by Tom Abrahams
“What is it?” Gibson asked.
“We’re ready.”
“Everything?”
Starling nodded. “Everything.”
“The ballistic coating on the window?”
“Yes.”
“The cage?”
“Yes.”
“The restraints?”
“It’s all ready,” said Starling. “Like we’re prepping for a state execution.”
“What do you mean?”
Starling shrugged. “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Once we have the original VX-99 patient in our custody, we’ll end up killing him like the one we killed this week.”
A grin slowly spread across Gibson’s face. “Is that what has you so defeated?” He chuckled. “Is that why you’re so glum? You think we’re going to all of this trouble to kill him?”
“I just figured…”
Gibson leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk. He looked Starling directly in the eyes. “Your hypothesis is all wrong,” he said before qualifying himself. “We will use him for tests, but you’re wrong.”
“How so?”
Gibson’s eyes lit up. “When they bring back that beautiful specimen, that VX-99 Marine, we will keep him alive at all costs,” he said. “He will be the foundation of all of our work going forward, not just the cocktail. Think what we could accomplish, Dr. Starling. My mind is already spinning with ideas.”
— 28 —
Between Son La and Hòa Bình, Vietnam
April 24, 1980
Brett’s legs weren’t at full strength, but at least he could feel them again. He was moving slowly, but with purpose, as his mobility returned. It was nearly dawn and his vision was sharp, even in the faint yellow light peeking through to the jungle floor. The blurriness was gone. The haze had given way to acuity. He flexed his hands as he moved. It was good feeling the blood course through his veins and into his extremities. The intoxicating sense of invincibility was snaking its way through his body.
He drew in deep breaths through his nostrils. He could smell remnants of the little man who’d escaped him. It was on the leaves of the low-hanging branches and underbrush. It was in the droplets of blood that mixed with the soft jungle floor.
You cannot let him live, crowed the voice. She wouldn’t let it go. If he escapes, he’ll tell others. People won’t fear you anymore. You’ll become vulnerable. You must find him and kill him.
Brett pushed his way more quickly through the rainforest. He was getting closer to the man. He could taste it.
He dropped to all fours and tested his legs. They were better. They were strong. He pushed with his thighs and leapt forward, feeling the muscles tense and explode with power. The familiar sound of his joints snapping with each lunge was comforting. He galloped amongst the trees and vines, jumped over a large termite mound that rose three feet tall from a rotting trunk, and sped faster and faster toward his prey. It was as if the little man had left a trail of breadcrumbs for him.
Brett’s heart fluttered with a sense of excitement he hadn’t felt in so long. He had a purpose beyond the simplicity of killing for food. It was exhilarating and he let out a howl as he moved. The spontaneous call sent a ripple of chills through his body and only served to accelerate his pace. He was racing as fast as he could toward the little man who’d eluded him twice now. As Brett bounded from the cover of the jungle and into an open, grassy field, he knew there wouldn’t be a third time.
***
Jimmy Linh shuddered involuntarily. He’d heard the howl tear through the thick jungle air and knew the Ma Trang was close. He couldn’t believe he’d let the soldiers leave him alone, wounded and unable to fend for himself.
He sat there at the edge of the field, his back against a tree, cursing his predicament and lamenting his ambition. If he’d not pushed to do a story on the Ma Trang, he wouldn’t be about to face it for the third time. If he somehow survived round three, he had other problems.
He’d missed Gertrude Wombley’s deadline for a follow-up story. She wouldn’t be forgiving of any excuse short of death. Add to that his having essentially stood up Molly for their first date. He should have called her the second his flight was changed. He should have done a lot of things. Linh calculated he’d lost more than he’d gained by choosing Ma Trang as his first big assignment.
Linh adjusted his back against the tree. The pain wasn’t as intense as it had been since one of the soldiers had slipped him some morphine. The trade-off was that his senses were dulled. He’d probably be unable to put up much of a fight this time.
Linh shifted his weight again and, from the corner of his eye, caught a glimpse of the Ma Trang. It was standing on the far end of the field at the edge of the dense vegetation marking the jungle’s entrance. He swore he could see its lips popping as they puckered in and out, in and out. Its yellow eyes were red with blood and it was staring directly at him.
He dug his fingers into the soft ground and grabbed at the earth. Linh swallowed hard and closed his eyes as the monster leaned forward and leapt into the grass. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear the clicking of its joints as it beat an invisible path through the grass.
The sound of its body moving grew louder and louder. Linh tensed, which caused his back to seize, and he cried out in pain. He opened his eyes in time to see two of the soldiers appear above the waist-high grass directly in the ghost’s path. One of them, the leader called Womack, jerked repeatedly with the pop of his tranquilizer rifle.
The other one raised his weapon and maybe got off a shot or two, but the Ma Trang dove at the soldier and tackled him into the grass. There were screams, a short volley of rapid gunfire, more screams, and the growling of a rabid animal with its teeth bared.
***
Womack was sure he’d lodged at least three more darts into the ghost. It hadn’t done anything to stop it, and it leapt onto Wolf, driving him beneath the sea of grass. Wolf had maybe been able to hit the beast with his sidearm. Maybe.
