Authors: J. A. Faura
As he was trying to process everything, a young man came into the room. He looked like any number of lost men, hanging around the corners of any number of big cities, half gone from alcohol or drugs. He came into the room and without hesitation walked over to where Loomis was shackled. He looked like he was purposefully trying not to look at Loomis or anything else in the room. He fumbled with the keys for a bit but was finally able to release Steven after a few seconds. When his hands were free, Loomis took the duct tape off. Once the man released him, he went to leave the room immediately, but Steven shot up, his old reflexes coming back, and grabbed the man by the arm.
Feeling Steven’s grip, the man recoiled, “Hey, man! I don’t know anything, alright?! I didn’t see anything and I don’t know anything.”
Steven loosened his grip on the young man, shut the door, walked him over to the bed and sat him down. The man looked past him at the door, then back at him, weighing his chances of darting past him and out the door. He came to the conclusion that he had absolutely no chance and simply hung his head, his arms resting on his knees as he sat on the bed.
Steven got to the point, “Who paid you? What did he say?”
The young drifter, still keeping his gaze down, responded, “He pulled up in a limo, but that’s nothin’, man, there’s lots of dudes come down here to get some…to have some fun. Most are lookin’ to score, you know, smack, coke, meth, whatever, but some come down to get some a…for a different kind of fun.”
He said this last part with a cynical tone, “This dude came to the corner and asked if I wanted to make $500 bucks, $500 bucks, man! That kind of shit never happens around here, so I get in the limo, and I’m about to unzip my pants when he flashes the cash and tells me that he wants me to come to this shithole, to this room, and to unlock the cuffed man in it. He tells me I just have to come in and let you go and leave. He told me not to look, not to say anything, not to do shit, just let you go, and that’s what I was tryin’ to do, man, just let you go and not do nothin’ else, and then you fucking grab me and here we are.”
Steven listened to the man and tried to figure out what his next move should be. Whatever it was, he had to get out of here and back to Manhattan, still he had to get some answers. “Did he say anything else? What did he look like?”
The man now looked up at him and gave him an odd little smile, “I don’t know, man, he looked like another john, you know, just another Wall Street prick looking for action as far as I could tell. Suit, tie, cufflinks, you know, the Wall Street uniform. He didn’t say nothin’ else, man, he just said what I already told you, and he said if I tried to just take the money and bail, he’d know and he’d hunt my ass down and would take the $500 out of me in blood. Just like that, too, that he’d take it out in blood, and I believed him, man, when I took the money he had this little smile on his face and I could see he was strapped.
“Look man, I don’t know what kind of shit you are involved in and I don’t care, I just want to take my cash and get the fuck out of here, you feel me? I don’t want any problems, man, I didn’t see nothin’, didn’t hear nothin’, alright? So just let me get out of here.”
Steven was about to let the man go when he thought of one more thing, “Was this guy an older guy? I mean like my age or was he younger? Did he have hair?”
The man thought for a second, “No, man, he was younger than you, definitely younger. He had this little moustache and a ponytail.”
So it hadn’t been Barlow himself who had gotten this guy, it had been someone else that had to be with him, which meant that he might have other people watching him right now. It sounded like the driver that picked him up.
“Alright, get out of here and remember what you were told. You didn’t see anything and you didn’t hear anything. Fuck that up and you’ll never be found, you understand?”
Steven felt bad about referencing the threat, but it hadn’t been him who had made it and he was sure the guy had gotten a good look at his face. Even if he didn’t know the details of who he was or what he had done, Steven’s face had been plastered on the news around the clock for weeks now so it was likely the man recognized him.
The man got up from the bed and left immediately. Steven looked at his watch for the first time. He’d been gone for about four hours. Willis and Zeidler had been expecting him to come by the office and were probably going out of their minds with worry. He looked at his cell phone and saw he had more than a dozen missed calls and texts from them. This first thing he had to do was to find a way back to Manhattan, a way that at all costs would avoid being spotted. He was about to use his phone to make the call when he reconsidered. It was possible, probable even, that Barlow had tampered with his phone and would try to track his calls. This was his everyday cell phone and while it was more secure than standard cell phones, it was not encrypted and could be easily cracked.
