The Inner Circle (47 page)

I scrolled down through the list. I saw my show. I saw Carver’s show. I saw Maya’s show and Ronny’s show and Drew’s show and Beverly’s show. Even Mason’s show—the most recent, except for Clark’s—was listed.
 

But these were only the shows listed in the United States.
 

I swiped the screen, and brought up another list, this one marked UNITED KINGDOM. Below this were just as many entries as those listed under UNITED STATES.
 

I swiped the screen again, and again, and again. Scores of countries were included, countless games.
 

I kept swiping until I came to the one marked KOREA. I scrolled down, trying to find Bae’s game, but every listing was in Korean. And even if the listings were in English, Bae hadn’t told me the name of his game. In fact, I didn’t think he even knew the name of his game.
 

Around the lobby, members of the Inner Circle began to converge. Like in the banquet room, a hushed murmur started filling the air. More black masks weaved through the crowd holding trays of champagne.
 

Off to the left was a poster board on an easel, directing those members interested toward the special rooms. These were labeled
TORTURE
,
MURDER
,
RAPE
,
INCEST
,
BESTIALITY
in big block letters. Another poster board on a similar easel was set up on the other side of the auditorium doors.
 

Going into any of those rooms was the very last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to find Carver. This was why I was here, why everyone on the team was here. But it wasn’t just like I could wander around the Fillmore. Certain sections would be off-limits. Even if I stumbled across one of those sections, there was a very good chance a black mask would be waiting to direct me back to the main area.
 

I didn’t want to get stuck in conversation again either, no matter how brief. I kept replaying the short encounter I had with those four from the banquet room—the two blue eyes, the brown eyes, and the green eyes—and knew I might not be so lucky if it happened again. I could hear snatches of conversation around the lobby—in English as well as many other languages—and the last thing I needed right now was to be asked a specific question a member of the Inner Circle should know and which I did not.
 

Two curved staircases flanked the auditorium doors. I took the tablet and started toward the one staircase. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I didn’t want to stay stationary for too long.
 

I went only four feet before I stopped.
 

In my head, a distant voice whispered:
There’s something you don’t know about me. I love to torture. I get off on it
.
 

Slowly I turned, back toward the poster board on the easel. A few members of the Inner Circle were currently gathered around it. I stepped up behind them and inspected the board again. Before, I had merely glanced at the big block lettered words, but now I noticed the room numbers beneath each.
 

The room that currently had my interest—
TORTURE
—was on the second floor, room 3.
 

I turned and started toward the stairs.

•
   
•
   
•

T
WO
BLACK
MASKS
stood outside room 3. They were politely and professionally explaining to whoever came up to them that all the seats inside were currently occupied. There was, however, standing room for anyone interested in that.
 

This turned away several eager members. A few others, me included, entered the room.
 

The room was fairly large. It looked like the kind of place a business meeting would take place during normal hours. Executives might sit around a long table and discuss their company’s future. If there was ever a table like that here, it was now gone.
 

Nearly one hundred chairs occupied most of the space. In the front of the room, clear plastic tarp had been laid out across the floor, as well as against the front wall.
 

On the plastic tarp were two chairs, surrounded by tall lamps. The two chairs were occupied. As both were stripped of their clothing except for their underwear, it was clear one was a young boy, the other a woman. The boy was wearing white jockey shorts that were already wet and yellow. The woman wore white panties and a white bra. A black cloth bag was over each of their heads.
 

Standing off to the side were two black masks. Beside them was a table, with a number of tools on top—knives, pliers, hammers, saws.
 

I pushed up against the wall in the corner. It was a tight fit, as more and more members squeezed into the room. Finally it came to the point where the black masks outside the room had no choice but to direct members elsewhere.
 

In my ear, the Kid asked, “What’s going on?”
 

I didn’t answer.
 

The two black masks up front stood waiting. They may have been whispering to one another for all I knew. I tried remembering just how tall Clark was. Both black masks seemed to fit the profile, but it was really impossible to say for certain.
 

Finally the show began. The lights in the ceiling dimmed, leaving only those lamps up front to shine down on the two victims.
 

One of the black masks stepped forward to address the crowd.
 

“Welcome to the Torture Room. As you probably guessed by the name, we are going to do some torturing tonight.”
 

A soft and polite chuckle drifted across the room from several members. A few had those small translation devices in their hands.
 

The voice was male. Deep. Familiar.
 

My right hand drifted to my back. To where the Glock was currently tucked in the waistband of my suit pants. It would take two seconds to reach under my robe and grab it. It would take another second to aim and shoot Clark right in his black masked face.
 

“You’re probably wondering who our guests are tonight,” Clark said as the other black mask went to stand behind the boy and woman. “They are, in fact, mother and son.”
 

The other black mask reached out and grabbed both cloth bags and lifted them up slowly to reveal the boy’s and woman’s faces.
 

They squinted at once. Duct tape covered their mouths, muffling their attempts to cry out. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their ankles to the chair, but despite this they both still tried to wiggle free.
 

Another chorus of chuckles drifted across the room.
 

Clark began speaking again, explaining what they were going to do tonight and just how they were going to do it, but I wasn’t listening. Instead, I was staring at the woman and the boy—the mother and the son—and wondering where I had seen them before. For some reason they were familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.
 

