Arch Enemy (25 page)

A
lex and Simon walked off the library elevator on the fifth floor with trepidation. She had always found the book stacks eerie and unnerving. Up from the silent but busy library proper, the stacks were dark and almost entirely deserted. The lights were hooked up to motion sensors and were usually off, which left long dark passages between the bookshelves. Just enough people walked them to startle her out of her pants whenever she was convinced that she was alone.

It was, she had to admit, a heck of a good place for a clandestine meeting.

The man from Ekklesia had told them to meet him among the mathematics shelves, topology, in particular, Dewey Decimal code 514.

“This is it,” said Simon.

They were among shelves in the corner of the floor, where a study table sat against the wall along with three wooden chairs.

The lights in their corner went out and a man's voice spoke from behind her. “Please, sit down, Alex.” Calm. Controlled. Alex nearly fainted.

She sat down by the light that filtered through the shelves from the main hallway and looked at the man from the Ekklesia. She could tell very little about him except that he was about her height, standing, and wide set, but not fat.

“Were you the one who called me to save Alex?” Simon asked.

“Yes. I was.”

“How did you know where I was?” she asked.

“I've been following your progress.”

“How?” Alex felt sure they hadn't been tailing her.

“We have our ways. We are very interested in you. Both of you. What you achieved here is a serious accomplishment. You took more risks in the past week than most people take in a lifetime. And you, Alex, did it all with a broken leg. My hat is off to you. My question now is, are you ready to go after the big boys?”

“I'm ready,” said Alex.

“Bring it on,” said Simon.

“Then stand by for instructions. They will come very soon.”

He turned and walked off, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

“Hey!” Alex called out. “What's your name?”

“You can call me Polemarch.”

M
organ scanned the passport for his British alias at Logan International Airport Immigration. He didn't trust using his own ID anymore. If the Legion had that kind of reach, they'd be watching the Department of Homeland Security databases for everyone who came in and out of the country. Worse yet, travel documents might be the very thing that exposed him, that would tell them who he was.

He had nothing apart from his carry-on bag with a few changes of clothes in it, so he went right past baggage claim to the terminal. It was early morning, and the airport was already bustling with travelers. He crossed the walkway to the covered parking lot where he'd left his car.

Something was tugging at his attention as he moved. His training had long ingrained in him a vigilance that he kept up at every moment. And in this moment, his sense was nagging him. Soon he figured out what it was.

He was being followed.

Morgan had spotted him inside the terminal, where he might have been just another of the people making their way to the parking lot. But Morgan recognized the signs: the cagey movements, the halting walk, the sunglasses indoors.

He wasn't much of a professional, either. Morgan would never have been spotted like this. It didn't fit the profile for the Legion. Acevedo? Too amateurish for them, too.

Morgan knew what Bloch would have him do: stall and call for backup, let the tactical team do the heavy lifting. But he was restless. The loss of Quinn had left him bothered. He wanted someone to take it out on. He wanted action.

He plunged into the mess of vehicles in the lot. Winding through the cars, Morgan contrived to put a large white van between them. On the other side was a raised Ford Expedition.
Perfect.
Morgan pushed his bag under the SUV and laid on the ground, which was ice-cold and smelled of motor oil. He rolled underneath the truck and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Soon enough the man's ratty sneakers approached. Timing it carefully, Morgan pushed out his bag just as he passed. The man tripped and fell forward.

Morgan rolled out from under the Expedition and stood. The man, dazed from his fall, went for a gun in a shoulder holster under his coat. Morgan twisted his arm and kicked the gun under the van. He raised the man to his feet and pinned him against the van.

“You and me are gonna have a little conversation,” Morgan said.

But the man kicked Morgan's shin and head butted him, hard. This was enough for him to wrest free and push Morgan against the Ford.

The man ran off, feet pounding the pavement of the parking lot.

