Betrayal: Jill Andersen, #5

By J.D. Cunegan

Someone is killing Baltimore's heroes.

 

The ones with badges. The ones who put out fires. The ones who debate laws designed to make the citizens' lives better. None of them are safe, and their deaths amount to little more than public spectacle. A mysterious band of militants called The Collective takes credit for the killings, but the origins and identities of its members are unknown.

 

Jill Andersen now has an FBI badge on her hip. She is tasked with bringing down the cult, and she must make sure she doesn't wind up in their crosshairs in the process. All of her theories and leads come up empty – none of the usual suspects are behind these ghastly murders. They might just be in the line of fire themselves.

 

With those closest to her now targets, Jill must race against the clock to determine who's killing the best Baltimore has to offer. But along the way, she'll discover a jarring secret – one that threatens to make her question everything that has happened in her life to this point.

 

Assuming it doesn't kill her first.

 

Betrayal, the gripping, hard-hitting fifth novel in the Jill Andersen mystery series (Bounty, Blood Ties, Behind the Badge, Behind the Mask), gives readers yet another taste of author J.D. Cunegan's comic book-inspired brand of fast-paced prose, with chapters that fly by and plot twists that will leave readers guessing and waiting for more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.D. Cunegan
• Release date: Apr 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393998624

J.D. Cunegan

J.D. Cunegan is known for his unique writing style, a mixture of murder mystery and superhero epic that introduces the reader to his comic book-inspired storytelling and fast-paced prose. A 2006 graduate of Old Dominion University, Cunegan has an extensive background in journalism, a lengthy career in media relations, and a lifelong love for writing. Cunegan lives in Hampton, Virginia, and next to books, his big passion in life in auto racing. When not hunched in front of a keyboard or with his nose stuck in a book, Cunegan can probably be found at a race track or watching a race on TV.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mount Auburn was, by every objective measure, beautiful. Hard to think of a place full of death and decay as beautiful, but it was. The way the sun bounced off the tombstones, the way they were arranged on the small, makeshift hill leading to the steeple of the church, almost made the place seem inviting. Angelic statues added to the aesthetic, emotionless faces staring skyward and still looking as if they were pleading to the heavens. Asking for safe passage for the souls beneath them, no doubt.

But this wasn't just the most scenic cemetery within Baltimore's city limits, it was also the most personal for Jill Andersen. Any Andersen family reunion in the future would have to be held here.

Her grandfather Wyatt, the war hero.

Her mother Janice, who had eventually buckled under the weight of tragedy and killed herself.

Next to Janice was the source of all that pain and anguish: Paul Andersen. At one time, Paul had been the closest thing Baltimore had to a true hero. He had a key to the city, a permanent invitation to practically every bigwig political function in the city, all because he made a living out of putting killers behind bars.

Until he had become a killer himself.

His tombstone made no mention of that; to the uninitiated, he was simply a man laid to rest next to his wife, both gone far sooner than they deserved. A tragedy, no doubt, but the truth was so much worse.

Still, others in the city had it worse than the Andersens. Those were stories with which both Brian and Jill Andersen were too familiar. Brian was the Assistant District Attorney, having seen some of the worst Baltimore had to offer in the courtroom, weeks or months after their depravity robbed someone of their life.

Jill, former Baltimore homicide cop and now FBI special agent, had grown accustomed to seeing the immediate aftermath of humanity's worst. The spilled blood, the disfigured and dismembered. The lifeless, skyward stares that always asked the same question: why? No matter how many times Jill answered that question, sent away some monster who had done the unthinkable, the fact remained that the damage was already done. There was no bringing that person back. Every time, without fail, they wound up in places like this.

The sight of a dead body no longer fazed Jill, regardless of the shape it was in. But the knowledge of what was lost, what that dead body meant... that was the only thing that kept her from becoming as jaded as the thirty-year veterans she saw roaming around the precinct, with their perpetual scowls and beer guts that would never shrink.

Jill swore, the day she became that jaded, she was done.

Then again... if she wasn’t jaded, then why was she running around as a superhero in her spare time? Why was she admitting her badge was no longer enough? What did her suit even mean? What did any of it even mean?

I don't wanna sound all emo, Brian muttered, clutching the sides of his wheelchair with both hands, but it feels a lot like there's pieces of us in those coffins, doesn't it?

