Blood Victory: A Burning Girl Thriller (The Burning Girl)

by Christopher Rice

  “You’ve removed your resources from the field of play. That’s dangerous.”

  “No, their deployment is just delayed. There’s a difference.”

  “It’s still dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “Lie to her. Put a team in place and don’t tell her it’s there.”

  “How many times do I get away with that? If I lie to her and she realizes a ground team was ready to swoop in and save her the whole time, on the next operation she’ll assume I lied again and she won’t trigger because her brain’s telling her help’s just around the corner. If she’s not afraid, your drug never triggers in her system, and if she doesn’t trigger, she can’t overpower these guys, and then we can’t swoop in and fake their deaths so that you can have more brains to play with in your labs.”

  He’s getting a lot more than just their brains, and they both know it. But Cole’s hoping Noah gets that point here. Giving in to Charley’s wishes maintains the pipeline of test subjects for Noah’s experiments that Charley doesn’t even know about.

  Thanks to Cole, two of Charlotte’s previous targets are now housed in Noah’s island lab. One, a serial killer who skinned his victims, and the other, an aspiring terrorist bomber, live in a state of suspended animation except for when they’re awakened within virtual reality environments designed to trigger their homicidal impulses. After six solid months of exhaustive and meticulous work, Noah has managed to generate what may well be the first neuroimage of a psychopath’s brain in the midst of a calculated murderous act. With a virtual victim, of course. Some people might consider the two men they’ve imprisoned against their will and forced to live inside an endless tape loop of their crimes “victims.” Cole’s not one of those people. If that’s the cost of illuminating the biological underpinnings of the sadistic violence that motivates some of humanity’s worst crimes, then so be it. The cost that keeps Cole up at night is the financial one. Noah, on the other hand, is more afraid they won’t be able to obtain the additional test subjects he needs to confirm his initial results.

  “Christ,” Noah whispers. “I’m hoping you’ve given Luke some training in how to deal with at least some of the things that could go terribly wrong.”

  “Beyond. He’s practically special ops certified.”

  “Speaking as someone who is, it’s not that easy.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Cole says, “and the men training him had more deployments than you did, so step off. I’m not running an adventure camp here.”

  “Fine. Luke is a SEAL who’s never seen combat.”

  Cole remembers the combined smell of burnt plastic and burnt human hair and the wire-frame box spring evil men had turned into an implement of torture; he remembers how the horrors visited upon Luke reminded him of the rope that was slipped over his own wrists when he was just a boy, of the agony that came after. Some evidence of these memories must be pulsing in his expression, because Noah studies him closely, his own expression both intent and guarded.

  “He saw combat,” Cole whispers, “believe me.”

  “Fine,” Noah says. “Clearly, I’m not being consulted on this decision to fall back, since it’s already been made. So, at the risk of sounding impolite, what the hell am I doing here?”

  “I need you to get inside her head,” Cole answers.

  “I haven’t spoken to Charley in six months.”

  “Forgive me. I need you to get me inside her head. If I can’t control her movements on the ground, I have to control her mind while she’s out there. Nobody knows her mind better than you. You deceived her for months back in Arizona. She trusted you, let her guard down.”

  “Much of that assessment is correct.”

  “Good,” Cole says. “Then you’re my leash. She made a bad judgment call on the last op. Your job is to tell me if you think she’s about to make one again and to tell me how to appeal to her sensitivities if I need to rein her in without the help of a ground team trailing her every move. You can read her better than anyone else can, so tonight I need you reading her constantly and closely.”

  “Have you consulted your business partners on any of this?” Noah asks.

  The question’s innocuous enough, but Cole knows from the tension undergirding his jaw that his anger’s evident in his expression.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know, a lot of this feels . . .”

  “Feels like what?” Cole asks.

  “Like you’re bending over backwards not to hurt Charlotte’s feelings when you should be considering the larger implications here.”

  “Well, the only feeling of Charlotte’s you’ve ever cared about is fear.”

  “That’s a little glib, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re lecturing me on aspects of this operation that aren’t exactly your purview.”

  “It wasn’t a lecture. It was a comment. You need sleep.”

  “I’m sleeping just fine. What exactly do you mean by larger implications?”

  Noah looks stricken, as if he’s not quite sure how he’s angered Cole, and the possible punishment for doing so has him concerned. It could be an act. He’s good at acts.

  “The first time Charley took down a killer, she was alone and we were just watching. The second time, you were the only one working with her. Now, you’ve got three business partners, and they’ll want you to consult them. Not just give them orders. Like you’re giving me.”

  “Apparently you have relationships with Stephen, Philip, and Julia I’m not aware of.”

  “I don’t, Cole. I’m just assuming their egos are as big as yours. Don’t step on their feet and bring the house down all around us. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I will take your concern for their feet under advisement.”

