Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  "I deserve whatever you want to do to me," he whispered, turning to spit out another mouthful of blood. "Maybe worse."

  "Go on," another voice chimed in from behind. "Don't even act like you don't want to."

  Gritting her teeth, Jill kept her glare squarely on Paul, even as she addressed the impeccably dressed man behind her. He was both the last person she wanted to see and exactly who she had hoped to run into. "Right now, I want you in a pine box."

  "Yet I'm not the one you've got pinned to the wall." David Gregor smirked and approached from the side, his hands stuffed in his pockets. It was strange seeing him without his blazer and tie, instead strutting around in a casual button-down with sleeves rolled up over his elbows. The shirt had the first two buttons open, teasing not just a puff of ghost white chest hair, but a surprisingly chiseled physique, given his age. He cocked his head to the side, regarding both Andersens with little more than passing interest.

  "Go to hell," Paul growled, glaring at Gregor through hooded eyes. His eyes flashed black again before returning to normal.

  "The more you say that, the less I believe it." Gregor pursed his lips and squinted. "Your anger toward me never meant a damn thing, Paul. Because no matter how much you cursed me, no matter what dirty names you threw my way, you always came crawling when I snapped my fingers. You followed my orders and you cashed my checks. So maybe it wasn't really me you hated."

  "Don't listen to him," Paul said.

  "You know I'm right." Gregor turned his attention to Jill. "Your father was nothing personal, Andersen. Just business."

  "Felt pretty damn personal to me." Letting her father fall to the ground, Jill backhanded Gregor across the cheek. The force of the blow sent the billionaire flying across the alley and crashing into a garbage dumpster. He scrambled back to his feet with surprising ease, brushing his hands on the thighs of his pants and cracking his neck.

  "But imagine my surprise—" Gregor leaned to his left, dodging another fist. He grabbed Jill's wrist and flipped her over his shoulder. "—when I start pouring money into Trent's little science project, and the first American volunteer I see happens to be you. I'm not particularly spiritual, and I've never been religious." He bent down and grabbed Jill by her hair, lifting her off the ground and headbutting her. The clang of their skulls colliding echoed throughout the night. "But even I have to admit there were some greater forces at play there."

  Jill cradled her forehead in both hands, feeling the warm blood pouring onto her gloves. The boot in her side made her gasp, stars flashing in front of her human eye. She rolled onto her back, sucking in as much air as her lungs could carry before breaking into a coughing fit.

  Gregor stood over her, pacing and ripping off his shirt. "Tell me, Andersen... if I’d never corrupted your father, would you have been on that slab? Would you be a bad RoboCop knockoff no matter what, or are you gonna blame that on me, too?"

  Nursing a separated shoulder and an ankle he was sure was broken, Paul managed to stand. Thanks to the brick wall, he was able to put all his weight on his good foot. He watched Gregor hover over his daughter, his oldest child who was writhing on the ground in pain. Physical, mental... so much pain in this alley, in this city, in this moment, and just about all of it had been his fault one way or another. Pushing off the wall with a grunt, Paul stared at the katana lying on the floor a few feet away. He had to hobble to get to it, trying to keep quiet and making sure Gregor's attention was still on Jill.

  The blade was heavy in Paul's hands. He couldn't remember the last time he had held the weapon, appreciated how it felt nestled in his grasp. The way the leather on the handle chaffed his rough palms. How his reflection seemed just a little bit younger in the blade itself. Paul had never done more than appreciate the beauty, the craftsmanship, and the heroic tale that put the katana in the family's possession in the first place.

  But now... the sword had another use.

  With Gregor mere feet away, Paul only needed a couple awkward steps until he was within striking distance. Then, with all the anger and guilt and strength he could muster, Paul drove the blade into Gregor's back. He nearly gagged when the weapon pierced flesh for the first time, but he crammed the katana deeper and deeper until it came out the other side. Coming in under the billionaire's ribcage, missing his spine by inches, the hilt pushed against his skin.

  Gregor didn't scream. The only sound at first was that of the blade cutting though flesh and muscle, spilling blood.

