Jeremiah Footbridge brought the lighter up to his face and ignited the deadly vice he held in his lips in the cold wind. The flickering light illumined his face eerily and cast a blinking, exaggerated, and sinister-looking shadow on the side of the shipping container over which he stood guard. Footbridge inhaled deeply, ingesting the nicotine smoke into his lungs while simultaneously flicking his wrist to close the folding lid on the Zippo. He tucked it into his jacket pocket with one hand and withdrew the cigarette from his mouth with the other. As he looked around the area, ensuring its security, he discharged the foul and noxious smoke in a slow and wispy exhale before putting the thing back into his mouth. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help but hear the sounds of unpleasantness coming from within the container. Dull thumps, rattling chains, and cries of anguish echoed inside the metal walls and out the slightly ajar container door and into the night. This had gone on for more than two hours, and Jeremiah was almost out of smokes.
Three other men stood immediately near the container, and at least a dozen more patrolled the docks. All were heavily armed and serious about their jobs. Footbridge had taken part in the capture of the man enduring the beating within the container, but he forced from his mind any feelings of guilt. This man had made a pretty big mistake, and had annoyed people in high places. What a moron, Footbridge thought with a shake of his head. He flicked the ashes from his smoke and took another drag. The Club had its own agenda, and if one didn’t cooperate with it, one was as good as dead.
“Footbridge,” came a commanding voice from the container. “It’s time.”
“Comin’”, Footbridge replied. He took one last long drag, burning the tobacco down to the filter. He flicked the spent butt into the night and exhaled again, this time more rapidly. He was a little nervous, as this was his first actual kill. He pulled the .38 revolver from his hip holster under his jacket and ejected the cylinder to check again for cartridges.
Yep, he thought, still full he confirmed, noting that the same rounds he’d loaded earlier were still there. He’d checked several times since they’d told him he’d be the trigger man for this one, but still somehow felt the urge to check again. Even hit men get nervous, he thought in a vain effort to comfort himself.
Jeremiah strode as confidently and sturdily as he could toward the container. McGavin, the owner of the voice which had just called him, looked over with a grim expression only Dirk could make, and nodded. Jeremiah acknowledged the grim look with an attempt of his own, but he merely looked as afraid and nervous as he was.
“Footbridge,” Dirk said, stopping Jeremiah in his tracks. “You done good tonight.” McGavin wasn’t looking at Jeremiah as he said these words. He was busy unwrapping the blood-soaked tape from around his knuckles. Jeremiah didn’t notice that Dirk wasn’t looking at him, because he was also distracted by the bloody tape, which uncoiled like a twisted crimson serpent as it was removed from Dirk’s cruel hands.
Footbridge acknowledged the praise with a nervous nod and entered the container. It was much brighter than he’d expected inside, as there were a pair of fluorescent lanterns suspended by wires from the ceiling. The container was completely empty except for the lanterns and a single chair, to which was chained all that remained of a once proud man. The man was conscious, though he’d been beaten so badly it was hard to tell. He was slumped forward in the chair, upright only because he was chained tightly to its back. His face was what slumped, and a large drop of blood was forming on the tip of his swollen nose, the destination point of several small gravity-powered streams of blood and sweat which converged and accumulated on his nose and ultimately dripped onto his torso. His ears were battered and torn, his eyes swollen closed, his face and head adorned with cuts, gashes, bruises, and abrasions.
“Hey man,” Footbridge said, gazing during his moment of hesitation at his battered co-worker, “Nothin’ personal”. As he raised his revolver and aimed it at the victim’s face, the man slowly raised his bruised and bloodied head and, struggling, managed to crack open one of his eyes. Through two split, bleeding, and swollen lips, he drooled blood, saliva, and tooth fragments as he muttered “please…”
Footbridge squeezed the trigger, filling the container for a sudden instant with a deafening blast of noise which echoed unforgivingly all around him. The target’s head rocked backwards, suddenly improving his posture in the chair and immediately thereafter causing the chair to fall backwards with a second crash onto the container floor. Footbridge lowered his pistol and, in shame, his head.
