Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  Mitch flinched when a gunshot rang out, but she opened her eyes and found that not only had she not been hit, but the metal that had been pressed against her was no longer there. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the other masked man sprawled out on his back. He had lost his grip on his weapon, but more importantly, the side of his head had been reduced to a mess of blood, brain matter, and chunks of bone. Tearing her gaze away before her brain had a chance to process what she saw, Mitch turned to see a police officer in tactical gear approaching, smoke fluttering from his just-fired weapon.

  "You alright?" Officer Greg Sorenson asked.

  Mitch nodded with her mouth hung open. Words failed her, as did oxygen. She scrambled back to her feet, forcing herself to suck in as deep a breath as her lungs would hold. She nearly gagged, her stomach threatening to revolt at the sight before her. But she held her composure, having the presence of mind to step away from the assailants.

  Her hands were on the back of her head. Just in case.

  Sorenson holstered his weapon, removing his bulky helmet and reaching for the radio on his shoulder. "All clear. Shooters are down. Repeat: Shooters. Are. Down."

  Jorge got back to his feet, slipping an arm around Mitch's shoulder. She leaned into him, her eyes wide and her hands shaking. "Dios mio... Please don't something like that again."

  CHAPTER 41

  Earl Stevens pushed through the double doors leading into the morgue the same as he always did, but with a little more vigor this time. So much so, in fact, that the doors banged off the wall before swinging back closed. He closed the distance between himself and the two gurneys far quicker than usual. His cowboy boots, which he’d owned since his college days, were loud against the floor. The morgue had never been his favorite place to be, even after he began dating Juanita Gutierrez, but given the body that had just been wheeled in, he couldn't think of anywhere else he would rather be.

  "I know I said I didn't want anything for our anniversary," he quipped before greeting Juanita with a kiss, "but you gave me exactly what I wanted."

  "What can I say?" Juanita pursed her lips, but the smile still crept through before she hid it with a surgical mask. Poker face was not one of her strengths. She handed Detective Stevens a pair of blue latex gloves that matched her own. "You're an easy guy to shop for."

  Stevens put his gloves on with a snap over each wrist, cocking his head to the side. A matching mask followed, one that covered his nose and mouth. He hated how it felt against his mustache, but department policy made it mandatory.

  The detective seldom paid much attention to the gore, choosing instead to focus on other details that might prove helpful in solving the case at hand. Blood and guts rarely told Stevens what he needed to know, but in this case, he allowed himself a few moments to study what was left of the man's head. Stevens bent at the waist to stare into the bullet hole, amazed he could even find it in the remains. He pursed his lips and made a tsk sound before standing upright again.

  "Please tell me this fuckwit suffered," he muttered.

  "Nope. Instant death." Juanita grabbed the scalpel from her metal tray, stretching the skin along the dead man's chest near his collarbone and making the first incision. Cause of death was obvious for once, but an autopsy had the potential to give them other important details. First and foremost: who the hell this man was. Predictably, he had no identification on him, and the wound in the side of his head was bad enough that facial recognition wouldn't give an accurate reading. His fingerprints had been removed—a process Juanita always found fascinating—and a blood sample had already been sent to the lab for DNA analysis.

  "Well, beggars can't be choosers, I guess," Stevens said. "Wouldn't have minded cornering him in the box, though."

  "Then I guess it's a good thing the other one survived," Juanita countered, adding two more incisions to create a Y on the man's chest.

  "And I hope Hi and Whit give him hell."

  Juanita straightened with a frown. "You're not in on the interrogation?"

  Stevens shook his head and ran his blue-clad fingers over his mask, feeling for his mustache. It was bushier now that his face wasn't as full as it once had been, and he rather enjoyed the look. He did look younger, but not too much so. Even if he was using dye to get the gray out. Not that anyone would ever find out about that. Juanita was the only soul who knew about it, and she had been sworn to secrecy.

  "Wanted to come see you," he said.

