A trio of college-aged men stumbled into the bar, their eyes bloodshot and their breath smelling of hard liquor. The man in the lead rolled his head from side to side, taking in the patrons around him. His gaze landed upon a woman standing close to the bar, and he stumbled forward. He gripped her dress with one hand and lifted it to peek beneath.
His friends laughed, and the woman slapped his hand away. This made his friends laugh harder, and the man’s face contorted with rage. He grabbed the woman by her sleeve and pulled her in close, then began whispering threats in her ear.
Jarrod shot to his feet, but the Mental Conditioning convinced him to stay put. He watched through dark eyes as the man’s friends grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him away. Within seconds, four other men and women had stepped in and were threatening to throw the drunkard out if he didn’t fix his behavior.
Jarrod settled into his seat and exhaled. His emotions created physiological responses that his meticulously crafted body was not designed for. He found it difficult to hold back when every flash of anger was accompanied by more than a dozen strategies to kill or incapacitate everyone in sight. But his conditioning, better judgment, and a small voice inside him always held him back—at least when there were innocent people involved.
Jarrod held the vodka in his hands. He rotated the glass, watching the light shimmer through the distilled liquid. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it, feeling the warmth travel down his throat. He longed to drink his pain away—to feel his emotions grow dull with intoxication. But he couldn’t. The microscopic machines permeating every square inch of his body wouldn’t allow it. He set the glass down and turned his head in response to a subtle pressure change. A man with deeply-tanned skin and a blue polyester jacket pulled the door open and stepped into the pub. His attire and haircut portrayed gentility, but his gait was that of a convict skulking through a prison yard. He paused to scan the room, then proceeded in Jarrod’s direction.
People crowding the bar studied the newcomer and his companions. Two women, dressed in tight-fitting clothes, followed behind him. Their bodies were beautiful—curvaceous yet athletic, supple yet strong—but their faces were drawn, tired, and artificial.
As the trio drew nearer, Jarrod inhaled sharply. He tasted the women’s perfume, and the subtle exocrine secretions beneath. His brain worked on autopilot, identifying and categorizing the scents. With each revelation, the muscles in his back tightened a little more.
The Mental Conditioning reminded him to appear casual, and he poured some of the water from the pitcher into his vodka glass. He drained the glass, refilled it, and drained it again.
The pimp leaned against the bar and ordered an expensive drink. The prostitutes he had brought along stood with their hips against his side, smiling like Cheshire cats. When the bartender returned with the man’s drink, he nodded and took a sip, then turned to look for his newest customer. His eyes settled on Jarrod, and he smiled.
Jarrod took the cue, leaving his drink on the bar and approaching the pimp. He stopped a few feet away and eyed the younger of the two girls.
“Are you Mikael?” the pimp asked.
Jarrod nodded.
The pimp grinned and put his arms around the prostitutes. “So…what do you think?”
“They are beautiful,” Jarrod answered with a slight Swedish accent. “How old are they?”
“Eighteen,” the man replied quickly. “Did you bring cash?”
“Yes.” Jarrod dug into his pocket and withdrew a neatly folded envelope.
The pimp took it from him and looked inside at the crisp stack of pounds. He gave a satisfied nod and tucked the bundle into his pocket. “You want them both, I assume?”
“I do.”
The prostitutes smiled and left the pimp’s side. They circled around Jarrod and hooked their arms beneath his.
The pimp turned away and leaned against the bar. “I’ll have a car pick them up at the hotel. Have fun, but don’t leave any bruises, understand?”
“Of course.” Jarrod clasped his hands in front of his waist. “I do have a few more questions, though.”
The pimp scowled and looked over his shoulder. “Fine, just make it quick.”
“How many customers do these girls service every night? Five? Ten?”
The man’s eyes widened. “That is none of your damn business.”
“Do you think they enjoy being raped for a living?”
The pimp turned on his heel and leaned in close to Jarrod’s face; the prostitutes took a step back.
