Tricks and Traps (Gray Spear Society Book 7) (34 page)

"Are you going to play together or separately?" the guard said. His thick Russian accent and military bearing marked him as one of the mercenaries.

"Mind if we just look around first?" Aaron said. "I want to see my choices."

"I can't allow you to bother the other gamblers, sir. The rooms are for private use."

"Why? What are they doing in there?"

"Whatever they want," the guard said. "Will you need one room or two?"

"One will be fine. Just make sure it's a good one."

"Of course."

Aaron and Sheryl followed the guard down a corridor painted a tacky gold color. They were shown to one of the rooms and went inside. The guard closed the door behind them.

Sheryl gasped in surprise. Glass walls created an enclosure in the middle of the room, and she and Aaron were inside the enclosure. The game was all around them outside the protective glass. Hundreds of metal tracks were arranged to form a very intricate, three-dimensional maze. Loops, jumps, springs, and holes created even more bewildering complexity.

The control system was a mass of steel levers and buttons. Cables connected the controls to flippers and tilters on the other side of the glass. Nothing was labeled. It seemed a big part of the game was just figuring out the game.

"We're actually inside a monkey machine," Sheryl said.

Aaron nodded. "I guess that makes the experience more immersive. The workmanship is amazing."

She traced the maze of tracks with her eyes. The course formed a series of interlocking challenges of increasing difficulty.

"I think I'm starting to understand these machines a little. It's a puzzle blended with a slot machine mixed with a carnival game."

"Don't think about it too much," he said. "We already lost Jack. I don't want your mind getting infected, too."

"I'm not a gambler, sir."

"I bet three quarters of the people in this casino would say the same thing. Just be careful. God's enemies play dirty."

"Why do you think they're involved?" she said.

"I recognize the pattern. They want to turn people into hopeless slaves. That's exactly what these machines do."

"But why? What's their ultimate goal?"

"Let's have this conversation later," Aaron said.

He went to the door and cracked it open. He peeked into the hallway for a long moment. Sheryl stood near him.

"It's clear," he whispered. "We have to move fast. It won't take long for security to chase us down. Surveillance cameras are everywhere."

Sheryl grabbed the bag of money. They went into the hallway. He directed her to check the rooms on the left while he checked the right side.

She opened the first door. This room was similar to the one she had just left. A woman on the floor was curled up in a fetal position. She was sobbing. Sheryl closed the door in horror.

She went to the next room. In this one, a man was pounding on the controls frantically as he played the game. Now she understood why the levers were made of thick steel. Blood was dripping from a gash on his right hand, but apparently, he didn't care. The game was the only thing that mattered. The stupid grin on his face made her queasy.

It's not Jack,
Sheryl thought.
Move on.

The next room had a man masturbating on the floor.

"Sorry." She quickly closed the door.

She and Aaron had checked half the rooms in the corridor when security showed up. Four guards came running. Aaron turned towards them.

"Sir!" one guard yelled. "Stop that!"

"We're just looking for a friend," Aaron said in a confident tone.

"Go back downstairs. You can't stay up here anymore."

"But..."

"Immediately," the guard said. "Both of you!"

His three buddies gathered around Aaron menacingly.

He shrugged. "Sure."

He and Sheryl were escorted back to the second floor. The noise from the machines was like a drill bit in her ear after the quiet upstairs.

"What now, sir?"

"We'll have to wait for Jack to make an appearance," Aaron said.

"Can't we just go home and chase him tomorrow?"

He shook his head. "He knows far too much about the Society and our team. In his current mental state, I can't trust him to keep those secrets. We have to neutralize that threat quickly."

Sheryl sighed with disappointment. "Yes, sir."

"But standing in the open like a couple of dummies isn't an option either. We have to blend in." He looked around. "Let's find a game to play."

"You're not actually going to play, are you?"

"No," he said. "That would be stupidly dangerous. I'll just pretend while you stay with me and watch for Jack."

