Swords of Exodus [Dead Six 02] (6 page)

“I can’t risk you, and I’ve got work for you to do, and I’ll call and tell you, but I just don’t have time now. I have to go.”

“Lorenzo, you don’t have a team anymore. Carl’s dead. You never work alone.”

“I called Reaper,” I said defensively.

“Reaper hasn’t done anything for the last six months but play video games and waste money on lap dances. He’s not exactly in practice. If you don’t know these people, then you need me to watch your back.”

“Jill,” I looked into her eyes, “do you trust me?”

She looked away. We’d been living an idyllic existence, my violent past left far behind. The evil that had plagued all my days had been locked away, seemingly forgotten, never to be brought out again. The horrible things that had befallen Jill were buried with them, and we’d begun a new life together.

That time ended now, and it was a lot to take in. Finally she turned back to me. “Yes.”

I kissed her and held her tight. “I love you,” I said softly, then let her go, her hands lingering on mine as I drew away. I slung the rifle case over my back, and grabbed my other bags. “I gotta go.”

She followed me down the stairs and across the lawn. I stopped at my climate-controlled tool shed, unlocked the heavy padlock, and went straight to one of the wooden crates. This was the stuff I wasn’t comfortable storing in the house. Jill fidgeted as she watched my preparations. She knew full well what I was doing.

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

Chapter 2: Head Games

VALENTINE

Location Unknown

My shackles clinked as I was led down to the last room on the right side of the corridor. A pit began to form in my stomach. This was the
information extraction
room. I had been in there several times before, but couldn’t recall exactly how many times. Nor, for that matter, could I remember how long it had been. I just knew that this was where they took me when they wanted me to tell them something.

The room was a little bit colder than the corridor. Machines and equipment that I couldn’t identify lined the walls. At the back of the room was a large tubular tank that resembled an MRI machine or something.

Near the center of the room was a chair like you’d find in a dentist’s office, except this one had built-in restraints. My three escorts sat me down in the chair. Davis held me in place while Smoot stood watch, taser at the ready. Reilly then fastened both of my wrists and both of my ankles to the chair before doing up the waist and head straps. Once I was restrained, they raised the chair so that I was almost in a standing position. Several suction cups with wires leading to them were connected to my head. A band was put around my arm to monitor my heart rate and breathing. An oxygen tube was jammed up my nose. Machines in the room blinked to life as they were brought out of standby mode.

In front of the insane dentist’s chair was a regular chair. That was where
she
always sat when we did this. The door to the room opened again. High heels clicked on a cold concrete floor as a pale, fortyish woman strode across the room. She sat stiffly in the chair in front of me, crossed her legs, and tapped on her iPad for a few moments.

“Good morning, Mr. Valentine.” She didn’t bother to look up.

My eyes narrowed. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time, Doc?”

Her name was Dr. Silvers. Olivia Silvers. She didn’t look like much. Pale skin, thin build, flat hair, but she was in charge here, and she was an ice-cold bitch. I hated her with the utmost intensity, but in my present position, the most I could do would be to verbally abuse her. Her retaliations for that kind of behavior had convinced me that it wasn’t worth the trouble.

It’s not that they necessarily tortured me. They hadn’t pulled out my fingernails, smashed my kneecaps, or anything like that. Hell, they didn’t even waterboard me. Nothing that base. These people had other ways, sophisticated, monstrous ways of getting inside your head.

First would be the needles and then would be the questions. Sometimes the questions didn’t make sense. Other times I didn’t know the answers, but she’d keep asking. Sometimes they’d put something in the oxygen tube in my nose. Other times they’d put things in my food and I’d wake up in the chair. Or I’d have a nightmare about being in the chair and wake up back in my room. Sometimes I’d remember things that didn’t actually happen. It was hard to tell what was real.

Whenever I resisted or fought back they’d just beat the shit out of me and throw me back in my room. Sometimes they’d withhold food or leave me strapped down for days on end. One time, they left me out in the snow for a few hours. They let a big guard dog attack me once for the time I’d stabbed Smoot with the pen.

Dr. Silvers looked up at me over her spectacles. She must have practiced that disinterested, condescending expression in the mirror, since she was very good at it. “The last time we talked, you told me about the death of your mother.”

“I did?”

“You were quite talkative. You described the events of your mother’s death in great detail to me, and I told you I’d look into the matter for you.”

I’d been too drugged to remember. I sure as hell wouldn’t have talked to Dr. Silvers about it. But deep down, I knew that I had told her everything.

