Lunatic - Mad Man #6 - Prologue - Ch. 1 (Patreon)

Prologue

Dr. Thomas Mulvaney

“Come with me. He’s this way.”

Dr. Thomas Mulvaney didn’t remove his coat; just increased his pace to match the frantic footsteps of the tiny woman before him. Dr. Magdalena Mendoza. He’d come a long way to meet her. She appeared in distress but, perhaps, she always seemed in a hurry. As she led him through a maze of darkened hallways towards the bowels of the enormous state-funded facility, a shiver slid along his spine. There was no way he would find his way out of there without a map or a guide.

When they reached a place where four hallways intersected, Dr. Mendoza used a key on her belt to unlock a heavy door, leading Thomas to yet another corridor—this one lined with large steel doors with tiny square windows, which one could use to peer inside.

As they walked the halls, the lights within the rooms wavered, like they were in the middle of an electrical storm…or a horror movie. A storm did rage outside. Not one of rain but snow. An electrical storm made sense in a way. Everything about the atmosphere was charged with an almost palpable energy, like static electricity. The air, the lights. Part of him wondered, if he just reached out his hand, would he encounter some kind of invisible barrier?

Even Dr. Mendoza seemed galvanized. Her hands twitched at her sides, her clothing wrinkled and clinging in places, and her frizzy blonde curls fought to escape the clip that contained them. Her chunky heels clicked on the peeling linoleum tiles, the motion lights kicking on as she passed each sensor.

Thomas did his best to keep up with her, forcing himself to pay attention. He blamed his second glass of Chardonnay for his unease and inattentiveness. When Dr. Mendoza abruptly stopped in front of the second to last door, Thomas almost ran into her, startling her and causing her to stumble back a pace or two.

“My apologies,” Thomas murmured, tipping his head.

She wiped her hands over her skirt, like she’d just realized her clothes were rumpled. “This is him,” she said in a clipped tone.

Thomas peeked inside, his eyes going wide. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Inside the room, a chubby boy with thick black curls and dull eyes sat tucked into the farthest reaches of the padded cell. His hair was matted with blood, his previously white sweats saturated with the now browning liquid. It was everywhere.

“It’s for his own safety,” Dr. Mendoza assured him. “The blood isn’t his.”

Thomas studied the boy who sat in the corner, his knees pulled to his chest, swaying side to side as he stared straight ahead, clearly close to catatonia. There was a pull to this boy, but if he was already showing fits of violence, he wouldn’t work for the study. He had to get them before they found a bloodlust.

“Tell me what happened,” Thomas said gruffly. “Whose blood is it?”

The doctor’s face flushed. “Another patient’s. Christopher Kelleher.”

The name rang a bell, but it took Thomas a good thirty seconds to place it. When he did, his stomach sank. “The pedophile?”

It was a famous case. A sadistic seventeen-year-old boy with a history of assaulting and torturing children as young as six. He should have been tried as an adult and gone away for life, but he was a white boy from a wealthy family and a high-priced defense attorney had convinced them a bench trial would be better than a jury of his peers.

Thomas was certain the judge was on the take. It was the only reason for a sadistic pedophile to end up in a level six mental health facility instead of a federal penitentiary. Being under the age of eighteen had landed him right smack in the middle of mentally unwell children right in his preferential age range.

Christopher may have been mentally ill, but he’d known exactly what he was doing when he’d assaulted those children. He’d enjoyed it. He was a narcissist and the worst kind of psychopath.

“Why was this child left alone with a predator?” Thomas finally asked.

Dr. Mendoza flushed, clearly anticipating the question, but squirmed at having to explain herself. “While Christopher was waiting for his therapy appointment, another patient had an incident just outside the office, pulling all the techs and leaving Christopher in the waiting room. Nathaniel was in the playroom next door, waiting for his own therapist.”

“Nathaniel is the boy?”

She nodded, closing her eyes, like she was trying to gather herself together before saying, “He attempted to…assault Nathaniel. He fought back. Viciously.”

Thomas’s heart twisted as he looked in at the small boy. “What does that mean, Dr. Mendoza?”

“When Christopher  attempted to…orally assault the boy, he—” She shivered. “He bit it off.”

Good. “Where is he now?”

“Christopher?” she asked. “Oh, he’s quite dead.”

“Dead? Blood loss?” Thomas questioned.

She nodded. “Yes, but not from the bite…though I suspect that would have eventually killed him as well. But there was a plastic bow and arrow set. You know the kind with the spongy ends that just sort of bounce off?”

Thomas nodded. “Yes?”

“He snapped the arrow in half and then started stabbing at Christopher’s crotch with the jagged plastic. Managed to sever his femoral artery.”

