DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) (5 page)

“Funny,” Brendan said at last. “That was the same deal Staryles offered me.”

Doherty slammed his hands down on the table so abruptly that Jennifer and half the rest of the room jumped. “Hallelujah!” Doherty cried, his mouth twisted into a rictus smile. “It speaks!” He leaned forward again and turned his volume down. “That’s what I’m talking about, Healy. That’s it right there. A little professional cooperation. You fucking psycho.”

“Alright,” said Jennifer, feeling the heat rise in the room. Her own anxiety was revving up — this was another blindsiding by the FBI and her own Justice Department. She’d had no idea they were going to spring this.

Doherty jerked his head to look at her, his body still facing towards Brendan, his eyes like a diamondback’s. He turned his searing gaze back on Brendan then pushed back from the table, the feet of his chair grinding across the floor. He got up and paced the back of the room.

Brendan visually tracked his movement. Then Rascher, sitting next to Jennifer, leaned in.

“Mr. Healy, we have reason to believe that Nonsystem is planning a terrorist event. Within the next couple of days. Maybe sooner.” Rascher’s eyes dropped to the photo of Staryles. “We don’t know how this man is involved for certain, but we strongly suspect he’s working with them. We thought you could shed some light on that, help us to clarify. Considering the oddity of his visit your first night in jail.”

They all watched Brendan. Jennifer realized she was holding her breath. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting him to say. Maybe to revert back to his initial claims. Maybe to say of Staryles,
He works for the Central Security Service, you asshole.
Something. Anything.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I can do for you.”

Rascher opened his mouth to speak, Jennifer thought she was on the verge of stepping in and saying something too, when Doherty bolted around the table to where Brendan was. His expression was cyanotic with rage. His hands were out. He looked like he wanted to throttle Brendan.

Brendan stood up, chains rattling. He braced himself as Doherty came for him. But Doherty stopped short, like a dog caught by a leash. He remained within an inch of Brendan’s face, seething.

“You’re unbelievable,” Doherty hissed. He cocked his head again in that insulting, aggressive way. The two men stared into each other’s eyes. Doherty’s face contorted into another humorless grin. “What? Huh? Tough guy? You’re a tough guy now. Did a little time in the stir. You make your bones? Join the Aryan Brotherhood? Maybe you like being in here. You like having your pants pulled down. Huh? What’s the matter, Healy? You look like you want to hit me.”

“Stop it,” said Jennifer.

“You want to hit me? Huh? You paranoid faggot? Go ahead? Go ahead and—”

And Brendan did, slamming Doherty in the face with the top of his head.

* * *

Two COs rushed in, the Deputy Warden close on their heels. Grimm looked both mortified and filled with hate, and the COs wrangled Brendan like an animal. Doherty was doubled over against the far wall, both of his hands on his nose. As they dragged him back around the table, Brendan met eyes with Jennifer. She didn’t see an animal there, she saw a man fighting for his life.

The COs worked Brendan towards the exit as Grimm sputtered apologies at Doherty and Rascher and the rest of them, all the while jamming murderous looks at Brendan. The COs yanked open the door and ushered him out of the room, his feet shuffling and anklets clanking.

“No,” Jennifer said.

Everyone stopped and all eyes pinned her, including Doherty, bent over, looking up at her over the hands protecting his nose. She saw a runnel of blood course down his wrist and disappear beneath cuff of his shirt.

“Wait,” Jennifer said. She held her hand up, she turned her eyes on Grimm. “Okay? Just, hang on here for a second.” From the doorway, the COs looked to Grimm for guidance. Grimm, chest heaving, paused reluctantly. Jennifer pushed past the others and took Rascher by the arm and led him a few steps to where Doherty was standing against the wall. “Listen,” she said in a hasty whisper. “This is why we’re really here, right? Why you agreed with me to do this? You think Brendan has a connection to Nonsystem—”

“Forget it,” said Rascher. “I told you.”

Jennifer let go of Rascher’s arm and stared at Doherty, who was getting himself upright, still covering his face. “Let me look,” she said.

She thought she heard a muffled
Fuck you
through his hands.

“Harlan. Let me look.” She reached up and pushed his hands out of the way. His nose was bleeding profusely. “You’re not going to want to ride out of here like that. Go to the infirmary. Let me finish up with him.”

“You already tried,” Doherty said in a nasally growl. His eyes looked past her to Healy.

