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“Lamb was definitely made to suffer,” the forensic pathologist told them. “They didn’t drop him deep enough for a clean snap. He was beaten and strangled to death before they strung him up. Most of the stab wounds on his body were inflicted postmortem. Otherwise, he would have died from blood loss.”
Being reunited with the specter of death was never easy, but Llewyn had put away his entitlement to the responsibility for every soul ages ago. Still, losing a colleague pained his conscience. He’d only met Lamb’s family once, but he knew how close the rookie had been to his wife and daughters. He prayed for them.
“No fingerprints, I assume?”
The pathologist draped the sheet over Lamb’s corpse. “None. What little evidence we have has been tagged and catalogued, but there’s nothing genetic to implicate a specific perpetrator.”
Willow looked over the bagged items and said, “It can’t be anyone aside from the Sons. There’s no one else with the means or the motive.”
Whatever game the mercenary company had decided to play, Llewyn questioned the move. “Why taunt us with the cult of Ein Geist’s sigil? Why go after Lamb? If they knew we were coming, then they could have ambushed us. They’d have two more dead agents to go along with their shiny new map and their freed comrade. All this serves is to make us angry.”
He knew better than to rest on his laurels when it came to the actions of any sadistic foe. These days, psychosis manifested itself in his enemies as a force of habit.
“Maybe that’s the plan,” said the pathologist, typing information into her computer. “Or it could have something to do with their honor code. You stole their man, so they repaid the favor.”
“What about the card stapled to his head?” asked Willow.
“Ritual behavior would be my guess,” said the pathologist. “It’s not tarot, though. I don’t recognize the artwork.”
Llewyn recalled the bizarre image of the bleeding chess pawn drawn on the card’s face. “A memento of evil, that’s what I’d call it.”
Neither the pathologist nor his partner found anything to add to his statement. He was nowhere close to formulating a theory of action—apart from revenge—but that wasn’t his way, and it wasn’t what Lamb would have wanted, so he settled for muffled discontent.
The director called them to a conference at the Hoover Building. The heads of the FBI and BOPAC took the death of an agent in the course of interdepartmental collaboration as a serious matter. Llewyn wondered if further cooperation on this case might be in jeopardy.
Rossiter hid his feelings behind tinted aviators and a cool reserve, as he always had. Llewyn wished the man would drop his shields, react a bit, but that wasn’t in his character. The Silver Fox couldn’t be seen shedding a tear in front of his subordinates.
Alongside him sat FBI Director Greg Kyle, Assistant Director John Haines, and the surviving members of Alpha and Beta squads.
Llewyn and Willow pulled up chairs at the farthest end of the oval-shaped table.
Agent Hardy whispered to them while keeping his gaze fixed on his superiors to keep from earning a reprimand. “Learn anything?”
The realization that the Sons of Darkness had treated the rookie rather cruelly must have crossed his mind.
“His neck wasn’t broken. The cause of death was strangulation.” Llewyn hadn’t meant to be so blunt, knowing Hardy already blamed himself for Lamb’s death. “I’m sorry. You couldn’t have known what would happen. Lamb’s inexperience made him an easy target.”
Agent Hardy nodded, but the tangible grief in his sullen posture told Llewyn all he needed to know.
Kyle lectured them on procedure in the event of an agent’s death during the course of duty. He assured them that Matthew Lamb wouldn’t be tarnished the way his body had. He’d be honored in the record as a martyr for his service.
All of them were familiar with the protocol, but their host tended toward the same by-the-book exposition as the victim. Appropriate, though it did drag the wrinkled roots of their feelings above the hardened soil.
A busy man, Director Kyle excused himself from the remainder of the meeting.
Haines filled his seat. “I’ll make this brief,” he said, surveying the room as if its occupants were a thorny plot of land. “As the investigation has proven unproductive—and harmful—this case is no longer subject to the collaboration mandate set forth by Article PL101. Any further usage of FBI resources and personnel on this matter is prohibited.”
Llewyn expected that they’d be reluctant to pledge additional assistance, but to completely withdraw after a single casualty was atypical. It reeked of the stifling bureaucracy that too often stymied government casework. Years after BOPAC ousted the Smiling Man and put an end to his corruption, there was still tremendous mistrust between the two organizations.
