Jeremy awoke with a start and a strangled gasp. Panic set itself upon him when he realized that he couldn’t breathe—or move. Something soft, slick and pliable pressed hard against his face, wet from the condensation of his panicked exhalations. The darkness that surrounded him was absolute. He thrashed and clawed frantically, hoping to free himself from his mysterious entombment. For a few terrible seconds, Jeremy irrationally thought he was dead and that this was the afterlife—a personalized hell of suffocation and blackness.
Relief surged through his body as heavy black trash bags were lifted from his face, sunlight spilled over him and he saw the face of a red-haired, bearded man staring down at him. Confusion overrode his emotions and instinctively he began to sit up. The bearded man casually placed a pistol to his forehead and pushed him back down. Jeremy’s face ached and throbbed with deep pain made worse by the pressure of the man’s weapon.
“Don’t,” said the man.
Jeremy was unsure of where he was or who this mysterious man could be. He could see sky above him, but no other landmarks. The man’s face disappeared and then Jeremy sensed himself being moved. He felt the grinding, rumbling sensation of wheels beneath him. Finally, he realized that he must be inside some sort of trash cart. The man had only moved the black bags away from his face so that he could breathe; the rest of his body was still buried beneath them.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Quiet,” replied the man in a monotone.
“Who are you?” Jeremy asked, worried.
“Quiet,” came the reply once more.
The voice was not fierce, nor menacing, but it worried Jeremy all the same. Where was he being taken? Who was this man and what was his connection to Charlie Walker? The last thing Jeremy could remember was the detective plunging a hypodermic needle into his neck. The pain had been intense—and he had almost instantly lost consciousness. Now he was here—wherever
here
was.
For several more minutes the cart moved on, its pilot deathly silent. Jeremy could hear the faint sounds of traffic, but nothing else. Thanks to his broken nose, he could discern no scents other than the sterile plastic of the trash bags sitting on his chest. Jeremy became so disoriented that he thought he might lose consciousness once more. The sky seemed to spin in circles above him and nausea crept its way up his throat.
Finally, when Jeremy felt as if he could take no more, the cart halted. The bearded man’s well-muscled arms descended into the cart. In his hands, he held something amorphous and black that Jeremy couldn’t quite make out. The object descended further and further until it obscured Jeremy’s vision entirely. He felt warm cloth on his face and realize that a hood had been placed over his head, cinched tight at his throat.
Without warning, he was lifted easily from the cart and tossed effortlessly. For a split second he was airborne before landing hard on his back, a cry escaping his lips. Excruciating pain blossomed once more through his ruined face as the back of his head connected with the ground resulting in a surprisingly hollow thud, as if the floor were a thin sheet of material rather than solid earth. Whoever had thrown him—he assumed it was still the bearded man—grabbed hold of his legs roughly and spun his body ninety degrees. He heard two doors slam shut and realized that he had been thrown into the back of a vehicle. The engine roared to life, the drive gear was engaged and the vehicle smoothly rolled forward.
Jeremy noticed that he had not been bound. He laid flat on his back and realized that, should he get the urge, he could simply reach up and remove the hood. The confidence with which this man—as per Walker—had carried himself had intimidated Jeremy into inaction. It almost seemed as if they knew something he did not and that this mysterious information led them to be unconcerned about Jeremy’s freedom.
The wounded assassin had no concept of time in his hooded world. The only two sensations which he experienced—darkness and the dull vibration of the road—gave him no indication as to how long he had been in this vehicle. After an eternity, the motion finally ceased. He heard the driver’s door open and he heard footsteps crunching on gravel or asphalt outside. The back doors open and he felt
the van shift as the big man entered and closed the doors behind him.
“Up,” commanded the man quietly, and Jeremy did as instructed.
