He attempted to turn to protect himself, while aiming his gun, but failed. I was too fast, too good with a knife. My hand moved it almost completely without input from my brain. I finished him, slipping the blade between his ribs on the left side of his chest and pushing it in as far as it would go. The heart gave little resistance. I twisted it as I pulled it free. He fell in slow motion. Wide, staring eyes were already glazing over. He was dead before he hit the ground. I looked for my next victim. The calm had not completely engulfed me and the darkness wanted to be fed. I would oblige that need today.
Someone screamed, and I twisted to see who it was. The arms of one of the serial killers lay on the floor with a gun still clasped in his hands. Eric sneered at him, the scimitar dripping blood. He made an upwards motion and the blade cut through the wounded man, sending him backwards. He fell to the floor, the smell of bile and shit filling the air. I nodded my approval and caught sight of the man in the Marshals uniform with the anarchist’s tattoo. He raised his weapon to aim, but there were too many people now in the crowded hall. He fired, but someone bumped him, sending the bullets wide. Another man wearing a Marshals' uniform cried out, blood blossoming on the grey uniform.
I rushed him. He caught me with the stock of the gun as I got near. Warmth ran down my face, but it didn’t stop me. I moved, ducking under a second attempt, and found his body beneath one of my hands. I squeezed the flesh between my fingers and pulled both out and down. It wasn’t crippling, but it would hold him for a second. I kicked backwards, catching his knee with my boot. There was a satisfying popping noise, as if someone had set off a small firecracker, and he went down on one knee, struggling to regain control. My eyes found the third fake Marshal and I realized I didn’t need an anarchist. The blade slid across his throat, a warm spray of blood coating my shirt.
“Get him alive!” I shouted, pointing at the other man. He had some tattoos too and I recognized them. Worse, I recognized the man.
I dropped the body I was holding. Eric took off after him, as did I. We ran down the hallway, away from the melee. Eric was faster than I was, but we were both faster than Fred Thompson, leader of the Church of the Rising Sun. I had no idea how Satanists fit into the mix, but his presence was a giveaway that they were here. In a few strides, Eric caught up to Fred and tackled him. They both fell to the ground, fighting for supremacy. I moved up to them, grabbed Fred by the hair. I put the knife to his throat and waited. He stopped fighting. Eric slipped out from under him. Fred refused to move.
“Fred, why is the Church of the Rising Sun involved in this?” I asked very quietly.
“We were made an offer,” Fred gasped.
“What sort of offer?” I asked.
“If we did this, the SCTU would stop looking into us,” Fred said.
“We have not been looking into you,” I told him. “However, I’m guessing we should have been if it was enough of an offer to make you come here.”
“That Marshal of yours, what’s his name with the glasses, has been looking into us. Or he was until he approached me a week or so ago.”
“Hunter?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“He doesn’t work for the SCTU,” Eric said. “He’s just a Marshal.” I wanted to add that he wasn’t a very good one, but didn’t. He had obviously dug up dirt on Fred and the Church that we hadn’t.
“You mean about the girl in Minnesota?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Fred confirmed.
“Eric, please make sure that Priest Fred does not get dead before we get out of here,” I told my brother. He growled, but took control of Fred. There was a loud noise, followed by a second, then a third, and a fourth. The walls shook. The floor turned to Jell-O. Instantly, I knew that the bomb on the ground floor had triggered others. If I had not been in full psychopath mode, I would have rushed to the fifth floor to check on Gabriel and Fiona. Smoke was moving like a river current across the ceiling, snaking past us. The damage would be far greater than expected. I wondered who had died in it. Eric must have wondered the same thing. He picked Fred Thompson up from the floor and we headed back towards the source of the smoke without a word to each other.
