Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  They had crossed over Lake Washington and were now on the east side, heading to North Bend. They had about forty minutes left of driving, so John leaned back, the adrenaline dump making him tired. He closed his eyes, Boogie and Cindy remaining silent as he nodded off.

  Chapter 13

  Russell sat at his desk and stretched his arms up over his head. He yawned and looked down at his watch and saw it was approaching late afternoon. He and Sims had been at the station all night and hadn’t gained anything new from the security cameras, which they had watched over a dozen times.

  Russell had called the Bellevue Mall Security Office and was told for the umpteenth time that, “No, we don’t have any other cameras.” He had also logged onto the city’s website, as well as the Washington State Department of Transportation and was able to track the car as it went northbound on the 405 into Kirkland, but then lost it when it exited to the north of the city.

  The killers had gone north.

  That was all they had gotten in over twelve hours of time.

  Sims walked in, breaking Russell out of his reverie and threw a bag on Russell’s desk. “Breakfast, or…” he looked at his watch, “…lunch. Brunch. Whatever it is now.”

  “Thanks. Get any sleep?”

  “About two hours or so.” Sims sat down behind his desk with a loud grunt. “That’s good, considering it was here. On the couch. In the break room. Those graveyard patrol assholes love being loud when they take a break.” He shook his head. “Young savage sons of bitches.”

  Russell smiled. It reminded him of his first years on the force, being a rookie and having no seniority in the department. Since he had been at the bottom of the seniority totem pole, that meant graveyard shifts with weekdays off. Exciting, but no social life.

  Russell was about to speak when Sims said, “And before you ask, no, I didn’t find anything from the victim’s car except for his prints. Clean as a whistle. We saw the killer was wearing gloves. I’m liking your hitman theory, but…what did Wagner find? You talk to him yet?”

  “He found some young girls in that boathouse thing on the water.” Russell shook his head. “A real scumbag. Both girls are about fifteen or so. From Belarus or Russia or somewhere over there. Wagner mentioned something about them being from the same country as Ali. Apparently, he bought them on the black market. Dark web or some shit. Paid two hundred fifty grand for each one. Smuggled them over. He even had a picture with each one, like a souvenir, smiling the whole time. Their names are…” Russell shuffled some papers on his desk, found what he was looking for and continued, “…Melanie Trobov and Tatyana something or other. Don’t speak a lick of English. Wagner found a Seattle police officer to translate. I guess he speaks Russian or Belarusian. I’m waiting for him to call. I guess the boathouse is locked from the outside.”

  “Like slaves.”

  Russell nodded. “Like sex slaves. Just like the message.”

  “A paid hitman,” Sims said.

  Again, Russell nodded, but didn’t say anything. He sighed then said, “I’m going to call him. We need to get this thing going.” He picked up the landline and dialed Wagner’s cell phone. When he heard it ringing, he put it on speaker and put the phone back in the cradle. He nodded toward the phone and said, “So he doesn’t have to repeat himself.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Wagner picked up after three rings and said, “Yello! Wags here!”

  Russell spoke. “What’s the status with those girls?”

  “First off, the girls are fine, physically. We had EMTs and medics here, checked them out. Aside from being heavily sedated and drugged up, they’re fine. Don’t remember much.”

  “What about the translator from SPD?”

  “Ivan Drago is here. I mean, he literally looks like Ivan Drago. Even has that Soviet flat top thing going on. Anyways, he says they have some sort of different dialect. Transylvania or some shit –”

  “Trasianka!” a voice was heard in the background, with a heavy Slavic accent.

  Wagner continued, “Whatever that is. It’s like Spanglish. Only for Russian and Belarusian. Anyways, they don’t remember anything. I guess they were kidnapped when they were fourteen, given a diet of heroin, cocaine, ecstasy and all that, and once they were hooked, they were flown over here to Ali. They said he treated them okay, but mainly used them for sex. No talking. Nothing. Just sex. The place is nice, though. They were fed, able to watch movies, swim and everything else.”

