by Peter Darley
After a few moments, he collected himself, and took the diffused explosive device from under the bed. He looked at it hopelessly, affirming his belief that wherever he went, they would find him. He wouldn’t be safe anywhere.
Then he remembered Brandon, Belinda, and Tyler were heading into L.A. to find information on a human trafficking organization. Wilmot, Kerwin, and Rhodes would undoubtedly be aware of that by now, and were most likely in pursuit of them. He would be just as wise to step directly into the fray rather than run from it. After all, attack had long been recognized as the most effective form of defense.
He took his satchel from the cupboard and concealed the bomb inside it.
***
Tamara Quinn approached a seemingly-normal residence in San Fernando. To the unenlightened eye, it appeared as a standard urban house in a regular built-up area, north of Hollywood. However, the area was well-known for its innocent-looking homes actually being used as studios for the production of countless adult movies.
At twenty-six, Tamara knew the traces of hardship were apparent in her visage. Nevertheless, attired in a respectable three-quarter-length blue skirt and white blouse, she appeared convincing as a corporate executive. Her short blonde hair completed her image of a hardened survivor, who’d made the transition from street hooker to acquisitions manager for a record label.
She rang the doorbell and waited. She hadn’t seen her friend, Miranda Curtis, in over a year.
The door opened, and she smiled at the tall, stern-faced young woman before her. It was a surprise for her to see Miranda without her usual, gothic, white face makeup. The dyed, raven-black hair and black lipstick remained, along with a black, leather lace-up bodice, tight-fitting leather trousers, high-heeled leather boots, and a spike-studded collar. “Hi, Mir.”
“Come on in.”
Tamara followed her inside and immediately noticed the hallway lined with candles in holders on the black walls. Whips, canes, and shackles hooked on the wall acted as bizarre decorations. Above were rows of candles, and an oppressive, gloss black ceiling.
As they came to a closed living room door at the end of the corridor, Tamara glanced at an open doorway to her immediate left. She grinned, knowing the stairwell, with its archaic, faux-stone walls, led to Miranda’s play-dungeon.
“I always keep the door to the living area closed,” Miranda said. “I don’t want the subs to see anything domestic in here.”
‘Subs’ being a shortened term for submissives, Tamara understood perfectly. “I taught you well, it seems.”
“You better believe it. I get a lot of repeat business.”
They stepped into a regular-looking living room, fully carpeted with sofas, armchairs, and a widescreen television fixed to the wall.
Miranda sat down on the edge of her sofa. “I asked you over here because I had a call from an ex-boyfriend of mine.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“Alex Dalton. Gorgeous son of a bitch, playboy, and high-flying corporate whiz. He works for a major corporation in Dallas.”
“I see. So, what can I do for you?”
“Sapphire.”
Tamara felt the color draining from her face as she took a seat opposite Miranda. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t know. All I know is what Alex told me. He needs to know about Sapphire, and where he’s holed up.”
“Forget it. Sapphire isn’t a subject anyone should be asking about.”
“Why?”
“I was working the street five years ago, remember?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m asking you. You’re the only one I know who would even have a clue about this guy. Who is he?”
“Sapphire came to town and took over most of the street vice. I managed to escape from that life before he could take me, as he did so many of the others.”
“What I think Alex wants to know is, where does this Sapphire take people after he’s kidnapped them?”
Tamara shook her head in a warning manner. “I don’t know. And even if I did, I wouldn’t like to say. There’s no way anybody could survive trying a stunt like a rescue, if that’s what he’s thinking. Sapphire practically runs Los Angeles from the shadows.”
“You want me to tell you who’s been taken?” Miranda said. “And who’s trying to break her out?”
“No, and it doesn’t matter. Even the LAPD won’t go anywhere near them. It would take an army to pull it off, and I doubt it’s a battalion that wants to do this.”
Miranda looked away coyly, and Tamara noticed. “It isn’t an army, is it?”
“Not exactly. But it’s not far off.”
Tamara’s intrigue peaked. “OK, who?”
“It’s Brandon Drake. Sapphire has his sister.”
“Brandon Drake? The soldier who escaped from Leavenworth?”
“Yes, and he’s not alone.”
“Oh, boy.” Tamara was quiet for a moment as she considered the possibilities.
Miranda moved across the room and knelt before her friend. “Tam, we’ve known each other for years. Isn’t there anything you can tell me? Isn’t there someone who would know?”
“Not really. I mean, there’s an urban legend, but nothing real.”
“What urban legend?”
“Siren. But, it’s just a crazy story that was going around at about the time I got off the streets.”
“So, what’s the story?”
Tamara sighed. “I wish I hadn’t said anything now. I can’t take it seriously, and I think it’s a waste of time.”
“Humor me.”
Tamara looked at her curiously. “You’re going to a lot of trouble for this Alex guy. Wanna tell me why?”
“He . . . He still means a lot to me, all right? He couldn’t accept my sexual preferences, but—”
“You’re still burning a candle for him, right?”
“Something like that.”
