by Alex Howell
Still, the words from the general sounded nothing short of cliche and lame. Even General Jones had known how to give wise compliments after the fact.
“After the FBI took me into their custody,” Mason said, keeping things on point. “They confiscated the vials of Ebola. Where are they?”
“They went straight to the CDC for analysis and storage.”
That answer somehow rang hollow, and Mason found it difficult to believe what he had been told. The vials of the virus were not only dangerous, but they were also important proofs of the terrorist attack that had just barely been avoided. The only other documentation they had was the data on their cell phones. The CDC would get them eventually, yes, but not right off the bat.
And then something else that was missing came to mind.
“The cell phones! They took our cell phones! We need them back!”
Fanelli, with what Mason thought to be a faint mischievous glint in his eyes, reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, and placed the two confiscated phones onto the table before sliding them over to Mason and Benton. Mason grabbed up one of the phones and turned it on to check on the previous troves of evidence that had been collected. But shortly after the phone powered up, Mason could be heard cursing.
“Damn it! It’s gone! It’s all gone!”
“Is something wrong, Mason?”
Ignoring the general, lest he be tempted to reach right over the table and punch him in the face, Mason inquired with Benton instead.
“What about your phone, Benton? Has it been cleared out too?”
“Yes—yes it has.”
“Why—why did they do this?”
“Sorry Mason—it’s just standard procedure.”
It was one of the most absurd things that Mason had ever heard in his life, and it enraged him. Onyx had a job to do, and that the government agency had stepped in to prevent them form doing said job…
“Standard procedure to delete data from phones! That makes absolutely no sense! The FBI is supposed to be in the business of collecting data, not deleting it!”
“Please, friend, I’m starting to take a distinct dislike to your tone. I would hate to have an unpleasant exchange spoil my memory of your heroic service. You are free to go.”
Mason was struck with a strange sense of familiarity.
It sounded like something he heard someone say recently.
The thought then suddenly struck him like lightning,
The basement.
Fanelli sounds like the guy from the basement.
That’s him. That’s the American traitor. It’s General Jones all over again.
But even so, he had no proof. And thanks to the FBI at Fanelli’s behest, even their phones were bereft of any documentation to back their allegations up. For now, there was no way short of strangling him to death that Mason could give the general the justice he deserved—and that would do nothing but compromise his ability to help on future missions.
Mason, realizing the tough spot he was in, steadied his nerves. He had to look into this further. An investigation was in order, and he knew that it would only work if Fanelli continued to believe that he remained above suspicion. As such, Mason momentarily swallowed his rage, and sought to ingratiate himself with Fanelli.
“I apologize for raising my voice, General. I guess I’m letting the stress of the assignment get the better of me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Fanelli said, completely oblivious to the realization that had struck Mason. “It can happen to the best of us. You two are free to go.”
Mason then started to head out the door, but not wanting to be followed from behind by the man most likely to have stabbed him in the back—Mason let the general walk first.
The general then shrugged, gave a salute, and laughed before leading them out.
As Mason followed close behind, something immediately caught his attention. Watching Fanelli depart, he was shocked to see the words, “Con il Sangue Puliamo” tattooed on the back of the General’s neck. Mason’s jaw dropped as he understood the significance of the phrase.
Matthew saw what he was looking at, too, and once the General had traversed further down the hall and was out of ear shot, he whispered into Mason’s ear.
“Hey Mace—you see something?”
“Yeah—the tattoo. It’s an Italian phrase. ‘Con il Sangue Puliamo.’”
“Okay—I’m not exactly up on my Italian. So, what the hell does that mean?”
Mason had all of the connections now—and there was nothing he could do at the moment.
“With Blood, We Cleanse.”
30
September 20th, 2028
2:00 p.m. EST
Washington, D.C.
Mason had finally made it back to Onyx headquarters with Matthew, and he was somehow even more anxious than when he had left his house.
There was a known American terrorist in the form of General Fanelli out on the loose, and there was nothing he could do about it. The vials were out, the phones had been scrubbed, and while the immediate threat had been ended, there was still a world of trouble waiting to go down.
As Mason and Matthew walked in, Marshal, sitting at the front of a table, welcomed him. He looked to have been speaking and continued to do so once Mason got in.
“So—we do have all of the suspects accounted for, don’t we?”
They have no idea.
“I’m not so sure.”
Everyone turned to look at Mason. Mason knew what he was about to say was beyond reproach if he didn’t back up his claims properly—even after General Jones’ arrest, making such a claim was still very bold.
“Okay—so what gives Mace?”
Go with it. Don’t hold back.
“You remember General Fanelli?”
“Fa—who?” Marshal said.
“Fanelli,” Raina said, seeming to remember the name. “He was the guy that General Thomson brought in during our debriefing from our mission in Iran.”
Marshal gave a look of recognition and nodded to Mason.