Willow’s outburst of anger eclipsed his inward frustration. “Cowards. We’re hauling a busted car uphill and your plan is to cut the tow rope and leave us stranded?”
“You’re out of line, agent.” Haines glared in her general direction but refused to meet the sweltering brimstone in her eyes. “Both divisions are in agreement. We’re exercising our right to terminate involvement pending an inquiry into negligence and misuse of staff.”
Willow shook her head. “This is insane. These mercenaries are working for an immoral conglomerate creating bioengineered monstrosities. They tortured and killed Lamb, and you’re blaming us for his death. I haven’t smelled horse hockey this strong since I worked on grandpa’s farm.”
Rossiter said nothing. He either felt the dressing down was in order, or that her tirade didn’t merit a reproach. Llewyn thought he saw the director smile behind his folded hands.
“This isn’t up for debate,” Haines said, aware of similar enraged sentiments breaching the lips of the other members of Alpha and Beta. “Your personal feelings are getting in the way of good judgment. I won’t waste time arguing with you.”
“Who’s debating? All I hear is an alarmist’s order from on high, and the rest of us being coerced into bending over to accommodate it.”
Haines turned to Rossiter. “Director, do your agents make insubordination a habit? Or is it only the raw recruits like her who are still rough around the edges? I can see why we lost a man if this is the best you’ve got.”
Again, the silver-haired man said nothing. His patience endured against the machinations of the wheel spinning before his eyes.
Llewyn, for his part, imitated his boss. He didn’t think his wife was stepping on any toes, but this wasn’t going to be a fruitful conversation. The powers that be had made their decision.
“I’d tell you where to shove your insults,” said Willow, “but my guess is your head is blocking the way.”
Without so much as a witty retort, Haines left the discussion, shutting the door behind him. The remaining FBI agents followed suit.
The air cooled, encouraged by the assistant director’s departure, and Willow calmed at Llewyn’s touch.
“That was quite the show,” he said. “Here I thought I had the temper.”
“Sorry,” she said, though he didn’t think she needed to apologize, not to him. “I shouldn’t have let him stick in my craw.”
“You don’t usually let words get to you. What set you off?”
She sighed. “I hated interoffice politics when I was sheriff, and I despise it now. Nothing gets done when everyone’s undercutting each other.”
Maybe she could have squashed the anger a tad, but he had every bit of empathy for her. Neither of them were fans of the rear-smooching, double-dealing actions of the privileged few who never should have held power in the first place.
“What’s done is done,” Rossiter said, removing his shades. “I’m not keen on the decision. An unfortunate consequence of branch oversight for our organization means that this outcome became an option.”
The long night stretched into the morning. Llewyn watched the sunrise blink through the slits of the window blinds, heralding the promise of a new day and no sleep.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“While we’re under review, I won’t be able to sanction an investigation into Agent Lamb’s death. The Inspector General may get involved. They’ll want an impartial party to determine our culpability. Should that happen, it’s unlikely to be resolved in an efficient and timely manner.”
“The FBI’s resources and men were on loan to us, right? SysLife’s Chimera Initiative was never their case or under their jurisdiction. They can’t stall us.”
Rossiter nodded. “That’s still our rodeo, yes. Lamb’s death and our investigation are linked, but no one at the FBI is going to dip their hands in the bathwater over a technicality.”
Willow moved her elbows off the table and sank into her seat. “There’s something I don’t get. No one seems to have a clue how the Sons discovered where we were keeping their comrade. The Bureau doesn’t share those kinds of records, and we sure wouldn’t. What gives?”
“Unless they have eyes and ears inside BOPAC, the Sons couldn’t have known. It’s that Sinclair guy all over again,” argued Hardy.
“It’s possible,” Rossiter admitted. “There are no guarantees of loyalty in agency recruitment. The proven effectiveness of background checks is often negligible.” He paused. “But I don’t think we have another traitor on our hands.”
“We’re missing something,” said Agent Nielson. “I’m not hearing why the Sons abducted Lamb, brutalized him, and hanged his corpse. When your exfiltration already includes absconding with a prisoner, why add to the load and take that extra time?”