Awkwardly, Tamara said, “OK. It was in the early days, when Sapphire first arrived. It was only ever spoken of in hushed whispers. A story about a beautiful young girl. She was a backpacker who was picked up by Sapphire’s scouts in Tucson, and taken to the place where he sells women to the highest bidder. According to the legend, she escaped.”
“So, where is she?”
“I’m not even convinced she ever existed. Street girls spin tall yarns. Helps to keep up their morale. She’s referred to as Siren. Rumor has it she set herself up in another state. New life, new name. Someone once suggested even a new face. It’s absurd.”
“Maybe not.”
“On the street, they used to whisper about it. ‘The one that got away,’ they’d say. But I just used to roll my eyes at it. Typical street bullshit.”
“But what if it isn’t?” Miranda said. “What if there’s a woman out there who is the only one outside of Sapphire’s members, or whatever they’re called, who actually knows where this shit goes down? If it’s true, how do we get in contact with her?”
“If she actually exists, she’s not gonna want to talk to anyone. People disappear for a reason.”
Miranda sat back in deflation.
Tamara softened a little. “All right, I’ll try, OK?”
“Try what?”
“I think it’s a complete waste of time, but . . .”
“But?”
“But just on the chance there’s anything to this, I’m still in touch with a girl I used to work with on Avenue Nineteen. But I have to be so damn careful. She’s being watched almost twenty-four-seven. They all are. This will just be the first step. It’ll take one lead to lead to another, and another, until I can communicate with someone who knows how to contact Siren, who is most likely a myth. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Concern appeared in Miranda’s eyes. “Tamara, don’t do anything, please. We’ll find another way. Don’t go anywhere near Avenue Nineteen. I just wanted to help Alex.”
Tamara stood and smiled reassuringly. “I won’t be going anywhere near there, I promise. I wouldn’t
risk being seen talking to any one of them. What you’re looking for is an email address, if it even exists. I know how to play the cyber-anonymity game.”
Miranda gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Tam.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Tamara parked her new Lexus outside an internet café on Palm Canyon Drive in Palm Springs.
She stepped out of the car, entered the building, and walked through rows of people conducting their business at the screens.
She approached the refreshments bar at the end, purchased a cappuccino, and an access shield for thirty minutes of internet usage. She then made her way across to a secluded corner of the room.
After sitting down behind a monitor screen, she inserted her shield into the scanner. The screen flashed up a welcome message allowing her to open up an internet connection.
Her mind became filled with apprehension and hope. If there was even a chance of Sapphire being taken down, she knew she had to do whatever she could to make it happen.
She proceeded to log onto an exclusive ghost blog where she would be completely unidentifiable, except to the one she was attempting to contact. The account had been set up at another internet café in Mexico, where she’d created her username, Firebird. There was no name, no IP address, and no other form of identification that could be linked to her. Such was the extreme risk.
A box appeared on screen bearing the invitation:
Enter your comment here: -
Tamara typed in her message:
Firebird: Contact me as soon as you can. There are people who need your help and they’re not regular folks. I think these are the ones you’ve been praying for.
She checked the message and once she was satisfied, she pressed ‘send.’ Sitting back, she finished her cappuccino.
As she was about to log off and collect her credit shield, a response appeared on the screen:
Siren: Tell me more.
Thirty
Interceptor
Extremely frustrated, Tyler strolled along the aisle of a convenience store in Barstow with a basket of provisions. It was the morning of the third day he’d been stranded with his brother and Belinda in the hotel awaiting word from Alex. Brandon couldn’t leave the hotel room for fear of being identified, yet again placing him in a type of prison. A ‘do not disturb’ sign affixed to the room’s door handle prevented even the cleaning staff from entering. Tyler had generously paid the manager not to be concerned, lightly laughing it off as a long weekend for two friends ‘doing what lovers do.’ However, as the days rolled by, it was beginning to wear a little thin.
Moving along the newspaper and magazine aisle, he scanned the pages to see if he could find any articles about Brandon, but there wasn’t anything. As far as the media was concerned, he’d become old news already, which was certainly an advantage.
To his left, he noticed a comic book bearing the illustration of a man wearing the exact outfit he’d worn when he’d rescued Belinda in Denver. Brandon’s outfit.
He picked up the copy of Interceptor #1, flicked through the pages, and quickly came to stylishly-illustrated panels of a man gliding a woman on a zip-line between two skyscrapers. Then they were in a blue sports car flying out of an exploding van. On the following page, it devolved into complete fiction as the flying car arrived in a cave-like underground hideout.
Regardless, it was abundantly clear his brother had been turned into a comic book superhero. As outlandish as the idea was, there was something about it that brought a smile to his persistently tense expression. He decided it was something Brandon had to see, and took the comic to the checkout.
While carrying his provisions out to the parking lot, his cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket. He rested the two shopping bags next to the van, took out the phone, and answered. “Hello? Oh, hey Alex. What’s happening?”
As he listened to Alex, he was seized with urgency. Quickly opening the van with his free hand, he threw the shopping bags into the footwell.
