Arch Enemy (23 page)

T
he ride was long enough to make Alex's hands numb from the constriction of the zip tie. She didn't speak anymore, and neither did Groener. This suited her fine. She couldn't do anything about the situation now, so she concentrated on keeping calm and honing her focus.

Groener pulled into what Alex assumed was a garage, and the car went dark. It came to a halt and the engine cut out. He opened the door to the backseat, pulled her by her legs, and lifted her to rest on his shoulders. Like she was an equipment bag, he brought her inside the house.

Alex screamed. It was a split second before his hand was on her mouth. She closed her teeth around the flesh of his hand—enough to draw blood and a grunt of pain, but not enough for him to take his hand away.

He tossed her down on a couch. “You know what? Scream all you want. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“You women, you really make it easy for me, even when you make it hard.” He opened his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey. From a drawer, he pulled out a bottle of pills. “You're already depressed. People already think you're crazy. Who's going to doubt that you drank too much one night, took some pills along with it, and ran off into the woods alone to die?”

Alex's heart pounded as he came near, looming above her like he was the only thing in the room.

“Poor, depressed Alex Morgan. Facing the prospect of academic probation and eventual expulsion. It was too much for her.” He unscrewed the cap from the liquor bottle, and then from the pill bottle. “They're really going to mourn you, you know. People who hated you are going to talk about what an inspiration you are. People who don't even know your name are going to say you were a great friend. They're going to publish stupid poems about you in the school newspaper. You're really going to be loved for the next week or two. Too bad you won't be around to enjoy it.”

“You can't believe you'll actually get away with this.” Everything about what he did was stupid. Taking her in his car. Bringing her here. Leaving ligature marks on her wrists. People would investigate this. Her father would. And Groener would go to prison.

And Alex would be dead.

“Nobody is going to look too closely at this. Nobody will care enough. Nobody will even be surprised.”

“My dad,” she said. “He's gonna come after you.”

“Your dad is a mediocre car dealer living in a Boston suburb,” said Groener. “Yeah. I know how to use the Internet. Now drink.”

He poured the biting, sweet whiskey into her mouth, which she shut tight so that it dribbled down her chin onto her shirt.

“Open up,” he said, pushing a greasy, salty finger into her mouth and pouring the alcohol in. It burned her throat and sent her into a coughing fit. Next he picked up the pill bottle.

“It's going to be a peaceful death,” he said. “You're just going to doze off and never wake up.” She gritted her teeth against his finger. “Don't resist. It'll only make it worse.”

Alex bit down hard on his finger and he laid an open-palm slap against her cheek.

“Are you done? You ain't getting away, young lady. So you cooperate, or I make this very, very unpleasant.”

He punched her in the stomach, and she bent double on the couch.

“I think I've got a few more of those before I leave anything on you for the coroner to find. What do you think?”

She spit on his shoe.

“Or maybe,” he said, “I throw you in the river, so that it looks like you jumped in. I don't even have to weight you down, with that broken leg of yours. I think I could do a lot worse to you before you die when I've got the water covering my tracks.” He grabbed her face by the cheeks in his meaty paw. “What do you say?”

This was it. This was her death. Alex felt like she had been preparing for it forever. Now that it had come, a sense of serenity and acceptance washed over her. She had lived. She had tried. She had strived. That was all she could have asked for.

A bottle hit Groener's head with a dull
thunk
, and the muscle-bound body fell to the wooden floor.

Alex looked up at her savior.

Simon.

“You're going to be all right,” he said. “The police are on their way. I'm going to get you out of here.”

M
ick came back into the car with two shopping bags hanging from his wrist and two medium paper coffee cups. He handed Morgan his and tossed the bags on his lap.

“Tayto Crisps and USA Biscuits,” he said. “Something to keep the ol' blood sugar up.”

Morgan held the red rectangular tin of USA Biscuits, which were, of course, actually cookies. Separated by a common language indeed.

