The Dragon Factory

by Jonathan Maberry

  “We could use a quarterback sneak.”

  “Copy that. On our way.”

  We ran down the hallway, passing several bullet-riddled bodies and the signs of mass panic. A lot of people had fled this way, dropping coffee cups and clipboards and trampling the dead.

  We slowed. If Redman had heard our gunfire and could tell the difference between M4s and either the H&Ks used by the Dragon Factory guards or the Kalashnikovs carried by the Russians, then so could whoever they were fighting. The corridor was a long curve and the ambush was exactly where you’d expect it to be—at the sharpest point of the curve where decorative potted trees provided cover.

  Top and I tossed our party favors at them and the fragmentation grenades ripped the ambush to pieces.

  “Hopscotch!” I called, giving today’s code.

  “Jump rope!” It was Redman’s voice.

  We moved around the bend as his people came out from behind the meager cover they had found. Only six of Alpha Team could walk. Two were badly wounded—one with multiple gunshot wounds to the legs and the other with a facial lacerations from flying glass. A third—a new transfer from the SEALs—lay in the kind of sprawl that only looks like what it is.

  “Report,” I said. “Where’s your commander?”

  Redman turned toward the heavy portal. “She saw something and went in there just as the alarms kicked in. The door swung shut automatically.”

  “Any sign of Cyrus Jakoby . . . ?”

  “From the way the major went diving into that room, I think she must have seen something.”

  “Can you open it?” Top asked.

  “Sure, if I had two hours and a lot of C4.”

  I pointed. “There’s a keypad. Uplink to Bug and get him on it. If that thing has a computer control then let’s put MindReader to work on it.”

  “Yo!” called Bunny from the sharp bend in the hallway. “We got company.”

  “How many?”

  “A shitload. We’re about to get outnumbered really fast.”

  I cast a desperate look at the closed hatch. There was no time to break through. Damn it to hell. The advancing Russians began firing and bullets tore through the air, the ricochets turning the hallway into a killing floor.

  “Fall back!” I shouted, pulling on Alpha Team members and shoving them down the hallway toward a set of exit doors. Bunny picked up one of the wounded and ran with him as lightly as if the soldier was a little child. Two other Alpha Team operatives grabbed the second. We had to leave the dead for now. Alpha Team looked hurt and angry. They didn’t want to leave Grace behind any more than I did, but there was no way we could hold this position.

  We fired, we threw grenades, but we yielded ground yard by yard, letting ourselves be driven around the curving hallway until we could no longer see the hatch.

  No bullets hit me, but as I backed around the corner I felt like I’d taken a fatal wound to the heart.

  Grace.

  Chapter One Hundred Fifteen

  The Chamber of Myth

  Tuesday, August 31, 2:23 A.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 33 hours, 37 minutes E.S.T.

  Grace moved behind the rows of exotic plants, closing on the Jakobys in a wide circle. The artificial terrain was uneven, and at times she had to tuck her pistol into her belt in order to climb a rock or up and down a ravine. Mammals and birds scattered from her and at first Grace took no notice of them, but then a creature stepped briefly into her path that froze her heart and almost tore a cry of surprise from her lips. The creature had the twisted legs of a goat, a roughly manlike torso, black bat wings, spiked horns, and a grinning face that was out of ancient nightmares.

  It was a gargoyle.

  Grace stared, not knowing what to do. She forced herself to remember where she was. These people made monsters. This was just another perversion of transgenic science . . . but a wave of atavistic fear gripped her heart as the monster climbed onto a rock and stared down at her with bottomless black eyes.

  Then, in the space of a few seconds, Grace’s perception changed. The gargoyle was three feet tall, and it moved with an awkward jerkiness of limb that looked clumsy and painful. As Grace moved slowly up the slope, the creature scuttled away, but it threw a single penetrating look at her before it disappeared under a fern. In that moment, though, Grace saw a human intelligence in the lustrous black eyes and a depth of horrified self-awareness that chilled her to the bone. In some grotesque way the transgenic animal was partly human, and that fragment of its mind was totally aware of its own wretched nature. Sadness crashed down on her as she stared after it. Then a moment later the sadness was overwhelmed by a burning fury as the enormity of this abomination of nature struck her. She set her jaw and drew her weapon and continued her hunt for the real monsters here in this chamber.

