Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  “Am I?”

  “You were Melissa’s best friend. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters.”

  Ashley drops her head back against the headrest, stares out her window. “I was always envious of her. She was always so smart, so classy, so full of energy and kindness. She made it look natural. And me ... I always wanted to be everything that she was. I wanted to come from nothing, to build my career, to create a family. And now ... now she’s gone.” She wipes at her face. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear all that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s just ... everything’s starting to hit me. “

  “It’s okay.”

  Sniffing back tears, she says, “Can I have the phone now?”

  I hand her the phone. She powers it on and starts typing on it. It takes only a minute for her to find her friend’s phone number, and within seconds she has the phone to her ear and the tears are gone and she’s once again all business.

  “I really hope his wife doesn’t answer,” she says. Then, seconds later, “Hi, is Don home?” A beat of silence, and judging by Ashley’s face, Don’s wife is asking a question. “This is Ashley. I went to school with Don.” She bites her lip, hoping the lie will work, and then releases a silent sigh of relief. “Sure, I’ll hold.”

  A second later, a smile on her face: “Hi, Don, it’s Ashley Walker. I’m sorry to call, but I’m hoping you can do me a big favor.”

  fifty-nine

  Don’s boat was really his late father’s boat, a twenty-one-foot-long Pro-Line with a single outboard motor. He explained that he had been meaning to sell it but had just been putting it off, not wanting to let it go just yet. He told Ashley and John this because it seemed he didn’t like the sound of silence, even while they were on the water, headed away from the island.

  John didn’t say anything, just sat near the back of the boat and stared out at the water.

  Ashley sat beside Don, who steered them over the small waves. She forced a smile but wasn’t sure what to say.

  “So really”—Don’s voice went low—“just what kind of trouble are you in?”

  “It’s really best you don’t know the details.”

  “Am I”—he swallowed, trying to find the nerve—“am I in danger, too?”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  Don said nothing, turning his attention back to the water. It was complete night now and he was driving without the use of any lights—which, he had explained more than once, was extremely dangerous, let alone against the law. But as Ashley had told him, it was for the best that they try to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

  A silence began to grow, an uneasy silence, and to break it Ashley asked Don about his kids.

  “What about them?”

  “What are their names?”

  “James and Kelly.”

  “Those are nice names.”

  “They’re four and six. Kelly looks just like her mother. Who, I should add, is not very happy that I’m doing this.”

  “Again, Don, you have no idea how much we appreciate this. The boat, the shoes and clothes, everything. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Don had brought Ashley a pair of his wife’s running shoes as well as a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Now he glanced back over his shoulder at John, who continued to stare out at the water. When he spoke next, his voice was barely a whisper.

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Coworker?”

  “Don, please, I know it’s a terrible thing to ask, especially as you’re helping us like this, but please don’t ask any questions. Truly, it’s best if you just don’t know.”

  He nodded but said nothing. Despite it being nearly ten years since she had last seen him, Don hadn’t changed much at all. He still had the cute, boyish face, though he had put on a few pounds, his love handles more pronounced, and there was some gray starting to creep into his hair, even at his young age, but still he was just like the guy she remembered.

  “I’m not going to get arrested, am I?”

  This caught her off guard. She wanted to laugh at the simplicity of the question—if anything, getting arrested would be a walk in the park—but wasn’t sure what to say to relieve him of his worry. Still, there was the chance his worry might blossom into guilt, and with guilt he might want to contact the authorities himself, and this was something Ashley couldn’t allow.

  “My friend and I didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t break any laws. We didn’t hurt anybody.”

  “So you had nothing to do with the destruction of your parents’ place?” He saw her expression and shrugged. “It’s a small island. Word travels fast. Especially when explosions are heard.”

  It hadn’t even been two hours since that took place, though to Ashley it felt like a whole day had passed.

  “There are some things that just can’t be explained,” Ashley said finally. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later they neared a marina. Don flipped on the lights, as now it would seem suspicious to try to dock without them. He eased up next to one of the docks, and John secured the boat with a rope and then hopped out.

  “Want me to show you which one?” Don asked, placing a set of keys in Ashley’s hand.

  She shook her head. “You already described it. We’ll be fine.”

  She embraced him and held him tight, smelling his aftershave and a faint whiff of Italian food, maybe what he had had for dinner. She could even imagine it—he and his wife and their two children sitting around the dining room table, pasta on their plates, garlic bread in a basket, Parmesan cheese sprinkled on the sauce—and it caused something to swell deep inside of her, the knowledge that she would never have a family like Don, or like Melissa, or like Jeff, who was dead now because of her, and did his wife even know about what had happened yet?