The hood was pulled, surprisingly gently, from his head and Jeremy was finally able to take stock of his surroundings. He sat on the floor of a large panel van. There were no windows in the compartment in which they sat and a metal partition separated the driver’s area from this one. The quiet man sat on top of a blue plastic milk crate and motioned toward an identical crate for Jeremy.
Carefully, not taking his eyes off the strange fiery-bearded man, Jeremy took a seat atop the second crate. He studied his captor in silence for a while and felt that something about him seemed horribly familiar. The man stared at him from beneath intense green eyes that never blinked. It was unnerving, to say the least.
No longer able to bear the close scrutiny, Jeremy turned away from the man and began to look around the van. The compartment contained nothing, save for the two crates upon which they sat. The floor was covered in a layer of plastic or rubber, and the walls were painted steel. Upon closer inspection, Jeremy noticed small dents and stains in various places on the walls that were a sickly shade of faded brown. Jeremy knew the sight all too well: spilled blood that had been shoddily cleaned—no doubt on purpose.
Having nothing left with which to busy himself, Jeremy looked back at the man. On the man’s lap sat a large manila folder and a small-caliber suppressed pistol much like his own. Carefully, the man opened the envelope, leaving the pistol sitting neatly on his thigh. Jeremy could easily have lunged forward to snatch the pistol and put an end to this strange scenario. Again, the confidence and casual nature of the man stayed his hand; the man’s careless disregard for the weapon cowed Jeremy into inaction.
From the envelope, the bearded man removed a stack of glossy, high-resolution color photographs. They appeared to be photos from various crime scenes. Slowly and silently, the man turned and showed Jeremy the photo on the top of the stack. His heart leapt as he realized who the subject of the photograph was. He gazed at the picture deeply, noting every familiar detail.
A man in his late forties sat dead in an office chair, his hands resting on the armrests and his head down. Two small red holes had been punched through his shirt, just over his heart. Another was neatly bored through his forehead. There was very little blood in this photo. Jeremy recognized this man—there was no way he would ever forget. This was the first man that he had eliminated in the service of Spencer Holloway. He was surprised, and it must have registered on his face because the bearded man silently nodded and placed that photo on the floor beside him.
The next photo was that of a young man, lying dead in the parking lot of a dive bar outside Chicago. His body had been outlined in white and there were several yellow, numbered evidence markers in various places around the body, some next to patches of blood, another near half of a footprint in the dust. In this instance, Jeremy had not killed for Holloway but in a fit of rage he’d beaten the man to death with a gloved fist.
Setting the photo on the floor, the silent bearded man began to show him more pictures of atrocities that were Jeremy’s work. A photo of an elderly man with his throat cut ear-to-ear, executed after the man was caught trying to sell Holloway out to a rival. Another was of a woman he’d raped and beaten to death years ago. Holloway had never learned the cause of death or her horrible treatment beforehand. Following that came a photo of a man slumped against the steering wheel of a car, parked beneath a bridge—two familiar holes over his heart and one in his head. Jeremy had killed him for refusing to take part in a challenge and attempting to flee the country. The next: a photo of a young woman, naked and dead on a hotel bed, a telephone cord wrapped around her throat—another victim whose fate was still unknown to the assassin’s employer. Jeremy recognized every single body and he prided himself that not a single shred of evidence was left at any scene to connect the killings to him.
The bearded man stiffened then, not immediately moving on to the next photo. He looked Jeremy deeply in the eyes and slowly let the current photo fall to the floor instead of neatly placing it on the pile with the others. Only one photograph remained and Jeremy studied it closely.
There, in brightly colored high-resolution, gracefully laid the body of a seventeen-year-old girl, fully clothed and free from blood or any other signs of violence. Jeremy had found her one night at a concert in Washington, D.C. Before long, he had convinced her to leave the venue with him and had attempted to drug her and take advantage of her unconscious form. His intent had not been to kill this girl, but she had unexpectedly succumbed to a violent reaction to the drug, resulting in her death. He’d panicked and left her body in an alley in Alexandria, which was where this picture was taken. He looked from the photo to the man holding it.
