Rogue Agent Page 3
Remorse rippled through Seth. “Will you ever give this up?”
“What? Stripping?”
“No, drugs.”
Trix lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It calms me, you know? I get groped and molested every night. I need something to take the edge off.” She reached for him again. “Let’s fuck.”
Seth raised his hands, blocking her. “No, I’ll stop supplying this drug until you realize how dangerous it is.”
A shadow crossed Trix’s face. “You don’t make any sense. One minute you’re freely giving me the drug and the next you’re denying my next hit. Make up your mind!”
He reached for her and she rebuffed his advances with a cold stare. “I’m on a see-saw of moral choices here, Trix. You’re the most important thing in my life. I hate the way the drug has affected you. The reason I give in is because you are desperate for it. It’s all you want so I relapse, but when you’re sober, I have to force myself to believe it will be okay.”
“Have you ever seen anyone live through the withdrawal process?” Trix quizzed. “I know people who’ve literally gouged out their eyes as the metal seeps through their tear ducts. I know I’m addicted. I know I’m in trouble and I’ll work through it myself.”
“I have money to help you, remember? I know some contacts in rehab centers.”
Trix buttoned up her denim skirt forcefully. “Thank you, Seth, but I can do this on my own.” She began walking toward the back exit of the club. “I have to go back to work. You can come if you want. We can start a tab.”
Chapter Three
Cracked ceiling lights threw fractured rays across the carpet as Seth wobbled down the hallway toward his apartment. His mind raced with fluid thoughts of Trix, Spencer, and the shattered skull of David Bloom. His life was like a see-saw: while one aspect of his life succeeded, another one failed. Trix was angry at him, yet he had an awesome promotion to look forward to. He couldn’t win.
He reached his door and after fumbling to find the keyhole, stumbled into darkness. His apartment was dark, illuminated by the fleeting lights of sky trams.
“Home, lights,” he instructed.
The lamps obediently switched on. He walked into the kitchen and poured a drink. Leaning a hip against the bench and savoring the beer’s bitter taste, he thought of David Bloom. The man’s face had lingered in his mind ever since his death. What made David different from all his other targets? Seth always instilled the “kill ‘em and leave ‘em” mantra and never thought of the men and women again. So why did David’s last moments haunt him?
Seth wandered into the bedroom, beer in hand, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The man glaring back was thirty-six years old, exhausted, overworked, and drunk. His raven hair, normally slicked back over his round scalp, now resembled the fur of a wild dog. It was knotted, messy, and he was certain there were chunks of vomit in it.
Seth leaned in and inspected his bloodshot brown eyes with a frown. “You can’t hold your liquor like you used to, old man,” he drawled at his reflection.
His wrist watch beeped to signal midnight and as if on cue, the top news stories scrolled along the bottom of his computerized mirror. He sat on the toilet seat to listen.
“Making news tonight,” a faceless anchor announced, “the national unemployment rate has risen to forty percent, creating a usage surge of the drug Clandestine in young adults. New York Drug and Rehab Centre released a report last year stating the drug has contributed to the deaths of three thousand youths in the year 2034. They encourage users to visit their fifty nationwide clinics for free rehab.”
“In other news, Terra Bloom, the daughter of murdered businessman David Bloom, has participated in a rally outside the headquarters of controversial fashion designer Mocha Elliot, who’s renowned for using fur of the endangered Siberian tiger. The twenty-seven-year-old whose father’s body was found in a factory in Oklahoma on Monday is active in animal and human rights in America. She released a statement asking for privacy as she grieves her father’s death. David Bloom’s murder case is still continuing.”
Footage of Terra Bloom came onto the screen. She stood shoulder to shoulder in a picket line of other activists, her sapphire blue eyes flashing tenacity. She wore a neat Louise Brooks bob which covered her ears. Her ink black hair complimented her fair porcelain skin.
Seth picked up his beer and downed the whole thing, spooked by the footage of Terra. Before he died, David Bloom mentioned he had a daughter, yet Seth never associated the two as family. The woman’s face was everywhere on the news and magazine covers.
She was the poster child for devoted and demented tree huggers. Animal cruelty, human rights, homelessness, rapists, and child molesters were always on her agenda. She and her father were chalk and cheese.
He pressed a button beside the mirror and the news report switched off. As Seth stared at his reflection with a critical eye, he couldn’t understand why he felt guilty for taking David’s life. Was it because Terra was a public figure and her face was splashed across every media outlet? Normally, family members and loved ones were never disclosed to the assassin. His new promotion would change all of this. It would be his job to eliminate those grieving and troubled families, including women like Terra Bloom.
His door bell buzzed and Seth exited the bathroom, welcoming the distraction. It was late and he wasn’t expecting Trix to visit while she nursed her Clandestine hangover.
He opened the door to find Jack grinning at him, holding a six pack in one hand and a paper bag of greasy food in the other. His front pockets were bulging with unknown items, most likely syringes and balls of pure Clandestine.
“Do you know what time it is?” Seth questioned, crossing his arms over his chest.
Not waiting for an invitation to enter the apartment, Jack pushed Seth aside and walked in. “It can’t be too late if you’re still up.”
