The Tower Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Michael Cross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  The Tower

  Michael Cross

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Author’s Note

  Also by Michael Cross

  Chapter One

  “I see you back there,” I mutter.

  I’m a few days out of Tucson now and had just crossed through Portland and into Washington State when I picked up my tail. I honestly didn’t expect the Hellfire Club to find me so soon, but it shows me not only how determined they are to find me, but how far their reach extends. Which is a bit disconcerting, if I’m being honest. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.

  It’s closing in on two in the morning, and the world around us is blacker than pitch, making the headlights on the road behind me stand out that much more. I’d like to say I’m just being paranoid, but the same car’s been behind me for the last several hours now, maybe half a mile back or so. I even took a detour back over the state line, going west over the Columbia River before returning to the 5, but it was still right on my tail. Sometimes it falls a bit further behind but never gets closer than where it is right now.

  I pass a sign on the side of the road that tells me there’s a rest stop a few miles ahead, so I drive on until I see the fluorescent beams lighting up the night like a beacon. I pull off the freeway and into the rest stop, giving my tail a choice: follow me in and blow your cover, or drive on and lose me. He chooses the former.

  I grin and shake my head as I park in the middle of the lot and climb out. The rest stop is empty, save for a couple of big rigs at the far end, their cabs dark, their drivers racked out for the night. Making sure I have my sidearm on me with a fresh magazine, I head for the bathrooms, pretending I don’t notice him parking at the other end of the lot.

  From his vantage point, he can’t see me when I turn the corner. It looks like I’m simply heading for the bathroom door. Lost from his line of sight, I take the opportunity to bypass the door and slip all the way around the outside of the building, moving softly across the wet grass. I move as stealthily as I can, not wanting to alert him to my position.

  I get to the corner and peek around in time to see him jogging toward the bathrooms. He’s a tall, slender man, clean-cut and dressed in what looks like a pricey designer suit. The guy looks more like a well-dressed accountant than an assassin. Though, it probably makes him more effective at his job since nobody would think to fear the guy—unless you were cheating on your taxes.

  He’s got his hand inside his coat. I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know what he’s holding. When he disappears around the corner, heading for the restrooms, I make my move. I sprint around the building to hear his footsteps echoing off the tile inside and the sharp bang of the stall doors being kicked open. He curses to himself in frustration.

  The knot in my stomach clenched tight; I press myself flush against the wall, watching the pool of fluorescent light spilling out of the bathroom. I hold my breath, waiting. When his shadow appears, I step forward and press the barrel of my gun to his temple as he crosses the threshold. He freezes in place, his body stiff and a dark expression on his face.

  “Drop it,” I hiss.

  He starts to turn, and I rap him on the head with the butt of my weapon. He grunts and winces as I level my weapon, pressing it to the side of his head again.

  “I said drop the weapon,” I growl. “Now.”

  He lets out a breath, and his gun hits the ground with a clatter.

  “Good boy,” I say. “Now, kick it away.”

  He complies. I’m just about to order him to his knees when the soft scuff of a shoe on the pavement behind me shoots a white-hot bolt of lightning up my spine. I drop in a flash, shoulder rolling to the left, and come up in a shooter’s stance. The second man is pivoting toward me, bringing his pistol to bear. I squeeze the trigger twice. The first shot tears through his side, painting the white brick wall behind him red. The second takes him in the chest, and he staggers backward, bumping into the wall with a loud grunt.

  His gun hits the ground with a clatter and bounces away from him as he slumps forward. His hands held to his chest, he slides down the wall, leaving a bright crimson streak in his wake. In a sitting position, dark, viscous blood pumping out between his fingers, the man looks up at me. He opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. Instead, he blows a bright red bubble that pops, and a thin rivulet of blood spills from the corner of his mouth.

  I don’t have time for this. I spin to the left and find the second man used the distraction created by his partner to bolt. Instead of going for his weapon though, I catch sight of him dashing around the corner. With a low growl, I turn and give chase. He runs away from the harsh lighting of the rest stop and toward the darkness of the forest ahead of us.

  The accountant/assassin has a good thirty-yard lead on me. I raise my weapon and take a shot while on the run. The bullet disappears into the darkness, but it makes the man veer to the right. I fire off another, but it doesn’t prevent him from plunging into the shadows and gloom of the woods.

  “Dammit,” I mutter.

  I reach the tree line and stop, leaning against the thick trunk of a pine tree. I strain my ears, listening closely, but don’t hear a thing. The ground is moist beneath my feet, so I should still be able to hear his expensive Italian loafers thumping through the thick undergrowth. But I don’t hear anything at all. It’s as if the world has suddenly drawn in a breath and is holding it.

  That tells me the accountant is still out here. He’s out here, lurking in the darkness, looking for me like I’m looking for him. A heavy, earthy musk fills the air. The floor of the forest is cloaked in thick, inky shadows. I can barely see five feet in front of me, which makes it impossible to see him. But it also makes it equally impossible for him to see me.