“The men that murdered your mother were William and Jesse Skinner. The Skinner Brothers were, at the time, the subject of a multi-state manhunt. They’d been terrorizing small communities in the Upper Midwest for a year when you encountered them. The older of the two, Jessie, was suspected of multiple counts of armed robbery, rape, and murder. William was a high-functioning psychotic with extremely violent tendencies.”

“I know all that. They killed my mom, for chrissakes. I went to court and was interviewed by the cops over and over. Why are you telling me this?”

“Oh,” Dr. Silvers said, unperturbed. “Last time we spoke, you were having trouble remembering, so I looked into the matter for you. In any case this is what I want to talk about today.”

“You want to talk about my mother?”

“Not specifically. I want to talk about what happened to you when you found her dead, when you realized that you were in danger. What did you call it?”

I looked down at the floor. “
Calm
. I was calm.”

“Yes,” she said, eyebrow raised. “I want to talk about this sense of calm with you.”

Why is she asking me about that?
It was hard to remember what we’d talked about before. I knew I’d been grilled about Gordon Willis a great deal. There had been a sense of desperation in the way she’d asked. He was one of theirs, but he’d gone off the reservation. He’d been working with Eduard Montalban, and I told them that too. I don’t remember telling them about my involvement in Eduard Montalban’s death, but for all I knew, I’d already betrayed Hawk, Bob Lorenzo, and . . . the other Lorenzo, too.

But why was she asking me about
the Calm
? Why was she asking me about my mom? I couldn’t figure out what she wanted, and that scared me.

Dr. Silvers stood up, and stepped closer to me. “Michael,” she said softly, her lips inches from my ear. “You are a unique individual. What we’re doing now is figuring out the best course for you going forward. Do you understand?”

“No,” I managed. I felt strange. Groggy, but my heart was racing. They were doing something to me again. I could feel it.

“That’s alright,” she said, not quite smiling. “I’ll be with you on this journey, every step of the way.”

I don’t remember much after that.

LORENZO

Somewhere over the Caribbean

February 6th

The ocean flashed by below us. I leaned my forehead against the Plexiglas window as the plane, a loud, rattling, turboprop Cessna Grand Caravan, banked toward the west, giving me one final look at the white sand and green tropical forest that was St. Carl. I sighed, mentally shifted gears, and returned to business.

The plane had an unusual interior layout, with limited seating. A curtain hung between the pilots’ seats and the rest of the cabin. The back half of the cabin had a gurney and some medical supplies, presumably for Valentine. The hulking black man sat directly across from me, a bemused expression on his face. He looked me in the eyes, but didn’t say anything. It was pissing me off.

“So who are you supposed to be?”

“My name is Antoine,” he replied over the noise and vibration of the engine. The accent suggested West African. A folding table was between us, and it concealed his hands. He either had them folded in his lap or was pointing a gun at me. He smiled, his gleaming white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. The plane vibrated as we gained altitude. My Gearslinger bag was in my lap, one compartment unzipped. I thought about my next move. I didn’t trust these people, and they didn’t trust me. They were
right
not to trust me.

“Thank you for coming with us, Mr. Lorenzo. Your help is greatly appreciated,” Ling said calmly. She sat kitty-corner across from me. “Exodus is very—”

I cut her off. It was time for business. “I don’t give a shit about you or Exodus, or how much you appreciate anything. I’m here for my brother. You’re very lucky that I believed you when you said you don’t know where he is. If I didn’t, you’d be spilling your guts to me right now, literally, if necessary.”

“You could attempt that,” Ling said diplomatically. Antoine grunted, obviously protective of her. Shen sat across the narrow aisle from me. He looked relaxed, but I could tell it was a facade. He was ready to pounce if I made a wrong move.

“But that would take too long, and I’m sure you’ve got some sort of arrangement with your handlers. I know how this game is played, and I’m too old for it.”

“Indeed.”

“So that’s why we’re going to play a different game, I call it defining the working relationship.” My hands moved with lightning speed. I reached into the unzipped compartment and found a round, metal object. Before Ling or either of her companions knew what was happening, I slammed the hand grenade down onto the plastic table. I raised my left hand, with the grenade’s pin looped around my finger. The only thing preventing it from initiating was the death grip I had on the spoon.

Shen drew a pistol in a flash, and had it pointed at my left ear. Antoine’s left hand had never come out from under the table, but my suspicion that he had a pistol in it was confirmed by the way he moved. Ling smiled slightly.

