I’m sitting at the table in my dining room, scouring the Internet for mentions of Deion Franklin and a Corona named Julio. There isn’t much on Deion. A couple of articles about him being swept up in gang raids, but not much else. As far as Julio, I don’t have enough information to even key in an effective search. Which means at the moment, I’ve got nothing.
I drum my fingers on the tabletop impatiently, trying to come up with my next move, there’s a knock on the front door. I glance across the living room, feeling a tightening in my gut. Nobody should be knocking on that door.
Getting to my feet, I grab my gun and chamber a round. Crossing the hardwood floor quietly, I pad across the living room and step to the small entryway. The knock sounds again, harder, and more insistent. There’s a video screen on the wall that shows who’s on the other side, and when I see who it is, I blow out a loud breath and lower my gun.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
Reaching out, I flip the lock and pull the door open to find Justice standing there with an impatient expression on her face. Her eyes cut to the gun in my hand, and she rolls her eyes.
“Seriously?” she asks.
“What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Well good morning to you too,” she chirps. “I see you’re not a morning person.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ll give you the answer to that question—if you invite me in,” she answers.
We stand there for a moment, staring at one another for a moment. A slow smile crosses her face, and she holds up a pink box.
“I brought donuts,” she says in a sing-song voice.
I sigh and stroke my beard as I stare hard at her. Finally, I shake my head and step aside, letting her inside. She flashes me a grin as she saunters through the door and starts looking around. I take a glance out at the street and don’t see anything out of place.
“Jesus, I’ve seen funeral homes with more warmth than this place,” I hear her say behind me. “Who does your interior decorating, Forest Lawn?”
I close the door with a sigh, and when I turn back, I find her standing at the table, looking at my computer. I walk over and shut it. She steps back and grins again.
“Touchy touchy,” she says. “You’d think I found your porn stash or something.”
She opens the box and pulls out a chocolate donut with sprinkles on top of it. She sets it down on a napkin, then looks around.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” I say.
“Great. Thanks.”
As I listen to her rattling the dishes in the kitchen while she pours herself a cup of coffee, I scope out the box. I take out an apple fritter and give it a taste. It’s got a nice crunch and a heavy hint of apples and cinnamon. It’s delicious.
“Good, right?” she asks, setting a plate down on the table. “Use the plate. We’re not savages here.”
I grin and set the donut down, wiping my hands on a napkin. Justice drops down into the chair across from me and takes a bite of her own donut, following it up quickly with a pull of her coffee.
“What are you working on there?” she asks through a mouthful, motioning to my laptop.
“Nothing.”
She sighs. “You know, this partnership would work better if you’re a little more forthcoming.”
“This isn’t a partnership.”
“Oh, but it is,” she replies. “Are you always this surly?”
She’s starting to sound like Delta. I roll my eyes. I pull another piece of fritter off and pop it into my mouth, then go over to pour my own cup of coffee.
“So who is Deion Franklin?” she presses.
“Nobody.”
“So withholding,” she pouts.
“Are you always this flippant?” I ask. “This job requires the ability to take things seriously, Justice.”
She sits up, and her expression changes. The smile fades away, and a serious expression steals across her face.
“I do take things seriously,” she tells me. “I just don’t see the need to be miserable all the time.”
“I’m not miserable,” I counter.
“Could have fooled me,” she mutters and takes a sip of coffee.
I’m not miserable. I simply handle things with a certain amount of gravity. This job requires it.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
She shrugs and tears a piece of her donut off, chewing on it thoughtfully. “I’m good at what I do,” she says. “I’m very good at it.”
I know her showing up here like she did is just another demonstration of her skills. She’s working really hard to make sure I know she’s got talent. I guess I have to respect that.
“We’re not partners,” I tell her.
“Fine,” she chirps. “Call it whatever you’d like.”
“So I assume there’s a reason you went to all the trouble to track me down here?”
“Oh it was no trouble at all,” she shrugs. “It was actually kind of easy.”
I sigh and clench my jaw. My patience with Justice is beginning to wear really thin. She seems to take the hint, and a small frown pulls the corners of her mouth down.
“Fine. I’m sorry,” she says. “I tracked you down because I thought we should talk about the op.”
“Good. What did you find out?”
“Well, Vogel’s home is pretty much a fortress,” she says. “Top of the line security systems. Tough to hack.”
“Did you bring any good news?”
“I did,” she beams. “It seems that Ms. Vogel will be hosting a fundraiser for Micah Hardwick at her house. Five thousand dollars a plate.”
“That is good news,” I nod. “Any chance of us getting on the guest list?”
“Doubtful. But I may be able to find another way of getting us in.”
“When is the fundraiser?”
“Saturday,” she replies.
I nod and purse my lips. It’s not ideal, but I think it might be our best shot—maybe our only realistic shot—at getting at that computer. I might feel better about it if I had what I needed from Publius. If I don’t hear from them, I’m going to have to go with the original plan, and I would really prefer to not do that.
