Internal Threat (10 page)

The doctor’s browsing history was littered with online poker sites and his bank’s website to make wire transfers. Paul Murrow, the unassuming man who was a well-respected pediatrician, was also an incurable gambling addict. Further investigation of Murrow’s cell phone texts revealed that he had narrowly made a payment deadline to his bookie, a North Hollywood goon named Artie, a few months earlier. With that, John had all he needed.

When Dr. Murrow made his cursory stop at a sports bar on his way home one night, John took the stool next to him. He could tell Murrow was in a good mood, most likely because of the Lakers being ahead by a sizable distance at half time.

“Hello,” John said, his voice completely even.

Murrow turned to see a man in his thirties with close-cropped blonde hair. It was an unremarkable face except for the cold grey eyes that were latched on to him. There was something disturbing about them; a feeling that they belonged to an animal sizing up its prey.

“Hi,” Murrow nodded with a smile as his team scored. “Great game, huh?”

“Artie sent me.”

The doctor instantly tensed. John could practically see the wheels turning in the man’s head, the unspoken question of “Did I just hear this guy right?” Instead, Murrow said aloud, “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me, Dr. Murrow.”

Murrow’s eyes shifted down the bar where the bartender was intensely flirting with a couple of young women. He may as well have been a mile away.

“Listen,” Murrow lowered his voice, “I don’t know who you are, but Artie and I are completely square. I paid him in full last month. So, if you’ll excuse me.” He resolutely turned back to the television.

In a blink, John clutched Murrow’s wrist in a steel grip. The doctor winced from the pain, looking down to see John’s hand curled around it. Glancing up, he met those damned eyes again.

“If you make me repeat myself, I’m going to break your wrist,” John casually informed him. “Do you understand?”

Murrow nodded, instinctively realizing this insane stranger was not bluffing about his strength.

“Meet me in the parking lot outside the side entrance in five minutes. If I see you try to leave another way, I’ll kill you. If you do manage to leave somehow, I’ll come to your house on Lasky Drive and kill you there. If you decide to flee town, I’ll go to your ex-wife’s house in Los Feliz and kill her.” He released the Murrow’s wrist. “Five minutes,” he repeated, then rose from the stool and exited the restaurant.

Forearm stinging, Murrow sat in stunned silence.
Who is this lunatic? And what could he want with me?
He rubbed the feeling back into his wrist while watching the clock above the bar. When five minutes was nearly up, he paid for his drink and exited outside of the instructed door.

“Over here,” he heard when the door shut behind him. Murrow turned to see John leaning against a black motorcycle.

“What do you want?” the doctor hissed.

“Artie needs a favor.”

“Oh yeah? Well tell Artie I don’t owe him any favors, especially when he sends a twisted blonde psychopath to ask for them.”

“The pay is one hundred thousand dollars,” John, acting as if he did not hear what Murrow had said.

Murrow paused, blinking at the figure. “A hundred thousand?”

The stranger nodded.

“And just what do I have to do to earn this windfall?”

John reached behind his back and withdrew a slim metal case roughly twelve inches long. Depressing a button on its side caused the top to flip open. Murrow leaned in to see a syringe and needle, a clear liquid resting inside.

“I need you to give someone a shot,” John said.

“That’s it, huh?”

Another nod was the answer.

“What exactly is in that?” Murrow asked.

“That information isn’t part of the deal. You take the money and you do the requested job. That’s all.”

John watched as Murrow took a deep breath, mind ping-ponging with thoughts. If this request had indeed come from Artie, then it was not something Murrow could ignore. John knew the doctor had witnessed some of the brute’s handiwork and it was not something easily stomached. Even more tempting would be the money. A hundred thousand dollars would easily catch Murrow up on the alimony he owed and give him some breathing room on the Beverly Hills house that he was underwater on. Of course, a gambler like Murrow probably also believed he could always take it to Vegas and double it.

“Let me see the money,” Murrow finally answered, as John knew he would.

John reached into the passenger seat of his car and withdrew a zipped leather satchel. He opened it to reveal stacks of tightly bundled twenty dollar bills. Murrow’s eyes went wide as he reached for the bag. He pawed through the currency, totaling it in his head.

