MOOCH WAS WAY TOO perky for this time of night. Kirk was not a night owl, yet he was on the phone at midnight with a corn nut-crunching motormouth. He pulled the phone away from his ear and scowled at it, hoping to transfer his feelings to the annoying geek on the other end. But he needed Mooch, so he endured the assault on his eardrum and asked him to research Operation Justice.
“What is this? Some FBI thing?” Mooch asked.
“Yeah, I need to know everything about anyone who might be involved in the project. Also check out anything you can find on the World Justice Agency.”
Mooch laughed in Kirk’s ear. “The WJA?”
“Yeah, why? Do you know who they are?”
“Yeah, they’re the thing of myths, man. You know, kinda like Robin Hood. They hunt down the bad guys, then disappear into the woodwork. They're kind of like X-men, but for real—not mutants—but pretty cool. If they were real, that is.”
“Do you know who runs the organization?”
“No, man. It’s just an idea, a concept. If you think they’re a real group, dude, you might want to check to see what’s in your coffee.”
“This is the real deal, Mooch, and they’re a real organization. I need to know who’s in charge and where their headquarters is located. If the FBI thinks they exist, I’ll take their word for it over yours. Besides, I have it from a secondary source that they do, in fact, exist.” I was there, or at least I think I was. His imprisonment was becoming more and more like a bad nightmare every day.
“I’ll do my best, but you’d better cover my butt on this. If I get caught hacking the feds, I’m in deep doo-doo.”
“Just get me the information. According to what you say, you’re the best. Here’s your chance to prove it.”
Kirk hung up the phone, set it on the breakfast bar, and stared off into space. They needed to find the mole and his or her connection to the WJA.
Kirk looked over at where Geoff had been watching TV. He was passed out on the couch, his mouth wide open and a guttural snore vibrating his chest. It had been a long day, and Kirk was getting tired himself. Tomorrow they’d get an interview with Captain Jacobson, one way or another.
* * *
GEOFF WOKE UP WITH a start and yawned, stretching his arms above his head. The TV was on, but the rest of the apartment was dark. His watch read two thirty a.m. He felt good, and his mind kicked into gear, reminding him why his internal clock had brought him back into the land of the living.
Getting up, he leaned back, popped a couple vertebrae, and let out a sigh. He went to the fridge to grab a Pepsi. Nothing was as good as an ice-cold Pepsi. Of course, at this hour, it might keep him awake for awhile, but he wasn’t planning to go back to bed anytime soon anyway.
He looked at the door to Kirk’s bedroom. It was half-open. He could see the detective’s leg sticking out from under the covers like a dead branch on a very old tree.
It’s time.
Walking over to his shoulder bag, he pulled out a 9MM and screwed on a silencer. He opened the curtains and studied the gun in the moonlight. It was a beautiful weapon. The stainless steel caught the moon’s white light and bounced it back at him. Too nice of a gun, really, to waste on an old geezer like Weston. He sighed. It was a simple chore, one beneath his skill level, but he was a professional, and he had a job to do.
He tiptoed into the other bedroom, pointed the gun at Kirk Weston’s chest, and fired.
* * *
MARK HEADED INTO THE city, trying to clear his head as he drove. This dream or vision, or whatever it was, had shaken him to his very core. Maybe he was dreaming now and what he thought was his dream the night before was reality.
He laughed.
Stop over-thinking this, Appleton. You’re here, and your family is alive. But then, maybe they weren’t. Maybe his mind was so broken he’d imagined K and Sam were alive, but he was really asleep somewhere, lost in a dream world of his own making.
The radio played in the background, filling the car with the distinctive voice of Glenn Beck, who was rattling on about gas prices. He sounded real enough. Mark stopped by a small coffee shop and found a parking spot right in front, which was a rare, if not unheard-of, experience. Maybe he was dreaming, after all. He ordered a coconut mocha, picked up a newspaper, and found a comfortable chair.
“Cindy, are you there?” The morning news sounded from a television that hung in the corner.
“Yes, Tom. I’m here at the New York City maximum-security prison on David’s Island. We don’t know what exactly is going on at this point, but we’ve been told some inmates have suffered from food poisoning. The Center for Disease Control is already at the prison investigating the apparent outbreak.”
Mark stared at the screen, mouth open. He’d heard the same report a year ago while stalled in traffic. He remembered how he’d anticipated his date with K all day and how anxious he was to get home to her.
This can’t be. It was a dream. Or was this the dream?
He looked back at the paper in his hand and saw a “buy one, get one free” ad for Campbell’s latest chunky soup at the Super Mart.
He jumped to his feet and ran for the door. He hit the fob button and climbed into his Honda Accord, trying to remember all the details of that day. He’d gone to work, returned home, took K out to dinner—and then they went to the hotel.
Nothing unusual on Friday. What happened next? He had to think.
We got up late, then we picked up Samantha, then…then went to the Super Mart…
“Pat. I have to find Pat Rotter.”
* * *
KIRK RUBBED HIS HEAD, which felt twice its normal size and throbbed as if a thunderstorm was brewing between his ears. When he tried to sit up, a bolt of pain shot across his left side. Feeling under his shirt, he could tell several ribs had been broken.
But he didn’t remember how—or why. All he could remember was going to bed, then waking up here, wherever here was. He looked around. Light was coming from under a door in front of him.
He swore. Kidnapped for a second time. Either he was an easy target or he was making someone nervous. These WJA people were beginning to get on his nerves.
He could tell from the primitive cell that he was in an old prison. The floor was concrete and the walls were made of rough bricks. The thick wooden door was wrapped with metal around the edges.
