Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  No. No, it wasn't.

  "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," the man bellowed as he wandered between the pews. His voice bounced off the spacious walls. The priest drew his weapon and aimed as the city aides corralled Saunders' wife and led her through a side door that led to the bowels of the church.

  "Freeze!" The priest was proud his voice didn't waver.

  "For men will be lovers of self," the strange man continued, "lovers of money... boastful, arrogant, revilers, disobedient to parents. Ungrateful. Unholy. Unloving. Irreconcilable, malicious gossips without self-control. Brutal haters of good. Treacherous, reckless, conceited."

  The priest opened fire. At the same time, he yanked the bud out of his ear, because the commotion he had caused was distracting. The last thing he needed was a cacophony of voices in his ear. He needed full concentration now that he had engaged the hooded man, and all those snipers yelling in his head would just make things worse.

  The bullet tore through the strange man's shoulder in a spray of blood, yet his advance never slowed.

  "Lovers of pleasure," he muttered with a grin on his face, "rather than lovers of God."

  "I said, freeze!"

  The priest fired again. This time, the bullet grazed the side of the other man's neck. Still, he kept walking.

  "They are corrupt," he added, stopping at the foot of the altar. "They have committed abominable deeds." The strange man removed his sunglasses, revealing empty eye sockets, and turned his head in the direction of the casket. His right hand appeared from beneath his robe, thumb resting on a red button connected to a black wire.

  Once more, the priest fired. The bullet sank into the hooded man's gut, and he doubled over with a hiss. But his thumb never wavered, even as he stood upright again.

  "There is no one who does good." The man lifted his hand, staring directly at the priest. "Thus, endeth the lesson."

  The hooded man pressed the button. After what felt like an eternity of silence, an explosion rocked the church. The support beams on the roof tumbled to the floor, trapping the family that had been sitting in the back. Two more explosions followed, one at the podium that immediately engulfed the FBI agent-turned-priest. The fireball swallowed both him and the city aides whole before a series of smaller explosions went off.

  In seconds, the entire church caved in on itself, the aged infrastructure no match for the heat and the concussive force of the explosions. Within minutes, nothing was left of the church but smoldering ash and burning wood. The floor had collapsed, sending debris and flames into the underbelly. Everyone who had attended the funeral, including the strange man, was dead.

  CHAPTER 20

  As recently as two months ago, Ramon Gutierrez would have never dreamed of storming into a superior officer's office, confronting him over work conditions. Not that Ramon lacked empathy for those who did, it just wasn't his style. Ramon was never the gruff, forceful type. If he had a point to make, he liked to make it quietly, in private, where he wouldn't draw attention to himself. In a perfect world, someone else would bring the point up for him and he'd never have to worry about it. But there was something about being an FBI agent—that badge just sat different on his hip—that made Ramon bold.

  Or maybe it was simply his loyalty to his partner.

  Just over a month ago, he thought Jill had abandoned him. She had walked away from the police force because she felt she was no longer making a difference, too blinded by the case of the moment to realize just how important she really was. On the one hand, Ramon had understood her plight. After all, he had the same concerns about his own career from time to time. If he had to guess, he figured most cops worth a damn questioned themselves every now and then.

  But then Jill was a fugitive, in the crosshairs of the very department she had once pledged her life, and Ramon hadn't known what to think.

  Then she had showed up at his wedding. With a job offer. More zeroes on a paycheck than Ramon had ever seen, more prestige than he would've ever hoped to have had he stuck with the Baltimore Police Department.

  Most important of all, they'd be partners again. He'd have his best friend back. That mattered more to Ramon than anything. He wasn't quite sure what that said about him.

  But the first couple weeks on Uncle Sam's payroll had been anything but smooth in that regard. It seemed like all the field work Ramon had done was on his own. Almost every time he came back to the underground bullpen, Jill was nowhere to be found—and vice versa. Even now, Ramon couldn't tell where his partner was. A phone call had gone straight to voicemail; had that not been somewhat typical of Jill, Ramon might have panicked. Now it was just annoying, and Ramon had an idea why.