  “Okay. Call CPS and have them go to your location –”

  Wagner interrupted. “CPS is already here. I’m having Officer Drago here –”

  “It’s Officer Nemkov!” the Slavic voice in the background said.

  “I’m having Officer Nemokova or whatever translate for them. He said he could use the overtime. If you approve, of course?”

  “Consider it approved.”

  “Did you ask Lieutenant Connelly?”

  “Not his case. It’s mine. I approve it.”

  “Roger that. We’re finishing up here and will be on our way to the hospital. Drago is going to follow the ambulance and CPS will meet them there. I’ll come to the station and they’ll call me when the girls are ready to be interviewed further. Capiche?”

  “Copy that.” Russell disconnected. To Sims, he said, “Almost forty-eight hours in and nothing on the suspects.”

  “Don’t feel too bad, Russ. Ali is a victim, but he’s not a victim victim, you know?”

  “We still have a job to do.”

  Sims took a bite of bagel and said, “I guess.”

  Russell was about to speak when his cell phone rang. He looked down and saw that it was Kat and hit the green icon. “Hey, Sweets. I’ll be home in a bit.”

  “Hey, are you watching the news?” There was excitement in Kat’s voice.

  “Uh, no. I’m at the station working. Why, what’s up? Another Bieber sighting?” Russell smiled, despite no laughter from the other end.

  “No. There’s, like, crazy riots in Seattle right now.”

  “Serious?”

  “Tons of people injured or killed. Everyone running around. You’re a cop and you haven’t heard about it?”

  “I’m a Bellevue Detective, Sweetie, not a Seattle cop.” Russell covered the mouthpiece. “Hey, Sims, turn on that TV.” Back to Kat, he said, “What channel you watching?”

  “Channel 2.”

  “Channel 2, Sims.”

  Sims turned on the channel.

  The screen showed an aerial view as the news chopper circled over the waterfront. Like ants, people were running in all directions, some not moving at all, either stuck in shock or lying down dead or unconscious.

  Sims was glued to the TV. “Jesus Christ…”

  Russell asked, “Are you at home?”

  “Christina and I are chilling at home, practicing, getting ready for tonight.”

  Russell and Sims continued to watch as the crowd grew in size and headed in all directions through the downtown area, spreading like wildfire. This was no ordinary crowd. The news helicopter zoomed in as best it could and Russell saw complete mayhem, but it was more than that. People you wouldn’t even think of rioting were out attacking people. Russell looked at the bottom of the screen and saw a heavyset woman running full bore right into an unsuspecting black teenager. The teenager was much bigger, but this woman was manhandling the poor kid.

  “Sims, turn it up a bit.”

  Sims reached out and turned up the volume, even though both could hear the TV just fine.

  A voice from the helicopter said, “…complete confusion here, Eve. I’ve never seen anything like this. There seems to be no central gathering other than the Pot Luck Festival, but that event is usually peaceful. As you can see, everyone is attacking anyone without provocation. There doesn’t seem to be any cause or precipitating event that led to this…”

  “Kat, you still watching?” Russell got no answer. “Kat. You watching?”

  A second newscaster in the
background said, “…okay, thanks, Steve. We’ll check in with you in a few minutes…”

  Kat finally replied. “What? Oh, sorry. Christina’s just talked to her parents on the phone. They don’t want her going out. I guess they’re watching too.”

  “Speaking of which, don’t leave the house. At least ‘till I get home.”

  “Dad, it’s in Seattle, not Bellevue. Besides, the show is by Lake Sammamish, which is nowhere near Seattle. I just want –”

  In the background, Russell heard the office phone ring and Sims answer it.

  Russell cut her off. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Stay home. I don’t care if you’re pissed at me but that’s the way it is. You understand?” Russell said.

  “Jesus, Dad, yes! I’ll stay home. You don’t have to be a jerk about it.” With that, Kat hung up.

  Russell stared into his phone, pissed off.

  Sims hung up the office phone and said, “Wagner called. That Seattle cop had to go back to the city. Obviously.”

  “Of course.” Russell was disappointed his case was going slowly, but he understood.

  “Christ, check this out,” Sims said, nodding to the TV.

