The Path Of The Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  There was no reply; Jarrod did not speak again for the rest of the trip.

  29

  Jarrod could taste Eugene’s unease. He could also taste Roberts’s secret chemical, which sent sporadic bolts of pain through his limbs and caused waves of nausea to wash over him. On the flight over, he had incrementally loosened the glass vial’s cap. He considered tightening the cap before conducting the raid, but decided against it. Four unsuspecting human targets, no matter how well armed, were not a serious threat.

  Likewise, the man next to him was not a threat. But his body language and hormone secretions indicated he was unsettled and uncertain. Without interrogating him, it was impossible to tell why, but Jarrod’s subconscious would never authorize that. Instead, Jarrod used a subtle tactic—psychological warfare. He planted a seed of doubt and watched it grow. Eugene would be his pawn, and Jarrod was about to send a message: he would not tolerate being kept in the dark.

  Eugene brought the Datsun to a stop between a pair of minivans, and Jarrod stepped out. To the uniformed, the residential neighborhood was the least likely place to find a band of terrorists, but it didn’t surprise Jarrod. In the United States, it was far easier to hide in plain sight than in a bunker or a cave. Jarrod used a similar strategy as he strode down the pristine sidewalk in a meter-reader’s uniform. It fit much better than the flight suit, and wouldn’t draw suspicion from the residents. Eugene had offered it to him on the ride over, and he accepted without comment. In a neighborhood like this, deception was preferable to stealth.

  Jarrod passed a family enjoying the weather in their front yard. A man in a wet t-shirt and flip flops was washing his oversized pickup truck while his preschool-aged son raced around with a plastic fighter-jet. The boy stopped making afterburner sounds with his lips and waved at Jarrod. The killing-machine in disguise smiled broadly and waved back, then turned up the next sidewalk. Glancing at a clipboard, he climbed the steps to a blue two-story house and rang the bell.

  A woman with keen gray eyes opened the door a few inches and looked him up and down. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am,” Jarrod said, “But it seems like the transmitter on your water meter has gone out. It happens more often than we’d like, and it’s never the homeowner’s fault. They just…stop working sometimes. Do you mind if I step in and fix it? It’ll only take a moment, and it keeps us from having to disturb you every time we need a reading.”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, “It’s just a meter guy.” Turning back around, she opened the door and ushered him in.

  Jarrod nodded his thanks and stepped into the spacious living room. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture to interrupt the space. Two men leaned against the wall with their arms crossed, watching his every move. Jarrod glanced at the clipboard and sighed, surreptitiously tasting the air. The men were more annoyed than suspicious. The woman led him down a hallway and held the basement door open for him. Jarrod jogged down the bare steps and waited at the bottom.

  “It’s right over here,” the woman said. “Sorry about the mess, we’ve been—”

  The words caught in her throat as an arm slipped around her neck and squeezed tight. Black spots appeared around the corners of her vision, moving slowly inward. She tried to wrench herself free, but her strength was fading fast. She fainted within seconds, falling limp in Jarrod’s arms. He quickly pulled off her t-shirt and tied it around her head, cinching it tight to hold her jaw shut. Placing her on the ground, he poked his head into the stairway. In a near-perfect imitation of the woman’s voice, he said, “Hey! Could you guys come take a look at this? He says there’s something wrong with the plumbing.”

  A man with long hair tied up in a bun was the first to enter the basement. His eyes fell on the woman, who had come to and was feeling at the t-shirt over her face.

  “What the—” he said, reaching around his back to retrieve the pistol hidden in his waistband. He realized it wasn’t there, then spun on his heel. The meter-reader had his companion in a choke hold with one arm, and was reaching toward him with the other. He leaned back, but the meter-reader was too fast. A powerful hand gripped his throat, squeezing hard on his carotid arteries.

  Both men passed out, and Jarrod dragged them behind the stairs. He wedged them into the narrow gap between the wooden steps, then repeated the process with the woman. His captives slowly regained consciousness and began to struggle. Jarrod hopped over them, returning to the first floor. He wasn’t concerned about them escaping; they would have to be cut from the stairwell. Passing through the hallway, Jarrod moved toward the final beating heart.

