DREAM ON (Mark Appleton #2)

by Patterson, Aaron

  “Now what?” Jamison didn’t like being stuck in the office, not able to assist on the ground. But he also knew the power Emily Dobson had and didn’t want to risk it. Besides, Mark was in charge and he’d ordered the team to stand down.

  “I need a map of the area. Maybe a mine or some old underground cave is there, and if we find the tunnels, we can find out where they lead.”

  Jamison jumped on a nearby computer and plugged in the map of the surrounding area, searching for anything that would help them. The coastline had old houses, mostly summer homes that, in the winter, sat empty. This time of year they would be getting busy as the cool spring air would be changing soon.

  “I think I’ve got something. Looks like an old slave-trader hideout. The traders would move slaves to hide them from the government, and send them back to the English, and then back to Africa. Looks like three or four rooms, and tunnels leading for miles.”

  “Do they lead anywhere?” Big B asked.

  Jamison looked over the maps and hit a few keys on the keyboard. “Nope, they have an entrance at each end, but nothing in between. He must still be down there.”

  “Has to be. I’ll give him another hour, then we go in.”

  Mark made it clear that they had to give him four hours before they did anything. He needed enough time to locate Solomon and extract him without Emily seeing them. His guess was that she would let Solomon go in exchange for himself. She had something against him and seemed willing to go to great lengths to get her hands on him.

  “I think I might have something. You see the house up the road from where Mark is parked? A dead Mafia boss owns it.” Jamison pulled up a blueprint and records dating all the way back to the 1800s.

  “So, what’s that supposed to tell us?” Big B seemed bothered and was beginning to fidget in his seat.

  “Well, the Mafia used it for a staging ground for their entire Eastern operation. Guess who the family was?”

  “Who?”

  “The Valerik family, established in 1882.”

  “And?”

  Jamison looked away from the screen and smiled. “Valerik is a Russian name for a dog.”

  Big B whispered almost under his breath, “The Red Dog.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EMILY HELD A SILVER Glock to Solomon’s head. I hesitated as she smiled and started to squeeze the trigger. “Wait!” I held up my hands in surrender and dropped my gun. It made a hollow sound when it hit the floor.

  “Mr. Appleton. I’ve been waiting so long for this moment. You, submitting to me. And your life, not to mention your friend’s life, in my hands.” She had an evil grin on her face that made me want to scream at her.

  “Please, let him go. You want me, not him.” I didn’t know if it would work, but I had no choice. She wanted control, and I wanted her to think she had it.

  She’d changed since the last time I’d seen her. Emily had a worn look on her face, and she didn’t look like she had any makeup on. She seemed tired; the bitter anger she was harboring was eating her up. It was showing now as she lifted the gun and trained it on me.

  Solomon turned his head to look at me for the first time since I came into the room. He was pale, and a pool of his blood spilled off the table and onto the ground. He had no fear in his eyes, and with a blink, he closed them.

  My heart raced, and I could feel my face flush red.

  Before I made a move, I waited a split second for the signal. Then it came.

  All I can say is it feels like a wave of heat and energy flows over you and bursts from your fingertips. My heart slowed to a normal rate, and I knew my reflexes were set to go. I reached out and grabbed the wooden chair that was on my right. It was lighter than I thought it would be, and I threw it with all my strength right at Emily. She was surprised but still managed to fire the Glock.

  I didn’t feel anything, but even if I had, nothing was going to stop me now. I rolled to the ground, came up with my gun, and trained it on her chest, firing. Blots of red bloomed on her shirt. She looked down at them in surprise. Emily touched the red spots with her right hand and stared at the blood as if realizing for the first time that this was a battle she might not win. Sinking to her knees, I heard her skull thud as it hit the dirt floor.

  Solomon tried to speak, but duct tape was still over his mouth. I freed him from the straps. He tried to sit up but was too weak. I lifted him on my shoulder and turned with one final look at the torture room, and then we left without a word.

