Betrayal

by J. D. Cunegan

  "I'm through relying on others," he grumbled. "I'll handle everything from now on."

  CHAPTER 57

  "Gotta say," Mahoney admitted, scratching the back of his head, "never woulda pegged Downs as the bad guy."

  Captain Richards, Captain Mahoney, and the remaining higher-ups from the BPD who had been in hiding were huddled around Richards' smartphone. They were on speaker with Detective Stevens, who had called to provide an update about the gunman in custody—Patrick Gordon—who had since died in his cell, as well as the arrest of Dr. Sebastian Lo that had gone awry. Richards had an update of his own, telling everyone about Downs' duplicity. Stevens had reacted with the shock that Richards had expected, but he figured that surprise paled in comparison to dead men being brought back to life.

  "It makes sense," Stevens said. "I mean, as showy as these fucks were, having someone no one ever notices doing some of the less gory work is a genius move. Fucked up, but kinda smart."

  "Where are we now?" Richards asked, turning his head and burying his face in the crook of his elbow when a rib-rattling cough hit.

  "The gunmen are dead. Good fuckin' riddance. Agent Gutierrez, Detective Blankenship, and I went to arrest Dr. Sebastian Lo in connection with... well, all these bastards, but when we cornered him, an unmarked van swooped in and kidnapped the guy."

  Richards frowned, exchanging a glance with the other captains in the room. "Any idea who they were?"

  "Not a clue. Watson's working that angle. But we got other issues."

  Richards hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, because of course they had other issues. What would life in this godforsaken town be if they went five minutes without any other issues? Richards had jumped at the chance to be captain of his own precinct when it was first offered to him almost two decades ago, but the longer he lasted in the post, the more Richards was convinced he would've been better off staying in the field. Sure, it was more dangerous, but the politics one had to play at the administrative level were almost not worth it.

  Especially in times like this. The whole time, Richards' men and women were risking their lives to bring down a murderous cabal, and what did he do? He ran away. He hid. Not that Richards had much choice in that regard, but it still sat wrong in his gut.

  Besides, he wound up being no safer anyway.

  "Break it to me, Earl."

  "Just got a call from Correctional... Lori Taylor's dead. They found her hangin’ in her cell."

  Richards sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. The stubble was quickly reaching beard status, and other than the occasional itch on the bottom of his chin, Richards didn't care. Evelyn hated the beard, but after the last couple days he'd had, Richards couldn't be bothered to stand in front of a mirror for ten minutes hacking away at his face. Mostly because his own reflection repulsed him these days.

  "Jesus..."

  "And David Gregor's in the hospital," Stevens added. "Stab wound to the gut. Little low for my tastes, but the FBI's keepin' tabs on him."

  The question was automatic. "What about Jill?"

  Richards ignored the glare from Mahoney, who cleared his throat and stormed out of the room.

  "Ain't heard from her yet. But way I figure? If someone offed her, we'd know. The Collective wouldn't be able to keep its mouth shut about somethin' like that."

  Stevens had a point. Richards stared at his phone, specifically the icon at the top of the touchscreen telling him he had a voicemail. He remembered listening to it once he had come to—but between the standoff with Downs and getting caught up on things, he hadn’t truly had a chance to process it. He wanted so badly to hear her voice again. To make things right. To show her how much he truly cared for her, even when he did the terrible things he did.

  Maybe she would never forgive him. Richards wondered if maybe she shouldn't. But he wanted to at least have the conversation.

  And soon.

  The fact that she had reached out to him, unprompted... he wanted to take that as a sign. He wanted to believe it meant he had a shot at redemption. Whether he deserved it or not, after what he had done on her behalf, Richards didn’t know. But he at least wanted the chance.

  "Well, anything else happens, let me know." Richards exchanged glances with the other captains, who he was ashamed to admit he didn't know. "We'll probably be coming back out of hiding soon."

  "Roger that, Cap. It'll be good to have you back."