  Ashley blinked, pushing the question away. She couldn’t think about that right now. She refused to think about that right now. So she let go and stepped back and thanked Don again, and then she turned and took John’s hand and stepped up onto the dock.

  John untied the rope securing the boat to the dock and tossed it back into the boat.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Don merely nodded. “You keep her safe, you hear?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  • • •

  The pickup, just like the boat, had once belonged to Don’s late father. A late-model Ford, the thing nearly twenty years old. It smelled like an ashtray.

  “Can’t imagine why he hasn’t found someone to buy this yet,” John said as he slid in behind the wheel.

  Ashley didn’t care for the sarcasm. “After everything he’s done for us, you could be a little more grateful.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely grateful.” He inserted the key and turned the ignition. Nothing happened. He tried it again with the same result. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Figures.”

  “Try it again.”

  “The battery’s dead. It must have been sitting here for God knows how long. We might as well—”

  “Try it again.”

  She could tell just by the tightening of his lips that trying it again was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, he sighed and turned the key again, obviously expecting the same result—only this time, the engine coughed to life. It wasn’t a healthy cough by any means, and there was the fear that it might go silent at any second, but John revved the engine once, twice, three times, until he was certain the thing wasn’t going to stall.

  “Talk about good luck,” he said.

  “So now what?”

  He opened his bag and pulled out the device. The screen lit up as they waited for it to find a signal.

  “They’re still on the move. Judging by the speed, they’re in a plane.”

  The tracking device that had been in the lighter was now in Eli. He had swallowed it whole.

  “Where do you think they�
�re going to take him?”

  John shrugged. “No idea. But let’s hope it’s somewhere in the country. And let’s hope it’s somewhere within driving distance.”

  “Where are they headed now?”

  “South.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “It’s a very good thing,” John said, revving the engine once more and then shifting it into gear.

  • • •

  It was four o’clock in the morning by the time they reached the storage units in New Jersey. Fortunately, there was no locked gate to keep them out. They drove toward the back of the facility and parked the truck in front of the storage unit Eli had secured.

  “The key?” Ashley asked.

  “There,” John said, nodding toward a green dumpster several yards away.

  “We need to swim through trash?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  They climbed out of the pickup and marched toward the dumpster. The stench of trash was overbearing. John dropped to the ground and reached underneath.

  “Anything?”

  John said nothing. He moved to the other side of the dumpster and reached underneath again. Finally his face lit up. “Bingo.”

  He stood back up with a tiny blank magnetic case. He slid the top off and from inside extracted a single key.

  They headed back to the storage unit.

  John grabbed the GPS device from the truck. He opened the lid and then held the key up toward Ashley.

  “Want to do the honors?”

  She did. Seconds later the storage unit door sprung open and she flicked on a light inside to reveal a black Lincoln Town Car.

  “Impressive,” Ashley said.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  John set the device on the hood, extracted the gun from his pocket, gripped it by the barrel, and brought it down hard on the windshield.

  Nothing. Not even a scratch on the glass.

  “Bulletproof,” John said.

  Ashley tilted her head toward the GPS device. “They still on the move?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. At least, judging by the speed, they’re no longer in a plane. Which means they’ve landed and are headed toward someplace within driving distance.”

  “Where?”

  “Maryland.”

  John left the device on the hood and opened the driver’s door. He retrieved the key from the sun visor and went next to the back of the car.

  “Ready to see something really impressive?”

  He popped the trunk and stepped back so Ashley could peer inside. In the previous car, Eli had had his equipment in duffel bags. Here they were not restrained by cloth but open for all to see. Guns, rifles, ammunition, explosives, even what appeared to be—

  Ashley, her voice incredulous: “Is that ...”

  John picked up the rocket-propelled grenade, hefted it and placed it on his shoulder.

  “I’ve never been a violent person,” he said, “but after what these people have done to my family and everyone else? I say it’s time we go to war.”

  part three

  ______________

  NOTHING BESIDE REMAINS

  sixty

  Eli opened his eyes to brightness.

  He immediately squinted and tried to use his hand to shield his eyes, but his hand wouldn’t move. Neither would his other hand. He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t move. His arms, his legs, his feet—they were all secured to the bed he was lying on.

  The room was completely bare except for the bed. The floor and walls were a dull white. Every fluorescent in the ceiling was on, blinding him.

  He assumed a camera was stationed somewhere in the room, watching him, but he couldn’t be sure until his eyes adjusted to the light.

  Across from Eli stood the only door in the room. He watched it, counting in his head, expecting the door to open at any second.

  After a full minute, the door remained closed.

  So this was it, he thought. After thirty years of trying to stay off the radar, of getting supplies together in the event he ever did have to go after Matheson, of losing nearly every person who ever meant anything to him, it all ended up here in a sterilized room, tied to a bed, with the intent that he would stay here until the day he died.

