by David Beers
“No. I’m right, and you’ll see it soon. Christian must suffer more because much is expected from him. He was once a tool to me, something I thought would help create the chessboard. I see now, though, that he is my most important piece in this game. So I must prepare him.”
Luke’s cell phone buzzed on the table. The screen read PRIVATE.
Charles was calling.
And that was another reason Luke had waited. He imagined Mr. Twaller was feeling a good deal of anxiety, wondering when Luke would show up. Christian was suffering, but in his own way, Mr. Twaller was too.
“One second,” Luke said to Veronica as he picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, Luke. How are ya?”
“I’m watching the sun set, Mr. Twaller. It’s going down behind mountains, and it’s beautiful. How are you? Did you manage to ask Christian about my brother?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
“Something about how your brother died of cancer. I don’t know. To be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention,” Twaller said.
“That’s unfortunate. There was a lot of good information about our future in that story. May I ask what you’re calling for?”
A pause, and Luke knew Charles’s blood pressure was rising. The man hated not being in control of everything, and his inability to make Luke do as he wished drove him nearly insane.
“He wants to talk to you,” Twaller said finally.
“Christian? Well, by all means.” Luke knew it wasn’t true. Twaller thought hearing Christian’s voice might push Luke to action, which meant the anxiety was finally getting to him.
Christian wasn’t going to beg Luke to come. Christian would have almost nothing to say. This was only a cheap ploy.
“I’m here.” Christian’s voice was scratchy and his tongue sounded as if it might have tiny anchors attached to it, keeping it from fully rising to the top of his mouth.
“How are you, friend?”
“How do you think?”
“And Tommy?” Luke asked. “How is he?”
“Fuck you.”
“Is Mr. Twaller listening?”
“Yes,” Christian said.
“Will answering my questions truthfully cause you more pain?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Luke watched as Veronica approached him, getting closer than she had during the past week. Tears were in her eyes again. Luke looked away, watching the sun continue its descent.
“He had you call me hoping it would make me come, is that right?”
“Most likely. As you know, I’m not great at understanding psychopaths.”
“Oh, Christian, that’s not true,” Luke said, smiling. “I’m not a psychopath, which is why you never saw me. You’re the best at understanding them. Have you not turned that insightful microscope on your friend, Mr. Twaller? Does he know about your capabilities?”
“I don’t know what he knows.”
“Do you want me to come get you, Christian?”
“I don’t care what you do, Luke.” There was strain in his voice, as if merely talking was exhausting. “If you come get me, and you free me, I’ll kill you if I can. You put me here, in your own way. You put Tommy here, too. I’m only talking to you now because if I don’t, he’ll hurt me more.”
“Has he hurt you a lot?” Luke said, his eyes flicking to Veronica as he asked.
“What’s that old song? Was it REM? Something like, everyone hurts sometimes? Fuck you. How about that?”
Luke smiled again, wide. “You keep impressing me. Tell Mr. Twaller that I’ll be on my way soon.”
Alan Waverly was back in the office. It’d been nearly a week since the attack and while doctors hadn’t cleared him for work, he didn’t care. The entire building had been scrubbed, though it was still off limits for employees. More tests needed to be run, but Waverly sat down with the head technician and asked him about the risks.
“Off the record? Not a lot,” the man had said. “Sarin in gas form dissipates quickly and we’ve scrubbed pretty ruthlessly. On the record, we haven’t cleared the building yet and you shouldn’t go in.”
Waverly didn’t care.
He cared about almost nothing at this point. All of it was superfluous. Except for one person: Luke Titan.
Waverly’s second in command had taken over briefly, but now Waverly was back and once again in charge. He’d spent five days recovering, before insisting he be released from the hospital. His vision was still hazy and he vomited a few times a day. His hands shook and he found it hard to walk long distances, but his mind seemed to be functioning fine and that’s all he needed.
Titan had killed hundreds of Waverly’s agents, perhaps even a thousand at this point (no doubt it would break that threshold very soon, if it hadn’t already).
Titan had nearly killed him.
Titan had evaded capture and wreaked havoc across an entire nation.
And now, he’d taken Christian and Tommy.
No recordings had survived the hospital massacre. Whoever engineered the coup had been careful to wipe the digital copies, as well as the backups. They’d been prepared, both with weapons and knowledge of how to do it. Waverly didn’t know if Titan had been there, though he sort of doubted it. Waverly probably wouldn’t be alive if Titan had been present.
That didn’t matter either, though. Christian and Tommy were gone, most likely dead. No leads had turned up over the past few days, and no word or sightings of Titan. Everything had simply stopped once his two agents were nabbed.
Not to mention, Veronica Lopez. She’d been kidnapped while returning to her hotel room, another agent shot dead.
It seemed as if Luke had won. His war was over, because he’d destroyed all his enemies—all except Waverly.