***
Brandon was finally coming through his period of alcohol withdrawal, surprised by how being confined to a hotel room had helped. There was no exposure to alcohol, no temptations, and Belinda was with him every step of the way.
Her support had grown since they arrived. She’d watched him drink gallons of water, and resume his physical training regime, confident the man he’d once been was very close to making a return.
He’d begun training on the day following their arrival, albeit with great difficulty, due to a dense head and reduced energy levels. By the second day, he was feeling livelier and able to attempt more vigorous workouts. Their love-making had also resumed with energy and passion.
Brandon had practically rearranged the room by taking away the bedside tables and pushing the bed into the far corner. The wide space that was left provided an ample environment for him to perform push-ups, then push-ups on his knuckles with his feet on the bed, sit-ups, crunches, and leg stretches. He pushed himself beyond the pain barrier, driven by an obsessive need to redeem himself and exorcise the booze from his system.
He practiced his karate kata moves within the space he’d created. It mystified Belinda how he knew the punches, blocks, and kicks when he had no recollection of ever learning them. They seemed to come to him by instinct.
She watched him joyously. As every hour of practice passed, his balance and precision improved, with a combination of sharp strikes to the air and graceful sweeping movements.
He completed his morning workout and stepped into the bathroom to freshen up.
Belinda stood up from the bed and a sudden nausea came over her. It was the second time she’d felt it since arriving at the hotel, although it passed quickly. She thought it was perhaps because she hadn’t eaten. Hopefully, Tyler would be back soon with some food, or maybe he’d arrange something with room service again.
After half an hour, Brandon came out of the bathroom, clean and shaved. His long, damp hair hung in his eyes, so he swiftly combed it back with his fingers.
Belinda looked at him with a hopeful stare. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much,” he said. “I feel awake, alive, and like every last drop of that goddamn poison is finally out of my system.”
She moved toward him amorously. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you say that.” She held his affectionate gaze for a prolonged moment. “Come here.”
He came toward her and put his arms around her. She immersing herself in his embrace, and owned the moment of her lover’s long-awaited return. “I love you so much.”
They were halted by a rapid knock on the door.
“Hey, guys. It’s me,” Tyler said.
“Yeah, hold on, bro. I’ll be right with you.” Brandon broke the embrace and opened the door.
Tyler hurried inside breathlessly with his two bags of provisions. “I’d have ordered something from downstairs, but we’re gonna have to start on what I’ve got here.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I just had a call from Alex.”
Brandon’s eyes widened. “What’s he say?”
“Just that everything with regards to Sapphire is ‘in hand.’ We should get to L.A. right away. I’ve got the address and details of the person we’re supposed to contact.”
“Who is it?”
Tyler rummaged around the inside pockets of his denim jacket and took out a hand-scrawled note. “Someone named Miranda Curtis. San Fernando.”
“Who’s that?”
“She’s an ex-girlfriend of Alex’s. Apparently, she has a contact who stands a chance of finding something out.”
“OK, let’s have a bite to eat and get packed.”
Brandon took the provisions bags, and Tyler took out the rolled copy of Interceptor #1 from his inside pocket. “I thought maybe you’d like to see this too.”
“What is it? You started reading comic books now?”
“No, but I think you’re gonna want to read this one.”
/> Brandon took the comic and scanned the cover and first few pages. “What the f—!”
Belinda looked over his shoulder, instantly deducing the story in the comic began with the Carringby attack and Brandon rescuing her. When all material from the newspaper reports and cell phone camera photos were exhausted, it became a completely fictional narrative. “No way.”
Brandon finally broke into the unique laughter that could only come with the realization that he was now, officially, a comic book. It seemed like an eternity since any of them had laughed. Caught up in the contagion, Tyler and Belinda followed. The comic book seemed to add yet another dimension to the effect his story was having upon society.
After the levity died down, Brandon said, “Come on. Let’s get ready.”
“Sure.” Tyler edged closer to his brother. “Hey, you sure you’re OK? I mean—”
“I’m fine, Ty. Trust me. There’s gonna be no more bullshit.” He looked down repentantly. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Tyler smiled and tapped him on the shoulder. “All right, let’s get moving.”
Thirty-One
From the Shadows
Wilmot walked out of the elevator into his office floor, making his way through the hustle and bustle of a regular day at Langley Headquarters. Several employees acknowledged him as he moved through the crowd with his brand new leather briefcase, but his mind was too occupied to reciprocate.
Arriving at Deborah Beaumont’s office, he opened the door without knocking. Deborah turned to him, startled. The anger on her face was unmistakable. Wilmot ignored the contemptuous stare from behind the spectacles resting on the tip of her nose. “Tell Kerwin and Rhodes I want to see them immediately.” He turned and exited the room, slamming the door behind him.
After entering his office, he placed the briefcase on his desk and sat down. He’d only been made aware during the last hour that Crane had survived, marking Garrett’s first failure. And Crane was too dangerous to be still living.