“There’s only fifty in here,” he said after finishing.

“Half up front. Half once the job is done.”

Murrow smiled. “Okay, it’s a deal.” He took the syringe case from John. “So who’s the lucky recipient of this?”

“A patient of yours due for his flu shot tomorrow. His name is Luke Weatherly.”

John’s feet carried him down the alleyway towards Murrow, who was stubbing out his cigarette. A small leather satchel of the same kind that he had first handed to the doctor a week before was clutched in his hand.

John could feel his body changing its rhythms by habit. His field of vision narrowed and a cool composure began to overtake him. It had been the same since he was a child, this feeling of emotional numbness that allowed him to view things objectively. As an adult, he became practiced at never showing a hint of feeling; emotions were a sign of weakness and for the work that John had been doing for years now, he could not allow himself to be weak.

“Doctor,” John nodded in greeting as he approached.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Murrow replied irritably.

“Of course.” John slowly reached out with his left hand towards Murrow, whose eyes were riveted on the bag of cash just as John knew they would be.

It was why the doctor never saw John’s right hand swiftly raise a small black Beretta.

Two silenced shots whispered into Murrow’s forehead, exploding through the back of his skull. Murrow crumpled to the ground, twitching slightly. John looked down at him impassively and fired another round into the man’s heart, ceasing any movement.

Moving quickly, he unscrewed the silencer and pocketed it. Wiping down all of the gunmetal, he made his way towards a sewer grate at the far end of the alley. He dropped the gun down between the bars, hearing it land with a splash far below.

John had done his research, like always. The fifty thousand dollars of Murrow’s first payment had already been lost in an all-night binge of online poker, so no one would know it had even existed. Studying the conviction records of Murrow’s bookie, he saw that the man and his thugs preferred to use a .22 caliber Beretta in their dealings with tardy clients. Emailing Artie from Murrow’s account that John had hacked allowed him to place a large bet on a losing game. Any investigation into the shooting would logically flow towards the conclusion that the addict had gotten in above his head and the bookie was tired of the man’s excuses, especially once the gun was found.

Hurrying back towards the motorcycle, John pulled a disposable cell phone from his pocket. A text from his employer was waiting for him.

ARE WE ON TRACK?

He answered with a simple “YES” as he climbed on to the Hayabusa. A quick look at his watch told him that he had eight minutes left to get to the next destination.

By the time he got there, he knew, Matt Weatherly would be full of questions.

T
he world whipped by as Ashley gazed out the Porsche’s side window. She snuck a glance at Matt, whose hands were gripped with white knuckle intensity around the leather steering wheel. His face was a slate mask and he had not spoken a word since she had helped him discover the truth about Luke.

Suddenly, he yanked the car to the right, causing Ashley to bang her forehead.

“Take it easy,” she said, rubbing the bruised skin.

He cut his eyes towards her, mumbling an apology. Pulling the car towards a nearby curb, he parked and cut the engine. Ashley looked up to see a familiar five-story white stucco building resting behind wrought iron gates. The Wertheimer Building had been built in the 1930’s as a home to the union of studio art directors. What was originally a drab art-deco building had been turned into a marvel of clashing architectures by its owners, who were adept at creating false worlds out of basic building materials. With the union moving to its new home on the west side in the 1970’s, Ashley knew that its former abode had fallen into disrepair over two decades. The building’s once grand walls became festooned with graffiti and shattered windows. With the real estate boom in the last decade, though, it was seen as an unpolished gem and got scooped up several years back by a developer who turned it into one of the most secure server storage units in Los Angeles. Ashley herself had three clients housed there.

She heard the driver side door open and turned to see Matt climbing out. “Wait in the car,” he commanded.

“Why? I’m coming with you.” Before she could move, Matt lowered himself back down to face her.

“Ashley, just listen to me for once. Wait. Here.” He slammed the door behind him to make his point.

Luke’s voice came from the back seat. “He gets like that sometimes,” he explained.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. Ashley looked back at Luke, offering a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold, shaky. I’ve still got that weird ringing in my ears I told my dad about.”

