The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (8 page)

“This is for being stubborn, my friend,” said Johnny almost cheerfully. “But you should be pleased to know that I told these fellas,” he motioned at his crew, “not to kill the woman.”

He looked at the man and saw a glint of hope in his teary eyes. Johnny smiled again and turned back to the woman.

“I never told them not to have fun, though. Let’s see if she’s any good, boys.”

After making Driscoll watch for over two hours as he and his crew passed his wife back and forth, Johnny finally told them to stop.

They put her onto her knees, facing her husband, a blank expression on her face, a trickle of blood running down her thighs.

“You can do so much better than him, honey,” Johnny said zipping his pants, “but I hear divorce is a difficult thing these days. So I figure I’d help you out a bit, you know? For your hospitality.”

He picked up his machete off the floor, turned to her husband, and went to work.

Chuck Kowalsky parked the unmarked car by a hydrant and turned off the engine.

“Did you hear,” said Ryan, flipping through the morning paper, “Jim Norton shot himself?”

“Who’s Jim Norton?” asked Chuck without much interest.

“He was the CEO of Red Cell Tech. Seemed like a pretty cool guy. I heard that back in a day his son died from some rare blood disease, and he vowed that he wouldn’t let that happen to any other parent. So he went on to found this company and turned it into a multibillion-dollar behemoth. Cured a lot of kids in the process. Took care of people who worked for him too,.”

“So why’d he shoot himself?” Said Kowalsky, getting out of the car.

“Lost his company.” Bill got out of the car as well and spat on the sidewalk. “Hostile takeover.”

“You have way too much time on your hands, to read stuff like that.”

Ryan just shrugged as they walked.

Chuck took in his surroundings, It was a well-to-do part of town and the streets were relatively clean, yet he couldn’t help but notice the signs of decay even here. Graffiti stained wall here, a broken window there; it didn’t take a detective to see that the city was getting worse every year. As they got closer to the apartment building where Andrew Hunt had lived, a skinny young man separated himself from an old truck he was leaning against and moved to the sidewalk, blocking their way.

“Yo, gotta pay here.” He showed them a small blade sticking from the sleeve of his dirty jacket. Kowalsky and Ryan stopped in their tracks, looking the guy up and down.

“Why don’t you move your dirty ass out of my way,” suggested Ryan cheerfully.

“Yo, why don’t you pay me so you can keep your face, pretty boy?” quipped the man, now showing his blade fully and moving it in a sideway motion. “You too fatty.”

“He called you fat,” happily observed Ryan.

“I heard that,” said Kowalsky, pulling his standard issue Glock out of the holster and aiming at the man’s knees. “I have a theory, though.”

“Oh, I have a theory of my own,” said Bill pulling out his own gun as well.

“You saw me tripping partner, right?” Kowalsky curled his lips into a smile.

“Yep, he pushed you, and you fell right on your big stomach. Chuck, you have to watch your diet.”

“And as I fell, my gun went off, twice,” continued Chuck, “unfortunate that I hit his knee caps, crippled the poor bastard for life.”

The young man threw his hands into the air, looking scared.

“Yo, yo, yo, I’m cool man, I’m cool, take it easy.” He started to back off, then broke into a run.

The partners watched the man disappear.

“We should have arrested him, you know that, right?”

“I thought we were just window shopping,” said Ryan unperturbed and continued to walk.

The apartment building where the late Andrew Hunt used to live was the cleanest building on the block. A gray-haired doorman held the door for them as they entered the lobby with a tall cathedral ceiling. A huge beautiful chandelier gave off a warm yellow glow.

They were stopped at the visitor’s desk by another silver-haired gentleman and showed their credentials.

“We’d like to talk to the current occupants of PH10, if possible,” said Chuck, not hoping for much luck.

“I’m afraid that would be impossible,” said the man, frowning. “Mr. Hunt took his wife to the hospital yesterday and hasn’t been back since.”

“Jason is in town?” improvised Chuck, smiling. “I didn’t know that.”

“You know Mr. Hunt?” asked the receptionist, not trying to hide his suspicion.

