“I can be silent,” Bjorn says, hands raised. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Reggie looks momentarily disappointed in him, but then Bjorn moves her behind him. “Please, you don’t need to kill us.”
“Afraid I do,” he says, “but first…” He points the gun back toward Rain. “You are priority Numero Uno. Unfortunately for you, I’ve been told you’re dangerous. So…”
I see the man’s finger compress on the trigger.
Light surges up Rain’s arms, exploding hot white from her face, blinding me, and everyone else looking at her.
There’s a sound like a loud cough, coupled with an angry buzz that zips past my ear. It’s followed by the sound of breaking glass.
The man fired, I realize, and he nearly shot me in the head!
I open my eyes, viewing the world through a green splotch the size and shape of Rain’s head and arms.
She turned her body into a flash-bang grenade!
And she follows it up with an assault.
Her first two strikes connect, pounding the man’s chest, spilling him back and knocking the gun from his hands. But the assassin turns the fall into a roll, returning to his feet in a fighting stance, no signs of injury.
Rain’s next three strikes come as a lightning fast barrage. The man blocks each one and counters with a sudden backhand.
In my mind’s eye, I see Rain take the blow and sprawl to the ground, unconscious. She’s a skilled fighter, that’s for sure, but she’s still human. The man’s sledgehammer fist could knock out most anyone in a single blow.
“Oh!” I shout in surprise when Rain leans back from another blow, arching her back, hands to the floor, to catch herself in a bridge, while simultaneously kicking out a leg.
Rain’s foot drives into the man’s crotch, and he’s totally unprepared for the move.
He lets out a shout that is equal parts pain and anger. Rain has hurt him, but I take him for the kind of man who’s been trained to push past injury.
Rain propels herself back like a gymnast, returning to her feet and taking a fighting pose of her own. Despite the man’s size, skill, and clear history of killing for hire, it’s Rain whose body language exudes confidence.
During the melee, I work my way to the kitchen, intending to get a knife. Using my fists, I’ll be no help to Rain. A momentary distraction at best, but if I can get a weapon...
I’ll do what? I ask myself. Stab him?
It’s more likely that he’ll simply disarm me, stab me with my own weapon, and then use it to kill the others.
That’s when I see it, lying beside the kitchen island. The man’s gun, flung there when Rain disarmed him. It holds my eyes for a moment, and the man notices me. I can’t stop myself from glancing at the gun, gauging how long it will take me to retrieve it. The killer’s gaze follows mine. He sees the weapon, too, and without any internal debate, he lunges for the kitchen.
It’s a mistake.
Rain leaps into the air, kicking the man with both feet. He collides with the kitchen’s door frame, sprawling to the floor.
It’s not until he recovers again that I make my move. This time the man doesn’t try to beat me. Doesn’t even try to stop me. Instead, he turns his full attention to Rain and presses the attack.
He throws punches and kicks in rapid succession, using what looks like—to me—several different martial arts.
Rain dodges and blocks many of the strikes, but a couple connect, forcing her back and off balance. She backs into the living room, all that stands between Bjorn and Reggie, and the assassin.
I don’t see what happens when I duck down to retrieve the weapon, but I hear it. Grunts of pain from both Rain and the man, a lamp shattering, and then Bjorn screaming in a way that would make his namesake cringe—or laugh. I rise in time to see the killer pressing a knife against Rain’s neck.
I raise the weapon. It’s heavier than I expected, but I’m not sure if I’m feeling its weight or the gravity of what it can do. “Stop!” I sound more pitiful than tough. “You don’t need to kill anyone.”
The killer ducks behind Rain, using her as a shield. “Boss says I do.”
“Who’s your boss?” I ask.
The man’s blade draws blood from Rain’s neck. There’s pain in her eyes, but no fear.
“I will shoot you,” I tell him, strengthened by rage.
“I won’t die alone,” the man says. If he’s feigning indifference to the idea of his own death, he’s doing a damn good job.