  She tried to contact the TOC or Joe, but all she got from the earbud was a low-level buzz. A jammer. It must have kicked in when the building went on alert. Grace hoped that Church would realize what was happening and order the drop of the E-bomb.

  Grace found a path that looked like it was used by the groundskeeping staff and she ran along this, circling closer and closer, trying to hear the conversation. Eventually she moved into a natural blind formed by the edge of a decorative waterfall and there she stopped. The waterfall was built over rock, but the back was clearly made from painted metal. She ran her hands along it and found the edges of a doorway fitted so snugly into the façade that it was virtually invisible. A door or an access panel of some kind. She filed it away for later.

  Grace could see all six of the people in the room. She recognized the Jakoby Twins easily enough—tall, white as snow, and beautiful. The brute standing near them was one of the transgenic guards, though he was bigger than any of the others she’d seen. The two older men were strangers, but she felt that it was safe to guess that one of them was Cyrus Jakoby and the other possibly Otto Wirths. The last of the men there startled her and also made her feel like the earth was shifting under her feet.

  If the photos Mr. Church had shown were correct, then this was Gunnar Haeckel.

  Or Hans Brucker.

  Both of whom were dead.

  So . . . who was the tall man with the calculating expression? Another clone?

  Clones, transgenics monsters, ethnic-specific pathogens.

  She was surrounded by monsters.

  Grace drew her pistol and leaned close to listen.

  “—YOUR LITTLE MAGIC castle is about to come tumbling down,” said Cyrus Jakoby.

  Hecate sneered. “You may find that more difficult than you imagine, Father. We’re not exactly vulnerable here.”

  “Which is why we brought enough muscle to sweep past whatever defenses you have,” said Otto.

  “Maybe,” said Paris. “And maybe your guns for hire are about to encounter a few surprises.”

  “The teams know about your Berserkers. Ape DNA does not provide protection from armor-piercing rounds.”

  Paris smiled. “No, but the Berserkers are not the only defenses we have. You’ll see.”

  Otto gave a small shrug. “Yes, we’ll see.”

  “What I want to know,” said Hecate, “is why you’re doing this. Why attack us at all?”

  “Retribution, Miss Jakoby. You attacked the Hive.”

  “The Hive? What the hell’s the ‘Hive’?” said Paris.

  “In Costa Rica?” prompted Otto, but the Twins shook their heads.

  Cyrus studied both of the Twins, checking body language and eye movement. He frowned. “You really didn’t attack the Hive,” he concluded.

  “We still don’t know what it is.”

  Cyrus didn’t elaborate. His expression, at first bemused, quickly darkened. “Then what happened to Eighty-two? Who hit the Hive? Who took him?”

  “It had to be a military hit.” Otto frowned. “Question is . . . which government?”

  “Could be Germany,” suggested Cyrus savagely. “Our former homeland would love to see
our heads on pikes. Or it could be the Americans.”

  “Then why didn’t they hit the Deck, too?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “If the military took the Hive, then it’s possible that Eighty-two was killed along with the rest of the staff.”

  “It would be better than being taken.” Otto’s voice said one thing, but his eyes conveyed a different message. All of the psychological profiles that had been done on Eighty-two had indicated that the boy did not have a predatory nature, that he lacked the strength to be a killer. It was so anomalous a finding that Cyrus had refused to accept it, had killed the testing doctors, had made Otto try over and over again to prove that Eighty-two was truly a part of the Family, that the boy’s loyalties were not a “given.” Now this belief could possibly be put to the test under interrogation by the United States. The boy could already have broken. Military forces could be closing in on the Deck even now.

  Cyrus looked deeply hurt and it took him a moment to master his voice enough to speak. “We have to move up the timetable for the release.”

