Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  "Wouldn't be a fair fight."

  Hissing and holding his side, Gregor leaned into his cane to straighten once more. "Was there a point to this visit, Andersen?"

  "You know... coming here, I sort of had this fantasy where you were still bed-ridden and unconscious." Jill glanced at the bed to her right, giving a one-shoulder shrug. "Your medication just... 'somehow' gets disconnected and the pain overwhelms you until you die."

  Now it was Gregor's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You would never do such a thing."

  "Doesn't mean I can't think about it." Jill took another step, her nose nearly brushing against his. "This is never gonna end, you know. Not until one of us dies."

  Gregor leaned against the mattress with a grunt, both hands now resting on the butt of his cane. "I suspect you're right. And given your unwillingness to take that step, I'd say the advantage goes to me."

  Jill’s hands balled into fists—for no other reason than to keep him from seeing how her fingers trembled. "You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?"

  "Not that hard, really." Gregor shrugged. "Daddy's little girl grows up with a massive revenge hard-on. When that fails, her obsession leads her to a ton of questionable choices. Volunteering for unproven, secret government experiments. Living a double life that could lead her to a life in prison – if not an early grave. Pissing off the last person in this city anyone should piss off." The older man sighed and withdrew into himself with a shake of his head. "I may not be long for this world, Andersen, but neither are you."

  "Then if I'm gonna bring you down, I guess I better hurry."

  Jill turned to walk out of the room, her fists balled so tight that her nails were digging into her palms. She hated the way he got under her skin so effortlessly, how his mere presence made her consider doing things she would hate herself for. It was best for her to leave the way things were and revisit at a later time, when she wasn't so raw and emotional that there was no telling what she'd be capable of.

  But the next words out of Gregor's mouth stopped her in her tracks and sent an icy chill down her entire body.

  "And how is Brian's campaign going?"

  Jill closed the distance between herself and Gregor, shoving him in the chest with both hands and jumping onto him when he fell back into the mattress. Grabbing his cane, she pressed it against Gregor's neck, pushing down on his Adam's apple. His eyes widened and his hands went to Jill's wrists. But he couldn't budge her any more than she could budge him. She pressed down even harder. Her arms shook with the force of it, her palms sweating against the wood. Every time Gregor's mouth opened for a gasping plea, she added even more pressure.

  She wouldn't even give him the satisfaction of begging. But how easy would it be to just... keep pressing? Not let up until he truly ran out of oxygen, until the manic, incessant beeping stilled? Until the machines that told the doctors and nurses he was still alive started singing a different tune?

  He deserved it. Didn't he? After everything he'd done?

  Maybe Jill should've let The Collective at him before... she shook her head. No. That wasn't her. That wasn't the way Jill did things. Tempting though it was, it didn't do anything to solve her problems. If anything, a dead David Gregor would cause more problems for Jill. Loathe as she was to admit it, this was actually the last thing she needed to do.

  So why wasn't she pulling back?

  "This is your only warning," she hissed. "You come after Brian, I will kill you. Understand?"

  Gregor clawed at Jill's wrists, his legs thrashing. In response, Jill tightened her grip even more and pressed down on the billionaire's neck until his mouth opened and he gasped and gagged for air. Gritting her teeth, she snarled and slammed her forehead against his. The sound of metal clashing against metal filled the room, and the drop of blood running down the side of Gregor's head made up for the dull pounding in hers.

  "It’s a yes-or-no question."

  With another gag, Gregor nodded.

  Jill pushed off the bed, swinging the cane over her head before slamming it against Gregor's temple. He fell back into the mattress, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He wasn't dead, but unconscious would have to do for the time being. Jill tossed the cane across the room and straightened her navy-blue blazer as the door burst open and Gregor's three guards charged in, guns drawn. The heavy-set nurse who gave Jill lip earlier hung behind them with wide eyes. Not that she cared about the patient, she just wanted a front-row seat for whatever show Jill had put on.