  The call ended and Richards scooped the phone up to stuff in his pocket. He left the room without saying a word to the other captains, and he blew by Mahoney without giving him the time of day. Not that Mahoney noticed, as he already had his phone glued to his ear, presumably talking to one of his loved ones. The ordeal was over. The Collective had... well, they hadn't really been defeated. They just kinda sputtered to an end on their own. Anticlimactic in a way, but also not unheard of for cabals like that. Show up, wreck shit, leave.

  That was always the way, wasn't it?

  Richards took a deep breath once he was outside, glad to be able to see the moon for once. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth—but again, he didn't light. He wanted to. Oh, how he desperately wanted to fall off the wagon. But those coughs... they were a reminder of why he quit in the first place, and with a sigh, he leaned back against the wall and just let the cigarette hang there.

  Teasing him.

  Closing his eyes, Richards grabbed his phone again. He queued up his voicemail, almost tearing up the second he heard Jill's voice. The words seemed to hit harder the second time around.

  Hey, Dan... it, uh, it's me. Probably the last person you expected to hear from, but... I dunno. Everything's falling apart right now and I just... Dad's back. Least, I think it's him. Sure looks like him. And Gregor... apparently, he and I now have cybernetic guinea pig in common. I don't even know how to describe all this, or why I'm even calling, I just... I'm scared and alone and I dunno how I'm gonna get out of this. I just... just stay safe, okay? Wherever you are, just stay there and do what you're told until we bring down The Collective. Okay?

  And Dan? I love you. Even after... well, everything.

  The tears fell without Richards' consent. He shuddered at the mention of his former partner, the roiling in his gut nearly enough to double him over. Whoever this Dr. Lo was who had apparently been behind all this, he had been doing some sick shit, and Richards hoped for the doctor's sake that the two never met. To bring Paul back like that, only to... and Richards knew the others who had been brought back had since died again, and he couldn't help but hope the same fate had befallen his former friend.

  Not out of malice, but... God, how much suffering could—should—one person endure? To say nothing of the effect his return likely had on Jill.

  Richards nearly called Jill right then and there, but his thumb hovered over the green button without touching it. What was stopping him? She had reached out to him, so clearly, whatever rift was between them wasn't insurmountable. Right? And yet... Richards could do nothing but stare at the device, shaking his head. He wiped at his face with his other hand before pocketing the phone again.

  "Goddammit..."

  This was all too damn much. Corrupt cops. Superheroes. Murderous cabals. Resurrection. When was all this going to end? Would it ever? How much of this was because of Bounty's presence? How much of this would be going on regardless? Did Bounty's presence make things better, or was she making things worse—whether she meant to or not? An argument could've been made that without Bounty, The Collective wouldn't have existed. Richards wasn't sure he bought that, but he found the older he got, the less certain he was of things.

  But one thing he did know?

  He was sick and damn tired of all this coughing.

  CHAPTER 58

  Somewhere...

  The van ride from the downtown apartment complex had left Sebastian Lo with a terrible case of motion sickness—a damn inconvenience, since the bag over his head had been fastened at the base of his neck.
So not only had the doctor gotten sick twice from the jostling of the vehicle, he'd had to stew in his own vomit. The warmth and the stench of it was almost enough to make Dr. Lo hurl again, but his stomach was empty at this point. Without his sight, every other sense was on high alert; the squealing of the tires when the van came to a stop, followed by the slamming of two doors, had him on high alert.

  He yelped in spite of himself when a pair of strong hands grabbed him and yanked him out of the van. Some of Dr. Lo's sick had dribbled out from the bottom of the sack, staining his shirt and dripping onto the floor. Whoever had a hold of Dr. Lo then tossed him onto a small metal chair—the sort that was so short, his knees were practically up against his chest—before tying his wrists together behind his back.

  No one had said anything since Dr. Lo had been yanked from the van, and yet he could tell there was more than one person before him. He could feel their presence. It wasn't quite a sixth sense, but Dr. Lo could tell there were people here—wherever here was—aside from the two people accosting him.