Jesus. “Have you spoken with the boy since the incident?”

She looked in through the window. “We have. Christopher didn’t go down without a fight. He got a few blows to the boy, hence the slight bruising on his face.”

“What did the boy say about the altercation? Was he upset?”

She shook her head slowly. “Nope. He very matter-of-factly told us that he was done letting people touch him like that.”

“He was done letting people touch him like that.” The implications were obvious. Painfully obvious. The boy had clearly been harmed before, likely more than once. “What’s his history?”

“Parents unknown. He was left at a fire station when he was only four days old. He was born addicted to heroin, had a rough start, and was a bit small for his age, but he made up for that rather quickly. He’s been in the same foster home for years. But then his parents called us, saying they couldn’t handle him anymore. They said he’s been wetting the bed, attacking the other children, attempting to harm his parents. They’d been locking him in the closet for his own safety,” she said, her tone implying she didn’t believe their story.

“Was there any hint of a violent nature prior to this altercation with the other patient?” Thomas asked.

Dr. Mendoza’s face was bleak. “No. He’s been with us for a week or so. He’s a quiet, articulate child. He was covered in bruises. They’d clearly been yanking him around and possibly using corporal punishments.”

“Any sign of sexual abuse?” Thomas asked.

She gave a heavy sigh, gazing sadly at the boy through the window. “No overt signs, but with his skittishness and with his declaration after the assault, I imagine there was something like that.”

“Why did you lock him in there if he was calm?”

Dr. Mendoza looked startled. “We didn’t. When the doctor attempted to examine him to ensure Christopher didn’t give him a concussion or hadn’t injured him in some less obvious way, he went crazy. He was yelling, screaming, tearing at his skin, slamming his head into the walls. It took three techs just to get him on the ground to sedate him.”

Thomas’s head snapped around to stare at her. “You sedated him? How old is he? Six?”

“Five,” she said.

“You sedated a five year old?”

Dr. Mendoza’s spine stiffened. “We had no choice. He would have hurt himself.”

Thomas tamped down the rage boiling within him. “I’d like to speak with him, please.”

She gave a wary sigh but opened the door as he asked. “I’ll have to lock you in. But I’ll stay here and watch from the window.”

Thomas nodded absently, no longer focused on the other physician. When he heard the door shut and the lock click back into place, he slowly approached the child.

When he was a foot away, he said, “My name is Thomas. May I sit with you for a moment or two?”

The boy looked up at him, slow blinking. After what seemed like an eternity, he shrugged, pulling himself closer to the corner, almost cowering away from him.

Thomas slowly removed his coat before sitting across from him and laying his coat across his lap, leaving plenty of distance so the boy didn’t feel trapped. “What’s your name?”

The boy shrugged once more. “I don’t remember.”

Thomas frowned. “You don’t remember? The doctor said your name is Nathaniel.”

The boy’s fury was instantaneous, but the drugs kept him from reacting violently. The only true indications of his feelings were the way his face twisted in disgust and the venom in his words as he said, “That’s my foster dad’s name. He’s not nice. I don’t want that name.”

“Well, what name do you want?” Thomas asked.

The boy shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Thomas said but let it go for the time being. “I heard you had a very trying day. Are you okay?”

The boy looked up at him with a frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Someone tried to hurt you. You were forced to defend yourself. How did that make you feel?”

The boy looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “It didn’t make me feel like nothing. I don’t like being touched. He touched me. He wanted to hurt me. Nobody is gonna do that again.” He looked Thomas in the eye, his expression steely. “Ever.”

“Feeling safe is very important,” Thomas said. The boy continued to study him. “What if I told you I could make it so you never feel unsafe again?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, and he began to fidget with his fingers, picking at his cuticles. After a minute, he said, “How?”

Thomas chose his words carefully. “By training you to protect yourself, no matter what—or who—comes at you.” The boy seemed to mull this over, saying nothing. “Would you like to come live with me?”

The boy scrutinized him. “Why?”

Thomas wasn’t surprised by the question. Both Atticus and August had asked the same question. “Because I am looking for sons of my own. You would have two brothers. They’re special, like you. Would you like to come home with me and meet them? If you do, I promise you’ll never feel vulnerable again.”

“I’m not vul-nable,” the boy muttered.

Thomas did his best to hide his smile. “No, you’re certainly not.”

The boy huffed out a breath through his nose, giving Thomas another feral look. “If you hurt me, I’ll kill you, too,” the boy said, his expression fierce. “And them, too.”

Thomas nodded sagely. “Nobody is going to hurt you. But if they do, you have every right to defend yourself, by any means necessary. What do you think? Would you like to come with me?”