TWELVE HOURS EARLIER
Rob emerged from his hotel room, excited and nervous for his revenge. It was 8:30 a.m., and he had an hour to get to Jim’s Burgers. As he made his way out onto the street, he reviewed again the plan he’d gone through with Kane, and went over in his head his responsibilities in the mission. It wasn’t that complicated, actually. His appearance would likely make it easier to get into the building. Kane had explained that he had intelligence on the security system, and that Rob would need only a thumbprint, retina scan, and a voiceprint ID. Kane even knew the passphrase he had to recite. Once in, they’d be among unarmed technicians, helpless clone blanks, and sensitive electronic equipment. A few well-placed rounds would take out the brains of the operation, and a few well-placed explosive charges would take care of the technology. It would take months for the government to recover, and the disaster might actually make them scrap the program altogether.
Rob was distracted by the plan, and out of practice. This particular clone of Bob Ludwick hadn’t been to a target range in quite some time, and hadn’t run an operation since he’d escaped from the program. He’d been on the run for a while, but somehow Kane had led the authorities to believe that Rob was dead, and they’d become comfortable enough with the idea that they’d proceeded in the line of clones. Rob’s disappearance, however, had caused them to change their procedures, and they had gone to a remote wristwatch memory backup system which doubled as a tracking device and simultaneously provided them with the ability to keep tabs on the Bob Ludwick clones.
Rob stepped out of the hotel lobby and onto the street. He would walk to the burger joint, scope it out, and then find a secluded spot to wait for Kane’s arrival. Public transportation wasn’t an option with the facial recognition software employed by the government security camera computers. Rob pulled his collar up and put on his sunglasses. But he wasn’t fooling everyone.
Across the street, waiting in a dark sedan, Brendan Stillwater watched the hotel. Stillwater was still trying to make his way up the ladder in The Club, but his present role was revenue generator. He was responsible for thefts and drug sales, but he excelled at debt collection. While extracting money from someone by way of brass knuckles, he’d received a tip that detective Ludwick, The Club’s sworn enemy, was staying at the Royal Palms hotel on Durilla Street. Ever since failing to appear for the mayoral hit, Brendan had been relegated to small-time work, and hadn’t been entrusted with anything of significance to The Club’s agenda. This piece of intelligence, Brendan thought, was his ticket to the big time. Killing Ludwick was something that, insofar as Stillwater was aware, The Club had tried and failed to do numerous times. Nugent was supposed to be the premier hit man, but he’d been unable to kill this target, as far as Brendan was aware, and now a lowlife debtor from whom Brendan was required to collect had given him a tip that could catapult Stillwater to a premier hit man post in The Club.
Stillwater stepped out of the car and followed Rob at a safe distance. Rob, out of practice, failed to notice his tail, and foolhardily traversed the distance between the Royal Palms and Jim’s Burgers in the most direct route. This route made it less obvious that Brendan was tailing him, as it involved a direct route in an easterly direction from the hotel to the corner of Durilla and Mangrove, at which intersection Jim’s Burgers was situated.
Brendan stopped, ostensibly to read something on his PDA, and watched as Rob scouted out the intersection. That must be his destination, Brendan observed as Rob looked conspicuously around. Rob retired to the alleyway behind the burger joint, just beyond Brendan’s view. Brendan slid his PDA back into his jacket pocket, removed his Sig Sauer P226 from its holster and sprinted to the corner of Durilla and the alley. He stopped and peeked subtly around the corner. Rob was walking South, his back to Durilla street, toward the cover of a dumpster behind which he could crouch until Kane arrived. Brendan stepped into the alleyway, his right hand clutching the grip of his instrument of destruction, concealed behind his right hip, muzzle down. Brendan’s trigger finger was pointed at the ground, ready to grasp the trigger on a moment’s impulse. Rob checked his watch, confirming that he was early. It was 9:15.
Rob turned towards the dumpster, and saw in his peripheral vision Stillwater’s hulking silhouette. His adrenaline suddenly spiked and he turned to face his assailant. For a split second the two faced each other, faces locked in serious and alarmed expressions, hands out of sight, minds rapidly processing the situation and assessing the danger.
Rob reached inside his coat for his weapon, but he was at a tactical disadvantage, as Brendan already had weapon in hand. Brendan presented his pistol, clutching it in two hands, legs spread apart so that his stance was just wider than his shoulders. Before Rob could withdraw his own firearm, Brendan fired twice, his hollow-point rounds finding their target. The first struck Rob in the throat, obliterating his trachea and severing his jugular vein. The second round shattered his sternum and penetrated his pericardial sack whereupon it tore through the right ventricle of his heart before lodging in his spine.