  My pulse is rapid, and the knot in my gut tightens. I move quietly from tree to tree, sheltering behind the wide, thick trunks. My every sense is on high alert as I listen for even the slightest sound.

  There. Off to the left. The snap of a twig. The rustle of the leaves on a bush. I slip around the tree trunk, starting to move toward the sound when my foot accidentally strikes a rock. It skitters through the undergrowth, sending echoing rattles and thumps in the darkness. I wince and shrink back against the tree trunk, listening intently, but the forest is dead silent.

  As if something in the air shifts, I suddenly feel him behind me. I spin, bringing my weapon up, but he slashes with a long knife. It slices through my forearm, and a bright burst of pain blossoms inside of me. I drop my gun, but before I can reach for it, he slashes again, narrowing missing my eye. I dance back a step, but when he moves toward the weapon, which is lying uselessly in the dirt, his concentration on me falters. It’s barely a moment, but it’s enough. I jump forward and deliver a vicious kick to the man’s jaw. I hear his teeth clack together, and I watch him fall backward, landing flat on his ass.

  He’s back on his feet in a heartbeat, though. The man is quick; I’ll give him that. He wades back in, his arm cocked and ready with the blade in his hand. He feints to the left, but I’m ready for him and duck to the right, catching his arm before he can strike. Clutching his arm, I try to bend his hand at the wrist, using all of my strength to turn the blade back toward him.

  He counters and presses closer to me. All four of our hands are locked together in the struggle, both of us pushing toward the other, trying to use our strength to turn the situation to our advantage. The man is lean and wiry, and a lot stronger than he looks. I grunt and feel the sweat rolling down my back, and as I apply more pressure to his wrist, I feel him giving way. He’s strong. But I’m stronger.

  It’s a battle of wills, with the point of his knife tipping one way and then the other. One slip up, one momentary flash of weakness, means death for one of us. I feel my arms burning with exertion. The thick, tacky blood spilling down my forearm from the cut he gave me. My pulse racing. His face is red, his breathing is ragged, but he’s giving all he’s got.

  I grunt and feel my grip on his wrist, starting to slip. The more he sweats, combined with the blood on my hand, the harder it is to hold onto him. I need to do something, or I’m going to be the one dead on the forest floor. I have an idea but it’s one born of desperation. If I’m too slow, he’s going to gut me.

  I tense my body and push harder against him, trying to bend his wrist. As he pushes back against me, I suddenly let go and roll to the right, getting clear of him as he stumbles forward. I’m back on my feet, closing the distance between us as he pitches forward, going down on his face. I jump on him, grabbing hold of the arm holding the knife, and twist it behind his back. I keep twisting it harder and tighter until he cries out in pain, and the knife falls from his grasp.

  I snatch it up and roll him over onto his back, quickly straddling his chest and pinning hi
s arms to his side. I hold the edge of the blade to his neck. He stares back at me, doing his best to look hard, but I can see the fear in his eyes.

  “Who sent you?” I ask.

  “Screw you.”

  I press the edge of the blade harder into his skin, my eyes boring holes into him. I clench my jaw and lean closer to him.

  “It’s not smart to irritate a man who’s got a knife to your throat,” I growl. “Who sent you?”

  “You know who sent me.”

  “Pretend I don’t know,” I tell him. “Who are you with?”

  He says nothing but continues to stare up at me with a smug smirk creasing his lips. I’m tempted to drive my fist into his mouth and knock that smirk off his face.

  “How did you find me?” I ask.

  “Sorry, that’s proprietary information.”

  “You’re with the Hellfire Club, yeah?”

  He falls silent again, but the glint in his eye and the way he’s looking at me speaks volumes. It tells me all I need to know.

  “A name,” I say, my voice low and icy. “Give me a name.”

  “You know that’s not the way this job works,” he replies. “You know I don’t have a name to give you.”

  Keeping the blade against his throat, I sit back and let out a long breath. Yeah, I know that’s not the way this job works. I knew getting a name out of him was a long shot at best, but I had to try anyway. The question now is, what am I going to do with this guy?

  I know I should probably kill him for expediency’s sake, but as I look at him, I realize I don’t want to. Yeah, he tried to kill me first, but that seems a little petty. It’s not like I enjoy taking somebody’s life. I only do it when I have to. And right now, I don’t feel like I have to.

  “Last chance,” I growl. “Tell me how you found me.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  I shrug. “Well, if that’s your final answer.”

  Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, I pull him up at the same time I bring my other fist down. The sharp crack of my fist meeting his jaw is as loud as a gunshot. His head snaps back violently, rebounding off the forest floor. He goes limp in my hand, and I let him drop in a boneless heap, out cold.

  I check his pockets and find a wallet. I’m sure the ID inside of it is as fake as mine, but I take it with me anyway. Due diligence and all that. After that, I’m on my feet and jogging back to the rest stop. The dead body I left there isn’t going to go undiscovered for very long, and I want to be well away from here before somebody finds it.