“Listen, you sympathetic sack of shit, everything these girls do is consensual—”
“No, it isn’t,” Jarrod interrupted. “I can smell their fear, their disgust. They don’t want me or any of the other men you force on them.”
The pimp took a deep breath, then straightened his jacket. “We’re done here. I’ll consider your payment as a formal apology and let you walk out of here alive.”
Jarrod grabbed the man by the collar and whispered, “I died fourteen months ago. You have nothing to threaten me.”
Gritting his teeth, the pimp gave a sharp nod. Three men pushed away from the bar and gripped Jarrod by his shoulders. Jarrod let go of the man and brought his hands to his sides.
“You think you’re the first gym-rat bleeding heart I’ve come across?” the pimp sneered. “You probably think it’s chivalry, like you’re some damn knight in shining armor. Well I’ve got news for you, asshole: you can’t save these girls. No one can.”
“I’m not here to save them,” Jarrod growled. “I’m here for you.”
A chemical reaction in Jarrod’s brain sparked a message that traveled to his spine, then through pores in his skin. Conducted by nano machinery, the message reacted with the black, semi-liquid armor on his shoulders. It provided instructions to reshape and solidify, and three black spikes jutted up, piercing the hands restraining him.
The pimp’s hired thugs roared in pain and tried to pull their hands away, but needle-like hooks grew out of the black spikes and held them in place.
Black tendrils crawled up Jarrod’s neck, gradually covering his entire head. The pimp staggered backward, and Jarrod followed, dragging all three thugs along with him.
“What the hell—” the pimp gasped. He tripped over a bar stool and fell, but Jarrod caught him with a clawed hand.
Drunken patrons reacted to the scene, backing away or turning to run. Jarrod lifted the pimp like he was nothing but a hollow shell and breathed on him. “Tell me why I should let you live.”
The pimp leaned his head back and sputtered, “I—I’m just a businessman. I give the customers what they want, that’s all.”
Jarrod paused for a moment, then said, “You’re just fulfilling a need?”
The man nodded emphatically. “Yes.”
Jarrod’s voice dropped, rumbling with animal cruelty. “So am I.” The fingers on his other hand elongated into black, curved talons, which he thrust into the pimp’s face, piercing the eyes and hooking his thumb through the soft palate of the upper jaw. With a forceful tug, he removed half of the pimp’s face and tossed it aside.
Screams filled the narrow pub, and everyone but the pimp’s guards stampeded toward the exits.
5
Baltimore, Maryland
When Audrey Stokes betrayed Katharos and turned herself in, she didn’t expect to be given royal treatment by Daron Keeler and his team, but this was simply inhumane.
Originally, she had arrived on the doorstep of a luxurious government safehouse. It had taken her days of persuading, seducing, and blackmailing four men from the CIA to even learn the general vicinity of the safehouse. Then she had to patrol the neighborhood for hours before she could pinpoint the correct address. She had prided herself with the discovery—Emily Roberts had employed the world’s most powerful cyber warfare assets and didn’t have a clue where the house was—and she looked forward to living in the mansion while she provided intelligence to the black-ops team. Then,
in an act of utter paranoia, Daron Keeler ordered the house evacuated. He moved all the residents to a secret hideout and relocated his team to a dumpy trailer park on the outskirts of Baltimore.
Audrey stopped pacing around her “bedroom” and stretched out on her “bed.” Daron had given her a musty room with no windows, a few changes of clothes, and a cot to sleep on. Then, to add insult to injury, he only allowed her to use the bathroom three times per day, and under the watch of a stone-faced guard. She stared up at the ceiling and sighed. She was supposed to be in protective custody, not prison. The boredom was driving her insane, and Daron wouldn’t even let her talk to the guards.
