Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 6
The video reaches the inboxes of every major network in the morning.
“Most of you know Timo Thor as the world’s most successful construction magnate,” says a dark figure, his face obscured in shadow. His voice comes out electronically scrambled, and a video from Built By Thor’s many worksites and factories plays in the background. “His concrete production dominates the industry. What you don’t know is that his company has been paying off government officials for decades to let him bypass environmental restrictions that have poisoned whole towns’ water supplies. He’s undercut competitors by colluding with CEOs of major corporations or intimidating them. Timo Thor has destroyed people’s lives and businesses for his own profit.”
The picture then changes to an aerial view of a palatial manor with horses galloping through the verdant grounds.
“This was the vacation home of Lincoln Waterston — that’s right, his vacation home. He liked to call himself a Kentuckian, but he only spent about two weeks a year in the state. The rest he spent in Washington, DC, lobbying Congress on behalf of his very wealthy clients. If your representative opposed a popular bill despite saying he or she would vote for it, Waterston probably had a hand to play. Remember when the Warner Act was passed, but only with some very notable amendments? That was Waterston.”
The scene changes to the mansion, now at night, fire and smoke belching from its blasted out windows.
“Today they’re both dead — executed for their crimes by Anarchy, Inc. If you thought we were only going to kill arms dealers on the other side of the planet, this is your wake-up call. We have already chosen our next target. We will destroy the structures of order that are strangling this world. Stay tuned.”
The ranch is so remote that the media didn’t find out until Anarchy, Inc. released the video. Now news helicopters hover over what’s left of the Waterston ranch. Smoke still rises from the rubble. Small fires continue to burn.
“Do we know anything about their families?” asks Matthew Ryan, who’s returned to the show as part of a three-person guest panel.
“Not that I know of,” I say, doing my best not to smile. “There were a lot of bodies recovered; authorities are still sorting out who’s who.”
If this video can be believed, two of the Masters are dead. The world knows they were evil men. I wish I could have been involved in exposing them, but someone did what I can only dream of — how could I not be thrilled?
If only Ingram were here to see it.
“They could be holding the families hostage,” suggests Ann Parada, one of the evening pundits from LPN’s twenty-four-hour news network. “Freeing some of their compatriots from prison could be one of their goals.”
“I think that’s exactly what they’re doing,” I say. There was a time when I never could imagine making such a baseless claim without any evidence. Now it’s second nature. “They call themselves Anarchy, Inc. Why wouldn’t they want their fellow terrorists running free?”
“We shouldn’t just jump to conclusions,” counters Michelle Cross-Yarrow. “Don’t be surprised if this is a move to manipulate the stock market. Many organizations can profit off market instability.”
I wish I could tell her how insane she sounds. There are easier ways to make money on Wall Street that don’t carry life sentences. She is right that the news has hurt stock prices — the morning saw a record drop and it still hasn’t recovered. Timo Thor and Lincoln Waterston were important men; a lot of other important men are likely scared.
“Either way, people are demanding action,” I say. “What are the FBI and CIA doing to investigate? What leads do they have, and what aren’t they telling us? For more reaction, let’s go to the audience,” I say, prompting my producer to call on a spectator.
“Hi,” says a potbellied old man wearing a camouflage pants and a yellow tank top. “How do we know for sure those guys are even dead? Maybe they were in trouble with the IRS. Maybe they faked their deaths like Victor Sovereign.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I can’t take much more of this, so I let the wackos talk and try to tune out the rest. I should be enjoying myself — how often will I get to savor the satisfaction of a Master getting what he deserves? My lips keep rising in a grin. Thankfully the panelists keep the focus away from me. I’m not acting the most professionally, but that’s my new persona anyway. So what if some viewers think I’m secretly drunk? I wish I was. In my mind, Ingram and I raise a champagne glass, toasting to Timo and Lincoln’s demise.
With both of them gone, as well as Sidney Traves, that leaves seventeen Masters to go.
Although…
What if Anton did this? What if he’s starting to purge the Masters of members who aren’t loyal? Is there any chance Timo and Lincoln were trying to somehow overthrow Anton? Is that what Colette meant when she told me things are going to change? I hear her words in my head constantly, wondering what that meant. Did today’s attack have anything to do with what she said? I wish she could have told me more.
Maybe we’ll find out after the next attack. I get the sense from their video we won’t have to wait very long.
—
After the show, the guards lead me out like usual, but when we reach the limo, Anton’s inside waiting.
“What was that, Kate?” he asks as I sit down across from him. “Did you enjoy today’s broadcast?”
“No, sir.”
His hand whips out, smacking my cheek. It stings.
“Don’t fucking lie,” he snaps. “You were smiling throughout the show. Everyone saw it. Has your life become too tolerable? Do I need to introduce some new source of misery?”
“What are you going to do?” I ask. I shouldn’t talk back to him; I know better than that. Yet, the hatred in my chest is swelling up as my face tingles. “Torture me? My life is already torture. You want to beat me, like your father?”
Anton laughs.
“My father was a rabid animal, that’s all. His cruelty was driven by his sickness. Mine is a bit more sophisticated. So, no — I’m not going to torture or beat you. I’ll do something you’ll find far more unpleasant.”
“What’s that?”
He smirks, opening a briefcase and showing me the contents: a little black dress.
“We’re going out on a date. In public. And you’re going to pretend to like it.”
—
I change in the car on the way to Ennio’s. He’s taking me to the same restaurant where Ingram and I ate the night before I was forced to “confess” to being an alcoholic. The dress is the same one I wore then.
More than one person stares at us as the hostess shows us to our table. Anton sits with his back to the wall, allowing him to view the whole the restaurant — while forcing me to look only at him.
