Black Mist (Corps Justice Book 19), page 17
At the far end of the beach, Daniel came to a rocky outcropping that bordered the sea. He'd always found the ocean so calming. What was it about the endless lapping of waves and an empty horizon that called to him? For a split second, he thought about kicking off his shoes, stripping down, and swimming straight west.
What the hell is wrong with me?
His eyes misted over with tears. He hadn't felt this lost in . . . well, a very long time.
It was as if Satan himself had crept into his mind. All the fears he’d worked so hard to bury had crawled out of their deep, dark holes. He needed to find a way to entomb them once more, but instead he was sinking into the very holes from which they’d come.
Why now? Why this place? He had a job to do, but he could no longer bring himself to do it. He wanted to run far, far away. Away from everything and everyone. The thought was so far removed from his nature that it shocked him, and he fell to his knees in the sand.
"God, what have I done?" he said in a whisper.
Liberty nuzzled in close. He held her as if her life force might feed his own.
"What's happening to me, girl?" He asked her. She looked at him with her deep brown eyes, and though she did not understand his question, he knew she understood his soul.
The waves pushed higher onto the shore and soaked his legs. Let them come. Let them take me away. How many times had he thought about jumping, about pulling the trigger, about ending it all? But that had been so many lifetimes ago. The forgotten memories now rolled back toward him with the tide.
The pain came out of him in a great heave of sobs.
The dog wrestled from his grasp. God, please, not now . . . I need her . . .
He turned and found Liberty facing away.
A young Asian man was coming toward them, a camera hanging from his neck. He looked like a typical tourist. Too typical.
Liberty growled, low and long, and Daniel saw the gun in the man's left hand. He’d carefully angled it out of the public’s view.
Daniel got to his feet slowly. Unarmed, he felt weak as a lamb. Was this a messenger from God? Had he been sent to put him out of his misery?
"You know why I'm here," the man said when he got closer. He turned a wary eye on Liberty. “Hold the dog close and keep her calm,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to shoot her.”
“What do you want with me?” Daniel asked, his voice weak.
"There's a car behind me. I want you to get in the driver's seat. I'll tell you where to go."
Daniel nodded and held out his hands so the man could see that he was not armed. He began trudging up the beach.
And then something happened. A gate opened, and power began to flow through him. Whether it was from hell or heaven, he couldn't tell. And he didn’t care.
With each step, he felt the power growing. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling. His inner demon was rising, and he would not try to stop it. By the time they reached the car, it was no longer Daniel Briggs walking beside the young man; it was his alter ego, a bloodthirsty animal. The beast.
"Get in the car," the man said, but he stumbled a step back when he saw the dark fire in Daniel's eyes. Liberty was growling as well. "What kind of devil are y—"
The last word caught in the man's throat as Daniel pounced. First, he grabbed the weapon and threw it away. Then he jabbed his palm into the man’s throat, choking him and pulling him closer. The man struggled, but it was no use. Where once there’d been color in Daniel's vision, now there was only red.
The door hinge was the beast's objective. With a savage thrust, it slammed the man's head into the crook between the body of the car and the open door. A vicious snap cracked through the air, and Liberty whined. The beast paid her no mind. Again and again, it slammed the man’s limp head and neck against the metal and rubber and glass. Sweat and blood covered the beast, and yet it was tireless, reveling in the extinguishing of life. When the man was no longer a man, but a limp sack of flesh, he slipped from the beast’s slick hands and thumped to the ground.
Liberty backed away, and the human body of Daniel Briggs panted from exertion. The beast shrunk back into its cage, but the door remained open. Satiated with its fill of blood and death, it would slumber . . . for now.
Daniel looked down at the carnage in shock. Many had died at his hand, but not like this. It had been years, ages, since Daniel had left his body to the complete control of the animal inside. It disgusted him, scared him. There was little else to do but run.
So he did. And as he fled, he was only vaguely aware of the phones pointed his way. In perfect video, they captured the horrible scene. Soon, the world would see the image of a blond man running with a beautiful dog beside him. Both drenched in blood.
And so would every Costa Rican police officer within a hundred-mile radius.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
GENERAL HU
Matthew Wilcox—if that was really his name—tipped his straw hat. "I have thoroughly enjoyed this visit, kind sir. Your hospitable care will go down in the history books as a testament to manners and magnanimity.”
This was at least the tenth time in the last hour he'd said such a thing. Marty had gotten used to it. In fact, he’d found that once you looked past the man's extravagances, his ridiculous hat, and his habit of wearing sunglasses indoors, there was something endearing—perhaps even entertaining—about the odd man.
Mr. Wilcox placed a hand on Marty’s shoulder. "Now, Marty, let's get down to business, shall we? Before you say anything, I’d like to acknowledge that I know it's not your choice to make. But let's say you get me in with the right people, both in Costa Rica and your government, if need be. I think in that case, you could find yourself with a very happy finder’s fee. I want you to think about that. Okay, old pal?"