Unraveled
On the outside, the walls of the lower level of the Fortress exploding looked as if someone had put a cherry bomb in a paint can and sealed it up. The metal plates held, but the cinder blocks broke and fell away. It was three hours too early and only the first two levels seemed to have been damaged, meaning something had gone wrong. They weren’t even supposed to put bombs on the first level. How were the serial killers supposed to get out if they blew up the exits?
Special Agent Jeffrey Adams was starting to pace. If something had gone wrong, he had no doubt that the SCTU and VCU were responsible. He had no idea what sort of manpower he had left in there or if they had started to turn on him and each other.
However, his boss, Harry Burns, was now here and watching. Maybe the incidents, whether they worked out the way he had planned or not, would prove that the SK&MM laws needed to fall under the purview of Homeland Security. This was supposed to prove that serial killers and mass murderers were no different from terrorists. It was supposed to expand the duties of Homeland Security. It was supposed to give them more power, and Adams would be leading the charge.
Adams practiced his speech a second time. He needed to convince Burns that this was the way it should be. He needed to convince Burns to let him led the charge into the Fortress and rescue the federal officers in harm’s way. That whack job in the prison guard tower had better not screw it up for him either. There were things he was willing to do to Christian Hunter if Hunter didn’t hold up his end of the deal.
Burns’ phone rang. Adams attempted to move within earshot, but he could only hear Burns, and the regional director wasn’t saying much. He mostly said, “Okay, hmm,” and “I see.” Those didn’t tell Adams anything about the phone call. When Burns hung up, he immediately placed another phone call. Adams could tell this call was all about being in charge. The regional director was delivering orders to someone regarding the FGNs and FGA. Whoever had called had to know about the second, more discreet FGN, but there weren’t a lot of people on that list.
Peter McCabe was walking in their direction. He looked tired. Burns hung up and looked at McCabe.
“You doing okay?” He asked.
“Yes, I have some concerns, but I think that is all of us at this time. Any ideas?” Peter asked.
“There seems to be a pretty fair shot that we know exactly what is going on. I’m dispatching extra guards. If your family’s at home, you might send them to the shelter.”
“I’ll call Margaret in a minute,” Peter shot a glance at the missing cinder blocks.
“I’m sure Malachi is fine,” Harry assured him. “As a matter of fact, I’d bet a year’s pay on it.”
“So he calls you, but not his own family,” Peter gave a mirthless chuckle.
“He had a specific reason for calling me, Peter. I can’t discuss it at the moment, but it was pretty important. Go, call Margaret and your brother,” Harry told him.
Adams tried not to sneer. One of those phone calls was from Malachi Blake, meaning the asshole was still alive. He really didn’t want that. Or Aislinn Cain for that matter. Their families were too connected for the plan to work with both of them still alive. Peter McCabe walked away.
“Sir, I really think Homeland should take control of this situation.” He approached Burns.
“You do, do you?” Burns looked at him. “I think the situation is resolving itself, Adams. Besides, I’d hate for you to get yourself accidentally killed trying to upstage Marshal Cain.”
“What do you mean, sir?” He tried to look confused, but Burns didn’t seem to believe him.
“Oh, please, we all know she sent you packing on that carnival bomber case. We all know you want revenge for it. How would it look if I let you go in there guns blazing and you died or worse, you killed her?” Burns turned his b
ack on him.
Adams became enraged. His body shook. His brain focused solely on the words that had cut him so deep, coming from a superior. He was better than any psychotic chick with a badge and he knew it. Now, Harry Burns and the rest of the world were going to know it too. He pulled out his gun and began firing at the regional director. Profanities dribbled from his lips as he gunned the man down.
Something tore through him. It burned like molten metal. His side became sticky. His shirt began to cling to him. The gun in his hand fell and he wasn’t sure why. The ground slapped him hard as he hit it, jarring a few of his teeth loose. Several people were shouting. Someone was pinning him down. He wasn’t sure why. He was the one injured. Maybe they were applying pressure to his side. It didn’t feel like it, but that didn’t mean they weren’t doing something to save his life.