A
fter phoning in the attack, Morgan sped through midday traffic to get home. He pulled the Olds in at an angle in the driveway and ran inside, relieved to find Jenny busy vacuum-sealing packets of homemade ravioli, while Neika was sitting and watching, hoping for a scrap.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” He grabbed her and kissed her flour-dusted lips. “Yeah,” she said, breathless. “I missed you, too.” He caught her eyeing the seat belt bruise on his chest, then his ragged mouth.

“Is that a chipped tooth?”

“Among other things.”

“So. Was it one of
those
trips?”

Jenny knew him too well. “Someone tried to kill me.”

“Must be Tuesday.”

“Maybe you should get out of town for a while,” Morgan suggested, concerned for Jenny's safety.

She tossed a wooden spoon into the sink, where it clattered against the metal. “Except not such a
maybe
, right?”

“It isn't safe to be around me.”

“Is it ever?” She turned on the water in the sink and rinsed off her hands.

A fair point he didn't feel like discussing. “Zeta's going to arrange for someone to pick you up. They'll get you somewhere out of the way. No electronics, no communications of any kind.”

“What about Alex?”

“She's okay, for now at least. They haven't ID'd me yet.”

“But the minute this gets dangerous for her—”

“That girl,” Morgan said, “is my life. And I would give everything to keep her from coming to harm.”

Jenny brought a glass of water into the living room and sat down on an armchair. “Any idea when I'm coming back? I should let my clients know.”

“You know how it is.”

“I'll remember to load up my e-reader then.”

 

“Do I even have to tell you?”

She really didn't. Diana Bloch's face, looming over him, said it all. Her stiff white shirt collar made her seem all the more severe.

Lincoln Shepard, at the other end of the Zeta War Room table, was submerged in his computer stuff, earphones in, bottle of Mountain Dew on the table next to him.

“I took a calculated risk.”

“You shot from the hip, with a predictable outcome. Again. And so you force me to play out this headmistress routine.”

He snickered. “Are you going to punish me?”

“Don't give me lip. I can't do much to punish you. But if you continue on this path, when the consequences come, they will be devastating. You'd do well not to forget that. Now do your job and deal with your damn mess.” She walked away, heels clicking on the floor.

“Harsh,” said Shepard, mussing his wild black hair and making a face. The little bastard had been listening.

“Shut up. What have you got?”

“I've pulled up surveillance footage,” he said, throwing it on the big screen from his laptop. “We have your guy leaving here.” It was the hooded figure who had attacked him, running out of the parking garage. “No good pictures of his face, though.”

“I remember his face.”

“I'll pull up the mug shots then,” said Shepard. “Brace yourself for a long night ahead.”

“What have you found about this Legion?” Morgan asked as Shepard compiled the database.

“Oh, I've known about the Legion for, like, forever. They're this group of hacker vigilante freedom fighters. They're supposed to stand for civil rights, against government intrusion, yadda yadda yadda.” He rolled his eyes and made a jacking-off gesture with his hands. “This holy band of white knights. Only one problem.”

“What?”

“It's a myth,” said Shepard. “Pure and simple. Just some hacker wet dream, nothing more.” He changed the image on the big screen to the mug shot database. “Here. You know the drill.”

“Let's set a couple of filters,” said Morgan. “Can you do that?”

Shepard merely scoffed in response.

“Sorry to doubt your prowess,” Morgan said apologetically.

“Just give me the parameters.”

“Make it in-state. Maybe add in the bordering states to be safe. But there was something Boston about him. I wouldn't put him too far from the city.”

Shepard typed. “Keep talking.”

“White male, dark hair. He had a few gray hairs, so I know he wasn't dyeing. Let's put his age at between thirty-five and fifty-five, to be on the safe side.”

Shepard entered the data. “Some sixteen thousand hits. Care to narrow it down some more?”

“Filter out the ones in prison, 'cause this guy's obviously not.”

“Done.”

“And order them by violent crimes first.”