“What about him?”
Mason sighed heavily.
“I think he may have been part of the plot to release the Ebola agent during the Pierce Richards speech.”
Everyone except Matthew, who already knew, seemed surprised. Mason was a little annoyed that, after the last two rounds, they weren’t more surprised, but he supposed that everyone had thought they had purged the bad elements.
Unfortunately, that was far from the case.
“Look, I know it seems like more than a stretch, but I’ve got a hunch—”
“Look, Mason,” Marshal said. “You are getting ready to potentially falsely accuse a sitting U.S. General of the United States, and I know Fanelli may be a bit eccentric, but before accusing someone of treason you better damn well have a little more than a hunch to go on. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but if you make that accusation without basis outside of this room, you’ll get your career ruined in a heartbeat.”
“Mason, I know that you may not always see eye-to-eye with the top brass, but Marshal is right,” Raina added.
Mason, getting frustrated, pounded his fist. He was growing aggravated that no one seemed to even give him the chance of being right.
“I know! I know! Don’t you think I know that? But you guys weren’t down in that basement like I was! You didn’t hear what I heard!”
“In the basement?” Raina asked.
“Yes, when they held me prisoner, although I was knocked out for most of the duration of the time that they had me, there were a few key things that I picked up from the experience.”
Raina then encouraged him to continue. Mason soon realized this was her way of trying to get more evidence out to increase the chances of him looking right.
“And they were what, Mason?”
Deep breaths. Speak calmly. And get it out.
“First of all, when they first knocked me out, I got a glimpse of a guy’s arm coming toward me with a ta
ttoo. That tattoo read, ‘Con il Sangue Puliamo’—which is Italian for ‘With Blood, We Cleanse.”
“That’s the motto of the terrorists…” Raina said. “Okay. What does that have to do with General Fanelli, though?”
Matthew, though, perhaps realizing that Mason needed support, came with his own words.
“He’s got the same exact tattoo on the back of his neck.”
An eerie silence filled the room. Such a thing may not have held up in the court of law, but in that very room right there, it was more than enough to convince Onyx that the general had some connection.
“Well…” Raina said. “Just to play devil’s advocate. Could it just be a coincidence?”
Mason had to hold back from laughing or snapping. “Coincidence” might have been his least favorite word of all time.
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Besides, there is something strangely familiar about Fanelli.”
“Right,” Matthew said, adding further support. “Mason thinks that his voice sounds exactly like one of the men that held him prisoner in the basement of that church.”
“But, with this all said, you’re right, Raina, we can’t go around accusing people until we have more evidence. I’m just letting you guys know of my suspicions ahead of time so you won’t be surprised if we find out that General Fanelli is indeed somehow involved.”
“So just what are we going to do about your… suspicions, Mason?” Marshal asked.
Growing frustrated at the remembrance of the FBI destroying the evidence that had been painstakingly collected on the cell phones, Mason sighed heavily.
“At the moment—not much. Our leads into this conspiracy have been destroyed thanks to the FBI wiping our cell phones.”
But then, the greatest thing that ever could have happened actually did.
Matthew stood up, knocked on the table to draw attention to him, and showed a flash drive.
“Backup stash of data,” he said.
A grin played across Mason’s face. He had actually done it—he had actually saved evidence that implicated the General! The day may yet be won, he thought with a grin.
“Matthew! Does this mean what I think it means?”
Matthew nodded.
“Yes it does. Because while you guys were discussing your strategy for the Pierce Richards speech, I was making sure I saved every piece of evidence we had on these guys, on this little old flash drive. The FBI didn’t get anything.”
“Hell yeah!” Mason yelled.
“All right, before we get carried away,” Marshal said, bringing attention to the room. “What about those that might still be at large?”
Mason, thinking back on his time held at the mercy of the nefarious group, grew deadly serious once again, before offering his firm conviction.
“We’re going to get them. I don’t know when, where, or how—but believe me, I’m not going to rest until every single one of them are captured and brought to justice. Mark my words—I have a score to settle.”
31
September 30th, 2028
11:22 a.m. PST
Palo Alto, California
Ever since Clara had heard from her father, the world had felt like one giant relief.
They had resumed their normal daily conversations, and though Mason had expressed some disappointment that his mission had ended in a rather incomplete setting, he was hopeful that things would turn out for the better soon. Clara naturally didn’t push her father to reveal all, though she did revel in the fact that, once again, she had saved his life by knowing what to do and helping others do it.
Granted, it wasn’t the most celebratory revel of all. Every time Mason went on a mission was a time he could die, and perhaps no mission that she knew of yet had hurt her as badly as this one. Her father had just disappeared off the face of the Earth for days, and if not for the actions of Ghost, there was a very good chance that she’d be mourning his death right now.