  A hoarse whisper escaped Solomon’s lips. “Find the book, Mark. It’ll reveal who you are.”

  “What?”

  “Find the book,” he rasped. “Find who you are.”

  But that didn’t make any sense. Sometimes Solomon was like that though—he gave cryptic messages that weren’t supposed to be sorted through until later. So I tucked the words away in my memory.

  “Just hold on, Solomon. Tell me more about that later.”

  He was dehydrated, and he’d lost some weight. A half-moon was high in the sky when we surfaced, making shadows across the grassy hills that surrounded the entrance. Putting Solomon down, I took out my medical kit and dressed the wounds on his legs. His body was covered with cuts and puncture marks. Emily had used him as an outlet for her anger. He kept on looking towards the hole we had emerged from, nervous.

  “You’re going to be okay. Just relax. I’ll have you back home in no time.” Solomon nodded and lay back in the grass, breathing in the fresh air. I couldn’t go back through the caves, so I decided to walk in the direction of the car and hope Big B would pick me up on the satellite.

  Solomon looked like he was about to pass out and I worried that I would have to carry him all the way back to the car. I knew I could do it, but I wondered if Chaos had any friends keeping watch just in case we escaped.

  My danger bells starting going off, so I glanced at the surrounding countryside to see if my internal alarm was justified. Crouching in the grass, I crawled to the top of a small hill about fifty yards from Solomon. I scanned the open grasslands. I couldn’t see anything moving or anyone approaching. The flicker of light from a small house off in the distance was the only sign of life for miles around. Turning, I saw a dark figure rise out of the ground. I knew who it was the instant I saw the shadow. I reached for my gun.

  Gone!

  I must have put it down when I was dressing Solomon’s wounds. Emily staggered from the cave entrance and waved her Glock in the air like a crazy person. Then, pointing it at Solomon, she fired three times, sending a flash of light with each shot. Solomon jerked on the ground with each shot, and then lay, lifeless. I screamed and ran toward her, wrapping her in a football tackle. The impact sent both of us tumbling down the cave opening in a cloud of dust and limbs.

  Solomon! I saw his body as I rushed past. His head was blown to mush from the force of the bullets.

  Emily was up faster than I was, and she found her Glock. The muzzle flash was all I saw. I knew I’d been shot, but I kept coming at her. She fired again and my legs gave out. I tried to force myself to get up, but all the strength drained from my body, and I collapsed. The last thing I saw was Emily standing over me. Her shirt was torn open and the Kevlar vest underneath had two bullet holes in it. A trickle of blood oozed from each hole. And then I saw her boot coming at my face, and I knew no more.

  * * *

  TARAS KARJANSKI WENT TO bed without any wine or drugs. He was still tired from the previous night’s exploits and needed to be at his best for the next morning’s events. He dreamed of the United States begging for mercy as he held them hostage. His twisted face smiled in his sleep.

  * * *

  CARSON LOOKED AT THE note from Chaos and closed his eyes. It had been delivered an hour ago, and it was still being combed over by the forensics team. He’d had a copy sent to his computer so he could review it more closely. Captain Jacobson wasn’t sure it was real, and he doubted that the threat would be carried out, or that it was even possible, for that
matter.

  Cursing, he looked at his recent incoming calls. Kirk Weston was running short on time. He pushed the send button to call him. Then he hung up before it could ring on the other end. Think, Carson. Would they do this? No, this is nothing like them. Carson pulled up the information on Emily Dobson that Kirk had sent him a few hours earlier. It was not complete, but it was a start.

  He scanned the email attachment again, even though he had practically memorized it already. Emily Dobson’s life was a maze of twisted events and tragedies that had turned her into a psychotic killer. Her parents had been murdered and her husband killed as well. A trail of death seemed to follow her around like a kitten. But he didn’t believe she had the connections or the power to pull off what he now read for the hundredth time:

  Dear America,

  It is time to see what you are made of. Do you want change or do you just want to be entertained? In two days you will have a choice to make. You will have to choose between your children and your oil. An untraceable phone line has been set up and you will be able to call in and vote. The choice is simple: a school full of children will be bombed, or an oil refinery will be blown sky high, causing your oil prices to skyrocket. I choose the refinery, and I also choose the school. You decide!

