Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  The boss was a stranger, yet he was not unfamiliar. His short blond hair was combed and styled in the same fashion favored by her father, and the shape of his face had the same sculptured chin and cheekbones that Cassie and most of her family possessed. Despite having piercing blue eyes, the resemblance was uncanny, and the smooth tones of his voice also echoed those of her father. She had never known her grandparents—Madeleine had disowned her blood relations, while Pierce had only ever mentioned a deceased mother—and she wondered if this stranger was a long-lost uncle or other relative.

  He studied her in turn, taking her chin into his manicured hand and turning her face gently from side to side. “Remarkable,” he commented. His intonation was reminiscent of the British Isles, though subtly different from her father’s Americanized accent, and it reinforced the conclusion that the two men might be related. “You look exactly like a woman I once knew,” he continued, his voice a mixture of nostalgia and controlled anger. “She had a ghastly temper. She used to return home absolutely reeking of alcohol, and she’d beat me if I hadn’t earned enough money that day.” He smiled bitterly. “Sometimes she’d do it even if I had.”

  Despite her renewed determination, Cassie trembled as his hand left her face and cradled a lock of black hair for closer examination. She refused to shrink away, tolerating the touch as best she could, and the man frowned subtly, his eyes glinting with disapproval. Yet, the expression failed to take root, and he remained convivial. “My friends have said you’ve a mighty temper as well. I hope you don’t plan on using it while you’re here.”

  His smile widened magnanimously as he released her and stood up straight; he was barely her height. “I wouldn’t worry your pretty head,” he reassured her. “Your ordeal will be over swiftly, provided your brother follows directions.”

  Her feistiness suddenly revived, temporarily driving back her fear; she was not the commodity the BSI had reduced her to—some leverage to be held over her brother. Orion had always come to her rescue, bailing her out of sticky situations, mundane though they may now seem, and the last time had forced him into the service of a shadowy government agency. It might have been the two of them against the world, but she was not going to be used against him; she would find a way out of the situation without endangering her brother. Since she had no plan, she fell back on her contingent strategy: biting sarcasm, which she could wield to cut him down to size or at least fill herself with temporary gratification.

  Her intentions must have shown on her face, for though a caustic remark was on the tip of her tongue, the Brit preempted her with an amused laugh. “Ah, now that temper won’t get you very far,” he scolded her softly, “and let me show you why.”

  He was fast—too quick for her eyes to track—when he pounced on her. Absently, she felt her feet leave the ground, but the observation was lost in the chaos that her senses reported, as was the pressure around her throat. Her skin burned, her nerves screamed, and it seemed like even the very molecules that made up her body were in flux, abandoning her to create a new bond with something foreign. The ignition sources around her faded, vanishing from view as if they would no longer deign to service her, and she felt her connection to them turn brittle and begin to break.

  Then her torment ceased, draining all of her energy, and even her mind was weakened. She fell into the stranger’s outstretched arms as he suavely caught and cradled her limp body; it was if she had fainted. “Graves,” he said, addressing the dour man, “please escort our guest to her accommodations.” He gently raised her back to her feet, and Graves supported her weight, though control was already slowly returning to her limbs.

  “Now, love, you are a clever poppet,” the boss continued, his tone sweet and genteel as if he hadn’t just preternaturally tortured her. “I would hate to see further harm come to you, so please be a dear and behave yourself while you remain under my roof.” He gave her a wide, paternal smile that chilled her despite its outward friendliness, and she remained silent and complacent, declining the opportunity to accidentally antagonize him again.

  - - -

  Connor tried his best to keep normal work hours; this proved convenient for potential interviews and kept him on the same schedule as restaurants, stores, and other service industries. However, in the “City that Never Sleeps,” he had little incentive to maintain that timetable, and his habits slipped to a semi-nocturnal predisposition. Of course, Orion had resisted, having his own schedule centered around the needs of his sister, but in time, he’d also faltered toward setting his own hours and had married his schedule to Connor’s. The agent also rarely worked eight-hour days, performing labor as much or as little as necessary, and since neither of them had particular obligations, it was easy to work into the wee hours.

  It just so happened that the shift in their schedule serendipitously accommodated their first witness, an elderly man named Hank Lester, and they made the trip up to Queens to catch him before he set off to work. He was an odd gentleman: short, a hunched posture, silver hair shaved at his temples, and a smile that was missing more than a few teeth. He released a whole set of deadbolts to allow them entry into his apartment, which was so crowded with junk that only narrow passageways remained, and he cleared dog-eared magazines from a worn couch to offer them a seat. Orion declined, clumsily hiding his disgust, but Connor nonchalantly shrugged and plopped down on a discolored cushion. His expression was subtly patronizing, despite his forcibly polite smile, and he opened his notepad and placed it on his knee. “Your rodeo,” he said, cueing his partner.

  Orion cleared his throat, shifting his weight between his feet before settling into a comfortable position, and he reviewed his own notes carefully. He inhaled quickly, giving a false stutter start, and then took a deep breath, closing his eyes and relaxing himself. Calmed, he began again. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Lester,” he said.