“Hey,” Jennifer said, trying to get the big man’s attention back. “Hey, listen to me.” She looked around for Rascher, standing behind her. “Both of you. You want answers, but he’s in the dark,” she said, pointing to Brendan. “He’s been in here seven months. The paperwork I got last night says he spent two months in the SMU. That’s solitary confinement; segregation. Before West Facility he was in Mothcan Center. An overpopulated jungle. You just cornered him, Doherty. Now let me talk to him. Let me get you what you need.”

Doherty looked at Rascher. She resented their silent exchanges, she was furious about not being shown all of the cards, but at least she had a few things she could work with.

She expected more bristling from the two men, another
No way, forget it, it’s over
from Doherty, but it didn’t come.

“Fine,” he said.

She felt a rush of confidence that she tried to keep under wraps.

Only this time
, she thought,
you don’t get to be here
.

The room was cleared. Jennifer asked Brendan to sit at the end of the table, so she could sit at the corner next to him. After Doherty and Rascher had agreed to her continuing the interview, Grimm, who’d been watching from the viewing room, still required further convincing. The Deputy Warden was simmering, his rheumy eyes filled with resentment at her summary of Brendan’s time in prison. Jennifer felt like there was something more to the relationship between Brendan and the Deputy Warden.

She took Grimm aside in the viewing room and spoke to him quietly. “I would remind you that I’m a special prosecutor with the Department of Justice. The US Attorney General and Bureau of Prisons are in my phone contacts.”

It was tacky, a trump card, but she felt like it was the right way to deal with a bull like Grimm. He skulked out of the room after that. The NYPD detectives agreed not to watch so long as the audio recorder stayed on. They left, presumably for coffee and more cigarettes and to talk over how Jennifer had just basically told the Deputy Warden of Rikers Island to go shit in his hat.

Jennifer entered the room. Alone with Brendan finally. She took her seat. “I’m very sorry about that. I’d make excuses — we’re all under a lot of pressure here — but there’s just no excuse for the way Agent Doherty antagonized you.”

“That’s nice of you.”

Already she could feel him closing down. There was a fresh red mark on his forehead from where he’d head-butted Doherty. She realized Brendan could’ve broken Doherty’s nose if he’d wanted. Her mind rifled through the options. She needed to connect to him somehow. And fast.

Whatever she was scared of, whatever guilt clouded her, she had to face it.

“Brendan,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her for a moment, then turned his eyes away.

“I left you in here,” she said. She felt the emotion rising in her, unexpectedly. “But I didn’t leave you, okay? Not in my head. I just didn’t know what to do.” She felt her lip trembling and realized she was on the verge of tears. It was all catching up with her; the trip here, seeing Brendan for the first time, the violence in the room, so much she could not control.

He still wasn’t looking at her. She turned away, too, took a moment to gather herself.

After a little while, she found herself smiling. “I can’t believe you hit him.”

Brendan met her gaze this time. “Neither can he.”

She laughed softly then grew serious again. “I need you to be honest with me, Brendan.”

“And I need to be able to trust you.”

She nodded, biting her lower lip. “I wasn’t aware of this thing with Staryles, just like you. They’ve been keeping me in the dark, telling me it’s for my own protection. Because if Staryles is in with Nonsystem, probably so is Ewon Parnell. That’s the man who . . . the one who held me captive on Staryles’ behalf. He interrogated me while I was under the duress of thallium poisoning, and then he committed suicide when the feds broke into the room.”

She watched him carefully, and could read in his face that he wasn’t convinced. She played to that for a moment.

“But,” she said, “the ensuing investigation ran contrary to the information Wyn Weston had found on Parnell. Weston’s investigation suggested that he worked for Titan. Both Parnell and Staryles.”

Now she seemed to have Brendan’s full attention.

“For Alexander Heilshorn,” she added. “Weston found that Parnell had been military, special forces, but that after he’d been dishonorably discharged, he’d begun thug-work for different private corporations, private groups.” She looked at him closely.

Brendan gave a subtle nod of his head. “Yes. Staryles worked for Heilshorn.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I can’t.”

“Did Staryles tell you himself?”

Brendan leaned back and looked at her coolly. She knew she was dangerously close to losing him, having him clam up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We have to be sure. Conjecture will get us nowhere. My people are pretty convinced Staryles works for Nonsystem, not Titan.”

“Maybe Staryles can be anyone he wants to be, look like anything he wants to.”

