"You!" Ignoring her hand, he pointed at her. "You did this! You wanted your story, and didn't give a damn who got hurt. Well, now you have an even bigger story. Congratulations."
He didn't wait for her to respond, but turned and shoved his hands in his pockets as he stalked past the crowds, glowering at anyone who came near.
A block later, the crowds were gone and the street all but deserted. He headed for the closest 'L' and climbed the steps to the platform. It was empty and he wasn't sure when the next train would come, but it didn't matter. Eventually, one would arrive.
Mark eased down to sit on the bench, holding his ribs. It was as quiet as night time in Chicago ever got. Distantly, sirens wailed, a door slammed and the ever present hum of traffic filled the air. A shudder coursed through him. With nobody around to see, he allowed the sob, stifled for so long, to escape.
Deeds of Mercy: Book Three
M.P. McDonald
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 M.P. McDonald. All Rights Reserved.
Edited by Felicia A. Sullivan
Cover art by M.P McDonald
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
Mark Taylor swerved the van to the curb, threw it into park and bolted from the vehicle towards the bungalow on the quiet street. The house matched the one in his photo and as he raced across the postage stamp sized front lawn, he prayed he was in time.
The dream had shown a brief flash of a black wristwatch, the time 2:14 p.m., but his own watch was a few minutes past that. If only he'd left the studio sooner, but the model he'd booked for a print ad had been thirty minutes late, throwing the whole shoot off.
The intermittent pounding of a hammer broke the stillness of the street, and Mark breathed a sigh of relief. If the man was still fixing the gutter, then he wasn't too late. He followed the sound around the corner of the house and found a portly older gentleman perched on a ladder, hammer in hand. As Mark paused to size up the situation, the front leg of the ladder slipped off the narrow walkway and into the soft dirt of the flower bed.
Mark rushed forward, intending to hold the ladder, but the man's fall had progressed too far, and he toppled on top of Mark, sending them both to the ground in a heap. Grimacing, Mark clutched his elbow and glared at the paving brick jutting up at a decorative angle.
The other man groaned, and elbow forgotten, Mark scooted from beneath him, worried he might have been too late after all. Maybe he hadn't prevented the man from breaking his neck. "Sir? Are you okay?"
"Oh, hell. Yes, I'm fine, but look what I did to the eave." He pointed up and Mark followed the gesture to see the gutter hanging with the trim dangling.
Relieved the man was unhurt, Mark squatted back on his heels and shook his head. "Yeah, well, it could have been a lot worse. You could have broken your neck." He stood and held out a hand to the older man, pulling him to his feet. "You're sure you're okay?"
The man took his eyes off the damaged gutter and nodded. "I might be sore tomorrow, but I'm fine." He squinted and nodded at Mark. "What about you? Is that blood on your arm?"
Mark turned his arm to get a look at his elbow. "Just a little scrape."
* * *
Ten minutes later, Mark was back at his studio rummaging in his desk drawer for a pen to take down numbers from the messages on the studio’s voicemail. His elbow throbbed and when he touched it, he found it still oozing blood. He thought about running upstairs and grabbing a Band-Aid from the medicine cabinet in his loft, but before he could, the bell above the front door jingled. He glanced up in irritation. It was after hours and he didn’t have any late appointments scheduled. He knew he should have locked the door after entering. His stomach rumbled and his eyes burned with fatigue as he stood and rounded the corner from the office to the front of the studio.
"Sorry, we're clos—"
"Hello, Mark."
Hunger and exhaustion forgotten, Mark stared at the man facing him. His face was shadowed, the setting sun casting a perfect back light, but Mark didn't think he would ever forget that voice. The slight Middle Eastern accent gave it away.
"Mo?"
Mohommad looked different from the last time Mark had seen him. Of course, that had been at least four years ago. Now clean-shaven and sporting short hair that in days past would have been called a crew cut, Mo appeared nothing like the bearded guy with shoulder length hair that Mark remembered. Anger punched through Mark's initial shock. How many times had he wished for just such an opportunity? A chance to ask why?