  The sack over his face ripped away. Dr. Lo gasped for air like he hadn't had a breath in weeks. The air was so refreshing that he inhaled too quickly and hunched over in a violent coughing fit. In his excitement over no longer having to smell his own barf – what wasn’t staining his shirt pooled at his feet—Dr. Lo had inhaled a bit too sharply. Tears filled his eyes as he rode out the rest of the coughing fit, looking up but failing to truly register the two people standing in front of him. One man and one woman, that much he gathered, but as he blinked the tears away, that was it.

  "Sebastian Lo," the man greeted in a familiar voice. "We need to talk."

  His head rolling back, Dr. Lo's vision finally cleared enough for him to see the three men with firearms trained on him. They were wearing identical black suits, with white dress shirts and black ties. Sunglasses donned their clean-shaven faces, and off-white wires each sprang out from their right ears. Not that Dr. Lo was used to being held at gunpoint, but he wasn't expecting the Men in Black to be the ones doing it.

  The doctor leveled his gaze, frowning when he saw the man who had spoken to him. Stocky, with ghost white hair. A navy-blue suit that looked like it cost more than Dr. Lo made in a year. American flag lapel pin that matched his red tie.

  "Mr. President," Dr. Lo muttered with a quirked eyebrow.

  Roger Pearson stuffed a hand into his pocket, nodding at the three gunman. All three lowered their weapons as the president approached. "Apologies for the intrusion," he said with a wave of his other hand, "but the last thing we need is you in a jail cell."

  "Not that I'm ungrateful," Dr. Lo offered, "but forgive me if I don't exactly follow."

  Footsteps echoed from behind Pearson. Dr. Lo narrowed his gaze, for the first time noticing that he was tied up in some underground bunker. Not unlike the facility in Quantico where he had patched up the vigilante, but not nearly that nice, either. Rust coated the pipes and some of the floor, and the computers lined up against the far wall were too bulky and large to be from this century. The dust and cobwebs covering them also betrayed their age. Wherever this hideaway was, it hadn't seen actual use in years.

  If not decades.

  A tall, lithe woman emerged from behind Pearson, her chin-length blonde hair closely cropped to her round face. Her eyes were narrow, like she was always suspicious of something, and her posture was impossibly straight. Dr. Lo chuckled when he saw her, lowering his head and giving a small, almost imperceptible shake.

  "We don't have time for protocols," Amanda Crawford said without greeting, folding her arms over her chest.

  "I trust you heard of the attack on D.C. three months ago," Pearson added.

  Dr. Lo's frown deepened, and with his voice refusing to work, he simply shook his head. He had heard of no such thing. Granted, he had been out of the country until recent weeks, but in this day and age of twenty-four-hour news channels and the Internet and social media, that shouldn't have meant anything. Even with Dr. Lo's occasional habit of shutting out the rest of the world to focus on a project, he still made sure to keep abreast of world events. If nothing else, it helped him make small talk at science conventions and lecture appearances.

  He didn't really care about any of that stuff, but he learned grants were easier to come by if he could convince his colleagues he did. Faking it was a skill Dr. Lo had learned early in his career.

  "I'm afraid I haven't," he finally admitted.

  The president and his would-be successor shared a glance before Amanda approached. She pulled a smartphone out of her pantsuit and flipped to an image to show Dr. Lo. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before: a giant, wormlike creature was bursting through out of the ground at the Smithsonian Mall, its gaping maw stained in blood. People were fleeing, one woman stepping over what was left of a congressman's body. Dr. Lo's brows shot skyward, but otherwise, he had no expression. Not that the image didn't freak him out, but he had learned long ago the value of not telegraphing his feelings.

  For one thing, it was killer at the poker table. It was also handy in the operating room.

  "Hollywood special effects," he quipped. "So lifelike now."

  "That was quite real," Amanda countered. "Thirty-five people died that day, including five members of Congress and a high-ranking military advisor."

  "So, what happened?" Dr. Lo shrugged—because honestly, it was all he could do. "I mean, what's our national response to... well, that?"