As it was, though, on this day, as she prepared to turn in her constitutional history paper, somehow miraculously pulled off after a near all-nighter, she walked to Dr. Steinbeck’s office with a pep in her step and a dial tone from her father. He picked up shortly after to deliver him the good news that she had just received.
“Hey sweetie! How are you?”
“I’m good, dad!” Clara responded. “I wanted talk to you about something big.”
“About what?” Mason said, a mixture of nervous curiosity and laughter on the other side.
“So…” she began. “Remember when I said that I thought that someone was changing them?”
“Yeah—what did you find out?” Mason said, his voice sounding like they were back in a mission all over again.
“I actually caught the guy in the act.”
“Really? Who is it?”
Mason sounded both stunned and extremely proud of Clara. His voice was resolute, and Clara could just see him shaking his head in pride at what she had accomplished.
“Yeah, the guy is a total weirdo. He is a TA from my Constitutional History class, and he sits right behind me in the lecture hall. Some guy named Mark.”
“Wow,” Mason said. “How did you discover this?”
“Well—he sat down by me one day in the computer lab and started talking to me. He knew my name and everything. I was so surprised.”
The memory drew a shudder, especially for how creepy and awkward Mark was. At least he was now out of the picture, thanks to the notice from the night before that had come into her email from Professor Steinbeck.
“What happened?”
“He tried to ask me out on a date.”
“Did you say yes?”
Clara laughed. Mason was, in some ways, still the cliché, overprotective father, even in intense moments like these—or especially in intense moments like these.
“No! Of course not!”
“Okay,” Mason said, sounding utterly relieved. “So, then, what happened next?”
“I got up and left! It was as I was leaving that I realized I had left a flash drive behind, so I returned to get it. Upon returning I then saw the guy at the computer and became suspicious. I used one of the tricks you showed me and managed to zoom in and take video on my phone of the guy in the act of changing my grades! I took my evidence over to my professors and they had the guy permanently evicted from campus.”
“All right, Clara! Good job!”
The pride in Mason’s voice made Clara smile as wide as she had ever since she’d come to Stanford’s campus. Things really were on the up and up, and her grades, now that they actually reflected reality, were pointed in the right direction, too. I may just yet belong here!
“Thanks! I actually have to go now, dropping an essay off, but I just wanted you to know that. All the grade issues are resolved!”
Mason congratulated her, and Clara smiled and laughed as she hung up. Mark was expelled. Dad was home. Her grades were normal.
It was hard to find anything wrong with the world right now. And as she walked up to Professor Steinbeck’s desk and dropped off her essay right on top of the stack of other essays, giving the old professor a knowledge, she couldn’t help but think—
“Thank you, Clara. Could I have a moment of your time?”
Oh, crap. Things just couldn’t be that perfect.
The question caught her off guard and for a moment, she wondered if she were somehow in trouble for something
“Is there something wrong with me? Did I do something?”
Professor Steinbeck was quick to assure her.
“No—no, nothing is wrong with you. I just wanted to talk to speak with you for a few minutes.”
The professor sighed. Clara knew it wasn’t good.
“Alright Clara, I’ll get right to the point. Remember that shameful former TA of mine, Mark?”
“Of course,” she said.
How could she forget, especially when he’d been on her mind for the last 12 hours?
“Okay—well, do you r
emember how I said that I would have him expelled and removed from campus? Unfortunately, I guess I spoke too soon.”
Clara began to feel sick to her stomach. This couldn’t be happening. Perhaps he had just misplaced his Marks and was referring to someone else?
“What do you mean?” she asked, even as she knew what he already meant.
“I guess Mark had some friends in some rather high places, because he has been completely reinstated.”
No!
Steinbeck shook his head in dismay.
“I’m afraid its true, Clara. His father was a rather famous alum here, and he managed to pull a few strings to get his son back in school. I can prevent him from being my TA, but it’s costing me more than I had thought. I wish that I was making this stuff up, but I’m not—it’s true.”
Clara was stunned. How did this happen? How had… how had someone overridden what was caught on camera?
“This guy has been caught red-handed, manipulating grades and they want to put him right back at it? What if he develops a crush on another student, and after being rejected sabotages their grade as well? This is not justice—this is a joke!”
Clara fumed and wanted to smash Mark in the face, but if he could get back in even after that, she shuddered to think of what would happen if she hit him.
“It bothered me, too. I guess that’s why I’m even telling you about it in the first place.”
“So… what’s the great take away from all this?” Clara said, still fuming. “That corruption is endemic in academia?”
“Perhaps—but I’m counting on bright pupils like you to change it. I’m an old man, at the end of his tenure. I have exceeded my ability to have influence on this campus, and they are now more than ready to put me out to pasture. But you, my dear—you are the future. And as long as you keep your head high, I have no doubt that you will succeed.”
That sounded all good and dandy to an old man who was retiring.