The FBI Director leaned back in his chair and looked out his office window. It was large, stretching the entire length of the room, and the view it gave of D.C. was spectacular. Waverly knew he was done at the FBI. He had a ten year term, and had served eight of it, but he wouldn’t continue serving after this. He still owed the Attorney General a call within the hour. What was Waverly going to say? That he thought it was over, that they could rest easy because Luke had those he wanted? Even that wouldn’t be enough. The AG wanted Titan’s head on a platter. The President, too.
And still, none of them wanted to see Titan dead as much as Waverly. They couldn’t possibly.
And that brought Waverly to the question running through his mind: Are you willing to do it?
He would be leaving the FBI shortly, but would he really step down without having found Titan? Without killing him? It made his stomach hurt to even think of the possibility. The President hadn’t asked for his resignation yet, so he still had time.
Are you willing to do it?
Everything else was noise. Only that singular question mattered.
So far, the Director had stayed within the lines of legality in his search for Titan. There might have been gray areas here or there, but nothing that would stick if the public found out.
Are you willing to do it?
Thirty years with the FBI and in each one he’d followed the rules. He’d been a stickler about them.
Titan pushes us all to the edge. Christian, Tommy, and even me, he thought.
Waverly had reached his edge, because there was a way to catch Titan, but it meant going outside the law. In a way, it meant violating what he’d built his career on: integrity. The law worked because underlying it was a protection of rights. Did some agents violate those rights? Of course. But Waverly hadn’t been one of them, and he’d always believed the United States was the greatest country in the world because of the rule of law.
So, are you willing to do it?
The choice was simple, as most were. Either he went outside the law and eliminated Titan, or he stayed within the confines of the Constitution, and Titan escaped.
In the end, there wasn’t a fucking choice.
His visi
on blurred for a second—the aftermath of the sarin, not tears. When his eyes focused again, he blinked a few times, then turned from the window to his desk. He picked up his cell phone and scrolled through the list of names.
There had been a lot of FBI Directors over its history. A long lineage of people, most of whom had upheld the law. J. Edgar Hoover was the first, and he’d set a standard of sorts—collecting secrets on everyone inside and outside of the government. Making his position unassailable. No one else, as far as Waverly knew, ever held as much power in this position—but that didn’t mean certain things weren’t made available. It didn’t mean that certain numbers and types of people weren’t collected over the years.
Waverly had never gone down this path. Truth be told, he never thought he would have to. Yet, here he was, finding the number that would lead to Titan’s eventual death.
“You’re sure?” The man listened to the other side of the phone, waiting for an affirmative answer. “I only ask, because once I make this call, there will be nothing else I can do. It’ll be out of my hands.”
The man heard the words he needed to and hung up the phone.
He looked at it for a second, lying on the table in front of him. He didn’t want to touch it again, like the thing was a diseased frog with large boils bubbling off it. The man was surprised at who he had just spoken with; he knew people in positions of power had his number. Indeed, many had used it before, just not that man.
Alas, it didn’t matter if he was surprised or not. He’d been given a job and he knew the money would be there for this one.
Still, he didn’t reach for the phone.
The man who called, the Director of the FBI, didn’t know exactly what he was asking. He thought he did—oh, yes, they always thought that—but the truth was, the Director probably wouldn’t have called if he’d understood the coming consequences.
Another minute passed and then the man picked up the phone. He found the number he wanted and hit call.
It was too late to stop anything now, and he hoped the Director really understood that. The man now holding the phone certainly wouldn’t be responsible for any misunderstandings.
Chapter 3
“Okay.”
The person on the phone had once been named Martin Cianado. It had been a long time since anyone he knew had referred to him by that name, though.
“The target?”
He wrote it down on a piece of paper, his handwriting small and jagged. He placed the pencil next to the words and pushed his chair away.
“Okay,” he said again. “You know my rates?”
The person on the other side said they did.
“Half before beginning, half when finished.”
The person on the other side said that was fine.
“Take down my banking information,” the man once known as Martin Cianado said. A second passed and then he listed out his account number. “I’ll be in contact when it’s over.”
He hung up the phone.
Martin Cianado was now known by a much simpler name: the animal. He didn’t care what people called him, but the animal had apparently stuck. Names were not important to him.
The animal didn’t know who had given him the name, though he imagined it had been a client. It came about years ago, and by that time, the animal had ceased thinking of himself as Martin, anyway. A name is necessary when you were a part of the world, but the animal didn’t want much to do with this place. He only ventured out into it when a target had been assigned.
And for that, being known as the animal was fine.
He stood from his kitchen table, his plate of eggs not eaten, but finished all the same. An assignment had arrived and the animal preferred to begin working right away.
The man walked to the kitchen sink and scraped the food into the garbage disposal. He was a thin man, though not skinny. The glasses on his face gave him a sophisticated look; combined with his cropped hair, he could have passed as any businessman in America. However, beneath the clothes he wore, the scars covering his body like dry riverbeds would destroy any such notions … and inside his head, a pink light shone that no other businessman (or person, for that matter) would have understood.