  A high-pitched giggle bubbled out of the old man. “My dad’s ‘Mr. Lester.’”

  Orion’s carefully arranged poise was easily dislodged, revealing his sudden discomfiture, which had been caused by the interruption. “Could you review what happened in…” He broke eye contact briefly to squint at his notes, also utilizing the opportunity to wipe his sweaty palm on his pants. “March 1997?”

  The old man’s pleased air deflated. “I thought you already knew,” he said, his disappointment palpable. “I mean, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” His faded eyes swung between them, taking note of the contrast between their suits, and then came to rest on Orion’s tidier jacket. “You people investigate things like this.” He simpered and added sullenly, “Though it took you long enough to come see me. The cops wouldn’t take me seriously and file the report.”

  “Uh… In your own words,” Orion floundered, trying to reclaim the momentum he’d meant to establish. “We’ve read the report, but we like to hear the victim—” As Hank flinched, shrugged his shoulders, and almost snarled, Orion quickly amended his statement, “—witness describe the events.”

  The old man’s mood switched to excitement almost immediately. “Man, I cannot believe you’re really here,” he gushed, and then he broke into another fit of giggles. “It’s all like I said. I was coming home from work—”

  They were interrupted by a chirpy, generic ringtone. Orion sheepishly took the offensively loud phone out of his pocket and set it to vibrate before respectfully returning his attention to their interviewee. “You gonna get that?” Hank asked, his lip curled in a sneer, and the younger man shook his head, smiling an apology. “I wouldn’t either. Microwaves in your brain. They’ll cook it,” Hank informed them helpfully before relaxing again. Connor involuntarily shook his head with incredulity, but he managed to pass the movement off as simple agreement about the dangers of cell phones.

  “Anyway,” the old man continued. “I was working over at Worksman Cycles—” He suddenly shifted gears, sitting on the edge
of his seat and becoming even more animated. “You know, they make the best bicycles, but that’s not all they make,” he said, addressing Orion directly as if his lecture was a life lesson. “They started out making the wheels to those little vending carts you see all around the city.”

  The subtle buzz of a vibrating phone reached Connor’s ears, and he noticed his partner check his device discreetly. His brow furrowed immediately as he read its screen, and he quietly excused himself, picking his way carefully through the precariously balanced jumble lining the corridor to make his exit into the hallway.

  For his part, Hank redirected his monologue seamlessly toward Connor as if there had been no change in audience. “Marvels of technology, they are. I used to spin the wires for the spokes by hand. By hand!” He grinned proudly. “Do you know what kind of craftsmanship that takes?”

  Connor stretched his half-amused smile, hoping it didn’t appear as condescending as it felt. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees in a posture that expressed interest, even if it was the sentiment furthest from his mind. “I’m sure it takes a lot of skill,” he interjected in a patient tone of voice, “but that’s not why we came here, Hank. Can I call you that?”

  The old man released a titter that was more worthy of a preadolescent girl. “It’s like we’re friends,” he agreed eagerly.

  Connor suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “You were going to tell us about your extraordinary experience.”

  “My extraordinary experience?” he repeated proudly.

  Connor hesitated, taking note of the odd weight introduced to the statement. The case file was already unconvincing, and the witness’ strange behavior served only to exacerbate his skepticism. The incongruous emphasis tweaked his suspicion, and he began to scrutinize the old man’s body language more closely. “Yes,” he replied, continuing his polite rapport. “You reported to the police that afternoon that you’d been attacked.”

  “Yes, of course,” Hank confirmed, his eyes darting behind Connor and back toward the door as if he’d suddenly been distracted. “By the subway rat—” His voice, which had been full of conviction, suddenly cut off as he rectified his testimony. “Oh, but I wasn’t coming home from work that day. I was actually coming from uptown to pay my friend Sal—”

  As his narrative threatened to meander again, the geniality of Connor’s smile became strained. “Hank,” he said reasonably, “when we called, you said you had to work this evening. I’d like to get to the point before you head out.” He wrenched his cheeks and lips into an apologetic expression. “I don’t think we’ll be able to drop by again anytime soon,” he added, infusing his voice with enough regret to make the lie seem credible. The doubt he felt hadn’t receded, and the old man’s inability to stay on topic grated on his nerves.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” he replied, crestfallen, and then he perked up suddenly. “What if I had evidence?”

  “Evidence of the attack?”

  “Yes. I kept the branch he stabbed me with.” Hank’s wide grin was accompanied by a manic, triumphant cackle.

  Connor scowled, muttering, “Of course you did.”

  “It’s, uh, around here somewhere,” Hank promised, but his inconsistent body language had already given away his disingenuousness, and Connor was ready to leave as soon as his partner returned. He watched the old man rummage around his apartment, toppling a stack of magazines and newspaper clippings, and his subsequent scramble to reorder the pile before it scattered into too much chaos. Though Connor could have assisted, he didn’t feel obligated to help a false witness, and when Orion reentered the room, he flashed him a look that was meant to convey both his relief and a forceful suggestion to leave. However, it quickly disintegrated into one of concern when he noticed his partner’s pallid complexion, wide eyes, and otherwise blank expression. He shoved past Hank, who was still fretting over his assorted paper scraps, and quickly joined his side.