“I was about to go to bed, actually.”
“Go to bed. I’ll party out here.”
Seth sniffed the air surrounding his friend. “You’re reeking of alcohol, man. Last time I let you stay, you puked all over my new carpet.”
Jack flopped onto the couch and popped open a beer. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I can’t promise it won’t happen again.” He took a swig and pointed to the remaining five bottles. “You want one?”
Seth gnawed on his bottom lip. His friend, the party animal, the loner, had no self-control or self-respect and he was spiraling out of control.
“No, I’m still sobering up from my visit at East of Eden tonight so I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” Jack finished another beer, making his way through the six pack without Seth’s help.
“Something’s wrong or you wouldn’t be here, Jack.”
“You’ve always been the smart one, Seth,” Jack snapped, his voice dripping with derision. He slammed his beer down onto the table. “I’ve been fucking demoted.”
Seth joined him on the couch and popped open a beer for himself. “Why? What did you do?”
“It’s got nothing to do with my work. It’s more of my personal choices.”
“Hack got suspicious?”
“Yeah. We had an impromptu meeting and he told me if I don’t quit using he’ll fire me.” Jack’s lips curled bitterly. “Someone must have told him about my habit.”
“You know I love you, man,” Seth said carefully, “but you’re addicted to that drug. You come into work high as a kite sometimes. It’s not hard for people to make assumptions.”
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t afford rehab and if I lose this job, my life is over.”
“If you keep using, your life will be over,” Seth quipped. “Go cold turkey. That’s what I’m doing. I’ve been clean for two months.”
Jack dug in his pockets and removed the syringes and Clandestine baggie. He stared at them for a few seconds as if contemplating one last score. He handed them to Seth. “Take them. You’re my best friend. I value your opinion.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, finishing the rest of the beer. It was getting close to 3 a.m. and Seth yearned to climb into bed and sleep. He had to get up in two hours. He was about to go to bed when Jack spoke.
“How did your meeting go with Spencer the other day?”
He downed the rest of his beer. “Um…I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Why not?”
“I got promoted. I’m being moved to another department. Have you heard of the Expult Division?”
A shadow crossed Jack’s face and Seth knew his friend was too drunk and too high to process the news rationally.
“Yeah, I heard of ‘em,” he said. “I thought they were only a myth. What do you have to do?”
“Simply, it’s a cleanup job. I can’t really say much more,” Seth replied. “I’ll be starting after my new mentor comes back from tour.”
Jack jerked his chin toward the one-hundred twenty-inch holographic television in the corner of the room. “I saw the news tonight about Terra Bloom. Have you seen it? She’s been rallying at that fashion designer’s place, ruffling a few feathers. Do you think she’ll ever be on a Haroun target list?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait to see if she pisses people off.”
“She’s making a good start.”
They finished their beers and called it a night when the sun crested the skyscrapers. Seth saw Jack out, ensuring he was sober enough to make his way home to Old Brooklyn without falling into the Hudson River. If Seth didn’t have to get to work in an hour, he would have offered Jack the couch.
When he walked into the bathroom for a quick shower, an SMS notification pinged on his mirror. Half dressed, he pressed the small white envelope icon. The text was exactly what he expected it to be: time and coordinates of his next victim. Haroun had another target for him and he wondered who it could be this time.
Seth smiled as he ducked underneath the hot water. Sydney, Australia should be nice this time of year, and once his kill was logged, he looked forward to doing some sightseeing.
Chapter Four
Terra Bloom’s lips were fixed in the taut, thin line they always assumed when she clicked open her “unsolved crimes” computer folder. She scanned hours of file footage and photos of murder victims around the country. Some were shot, hung, hacked to pieces, buried or thrown to the dogs. It made her sick to be associated with the human race. At least animals had reason.
Her Los Angeles based office held an iciness that buried in her bones, or maybe it was the photos that chilled her. The rally at Mocha Elliot’s office invigorated her grieving and belittled heart. It was exactly what she needed after hearing about her father’s death.
Terra recalled the phone conversation with the police detective on his case and a breath shuddered in her chest. She and David might’ve never seen eye to eye, but he was still her father.
“Did your father have any known enemies?”
“No.”
“Did your father carry a weapons permit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did your father have any outstanding loans to mobsters or loan sharks?”
“How the hell do I know?”
The questions were relentless and exhausting, but one thing remained. What was he doing in an ammo factory in Oklahoma? Last time they spoke he was in New York about to go into a meeting. The facts didn’t add up. His death had unusual circumstances, similarities with other murders she knew of that may link the killer. Intrigued, she decided to search local and national news reports and social media for any leads. There was no evidence to produce a suspect and Terra needed to find her father’s murderer. Though their relationship was rocky, she at least owed him closure.
She brushed away a stray tear and returned to her computer screen. The horrific images of victims burned into her retinas. From public records and police statements, most of the dead were bad guys, ironically, the type of people she targeted, though she never wanted them dead. Who was cleaning house?
Her source at the NYPD emailed her crime scene photos of David’s murder and Terra wished she never saw them. She never wanted to see her father lying in a pool of his own blood and brain matter.