However, he didn’t have time to be injured. He had a prison to take back. He’d planted everyone in it, so it would be easy enough for him to go in and take control. All the planning had finally culminated in a good plan, a plan that was working well, despite the small hiccups that it had encountered. He tried to shake his head and found someone was controlling it.
“Get off me!” He shouted.
“Jeffrey Adams, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Regional Director Harry Burns of Homeland Security. You have the right to remain silent,” the voice droned on.
“What are you talking about?” Adams screamed at him. “I need to go take back the Fortress. Only I can do it. Only I know who the real Marshals are. Only I know who is being paid and who is being blackmailed to do this!” He screamed again. A big, blond man pulled him to his feet. He stood face to face with a man in a suit. He wasn’t Homeland or FBI. A badge hung from his waist.
“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” The man asked.
“Fuck you!” Adams attempted to head butt him.
“Ivan, watch out, he’s a fighter,” someone said to him. It sounded like Burns, but Adams had just shot the man, repeatedly. There was no way he should be alive.
Everything suddenly crashed down over him. Adams slumped against the handcuffs. What had he become? How had this happened?
“Christian Hunter is with the revolt,” Adams said, his voice shaky. “I was just trying to prove that serial killers and mass murderers were always terrorists. This is terrifying! It will cause panic and disorder among the people. Homeland should be in charge of catching these monsters, not some psychopaths with badges.”
“You mean it should be handled by nutjobs with badges?” Ivan Daniels asked. “You aren’t making things any better. I would definitely invoke my right to shut up if I was you, unless you want to tell us how to take the Fortress back?”
“No need,” Burns said. “It’s already being done. Also, there are a few Marshals under duress in there, with kidnapped loved ones. It would be nice to get them back.”
“I’ll put people on it.” Ivan handed Adams to someone else.
“I knew you hated her, but this,” Burns forced Adams to look at him.
“It’s not her. It’s what she stands for. We are supposed to be the ones in control and yet, she had the ability and audacity to tell me I was unnecessary,” Adams said.
“Revenge is a terrible thing,” Burns told him. “I’m so disappointed in you, Jeffrey.”
“Soon, they are going to hit the FGNs and FGA,” Adams told his boss.
“We know. Daniels’ Security is being dispatched to back up the officers on scene.” Burns made a motion and Adams felt himself being jerked away. Burns turned to the trees, over a thousand feet away and gave a thumbs up to the woods. If anyone else noticed, they didn’t mention it.
Thirty
“Well, we know some of you are imposters. We know some of you are working under protest. We know some of you actually agreed to take the money. Thankfully for some of you, we have found a way to communicate with the outside,” I told the group as Wright began to place a handful of bombs on the exterior wall. Wright gave me a thumbs up. We began moving everyone to the kitchen.
The group was docile, possibly because we had only taken those in Marshals uniforms back to the cafeteria. We’d left all the known killers to fend for themselves. There were still a handful of super psychos running around and they had no leaders. They had instantly fallen into disarray and it had become every man for himself. It was better this way. It would be easier for us to take control from the disorganization.
Wright hit the button on Fiona’s cell phone. A series of explosions went off. It rocked the front of the building. I briefly wondered what the crowd outside thought of it. We waited for the dust to settle, literally. Once it did, we reentered the cafeteria. The cinder blocks were decimated. The explosions had crumbled them to small chunks that had fallen off the wall and littered the floor. Several of the panels were dented and damaged. A few had separated, allowing the sunset to be seen. Malachi held up his phone, two bars, which was an improvement over the zero he had before the explosion.
It was now a waiting game. Xavier was in charge of getting information out of Hunter. It would be interesting to see how it went. Xavier could go a little nuts from time to time. His personality had changed with his brain injury. As I understood it, he had once been more Jekyll, but the injury had made him more Hyde. Since I occasionally needed a little Hyde in my life, it was perfect for me.
