Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  Cautiously, I peek through the crack in the bedroom door. Out in the living area, Kyle lies completely motionless, his face covered with a pillow, a single wisp of smoke rising from a black spot in its center.

  Serpentine dread coils around my chest, making it difficult to breathe. That woman is with the FBI, and she just executed Kyle in cold blood.

  The tall man who entered the room speaks with the female agent, detached and cold. Shadows obscure his face as she replies.

  “It’s done, sir.”

  “Thank you, Assistant Director.”

  Burrell starts banging on the bathroom door. I bolt into the living area, reach over to the bar, grab the gun that Burrell kicked away. Swifter than I’ve ever reacted before, I point it at this tall man whose identity is somehow clear to me, though I’ve yet to see his face. “You murderous freak!”

  Every single hammer in the room cocks. The tall man turns to face me.

  “Colson!”

  “That’s President Colson, sweetheart.”

  “Not until January.” It’s clear he’s seen more than his share of weapons pointed at him. He doesn’t even blink, just looks down at me with an arrogant smirk.

  “Put that down, young lady. You might hurt someone.”

  I refuse to turn. From the corner of my eye, I see Kyle, put down like an animal. I almost forget that I’m pointing my gun at the newly elected president of the United States, who happens to be a war criminal.

  “Stuck your nose where you shouldn’t have.” Colson steps forward, not even holding his hands up. “Though I must admit, it’s great to finally meet the daughter of the illustrious Peter Carrick.”

  “Not another step or I swear I’ll shoot!” This doesn’t deter him in the least. He’s right in front of me, chest pressed up against my gun.

  “Sometimes you have to choose the lesser of two evils, knowing someone will die in either case.”

  “Is that all Bình Sơn was? A choice?”

  He turns to the agents. “Burrell, Maguire, would you step outside, please?”

  Burrell looks on with concern as he follows Maguire to the door. “Are you sure, sir?”

  Colson nods. They shut the door. “You know, Xandra, you shouldn’t speak so strongly against things about which you have no clue.”

  “I know more than you can imagine.”

  A thoughtful pause. “Which means your father—”

  “Shut up!” Dad’s gone. Kyle’s gone. I’m certainly not getting out of this alive. So what’s to stop me right now from putting a bullet right between Colson’s eyes? He more than deserves it.

  “What now? You think you’re going to shoot me?”

  “I said, shut up!”

  “Like a cold-blooded killer? Oh, there’s irony for you. Well go ahead! Surprise me!”

  My hand is shaking so hard the gun rattles. I bring it up to his forehead.

  “DO IT!”

  I pull back on the trigger. Just a bit more and it’ll fire. This is right. I’m doing the nation—no, the world—a great favor. I want so badly to deliver the justice he deserves. When will there ever be another opportunity like this?

  But then I hear Mom’s voice, “Your gifts are to help others.” Just a little farther on the trigger. A little more and … “No! I’m not going to sink to your level!” I shove him back and lower the gun.

  Tremorous breaths.

  Racing pulse.

  I nearly killed the president-elect.

  He scoffs. “Just as I thought. You’re weak, indecisive, and easily manipulated. Just like your father. What a disappointment!”

  I point the gun at him again. But he just laughs.

  “Rotten apples don’t fall far from the tree, do they? I bet your mother was glad to die knowing—”

  I let out a feral shriek and jam the gun into his chest. This time, Colson’s eyes widen in surprise. Murder or not, there’s no turning back. “You need to die. Right now!”

  And with that, in the absence of the slightest hesitation, I pull the trigger.

  81

  IAN MORTIMER

  “One sound and I’ll see to it that your daughter is returned to you in four easy installments.” I slam the trunk shut and climb into the passenger seat. Though bound and gagged, Carrick might just be foolish enough to test my resolve.

  Mark Collinsworth gets in the driver’s seat and starts the ignition. “He specifically said he wanted both of them dead.”

  “Slight change of plan. Didn’t TR tell you?”

  “No.”