  Then Jill screamed.

  CHAPTER 50

  Adrenaline was a hell of a thing.

  It was the only way Paul could have driven the sword clear through Gregor the way he had, and it was the only way he could push the billionaire to the ground with both hands. After all, the one shoulder was still out of socket, and Paul still couldn't place any weight on his broken ankle. But his scream wasn't one of pain, it was one built up over decades, the release of years' worth of frustration and betrayal and heartache. He stood over Gregor, shaking and watching the man bleed before a hand grabbed him by his good shoulder and spun him around.

  Before Paul could gather his bearings, a leather-clad fist slammed into his nose. He dropped in an instant. Anger and darkness flooded his eyes, but Paul found himself unable to move. It felt as if every ounce of strength had been sapped out of him.

  "What did you do?!" Jill yelled, hovering over her father and tugging on his collar. "What did you do?!"

  "What,” Paul cringed and lazily clawed at his daughter’s grasp, "what I should've done years ago."

  "No." Jill punched her father again, holding back ever so slightly so Paul maintained consciousness. She let go of him with a grunt before turning her back and kneeling before Gregor. She wrapped a hand around the grip of her sword, sucking in a deep breath and studying her enemy’s face. He barely even grimaced. "This is gonna hurt," she warned, though she wasn't sure why.

  Jill yanked the blade out in one tug, watching Gregor’s blood run down the length of the weapon. Gregor hissed in pain and arched his back. Jill tossed the katana aside and pursed her lips, grabbing the billionaire’s discarded shirt and folding it before pressing the fabric to the wound. He hissed in pain and she pressed down even harder. Even as she worked to make sure Gregor didn't bleed out, she asked herself why.

  Why was she bothering? Why did it matter if she saved the life of someone who had caused her so much angst? What would ensuring Gregor didn't die accomplish?

  It would be so much simpler to walk away. Let him bleed out in this alley. Jill didn’t have to do anything to kill him; all she had to do was let time run its course. Gregor’s enhancements didn’t keep him from bleeding out, and the longer he terrorized this city, the more Brian’s arguments made sense.

  Jill hated to admit it. It ran against everything she believed. The world Jill lived in, the badge meant something. Laws meant something. Someone broke a law, there were consequences. But David Gregor had never suffered consequences, not once in his entire life, and what was there to say now would be any different?

  Maybe his death was the only solution.

  So why was Jill still pressing on his wound?

  "What," Gregor started, pausing to gulp in more oxygen, "what are you doing?"

  "Trying to save your ass," she growled. "Last thing this town needs is another dead body."

  "Even if it's me?"

  Using her free hand, the one not stained red, Jill fished the flip phone out of her boot and dialed 9-1-1. Ignoring both her father and the man bleeding in front of her, Jill spoke as soon as the call connected. "This is Special Agent Jill Andersen with the FBI. I need an ambulance to the Port of Baltimore. We have a stabbing victim, potentially life-threatening injuries."

  Flipping the phone closed and pocketing it again, Jill added more pressure to Gregor's wound. He gritted his teeth and grunted in pain, which Jill took more pleasure in than she would ever admit out loud. She pressed down again, for no other reason than to hear the billionaire hiss.

>   "Lot of trouble for someone you hate," Gregor whispered. "Weren't you... weren't you just wishing me in a pine box a few minutes ago?"

  "Believe me, I would like nothing more than to just get up and leave you be," Jill muttered, shaking her head.

  "So why don't you?"

  "Because that's not me." Jill rolled Gregor onto his side, using what was left of his shirt to press against the wound on his back. There was entirely too much blood for her liking. Apparently, as great as Project Fusion was for durable skeletons, it left a lot to be desired to skin, muscle, and soft tissue. "Because dammit, someone in this town has to do what's right."

  "What's right." Gregor scoffed. "And what is that?"

  "For your ass to sit in a courtroom while a jury sentences you to several lifetimes behind bars."

