"Hey." Blankenship bolted from her chair and crossed to Watson's desk, leaning up against the edge of it. "What are you doing for lunch?"
"Well..." Watson sighed and sank in his chair. He cringed when it squeaked. "Depends on how soon Franco's financials come in."
Blankenship rolled her eyes and bit back a smirk. "C'mon, you know it'll be a miracle if those come in before the end of the day."
Watson folded his arms over his chest. "Okay, I'll bite. What's on your mind?"
"Like I said: lunch." The smile on Blankenship's face grew. "You and me. There's a new seafood place on Lombard I've been meaning to try."
Watson couldn't help the arched brow. While he and Blankenship hadn't been outwardly antagonistic of late, and Blankenship had made overtures to repair things, this was the first time she had asked to spend time with Watson outside of the precinct. Not that they had been social butterflies before either, but this was definitely the sort of thing to tug on Watson's intuition. He leaned forward in his chair, grabbing the end of the desk when the chair threatened to tip forward. The last thing he needed to do was faceplant into his keyboard.
Blankenship's shoulders hunched. "It'll be my treat."
A playful smile crept onto Watson's face as he pushed himself out his chair. "Well, if you're paying..."
Blankenship grabbed Watson's shoulder as the pair made their way to the elevator on the other side of the bullpen. He cast a sideways glance with yet another hunched eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes in response. "C'mon, Hi. No detective powers."
"Just a little unusual. That's all."
"I know." Blankenship stabbed the button to summon the elevator with her thumb, sighing and turning to grab her partner's hand. Watson didn't pull back, but he didn't exactly embrace her touch, either. If anything, the arch in his brow deepened. "Besides, I got some things to say, and I don't want other badges around when I do."
CHAPTER 8
With a click, a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered to life. It nearly gave out again, but the light somehow held true.
The bulb swung lazily on its rusty chain, illuminating the masked man who stood under it. The holes in his mask were barely large enough for his eyes, and they weren't even visible when the light swung away. He wore an olive green long-sleeve t-shirt and camouflage pants that were tucked into a pair of scuffed and faded combat boots. Dried blood dotted the shirt. Some of it was from a war the man could barely remember fighting, having refused to fade despite countless washings. The rest was from just a couple hours ago, the result of a stubborn police commissioner who didn't understand the meaning of "stop resisting."
An AR-15 was slung over the masked man's shoulder and cradled in his hands. The weight of it was comfortable in his palms, so familiar that it felt like an extension of his body. In fact, the masked man would admit to feeling naked without this particular weapon. It had never steered him wrong. Not in basic training. Not in war. And certainly not now.
He smiled under his mask when a tiny red light came to life just feet in front of him. This was the moment he had spent the last several years working toward. What came next was the culmination of a life's dream, the very thing he had been destined to do ever since they unceremoniously threw him out of the Army and onto his ass.
It hadn't been easy. In fact, there had been plenty of sleepless nights in which the man was certain he wouldn't live to see this day. And yet here he stood, mere moments from the beginning of his greatest triumph.
Only this wasn't his victory alone. His brothers were as responsible for this breakthrough as he. Not that he would ever tell any of them that. But they knew.
And if they didn't... oh well.
"We're live," a voice called out from behind the camera.
Reaching up for his neck, making sure his digital voice masking device was still in place, the man's smile grew. Not that anyone could see it. "Good evening, citizens of Baltimore. You may not realize it right now, but this city is on the precipice of a new age. The dawn of a new era is at our fingertips and believe me when I tell you that nothing will ever be the same."
Taking a step toward the camera, leaving much of the light, the masked man hoisted the gun over his shoulder. He kept a steady gaze on the red light, fighting the urge to peel off the mask. Deep down, part of him wanted the world to know who he was. He wanted to show Baltimore what its savior truly looked like. Let the citizens know that their hero was just a flesh and blood man, no different than them. No robots. No cybernetic eyes. No half-baked wannabe superheroes prancing around the rooftops.
