Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (7 page)

“What’s to stop me from killing you right now?”

“You can try. You might even be able to avoid getting yourself killed by the highly-trained special ops team surrounding this trailer, but to what end?”

He had a point there. I’d be on the run for the rest of my life, always looking over my shoulder and waiting for a bullet. And doing that, Pippa would still
end up dead.

“There are time restraints, Rob. You have to make a decision … today. Right now, would be preferable, or face the consequences.”

I rolled my eyes at that but saw Albo wasn’t exaggerating. “You’re serious? I’m supposed to abandon all loyalty ties to my country … the people I work with?”

“That sizes it up nicely. The Order has a problem that only you can address.”

“Uh huh. Let’s say I do this thing for them. Then what? Pippa will be allowed to live happily ever after?”

“You’re a big boy, Rob. I think you know there’s no fairytale ending here. Pippa and you will survive. That is the one guarantee.”

Pippa and I will survive … but live out our lives in servitude to the Order. Terrific. “Since you’re being so forthcoming, Albo, who’s driving the bus … who’s in charge?”

“It’s a consortium, man. I thought you understood that.”

“I know what a consortium is. Who’s the person sitting at the head of the table? There’s always a top man or woman.”

“I’m not cleared to talk about such things,” Albo replied.

Albo was fairly certain it was a man named Palmolive. Rudy Palmolive. I saw a glimpse of a little, bird-like man, garbed in a black suit. I briefly wondered if he was familially-tied to the dish soap people?

Albo said, “I have no idea who … sorry.”

I slowly nodded my head and pursed my lips. I don’t make a practice of getting into people’s heads and causing them pain. It takes its toll on me too. Not to the same extent, but it’s no fun.

Albo was looking at me, waiting for any other questions I might ask. He blinked and widened his eyes several times, as if he were momentarily trying to clear his head. I spoke slowly, in a lowered voice. “Lying to me is a mistake, Albo.”

He looked confused. He reached a hand up and massaged his right temple.

“Ever have one of those Seven Eleven Slurpee drinks, Albo? I’m betting you have. They’re wonderful.” I stepped in closer and brought my face down to his. “Right now, your gray matter, which is a combination of nerve cells and something called glial cells, has the consistency of tofu. Oh, and just so you know, the brain is seventy-five percent water. So it’s water and tofu, which is, unfortunately for you … rapidly undergoing a transition. You feel it, don’t you? Soon, that big oversized brain of yours will be nothing more than a Seven Eleven Big Gulp.”

He wavered and I took the gun from his hand and placed it in my overalls pocket. I then put all my concentration into giving Albo the worst headache in the history of all headaches. I picked a location, right behind his eyes, and envisioned a drill bit, spinning and churning out bits and pieces of his brain. From prior experience—doing this same thing to someone else—I knew the effect was devastating. Albo slid from his seat, right down onto the floor. I followed him down, keeping my face close to his while he swayed precariously on hands and knees. I increased the size of my imaginary drill bit. Now, with his head buried in his hands, tears filled his eyes and he moaned continuously.

“Albo. Do you want the pain to stop?”

He stopped moaning just long enough to say, “Sweet Jesus, yes!”

“Do you believe I can make the pain worse?”

“Yes … I guess so.” He was whimpering now.

“Do you want me to show you?”

“No! I believe you. I believe you!”

“That’s good, Albo. But I want you to remember I can start it up again. At any time or place. Here or three thousand miles away from here,” I said—lying. The truth was, this intrusion, like my mind-reading capabilities, was pretty much a line-of-sight type of thing. But I needed him to believe I could bring him literally to his knees at any time.

I stopped the mental drill bit suggestion and put a comforting hand on Albo’s back. He opened his eyes and, as if waiting for the pain to return, turned his head to look at me.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

“Hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn’t it?” My own head was also starting to hurt quite badly; I’d just escalated the timeframe when I’d need to tap in by a big factor. Soon, I’d be feeling the effects—withdrawals.

“Listen to me, Albo. That could have been much worse for you. I could have killed you, if I’d wanted to.” I might have exaggerated some on that point, but he didn’t know it.

“How did you …”

“How is not important.”

