by Adam Hamdy
Nicholas shook his head and smiled. “No, little Alice. You’re here to help you become a better person.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond, and Nicholas stared at her the way he often did, as though he was burrowing inside her, stripping her soul bare. She had to look away.
“It’s why I do everything, Alice. It’s not punishment. It’s to make you better. I do it all for you,” he said, his eyes wide and unwavering. “You won’t understand it now, but suffering makes us stronger.”
When Alice glanced at her father she saw his bottom lip quiver and uncertainty creep across his face. It was one of the only times she had ever seen him express any vulnerability.
“You can go now.”
Nicholas stood back and signaled the open cell door. For a moment Alice wondered whether it was a test, and sat completely still.
“Go on. Go to your mother,” he urged.
Alice nodded and hauled herself off the bunk. She hurried forward, crossing the corridor and putting all her weight against the cell block door. When it swung wide open, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her father sitting on her bunk, his head in his hands. If she forgot every unkindness he’d done to her and her mother, Alice might have been able to feel sorry for him, because he looked like a man weighed down by trouble. The bruises had faded, but the memories hadn’t, and she couldn’t think of him kindly. She dashed on, leaving the door to swing shut behind her, shrouding her father in the darkness he deserved.
The silence woke her. She longed to burn her memories to prevent them infesting her dreams, but at least they had light. The room she was in was beyond black, the darkness so rich and deep that she could feel it on her skin. There were no shadows, no highlights, no hint of anything beyond her body, but even though she couldn’t see it, she knew the world was there. She’d been stripped of her clothes, and dressed in a pair of ill-fitting shorts and a dirty old T-shirt. She could feel the damp seat beneath her. Every few hours, she was released and led to the foul bucket in the corner, but sometimes, need got the better of her. Her bonds chafed where she had rubbed her wrists and ankles raw, desperately trying to loosen the cords that snared her, but her efforts had only seemed to tighten their embrace. A perpetual sheen of perspiration covered her, a physical manifestation of her pain, fear, and fatigue. It had nowhere to go so it lay on the surface of her skin, thickening, blending with the darkness, making her part of it.
Don’t be afraid, baby.
Her mother’s last words, delivered lying in a pool of her own blood, as her life leeched out of the puckered bullet wounds.
There’s plenty to be afraid of, Ash thought. If you’d been more afraid and less trusting, you might still be alive.
The silence. No pounding bass, thudding through the walls like an erratic heartbeat. Ash had tried to keep track of time, but her tormentors were professional and knew that disorientation and detachment were very effective at softening the spirit, preparing it to be broken by more direct methods. She had no idea how long they’d held her in the darkness. Her connection to time and reality had been severed. She was lost.
Tears rolled down Ash’s cheeks as she thought of the device. She could still feel the vestiges of an agony that was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. She had heard rumors of such implements, designed to tap directly into the brain’s pain center, bypassing inefficient nerves, and unleashing immeasurable suffering without leaving a single mark. At least not externally. Her father had prepared her for a cruel world, taught her how to endure torment without showing weakness, but she’d encountered nothing like this. When the masked man placed the device on her shaved head and switched it on, it was as though she ceased to exist. Even closed, her eyes saw blinding fire, the stench of burning hair filled her nose, her ears throbbed to breaking with a shrill siren, and every nerve in her body was cut by a blunt blade. The pain smothered her in its brutality, making a mockery of sense and time. And with a flick of a switch, it was all gone, a horrifying illusion, perpetrated by a foul machine on her malleable mind. Only the echoes remained, tormenting her with reminders of what was to come. After what her father had put her through, what she’d experienced of the world, she thought she could endure anything, but that machine had broken her, and, trapped in the darkness, she wept at her failure, knowing that she would do or say anything to prevent them using it on her again.
Her eyelids squeezed fresh sorrow from her eyes as she tried to recall what she’d already told them. The pain was so complete that she lost herself utterly; all she knew was that her tongue, which felt as though it was burning, was loosened by the device and worked hard to give the men what they wanted, knowing that the right revelations would extinguish the fire. Her conscious mind, her memory, her civilized psyche had been destroyed, betrayed by bestial self-interest. She couldn’t recall what she’d told them, but had a hollow sense that she’d revealed everything.