“And done. Hey, we're down to about eighteen hundred. Looks doable.” He handed Morgan a tablet computer with a set of mugshots already on it, the first of his list. Morgan swiped each wrong hit away.

“Quinn seemed pretty sure it was the Legion,” Morgan said, eyes glued to the screen.

“Quinn found
something
,” Shepard said. “A group of master hackers? Sure. They'd have to be to pull that stunt with the morphine pump. Dangerous and deadly? Beyond question. But the Legion? Eh?” Shepard popped a piece of gum into his mouth and reclined in his chair.

“Madaki said the people who had him kill White had information. It's suggestive.”

“It's speculation.”

“Tell me more about them. The Legion,” Morgan said.

“Well, there are lots of things they're supposed to be responsible for. There are people who'll say they were behind any of the major document leaks in recent years. They have followers, too. Groupies. People who want nothing more than to join them. There are societies devoted to nothing more than finding out every scrap of evidence there is about them.” He tipped the bottle of Mountain Dew against his lips. “But the real kicker is their leader.”

“Oh?”

“Guy's known as Praetorian, you know, like the Roman emperors's elite guards? Yeah. What an asshole, right? Anyway, he's supposed to be the greatest hacker that ever lived. No one knows who he is. No one knows where he came from. No one has ever found him. No one has ever seen a picture of him. He's untouchable. Ruthless and efficient. Completely devoted to the cause.”

“Kind of fits this group's profile, you'd have to admit.”

Shepard burped in response.
What a charmer.

“This guy I'm looking for,” Morgan said. “I don't think he was one of them. He was stupid. Sloppy. Far more than any of the other thugs I encountered. Not too young, either. The kind of guy who has a criminal record.”

“See,” he said. “This high-omnipotent Legion is supposed to have sent a bumbling contract killer?”

“It's a weird break in MO. All the others were these super-competent three-man teams.”

“Maybe someone else wants to kill you,” Shepard said.

“Wouldn't be the first—hello there.” The face at the screen jumped out at him. “This is him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.

Shepard raised a mocking eyebrow. “That guy kicked your ass?”

“He caught a lucky break and slipped away.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, man.”

Morgan swung his chair to face the skinny, glass-jawed Shepard. “Wanna test out how you'd do against me?”

Shepard cleared his throat in response, deflecting. “His name is Louis Vincent Merullo. Known as Lou. Did six years down in Lewisburg for aggravated assault. He's been picked up for a couple murders—organized crime stuff—but they didn't stick.”

“Maybe I ought to pay Lou Merullo a visit.”

“Not alone, you're not.” It was Bloch, from the door to her office above them. “You're taking tactical with you.”

“I don't need my hand held.”

“You're treading close to the edge here. If I were you, I'd avoid moving any closer.”

“Whatever,” said Morgan, walking off toward the locker rooms to change. “Just tell them to be ready in half an hour.”

L
ou Merullo lived in a neighborhood of leaning, rusted chain-link fences, houses long overdue for a paint job, and enraged dogs straining against their chains.

Morgan was riding shotgun in the van. Bishop, a black beanie covering his shaved head, was behind the wheel. The rest of the team was huddled up in the windowless back. The cover du jour, in the form of a sticker on the side of the van, was a licensed clip art of a World War I fighter plane.
Red Baron Plumbers: Bomb out blockages!
Morgan had no idea who came up with this stuff.

Morgan spotted Merullo's house half a block ahead. “That's it right there.”

Bishop pulled in across the street, two houses up. They were looking at a one-story structure, the front yard littered with trash and overgrown with weeds. A coat of paint and a trim of the garden might fool someone into thinking it was a fixer-upper, but all signs pointed to this being a veritable dump.

“Would've been better to do this at night,” said Bishop.

“No time,” said Morgan. “We need to move on this.” Then, to the back of the van: “Give me infrared.”

A woman's hand—Spartan's, broad-palmed and calloused—handed him a tablet from between the front seats. It showed the house and a tall, broad red shape. “There he is,” said Morgan.