Probably from all the gunfire you heard, Ashley thought but decided against saying aloud. “Everything is going to be fine,” she offered.

“Yeah?” Luke responded with skepticism.

“Of course. I know your dad and if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s beating out the competition. This guy we’re dealing with is nothing more than that.” Her bravado sold Luke on the lie, evidenced by his nod.

Ashley suddenly realized something. “Where’s your mom? Shouldn’t we let her know what’s going on?”

“No. She’s dead,” Luke answered quietly.

“Oh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” Ashley was no stranger to the pain of loss and could not begin to imagine how it had affected Matt and his young son. As much as she resisted it, Ashley was beginning to gain insight into the Weatherly family dynamics.

“I just don’t want to lose my dad, too. He always says we’re all we’ve got.”

Ashley reached back to squeeze the boy’s hand. “You’ve got me now, too.” He gave her a wan smile, then glanced outside his window.

“Who’s my dad talking to?”

Ashley followed his gaze to see Matt on the sidewalk, seemingly talking to the air. “Not sure. But he looks upset,” she answered.

Outside, Matt was hissing towards the miniature microphone.

“Do you hear me, John? I’m not moving one damn inch until I see you and talk to you.”

It was the third time he had uttered the threat since exiting his car. Each time, he received nothing but silence in return.

“Nowhere, you understand, you sick fu-”

“Walk around the west corner,” John’s flat voice materialized in his ear.

Matt paused to catch his breath, then rounded the corner to find himself in a small alley lined with overflowing trash dumpsters. From behind one of them stepped a black-clad figure topped by a tinted motorcycle helmet that obscured his face.

“What do you need?” the killer asked.

“What do I-” Matt stammered incredulously. “What I need, John, is for you to tell me why you would turn my son into a
fucking bomb
!” The last two words echoed off of the close walls.

“Lower your voice,” John commanded.

“I want answers.”

“Then ask your questions. The clock is ticking.”

“Is my son safe?”
“For the moment. But if you don’t inject him with the needed antibodies in the next ten hours, his body will break down into a series of internal combustions, finally radiating outward with the intensity of a hydrogen bomb.”

“You’re bluffing. Nothing like that exists.”

“Now you are the one who is bluffing, Captain. Your son has been injected with a full dose of RX-17.”

Matt’s heart sank. There had been several top secret innovations he had been exposed to during his career. RX-17 was one of them. He had witnessed firsthand the devastation it wreaked on a small village in Iraq when a small dose was injected into an unsuspecting pregnant woman, causing entire city blocks to vaporize.

After the devastation was documented and filed, it was decided that the weapon was too volatile and dangerous. The chance was too great that it would fall into enemy hands. Matt and his fellow operatives were told that all the remaining vials of the liquid explosive had been safely disposed of. Matt thought he could add that declaration to the pile of lies the military had already tried to feed him.

“All those vials were destroyed,” Matt whispered fiercely, still not wanting to believe.

“Or so you were told. Let me guess, your son is running a fever but still shaking and tells you he is cold.”

“Could be the flu,” Matt replied, feigning nonchalance.

“The flu would not also give him that high-pitched whining in his head that he has no doubt commented on.”

Matt flinched, recalling Luke’s odd complaint in the car.
Think, Matt, think.

He ran a hand through his hair, wheels turning.
This is a transaction like any other. Somebody wants something that you have – access. But he also has something he knows that you want – your son. You need to regain the upper hand in the situation, just like you always do.

At last, Matt said, “I want something from you.”

“As I mentioned, you are not in the power position here.”

“The hell I’m not. You need me, plain and simple. And I’m not moving one inch until I get something from you.”

“You would let your son die?”

Matt took a menacing step forward. Instantly, a gun appeared in John’s hand that was leveled at Matt’s chest. “You’re going to give me a show of good faith,” Matt continued, ignoring the weapon. “Something that proves you’re going to cure Luke, not just use me and toss him away. Or I’m going to turn around and leave. It’s that simple.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got sixty seconds to figure it out.” With that, he turned on his heels.