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The Unwanted

By Daniel L. Carter

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Nick slipped two one-hundred-dollar bills into the doorman’s hand as he cautiously entered. The nightclub crowd was in full party mode. Men and women engaging each other rhythmically on the dance floor, along with the thumping bass of the live band, made it difficult for Nick to concentrate. Purposefully he adjusted his three-thousand-dollar suit and took a deep breath to calm himself. His jacket felt tight around his shoulders; he wished he’d taken more time with the tailor. But he pushed those thoughts aside. He had to stay focused on the meeting he was having tonight. It was too important to screw up.
He made his way toward the bar, ignoring the women smiling in his direction. He thought it would have been nice if this was a social meeting, but it wasn’t. Fun and socializing were not options tonight.
With a wave of his arm Nick got the bartender’s attention and asked, “I’m looking for a Damon Hannah.”
“Who’s asking?”
With one fluid motion Nick slid a one-hundred-dollar bill toward the bartender. Nick locked glances with the man and didn’t say anything. Pointing to the back of the club, the bartender took the money and walked away. Nick could see the booths in the back. Again he adjusted his suit, only to be met with the sensation of someone running their hand through his hair.
“Where you goin’, you dark hunk of meat?”
He turned around and looked into the face of a beautiful young woman who was very drunk.
“Nice watch, handsome. Vacheron Constantin, right?”
Any other time this would have been a welcome diversion, but not tonight.
“Yes, thanks for noticing. I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t stay and talk.” He politely pulled the woman’s hand out of his hair and walked away.
“Jerk.”
Ignoring the woman’s comment, Nick weaved through the crowd and headed to the back of the club. He could see Damon sitting in a private booth with two large bodyguards standing nearby. Taking another deep breath, Nick approached. Just as he expected, the larger of the two muscle-bound guards stepped in front of him. Nick knew he was no slouch at 6’ 2”, but he felt small as he looked up into the man’s face.
“I think you’re lost, pal.”
Nick smiled politely at the bodyguard. “Tell your boss Mr. Prospero is here.”
“It’s all right. Let him through,” Damon ordered. “Please sit down, Mr. Prospero. I have to ask, are you a Poe fan?”
Nick cautiously sat across from Damon. “Not really, but I hear you are. I thought you would appreciate it.”
“Nice. Do you know the story of Prince Prospero?” Damon’s crooked smile made Nick feel like he was some sort of prey.
“Not really.”
“The story tells of a prince who thought he could escape death and ignore his own sickness. He believed the Red Death couldn’t touch him. In the end he died.” Damon took a sip from his wine glass. Nick wasn’t sure if he should say something in response, but Damon continued. “The moral being that pride comes before a fall. I hope you’re not such a person.”
Nick was glad to let Damon do all the talking. It gave him a chance to size up who he was dealing with. Damon wore a nice suit adorned with expensive chains and several diamond-studded rings that he clearly liked to flaunt. His pale complexion and wrinkles were most likely due to working at night and taking too many drugs. Even though Damon spoke like an educated man, his mannerisms told Nick he was a low-level soldier and not the one in charge.
“That’s a lesson we can all learn from, Mr. Hannah.”
Damon chuckled at his response and said to his bodyguards, “Mr. Hannah. I like this guy already. He knows how to show respect. So how can I help you, Mr. Prospero?”
Nick wasn’t sure if there was a hint of sarcasm in Damon’s question.
“I believe you are in the market for some high-end medical equipment, or so I was led to believe.”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
Nick reached slowly for the list inside his jacket so as not to alarm the bodyguards. He slowly slid the list across the table to Damon. This was going to be a complicated transaction, and he didn’t want to start trouble. Yet.
“I also have in my possession an ABI PRISM 310 Genetic Analyzer. Interested?” Nick waited to see what kind of reaction he would get.
