Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) Page 5

  “Rob … prepare yourself. I apologize in advance for what you are about to see. It’s startling, to say the least, but again necessary …” He let his words trail off—maybe, at this point, realizing the futility in saying anything more. He pressed the video play button and the black screen suddenly filled with a familiar scene. A scene I’d glanced at only seconds earlier, inside Albo’s organized mind.

  Pippa, dressed in white skinny jeans and a light blue button-down blouse, was sitting in what had first appeared to be an airplane cabin, but these surroundings now showing on the screen looked more like a plush train car—but, then again, round, porthole-type windows could be seen, off to the side. Pippa was staring back at whoever was holding the camera. She looked tired, her hair somewhat disheveled, but she was also beautiful, and did seem fine, perfectly healthy. See … all that worrying for nothing! I found myself smiling as Pippa, a sardonic expression on her face, flipped the bird at the photographer. That’s my girl. I heard a familiar laugh and then the camera was flipped around to show the one holding it: Heidi Goertz. She waved and nodded, and then flipped the camera back around to show Pippa.

  Again, I felt sick. I don’t want to watch this anymore. I turned my face away, only to feel strong hands on my head and chin. One of the armed men at the door was now inside the office and standing by my side. When did that happen? How could I have missed that?

  The video continued to play and I watched Pippa adjust herself in her seat, move her blonde hair away from her face. Movement. It came in from behind her in a blur. An arm … no, two arms crossed, reaching around in front of her. It all happened within a second. The garrote was over her head and then around her neck. I don’t want to watch this! Pippa’s fingers were prying at her neck, her face already turning red. Legs kicked out—she was flailing hopelessly now. A dark stain spread at her crotch as she wet herself. Blood covered her fingers.

  I no longer tried to look away. In fact, I wanted to watch every second … I wanted to remember this scene for the rest of my life. The attacker’s face briefly appeared behind Pippa—handsome and relaxed; to him, this was just business. I burned his features into my memory, vowing never … ever … to forget his face.

  The garrote came away from her neck nearly as quickly as it had been placed there. Pippa lay still, slouched forward. I hadn’t seen this part of the video yet … hadn’t made it this far, looking within Albo’s mind. I no longer felt sick—the room was no longer spinning around me. All that had been replaced with a steely determination: to make them all pay. I was going to kill Heidi Goertz, and I knew exactly how I was going to do it.

  The hands on my face remained, but I glanced away. I’d seen enough.

  Movement.

  Pippa swayed. Perhaps it was just a shifting … a relaxing of the dead, as I’d seen some bodies do more than once in the past. But the dead don’t move their arms and sit up.

  Her hands were at her throat and her eyes remained closed, but she was definitely alive. Someone was handing her a cup of water—the same man who had nearly killed her. The same man I was going to enjoy sending straight to hell. Pippa slapped the cup away—sending it flying out of view.

  The camera was pointing now at Heidi, her expression serious. “Hello, Rob. That must have been very upsetting to watch. Disturbing. I’m sorry for that, truly I am. But you now know the seriousness of the situation. The importance of following my instructions to the T. There will be no second chance for Pippa—no last-second reprieve, allowing her to live. Do what you’re told and you will see your beautiful Pippa again. Don’t, and you’ll watch another video … with a completely different outcome. Mr. Boccaccio has all the information—everything necessary for you to accomplish your next mission. Welcome to the WZZ, Rob. I’m excited at the possibility of having someone with your unique capabilities working for me.”

  The video stopped playing: her face, frozen—her cold, psychopathic, emotionless eyes stared back at me. Sometime, soon, she’d be wearing a different expression. I was going to make damn sure of that.

  Chapter 9

  “Take a breath and let me tell you what is needed from you,” Albo said.

  I said nothing but evidently the expression on my face said tons.

  “Hate me all you want … I understand. I’ve been in your shoes. What you, as I, too—and many others—have come to realize is the futility in fighting this. The organization always wins … always prevails.”

  “The organization? You’re talking about the WZZ?”

  Albo looked confused, then shook his head. “No … the WZZ is but a flea, riding on the back of a much, much larger animal. What I’m talking about is the Order: a multi-national consortium of the fucking super rich. The Order is the real power behind everything … behind mega-corporations, behind world commerce, and behind super-power governments. The Order is the great Oz behind the curtain, man.”

  I shrugged. “That’s nothing new to me … to most anyone. Yes, big money players have a lot of control that transcends geographical borders. So what? That doesn’t mean there is only one huge, united, Empire-like organization running world governments. I think you’re exaggerating.”

  Albo plopped his bulk down onto the armless chair in front of the drafting table. He made a motion with his chin and the armed man in black left the cramped office. Moments later, I heard both men descend the stairs out of our sight.

  Albo continued, “I’m not only not exaggerating, it’s been like this for over a hundred years. The power brokers began wielding their influence in the late eighteen hundreds … the turn of the century. You’ve heard of Tesla? The socially awkward genius who discovered AC electricity; not to mention things like the radio … even lasers. Did you know both Tesla and Edison were vying for patent approval for dispersing electricity … light … to the masses? Both had their own unique concepts. Edison advocated for direct current, DC, while Tesla fought for alternating current, AC. Here’s the kicker … Tesla’s methodology was far superior, a much more elegant and efficient approach. He also got his paperwork into the patent office before Edison.”

