The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy)

by Robert Swartwood

  After all, when in Rome.

  64

  The black masks filed us out of the auditorium just as expertly as they had filed us in. Because I was near the back, I was one of the first ones in the lobby. Here over a dozen tables had been set up. On each table were piles of tablets, as promised by Caesar. As we walked out, we were handed our very own.

  It wasn’t an iPad or any other tablet I recognized, but was the same basic idea and setup. I touched the blank screen and it lit up with a list of names. These were the shows, presumably, that Caesar had been presenting to the Inner Circle and everyone else who paid good money for entertainment from the very beginning. All in alphabetical order.

  I scrolled down through the list. I saw my show. I saw Carver’s show. I saw Maya’s show and Ronny’s show and Drew’s show and Beverly’s show. Even Mason’s show—the most recent, except for Clark’s—was listed.

  But these were only the shows listed in the United States.

  I swiped the screen, and brought up another list, this one marked UNITED KINGDOM. Below this were just as many entries as those listed under UNITED STATES.

  I swiped the screen again, and again, and again. Scores of countries were included, countless games.

  I kept swiping until I came to the one marked KOREA. I scrolled down, trying to find Bae’s game, but every listing was in Korean. And even if the listings were in English, Bae hadn’t told me the name of his game. In fact, I didn’t think he even knew the name of his game.

  Around the lobby, members of the Inner Circle began to converge. Like in the banquet room, a hushed murmur started filling the air. More black masks weaved through the crowd holding trays of champagne.

  Off to the left was a poster board on an easel, directing those members interested toward the special rooms. These were labeled TORTURE, MURDER, RAPE, INCEST, BESTIALITY in big block letters. Another poster board on a similar easel was set up on the other side of the auditorium doors.

  Going into any of those rooms was the very last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to find Carver. This was why I was here, why everyone on the team was here. But it wasn’t just like I could wander around the Fillmore. Certain sections would be off-limits. Even if I stumbled across one of those sections, there was a very good chance a black mask would be waiting to direct me back to the main area.

  I didn’t want to get stuck in conversation again either, no matter how brief. I kept replaying the short encounter I had with those four from the banquet room—the two blue eyes, the brown eyes, and the green eyes—and knew I might not be so lucky if it happened again. I could hear snatches of conversation around the lobby—in English as well as many other languages—and the last thing I needed right now was to be asked a specific question a member of the Inner Circle should know and which I did not.

  Two curved staircases flanked the auditorium doors. I took the tablet and started toward the one staircase. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I didn’t want to stay stationary for too long.

  I went only four feet before I stopped.

  In my head, a distant voice whispered: There’s something you don’t know about me. I love to torture. I get off on it.

  Slowly I turned, back toward the poster board on the easel. A few members of the Inner Circle were currently gathered around it. I stepped up behind them and inspected the board again. Before, I had merely glanced at the big block lettered words, but now I noticed the room numbers beneath each.

  The room that currently had my interest—TORTURE—was on the second floor, room 3.

  I turned and started toward the stairs.

  • • •

  TWO BLACK MASKS stood outside room 3. They were politely and professionally explaining to whoever came up to them that all the seats inside were currently occupied. There was, however, standing room for anyone interested in that.

  This turned away several eager members. A few others, me included, entered the room.

  The room was fairly large. It looked like the kind of place a business meeting would take place during normal hours. Executives might sit around a long table and discuss their company’s future. If there was ever a table like that here, it was now gone.

  Nearly one hundred chairs occupied most of the space. In the front of the room, clear plastic tarp had been laid out across the floor, as well as against the front wall.

  On the plastic tarp were two chairs, surrounded by tall lamps. The two chairs were occupied. As both were stripped of their clothing except for their underwear, it was clear one was a young boy, the other a woman. The boy was wearing white jockey shorts that were already wet and yellow. The woman wore white panties and a white bra. A black cloth bag was over each of their heads.

  Standing off to the side were two black masks. Beside them was a table, with a number of tools on top—knives, pliers, hammers, saws.

  I pushed up against the wall in the corner. It was a tight fit, as more and more members squeezed into the room. Finally it came to the point where the black masks outside the room had no choice but to direct members elsewhere.

  In my ear, the Kid asked, “What’s going on?”

  I didn’t answer.

  The two black masks up front stood waiting. They may have been whispering to one another for all I knew. I tried remembering just how tall Clark was. Both black masks seemed to fit the profile, but it was really impossible to say for certain.

  Finally the show began. The lights in the ceiling dimmed, leaving only those lamps up front to shine down on the two victims.

  One of the black masks stepped forward to address the crowd.

  “Welcome to the Torture Room. As you probably guessed by the name, we are going to do some torturing tonight.”

  A soft and polite chuckle drifted across the room from several members. A few had those small translation devices in their hands.

  The voice was male. Deep. Familiar.