  The sight of Agent McDermott in his office in the back of the bullpen made Ramon's hands ball into fists. No one had ever elicited that reaction from him. Other than his name, Ramon couldn’t think of a single thing he knew about McDermott, and sometimes it felt as if McDermott had only let him on board as a favor to Jill.

  If that was true, who was Ramon supposed to be mad at? Jill for giving the ultimatum, or McDermott for taking it, having no real interest as Ramon as a law enforcement agent on his own merits?

  Ramon barged through McDermott's door and slammed it shut. The glass surrounding McDermott's office fogged.

  "Where's Agent Andersen?" Sometimes, cutting right to the chase was the way to go. Ramon was proud that his voice held steady, even if his hands didn’t.

  McDermott shrugged, his hands steepled in front of his face. "On assignment. Not that I see where it's any concern of yours."

  "She's my partner." Ramon took a step forward, hoping McDermott couldn't see how his legs trembled.

  "You... say that like it means something, Gutierrez."

  "Did you have a partner when you were in Chicago?" Ramon's eyes narrowed. The bored look on McDermott's face told him he didn't look nearly as intimidating as he was hoping. "Do you even know what the word 'partner' means?"

  "Do you?" McDermott pushed out of his leather chair—which looked like it cost more than Ramon made in his old job in a month—and came across to the front of the desk. He leaned back against the edge with his arms folded over his chest. Even with the top button of his shirt undone and the tie discarded on the opposite side of the office, he looked entirely too immaculate for his own good.

  "Partners stick together," Ramon argued. "They have each other's backs."

  "That's true, Agent. But that doesn't mean they have to be with each other every damn day." Ramon opened his mouth to speak, but McDermott raised a hand to cut him off. "And quite frankly, I find your inability to work without her concerning. I brought you to this task force as a favor to her, but don't think for a second I won't cut you loose if you can't hack it."

  "How can I have my partner's back if I don't even know where she is or what you have her doing?"

  McDermott clapped Ramon on the shoulder, ignoring the glare the younger agent threw his way. "Let's be honest here. She doesn't need you. Not really."

  Ramon side-eyed his superior. The lowered eyebrows, the slight curve of the mouth... he knew what McDermott was trying to do. This was a power play of sorts, a test. It had to be. Because if McDermott was like this all the time... then how did he survive long enough to even make it to the FBI, let alone head up a task force that technically doesn’t exist?

  McDermott wasn't nearly as good at playing a part as he thought he was, and this was as transparent as they came. Ramon pushed the hand off his shoulder and took a step back, biting back the smirk tickling the corners of his mouth. McDermott was simply the latest in a long line of people who had underestimated Ramon throughout his career.

  Even Jill, in her own way. Not that she did it on purpose. But plenty of others had, and McDermott was just like the rest of them.

  "I think she'd beg to differ on that one."

  "Be that as it may," McDermott said with a sigh, "fact is, she has strengths you don't. And yes, the opposite is also true. While you're not wro
ng in that you're a team, sometimes, you gotta learn how to fly solo. Sometimes, law enforcement's an individual sport."

  Ramon rolled his eyes and turned to open the door leading out to the bullpen. "Sports were never my strength."

  "Really?" McDermott faked a frown. "Funny, I swore I could've pegged you as a great soccer player at one time."

  "Make no mistake," Ramon said, tightening his grip on the doorknob, "I will find my partner, and we will bring down the Collective. Together."

  McDermott sighed as the door shut, fishing a flip phone from his pocket. It wasn't the government-issued smartphone he had been using since the day he started at the FBI, but he preferred it that way. He flipped open the device and pressed it to his ear, staring at the door and pursing his lips.

  The FBI didn’t need to know who was on the other end.

  "We have a problem," he said when the call connected on the first ring. "Gutierrez is every bit the complication you said he'd be."

  CHAPTER 21

  "...as long as it takes to do what needs to be done."