For the sake of my sanity, I remind myself that Kate Atwood isn’t going on a date with Anton Ford. The alternative TV personality Kate Atwood is. I am an undercover reporter playing a role to someday expose the greatest criminal conspiracy in history.
“You know what I find tempting?” Anton asks, looking over the menu.
“What?”
“The fried calamari.”
“Oh.”
“I’m kidding,” he snorts. “I’m tempted to say the word that will kill you instantly. You would keel over as if you fainted. I’d shout out your name, rush to your side and try to resuscitate you. I’d really make it look convincing. The fear on my face… the paramedics would have to pull me off you. There’d be nothing they could do. The nation would mourn you, and sympathize with me. It would be excellent publicity.”
“At least I’d die quickly,” I mutter.
“Oh, you think so? Well, I guess we’ll see. Apricot.”
I flinch, hand instinctively clapping my neck. I almost leap across the table, determined to try and take Anton with me. But after a moment, nothing happens. I remember Sidney Traves, and how his neck ruptured almost immediately.
“Was that the wrong word?” Anton asks. “I had to memorize so many. Perhaps it was… echidna?”
This time I don’t move. He’s fucking with me. He’s either going to kill me or he’s not.
“Nope, not that one either. Though it’s possible I just killed Merwin Locke.”
“Oh well,” I say.
He chuckles.
“Or it could have been Colette. She’s implanted too, you know. To keep Jamison in line. I’d rather not kill her, but I’ll do it if I have to.”
Unlike the Masters, I don’t want to see her harmed. I may not approve of how she accepted living as a captive, but she did save me from Edward Lonergan. She’s an innocent person — she doesn’t deserve to have this hanging over her.
“You look mad,” he says. “What are you thinking about?”
I’m about to answer when a waiter brings a carafe of ice water to fill our glasses, then takes our orders. Anton gets the calamari after all, as well as a cut of prime rib. For me, he orders a chicken saltimbocca.
Once the waiter leaves, Anton says, “Well?”
He’s not going to slap me in public if I lie, but that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt me in some other way — if not now, later.
“I was thinking how much I’d like to punch you in the throat,” I say. “That way you couldn’t say those words, and I could cut out your tongue with a steak knife.”
“Lovely,” he replies, beaming as he shakes his head. “That’s the spirit, Kate. It’s smart, because if I don’t die, it won’t trigger the automatic kill command. However, I have other ways of detonating your implants. You should know by now I always have contingencies.”
Of course he does. And it’s not like I’d be able to overpower him anyway. He’s too strong, and his guards are never far out of sight. Unless someone handed me a loaded gun, I simply wouldn’t have time to truly hurt him.
“People are looking at us, Kate.”
I’m not surprised. I’ve felt their gazes all night long.
“It’s the first time you’ve been seen out, acting like a normal person, for quite some time.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t respond.
“They think you’ve lost your mind, the kind of crap you spout on television.”
And who’s fault is that?
“I know you’re still sharp. So tell me: who do you think these Anarchy, Inc. people really are?”
“What?” I laugh. “How the fuck would I know? It’s not like I get to report actual news or investigate anything.”
“Take a guess,” he grunts. “These groups don’t show up out of nowhere. You’re knowledgeable about world politics and conflict. If you were trying to identify Anarchy, Inc., where would you start?”
It could be anyone really — Russia or China are obvious possibilities, but it could be what it seems: an actual independent terrorist network, funded by someone with great resources and a need for anonymity. There’s just not enough information out there yet. However, they are very well-organized and well-equipped — they’re not amateurs. If they say there will be more attacks, it should be taken seriously.
“I’d start by asking my sources within the government what they’ve heard,” I answer. “You have a few of those, don’t you?”
Anton nods.
“Of course. When they know something, I will. But they have no real leads, as of yet. The fire at the mansion burned everything: bullet casings, electronics, the dead bodies… everything. We’ll sort out the dead from their bones. The video was made well-enough to conceal the identities of the makers. It gave us nothing. So, if the official investigation was stalled, and you wanted to head off the next attack before it happens, what then?”
I sip from my water, thinking. This actually reminds me of when Ingram asked me for help figuring out who was trying to kill him: no evidence to go on, just speculation.
Is Anton wondering if he’s on Anarchy, Inc.’s list? If not, he should be. Even if they don’t know about the Masters, the CEO of Innovative AF more than likely has a lot of shady deals in his past.
“Without something material to go on, the best you can do is guess and hope you find something actionable. You would ask, who would want to kill Hamza Bin Khaled? That’s probably a very long list. So then, who would want to kill both Timo Thor and Lincoln Waterston? That’s a shorter list.”
“Yeah,” Anton mumbles. “I guess it is.”
He would be on it, of course. But unless this is a giant mind game, he didn’t do it.
My name would also be on that list, but he’s well aware it wasn’t me.
“Additionally, who would be capable of carrying out such a challenging operation?”
One name comes to mind right away: Ingram, if he was alive. Maybe someone from his organization is out there? That would be something…
“Ingram’s dead,” says Anton.
He got that from the barely subdued excitement on my face, I guess.
“I know,” I reply. “But if he was alive, he’d want Timo and Lincoln dead. He’d be capable of doing it. And…”
And Anton would definitely be on his list.
“I’m sure you think that’s a fun theory, but Ingram’s dead,” he snarls, his face darkening. “I shot him. There was no way off the island. He either drowned or bled out. There’s no way Ingram could have survived.”
I don’t have a response to that, so say nothing.
Our waiter returns with a basket of the golden, fried calamari and a cup of steaming hot marinara.
“Enjoy,” he says. “The main course will be out shortly.”