Mo nodded. "Yes, it's me. How have you been?" He took a step closer and the overhead light caught the glint of wariness in Mo's eyes.
"You sonofabitch!" Mark clenched his fists and strode to within an arm's reach of the other man. "How have I been? After what you did to me, you have the guts to ask me how I've been?"
Mo's head dipped for a second as he acknowledged Mark's question. "I understand your anger, friend, but you must understand...I had no choice."
Mark quivered with rage, hanging on to control by the slimmest thread. This was the man who'd turned his life into a living hell. "I ought to rip your head off and shove it up your ass!"
Before Mark could follow through with the idea, the studio door opened a second time. The man who entered was close to Mark's height, but it was the flash of a gun tucked into the man's waistband that caught Mark's attention. He pointed towards the newcomer. "What's going on, and who the hell is this?"
Mo took a step closer to Mark. "It's a friend of mine."
"A friend? You don't even know the meaning of the word," Mark spat out. While looking at Mo, he gave a nod towards the friend. "Does he know your history with how you treat 'friends'?"
"I didn't come here to discuss friendships. I came to ask your help."
Mark lunged, and grabbed the front of Mo's shirt in his fist. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement, but his fist connected with Mo's cheekbone an instant before a burst of light and pain exploded in his own head.
Chapter 2
Mark blinked his eyes, confused as to why he was lying on his stomach on the floor of the studio. Had he tripped and hit his head? The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He ran his tongue around the inside, finding a ragged place on his inner cheek. His right hand throbbed and it all flooded back to him.
Mohommad.
He tried to move his hands to shove up from the floor, but found his arms restrained behind his back somehow. The goddamn bastards!
"Mo! Untie my hands!" He rolled partially on his side, and with a push of his elbow against the floor along with a counter-push with his legs, he was able to gain a sitting position. His head spun and he had to close his eyes a moment. After the dizziness subsided, he looked around the room. No one was in the studio area, but the blinds had been closed and the door of the closet where the extra equipment was stored hung open, the door jamb broken. Quick footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor above him in his loft.
As quietly as he could, he lurched to his knees and then to his feet. He rushed to the front door, but when he caught the handle with the crook of his elbow to pull it open , it didn't budge. They'd locked it. Without the use of his hands, he couldn't turn the bolt. He leaned down and used his chin to push against it, but he just kept slipping off the rounded metal. He turned, trying to reach it with his hands, but it was just a little too high. Shit!
Thinking through the throbbing in his head, he remembered the footstool they used for group shots. It was kept in the closet. One look in the closet and he knew that option was out; the footstool was buried beneath piles of equipment.
Mark glanced up at a loud thump. He had to ei
ther escape or get help. He rushed to the office, but found both phone cords disconnected. There had to be something he could use to get help. The computer was in one piece, but he wouldn't be able to type anything, so even an email was out. Wait. His secure phone given to him by Jim had been in his jacket. His eyes shot to the coat tree. His jacket hung where he'd left it a few days ago.
He prayed the phone was still tucked inside the pocket. Gripping the leather jacket with his teeth, he lifted it off the hook, and let it fall onto the desktop, cringing when it hit with a thump. With a glance over his shoulder, he turned, felt for the pocket and found the slit. Desperately, he fished around inside for the phone. In his concentration, he forgot to listen for the sound of the men. His hand closed around the phone at the exact instant that footsteps sounded on the stairs. Frantic, Mark yanked the phone out and felt for the buttons.
Jim had programmed the number on speed dial. It was the only number on it, but it wasn't a direct connection. The call had to be relayed after Mark used the code word along with punching in a series of numbers. Only then would the call go through. He knew he found the speed dial button when he heard it ringing. Bending over the phone, Mark said the code word, and stretched to get a pencil out of the cup on his desk with his mouth, intending to use it to punch the numbers, but before he could make the attempt, he was shoved head first onto the desktop. Stars exploded behind his eyes and his knees buckled, but either Mo or the other guy pressed him so hard against the desk that he didn't sag to the floor.