I’m about to plead with him again, when I notice Rain’s lips moving. I missed the first word, but I have no trouble figuring out that she’s counting down when I read her lips, “…two…one!”
Rain ducks her head forward and then slams it back.
The move is insane. Will probably get her neck slit. But it also works.
The back of her head connects with the man’s nose. The crunch of shattering bone makes me ill, but there’s no time to pity the man. In the moment the man’s grip loosens, Rain drops straight down, slipping out of his grasp and leaving his body totally exposed.
The gun shakes in my hand.
I’m about to take a life.
You can’t go back from this, Morality whispers in my ear.
He’ll kill you all, Common Sense argues.
All life is precious, Morality counters.
I have always been in the strange, political crossroads of being opposed to abortion as birth control, opposed to the death penalty, and generally opposed to war when there isn’t an Adolf Hitler to defeat. I’ve seen enough crime and death to know it is never good, even when it’s the bad guys doing the dying.
Morgan is dead because of these people, Vengeance adds.
I pull the trigger.
The first round misses the man, punching a hole in the wall beside his head. Realizing I’m a poor shot, even at close range, I let a curtain of rage fall over my eyes, and I pull the trigger again and again. I’m aware of the man twitching, of the red splotches bursting on the wall behind him, and of him falling to the ground, but it feels like I’m in VR, simulating his death.
I’m disassociating from the act, my mind defending itself from trauma, and I’m totally cool with that. So when the gun clicks empty, I simply turn away and place the weapon on the counter.
I flinch when Rain’s hand rests on my shoulder. “Saul…”
“I’m okay,” I say, starting to shake. “Are you okay?”
“We’re all okay,” Reggie says, “but I think we need to—”
Bing, bing!
Bjorn stares at his phone, horrified.
Bing, bing!
Rain moves to the stairwell as footsteps thump across the shop’s hardwood floor beneath us.
Bing, bing!
22
Rain steps to the stair entrance like she’s got no reason to be in a rush. She moves to the side, hands raised and open, ready to grapple. As feet thump up the steps, she turns to me. “You might want to move back.”
I make it just a few feet before reinforcements arrive. I’m a little surprised when it’s a woman—which I suppose makes me sexist. Women can be contract killers, too. But this woman lacks the same ‘cold-hearted murderer’ vibe as the last guy. She’s got a gun in her hands, but there’s no mask concealing her face, her brown hair is pulled back in a pony-tail, and her blue windbreaker has three bright yellow letters on it.
FBI.
“Don’t kill them!” I manage to shout, before the woman enters the apartment.
After a flash of concern in the woman’s eyes, her lips begin to form the start of an ‘F,’ but she never gets to finish declaring her affiliation. Rain’s hands snap out, catching the gun. With a twist, Rain redirects the weapon’s aim and the woman’s path—into the wall. The collision dents the dry wall and sends the FBI agent sprawling to the floor.
A man follows, weapon drawn and already swinging toward Rain. She kicks up hard, striking the gun so that the single, deafening round it fires punches a
hole in the ceiling. Rain follows it up with a spinning kick that sends the man sprawling back down the stairs, where he collides with a third agent. The two men fall to the bend in the staircase, slamming into the wall. Before either can recover, Rain sets upon them, launching off the top step and descending with clenched fists.
I don’t see what happens next, but it only takes a few seconds, and it’s punctuated by two grunts and two bodies hitting the floor.
By the time I reach the top of the stairs, Rain is standing over the two men. “They’re not dead.” She digs into their pockets, withdrawing wallets. “Check hers.”
“Damnit,” I whisper to myself, trying to control the jitter in my hands.
We just attacked the FBI. Well, Rain did, but really, at this point, same difference.
I always hated that saying—same difference—but Morgan said it so much it became endearing.
The woman’s wallet confirms my fears. Unless the now-dead killer travels with a trio of faux government agents, Jennifer Garcia, here, is FBI.
