Page 17 of The Vigilante's Lover

Two guards come through a side door to stand on either side of me.

One holds out his hand. “Knife, please,” he says.

I hand it over. He drops it into a steel box. Again he holds out his hand.

“Holster and Blackphone, please.”

I pull the phone out and pass it to him, making sure to press the secure lock button as I do.

The phone gives a subtle vibration as confirmation.

I expected they would take it, but I still lament the loss.

Like Sam said, an untraceable blackout phone is a rare bird.

I had hoped he had been able to rig a cloaking system, but obviously not.

“Holster,” he repeats.

I reach inside my sleeve and snap it off.

“The ear mike, too,” he says.

That stings a little. The small filament would have been useful even without the Blackphone. I carefully extract the mike from my ear and give it to him.

“Watch,” he adds.

The watch disappears into the box.

The man in the suit steps forward. “That everything?” he asks the guards.

One of them nods. “All that we saw on the scanners,” he says.

They missed the skeleton key, thankfully. It’s ultra thin, and Sam must not have handed that particular tech over to the syndicate yet. I’m grateful to be one step ahead.

The suited man motions down a hallway. “Mr. De Luca, if you would be so kind as to come this way.” He leads us down the corridor. One of the guards follows.

“So, why does a fugitive like yourself waltz up to our front door?” he asks.

“Testing your defenses, perhaps?” I ask.

“I assure you, Mr. De Luca, your approach was noted long before you arrived.”

How much of that statement is true? I wonder. The data screens clearly showed they lost track of me after my escape from Ridley. Do they know the car is mine? Or is this man simply trying to throw me off guard?

I give him a grunt of acknowledgment. “So who are you, then?”

“Alan Carter, head of this syndicate.”

“A contemporary of mine, then,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant. “Can’t say I ever made the trip out here before.”

“Indeed.” Carter’s tone is haughty, tinged with suspicion. “It’s been my experience that those on the coasts only talk to us when they want something.”

“My needs are quite simple, I assure you.”

He stops and studies my face for a moment. I give him a small yet warm smile.

“Are they now.” It’s a statement, not a question. His eyes are cold.

Carter moves on, and the guard gives me a firm push to keep moving, as if I’m a common criminal. This does not bode well for how quickly I might be cleared of my charges.

We walk the hall in silence until we reach an actual silo that once housed a nuclear missile.

A few vintage posters are framed and hang on the wall.

“Ready to launch at a moment’s notice!” reads one, sporting a rocket with a smiling face.

Another shows a soldier holding a missile and says, “Defend our freedom from the Reds!”

I’ve been in similar silos in the old Soviet Union. It’s amusing to see almost identical posters there, pointing to America as the bad guys.

Now the silo holds multiple floors with a central open atrium.

On each floor are desks and glass screens displaying a dizzying array of information.

I spot one collection of screens all tuned to different news broadcasts from the national outlets.

Pop-ups appear frequently, pointing out locations and threat analyses of the information.

Additional information scrolls along the bottom.

This is the nerve center, where the syndicate collates all the information coming in the countless feeds, sifting through it and parceling it out for later analysis.

What I wouldn’t give for a few minutes at one of the terminals to try to locate Klaus.

Sam and Colette found nothing on their own, but they were limited by the necessity of avoiding any association with me.

There would be so much more information here.

Carter has other ideas, though. He leads me down several levels and along another hallway before stopping at a door.

A scanner runs a beam over Carter and the door opens.

The three of us enter a spartan room with only a white table and two chairs.

The plain walls enhance the harsh lighting.

In the middle of the table is a small black dome.

It is the only thing in the room that is not white.

Carter motions for me to sit in the chair on the far side of the table. He settles opposite me. A guard stands near the door, staring impassively. Occasionally his eyes flit between me and Carter.

I’ve been in interrogation rooms before, but not on this side of the table.

I fold my hands on the cool surface and say nothing.

Eventually Carter pulls out a tablet and scrolls through information.

He frowns several times, then puts it down with a sigh.

The screen winks out before I can see what it says.

“Trespassing, unauthorized access of syndicate systems, attempted bribery, assault and battery of a civilian police officer, and murder of a fellow Vigilante,” he says.

“Not to mention escape from an authorized penitentiary. How again were you thinking to prove your innocence when none of this is in dispute? Of which of these crimes do you claim innocence, Mr. De Luca?”

“None of them.” I spread my hands. “They’re all true.” I hesitate. “Except the bribery. I was just paying a hooker.”

Carter’s eyes narrow. “This is not amusing. You don’t seem to understand your position.”

I put my hands on the desk and lean forward, staring hard at Carter. “I need to speak with Sutherland.” Sutherland is the head of the American syndicate. He presides over all the regions, a position I was once in line to accept.