He called the front desk and asked if he’d be able to make a call to Manhattan. The man at the front desk told him he could make a call to wherever the hell he wanted to call as long as he gave his credit card number for a deposit. Steven complied and gave the man his credit card information. He’d have to remember to report the card as stolen as soon as he was back in Manhattan. He called Drew’s cell phone, which was answered on the first ring.
“Drew, it’s Steven. Listen, I need a car to pick me up…”
Before he could finish, Drew interrupted him, “Steven! Where the hell have you been?! We’ve been calling you for hours! Do you not pick up you messages or what?! You know you can’t pull this disappearing act shit right now, man! We have a hearing set and a trial after that and…”
Now it was Steven who interrupted him, “Drew! Listen, I will explain everything to you when I see you, okay, but right now I need you to arrange for a car to pick me up at…”
He realized he didn’t know where he was and rummaged through the desk in the room to find where he was. He finally saw a book of matches and read off the address to Drew.
“New Jersey! What the hell are you doing at a motel in New Jersey?!”
Steven did not want to get into it over the phone, “Drew! I can’t get into it now!”
Drew checked himself, “Right, you’ll tell me when you see me. Okay, let me arrange for the car to pick you up. In the meantime, please try to keep a low profile if at all possible, please. The media and paparazzi are 20 deep in front of the building here, and I can’t imagine they are too far away wherever it is you are. I don’t know how the hell they get their information, but they seem to always be one step ahead.”
Steven hung up the phone and began pacing the room. He tried to backtrack and figure out when he had been drugged and quickly got his answer. The woman. She had bumped into him pretty hard and the presents falling all over had been a perfect distraction. She probably had a subcutaneous syringe, like those diabetics use, and administered whatever chemical agent they had decided on when she crashed into him. Very smooth and completely unnoticeable to those watching. So that meant that in addition to whatever goon Barlow had in the limo waiting to drive him, he also had a very skilled female operative working for him. Former CIA was his guess, although there was plenty of other talent to be had if the money was right. The CIA, Mossad, MI6, and even the Russian KGB had yielded plenty of former agents and case officers who, with the end of the Cold War, had become obsolete and were looking to pad their pensions.
He sat down on the bed again and began to consider his next move. The real question, the question that would most likely determine how things would unfold, was who he was going to tell about all of this, specifically whether he would tell the old man about it. Steven knew that once he told him, certain things were inevitable, regardless of what he wanted the General to do or not do. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples to soothe the massive headache that was building and to consider that point carefully.
Two blocks away, Peter “Fast Pete” Gibson was walking down a dirty and unlit alley in Jersey City. The first thing, the only thing, he’d been thinking about since leaving the motel was scoring some smack. It had been eight hours since his last fix and he was most definitely starting to feel the nasty symptoms of withdrawal. He had not had the money to get the drug before now and was much too weak to try to scam some from his usual dealers. Usually when he started feeling sick, he might go to one of them, cop a fix and then take off running, hence his nickname. The dealers would pursue initially, but it would usually be only about $20 in drugs that he’d steal so they would drop off yelling and promising revenge. The only reason that Fast Pete had made it to the ripe old age of 28 was because he usually came back to these same dealers and paid them for the drugs, usually with 10 bucks thrown in as interest. He was on his way to do exactly that, pay his tab and score drugs with the $500 he had, when the car dropped in behind him. He was sick and concentrating on keeping his money safe, so he didn’t notice the car, which was driving slowly with its headlights turned off. The loud music coming from various doorways and windows drowned out the sound of the engine. Before he was able to get to the end of the alley, the car pulled up slowly, coasting easily next to him. He turned, saw the dark windows and stopped. Just as he had explained to Loomis, Fast Pete expected this to be someone looking to score drugs or a blowjob.
