The three men stood five feet before me.
Definitely feds.
“Let me guess—you’re doing some work for my neighbors, and you wanted to offer me a discount on new windows and roofing.” My eyes cut down the sidewalk to Sammy.
She stood at the end of the block, watching us as she talked into the phone. I could only hope she’d gotten through to Drew.
The man in black stared at me, expressionless. “Get in the car, Lieutenant.”
“My mom told me not to get in cars with strangers.”
The men on either side of him stepped closer, flanking me.
“Let me see some badges, boys,” I said. “And if you come one step closer, you’re going to have a really bad day.”
Black Suit flashed an ID with a bunch of letters on it that I didn’t recognize. It looked like some kind of DHS badge, but I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t been in the know for five years.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Get in the vehicle, Lieutenant.”
I pointed at my t-shirt. “Does it look like I’m still a lieutenant to you?”
“Grab him,” Black Suit said.
The guy on my left took another step closer.
Big mistake.
I kicked him square in the balls.
Everyone always underestimated the kick to the groin. I liked to call that the Asher Benson Special Delivery. I didn’t care how tough you were—a kick to the boys would put you down.
He crashed to the sidewalk in a blubbering heap. His sunglasses flew off, clattering into a nearby gutter.
“Told you not to come any closer.”
The second guy came forward, and I introduced his nose to my fist. I wasn’t the best boxer in the gym, but I did have a quick jab. He stumbled a half step, his face twisting in anger.
He bull rushed me, tackling me at the waist as I tried to twist free. My back slammed against the concrete, jarring the air from my lungs. He landed on top of me, trying to hold me down.
Another mistake.
My boxing was decent, but my jiu-jitsu was nasty.
I shifted my hips, intent on slapping an arm bar on him and bending his elbow the wrong direction.
Black Suit grabbed my wrist and wrenched my arm down to the sidewalk. He jammed a needle into my shoulder, shooting me up with a semi-clear liquid. The needle was wide, long, and didn’t feel like a little pinch when it went in.
“What the hell!” Warmth ran into my neck. My thoughts went fuzzy within seconds.
They hauled me to my feet. I wanted to fight back, but my brain didn’t seem to want to communicate with my muscles.
“Relax, Lieutenant.” Black Suit helped drag me to the SUV. “This is just a precaution.”
“You just drugged me?” It came out as a question, though I intended it as a statement.
They were abducting me in broad daylight. These guys clearly weren’t concerned with the consequences of kidnapping a civilian in the middle of the street.
“Christ, he stinks,” one of them said.
They threw me in the back of the vehicle. Tan leather seats felt great in contrast to the heat baking off everything outside. I shook my head, trying to clear it.
The man I kicked got up, cradling his groin, and staggered toward the SUV.
We spun away from the curb and accelerated through the next intersection. Sammy shouted something at us as we drove by her, but my addled brain couldn’t make it out.
My vision blurred and spun. I couldn’t focus. Everything felt loose and disjointed.
“Son of a bitch kicked me right in the dick,” the man beside me said through gritted teeth. “What kind of a sissy move is that?”
“He got the drop on you, didn’t he?” Black Suit asked.
Drool fell from my lower lip as I leaned against my door. I wanted to grab the handle and pull it open, but we were already going eighty miles per hour down the highway by the time my hand decided to do what I wanted.
How long we drove, I didn’t know. Time compressed as I fought against the drug coursing through my system.
I thought we drove onto a government installation of some kind. There were lots of nondescript buildings and vehicles, but I didn’t see any uniforms or insignias anywhere.
The vehicle stopped in front of an unmarked office building. They dragged me out of the backseat and through a side door. My feet were working again, but I let them have all of my weight. Why make it easier for them?
Long hallways and closed offices passed by on either side as they took me deeper inside.
They dumped me into an interrogation room with a large mirror on one of the walls. A table sat in the middle with two chairs on either side.
I dragged myself onto one of them.
A pitcher of water with two glasses sat on the stainless steel tabletop.
My hands still shook a bit as I poured myself a glass. The physical effects of the drug were finally starting to wear off, but I had a bad case of the shakes. I still couldn’t focus my mind either.