The animal cleaned the plate, dried it, and placed it in his cupboard.
He went to his bedroom and began packing. He didn’t know how long the assignment would take, only that he wouldn’t return until it was finished.
The animal went to his closet and moved a few things to the side. He pushed hard on a panel in the wall, causing it to recede. He removed the panel completely and then stuck his head and arm through the hole. He pulled a string hanging from above and light poured down into the dark crevice.
He picked up a computer and put it in his backpack. Night-vision binoculars came next. He pulled out other items and loaded them into his pack; none of them were weapons, however. He kept those elsewhere, but would soon visit them.
It took 30 minutes, which was the precise time the animal had planned. Any longer and he was carrying too many things. Next, he went to the shower, turned the water to the hottest he could stand, and stepped under the spray. He washed, and then stepped back out, drying himself with a towel. He went to his sink, shaved, then placed his toiletries inside a small travel bag.
Finally, he dressed. He wore a gray suit, one that would be hard to remember if someone was asked about it later. His shoes were black, as was his belt, and as he checked himself over in the mirror, he liked what he saw. Not in any aesthetic sense, but in a utilitarian fashion. He would not be remembered. He would barely be seen.
He went back to his kitchen and picked up his cell phone, calling the only number programmed into it.
“I need a plane ticket.”
“Where to?”
“I’ll start in Atlanta.”
Charles’s hands kept flexing into fists before relaxing again at his sides. He realized he was doing it, but couldn’t seem to stop himself.
He stood in front of Windsor, listening to grunts and the sound of fists smacking against sweaty skin. The grunts were coming from the men doing the hitting, not Windsor.
He’d passed out about 30 seconds ago.
“Stop,” Charles said.
The large bodyguard stepped away from Windsor, who hung against his chains like a doll. Nearly lifeless and without emotion.
Charles had hoped watching his men beat Christian would help the way he felt, but it hadn’t. The FBI agent had barely lasted two minutes before falling unconscious, despite Charles’s carefully followed instructions to avoid his head.
He walked a few steps forward so that he stood in front of Windsor. The man’s brown hair was wet and matted to his forehead. His face looked nothing like the person they’d brought in here, a massive, broken thing that would have fit better on a hunchback in some cathedral.
“He’s coming soon,” Charles said. “That’s what he told you to tell me. You didn’t tell him, though, that you might not be alive when he finally showed up, did you?”
Windsor said nothing, only hung loosely against his restraints—the only things keeping him from collapsing.
“Leave him alone.”
Charles turned his head partly over his shoulder, knowing where the small whisper had come from. The invalid.
“Shut up, unless you want me to start on you.”
“Leave him alone,” the invalid repeated.
Charles turned completely around and stared at the crippled man lying on the cot.
“You’ve got quite a mouth on you for not being able to do anything. My men have to wipe your ass just so I can stand in here without smelling your stench.”
“Next time they’re doing it, see if they’ll wipe yours, too. From where I’m lying, you don’t smell so hot yourself.”
Charles couldn’t help the smile that came to his face. The invalid was pale underneath the yellow light, black burns spread over his body like rotten flowers, and yet he was lying there making goddamn jokes.
Charles walked to the cot and looked down at the dying man. “You got some balls on you.”
The invalid said nothing. His eyes were closed and he lay on his back.
“You know I’m going to kill you both, right?” Charles said.
“No, I didn’t know that. I figured this was just your way of saying you like us. I thought it a bit odd, but wasn’t going to say anything, since we’re your guests and all.”
Charles chuckled a bit, then let the laughter die. “Do you think he’s coming? I haven’t asked you much about it, because you’re not as smart as the freak over there.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve known Luke longer than anyone.”
“So, what do you think?”
“He’s coming, though probably not how you’re thinking.”
“What do you mean?” Charles asked.
“Luke is going to kill you because you’re getting in his way.” The invalid paused, catching his breath some, the torture Charles had inflicted getting in his way.
Charles smiled at the thought.
“He likely doesn’t hold any ill will toward you,” the invalid continued. “You’re simply in his way and that can’t be allowed to continue. So, he’s going to kill you. But, look at what he did to me. I can’t move and can barely talk. None of that was necessary. He could have simply slit my throat and let me die, but he chose to keep me alive. That’s what I mean. He’ll come, and he’ll kill you, but you won’t consider how he’ll do it until it’s too late.”
Charles had a headache and he was tired of dealing with these two. He was beginning to regret ever taking them. Sure, they’d gone and seen his mother, but other cops had done the same over the years and Charles hadn’t kidnapped them. No, he’d taken these two to piss off Titan and now he wasn’t even here.
“What would you do if you were me?” Charles asked, placing his fingers at the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know why he was asking this rag-doll a goddamn thing, but his head was really hurting.
“I’d let us go and then I’d disappear. It’s your best chance of getting out of Luke’s crosshairs. Let us go and hope that he doesn’t hold a personal vendetta against you. That’s all you can really do.”