“No.” Kowalsky decided to tread carefully. “But I certainly know of him, and I was hoping to ask him a few questions. So, naturally, I’m glad that he happens to be in the city.”

“As I said, they left yesterday for the hospital, Mrs. Hunt fainted, I believe, and they haven’t been back since.”

“Do you know what hospital they went to?” asked Ryan.

“I believe they went to Mount Ida, but I can’t be too sure.”

•     •     •

His hands were numb and slippery from blood when Jeremy finally cut his bonds. He threw the rusty knife to the floor and slowly stood, trying not to moan. His muscles protested, and his back was hot and sore where the bullet had hit the armor, but the bigger problem was his left foot where the slug had grazed the bone itself. It also didn’t help that his entire body still continued to throb after the pressure point torture it was subjected to. Fighting the shivers, he collected his clothes from a dirty pile and put them on. After thinking for a moment, Jeremy picked up the rusty knife as well and slid it into his back pocket for the time being.

Limping and cursing under his breath, he walked to the door and cautiously peeked out of the room.

The room where he had been held turned out to be one of the offices in an abandoned office building. Shards of broken glass and pieces of drop ceiling tiles littered the floor. A bright blue plastic chair sat next to a door frame that was only partially attached to the ceiling. Jeremy hobbled to the row of dirty, but surprisingly unbroken windows and looked outside. He was on the second floor of a building overlooking an empty parking lot, a small fast food restaurant, and a Dominican beauty salon. Jeremy turned away from the window and, following the direction of a broken “Exit” sign, went downstairs and outside.

“What city is this?” he asked a middle-aged woman walking by with a cigarette, chatting loudly with someone on the phone.

“Newark,” she said without slowing down, not fazed by his question.

“Can I borrow your phone for five seconds?” he asked as she continued to walk away.

“Hell no,” she said and quickened her pace.

Jeremy looked around and saw a rusty Ford Focus parked in the lot behind the fast food restaurant. Staggering, he crossed the street and squatted behind the car, watching for the door of the food joint. After a few short minutes an Asian man stepped outside and walked to the car, his hands full with bags. Jeremy crouched around the car and, before the man knew what was happening, Sykes grabbed him from behind and pressed the knife to his throat.

“Don’t move. Give me the keys and your phone.”

After the man complied, Jeremy put him into a sleeper hold and held the struggling body until it went limp.

When the car’s GPS took him to interstate I-280 he relaxed in a warm seat and dialed his boss.

“This is Brian,” he heard when the line answered, “who is this?”

“Hey, Brian, Jeremy Sykes here.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m like everybody else, need some time off once in a while. Change a pace, get shot at, tortured a bit, this kind of thing, you know?”

The line went quiet for some time.

“Were you compromised?”

“No, and I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

“Do you have any idea who was behind it?”

“Yes, it was a charming fella from Guardian. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that he knew about Martin somehow.”

“Don’t say his fucking name. Where are you now?”

“Newark.” Jeremy glanced at his GPS. “About half an hour from the city.”

“Alright, get your ass over here and we’ll assemble a team.”

The line went dead. Sykes looked at the phone for a few seconds, then threw it onto the passenger’s seat.

“Get your ass over here,” he repeated, imitating Brian’s voice, then flipped a middle finger to the phone.

The office of covert operations of General Armament was located in an unassuming four-story building in East Harlem. The first floor was occupied by a perpetually empty restaurant that GA subsidized, and the top three floors were officially occupied by an Internet company. When Jeremy arrived at Brian’s office, the bald man was on the phone barking orders. He slumped in a chair waiting for his boss to get off the phone and closed his eyes, trying his hardest not to fall asleep.

“Idiots,” Brian slammed the phone down hard, startling Sykes from his daze. “How the fuck did you end up with the Guardian’s guy?”

“I’ve no idea. Someone must’ve sold me.” Jeremy sat up straight. “This whole situation is one giant screw up. First the hit, and now this. Did you get anything from my car?”

“Yes.” His boss drummed his fingers on the desk. “There was a small explosive on your front wheel. Remote controlled.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Tell me.” Brian got up and stared down Sykes. “How does a professional like you get into a car without checking its fucking wheels?”