  He reached a closed door and put his hand on the knob. Finding it locked, he leaned back and swung his shoulder forward. The door burst open, sending splinters of wood into the small room.

  A man at a plywood desk looked up in shock. His brain struggled to make sense of the sudden intrusion, and finally gave his hand the order to reach for his gun.

  It was too late. Jarrod crossed the room and grabbed the man’s arms, twisting him into a pretzel. He held the man’s limbs in place with one hand and tore a piece of carpeting from the floor with the other, then stuffed it into his mouth. He then tore a strip of cloth from the man’s sleeve and wrapped it around his face, reinforcing the gag. Satisfied, he moved to the next step: securing the arms.

  Rather than search the house for a restraint, Jarrod dislocated both of the man’s shoulders. His captive gave a muffled scream and tried to push away, but Jarrod lifted him off the ground, tossing him over his shoulder like a petulant child.

  Jarrod strode through the house, pulling a set of keys off a peg as he went. He entered the garage, and was pleased to see a late-model Chevrolet Corvette waiting for him. It wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, but its speed and agility would come in handy. Using a button on the key fob, he popped the trunk and dropped his prisoner inside. As a precaution, he removed the emergency trunk release, then reached in and crushed all of the man’s fingers.

  The trunk slammed shut, drowning out the shrieks of pain. Jarrod sank into the driver’s seat and thumbed the ignition. The 6.2-liter motor thundered to life, and the dual stage exhaust gave a guttural roar. He clicked the automatic garage door-opener, put the transmission in gear, and backed down the driveway. Lining the nose of the Corvette up with the street, he mashed the accelerator to the floor. The vehicle screamed forward, exceeding sixty miles-per-hour in under three seconds.

  Eugene watched in horror as the Corvette Z06 eased out of the garage. There were only two plausible explanations: the Katharos agents had miraculously overpowered Jarrod, or Jarrod himself was driving the car. In either case, pursuit was not an option. His Datsun, though formidable in its own right, was woefully outmatched. Besides, he couldn’t leave without investigating the house.

  A moment later, the Corvette launched down the street as if shot from a cannon. Eugene checked his mirror, then pulled the Datsun around. Whoever was driving the Corvette had neglected to lower the garage door, so Eugene eased his vehicle inside. Holding his FNS long-slide pistol close to his chest, he stepped out of the car and hit the button to lower the garage door. Moans of pain and frustration echoed from somewhere in the house. Frowning, he moved forward with his weapon up. After clearing every other room in the house, he opened the basement door and peered down. Three torsos were protruding from gaps in the stairs—a woman in a bra and two men.

  As Eugene looked on in confusion, one of the men struggled to turn his head and said, “Is somebody there? You have to help us, some maniac attacked us, and we can’t move!”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Eugene said. “Give me a second.” Returning to the garage, he retrieved three pairs of handcuffs. He wondered how on earth he would explain this to Daron.

  30

  Daron tapped his foot and checked his watch again. Though five minutes remained until Eugene’s prisoner drop off was supposed to take place, Daron was getting worried. His partner hab
itually arrived fifteen or twenty minutes early to even the most casual appointments. Something must have gone wrong for him to cut it so close.

  Pushing his seat back, Daron stood and walked across the dusty trailer. He wiped his sleeve over the grimy kitchen window and peered out. At the far end of the trailer park, a red Datsun 240Z was heading in his direction. He smiled and returned to his seat to wait. According to the pre-arranged plan, Eugene would drop the prisoners in the detached garage and leave without making contact. Daron hadn’t even told his younger colleague that anyone would be in the trailer.

  Daron didn’t enjoy keeping secrets from Eugene, but it was a necessary precaution. Jarrod was too wily to be trusted, and Eugene served as an extra layer of insulation.