  Juanita arched both brows. "Me or the homicidal lunatic on my table?"

  "Both." Stevens leaned against the empty table behind him, folding his arms over his chest. "I've been wantin' to talk for some time, but things never seem to slow down."

  "Talk," Juanita repeated. "Sounds serious. You do realize I have a table full of sharp tools at my disposal, right?"

  "Trust me, J... were I ever dumb enough to dump you, I wouldn't do it while you're mid-autopsy."

  "Okay, now that we've established you're not doing the unthinkable..." A sideways grin crept onto Juanita's face, and she rested a hand on her hip and shifted her weight to the side. "What's on that cornbread brain of yours?"

  "Where do you see us going, J?"

  CHAPTER 42

  "Well," Hitori Watson said with a sigh, "let's see how long this takes to go off the rails."

  "Hey." Whitney Blankenship approached her partner, pulling his shirt collar out from under his navy-blue sweater before smoothing out the wrinkle and straightening his tie. The sheepish, sideways grin on Watson's face made the move worth it, even as Blankenship ducked her head and brushed a strand of black hair behind her ear. "Don't underestimate yourself. You're pretty good in the box."

  "That's not what worries me," Watson admitted, staring at the door. "Whoever that guy is, he's gonna try to get us to lose our cool."

  "It'd be a smart play." Blankenship shook her head, running a hand up and down Watson's arm. She lowered her hand when he glanced at it with an arched eyebrow. "We already don't take kindly to cop killers, and with their track record..."

  "Whatever we do, we have to keep calm." Watson stood up straighter. "We got this, Whit. Okay? You and me."

  Blankenship let the smile on her face bloom wide. The weeks since she wrapped up her undercover operation for Captain Richards had been filled with more tension than she would've liked. Part of her work had her in league with David Gregor, accepting money from the businessman in exchange for services rendered. Fortunately, he never asked for a body, but once Watson discovered her alleged duplicity... well, it had been a hard road trying to piece things back together with her partner, but here, for the first time since, she felt like they were on the right track.

  And if she was close to getting her partner back, then maybe Blankenship was still worthy of her badge after all. She ducked her head when she saw Watson offer her a balled fist. She bumped hers against it and straightened her posture with a deep breath.

  "After you, Hi."

  The two detectives burst through the door into Interrogation One and were greeted with an emotionless sneer. The man dressed in military fatigues clasped his hands together on the surface of the table, the silver cuffs on his wrists shining under the light. His black mask was nowhere to be seen. His blue eyes darkened when he saw the two cops sit down across from him, his nose crooked and a gnarly mix of blue and purple. But that had nothing on the scar that ran across the man's forehead.

  "I'd love to start this by asking you who you are," Watson began, "but I have a hunch you wouldn't tell us."

  The man shrugged. "Doesn't matter who we are. All that matters is the mission."

  "See, I think it does matter." Watson clasped his hands together over his overstuffed file folder. "Seeing as how your leader just made a pretty big show of who he is."

  Again, that sneer. "He’s a true believer. Nothing more."

  Blankenship shook her head. "Spoken like a true zealot."

  Blue eyes locked onto Blankenship's. The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, like he
wanted to smile, but the gesture vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "How much money did David Gregor give you?"

  "Why?" A shit-eating grin crept along Blankenship’s face. If nothing else, her undercover work had given her some acting practice. "You want a cut?"

  The man chuckled and shook his head. He cast a glance toward the one-way mirror, taking several moments to study his own reflection. He pursed his lips and squinted, reaching up with both hands to trail his fingertips along the scar. When he lowered his conjoined hands again, the man ducked his head and mouthed a silent prayer. Once he met the detectives' gaze again, his eyes had turned black.

  "You tell yourself it was because you were undercover," he began. "You think that will help you sleep at night. You think it's okay because it lets you pay for your father's cancer treatments. But you know. Every time your father stares at you with that look of disappointment, you know. It wasn't worth it, was it? Sure, you were just following orders. Sure, the money went to a good cause. But come on, Detective. Was it worth it?"