  It was the same camera view of the heavyset woman attacking the teen. The teen was on the ground fighting for his life and the woman was on top of him with her head by his neck.

  “What the hell?” Russell heard the reporter talking, but was transfixed with the image. Like Sims, Russell leaned in closer to hear.

  The helicopter’s voice on the news came back. “…people are just running by attacking each other. Like this right here. A woman, who, by every stretch of the imagination would appear to be your normal-looking human being, is attacking this poor kid…this teenager…”

  This attack was the focal point of the camera. The woman, with her head buried in the kid’s neck, all of a sudden reared up and looked at the sky. What they saw next made both Sims and Russell jump back.

  The woman had blood pouring from her mouth, full of human tissue and skin. Her eyes were bloodshot and held a look of rage. A man from the bottom of the screen came into view, running towards them.

  The man, athletic looking and wearing black and blue flannel and khaki pants, had something in his hand. He stopped just short of the woman and the teenager, raised his left arm toward them and a small blast of fire escaped from the object in his hand. The woman’s head exploded and she toppled over, revealing the devastation of the kid.

  “…just shot her in the head! Where are the police? This is utter chaos…” the pilot said.

  “Holy shit!” Sims was standing up now, pacing back and forth. He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling dispatch.”

  Russell grabbed the portable radio from Sims and turned it on. Normal radio traffic was heard. Apparently this was isolated to Seattle. “Sounds like normal traffic.”

  Russell continued to watch as the camera stayed on the location where the woman was shot. The black teenager lay still on top of a blood-soaked pavement. Another male came into view, nudged the teenager with his foot, and the teenager jumped up and hurled himself at the man, taking him down and attacking his neck and face, his arms and hands flying through the air and clawing at the innocent bystander. The teenager threw his head down by the man’s throat and the pavement turned darker.

  “Holy mother of shit!” Sims saw it too.

  Russell didn’t respond. He heard footsteps running into the detectives’ office. Several pairs. Russell turned toward the door and saw three patrol officers standing in the doorway, out of breath.

  “Hey, guys, Connelly wants all hands on deck. We’re blocking the off-ramps of Interstate 90 and the floating bridge,” the patrol officer closest to the door said.

  “Why? This shit is going on in Seattle, not here,” Sims said.

  “You kidding? People are on foot, hauling ass eastbound across the floating bridge. They’re headed this way.” With that, the three patrolmen left in a hurry and headed downstairs.

  Russell looked at Sims. “Screw that. I’m going home to get my daughter. I’m not worried about freeway exits. That’s state patrol’s issue.” Russell grabbed one of the portables. He reached into his desk and pulled out his spare magazines.

  Sims stared at Russell, seeming to ponder his next move. He took one more glance at the TV then looked back to Russell. “You have any food at your house?”

  Russell nodded without looking at Sims, then headed toward the door, with Sims trailing behind him.

  Chapter 14

  Morgan and Frankie had come barreling down the gravel driveway in the Scout and came to a screeching halt in front of Frankie’s porch. Frankie had insisted on driving, but with Frankie high on marijuana and Morgan’s experience with tactical driving, Morgan had persisted and ultimately won out. It was hard to argue with Morgan and Frankie knew that.

  When Morgan heard the urgency in John’s voice, he knew that asking questions was just going to delay the inevitable. Most people would have been dumbfounded or called bullshit, but with Morgan and John’s professional relationship, trust was the glue that held their bond together. John said “Go,” Morgan went, and vice versa.

  He had grabbed Frankie, his bloodshot eyes and slow movements courtesy of the hashish he had smoked, and forced him to run to the Scout, which was parked a good half mile away. Fortunately, it was parked to the south of Myrtle Edwards and closer to Interstate 90, which is where they would end up going anyway.

  Morgan had forced their way through the maze of stoners, having to bob and weave through the sea of flesh. He found himself having to be a bit forceful with a few, pushing them aside, and he almost felt bad for the man he had made unconscious after not taking “No” for an answer.