Jill shrugged, staring at her mother's tombstone. She had long ago committed the etchings to memory—they were, after all, little more than Janice's name, birthdate, and date of death—but she could never tear her eyes from it. If pressed, there was no telling which tragedy tore Jill up more. Sure, she had grown up a Daddy's girl, but even now, she couldn't say which death hurt more.

Her father's execution was more recent—one year to the day, she just now realized—but really, all of this had been building for more than a decade.

Still doesn't make sense, Jill said. Don't think it ever will.

Brian cast a sidelong glance at his older sister, pursing his lips as his left eyebrow arched.

Jill turned to face him with a smirk. What?

Brian frowned. What, what?

You're doing your eyebrow thing. Jill moved to stand behind her brother, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She could rest her chin on top of his head like this, and she gave him a squeeze. You only do it when you've got something you wanna say.

No fair using that detective brain of yours on me.

Brian, I've literally known you my entire life. Jill squeezed her younger brother again and smiled when his hand came up to grab her wrist. I don't need my detective powers.

Fair enough. Brian sighed, his shoulders slumping. He cringed, not that Jill could see it. When's the last time you came here?

Jill frowned, more out of confusion than anything. Every now and then, Brian threw her a curveball. And here she was, strictly a fastball hitter. Dad's funeral. Why?

Brian turned his head as best as he could, managing to glance up at his sister. But a twinge in his neck made him reconsider. Instead, Brian returned his gaze to the twin stone slabs in front of him. They were the bane of his existence in so many ways, but he couldn't imagine going more than a month at a time without visiting. With family in such short supply these days, he almost felt an obligation to make the short trek from his downtown office to the cemetery adjacent to Mount Winans United Methodist.

I'm just worried, that's all.

Worried about what? Jill let go of her brother so she could come around in front of him, dropping to a knee. She rested her hands on his knees. Brian, you're making less sense than usual—and this time, I can't blame it on your pop culture references.

I don't think you've properly mourned dad, Brian said. Okay, yeah, you cried the night he was executed. And you shed a few tears when we buried him, but...

Jill arched a brow of her own and chuckled before cupping a hand over her mouth. Laughing in front of her parents' graves really wasn't a good look, and the glare from her younger brother hammered that point home. Jill ducked her head and cleared her throat before reaching up to undo her ponytail and let her brown hair spill out over her shoulders.

You really think I should mourn a man who killed three people in cold blood. Jill chewed on her lower lip. In the service of David Gregor, no less.

I'm well aware of what he did. Brian covered one of Jill's hands with his own, giving it a squeeze. But I also know it's not that simple. You were always a Daddy's girl.

Jill smiled. And you a Momma's boy.

Guilty as charged. Brian ducked his head. I just can't help but wonder if you're avoiding it all.

Jill's shoulders tensed and her grip on her brother tightened. Only when he hissed did she realize that she had squeezed a little too tight—a combination of nails she had neglected and her own strength—and she let go with a sigh. Running her fingers through her hair, Jill cast a gaze at the ground... because she couldn't bring herself to look at her brother. Just as she knew his tendencies, he knew hers. He was right, and he knew it. Such a quality was great when he was in court, arguing a case. Here, confronting his sister over a complicated, emotional matter? Now that was just unfair.

Jill hated how well Brian knew her. More than that, she hated how willing he was to press the issue. What happened to younger siblings keeping quiet? Or had their family dynamic shifted so much that if Brian didn't keep Jill honest, who would?

I mean, I guess I am? Jill shrugged. But Brian, you do realize I've started a new job, right? The FBI is a pretty big time-suck. To say nothing of the whole superhero thing.

And are you sure you're not just using Bounty as an escape?

Jill's shoulder slumped, and she had to force herself to look at her brother. He stared back, not angry or judgmental—which pissed her off. Because if he were either of those things, he would raise his voice and she could lash back out at him. She could go on the defensive. But Caring Younger Brother was a different animal. She couldn't attack that, not without making things so much worse.

Bounty is my way of taking control where I have none.

You can't possibly think Dad is your fault. Brian shook his head. Jill, it would be one thing if he was innocent, but...

I know. Jill turned her head and squeezed her eyes shut. And I never admitted it, but... I became Bounty in part to free him.

Brian grabbed and squeezed Jill's hand. I know.

But if he couldn't be saved... Jill looked up at her brother again, tears in her eyes. She still wasn't going to let them fall, but damn, they were there. And they burned.