A smile crept across her face. Daron was smarter than he let on. If he had allowed her to mingle with the guards, she would inevitably toy with their heads. Manipulating and lying to strangers were among her favorite pastimes. Once, during a Katharos training exercise, she had flirted with her instructor until he finally agreed to show her his genitals. Then, she belittled him so viciously and repeatedly about the appearance of his manhood that he put her in for a transfer to a different facility. She repeated variations of the same strategy with the most powerful men she could find until she was promoted to a position as a Katharos base commander. Her meteoric rise and glowing recommendations caught the attention of prominent Katharos members stationed in Siberia, who flew her out to their underground lair and groomed her for leadership.
She frowned at the memory. The pilgrimage to Katharos headquarters had been bittersweet. They had given her access to secrets and power beyond her wildest dreams, but they had also used her in one of their experiments. Lukas Woodfall, one of the founding members of the organization, had secretly injected her with a vaccine that altered her body chemistry. She soon lost every trace of her libido and any desire to become a mother. The changes were subtle, but she gradually noticed the loss of her sex drive. She started spying on Lukas, eventually hacking into his computer and discovering the truth.
Though she was furious at first, she came to embrace the change. She had enjoyed sex, but not nearly as much as she enjoyed toying with people’s emotions. With no need or desire for physical intimacy, she found it easier to manipulate a growing number of lovers. She was a sociopath, through and through, and Lukas had inadvertently exacerbated her condition.
She had left Siberia and returned to the United States as the Katharos Regional Director of Operations. Using the authority afforded to her by her new position, she scoured the depths of her organization, collecting secrets that she could later use as leverage. What she discovered shook her to the core.
For years, she had been indoctrinated with the Katharos dream for a new world—a paradise for every living person. She expected to join a wealthy oligarchy as Katharos rose to power and crushed the rest of mankind beneath its boot. But the classified communications between key members of the organization revealed something different. The plan was slow, methodical, and mind-numbing. Borya Tabanov, the supreme leader of Katharos, wanted to wipe out mankind over hundreds of years, making room for a new, immortal species of humans—Homo aeturnum. He planned to upset global trade and plunge nearly eight billion people into poverty. Worst of all, there were no documented plans to save the tens of thousands of Katharos agents in the field from ruin and starvation.
The new species, Homo aeturnum, would flower within the Palace in Siberia and inherit the skeletal remains of the earth.
Audrey’s smile returned. But not if I can help it.
She was no friend of Daron or his barbarians, and she loathed being locked up. But things would change. She felt confident that she could gain their trust and improve her living conditions. And, if she was careful, she might have some fun along the way.
Eugene ignored the gnats buzzing around his head in the mid-morning light. He lay perfectly still, his body obscured by knee-high grass. His eyes stared unrelenting at the aluminum screen door.
Any second now, he told himself. Sensing his target’s approach, his hand slid toward a cluster of grenades near his waist. His fingers closed around the imprecise weapon, and he sat back on his heels.
The screen door opened, and Eugene tensed. A child ran out, bounding off the porch and into the sunlight. A woman in her fifties followed after, smiling at the child’s exuberance.
Eugene set his teeth. This is no time to worry about collateral damage. You’ve come too far to let this opportunity slip through your fingers.
The screen door opened an inch, and Eugene held his breath. He could hear the man’s deep voice inside the house, though he couldn’t make out the words.
His last words, Eugene thought.
The man pushed the door the rest of the way open and placed his hands on his hips. The light glinted off the silver in his salt-and-pepper hair, and his lips stretched to reveal a dazzling smile.
Though the woman and child were still close by, Eugene didn’t hesitate. He got to one knee and lobbed the grenade at his target. The green orb spun end-over-end, following a wide arc. A dark satisfaction boiled in Eugene’s chest as the man caught a glimpse of the projectile.
The target tried to flee, but he moved too slow. The orb impacted his right shoulder, stretching until it burst in an explosion of cold water.
“Gosh darn it, Susana!” the man barked as he stepped off the porch. “You’re going to give me a heart attack!”
“Now!” Eugene hissed.