  "The monster in that picture was taken care of," Pearson explained. "I won't bore you with the details, Doctor, but let's just say there are forces out there that you and I are ill-equipped to deal with, and the D.C. attack was a wake-up call for a lot of us."

  "If we don't do something," Amanda added, "these monsters will attack again, and we won't have a response."

  "Funny." Dr. Lo scoffed. "I don't remember monster hunting being part of your platform."

  "You have had quite the career." Amanda changed the subject so quickly it almost gave Dr. Lo whiplash. "Normally, I wouldn't give the time of day to someone with a dishonorable discharge on their record... to say nothing of the abhorrent stunts you've pulled recently."

  "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." There was that poker face again.

  "Public beheadings and a billionaire who's gone all Six Million Dollar Man on us say otherwise." Pearson broke into a grin at the glare Dr. Lo threw his way. "Oh, yeah. We know all about that stuff."

  Amanda rolled her eyes. "That's how we knew where to find you and could grab you just as the cops swooped in."

  Dr. Lo nodded once. He was a reasonably intelligent man, if the sheer number of degrees that hung on his wall were any indication. But more than that, he knew a plot when he saw one, and what was unfolding before him was a textbook case of do as we say, and we'll keep our mouths shut about all your dirty secrets. It wouldn't be the first time Dr. Lo had found himself in such a predicament, but for the President of the United States—both current and future—to be the one dangling the proverbial guillotine over his neck...

  Gods help either one of them if Congress ever found out.

  "I see. And this is the part where you offer me a job, tell me to take it or you spill all my dirty secrets?"

  "I'm impressed with your work, moral judgments aside," Amanda admitted. "I daresay that in many ways, you've honored your friend's legacy. In others... well, not so much, but human prosthetics and cybernetics are as advanced as ever, and something tells me we'll need that technology and expertise in the coming years."

  Pearson produced a manila folder from the inside of his suit jacket, dropping it in Dr. Lo's lap as one of the Men in Black approached from behind and uncuffed his wrists. The folder was blank, save for large red letters spelling out CONFIDENTIAL - EYES ONLY. Dr. Lo eyed the folder before returning his gaze to the president.

  "Open it," Pearson ordered. "And need I remind you, nothing in that folder leaves here tonight. You talk, you won't live long enough for your sec
rets to mean a damn."

  With shaky hands, Dr. Lo did just that. He frowned at what appeared to be autopsy photos—only these were no ordinary humans. One specimen had his mouth pried open, revealing fangs. Another looked to be an oversized slug split open down the middle, like it was a middle school science class dissection. A third photo was of a man-sized bat, half of his body scorched and rotting.

  "Operation: Hellion is our answer to the growing supernatural menace," Pearson explained as Dr. Lo thumbed through the rest of the folder's contents. "If the monsters are intent on invading our planet, threatening our way of life... well, what kind of president would I be if I didn't try to protect my people?"

  Dr. Lo frowned. "I'm not a monster fighter."

  "Then it's a good thing we're not asking you to be one." Amanda was at Pearson's side again, hands steepled together. She easily had at least six inches on him, and for the first time, Dr. Lo could see why some far less secure than he would be intimidated by her. "We could put the most capable military might at our disposal on this team, and they wouldn't last two seconds against a nest of vampires. No, we need a super team. We need people with... abilities."

  Closing the folder in his lap, Dr. Lo sighed and shook his head. "You want to resurrect Project Fusion. Officially."

  "No. We want something better than Project Fusion. And you're going to lead the way."

  COMING SOON:

  BITTER END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I dunno if I can find the words to describe how hard this book was to write. I couldn’t even tell you why—for the most part, the plot has remained unchanged throughout. But it got so bad that I, a lifelong pantser, actually took up the task of outlining. Nothing major, but I do owe Libbie Hawker a shoutout, because her book Take Off Your Pants! is perfect for pantsers who are looking to start outlining. The big breakthrough for this book came after I read Hawker’s work.