The water helped a little.
I sat there for a while, wondering what would happen next. Was someone watching me from the other side of that mirror? I assumed so.
The lone door to the room opened eventually, and a tall man of maybe fifty entered.
He didn’t walk, he strode, as if he wanted everyone who saw him to know he was the boss.
“How long did you practice that ridiculous gait?” I asked. I was surprised that the words came out as clear as they did.
The man held a manila folder in one hand. He dropped it to the table and sat down, keeping his hardened gaze trained on me. Like the others, he wore a suit, though it was disheveled, the tie undone. A thin, dark scar ran down his right cheek.
“You can call me Smith,” he said.
“Smith? That’s the best fake name you could come up with?”
“I apologize for the way you were brought in here, but time is of the essence.”
“Your gorillas kidnapped and drugged me.”
Smith continued to stare at me. “They told me that you gave them a few issues.”
“One of them will be pissing blood for a few days.”
“Those are some of my best men.”
I returned his glare.
Smith opened the folder. “You probably have a lot of questions.”
I stayed quiet, waiting. Now that the worst effects of the drug had abated, my mind was clearing a bit and an understanding of my predicament set in. I’d been kidnapped off the street, drugged, and thrown in an interrogation room.
That was the kind of shit done to people in the middle of a war, not in downtown Baltimore.
“We know that you’re a telepath,” Smith said. “The drug administered to you inhibits your ability to read our minds. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to eliminate the other effects, but we’ve managed to minimize them. You’ll have full use of your facilities soon, minus the ability to dig around in our heads. That won’t come back for a few more hours.”
The realization of my worst nightmare was playing out right in front of me. The government had me, and they knew what I could do.
Smith asked, “Were you able to see into the minds of my men earlier?”
“No.” I decided to play it straight. For now.
Smith nodded as if that made sense. “The woman you were with, Samantha Moore, does she know about your telepathy?”
“No.”
“Good. That keeps things simple. We would hate to involve her in this.”
“Stay away from her, asshole. I don’t even know who she is. We just met yesterday.” I fought to contain my anger. I didn’t deserve to be here, locked up and drugged, let alone Sammy.
“Relax, Lieutenant—”
“And stop fucking calling me that.”
“Fine, Mr. Benson.” Smith’s expression remained stoic, despite my antagonism. The guy was a rock. “You met Ms. Moore in the bank yesterday, correct?”
I gave him a minute nod.
“Obviously, we’ve seen the footage of the robbery. You knew a lot of information about a man that you had never met before. That’s how we learned about you.”
“No shit.”
“Your military file says you could have made captain had it not been for your smart-ass attitude.”
“What smart-ass attitude?”
No facial reaction from him at all. “Do you find yourself funny, Mr. Benson?”
“I did, but you’ve convinced me otherwise.”
He held my gaze for several seconds before looking back to the files. “You were awarded the Distinguished Service Cross during Operation Iraqi Freedom. You left a covered position to drag a wounded soldier to safety while under sniper fire.”
I clenched my jaw. The last thing I wanted was to discuss that day with this jerkhole. “He died anyway. I didn’t deserve the medal.”
“And you have a Purple Heart for suffering a traumatic brain injury during an IED attack.” He leaned forward. “How long after that did you start to hear voices?”
“How the hell do you know so much about this?”
“Do you really think of yourself as so unique? Do you truly believe that no one else has ever dealt with your situation?”
“Wait a second.” I eased back, studying his face, looking for any signs of deception. Not that I could have seen them anyway. His features might as well have been chiseled out of marble. “Are you telling me that there are other people who can hear thoughts too?”
“Of course.”
My mouth fell open. I’d felt so isolated, so alone for the past half a decade, that I didn’t know how to process what he told me. Then again, the drug was still doing a tap dance in my head.
“We have eight others—” Smith stopped himself for a second. “—had eight others working for us.”
It was difficult not to notice his use of the past tense.
“Eight?”
“Correct. The facility you’re in right now is called The Psych Ward.” His eye twitched. “I hate that name.”
