by Mark Alpert
There was one voice, though, that Grant took special notice of. It was deep and firm and steadfast, and unlike all the other voices, it wasn’t full of desperate fear. It wasn’t coming from the jail behind him either. It was a familiar, comforting voice coming from inside his own head, and it was telling him not to give up. There’s still hope, it said. I can save your life. All you have to do is come to me.
Grant stood up straight and peered into the darkness, wondering where he was supposed to go. He sloshed around the Dumpster and gazed across the parking lot at another jail building that looked identical to the one behind him. It was dimly lit because it was running on emergency power, but a quarter mile beyond it was a taller building that still blazed with electric light, shining like a beacon in the storm. It was the Research Center, the building Grant had run away from just an hour ago. All the lights were still on there because the Research Center was the FSU’s most important facility, so it received the lion’s share of the island’s emergency power.
The voice inside Grant’s head was telling him to go back to the Research Center. He didn’t know why. At first glance, it seemed like a terrible idea. Just north of the Research Center was the FSU headquarters, which Vance used as his office when he came to Rikers, and that whole section of the island was swarming with FSU officers and Secret Service agents. But Grant didn’t question the logic of it. The voice was confident and commanding, and it reached out to him like a lifeline.
Besides, what the hell did he have to lose?
So he waded across the parking lot, leaning into the rain and wind. Luckily, he knew the layout of the jail complex better than anyone. He stayed in the shadows, moving as quietly as possible and steering clear of the security cameras. As he neared the Women’s Detention Facility, he saw a dozen FSU officers rush out of the jail, and for a second he thought he was done for. He ducked behind a parked car, expecting the officers to surround him and start firing. But they didn’t spot him. Instead, they jumped into a convoy of black SUVs, which raced south toward the Rikers Island Bridge. Grant waited until they were gone, then splashed past the jail.
After another three minutes he came to the back entrance of the Research Center, which had its own loading dock. This was where the semitrailer trucks pulled up to the building every morning to deliver lab supplies and cages of white rats. A couple of guards usually kept watch over the area, but now the floodwaters lapped at the building’s ground floor and there were no officers in sight. Grant climbed up to the loading dock and examined the doors, which were all locked. But one of the doors had a security-card reader next to it, and Grant still had his card.
He dashed inside and charged up the stairway. He couldn’t avoid the security cameras here, because they hung over every landing, and at any moment he expected some FSU officer to spot him on one of the video monitors and raise the alarm. But the building remained silent. Grant supposed that the security forces were stretched thin, with so many officers assigned to search the island or protect Vance or respond to whatever was going on at the bridge. He made it to the fourth floor without any trouble and hurried down the corridor.
He was very familiar with this section of the Research Center. He’d walked down the same corridor earlier that evening, after Vance had given him the syringe, but before he’d passed it on to Frazier. Grant remembered the pain he’d felt the last time he’d been here, the awful twisting in his guts, but now he felt fine. No, better than fine—he was jangling with a fierce, wild hope that pulled him toward the detention cells at the far end of the hall. He used his security card again to open the last door on the right.
Then he approached the gurney where Derek Powell lay.
It had been eight hours since he’d last seen Powell, and Grant was shocked at how much healthier the man looked. Derek turned his head on the pillow and smiled, his eyes clear and focused, his dark skin gleaming. His broad chest rose and fell under his hospital gown, and his arm and leg muscles rippled under his skin. Grant looked at the monitor beside the gurney and studied Powell’s vital signs, which were remarkably strong for someone who’d nearly died the night before. If not for the handcuffs that still bound his wrists and ankles to the bed rails, the man could’ve probably jumped out of bed and run laps around the island. It was a medical miracle.
Grant smiled too. He couldn’t help it. He’d liked Powell from the start, from the very first time he’d met the young soldier. Something about him reminded Grant of himself. “Jesus Christ, you’re healing fast. It looks like your new genes agree with you.”
Derek nodded. “Yes, this CRISPR treatment is much better than the last one. Your researchers finally got it right.”