  “Something’s come up,” Orion whispered before he could speak. “I’ve got to head out. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His words were quick, rolling off his tongue like lightning, and Connor wasn’t having any of it. The younger man avoided even fleeting eye contact, which would have given him away even if he weren’t already a terrible liar.

  Intending to confront him, Connor grabbed his shoulder and instead slipped into a different reality. Orion’s youthful face became distorted by pain as his skin shriveled against his skull, yet black determination shone in his eyes, and before Connor could make sense of the invasive hallucination, his legs failed him and he was sharply returned to real life. His body could not process the contradictory sensations his nerves were emitting—whether his skin was crawling with electricity or he’d swallowed a cold boulder that had solidified the contents of his stomach. He tried to close his grasp around Orion to steady himself and impede his fall, but his hand would not obey, and he collapsed, dropping his full weight onto something hard. He felt a foreign object jab his rib, leaving a sizable bruise to develop tomorrow, and he avoided knocking his head against the ground only because Orion’s reflexes saved him.

  “Help me get him into the hallway,” Orion said commandingly. Before Connor knew it, his numb arm was around Orion’s reedy neck, and the slender man was dragging him through the narrow passage, upsetting its delicate balance and obliterating the path behind him. Hank became caught in the cave-in, making floundering attempts to reach them before he gave up. “I’ll get some water,” he declared, trying to be helpful, as he turned back.

  Orion set him against the wall just outside the apartment door and crouched beside him. He removed Connor’s jacket and loosened his tie before he began fanning him. “What happened?” he asked, his fraternal instincts surfacing.

  Connor moved to shove him away but hesitated before making contact, unwilling to touch him for fear of sparking another vision. Vexed, he allowed his newly obedient arms to fall to his lap, and he insisted darkly, “Nothing.”

  Orion frowned sternly. “You collapsed. I don’t think that—”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you instead?” Connor snapped, unwilling to engage in a discussion about his health and the questions it would raise. A second vision was not only unwelcome, it was inconvenient; he could silence his thoughts only while alone, with copious amounts of alcohol, or both.

  Orion recoiled; Connor’s venomous reaction seemed to persuade him to temporarily shelve his troubles. “It’s nothing,” he said quietly. “It can wait until later. I think—”

  “Bollocks!” Connor exclaimed, anger hastening the return of his sapped energy; it was an easier emotion to manage, so he embraced it to drown out his fears, and he redirected it as his reticent partner. “We’ve been over this, Starr: You have a tell. Now tell, or I’m going to beat it out of you.” Heedless of his previous aversion, he reached forward and seized the younger man by the lapels, bringing his face within an inch of his own.

  Orion fell forward onto his knees as his submissive nature resurged, expunging the lingering strength he’d drawn from being a caretaker, and he quickly and meekly surrendered, “Cassie’s been kidnapped, and if I tell anyone, they’ll kill her.”

  Connor felt the rage drain out of him, and he released his grip. “What?”

  Orion rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms around his knees and pulling them into his chest as he sank to the ground, claiming a spot next to Connor. “Cassie just called. She’s terrified,” he said. He’d already averted his gaze, but now his eyes became unfocused, and his shoulders slumped. “They wouldn’t let her talk for long—only to say that I needed to come alone.”

  Connor softened his tone. “What did they ask for?”

  With perfect timing, Hank stumbled around the corner cradling a faded, chipped plastic novelty cup. Fortunately, it was equipped with a lid, for he tripped, barely catching himself on the doorframe, and
then shrieked. Connor gave him an icy glare, and the old man quickly abandoned his notion of trying to assist and instead retreated into the safety of his apartment.

  Orion shook his head. “Nothing. They just said to come alone.”

  Connor slammed the back of his head against the wall, expressing his frustration in an explosion of passion. “So you weren’t going to tell anyone?” he exclaimed, chastising him with an incredulous scowl as he cursed Orion’s infuriatingly meek nature.

  “They said they’d kill her if I did,” he explained timidly. His voice was small, shrinking as his anxiousness grew, and panic began to set in.

  “That’s what they always say,” Connor growled, trying to sound reassuring while still giving him a dressing down. “That doesn’t mean you don’t. When they tell you to ‘come alone,’ it usually means they’re going to try to double their investment and demand a ransom for you, too, or they’re going to carve you into a pretty corpse.” His mind immediately re-conjured the phantasm he’d glimpsed only a moment ago, and he snarled, shaking his head aggressively to banish it again. The subsequent displeasure leaked into his voice as he added cynically, “It’s a trap.”

  “I have to go,” a breathless Orion declared suddenly. He jumped to his feet, halting as Connor caught his sleeve.

  “Well, you’re not,” the older man declared, somewhat undermining his own authority as he pulled himself up using the wall for support, and he tried to reinforce his influence over the younger man by puffing his chest out as he slapped on an overconfident grin. “Not like this. Not into a trap.”