“Why are you here?”
Taken off-guard, Eugene paused for a moment before speaking. “We need your help taking down a base. We can show you where it is, and we have a plan to—”
“I already know where it is. I don’t need your help.” He looked at Eugene through dark eyes. “How were you planning to do it?”
“Well…we were going to have you steal something from Lakenheath, then—”
“You mean a bomb.” It was a statement, not a question.
Eugene grit his teeth. “I wouldn’t have said it out loud, but yes.”
Jarrod extracted a pen and notepad from his pockets and scrawled out a list of numbers. “I already have one. You can find it at these coordinates.”
“What? How?”
“It’s a truck, loaded with liquid oxygen, propane, jet fuel, and a few other ingredients. It can be driven remotely from a distance of up two miles.” He slapped the note against Eugene’s chest. “And building it was a lot easier than stealing from a Royal Air Force Base.”
Eugene flinched. “Yeah…I guess using something homemade is a better idea. But why do I need the coordinates? Can’t you just show me where it is?”
Jarrod glanced over his shoulder at the far end of the train car. “I have something to take care of first. We might get separated.”
Eugene followed his gaze to a man and woman with sores on their faces, who were leaning across the aisle and talking to a man in a button-up shirt and designer jeans.
“Them? But this is serious. We’re talking about a base that oversees operations for all of Europe.”
“You do what you need to do. And keep your head down, things might not be what you expect.” Jarrod abruptly stood and walked along the center aisle without gripping the overhead railings.
“Jarr—Nick, wait!” Eugene said. He started to follow Jarrod, then hesitated. As if sensing the aggression in Jarrod’s gait, patrons on both sides of the train car had started aiming cameras in his direction. Eugene swore, took a seat, and watched the scene unfold with his cap pulled low.
Jarrod stopped directly between the couple with bad skin and the man in designer clothes.
The woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, stared up at him with bloodshot eyes. “Excuse me, Jackass,” she sneered. “Could you find somewhere else to park yourself?”
“Where are they?” Jarrod asked, his voice deep and menacing.
“Do I look like a kiosk?” the man with bad skin grunted. “Sod off.”
By now, more than a dozen cameras were aimed at Jarrod’s hooded form, and the man in the expensive clothing turned bright red. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing himself up and trying to squeeze past Jarrod. “But I have nothing to do with these people.”
Jarrod stepped back, blocking the man’s path. “Nothing to do with these people? What about the children they have locked in their home?”
Sheer panic spread across the man’s face. He glanced at the couple and said, “What is this, some kind of set up?” He pushed against Jarrod’s chest, trying to shove him out of the way. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and you can’t—”
He never finished his sentence. Without warning, Jarrod gripped the man’s shirt, lifted him off the ground, and threw him out the window. His body crumpled in the narrow gap between the train and tunnel wall, cracking downstream windows and leaving a crimson trail behind.
Chaos erupted in the subway car. Men and women screamed in unison. Someone grabbed the emergency brakes, and people jolted in their seats. When the train came to a stop, passengers fled to the opposite side of the car, though many of them still wielded camera phones.
“Where are they?” Jarrod repeated, this time at a shout.
The woman, gripping her seat and staring fiercely at him, said nothing. Her boyfriend sat with his mouth agape, casting a beseeching glance at the cowering passengers.
“Answer me!” Jarrod bellowed. He thrust his left hand against the woman’s face, covering her eyes with the palm of his hand and gripping her forehead with his fingers. She responded by kicking him in the shin and attempting to peel his hand away with her own.
“Get off me!” she screeched. “Jack, do something!”
Recovering from his stupor, the boyfriend thrust his hand into his pocket and retrieved a four-inch blade. He swung the knife at Jarrod, only to have it knocked away.
Jarrod placed his free hand on Jack’s shoulder and shoved the man back into his seat. He fixed his gaze on the man and growled, “Talk, or I hurt her.”
“Don’t do it, Jack,” the woman said, still trying to pry herself free. “Don’t give him anything!”
Jarrod bent at the waist, bringing his face inches away from his captive’s. “If you want to live,” he whispered, “you’d better hope he gives me an address.”
“Just…let her go,” Jack pleaded.
“When you tell me where your children are, I will.”
“We’re as good as dead if you tell him,” the woman snarled. “Keep your mouth shut.”
“Very well…” With a thought, Jarrod manipulated the armor hidden beneath his sleeve. The dense black liquid crawled past his hand, lengthening his fingers until he held her entire skull in his grip.
“Holy shit!” Jack gasped, backing into the corner of his seat. “What the bloody hell is that?”
“Tell me,” Jarrod said.
“Don’t let him scare you,” the woman said. “He’s just trying to—” She stopped, inhaled sharply, and let out a piercing shriek.
“Stop it!” Jack begged. “I’ll tell you where they are!” He rattled off an address in a Tottenham neighborhood, then grabbed Jarrod’s arm. “Please!”
Jarrod nodded and released some of the pressure on the woman’s head. She gasped in relief, then began to weep. Then, without warning, Jarrod seized her boyfriend’s head in the same manner. He dragged the couple into the center aisle and lifted them; their feet dangled a few inches off the floor.