  Blankenship held the man's stare, not even blinking. Not once. The words cut far more than she would ever admit, but knowing they were coming helped soften the blow and allowed her to keep the facade. The man sitting across from her and Watson wasn't nearly the threat he thought he was. But she was content to let him keep thinking he did, because that would make his eventual downfall even sweeter.

  Pride meant loose lips.

  The man’s gaze shifted to Watson. "And what about you? I can't believe you haven't requested a transfer. Or at least a new partner. How can you trust her?"

  Watson clicked the pen in his grasp three times. Otherwise, there was no reaction. A blank stare, unflinching. Hitori Watson wasn’t a poker player, but if he was, that face alone would win him a lot of money.

  "Because that's what partners do."

  "Ah," the man scoffed. "The undercover excuse works for you, huh? Well, what happens the next time she takes money and it's not for an undercover op? Hm? What then?"

  Click. Click click. Watson cocked a sideways grin.

  Click.

  "Not gonna happen."

  "You sure?" The man's eyes went wide. "I mean, bribes are like those potato chips. Can't take just one."

  "You don't know her." Watson sat up straighter. "And you don't know me. In fact, you don't know any of us."

  "I know enough to know neither of you are worthy of your badges."

  "Really." Blankenship scowled.

  "No?" The man leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "Then by all means, Detective. Enlighten me."

  "I don't know who you are, and frankly, I don't care." Blankenship rose from her seat, stealing a glance with her partner. When Watson gave her a wink and a nod, she stood up a little straighter. "As far as I'm concerned, The Collective is nothing more than a bunch of cowards."

  The smile disappeared from the man's face.

  "You think you're doing us a service." Blankenship paced around the table, each step slow so her heels stomp against the floor. "You think you're proving a point. But really, all you're doing is showing how weak you are.

  "You're racking up a body count, and for what? What did you hope to accomplish? Killing a city councilman, a cop, the commissioner? All that did was put a target on your back. But the mass shooting at the Inner Harbor? The minute you turned your guns on innocents, you lost whatever support you might've had."

  "Innocents," the man repeated, scowling as if the word had left a dirty taste on his tongue. "There is no such animal, Detective."

  "Civilians, then," Watson spoke up. "You went from targeting corrupt cops, dirty businessmen, and costumed vigilantes to going after men and women—children —who have no part in this self-declared war. You went from being the boogeymen on TV to being really no different than any other wacko with an arsenal these days.

  "And just like that," Blankenship added with a snap of her fingers, "your message is lost."

  "No one was listening, anyway." The man shrugged again, the scar on his forehead splitting open. "Turns out, the only thing this city knows is bloodshed. And we are happy to oblige."

  "I CAN'T BELIEVE WE're having this conversation while I'm cutting open a dead body," Juanita muttered with a cheeky grin—one her boyfriend couldn’t see because of the surgical mask.

  "I dunno, I think it kinda works for us." Stevens said. "I mean, let's face it: if it weren't for work, we probably wouldn't know each other, and out in public, you'd probably never give me the time of day."

  Juanita gave Stevens a sidelong glance. "Don't sell yourself short, hot stuff."

  "Remember, we started datin' before I lost all this weight." Stevens smirked. "I'm not sayin' that to be down on myself or nothin', it's just... this job brought us together. Long hours, late nights, meals we'll probably regret in ten to twenty... we spend our days surrounded by death and hate and anger. I've just learned not to ask too many questions when the light shines in through the dark."

  Juanita blinked. "That was awful poetic of you."

  "Yeah, I'm gettin' downright philosophical in my old age." Stevens approached Juanita, reaching for her hand before realizing she was still holding the scalpel—and that she was already covered to the wrists in blood. So instead, he stroked a strand of her hair behind her ear and leaned in to kiss her forehead.

  Damn mask.

