The feed cut off and the screen went black.
Jill opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. The words were stuck in the back of her throat, as if her brain was too busy trying to process what it had just seen to let them out. Whoever this Collective was, it clearly meant business. Killing a popular politician, beheading a police officer, and then the commissioner, as initial public acts were as ballsy and cowardly as anything Jill could think of. Her limited knowledge of extremist groups was going to be tested by this case.
She tried not to relive the moment Commissioner Saunders' head separated from his body, but no matter what she tried to get her brain to focus on, it kept coming back to that image. She shuddered and suppressed a gag.
Even worse? Maybe this one really was her fault.
After all, she had called their bluff. Hadn’t she?
"Earl..."
Detective Stevens had already run out of the tech room. "On it!"
CHAPTER 17
"No, you don't understand!"
Richard McDermott was never one to raise his voice. It had never been his style, and it was certainly not his personality—in stark contrast to his father, a longtime police captain back in Chicago who loved the way his baritone echoed off the walls of his office. Unlike many of McDermott's more testosterone-driven colleagues, he had never viewed his badge as a way to show off and act like he was so much tougher than everyone else. All that ever did was make things worse.
But how much worse could things get right now?
At the moment, he found himself at his wit's end and coming close to showing off the temper his grandfather was known for. After all, what use was being the head of an off-the-books FBI task force if the considerable resources at McDermott's disposal were coming up empty? It reminded him too much of his uniform days working the Vice unit in Chicago. What good was a badge if he couldn’t use it to actually do something? Especially now that The Collective had just committed its most egregious assassination yet.
"They are killing people! On live television!" McDermott burst from his chair, wireless headset glued to his ear. "They're kidnapping people and broadcasting their deaths for the rest of the city to see! I need to know who they are, where they came from, and what we need to do to bring them down! And I need that info yesterday!"
McDermott's voice carried beyond his office, a glass-encased room buried in the subterranean levels of the FBI building on the northwest outskirts of Baltimore. Operation: Flashlight was headquartered here, not that anyone could officially acknowledge the task force's existence. Their bullpen would never show up on a floor plan. There was no record of this task force or any of its agents at FBI headquarters or the Pentagon. The money funding the project and the salaries of its agents came from a fund so off the books that Congress never knew about it.
For all intents and purposes, Operation: Flashlight was a ghost, even to the rest of the American intelligence community. Even McDermott's two most recent hires—a pair of former homicide cops—had been sworn to secrecy. They could tell people they worked for the FBI, but that was as much as they could disclose. Any more would result not just in dismissal, but prosecution.
That secrecy was supposed to be an asset. But right now, Operation: Flashlight was as in the dark as the rest of the local law enforcement contingent.
"Quit being cryptic!" McDermott yelled, staring out into the bullpen. High-definition monitors decorated the entire far wall, showing newscasts from all over the world. Most of the American stations were still talking about Officer Weir's on-air murder, as well as the kidnapping and subsequent assassination of Baltimore's police commissioner. International stations hadn't yet caught on, choosing instead to discuss such matters as nuclear proliferation and election meddling.
Such quaint concerns.
"The Collective," he said in a quieter tone, resting his fists on his desk. "That's what they call themselves. They wear military fatigues, black ski masks... they're digitally altering their voices somehow, and the guy who does all the talking is really fond of his machete. Like, he probably masturbates with it once the cameras are off."
The voice on the other end, a contact from Ireland, was silent for far too long. McDermott glanced at the console on his desk, making sure the connection hadn't been dropped—he was, after all, underground. But when his contact found his voice again, McDermott's blood ran cold.
"The name 'Collective' means nothing to me. But... there were rumors of a similar faction tearing a swath through the Middle East six months ago. Political leaders, clerics, doctors... anyone who bothered doing any good in that region was decapitated in the town square, and their fellow citizens were forced to watch."
"Jesus..." McDermott pinched his nose. None of the intelligence he had seen made any mention of that. "How'd they get caught?"
"They didn't. After a month, they just... disappeared. Radio silence until this week."
"You can't seriously be suggesting we just sit back and do nothing?" McDermott shook his head. The BBC had just shown a heavily edited video of Weir's murder. Even pixelated and blurry, the splash of red turned McDermott's stomach. It reminded him too much of the Zapruder tape. He would never watch a John Woo flick the same way again. "Need I remind you what this task force is for?"
"The Collective would argue they have the same goal. Simply that their methods differ."
"We don't peddle in blood theater."
"But they do. And, fair warning, one of your new hires is now on their hit list after her little stunt. I suggest you act fast."
The line disconnected before McDermott could process his informant's warning, let alone respond. He swallowed the lump in his throat, leaning back against his desk once his knees started to wobble. What little he knew about The Collective, combined with the fact that someone thought one of his own might be in their crosshairs... McDermott couldn't decide if he was more confused or frightened.