Damon tapped his PDA with his pointer and leaned back in the booth. It was hard to see Damon’s face in the shadows. Who is Damon selling to? Why does he want DNA equipment? For now Nick could speculate, and Damon was his only connection to those answers.
After several seconds Damon leaned forward. “I believe we can do business, Mr. Prospero. I’d need to see that all of the equipment is working before we can talk price.”
Something was wrong. Everything was going entirely too easy. Nick expected questions about where he acquired the equipment, and the lack of mistrust was setting off internal alarms. Any street thug would have patted him down for weapons before he was allowed to sit down and talk. Also, the lack of female companionship was a sure sign that Damon was all about business tonight. Nick knew there was no genuine intention of purchasing any of the equipment, but that left one question unanswered: What does Damon have planned?
“Perfect, Mr. Hannah,” Nick said. “If you’d like, I can take you to my warehouse, where you can examine the merchandise.”
“Let’s go.”
The deadness in Damon’s eyes as he rose from the booth answered Nick’s question. It was a look he had seen before—murder. He hurried to follow behind Damon as the two bodyguards took up the rear.
“My car is just around the corner out the front. We…” Nick tried
to stop and redirect Damon, but he was met with a stiff shove in his back followed by one of the bodyguard’s hands latching onto his right shoulder. He knew this was not a good sign. Damon led the way through the crowds and headed toward the back exit hallway. Nick’s life was on the line. If he were going to survive the night, he would need to do something—and quickly. Sweat poured down Nick’s face as his heart rate accelerated in his chest. He tried to wipe his brow, but another large hand clamped onto his left forearm.
Nick’s breathing was becoming more rapid. Immediately he forced himself to take deeper breaths. He couldn’t afford to panic or be distracted. What he needed was an advantage, and finally it came.
As Damon led the way down the back hallway past the restrooms, the second bodyguard stepped in front of him. It was now or never. Nick watched as the bodyguard in front of him turned his attention toward Damon. He attacked. With all his weight on one leg Nick kicked backwards with his other foot and hit its target. His escort’s right kneecap bent unnaturally. Nick could feel the give of the bone from his kick as the bodyguard yelled out in pain and released him.
Immediately he spun around and landed a right fist across the now-kneeling bodyguard’s jaw and sent him to the floor, unconscious. The other bodyguard grabbed for his pistol. Again Nick attacked. Without forethought he jabbed his right hand into his attacker’s throat. The man dropped his gun and gasped for air. Nick had to finish him off before Damon turned around. He kicked the bodyguard in the groin and double-fisted the man’s back, forcing him motionless to the floor.
Trying to focus on what to do next, Nick looked up to see Damon finally turn and face him. There was a brief shocked expression, but it was gone in a blink of an eye. Damon reached for his gun underneath his black blazer just as a young brunette came out of the ladies’ room. Nick leaped forward and tackled the woman back through the ladies’ room entrance. Bullets buzzed past his head. The woman screamed. It seemed to happen all in slow motion, but Nick forced himself to his feet. He could hear the screams of the nightclub members replacing the now-silent band.
Nick stood just inside the ladies’ room, cursing himself for not grabbing one of the bodyguards’ pistols. After a few seconds he
cautiously peered into the hallway. The exit door was latched. Beyond it a motorcycle sputtered, stalled, then sputtered again. Correcting his earlier mistake, Nick grabbed the gun from the nearest bodyguard and ran toward the back exit. He slammed open the door with the gun pointed in the direction of the motorcycle engine, but he was too late. Damon raced down the alleyway on a blood-red motorcycle.
Tires screeched as a black van halted behind him. He jumped into the passenger side. “Where were you?”
The driver, Allen, glanced over. “We couldn’t hear you over the noise. You knew that was going to happen, Nick. Or should I call you ‘Prospero’?”
Nick pulled off his Armani jacket. “I was nearly shot! Do you have a bead on him?”
“Sorry. Yes. He’s heading eastbound on West Kinzie Street just past North Clark.”