"What are you doing, Mark? Who did you call?" Mo grabbed the phone and leaned into Mark's field of vision, shaking it in his face.
The other guy must be the one applying the pressure.
Mark grunted, unable to get a deep enough breath to respond, but felt a small surge of satisfaction at the deep bruise on Mo's cheekbone. That explained the waves of pain in his right hand. At a gesture from Mo, the pressure on Mark's back eased. Mo repeated the question.
Glaring, Mark didn't answer, but sucked in a few deep breaths while he could. The other man grabbed Mark's left wrist and yanked it up towards the middle of Mark's back. His right arm dragged beneath it.
Mark couldn't suppress the first groan at the pain in his shoulders and elbows, and especially his right hand, but he bit his lip to keep the second groan from escaping. After a few seconds, he managed to grind out, "I was calling for a pizza."
Mo eyed him silently for a moment before laughing. "With sausage and mushrooms?"
The pressure on his arms lessened, Mo's apparent good humor at Mark's response eased the tension in the room. Memories of their past good times rushed into Mark's mind. "Yeah. And a veggie pizza for you and your buddy." He swallowed hard.
"Ah, you remembered. No pork for me." Mo shook his head and sighed, before holding up the phone. "This is encrypted. Where'd you get it? The FBI?"
Mark averted his face, unwilling to give anything away unintentionally, and winced at the renewed pressure on his arms.
"You know what, Mark? I really don’t care. What I want to know is, where is it—where's the camera?"
Shock bolted through Mark. "Camera? You're doing all this for a goddamn camera? Well, look around, there must be at least a half-dozen in the studio. Take your pick. That Nikon over there on the tripod is one of my favorites."
Mo paced in front of the desk and didn't even glance at the one Mark indicated. "You know which one I want. Where’s the magic camera? "
"Excuse me?" Mark tried to play it off as a joke. "Come on, Mo. Pick a camera and leave me alone. Hell, take them all if you want. Just tell me why you lied to the feds about me." His offer was rewarded with another tug on his arms. The left shoulder still caused him problems from his encounter with the cult three months ago, and he groaned as it grated in the socket.
"You mean the feds that you're now buddies with?" Mo held the phone up as evidence. "I did it for the same reason you told them about the camera—the one that sees the future. I wanted the agony to stop. Isn't that why you told them?"
A sense of betrayal ignited and smoldered in Mark. Had Jim or Bill been the ones to pass along the story to Mo? Or shared it with Mo's team of interrogators? Shame mingled with betrayal.
Mo seemed to read Mark's mind. "Oh yes. They told me all about your crazy story." He put a finger to his chin and tilted his head as though wracking his brain for the memory. "What was it they said about you? I believe they told me that you had more imagination than I did—just before they burst out laughing."
Mark struggled against his bonds as sweat popped out on his forehead. What he'd give to knock the smirk from Mo's face. "It was all a lie. I had nothing else to give them, and you knew that."
Mo made a motion to his friend and the pressure let up again. "You know, Mark, that's what I thought for a long time. Then, all this business came up in the news about you. All those things you did as though you had advance knowledge."
Dread froze Mark. No way. Mo wouldn't believe in magical cameras.
Mo shook his head. "You know I'm not a stupid man. I put the two stories together." He paused, leveling a look at Mark. "I think it's true about the camera."
Should he deny it? Or remain silent like it was too absurd to even discuss? Mark decided on the latter. He glared at Mo and glanced over his shoulder to include Mo's friend in the hostile look.
Mo shrugged. "So, here's what I want. You give me the camera, and then Hazim and I will be on our way."
