"Detective Paige," he said lethargically, offering his badge and barely looking at the man.

For far too long, the guard studied his credentials. Then, unceremoniously, he flipped a switch inside the post without saying a word.

The gate opened silently, still shimmering despite the apparent absence of the sun. Jack wondered for a moment if it had been completed before Argosi's attack. The lack of information on the perpetrator still bothered everyone in the department. If Argosi did know the man, it wouldn't bode well for anyone. Jack shook his head at the thought. Despite that he didn't really care for the now totally isolated CEO, the thought of feeling unsafe in one's own home was almost too much to bear, even for someone like Argosi.

Detective Paige was reminded of a silent promise he made to himself eighteen months earlier. If anyone ever got near his family again, he would move them away, no matter how much they complained. In reality, the only thing that spared them last time was that the remnants of the cartel had chosen Preston's house first, probably by a method no more sporting than the same flip of a coin that brought him to Argosi's.

Large black splotches moved around the mansion's front lawn in full view. Jack drove slowly, eyeing the security guards that patrolled in apparently random formations.

Arriving at the front of the house, Jack noticed that this time there was no manservant outside to greet him. Instead, he saw more members of the private security group that Argosi had already informed him would be surveying the mansion constantly.

They stood out like sore thumbs, each standing still, barely discernible from lawn ornaments. Like c.o.c.kroaches, he a.s.sumed that for every one he saw, there were ten more he didn't.

Exiting the car, one of the lawn ornaments made his way over to him, sizing him up before he was close enough to shake hands. He was stocky, but clearly cut out for the job. His middle-range suit clung to him, stretched across his chest.

"Detective Paige," the man said in a deep voice, looking him square in the eye. "Mr. Argosi is expecting you. Please follow me."

Jack was led inside without much more conversation. He was thankful for that. He imagined that Argosi was paying them enough that if he chose to do so, the guards would turn on the detective, and he would never be heard from again. A single word and he'd be whisked away.

Instead of going into the atrium and the hallway with the Noh masks, Jack was escorted upstairs, along the path to Argosi's master bedroom. Having familiarized himself with the case files, Jack was well aware that the other detective working the case believed the a.s.sailant had somehow made it in one of the ground level windows, rather than a door along the front of the house. He then took the staircase up.

Jack glanced at a section of carpet that had been removed from the floor upon arriving at the top of the stairs. Although he hadn't been at the mansion when Argosi was initially attacked, Jack had seen enough crime scenes to know that blood was usually unwilling to come out of the carpet. Then again, most people couldn't stand to go back to their houses after such an incident. It just lost the feeling of being home.

The room had been stripped bare; furniture drapes, everything was gone. The light echo of footsteps on bare wooden floors followed them until they made their way onto the untouched carpet in the next hallway.

The guard knocked on the door. After hearing a weathered voice say "Come in," Jack entered alone.

The security guard nodded and left, still without saying a word.

The shades were drawn, offering slight luminosity from the windows, but the room itself was dark even with the fading sun trying to slither in.

Argosi was lying on the bed, his head propped up by pillows. He wore a dark robe which offered just enough of a view of his chest to see the thick bandages beneath it. Still a dull white, they appeared to have been recently applied. Unlike what Preston had told him at the hospital, Argosi was now breathing on his own without the help of small translucent oxygen tubes.

His mistress Alexandra was there as well, feeding him sips of water from a cup through a straw.

Along the wall facing the bed was a teleconferencing setup. Several large monitors with a bundle of power cords and Ethernet cables crowded a portion of the room. Most of the monitors were blank, but one offered a screensaver in a shifting blue abstract pattern, hypnotic in the growing darkness.

It appeared to be state of the art equipment, more than likely on loan from Myers-Echowan so the board of directors could yell at the CEO while he was home, trying to recuperate in bed.

"Detective," he said, slowly bringing himself to an unaided sitting position. His voice was shallow and weak, but he appeared to be in charge of his faculties. "We were just talking about you. Any breaks since yesterday?"

"We've made a few findings," Jack replied, still scoping out the room.

"Good, good," the CEO replied. "I bet you'll have this thing wrapped up before the end of summer."

"G.o.d, I hope so," Jack said, practically under his breath. For a moment, he'd shifted in tone to that of a friend rather that an acquaintance.

"h.e.l.lo," Alexandra said, politely for a change. The usual misplaced s.e.xual undertones in her voice were nowhere to be found. She didn't look very well composed either. Unlike Argosi, she appeared to be getting over a cold rather than presenting the image of an over the hill mess of a human being.