A ridiculous request, but one Marty would pretend to entertain. He’d previously decided to take the tour money and get rid of the man, but why not keep the door open? Maybe Mr. Wilcox could introduce him to some of his friends. He'd dropped a couple of names throughout their tour. If the man was at the level of influence his checkbook seemed to suggest, then Marty Hu needed to join his circle.
"Let me make some calls," Marty said.
"Excellent," Mr. Wilcox said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a square business card. "That's my banker's information. Make any inquiries you'd like."
"Is there a figure you would like me to present to the Costa Ricans?" Marty asked.
The man shrugged, lifted off his hat, and fanned his face. "I never show my cards first, Marty. You should know that by now."
They were interrupted as two guards approached, weapons in hand.
"Mr. Hu," one of them barked.
"What is it?" Marty said, annoyed. He wanted to get a figure out of the man, and it was more than mere curiosity. He wanted to learn if the man had the potential to be his business partner.
"Sir, may we take a moment of your time? It’s very important."
Marty sighed. To Mr. Wilcox, he said, "I'm sorry, but will you give me a minute?"
"Absolutely. Take your time. I'm just going to go take another look at the view."
"Please do," Marty said.
Mr. Wilcox sauntered toward the railing.
"Mr. Hu. This man—"
Marty held up a hand and hushed them, glancing at his guest. "Come with me," he ordered.
The guards reluctantly followed Marty off the patio and around a bend.
"What is it?" Marty asked when they were out of earshot.
"Sir, that man is not who he says he is."
"And?"
"He's an international assassin, Mr. Hu."
Marty looked between the two guards and laughed. "What? That's ridiculous. I would have known."
One of the guards handed Marty his phone. On the screen was a picture of a man who looked vaguely like the one he'd just spent over an hour with. He thought back on their time together, but could not recall any concerns beyond the man’s mental stability. He’d had no weapons. He’d done nothing threatening. Still, Marty would look into it. As for the guards, whether they were right or not, at least they were on their toes. At least they'd done their job.
"Very well."
"Mr. Hu, it may not be safe . . ."
Marty glared at the guard. "Are you suggesting I cannot take care of myself?"
Color drained from the guard's face. "Not at all, sir, but this man could be dangerous."
Marty poked his head around the corner. Mr. Wilcox had taken off his hat and shoes and stacked them in a teetering structure on the ground. Now he was arching his chest into the sunshine while unbuttoning his shirt. What a lunatic. And they thought he was dangerous?
He turned back to the guards. "Thank you, but I think I'll be fine."
"But we confirmed this with facial scans, sir—"
"Facial scans can be wrong, especially with an image that grainy," Marty said. "Thank you for your concern, gentlemen."
He rejoined Mr. Wilcox on the patio. The man had started stretching across the rail, bare-chested.
"My apologies. Business never ceases."
"That's alright, Marty Gras. I’ve been indulging myself with a little sun."
"Mr. Wilcox, could I see your face, please?"
"It's a little too bright out here to go without sunglasses, don't you think?"
Scars dotted the man's chest and back. Battle scars.
"Mr. Wilcox, I must insist."
In one swift move, the man hopped up onto the railing. In another, he kicked off his linen pants and threw them to Marty. "A souvenir. It's been a pleasure, Marty. But, my old chum, as happens in many a friendship, our time together is at an end. Too-da-loo! In the words of the Bard, see you in the funny papers!"
With this, he dove straight off the cliff.
"Shoot him, you idiots!" Marty shouted in a fury to the guards, who scrambled with their weapons and ran forward. They let loose a volley of rounds.
Wait. No. This was a foolish way to go about things. It was a beautiful day, and there were bound to be people out on the water. Someone would hear the shots and that would bring trouble. He scanned the horizon for boats. Sure enough, there were two sailboats and a yacht moored not far away.
"Stop shooting. Hide your weapons, damn you." He peered over the railing for any sign of the stranger. None. "Get the boats. Find him."
The guards rushed to comply. When he could no longer see the man far below, he looked back at the phone the guard had given him. He examined the smiling face of a man wanted by Interpol and every other police agency in the world. The man's name was indeed Matthew Wilcox. Marty read down his alleged list of accomplishments and thanked the stars that his ignorance had not gotten him killed.
Questions raced through his mind. Why had the assassin come? Was he working alone or was he with others? Did he have ties to the American spies?
Yes, Marty Hu had been a damn fool indeed.
They would find Matthew Wilcox and tear the information they needed from his head—if he didn’t sink to the bottom of the ocean first. However, dead or alive, this wrinkle meant Marty’s timeline needed to move forward. Just as well. He was tired of endless training. It was time to put the first real chess piece into play.
Then they would know him. Respect him.
And then he would own them.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
GAUCHO
"Gentlemen, welcome to Boston," Howard Prescott said, walking into the room. He shook each man's hand. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
"We should be the ones apologizing. I’m sorry for arriving in this state, sir. We had no time to shower," Top said. "I'm Willie Trent. This is Gaucho."
"Gaucho?" Howard Prescott asked with a curious grin.
"Just Gaucho, sir. That's what they call me."
Prescott leaned against the large oak desk. "By the looks on your faces, I'm assuming you come bearing bad news."