They found an open machine within sight of the stairway to the third floor. The glass front was tall and narrow. A series of vertical flippers allowed the player to move a ball from the bottom to the top, but there were many obstacles in the way. A silver bell seemed to be the goal. A digital display showed the current number of credits, but otherwise, the mechanical construction was old-fashioned and quaint.

Aaron reached down to insert money into the slot, but he palmed the bill at the last instant. It was a slick little move. He messed with the inert controls as if he were actually playing.

"Pretend like you love me," he murmured.

Sheryl put her arm around his waist.

"You can do better than that."

She clung to him and smiled warmly. She had never touched a man who was so big and muscular, and it made her feel like a little girl in comparison. She got up on her toes and kissed his cheek. Rough stubble irritated her lips.

"Good enough, sir?"

"Yes," he said. "Keep it up while you watch for Jack."

She gazed at the velvet rope. "I'm glad Marina can't see me."

"She would understand."

"She mentioned she worked for the CIA," Sheryl said. "Was she a real spy?"

Aaron nodded. "She was stationed in Eastern Europe. She gathered information about the black market in weapons, and occasionally performed assassinations."

"Wow. That's hardcore."

"She was young then. Your age. Eventually, she decided the CIA wasn't treating her right, and she quit." He smiled. "And, of course, she had to burn a bridge or two on the way out. She can't just walk away from a dispute. She's not satisfied until she sees her enemies totally humiliated. That's usually right before she kills them."

Sheryl shook her head in dismay.

She spotted a woman being helped down the stairs from the third floor. Her eyes were glassy, and her legs wouldn't hold her weight. Two guards held her by the arms and were carrying her towards the exit. They didn't seem the least bit concerned about her poor condition.

Hauling out the garbage,
Sheryl thought.

"How long are we going to stay here?"

"A couple of hours," Aaron said, "at least."

"Yes, sir." She sighed.

Chapter Eighteen

Smythe and Tawni walked into Roger's Restaurant in Farmington, Illinois. They were wearing Chicago police uniforms. Tawni was growing weary of this particular cover story, but she couldn't argue with its effectiveness. Nobody questioned a cop. She was starting to like the aura of authority the costume gave her.

The small restaurant had eight tables, but the patrons were seated at the counter. There were three men dressed like farmers. A pudgy waitress wearing a pink apron was serving them from behind the counter.

"Excuse me," Smythe said in a commanding tone. "We're looking for a guy. Perhaps one of you gentlemen will recognize his face."

The farmers looked at him with surprised expressions. They had probably never seen big city cops in their rural town.

Smythe showed them a photograph. "We believe this man lives around here, but we're not exactly sure where."

"Is he in trouble?" a farmer asked.

"No, but he has information we need urgently. Lives are at stake."

"I know him," another farmer said. "He's the assistant pastor in the Methodist church."

"Really?" Smythe raised his eyebrows. "That's strange. You're sure?"

"I see him every Sunday. Walk down to the stop light, turn right, and keep going another two blocks."

"Thank you."

Smythe and Tawni hurried out of the restaurant.

The weather was even warmer and muggier here than in Chicago. She was wilting in the heat, but she shrugged it off.
Legionnaires
weren't supposed to complain about such trivial things.

The town of Farmington was tiny. Most of the businesses were clustered around a single intersection. Tawni was tempted to think of the residents as dumb, white country folk, but she knew that was a racist view. These people were probably just as smart as anybody else. She wasn't interested in meeting them though. So far, she hadn't seen a single black person in town.

The farmer's directions took Tawni and Smythe to a red brick church. She liked the big stained-glass window in front.

"I hope it's air-conditioned inside," she said.

They went to the front door and knocked, but nobody answered. The door was locked. They wandered around to the back to look for a covert point of entry.

A middle-aged man was weeding a garden. He had sparse gray hair, gray eyebrows, and thin lips. His blue coveralls were dirty. Tawni recognized him as Dr. Santiago from his picture.

