DREAM ON (Mark Appleton #2)

by Patterson, Aaron

  Jamison ignored the sharp pain coming from his shoulder. A chunk of wood from a tree, or maybe a piece of a building had dug itself into his shoulder when the blast knocked him over. The rocky cliff to his left had saved his life, acting like a shield to protect him from most of the flying debris and flames.

  He choked on the fumes from something burning nearby, maybe tires or oil, he didn’t know. Captain Jordan had found a spot close to where the tree line ended and had been hiding in some tall grass behind an old barn that had been torn apart from the blast. The spot where he was supposed to be was burnt beyond recognition.

  Jamison spoke into his microphone and tried not to sound as scared as he was. “No sign of him, I think he is dead!”

  Big B looked through the thermal lens of his binoculars and scanned the hillside for any sign of the captain. “I can’t see anything, there are too many fires, all I see is red.” They both knew Solomon could have never survived, when Jamison, who was a half mile away, was injured. Solomon had disappeared, and they assumed the worst. “We better get out of here.” Big B’s words made Jamison sick to his stomach, but he knew they could do nothing more.

  “Start the chopper, I’m on my way.”

  They flew high above the devastation and looked for Solomon and the captain. After an hour, they gave up and headed back to the Merc building.

  When they reached the offices two hours later, the place was in an uproar. Solomon was assumed dead, and a whole town had been bombed off the map. Jamison called a meeting, briefed everyone who was available, and gave them all assignments to work on. “I want this woman caught. Use any means necessary—I want her. Solomon is assumed dead, but until we get a body, I am going to hope he somehow made it out alive. Come on, people, let’s do what we do best.”

  * * *

  MUCH OF WHAT KIRK was thinking, he could never act on. He wanted to belong, and be a cop again, but this agency, this stupid agency, was changing his mind about everything. He tried to keep an open mind about them, and now with Isis here, he had feelings that were buried so deep he couldn’t even place them. He finally decided to just wait and see what happened. Time had a way of making things clear to him.

  Kirk had a side of his personality that was against authority. He’d never been one to go with the flow. As far as justice was concerned, he’d occasionally wanted to grab the thug and wring his neck just like the next cop, but these people didn’t do it for revenge or hate. They really loved their country and wanted to change things. Granted, he didn’t think killing off murderers and the wicked people on the earth was the best way to go about it, but it was something. And he didn’t know what the answer was, if it wasn’t that.

  He glanced at Isis and then did a double take. Her long black hair shone in the morning light. He looked away when she caught him staring at her, but she said nothing and just smiled.

  The helicopter made a thumping sound as it glided across the African sky. He could smell the dry air and see the scattering water buffalo as they ran from the mysterious sound up in the sky. They had left the airport with Taras tagged and his signature sent to Isis’s laptop. Much to Kirk’s surprise, the plan had worked extraordinarily well. He shouldn’t have doubted Isis’ skills.

  “So how much farther? I’m baking like a stuck pig here!”

  Isis smiled and pointed down to what looked like a huge construction site.

  “There is the first one. We’re going in as the Agency for Environmental Protection.” She handed Kirk a badge and a picture ID. “They have random inspections out here, and with these, we should be just fine.” Isis was a professional, and with her experience in the company, Kirk could see why she scared him a little. She was always one step ahead of him, and that was the story of his relationship with her. He didn’t like being the guy in the passenger seat. She had a way of disarming him, making him feel unsure of himself.

  They landed on the designated helipad and waited for the rotors to stop before they got out. No need to eat dust without a good reason. The main site was deserted except for a guard. They smiled as he led them down to the main office where the foreman was. The ride felt like they were going into the throat of a giant monster with a gaping hole for a mouth.

  Joseph St. Clair sat up when he saw them and rose to greet the three with a worried look on his face. “So, what brings you to my humble construction site?”

  “We are with the AEP, and we’re here to take a tour of your facility. We also need to see your environmental impact report.” Mark sounded professional and Kirk decided to remain quiet through this phase of the investigation. He wasn’t good at pretending to be something he was not.

  The foreman looked nervous but obliged, sending for a jeep so they could all ride comfortably. The conversation ranged from their environmental impact report to washout areas, the proper procedure for disposing of waste, and many more boring topics along those lines. Kirk nodded to make it seem like he was on the same page as them. He did, however, tune most of it out, and took the time to map out where they were, making a mental note of the exits and number of guards onsite. His detective mode kicked in when he spotted blood on the handrail leading up to the main office door. He looked around and could see fresh drag marks leading to the back of the building. He tensed and his hand touched the butt of his Glock. He didn’t like the look of this.

  As Mr. St. Clair started the Jeep, Isis continued her questions. “Have you had any visitors or unauthorized personnel onsite?” Isis wrote in a notebook as she asked the fidgeting man one question after another. The Jeep rumbled along the dirt pathway and began a long descent underground.

  “No, no, everything’s been running just the same, you know, business as usual.” His voice betrayed him. St. Clair looked straight ahead and changed the subject.