Malachi’s phone rang. I reached for it, snatching it from him. The number was just a series of letters. The name was just as cryptic.
“US Marshal Aislinn Cain,” I answered.
“I suggest that as soon as you can get free from the Fortress, you do that, Marshal Cain. I’m heading to the FGN. I have no doubt the man in the tower will be calling you soon. Harry Burns was shot, but uninjured by one of his own men. Oh, the webs that man can weave.” Apex hung up on me. I sighed. The phone remained silent for nearly ten minutes. When it did start ringing, it was again a string of numbers and letters that meant nothing. Malachi took privacy seriously.
“Marshal Cain,” I answered.
“I have a list,” Xavier said to me.
“Hold on,” I handed the phone to Fiona. “He has a list, repeat the names out loud so we can find them.” Malachi nodded to me. I had taken a gun from him as soon as he returned to the cafeteria. I drew it and he mimicked me.
“Walden Bly, main guy, arranged the kidnappings,” Fiona announced. Malachi and I looked at nametags. He found Bly sitting on a table. He aimed and fired twice, one into each man’s leg.
“Holy fuck!” Fiona shouted.
“I can’t believe you did that!” Parsons was standing up. Gabriel didn’t look surprised. Green stood up, unholstered his gun, and came near me.
“Would you prefer we killed them?” I asked.
“You can’t just shoot people,” Fiona argued.
“I’m not just shooting people. We are disabling the ones that might stop us from taking the Fortress back,” Malachi told her. Parsons drew a gun.
“Don’t,” Gabriel stood up. “It’s a necessary evil. We can’t leave anyone here to watch them, so they need to be disabled. Locking them in cells isn’t sure proof. This is the only way.”
“Next!” I shouted to Fiona.
“Jesus Christ,” Fiona sat down.
“I do not think he is in here.” I looked at her. “If you are not up to the job, I can find someone who is.”
“Jasper White,” Fiona answered. Caleb found White. He tried to get up and run, but Caleb shot him in the foot. He tripped and fell, hitting his face on the floor and didn’t move. Caleb walked over and checked to make sure White was still breathing. He nodded and stood back up, shooting him once more in the other leg. “You didn’t even let me tell you his role!” Fiona protested.
“Was he one of those being forced to do the bidding of madmen against his will?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “but he only had the master codes to one cell block.”
“Mov
ing on then,” I told her.
“I won’t make trouble,” a man suddenly stood up. “Tie me up or something, I would prefer not to be shot.”
“Name?” Malachi asked.
“Virgil McKee,” he answered. Fiona repeated it into the phone and then nodded. Gabriel pulled out handcuffs and hooked him to one of the tables. They were bolted to the floor.
“Anyone else want to volunteer for the easy way?” I asked. A few people shuffled. “Look, if you think Christian Hunter is not going to give you up, you are mistaken. Plus, they got the guy who shot Harry Burns of Homeland Security, so it seems like everything is falling apart.”
Four men stood up and walked towards us. One was definitely a real Marshal. The others were questionable, at best. A fifth caught my attention. He was sitting, trying to blend in. He wasn’t in a Marshals uniform, but inmate yellow. However, a tattoo on his upper wrist caught my attention. I frowned at him. People needed to realize that tattoos were very identifiable. The fact that they seemed not to realize it, made me question the fate of humanity.
“How many die hard Satanists are in here?” I asked Caleb.
“None,” Caleb answered.
“Are we sure about that?” I double-checked.
“Yes,” Eric answered for him. “Satanists do not last long in here.”
“Good to know.” I fired at the tattooed man, hitting him in the thigh. “That is definitely a marker for the Church of the Rising Sun.”
“Why fake being a serial killer?” Caleb asked. I shrugged. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking him.” Caleb pointed at the bleeding man.
“I’m not the only one with a past,” Fred Thompson answered. “Mixing some inmates with the fake Marshals was supposed to make it easier to organize them.”
Fortified Dreams Page 21