There it was—the connection. That familiarity that he’d noticed earlier. The girl had the same deep red hair and the same intense green eyes.
It couldn’t be.
Jeremy’s eyes widened with shock as he looked at the bearded man. The man slowly exhaled.
Casually, the bearded man lifted the pistol and fired two rounds, punching neat holes in Jeremy’s chest—the hollow point rounds entering but not exiting his body. Jeremy looked down in horror to see the two small holes staring back at him like the red eyes of the devil that he was on his way to meet. He’d never thought it would end like this—the young, red-haired girl’s death was a rare mistake, and it had cost him dearly. He felt himself start to fade, his ruined heart no longer able to pump oxygenated blood to his vital organs. With his last ounce of energy, Jeremy looked up into the eyes of his killer—just in time to see the suppressed barrel of the gun pointed at his forehead.
With one bright flash and a small
pop
, Jeremy O’Neill’s world was cast into infinite blackness.
“Son of a bitch,” breathed Jen-Jen.
“That’s one hell of a find, Jar,” complimented Kalani with a low whistle.
Charlie was astonished by what he’d heard. Holloway was using ex-Blackwater mercenaries as his operators—this was above and beyond anything he could have ever imagined. There were ten men who had remained nameless until now, when this gift of clarity had so conveniently fallen into their laps. A child could have put together that Spencer Holloway had lured Brody Kinney, Brent Masters and their brothers in arms away from the infamous private military contractor. Holloway had the funds to take care of these men—luxuriously—for the rest of their lives, which was much more than Blackwater could have ever offered them.
“What other info do we have on them?” Victoria asked, not missing a beat.
“Says here that these guys were the biggest pieces of shit you could possibly ask for,” began Mason. “They were mostly stationed on security detail for embassies in war-torn nations where political assassinations and other really scary things were a part of everyday life. These fellows are not nice people. Apparently, their unit is nicknamed ‘Chaos Squad.’
“One report says that while protecting a South African diamond mine from militia forces, one of the day laborers was caught trying to smuggle a diamond out in his mouth instead of turning it in. I guess the worker was new and didn’t know that the security checkpoint at the single exit ran cavity searches as well as pat-downs. Anyway, standard procedure—hell,
common sense
—is to turn a thief over to the local police. Right?
“Well, the Chaos Squad boys don’t like that way of thinking, and they decided to take the law into their own grizzled, apelike hands. Says here these maniacs lined up all of the remaining laborers outside the mine and beat the thief to death in front of them to set an example.”
“Jesus,” breathed Jen-Jen.
“That’s
pretty messed up,” Kalani agreed, raising his eyebrows.
Charlie remained silent, but felt a simmering rage coming to a boil within his chest. These animals had taken his wife and daughters. It seemed like Holloway—truly a monster in his own right—had surrounded himself with creatures cut from the same psychotic cloth.
“They weren’t brought up on charges?” Victoria asked. “Even Blackwater has to be held accountable for some things.”
“Well, the foreman tried to do the right thing—called the American embassy and reported them. He was found dead in his office the next morning—gun in his hand and a good part of his head decorating the wall next to him.”
“You think Chaos did him in?” Kalani asked.
“The local constabulary didn’t think so,” offered Mason. “But the Company
knows
Chaos did it. Turns out we had a guy who happened to be in the area, and he went to check out the scene. He found fibers and friction burns on the foreman’s gun hand, neck and head. Sound familiar?”
“Sounds like Portugal all over again—an amateur version, anyway,” offered Jen-Jen.
“What happened in Portugal?” asked Charlie.
“It’s a long story—and a matter of national security—so I’ve got to be really vague,” Victoria explained, “but one man we were after was trying to kill
another
man that we were after and make it look like suicide. He’d rigged up a pretty clever contraption: a system of fishing line that held a gun in place next to a victim’s head and, once the loose end of the line was pulled, forced the victim’s finger to pull the trigger. After that, you cut away the string, take it with you and not even Gil Grissom could tell you it wasn’t a suicide.”