  Outside the filthy trailer, the noisy garage door rolled up. A moment later, the Datsun rumbled inside. A car door slammed, and the garage door rolled back down.

  Daron smiled at his partner’s efficiency. Soon, Eugene and Jarrod would be on their way to the next objective—capturing or killing at least a dozen more Katharos operatives. Meanwhile, Daron would summon an awaiting transport vehicle and accompany the prisoners to an interrogation chamber.

  To his surprise, the latch on the front door began to jiggle. Drawing his pistol and taking a step forward, he prepared to meet the intruder head-on. There was a click, and the door swung open.

  “Hello?” a familiar voice said.

  Daron exhaled, holstered his pistol, then dragged the visitor inside. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. “I gave you specific instructions to drop the prisoners and move on.”

  “Good to see you, too,” Eugene said. “Anyway, I needed to get a message to you. I figured whoever was picking up the prisoners would know how to reach you. I didn’t know you would be in here.”

  “Yeah, well, I like to have a hand in the interrogations,” Daron said, moving back to the window. “Is Jarrod still in the car?”

  “That’s, uh, what I needed to tell you...”

  Daron’s head whipped around. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

  Eugene shrugged. “Panama City, for all I know. He gave me the slip after rolling up three prisoners.”

  “Gave you the slip? How?”

  “He took off in a brand-new Corvette. Stole it from their garage.”

  Daron sighed. “You were supposed to keep him on a short leash. I’ve got three more ops you could have run before morning.”

  Crossing his arms, Eugene said, “I don’t know if you’re listening to yourself, but nobody can keep Jarrod on a leash, long or short. What does it matter, anyway? I’m sure he’ll still do everything he can to get Philip back.”

  Daron didn’t respond. Shaking his head, he turned away and ran a hand over his scalp.

  “Which is what he’s here for, right?” Eugene said, his voice picking up an accusatory edge.

  “Yes, of course,” Daron said.

  Eugene’s jaw dropped. “Bull. You don’t care if we find Philip at all, do you? You’re just using San’s tragedy to bring Jarrod in and use him as a weapon.”

  Daron turned and fixed Eugene in a hard glare. “So what if I am? He’s back now, and we don’t have a clue where San’s boy is, so we might as well use Jarrod for his intended purpose.”

  A fire flashed into Eugene’s eyes. “Purpose? Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “You know perfectly well he’s a killing machine. He’s not a flesh and blood human like you or I; he’s a weapon. He’s not happy unless he’s killing bad guys, so I’d rather have him do it here than in some backwater village in Africa.”

  “That’s not the point,” said Eugene. “He may be different now, but he’s still a person. We don’t get to point him like a gun or make his decisions for him.”

  “You don’t really believe that shit,” Daron said. “We make decisions for people all the time. Don’t want your kids to go to school? Too bad. Think you can drive a car without a license? I don’t think so. Want to burn garbage in the city? Tough luck. Sometimes personal choice doesn’t matter as much as the greater good.”

  Instinctively, Eugene had settled into a fighter’s stance. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re lying to me, or to yourself.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t think you’re being honest about why you’re doing this. You pretend it’s about national security or protecting the pencil-pushers in the Pentagon, but I don’t think you give a damn. You just want to crack skulls and watch them bleed. Tell me, do you really think you’re better qualified to question these prisoners than a CIA interrogation team?”

  Daron’s face fell as Eugene stormed on, “Or did you forget what happened to our first prisoner? I bet you he had some valuable information. Might have even known about Aaron Stark’s ambush.”

  It was a step too far. Daron’s face twisted with rage and he took a step forward.

  “What?” Eugene mocked. “You’re gonna hit me now? Go ahead. Take a swing at the last person to stand up for you. Because I’m done.”

  Daron faltered. He slowly came back to his senses, and said, “Gene…I—I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Eugene said, backing away. “I’m taking the prisoners to the CIA. When you really want to start helping people, give me a call.” He pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind him.

  Jarrod watched Eugene leave the trailer. Scents of anger and disappointment drifted on the breeze like messages in the tiniest of bottles. The evidence was conclusive: Daron was hiding something; Eugene was not.