He especially wanted her to know.
But not now. Not yet.
There would be time for that later, if everything went according to plan. For now, anonymity was the best course of action—for everyone's sake.
"Chances are, you woke this morning to the news that Councilman Franco has been murdered." The masked man shook his head. "A tragedy, this is not. Do not let the media elite and his fellow councilmen fool you. Councilman Franco was not the Good Samaritan he is being painted as. He was corrupt. He was selfish. He was everything we assume our politicians to be. And he deserved what happened to him."
The masked man clasped his hands together behind himself, pacing back and forth. He kept his steps short, careful not to wander out of the frame. His gaze never left the camera. The adrenaline throbbed as it coursed through the man's veins. Yet he kept his steps slow, purposeful. He closed his eyes and steadied his breath, using the countdown techniques an old platoon mate had taught him when things were at their worst in the sandy nothingness of Afghanistan. The man would count from ten to one, then back again, until the image of his platoon mate's disembodied head threatened to take over.
Only then did the man stop counting.
"Councilman Franco is just the first, and make no mistake, he is far from the last. This city is overrun with the corrupt and the unjust. The deceitful and the vile. We cannot trust the police to tackle the problem. We cannot turn to our elected officials. They will not help us. They will not hold themselves accountable. We cannot ask federal authorities for help. No. This is a cancer we must cut out ourselves. It will not be pretty. There will be names that shock you. Our actions will likely revile you. We accept that. If we must be the villain in order for Baltimore to regain its past glory, then that is a cross we will gladly bear."
The man returned to his original spot beneath the light bulb. It flickered again as if it was about to blow out, but the light remained true. A cockroach skittered along the bulb before retreating up the chain and into the darkness.
"Chances are, we mean none of you watching harm. The decent, law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear from us. The rest of you? Consider this the only warning you get."
The masked man reached for the weapon slung over his shoulder again, cradling it in both hands and pointing the barrel directly at the camera.
"We are The Collective," he continued. "And we will be this city's salvation."
The masked man pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 9
It had been two weeks since Jill started her daily trek to the FBI field office on Windsor Mill Drive, just minutes northwest of Baltimore proper, but she was still having trouble adjusting to the routine. For one thing, the commute was much farther than the days in which she could walk from her downtown apartment to the Seventh Precinct. She actually had to get in her car and fight traffic—which, while not as bad as it often was in the corridor between Baltimore and Washington, still wasn't great.
But more than anything, the protocol she had to endure just to get to her bullpen and office was mind-boggling—even worse early in the morning without the aid of caffeine.
Jill's team wasn't stationed with the other agents who operated out of this building. Rather, those aligned with Operation: Flashlight were tucked away in the bowels of the facility in a secret bunker carved into the ground that reminded Jill of something out of those spy thrillers her grandmother used to watch on T
V. The ones where the agents jetted around the world with endless disguises and aliases at their disposal.
And occasionally, a phone shaped like a shoe.
How secret was the level where Operation: Flashlight housed its headquarters? The underground level didn't even show up in the building plans.
The first time Jill found her office, she had expected to see a rack of brightly colored wigs and a cornucopia of different aliases at her disposal. Names, backgrounds, fake ID cards, the whole works. Alas, the only things her office provided were a slow computer (with the vague promise of an eventual upgrade—which sounded an awful lot like her last job), a flickering overhead light, and coal gray walls that made it impossible to tell what time of day it was.
Apparently, "unlimited resources" didn't extend to office equipment. At least, not for the field agents.
Nodding at the two security guards sitting at the building's entrance, Jill flashed her ID badge before taking an immediate right. They recognized her by now, and the portly gentleman to her right had already waved her by, but Jill wasn't taking any chances. If Richard McDermott told her to show her badge, she'd show her badge. Secrecy did not preclude protocol. If anything, it made protocol even more important. Besides, something told Jill this wasn't the sort of job one got fired from. Instead, former employees probably disappeared without a trace.