“Their infiltration didn’t require a lot of gear,” said Llewyn. “Pack some C4 and all the Sons had to do last night was subdue Lamb, rig the rope on his lifeless body, and jam the team’s equipment for a few minutes as a distraction while they blew up a wall.”
“But why did they kill him?”
“Think about it,” said Willow. “The Sons hit us right in the middle of one of our operations. They’re marking their territory. They let us know that they can strike anywhere at any time and we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Llewyn had come to his own conclusion about the grisly details. On the interlaid roads of deduction, the path forged by both the pathologist’s findings and his gut instinct seemed straightest.
“It’s worse than that,” he suggested. “They’re telling us exactly what they plan to do next. The Sons are bringing back the Esoteric Order of Ein Geist. Or maybe they’re in cahoots together. No matter what anyone has told us, I don’t think every last member has been scrubbed from the face of the Earth.”
“I know you’ve had some run-ins with their remnants,” said Hardy, “but that seems a little off-base. Isn’t it much more likely that they know who you two are? That they’re mocking your past?”
Willow responded. “It’s not impossible that the Sons of Darkness are related to the cult. Members of Ein Geist had dealings with the Smiling Man. Lamarck had connections with SysLife, and Kasey confirmed that the company uses these mercenaries to take out their dirty laundry.”
“So it’s like a game of telephone? He said what she said until no one knows the exact truth?”
“Does it matter?” asked Llewyn. “With the FBI’s stonewalling, this is all we have to show for our efforts.” He slapped the evidence bag containing the bloodstained card onto the table.
The object held an abnormal interest to the director; he plucked it off the table and examined it with a level of scrutiny beyond compare.
Llewyn had never seen the man so single-minded. He got the sense that Rossiter wasn’t focused on the card. He’d settled into mulling an idea—and the consequences surrounding that idea—in his mind’s eye. The synapses of his brain struck at the issue with the ferocity of a lightning storm.
“Maybe not,” said the director, breaking his concentration and moving the object to the center of the table. “That little electronic pest we planted is reporting the map is still on the move, heading down the coast.”
“With the FBI out of the picture, we might not have the numbers to strike them head on,” said Willow.
Rossiter nodded. “You’re right. Our manpower is diminished, and I can’t authorize an assault without the consent of the other department heads. Given how little we know about the size of their forces, it’d be stupid to send a large group in blind. But there is a way.”
Llewyn didn’t need to hear Rossiter speak the words to know what the director must be thinking. He’d considered the simplicity of it himself, and thought better of it. It was the matter of firing a hip-shot in the dark and hoping you hit a target the size of a pinhead. The chances of success were next to nil.
“An old-school infiltration team,” the director said, “two or three max, should be able to slip in undetected. One might say it’s a reconnaissance mission. Do I have any volunteers?”
***
Rust painted the warehouse with broad strokes of brown crust. Orange flakes decorated the concrete foundation. In the corners, musty fishing trawls loitered atop rotted wooden boxes. Black-green gunk lingered on the net fibers, coloring the air with the scent of fragrant sulfur wrapped in fish odor and an overcoat of dank seaweed.
Cobb observed the trappings through the broken glass window of the second floor office. Below, his men stocked supplies into plastic containers and loaded them onto their respective vehicles. He noted their efficiency in carrying out his directions to the letter.
The gracious foreman who’d lent them this place had told the truth; the building satisfied their immense spatial needs. When it was time to pull up anchor, he’d grant their reluctant benefactor a reprieve from his nap with the wharf’s bottom feeders.
“Did you have to kill that man?”
He’d neglected the steadfast presence of their employer. Beneath frizzled salt-and-pepper hair, irritating green eyes narrowed in his direction. Beyond a pricey contract and his supposed hunting pedigree, Alan Walsh exuded short-sightedness.
“The agent? Yes. As deeply saddened as I am, his death was a necessary evil, Mr. Walsh. The enemy won’t take their loss lying down. They will be forced to bring the fight to our doorstep.”
Walsh didn’t understand the nuance of the artwork unfolding. Most men lacked the vision required to accomplish great tasks, to realize in their being the fulfillment of a vast undertaking. This man had no sight to see the grandiose play as it was being written.