Brendan rushed forward, looking awkwardly around himself to see if anyone witnessed his crime. His pulse was quickened, his adrenaline pumping. He looked down at Rob and the grisly mess of blood that had been created by the first round.
“Stillwater!” came a voice behind him. He spun around only to see Mr. Kane standing at the entryway of the alley. “What’s going on here?” Kane demanded.
“I got him!” Brendan shouted giddily. “I got Ludwick!” Brendan grinned from ear to ear, excited that his crime was witnessed by someone of such high rank in The Club.
“Let me see,” Kane responded, concealing his true reaction to this news rather well. He approached.
“Nice shooting,” Kane said. “What weapon did you use?”
“This one, sir,” Brendan held up his pistol, pointing it safely into the air.
Kane was at least twenty years older than Brendan, and not nearly as big. Stillwater was an intimidating and large fellow, easily seventy pounds heavier than Kane. But what Kane lacked in size he more than made up for in quickness. Before Brendan knew what happened Kane had delivered a swift punch to his throat with his right hand and then, just as quickly, snatched the pistol from Brendan’s suddenly weakened grip with his left.
Brendan instinctively grabbed his throat with one hand and put his other out, palm forward as if in protest, but Kane spun and kicked him in the solar plexus. As Brendan doubled over from the sudden blow, Kane delivered another punch to his right temple. Brendan spun to his left, and as he did so Kane delivered a debilitating kick to Brendan’s right leg. As the kick was delivered, Brendan’s terror was multiplied by the crunching sound made by his tearing ligaments. His MCL having suffered a 75% tear, Brendan’s leg could no longer support his weight, and he collapsed to the ground.
As Stillwater lay writhing on the pavement, Kane withdrew his communication device and called for assistance from The Club. More thugs were on their way.
“Brendan,” Kane said as he stood over the grimacing thug. “You aren’t as smart as you think. You see, The Club has its own agenda, and morons like you are not on the committee setting the agenda. We have a plan, a strategy. We tell people like you what to do and when to do it, and we decide what you’re useful for. You are not! Paid! To! Make! Decisions!” Kane shouted the last sentence, punctuating each word with a swift kick to Brendan’s ribcage.
“Please!” Brendan sputtered, “please stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he cried, his battered body shuddering with each sob.
A black van came around the corner into the alleyway, its tires squealing as it backed up and stopped just shy of the dumpster.
“Load him in, and get rid of that body,” Kane ordered as he disappeared from Brendan’s sight around the front of the vehicle. “Take him to the docks, we need to talk to him.”
Two thugs came up, both of whom Brendan recognized.
“Stan, please! Jeremiah! Nooooooo!”
“Shut up,” Van Wooten ordered, striking Brendan on the forehead with a collapsible baton before he slapped a pair of cuffs onto Brendan’s arms, pulling them behind his back. Footbridge cuffed his ankles, and then a third pair of cuffs was used to fasten his legs to his arms. The pain in Brendan’s crushed knee was excruciating as the cuffs were applied, and then made worse as Stan and Jeremiah struggled to lift his hulking body into the van. They clumsily bashed his already broken knee into the trailer hitch, and then pulled on his right ankle to roll his body in far enough to get the doors closed.
Brendan cried out in pain, his big mouth gaping open and his eyes wincing. Footbridge crammed a soiled handkerchief into Brendan’s mouth to muffle the noise, and slammed the door closed. Brendan spent the next forty-five minutes bouncing around in agony in the back of the van before he arrived at the shipping docks on the East side of town.
The doors swung open, revealing Dirk McGavin, Jeremiah Footbridge, Stan Van Wooten, and Mr. Kane standing outside the doors of a secluded shipping crate.
Oh no! Brendan thought, panicking at the sight. I’ve been here before! I guarded the container when they tortured someone here before! He knew what was coming, and suddenly lost control of his bladder.
“Oh, sick!” Shouted Stan as he and Jeremiah wrangled Brendan’s struggling body from the van. “He just wet himself!”