“This is the cancer that you ignore!” he thundered. “And the innocent pay the price.” The black armor covered his face, and his hood fell away. Turning his dark visage toward the nearest trembling camera, he shouted the address Jack had given him. Then, a ripple of force traveled down his arms, and he squeezed as if to crush a pair of aluminum cans.
Huddled deep within the crowd of passengers, Eugene averted his eyes. He felt the frightened mass recoil as one, and he plugged his ears to drown out the screams.
12
Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center
Baltimore, Maryland
Agent Janson’s eyes snapped open. She sat up in bed, pulling electrodes and plastic IV tubes with her. Her hands and arms curled as if cradling an invisible rifle, and she shouted, “On your left!”
“Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” a soft, baritone voice said.
Janson blinked in her surroundings, then lowered her hands. She searched for the source of the voice, and found Santiago Torres staring back at her. “San? What happened?”
San placed a gentle hand on her collarbone and eased her against the bed. “You were wounded, but you’re safe now. We brought you to Baltimore for treatment.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “In Hillcrest.”
She nodded and placed a hand against her scalp. Her fingers probed the swollen welt, then searched for her hair.
“It’s gone,” San said. “I’m sorry, but we needed to remove it in order to treat your injuries.”
“It’s fine,” Janson said, shaking her head. “I’m just…confused. How long was I out?”
“You were in a coma for several days—”
“What?!” She grasped the steel railings at the edges of the bed, and they creaked against her grip. “Are Ford and Eugene alright? Did we clear the objective?”
San held up his hands. “They’re fine. They would’ve been here when I woke you up if they could have. They’re on another mission right now, though I’m not sure where.”
Janson’s shoulders
relaxed. She took a few deep breaths, then frowned. “What do you mean ‘when you woke me up?’ I thought you said I was in a coma.”
For a moment, San eyed her with clinical curiosity. “Your mind is sharp for someone recovering from head trauma.” He checked over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “Because you were unresponsive, the other doctors and I had to…take some liberties with your care, and shaving your scalp was the least of them.”
She chewed her lower lip. “What liberties?”
San took her hand in his own and held it up. She followed his gaze, then flinched at the sight of her gray skin.
“I’m sorry. It was the only way to repair the damage.”
Janson’s voice turned monotone. “You injected me with nanobots.”
San nodded. “The same ones used in the Charlie experiments of Project Nerium—the ones given to Jarrod.”
Janson shivered. “What else did you do?”
“What they’ve done is very different from what they planned to do.” San stood and walked to the door, then peered out the window. “They wanted to make you like him.”
The last remnant of warmth in Janson’s eyes faded, leaving behind an icy stare. “Without my permission?”
“Yes.”
“Did Daron know about this?”
San shook his head. “I don’t know for certain.”
Janson pinched an electrode on her neck as if to tear it off, then stopped. Removing the sensor would alert someone that she was awake, and she still had too many questions. “How am I…different now?”
“The machines in your body follow pre-programmed instructions and can be given additional instructions with the introduction of new nanobots. Right now, they are only being used to repair your body and enhance your cognitive abilities.”
“And…what would the next step have been?”
San’s face turned grave. “They would have torn your body open to install an artificial nervous system, then destroyed the emotion centers in your brain. They would have further enhanced your strength and reflexes, then proceeded directly to Phase Three.”
“Which is?”
“Installing a neural control unit, to make you submissive.”
Janson swore loudly. “They wanted to turn me into a slave?”
San held a finger to his lips. “Please,” he whispered. “Try to stay quiet. They don’t know what I’ve done.”
Janson’s expression softened. After a long pause, she said, “Thank you for stopping them.”
San swallowed. “I—I never would have been able to live with myself if I let them do it again. Not when I’ve seen what Jarrod became.”
Staring at the middle-distance, Janson said, “There has to be a better way.”
“I agree. You shouldn’t have to tarnish your soul to earn an advantage in battle.” He paused. “War itself leaves enough scars.”
There was a knock at the door, and Janson swung her legs around the edge of the bed.
“It’s okay,” San said, smiling. “It’s just my lookout.”
The door opened several inches, and Eli Graham poked his head in. “If it isn’t Alpha Two,” he said, grinning. “I guess even a headshot isn’t enough to bring you down.”
Janson brightened at the sight of the familiar face. “Charlie One, how long have you been locked up in this dungeon?”
Eli rolled his eyes. “I’ve been on a protective detail at Camp Dale. Then Daron shows up and says we’re getting the band back together. He didn’t mention that we’d be stuck in our old subterranean stomping-grounds.”
Janson smiled. Like many of the men and women on the old Hillcrest assault teams, Eli came from a storied career as a marksman. He had started in a humble position as a Sheriff’s deputy, then joined the FBI after finishing college. From there, he was accepted into the FBI’s elite hostage rescue team, then transferred to the Department of Energy where he spent two years protecting nuclear waste convoys. He had been one of the best security professionals in the country before Daron recruited him to protect Hillcrest, and his skills continued to grow in the DARPA laboratory. But, unlike many of the other shooters on the assault teams, Graham was a genuinely nice guy. In fact, because of his round cheeks and friendly demeanor, people often assumed he worked as a school teacher. He never had the heart to tell them he was trained to protect the nation’s most valuable assets, even if it meant killing intruders in cold blood.