Taking a pacifying breath, she clicked open the folder and examined the forensic photos for the second time that night. There were hundreds of them from every angle. It sickened her to think her dad had suffered. He was shot point blank in the head, right between the eyes. It looked like it was right out of a movie. What had her father done to deserve such a thing? He was only an accountant, wasn’t he? Luckily, Terra’s mother wasn’t alive to see her family suffer.
The chirping of her cell phone made her jump. She bent down and fished it from her purse. It was from an unknown caller. Turning her back to the computer screen, she answered, “Terra speaking.”
“Terra, its Peter South from the NYPD.” It was her source.
“It’s good to hear from you,” she said. “I don’t recognize the number. Where are you calling from?”
“A pay phone three blocks from my apartment. With the stuff I have for you, I can’t risk getting picked up.”
“Okay, I’m listening.” Terra entered the staff kitchen to make another pot of coffee. Nestling the cell under her ear, she spooned coffee grounds into the machine. “What information did you find?”
“You must promise to never reveal your source if the police ever question you. I can lose my pension and get thrown into jail.”
Terra gave a half laugh. He was always so dramatic. “Peter, you can trust me, all right? How long have we been working together? I’ll never disclose our relationship.”
There was silence on the other end and for a moment she thought he’d hung up, then she heard him exhale.
“Okay, I trust you. All right, I think we may have found a link. As you know, there wasn’t a lot of evidence at your father’s murder. The killer was meticulous and very clean. Hit man maybe.”
“Peter, tell me.” Terra dropped two cubes of sugar into her coffee and returned to her desk.
“Okay, what about this? A buddy who was at another crime scene in Dallas told me about this particular murder and I think this could be an excellent lead.”
“How is it linked to my father’s?”
“The victim was a wife beater and was jailed two years ago for grand theft auto. He was released after a technicality. He was found in an abandoned warehouse with a slug to the forehead from a 9mm pistol. Another bad guy, killed in an isolated location with the same gun.”
“My father wasn’t a criminal,” Terra insisted.
“Okay, hear me out. The MO is very similar to David’s murder. Victimology matches.”
“Same guy?”
“Who knows?”
Terra glanced at the crime scene photos and the coffee curdled in her stomach. “What did your guy find?”
“He’s part of the crime scene unit and located a fingerprint not left by the victim on a window frame. I got him to run the print. You’re going to love this.”
Terra sighed. “Peter, my coffee’s getting cold.”
“There was someone else in that warehouse. His name is Jack Winchester. He lives in New York City, thirty-five years old, single, and a drug addict. No one special.”
“Do you think he’s linked to my father’s death?”
“Could be,” Peter said.
“Is your source reliable?”
“I’d bet my life on it.”
The churning in her stomach was replaced by a rapid heartbeat. Terra was getting closer and closer to finding the person responsible for taking her father’s life. She reached over the keyboard and jotted down Jack’s name on a notepad.
“Can you send me anything you have on this gu
y?” she asked.
“Sure, I’ll email what I have.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Terra, now that I’ve satisfied your needs, how ‘bout dinner?”
She rolled her eyes, knowing the invitation was coming. Peter had chased after her for months, loyally attending her rallies and slipping her confidential police files. He was a friend and nothing more.
“Tonight? Oh, I can’t, Peter. I have to plan Dad’s funeral next week.”
His end went silent and she held her breath. He was an excellent informant and her only reliable source. She couldn’t afford to lose him.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Let me know what night suits you and we can arrange something then.”
Terra bit back a smile. “Goodnight, Peter.” She hung up the phone and downed the rest of her lukewarm coffee. After switching off her computer, she wandered into the ladies locker room and undressed.
The bathroom was quiet and eerily still. The sound of her soles slapping against the tiles ricocheted off the walls. The last worker had left the office three hours ago, giving Terra the perfect opportunity for a private shower and a smoke. She opened her locker and uncovered a pre-rolled joint from underneath a pair of panties. Turning on the hot water, she located a lighter and lit the cigarette. She inhaled the cannabis smoke deep into her lungs, relishing the heat on the back of her throat.
She ducked into the shower, keeping the hand holding the joint outstretched. She exhaled and closed her eyes as the water rained on her body. The sickening feeling of seeing her father’s crime scene photos dissipated with the steam. It was time to take justice into her own hands.
Jack Winchester’s name circled in her head and she tried to imagine what he looked like. Was he a drunk with a gut and menacing glare or a hottie with a six pack and a big dick? Were his hands bloodstained from all his kills?
Peter mentioned Jack was hooked on drugs and she could only think of one: Clandestine. The rare metal ruled the streets of Los Angeles and New York, crisscrossing the country as mules smuggled it into dealers’ hands. The demand was so great that the need for other narcotics outweighed anything else. She’d heard there were specific police departments created solely to battle the use of Clandestine. She’d dealt with drug dealers in the past. They were vicious, deadly, and unpredictable. Terra shivered despite the shower’s heat. What had her father gotten into? She finished her joint and exited the shower. Quickly drying off, she made a mental note to book a flight to New York City. She needed to see a man named Jack Winchester.