  Jill strode toward the guards without hesitation, even when she heard the safeties disengage. Standing in front of the lead guard, who had at least a foot and two hundred pounds on her, Jill quirked a brow. The guard glanced toward the bed, watching Gregor moan and wave him off with the hand not clutching the side of his head. Unconsciousness hadn't lasted as long as Jill had hoped, but if he was letting her go, she would take the win and call it a night.

  Reluctantly, all three guards lowered their weapons and stepped aside. Jill maintained eye contact with the lead goon as she walked past, cracking her knuckles because she knew the sound would grate on his nerves. Even better than that, though, he flinched and took two steps back.

  Jill allowed herself the smallest of smiles when the door shut.

  CHAPTER 55

  Ramon Gutierrez was usually one of the slowest people to anger in the entire world. Even when he did get angry, Ramon had historically been the sort to turn that emotion inward, to take it out on himself rather than express it in other ways. Outbursts were rare, even in his childhood, and plenty of people over the years had taken advantage of that fact. If Ramon wouldn't get angry, the thinking went, he wouldn't say or do anything if he was being bullied. Or ignored. Or taken advantage of.

  Even as a cop, Ramon had never embraced his inner anger. He still deflected whenever possible, and when he did stand up against someone or something, it was always on behalf of the law... or his partner... or one of his other co-workers. He never snapped on his own behalf.

  Which was what made him storming through the bowels of the FBI field office, the underground bullpen that didn't officially exist, so unusual. His hands were balled into fists, and he stared straight ahead. He wouldn't even blink as he stomped along the pristine floor. Colleague greetings fell on deaf ears. Other agents, whose names Ramon hadn't bothered to learn yet, stared.

  His partner was nowhere to be found.

  Because of course she wasn't.

  Ramon approached the glass separating the bullpen from Agent McDermott's office, yet as he did, the fog on the glass lifted to reveal the place was empty. No one was sitting at the desk. The lamp and computer were both dark. Ramon stopped in his tracks and turned to study the rest of the bullpen. Other than the stares of confused agents, he saw nothing of interest.

  "Where is he?" Ramon asked, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. When no one answered, he repeated the gesture. "Where is he?!"

  "Not here," Castillo answered, emerging from his cubicle for the first time Ramon could remember. The tech guru approached Ramon with cautious steps, a couple glances over his shoulder at one of the other agents who had grabbed the receiver on their phone. Whether the idea was to call Jill or someone else entirely, Ramon couldn't say, but all the movement and staring annoyed him.

  "He told me to come here, that he needed to see me." Ramon sneered. "Immediately."

  "He's not answering his cell," the female agent who had been clutching her phone announced.

  "He left in a pretty big hurry about a half hour ago," Castillo explained. "He was on the phone, then he just slammed it down and bolted."

  Ramon frowned, but this was more confusion than anything. "Do you know who he was talking to?"

  Castillo shook his head.

  "Can you find out?"

  The other agent's face lit up, a combination of childlike glee and mischievousness that Ramon hadn't yet seen from Castillo. He rubbed his hands together before barging into McDermott's office and practically throwi
ng himself into a plush leather chair. The phone system's call log was no help—because of course it wasn't. Secretive government task forces didn't stay secret long if their call logs were readily available to anyone who walked in. Fortunately, Castillo knew a way around that.

  Grabbing the black receiver, Castillo jammed his thumb against the lever to kill the dial tone. He gave a silent five count, pressing the receiver to his ear as his thumb danced over the keypad. It was so quick, and so many buttons were pressed, that Ramon couldn't keep track, but after almost a straight minute of button-pressing, Castillo sat in silence, phone trapped between his ear and shoulder.

  Five seconds passed. Then ten. Then twenty, no change.

  Castillo hung up the phone with a sigh, leaning back in the chair and steepling his hands together behind his head.

  Ramon shrugged. "Well?"

  "The last person Agent McDermott talked to was David Gregor."

  CHAPTER 56

  "You want my honest opinion, David?"