“They don’t know where we are,” Walsh said. “Even if they did, the map will arrive soon and we’ll be long gone.”
Cobb had no taste for sport. So small-minded. “The enemy is cunning and irregular. They don’t dance in the wide paths of destruction. No, they tread the narrow lanes of victory, ever cautious.”
Walsh paced his steps from the door to the foreman’s desk—a perplexing habit for a practiced huntsman. “Your methods don’t make sense to me.”
“When you track game, do you simply bide your time in the blind?” asked Cobb. “No, you mask your scent, get your hands and knees muddy, and follow the markings of your prey. Men—real men—are the most dangerous game, doctor. They are less predictable than any herbivore and wilier than any predator. These federal agents who pursue us may well be formidable targets of opportunity. I look forward to testing their mettle.”
“You’re saying this is a hunt and you’re goading them into a trap?”
Cobb returned to the window. “It’s not as simple as that. I’ve not yet taken the measure of my opponent. Perhaps, as the cards dictate, they will prove worthy. For now, we wait for the enemy to deliver on their promise.”
His cagey partner’s pensive silence ended the conversation. The mercenary commander pitied Walsh; he was beginning to understand the man beneath the surface level. Hidden dwellings lurked in those shallow depths.
Cobb sat in the foreman’s chair and spread a deck of freshly minted cards, short one, over the desk. After sorting them into their respective piles, he closed his eyes in meditation.
One beat, then two, and his hand alighted on the stack closest to his left hand. He laid them out, counting the odds in his favor.
Again he’d been dealt the magician, the prophet, the flower, and the treasure chest. The harlot eluded him. In her place, he glimpsed the gray skies of the clouded ivory tower.
Had the enemy’s defenses already crumbled? He’d figured further training of the mind or taming of the will might be necessary. Not so, according to his instruments. The bunkers were empty; it was time to storm the beachhead.
“Fetch Captain Davis,” he instructed. “Tell him the men are to patrol the perimeter at once.”
“Are we expecting trouble?” Walsh asked.
Cobb ignored him, shuffled the cards and dealt another hand—the same result. Their path was certain.
“You have your orders,” he said. “My lieutenant will direct the troops. I suggest you find somewhere to hide, or else take up arms and join the battle.”
The prospect of a life-or-death confrontation clearly intimidated Walsh. He froze in the panic of indecision.
Some trophy hunter. Where is his pride? Where is the man who doesn’t kowtow to the whims of a shattered resolve? Where roams the cobra in this viper’s den?
“If I must do it myself,” Cobb said, pressing two fingers to the subdermal transmitter near his Adam’s apple. “Davis, come in.”
“I’m here, commander,” the voice crackled.
The implants had proven to be their most valuable asset for subversive communication. SysLife’s prototype satellite system provided perfect pingback.
“The men are to report to the positions we discussed earlier. Understood?”
“Loud and clear, commander. No sniper’s nest?”
“We won’t have the angle to pick them off. Our adversaries are well-versed in the art of deception,” said Cobb. “Rehearse standard maneuvers.”
“Yes, sir. Davis out.”
He heard boots stomping out of the room. Walsh had a backbone after all, or a death wish.
Cobb shut his eyes and inhaled. The scent of sweat, sea breeze, and waterlogged cargo mingled in his throat and filled his lungs. His consciousness drifted, and he imagined the streets of his youth.
Fog sheltered the brick houses and their residents. Unkempt lawns and overgrown weeds spread over the cracked driveways. Children in bundled clothing walked the side roads to school, hands tucked inside their jackets, shivering in the cold.
Frost blanketed his nose, but he wasn’t like the rest. He was different. He didn’t cower in the wake of adversity. He parried the sword of winter’s bane and spat in its face.
His reddened face stung, but not from the frigid temperature. He bore his mother’s iniquity with bared teeth. He’d learned the lesson all too well that her drunken antics fed the seeds of discontent.
The other children knew his shame and not his power. Their ignorance was of this fallen Earth; they were an inconsequential miasma of rank-and-file pedestrians. Their words were hollow, their threats empty. All specks. No dreamers.
That was his past. In the present, he twirled the ugly crow-shaped emblem between his fingers and began to hum.