Jeremiah burst into laughter and, to avoid getting any on himself, released his grip on Brendan’s arm, allowing him to fall out of the van and onto the ground. Brendan was immobilized in pain, as he’d landed on his right knee. The two other thugs wrestled him into the storage container and chained him to a chair.
For the next several hours Brendan was beaten mercilessly. At first they let the energetic Stan Van Wooten beat him with the baton with no apparent purpose, and then, in the early afternoon, Nugent began working him over, asking questions as he went. The questions began fishing for information from Brendan on his source of information, how he’d found Rob, and what he knew about Detective Ludwick. Then in the early evening Nugent left and McGavin began in earnest, beating and torturing Brendan until he couldn’t speak anymore.
McGavin stepped toward the door to the container and began to unwrap the bloody tape from his knuckles. “Footbridge!” he called out.
Once outside, Dirk looked at Kane. “This is a mess,” he said. “Looks like the poor guy just stumbled onto information on who he thought was Detective Ludwick, and he took him down to gain status in The Club.”
Kane shook his head in anger and disgust. He heard the report of Jeremiah’s .38 echo forth from the container. “I’m working on Plan B, but he’s only got one hand. I’m not sure he’s gonna be as useful as Rob would have been.”
McGavin nodded, as he crumpled the bloody tape into a wad and tossed it irresponsibly into the harbor. “Well, as long as you’ve got him convinced you’re his dad, and that taking down the cloning agency is noble and just, he’ll have to do.”
“He believes me,” Kane replied as he pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels out of his jacket pocket and took a swig. “He lost his hand when the watch blew, but even one-armed he may be more capable than Rob. Rob was rusty, and one of the earlier clones. He didn’t have as much training as this one does.”
“Yeah,” said McGavin, “but getting in will be the hard part now. How’re they not gonna notice his stump when he tries the retina scan, thumbprint, and voice print ID? What if they want the thumbprint from his missing hand?”
“We still have the hand,” Kane replied as he passed the bottle to Dirk. “I’ll work out the details.”
The two paused to watch Jeremiah and Stan drag Brendan’s corpse out to the boat. They dumped it into the back, tossed a few cinder blocks in next to him, and motored out into the harbor to dispose of their handiwork.
“You’d better,” McGavin reminded Kane. “For your sake and mine. The Club won’t tolerate failure.”
“I’m getting good intelligence from inside. As far as I can tell, the new Bob Ludwick clone still doesn’t know that we have access to his thought recordings. We’ll remain a step ahead of him.”
McGavin nodded, took another drink from the bottle, and, after wiping his mouth on his sleeve, returned it to Kane.
Three other men stood immediately near the container, and at least a dozen more patrolled the docks. All were heavily armed and serious about their jobs. Footbridge had taken part in the capture of the man enduring the beating within the container, but he forced from his mind any feelings of guilt. This man had made a pretty big mistake, and had annoyed people in high places. What a moron, Footbridge thought with a shake of his head. He flicked the ashes from his smoke and took another drag. The Club had its own agenda, and if one didn’t cooperate with it, one was as good as dead.
“Footbridge,” came a commanding voice from the container. “It’s time.”
“Comin’”, Footbridge replied. He took one last long drag, burning the tobacco down to the filter. He flicked the spent butt into the night and exhaled again, this time more rapidly. He was a little nervous, as this was his first actual kill. He pulled the .38 revolver from his hip holster under his jacket and ejected the cylinder to check again for cartridges.
Yep, he thought, still full he confirmed, noting that the same rounds he’d loaded earlier were still there. He’d checked several times since they’d told him he’d be the trigger man for this one, but still somehow felt the urge to check again. Even hit men get nervous, he thought in a vain effort to comfort himself.
Jeremiah strode as confidently and sturdily as he could toward the container. McGavin, the owner of the voice which had just called him, looked over with a grim expression only Dirk could make, and nodded. Jeremiah acknowledged the grim look with an attempt of his own, but he merely looked as afraid and nervous as he was.
“Footbridge,” Dirk said, stopping Jeremiah in his tracks. “You done good tonight.” McGavin wasn’t looking at Jeremiah as he said these words. He was busy unwrapping the blood-soaked tape from around his knuckles. Jeremiah didn’t notice that Dirk wasn’t looking at him, because he was also distracted by the bloody tape, which uncoiled like a twisted crimson serpent as it was removed from Dirk’s cruel hands.