"Where's Detective Burroughs?" Argosi chimed in as Jack nodded at Alexandra in response. "I didn't like the way we left things yesterday. It felt a little off." With obvious difficulty, Argosi managed to stand, but only after Alexandra helped him to his feet. He walked over to Jack and shook his hand properly, offering a clear feeling of grat.i.tude.

"Oh, you know, he's working on a few things," Jack said with a convincingly cordial smile, letting go of the CEO's hand. "I just stopped by to tell you about our surveillance operation on your house, not really a two man job."

"Great. If you'd have tried this before the attack I would have said how unnecessary it was considering the amount of security around this place," he said, coughing lightly while attempting to laugh. The sound of padded bandages rustling filled the room, crinkling plastic mingled with pain. Alexandra moved over to them. She handed him the gla.s.s and put the straw in his mouth, giving him some water before he continued with a look of strained anguish. "Of course, I think we all know how well the guards can be counted on. Best protection money can't buy."

"I see," Jack offered nonchalantly. "How are you feeling?" he remarked, growing increasing uninterested as he eyed the bandages again. The detective wondered if Preston had gone through the same motions the day before, repet.i.tious nodding interlaced with requisite halfhearted smiles.

"Well, the hospital stay was no picnic. I had to have them fly in one of my personal physicians from New York." Argosi turned, walking back toward the bed as he delicately stretched his arms. "That wasn't very cheap if I do say so." Jack continued to eye his actions closely as he spoke. If he had picked up on Jack's disinterest, the CEO wasn't showing it.

"Yes," Jack replied, offering a monosyllabic answer. He a.s.sumed the small talk had probably reached its limit. "Sorry I didn't visit you while you were in the hospital." He tried to say it nicely, but when his words trailed off at the end, he supposed Argosi finally picked up on the disinterest.

"Well," he said after a pause, facing the detective again, "thank you. Now, what do you have for me?"

"Do you mind if I turn on the light?"

"By all means."

Jack moved toward the light, flicking it on and illuminating the room. Argosi's grim appearance came into full view. His hair was mostly gray and matted down with more sweat than usual. He looked to have aged about five or ten years since the last time Jack had visited him at his home. Preston had told Jack about the man's deteriorating appearance, but the description his partner gave hadn't done the grim reality justice.

"Basically," Jack said, tripping over the word as he adjusted to the CEO's appearance, "we're going to have a patrol car outside your gate twenty-four hours a day. We'll also have the occasional officer patrol the grounds with some of your security forces. All the windows will remain locked to avoid a repeat of last time, and the outer perimeter will be patrolled constantly."

"That should be fine."

"I know we've already covered this, but is there any reason to suspect this could have been an inside job?" Jack asked, his words laced with the first bit of concern since arriving. "I mean, how did that guy get in the house? There were no open doors or windows other than the front. It's like he just travelled through the walls."

"That's a good question," Argosi said. "I'm afraid I still have the same answer I gave your partner and that other detective who first questioned me. It just seems like when I was finally getting back on top, this cartel or whatever it is decided I was a target."

"The cartel?" Jack asked suspiciously.

"Yes," Argosi stated. "I a.s.sume that's what we're dealing with, right? Surely you don't think a random drug-addicted vagrant got into a house with this much security without any help."

"It had crossed my mind," Jack said.

"So," Alexandra said, showing genuine concern. "Why would they go after Benton first?"

"You were taking a lot of credit in the press for the factory bust," Jack said snidely, addressing Argosi. The detective could see that the comment clearly brought him back down to earth.

"d.a.m.n right," Argosi replied, easing back down on the bed. His bandages crinkled loudly as he did so. "I'm still going to. If I can spin this the right way, then I can regain my status faster than I thought."

"There could be more repercussions," Jack said, motioning back to Alexandra. "It's happened before. I'm worried that if you continue to kick this beehive, then she may be the one who gets stung."

Argosi turned to face his girlfriend, taking her hand.

"I'll be fine," she offered coolly to both men, but looked only at Argosi. "I guess that's always been a risk. You'd have to be born yesterday to not know that the rich are often targeted for things like this. It's the way the world works."

"I know it's a risk," he said emotionally, gazing in her eyes, then, turning to face the detective, "but at the end of the day we're still fighting on the same side. This s.h.i.t on the streets; soon it will spread beyond this city. Everyone will scream themselves hoa.r.s.e."

"You're wrong," Jack said. "Like you said, we should have this wrapped up soon." He decided it was best to be overly optimistic, considering his company. Beneath their weathered exteriors, Jack could see an already growing fear.

"I hope you're right," Argosi said with a small laugh. "Of course, you have been so far."

"Yeah," Jack said, shrugging off the lax compliment. "Look, we'll be in touch. You have both the police and private security. I'm not as safe in my own home."

