Forging the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  The man grinned and moved toward the stairs. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re finished.”

  “Thank you.” Jarrod said emphatically. He waited for the door at the top of the stairs to close. Black streaks crawled up his face and covered his eyes, and he walked the perimeter of the room, checking for concealed cameras or microphones. There were none.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, and the girl opened her eyes. She had dark skin and a small, round nose. Her eyes were deep blue and seemed to glow from within.

  Jarrod felt a sense of recognition. Something about the eyes…

  He strove to recall where he had seen her face, and images flashed into the forefront of his mind with exceptional clarity. He found her within seconds. Her image was on a security feed. It was during his last trip to Africa—the girl’s parents were meeting with Valdano Makunza, who promised to find education, work, and better living conditions for their children. Children.

  “You’re safe now,” Jarrod said. “No one will hurt you anymore.”

  The girl’s face held no trace of hope.

  “I need you to stay here for a little while longer,” he added. “Don’t come upstairs until I tell you to, no matter what, understand?”

  The girl didn’t move or give any sign of comprehension.

  “Your brother, is he here?”

  She gave no response

  Jarrod repeated the question in French. Finally, she gave a tiny nod.

  Continuing in her native tongue, he asked, “Où?” Where?

  She pointed toward the ceiling.

  Jarrod stood and the black armor enveloped his head. “Stay here. I’m going to go help your brother and punish the men who took you.”

  A young man with shaggy brown hair sat on a luxurious bed next to an eleven-year-old boy. The man stroked the boy’s hand with his own, whispering assurances of tenderness in what lay ahead. He promised to be gentle, and even suggested the boy might enjoy it.

  The room was small and Spartan, a night-stand and the king-sized bed were the only furniture. A thick curtain served as the only door.

  The man’s breathing grew heavy. He caressed the boy’s face while the boy gazed idly at the floor.

  The man was not discouraged by the boy’s lethargy. He stood and undid his belt buckle, then retrieved a prophylactic from the nightstand. The young boy’s eyes flitted toward something at the back of the room, then widened. The man frowned, then turned around.

  Jarrod had pushed into the small room without a sound. Sneaking through the sordid halls had been simple—everyone in the house was distracted by one depravity or another. A young man with shaggy, shoulder-length hair was in front of him. The girl’s brother was on the bed, observing Jarrod’s shadowy form with terror in his eyes, but making no sound.

  The man spun around, and Jarrod lurched forward. He thrust a hand over the man’s chin and clamped down. The man tried to step back, but Jarrod followed, maintaining a steely grip. With two sweeping motions, Jarrod knocked the man off his feet and pulled him into a standing head-lock. The man pulled at the hand over his mouth, but couldn’t free himself. Jarrod shifted his hand upward, covering both the mouth and the nose. The man responded with a frenzied clawing at Jarrod’s hand.

  “Don’t worry, you will be able to breath in a moment,” Jarrod whispered. “I need your help with something.” He dragged the man out of the room, down the hallway and to the stairs. The man’s resistance was feeble by the time they reached the first floor. His eyes fluttered on the edge of consciousness.

  They were alone in a massive living room, and Jarrod loosened his grip over the man’s mouth. The man exhaled, then sucked in a deep breath. Jarrod clamped down again before he could call for help.

  “Now,” Jarrod said, “call the rest of the Johns in here.”

  The man’s eyebrows furrowed, and he shook his head. Jarrod shifted one arm around and held a black, clawed hand near the man’s armpit. Slowly, he pierced the soft flesh and fingered the large cluster of brachial nerves inside.

  Jarrod released his grips over the man’s mouth and his screams filled the room. Jarrod pinned the man’s head back. With his other hand, he traced downward, cutting into the skin on the man’s side.

  Five men stumbled into the far side of the room, each carrying firearms. Several seconds passed as they fought to understand what they were seeing.

  Finally, a man with cruel, intelligent eyes barked a command at another. “Unlock the door, get everyone outside!”