At least they’re alive.
“I think…” Bjorn says, “we should go.”
“Not without answers,” I say, surprising even myself.
“If they wake up and we’re still here…” Reggie lets the point hang. None of us knows what would happen, but I don’t think it would be good. They might not be contract killers, but they could have been sent here by the same people. Allowing them to take us into custody might be the last thing we do.
“So we’ll take her,” Rain says, stepping back out of the stairwell. She flashes the two men’s FBI badges and tosses them to the floor. “We can ask Garcia questions when she wakes up.”
“I’m not sure adding abduction to our list of offenses against the FBI is a good idea,” Reggie says. It’s a reasonable point, but this agent might know something. I mean, they followed the same breadcrumbs the killer did. They knew to look for me. And for Reggie. And even Bjorn.
“I’m with Rain,” I say. “We should take her. But…she’s not who I was talking about.”
Bjorn looks down the stairs. “What makes you think either of them will know something she doesn’t?”
“Wasn’t talking about them, either.” I shift my gaze to the killer’s bloody corpse.
“Oh,” Bjorn says. “Oh…”
Rain steps over the unconscious agent and approaches the dead man. She doesn’t reel back at the sight of blood. She just reaches into one pocket at a time, finding nothing. Then she stands and looks around the room. When she turns toward me, I see that her eyes are actually closed.
“He’s still here,” Rain says. “But…he’s pissed.”
When Rain starts glowing, Bjorn asks, “We have time for this?”
“Collect their weapons,” I tell him. “Tie them up if you want. I want answers.”
Rain’s brilliance forces me to squint, but I don’t look away from it. Instead, I step closer and take her outstretched hand in mine. The connection is quick, but less disconcerting than last time.
A little.
“What the fuck?” Rain says, her inflections matching the killer’s. “Where… You…”
Rain grimaces, hunching inward. This might be easy for me, but it still hurts her.
“You okay?” I ask Rain.
“He’s fighting for control,” she says. Her voice. And then in his, “Going to kill you.”
“Got news for you, buddy,” I say, still pissed at the asshole who tried to kill me and my friends, and who was sent by the people who were somehow involved in my wife’s death. “You’re already dead.”
Rain growls at me.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
“Fuck you.”
“You have no reason to protect them now,” I argue.
“I have spite,” he says. “I have hate.”
“Well, he’s a horrible person,” Bjorn says.
Reggie shakes her head. “He was a contract killer, dear.”
“It’s the right thing to do.” Doing right is a flimsy argument to use on a contract killer’s recently deceased ghost, but I don’t have a lot of ammunition to fire at him. He had no scruples in life. How much more of a monster will he be in death?
Rain grunts. Falls to her knees.
“Is he trying to take over still?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Something else.”
She looks back with a gasp, but when she speaks, it’s the killer. “The fuck?” She scrambles away from the empty door, a look of horror on her face. “Stay back!”
Bjorn’s eyes widen. He looks to the door, sees nothing and backs away anyway. Though none of us can see it, we all know something is there. Something that scares a ghost.
Something that scares a murderer.
“It’s coming for you,” Rain says, every word a struggle. “You should have lived…a better…life.”
His soul isn’t lost…it’s waiting to be claimed.
Her face morphs from determination to horror. When she turns to me, hope shines through her bright eyes. “There’s a second lab. In Austin.”
“Who’s running the labs?” I ask.
“SpecTek,” he says.
“Who is in charge of SpecTek?”
“DARPA!”
“Tell us something we didn’t know,” Reggie grumbles, and she’s right. All of this is old news.
“You work for DARPA?” That doesn’t seem likely. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency’s mission is to fund scientific research on behalf of the United States, mostly for defense, and by ‘defense’ they mean ‘a strong offense is the best defense’ kind of defense. They don’t hire assassins.
“It’s a black op,” he says through Rain, backing away, pulling me along. “The details are secret, even from DARPA. Please, help me. F-forgive me!”