He grunted and sat up, ignoring the pain in his side. Was this a WJA prison? Couldn’t be. This wasn’t their style. Too rugged and out-of-date. No magnets. No flying saucers.
He heard a key slide into the lock, then a click, and the door was shoved open. He covered his face with his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light to see who was standing in front of him. But all he saw were dark shadows.
Two masked men yanked him to his feet. He almost passed out from the pain as he was dragged out of his cell and down a hallway. He kicked his feet and fought for footing without success.
Other doors lined the wide hallway. Most of them were shut. Who knew how many more victims were waiting for their fate with broken ribs or worse, in a cold, dark cell, wondering if they would ever see the blue sky again.
The men threw him onto a cold metal chair and tied his hands behind his back. His feet were strapped to the legs of the chair.
One of the masked men knelt before him. “You might be wondering why we brought you here, Detective Weston.” The deep, thick voice had a hint of Russian and was tinted with contempt. He leaned in close. “You have information we need. You are going to tell us everything you know. Understand?”
Kirk looked into the man’s dark eyes, instinctively memorizing everything about his interrogator and realizing the large, muscular man could tear him apart without breaking a sweat.
He grinned at the Russian, then spit in his face. The man backhanded him and sent him toppling to the floor with a loud crash. His skull bounced against the cement and blue-and-yellow stars floated across his vision.
Ow—that hurt.
The two masked men pulled him upright.
His ribs rebelled, but he refused to cry out.
The big man folded his arms and looked at him as if examining a piece of fruit. “So, you think you’re tough. We will see, Mr. Weston.”
With that, he turned and left the room. The two other men followed him without a word. The door shut with a clink of the lock.
Kirk surveyed his surroundings. It looked like he was in a washroom. Clumps of hair clung to the rusted floor drain. The tiled walls were so dirty he couldn’t tell the color. A naked light bulb hung from a cord in the center of the room.
He could hear someone talking outside his door and had a feeling his captors weren’t planning ways to put him at ease.
The door flew open, and one of the masked men marched in. Pulling out a knife from his pocket, he cut away the rope, freeing Kirk’s hands.
It’s now or never!
Jumping to his feet, he spun around, sending his legs and the chair crashing into the masked man’s face. He fell to the floor with his legs on top of the now-unconscious man. He frantically searched for the knife, then spotted it on the floor a few feet away.
He dragged his body toward the knife, the chair scraping the cement floor. He heard his attacker begin to stir.
One more foot.
With a final lunge, he grabbed the knife and spun onto his back, pulling his legs to his chest. He cut his feet loose from the chair and rolled to his feet, ignoring the scream rising from his ribs.
He jumped on top of his assailant, who was on his knees spitting blood onto the tile floor. Kirk shoved the knife beneath the man’s chin and drew the blade from one side of his throat to the other. The guard made gasping, gurgling sounds and dropped to the floor. Kirk stepped over his body and walked toward the door, which was half open.
Kirk peeked into the hallway and could hear voices coming from the other end. He clutched his side with one hand and gripped the knife in the other.
What did they think he knew? And what did they think he would do—lie down and take their garbage?
He tried to ignore the questions that ran through his mind, but he was a detective, and it came naturally. His anger was rising, and he could feel his primal instincts kicking in as he leaned out to get a clear view of the hall.
Figure it out later, Weston. Just get out of here alive. No heroics.
The hallway was clear, but he could tell someone was in the room to his right. He looked for a place to hide, but all he could see was a large crate beside the door where the voices were coming from.
He looked back to the room he’d just come from. That’s it!
Returning to the washroom, he set the metal chair upright, then lifted the masked man and balanced his limp body on the seat. Taking off the man’s mask, he pulled it over his own head and tied the attacker’s hands behind his back.
He looked to be Kirk’s height and weight. This might just work after all. He loosened the light bulb that hung just above his head, then frisked the dead man’s pockets for weapons.
Nothing.
A voice behind him suddenly demanded, “Hey, what are you doing? You’re supposed to take him back to his cell.” The man had a thick, Russian accent.
Kirk froze and waited for the man to get within striking distance. He knew he would only have one shot at this.
“You! Hurry up!” The man stepped into the room.
Whirling around, Kirk lurched forward and slid the sharp blade into his target’s abdomen. The man gasped in pain, but before he could react, Kirk yanked the blade out, and in one sweeping motion, slashed it across his throat, spraying a stream of blood onto his chest.
A confused look flashed across the Russian’s face before he fell to his knees, blood spewing from his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Kirk removed the man’s mask and searched his second kill for weapons. He smiled when he found a Glock. After checking to make sure the clip was full, he stepped into the hallway, his pulse pounding in his ears. Despite the throb in his ribs, he crouched and crept down the long hall, gun in hand.
The only way out appeared to be the door at the far end. He ducked behind a crate, rested a moment, then jumped from his hiding place. Almost running, but still hunkered as low as possible, he worked his way to the end of the hall.
Hearing voices, he stopped by a closed door, feeling like a sitting duck as he squatted in the open. He heard whispers and moans on the other side of the door. At least two people were in the cell.
That was all he needed. He’d be lucky to make it out alive on his own, let alone trying to drag other people with him.
He tried the cell door. Locked.
He crawled to the next door and twisted the handle, which gave way to pressure. He pushed the door open and slipped inside. The cell was dark and smelled like a sewer, but it made a good place to hide and think.
It didn’t take him long to decide to go for help then return for the others, whoever they were. Helooked out into the hall, wondering what to do next. He needed to draw out whoever was on the other side of the door—the door that could lead him to freedom. He needed the element of surprise if he was going to make it out of this place alive.