“I haven’t ruled that out,” she said in a low voice. It gnawed at her though, despite the way he seemed reasonable, that he was just going to lead her into far-fetched territory after all. They needed to stay concrete. She glanced down at the audio recorder, and then impulsively reached out and shut it off. She met Brendan’s eyes, and caught him deciding whether or not she’d done it for show.

Brendan looked down at the table for a moment. Then he gazed up at the one-way mirror. There was no one on the other side of it now.

She hoped.

“The FBI has been after Nonsystem for a while. Their ways of stealthing bitcoin transactions online is a significant step towards the decentralization of money in our country — in the world. If you look at what’s happened in Greece, who are drowning in debt, it’s possible this kind of Bitcoin virtual currency could solve our financial crises. But Nonsystem would need to come under control, and they’ve been fighting the FBI in a silent battle for months. Years. They pop up, and the FBI pounces. It’s a game of whack-a-mole, and with each hit, groups like Nonsystem get smarter and more sophisticated, and the FBI redoubles its efforts. So the thought is that Nonsystem has a plan to change the game. Put the ball completely in their court and keep it there. That’s the FBI’s position. That’s where Doherty is coming from.”

“How? What’s Nonsystem’s plan? Or yours?”

She was silent, considering. She didn’t have an answer, but another question for him.

“Brendan, what did Staryles say to you?”

He sighed. He leaned forward to touch his face, rattling the chains. “He told me I had one hour.”

“One hour.” She raised her eyebrows. “For what?”

“To decide whether I was with him, or against him. You met him. You know what he’s like.”

“Yes. He’s a sociopath.”

Brendan looked away again, wearing a grim expression. Then he abruptly returned his focus to her.

“Remember Staryles is a chameleon,” he said. “Can become anything he wants. He’s done it for years. It’s who he is.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She unconsciously reached up and touched her neck. She could picture Staryles standing in the unlit studio in Manhattan, placing the tiny white vial on the floor. “We really have no idea where he is or what he’s doing right now. But I’m sure it’s not good.”

He drove the Cutlass into a low-ceiling parking garage off Thomas Street in Manhattan. He parked, got out of the vehicle, and shut the door with force, listening to the slam reverberate off the mortar. His hard-soled shoes echoed as he walked out into the sizzling daylight.

He turned right and walked to the corner of Thomas and Hudson Street. Hudson was one-way heading north, and Staryles took that direction. There was minimal traffic; mostly small trucks — a Fed Ex, a white cube truck, one small tractor-trailer reading
Skyline Windows
. A few cabs bounced on soft shocks up the road, these merging to get around the half of the road that was blocked off. Concrete barriers and a four-foot-high chain link fence sheathed in green plastic separated two whole lanes. In the middle of the segregated area was a large yellow excavator with the word LIEBHERR written across the long hydraulic arm. Beside the excavator were large rectangular dumpsters for construction refuse. Piles of gray brick. A squat, yellow KAESER generator. There were no workers out this afternoon; the piles of material and the hulking excavator sat unattended. A sign hung from the fencing read “Crosswalk Closed Use Other Side.” The air was dry and smelled of dust and oil.

Staryles crossed to the other side. Through his Ray Bans, he looked up at the expanse of the 55-63 block opposite the construction zone. The block was bracketed by Jay and Duane Streets. The building was nine stories tall, classic red brick construction and large multi-paned windows. A fire escape zigzagged up one side of the face, air conditioners rattled and dripped from windowsills. Staryles looked up at the top floor. Then he entered the building.

The first floor was the Downtown Arts Development. A frigid blast of air hit him, in sharp contrast to the baking heat of the city outside. A pretty young woman was sitting at a high desk just inside the doors, which served as both a foyer for the Arts center and the lobby for the elevators. There was another desk, much smaller, just a podium, really, in between the two sets of elevator doors and a security guard standing there, watching Staryles.

Staryles ignored the guard at the back of the room and smiled at the young woman. He flirted with her for a moment, making idle chat about the hot weather outside, asking her if she had ever eaten at
Caliu
, a restaurant further up Hudson Ave. She had, and she’d really enjoyed their traditional tapas, and then she asked him if he was interested in the Downtown Arts Development, if he was a collector. He looked like a collector, she said.

Staryles beamed. However, he was not, he informed her, an art collector, though he had the eye for the market. What he was, he said, was curious about the history of the building. What did she know about it?