There was a smaller red shape moving around Merullo's feet. “Dog,” said Morgan, showing it to Bishop. “Medium build. Think he's cuddly?”

“Man, I just really hope it's not a pit bull,” said Tango. “I hate pit bulls.”

“Doesn't help things either way,” said Morgan. “Have we got audio?”

Spartan handed over the parabolic listening device. Bishop pointed it at Merullo's house and adjusted the dial. Then he plugged the jack into the tablet, which played a bluesy guitar riff and then Hank Williams Sr.'s languid voice.

“Nice soundtrack for a home invasion,” said Morgan. “So here's how we play this out. I go in alone, with someone to provide a distraction. Once I have him secured, you move in.”

“Bloch told us to move in force,” said Bishop.

“We do that, and we have a higher chance of gunfire. Attract the attention of the neighbors, the police, and give us a much bigger headache than I'm looking for here. Let me try to finesse this one.”

“ 'Cause Dan Morgan is known for his
finesse
.” Bishop flashed his white grin.

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Fine.” Bishop held his hands up. “But this goes south and it's your funeral.”

Morgan ignored him. “All I need is someone for an assist.”

“I'm in,” said Spartan.

Morgan came out of the car and waited for Spartan to come out the back. A thick black turtleneck was molded to her squarish body, and above her broad shoulders, a round face bordered by close-cropped blond hair.

Morgan took the lead with Spartan following, their guns securely in their holsters. They came onto Merullo's property through a gap in the chain-link fence. Once they were flush against the house, Morgan signaled for Spartan to go around while he waited by the back door, gun drawn.

The window on the other side of the house shattered. The dog barked his ass off.

“The crap?” said Merullo inside. Morgan heard the rustle as Spartan hid from view of the window. The dog did not stop barking on the other side of the door.

“Shut the hell up!” Morgan heard a knock, the dog whimpered and stopped barking.

Morgan heard the turning of the key in the lock. The door opened and Merullo emerged behind the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. Morgan pushed the shotgun against the door and held the muzzle of his Walther to Merullo's head.

He tugged at the shotgun, and Merullo, seeing no choice, let go.

“We're gonna go inside, nice and slow. And we're going to have that chat you ran away from yesterday. Nod if you understand.”

Merullo nodded.

“Good. Now march.”

Merullo backed up inside to the kitchen and Morgan shut the door behind them. Merullo's kitchen was grimy, the floor covered in food stains and dog hair. A single wooden chair, covered in crumbling baby blue paint, sat at an old table of peeling linoleum.

“Sit,” Morgan said.

Morgan heard a rhythmic thumping and clicking against the wooden floor of the house. His attention turned to its source, at the door to the living room.

The dog, black and tan with a thick snout and big scary teeth.

Rottweiler.

“Oh damn it.”

Morgan leapt back as the dog lunged and avoided losing his fingers by inches. Merullo took the moment to attack. He wrested Morgan's gun away, letting it fall to the ground, and then broke free, running for the living room. Fluffy made another try for Morgan, who grabbed an oven mitt from the counter and waved it in front of the dog's face. Crazed, it grabbed the mitt between its teeth, shaking it from side to side. Morgan ran after Merullo.

The mitt didn't distract the dog for long. He let go of it and ran for Morgan again, nails clicking against the floor, picking up speed as he crossed the kitchen. Morgan kicked the kitchen door closed. It shuddered on its hinges as the dog hit it with a bang and a whimper.

That would hold him.

Morgan turned his attention to Merullo just in time to see his fleshy fist coming at his face. He took the punch hard, staggering back. But while Merullo had street smarts and instinct, he also had no training, and in this, Morgan had him beat. Morgan dodged the encore, snapping to the side and grabbing Merullo's arm in a lock, which he negotiated into a choke hold.

Merullo winced with pain, but he didn't cry out. That didn't bode well for interrogation.