  “The real question,” interrupted Hecate, “is why you sent assassins here to kill us.”

  “Only one of you.”

  “Why?” she insisted.

  “Call it a Darwinist experiment.”

  “What . . . you’d use the murder of one to identify which of us had the greater survival instinct and then try to bargain with the survivor?”

  Cyrus applauded. “You see, Otto? I always said that she was the smarter twin.”

  “You miserable old prick,” growled Paris. His hand strayed toward his pocket.

  Instantly Conrad Veder pulled his pistol and pointed it at Paris. The movement was so fast and fluid that the weapon seemed to appear in his hand as if by magic.

  “Make no mistake,” said Cyrus, “Conrad will blow your head off if I tell him to. Now pull that dart gun with two fingers and throw it in the pond. You, too, Hecate. And tell your pet ape to stay exactly where he is.”

  Tonton curled his lip. “That little popgun won’t do shit.”

  Veder’s face was neutral. “There’s a simple way to find out.”

  Cyrus chuckled. “Kill anyone who moves, Conrad.”

  The Berserker held his ground. Paris carefully removed his gas dart gun and threw it away as ordered. It made a splash near the dead sea serpent.

  “Father,” said Hecate, ignoring Veder’s pistol and the order to dispose of her own, “what do you want from us? Why come here? Why tell us all of this now? Why spring it on us rather than bring us in?”

  “Those are the right questions, my pet,” said Cyrus, nodding approval. “I’ll bet Paris didn’t even think to ask. This is quite simple, Hecate. You have to make a choice. The Extinction Wave is going to launch.” He fished a device from beneath his shirt, an oversized flash drive attached to a silk lanyard. “This sends the codes that will begin an irrevocable change. Truly only the strong will survive. Granted, you’re white and you’ve been engineered to be immune to any of the pathogens or genetic diseases we’re using, but afterward there will be war as I said. The strongest will survive. Otto and I have prepared for the war. We will survive. If you join with us—willingly join with us—then you can share in the benefits of our protection, and together, as one Family, we can usher in the New Order.”

  “Join you?” said Hecate distantly.

  “You’re fucking nuts,” said Paris. “You stand there and tell us that you started the AIDS epidemic. You brag about that? Then you say that you want to kill four-fifths of the people in the world?”

  “More like six-sevenths,” Cyrus said.

  “Jesus Christ. You think this is a frigging joke? You’re trying to destroy the world.”

  “We’re not trying to do anything,” said Otto. “We are going to remake it.”

  Paris spit on the ground in front of Cyrus. “I hate you,” he snarled. “I hate that I have your blood in my veins. I hate—”

  “Shut up, Paris.”

  Everyone turned toward the person who spoke.

  Hecate.

  Her blue eyes were laced with veins of hot gold.

  “What . . . what did you . . . ?” Paris said.

  “I told you to shut up,” she said. “Father’s right. When you open your mouth you embarrass yourself. You embarrass the Family.”

  Paris stepped close to her but pointed at Cyrus. “Have you lost your mind, too? Are you subscribing to this bullshit? Are you saying that you support this fucking monster—”

  Hecate struck him across the face. It wasn’t a slap. She punched him so hard and fast that he spun in place, his jaw knocked out of shape, teeth flying from between his rubbery lips. He stood erect for a trembling moment and then he collapsed to his knees, blood gushing from his shattered mouth. His eyes rolled high and white and he fell forward onto the grass.

  Everyone stared at her in shock. Hecate stepped over her brother’s body and walked over to her father and only stopped when their faces were inches apart. Veder shifted slightly to keep his weapon on her. Otto stood apart, his face still registering shock and uncertainty.

  Hecate leaned close to her father until her lips were an inch from his ears.

  “Father,” she said. “Why wait until tomorrow? If we’re going to burn the world down . . . why not start right now?”

  And she kissed him on the cheek.

  Cyrus Jakoby’s chest hitched with a sob that broke the stillness of the moment. He threw his arms around Hecate and crushed her to his chest.