"Things got messy, sir," Top said.
"Mr. Briggs told me as much."
"Well, he sent us here to tell you the rest of the story."
"Before we get into it," Gaucho said, "I want you to know that we blame ourselves for this mess."
“Alright,” Prescott said, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.
"We were jumped by five men," Top said. "Agents. We handled it poorly. It was a public thing, and we were sloppy."
"We took care of them without casualty," Gaucho said, "but it didn’t matter. They swallowed suicide pills."
Prescott blanched, then quickly regained his composure. "From what it sounds like, you two were defending yourselves and each other."
"At any rate," Top said, "it seems like things were already beginning to escalate even before this attack."
"You think my son is somehow behind it?"
"No, sir, that's not what we're saying," Top said. "But we do believe he's somehow involved, or at least connected. The rest of our team is working on figuring out the details as we speak."
Prescott exhaled and ran a hand through his tidy gray hair. "My son has always been a nuisance. I'm sure you've probably deduced that by now. Most parents think back to their child's youth and say what a wonderful kid they were. How sweet. But Jeffrey, well, he was always a mean-spirited child. I failed him in my duty as a parent. I should have scolded him. I should have spanked him. But instead, I lavished him with love and presents, hoping he would change. I know that was wrong, but he’s still my son. Can you understand that?"
"Yes, sir, we can," Gaucho said.
"Family is a complicated thing." Prescott sighed. "Do you have families of your own?"
"No, sir, but I think we both understand." Gaucho thought of his uncle, who worked for the United States government while running a Mexican drug cartel at the same time. Yeah, he understood complicated.
"What should I do, gentlemen? Why are you really here? Because if you intend to ask for permission to . . . deal with my son, I won't give it to you."
"No, sir, that's not why we're here," Top said. "We think there may be an attempt on your life."
Prescott laughed. "Please."
"Sir, we are very serious about this," Gaucho said.
"I believe you. But do you think I'm afraid of being killed? I was exactly seventeen and a half when they dropped me into Laos the first time. I killed three men that day. The next week, I lost my team leader and became the lead myself. Not even eighteen years old and the responsibility had fallen on my shoulders.
“I did not survive Vietnam and build a multibillion-dollar empire without facing death on many occasions. Do you know what the Irish mob does when they find out you're making too much money in their town? I don't think I have to tell you they aren't exactly subtle about it. So yes, gentlemen, I've been around danger most of my adult life. It is nothing new to me.”
"Forgive me if I'm being too forward," Top said, "but have you told your son those stories?"
Prescott chucked. "I’ve told him, but he never listens. ‘That's old news, Dad.’ That boy." He heaved a great sigh, then looked up. "Anyway, I do apologize for any inconvenience. You both strike me as men who've seen death before, but I'm sure the sudden suicide of five men right in front of your eyes was shocking."
"Definitely not a cakewalk, sir," Gaucho said. "They were just kids."
Prescott nodded. "Isn't it always just kids?" The man looked haunted by some secret memory. "Tell me, what do you think we should do about my son? Do we know for sure that he's involved?"
"Yes, sir, but it is not clear how—"
"No," Prescott said. "We must know the exact details. We must be certain. If you would do me the favor, please stay until you find out. I'll have you put up in the guest suite. Be my liaison with your team in Costa Rica. Tell me everything you hear. And gentlemen, I want you to tell your friends that my son is not to be harmed. Is that understood?"
Top and Gaucho both nodded.
"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a congressional delegate arriving in five minutes. My executive assistant will be in shortly to arrange your accommodations."
Prescott left, and Top gave Gaucho a look. "This is one of those times when a little boat in the Caribbean sounds pretty damn good."
“You ain't kidding."
CHAPTER FIFTY
DAVID
The young engineer averted his gaze as two men exited Howard Prescott’s office. He hunched over his desk and fiddled with a perfectly healthy hard drive as the mismatched duo passed. Once the elevator doors had closed behind them, he checked the recording on his phone.
Crystal clear audio.
David reassembled the hard drive and stood to stretch. Time for a smoke break. As he made his way outside, he decided he would have lunch at the cafeteria instead of his desk today. Be social for a change. Try to bond a bit with his new coworkers. He would do his daily Facebook and Instagram scrolling when he returned to his desk. He didn’t have much on the to-do list today, so it would be a good way to kill time until he went home. Yes, that sounded like a plan.
And when he got home, he would use his private internet network and secure VPN to send off the audio recording of Howard Prescott's meeting.
He hoped the recording would please General Hu, because this was a life he could get used to.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
LENA
Cal began laying into Wilcox the second he handed him a towel. And once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. They argued the whole way home.
"Taylor Swift? Really?"
"You recognized it! Good for you!"
"Screw you, Wilcox. You know, I really think you've got a damn screw loose. How you've managed to stay alive all these years is beyond me."
"Screw you, Calvin! Don't tell me how to go about my business. I don’t come down to where you work and knock the—"
"Enough!" Lena yelled. "Good Lord, I feel like I'm your mother sometimes!"
