Wind whipped the treetops. A rhythmic creaking led him to the hanged man, swaying over the narrow path that led to the house. The third corpse lay facedown in front of the aluminum steps, his livid face turned at an improbable angle on his neck. He’d soiled himself in death. The reek of terror-shit blended with the developing taint of human decomp made Mark circle the corpse as widely as possible.
He mounted the stairs that led into the small building. The door hung open, banging against the aluminum siding in the wind, letting out a stench of of blood and death that was stronger still.
Brenner tried to follow him through the front door, but Mark spun around. “Stay out, until I call for you!” he snarled.
Brenner faded quietly back outside.
Mark found Carrerra pinned to the floor by the knife stuck through his hand. His face was unrecognizable, swollen and dark, crusted with blood. His eyes were hidden in pockets of swollen, purplish flesh.
Mark catalogued every detail. The bloodsmears, the bullet holes, the broken plastic restraints. Whoever did this had been looking specifically for Caroline Bishop, but she had no friends or allies capable of rescuing her. She’d been all alone, living off crumbs, huddling in dark corners. The closest she’d come to a bodyguard had been that dickwad Tim Wheaton. Easy enough to crack.
Whoever had pulled this off was in another class altogether. Considerably smarter than Wheaton. Someone who knew the potential of the info she held in her head. Probably the same man who took down Carrerra’s last team. Acting alone, by Mark’s guess. Stealthy, highly skilled, and possessing formidable strength.
An extremely gifted professional . . . or else he was modified.
Carrerra looked like he’d fought hard. Mark had hired him for that, and he’d proved to be ferocious. He’d met his match this time.
He walked around Carrerra’s body, peering at it from the other side, and saw the yellow paper poking out of the stiff, purplish lips and fragments of broken teeth. He pried the dead man’s mouth open, and extracted the crumpled, bloody paper, smoothing it out.
Even with AVP, it was a challenge to read. When he did, his combat program surged and seethed. Terms? Arrogant shithead.
He forced himself to study the note more closely. Looked like a woman’s handwriting. Caroline. Had to be. So she was alive, conscious, functional, and under the other man’s control.
She’s mine, the note said. The bastard was probably fucking her in the ass right now.
He pocketed the note and left the building, looking down at his crew of hollow-eyed, staring supersoldiers. Still glaring at him, in spite of their frequent punishments. They looked like zombies who hadn’t gotten around to rotting yet. Soon, though.
“Take the bodies into the woods,” he told them. “Bury them deep. You get to burn the house before we go. Special treat. Say thank you.”
They stood there, mute and glaring, until he raised the freq wand and gave them all a pain zap. That shocked them into action. Except for Brenner, who didn’t move.
“Callie,” Brenner blurted hoarsely.
Moaning about his goddamn kid again. It was too much. He punched Brenner, sending the big man flying right off his feet. When Brenner crashed heavily to the ground, Mark extended the wand and gave the stupid fuck an excruciating buzz of neural punishment.
Brenner writhed and screamed for long, satisfying minutes.
Mark pocketed the wand, walked over and kicked the whimpering man in the crotch, hard. The cerebral inhibitor blocked Brenner from defending himself against his controller. He just curled up, panting heavily with rasping, sobbing breaths.
“Say that name one more time, and I’ll take you back to where she lives and make you kill her with an axe,” Mark told him. “And when you’re done, you can set yourself on fire. Got me? Do we understand each other?”
Brenner choked out the name one last time.
Mark sighed in frustration, switched the wand’s setting to knock-out, and zapped him unconscious. Best to power him down. Let them both chill. It was impractical to flush a thirty million dollar investment down the toilet for nothing. There were cheaper necks to squeeze if he felt the urge.
Talk terms, his ass. He’d teach the Keyholder all about terms before he was done. That arrogant shithead was going to get a special, intensive private lesson.
While Mark gouged his eyes out with his thumbs.
*
The ride back to the Kirkland house was weirdly silent. Sisko slid behind the wheel and took over the driving, as if by prior arrangement. Noah sat in the back with her, but would not respond to anything she said. After a few frustrating minutes, he put out his hand and pressed his finger gently against her lips, without meeting her eyes.
“Not now,” he said. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“Caro. Let him be,” Sisko said.
“Do I have a choice?” she asked bitterly.
“He’s doing an ASP management thing,” Sisko explained, keeping his eyes on the road. “Self-imposed sensory deprivation. You isolate yourself and blank out all sensory input. It’s problematic, because you have to lower your guard, but when analog diving isn’t working, it’s an emergency time-out, so you don’t blow something up. Or hurt somebody.”
“I see,” she whispered, even though she didn’t.