“Wilco, Shine, Ferg,” yelled Womack. “I need you now.”
Wilco emerged from the jungle behind the reporter. He had the Grease Gun in his hands. He leveled it waist high and, without thinking, bolted into the grass. He pulled his weapon to his shoulder and drew his finger to the trigger. His feet beat a quick path through the grass, gliding across the spongy turf, when he hit something hard and a percussive blast ended his advance.
A land mine blew Wilco and his Grease Gun into the air. Unrecognizable pieces of both slapped the wet earth in a syncopated chorus of sickening thuds. Womack watched his friend explode and froze for an instant, staring at the hint of blood and dirt that hung in the early morning mist. He only snapped from the paralysis when Shine called to him from across the field.
“Boss,” he said, “it’s on the move.”
Womack turned and found the beast bolting for the jungle and their bait, the reporter. “Blast it, Ferg!” he yelled, panic dripping from his voice. “Cut it off!”
Ferg, who was camped not far from Linh, pumped the China Lake Launcher and unloaded a pair of grenade shot shells in the path between the ghost and the reporter. The ground erupted with a spray of grass and dirt and rock and forced the ghost to change its course. It headed straight for Ferg.
Shine had his weapon ready and he tracked the beast as it rose and fell with each leap. He pressed the trigger of his Stoner 63 and released a quick burst at the ghost. It was too fast. He’d missed. He scanned to his right and found the target again. A quick pull. A short burst.
“I got it!” Shine called. “It’s down.”
***
Brett felt the bullets tear through the meat of his thigh. They were hot and burned the inside of his leg as he tumbled to the spongy ground and skidded to a stop.
Get up! growled the voice. Attack them. Make them pay.
Brett rolled onto his stomach and lay still, breathing slowly through his nose. He was hidden in the grass a few feet from the soldier with the grenades.
He could make a leap for it and maybe tear into him as he had the other one just seconds earlier. The wound to his leg was painful, but not debilitating. Instead he closed his eyes and listened.
“Where did he go?” asked the one with the grenades. “Where is he?”
“I know I got him,” called another. “I saw a hit in his leg. At least one. Maybe more.”
“Did you kill it?” asked the leader. “Shine? Did you kill it?”
“Negative,” said Shine.
“Then where is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Shine. “In the grass somewhere.”
Brett inhaled deeply. His body tingled and a familiar warmth began to radiate from his neck. He reached to the source of the heat and felt a pair of darts. He plucked both of them from his body and held them between his claws. The darts were barbed with hypodermic needles at one end and mechanical or electronic devices on the other. He tried to focus on the marking on the dart’s housing but couldn’t. His vision blurred. Suddenly he couldn’t control his breathing.
What’s happening? asked the voice angrily. What is going on with you? Attack them now.
Brett listened to the voice one more time. From his prone position on the ground, he jumped forward and hit the soldier with the grenade launcher, knocking the weapon from his hands. The soldier fell onto his back and grasped for his sidearm. Brett was too fast. He straddled the soldier, wrapped his hands around his neck, and squeezed before he twisted.
The soldier’s neck cracked and went limp before Brett took out his frustration on the rest of the man’s body. He was blind with rage.
***
Womack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. In a matter of seconds their plan disintegrated. The beast was too fast. He stepped quickly but carefully through the grass toward the snarling and slurping noises coming from where he’d seen the ghost attack Ferg.
Shine was moving too, stepping toward the awful noises of their friend and compatriot being devoured by a mongrel Marine. Womack held the tranquilizer rifle and pressed it tight against his shoulder. He was within a few feet and aimed the rifle downward at a forty-five-degree angle.
Shine mirrored Womack but with his Stoner 63. They tightened the noose one step at a time until Womack could see hints of the thrashing and tearing through the thick tufts of grass.
He checked with Shine and nodded before taking aim and pumping two more ballistic darts into the ghost. It slapped at the sting of the hits and stopped its feral attack on Ferg.
The ghost stood on its hind legs, wobbling, and bared its teeth. Its round sucker lips were dripping with blood, and there was a long, thin piece of flesh stuck to its chin. It rolled its shoulders forward and stared Womack in the eyes. It opened its mouth wide and howled.
At that moment, Womack applied pressure to the trigger and thumped another dart right into the ghost’s mouth, hitting the back of its throat. The beast snapped its jaw shut and grabbed at its own neck. Its eyes were wide with panic. It swayed back and forth, seemingly searching for balance, before it convulsed and collapsed to the ground.
Shine approached the downed ghost quickly. Standing over it, his eyes found Womack’s. “It’s down. Ferg is too.”
Womack approached Shine, his eyes drifting downward as he did. The beast was unconscious. Its breathing was rapid and shallow. Its tongue hung from between its nasty, swollen lips.
Ferg wasn’t Ferg anymore.
Womack swallowed the thick knot pressing against his throat. He blinked away the tears welling in his eyes. His friend, the man he’d thought should have long ago had his own team, lay dead, an unrecognizable heap of flesh and bone, of blood and hair. Womack tightened his grip on the rifle. He reared back with one of his boots and kicked the toe solidly into the ghost’s spine. The beast’s body was limp. There was no reaction.