The young woman, who said her name was Jimena, blushed and stalled for a moment, glancing around the empty foyer before launching into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, something she’d recited when interviewing for her front-desk position.

“Well,” she began, “Sixty Hudson has long been a major communications hub. The building was completed in 1930. It started off as the headquarters of Western Union.”

“Wow,” said Staryles.

“Yeah. It was Western Union until . . .” she turned to look at the guard, who was a distance away, by the two elevators. “Randy, when was Western Union out of here?”

“Seventy-six,” said Randy in a monotone. His dark skin contrasted with the whites of his eyes, which were locked on Staryles.

“Seventy-six, right, yup, that’s it.” Jimena smiled prettily. “But, all during the time Western Union was here, the building’s facilities grew and adapted, you know, keeping up with the pace of technology. First there were pneumatic tubes, then the telegraph cable. At one point this building had seventy million feet of copper wire, if you can picture that.”

“Hard to imagine.” Staryles almost winked at the girl, but forced himself to keep a straight face.

“Yup,” she chirped, “Then telephones, and then, now, you know, fiber-optic cable.”

She finished up and her expression changed a bit, like someone who had just inadvertently strayed onto a dicey subject and wished they hadn’t. He wondered what they’d told her — how much she knew about what was up there, on the ninth floor, and its significance.

Jimena glanced at Randy, and Staryles looked at him, too. Randy knew what was up there. At least, old, minimum-wage, rent-a-cop Randy knew that it was important, incredibly important, more than a few MacBook Pros and office supplies to protect. And yet his job was largely for appearance — just a run-of-the-mill friendly neighborhood security guard here, not even armed, perfunctory.

The real security was upstairs. There would be half a dozen of them, maybe more, on the ninth floor. They would be specially trained, armed, some plainclothes, meant to blend in with the other hipsters who would be bustling about.

Sensing the awkwardness, Staryles jumped back into the conversation. “Sure, fiber optics. That’s the new way of things, right?” He sounded like a shmuck with no clue about technology.

Jimena nodded eagerly, but still, the initial bit of flirtation and carefree conversation seemed to have gone. More than that — the way she acted reminded him of time-lapse footage he’d seen somewhere of flowers closing down at the end of a season; vibrant, full bulbs one moment, withering and furling as the sun plummets in the sky. It made him angry, when he got these reactions. He didn’t understand them. What was it with women? All smiles and batting of the eyelashes when you first met, appraising your wardrobe, your chiseled face, your wavy hair. They looked into your blue eyes and then shyly glanced down and you had them.

But then it happened. Suddenly they switched off, like they’d smelled something bad in the room.

It didn’t happen with all women, he reminded himself. Just last night he’d been with a beautiful Ecuadorian with cheekbones as sharp as scythes, small upright breasts, full lips, long legs. This Jimena, she had no idea what he could do to her.

“Yup,” she said again, and nodded. “The way of the future. Everything is digital.” She kept nodding, and now she avoided eye contact, and he realized something. His problem was that he just lingered too long. And it only seemed to happen stateside. His timing was fine in Yemen or Afghanistan. There he would pull away from a job before the body hit the ground. He’d disappear into the night before the family — what was left of them — awoke inside the dusty, stucco rooms. As if back here he was making up for lost time. Taking things more slowly, trying to get somewhere with people, trying to remember how to be human. He hated himself for it. Their conversation had ended, and he needed to walk away.

“Well, thanks for the little history lesson,” he said, and ripped open a huge smile.

“Oh, sure . . .” She looked puzzled. Fine, he thought, let her wonder. Without another word, he turned and strutted across the space to Randy, who watched him come over with the kind of wariness reserved for Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door.

Forgoing the small talk now, Staryles strode up to Randy and said, “Ninth floor.”

Randy blinked. “You have to be in the book. What’s your name?”

“My name is Jeremy Staryles,” he said, already pulling out his credentials. He held up the wallet with the ID inside the plastic window. He tapped it with a manicured fingernail. “Five Star Securities.”

Randy glanced at the ID. His gaze dropped to the book sitting on the podium in front of him. He dragged a finger down the page. “Yeah, okay, I got you here. I’ll phone up.”

“That’s very good, Randy.”

Randy’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

“I think you’re a helluva guy, Randy.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Randy looked away, scowling, and picked up the phone at his small, high desk. As he called, Staryles took the opportunity to think about how nice it would be to kill Randy. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Jimena. Maybe he would have her watch.