Nick sometimes wondered about his team member, Allen Young. They were good friends, and Allen seemed steady, but Nick often found his humor inappropriate; this was one of those times. Nick used the van radio and called all local units to pursue the subject as he put his gun holster on. The motorcycle wove in and out of traffic as Damon ran a red light and nearly caused an accident. They couldn’t lose him. They had spent months setting up this sting, and Damon was their only lead. Yet Damon moved further away.
Nick spoke again into the radio. “Suspect is heading northbound on North Rush Street,” he said and turned on their pursuit light in the front windshield, hoping for something to go their way. They made the turn to follow the motorcycle. The police had blocked off East Grand Street as their lights flashed two blocks away. Oddly, Damon stopped in the middle of traffic and was looking back at them. Allen floored the gas once again as Damon spun his tire and headed east on East Illinois Avenue away from the roadblock. Was Damon taunting them? Whatever he was doing, it gave them a chance to catch up.
Nick grinned as two Chicago police cars joined the chase behind them. After four blocks of pursuit, Damon began to slow down. Damon didn’t have much further to run as they approached Lake Michigan. Nick called all units to block off the exits of the pier immediately. They
had him trapped. The road ended at a circle that led to East Navy Pier Street, which was a dead end overlooking the lake.
“Hurry, Allen, before he finds a way out.”
Allen shot him an agitated look. Nick didn’t care. They couldn’t let Damon escape. Allen turned, following Damon into a parking garage. With great agility Damon slid the motorcycle on its side underneath the entrance railing, then propped himself back up without stopping his momentum. Allen broke through the entrance railing and followed Damon. He was trapped. Nick watched as Damon sped upward to the roof. There was no way out now. Nick’s mouth dropped at what he saw. On the far end of the roof the motorcycle lay on its side. Damon strapped into a glider and leapt from the building.
Jumping out of the van, Nick watched from the roof edge. Damon glided out over Lake Michigan, along with any hope of capturing him. Clearly he had planned this from the beginning. Nick shouted out in frustration, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Sorry, Nick.” Allen put his hand on his shoulder. “He’s probably going to land somewhere out in the middle of the lake, where a boat is waiting for him. I should call in the Coast Guard and have them begin searching.”
Nick replied, “Yeah, do that,” but he knew by the time they got in touch with the Coast Guard, Damon would be long gone.
An explosion shattered the night sky behind them. Smoke and flames shot in every direction. Allen and Nick ducked down instinctively. Nick’s stomach ached as he watched the smoke from the explosion begin to blow over Chicago.
“Not again,” he whispered.

Nick replayed the evening in his head as they drove to the explosion site. Something had tipped Damon off that he was an FBI agent. He didn’t want to consider just yet that it may be a “someone,” but tonight made him feel even more uncomfortable. Damon wanted them on that roof to witness the explosion. That much was certain. The more Nick thought about it, the more upset he became. Whoever was behind this
was playing games with him and the Bureau.
Nick watched from a distance for a couple of hours as fireman fought back the flames coming from the building. The scene was chaos. Crowds of onlookers and every news crew in the city stood at the barricades fighting to get a better look.
“We’ve discovered several bodies so far in the fire,” the police chief reported.
Just like the other two times. Nick asked, “How many of them were babies?”
Shooting a stunned look at Nick, the police chief replied, “At least three so far. How did—”
“Keep searching. There’ll be five, Chief, and at least ten or more adults. Always.”
Nick let out a sigh and walked away before anything more could be said. He was disgusted with himself. He felt like a failure. This was the third mass murder in just over twenty months, and they were still in the dark as to who was behind it. Their only lead was somewhere over the middle of Lake Michigan.
He ordered Allen to get forensics on the scene as soon as possible. He wasn’t looking forward to reporting the day’s events. On his way back to the hotel Nick played the night over and over in his head. Crimes like this gave him nightmares.

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