"Not everyone can be saved, Jill."

I can't fail again. The tears were falling now, and Jill didn't bother brushing them aside. David Gregor is still out there, and he will be until I bring him down.

Brian reached out and cupped Jill's face in his hands. He brushed aside a tear falling down her left cheek, his thumb pressing into the skin graft, when their eyes met again.

"Jill, no. Don't do this, okay? Don't. He brushed another tear aside, scooting his chair closer. You're amazing in so many ways. You know that? You know how I look up to you for the sheer badassness that is your life? You work for the freaking FBI, and you're a superhero on top of that?! Jill, we live in a city where everyone's doing their best not to make things better. Yet here you are, putting on a costume every night and doing something. It might not be all that bright half the time, but you give a damn. You make a difference."

Jill sniffled and leaned into her brother's touch. She couldn't remember wanting to hug a family member so badly since before her father's downfall, but in this moment, she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around Brian's shoulders and bury her face in the side of his neck. Instead, she grabbed his wrists and squeezed, a sad smile creeping onto her face. Do I?

You do. Brian leaned in, resting his forehead against his sister's. "And you will bring down Gregor. And I look forward to that day. Just... don't kill yourself over it."

Jill chuckled and wiped under her eyes.

And it's okay to mourn Dad. You loved him, and what he did doesn't change that.

Jill kissed her brother's hand before pulling away and getting back to her feet—mostly because by this point, her legs were aching. The catcher's crouch was uncomfortable at the best of times, but as exhausted as she was, the last thing she needed was for her hamstring to lock up. Her bones might have been made of metal now, but her muscles weren't.

When did you get all grown up and wise? she asked with a sideways grin.

When life forced me to, Brian muttered, staring at Paul's grave.

CHAPTER 2

Paris, France...

Untold billions of dollars certainly had their advantages.

For instance, David Gregor could make anyone go away, almost literally with the snap of his fingers. With one phone call, the Baltimore Sun reporter who had tagged along on his flight to Paris was being whisked back stateside. Mid-interview, even. Let the man spin whatever tale he needed to keep his editors off his back. He just didn't need to be around for the bulk of this trip.

For one thing, the deal Gregor had struck with Paris that would land several thousand jobs in Montgomery County involved state secrets. Then there was the matter of a side trip that wasn’t even on the official itinerary.

Still, Gregor's money was also good for making sure the right people kept their mouths shut. By all accounts, he should have returned to Baltimore by now. After all, his official business had wrapped up three days ago. But there was one more item on the agenda, one more visit he had to make.

No one else knew about it. He made sure to keep this visit from even his closest senior advisers. As far as they—and the questioning public—knew, Gregor was enjoying some sun and sand on the Moroccan coast. Plenty of drinks and maybe a co-ed or two—because even in his advancing age, Gregor had a certain reputation to uphold. Even better, there would be no photographic evidence of this trip. For once, the man who ranked No. 3 on the latest Forbes Wealthiest People list was completely off the grid.

As off the grid as one could be these days.

Only one other person knew where Gregor was, and that person was late.

Gregor muttered a few choice words under his breath and rolled his eyes. His surroundings were white, almost impossibly so. The walls were so pristine that they practically had a glow to them. If ever there was a completely sterile environment, it probably looked something like this. The faint stench of rubbing alcohol tickled his nostrils, and the occasional hiss of an air freshener on the wall behind him was the only sound in the room. Even the clock in front of Gregor went about its business without so much as a tick.

Not even a tock.

Every movement Gregor made was entirely too loud. The way his body shifted against the gurney upon which he was strapped. Leather bindings held his wrists, ankles, and midsection to the plush slab. It was comfortable, but the crinkling and the otherwise unsavory noises it made against Gregor's movements annoyed him. Just not as much as the sound of his own heart beating.

Gregor didn't get where he was by focusing on his own mortality. This room was nothing but a constant reminder.

The crisp walls. The three metal trays to Gregor's left, each displaying all manner of instruments—the vast majority of which were meant to tear and slice and stab. To Gregor's right sat a contraption two feet taller than him, which had several drills and microscopes and other tools he didn't recognize springing from the top. It was a large, metallic bouquet of flesh tearing and bone sawing. The laptop and adjacent console were of little comfort. It would seem technology's constant march forward came at the expense of good old-fashioned human ingenuity.