Carter doesn’t bat an eye. “And why do you think Sutherland can help you?”

“Because,” I say in a tone I might use with a child, “he has final arbitration over conflict between two Vigilantes. Ergo, he can clear my name.” I straighten back up in the seat and resume my neutral posture.

Carter sighs, as if his job is too much for him today. “What if I told you Sutherland has already notified me that he does not want to speak with you?”

“Not possible—” I begin, but Carter cuts me off.

“He was alerted the moment we recognized your heat signature. Furthermore, he has instructed me to place you into custody until such time that you can be transferred to a maximum-security penitentiary, one where you can’t simply walk out the front door.”

An uncomfortable prickle creeps up my neck. I had not counted on Sutherland outright refusing to speak with me. This is not the Sutherland I know.

But then, neither is the one who would allow a syndicate director to rot in jail without a tribunal.

Still, I have to call the bluff.

“I would call you a liar, Mr. Carter,” I say. “Sutherland is my mentor and personal friend.”

Carter spins the tablet around and brings up the display. A picture of me appears along with the same basic vitals as in the glass entry hall. However, beneath the word “fugitive” is a new sentence.

By order of Director Sutherland, former operative Jax De Luca is ordered held for transfer to New Attica Correctional Facility upon apprehension.

That prickle becomes a full-on spear to my head. This is not possible. Ever since the police rebellion four years ago, New Attica has been one of the worst prisons in the country. For Sutherland to order my incarceration in that hellhole is serious.

I keep my discomfort buried deep and focus on feeling every part of my body. The concentration rapidly calms me and I allow myself a steady, even breath before giving Carter a small smile. I reach out and spin the pad back to him.

“It says nothing about asking questions,” I say.

Carter shrugs. “Go ahead. I won’t guarantee answers you like. Or answers at all.”

I decide to be direct. “Where is Operative Klaus?”

Carter gives me a puzzled look, so I press on. “Klaus. He was with the German syndicate before transferring to America years ago. He was my partner, but now he has vanished. I fear his security has been compromised and his life may be in danger.”

Carter picks up the tablet and taps on it. He frowns after a few seconds. “I don’t see a record for an Operative Klaus.”

Another unpleasant surprise. “Are you spelling it correctly? His last known location was the Tennessee safe house.”

“No,” Carter says. “There’s nothing.”

“Vigilantes don’t just vanish!” I growl. “He has an entry in the system! I know because I entered the details myself as syndicate director!”

Carter eyes me coldly, his mouth a tight line. “Perhaps this was the ‘unauthorized access of syndicate systems’ I noted earlier?”

My calm snaps. I shoot up out of my chair and send it flying back with a clatter. The guard leaps forward, a Taser in his hand. I hold my ground behind the desk, fuming. I can feel my anger flowing off me in heated waves, but tamp it down enough to keep my voice steady.

“Klaus was my friend,” I say through gritted teeth. “He had an entry. When a record is deleted, the system is flagged.” I lean over the table. “Search. The. Flags.”

Carter stares at me a moment, and I think he’ll just deny my request. But he picks up the tablet. As he taps, concern crosses his brow and his finger strikes on the surface become faster, more insistent.

“All right,” he says. “I found a flag in the system attached to the name Klaus. It’s not a personnel record. Just a death notice.”

“A what?” I lean closer.

“It’s weird.” Carter keeps tapping. “If I search the flags, I show a death notice for Klaus, but no evidence that he was ever alive.”

“How did he die?” My throat is tight.

“It doesn’t say. Just that he’s dead.” Carter frowns. “This is high-level tampering. Nobody can die without having a living record.”

“May I?” I hold out my hand for the tablet.

Carter hesitates, then hands it over. I quickly search for flags on deleted entries involving the Tennessee safe house.

Sure enough, one comes up. The closure of the safe house due to “toxic chemical contamination.” It’s the same date and entry as Klaus’s death.

There is no toxic chemical there. It was a ploy to close it. To hide what they did. Klaus died at the safe house and someone deleted him to cover their tracks.

Jovana.

And her lackey temptress.

Mia.

I push the pad at Carter and sit back down.

But Carter stands to leave. “I’ll be sure to add this to my report,” he says. “Perhaps your role in helping identify the fraudulent record will be of help to you in a future hearing.” He shrugs. “If you survive even a day in New Attica.”

He nods at the guard and the two of them move to the door.

It hisses closed behind them.

I’m alone for the moment, but I’m not done here. I still have a skeleton key.

And I have a lying, murdering honey-haired safe house operative to locate in this building. And to interrogate. And if necessary, to take out of commission.