  With all my hate,

  Chaos

  Red Alert was put into effect. But Emily Dobson was a ghost. They had next to nothing on her, and the fingerprints Isis pulled turned out to be from a girl in South Dakota who had died in 1983. Kirk Weston was his only lead, and Carson didn’t like having a dead detective holding him over a cliff with no hope of saving himself if he let go.

  The schools in the New York area were stepping up security. Carson had read the note in The Post as well as in the New York Times. The news media was all over the story, and with their usual flair for the dramatic, had blown it way out of proportion. Just like Emily liked it. America was rising into a panic. Carson didn’t believe the WJA was involved, but the task force had a different idea. He needed more proof before he brought it up to Captain Jacobson.

  Carson picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the forensics team.

  “Hey, Sam, you get anything?” Carson twisted the phone cord around his fingers and grabbed a pen from a plastic penholder on his desk.

  “Nope, it’s clean, just like the other ones. No prints or anything else I could trace.”

  “Thanks,” Carson hung up and sighed. Kirk better hurry up with something new, or the WJA would be the next big story on the six o’clock news.

  * * *

  THE NEWS HEADLINE SPREADING across the airways and internet was the chaos that Chaos wanted. Late night talk shows made jokes, and Jay Leno made up Jaywalking monologues to help lighten the country’s mood. But the underlying tone was that people believed this person would carry out the threat, and worse.

  The discussion was on every morning talk show. If America should call in and vote, or let the lunatics make up their own mind. It was a hot topic around water coolers and in cafés across the country.

  “I’m voting. I don’t care what anybody says, I got kids in school and I won’t stand by and put them in danger over gas prices going up!” The redhead waved her hand in front of the Channel 7 News camera and bobbed her head in defiance. True to form, every crazy and uneducated citizen was polled and interviewed on the subject. The talking heads on the evening news added their slant to it and told the American people what to do—in an unbiased way, of course.

  The following day, just like Emily Dobson wanted, the world watched as a single number was plastered across every paper in the country.

  1866BOMB01 to vote for blowing up a school. 1866BOMB02 to vote for blowing up an oil refinery. You can also text BOMB1 or BOMB2.

  The FBI and CIA had their best hackers and agents trying desperately to shut down the phone numbers or to at least trace them. Nothing worked. The trace was routed to every pay phone in the DC area, then jumped to Detroit, St. Louis, and so on. The plan was underway, and the phone lines were busy with people trying to vote on what could be the most important decision they would ever make.

  * * *

  THE RED DOG WALKED from his condo with a new skip in his step. The top story on the morning news brought a smile to his face. Hard to believe such a thing, but who was he to stand in the way of progress? He wore a dark blue shirt with blue jeans and a ball cap with the Under Armour logo imprinted on the front. He looked like an average dad on his way to the store for some milk and a dozen eggs.

  He felt the weight of the .45 under his pant leg where it was firmly holstered and ready for whatever the day brought. Making his way through the almost empty lobby and out into the bright sunshine, he breathed deeply, feeling peace for the first time in a long time. His urge to kill had been satisfied for the time being, and his plan to bring America to its knees was underway. Years of planning and dedication were about to pay off.

  Today, he had the door attendant bring up his bright yellow Lamborghini. It was a day to celebrate, to be happy, to feel alive. The mood of the city was not so joyful. Taras began to feel the fear and hopelessness all around him, and it filled him with a sense of power. I am God now! I can say who lives and who dies. I am unstoppable!

  The slender bellhop drove up to the curb behind the wheel of Taras’s car. He got out, touched his finger to his hat, and bowed slightly. Taras slipped him a fifty and pushed past the quiet man without even looking at his nametag. Sliding behind the wheel, he spun the tires and sped into traffic, making a few drivers give him the bird, which only added to his glee. He was not to be messed with today.