  Daniel Richards paused the video, pursing his lips as his finger hovered over his smartphone. Wherever he and the other Baltimore Police Department higher-ups had been taken, they clearly weren't too far off the beaten path; Richards still had a solid wi-fi signal. There was plenty of food and other provisions, and if Richards’ eyes hadn’t deceived him, there was even a PlayStation 4 connected to the flat screen in the conference room. Like they had time or energy to do anything but hide.

  Richards swiped at the screen again, starting the video over from the beginning. The captain of the Seventh Precinct had seen this video enough times that he practically had the whole damn thing memorized. The words, the mannerisms, the timing of each individual action—yet he kept watching, waiting for that one clue he had missed every other time.

  So far, no luck.

  This wasn’t like those cop shows on TV, where near the end of the episode, the main character would finally see what had been in front of everyone’s eyes the entire time, breaking open the case. No such miracle happened in the real world. Yet Richards' detective training, combined with his natural relentlessness, kept him from pocketing his phone.

  "Ugh, again?" Mahoney, captain out of the Ninth Precinct, shook his head and scratched at his black mustache. "How many more times you gonna watch that shit?"

  "As many as it takes to figure out who they are," Richards answered, "or where they are."

  "And then what?" The other captain scooted to the edge of his seat, pulling a crumpled-up pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapping one out. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, his hands roaming his considerable frame in search of a light. When they came up empty, Mahoney cursed under his breath and tucked the cigarette behind his ear. "Look around, Daniel. Ain't shit we can do from here."

  "Never stopped me before," Richards said with a chuckle before suppressing a cough and cringing at the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest.

  "Don't think that superhero of yours is gonna help us, either." Mahoney's upper lip curled in disgust. "She's probably already in their crosshairs... assuming she ain't one of them."

  Richards finally pocketed his phone, scowling at his former colleague. "What did you just say?"

  Not that this was anything new; Richards had heard all sorts of nasty things about Jill over the years. Some of it had to do with her father. Most of it had to do with what was between her legs; law enforcement was still a largely male profession, and that much testosterone in such a small space was almost never good for anyone. But what Mahoney was insinuating... Richards' hands balled into fists without him even realizing it.

  Mahoney shrugged, staring at a random spot on the floor. Not having a light made him even surlier than usual. Which was impressive. "You heard me."

  "No." Richards sprang to his feet. "I don't think I did."

  Richards cast a sideways glance. On the opposite end of the room, three of the other captains were asleep. Aside from Richards and Mahoney, everyone else had moved along to another room—the one with the PlayStation—because it was soundproof and they could discuss strategy. No one wanted to admit it, but "run away" wasn't going to work forever. These jackals had managed to kill a city councilman, a police officer, and the goddamn commissioner in less than a week—and even now, no one knew anything about them.

  Whatever this facility was, wherever it was, it resembled a military bunker. Drab walls, spartan surroundings. There was probably an arsenal hidden somewhere. It made sense. If Richards needed to take a group of high-profile and influential targets to safety, he would look for something armed and fortified too.

  He also may or may not have left Mahoney behind.

  "Cause it sounds to me like you just accused an FBI agent of being a murderer."

  "She wouldn't be the first." Mahoney smirked at the glare Richards threw his way. "Oh, come on, Danny Boy... a history like hers? Then she goes out and decides being a superhero's a good idea?" He shook his head again and crossed his arms over his chest. "Wouldn't shock me if something snapped in that pretty little head of hers and she really started acting like Daddy's little—"

  Richards sprang to his feet and lunged at Mahoney. He slammed the back of Mahoney's head against the wall. The other captain grunted in pain, the cigarette falling from his ear. Richards hovered over the other captain, his forearm pressed down against Mahoney's neck. The other captains in the room stirred, scrambling to their feet. The captain of the Twelfth, Darden, grabbed Richards by the shoulder—only to be on the receiving end of a backhand.