Glancing over her shoulder, glad to see no one was paying her any mind, Jill placed her right hand on what appeared—to the untrained eye—to simply be a random spot on the wall. None of the FBI agents with above-ground offices knew about this, and Jill was told in no uncertain terms to keep it that way. Her palm was flat against the cold surface when an overhead sensor beeped, and a hydraulic hiss told Jill the wall had cracked open to reveal a metal lift. Stepping onto it, her boots making far too much noise against the hard surface, Jill sucked in a deep breath. The secret door latched shut and the lift shook to signal its descent.
The white lights above Jill's head turned red, strobe lights flashing as they scanned her for any foreign objects. Even after weeks of this routine, she still held her breath when the scan worked its magic. Despite Agent McDermott's repeated assurances, Jill was still worried these scans would detect the titanium embedded in her skeleton and the alarm would go off. But after exactly thirty-seven seconds, the lift shook to a stop and the doors slid open.
Jill released the breath she had been holding and stepped into a long, dimly lit hallway. Her eyes kept to the wall as she walked, and she made sure to keep count of how many doors she had passed—she needed to get through fourteen of them before making a left to the bullpen. All the doors were identical and there were no signs. If Jill ever lost her place, she would never find her way.
Then, once Jill got to the door in question, she had to enter a fifteen-digit code—one she'd had to commit to memory as soon as she saw it the day she officially started. The code was then destroyed, so if she ever forgot it... well, that was one way to get fired.
Fortunately, Jill's memory had always been one of her greatest strengths, even before Uncle Sam's upgrades. Her thumb danced along the console with ease, entering the code before the door hissed open to let her through.
Once through, Jill found herself facing a bullpen that wasn't entirely unlike what she had back in the Seventh Precinct. Sure, the monitors were flat screen and there were far more of them along the far wall. And instead of dry-erase boards, agents kept notes on personalized tablets and smart boards, the sort that were transparent and looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Andre Castillo, the resident tech expert, sat at a cubicle surrounded by five computer monitors. He clearly knew the function of each one, but to Jill it looked like untenable chaos. He made it work, though, which was all that mattered.
"They're calling themselves The Collective," Agent McDermott, head of Operation: Flashlight, spoke into his smartphone as he walked past Jill and tapped Castillo on the shoulder. Pushing his glasses further up his wide nose, Castillo squinted and tapped on his keyboard until all fifteen monitors along the wall were showing a still of a man in military fatigues and a black ski mask, a semi-automatic pointed at the camera. Jill frowned and pursed her lips, shaking her head.
"I was gonna ask how things are going," Ramon Gutierrez muttered, "but that looks... I dunno... bad."
Jill jumped and fought the urge to chuckle when she finally saw her partner. She was so focused on the G.I. Joe reject that she hadn't noticed Ramon join her. She couldn’t help but smile, at least a little. If nothing else, having her best friend come to the FBI with her made the transition at least somewhat bearable. Jill hardly knew any of the other agents on the task force, and she still didn't entirely trust McDermott. But Ramon was a much-needed friendly face, and she was endlessly grateful he had accepted her offer.
"How was lunch?" she asked.
"Jorge was sporting a definite food baby when we were finished," he quipped, nodding toward the monitors. "Who's that?"
"The Collective." McDermott sighed and shoved his phone into the breast pocket in his blazer.
Jill arched a brow and tore her gaze from the frozen image on screen. "Who's The Collective?"
"No one knows." McDermott shrugged and pursed his lips. "Well, no one’s saying. But if they're to be believed, we've got ourselves a bunch of self-righteous radicals."
Ramon shook his head. "Is there any other kind?"
McDermott stuck his chin out. "Castillo?"
