The Inner Circle

Two years ago Ben Anderson woke up in a rundown motel, three thousand miles from home, his family missing, and the words LET THE GAME BEGIN written in blood on the back of the bathroom door.

Now, with his past life gone, Ben has become a soldier in Carver Ellison’s army against Caesar.

But when a mission goes wrong and one of their team members is murdered, it’s the last cryptic word spoken that will lead Ben and the team one step closer to the Inner Circle—a step that may bring them salvation ... or get them all killed.

praise for
USA TODAY
bestselling author
ROBERT SWARTWOOD
and
THE INNER CIRCLE

“
The Inner Circle
is a crafty, clever, white-knuckle thriller. If you haven’t yet read Swartwood, you’re missing out.”

—
Brian Keene

“Not for the faint of heart.”

—
Cannonball Read

“An exceptional novelist.”

—
Douglas Clegg

THE INNER CIRCLE

Robert Swartwood

Contents

The Inner Circle

About the Author

Excerpt from
No Shelter

Also by Robert Swartwood

Copyright

THE INNER CIRCLE

For John Cashman—

Thanks for always being in my inner circle

“It is this, it is this—” “We have had that before!”

The Bellman indignantly said.

And the Baker replied “Let me say it once more.

It is this, it is this that I dread!

“I engage with the Snark—every night after dark—

In a dreamy delirious fight:

I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,

And I use it for striking a light:

“But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,

In a moment (of this am I sure),

I shall softly and suddenly vanish away—

And the notion I cannot endure!”

—Lewis Carroll,

The Hunting of the Snark

The nightmare has changed.
 

Now I stand frozen in room 7 of the Paradise Motel. In front of me lay two wooden caskets. Written on one of the caskets is
WIFE OF WAX
. Written on the other,
DAUGHTER OF WAX
.
 

They are in there, Jen and Casey. I can hear them calling my name. I can hear them screaming for help. I can hear them saying please please
please
don’t let us die.
 

I want to save them, but I cannot move. It’s not like before, where I want to move but my body will not let me. I have the power to take a step forward, I have the power to save them, but I do not.
 

Because Caesar is in the room with me. He stands between the two caskets, faceless but watching me with a smile. He is carrying out what Simon has started. Making sure I go through with the game. That I make my choice.
 

Save one, kill the other.
 

Kill one, save the other.
 

My wife and daughter continue calling my name, screaming for help.
 

Pick one, Caesar says. Pick one to live, pick one to die.
 

But I cannot pick one. I can only stand there, frozen, listening to my wife and daughter screaming and pleading and begging me to save them.
 

I stand there until I finally wake up and feel—if not for an instant—the slightest bit of relief at the knowledge that my wife and daughter are dead, and that I will never have to make that choice, that I will never have to play Simon’s game again.

Part One

SMASH AND GRAB

1

We were headed south on I-95, about forty miles outside Miami, when the Kid called.
 

It was Saturday night, just past eleven o’clock. A heavy rain was coming down, the dark clouds occasionally illuminated by a scattered flicker of lightning.
 

Carver reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, put it on speaker.
 

“What’s up?”
 

The Kid said, “We got a problem.”
 

I was driving the Corolla we’d picked up the day before in Atlanta. It was a small four-cylinder thing that still reeked of cigarettes and coffee from its previous owner. I’d paid one thousand dollars for it, cash, and now here we were, Carver in the passenger seat, the radio off, neither of us saying a word.
 

A quarter mile ahead of us was Ronny and Ian in the SUV. A quarter mile ahead of them was the target. The target was driving a black Crown Victoria, a camera set up in the foot well of the passenger seat so those who wanted to could see what the man looked like behind the wheel of the car, instead of getting the view of the highway from the mini-camera in his glasses. The target was listed simply as the Racist. He was a large bald man with a thick goatee and tattoos of swastikas and racial slurs all over his body. He’d only been in the game for less than forty-eight hours and had already killed someone.
 

“What’s the problem?” Carver asked.
 

“Another link appeared five minutes ago. I started saving it right away, and ... ah, well, you just gotta see it. I’m emailing it to you now.”
 

Then the Kid was gone.
 

I said, “Should we call Ronny?”
 

“Not yet.”
 

Carver had already replaced the phone in his pocket, was now reaching in the backseat for his bag. He pulled the MacBook from the bag, along with the wireless card. Then he had the computer on his lap, opened the lid, pressed the power button. Seconds later the Apple logo appeared and the main screen came up and then Carver was working quickly, opening the web browser, opening his email account, then opening the email the Kid had just sent.
 