  No, not today.

  The feel of the twelve-cylinder engine and the smell of leather filled his nostrils as he made his way out of the city. In a few hours, he would see an old friend. He was looking forward to seeing her again. It had been too long, and with all the phone calls and emails, it was time to see Emily Dobson, face to face, and take care of a growing problem once and for all.

  * * *

  KIRK YELLED AT THE taxi driver to keep up with the yellow Lamborghini but the driver’s English wasn’t good, and the yelling didn’t help. “Stay with him! You can speed, you know!”

  Isis looked nervous, but tried to stay calm. The world was well aware of the new threat thrust upon them as of this morning. It was clear now that Taras Karjanski and Emily Dobson were somehow tied together in a plan to hold America hostage.

  The cab swerved through traffic and Kirk sat back in frustration as the yellow sports car disappeared from sight and the cab got tangled up in the morning’s rat race. “Now what?” It took all his self-control to keep from strangling the taxi driver.

  “Let’s check in and see what Big B has on Mark. If we find Emily Dobson, we find Taras Karjanski. I’m sure that’s where Taras is going.”

  Isis had collected herself, which calmed Kirk down a bit. The driver said something over his shoulder, but Kirk ignored him and watched as Isis called in and talked to Big B. The phone call lasted less than a minute, and soon they had the GPS coordinates on the last known location of Mark and Solomon. But it was going to take a few hours just to get out of the city, and longer to get to where Mark had left his car.

  They drove past a billboard which had Chaos’ two numbers flashing on it, asking which one would you choose—with the name of a news channel in the corner. It infuriated Kirk and he clenched his fist.

  “It’s all your fault,” he said angrily.

  “What?” Isis said.

  “It’s all Mark and WJA’s fault. Emily is fixated on you and if you weren’t trying to act outside the law this would never have happened.”

  Isis clenched her jaw, trying to stay in control. She took a deep breath, then spoke gravely. “We don’t hurt good people. We save them. And people like Emily Dobson will destroy things—it’s what they do. If she hadn’t fixated on us she would’ve fixated on someone else and the destruction would still have happened.”

  Her voice soothed him, and his frow
n smoothed out. “Are you sure about this all?” She always seemed so confident. Didn’t she have doubts? “How do you know WJA is the good guys?”

  She looked out the window. She was silent for so long that Kirk thought she wouldn’t answer. Finally she said, “I was born in Egypt, in a little town you never heard of. Someone found me in a trashcan, still bloody and dirty from birth. They took me to an orphanage, but it was full.” Kirk swallowed. He’d never seen her this real, this vulnerable. It softened him to hear it. “I was passed around from orphanage to orphanage, barely surviving, when someone found me.” She looked at Kirk with light in her eyes.

  “Solomon?” he said.

  She nodded. “He adopted me. He took me to the United States where I grew up as one of the first to go through the WJA training program.” Isis smoothed her hair and turned to look at Kirk.

  “So you were molded from a kid too, huh?”

  “It’s not like that. Solomon loved me and cared for me. I had no memory of all the training, and when I turned eighteen, he offered me the choice. I took it without a second thought. I wanted to do something that mattered, something that would change the world. Something to keep kids like me from starving to death. I was just a castaway, a nothing, and now I am somebody. I save people from murderers, rapists, and worse. What more is there?”

  He still couldn’t drop his questions. “Does it ever bother you? I mean the killing. It’s not easy to kill another human being, even if it’s for a good reason.”

  “Yes, it bothers me. I live with the faces of the ones I’ve killed in my dreams every night. But if that’s the price I must pay to save the innocent, then I gladly pay it.”

  He’d always thought of himself as a tough guy, never scared of a fight, but to know and live with the ghosts of the men you have killed was a different story. Kirk had killed and would kill again, but he only did so if he had no other option. He had never gone out to kill as a mission of justice.