Sound.
The bolt being drawn back on the door, clanging like a perverse gong proclaiming the arrival of a terrible emissary.
The door opened and dim light brought Ash’s dismal, confined world to life. She squinted as two men entered, both wearing Pendulum masks. The larger of the two waited by the door, while the other, her familiar interrogator, walked over to the desk lamp and turned it on.
Ash tried not to show fear, but could feel herself recoiling as the man stalked toward her. She glanced at the dentist’s tray, and trembled as she caught sight of the curved cross.
“Where else would he go?” the hateful man drawled, his voice sour and angry. “Tell me about Wallace. Where else would he go?”
Her gut heaved with a sudden flash of memory. She heard herself screaming out the name of the Fresh City Hotel. She’d told them where she and Wallace had stayed. She’d given him away, betrayed him. Ash wept, despising herself and the weakness that gave others such power over her.
“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “I’ve told you everything.”
The masked man reached for the curved metal cross.
“Please,” Ash cried. “I’ll help. I swear.”
“I know,” he replied, picking up the device.
Ash dug her fingernails through the soft leather of the barber’s chair, trying to force her bonds loose, but her resistance was short-lived, and as Drawl placed the chill metal on her head, she broke down entirely.
63
They fled the hotel via the fire escape, avoiding the fourth man, the driver, who was waiting outside in a stolen car. When Ethan bundled him out of the building and pushed him north, Wallace considered punching the man and sprinting in the opposite direction, but he couldn’t shake Ethan’s words. She’s alive. There’s still a chance we can save her. Wallace knew what it felt like to fail Ash, to abandon her and think her dead, and he would give anything to correct his mistake.
Questions crowded his mind as they sprinted north, but he had not been able to give them voice, such was the pace set by the muscular, athletic man next to him. They spilled out of the alleyway on to Houston, Wallace’s stomach heaving, his body shaking as he finally realized how close he’d come to death. He wasn’t able to resist his body’s spasms and leaned against a lamp post, retching with dry heaves that wrung his every muscle. Ethan pulled at his arm.
“Come on,” he urged.
Wallace forced himself on, running across the quiet street toward the Second Avenue station, where Ethan hailed a cab.
They took it to Times Square and waited for the driver to pick up another fare and disappear from view before hailing another. The second cab delivered them to the corner of 53rd Street and DeWitt Avenue, on the edge of a deserted commercial district, opposite a small park. As the cab’s tail lights became distant specks, Ethan doubled back the way they’d come, and led Wallace into an underground parking garage one street north.
“Where are we going?” Wallace asked as they pounded their way down the stairs.
“I’ve just been told to bring you,” Ethan replied. “I ca
n’t answer your questions.” He led Wallace out of the stairwell toward a gleaming gold Toyota Camry.
Ethan cruised out of the garage, winding through the city streets until he was certain they weren’t being tailed. He took the Lincoln Tunnel beneath the Hudson River, and they stayed on 495 through Union City. As they sped along the two-lane westbound highway, Wallace looked at the dark windows of the passing apartment buildings, trying to recall what it was like to have a normal, peaceful existence, going to bed, sleeping through the night, waking for work, surrounded by friends and family. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to return to such a life.
Suburbs gave way to rough parkland that was peppered with the odd warehouse or discount hotel. Further on, they came to a massive interchange system. Ethan navigated the tangled roads, and steered them off the highway into a vast industrial estate populated by huge warehouses. As they drove along the estate’s wide, deserted roads, Wallace was unsettled by the obvious signs of high security: double fencing, surveillance cameras, and guard patrols. They should have made him feel at ease, but such measures were only comforting if the people in charge were on your side.