  My right hand drifted to my back. To where the Glock was currently tucked in the waistband of my suit pants. It would take two seconds to reach under my robe and grab it. It would take another second to aim and shoot Clark right in his black masked face.

  “You’re probably wondering who our guests are tonight,” Clark said as the other black mask went to stand behind the boy and woman. “They are, in fact, mother and son.”

  The other black mask reached out and grabbed both cloth bags and lifted them up slowly to reveal the boy’s and woman’s faces.

  They squinted at once. Duct tape covered their mouths, muffling their attempts to cry out. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their ankles to the chair, but despite this they both still tried to wiggle free.

  Another chorus of chuckles drifted across the room.

  Clark began speaking again, explaining what they were going to do tonight and just how they were going to do it, but I wasn’t listening. Instead, I was staring at the woman and the boy—the mother and the son—and wondering where I had seen them before. For some reason they were familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.

  Then, quite suddenly, I did.

  “Holy fuck,” I whispered.

  The Kid asked, “What’s wrong?”

  I pushed off the wall and made my way to the doors.

  “I see I’m already boring someone,” Clark said, not unkindly. “Please, do stay. I promise this will be a show you’ll never forget.”

  I turned to him, wanting so much to pull the Glock out and kill him. Instead I bowed slightly and turned back to the door and stepped into the hallway. A line of members waited against the wall. Once I came out, one of the black masks directed one of the members inside to take my place.

  I drifted to a far corner, out of earshot of any nearby members.

  I whispered, “Kid, cut all communication except you and me.”

  There was a brief pause. Then the Kid said, “Done. What’s wrong?”

  “Do you have eyes on Mason?”

  “I know where he currently is, yes. Why?”

  “There�
�s been a new complication.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Mason’s wife and son are here. And they’re about to be tortured.”

  65

  The Kid didn’t answer right away. There was a moment or two of silence—a silence where I thought we had somehow become disconnected—before he finally spoke.

  “What do you plan on doing?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “You can’t complicate this mission.”

  “I also can’t just stand by and let them get tortured.”

  “It’s an unfortunate turn of events, I agree, but—”

  “An unfortunate turn of events? Did you really just fucking say that?”

  “Ben, stick to the plan.”

  I said nothing.

  The Kid said, “Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.” I stood in the corner with the tablet like I was looking at it, but now turned to check on the two black masks and the line of waiting members by the doors. “The plan is still a go.”

  “What do you mean the plan is still a go?”

  “It’s time to accelerate things.”

  “What? Ben, don’t do what I think you’re going to do. It sucks that Mason’s wife and kid are there, but you can’t seriously think—”

  I didn’t hear the rest. I was already in motion. Heading down the hallway, past a few members of the Inner Circle. Walking right up to the black masks standing in front of the doors. Stepping between them and reaching for the door handle.

  “Pardon me,” said one of the black masks, placing a hand against the door to keep it closed, “but the room is currently filled to capacity.”

  “I was just in there.”

  “Yes, and when you exited another member took your place. I’m very sorry. If you would care to wait, perhaps more room will be made available shortly.”

  On the other side of the door came a frantic but muffled scream, followed by a smattering of applause.

  I said, “I would like to go in there now.”

  “I’m sorry,” the black mask said, “but right now that’s impossible.”

  “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  The eyes staring back at me from the black Bauta mask were ice cold.

  “As a matter of fact, I believe I do.”

  The other black mask was already moving, stepping toward me. I elbowed him in the neck, leaned back as the second mask took a swing. The fist went wide, and I stepped forward and kneed him in the groin, shoved my elbow into the mask, breaking it, and slammed his head against the wall. Then I turned, already reaching for my Glock, and pulled open one of the doors.

  Clark was using the pliers on Gloria Coulter’s toes. She was bucking in the chair, screaming through the duct tape, while the other black mask held her steady.

  During the commotion, Clark turned away from his work. He started to stand, the bloodied pliers at his side.

  I aimed right at his black mask. Before I could pull the trigger, though, someone hit me from behind. The gun fired but my aim was off, the bullet striking the wall. I went to aim again but hands grabbed me from behind, several hands all at the same time, one of them even wrestling the gun from my grip, and I fought them just like Gloria Coulter was fighting her restraints up front. And, just like Gloria Coulter, I was helpless, as more and more black masks swarmed into the room, grabbing my arms and my legs until there was nothing more for me to do but let them drag me away.

  • • •

  THROUGH THE LOGITECH headphones the Kid heard everything. Ben exchanging words with someone. Scuffle and commotion. A single gunshot. Even more commotion. There were shouts, screams, curses, and the next thing the Kid knew a voice yelled, “Look at this,” and then the entire communication feed went dead.

  Well, that wasn’t completely true.

  The entire communication feed wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least. But clearly someone had found the tiny transmitter in Ben’s ear. Someone had plucked it out, dropped it on the ground, and smashed it.