  David Gregor glared at the man standing in the doorway of his hospital room, a soda from the vending machine down the hall in his hand. If there was one thing Gregor couldn't stand, it was the lazy smirk that always seemed plastered onto McDermott's face. And there it was again, more annoying than ever. Though maybe that was because Gregor needed more pain meds. He healed faster than before, and broken bones weren't a problem, but he was still very much human and still very much sixty-three years old. Project Fusion was many things. The Fountain of Youth was not one of them.

  The Baltimore skyline was far more appealing right now than his unwanted guest, especially under the light of the full moon. Gregor didn't care what anyone said. This was still, and would always be, his city. Even if there was still one loose end that needed tying up.

  "Not particularly," the billionaire muttered. "But I know you're going to give it to me anyway."

  "You continue to underestimate her." McDermott shut the door behind him, ignoring the nod from the FBI agent guarding it. "How many times does she have to slip out of your grasp before you realize exactly what you're up against?"

  Gregor flexed his right hand into a fist, fighting the urge to smash it against something. His newfound strength seemed to bring with it an increased temper; he was quicker to anger than normal. Or was that the circumstance in which Gregor found himself? Carefully laid-out plans had failed. Trusted confidants had betrayed him. But the hands-on approach had proven equally futile. No matter what Gregor did, he couldn't rid himself of that blasted superhero.

  If Paul Andersen was his greatest success, Jill Andersen was turning into his greatest failure.

  And David Gregor was no failure.

  Gregor, still awash in anger, exhaled through his nostrils and stared at the moon. When he drew breath again, Gregor silently counted—a stress-relieving tactic Dr. Lo had left him with before he returned to this side of the Atlantic. Not that Gregor believed this would work, but it kept him from leaping out of his bed and pounding the other man to death.

  Violence wasn't on the table. For now.

  "You were supposed to help in that regard," he growled.

  "I'm doing all I can, David. But I'm afraid you've handcuffed me."

  At that, Gregor tore his gaze from the window. "Is that so?"

  "I can only do so much from a distance," McDermott admitted. "I can only distract her but so much, especially when your genius ideas keep popping up on her radar."

  Gregor arched a brow. "Are you suggesting I allow you to take a more hands-on approach?"

  "It couldn't hurt."

  "You know what she's capable of." Gregor sat up straighter, cringing when his stitches pulled. Why couldn't impenetrable flesh have been part of the deal? "You've seen, firsthand, the sort of damage she's willing to cause, especially if it means she can get to me. She's capable, she's hard-headed, and she's desperate. That's not a combination to take lightly."

  McDermott cracked his can open and downed half its contents in one gulp. "She's also predictable, David."

  "Then by all means." Gregor sneered. "What would you do?"

  "Isolate her. I mean, truly." McDermott set his half-empty can on the table beside Gregor's bed. "Separate her from everyone and everything she holds dear. Her friends, her family... those connections give her strength. Rob her of all that, and all you're left with is a broken, obsessed former cop."

  Gregor smirked. "With superpowers."

  "Which no longer give her an advantage over you. You are, in every way, her physical equal."

  "Yet I'm still in this bed." Gregor turned away, no longer caring to face the other man, his junior by nearly thirty years. "So, do tell, McDermott... what's your master plan to separate Jill from everyone else? Because as I recall, your first idea didn't work out so well."

  "I hired her partner as a favor to her," McDermott said. "As a way to guarantee she'd take the job. I can remove him from the equation completely."

  Gregor arched a brow. "Gutierrez." He pursed his lips and nodded once. "Firing?"

  "In a manner of speaking."

  Gregor cringed. "I've never been much for body counts. You know why?"

  McDermott shrugged. He'd never really thought of it, because he didn't really care.

  "When I was seven, I saw my first dead body. Some homeless man—he might have been a war vet, I can't recall—had been shot in an alley. Point-blank range, the bullet wedged itself into his brain. The blood wasn't what got me, though. No, it was the look frozen onto his face. The vacant, shocked look in his eyes. The way his mouth was stuck open, like maybe he died mid-scream."