Smythe immediately drew his gun. "Vidal Santiago, we need to talk."

Santiago straightened up. "It's been years since anybody called me by that name." He wiped off his hands.

"Tell us about Indian Head. We know you were a lead scientist."

"Why would the Chicago police care about a top secret CIA project which happened in Maryland?" Santiago cocked his head. "I'm guessing you're not really cops."

"That's correct," Smythe said. "Nonetheless, we want answers."

"Why now? That project was killed a long time ago. All the records were destroyed. The people were ordered to forget everything under threat of imprisonment. It's shocking you even know the name."

"Your old buddy Cantrell continued the research. He built a casino and filled it with very unusual games. Very
addictive
games."

"No." Santiago's eyes widened, and his face became pale.

Tawni walked over to him. God's wrath was scorching her guts and filling her body with tingling strength. Darkness caressed her skin like a swarm of black moths. She wanted to rip out Santiago's throat with her teeth.

He looked at her and gulped. His face showed terror.

"Tell us what you know, doctor." Her voice had a deep resonance that sounded strange to her.

He shook his head. "I don't want to remember. I came here to escape that past. I needed to put the guilt and shame behind me."

"Is that why you work in a church?"

"I figured it couldn't hurt."

"It won't help you either," she said. "Start talking."

He lowered his gaze. "Come with me."

Santiago led Smythe and Tawni to a tiny, white house behind the church. It wasn't much bigger than a large tool shed. They went inside. There were only two rooms and one was the bathroom. The other served as a bedroom, kitchen, and living room.

"My home," Santiago said. "It isn't much, but it's all I deserve."

Tawni looked at the single bed with its thin covers. The television had "rabbit ears" antenna. A rusty coffee pot stood on a stove with just one burner. The air inside the house was even hotter than outside. She expected it would be very cold in the winter.

Santiago pulled a cardboard box from under the bed. He put it on a table and opened the flaps.

"The original machine," he said. "The prototype that started it all. I kept it as a reminder of my shame. It keeps me humble."

She looked into the box. It contained a very simple version of a monkey machine inside a wire cage. There were just four looping tracks and a single ball.

"Where did you get the design?" Smythe said.

"It came to me one night," Santiago said. "The crucial equation just popped into my head."

"What kind of equation?"

"A mathematical relationship that describes psychological addiction. It tells you how to build the machines. That breakthrough made the Indian Head project successful. Too successful."

"What was the original purpose of the project?" Smythe said.

"The CIA was looking for a new way to interrogate and control prisoners. They wanted an alternative to torture and drugs, a method that wouldn't become yet another public relations nightmare. Indian Head was formed to solve that problem, but we struggled at the beginning."

"Until this equation popped into your head."

"Exactly," Santiago said. "At first, I thought it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Then I witnessed the horrible truth. Our test subjects became so addicted they would play non-stop until they starved to death. They became mindless animals. We had to literally rip them away from the machines." He shuddered. "I can't believe Cantrell built an entire casino based on that research."

"A very successful one. It's packed with gamblers."

Santiago grabbed Smythe's arm. "This is a disaster. His appetite for power is insatiable. The one casino is just the beginning."

Smythe nodded. "Typical. How do you stop it?"

"There is a drug."

Santiago pulled another, smaller box from under his bed. It contained clear plastic bottles filled with pills. Smythe took a bottle and examined the label.

"It stimulates specific receptors in the brain," Santiago said. "When you take this pill, the machines have no effect on you. You can think clearly. It can help cure an addiction, too. All the staff members on the project took it twice a day. I snuck these bottles out of the lab and kept them all these years just in case."

"We have to get these to Jack right away," Smythe said. "We might be able to save him."

Tawni nodded.

"Do you remember the night you thought of the equation?"

"Very clearly," Santiago said.

"Did you see a strange light?"

Santiago's eyes widened. "How did you know? What did it mean?"