  Despite switching off communication from Ben and the rest of the team, the Kid hadn’t cut off communication between him and everyone else. While they weren’t able to hear him, he could certainly hear them. And the moment Ben requested the communication cut, everyone started up. First Ronny, then Drew, then Maya, then even Mason, all asking what was wrong, what was going on, Kid, goddamn it, answer us.

  The Kid leaned back in his chair, staring at the monitor. On the screen was a three-dimensional rendering of the Fillmore. Every floor, every room, every corner was mocked up in front of him.

  He leaned forward, clicked his mouse, and regained communication with the team.

  By this point they had stopped trying to talk to him and were now talking to each other. Asking each other what was wrong, whether Drew could tell what was happening, if Mason could tell, what happened to Ben and the Kid.

  “Sorry, guys,” the Kid said. “There was a complication.”

  “What happened?” Ronny asked.

  The Kid thought about how to answer that. He knew Mason could be a loose cannon. So far he seemed to be doing fine, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t complicate things if he found out his family was inside. Then again, wasn’t it fair to let him know? Didn’t the man deserve at least that much?

  “Ben decided to speed up the process,” he said.

  Drew asked, “What does that mean?”

  “It looks like he got himself caught.”

  Nobody spoke for a beat. Then Ronny said, “So what does this mean?”

  “Well, currently I have good news and bad news.”

  Maya said, her voice hesitant, “What’s the bad news?”

  “They found his transmitter and destroyed it.”

  Ronny said, “If that’s the bad news, what could possibly be the good news?”

  The Kid stared at the computer screen and the yellow blinking dot that was currently moving down a hallway toward the back of the Fillmore.

  “Ben still has his shoes.”

  • • •

  THEY FOUND THE transmitter in my ear without any trouble. This was pretty much what we had figured would happen. The transmitter in my shoe, however, was a different story.

  It was the right shoe to be exact, in the heel. It was a larger transmitter than the one that had been in my ear. Obviously I couldn’t communicate with the Kid, but he could hear everything I could hear up to a point. Plus, he could track my location.

  At least half a dozen black masks had swarmed on me in seconds. They were all men, strong and fit, and they pretty much beat the shit out of me. Not in the Torture Room, of course, nor in the hallway just outside the Torture Room in plain view of everyone. In the Torture Room, they had relieved me of the Glock before carrying me through the hallways to a private corridor. There they tore off my mask, my robe and cowl, and started beating me. One of them was smart enough to pat me down, to even check my ears, and that was how they found the transmitter, which was promptly taken out and destroyed. Then the beating continued, the kicking and punching, which I must admit was uncharacteristic of Caesar’s people. At least I thought so for a setting such as this, but then again, what the hell did the guy getting his ass kicked know?

  At one point, a loud voice shouted, “Stop!”

  The kicking and punching stopped.

  I lay in a fetal position on the ground, my knees held up to my chest, trying to protect my ribs and stomach and kidneys the best I could. After several seconds when I realized tonight’s session of let’s-kick-the-crap-out-of-Ben was momentarily over, I stretched out with a groan and rolled over onto my back. I was angled just right to watch a new black mask approaching down the corridor. This black mask was shaking its head, and as it neared, it took off its mask.

  “Tell me,” Clark said, “what was the last thing you said to me?”

  Because I was currently in too much pain, I chose defiant silence as my answer.

  “If I’m not mistaken—and to be honest, I very rarely am—it wa
s that the next time you saw me you would kill me. And now here we are, with your sorry ass on the floor and me standing over you. What do you think about that?”

  Again, I chose the defiant silence.

  “It was a decent try, though, I will give you that. Took more balls than I thought you had. Of course, we don’t know exactly what your plan is, but we do know you have people nearby, watching this place. Do you think they’re going to come save you?” Smiling, he shook his head. “No, of course they’re not. It would be suicide to come in here.”

  The pain, though still pretty bad, ebbed just enough for me to give up my defiant silence to ask a question.

  “Is your name really Clark?”

  “This again? What does it matter what my name is?”

  “I like to know the names of the people I kill.”

  He laughed. “You are so fucking delusional.”

  “You better kill me now, because otherwise I will kill you.”

  “I highly doubt that. And as much as I would love to kill you right here, right now, Caesar wants us to hold off. He isn’t happy with the scene you just caused. He figures the best way to make amends is to kill you in front of everyone later tonight, along with your friend. Speaking of which, are you ready to see your friend?”

  He nodded to a few of the black masks, who stepped forward and grabbed my arms and lifted me to my feet.

  Clark said, “I have to get back now. I’m a professional, and I hate it when I’m interrupted. Don’t worry, though, you and I will be seeing each other again later tonight. In fact, right before I kill you, I’m going to tell you a secret. Something, I believe, that will make dying so much worse for you.”

  I wanted to say something smart to this, promise some kind of threat, but the truth was I was exhausted. And it wasn’t just the beating, though that didn’t help matters much. These past two years had taken a great toll and I was almost to the tipping point.