“I guess,” the boy said.

“Well, then, there’s just one more thing. A name. If you don’t like Nathaniel, we’ll make you a new one. In my family, we have a tradition where all the siblings in the family have the same first initial. How about a name that starts with A?”

The boy shrugged.

“Do you have any ideas?”

The boy shook his head. “No.”

Thomas ran through a list of A names in his head before his gaze fell to the blood saturating the boy’s clothes and how it had come to be there. “How about Archer?”

The boy’s gaze darted to Thomas, studying him in a way that made him feel a little on edge. Finally, he said, “Yeah, okay.”

“Perfect. Before we can go home, we’re going to have to change your clothes. Would you be willing to shower and get changed so we can get out of this place?”

“Alone?” the boy asked hesitantly.

The question fractured Thomas’s heart. “Yes, alone. Nobody will ever invade your personal space again without your permission. I promise.”

Chapter 1

Archer

“This is, by far, the most important and delicate phase of the project. Of course, we’d want our people in on the planning and implementation,” Thomas Mulvaney said, addressing the man directly across from him.

There were nods around the conference table, a sea of familiar faces—some old, some new— who were all on Thomas’s side.

Beside his father sat Molly Shepherd, the leading expert on not only recognizing psychopathic and sociopathic traits in adolescents but the treatment of those unique pathologies. A unique skill set born of necessity had spawned the project for which they were now all deeply entrenched. Beside her sat her two sons, Jayne and Mackenzie, known as Shep and Mac, respectively.

The man Thomas was trying to convince was Marshall Kendrick, a bored and jaded bureaucrat with the highest level of security clearance and zero tolerance for people questioning him. He stared them all down with an imperiousness that only came from years of government work before giving a disingenuous smile. “Thomas, Molly, I understand your concerns. This project is your baby, but we’ve been raising these subjects—”

“Children,” Molly snapped.

The man waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, children, for fifteen years. I would hope, by now, you would have some faith in our qualifications.”

“No offense,” Archer said, uncapping his bottled water. “But nobody with any sense has faith in their government.”

Kendrick gave Archer a pissy look before running a hand over his black suit jacket. These guys really did like to dress like the Men in Black. They were doing stuff equally as shady, he supposed. Maybe more so. Nobody knew for certain whether aliens were real, but psychopaths? Those were real. Archer should know. He was one.

“We’ve created every aspect of this project,” Molly reminded them. “But this is where we see our social proof. This is where we let them off their respective leashes and make sure the training worked. We will not agree to allowing government agents to handle this last phase of the study. It has to be our people. That’s non-negotiable.”

“One misstep could ruin everything,” Thomas added.

“They’ll never agree to that,” Kendrick said.

“Bullshit,” Shep muttered. “Don’t act as if you don’t have complete and total control over how this project is staffed and run.”

“And don’t act like there’s not a room full of suits just like you listening to every word we say right now,” Archer added.

“We’re not buying a used car. Stop pretending that you have some manager in the back you have to clear this with. The buck stops with you. All of you. We’re not leaving here until you agree with our terms,” Shep said with a cold stare.

Kendrick’s lips twitched in an aborted smile. “I find it rather amusing you both have brought your children to fight your battles for you. If I had known, I would have pulled my son from his eighth grade field trip to Magic Mountain so he could play, too.”

“Is your son also a psychopath, Mr. Kendrick?”

They all turned to the man who had spoken. He was intimidating, even by Archer’s standards. He stood at six foot, but he was a wall of muscle, like a defensive lineman. He had a bald head, a full beard, and umber skin that contrasted deliciously with his perfectly tailored white button-down.

“Who are you again?” Kendrick said, tone chilly.

“Jackson Avery,” the man answered, flashing an equally frigid smile.

He was another piece in the weirdly incestuous puzzle that was Project Watchtower, known to those on the inside as The Watch.

“Jackson is the owner of a global security agency called Elite Protection Services, outfitted with former special ops soldiers and highly trained former law enforcement agents,” Thomas said, giving Jackson a nod.

In addition to that, Jackson was the on-paper employer of the Mulvaney’s off-book hacker, Calliope Castellanos. As if that wasn’t confusing enough, Jayne Shepherd, the son of Molly Shepherd, had once worked security for Jackson, which was how they all became hopelessly knotted together.

“And what does that have to do with The Watch?” Kendrick asked.

“You’re going to need highly specialized operatives for this last phase. Those with not just military training but the knowledge to guide a legion of young psychopaths.”

Jackson had brought the Vice President of his company along for the meeting, another intimidating specimen known as Lincoln Hudson. He was taller than his boss, with a high and tight haircut, a five o’clock shadow, and a face that said fuck around and find out.