  The second man nodded, and left the room the way he had entered. There was a jingling of keys and a grunt of frustration. “I can’t get it open! Looks like somebody jammed dirt into the lock.”

  The stairs began to rumble, and a dozen Johns in various stages of undress burst into the room. The men in the front froze at the sight of Jarrod, and shot rapid glances between his screaming hostage and the armed men.

  The man who appeared to be in charge shouted, “Go around! Go through the kitchen and get outside!”

  A few Johns ran without a second glance. Others were slowly edging along the wall, watching Jarrod with trepidation.

  With a suitable audience in place, Jarrod decided to make his next move. He shifted his left hand to grip under the man’s jaw. Blood poured forth as his sharp fingers punctured the tissue in his captive’s throat. The man’s screaming stopped, and a ripping, cracking noise took its place. With a forceful tug, Jarrod tore off the man’s head.

  38

  A nightmare shook Santiago from his sleep. He lay in bed, sweating and trying to recall the terrible dream, but it slipped into a vague haze and finally escaped his probing thoughts entirely. Rolling over, he watched Anita in the dim glow of his alarm clock. Her chest rose and fell peacefully, even when someone began to knock on the front door. San eased out of the bed, trying not to wake her, and answered the door.

  Jarrod was standing on the front porch. His baggy clothes were covered in dried blood.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I thought it would be impolite to let myself in.”

  San yanked the door wide and beckoned Jarrod inside.

  “What on earth happened to you?” San said in a strained whisper.

  “This?” Jarrod tugged at his jacket. “It is not mine.”

  San’s wide eyes and open hands demanded further explanation.

  “I hoped to borrow some of your clothes. I have another objective I’d like to complete tonight.”

  San looked at his watch. “It is three-thirty in the morning. What are you planning—” San shook his head and said, “Scratch that, I don’t want to know what you’re up to. I want to know whose blood that is.”

  “I don’t know.”

  San sighed. “Okay, fine. You don’t know his name. Whoever he is, is he alright?”

  Jarrod blinked and said nothing.

  “Work with me, Jarrod. Did you kill a man?”

  “No.”

  San breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I believe I killed six men.”

  San staggered with incredulity and grabbed fistfuls of his own, graying hair. “Six? You believe?”

  Jarrod nodded. “Another received medical attention, but I can’t be certain if he survived.”

  As if momentarily struck blind, San searched for a chair with his hands and sank into it. He stared at the wall for nearly a minute before Jarrod said, “May I borrow some of your clothes?”

  “No, Jarrod! You may not borrow my clothes. In fact, I’m not even sure you should be in my house!” San jumped up and started pacing. “What if they find you with my things? What if there is DNA evidence? What if they think I’m involved?”

  “They?”

  San shot Jarrod an angry glance, then made a fist and started thumping his own forehead. “I…I don’t know. Somebody.”

  Jarrod patted San on the shoulder. “It is alright. I can find new clothes elsewhere, and I would never incriminate you. The clothes don’t matter. I also wanted to see you so I could
report my actions.”

  “Report your actions? Why? I’m not your boss! I didn’t tell you to do anything like this!”

  Jarrod shook his head. “I want to remain honest with you, and I thought you would like to know about what I did tonight.”

  San crossed his arms and, despite looking very pale, nodded his assent.

  Jarrod recounted his activities during the previous night with tedious precision, starting with Leland Blair. He described his infiltration of the brothel, holding a man hostage, then killing him in front of the others. He explained how the proprietors of the brothel opened fire, and he killed all but the apparent leader.

  San looked as if he would be sick while Jarrod described a bloody interrogation and execution of Rishi, the owner of the brothel. When Jarrod had finished, San went into the bathroom. He emerged several minutes later, wiping his face with a towel and looking as if he had aged twenty years.

  “So this was a prostitution ring? I mean, these men were keeping sex slaves?”

  Jarrod nodded.

  “And you said there were…children?”

  He nodded again.

  San shivered. “I guess…I don’t know. These men probably got what they deserved, but it’s just all so awful, Jarrod.”