  Kirk had an idea. He knew it would be risky and dangerous, but in his mind, this questioning was getting them nowhere. He pulled the .45 from his holster and pointed it at the back of the man’s head.

  The Jeep lurched to a stop when the driver saw the weapon pressed to the back of his boss’s head. “No one move or St. Clair gets it!”

  Isis and Mark glared at him and held still, trying not to act surprised. “Wanna know how this is going to go? We are Mr. Karjanski’s partners, and we want to take a look at our investment, you clear?”

  The frightened man nodded his head up and down like a puppet. “Good, now you do know Taras, don’t you? Taras Karjanski?”

  St. Clair nodded.

  “Then you know that we will do whatever it takes to get what he wants, you follow?” Mark caught on, put a gun to the driver’s head, and relieved the driver of the weapon on his hip. Isis sat in silence as if she were the ringleader of the whole thing and wanted to see how her subjects worked under pressure.

  “Now, Mr. St. Clair,” she said, “we realize Mr. Karjanski was just here, and we apologize for the inconvenience of our visit, but we need some more information about our little deal.” She drew the last word out to drive the point home.

  “Please don’t kill my family, they’re all I’ve got, please let him go!”

  “Let who go?” Kirk demanded.

  “My son, please!”

  Joseph St. Clair sobbed in his hands and spilled everything.

  Isis had the driver take them back to the main office. After threatening St. Clair again not to ever mention them coming by, they left and headed for Dior’s power plant. It was getting ugly, and now with this new lead, they had a good idea what was going on. Taras Karjanski was going to buy or steal as many oil refineries as he could. With this power, he could own the world if he wanted to.

  Kirk didn’t like his options. On the one hand, he was running with an elite group of assassins that were on some sort of crusade. On the other, he didn’t think anyone else in the world would be able to stop Karjanski. He had to decide if he was all the way in—or out.

  Make up your mind!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE FBI BUILDING IN the heart of
New York City was humming with activity. Agent Carson had one thing on his mind, and it was not the oil tycoon murdered in a café in the heat of the lunch hour. The special task force that was set up to track down the World Justice Agency had grown, and now he’d been put on the force against his will. He had better things to do than chase some vigilante agency around, like catch the terrorists the vigilante agency was after.

  The bombing in Day, New York, made headlines and had the country buzzing about terrorists and how the government was not doing enough to keep the people of the United States safe. The FBI held a press conference to let the American people know that it was an accident and that no one was under attack. Turns out, some crazy redneck was making a missile in his garage and it went off, blowing up most of the town. He was arrested and charged with involuntary mass manslaughter. Unfortunately for Bob Blackwell, he was the perfect scapegoat. He had pyromania. In addition to this disorder, he had a brilliant mind and liked to research dangerous things on the internet, such as how to build a rocket or a bomb. Between his home lab and his need to set things aflame, the FBI decided his incarceration would serve two purposes: everyone would be safer with him in prison, and it gave them someone to blame for the bombing and destruction of the town.

  Of course, no one in their right mind would believe that some regular dude could build a missile of such destructive capabilities as that. But it kept most of the populace reassured.

  Carson didn’t understand why the FBI was covering up for the World Justice Agency. The public was surely capable of digesting the information and responding like mature adults. Although, the last thing they needed just then was all the militia banding together and joining the WJA, or worse, competing with them. It gave a whole new name to organized crime. Not organized to make money but to…to what? Kill bad guys? Seek justice?

  Carson hurried into the meeting and sat down in the back. He wanted a real case, not some ghost trail to find a rogue vigilante group that some agents on the Task Force didn’t even believe existed. The Senior Agent was Captain Jacobson. He was talking about the note they received from this person called Chaos.

  The world had seen Chaos’s letters to the Washington Post, but the FBI had received a separate note. This latest one talked about the bombing in Day, New York, and said the WJA was behind it. Their first real lead was this Chaos person—maybe an ex-member who was disgruntled or an insider who was looking to make a name for themselves. Any way you looked at it, the FBI would take just about anything new on this case, no matter where it came from. Carson wrote down every word of the latest letter as Captain Jacobson went through it on the overhead screen.

  Dear Feds,

  The World Justice Agency is pleased to announce the latest of many cleansings to come. The bombing of Day, New York, was a success. If you think we are joking or messing around, then I hope this will change your mind. You will stop your investigation into our whereabouts or there will be more killings and the country will call for blood. Your blood!

  With all my hate,

  Chaos

  The room was silent as everyone copied the letter and thought about its contents, while trying not to get emotionally involved. As an agent, that was one thing you had to master. Leave your feelings at the door.

  “This group, up until now, has only killed those they considered the guilty. And so far, we haven’t been able to find any reason to mistrust them. Most of the members on this task force have had a hard time going after a group who was helping us, in its own, backhanded way. However, this bombing changes everything. It is time to end the WJA, once and for all. I believe if we do not get a handle on them in short order, we will have to go public with it.”