“Why would I need you for that, exactly?” Kendrick asked.

Linc’s mouth was a grim line. “Because you also need people who can help calibrate the moral compass of those same psychopathic young adults and, no offense, but no deep cover operative is going to have the judgment or restraint needed to accomplish the task.”

Yeah, no doubt both Jackson and Linc were sexy. Definitely sexy enough to tempt even Archer. But both men were married, their respective spouses lounging by the pool somewhere. In fact, everybody at that table had a wedding ring, except one man: Mac Shepherd.

The proverbial thorn in Archer’s side. As morally righteous as a saint, but goddamn, if he didn’t fuck like a sinner. Archer snarled internally as his mind began to wander. This was the third time since meeting that they’d been in a room together. And the first time one or both of them had managed to keep their clothes on. But never again. Ever. Ever, he emphasized to himself, hoping his dick got the message.

“For the Watch to be successful, you need someone who can guide these young men into making the right choices. But you also need men who can ensure their technique is sound, their alibis are tight, and that their relationships with their handlers are…appropriate,” Mac said, his gaze flicking to Archer, then back to Kendrick.

Archer snorted. It was no secret that Mac found Archer to be less than appropriate as a ‘handler.’ He was certain Mac had gotten more than his fill of psychopaths sharing DNA with one—his twin brother, Shep. But that hadn’t stopped him from letting Archer blow him in a hotel conference room or Mac bending him over the desk at the new Watch facilities. Fuck. He definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that.

Archer tried to adjust himself as discreetly as possible beneath the table. Mac wasn’t even Archer’s type. He liked younger, deviant types. Pretty boy dancers and porn stars. Mackenzie Shepherd was one step above a choir boy and pushing mid-forty. He was also tall and sleekly muscled with shocking red hair, a mass of freckles, and eyes so molten gold, Archer had sworn they were contacts. But no, Mac was just a goddamn unicorn with pretty eyes, a huge dick, and a fucking conscience that would make Jiminy Cricket look like Ted Bundy.

“What is it you’re proposing, exactly?” Kendrick asked.

“Molly and I want total control of the program. The curriculum, the cases, the staffing. You get all the research, all the glory, and you get to bring us the targets. But we vet them first.”

“Absolutely not,” Kendrick barked. “You’re fucking mad.” At the raised brows he received, the man scowled even harder. “Ugh, you know what I mean. This is a government run project.”

“No,” Thomas snapped. “This is a government funded project. Up until this leg of the project, we determined the children, who raised them, and how they were raised. We chose their schooling, assessed their strengths, chose the best candidates to get to phase three, and determined how best to handle the…failures. This is our project. These are our children. Don’t push me on this. I do not need your money to fund this project.”

“But you do need our research,” Molly added.

“We could just simply continue the study without either of you. I think we’re more than capable of taking it from here,” Kendrick said, tone snide.

Thomas scoffed. “I’ve raised six psychopaths to be the most effective, deep cover agents to ever exist. They move between their public life and their private duties effortlessly. They’ve managed to find partners, and one of my sons even has children. I did that. Molly did that. And, not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Kendrick, but I also cleaned up your mess when you asked me to. How is your son, by the way?”

“Matthew? He’s—” Kendrick cut himself off, face turning eggplant purple with fury as he realized exactly to whom Thomas referred.

The others appeared confused. All but Molly. Archer had sussed out years ago that Kendrick was Aiden’s biological father. How he’d come to end up in Thomas’s care at the age of sixteen was still an unsolved mystery. One Archer didn’t care enough about to look into. Though, after seeing Kendrick’s face, perhaps he was more interested then he’d been just two minutes prior.

Kendrick’s phone rang. He glanced down at it, and the color drained from his face. He picked it up and answered it. “Yes?”

They all sat and watched as he listened. “Yes, sir,” he said, just before hanging up.

When he spoke again, his voice was far more composed. “How is it you plan on running this program?” He pointed to Thomas. “You’re a billionaire, who is always in the spotlight.” He pointed to Molly. “And you split your time between teaching and the lecture circuit. How do you plan on giving this the attention it needs?”

“Simple,” Thomas said. “We pick the two people we trust most to make those decisions in our stead. My son, Archer, will run the program with Molly’s son, Mac.”

Kendrick looked at each of them in turn. “Your son, the drunken gambler, is your pick? Really?”

Archer grinned. “The rumors of my drinking have been greatly exaggerated, as you well know,” he said with a wave of his hand.