“What do you want? You know they’ll still kill Pippa—”

“No, they won’t, because you’re going to tell them I’m on board. You’re going to tell them I’ll do whatever they want.”

Albo stayed crumpled where he lay, gazing at the floor only inches from his face. “My family. They’ll kill my family.”

“Not if they believe you’re still the same loyal criminal you’ve been all along. Come on … let me help you up.” I propelled him back onto his seat, where he quickly wiped at his wet cheeks with one hand.

“What were your orders, once you’d given me the ultimatum?”

“To send you back to SIFTR HQ. Your task was to immediately terminate Calloway. Today, if possible.”

“And you? What were you to do next?”

Albo shook his head. “Move on to the next one. This time, convince a successful entrepreneur that he needs to close down operations.”

“And why is that?”

“Because fossil fuels bring in billions of dollars to the Order, and the young tech genius has discovered a new engine, fuel-injection, technology that quadruples automobile mileage.” Albo looked at me. “You cannot go up against the Order. You’d have more success moving a mountain.”

“So maybe I’ll make the mountain come to me. Tell me how to get back in touch with you?”

Albo reached into his jacket and came out with a black business card. There was no name on it—only a phone number printed in small white numerals. “This will route you through to my cell. Just know, they’ll expect news on Calloway—his certain death—within the next week or two, at the most. If you don’t comply, Pippa will be terminated.”

“Then I guess I’ll need to work fast, won’t I?”

“What makes you think I won’t tell my superiors about …”

I cut him off: “That I got the best of you? That I was given the name of the man at the very top of the Order by simply giving you a little headache? Tell me, how do you think that will go over, Albo? Do you think … maybe … they’ll consider you a liability at that point? Perhaps they’ll take out their revenge, starting with your family. No. You won’t mention any of this. You can only hope and pray that I find a way to bring down the Order, freeing you from the crushing weight you carry around with you day to day.”

I watched Albo, sitting there slumped, looking back at me. He had a lot to consider. Finally he said, gesturing to the business card in my hand, “Don’t use that number. All incoming calls are monitored.” He picked up a pencil off the desk and scribbled a phone number onto the top sheet of a note pad.

He tore off the sheet, folded it, and handed it to me. “Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able.”

I nodded and handed Albo back his gun.

The Order’s same two black-clad military men were back at the entrance to the office. Both had their weapons up and pointing toward me. Albo gave them a confident nod and said, “Let him pass. He understands what he has to do.”

I moved toward the doorway and squeezed past them without looking back at Albo. At the bottom of the stairs, another ten or so similarly outfitted armed men were fanned out in a semicircle around the construction trailer. I heard a faint sound of static coming from one of the men’s radios. I assumed he was being told to let me pass. I moved around them, heading straight for one of the larger, bored-out tunnel openings off to my left. I wouldn’t be returning to the Lockkeeper’s House chimney, as I doubted I had the stamina, at this point, to climb the hundreds of metal rungs. I recalled the basic layout of the plans and the underground tunnel construction. The closest egress from this subterranean maze was through a hidden panel above me, near the FDR monument. I entered the tunnel and headed off into the semi-darkness.

I couldn’t get the image of Pippa’s horrific attack out of my mind. Her suffering, how close she was to being killed—her vulnerability. My heart ached and all I wanted to do was rush to her side. I was tempted to comply with anything Heidi and the Order asked of me to ensure her future safety. But after years of doing what I do, I’ve learned one can’t give in to that kind of manipulation. In the end, both her and my suffering would never end. The chance of Pippa being allowed to live long-term, at the hands of her captors, was pretty much non-existent anyway. No, I needed to rescue her.

* * *

Going directly to Calloway wouldn’t be an option. That’s what handlers were for, and Curt Baltimore was mine. I called him as soon as I emerged from the subterranean tunnels into a tall grove of boxwood shrubs on the outskirts of the FDR Monument. Baltimore told me to sit tight and wait for him. Ten minutes later he showed up, driving a nondescript Ford sedan. He pulled over to the curb on busy Ohio Drive, where I quickly got in as he pulled into traffic.

He scowled at me, “You reek.”

“Thank you … nice to see you, too. I need to talk to Calloway.”