Chapter 14.

Preston's heart was beating so rapidly when he opened his car door that he wasn't sure he could differentiate it from the thunder which had been beating against the sky in a constant barrage on the entire ride over. Lightning was burning through the darkness above him, branching out and pulsing like veins. The rain hit him in large unrelenting drops. Each was a hand slapping him in the face and ordering him to get back into the car.

It was surely the sane choice. Jack would be p.i.s.sed enough if he found out that he had come to this place alone. By now, his partner would be back from Argosi's, possibly with a new lead. He may have tried to call, but Preston had made sure his phone was off. The DEA would be trying to get a hold of him as well, but to no avail.

The person feeding him text messages-the supposed Betsey Burroughs-had provided an address on the outskirts of the city, isolated and dark in the storm.

Whoever the enemy was, however they knew how to get to him, they most certainly had access to police files concerning his history with the force. It was a good strategy on their part, but a traceable one. If anything happened to him, the factory would become a matter of public record.

In any case, they had enough information about Elisabeth to push his b.u.t.tons.

Still, it was almost certainly a trap. You don't usually make such foolish mistakes, the Detective said. Preston was glad he could barely hear the words over the steady thumping of his heart. He silenced the Detective before the voice could say another word. It was still fresh in his memory; it probably always would be. He knew that Gluttony's factory hadn't turned out well despite the trove of evidence it had turned up.

The detective tucked his collar up over his neck as he jogged over to a steel awning that stuck out from the front entrance of the building.

Just like Gluttony's factory, he had come prepared.

The structure that stood before him was not only smaller, but it had also been constructed within the last decade. Full blueprints and building layout maps had been easily available. He ran over the layout in his mind one final time, having already planned his path through the building.

Preston reached into his already thoroughly soaked blazer and pulled out his Beretta, raising it in front of him as he made his way toward the door.

Leaning against the building, he surveyed the perimeter. As he had already seen on the way in, there were no cars or any other signs of a human presence. The building itself was in the middle of nowhere. Located on the outskirts of Chicago surrounded by a small parking lot, it appeared to have been totally forgotten. There was no discernible name attached to the factory records, the Phillips corporation or otherwise. The building itself was blank; not even the grimy outline of former letters on the building stood out. Although Preston could still see the lights of the city, he had truly left Chicago far behind. There would be no help coming.

The structure was only one story tall. There had been no significant bas.e.m.e.nt presence on the blueprints, only a small boiler room, which wouldn't have been much use as a production facility. It was office s.p.a.ce, nothing more. As far as shipping, the location was secluded enough, but a half hour drive probably wasn't feasible for a city as close knit as Chicago, not in the same way the other factory was.

Arriving at the unlocked, nondescript door, he inched it open, seeing a dim light glowing inside.

There was no Bloodstrife factory this time. That much was clear. The images and scattered shapes of the room were vague, but it looked as if whoever operated the place was in the process of moving. Tall stacks of boxes appeared to be everywhere, reaching almost to the ceiling in places. They formed a labyrinth of cardboard, possibly housing any number of people, hidden from view. Preston prepared for the worst, his weapon ready.

As soon as he made his way inside, several computer monitors against the far wall that he hadn't noticed initially lit up. Most likely, they had been programmed to turn on when they sensed movement.

He quickly aimed his weapon at the light and, confirming that no one was there, continued forward cautiously to investigate. There were four monitors in all, each surrounded by small stacks of mismanaged doc.u.ments. He took a quick look inside the various manila folders, but couldn't read them clearly in the intermittent darkness.

Most important, he noticed there were no muddled sounds of production. It was virtually silent.

Preston began breathing heavier, but attempted to do it quietly.

The light from the monitors helped him see only a little.

He took another look around, trying to penetrate the darkness with his eyes. He hugged the wall, moving outward in to the first sections of the maze. Preston took long looks at the contents of the piles, trying to see what was inside. Some held more folders; others held unopened boxes full of blank office paper. Most of the opened boxes were nondescript cardboard. None bore a company name.

Seeing no one hiding inside the ominous piles, he turned to the far wall, readjusting his vision to the monitor that now seemed like glaring sunlight.

The computer itself was unlocked, the desktop scattered with at least twenty folder icons, and at a glance it appeared to be an ordinary office workstation. Most of the folders were labeled with the typical garbage that didn't appear to be of help to the investigation. Some were Golf, Unsorted, or the name of cheap anti-virus software.

Nevertheless, he opened them all, trying to see if any contained hidden or encrypted files, a little tip that McGovern had provided which was beginning to come in handy. After scanning for a few minutes in silence, he saw a folder t.i.tled "Distribution" and clicked it.