Charlie had never heard of anything like it in his life—it was insane. He realized that the Detroit Police Department and the CIA, while both law enforcement agencies, were two very different entities. Charlie dealt with grisly crimes of passion while the Company seemed more accustomed to ingenious, premeditated assassinations.
“Right,” agreed Mason. “But the Chaos guys have more muscle than brains, so they used twine instead of fishing line. You see, the smart killers used fishing line because it glides easily along skin, and leaves no fibers or burns. These dummies used twine and when it slid across the foreman’s skin it left both. The local guys didn’t catch it—probably because they’ve never seen anything like it. Right after that, our guy got in touch with Blackwater and found out that Chaos Squad had vanished from the face of the Earth. How convenient is that?”
“So,” Victoria cut in. “We’re dealing with idiots—
tough
idiots, but idiots all the same. I know for a fact that everyone at this table is as smart as they come, so we shouldn’t have any trouble. What do we do?” she asked, but it was a challenge to her team rather than a request for help.
“Run the names into the computer, hack into Disney’s cameras and find these assholes using Mason’s facial recognition software. Should give us a pretty good idea of where they are,” Jen-Jen offered.
“Exactly,” Victoria nodded. “And then?”
“Then, we make ‘em dead,” ventured Kalani.
Charlie spoke up, “Wait. We can’t just kill these guys. I’m a cop, for God’s sake. I
save
lives.”
“Charlie, they gotta go,” added Mason, darkly. “I’m sorry, man. They’re carrying out terrorist activity on American soil. We don’t take that shit from foreigners and we sure as shit ain’t taking it from our own.”
“But we’re in
Walt fucking
Disney World!
How can you kill twelve people here?”
Jen-Jen laughed, “Babe, we can kill twelve people
anywhere
.”
“That’s enough, guys,” Victoria barked. She stood. “Charlie, come take a walk with me, alright?”
Charlie nodded.
“Get a hold of me as soon as you learn anything,” she said, flashing her phone at them before shoving it into her back pocket.
Confused and a little irritated, Charlie stood and followed the daughter of his enemy out of the restaurant.
They wandered for a while, silently and lazily, dodging screaming kids and exhausted parents while Charlie stared at the ground, his overwhelmed mind making it difficult to focus on anything. Suddenly, Victoria pulled Charlie aside as he nearly collided with an energetic, bearded, tattooed man in a trucker hat and sunglasses. He was speaking animatedly into his phone’s camera but Charlie didn’t register much of what he was saying. He thought he heard the phrase, “Join me…shall you?” before the man hurried off.
Soon, Charlie found himself approaching It’s a Small World. He hadn’t been on the ride in a while. The girls had always tended to like rides with a higher thrill factor. They always mentioned in passing that they’d like to ride it again, but somehow it had been continually, although Charlie had always had a soft spot for the classic attraction.
Victoria placed a hand on his shoulder. “Be right back,” she said with a wink and disappeared into the attraction’s exit.
A couple of minutes later, she reemerged and motioned for him to follow. Right on Victoria’s heels, he made his way along the exit walkway to a Cast Member who was standing next to an empty boat. Victoria stepped past the man and into the second row, sitting down and casually putting her feet on the seatback in front of her. She motioned for Charlie to join her. With a quick glance and a nod at the smiling Cast Member, he took a seat next to Victoria.
“Thanks again, Shane,” she said, smiling at the Cast Member. He nodded courteously as their boat departed.
“He sent out some empty boats ahead of us and he’ll send a couple more behind us, so it’ll be safe to talk once we get a little deeper inside,” she whispered to Charlie.
After the boat had moved away from the Cast Member—and the frustrated stares of the people waiting in line—Charlie ventured to ask how Victoria had gotten them such special treatment.