Justice pulls her laptop and a water bottle out of her backpack and sets them down on her side of the table. She dives back into her bag for more things, spreading them out on the table like she’s moving in.
“Make yourself at home,” I remark.
“Thanks, I will.”
A small grin crosses my lips. I shake my head. The girl is maddening, to say the least, and yet still somehow strangely likeable. I sit down and open up my computer, giving it a minute to wake up.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I’m going to figure out a way to get us into that fundraiser.”
“Okay good,” I nod, grateful she’s got a task to keep her occupied. “The guest room is yours if you want to crash here since you already found my place.”
She smiles wide. “Sounds good.”
When I call up my email, a shot of adrenaline spikes in me. There’s a message from Publius.
Not wanting to give anything away to Girl Wonder over there, I keep my excitement tamped down as I open the email.
Ten tonight. Bench on the Millennium Park side of the Crown Fountain. Find the burner under the bench. Wait for instructions. ~ Publius
I check the time, already impatiently waiting for ten o’clock to get here.
Chapter Seventeen
I reach the park fifteen minutes early and walk around, looking for Publius. I’m sure they’re already here watching me. I can feel it. But even though the crowd is thin, they remain invisible to me. They’re good. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re probably in one of the darkened windows in a building across the street. That’s where I’d set up shop.
I find the phone that’s taped to the bottom of one of the benches and sit down to wait. At ten on the dot, the phone rings. I connect the call and hold the phone
to my ear.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Had to make sure you’re alone. I’m sure you understand.”
They’re using a voice modulator on the line to keep me from hearing their actual voice. It’s paranoid as hell, but given what I know, I can’t say I blame them for it. Publius has as much on the line as I do.
“Of course,” I reply.
“Good. Then leave the park and travel east two blocks,” they say. “Turn right. Halfway down the street is an empty building with a cupcake on the window. The door is open.”
I close the phone and head off as instructed. I don’t like the idea of heading down a dark street in the middle of the night, but I don’t see that I have much of a choice. I asked them to meet, so I have to play by their rules. As I walk, I discreetly adjust my jacket over the holster on my hip.
The street is empty, and I find the building with the cupcake on the window. It’s a bakery that seems to have recently gone out of business. Reaching out, I turn the handle and push the door inside. With a deep breath, I let it out quietly and step over the threshold.
The interior is darker than pitch, silent, and still smells like baked goods to me. I can see the outline of a counter against the far wall in the darkness, but not much else of anything.
“Close the door.”
It’s a woman’s voice that comes to me from the shadows. And she sounds fairly young. I don’t know why it surprises me, but it does. I do as she asks, closing the door softly. Turning back, I can see her suddenly standing behind the counter. A shadow among the shadows that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She’s tall. Thin. And from what I can tell, has long hair under the ballcap she’s wearing.
“You’re light on your feet,” I note.
“Comes in handy.”
“I believe that.”
We stand in silence for a moment, sizing each other up in the darkness. I extend my senses outward and realize there’s another person in the defunct bakery with us. They’re silent as a ghost and still as a statue, but my instincts are ringing, and I can feel them all the same. A wry grin touches my lips.
“You didn’t say this was going to be a threesome,” I say.
I hear the soft scuff of a foot on the floor, and a moment later, I hear the distinctive sound of somebody racking a round in a shotgun in the opposite corner from where the voice had come from. I’m backlit by the streetlights beyond the windows, making me an easy target for the gunman. I cut my eyes to the left and right, looking for a way out in case this goes sideways.
There isn’t much room to maneuver, so I’m going to have to make sure this is played straight.
“I’m cautious by nature,” she says. “I’m sure you understand.”
“I get it,” I reply. “Truthfully, I’m surprised you agreed to meet with me.”
She hesitates for a moment, and when she speaks, it’s cautiously. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have,” she admits. “But your email was—intriguing. You said you were in Maine?”
“I was.”
“Prove it.”
I slide my hand into my pocket and feel the one with the shotgun tense. “Take your hands out of your pockets,” he growls.
I pull the small device out of my pocket and hold it up. I press the button, and the small red light turns on.
“Detects the presence of electronic devices—recorders, microphones—things like that,” I say. “No offense intended, but I’m cautious by nature as well.”
She laughs softly. “No offense taken. I understand,” she says. “You’re as paranoid as I am.”
I shrug. “Have to be in our line of work.”
“You mean your line of work. I’m just a journalist,” she reminds me.
“Right,” I glance at the device in my hand, and the lights remain steady. “Okay. We’re clear.”
“Tell me about Maine,” she says.
“Before I answer that question, I need to know if you have proof of what Vogel and Kent are doing.”
“I do,” she replies. “Video and audio recordings, as well as pictures of them in rather compromising positions. She’s quite flexible for a woman of her age.”
She and the shotgun-toting man both chuckle. I can’t help but join them. Our awkward laughter fades a few moments later, and we’re left standing in silence again.
