He rubbed the scruff that had formed on his chin then ran a hand over his bristled mustache, sucking in his lower lip as he pondered the fate of his friend. He glanced over at the hotel manager — if you could call this piece of shit structure a hotel — who was standing nearby, also examining and assessing the damages. Art could almost see the elaborate insurance scam forming in the man’s head, if the look on his face was any indication.
“Was this the renter from room 408?” Art handed a photo of Ethan to the dubious looking character whose name was Marty.
Art could barely conceal his disgust at Marty’s disheveled, unclean appearance. The man’s gut stuck out under a dirty tee shirt that was sprinkled with remnants of mustard. At least Art hoped it was mustard. In a place like this one could never be sure.
“Yeah, that’s the guy; said his name was ‘Cash’ — if you can believe that.” He winked at Art.
“Anyone get a look at the group of men who stormed the place?”
“Just the guy you already know about on the stretcher over there.” Marty indicated the incapacitated figure being hauled down the stairs by three EMTs.
“Thanks for your time.” Art left the manager by the elevator and strode down the hall. He entered Ethan’s empty room and gave it another quick once over. The bathroom still held Ethan’s toiletries, but other than that the room was clean except for a few clothes on the dresser and a Gideon’s Bible. Art did notice something strange — the covers on the bed were missing. Why steal the bed sheets?
He exited the room with that question still on his mind and walked down the hall toward the shattered window, the scattered remnants of which crunched like gravel under his shoes. Art stuck his head through the opening and grabbed the rope that dangled freely just outside, yanking on it to confirm that it was securely fastened somewhere on the rooftop. He envisioned a member of the squad rappelling down and crashing through the glass.
Art pulled his head back inside and was granted another visit with the hotel’s skunky smell floating in the air. Ethan must have really felt desperate to stay at a place like this. The remnants of mayhem on floor four proved Ethan’s fears a reality.
He glanced down at the cheap carpeting and saw something amongst the broken shards of glass. It was a piece of clear plastic that had almost blended in with its surroundings on the floor. Art squatted down to inspect the item closer; it looked like the protective sheath for a hypodermic needle. His eyes darted around, searching for other clues, but found nothing else. The introduction of a sedative to the equation meant Ethan had put up a fight.
Good for you, brother.
The sedative also meant something else: Ethan probably wasn’t dead. This revelation helped calm the burning in Art’s stomach. He said it to himself again — Ethan’s not dead. But another word floated to his mind — Yet.
“Detective Hansen,” one of the officers called out. “I think you should see this.”
Art rose, joints creaking as he stood and lumbered over to the young man in uniform. “Whatcha’ got?”
“We found this embedded into the drywall by the elevator.” The man held up a set of large tweezers for Art’s inspection; between the prongs was a small rubber pellet.
The officer gave him the tweezers for a better look. It was the same type of bullet found on the driveway after the assault on Tobias’s property, and it confirmed what Art already suspected. This was the same team. Art knew it wasn’t unheard of for squads to use rubber bullets — they were often deployed by riot control officers to settle an angry mob with non-lethal force. For an unknown paramilitary group to be operating with such precision and be armed with this type of fire power meant something huge was in motion.
Art gave the tweezers back to the officer. “Bag and tag,” he said and walked back to the window, staring out at the pre-dawn skyline with distant eyes.
Ethan … where are you?
27
Six Degrees of Manipulation
Smelling salts brought Ethan back into the realm of the living. Have I been dead? He sure as hell felt like it.
“Wake up, pumpkin,” an unmistakable voice said from across the room. Ethan had heard that voice before, when he was being crushed beneath its owner’s weight on the grimy floor of The Knotty Beaver. It sounded no less menacing.
The world around him began to focus as he wiped the grit from his eyes and blinked up at an unfamiliar face. Ethan’s head felt like he’d gone two rounds with a steel pipe and lost. He eased up in the bed but it seemed unstable beneath him and he saw that it wasn’t really a bed, but a military cot.
The voice spoke again. “Leave us, Worm,” it said, and the face that hovered over Ethan with the smelling salts pulled away. A moment later, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing.
Ethan was now alone with the man who’d worn the skull-faced helmet. He glanced around, his vision still bleary. The room was small, almost like a prison cell. In the corner he saw the bed sheets and top cover from his most recent lodging; they’d been tossed down like Santa’s bag. In the middle of the pile he could see some of the papers he’d been working on and a few of his belongings. Ethan guessed his gun wasn’t among the list of items bundled in the material.
“Drink this.” The Reaper shoved a cup of foul smelling brine against Ethan’s lips and its contents spilled down his throat. The pleasantries were over.
Ethan coughed and sputtered, pushing away the offending vessel with his hands. When it was removed he took the moment of peace to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He blinked to clear the remnants of fog from his vision and saw Death unmasked.
The commando was still in his black uniform, but wasn’t wearing any tactical gear. He studied Ethan with detached calm, his gray eyes impassive but bearing a hint of lethality. Judging by the height of the doorway, this man was perhaps an inch taller than Ethan, with a body frame similar to his own. But the way the man’s combat suit hugged his skin revealed that his musculature was more developed. This was someone whose sole purpose in life was military training — and, from the looks of it, his livelihood. If the man’s actions at the hotel spoke anything, he was damn good at his job.
“Where am I?” Ethan croaked and the effort to speak sent shockwaves through his pounding head. What the hell did they give me?
“Manhattan.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Just get up. The boss wants to see you.”
“You have a name other than Death?” Ethan said as he tried to swing his feet off the rickety cot. His legs were weak and non-cooperative, but with effort they did as they were instructed, and he brought himself to his feet. The blood rush from his head set off explosions in his brain and his balance faltered. He managed to catch himself with his hands against the concrete wall.
The commando grinned down at Ethan. “It’ll pass.” He went to the door and said over his shoulder, “It’s Jackman. Follow me.”
Follow he did, but more by sound than sight. They walked down a long corridor and then Jackman stopped at a door that resembled the last five they’d passed by. He held it open for Ethan to enter.