The war drums were beating.
As the sun set behind the Washington Monument, it cast a long shadow over the raucous crowd waiting for President Thomas. Furious citizens jammed the courtyard surrounding the obelisk. Throngs of people pushed back across Constitution Avenue, spilling hundreds of yards beyond the monument.
They wanted answers.
They wanted blood.
Murdock smiled at the fury he’d created. And he was only getting started.
The crowd’s fervor approached riot levels as they waited for answers from the POTUS. Before they even knew the questions, the people wanted to answer with war. It was a wholly predictable response to Murdock.
He’d made an entire career of inciting violence, fear, and retribution.
When people were afraid, they became irrational. They demanded action.
Wait until they saw what came next.
What insanity would follow President Thomas being killed by his own Secret Service? The downfall of an empire? World War? Murdock couldn’t wait to find out.
With one final blow, he would bring down the system that had left him to rot. He would smite the man who had ordered his abandonment.
Then he would find Smith, and the real fun would begin. That man’s death would be legendary. Murdock always believed in saving the best for last.
Standing in the thick of the crowd, Murdock didn't need to read anyone's thoughts to see their murderous intent. They shouted at one another. Fights almost broke out. Security guards arrested dozens of people.
Their combined fury didn't match the vengeful fire that burned inside him.
A brown, hooded sweatshirt, loose jeans, and a Nationals baseball cap made him appear like everyone else in the crowd. Slipping through the police checkpoints had been as simple as expected. He didn't carry a firearm, never had, and could have mentally forced one of the guards to ignore it even if he did.
Why carry a gun when your mind was the most powerful weapon in your arsenal?
The ease with which he could destroy the leaders of the world's most powerful nation amused him.
Fatigue settled behind his eyes.
He’d pushed his abilities to their limits at the police station. Normally, he would have rested for a day or two before going out on another mission, but he couldn’t afford any down time. Not when he was this close.
Murdock slowed his breathing, allowed his muscles to relax.
His mind wandered out.
Tents and electrical gear snaked around the back of the Monument. Inside, Murdock felt the presence of dozens of Secret Service agents and presidential staffers. They hustled about, rushing to have everything prepared for the start of the speech.
He head hopped from one to the next, gathering bits of intel about the upcoming proceedings. The autopsy on the body Murdock had used to fake his own demise wasn’t completed yet, but they were all certain that the ‘terrorist’ had died.
None suspected that he was standing outside, waiting, listening.
Most thought the idea of giving a speech in the open after the day’s events was beyond stupid. They hated leaving the president vulnerable, even if the threat had been nullified.
Thomas sat in a chair at the base of the monument.
A woman slathered makeup around his eyes, attempting to smooth out his crow’s feet. A hairdresser combed, snipped, and sprayed.
Thomas rehearsed his lines. He was anxious, his stomach knotted. For a man who didn’t get nervous, this was a rare and uncomfortable feeling.
He feared what Smith would attempt next. He raged at himself for not exterminating that snake before he bit.
Murdock maneuvered through their heads with caution. As much as he wanted to force the most powerful man in the free world to strangle himself in front of his staff, that wouldn’t be enough.
Everyone had to see.
The cameras had to be rolling.
Soon.
He released his mental grip and relaxed, allowing himself a few moments of peace.
Memories of his captivity flooded in as they always did when he tried to relax.
Only weeks ago, Murdock sat in an iron chair, waiting for Adeeb Azizi to arrive.
The metal was cool. Charred chunks of flesh remained along the edges.
Whether those were his or another man’s, Murdock couldn’t be certain. He hadn’t seen anyone other than his captors in a long while. His back still ached from their last session, but the skin had scabbed over and begun to scar.
They’d stripped him naked and strapped him to the chair.
Forced him to watch as they heated it with glowing coals.
How long he sat there, he couldn’t remember. When he passed out, they would wake him with smelling salts or buckets of water.
They had to peel him from the chair when it was over. He couldn’t walk for weeks after that. Couldn’t sleep or eat.
He was clothed this time, so he expected some new, fresh horror to be inflicted upon him. Adeeb’s sadistic streak had an element of creativity to it. He preferred to mix physical pain with psychological.
Forcing Murdock to mutilate himself had only been the start.
Being in the chair didn’t fill him with dread as it usually did.
He was anxious, yes. Nervous.
But not scared.
For the past week, he’d felt a familiar sensation in his mind. An expansion. An ability to wander.
Whispers had come to him in his cell, stray thoughts floating through the caves. He felt emotions that weren’t his.
They still drugged him every few hours, but the effect wasn’t as damning as it had it been. Was his body growing a tolerance to it? Were they giving him a different kind of drug?
Either way, Murdock saw his opportunity.
He horded the crusts of the moldy bread they gave him every night, eating only half of his already-meager rations. By the end of the week, he had nearly three full slices of grain hidden behind his water dish.
Murdock ate them all that morning, hoping they would provide enough fuel for his dilapidated body. He felt alive and aware. Angry and nervous.
Hateful.
The gruff, dirty bastards came in an hour later. The first man through the door held a needle in his right hand. He knelt in front of Murdock as he always did and leaned forward. The other guard remained by the door, watching with indifference.
Murdock summoned all of his willpower and focused on the first man’s mind. It had been so long since he’d used his abilities that the sensation felt foreign. He let the man reach forward with the syringe, but he forced him to stop when the needle was less than an inch from Murdock’s elbow.
It held steady as the man pushed the plunger with his thumb, ejecting the drug against Murdock’s arm in a thin stream. Nausea washed over Murdock as he manipulated the guard’s mind, forcing him to think that he’d actually injected his prisoner. His back blocked the other guard’s view of the procedure.