  With his eyes closed, San took several deep breaths. “How do you think this is connected to you and your family?”

  “The man I interrogated only knew loose details. However, the presence of the two children cannot be a coincidence.” Jarrod sat down next to San. “I don’t know if someone arranged for the death of my family, or if it was an accident, but I now know the name of a man who does. Jacques Barth.”

  San stared at Jarrod and mumbled, “Emily thinks this crusade might derail your recovery, especially if it turns out to be a coincidence.”

  Jarrod looked down at the floor and spoke softly. “That which has been is what will be, that which is done is what will be done.”

  San looked dumbfounded, but then grinned. “Poetry. Emily will definitely want to hear about this.”

  Jarrod moved to the door. “I will report what I find.”

  “Jarrod, I’m sorry about before. You can borrow my clothes if you need them.”

  Jarrod cracked the door and put a dark eye to the gap. “It won’t be necessary.” The door swung open and closed without a sound.

  Exhaustion washed over San, and he leaned back in his chair. He had no desire for sleep, but was too tired to stand. He tried to quiet the din in his mind and wished that Anita would wake up and provide a distraction.

  A soft buzzing noise gave the interruption he was hoping for. He walked through the house with his head tilted, and zeroed in on the sound. The insulated box was vibrating. He opened it and grabbed his cell phone. The screen displayed the words, “Incoming call from Emily Roberts.”

  “Emily? Everything alright?”

  The tinny reproduction of Emily’s voice didn’t hide her anxiety. “San! He was right; our friend was right. They killed his family, and Wagner was behind it!”

  39

  The black night sky was fading, but the warmth of sunrise was yet to spill over the horizon when Jarrod reached the home of Jacques Barth. It was a modest house in a gated community, and it sat on a well-manicured acre of land. This was not the abode of a foot-soldier or a simple-minded enforcer. Jacques was high on the totem pole—high enough to have some answers.

  Two men in dark, wool coats stood near the open garage door. One held a cigarette, which lit up his face in orange light with every drag. The other man was gesticulating impatiently.

  “C’mon,” he said. “You’re tight with the boss, you gotta know what’s eating him.”

  The man with the cigarette shrugged.

  “Why are we standing out here, freezing our asses off? What’s got him so scared”

  “Jacques ain’t scared,” the man replied, blowing smoke out with every word. “He’s just regrouping, you know? Formulating a plan.”

  “Bull. I talked to Mike in the hospital. He said Jacques was running with his tail between his legs back in the alley.”

  The man with the cigarette looked annoyed, and the other held up his hands diplomatically.

  “Maybe that wasn’t exactly how he put it. Look I’m not doubting Jacques or anything, I just want to know what’s happening. You know me, I won’t run my mouth.”

  Another quiet puff, accompanied by stern silence.

  “Campbell, you know you can trust me. What about that time I looked after your ma’ while she was sick and you were off in the jungle somewhere…”

  “Don’t act like I owe you anything,” Campbell growled. “I’ve gotten your stupid ass off the hook so many times...If you want to ask the boss why we’re out here, go ahead. I’m sure he’ll appreciate you waking him up and asking dumb questions.”

  “Alright, alright, take it easy,” he said, jamming his hands into his pockets. “I’ll just shut up and stand out here in the cold without knowing why. It’s fine.”

  Campbell dropped the cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his boot, then shoved a hand into his coat.

  “What?” The other man asked, suddenly alert.

  Jarrod walked halfway up the driveway before Campbell stopped him. “Stop!” he barked, pulling a large pistol from under his jacket. “Don’t move!”

  “What? Who is it?” his compatriot asked.

  “This,” Campbell said, eyes wide with amazement, “is Jarrod Hawkins.”

  The pair of men circled around behind Jarrod with their weapons held close to their sides. They told Jarrod to put his hands on his head and directed him into the garage. It was completely empty, except for a polished BMW sedan parked directly in the center. After closing the garage door, the men took turns screwing bulky suppressors onto the barrels of their pistols. With monosyllabic commands, they ordered him into the house.