Footbridge acknowledged the praise with a nervous nod and entered the container. It was much brighter than he’d expected inside, as there were a pair of fluorescent lanterns suspended by wires from the ceiling. The container was completely empty except for the lanterns and a single chair, to which was chained all that remained of a once proud man. The man was conscious, though he’d been beaten so badly it was hard to tell. He was slumped forward in the chair, upright only because he was chained tightly to its back. His face was what slumped, and a large drop of blood was forming on the tip of his swollen nose, the destination point of several small gravity-powered streams of blood and sweat which converged and accumulated on his nose and ultimately dripped onto his torso. His ears were battered and torn, his eyes swollen closed, his face and head adorned with cuts, gashes, bruises, and abrasions.
“Hey man,” Footbridge said, gazing during his moment of hesitation at his battered co-worker, “Nothin’ personal”. As he raised his revolver and aimed it at the victim’s face, the man slowly raised his bruised and bloodied head and, struggling, managed to crack open one of his eyes. Through two split, bleeding, and swollen lips, he drooled blood, saliva, and tooth fragments as he muttered “please…”
Footbridge squeezed the trigger, filling the container for a sudden instant with a deafening blast of noise which echoed unforgivingly all around him. The target’s head rocked backwards, suddenly improving his posture in the chair and immediately thereafter causing the chair to fall backwards with a second crash onto the container floor. Footbridge lowered his pistol and, in shame, his head.
TWELVE HOURS EARLIER
Rob emerged from his hotel room, excited and nervous for his revenge. It was 8:30 a.m., and he had an hour to get to Jim’s Burgers. As he made his way out onto the street, he reviewed again the plan he’d gone through with Kane, and went over in his head his responsibilities in the mission. It wasn’t that complicated, actually. His appearance would likely make it easier to get into the building. Kane had explained that he had intelligence on the security system, and that Rob would need only a thumbprint, retina scan, and a voiceprint ID. Kane even knew the passphrase he had to recite. Once in, they’d be among unarmed technicians, helpless clone blanks, and sensitive electronic equipment. A few well-placed rounds would take out the brains of the operation, and a few well-placed explosive charges would take care of the technology. It would take months for the government to recover, and the disaster might actually make them scrap the program altogether.
Rob was distracted by the plan, and out of practice. This particular clone of Bob Ludwick hadn’t been to a target range in quite some time, and hadn’t run an operation since he’d escaped from the program. He’d been on the run for a while, but somehow Kane had led the authorities to believe that Rob was dead, and they’d become comfortable enough with the idea that they’d proceeded in the line of clones. Rob’s disappearance, however, had caused them to change their procedures, and they had gone to a remote wristwatch memory backup system which doubled as a tracking device and simultaneously provided them with the ability to keep tabs on the Bob Ludwick clones.
Rob stepped out of the hotel lobby and onto the street. He would walk to the burger joint, scope it out, and then find a secluded spot to wait for Kane’s arrival. Public transportation wasn’t an option with the facial recognition software employed by the government security camera computers. Rob pulled his collar up and put on his sunglasses. But he wasn’t fooling everyone.
Across the street, waiting in a dark sedan, Brendan Stillwater watched the hotel. Stillwater was still trying to make his way up the ladder in The Club, but his present role was revenue generator. He was responsible for thefts and drug sales, but he excelled at debt collection. While extracting money from someone by way of brass knuckles, he’d received a tip that detective Ludwick, The Club’s sworn enemy, was staying at the Royal Palms hotel on Durilla Street. Ever since failing to appear for the mayoral hit, Brendan had been relegated to small-time work, and hadn’t been entrusted with anything of significance to The Club’s agenda. This piece of intelligence, Brendan thought, was his ticket to the big time. Killing Ludwick was something that, insofar as Stillwater was aware, The Club had tried and failed to do numerous times. Nugent was supposed to be the premier hit man, but he’d been unable to kill this target, as far as Brendan was aware, and now a lowlife debtor from whom Brendan was required to collect had given him a tip that could catapult Stillwater to a premier hit man post in The Club.