  Peter Carrick is more trouble than he’s worth, but I’ve got to keep him alive. No doubt, when TR learns that Xandra is alive, I’ll need to use her father as a bargaining chip. “I take it you didn’t get the message about the change of checkpoints?”

  “Guess not.”

  I hope my lying skills haven’t waned. “Right. Well, we’re going to pull over to an alternate checkpoint where I’ve got another car waiting. We’ll split up there, and I’ll dispose of Carrick alone. This will minimize your chance of exposure.”

  “That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

  “He calls the shots. We follow to the letter, you know that. Would you like to call and ask him if he’s certain?”

  Mark smirks and drives up the road away from the freeway. I’m less than pleased that TR’s assigned me a partner at this late stage. Especially Mark Collinsworth, of all people. After years under my supervision, he’s almost as good at this as I am. Or once was, as it were. The lad’s learned well and managed to rise up as PM in Colson’s special projects team.

  As for my predicament, I suppose I ought to appreciate the fact that TR hasn’t yet demanded proof of Xandra’s execution. “We’ll turn left and take SR-5 for about two miles.”

  Mark turns off the main road into a wooded area. His cell phone chimes. One touch of the Bluetooth earpiece and he’s connected. “Yes … no … right. Sure. You got it.” As if nothing just happened, he ends the call and continues driving.

  “Who was that?”

  “Len, my golfing buddy. We’re going tomorrow. Want to join us?”

  “Don’t be daft. In seven years have I ever said yes?”

  “Just give it a try. You’ll be hooked, I promise.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Whatever. We’ll get you one day.”

  It’s been a while since we’ve worked a project together, and I’m wondering how he’s changed over the years.

  “Pull over here.” I point to a wood off this remote road. It’s the perfect spot. Carrick’s been quiet. Smart man. Mark is accepting my fabrications, which is exceedingly good luck for me. I’m glad he hasn’t permitted the promotion to inflate his ego, as many less-seasoned professionals do. “I’ll transfer Carrick to the Benz behind those trees; you wait here.”

  “Got it.”

  “When I give the signal, drive south. I’ll wait five minutes and go north.” I shut the door and Mark opens the trunk. With my gun pointed, I pull Carrick up by his collar. The hood is still on his head and he’s not struggling. The duct tape over his mouth is doing a fine job keeping him quiet. “All right, I’m going to remove this hood and have you step out of the trunk. If you try to run or do anything other than what I tell you, I will shoot you. Nod if you understand.”

  Carrick nods.

  When I pull the hood off, I hear another door open. It’s Mark. I turn around only to find his gun aimed at my forehead. “What’s this?”

  “Like you said, TR calls the shots. We follow to the letter. Except this time, you didn’t.”

  “You’re mistaken. Just listen—”

  “Xandra Carrick’s still alive. You failed your mission. Colson wants you and Peter Carrick dead. Now.”

  Carrick tenses up, but with his feet and ankles bound and his mouth sealed with duct tape, he’s not in a position to do anything about it. “You’re in over your head, Mark. Once TR’s got his hooks into you, you’ll never break free. He’ll hold everyone you care about as coll
ateral.”

  “What do you know, old man?”

  “You think you can just make a pile of money off him, then quit and settle down somewhere nice with a girl and start a new life? You can’t. Trust me, I tried.”

  “What makes you think I want to settle down?” He cocks the hammer. “Sorry, Ian, but you of all people know that I have to.”

  Before he can pull the trigger, I duck and ram my head into his gut—a hit worthy of a championship rugby tackle. I may no longer be as spry as I once was, but I’m still every bit as strong.

  He’s winded. Gasping. I’ve got him pinned down with my knee on his chest. Mark fires a shot into the night.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch Carrick hopping away, his hands tied behind his back. Any other time, it might be comical. But Mark strikes me in the head with his gun. For a moment, everything goes black, except for the floating flecks of light.

  I’ve only got a second to act. So I grab at his gun. Thrust it high into the air. He fires another round. Tries to pull it down.

  Another shot.