  Under different circumstances, Jarrod would have confronted Daron personally, but there was no time to lose. Unfurling himself, Jarrod abandoned his hiding spot at the edge of the trailer and ran. He leapt over fences and juked through cluttered yards until he arrived at the opposite end of the trailer park. During his brief absence, a pair of onlookers had gathered around his newly-procured Corvette. His clothes were, unfortunately, still in the car, so he realigned the tiny orbs in his armor and became visible once more. Covered from head to toe in polished ebony, he reached under the fender, retrieved his keys, and opened the driver’s side door. The two gawkers took a startled step back, and one of them said, “Hey man, what’s in the trunk?”

  “A hostage,” Jarrod said. “Want to join him?”

  The bystanders took another step back, their eyes widening. They stood paralyzed for several moments, then one of them had the presence of mind to grab his cell phone and snap a picture of the Corvette’s license plate before it sped off.

  Jarrod wheeled the high-performance sports car around the next turn and slowed to a crawl. Following Eugene would require delicate precision. The black-ops agent would see the Corvette in an instant, so Jarrod needed to use his other senses to tail him.

  The black armor slid away from his head, leaving black orbs over his eyes. Thumbing the buttons on the armrest, he lowered both windows and tilted his ear to listen. He could hear the Datsun’s rotary engine revving as Eugene cycled through gears.

  Letting off the brakes, Jarrod began his discreet pursuit.

  31

  The flashing blue light dragged Emily from her wearied slumber. She reached up to rub her eyes, and her gloved fingers bumped into the plastic face shield.

  Right, she thought, hazmat suit.

  The chaotic events over the past few days had forced her to take up residence in the server room. The servers would normally run the entire organization with the efficiency of a Swiss watch, giving orders according to painstakingly created decision algorithms. Plans rarely deviated from the most logical path, so “Empress” didn’t usually have to step in and micromanage. But lately, certain individuals weren’t playing their parts correctly. Chief among them was Jarrod Hawkins, who was supposed to have died at the end of the first act. Through an unfortunate coincidence, his fate had intertwined with the endeavors of Katharos. Nuisances were usually remedied with the careful applic
ation of one or two assassins, but Jarrod was proving extremely difficult to kill. The smoldering ruins of the Central African Command Center was proof of that. To make matters worse, his movements were impossible to track.

  Emily hoped the blinking light at the end of Six’s bed would provide a hint to Jarrod’s whereabouts. Life would be much simpler if she could eliminate him with a drone strike in some remote African Jungle. Reluctant to get out of bed, she mumbled, “Read back server six message.”

  The computer next to Six’s bed spoke in a soothing voice, “A field unit in Eastern Maryland has missed the last three check-ins.”

  It wasn’t unusual for agents to miss their reporting windows; the server was simply waiting for her response. “Go on,” Emily said.

  “The vehicle assigned to that field unit just appeared in a police report. Witnesses stated they ‘heard bumping noises inside the trunk,’ and the driver told them, ‘there was a hostage inside.’ A search of traffic cameras revealed the vehicle to be parked near a known CIA interrogation facility.”

  Emily clenched her jaw and exhaled through her teeth. “Send an agent to check out the vehicle. If anything’s amiss, authorize an assault on the interrogation facility and eliminate everyone inside.”

  “Including Katharos agents potentially in CIA custody?”

  “Especially them,” Emily replied. “And tell the assault team to get videos of their execution. Too many people are slipping up and getting caught, and we need to send a wake-up call to the other cells in the US.”

  “Directives sent,” the computer said. “Shall I inform you when the situation has been rectified?”

  Emily shook her head. “No. I need some rest. I’ll check for updates when I wake up.”

  “Very well,” he computer said.

  Eager to get back to sleep, Emily eased into bed and rolled over. Her eyes fluttered, then remained shut. In a few hours, she would review the footage of the executions and send a message to the field agents in Maryland—incompetence would not be tolerated.