Ethan pulled into a warehouse complex that lay at the heart of the estate. The man in the guardhouse would not have looked out of place in the starting lineup of an NFL team. His tan shirt rippled as he waved at Ethan and lowered the crash barrier that blocked the drive. The metal wedge was the same as the ones the US and British military used to guard their bases in hot zones, and as he watched it descend into the earth, Wallace looked at the building that lay beyond, and once again thought of escape. His misgivings grew as Ethan drove forward and Wallace glimpsed what he thought was a sniper lying prone on the roof of the warehouse, his night-vision sight winking green for a split second as it swept the area.
“There’s a guy on the roof,” Wallace observed nervously.
“I know. He’s a friendly,” Ethan replied, following the driveway, which curved into a large parking lot.
There were four cars parked near the building. Two black Mercedes SUVs, a blue BMW 5 Series, and a silver GMC Sierra with opaque windows. Ethan drew into a space beside them and jumped out. Wallace hesitated, studying the building for any clues as to what lay inside. Long and low, it stretched for about fifty yards in both directions. A strip of high windows was cut into the wall on both sides, but the glass was mirrored. The main entrance, which lay directly opposite, was built of panes of high, wide, similarly reflective glass, which gave no hint of what lay within. There was no corporate livery, not even a small sign to indicate who occupied the building.
“Come on,” Ethan said. “I could have killed you back at the hotel if I’d wanted to.”
Wallace nodded and clambered out, then followed his rescuer toward the building. Ethan pressed his hand against a wall-mounted fingerprint scanner. The machine flared with red light and moments later the adjacent automatic doors slid open.
Ethan glanced up at a high camera as he led Wallace into a security lock. Another set of opaque double doors blocked their way and didn’t open until the outer pair closed. Beyond them lay an expansive, vaulted lobby, decked with planed timber, which made it look like a luxury yacht. Wallace followed Ethan across the polished floor, past the deserted reception desk, through another security lock—this one accessed with a swipe card—into a long corridor that seemed to run the breadth of the building. Dark wooden doors lay either side, cut into the whitewashed walls, but there were no windows, and Wallace felt the building pressing in, squeezing his leaden legs until his pace slowed, and a gap had opened between him and Ethan. Anxiety spawned dozens of ugly scenarios that all ended with him and Ash covered in blood, being wrapped in a plastic sheet. With each nightmare, his legs moved more slowly, until he was reluctantly forcing himself forward by inches, creeping along the maple wood floor, propelled by the thought that he would rather die next to Ash than live in the knowledge that he had failed her.
Ethan stopped and opened one of the doors. “In here,” he said, indicating the room that lay beyond.
When Wallace reached the doorway, his legs instinctively went into reverse, trying to carry him away from the danger that lay beyond.
Standing inside a large, windowless conference room was Pendulum’s father, Steven Byrne.
64
Wallace felt heavy hands at his back, and Ethan pushed him forward, forcing him into the room. Steven Byrne stood halfway along a twenty-four-place conference table which was flanked by high-backed leather chairs. Max Byrne’s father watched Wallace, who fidgeted anxiously as Ethan shut and locked the door behind them. Directly opposite Steven sat a black man whose stony face was covered with gray-flecked stubble. Both men wore the same black uniform as Ethan.
Steven Byrne said nothing as he approached Wallace. His boots made no sound as they moved across the thick carpet. Wallace trembled, and stepped back until he collided with the wall, his mind struggling to process the fact that he was finally going to die. This was the man who, more than anyone on Earth, had reason to want him dead. As he neared, Wallace noticed that time had taken its toll on Steven. His lean face looked gaunt, his eyes buried deep inside his head, behind dark, troubled shadows, and even his once jet-black hair was marred by flashes of white.
“John Wallace,” Steven began, his deep voice so quiet that it hardly carried at all. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.” He hesitated, clearly wrestling with powerful emotions. “There was a time when I would have killed you. But not now. Now I see you’re just like me. It’s written on your face. You’re haunted by those you’ve lost.”
Wallace was seated opposite Steven at the head of the table. The other man hadn’t moved and kept a close eye on them both, while Ethan leaned against the wall near the door.
“You ever made a bargain you regretted?” Steven began. “Something you wished you could take back?”