  With all my weight, I ram my elbow down into his neck. I feel the sickening collapse of his windpipe. In this tiny window of opportunity, I twist his wrist and he drops the gun without a struggle.

  At last, my vision clears.

  Mark’s eyes bulge. He’s holding his throat and unable to breathe. Our eyes meet. For a moment, he silently pleads with me. What have you done? Then his eyes fill with hate. If he could, he’d kill me with his bare hands right now.

  But he hasn’t got the strength. If I simply walk away, he’ll asphyxiate in a few minutes. But what a horrible couple of minutes that shall be.

  He squeezes his eyes shut and his body jerks subtly. Tears draw wet lines down to his ears. He can’t be more than thirty years old. My thoughts turn to Bobby. On those painful nights when he can barely move, he’s so brave, tries not to cry out loud. Tears draw the same lines down his face.

  I can no longer stand to see this. I’ve already caused so much suffering. Might as well, I’m a murderer and going to hell anyway. Mark opens his eyes. He’s scared.

  I reach for the gun that’s fallen to his side. Press it into the middle of his forehead—Mark shuts his eyes.

  Then I end his torment.

  82

  XANDRA CARRICK

  The greatest shock after squeezing the trigger of the gun pointed at Colson is the hollow click. No explosion, no recoil, just a void click under my index finger. I open my eyes, and there is President-elect Richard Colson, his mouth pulled into a tight line, more disappointed than ever.

  “Didn’t bother checking, did you?” In one seamless move, he twists the gun out of my hand, flips it over, shoves in the missing clip, and aims it right at my face.

  I step back, but it’s no use. He twists my arm behind my back. “You’ve earned a distinct honor, sweetheart. I’m going to make an example of you.”

  Agent Burrell and Assistant Director Maguire return. Three other black-suited men arrive as well. Colson hands the gun to one of them.

  A second agent speaks into his headset and covers Kyle’s body with a sheet. I can’t believe he’s dead. Numbing trepidation cauterizes the sorrow and outrage. I’m feeling faint. Agent Burrell reads me my rights and straps my wrists behind me with plastic tie wraps, while the exchange between Maguire and Colson fades into white noise.

  “Was it really necessary, sir?” Maguire says.

  “Agent Matthews was your responsibility. You failed to contain.”

  “I’d feel more comfortable if I knew exactly—”

  “That’s beyond the scope of your position.” Colson leans over and murmurs something to one of the Secret Service agents, then straightens up and adjusts his tie. “Assistant Direct Maguire, you have the thanks of my office for your cooperation in apprehending Ms. Carrick. Agent Russell will take it from here.” Colson pats Russell on the back and leaves with the other two Secret Service men.

  Maguire speaks to Russell quietly. “Where are you taking her?”

  “An FDC. After processing, she’ll be transferred to a NAVCONBRIG.”

  “But this is a federal case.”

  “Homeland’s got a list as long as the Verrazano Bridge on this one. Her anti-American activities go back almost ten years. The terrorism and attempted assassination charges supersede, but don’t worry. The murder charges you’re concerned about will also be brought up.”

  I probably shouldn’t speak, I can’t help myself. “I haven’t killed anyone. It’s Colson. He’s the one you should be investigating!”

  “You’ll want to keep quiet until you have an attorney,” Maguire advises. But keeping quiet is what precipitated this nightmare in the first place.

  83

  IAN MORTIMER

  It’s come to a head, all this damned killing. I’ve had enough. TR’s made it exceedingly clear that he’s cutting all ties now that he’s been elected president of this screwed-up country.

  Carrick has tripped over a rock and lies facedown in the grass, thrashing and turning. I pull Mark’s BlackBerry from his belt. The next move is absolute. “Settle down, Peter. I’m coming.” I turn him over and sit him up. With my gun pointed, I squat down to meet his gaze. He squints as I pull the duct tape off of his mouth.

  A text message from TR pops up on Mark’s BlackBerry.

  TR: Status?

  Mustn’t hesitate. But I’ve got to stall him. On Mark’s behalf, I text back:

  MARK: Mortimer and Carrick Dead. Possible exposure.