The tech agent smoothed a hand over his jet-black hair, which ran all the way to the base of his neck. "I'm running three different location trackers as we speak. The IP was bounced through five different routers, and there's a frequency jammer preventing us from finding the origin. Voice and facial recognition are also running, though with the masks and the voice distortion, I'm not optimistic. Regardless of location, I think these guys are local."
Jill folded her arms over her chest. "What do they want?"
"See for yourself." Castillo tapped a key and the monitors played in unison.
Chances are, you woke this morning to the news that Councilman Franco has been murdered. A tragedy, this is not. Do not let the media elite and his fellow councilmen fool you. Councilman Franco was not the Good Samaritan he is being painted as. He was corrupt. He was selfish. He was everything we assume our politicians to be. And he deserved what happened to him.
Ramon frowned. "Franco? I thought he was in with the Ukrainians."
"One of the signal routers is in the Ukraine," Castillo explained, grabbing the receiver to his office phone and placing it over his ear. "I have a contact in Kiev."
Councilman Franco is just the first, and make no mistake, he is far from the last. This city is overrun with the corrupt and the unjust. The deceitful and the vile. We cannot trust the police to tackle the problem. We cannot turn to our elected officials. They will not help us. They will not hold themselves accountable. We cannot ask federal authorities for help. No. This is a cancer that we must cut out ourselves. It will not be pretty. There will be names that shock you. Our actions will likely revile you. We accept that. If we must be the villain in order for Baltimore to regain its past glory, then that is a cross we will gladly bear.
Ramon cupped a hand over his mouth and shook his head, taking two steps back away from Jill. She remained motionless, clenching her jaw to keep from showing any expression. But even she had to admit to the cold chill of dread that slithered down her back, the way the words sat raw in the pit of her stomach. Her mobile rang as the masked man rambled on, and she was so stricken by what was said that she nearly didn't answer in time.
"You see this shit?"
"Earl?"
"These sanctimonious fuckers in the masks."
Jill's frown deepened, and she turned to face Ramon. "You're seeing them too?"
"They were all over the news."
"How is the media getting this so quickly?"
"Cause these rat bastards broadcast their little propaganda piece."
&
nbsp; Jill turned back to the monitor, shaking her head. If all of Baltimore saw that, then... "Please tell me you have something."
"Us? You mean you all don't have nuthin' yet?"
"No." Jill stared at the monitors, where the masked man had just pulled the trigger. Despite herself, Jill flinched. "But I figure the more people we've got figuring this out, the better. Where's Dan?"
"He got called downtown soon as the video aired. I'm guessin' all the BPD bigwigs are gonna be going into hiding soon."
"Leaving you all in the line of fire."
"Someone's gotta solve Franco's murder, Jill. Someone's gotta figure out who the fuck's under that mask."
"I don't disagree." Jill shook her head. "I just don't like the idea of you all being targets."
"Hell, Andersen, I think they'd come after you before any of us."
"Thanks, Earl." Jill rolled her eyes and bit back the smile threatening the corners of her mouth. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."
"I'll have Hi get his tech nerds on this. I'll buzz if we find the needle."
Jill stuffed the phone back in her pocket and immediately crossed to Castillo's workstation. "Check all the TV stations within the DMV. If they're broadcasting over the airwaves, then I agree with you that they’re local."
McDermott cocked his head to the side. "Meaning?"
"Come on, Richard." Jill approached both her partner and her new boss. "Haven't you been paying attention? Public trust in this city is at an all-time low. This is the perfect opportunity for a group like this to emerge. They're violent and they're crude, but when the alternative is lying politicians and cops killing kids, maybe what they're preaching makes sense."
Ramon whistled. "The list of potential targets is... man..."
"And the threat of copycats," Jill added, "or people simply inspired to mete out their own brand of justice."
McDermott arched a brow. "You mean like you?"
"I'm not killing people." Jill turned her back on McDermott, partly so she could stare at the monitors again and partly so he couldn't see her scowl. That felt uncalled for, and Jill was tempted to lash out. But... in a way, he was right.
Betrayal Page 4