I almost fell out of my chair. If I’d found someone else like me when I first heard the echoes, then I might not have lost years of my life in an extended, drunken binge. Maybe I wouldn’t be sitting in an interrogation room reeking of beer and sweat.
A few sounds sputtered out of my mouth, but they didn’t form a coherent sentence. That was a shame because I really wanted to throw in a couple of digs about The Psych Ward. What moron had come up with that?
Smith said, “Unfortunately, none of the other telepaths are stateside right now, so you can’t meet them.” He looked at the files again. “You fell off the grid for the better part of five years after your discharge. Debit receipts show that you’ve been drinking. A lot. That’s typical for those with your talents.”
I sat there, thunderstruck.
“It is fascinating though, that you developed telepathy from a brain injury. You’re the first case of that we’ve heard of.”
“Really?” I finally managed to squeak out.
“A few were born with it. Others developed it during puberty. You’re the only person who has gained the ability during adulthood. That would explain your difficulty adjusting.”
I held a hand up. “How about we start from the top? Why in the hell did you abduct me? Am I a prisoner now? Why?”
“You’re not a prisoner—at least not in the traditional sense.”
“So I can go then?”
“No.”
I grunted. Fucking government. This guy could run for office with his way of twisting words and logic around to fit his needs.
Smith continued, “You were brought here because we need your help. Not only that, but we’re afraid that you’re the only person who can help us, as cliché as that sounds.”
“You want my help, so you figured the best way to get it was to drug and kidnap me? Brilliant. You’ve never heard of asking? Maybe shoot me an email?”
“We couldn’t risk leaving you in the open. Your life was quite possibly in danger the longer you remained on the streets.”
“What? Why?”
Smith, or whatever the hell his name was, kept feeding me riddles. I’d been around enough classified briefings to know when someone was dancing around, trying to give as little information as possible. Scarface was doing a hell of a jig.
Instead of answering my questions, Smith shifted gears again. “You’ve been attending boxing and martial arts classes for the past six months or so. How much of an affect has that had on your ability to control your mind?”
“Stop avoiding my questions.”
“Mr. Benson, I need you to be open and honest with me.”
“This is a two-way street. If you want information from me, then you need to give some back.”
Smith cracked his knuckles. They were gnarled and lined with scars. He’d spent his share of time hitting bags in the gym. “I will answer as much as I can, but first I need to get an understanding of where you are in regards to your telepathy. If we’re to move forward, then I must know how developed you are.”
Again, he spoke in a code that I could only partially decipher. I decided to ride it out a little longer and see where the road took me. He already assumed that I would help him, even though I didn’t even know what we were talking about.
He had me curious.
“The boxing helps me with learning to control it. The footwork, technique, and timing taught me to mute certain voices while letting others through. It’s more of an offensive feel, if that makes sense. It’s the best I can explain it.”
Smith nodded. “Continue.”
“The jiu-jitsu is for conditioning more than anything else. Being in shape helps me keep my defenses up longer. I’m still drinking at night though, as I get tired.”
“Excellent. We’ve also observed a direct correlation between physical endurance and mental strength.”
“Your turn. Why am I here? And don’t give me that shit about my life being in danger unless you’re going to tell me why.”
Smith pulled a file out of the folder, flipped it around, and slid it across the desk. It was a photo of Senator McArthur.
“You’ve heard about the happenings at the Capitol building this morning?” Smith asked.
“Of course. What the hell does that have to do with me?”
He pulled another photo out and handed it over.
It was a long shot of the press conference right after the Senator had shot himself. His body was sprawled across the top of the stairs, partially obscured from view by the podium.
Reporters and spectators were blurry as they fled in every direction.
One man stood in the middle of the crowd, his features unaffected because he wasn’t moving at all. Chin-length hair dangled above a cheap, off-the-rack suit. He had tanned skin and dark features that obscured his ethnicity.
Cold, calculating eyes stared directly into the camera.
“This man’s name is Murdock, and he was the face of modern espionage.”
I studied the picture. “Was?”
“As of this morning, he’s now the face of domestic terrorism.”