Susana Espinosa leapt from her hiding place a few yards away and aimed her weapon—a garden hose with a high-pressure nozzle attached. She squeezed the trigger and soaked her brother-in-law with a tight stream. Eugene jumped to his feet, cradling the remaining water grenades with one arm and launching them with the other.
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Eugene. “No! Not you!” he bellowed.
Eugene pummeled Santiago Torres with every water balloon he had left while Susana hosed him down. San glanced at the door, then down at his soaked clothes. His shoulders slumped, and he sat on the edge of the porch, resigned to his fate.
When the last grenade popped, Susana lowered her weapon and grinned at Eugene. “That was fun. We should do it again sometime.”
Eugene stroked his chin and studied their target. “I don’t know. I mean, look at him, he’s a broken man.”
San raised his head, and water dripped from his hair onto his frowning face. “Things have been so peaceful without you here. I was actually starting to enjoy living in the middle of nowhere.”
Taking wide steps, Eugene strode forward and helped San up. “Admit it, you missed me.”
San fought back a smile. “You’re a good man, Eugene. I just wish you never met my sister. She’s a bad influence, you know.”
Eugene pulled his friend into a sodden hug. “We only met a few months ago, but she’s known you for years. Maybe you’re the bad influence.”
San shook his head and let out a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re back. We’ve all been worried sick about you. How is the rest of the team?”
Eugene glanced at San’s daughter, Maria, who was smiling up at him. “They’re safe. We can talk about it later.” He knelt beside Maria. “And how have you been, young lady? Getting into plenty of trouble, I hope.”
Maria nodded. “Yeah. I get grounded a lot, mostly for going into the woods by myself.”
“Good,” Eugene said, standing. “It’s important to test your boundaries.”
San let out a heavy sigh. “I hope you have kids one day. And I hope they’re terrible.”
Eugene elbowed Susana in the ribs. “You hear that? He’s already talking about us having kids.”
“How forward of him,” Susana said, clinging to Eugene’s arm. “We haven’t even made it past first base yet.”
San threw up his hands. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He cast a desperate glance at his wife and added, “Anita, could you show Eugene where the spare bedroom is? I’m sure he could use some rest.”
Anita winked at San and took Eugene by th
e hand. “Let’s go, Eugene. You can live without teasing my husband for five minutes.”
“The spare bedroom?” Eugene said as Anita pulled him across the porch. “Are you sure I shouldn’t stay with Susana? I mean, San said he wants me to make terrible babies with her...”
“That’s enough,” Anita said, cutting him off. She led him through an outdated but tastefully decorated kitchen, up a flight of stairs, and down a narrow hallway. “The bathroom is next door,” she said, showing him into a quaint bedroom.
Eugene sat on the end of the bed. His chest seemed to deflate as the night without sleep caught up with him. “Thank you, Anita.”
“You’re welcome,” Anita said, stepping back and closing the door halfway. “Get some rest, and I’ll have lunch ready for you when you wake up.”
Eugene kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bed, savoring the soft mattress. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the night before. Breathing the fresh mountain air, he imagined himself as a different person—a West Virginia rancher with a beautiful, curly-haired wife. A peaceful man who lived off the land and had never had cause to kill. The serene images carried him away, and he drifted into a deep, restful sleep.
When he awoke, the sun was floating above the horizon, casting dull yellow rays between the slats in the blinds. Eugene sat up, looked at his watch, and grunted. He ran his hands through his thick black hair and massaged his shoulder, then dropped to the floor to stretch. His thirty-eight-year-old body didn’t recover as quickly as it used to, and his daily stretching routine had gone from habit to necessity.
He spent ten minutes rotating through yoga poses and digging into his tight muscles with his thumbs. He sat cross-legged, then pulled each ankle onto the opposite thigh for the Lotus position. As he took deep breaths, trying to relax his muscles, someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he said.
The Nightmare Unleashed Page 4