I stared her down. “If I let go, it goes off, with a lethal radius bigger than your airplane. Try anything, we all die. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

Ling nodded slightly at Shen, so he refrained from blowing my brains out.

“I’ve found it’s harder for people to lie when they’re about to get blown up.”

“I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where your brother is.”

“Cut the bullshit. You think you can just come to my island, land this piece of junk on my airfield, and blackmail me into going along with this? Do you know who you’re screwing with? You come into
my
house and threaten me? Really?”

Antoine’s pistol came out from under the table. He raised the big FNP-45 up and pointed it between my eyes.

“Look at me, Lorenzo,” Ling ordered. “I’m telling you the truth. My people are doing everything they can to find your brother.”

I glared at her. She glared right back. She wasn’t cracking.

Antoine was starting to look nervous, and I could see his finger tightening up on the trigger. The hammer started to creep imperceptibly back. He was going to shoot me, and try to grab my hand before I let the grenade go. I shifted my glare to him, daring him to try.

Reaching across the aisle, Ling placed her tiny hand on his massive arm. “No need, Antoine. He knows I’m telling the truth. What of your lady, Mr. Lorenzo? All she will know is that you got onto a plane with another woman and were never seen again.”

I showed no emotion. I wasn’t going to give them anything. I wasn’t going to let up. I had to know the truth. “Ever see what happens to bodies in the ocean? Half of you will wash up on a St. Carl beach, bloated, green, crabs living inside. It’s pretty gross . . . Where is my brother?”

She didn’t blink. “My soul is prepared, Mr. Lorenzo. Is yours?”

A cold bead of sweat rolled down into my eye. I blinked it away. This woman was either as cold as ice or was giving me a performance worthy of an Oscar.
Damned true believers.
They were calling my bluff.
Shit.

Ling folded her hands across her chest and stared at me, daring me to do it. I actually cracked a smile. Shaking my head, I very carefully slid the pin back into its hole, and folded it down on the other side. “I gotta hand it to you, lady. You’ve got some brass balls.”

Antoine was up in a split second, moving amazingly fast for a big man. He grabbed the grenade and snatched it away from me. I let go without a fight. “The grenade has been safed,” Antoine confirmed.

“Thank you,” Ling said. She was calm, but seemed visibly relieved. “Shen?”

Shen skull-punched me so hard it was like getting cracked with a bat. Lights flashed before my eyes, and my face hit the table.
So she has a temper after all . . .

Gideon Lorenzo, my foster father, was a big man. Physically intimidating, with one of those bald heads that managed to gleam in the sun. I always felt kind of dwarfed in his presence. “You want to look at the target, but the front sight is the important part. Focus on the front sight. The target is going to be blurry behind it.” He was standing slightly behind me and his deep voice boomed even through my ear plugs.

The old Colt Series 70 bucked in my hands, and this time the can flew off the fence. I did what he had taught me, and focused, and pulled the trigger straight back to the rear. Seven shots, and I got five that time. I was getting the hang of this.

“Much better,” he said.

“Way to go, bro,” Bob said. My brother was sixteen, and nearly as big as Dad. I was fourteen, and a shrimp in comparison, but I didn’t have any of those Lorenzo family monster genes. According to the wall lines in my real father’s mug shot—the only picture I had of him—he was only five foot five. “You should stick with the 1911, you stink with the revolver.”

“Bob . . . ” Dad said sternly.

“I’m just saying. Hector can’t shoot a round gun to save his life.”

I was careful to keep the muzzle downrange like Dad had shown me as I reached over and slugged Bob in the arm. Realistically the muscles on his arm were so thick that he wouldn’t have felt it anyway, but he made a great show of being injured.

“No horseplay,” Dad ordered. “Bob, go pick up those targets. Hector will help me pick up brass. Remember, always leave the range cleaner than you found it. Your mother will have dinner ready soon.”

I put the .45 back in its case, ditched my ear plugs, and started picking up brass. Dad grimaced as he sat down next to me. He had ruined one of his knees in Vietnam, and I knew it was bothering him lately. He watched Bob go downrange, and waited until he was out of earshot. I could tell he wanted to say something.

“Hector, I just wanted to let you know. Your real father’s parole hearing was today.”

I kept looking for brass. “I’m assuming they’re keeping him in.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Hope he rots in there forever.”

Dad cleared his throat. “You know, someday he may be fit to return to society. A man can be redeemed.”

“Redemption?” I snorted. I was fourteen and knew everything. “How can somebody like him make up for what he’s done?”