"You always were gullible, Mo. How could you believe anything those bastards told you, let alone something as ridiculous as a magical camera?" Mark forced a snort of laughter. "I wish I had one."
Eyes narrowed, Mo reached across the desk and grabbed Mark by the collar, yanking him to within an inch of his own face. "I didn't come here to argue the existence of this camera. I know it exists." He tossed the encrypted phone on the desk. "That phone alone is evidence that someone in the government has recruited you, and I can't think of any other reason they'd want you."
Mark fought to keep from falling onto the desk, and then almost toppled backward when Mo suddenly released him. Before he could respond, Mo swept everything off the desk. Mark's jacket fell in a heap against the opposite wall.
"Hazim, secure him to the desk. I would like to practice all the ways I've learned to make men talk."
Twisting, Mark evaded Hazim's grip and lowered his shoulder, ramming it into the man's chest.
Mark scrambled away, intending to dive through the front window if he had to. At least he'd have a chance of survival. Before he could reach the window, Mo grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar. Mark gagged as his shirt threatened to strangle him and he fell backwards, his fall broken by Mo's grip on the collar. Hazim caught Mark's legs, wrapping his arms around them despite Mark's frantic kicking.
Mo held onto the shirt and Mark's left arm and the two men wrestled with him, half-carrying, half-dragging him to the desk where they tossed Mark like he was a sack of potatoes.
Mo pinned him down while Hazim found a roll of duct tape in the studio and returned to secure Mark's feet to the desk. They wound the tape around his legs and beneath the desk, doubling the tape. Mo joked about how it was a good thing the roll was so big—there was no danger of running out.
"Get off, you bastard!" Mark twisted and fought, but only succeeded in wearing himself out. His chest heaved as he struggled to no avail against the tape.
The two debated whether to release Mark's arms to stretch them over his head, but decided it was too risky to let him go, so instead, they left him with his arms trapped beneath his back, still bound at the wrist. Mo grinned when he came up with the idea to tape Mark's head to the desk.
Mark jerked his head forward, trying to head butt first Mo and then Hazim, but they stayed out of his reach. The tape caught in his hair and pulled the skin of his forehead. "Mo, why are you doing this? I never did anything to you," he panted.
"You might not have before, but with a magic camera, you might in the future
. I need that camera, Mark. I can't have you telling your friends about something my group is planning before it happens." Mo swiped his forearm across his brow, apparently as out of breath as Mark was from the fight. "I have to prove myself, you understand. We lucked out on 9/11 when nobody believed you, but I doubt we will be so lucky in the future."
Mark tried a different tactic. "Listen, you're right. There is a magic camera, but I don't have it anymore. The FBI has it."
Mo looked thoughtful for a moment as though considering the possibility. "I don't think I believe you. Not about the FBI taking it." He shook his head. "I think it’s hidden away somewhere. Perhaps a safe deposit box? A safe? The recent events with that cult and the newspaper article makes me sure you haven't given it over to anyone. I don't think you'd let it be far from wherever you are, otherwise, how would you be able to use it?"
Mark glared at Mo. He knew he should be pleading for Mo to believe him, but he just couldn't do it. Lying had never been his forte.
Mo met his glare, and after a long look, he sighed. "Mark, we had some great times in the past. I really wish I didn't have to do this, but it isn't just about me, you understand?" He spread a hand over his chest. "I must return with the camera."
True regret shone in Mo's eyes and a shiver of fear shook Mark. Breaking eye contact, Mo glanced into the trash can beside Lily's desk and reached into it. "This should be perfect." He held up an empty Big Gulp cup. "Hazim, fill this with water from the cooler over there."
Mark tried to raise his head to watch, but he couldn't lift it high enough to see. He discovered he didn't need to see what was going on. Hazim took the cup from Mo. The trickle of water gurgled into it. It was the only sound in the room and it went on for what seemed like a lifetime, but was probably only thirty seconds.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 66