Stillwater stepped out of the car and followed Rob at a safe distance. Rob, out of practice, failed to notice his tail, and foolhardily traversed the distance between the Royal Palms and Jim’s Burgers in the most direct route. This route made it less obvious that Brendan was tailing him, as it involved a direct route in an easterly direction from the hotel to the corner of Durilla and Mangrove, at which intersection Jim’s Burgers was situated.
Brendan stopped, ostensibly to read something on his PDA, and watched as Rob scouted out the intersection. That must be his destination, Brendan observed as Rob looked conspicuously around. Rob retired to the alleyway behind the burger joint, just beyond Brendan’s view. Brendan slid his PDA back into his jacket pocket, removed his Sig Sauer P226 from its holster and sprinted to the corner of Durilla and the alley. He stopped and peeked subtly around the corner. Rob was walking South, his back to Durilla street, toward the cover of a dumpster behind which he could crouch until Kane arrived. Brendan stepped into the alleyway, his right hand clutching the grip of his instrument of destruction, concealed behind his right hip, muzzle down. Brendan’s trigger finger was pointed at the ground, ready to grasp the trigger on a moment’s impulse. Rob checked his watch, confirming that he was early. It was 9:15.
Rob turned towards the dumpster, and saw in his peripheral vision Stillwater’s hulking silhouette. His adrenaline suddenly spiked and he turned to face his assailant. For a split second the two faced each other, faces locked in serious and alarmed expressions, hands out of sight, minds rapidly processing the situation and assessing the danger.
Rob reached inside his coat for his weapon, but he was at a tactical disadvantage, as Brendan already had weapon in hand. Brendan presented his pistol, clutching it in two hands, legs spread apart so that his stance was just wider than his shoulders. Before Rob could withdraw his own firearm, Brendan fired twice, his hollow-point rounds finding their target. The first struck Rob in the throat, obliterating his trachea and severing his jugular vein. The second round shattered his sternum and penetrated his pericardial sack whereupon it tore through the right ventricle of his heart before lodging in his spine.
Brendan rushed forward, looking awkwardly around himself to see if anyone witnessed his crime. His pulse was quickened, his adrenaline pumping. He looked down at Rob and the grisly mess of blood that had been created by the first round.
“Stillwater!” came a voice behind him. He spun around only to see Mr. Kane standing at the entryway of the alley. “What’s going on here?” Kane demanded.
“I got him!” Brendan shouted giddily. “I got Ludwick!” Brendan grinned from ear to ear, excited that his crime was witnessed by someone of such high rank in The Club.
“Let me see,” Kane responded, concealing his true reaction to this news rather well. He approached.
“Nice shooting,” Kane said. “What weapon did you use?”
“This one, sir,” Brendan held up his pistol, pointing it safely into the air.
Kane was at least twenty years older than Brendan, and not nearly as big. Stillwater was an intimidating and large fellow, easily seventy pounds heavier than Kane. But what Kane lacked in size he more than made up for in quickness. Before Brendan knew what happened Kane had delivered a swift punch to his throat with his right hand and then, just as quickly, snatched the pistol from Brendan’s suddenly weakened grip with his left.
Brendan instinctively grabbed his throat with one hand and put his other out, palm forward as if in protest, but Kane spun and kicked him in the solar plexus. As Brendan doubled over from the sudden blow, Kane delivered another punch to his right temple. Brendan spun to his left, and as he did so Kane delivered a debilitating kick to Brendan’s right leg. As the kick was delivered, Brendan’s terror was multiplied by the crunching sound made by his tearing ligaments. His MCL having suffered a 75% tear, Brendan’s leg could no longer support his weight, and he collapsed to the ground.
As Stillwater lay writhing on the pavement, Kane withdrew his communication device and called for assistance from The Club. More thugs were on their way.
“Brendan,” Kane said as he stood over the grimacing thug. “You aren’t as smart as you think. You see, The Club has its own agenda, and morons like you are not on the committee setting the agenda. We have a plan, a strategy. We tell people like you what to do and when to do it, and we decide what you’re useful for. You are not! Paid! To! Make! Decisions!” Kane shouted the last sentence, punctuating each word with a swift kick to Brendan’s ribcage.
“Please!” Brendan sputtered, “please stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he cried, his battered body shuddering with each sob.
A black van came around the corner into the alleyway, its tires squealing as it backed up and stopped just shy of the dumpster.