Gregor was never one for second thoughts. But the longer his host took to get here, the more time he had to glance at his surroundings, the more he wondered.

With a click, a door by the clock that Gregor hadn't even seen swung open. A rail-thin man with black-rimmed glasses and the stereotypical white coat that reached his thighs emerged from the hallway. But where Dr. Sebastian Lo differed from his colleagues was that he did not wear a shirt and tie under his lab coat—instead, he preferred to wear t-shirts paying homage to 1990s rock bands and jeans that were probably five years past the date they should've been pitched. Considering how impeccably Dr. Lo styled his hair, and the almost fanatic nature with which he shaved—three times a day—the casual look was a shock.

He smiled when he saw Gregor, and the expression didn't fade even when he was greeted with a scowl.

Mr. Gregor. Dr. Lo tucked a metal clipboard under his left arm and approached the gurney. You look well.

You're late.

Yes, well... you're not my only patient.

Today I am. Gregor pursed his lips and shook his head. For what I'm paying you, everyone else can wait.

Dr. Lo arched a brow. Even a car accident victim who suffered third-degree burns, nearly lost both legs, and only just now woke from a coma?

Gregor matched the arched brow but said nothing.

Dr. Lo cleared his throat and tossed the clipboard onto a slab beside the laptop. Message received. When the doctor turned his attention back to Gregor, he took off his glasses, folded them, and tucked one of the earpieces into the collar of his shirt. Today's shirt called back to a group called Garbage. Gregor vaguely remembered the name, but little else. One side effect of never having children: being woefully out of date with regards to current music and pop culture trends.

It appears, Dr. Lo began, his hands now in his pockets, that my advice has fallen upon deaf ears.

I heard you just fine, Sebastian. Gregor stared at the clock straight ahead, focusing on the red second hand as it crept along. He was surprised such clocks still existed in this overly digitized world. It was reassuring, in an odd way. I'm still paying you to do it.

This is a highly invasive procedure. Dr. Lo shook his head. You are in tremendous shape for a man your age, but David, you are sixty-three years old. There are those decades younger than you, at the peak of their physical ability, who have died as a result of this.

But there are those who didn't. Gregor clenched his jaw. Besides, I know you won't let me die.

Of course not. Dr. Lo lifted his chin. I am very good at my job.

Yes, you are. Gregor shook his head and finally looked at the doctor. But that's not why I put my life in your hands. You know what happens if I flatline on this table.

The slightest bobble of Dr. Lo's Adam's apple was the only indication that Gregor's threat got through. Dr. Lo had known this man for almost three full decades, and while most of his boasting and threatening missed the mark, this was one instance where the doctor took Gregor at his word. After all, given what had happened to Dr. Lo's best friend just four short years ago... were it not for that, chances were neither man would be in this room right now.

I do. Dr. Lo reached for his glasses again and put them back on. I would not be the doctor I am if I did not voice my reservations.

Which you've done. Gregor returned his gaze to the wall. And I'm telling you to do it anyway.

In that case, Dr. Lo said with a sigh, approaching the laptop and tapping a few keys, I will see you in roughly twenty-four hours.

With one last keystroke, the machine to Gregor's right whirred to life. A low-pitched hum filled the room, drowning out even Gregor's pounding heart. He watched as a clear mask lowered from one of the device's many arms, fitting perfectly over Gregor's mouth and nose. As soon as the mask latched itself onto the businessman, anesthesia pumped into his nostrils. Gregor's eyes instantly felt heavy, and before he could think of anything to say, his eyes closed and his head lulled to the side.

Dr. Lo approached and leaned in. The mask fogged each time Gregor exhaled, the slow rhythm enough to tell Dr. Lo he was under. Not everyone reacted as quickly to anesthesia, but Gregor was a special case.

Which was why he hadn't received just any dose of anesthesia. He got stuff that wasn't even available for public use.

At the console again, Dr. Lo typed in a series of commands. So much of this procedure was automated anymore. The manual tools on the other side of the gurney were more a failsafe than anything. An insurance policy in case technology did what technology always did: break.

Dr. Lo had to admit, at least to himself, he hated that. He had always preferred being hands-on. It was one of his favorite parts of being a surgeon in his younger days. Other surgeons saw having lives literally in their hands as cause for pressure and stress. For Dr. Lo, it was an adrenaline rush. An opportunity.