  Chapter Two

  My arm is throbbing as I pull into the hotel parking lot and kill the engine. I sit there and listen to it ticking as it cools. Frankly, I’m surprised that Jafi’s Camry made it all the way from Tucson to Seattle, given the weird rumbling the engine started making once I passed San Francisco. I hated to do it, but I traded out my Charger for this heap in an attempt to keep myself off the radar. Since the Charger had a tracker on it, I thought the best way to make people think I was still in Arizona was to leave it, and the tracker I cut out of my arm, back in Tucson with him. And by people, I mostly mean my handler, High Priestess Delta. I don’t want to tip her off to the fact that I’m in her neighborhood.

  Jafi was overjoyed with the swap, though. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to get a nice juiced-up new Charger in exchange for a ratty fifteen-year-old Camry with bad brakes that reeks of weed smoke? With new plates, a paint job, and a fake registration, he can no doubt plant in the DMV database, he’s got a sweet new ride. And I’ve got this bucket.

  Of course, it turned out to be a futile gesture, given what just happened at the rest stop. Somebody’s onto me. A sharp stab of pain grips me, reminding me just how futile the gesture was. I stopped at another rest stop just outside of Seattle and tended to my wound the best I could. After cleaning it, I wrapped it with some sterile gauze and changed my shirt, trying to make myself look more presentable and less like I just had a life or death fight with a hired assassin, but there’s only so much I could do on the side of the road.

  After climbing out of the car, I stretch and yawn, surreptitiously looking around the lot. This hotel isn’t overly nice, but it’s not a pit either. It’s one of a hundred motels in the area that are anonymous and relatively non-descript. Other than basic cable and maybe a movie channel and free wi-fi, this place doesn’t have any bells and whistles, which suits me just fine.

  The sky is already beginning to lighten in the east. I’m beat. After spending the last two and a half days on the road and then having to fight for my life, all I want is a hot shower and some sleep. A lot of sleep. I pop a few ibuprofens and wash them down with some water, trying to take some of the sting out of my arm and dull the ache in my head.

  I walk into the small hotel office and find it empty. There’s a narrow counter about waist high that’s roughly five feet long in front of me. It’s got a plastic top that’s chipped and scratched and has an array of photographs trapped underneath it. A tattered and ratty book sits on the counter, and below that must be the desk, because I can see the top of an old computer monitor and a unicorn-shaped coffee mug bristling with pens and pencils.

  Behind the front counter is a door that leads to a back office. On the wall beside the door is a clock that’s stuck on three-fifteen and a painting of the Seattle skyline that’s actually not too bad. To my right is a large plate glass window that overlooks the parking lot, and to my left is a large rack of pamphlets for different attractions to be found in Seattle.

  The air is saturated with a pungent odor that makes me wrinkle my nose. It smells like somebody tried to heat curry and fish in the microwave in the back office and burned it. Breathing shallowly and trying to avoid inhaling the acrid stench, I step forward and ring the small silver bell that sits in the middle of the counter.

  The area behind the desk is cluttered with delivery boxes that looked to be stuffed with more pamphlets against the back wall. There’s a stack of books piled in one corner and crushed soda cans and bottles in a blue box marked for recycling in another. The area is cluttered but is still somehow tidy. I can’t see a speck of dust anywhere in sight, and the carpet looks like it was freshly vacuumed.

  After standing there with no attendant responding to the bell, I grow irritated and slam my open palm on the bell several more times. A loud rustle and thump followed by soft cursing comes from the rear office. I ring the bell a couple more times just to get my point across.

  “Yeah, yeah, Sorry. I’m coming,” calls a voice from the back room. “Be right there.”

  A man in his mid-twenties finally steps out of the office, his sandy-blonde hair pointing off in a thousand different directions, his clothes rumpled, and an air of dishevelment about him. He’s got the attempt of a bushy beard, but it’s mostly unkempt, and he’s a couple of inches shorter than me and lean. He looks like he’s trying for the mountain man hiker look but hasn’t quite got there yet.

  He’s wearing a white t-shirt with the name of some craft beer logo, but it’s obscured by a large red stain in the center of it. I can only imagine the stain on his t-shirt is the curry/fish concoction that’s permeating the air around us. He steps to the counter and stares at me blankly for a moment as if he doesn’t know what I’m doing here or what I want.

  “A room,” I say. “I need a room.”

  As if a light bulb goes off in his head all of a sudden, he smiles and nods his head. The kid is obviously just waking up, and when I glance at my watch, I figure I can’t blame or go too hard on him.

  “Right. Sorry,” he replies. “We don’t usually get people rolling in at this time of night… errr… morning.”

  I nod but don’t say anything as I pull my wallet out of my pocket and set the Peter Dewalt ID Temperance had given me back in Tucson on the counter. He snaps it up, and I hear the clacking of keys as he types in all of my information.