“Load him in, and get rid of that body,” Kane ordered as he disappeared from Brendan’s sight around the front of the vehicle. “Take him to the docks, we need to talk to him.”
Two thugs came up, both of whom Brendan recognized.
“Stan, please! Jeremiah! Nooooooo!”
“Shut up,” Van Wooten ordered, striking Brendan on the forehead with a collapsible baton before he slapped a pair of cuffs onto Brendan’s arms, pulling them behind his back. Footbridge cuffed his ankles, and then a third pair of cuffs was used to fasten his legs to his arms. The pain in Brendan’s crushed knee was excruciating as the cuffs were applied, and then made worse as Stan and Jeremiah struggled to lift his hulking body into the van. They clumsily bashed his already broken knee into the trailer hitch, and then pulled on his right ankle to roll his body in far enough to get the doors closed.
Brendan cried out in pain, his big mouth gaping open and his eyes wincing. Footbridge crammed a soiled handkerchief into Brendan’s mouth to muffle the noise, and slammed the door closed. Brendan spent the next forty-five minutes bouncing around in agony in the back of the van before he arrived at the shipping docks on the East side of town.
The doors swung open, revealing Dirk McGavin, Jeremiah Footbridge, Stan Van Wooten, and Mr. Kane standing outside the doors of a secluded shipping crate.
Oh no! Brendan thought, panicking at the sight. I’ve been here before! I guarded the container when they tortured someone here before! He knew what was coming, and suddenly lost control of his bladder.
“Oh, sick!” Shouted Stan as he and Jeremiah wrangled Brendan’s struggling body from the van. “He just wet himself!”
Jeremiah burst into laughter and, to avoid getting any on himself, released his grip on Brendan’s arm, allowing him to fall out of the van and onto the ground. Brendan was immobilized in pain, as he’d landed on his right knee. The two other thugs wrestled him into the storage container and chained him to a chair.
For the next several hours Brendan was beaten mercilessly. At first they let the energetic Stan Van Wooten beat him with the baton with no apparent purpose, and then, in the early afternoon, Nugent began working him over, asking questions as he went. The questions began fishing for information from Brendan on his source of information, how he’d found Rob, and what he knew about Detective Ludwick. Then in the early evening Nugent left and McGavin began in earnest, beating and torturing Brendan until he couldn’t speak anymore.
McGavin stepped toward the door to the container and began to unwrap the bloody tape from his knuckles. “Footbridge!” he called out.
Once outside, Dirk looked at Kane. “This is a mess,” he said. “Looks like the poor guy just stumbled onto information on who he thought was Detective Ludwick, and he took him down to gain status in The Club.”
Kane shook his head in anger and disgust. He heard the report of Jeremiah’s .38 echo forth from the container. “I’m working on Plan B, but he’s only got one hand. I’m not sure he’s gonna be as useful as Rob would have been.”
McGavin nodded, as he crumpled the bloody tape into a wad and tossed it irresponsibly into the harbor. “Well, as long as you’ve got him convinced you’re his dad, and that taking down the cloning agency is noble and just, he’ll have to do.”
“He believes me,” Kane replied as he pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels out of his jacket pocket and took a swig. “He lost his hand when the watch blew, but even one-armed he may be more capable than Rob. Rob was rusty, and one of the earlier clones. He didn’t have as much training as this one does.”
“Yeah,” said McGavin, “but getting in will be the hard part now. How’re they not gonna notice his stump when he tries the retina scan, thumbprint, and voice print ID? What if they want the thumbprint from his missing hand?”
“We still have the hand,” Kane replied as he passed the bottle to Dirk. “I’ll work out the details.”
The two paused to watch Jeremiah and Stan drag Brendan’s corpse out to the boat. They dumped it into the back, tossed a few cinder blocks in next to him, and motored out into the harbor to dispose of their handiwork.
“You’d better,” McGavin reminded Kane. “For your sake and mine. The Club won’t tolerate failure.”
“I’m getting good intelligence from inside. As far as I can tell, the new Bob Ludwick clone still doesn’t know that we have access to his thought recordings. We’ll remain a step ahead of him.”
McGavin nodded, took another drink from the bottle, and, after wiping his mouth on his sleeve, returned it to Kane.