That was an understatement. Well, more a fabrication, a carefully crafted persona to hide Archer’s true mission—liaison between the government players and his busy father. High stakes poker games in shady back rooms hid a lot of sins. As for why he kept this persona in place even with his brothers? That was harder to say. At this point, he’d been lying to them for so long it seemed rude to tell them the truth now.

“Fair enough. I suppose it makes sense with him being a psychopath and all, but what exactly are your qualifications, Mr. Shepherd? Weren’t you a…nature photographer?”

Archer shifted in his seat, uncertain why the man’s condescending tone towards Mac irritated him so much.

Mac didn’t so much as bat an eyelash before flashing a grin that did things to Archer’s insides and saying, “I’m still a photographer. However, before I became an award-winning wildlife photographer, I was a highly decorated soldier who did two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. I’m also a skilled survivalist, a tenth degree black belt in Judo, and I speak three languages. One of which is psychopath.”

“Is that all?” Kendrick asked drolly.

Archer was tempted to pipe up and mention he fucked like a porn star, but with a resume like Mac’s, it seemed unnecessary and in poor taste given the company.

“He’s also an exceptional cook,” Shep said, clearly not agreeing.

If anybody else had said it, Archer would have thought he was being sarcastic, but Shep wasn’t built that way. Like August, he was sometimes more android than human. Mac most definitely got all the sarcasm.

Kendrick rubbed his hands over his face. “You know what? Fine. You want these two in charge,” he said, pointing to Archer and Mac. “Fine. But I approve all staff brought in by them.” He thumbed a finger at Jackson and Linc. “I’m also bringing in my own team. There are seven men. All former agents, all highly trained handlers. That’s non-negotiable. We roundtable monthly for progress reports, and this program needs to be fully operational in less than six months.”

Thomas and Molly exchanged glances. She shrugged. Finally, Thomas looked at the man and said, “Done.”

“Excellent,” Kendrick muttered, already standing.

“How quickly can you get us your agents’ files to review for the onboarding process?” Jackson asked. Kendrick glowered at him, but Jackson was unflappable. “They’ll have to be vetted just like our men. Besides, there’s going to be a learning curve for all of us. It behooves us to know their strengths and weaknesses before that begins.”

“I’ll have my secretary get you their files as soon as…” Kendrick started then trailed off.

“As soon as what?” Linc asked.

Kendrick sighed, his words tight with irritation. “As soon as I get them to agree to this insanity.”

As soon as Kendrick left, the group stirred. There was a small amount of small talk and plans to all meet up for dinner, then they all made their way to the conference room exit. Somehow, Archer and Mac were the last ones to leave the room. He was almost to the door when large hands slid into the back pockets of his jeans, dragging him back against him.

“What are you doing?” Archer asked, his treacherous dick already hardening behind his zipper.

“Giving you my room key,” Mac murmured, slipping the plastic card into his back pocket. “I miss hearing you moan.”

What a fucking asshole. “As I recall, it was you moaning, not me. Hard to tell with all the heavy breathing. You should really try adding some cardio. Your stamina needs a little work.”

Mac pressed his lips to Archer’s ear. “Hard to maintain any composure around you when you go to your knees for me so fucking easily. When you bend over for me so fucking readily.”

Archer’s heart was slamming against his ribs, and he wasn’t sure whether he was turned on or infuriated. Probably both. “Go fuck yourself,” Archer murmured calmly.

Mac snickered. “Why would I fuck myself, when I’ll be balls deep in you in an hour or so?”

Archer rolled his eyes, pulling the room key from his pocket and attempting to give it to Mac, who ignored it. “Sorry, Tarzan. It’s you and your hand tonight.”

Mac slipped past him in the doorway, rubbing against him in the most obvious way possible. “See you in an hour.”

“You’re fucking mental,” Archer told him, following him down the hallway, room key held before him. “And I need a fucking drink.”

“I thought the rumors of your drinking were ‘greatly exaggerated,’” Mac teased, pushing the button for the elevator. Archer took the opportunity to stick the room key back in Mac’s pocket, unable to ignore the thick outline of his cock in those faded jeans.

“You make being sober a chore,” Archer muttered.

Mac stepped onto the elevator, turning to face Archer, who stayed where he was. When Mac realized Archer wasn’t joining him, he sighed, pressing the hold button. “You know, for a psychopath, you sure do take the fun out of casual sex.”

Archer smirked. “For somebody whose brother is a psychopath, you’d think you’d know better than to taunt one.”

Mac grinned, letting go of the hold button. “My brother isn’t a psychopath, he’s a high functioning sociopath. And I like to live dangerously.” The doors were almost closed when he tossed his room key back at Archer, who caught it reflexively. “See you in an hour.”