  Something shifted in Gregor's gaze, and for a moment, his eyes averted.

  "The life had long left that man's face. But the fear, the final certainty, was still there. Even with all of the bad hands life had dealt that man—hardly anything to his name aside from a ratty coat and a small soup can filled with change and a couple wadded-up ones—the specter of death still frightened him."

  "That's really poetic," McDermott interrupted, snatching his soda and polishing it off. "You should be a writer."

  "Back then, I didn't understand why anyone would ever take a life," Gregor continued, ignoring the jab. "Even now, I try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Not just because bodies leave trails and I would like very much to keep things from leading back to me; more often than not, killing someone is unnecessary. In the movies, on TV... there's always a body count. Do you know how unrealistic that is?

  "For one, it's sloppy; there's a reason those bad guys always get caught in the end. Secondly, and most important of all, it's a complication. Short term, killing a failed lieutenant or a traitorous informant solves the problem. Long term, it creates even more problems than it solves. There are almost always better options than killing someone."

  McDermott rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like hiring someone else to do it for you."

  Gregor smirked. "Make no mistake: if a situation calls for it, I will take a life. But I take no pleasure in it. Every time I do, I flash back to that homeless man. Sometimes, my victim exhibits the same fear. Others, they stand tall and accept their fate. But it never fails: every time I kill, I go that night without sleeping. I am many things. A monster is not one of them."

  "You keep telling yourself that." McDermott approached the bed, studying the man lying there. Something about hospitals made everyone frail, whether they actually were or not. This place was no different; even now, Gregor's eyes were sunken into his face, his skin was far paler than McDermott had ever seen. Wires and IV cords crossed and tangled, the constant beep of medical equipment enough to drive a man batty. Then there was that stench, the constant burn of clean that singed the nostrils.

  "I do not relish in bloodshed," Gregor continued. "I do not enjoy causing physical pain. I will do it when it is necessary. But my preference for remaining behind the scenes, for pulling the strings and seeing everything unfold naturally, flies in the face of that.

  "Violence draws attention. It create
s animosity and sows division. I torture a colleague, who's to say one of their allies doesn't come after me in a fit of rage?"

  Even now, Gregor had the scar to remind him of that. A faint bump, a small patch of skin lighter than the rest. A dirty surgeon who had been under his wing came after Gregor in a fit of rage, stabbed him. Gregor survived; the doctor hadn’t. But still, the point was the same.

  "Gangs kill each other on our streets," Gregor continued, "and all that does is create more anger and more violence. Otherwise decent people find themselves committing heinous acts. No... psychological warfare is far more interesting to me. Why break bones when I can break someone completely? Stab wounds, when tended to, heal in no time. Bruises fade. Broken bones eventually reset. But the brain? The heart? Oh, those are a different matter entirely."

  McDermott rolled his eyes again, because he had not come here for a lecture. "Need I remind you, David, the psychological tactic hasn't been working."

  "You're right." Gregor grabbed McDermott by the lapel, tugging the FBI agent down face-to-face with him. The other hand wrapped Gregor's IV cord around McDermott's neck three times before the billionaire tugged. The first tug was enough to choke McDermott; his eyes bulged and he gasped for air.

  The second tug pressed on McDermott's windpipe even harder and his skin took on a slightly purple color. Gregor, with gritted teeth, leaned in. His face wasn't even an inch from the agent's. "Which is why your services are no longer required."

  Gregor tugged on the cord one last time, as hard as could. He hissed at the pull on his scar, but the telltale crack of McDermott's neck was the sound he really needed to hear. Gregor let the cord go slack, sighing with relief once the clear liquid once again poured into his veins. McDermott slumped to the floor in a heap; were the nurse the first one to find him, she would likely have a fit. Good thing the burly agent at the door was paid to keep that from happening.

  Gregor grabbed his phone with the hand not connected to the IV, swiping his thumb over the touchscreen before bringing the device to his ear. The call connected midway through the first ring.