  "Look, I guess what I'm gettin' at is... I love ya, J," Stevens added. "Just wanna make sure yer in this for the long haul like I am."

  Setting down the scalpel and shedding her gloves, Juanita turned and took Stevens' hands into her own. She looked up at him, smiling at the sight of his soft browns staring back at her. "Earl, my parents have been together for almost forty years. My grandparents, nearly seventy. Ramon and Jorge were together for almost five years before they tied the knot. My family, we don't do anything but the long haul."

  Stevens grinned.

  "Mami always told me to find someone who could make me laugh. I never realized how important that would be, but Earl, this job?" Juanita shook her head. "It'll eat you up, inside out, if you let it. You make me laugh. You make me smile. And when I get a body on this slab, I'm comforted knowing you're one of the ones out there bringing down whoever did it. I love you, Earl, and you're not getting rid of me any time soon."

  The two shared another masked kiss, during which Stevens reached around and snuck a grope of Juanita's backside. She swatted at his hand as they broke the kiss with a chuckle.

  "Later. I got an autopsy to finish."

  "Anyone ever tell you you're hot when you're cuttin' up dead folks?"

  Juanita blanched as she put a new pair of latex gloves on her hands. "I'm... gonna pretend you didn't just say that."

  The two fell into a comfortable silence as Juanita turned her attention back to the body on her slab. With the incisions made, she reached in and grunted, pulling back the skin and layer of muscle. But while she had expected to see the man's ribcage wrapped around his heart and lungs, what she was actually greeted with was unlike anything she had ever seen. Juanita had only pulled back the left side before letting go and taking a step back, covering her hand with a blood-soaked hand.

  "What is it?" Stevens asked, approaching the table.

  Juanita pointed, still too dazed to speak.

  Stevens forced himself to glare at the corpse's open chest, his knees nearly giving out when he saw a ribcage completely coated in metal.

  BLANKENSHIP SLAMMED the door to Interrogation One behind her, taking the empty seat beside her partner without saying a word. She slapped a manila folder onto the table, in full view of their suspect. She almost smirked when his eyes predictably went to the information Dr. Gutierrez had just given her, but she somehow managed to keep an air of stoicism about her. But damn, her cheeks hurt from the effort.

  Instead, she cocked a glance at Watson, shaking her head before clasping her hands together and leaning forward. A quick peek at her watch told Blankenship they had been at this for nearly two hour
s.

  "Tell us about Project Fusion," she said, fighting another smile when she caught Watson's head turn to stare at her. He was not yet privy to the contents of this folder.

  The suspect, whose name neither detective knew, leaned back in his chair and tossed his head back. He glared at Blankenship through the bridge of his nose, his upper lip curling into a sneer as he shook his head. "The fuck you talkin' about?"

  "I'm talking about the fact that your buddy's got a metal skeleton." Blankenship grabbed the folder again, opening it and tossing the first loose sheet of paper across the table. The man glanced at it but didn't reach for it or change his posture. He was going for nonchalant indifference, but the arched eyebrow and the way he carried his shoulders gave away just how piss-scared he was.

  Blankenship bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

  "Is that standard issue for you Collective types, or was your buddy here special?" Blankenship briefly glanced at the ceiling. "Then again... Dear Leader was executed several months ago, so special seems to run in your dysfunctional little family."

  "What is David Gregor to you?" Watson asked.

  The suspect gave a one-shoulder shrug and glanced at his own reflection in the two-way. "Fucker's one of our targets."

  Blankenship arched a brow. "Beyond that."

  "Nothin'." The man scoffed. "I just want the guy's head on a platter. That's it."

  Blankenship leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. She left the folder sitting wide open, the sheet she had tossed at the suspect sitting on the table, ignored. The man wouldn't look at the folder, either. In fact, Watson was the only one giving the folder any attention, glancing at it from time to time, trying to act like he already knew what was in it.

  Too bad he couldn’t read upside down.