He pulled away and stood up. Murdock grabbed his arm and rubbed it as if he’d been given a shot. White liquid dripped from his elbow, but neither of the men noticed.
Murdock released his hold and sank against the wall behind him. The injection from a few hours ago still had his powers sedated, and the effort to fight through it left him exhausted.
Skipping that session had made all the difference.
As he sat in the torture chamber, he felt ready. His mind was finally clear. His rage overpowered his fatigue and weariness.
Azizi’s days of torture were coming to an end.
The doors opened a few minutes later. Azizi stepped into the room, his soulless eyes inspecting Murdock.
“You look well, my friend. Have your rations been increased?”
“No.”
“Is that so? Then what has raised your spirits?” Azizi leaned against the wall in front of the chair. It was his favorite spot. He liked watching Murdock’s eyes during their sessions.
“I have a good feeling about today.” Murdock prepared himself for the moment he’d spent too many weeks (or was it months?) thinking about.
“So do I.” Half of Azizi’s mouth curled up. “I learned something interesting today, Alan.”
Murdock was stretching out his mental tendrils when the use of his first name stopped him. He hadn’t heard it spoken aloud since he’d left the States. “How do you know that name?”
“We know all about you, Alan Richards, aka Murdock. You Americans are always so surprised when you find out that we have means outside of your purview.”
If they knew both his real name and his call sign, then they had access to information that should have been impossible for them to reach. Had they captured someone else working for the Pysch Ward? Did they have a mole?
Had Smith, that rat-bastard fuck, not only left him to die in that hellhole, but also turned over information on him?
“Don’t look so shocked, my friend. Did you really think that America is the only land with special people?” Azizi tapped his forehead.
The pain and torment had been incompressible since Murdock’s capture, but he’d never been asked a single question. Not one. He’d assumed they were waiting for him to break. Now he understood why they’d never bothered—they had another source.
That meant that they were torturing Murdock for the fun of it. His hands shook as the realization set in.
Murdock wanted to spend a significant amount of time working Azizi over, but he knew that his window of escape was small. If he was going to get out, then he couldn’t waste time. Besides, he would have plenty of time for retribution when he got back to D.C.
He stood from the chair. Though his emaciated body had lost significant weight, his foot still throbbed under the pressure. “Knowing my name won’t do you any good, I’m afraid.”
“What are you doing? You know that you are only to do what I instruct you to.” Azizi’s half-grin slid to a frown. “Your punishment will be most—”
“I think I’ll skip my punishment today, my friend.” Murdock melded his mind into Azizi’s.
The torturer went stiff. His eyes widened, forehead wrinkling.
For the first time, Azizi felt fear in Murdock’s presence. With their roles reversed, Murdock walked to the door and stood beside it so that no one outside could see him through the bars that comprised the window.
With ease, he carved into Azizi’s memories, searching for the layout of the compound. In seconds, he knew how many guards and soldiers roamed the caves. He learned the best way to escape into the desert.
Intel on foreign telepaths working throughout Europe and the Middle East flitted through Murdock’s mind. He had little time, or inclination, to worry about them. Escape was the only thing of concern to him. His days of playing the espionage game were over.
He searched the hall for other minds. His powers were still limited from his physical condition, and he could only scan a few yards at a time. A lone guard sat a few feet down the hall, dozing in and out of sleep.
Murdock forced him to stand and walk toward the cell.
“Adeeb, I want us to be friends. Friends help each other. I want you to chew off your own hand.” He gestured to the door. “But time is an issue for me. There are nearly five hundred men walking around out there, and I have to get past, or kill, all of them. Your particular talents have weakened me, so the task will prove a bit daunting.”
The guard opened the door and stepped into the cell.
Murdock forced him to place his rifle against the wall and then strip.
“So, Adeeb, I’m going to give you an option that you never offered me. You, my friend, can choose death. I can tie you to that chair and start the fire underneath it, or I can take your life and save you the horror you so easily set upon me. You might survive the chair. It depends on how long it will take someone to come and check on you. Judging from your knowledge of the schedule around here, it could be hours. That would be a truly awful death.”
A tear ran down Azizi’s face, disappearing into his beard.
Death.
The guard dropped his pants to the floor and stepped out of them. He bent down and pulled a knife from a sheath attached to his belt. His hand wavered for a moment as he raised the blade and plunged it into his throat.
Blood sprayed the walls and floor.
The guard dragged the blade across his neck.
Murdock slid the clothing away from the dying man, not wanting red stains on them. A bloody outfit would draw attention to him.
Azizi turned and faced the wall.
He slammed his forehead off the stone. Blood gushed from his split skin, running into his eyes.
He never blinked.
A spasm racked the guard’s body as he fell into the corner. The blade stuck from his throat.
Murdock pulled the pants on. The waist was too large, so he used the belt to hold them up.
Azizi cracked his head off the wall again. His face was a mask of crimson.
The shirt went on next. It was baggy around his shoulders, but that wasn’t uncommon for the guards. Their clothing rarely fit.
Azizi’s skull was visible after the third crack. He did it a fourth time.
Murdock grabbed the rifle and checked the magazine and chamber. The barrel was filthy, but the AK-47 was a dependable weapon. He had little doubt it would fire.
As he stepped through the open door, he heard Azizi’s head pop like a melon.
A staffer walked onto the stage, squinting against the bright lights.
Cameras flashed as people took his picture. Several cheers floated from the crowd. Murdock assumed the idiots thought the staffer was the president.
The young man tapped on the microphone. Thumps came from unseen speakers. He held up a hand with all of his fingers splayed open.
Five minutes, Murdock thought, until I bring the entire system down. Five minutes, Mr. President.