As Janson regarded her old coworker, her smile slowly faded. The cold reality that she, Eli, Trent, and Ford were the only surviving members of the assault teams turned her stomach to ice. The rest of the team had fallen in battle, massacred by Katharos.
As if reading her thoughts, Eli said, “I think I’d rather be stationed in the Antarctic than this concrete coffin, but at least the food is good. And sometimes, all you can do is focus on the things in life that still make you happy. Anyway, it’s good to see you, Janson. I’m glad they didn’t turn you into a robot.”
Graham winked at San, then pulled his head back into the hallway and closed the door.
San turned toward Janson. Her face was blank, expressionless, and she began removing the electrodes plastered to her body.
“What are you going to do?” San asked.
“I’m going to have a chat with whoever is in charge.” She nodded at San. “Do you know whose idea it was to turn me into Nerium, part two?”
San faced the wall while she discarded her gown and got dressed. He took a deep breath and said, “Dean Wagner.”
There was silence for several long moments. Then, Janson continued tying her boots. She broke one of the Kevlar laces, swore, and tied the remaining cord into a square-knot.
San’s face was awash with sympathy. “I know how you feel. Trust me, I feel the same way. But hurting him won’t bring you peace.”
Her nose twitched like an angry Doberman. “I promise I won’t kill him, but I’m getting some answers.”
The terrified expressions on every lab-coat-wearing scientist she passed gave Janson a degree of satisfaction, but the real pleasure was waiting in the cafeteria. She intended to honor her promise to San; she wouldn’t harm the former director of Hillcrest. But she could still scare him. As she approached the cafeteria, she launched a kick at the double doors.
Her boot landed with more force than she expected. The doors exploded inward, tore at the hinges, and landed on the floor with a clang.
In for a dime, she thought.
Two guards rose from their seats and aimed their weapons. When they saw who the party-crasher was, they smiled conspiratorially and returned to their seats.
“I know you’re in here, Wagner,” Janson bellowed. “Show yourself.”
A pale, thin man at the corner of the room got to his feet and faced her, though he kept his eyes downcast. “I’m here, Miss Janson.”
Janson stormed across the room and held her index finger inches away from his face. “Listen to me, you disgusting sack of shit, nothing happens to my body without my consent.”
Still staring at the floor between his shoes, Wagner stammered, “I—I’m sorry. I d—didn’t want to. I tried to tell him…”
The world spun around Janson, and time seemed to slow as the neurons pulsed in her brain. She lowered her accusatory finger and whispered, “Daron.”
Wagner wrung his hands together and gave a timid nod.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and three men rushed into the room with shotguns at the ready. When they saw the source of the commotion, they lowered their weapons and stepped aside like praetorian guards.
Daron entered a split-second later and scowled at their posture. “Who did this?” he growled. “Who thinks they can—” He stopped, realizing that everyone in the room was staring at him. His eyes landed on Janson, and his shoulders tightened. “You’re awake.”
Janson nodded her bald, pewter head.
Daron shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Who?”
Janson kept her lips tight, as did
everyone else in the room.
“I shouldn’t need to remind you,” Daron growled as he cast searing glances from one person to the next, “that we are at war. Who the hell decided to wake up our best soldier and crush our only chance at winning?”
“I did.”
Daron whirled and found himself face-to-face with San. Daron clenched his fists and grumbled, “I should have known. You don’t care how many people die, as long as you get to sit on your moral high-horse.”
“You never learn,” San said, his face lined with pity.
The expression seemed sanctimonious to Daron, enraging him further. “We can’t compete with Katharos. The only way we can win is to make a bigger and better weapon.”
San raised an eyebrow. “I thought Jarrod Hawkins was your secret weapon.”
The statement elicited a string of murmurs throughout the cafeteria. The fact that Jarrod was still alive was a secret shared by very few people.
“I could lock you up for treason,” Daron said. He shot a glance at his guards, who showed no interest in arresting anyone. “And how did you turn all these people against me?”
“Transparency.” San paused, then added, “I don’t know if you are even capable of understanding the concept. I was honest with everyone on your security teams. I let them decide—on their own—what was right for Agent Janson. And they backed me up completely.”
“They don’t have clearance,” Daron snapped.
San shook his head. “No, they didn’t. But Janson has a God-given right to make her own decisions when her life is on the line.”
Daron scoffed and made a move to leave the room.
“Stop right there!” Janson shouted.
Daron halted and glanced over his shoulder at his enhanced operative.
Janson strode across the room and gripped Daron by the shoulder. “I’m not done with you.”
“You little shit,” Daron snapped. “Let go of me. That’s an order.”
With two swift movements, Janson knocked Daron’s legs out from under him and planted her knee against his chest. “I’m done taking orders from you. If you want my help, you’re going to have to ask for it.” She pushed hard against his ribs and stood.
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