  Jarrod stepped into a lavishly decorated foyer and stopped to look around. The walls were covered with ornate paintings, rugs, and metalwork from around the globe. The floor stood in stark contrast; it was littered with empty beer cans, dirty laundry, and food wrappers. Someone poked Jarrod in the back and grunted, “Downstairs.”

  Jarrod stepped over an empty pizza box next to a massive suede couch and padded down the carpeted stairs. The basement boasted a luxurious home-theater that was also in a state of willful untidiness. Then they passed through a bulky, insulated door into a small room that smelled of rust and bleach.

  Campbell pointed his pistol at Jarrod’s forehead and said, “On your knees.”

  Jarrod complied, and the other man scurried to his side. He clamped heavy shackles around Jarrod’s wrists and ankles. Thick chains connected the shackles to iron fittings on the floor.

  “You stay here,” Campbell said, “I’ll get Jacques.”

  The man stepped out and locked the door, and Jarrod stared with blackened eyes at his remaining captor, who fidgeted and looked with keen interest at the dirt beneath his fingernails.

  “Can I see your baby-sitter training card?” Jarrod asked.

  “Hey, you don’t talk unless we tell you to,” the man spat.

  “I’m sorry.” Jarrod paused, then said, “I just want to make sure you’re certified…”

  The man responded by jamming his suppressor into Jarrod’s temple.

  “You still want to make jokes? Feeling funny?”

  Jarrod shook his head, and the man withdrew the firearm.

  When the man had resumed his post by the door, Jarrod said, “It’s okay.”

  The man took the bait. “What’s okay?”

  “It’s okay that you’re the dumb one. I bet you really round out the team.”

  The man marched over and struck Jarrod in the face with the butt of his pistol. Jarrod slumped onto the concrete, then started convulsing violently. The chains rattled and jolted against the bolts and blood began to drip from Jarrod’s mouth.

  “Shitshitshit,” the man said. He set his pistol down and knelt, p
utting his hands on Jarrod’s sides. As he did so, Jarrod’s head started bumping against the floor.

  “No…” the man moaned. “Stop that.” He leaned in and cupped Jarrod’s head in his hands, and the shaking suddenly stopped.

  The man let out a sigh of relief and examined Jarrod’s head. A moment later, a light flashed in front of his eyes and the room collapsed into darkness.

  The lock clicked, and Campbell pulled the door open for Jacques. Jacques stepped inside and burst into laughter. “Bishop, you dumbass,” he said. “How the hell did you screw this up?”

  Campbell stepped in behind him and saw the unconscious form on the floor with blood oozing from his forehead. Jarrod was sitting with his back against the wall, his shoulders shrugged and his palms facing up, a picture of innocence.

  Jacques showed a toothy grin and knelt in front of Jarrod. Campbell stood off to the left and raised his pistol, aiming it at Jarrod’s throat.

  “I didn’t recognize you at first,” Jacques said. “In fact, I had forgotten all about you.”

  “Same,” said Jarrod.

  Jacques frowned, then jabbed a finger at the black around Jarrod’s eyes and said, “Can you even see right now?”

  Jarrod turned his head to look at Campbell, then back at Jacques, but said nothing.

  Jacques glanced to his left, then back at Jarrod, squinting. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. I was disappointed that you didn’t die in the parking lot that day.”

  The chains clanked as Jarrod grabbed at the air in front of Jacques.

  It was the reaction Jacques wanted, and he bellowed with laughter. “What? Still sore? I tried my best, honest. It’s not my fault you weren’t in the car when I plowed over your wife and kid.”

  40

  Jarrod pulled against the chains, roaring in anger. Jacques stood over him, his face glowing with pride.

  Eventually Jarrod relented. He sagged against the wall, gasping for breath.

  “I wasn’t even supposed to kill you,” Jacques said. “Eye for an eye kind of thing, I think.”