“I don’t think that will save you,” I tell him. I have more questions, but it’s clear the man’s time has come, and I don’t want Rain in contact with him when whatever is with us in Bjorn’s apartment decides to take him. I yank my hand away, but Rain holds on tight.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but that doesn’t mean they can’t regain control,” the man says, nearly squealing in fright.
“Control of what?” Rain asks herself.
“Of the monsters,” he says, and then shouts, “Of his wife!” Rain lifts a hand in fear. The man shouts, “No! Help!”
Rain’s light flickers out and she leaps away from where she’d been crouched. The room is empty, but I can feel it. Something cold and heavy. Rain cringes, feeling a lot more than I can.
And then it lifts away, leaving a lightness in its wake. The killer is gone, this time for good, taken by something I don’t want to think about. But his final words still haunt me.
Morgan is alive.
Maybe in Austin.
She must have escaped the lab with her coworkers and been whisked away to a second location. That she hasn’t contacted me about it, and the fact that I’m being hunted, means she’s probably being held against her will.
The information fuels me. Gives me clarity.
“You have a car?” I ask Bjorn.
He nods. “Garage in the back.”
“Get it started.”
“Where are we going?” Reggie asks.
“Cambridge,” I say.
23
The drive from Salem to Cambridge isn’t a long one. On a good day, without traffic, it can be done in 30 minutes. With traffic, an hour. But today, despite the roads being largely empty, we’ve been driving for an hour, and we’re only halfway there. Normally, any sane person would take 128 to Route 1. But Reggie insisted on staying off highways, because ‘They’ll see us coming on traffic cams.’
I thought faster was better, so I pointed out the number of cameras watching storefronts and traffic lights we’d pass by taking back roads. Reggie agreed with my point, but not with my solution. And Bjorn is hers to command.
So now Reggie, Rain, and I are crammed into the bac
k seat of a black Mini-Cooper. I’m in the middle, with my legs squeezed tight and my balls in a thigh vice. I attempted to man-spread just a bit, but neither Rain nor Reggie was having it, and I lacked the will to argue my case. We’re ducked down low, but anyone passing us in a big SUV would have no trouble seeing us, so we’re covered in the black sheet from Bjorn’s bed. It smells like Axe body spray and patchouli.
Bjorn is driving, all crammed up behind the wheel. Beside him is the FBI agent, Garcia. Her unconscious body is seat-belted in place. Her FBI jacket has been removed, and her face is concealed by sunglasses and a Red Sox cap. Head lolled to the side, any passerby would take her for a snoozing passenger. I’m a little concerned she hasn’t come to yet, but I’m also somewhat relieved. I’m not looking forward to that conversation. She’s not gagged, but her hands and feet are bound with extension cords.
Overnight, I’ve gone from being a struggling blogger to a murderer, a witness, a fugitive, a medium, an abductor of a federal agent, and a widower. And I’m not even sure what label to put on what happened in Boston. Supernatural attack survivor?
Being proactive feels good. Feels right. But I’m not sure what it will accomplish. The small bit of video I captured on my phone won’t reveal enough for Reggie to really understand what’s happening. But if I can get it to the news, it might be enough to expose SpecTek, and maybe make killing me a waste of resources. It was also the last time I saw Morgan. Her final goodbye. And I would face ten kaiju ghosts to get it back.
“Hey, Bjorn,” I say, attempting to adjust my nether region without making a spectacle of it, “you’re what, six-foot-three?”
“Six-four,” he says.
“Why the hell do you have a Mini-Cooper?”
“Uhh, because it’s fuel efficient,” he says.
“Bullshit,” I say. It might be true, but Mini-Cooper owners are more interested in style than fuel-efficiency. If you really cared about fuel efficiency and didn’t mind driving a Matchbox car, you could always get a Prius, like Reggie.
“It’s because women like them,” Reggie says.
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