“Are they dead?” called a voice from the edge of the jungle. It was the reporter. “Are all of them dead?”
“The Ma Trang is alive,” said Womack. “You’re alive. I’m alive. Shine’s alive. Everyone else is—”
“Help!” The raspy, weak call came from the middle of the field. “Help me.”
Wolf?
Womack looked over at Shine. “Watch the beast,” he said. “I got this.” With the rising sun, it was an easier trip through the grass. Womack sidestepped two mines on his way to Wolf. He found the young man lying on his back. He was as pale as the ghost and missing the lower half of his left arm. He’d somehow managed his own tourniquet to ebb the bleeding.
“You okay?” Womack knew it was a stupid question, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.
Wolf lifted his head from the muck and nodded. “I’ll be okay,” he whispered. “I think I lost a few pounds though.”
Womack smiled weakly. “You’ll be easier to carry, then.”
Wolf laughed. “Get me outta here.”
“You bet.” Womack lifted Wolf to his feet and acted like a crutch to help him weakly hobble back to the edge of the jungle. He found the reporter still leaning against the tree. Shine had dragged the ghost from the grass and had him bound with cord around his ankles and wrists.
“Can you walk?” Womack asked the reporter.
Linh nodded. “Slowly.”
“Wolf?”
“Yeah,” said the injured operator. “I can make it.”
“All right then,” Womack said. “You both walk, then. Shine, you and me carry the ghost.”
Wolf looked around, his eyes searching from right to left and back again. “What about Wilco? Where’s Ferg?”
Womack shook his head, unable to look Wolf in the eyes.
Wolf cursed and bit his lower lip. “Both of them?”
Shine nodded.
Womack pulled his shoulders back. “Let’s go, men,” he said. “No time to pout about what we can’t change. We’ve got a hike.”
— 29 —
Hanoi, Vietnam
April 25, 1980
Linh watched from the corner of the large warehouse as the surviving trio of mercenaries talked privately with another man he’d not yet met. He sensed they were talking about him. The one called Wolf kept looking back at him as the others whispered and gesticulated.
They’d managed to find their way back to the truck, into the tunnel, and to the secret government site before the Ma Trang awoke from its sleep. They had it caged and bound with floor-bolted chains. The beast paced back and forth but didn’t howl or wail as it had in the jungle. The only noise coming from the cage was the sound of the chain links scraping across the metal floor of the barred enclosure. Linh almost felt sorry for the Ma Trang. Almost. He looked at the beast as if it were a deadly cobra or rabid dog. It couldn’t help what it was. It wasn’t the Ma Trang’s fault for obeying its instincts.
Linh shifted in his seat and carefully lifted his injured leg as he did. His ankle was set in a proper cast, and a doctor had given him drugs to ease the pain that attacked various parts of his body. He was in a haze, but somehow cognizant of the predicament in which he found himself.
These men who’d saved him weren’t supposed to exist. The mission to trap and transport the Ma Trang wasn’t supposed to exist. The hi-tech warehouse in which he sat wasn’t supposed to exist. Linh knew about all three. It would have been bad enough had he been some random villager who’d stumbled into the middle of this conspiracy, but he was a reporter.
He looked over again at the Ma Trang in the cage and wondered if he’d be safer inside the bars than sitting in a chair outside them. He stiffened when a slick-looking man he didn’t recognize walked purposefully toward him.
“Hello,” said the man, extending his hand with a wink. “I’m Smith. And aside from my name, I’m not going to lie to you.”
Linh looked at the extended hand and took it. “I’m Jimmy Linh.”
“I know who you are,” said Smith, squatting into a baseball catcher’s position. “You’re the reporter who started this whole ball of wax. You’re a hero in a way.”
Linh pressed his back against the seat. “Who are you with?”
“Special Operations Group. Part of the American government that nobody talks about. Understand what I mean?”
Linh nodded.
“So here’s the rub, Jimmy Linh,” said Smith. He planted his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together in prayer beneath his chin. “I’m going to need your help. You help me and I help you.”
“What if I don’t help you?”
“Then I can’t help you,” said Smith. “You don’t want to be in a place where I can’t help you.”
“I’m not an American,” said Linh. “I’m British. You can’t—”
Smith held up a finger while his hands remained clasped. “You’re not anyone right now,” he said. “You have no passport. You have no identifying documentation. You haven’t checked in with your boss for days. Your uncle is dead. Who’s going to vouch for you?”
Linh searched Smith’s face. Any hint of a smile was gone. His eyes looked straight through him. Linh shrugged.
“So are you going—”
“Molly,” Linh blurted. “Molly can help me. She works for the Home Office. She knows me.”
Smith smirked. “Molly.”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” said Smith. “Let’s go with that. Let’s say Molly can help you. Who’s going to help Molly?”
The words hung there. Both men knew exactly what they meant without either having to clarify. Smith winked again.
“Before you go concocting some plan on your own, which won’t work, let me play out a scenario that helps both of us.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to quit your job at the paper. You’re going to work for your father’s business. You’re—”
Linh clenched his jaw and snarled through his teeth. “How do you know about my father?”