  “My pet,” he said, tears filling his eyes.

  GRACE COURTLAND STEPPED out from behind the waterfall and raised her gun in a two-hand grip.

  “This is all bloody touching,” she said, “but you have two seconds to give me that bloody trigger device before I blow your twisted brains all over the landscape.”

  AND THEN THE lights went out.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

  The Dragon Factory

  Tuesday, August 31, 2:24 A.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 33 hours, 36 minutes E.S.T.

  The exit doors were steel and we made our stand there. The Russians kept coming. The hallway was choked with them, and the front rank held ballistic shields. They advanced as far as the hatch and then held their ground. It was clearly their target and they had the manpower to take and hold it. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but I heard the whine of a high-power drill. I never did find out if they brought it with them or found it on the premises, but they were attacking the hatch.

  I tapped my earbud.

  “Cowboy to Deacon.”

  “Go for Deacon.”

  “We’re taking heavy fire and casualties.” I gave him the bad news about Grace. “There’s no way to know if the trigger device has been activated. If you have the cavalry out there, now’s the time to blow the bugle.”

  “They’re already inbound. Three DMS teams are on the island. Quicksilver Team has taken the south beach. India and Hardball teams are on the docks. SEAL team Six is five minutes out.”

  “The trigger device . . .”

  “We can’t take any more chances, Cowboy. We have to take out the electronics.”

  That would fry the active team communication as well, and we both knew it. But he was right. We were out of options.

  “Do it!” I yelled.

  Bullets hammered the metal doors and I had to shout to my men. “Church is launching the EMP. We’re going to go radio dark in a few minutes!”

  It was not good news. In the dark with no radio, in a firefight where everyone was wearing black BDUs, friendly fire was quickly going to become as much of a threat as enemy fire.

  Top leaned close to me. “If those Spetsnaz sonsabitches get through that hatch . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

  “We saw guards come up from downstairs,” said Bunny. “Maybe there’s a way to flank these bozos.”

  I grabbed Redman and pulled him close.

  “Hold this position. I’m going to tak
e Echo Team downstairs and see if we can come up on the far side, catch these assholes in a cross fire. DMS and SEAL teams are on the island and have been apprised of your position.” He started to protest, but I cut him off. “Protect your wounded and hold this end of the hall. We have to get back to that hatch. Everything depends on it.”

  “Don’t stop for coff ee on the way, Captain,” said Redman.

  I gave him a wink and dashed down the stairs with Top and Bunny on my heels.

  WE WENT DOWN two flights of metal stairs, going so fast that we pushed the envelope of safety on the corners. We knew our backs were protected, so all of us had our M4s pointed down. When a guard actually did step out we cut him to ribbons before he got off a single shot.

  The security door on the next landing down was locked. Bunny tried to pick it, but even though the tumblers moved, the door held fast.

  “Must be a drop bar or something,” he said.

  “Let’s go one more level down and if that doesn’t work we’ll come back up and try to blow the door.”

  We moved down two more flights into the underbelly of the building. Maintenance level. Poorly lighted, the ceiling crisscrossed with pipes, big generators rumbling with subdued thunder. It was hot and moist down here, and water dripped from the ceiling. The maintenance floor had a security door, too, but it was propped open with a chair. An ashtray and a copy of Popular Mechanics lay on the floor. God bless the lazy janitors everywhere. Once inside we found a second door that was similarly blocked, but there was a draft here and the sound of distant gunfire. I shined my flashlight up and saw a long concrete utility ramp that went all the way to the surface.

  “Wait here,” I said, and ran up the slope. There was a heavy grilled outer door set with a pivoting drop bar, but the bar was in the upright position and the door stood up and open. I peered out and saw the backs of at least fifty Russians engaged in a firefight with some other force. From the ramp I couldn’t tell if they were fighting the Dragon Factory guards or our own boys, and I was in no position to participate in this fight. So I retraced my steps and found Top and Bunny.