“How exotic,” Morgan said. He examined his beverage cup. “I thought you said you were getting the large coffees.”

“These are the large coffees,” he said. “Anyway, I talked to my guy back in Dublin. He cast a wider net on our man Quinn. Turns out his uncle owns a cottage here in Dunboyne.”

“You know how to get there?” Morgan asked.

“Ever heard of Google Maps?”

Morgan moved his coffee along with the movement of the car to keep from spilling as Mick made the tires sing on tight corners, half-looking at the map on his phone. The directions took them to a narrow country road outside the town, bordered on either side by hedges that were laid bare by the winter, and then into a cul-de-sac lined with identical two-story brick houses.

“Heck of a place for a stakeout,” Morgan said. “Which one is it?”

“Second to last on the left.”

Morgan drew the infrared viewer. Mick slowed the car down as they passed.

“Someone's in there,” Morgan said, looking at the red-orange blob on the screen, large and close, right behind the window. “And he's looking at us.”

“Paranoid bugger,” said Mick.

“He's got reason to be.”

Mick made a three-point turn and they drove back the way they came.

“What now?” he said.

“We come back at night. He has to sleep sometime.”

T
he police let Alex go in the late morning, after going over every detail of the story with her. They went pretty easy on her, all things considered. They'd caught the coach red-handed, thanks to an anonymous tip. Simon had left as the police sirens approached, at her insistence—it would have been inconvenient for him to explain that he had found her thanks to a phone call from a member of the secret society of vigilantes that they were trying to join. The official story was that she managed to grab hold of the bottle and knock Groener out while he was turned away.

The police gave her a ride back to her dorm after she assured them that there
really
wasn't anyone she wanted them to call, thank you. On arrival, she went straight for Simon's door and knocked. The door swung open. Alex opened her mouth to speak and found that there was both too much and nothing to say. Simon stepped forward and hugged her.

“Thank you,” she said. It would do.

“Did you see?” he asked when he finally let go, holding a newspaper out for her. She thought it might be Francine's story, but it was a copy of the
Boston Herald
. The arrest had happened too late for it to make the campus newspaper—it would, she had no doubt, although the police agreed to keep her name a secret—but still, the headline on the front page read:

 

 

“You heard it here first,” she said. She frowned, patting her stomach. “Are you as ravenous as I am?”

They walked together to breakfast to the dining hall, where she passed a table of glowering football players. She recognized among them Matt Klingensmith, the one who'd tried to herd a doped-up Katie up to his room.

Alex puffed up her chest in a silent gloat. There was nothing they could do now. Any move against her and the police would be on them like linebackers on a running quarterback.

She wondered whether she had gotten that simile right.

She found Katie sitting at their usual table, a copy of the
Inquirer
next to her cereal. She was reading Francine's front-page story. Alex sat down across from her.

“Simon told me,” Katie said. “About everything. About last night, too.”

Alex rubbed the nape of her neck. She really hated this mushy emotional part. But she really missed Katie, too. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you. I should have been there as a friend and nothing more.”

“Pshaw.” Katie held up the newspaper. “Look at what you did! And you almost got yourself killed, dude!”

“I couldn't let it go.”

“You are a total badass.”

“Are we good?” Alex asked.

Katie beamed.

Afterward, Simon came by the room, saying he had something else to show her. He opened the deep web messenger program, through which they had contacted the Ekklesia. There was a new message there for them.

 

You show promise. Stand by to receive your first assignment.

M
ick led the way in the darkness through a barren field, occupied only by a transmission tower. To their right was the row of houses in Quinn's cul-de-sac. It was past midnight and all the interior lights in the homes were off.

They jumped over the wall at the far end of the street, keeping to the shadows, away from the pools of light cast by the lampposts.