  He wondered when that would be. Today? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year? Now that Matheson had him, would he kill him right away, or would he take his time, maybe even torture Eli? It wasn’t like Eli had any information Matheson would want—or anything, really—but that wouldn’t stop the madman from inflicting pain on Eli just for the hell of it. In the end it would all come down to principle. Eli had betrayed Matheson, and because of that Matheson wanted Eli and everyone Eli cared about to suffer.

  They had stripped him of his clothes. Now he wore a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. His feet were bare and cold.

  He wondered whether John and Ashley were all right. Had they made it off the island? If so, had John managed to find the storage unit in Jersey?

  Eli’s mind began to race. He thought about the tracking device he had swallowed and which now lay somewhere inside of him. Depending where he was, there was a chance John might not be able to track him. And if that was the case, then this entire thing had been for nothing. Every life that had been lost because of him—his children and his grandchildren—chipped away at his soul. He had never intentionally put them in harm’s way until the very end, and even then it had been out of his hands, just something he had to accept. Did that make him a cold bastard? Yes, he supposed it did.

  After several long minutes that may have been several long hours—Eli’s eyes having adjusted to the brightness and spotted the camera in the corner of the room—the door finally opened.

  The same two men from the house on Martha’s Vineyard entered. It was difficult to tell them apart. One was a bit taller than the other. One was a bit wider in the shoulders. They both had short hair. They both had dark eyes.

  Eli asked, “Where’s Matheson?”

  The shorter of the two said, “He’s coming.”

  “Which one of you murdered Melissa?”

  The taller one raised a hand. “That would be me.”

  “How?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t that difficult. Despite her having twenty-four-seven protection, our people still managed to gain access to the apartment. We waited for the husband and kids to come home, tied them up, then waited for your daughter. She always worked late, from what we could gather. Always put her job before her family, I guess you’d say. But then she did come home. We tied her up, too. We set the scene, where we wanted the bodies found. We shot the husband and children ourselves, though we made sure we put just the right amount of gunshot residue on your daughter’s hand. We sent the email and walked your daughter up to the roof and pushed her off. The security footage afterward wasn’t hard to fix.”

  “She was just like you.” Eli fought hard to keep the tremor from his voice. “All my children were. If it wasn’t for me, they would have become foot soldiers in this ridiculous war. But I saved them. I gave them a second chance. I gave them the opportunity to lead a normal life.”

  The shorter man said, “And now they’re all dead thanks to you.”

  The taller man wore a radio on his belt. A slight beep issued from it, and both men turned away and headed back toward the door.

  Before they opened the door, though, the shorter man said to Eli, “I have to admit, you got a lot further than we originally thought you would.”

  “Your point?”

  “It’s impressive. You should be proud of yourself.”

  When Eli didn’t respond, the man smiled, snorted a laugh, and opened the door. He and the other man stood back and waited as Oswald Matheson entered the room. He did not do so on his own two feet, but instead with the help of a motorized wheelchair.

  Eli was in his late-fifties. The man in the wheelchair was at least tw
enty years older, and he looked it. Sunken eyes, translucent skin, white hair. Time had not been kind to him.

  Matheson navigated the wheelchair to stop right in front of the bed. He raised a frail hand and waved the two men away.

  The men took their leave, closing the door quietly behind them.

  Matheson’s pale lips parted in an ugly sneer.

  “Hello, Eli. Welcome back.”

  sixty-one

  Zach and Hogan walked down the corridor in silence. At a door near the end of the corridor they entered another room, this one much less drab and dull. There was a refrigerator, a coffee maker, several tables and chairs.

  Hogan approached the refrigerator. “Thirsty?”

  Taking a seat at one table, Zach said, “I could go for a soda.”

  Hogan retrieved two cans and brought them to the table. He handed Zach his can as he took a seat and then each man popped the tops of their cans and listened to the carbonated fizz.

  Hogan held up his can. “To another successful mission.”

  “I wouldn’t quite call it successful,” Zach said, but he tapped his can against Hogan’s anyway.

  “We ended up securing the target, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, but at what cost? We lost good people. We risked exposure one too many times.”

  Hogan shrugged. “Again, we secured the target. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

  The men were silent for a minute, drinking their sodas.

  Hogan asked, “So what’s next for you?”

  “Sleep.”

  “And then?”

  “Whatever new assignment comes my way. Why?”

  “Thought maybe you might want to come over to the games side of things.”

  “And do what—work for you?”

  “We’d be working together, but yes, I’d run point.”

  “As Simon?”

  Hogan nodded, grinning. “You bet.”

  “You really enjoy it, don’t you?”

  “It’s a blast.”

  “You get a power trip from it.”