  The truth is, Cole’s business partners are already acting like he’s stepped on their feet when he’s done his best to tiptoe around them, and he’d like to know why. It’s why he flew Noah halfway around the world. Sure, he’ll appreciate whatever insights into Charlotte’s behavior Noah might offer. But the real reason, the one Noah’s comment just poked in the center of its gut, is much bigger and harder to wrestle with: Cole’s worried his business partners have turned against the idea of Charlotte’s field tests altogether and want to stick her in a lab for as long as her blood’s of use to them. In the event they take measures to obstruct tonight’s operation, Cole needs to know firsthand where Noah’s loyalties lie.

  Noah’s raising the prospect of Cole mishandling his business partners is not a good sign his loyalties lie with Cole.

  Right now, his urge is to interrogate Noah, ask him if he’s had any contact with the members of what they long ago nicknamed The Consortium. But it’s a ridiculous question. The man’s under such constant surveillance it would be impossible for him to make contact with anyone while he’s in residence at the lab. More importantly, Cole doesn’t want to shine too big a spotlight on his suspicions. Because the fact of the matter is, Charlotte’s not the only one participating in a field test tonight. So is Noah, even if he doesn’t know it. The difference is that Noah’s being tested for loyalty, not the ability to tear holes in walls with his bare hands.

  “You’re not telling her I’m here, I take it,” Noah says, referring to Charley.

  “No.”

  “And if she finds out?”

  “I’ll deal with it. Unless she finds out from you, in which case you’ll be on the first plane home.”

  “That’s fair, I guess.”

  “Fair?” Cole asks. “This isn’t a proposal, Noah.”

  Smirking, Noah rises to his feet and begins unzipping the suitcase resting on the bed behind them. Or maybe he’s not smirking.

  “Fine, then,” he says, pulling out his toiletry bag and unzipping it—probably to make sure the security team didn’t remove anything from it. “I accept.” He zips the bag and tucks it under one arm, turning to Cole with a confident grin.

  There’s no point in arguing with
Noah about the fact he’s accepting a set of directions as if they were an offer, so Cole ignores the bait, confident what he has to say next will get the necessary meaning across.

  “You’ll come downstairs when I need you and only then. Don’t engage with any of the other personnel. Speak only when I speak to you, and speak only to me. Got it?”

  “Sure,” Noah says. “On one condition.”

  “There are no conditions, Noah. This isn’t a—”

  “Shower with me.”

  He knows what Noah’s doing; he’s trying to defuse the anger that swelled in Cole when he mentioned Cole’s business partners. Another bad sign. If they were only going to be forced together for another hour or two, Cole would ignore this request as a childish head game. But there’s no telling how long this operation is going to last. If he doesn’t put Noah in check now, who knows how many inane distractions he’ll have to put up with.

  Once they’re nose to nose, Cole grabs Noah’s crotch with just enough force to make the man wince. “Careful,” he says, “it’s been a while. Tastes change. You might be the one who ends up tied to the bed this time.”

  Confident there’s nothing Noah Turlington would like less than losing control, Cole turns and leaves the room.

  Scott Durham’s waiting for him right outside, standing so close to the door they end up crashing into each other.

  “Get me Bailey,” he says.

  The rain’s let up some, but it still comes in infrequent gusts, and every few minutes there’s thunder and a flash of lightning on the horizon. Cole walks alone to the airplane hangar under the shelter of an umbrella. The path is sprinkled with the same type of foot-level landscape lighting that lines the front walk of his primary residence in California.

  He passes the old windmill, its blades spinning loudly as they slice the cloud-filled sky. It’s pastoral, pretty even, but still, he can’t make sense of his affection for the thing. Scott was startled when Cole asked them to leave it up during construction, muttered some joke about The Wizard of Oz. Cole’s never seen the film, so he deflected Scott’s suspicions with a line about his gay card being revoked.

  But his response was ridiculous, really.

  As if Cole’s a member of any tribe—gay, straight, or otherwise. He doesn’t walk among the normal, the living. Not since his college days at Stanford, and even then, he was considered part of the intermediary elite; not a big enough deal to rub elbows with the children of royalty, but too suspiciously rich to hang with the children of doctors and lawyers. It was the science nerds who ended up taking him in. Maybe because they thought he’d give them jobs someday. Which in some cases he did. But he can’t remember the last time he watched anything on television other than cable news, and most of the pop culture references he knows come from the Instagram accounts of the gay porn stars he hires to have sex with him at his glass and steel mansion above La Jolla Bay. On some days, he’s not sure if these are the privileges of being a member of the .01% or the costs.

  The ordinary world often feels exotic to him, and he guesses that’s how to explain his strange affection for the windmill. Every now and then he’ll drive to a fast-food restaurant on the outskirts of La Jolla and eat a meal alone, his security detail sitting unobtrusively at a nearby table, as he silently marvels at the speed and ease of the experience, the lack of decisions required. Order, sit, eat, leave. Nothing like the highly choreographed formal dinners of his childhood, or business banquets with as many agendas as courses.

  Footsteps approach. As instructed, Scott Durham’s escorted Bailey here under the shelter of an umbrella.