  The man had been backpedaling in front of Morgan and Frankie, holding an armful of hemp necklaces, which, even under normal circumstances, Morgan wouldn’t want to buy. A pasty white guy in his thirties, Morgan had thought how much he looked like Steve, which made it harder to hit him. The pale skinny man had said, “Bro, bro, bro, you guys would love these! Handmade, one of a kind, get ‘em while it’s hot!” After hearing the faint sounds of screaming coming from the north, what most people would have played off as cheers and yells, Morgan went to that place he’d experienced several times in Afghanistan: cool, calm, focused, and hell bent on completing the mission and destroying any obstacle in his path to get there. Only this wasn’t Afghanistan with jihadists. This was Seattle with a bunch of free-spirited stoners.

  Instead of killing the man, Morgan had thrown a simple hook palm strike to the bottom of the man’s ear, right behind the jaw, hitting that nerve bundle that causes the body to seize, the brain forcing a state of unconscious to ensure safety and a low expense of energy.

  The man fell backwards onto the soft, padded, and elevated grassy knoll, lessening the damage done. To the protestations of several witnesses, Morgan had pushed himself and Frankie on, reaching the Scout and hauling ass back home, the screams and cries having grown in intensity the closer they got.

  Morgan had had plenty of experience with tactical driving and used his skills to maneuver in and out of weekend traffic, making it home in forty-three minutes. On their way back, Frankie had multiple times questioned why they were leaving, though in a foggy slur, and Morgan had repeatedly said, “It’s okay, Frankie. Trust me.”

  Morgan exited the Scout and ran around to Frankie’s side. He opened the door to help him out. Helen came barreling out of the house and stood on the porch with her hands on her hips.

  “Morgan, what the hell is going on?”

  Morgan didn’t answer right away and instead helped Frankie inside. “We need some coffee going, Helen.”

  “Okay, but you haven’t answered my question.” Her eyes followed Morgan as he took Frankie inside, then looked back outside. “And where is John?”

  Morgan didn’t answer. Instead, he had Frankie sit down and then walked into the kitchen with Helen following him to start the coffee pot. “
I need to get Frankie sobered up a bit.”

  “Morgan! What the hell is going on?”

  “Frankie had too much hash.”

  “Fine. It’s not the first time he’s done that and you know that. Why are you quiet? And where is John?”

  Morgan ignored her and walked into the living where Frankie was staring straight ahead with bloodshot eyes. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV to Channel 2. He pointed to the screen. “That’s where John is.”

  Helen looked to the screen and threw her hand to her mouth. “Dear god, what the hell?”

  The smell of coffee filled the air. Morgan went to the kitchen to grab two cups. He handed one to Frankie, who just held it out in front of him, and one to Helen, who did the same. “John is there somewhere, Helen. And I have no idea if he’s okay.”

  Helen could hear the resignation in Morgan’s voice. “Morgan. Why didn’t he come with you?”

  Morgan shook his head and said, “He saw something. I don’t know, we had radios with us, but it was hard to hear. He sounded rushed when he yelled for me and Frankie to get out of there. I told him we weren’t leaving without him, but you know John. He wouldn’t have any of it. He said he’d be fine and he’d catch up with us later.” Morgan didn’t mention anything about seeing a boat because he didn’t want to give false information, since he couldn’t remember exactly what John had told him, but also because he didn’t want to worry Helen. If she thought this was a riot, it was best to let her think that for now.

  “Well, when is he coming back?” Helen asked.

  “I have no idea, but I’m giving him twenty-four hours, then I’m heading back out there.” He saw Helen start to protest, so he held up his hand. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure John is fine too. He is tough, strong, and well-armed. And besides…it’s John.” Morgan smiled.

  Helen nodded her head. “Okay. I believe you, Morgan.” To Frankie, she said, “Dear, go get cleaned up and for god’s sake, stop drooling! You’ve got a few years before you need to do that. I’ll get some food going on the stove.” She looked back to Morgan. “You too, Morgie. Go to John’s, get cleaned up and come back here.” Morgan shook his head and Helen said, “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.” She clapped her hands together. “Now get going!” She walked into the kitchen and started opening up cupboard doors.