  "In a perfect world, he would," Paul said as he got back to his feet, pulling a handgun from the waistband of his pants. The weapon trembled in his grasp and sweat poured down his forehead. Breath came in short, ragged bursts, and it made speaking difficult. Almost as difficult as standing with a bad ankle. "But this world is far from perfect."

  Jill rose and got between the two men. Paul's eyes widened when he saw his weapon was now trained on his daughter, but he set his jaw and removed the safety. His eyes flashed black once more. Of all the nightmarish scenarios Jill's brain had cooked up over the years, her father pointing a gun at her had never made the list. Yet here they were, and Jill couldn't stop the reflex that had her raising her arms over her head.

  "Dad," she said in a tone that made Paul flinch. "Don't."

  "Say it did happen," he started, out of breath and listing to the right. "Say... say you got Gregor in a courtroom. What then?" He waved the gun in his hand as his upper lip curled in disgust. "You really think they'd convict him? The connections he has? The people he's got in his pocket?"

  "That's where people like me come in."

  "People like you," Paul repeated. "The hopelessly naive? The out-of-their-depth?"

  "Dad." Jill took a step. "Put the gun down."

  Instead, her father pulled the trigger. Jill flinched, her heart leaping into her throat. It took a few seconds for Jill to realize she hadn't been hit, that the bullet had wedged itself into the ground at her feet. But the fact that her own father had pulled the trigger in her direction... as hard as it was to wrap her head around the fact that her father had killed people, but to have him shooting at her was...

  She ran. Jill was on her father before he could pull the trigger again. She lifted the arm holding the gun over Paul's head with such force that something cracked, and he screamed. The gun clattered to the ground and Jill kicked it aside as sirens in the distance steadily grew louder. With a twist, Jill pinned that arm behind her father's back, and she pinned him up against the wall face-first.

  She wanted so badly to get out of this without hurting him any worse than he already was. But she couldn't see any other way out. Not with David Gregor possibly bleeding out on the other side of the alley. Not with Paul apparently willing to open fire on family.

  "You don't understand!" he yelled in a voice that didn’t quite sound like him. "People like him are the reason The Collective exists!"

  "And what about the others?" Jill tugged on her father's wrist. "What about Brian?"

  "Brian was a decoy," Paul admitted. "We were using him to get to you."

  Jill spun Paul around to face her before punching her father square in the throat. He dropped immediately with a harsh gag before breaking into a violent coughing fit. Each hack shook his entire body, and Jill stood over him, both hands curled into tight fists. Bile spilled from Paul's mouth and onto the ground before Jill reared back and kicked him in the side. "Cause you didn't torment him enough when you became a murderer?! That wasn't enough for you, so now you had to haunt him with this fucking cult of yours?!"

  Flashing red lights poured in through the dilapidated windows, the sirens ear-splitting in announcing the ambulance's presence. Jill glanced over her shoulder before dropping to a knee again, grabbing a tuft of her father's hair and yanking until he howled in pain.

  "You come after Brian again," she warned, "I'll make sure the next time they dig up your coffin, you're actually in it."

  CHAPTER 51

  Ramon had no idea if bringing local detectives to an FBI arrest was proper protocol. Then again, his task force technically didn't exist, so what did it matter if he followed the rules? Especially since they were dealing with a murderous cabal that killed its victims for public spectacle. Something told Ramon traditional norms and rules didn't apply in cases like this, that all that ultimately mattered was bringing down the bad guys. Besides, even with as capable as Operation: Flashlight's other agents were, there was no one Ramon would've rather had at his back than Detectives Stevens and Blankenship.

  Okay, there was one other person he would rather have, but Jill was apparently dealing with other matters at the moment. Which, given the surprise resurrection of her father and all that entailed, Ramon was willing to let that slide. Still, he and his partner had spent far too much of this case working independent of one another. He didn't like that. Ramon had always been taught that having his partner's back was the most important thing he could do as a cop, but he felt Agent McDermott had done his best to undercut that at every opportunity.

  Why? Simply because they were off the books?