  It would be easy to blame Bailey’s current hairstyle on the stormy weather. In the hands of a professional, Bailey’s mop of sandy-blond hair could be something special, but he always wears it brushed forward on his head like he’s hiding under it. He’s got two fashion styles—bedraggled hitchhiker and parachutist. Tonight, he looks ready to skydive. His long-sleeve shirt and pants are made of the same vaguely shiny coffee-colored material that bags around his small frame, and if the pants have pockets they’re well hidden.

  Bailey’s personal choices usually have one thing in common—ease of movement. Not surprising for a kid who spent years as an international fugitive. Still, the idea that he and manly man Luke came from the same DNA contains as many startling revelations about the human body as Charlotte Rowe.

  Once Scott’s departed, Cole asks Bailey, “Are you ever going to let me do something with your hair?”

  “No.”

  “Just a brush, maybe.”

  “I don’t let strange men brush my hair.”

  “I was offering to give you one, not use it on you.”

  “My hair’s cool, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. Status report, please.”

  “Your super-secret ground team in Amarillo is on the ready. Looks like our connection to them’s secure, so no sign your business partners are onto us.”

  “Good work.”

  “I know. I’m trying to be a good boy for once. Following orders. Not breaking too many federal laws for my own personal pleasure. Basically, I’m not having any more fun at all. Just for you.”

  “Good.”

  In the pause that follows, water drips somewhere in the vast hangar in a place they can’t see.

  “With one tiny exception,” Bailey adds.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I kinda told Luke you brought Noah here.”

  “That was really not what I told you to do.”

  “I know, but you didn’t tell me he was coming, and I’m supposed to be your secret buddy on this operation so I kinda got my feelings hurt, OK? Sorry.”

  “You have feelings?” Cole asks.

  “Don’t go seeing devious operators everywhere you look just because you like committing crimes against nature with one.”

  “Nature is just a collection of easily manipulated chemical reactions.”

  And I haven’t been to bed with that particular devious operator in years.

  “Yeah, you should put that on one of your ads,” Bailey says.

  “We do,” Cole says. “We just find different ways of saying it each time.”

  “Noah sure manipulates your chemical reactions. That’s for sure.”

  “Bailey—”

  “Seriously, why’d you bring him here?” Bailey asks.

  “I need Noah here to find out who he’ll be more loyal to if the shit hits the fan. Me or my business partners.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I’m glad you can see the logic.”

  “And that was big for you, so . . . thanks.”

  “I’m sorry, big?”

  “Giving a direct answer to a direct question. That’s not usually your style, so I just want to give you props. That’s all.”

  “Props. I see.”

  “What? Why are you pissed?”

  “I’m not pissed; I’m just curious.”

  “About what?”

  “They say the Germans have a word for everything, so I’m wondering if they have a word for being condescended to on the topic of personal authenticity by someone who uses aliases to hack other people’s personal accounts for fun.”

  “Sort of fun. The joy’s been going out of it ever since I had to do it on the run.”

  “Did you look at the letter again?” Cole asks, getting back to business.

  “I’ve looked at that letter a billion times since we screen capped it, and I don’t have anything new. I’m sorry. We got what we got from it. Maybe that’s enough. The postmark was Amarillo. And the date on the top was the date Cyrus Mattingly started trolling movie theaters. The rest could be nonsense.”

  “It can’t be nonsense.”

  Bailey shakes his head. “Well, it’s personal and that’s the problem. I ran it through every search engine I could, and there were no connections to symbolic references. If it’s a code, it’s their code, and I don’t know enough about either of them to break it. Mattingly barely has a
life outside his job, present psychofuckery excepted. And the other person? We’ve got no clue who they are. Sorry, man, but these two guys are analog killers. They might not know we’re watching them, but they think somebody is, and they’re off the grid because of it. So how about you just give me credit for noticing the letter in the first place? There was about six million hours of footage on his living room camera.”

  “You’re not in federal prison for the crimes you committed before you met me. That is credit, Bailey.”

  “The point is I’m a hacker. Not a code breaker.”

  “You’re not a hacker,” Cole says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Now you’re just being insulting.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. You’re very talented, and you can hack with the best of them, but what you do . . . it isn’t just hacking. It’s something else.”

  “There’s a more politically correct term I’m not aware of?” Bailey asks.

  “For as long as I’ve run this company, I’ve had some of the best cybersecurity specialists on my payroll, and not one of them could hop in and out of a giant telecom company on a moment’s notice. Somehow you do it all the time. Because you’re not hacking them. You’re going through doors that have been left open for you. You know where they are because someone’s told you where they are. And that, my friend, is why you work for me now.”

  Bailey sticks his lip out like a pouting baby. “You don’t care about me. You just care about my friends.”

  “I care about both, but your friends scare me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re completely invisible, and no one’s invisible to someone as rich as me. No one.”

  “Well,” Bailey says after an uncharacteristically thoughtful pause, “they support everything we’re doing.”

  “Good. Then let’s support each other by not telling Luke our secrets.”

  “Fine.”