Quinn's was the second house from the end. Having talked it over, Morgan and Mick decided it wasn't safe to be out in the open where he might see, even in the dark—Quinn was the kind of paranoid who might very well have night-vision goggles. Instead, they used the neighbor's house for cover. Morgan used the thermal imager to check that everyone in that house was asleep, or at least lying in bed.

They found cover in the bushes bordering a low wall between the two houses. Morgan trained the imager on Quinn's signature. He was sitting up, flush against the back wall.

“What's this?” Mick asked, pointing at a smudge on the imager.

“That,” Morgan said, “is a pot of coffee. See the mug here, close to Quinn?” Morgan panned the viewer to scan the house and yard.

“Hold on,” said Mick. “Point that thing back over there.”

Morgan turned the lens toward Quinn's backyard, farther to the right than before. He made out three distinct figures at the wall, one jumping over, two already in the backyard.

Three, moving in unison. Morgan had seen this before.

“Looks like we're too late,” said Mick.

“Looks to me like we're right on time.” Morgan ran his hand over the PPK and then the six-inch grooved combat knife that was strapped to his right ankle. Mick had his SIG Sauer P226 semiautomatic and a knife of his own.

“What's the play?”

“We enter through the front,” said Morgan. The men were already covering the distance between the wall and the back door. “We engage inside the house. And Mick? Let's try to be quiet about it. The last thing we need is to attract the attention of the Garda Síochána.”

Morgan led the way across the yard. They stopped at the front door and Morgan drew his lock picks. This was now a race against the other guy—who could open the door faster. Morgan applied the tension wrench and in fluid haste caught the first, second, third, fourth pin. The lock loosened and he pulled the tension wrench.
Click
. Success.

This wasn't Mick and Morgan's first walk around the park. Morgan signaled for Mick to move through the living room while Morgan took the kitchen route. The back door swung open.

The men hadn't been expecting them, which gave Morgan and Mick the clear advantage.

Mick distracted their attention by shattering a vase in the living room. In the kitchen, Morgan grabbed the biggest knife from a knife block, an eight-inch chef's knife and, pivoting into sight of the three men—all in matching black pants and turtlenecks—Morgan hurled it at the nearest one. It plunged into the man's neck with a spray of blood.

Without waiting for him to fall, Morgan drew his own combat knife and advanced on the other two. As the closer one raised his hands in defense, the other trained his gun on Morgan.
Big mistake
. This left his flank wide open for Mick, who appeared out of the shadows behind him and slit his neck.

The third never got a chance to unholster the Glock 19 he was carrying. Morgan grabbed him by the gun arm and thrust the knife into his belly, upward, pushing until it hit the heart. He was the last to collapse.

“Now let's have a little talk with Quinn,” said Mick, among the fallen bodies.

Morgan climbed halfway up the stairs and called out to him. “Quinn!”

“Stay down there!” He threw down a glass ornament, which shattered against the wall at the turn of the staircase.

Well, he didn't have a gun. Morgan could be sure of that. He moved ahead, dodging a book, which sailed above his head.

“I'm here to save you, you goddamn idiot!” Morgan yelled.

Quinn retreated into a bedroom and swung the door shut, but Morgan put his foot down before it closed. His quarry, pudgy and redheaded, retreated into the room. When Morgan opened the door and stepped inside, Quinn, screaming a battle cry, came at Morgan with a letter opener.

Morgan stepped aside to avoid the attack and grabbed the hand holding the tiny blunt knife. With a twist of Morgan's wrist, the letter opener dropped to the floor, bouncing against the carpet.

He then turned Quinn around in a choke hold.

“Would you stop? I'm not here to kill you.”

“I won't believe your lies!” he exclaimed. “You're here to kill me like you did the others.”

“If I wanted to kill you, don't you think I'd have done it already?”

“You just want to make it look like an accident!”

“I just saved your ass, you ungrateful clown. I'm going to release you, and we're going to have a conversation, okay?”

Quinn grunted in assent.