  "You always did have a big mouth, Mahoney," Richards growled, pushing another hand off his shoulder. Mahoney gritted his teeth and struggled to get out from under Richards' grip. The captain of the Ninth might have been the larger of the two men, but he couldn't get the leverage he needed. Instead, he socked Richards in his left side—only to gasp in pain when his fist found something harder than flesh.

  "C'mon, Daniel," Darden tried again, holding the side of his face. It took the other two captains to finally pull Richards off Mahoney, and even then, Richards got one last swing in.

  "You know I'm right, Richards."

  Richards spun on the ball of his left foot, his right kicking Mahoney flush in the nose. Blood poured down Mahoney's face as his nose cracked and he clumped down unconscious. The other three captains surrounded Richards, grabbing both arms and pulling him to the opposite side of the room.

  "The fuck, man?!" Darden screamed. "What's your problem?"

  Richards glared at his colleague, a stocky man with whom he had served as detective alongside before being assigned as Paul's partner. Before he had a chance to speak, Jeff Downs—the bald man who had been, in essence, running the BPD now that Commissioner Saunders was dead—emerged from the chaos.

  "That's enough, Captain Richards." Downs glanced down at the unconscious man. "You play right into Mahoney's hands with outbursts like that."

  Richards glared at Downs and suppressed another cough. "Bastard's lucky that's all I did."

  "Be that as it may..." Downs glanced at the phone clutched in his other hand, pursing his lips and stealing a glance at the door that led into the soundproof room. "Seems you might be able to shed some light on what's going on here."

  The other captains reluctantly released their grip on Richards, whose face morphed from rage to annoyed confusion. "What?"

  Downs handed his phone to Richards. "Does the Ferguson case ring any bells?"

  Richards' stomach dropped. Because it did.

  "IT WAS A MONTH AFTER I'd been assigned to the Seventh," Richards explained, a steaming Styrofoam cup of something called coffee in front of him. "Paul and I had been called to a body about a block from Camden Yards. Real gruesome shit. The uniform on duty couldn't get two words out to us before he was looking for the nearest trash can."

  Downs nodded and pursed his lips. "Leonard Ferguson was the victim, right?"

  "Yeah." Richard stared at the steam ris
ing from his cup, his hands clasped together. "Massive blood loss, nasty cut along his neck. Like someone had tried to take his head off and couldn't quite finish the job."

  A man sitting on the other side of the long table, who looked like he could be Downs' twin brother, cleared his throat. "It took, what, a week to find the killer?"

  "Nine days," Richards corrected. "The whole time, he taunted us, made us chase our fucking tails before he finally slipped up."

  Richards wasn't above giving credit where credit was due; Paul had been the one to break the case open, thanks to his keen eye when studying surveillance photographs. Not everything was on a closed-circuit camera like these days. Back then, Paul and Richards had spent countless hours at their desks, hunched over grainy black-and-white photographs with magnifying glasses. Richards' back had given him hell for a full month after that case.

  "Taunting?" Downs asked.

  "Fairly typical stuff, mostly." Richard took a sip, cringing at both the heat and the taste. "How we'll never catch him. How we're not smart enough. But after four, maybe five days? He started preaching. Like, God and righteousness and 'I'm doing what needs to be done since no one else will.'"

  Downs' not-so-evil twin arched a brow. "Sounds familiar."

  "C'mon," Darden muttered. "You know how many nutjobs we've encountered over the years who've said all the same shit?"

  "But Erik Wagner wasn't just some nutjob, was he?" Downs pushed himself from his chair, pacing in a circle around the conference table. "We're talking about a man who had given the Army twenty years of exemplary service. He fought in the first Iraq War, earned numerous commendations, even had an audience with the president when he returned home. When he retired, he briefly pursued a career in law enforcement before realizing he couldn't physically handle the job. So, he became a PI."

  "Small-time stuff at first," Richards picked up on the thread. "Extramarital affairs, bosses thinking their employees were stealing from the company... but then he stumbled on a case where he discovered a Narcotics officer named Reynolds was on the take."