Especially once he saw his most recent recruit walk through the bullpen, which coincided with one of the monitors broadcasting a message from a certain vigilante.
CHAPTER 18
With all of Jill's FBI task force colleagues practically beating their heads against the wall trying to find out anything leading them to The Collective—she hadn't even had a chance to follow up with Ramon after he bolted from the precinct—she decided to try a different tactic. One of the benefits of her new job: the fact that it was largely off-the-books meant she had a lot more leeway in the way she investigated cases and pursued leads. She still had to answer to Agent McDermott, and she had her own set of questions on that front, but he had made it clear the day he offered her the job that Bounty was as welcome to the task force as Agent Andersen.
She honestly hadn't expected to get her superhero on again so soon, but such was her life. Again, Brian’s question popped into her head. Jill did her best to push it to the proverbial back burner.
Roger McCallister had been one of Jill's allies almost from the moment her vigilante persona became public knowledge. One of WJZ's senior cameramen, Roger had served as an unofficial source of information—or misinformation, if the situation called for it—and he had even used his prowess on occasion to allow Jill to broadcast messages across the city. While she didn't have a message to send this time—she had taken care of that on her own already—she was hoping to use his expertise on such matters to deduce something about The Collective's methods.
Maybe figuring out how they were broadcasting their messages would be a better lead than immediately trying to figure out who they were. Maybe learning their broadcasting method could help narrow down where they were. After all, sending a signal required specialized equipment and an area conducive to actual transmission.
But when Jill reached the rear entrance she had always used, she saw the door had already been cracked open. Glancing over her shoulder, Jill pressed herself against the wall and reached for the katana strapped to her back. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and she pulled the blade from its sh
eath, cradling the weapon in both hands. Slipping into the studio as quietly as she could, she was greeted with an all too familiar stench.
Blood.
Instinct told Jill to turn back. Walk out of the studio, call the local authorities. There was nothing for her to gain by sticking around. At this point, all she could do was confirm what her gut already told her was true. And if whoever had gotten here before her was still around, she ran the risk of throwing down with an unknown assailant. All Jill was doing was potentially subjecting herself to danger. Yet she couldn't bring herself to turn back.
All the reason in the world couldn't keep Jill from going forward. Time wasn't on her side here. The longer she went without actively pursuing The Collective, the more time they had to continue their madness. There were already too many dead bodies for Jill's liking, and she didn't want even more to drop because she was wasting time by following procedure. In fact, one could argue she already had blood on her hands. Would Commissioner Saunders still be alive if she hadn't pushed back against The Collective so publicly? She wasn't convinced he would be, but she couldn't be sure of the opposite, either.
Besides, since when had she been a typical law enforcement agent? Black leather and tactical armor weren’t exactly standard issue.
The closer Jill got to the control room, where she had always met Roger, the larger the dried blood stains on the floor became. It had also smeared onto the wall and the control panel, even covering the X that had always marked where Jill stood whenever she went on-camera.
Tightening the grip on her sword, Jill turned left. On the other side of the glass, Jill's theory was proven correct: Roger was slumped over the control panel, eyes frozen wide and a trail of dried blood running from the corner of his mouth. Bullet holes littered the wall behind his body, and he had chunks torn out of his back to match.
Jill's knees wobbled and she had to swallow the bile tickling the back of her throat. The three spotlights overhead all went out, bathing the studio and control room in complete darkness. The emergency lights immediately sprang to life, but they were of little help. Jill tapped her left temple, activating her infrared sight and scanning her surroundings. Clearly, she and Roger weren't the only ones in the building. But even with her enhanced sight, Jill couldn't see anyone. But she did feel the barrel of a gun press against the back of her head.
"Lower your weapon."
"You first," Jill said, even as she did in fact lower her katana.
"We were wondering when you would cross our path," the man said, his voice muffled by a full-face mask. "We did not expect it to be so soon."
"Maybe if you weren't so brazen in your lunacy..."
The gun came off Jill's head, but when the masked man pulled the trigger, Jill recoiled and dropped her weapon to cup her hands over her ears. It felt as if something had exploded inside her head, and Jill could barely scramble back to her feet because of the ringing and throbbing. She couldn't even hear her sword clattering against the floor.
Jill looked up in time to see the man slam the butt of an AR-15 against her nose, sending her reeling as blood spilled from her nostrils.
"You play dress-up at night, spilling blood on our streets while your fellow citizens sleep," the masked man said, tossing the gun aside and dropping to his knees. "Do not speak to us of lunacy."
Jill spat a mouthful of blood onto the mask, only to be thanked with a backhand across her cheek. The man grabbed her by her neck and lifted her off the ground. Jill grabbed his wrist with both hands, gritting her teeth and tugging with all her strength—but the man's grip never loosened, his hand never budged. Instead, he socked her in the stomach with his other hand.
Jill doubled over with a gasp, nearly blacking out when a second punch to the gut took her by surprise.