Morgan let him go. He sprung away and grabbed a statuette from the bookshelf. Quinn swung it against Morgan's head at a sloth's pace. Morgan dodged the blow and swept his foot against Quinn's legs.

He grabbed Quinn's lapel when his head was inches from smashing into the sharp edge of the wooden bed frame. Damn, the son of a bitch was heavy. The statuette hit the floor with a
thunk
. “There's your accidental death,” said Morgan. “Would've been that easy. Now do you believe me?”

Morgan pulled him to his feet. Quinn backed away, trying to un-rumple his shirt. “Fine, ye don't wanna kill me. That's a pretty low bar to clear. Doesn't mean I should go with ye.”

“Morgan, we got company!”

Morgan looked out the window to the front of the house. A car had just pulled up, and the driver's and passenger's side doors swung open.

“What do you say? Are you getting out of here with me or do you want to go with those guys?”

Quinn peered out the window. “Okay,” he said. “Let's go.” He led the way down the stairs. Mick already had the back door open for them.

“Move your arses!”

They ran out into the yard. Mick ran on ahead, but Morgan had to slow down to keep pace with Quinn. Mick leapt over the back wall as if it were three feet tall. Quinn needed help. Morgan gave him a boost. He heard the back door open and pushed Quinn over the edge. With one impulse, Morgan cleared the wall and landed catlike on the snow, next to a prone Quinn. Morgan extended a hand and helped him up.

They ran together along the wall by the moonlight. Morgan looked back to see the beams of two flashlights going over the wall. They were far away. Even at Quinn's pace, the three of them would make it to the car with time to spare.

Mick arrived first at the car and opened the driver's side door.

“No,” said Morgan, grabbing the keys from Mick. “I'm driving.”

Mick didn't argue. He ushered Quinn into the backseat and got in next to Morgan.

Morgan hit the gas.

“You!” he barked at Quinn. “Start talking. Who are those people trying to kill you?”

“Who are
you
?”

Morgan kept his eyes on the rearview mirror as he made a tight curve on the narrow road, tires squealing. “Your only friend in the world right now. So you'd better start talking. I know your group found a vulnerability.”

“Blackrot. And someone was using it to spy on everything from user e-mail accounts to government communication.”

“I know that,” said Morgan. “Now tell me something I don't.”

“The people who first discovered it. The people who have been exploiting it for months. The people who killed my friends. Who tried to kill me.”

“Those men back there?”

“Yes. It's the Legion. The Legion of Erebus.” He said it in what Morgan figured was the most portentous tone he could muster.

Mick snickered. “Sounds like something out of one of those Dangers and Dragons things.”

“It's mythology,” Quinn snipped. “Erebus. God of chaos. Father of Nemesis. Revenge.”

“Who are these people?” Morgan said before Mick could derail the conversation with his hysterics.

“Nobody knows. None of them have ever been caught or identified. They're master hackers—they can do things most of us didn't even think was possible.”

Morgan took a right to avoid the town. There was no sign of the pursuing car. “What do they want?”

“They call themselves freedom fighters. They style themselves as a kind of resistance against corruption in government and corporations.”

“I've heard of that kind of thing before,” said Morgan. “I thought that was all bluster. Nerds playing make-believe. No offense.”

“There is a lot of that going on, it's true. I always assumed that was it myself, except a handful of groups of white hat hackers who went around looking for vulnerabilities. But clearly it's not.”

“How do you know it's them?”

“Because I found them,” said Quinn. “I know how they communicate.”

“You think you can show my people?”

“I want protection,” he said. “These people are powerful. They want to kill me.”

“I can get you all the protection you need,” said Morgan. He sped forward through the dark country. “The sooner you show us how to find them, the sooner—”

The car came out of nowhere. It slammed into the back of Mick's Focus, sending it into a spin to slam against a low stone wall that bordered the road. The wall gave way and the car plunged down, though the night air, into the Castle River.