There was a minute or two of silence as Carver downloaded the file. When the download was complete, Carver played the video. At once the atmosphere in the car changed. Carver’s body visibly stiffened.
 

“How bad is it?”
 

“Bad enough,” he said, and tilted the laptop so I could see.
 

Most of the screen was black except for the usual box in the middle. In that box now was a small room. The camera was positioned in one of the ceiling corners, staring down at a bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, besides a single lamp standing in the corner.
 

And on the bed lay a small dark-skinned girl, who couldn’t have been any older than ten. She was completely naked, her arms and legs stretched toward the ends of the bed, straps tying her wrists and ankles. How long she’d been there was impossible to say, but it was clear whatever fight had been in her was long gone. She just lay there, her body jerking every couple of seconds, sobbing the sob of a child who has cried so much she has no more tears left to shed.

2

Despite the heavy rain, it was business as usual at the Fort Lauderdale International Airport.
 

At least that’s what it looked like as Ronny and Ian sped down 95, a quarter mile ahead of Carver and Ben, a quarter mile behind the target. They passed the airport just as a massive commercial jet began to make its descent and Ian, slouched in the passenger seat staring out the window, said, “You ever see
The Twilight Zone
movie?”
 

Ronny glanced briefly at the landing plane before focusing his attention back on the highway. “What about it?”
 

“That story at the end, the segment with John Lithgow.”
 

“ ‘Nightmare at 20,000 Feet.’ ”
 

“Right. Well, I first saw it when I was, like, ten years old, and it forever scarred me. I mean, I always hated flying after that.”
 

Ronny said nothing, keeping his eyes on the highway. Miami was only a half hour away, and if they were going to do the Smash and Grab—which was the plan—it would be soon.
 

“I mean, okay,” Ian said, “I’ve only flown once in my life, right after high school, but it was pretty nerve-wracking. It also didn’t help that they put me near the wing, and the entire time I’m sitting there and telling myself there’s nothing out there, no monster or whatever. I even pulled the shade so I couldn’t see anything, which sort of sucked, because we were flying over the Grand Canyon and that would have been pretty cool to see.”
 

Ronny still said nothing.
 

“Sorry,” Ian said. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
 

“It’s okay.”
 

“I don’t mean to ramble. I just, you know, I get nervous.”
 

“Don’t worry about it.”
 

It wasn’t that Ronny meant to be cold to Ian, but he needed to stay focused. He too was always nervous before they did a Smash and Grab. It was how they usually intercepted players. A long stretch of highway was always best. Drive up and tap them on the rear, speed around them, swing back into their lane, and slam on your brakes. Nine times out of ten, the players slammed on their brakes too. And then the clock started ticking, doors flinging open as they hurried out and grabbed the player before the player’s escorts arrived. That was how they had rescued a handful of players—including Ben—and how they had rescued Ian Prescott less than a year ago.
 

The kid was only twenty-two. He had been a Theater Arts major at a college in Indiana. His game had been listed simply as the Actor. The last thing he remembered was going to sleep in his single-bedroom apartment just off campus. Next he’d woken up in his old house, in his bedroom, three states away. A bloody butcher knife lay next to him, along with a cell phone. The phone rang the moment he sat up, and he’d answered it, sleepily, uncertain what was going on. The voice on the other end identified itself as Simon. Simon told Ian to put on the glasses that were sitting on his desk. Then Simon said to pick up the bloody butcher knife. Or else, Simon said, Ian’s fiancée was going to die. So he picked up the knife. Listened as Simon said Ian’s fingerprints were now on the knife—the same knife that had been used to kill his parents. Moments later Ian was downstairs in the living room, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the dead and massacred bodies of his mother and father.
 

The whole thing had messed Ian up, which was to be expected. Simon’s game always messed up the players. It demoralized them. Broke their spirits. And, if they managed to escape, it forever scarred their souls.
 

Ronny’s phone, placed by the gearshift, vibrated.
 

“Who is it?” Ian asked.
 

Ronny gave him an annoyed look, once again wishing he had more patience. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Ian, but the kid could sometimes be jumpy, especially in situations like these. Carver thought Ian was finally ready after the months of training and one previous outing, but Ronny still wasn’t so sure.
 

He grabbed the phone, saw the display, said, “It’s Carver,” and put the phone on speaker. “Yeah?”
 

“We’re holding off.”
 

Ronny’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “His escorts?”