  No, that didn't seem right. Once this was all over—once The Collective was nothing more than a grisly story to rehash over late-night beers—he'd have to give his new boss a thorough vetting. Ramon wasn't above doing some off-the-record recon of his own, especially if it meant he had a better grasp of what he was dealing with day to day. It was a reality he would've never considered in his homicide days, but apparently, life as a federal agent was more ambiguous than that.

  He hated that fact.

  Almost as much as he hated having been wrong about Paul.

  "Alright, listen up," he bellowed as he stepped out of his squad car, a coal black Dodge Charger that probably cost far more than anything he'd ever find at a dealership. Blankenship and Stevens had already emerged from her ride—a mid-2000s Toyota something or other that was nice but lacked the bells and whistles of today. Cop's salary and all that. Ramon glanced skyward across the street, nodding once at the sight of an FBI sniper already in place. "Let's not step on any toes here, alright? We want Dr. Sebastian Lo brought in alive. Shoot if you must, but only to incapacitate."

  The last thing they needed was yet another dead body. Though Ramon dreaded they might not be able to avoid that—because honestly, when was the last time he worked a case where the clues lined up easily and the suspect went along without a struggle? He couldn't recall, and with this group being as zealous as they are, and with such players as Bounty and David Gregor and the formerly late Paul Andersen knee-deep in things...

  How had Ramon gotten thing so wrong?

  Ramon shook that out of his mind, choosing instead to focus on the heft of the Sig Sauer in his grasp. He was amazed at how light the bulletproof vest felt on him; it was clearly the same thing he'd had in his detective days, but apparently, federally issued body armor just felt different. He just hoped lighter didn't mean less effective.

  Even better? Never finding out at all.

  He waved his left hand before entering the apartment building, in which they expected to find Dr. Lo on the third floor. He couldn't remember the name of the street—mostly, he had followed the GPS to the location, too focused on completing the arrest to worry about much else—and even as he and his two former colleagues ascended the corner stairwell, Ramon went over every possible scenario in his head. Including the one where this was some insidious trap designed to kill someone, maybe even Ramon and the other cops.

  At this point, he wouldn't put anything past The Collective. Hence the sniper outside. And the retired Special Forces commando hiding in the back alley.

  Reaching the third floor, Ramon eased the door from the stairwell t
o the hallway open. Gun at the ready, he peered down the hallway. Satisfied there was nothing there, he nodded and proceeded down the hall, thankful for plush carpeting to keep his footsteps quiet. The detectives were about ten feet behind him; Blankenship had her hand on her weapon, but the gun remained holstered. Stevens had already drawn his, but it was pointed at the floor.

  As the trio reached the midway point of the hallway, a door to their right opened. An impossibly well-dressed Asian man emerged, wiping a smudge off his glasses before returning them to his face. He then leaned against the door frame, raising his arms to show his open palms. A lazy half-grin was on his clean-shaven face, and he dipped his chin.

  "I must say," he greeted, "you're not who I was expecting."

  Ramon frowned and lowered his weapon. "Sebastian Lo?"

  The other man nodded and pushed his glasses even further up his nose. "And you must be Agent...?"

  "Gutierrez." Ramon holstered his gun and approached Dr. Lo. "Turn around and place your hands on the back of your head."

  Dr. Lo did as asked, and Ramon went about the process of handcuffing him. Ramon was gentle about it, unlike so many others in the profession, but the doctor still winced when the cuffs latched around his wrists. "I thought for sure the vigilante would've come for me by now."

  "You have the right to remain silent," Ramon said pointedly. "Anything you say can and will be used in a court of law."

  "I really thought she'd come kicking my door in once she saw her father," Dr. Lo continued, talking as if no one else was in the hallway with him. He barely noticed the other two cops, along with the agent who was now leading him down the hall and into the stairwell. He paid no mind to the guns trained on him, in case he decided to become a flight risk or a threat. No, he just shook his head and chuckled. "Shame, too. Paul was some of my best work."

  "You have the right to an attorney," Ramon continued as they all spilled out into the fire exit leading to the back alley. The agent on guard nodded once and wandered off, motioning for everyone to follow. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be prov—"