“You can speak to me.” He continued to stare at me. “What’s wrong with you? Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m fine. Where do you have me staying?”

“Where you asked to stay… The Jefferson. But you need to be debriefed first.”

“No, I need a shower … give me an hour or two.”

“Pippa?” he asked, his tone more amiable.

“I’ll tell you everything during the debrief. Just give me some time.”

It took another seven or eight minutes to reach the hotel. Baltimore drove into its small circular drive and stopped at the hotel’s entrance, keeping the engine running. “Be back here in two hours.”

A young, sandy-haired porter opened my car door. Seeing me sitting there, dressed in dirty gardener overalls, and getting a good whiff of me, he immediately stepped back, while keeping one hand on the car door. As I exited, he took another step back. Baltimore leaned over the passenger seat and looked up at me. “You’re registered as Mr. Drew Gallop … keys at the counter.”

I watched Baltimore pull away, aware of the fact I hadn’t disclosed crucial information. Pippa’s life lay in the balance and I needed to think things through first. The porter rushed ahead of me and opened the big brass door at the hotel’s entrance. “Enjoy your stay here, sir.”

* * *

Room key in hand, I made my way to the small inset alcove off of the lobby where two polished brass elevator doors sat unmoving. I pushed the call button and the door on the right immediately opened. A sturdy, elderly woman wearing a blue bonnet-style hat briskly moved past me, leaving a heavily perfumed car interior in her wake. I was tempted to press the button for the seventh floor, where my room was located, but honestly didn’t think I could hold out any longer. From my frequent trips to Washington, and regularly staying at this two-hundred-year-old establishment, I had my tapping-in routine down pat. The hotel’s high-voltage lines came in through the sub-basement. I pressed the B button and waited for the door to close. Alone, I leaned back and closed my eyes, finding Pippa waiting for me there—her legs flailing outward and her face contorted—fear in her eyes. The car came to a jerky stop and the door slid open.

Where the rest of the hotel was elegant, catering to highbrow millionaire businessmen and high-up government officials, its basement was no different in appearance than that of any other D.C. commercial building. Dimly lit and damp, even above my own stink, there was an earthy, mold-like tinge to the air. The shaking in my hands had spread to the rest of my body. I wrapped my arms around myself and, hunched over, made my way into the bowels of the hotel’s underground.

“You can’t be down here.”

With his back to me, I’d spotted the black maintenance man, working at a small workbench off to my left. I was fairly sure he hadn’t noticed me, but I was wrong. Normally, talking my way out of this kind of situation, or inserting a perfectly placed suggestion into someone’s mind, wouldn’t be a problem. But my brain faculties were completely muddled and my mental powers almost toast.

I hurried along the slump stone passage without slowing my pace.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, man. Stop!”

I heard his footfalls quickening behind me so I ran as best I could manage, heading for an obscure metal door up ahead, marked
Panels.
A tall wooden crate partially blocked the passage, and I had to turn sideways to move past it. Holding up behind it, I leaned against the wall and watched the man’s approach by looking through a narrow gap between the crate and the wall.

I tried hard to think of something … some reason for being down here. Nothing came to me. I momentarily pictured myself being bailed out of jail … perhaps by Baltimore. In the silence of the basement passageway, I saw him slow—looking for me. He hadn’t spotted me yet. Once again, I tried to enter his mind. This time I was successful.
There’s an emergency on the fifth floor. Toilets overflowing … shit’s all over the place … hurry!

I looked again and found no one over there. The passageway was empty.

I hurried to the door marked Panels and, as expected, it was locked. I knew where the key was kept from previous visits to the hotel’s
Panel
room. I retraced my steps, back to the small work area and workbench. I found the rusted old Sanka coffee can on a shelf and riffled through the collection of door keys that were secured to a metal ring. Once back at the
Panel
door I unlocked it and let myself in. The room was no different than a hundred other electrical rooms I’d found myself in over the last few months. The incoming high-voltage line was located in a pipe, painted red, emerging from the stoned wall three feet off the concrete floor. The enclosed room, seeming more like a vault, was easily ten degrees cooler than the rest of the basement. I found myself shaking even more uncontrollably than I had seconds earlier. I really needed to find a better way to tap in.