  Carson raised his hand and hoped that his proposed statement wouldn’t get the captain riled. When the captain nodded at him, he spoke up. “The WJA has their own way of carrying out justice. It has been just and fair, and, as you said, no innocents have been killed until now. Could this Chaos person or group be setting them up and doing this independently of the WJA? The thought of the WJA bombing a whole town just to make a point wouldn’t stop the FBI. It would just ignite us to ramp up the investigation. Chaos knows that.”

  “It’s possible but, in my opinion, and with the evidence we have so far, we think the agency has gone too far. Something like this was bound to happen eventually. We believe their existence is causing more harm than good.”

  The captain took off his glasses and shut off the overhead screen. “The group is evolving, growing like a child. They are coming into themselves. This happens to every great empire, down to the smallest street gang. They get too big, then they start to fall apart, and the original ideals and dreams of the founders are redrawn by new members who want more power. Soon the group is far different from what it was originally intended to be.”

  The meeting went on with questions back and forth, as everyone tried to understand just what the WJA wanted. Agent Carson drew small circles on his notepad. He was lost in his own thoughts. He had gone through the file on this organization, and even with everything the FBI had on them, they were still far from anything solid. The leader was unknown, as well as the location of WJA’s headquarters. No one knew any members who were involved or how far their grasp reached. The only lead was this crazy-head, Chaos. Nevertheless, Captain Jacobson was right. WJA had to be dismantled; they wielded too much power. The American government could not stand by as the law was twisted by any person or organization.

  After the briefing was over, Carson walked back to his office, sat down, and closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. This was the hardest case he had ever worked on. But he knew the group would reflect its leader. He needed to focus on the leader of the group. Like a father rubs off on the rest of the family, so the same would be true with the WJA.

  Going over the things he knew, he began to put together a picture of this leader. WJA was well funded, which meant either rich ties or a self-sustaining business. They had technology and intelligence. Might be someone ex-military, or even FBI or CIA. In order to keep their group secret, and foresee what the FBI would look for, he was leaning heavily towards ex-FBI.

  He needed to think, to burn off some stress. The gym down in the basement was open, and an hour on the stair climber would clear his head. He grabbed a dark blue duffle bag with his workout gear and took the elevator down to the basement. His girlfriend was coming over to make him chicken and pasta tonight, so he made a mental note to clock out at a decent time.

  The gym was empty and the lights were off. The gym didn’t get much traffic between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. Carson liked the silence so he could just concentrate on the weights and his body. He didn’t mind the empty room or the smell of cold metal.

  He was halfway through his pull-up routine when he heard a beep from his cell phone. Looking at the caller ID, he didn’t recognize the number. Checking his phone, he saw he had a new text message. He almost dropped the phone when he saw that it was from a dead man. How in the world is Kirk Weston still alive?

  * * *

  SOLOMON FOUND HIMSELF STRAPPED to a cold metal table in a basement. He could smell the stench of something dead in the room and could hear water. It sounded like it was dripping down the walls, like a trickle from an underground spring. Solomon was gagged. He was stripped down to his boxers and both hands and feet were firmly strapped to the metal table. He was too old for this, and he had definitely underestimated his enemy. Chaos had planned to take him from the very beginning, of that he was sure.

  The single bulb that hung from the ceiling turned on, blinding him. Then, he heard the voice of a woman as she entered the room.

  “How are you doing, Solomon?” Em walked over and looked down at him. She looked different somehow. Her hair was darker and shorter. Did she cut it? Maybe she was wearing a wig before. “I hope you’ll forgive me for holding you in such a place as this. I needed a location where no one would find you. Now that I have your attention, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement
.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I am a psycho, you never thought this would happen to you, blah, blah, blah. But, here you are.” Em took out a camera and set it up on a tripod at the foot of his metal bed. She flipped her hair. “You ready to be a star?”

  A little red light clicked on and Em stood in front of the camera like a trained reporter. “My name is Chaos, and as you might have guessed, I have your beloved leader, Solomon.” She stepped out of the way as the camera took in all of his shame and the poor condition he was in. He was too scared to be embarrassed. The table covered with sharp instruments in the corner caught his eye, and he could see that they had been used before.

  “I want one thing, and one thing only: Mark Appleton. I’ll trade Solomon’s life for Mark’s. I must have him. I will contact you with further details. If you think I am joking or that you can come here and rescue this pathetic man, then think again!”

  With one quick movement, Em grabbed a knife from the table and plunged it deep into Solomon’s thigh. He screamed through the gag and jerked away, but the knife remained. She pulled it out. Blood spurted from his leg, and just before he passed out, she stabbed him in the other leg. Hot searing pain burst up Solomon’s body, and he blacked out with her voice ringing in his ears.

  “You have forty-eight hours before I let him bleed to death. I will give you my location and terms in twenty-four.”

  * * *

  TARAS KARJANSKI WAS STILL pissed off at the dark-haired woman who had stood him up at the airport. He had a mind to track her down and show her what she was missing, but thought otherwise of his impulse. No time for that.