“So—why didn’t you publish the recordings?” I ask.
She sighs. “Because I’m realistic enough to know that at the moment, my audience is small. It wouldn’t go anywhere if I posted it on the Call. And I don’t trust the media. I turn the recordings over to them, they disappear down the rabbit hole, never to be seen or heard from again,” she says. “These people own the media. I think you’re beginning to see that. And this story is too important to disappear.”
I nod. I can’t really disagree with her on that point. Having seen the Hellfire Club manipulate the media narrative in Blankenship’s case, I don’t doubt those recordings would disappear too. But it gives me some leverage.
“What if I told you that your recordings can take them all down—Vogel, Kent, and Hardwick—in one fell swoop?” I ask.
“Hard to do if nobody hears them.”
“What if I told you I can guarantee they’re heard and will have a massive impact? The media would have no choice but to cover it once we force it into the light.”
She’s silent a moment, weighing my words carefully. As she should. But I can almost feel the excitement radiating off of her—though she’s doing her best to keep it reined in.
“You still need to tell me about Maine,” she prompts. “Prove you are who you claim to be.”
“Blankenship and his four-man security detail were all shot with an AR-15. It wasn’t a heart attack,” I say. “I left them in a pond on his property to delay their discovery.”
She whistles low. “And the missing persons case?”
“Tommy Elkins,” I reply. “Ran into him in town when he was beating on his girlfriend, Hope. He didn’t stop after I told him to, and so I made him stop.”
I see her shadow nod. My story is apparently lining up with what she’s learned in her own investigation.
“And the name of the man the Sheriff up there in Auburn is looking for?” she asks, needing one last confirmation.
“Alec Marsh,” I say. “An alias—obviously.”
I hear her let out a breath that’s colored with excitement—along with a flutter of fear—as she realizes she’s standing in a room with a man who’s killed five people she knows of and isn’t the least bit remorseful for it. I can hear her mind working, and right now, she’s wondering if she’s safe even with the man in the corner holding the shotgun. I’d say it’s a reasonable fear.
“Where are you getting your information? I ask. “I mean, you’re eerily accurate for somebody on the outside of things.”
“Who said I’m on the outside?” she teases.
I chuckle. “Fair enough.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nice try,” I say. “For now, you can just call me Echo.”
She laughs softly. “A girl has to try.”
I don’t tell her that I couldn’t give her my name even if I wanted to. That’s information she doesn’t need to have. I don’t bother asking for her name since I already know she won’t give it to me. Publius is fine for now.
“So tell me about this organization you work for,” she says.
“All I can tell you is that we are actively targeting opposition assets,” I answer. “And that we are working at a cross-purpose to the Hellfire Club.”
“So how can you guarantee my recordings will make a difference?” she asks.
I know I can’t tell her what I’m doing. I wouldn’t tell her even if it didn’t jeopardize operational security. But I need to give her something, or she’s not going to give me the recordings.
“My organization has a long reach. Maybe as long as the Hellfire Club’s,” I tell her, not actually knowing if that’s even true. “A
nd right now, I’m running an op that’s going to hurt those three. But it’s nothing they won’t recover from. It’s a flesh wound.”
I pause, letting her absorb those words for a moment and to give what I say next more import as I hope to convince her.
“With your recordings, it will be a complete disembowelment. It will take them off the board—permanently,” I growl. “And it will send the entire Hellfire Club scrambling.”
She pauses and seems to be considering my words for a moment. And when she speaks, her voice is slow, almost hesitant.
“I don’t want to sound crass. I mean, this scandal is beyond awful and should be exposed,” she says. “But if I give you these recordings, what am I going to get out of it?”
“What is it you want?”
“Information,” she replies, gaining a little strength in her voice. “I want a direct line to you so that I can call you when I’m working on something I think you can help me with.”
I consider it for a long moment.
“You need to know up front that there are things I won’t be able to discuss with you. I will not discuss anything that might jeopardize my life, the organization I work for, or the op I’m currently on,” I tell her. “And you need to be okay with that and not press me for details.”
She hesitates for a moment but then nods. “I can live with that.”
“Also, information is a two-way street,” I add. “Since you’re obviously so well plugged in, I may need information from you from time to time.”
“Deal,” she nods quickly.
“Good,” I say and then add, “What’s your angle here?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re obviously not doing all of this for the fame,” I point out. “Why put yourself in this kind of danger to expose them? You know what they’re capable of.”
She pauses, and I hear her sigh. “My sister was a reporter covering the war,” she says, her voice thick with pain. “She was following all the connections. She was in Syria and uncovered evidence of Vogel’s scheme. And then she was mysteriously killed in a rocket attack. So I started digging. I went undercover. I found evidence not just of Vogel’s part in this, but of all the dirt and blood the Hellfire Club has spilled—and wants to spill. And all these years later, I’m still digging, ever more appalled by what I’m finding.”
Web of Lies Page 8
