * * *

  Jack was bored, frightened, and hungry at the same time. Even worse, the ringing of the monkey machines was pounding the inside of his skull. It wouldn't let him relax. He couldn't stop pacing back and forth in his cell.

  The door opened. A tall man with brown hair and a very handsome face entered. A huge guard blocked the exit with his body.

  The man was carrying a wooden box. He set it gently on the table.

  "Sit," he said with a smile, "please."

  Jack took one of the chairs, and the newcomer took the other.

  "Who are you?" Jack said.

  "I'm the owner of this casino, the man behind the scenes."

  Jack remembered being told about Neville Cantrell. This must be him, Jack thought.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "You can answer a few troubling questions," Cantrell said. "Maybe I should back up a little and tell you a story first. A man walks into my casino carrying four hundred grand in cash. He proceeds to blow almost all of it in record time. I mean, he went through that money the way I shred incriminating documents. It was impressive." He grinned.

  "This is sounding familiar," Jack said.

  "This stranger then takes the last of his cash and plays poker with it. He is shockingly successful and cleans out several of my employees. Upon closer examination, my security team realizes this man is cheating. But he's very good, a real professional, and well armed, I might add."

  "Hmm."

  "At that point, I'm really curious," Cantrell said. "I have my security guys take his wallet and check his background. It turns out he's a plumber."

  Jack nodded. He always carried fake identification.

  "But here is where the story takes an even stranger turn," Cantrell said. "This plumber has no bank accounts. His credit cards are bad. In fact, he has no financial history at all. It's like somebody wiped out a big chunk of his identity."

  Jack knew exactly what had happened. Aaron had cut off Jack's money supply.

  "Which brings us to the questions. Who are you really? And where did you get all that cash?"

  Jack leaned back in his chair. "Why should I tell you anything?"

  "Because of this."

  Cantrell lifted the top off the wooden box to reveal a miniature monkey machine. It had all the parts of its big brother but in a convenient travel size. The protective glass case gleamed beautifully. Jack's hands itched to touch the tiny controls.

  "You want to play?"

  Jack nodded. "Yes, please."

  "Then it's very simple," Cantrell said. "If you give me valuable information, you can have your fun. I'll even let you use one of the private rooms for free."

  Jack squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. He was fighting to stay in control.

  "Is there a problem?"

  "I can't tell you anything," Jack said. "I'm not allowed."

  "You'll make an exception in my case. You won't be the first either. Many of my customers have become my employees. It's amazing what people will do to play my games once they run out of money. They'll lie and steal. They'll sell their bodies. They'll even commit murder."

  Jack opened his eyes and glared.

  Cantrell snorted. "Don't give me that look. I already know I'm a very bad man, and it doesn't bother me. Well?"

  He worked the flippers on the beautiful, little machine. Jack's mouth watered.

  "I'm not like those other people. My secrets are different."

  "Yes," Cantrell said, "which is why I'm making this offer personally. You're obviously a special case."

  Jack pounded his thigh with his fist.

  Cantrell caressed the glass case. "These machines are amazing, aren't they? They look complicated, but really, they're just elaborations on a few basic principles. Strip away the window dressing, and you get down to a single mathematical relationship. But that's just theory. In practice, the math equates to power. I can control you without torture, imprisonment, drugs, or blackmail. I could let you walk out of my casino right now, and you'd be back in ten minutes, begging for a game."

  Jack squeezed his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms.

  "You're fighting hard," Cantrell said. "Let's start you off with an easy question. What do you do for a living? What is your profession? It's not plumbing."

  Jack couldn't keep his eyes off the miniature monkey machine. His willpower began to crumble. "I'm a security expert. Surveillance."

  "Ah! That's interesting. You must be very good to get paid so well."

  Jack grunted. "Yes."

  "Where do you work?" Cantrell said.

  Jack shook his head violently. He was sweating.

  "This must be one hell of a secret."

  "It is," Jack said through his teeth.

  "A secret worth killing over?"

  "Yes."

  Cantrell smiled. "My favorite kind. So talking to me is putting you in great danger."

  "I'm already in great danger."

  "Oh?"

  "I shouldn't be here," Jack said in a strained voice. "My boss ordered me to stay away, and I betrayed him. I turned my back on all my friends. I'm a dead man."

  "Your boss knows about my operation?"

  "He's investigating you."

  Cantrell furrowed his brow. "What does he know exactly?"

  "I wasn't in those meetings."

  "But I'm sure you hea
rd things."

  Jack groaned. Having a machine on the table in front of him was the worst form of torture. He was struggling to keep his mouth closed but words kept falling out.

  "Tell me one thing," Cantrell said.

  "He found the pinball machine factory."

  Shut up! Jack thought. Shut the fuck up! You're making it worse for yourself!

  Cantrell stiffened. "It seems providence brought you to me. Does your boss know you're here?"

  "He can guess."

  "My mysterious enemy could be in this casino right now looking for you?"

  Jack bit his lip, hoping the pain would wake him up. It didn't. "Yes," he said, "probably."

  "What do I need to know about him?" Cantrell said.

  "He's the last guy in the world you want to mess with. The smart play would be to run away."

  "There are a hundred and fifty guards in this casino. The most important positions are staffed by professional mercenaries. We have surveillance everywhere. I'm not worried about one man."

  Jack was breathing so hard he was on the verge of hyperventilating. He was trapped in a horrible nightmare.

  "He eats assholes like you for lunch."

  "I've dealt with dangerous men before," Cantrell said.

  "Not like him," Jack said. "He's a monster."

  "Come with me."

  Cantrell stood up. The guard in the doorway stepped aside to allow him to pass. Jack followed out of curiosity. No matter what happened next, it couldn't get any worse, and leaving his cell was certainly an improvement.

  They walked down the hallway. More guards flanked Jack, and all of them were bigger than him.

  They entered the surveillance control room for the casino. A grid of a hundred monitors covered one wall. Five guards were watching from behind sophisticated consoles. Most of the light came from the monitors.

  "What's your professional opinion of my security?" Cantrell said.

  Jack shrugged. "Not bad."

  "You've seen better?"

  "We use custom technology where I work. It's decades ahead of this stuff."

  "You'll show me one day," Cantrell said. "I brought you here so you could identify your boss. If he's in the casino, you'll see him on one of these displays."

  Jack's eyes scanned the monitors out of habit. He had spent a big part of his life staring at surveillance video. He identified threats unconsciously.