Then, quite suddenly, I did.
 

“Holy fuck,” I whispered.
 

The Kid asked, “What’s wrong?”
 

I pushed off the wall and made my way to the doors.
 

“I see I’m already boring someone,” Clark said, not unkindly. “Please, do stay. I promise this will be a show you’ll never forget.”
 

I turned to him, wanting so much to pull the Glock out and kill him. Instead I bowed slightly and turned back to the door and stepped into the hallway. A line of members waited against the wall. Once I came out, one of the black masks directed one of the members inside to take my place.
 

I drifted to a far corner, out of earshot of any nearby members.
 

I whispered, “Kid, cut all communication except you and me.”
 

There was a brief pause. Then the Kid said, “Done. What’s wrong?”
 

“Do you have eyes on Mason?”
 

“I know where he currently is, yes. Why?”
 

“There’s been a new complication.”
 

“Meaning?”
 

“Mason’s wife and son are here. And they’re about to be tortured.”

65

The Kid didn’t answer right away. There was a moment or two of silence—a silence where I thought we had somehow become disconnected—before he finally spoke.
 

“What do you plan on doing?”
 

“I’m not sure yet.”
 

“You can’t complicate this mission.”
 

“I also can’t just stand by and let them get tortured.”
 

“It’s an unfortunate turn of events, I agree, but—”
 

“An unfortunate turn of events? Did you really just fucking say that?”
 

“Ben, stick to the plan.”
 

I said nothing.
 

The Kid said, “Do you hear me?”
 

“I hear you.” I stood in the corner with the tablet like I was looking at it, but now turned to check on the two black masks and the line of waiting members by the doors. “The plan is still a go.”
 

“What do you mean the plan is
still
a go?”
 

“It’s time to accelerate things.”
 

“What? Ben, don’t do what I think you’re going to do. It sucks that Mason’s wife and kid are there, but you can’t seriously think—”
 

I didn’t hear the rest. I was already in motion. Heading down the hallway, past a few members of the Inner Circle. Walking right up to the black masks standing in front of the doors. Stepping between them and reaching for the door handle.
 

“Pardon me,” said one of the black masks, placing a hand against the door to keep it closed, “but the room is currently filled to capacity.”
 

“I was just in there.”
 

“Yes, and when you exited another member took your place. I’m very sorry. If you would care to wait, perhaps more room will be made available shortly.”
 

On the other side of the door came a frantic but muffled scream, followed by a smattering of applause.
 

I said, “I would like to go in there now.”
 

“I’m sorry,” the black mask said, “but right now that’s impossible.”
 

“Do you have any idea who I am?”
 

The eyes staring back at me from the black Bauta mask were ice cold.
 

“As a matter of fact, I believe I do.”
 

The other black mask was already moving, stepping toward me. I elbowed him in the neck, leaned back as the second mask took a swing. The fist went wide, and I stepped forward and kneed him in the groin, shoved my elbow into the mask, breaking it, and slammed his head against the wall. Then I turned, already reaching for my Glock, and pulled open one of the doors.
 

Clark was using the pliers on Gloria Coulter’s toes. She was bucking in the chair, screaming through the duct tape, while the other black mask held her steady.
 

During the commotion, Clark turned away from his work. He started to stand, the bloodied pliers at his side.
 

I aimed right at his black mask. Before I could pull the trigger, though, someone hit me from behind. The gun fired but my aim was off, the bullet striking the wall. I went to aim again but hands grabbed me from behind, several hands all at the same time, one of them even wrestling the gun from my grip, and I fought them just like Gloria Coulter was fighting her restraints up front. And, just like Gloria Coulter, I was helpless, as more and more black masks swarmed into the room, grabbing my arms and my legs until there was nothing more for me to do but let them drag me away.

•
   
•
   
•

T
HROUGH
THE
LOGITECH
headphones the Kid heard everything. Ben exchanging words with someone. Scuffle and commotion. A single gunshot. Even more commotion. There were shouts, screams, curses, and the next thing the Kid knew a voice yelled, “Look at this,” and then the entire communication feed went dead.
 

Well, that wasn’t completely true.
 

The
entire
communication feed wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least. But clearly someone had found the tiny transmitter in Ben’s ear. Someone had plucked it out, dropped it on the ground, and smashed it.
 

Despite switching off communication from Ben and the rest of the team, the Kid hadn’t cut off communication between him and everyone else. While they weren’t able to hear him, he could certainly hear them. And the moment Ben requested the communication cut, everyone started up. First Ronny, then Drew, then Maya, then even Mason, all asking what was wrong, what was going on, Kid, goddamn it, answer us.
 

The Kid leaned back in his chair, staring at the monitor. On the screen was a three-dimensional rendering of the Fillmore. Every floor, every room, every corner was mocked up in front of him.
 

He leaned forward, clicked his mouse, and regained communication with the team.
 

By this point they had stopped trying to talk to him and were now talking to each other. Asking each other what was wrong, whether Drew could tell what was happening, if Mason could tell, what happened to Ben and the Kid.
 

“Sorry, guys,” the Kid said. “There was a complication.”
 

“What happened?” Ronny asked.