“If you're gonna kill me, just get to it,” Merullo said. “ 'Cause I ain't talking.”

Morgan pushed him against the wall and bound his hands with disposable plastic restraints. Then he sat the meathead down on his ratty old sofa.

“Your house stinks,” said Morgan. “You know that? This is a goddamn dump. You bring women back here?”

“Your mother sure didn't complain when I screwed her last night.”

Morgan brought his heel down on Merullo's kneecap. Merullo hollered in pain.

“Who hired you to kill me?”

“Don't I have rights?” Merullo demanded. “I want my lawyer!”

“I'm not a goddamned cop, Merullo. I am, in fact, a very pissed-off man with no accountability. Who happens to be the man you tried to kill yesterday. So are you going to start talking or are you going to piss me off even more?”

Merullo snorted and spat brown phlegm onto Morgan's black sweater.

Morgan came back hard with a slap to his face.

“Let me make it clear how this works,” he said. “You talk, or you die. It's that simple.”

“Law of the streets,” said Merullo. “If I talk, I die. And I don't think you have the balls to kill me.”

This was going nowhere. Merullo was smart enough to know where his interest lay. Morgan wasn't going to kill him in cold blood, and he had no doubt that whoever hired him would.

Morgan's attention was drawn to the dog scratching at the door from the kitchen, letting out the occasional bark. He looked around at the house again. Beer cans lying around the floor, ashtrays and dishes and takeout boxes filled with cigarette butts, the smell of dog piss pervading the air. No, Merullo hadn't had anyone over in a very, very long time. If Morgan had to guess, it would be that Merullo was a lonely man with a single friend in the world.

Morgan wound up for what he was about to do. It required precision to the millisecond.

He opened the kitchen door like a toreador.

The dog sprung into action, taking a running jump. Morgan swung out of the way and pushed the dog against the wall, just hard enough to stun it. The dog hit the wood with a bang and whimper and fell to the ground, dazed. Morgan put his right boot against the dog's neck, careful not to press too hard.

“You'd better get talking,” said Morgan. “Or else it's not going to be you who gets it. It's going to be Sparky here.”

“You can't do that!”

“I'm not police. I can do whatever I want.”

Morgan pushed harder against the dog's neck. The dog whimpered.

“I think you have one good thing in your miserable life, and that's this dog.” Another push, another whimper. “So let's get talking.”

Morgan saw him cast his gaze about the room for some way out of the cuffs. He found a serrated knife that lay in an empty pizza box on the floor.

“Don't even think about it,” Morgan said. “I've got people on us. You're not getting out of here.”

“You're full of it.”

“Spartan?”

She heard him through the comm. Another window shattered, this one in the kitchen.

“All right? So behave.”

Merullo's eyes were on the dog. “It's all right, Nancy. I'm not gonna let the bad man hurt you.”

“Then you'd better start talking.”

“Look, I got the assignment over the Internet, all right? That deep web bullshit. I never met anyone face-to-face, never even heard a voice.”

“You got something to show me?” Morgan asked. “E-mails? Chat logs?”

“You think I keep them?”

“And how did you contact them?”

“They contacted me,” Merullo said.

“How did you get paid?

“You ever heard of Bitcoin? It's untraceable.”

“He's right,” said Shepard over the comm. “If these people are as professional as they seem to be, there's no way we'll trace that deposit.”

“All right,” said Morgan, shoving the subdued dog into the kitchen and closing the door, relieved he didn't have to follow through with his threat. He then walked over to Merullo and rested his boot on the couch next to him. “Here's what we're going to do. We're going to monitor your phone. Any communication you get from them comes to us as well. And when there's a hit, you stay out of the way. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan drew a burner phone from his pocket and tossed it on Merullo's lap.

“Keep this on you at all times. We'll be in touch.”

Morgan turned to leave.

“Hey!” He held up his hands, still restrained. “You gonna leave me like this?”

Morgan opened the front door. “You're a tough guy. You'll figure something out.”