"Make no mistake," the man added, tossing Jill aside and picking up the katana, "you are as much to blame for this city's problems as anyone."
Coughing up blood, Jill cringed and wondered just what the hell the man hovering over her was. Even Piotr hadn't been this strong. Jill pressed her back against the far wall of the control room; she probably shouldn't have cornered herself like this, but the pain left her unable to think clearly. She couldn't even move at this point. Even as she glanced up at her attacker, her vision blurred.
"So, kill me," she muttered.
The katana drove into Jill's chest, wedging itself between her ribs and coming out through her back. Jill gasped at the rush of warmth overwhelming her senses, her entire body going tense. The burning sensation took over, to the point where Jill couldn't even feel the blood pouring out onto her bodysuit.
How this man had found the one weakness in her armor—a weakness Jill had accepted in the name of maneuverability—was beyond her. He had managed to avoid both her armor and her titanium skeleton, as if he knew the exact point to strike. All that money she had spent on an upgrade, taking advantage of her pay raise to give herself a Kevlar vest that actually had some bulk to it, and it did her no good.
But as dark as it was... how?
"Your time will come," the masked man promised, yanking the katana free and tossing it aside. "Be patient, Andersen."
Jill couldn't hold back the cry of pain when the sword left her body, cold air rushing into her wound. She shook and doubled over, which only made the pain worse. She teetered to the side and gritted her teeth, struggling to keep her human eye open. But Jill did manage to fish the burner phone from her left boot, dialing 9-1-1 and tossing the device to the floor.
"We will meet again."
The masked man disappeared into the shadows, and even though instinct told Jill to get back to her feet and go after him, she was in no position to do that. The call connected, and Jill heard the dispatcher asking her what her emergency was. Jill opened her mouth to speak, but she gagged instead.
Jill fell to her side with a grunt. With any luck, the dispatcher could at least track her location. Consciousness slipped away, and Jill hoped the next time she woke up, it would be in a hospital.
Assuming there was a next time.
CHAPTER 19
Given the public nature of Commissioner Saunders' execution—and the fact that almost everyone he ever worked with held some sort of status—his funeral had been moved to a tiny, nondescript church in northern Virginia, just across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. By design, it was a small, intimate affair, open only to Saunders' closest family and two representatives from the Baltimore City Council. No one else had been told of the service's true location, not even Saunders' closest allies within the police department. The representatives in question did not receive word they would be attending until the morning of, and the police department's public relations arm let float news that the funeral would be held in Baltimore, in the hopes of drawing out The Collective.
At this point, everyone operated under the assumption The Collective was serious in its threats to take out all the city's public representatives. To think otherwise was foolish and dangerous, particularly given the public nature of Saunders’ murder. And if that were the case, the typical public display of laying a police commissioner to rest had the potential to be little more than a buffet line.
Jackson Saunders didn't leave much of a family behind. His wife of nearly thirty years, Stacey, sat in the front pew. The son they'd had together, Patrick, wasn't in attendance because he was... well, Stacey didn't know where her son was. That was the side effect of being a Navy SEAL: virtually his entire career was shrouded in secrecy and black ink. Jackson's brother Roy was in attendance, sitting in the back with his wife and two teenage daughters. But aside from the two city aides doubling as clerics standing in front of the altar, and the snipers camped out on the roof across the street, they were the only ones in the church.
Even the priest officiating the ceremony was an undercover FBI agent, a Glock tucked under his back robe. He was a short man, frail under the cloak. His bald head shined under the harsh light, more from the sweat than anything.
&nbs
p; Clear.
Static crinkled in each of the snipers' earbuds.
Clear on the roof.
The two aides at the altar nodded at each other.
Clear.
The priest cleared his throat and thumbed through the worn Bible in front of him.
Clear.
A bead of sweat ran down the side of the priest's face, and he chuckled despite himself. Here he was, trying to hide how badly his hands were shaking. The priest had been raised Jewish, and here he stood officiating a Catholic service. Undercover work had never been his specialty, but a combination of budget cuts and colleagues calling out sick had him drawing the proverbial short straw.
Saunders' casket was closed, and the light shining over it was far too bright and too modern for such an old building.
Finding the passage he was set to read, the priest cleared his throat again before grabbing the glass of water in front of him and taking a long sip. He muttered under his breath about how small the text was, lamenting the fact that his reading glasses were back at the office. Apparently, they hadn't been enough for the undercover getup. How the priest could actually wear glasses, but need a different, fake pair for this operation, he would never know. There was a joke about government red tape in there somewhere.
Before the priest could begin, the double doors in the back of the worship hall pushed open. He frowned as a man he had never seen before entered, the red hood pushed low over his head and sunglasses shielding his eyes. The strange man's hands were clasped together under the oversized robe. The priest grabbed his weapon under his cloak, hiding behind his lectern and swallowing back the knot in his throat.
Still clear.
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