Steven’s tone was wistful, and Wallace stared at him, uncertain whether he was supposed to answer.
“I was with my son that day in Twin Lakes. I read Agent Ash’s report. I was the second man she saw,” Steven revealed. “I falsified my travel documents and got three of my employees to give me a false alibi. But I was there.”
Wallace felt his stomach twist into a knot: a confession was dangerous. Steven wouldn’t be telling him his secrets if he planned to let him live. He glanced at Ethan, whose somber features gave nothing away.
“Max called me while my ex-wife and I were being interviewed by the Feds, by Agent Alvarez. He asked for my help with the final stage of coding. I offered him a deal, my help in return for a promise to leave the Foundation, to exile himself to some foreign country and live out his life in anonymity.”
Tears welled in Steven’s eyes, but he didn’t give in to them.
“I didn’t know what he was going to do to those agents in California. He told me he had a way to make sure they’d never track him down. I didn’t know!” Steve slammed his palm against the table and took a moment to compose himself.
“And yet in some way I did,” he admitted at last. “I didn’t know exactly how, but I knew it would be violent. I’ve always known. You don’t have kids, or much in the way of family, but you must have had friends. You ever had a bad one? Someone you make excuses for? Someone whose behavior you look away from because it’s too ugly for you to confront? Imagine if that was your son.” Steven’s voice faltered. “He was always different. It was like there were two people sharing his body, one happy, the boy we’d birthed, the other, something else. Something malevolent. I should have been there . . .” He trailed off. “You understand regret. I read your witness statement. I know what happened to Constance. I know what my boy did.”
Wallace felt his throat swell with sorrow, but he held Steven’s gaze.
“There’s nothing we can do about the past. But it defines our future. Unless we’re strong. But I wasn’t strong,” Steven confided. “After you . . .” He hesitated, his eyes suddenly flashing with anger. “
I wanted to tear it all down. See it all burn. They came to me. Ethan, Mike, Craig. They asked me to help them do something good, to honor his memory. I agreed. I was angry. I couldn’t see the danger that was staring me in the face. What do you know about the Foundation?”
Wallace shook his head.
“It’s an underground group. It was born in Max’s unit.”
Wallace reached into his pocket and produced the photo he’d found in Mike Rosen’s journal. He pushed it across the table, and saw Steven’s eyes cloud with sadness as he studied the picture.
“That man there,” Steven pointed at Smokie. “Craig Weathers. You’ll know him as Smokie. He was the one who started it. He wasn’t like the others. He came from the street. A career criminal. He joined the Army under duress, because a judge gave him no other option. But he has an aptitude for killing, and he excelled. The Army never realized what they’d done, what poison he was spreading. See, Smokie’s sharp, and it didn’t take him long to figure out that ideas are like a virus, that once they’re out in the world, they take on a life of their own. And his idea was simple: that the world is a hell-hole of violence and iniquity because too much wealth is concentrated in the hands of too few. His comrades had traveled the world using thousand-dollar guns to blow peasants out of their fifty-cent shoes. They saw Smokie as some kind of visionary Robin Hood and started meeting and organizing. They were almost caught when the unit commander found some of Smokie’s literature, but Max said it was his and took the rap.”
Wallace glanced at Ethan, who nodded.
“And so Smokie continued. Every man in that photograph was a member of the Foundation,” Steven revealed. “And they’ve recruited many more. A secret army in the military, the intelligence agencies, government, preparing themselves for the day when they can bring down the system.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” Wallace asked.
“When Max found out what happened to his sister, he asked Smokie for help,” Steven replied. “None of them had forgotten the sacrifice Max had made, taking the fall for them, so they agreed to help him take his revenge. They used the trust fund I’d established to finance the operation. Smokie said it was a trial run, a test of their capabilities. They used their intelligence assets here, in the UK, and in the other countries to help Max track you all down, to help him . . .” Steven hesitated. “To help him murder. Smokie treated it like a military exercise. You were a sideshow. A warm-up to the main event.”