Preston was still breathing in moderation as the typically slow mouse icon thought for a moment. The workstation grumbled slightly, processing the task. The folder must have been ma.s.sive, he reasoned.

He looked around the desk, seeing a small moveable keyboard shelf attached to the underside of the wood panel in front of him. He pulled it out quietly.

Before the folder could open, Preston found himself crashing toward the floor beneath the panel. On the way down, his head struck the retractable shelf, drowning him in a wave of pain. The wood and the keyboard broke loose and cluttered on the floor around him, landing at virtually the same time as he did. The keyboard smashed against the linoleum floor with enough force to dislodge a few keys. Preston cried out from the shock rather than the pain. The disorientation receded slightly when he finally came to rest on the ground.

Clearing his head, he noticed a sharp pain in his face and back, like he'd been struck from both sides at once independently of the keyboard tray. He let out a m.u.f.fled groan as he struggled to rise and reaffirmed the grip on his weapon.

Despite the force of the blows, he hadn't lost his gun.

Blood dripped out of his nose as he stood fiercely. Although he couldn't see clearly, he knew from the feeling in his face that blood was dripping from several deep cuts.

Preston waved his gun wildly, looking for his newest Bloodstrife related a.s.sailant. Although injured, his vision was clear. Seeing no one, he carefully produced his handkerchief and brought it to his nose. In a few moments, the crimson had soaked through the white cotton, but the spread soon stopped. The wound was small, like someone had punched him lightly in the face, cutting him with the edge of a ring or a wrist.w.a.tch on the follow-through. He wiped away the blood that had seeped out of the more serious cuts, hoping they would stop bleeding eventually on their own.

Still, no one was there. He'd maintained his keen awareness of the room since getting up off the floor. There was no one to take credit for the attack. Even if someone had fired a projectile at him, he would have seen it lying on the floor beside him. It certainly hadn't been a bullet.

After more than a minute of uneventful silence, Preston pondered the possibility that he'd simply slipped on something or experienced some sort of delayed psychological reaction to the previous instances he'd been a.s.saulted in as many days. Perhaps Gluttony had caused some previously unknown permanent damage. He had been crushing his throat. No, this wasn't your fault, the Detective offered, acting as the helpful voice of reason it was created for.

"Come out," Preston ordered to the boxes flickering in the darkness. "I'm a police officer. I want to know what's going on here." The movement of the muscles in his face caused another small torrent of blood to race out of the cuts as he spoke. Even so, he could feel them slow to a trickle after a few moments.

There was a squeaking sound that greeted him as he waited in the dim light of the computer screens. It sounded like the door to his apartment when the hinges were being even less agreeable than usual. The only difference was the sound he heard was gradually moving.

Without warning, he'd been struck again. This time, Preston doubled over in pain from what felt like a drop-kick to the chest, but managed to keep himself standing. The nervous breathing faded away, to be replaced with difficult labored gasps. He felt his ribs tenderly, confident that none were broken.

Preston was certain there had been no projectile. He'd been facing forward, looking in the direction the attack would have originated from. Even in the mild light, he was sure nothing had come flying out at him. n.o.body had struck him either.

"Who's there?" Preston wheezed with a sense of confused panic. "This is your last warning."

He'd still managed to keep hold of his gun. The squeaking sound started again, this time piercing like nails against the chalkboard. It became clearer, like metal sc.r.a.ping against metal.

While trying to listen, he grew dizzy. Preston wasn't sure, but he may have suffered a concussion from the first attack.

"Have it your way," he yelled at the end of his rope.

Preston fired two shots in the direction of the noise. He heard the rounds strike a few boxes, hitting the wall on the other side with a loud thud. Moments later, several piles began to fall over, taking a few more down with them like dominos. The contents fell out on to the floor and rolled around for a few moments before settling. Based on the reaction alone, no one had been hit.

As soon as the room grew silent again, the noise started back up. You've heard that sound before, the Detective said, and it wasn't today.

Preston was focused on the sound. All surrounding noise fell away, consumed in the silence and darkness. Even his heartbeat and the lingering traces of thunder and rain from outside fell by the wayside. It was beginning to dawn on him, the realization that the Detective had hinted at with ambiguous restraint. It crept slowly out of his subconscious like a snake ready to strike.

Just before he grasped the gravity of the situation, the gun was out of his hand and Preston had been thrown back about ten feet into the computer terminal. He let out another scream as he grasped wildly with his hands, trying to anchor himself. Sparks flew as his arm crashed into one of the monitors, and he collapsed onto the ground like a rag doll.