  “I know all that. Tesla was screwed; ended up dying in obscurity—a broken man.” I was still reeling from what I’d seen Pippa go through and was having a hard time concentrating on anything else. It occurred to me that Albo was yammering on to settle me down.

  “Yes, but why? He had the far better technology … I’ll tell you why,” he continued on, “Tesla wanted to give electricity away to the masses … for free. Was adamant that electricity was a natural phenomenon that could no more be regulated than the very air we breathe.”

  I nodded my head; I’d heard all this before.

  “Keep in mind, Edison was backed by J. P. Morgan, the wealthy investor; Tesla was backed by George Westinghouse. Now, J. P. Morgan was an interesting character and perhaps that is where things first went awry. Did you know that Morgan escaped military service, during the Civil War, by paying a few hundred bucks for a stand in to take his place … to fight for him? Then, during the same war, he purchased thousands of rifles for $3.50 each and sold the lot of them for $22 apiece? Here’s the kicker … the rifles were defective. Hell, some shot off the thumbs of the soldiers firing them! Some time later, a congressional committee convened on the matter, but a bought-off federal judge upheld the deal and Morgan was totally exonerated. That should tell you the type of person that young titan of industry was, and it was only the beginning. Ingeniously, Morgan backed Edison, using Tesla’s AC electricity to power a new-fangled, corporal punishment device—called the electric chair. Only it didn’t quite operate as intended, and the poor, death row son of a bitch was slowly roasted alive. His head caught on fire in front of a crowd of onlookers. It was a well-staged spectacle that ended up being front-page news across the country. The populace was aghast—immediately afraid of Tesla’s alternating current application. That was that … the end of Tesla’s AC, and free electricity for the masses. Edison, and his multi-million-dollar backers, prevailed; but something more important arose from all that: the early beginnings of a consortium. Having experienced, first hand, how easily they could manipulate both business and public perception to their own needs, this consortium of power brokers went underground, at least, partially. And that was the beginning of the Order. It exists today and is far more powerful than any one government. It is the great manipulator, behind all things on planet Earth.”

  “That’s all very interesting, but I don’t care about any of it. What is it you want from me? What do I need to do to get Pippa back?”

  “You join them. You don’t resist the inevitable, and just maybe the two of you will be allowed to live.”

  “Live to serve the Order?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is it that the Order holds over you, Albo?” I glimpsed into his mind and saw fire. I didn’t understand what I was viewing for several moments—what I was witnessing was too up-close. Flames and smoke and sounds of someone, presumably Albo himself, frantically calling out to someone. But then I saw these same images from a different angle and knew it was a car on fire, and I also knew that it was Albo’s brother who had gone up in flames, from a planted car bomb, more than ten years earlier.

  “Let’s just say I have a large family and the Order will stop at nothing, have a hold on anyone important to you, as a looming threat for you to comply. Mr. Chandler, no one is safe … no one is beyond the reach of the Order, if they want something from you.”

  Albo was doing his best, unsuccessfully, to not think about his wife and three children. He feared for their lives and had done terrible things to ensure their ongoing safety—their very survival.

  “What you viewed … with Miss Rosette was more than a threat to you and her; it was also an initiation, of sorts, fo
r the Goertzes. Heidi and Leon have been trying to win the Order’s favor for years. To merge the WZZ into the far larger, and more influential, Order consortium.”

  “So this has all been orchestrated by the Order?” I asked.

  “Of course it has. With few exceptions, clandestine agencies, from nearly all governments—the CIA, FBI, the SVR, in Russia; the DGSE, in France … are all pawn players at the beckoning of the Order’s latest directives. If it suits them, if it gains them profits or power, or both, you’ve witnessed firsthand the lengths they’ll go to—from manipulation, on a personal level—to full-out war between countries, on a global level.”

  “Why me … why Pippa?”

  Albo smiled, but his eyes showed no humor. “Come on, Rob. Do I need to spoon-feed you here?”

  I thought about it and knew why: “SIFTR?”

  Albo let out a breath: “SIFTR—a miniscule, pathetic really, organization, compared to its sister and counterpart agencies—has become somewhat of a problem.”

  I thought about my boss, Calloway, and suddenly I felt a new respect for the man. Without a doubt, he was well aware of the Order, but he had resisted their manipulations. I wondered at what cost to himself … to his family?

  Chapter 10

  Albo shrugged and raised his bushy brows. “Thus far, Calloway’s been impossible to get close enough to … to … take out. Recently, we’ve even taken down one of his SIFTR G5s, only to discover he wasn’t actually on board.”

  “And what if I am willing to sacrifice Pippa? Not go along with you … with the Order?”

  For the first time, I saw real compassion in Albo’s eyes. “I’d certainly admire your convictions. A part of me would love to see it happen. Let’s see … well, first of all, I’d be terminated for failing to make good on the Order’s directives. The same would go for some, or most, of my family members. The Order always makes good on their threats. But you won’t do that, Rob. I saw your reaction to the video. Your horror, then your overwhelming relief at seeing your dear Pippa was still alive. They own you now, just as they own me, and many thousands of others.”

  “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.”