  TR: local police?

  MARK: Y

  TR: Go offline 72 hours. Upload proof of purchase then.

  MARK: Offline 72 hours. Confirmed.

  That ought to buy me some time. TR believes Mark’s killed me. The lad was talented, well trained, but ultimately inexperienced. If not for this final betrayal—though, given his situation, I could expect nothing else—we might have gone on to become friends.

  Perhaps not, but a twinge of regret grips me nevertheless as I stare at his lifeless form.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” Carrick asks.

  “I’m done.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t take your word.” He stares over at Mark’s dead body. “Aren’t you working for Colson?”

  I nod and spit out some blood. “Collinsworth would have ended up dead in a few years at the rate he was going. I just saved him a lot of heartbreak. And the lives of God only knows how many.”

  “Yeah. You’re a real humanitarian.”

  “Let me remind you that I’m the one holding the gun. Don’t you dare judge me. You haven’t the foggiest what it’s been like. The constant fear for my family because of that monster.”

  “I’ve got more than an idea. I’ve suffered thirty-five years of it. And that monster is now the president-elect of the United States. What’s he got on you, anyway?”

  “Everything! And now that I’ve failed to … Look, I was assigned to take your daughter out—”

  “So you’re the one who tried to kill her!” Carrick shouts and lunges at me. “I’ll tear your guts out!” But his limbs are still bound and he just falls on his side.

  “Easy now.” I back up and wait for him to right himself. He’s snarling like a rabid wolf. “The important thing is that she’s still alive—”

  “No thanks to you, you piece of—!”

  “As are you! What you’re failing to grasp is that I’ve been out of this business for a while. It was only a couple of years ago that Colson reinstated me—against my will, I might add. You want to know what he’s got on me? I’ll tell you.”

  For the next few minutes I tell him about Colson’s deathgrip on my life, how he’s got Bobby’s in the palm of his hand. How every night, I pray for forgiveness for the lives I’ve had to take. “Now Bobby’s got this incurable disease. And it’s through Colson that we’ve been able to get access to experimental treatment, albeit illegally.”

  “Sorry about your boy,” Carrick says, calmer. “But
that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.”

  “No. It doesn’t. Not a night passes that I’m not haunted by the faces of those I’ve killed. You’d think that twenty years of clean living might mitigate some of that, but it doesn’t. But why is God punishing my little boy? It’s the sins of the father revisiting the son, I tell you.”

  Carrick is suddenly quiet. I didn’t expect it, but something’s changed in his demeanor. The rage has been replaced with—I don’t know—resignation. “Some sins are unforgivable, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And everything you’ve done for Colson, you did to protect your family.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Dammit, Mortimer, that’s what it was like for me too.”

  “What are you on about?”

  Carrick tells me about Colson’s blackmail for the past three decades. As he does this, a bridge of solidarity forms over the gulf of suffering each of us has experienced and caused. A perverse solidarity at that.

  “In a strange way,” says Carrick, “if one could remove the emotions, I’d say you and I have more that unites us than divides.”

  “I’ve nothing against you or your daughter personally. And if it makes any difference whatsoever, I am sorry.” I pull a hunting knife from the sheath on my belt. This makes him back away abruptly. “I’m going to release you now.”

  Confused, he blinks. “How do you know I’m not going to turn around and kill you?”

  “I don’t.” He cuts the plastic tie wraps from my wrists. Then the duct tape strapped around my ankles. “But I trust you won’t.”

  We eye each other with suspicion, but at the same time, we’re two lost soldiers, once opponents, now facing a common enemy.

  Rubbing his wrists, Carrick doesn’t attempt to hurt me. Nor does he flee. “My wife used to quote this verse from the Bible: ‘For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That’s the problem with eidetic memory. I can recall perfectly all the images I see, all the words I hear, but not necessarily their meaning. She quoted that verse every time we got in an argument. I think she was reminding herself not to get into personal conflicts. But to do battle with her own personal demons.”