“My guys always do.”

“Your guys, huh? How fucking convenient. So why is it that the guys who are supposed to keep you alive are dead and you’re alive and well?”

“Where are you going with this?” Jeremy stood up as well. “I was ambushed in my own building.”

They stood for a few moments staring each other down.

“Alright.” His boss sat again and wiped his forehead with a paper towel, then swiveled the monitor of his computer so Jeremy could see it. “Is this the guy who held you?”

“Yes,” said Sykes, “um, how did you—”

“He’s been on my radar for a while. Capable guy. Listen, talk to Rasmussen, as they’re finalizing details for the raid, take a shower, and go to 412. Martin would like to debrief you.”

“Martin himself?”

“Yes, he has some specific questions about this Guardian’s guy. Just don’t forget the protocol.”

Jeremy went up the stairs to the preparation room. Alfred Rasmussen was the head of the six-person team that would hit the man who was working for their competition. The hulky German was checking his teammates’ gear, making sure it was in proper order. They weren’t close friends, although after few years of working together and a couple of dozen of operations they did occasionally share a drink or two.

“What’s up buddy? You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Jeremy winced as Alfred patted him on a shoulder. “Brian said you’re about to go after the Guardian’s guy?”

“He won’t know what hit him. Anything I should know?”

“World class. Fast. Don’t play games with him; shoot to kill.”

“We never play games, mate
.”

“Good luck then.”

Jeremy limped away before Alfred had a chance to pat him again. The shower stalls were empty, and he took a long time under the hot jets of water, letting it get the kinks out of his bruised body. Finally, he turned the water off, dried himself with a large towel, and got dressed in a new set of military fatigues. Refreshed, and somewhat nervous, Jeremy walked to the fourth floor.

He’d never seen Martin in person, nor did he know anybody else who had. Despite the fact that Martin was new to the company, there was a well-known strict protocol on how to communicate with him.

He took a deep breath and rang the bell of Room 412. After a few seconds the lock clicked and the door opened an inch or two. He walked into a huge empty room and looked around. The floor was covered in plastic, and the only piece of furniture was a black leather chair facing the window. In the corner of the room was a small office with a simple white door and a tiny window just few inches below the ceiling. The light was on in the office.

Clutching suddenly wet hands, Jeremy sat in the chair facing the window and his back to the little office, as prescribed by the protocol. After a few long moments the door squeaked and he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Fighting the urge to look back, he dug his nails deep into the arms of the chair and said out loud, trying to sound casual, “Hi, Martin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Jeremy,” said the voice, sounding flat, almost mechanical.

Something in this voice overcame Sykes’ habit to follow orders, and he started to turn his head to look at Martin, protocols be damned, but right before his peripheral vision was able to catch a glimpse of the person behind him, a cold steel cord wrapped around his neck, biting deep. Jeremy wheezed with pain, trying to pry the garrote from his throat as hot trickles of blood started to run down his chest, but it was all in vain.

Desperate, he kicked hard, trying to ram the back of the chair into his assailant, but it was as if he were trying to fight a bulldozer. At last, his knees buckled as he slumped in the chair. The pain, mercifully, let the darkness take over.

Jason was pacing back and forth. Rachel’s first conversation with Steve Poznyak left him lightheaded with hope. While her immediate boss was nervous about the whole idea, he was also sympathetic, and said he was confident that Mr. Engel would authorize the procedure. Now all they could do was sit and wait for him to call back to deliver the news.

“Pal, please sit down.” said Max to Jason. “You’re making me dizzy with all this back and forth.”

“Sorry.” Jason stopped pacing and sat down. “I hate waiting. How are you feeling, babe?”

“I’m fine,” she said, looking at her cell phone. “All this just doesn’t seem very real to me right now. I just want to get it over with, one way or another.”

Her phone started buzzing.

“Hello?” she said, putting it on speaker.

“Rachel?” said a pleasant voice. “Steve here. Um. I spoke to Mr. Engel,” he said and paused as if looking for the right words.

“Yeah?”

“He said…” Steve cleared his throat. “Um, he said we can’t do it. I’m sorry.”