“A CIA badge can get you far in this world, child,” she replied. Then she teased, “Much further than a police shield.”
“Mine has deer on it,” Charlie offered.
“Mine has an eagle,” Victoria stated, triumphantly.
Charlie smiled the humble smile of the lowly police officer and nodded in defeat. Victoria remained quiet for the next sixty or so seconds until their boat had made its way deep into the cheery bowels of the attraction, finally speaking as they neared the Eiffel Tower section.
“So,” she began, “now might be a good time to let you in on what we really do—before things start getting real and I don’t get the chance.”
“It’s pretty obvious what you do,” Charlie replied, honestly but respectfully.
“That’s what you think,” she said, “but you aren’t seeing the whole picture. We aren’t action heroes, we’re regular people too. We’ve never fired guns while driving cars or jumped out of helicopters—well, Kalani fell out of one once, but it was on the ground with the engine off, so I refuse to count it.”
Charlie laughed at the thought of the big Hawaiian falling out of a chopper door. Victoria smiled too, enjoying the opportunity to bond with her new friend. After a moment though, she became serious—or as serious as she could manage.
She sighed lightly. “We’ve killed people, but it’s never been anyone who didn’t deserve it. And let me tell you a secret: we hate it. It really
fucks us up. I’ve killed three people, and I’ve thrown up each time after the shock has worn off. It’s something that nobody likes to do, ever. Kalani’s takes it especially hard—sometimes I won’t hear from him for days after we get home from an op. I guess he deals with it in his own way too. We all do. But we won’t stop—we
can’t
stop—as horrible as that sounds. We do the things that good people shouldn’t have to do. We do it to
protect
good people. You’re a good person, Charlie. Meghan? The girls? Good people. You don’t deserve to be in this situation, and you need people like us to help you out of it.”
“I understand. It’s just hard to come to terms with,” Charlie admitted.
“Listen, I know you hate it—”
“That’s not it,” he interrupted. “Not entirely.”
“What is it, then?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.
“I’ve killed too,” he stated, but he couldn’t look at her.
“My brother had it coming. He murdered so many people. He was the worst of the worst, and you did the world a favor—you’re a hero. Look at me, damn it.”
He looked into her eyes and saw a fierce intensity.
“James was a fucking monster. My Dad is a fucking monster. Good people—people who haven’t done anything wrong—have suffered and died because of those two. Who deserves to live, Charlie? People like James and my Dad—or Meghan and your daughters? Does Chaos Squad deserve to keep running around like barbarians, killing whoever they please—or do the innocent families in line for Space Mountain deserve to enjoy their vacation without a goddamn roller coaster train falling on their heads?”
“It’s not my—” Charlie began.
“That’s just it, Charlie,” she continued, not allowing him to finish. “It’s not a decision a good person like you should ever have to make. That’s why there are people like X-ray Team. It’s
our
job to make these awful decisions and act on them so that the rest of the country can still be pure.”
For once, Charlie didn’t respond. He simply looked into her eyes and saw once more the fire that had always been burning. Her face was a stone mask of fierce conviction. She’d done terrible things to make sure people like her father never got the chance to prey on more innocent people. Charlie felt a deep sadness for this woman just then. She’d spent her entire adult life making up for the horrible deeds of a father she’d never met—making up for acts of terror that she’d never been a part of. She’d taken the burden of guilt upon herself and made it her life’s work to right every wrong that she could. Charlie was convinced that Victoria would do anything in her power to stop her father and rescue Meghan and the girls.
He realized, then, that the world still had a place for true heroes. The men and women of X-ray Team were relentless in their selfless crusade to protect the good people of their country. Charlie had only a small idea of the sacrifices that these people had made to become who they were, and if they’d cast aside their innocence to place themselves between the good and the evil, then he had no right to stand in their way. Regardless, he believed that there must be another option.