He didn’t have drugs to sell and he didn’t need the money, so he didn’t have to turn a trick either, but force of habit brought him closer to the window. When he was standing next to the car, directly in front of the rear passenger side window, the window began to come down. Inside, he saw an older man, well dressed, probably one of the sick fucks that came down here looking to satisfy some perverse sexual fantasy or another. He was about to tell the guy to fuck off when he saw the cylindrical shape come up from behind the glass. His mind had time to register what it was a fraction of a second before the small flash and metallic sound sent him off to a permanent sleep. The window rolled up and the car drove slowly to the end of the alley and into the New Jersey rush-hour traffic.
In the car, Nigel Barlow sat back in his seat. Long ago, when he had procured the suppressor for the weapon, a small .22, he had wondered whether he would ever need it, whether he would ever actually use it. After all, his methods were much more subtle and meticulous. Back then he had known that someday the silencer would prove to be useful and tonight he had discovered that he had been right, just like he had always been right about every countermeasure he had ever acquired. He had gone on with his work all these years undisturbed and undetected, because early on he realized he must be supremely cautious in everything he did and he had understood that he had much to learn about the necessities his work required. Over the years, he had refined his security and recruited the best security and intelligence talent to be had, because he knew that for him to continue with his work he would need help.
The scientific community had shunned him outright when he had first speculated on his theories and they had found out about some of his research methods. None of that mattered now, of course, he had made his own way and had accomplished everything he had on his own. He didn’t have any colleagues with which to consult and his work ensured that all of his findings, his hypotheses would remain unknown for some time. No, he didn’t enjoy the support of anybody, but he had means, and that above all else got him as much support as was needed.
He had no doubt that Steven Loomis would say nothing of their meeting, not initially. The man was a professional and a former special operations officer; he wouldn’t act rashly, especially with the world’s attention focused squarely on his shoulders. But Barlow would definitely need to keep an eye on him and his case. He had caught the man flatfooted, but he doubted that would happen again, and even though he was almost certain that Loomis would not follow him now, there was no telling what might happen once the case was over. He had not gotten to this point by being lax in his security. His countermeasures had detected the operatives that Loomis had sent, but he suspected it had been because they had underestimated him and his resources, and that was also unlikely to happen again. His sense of self-preservation had been honed to a point over the years, and right now it was telling him to keep a low profile, perhaps disappear for a few months. The more Barlow considered it, the more it seemed like the right thing to do. Loomis’s trial was likely to take a few months at least. Plenty of time for him to regroup, observe the proceedings and draw up his next endeavor. He smiled as he relaxed further into the plush back seat. He had arranged to keep in contact with a few of his current projects, but he wouldn’t take on anyone new.
This time off would also allow him to do a full workup on everything he had accomplished in the past couple of years. Truth be told, he had not had time to do it before now because he was always on the move, always in a hurry to his next project. Early on, he had realized that if he was to truly understand these beings, he had to be willing to move fast, to follow wherever they led. Over the years, he had been able to sharpen his skills so that now he didn’t move until he was certain of what he was dealing with. In the beginning, he had followed anything that seemed like a promising subject, often finding himself dealing with a brutal and clumsy psychopath, nothing like what he had been expecting. Now he never went anywhere unless he was certain, unless he
knew
beyond a shadow of a doubt what he was dealing with.
He remembered fondly his first encounters with true specimens. At first he had simply observed from afar, just watching them operate, marveling at their skill, their intelligence, the brutal yet beautiful efficiency with which they hunted. In time he had approached them, not sure where it would lead. He had let them know that he understood, that he knew what they were, what nature had intended them to be. It had been almost too easy. After lifetimes of confusion, of not being certain of the reasons they felt the impulses, the urges they eventually succumbed to, they were more than willing to have someone with authority and knowledge guide them through their efforts. They were hungry to have a better understanding of who they were and the reasons they did what they did, and Barlow had been there to guide them and teach them and encourage them. Sometimes, they came to him looking for counsel, for help understanding the reasons they felt the impulses they felt and the reasons they never seemed to fit in. Les Martin, his current project, was shaping up beautifully. He had been a shell of a man when he first came to Barlow, confused his whole life because of his natural impulses and inclinations. Barlow had shown him the light, had let him know there was nothing wrong with him and that he was in fact a superior being. He would have to put Les on hold while he kept a low profile and hope that he had taken his advice to be patient to heart.