But this? There were so many ways this could go wrong. And even if it did succeed, Dr. Lo couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that this would come back on him.

Was his late friend rubbing off on him after all these years?

Dr. Lo tapped one more key. A scalpel hovered inches from Gregor's chest, just under the junction in his collarbone. With one command, it would make the first incision. Perfect depth, perfect length, all of it. All Dr. Lo had to do was press another button. Surgery was so impersonal anymore. It was truly a shame.

A red light came on from atop the computer. Dr. Lo cleared his throat and paced around the gurney.

"This is Dr. Sebastian Lo, recording from my laboratory in Paris. It is 4:37 p.m. local time on Thursday, September 30, 2016. The patient, John Doe, has given his enthusiastic and informed consent and has since been placed under anesthesia. Vitals are strong, and the patient appears to be accepting the drugs without incident. I am about to perform the initial incision and will report in thirty-minute intervals, unless circumstances dictate otherwise. Video surveillance will be running throughout in order to document the procedure should anything go wrong.

Now, without further ado... this is Project Fusion, version 2.0.

CHAPTER 3

If Daniel Richards didn't know any better, he would've sworn he was in a bad crime novel.

He tugged the black hood further down over his eyes, shielding himself from the wind howling off the Chesapeake Bay. At this late hour, crowds at the Inner Harbor were sparse. Apparently, there were hours when even tourists' dollars dried up. The low clouds, threatening to douse downtown Baltimore in several inches of rain over the next twelve hours, also kept the crowd to a minimum. But once the weather passed, the people would be back, taking in the best the city had to offer—many of them oblivious to the seedy underbelly.

Was Richards part of that underbelly? The older he got, and the more things he did, the less certain he was that the answer was no.

Richards, captain of the Seventh Precinct following a decorated if not complicated career as a uniformed officer and then detective, had long ago convinced himself he was on the right side of the moral divide. He was all too familiar with what dirty cops looked like, and he had never been one of them. But recent actions had him wondering otherwise, as did the bags under his eyes and the near-persistent ache in his chest.

The hacking cough didn't help matters.

Straightening from his latest coughing fit and glancing over his shoulder, Richards let an unlit cigarette hang from his lips. He hadn't lit one in several months, but he hadn't quite gotten over the physical habit of putting one of those cancer sticks in his mouth. And he would be lying if he said the urge to strike a match and end the cold turkey experiment wasn't there.

The person he was waiting for was another line-straddler, and it bothered Richards how comfortable he was with that. He would be the first to admit to doing things he wasn't proud of in recent years. Sleepless nights were becoming more frequent with age, and if he was being honest with himself, Richards was surprised Evelyn hadn't noticed. Because if she had, she would have cornered him and said something. But each morning, they had coffee and breakfast together, and she always saw him off to work with the same smile and kiss on the cheek he had enjoyed for nearly thirty years.

But in recent weeks, that smile had come with a different look in her eyes. Richards couldn't place it, part of him thought he was imagining it. But it haunted him, nonetheless.

Richards reached for a lighter in his pocket, cursing under his breath when he realized there was none. He cursed again, louder this time, admonishing himself for trying to fall off the proverbial wagon. He had already tried to quit six times; this was the time that was supposed to stick. If nothing else, the savings on his life insurance premium should have been motivation enough.

He sighed and stared down at himself. Richards had gained weight since his last cigarette—because apparently, nicotine was an appetite suppressant. Add the fact that most of Richards' meals came in a greasy bag, too late at night, chased with too many snacks and too much alcohol... was it any wonder most in law enforcement eventually faced a litany of health problems?

Those things will kill you, you know, a muffled voice said from behind Richards.

The captain cocked a sideways grin and shook his head. Removing the cigarette from his mouth, he instead tucked it behind his ear. Only if I light 'em.

Silence fell between the two. If it weren't for another gust of wind and a seagull cawing in protest, they would have been surrounded by complete quiet. The night lights of downtown Baltimore were little comfort against the turmoil brewing overhead. Rain began to fall, first in a steady tap tap tap before building into a roaring downpour. Richards rolled his eyes and folded his arms under his cloak.

Don't suppose this is the night you finally tell me who you are, he muttered, raising his voice above the rain.

The figure stood beside Richards, decked in a tan overcoat that reached his knees, a black mask covering the lower half of his face and a wide-brim hat and sunglasses taking care of the rest. Were this the middle of July, such a