His voice was also strong, although it sounded a bit different from Powell’s old voice, more formal and precise. Grant pointed at the man’s midsection, where his hospital gown had come undone, exposing a layer of gauze bandage wrapped around his waist. “And how does the wound feel? Any pain?”
“None at all.” Powell lifted his head off the pillow and looked Grant in the eye. “Come over here and see for yourself. Take off the bandage.”
Grant stepped closer to the gurney. He had no desire to look at Powell’s wound, and yet he reached for the bandage and peeled off the surgical tape and removed the gauze. To his astonishment, the gash in Powell’s waist was almost completely healed. A long scar ran across his midsection, but there was no swelling or discoloration, and the absorbable stitches had already dissolved.
Grant dropped the gauze on the floor. “Holy shit.”
Powell chuckled. He dropped his head back, relaxing on the pillow, but he kept his eyes on Grant. “So you heard me call for you, Colonel? While you were hiding behind the Dumpster?”
Grant’s heart thudded. He wanted to back away from the gurney, but he couldn’t. “You … you did what?”
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you? And you need my help?”
It was all true, yet Grant couldn’t believe it. How did Powell get inside his head? Was it another side effect of the CRISPR treatment that Weinberg had given the soldier the night before? The new DNA inserted in Powell’s cells had included the Serenity sequence, which was supposed to reduce his aggression and willfulness, but could it have had other effects as well? After seeing what happened to the Khan freak, Grant was willing to believe almost anything.
Powell shook his head. He’d clearly heard Grant’s questions, even though the colonel hadn’t said anything aloud.
“Dr. Weinberg didn’t put the Serenity sequence in my treatment. I instructed him to leave it out and insert a different strip of DNA instead. The special sequence that Dr. Jenna Khan developed for her unauthorized experiment.”
Now Grant started to panic. He felt like he was shivering in the floodwaters again, except now the water was thick with terror, and it was rising inside his skull. He wanted to run, but he was frozen. He couldn’t move, couldn’t say a word. But Powell heard everything inside Grant’s head, even the quietest thought.
“Calm down, Colonel. I’ll explain everything in a moment. But first you need to do me a favor. The key is still in your pocket, isn’t it?”
To Grant’s shock, his right hand began to move against his will. It felt as if someone else had taken control of it and guided his fingers into his pants pocket, where they grasped a small key. Under Powell’s control, his hand pulled out the key and fitted it into the handcuffs that attached Derek’s right wrist to the bed rail. Then Grant unlocked the other three handcuffs that bound Powell to the gurney and undid the belts strapped across his chest and thighs.
When Grant was finished, Powell let go of him. The colonel’s muscles went slack and he sank to the floor, paralyzed, his mouth open in a silent scream. At the same time, Powell sat upright on the bed and stretched his arms wide.
“Ahh! That’s better!” He swung his legs over the bedside and looked down at Grant. “Thank you, Colonel. You know, it’s a shame you’re so small. I need some clothes, but nothing of yours would fit this n
ew body of mine.”
Grant was helpless, drowning. He pissed himself and shat into his pants. He’d just realized why Derek’s voice sounded so different now. The huge man peering down at him wasn’t really Derek Powell.
The man chuckled again. “That’s correct. Powell died last night on the operating table. His heart stopped beating, and the surgeons were about to give up. But luckily, the operating theater was right next to Room Seventeen. So I was able to jump into Powell’s head just as he expired.” He hopped off the gurney and stepped toward Grant. “I left my crippled body behind and streamed into his brain, and my mind was strong enough to revive it. Then the heart began beating again, and now it was my heart, my body.” He slapped his chest and flexed his pectoral muscles. “You have to admit, it’s a big improvement. I don’t miss my old body at all.”
The freak! It’s him! He’s still alive!
Frowning, the man knelt beside him. “I should punish you for that remark, but I don’t have the time. So I’ll make this quick.” He clenched his giant right hand into a fist and cocked it back. “Goodbye, Colonel. I hope you enjoy Jahannam.”
Grant writhed. The last thing he saw was the fist coming down.
THIRTY-SIX
The cold barrel of an assault rifle poked into Jenna’s back as she waded through the floodwaters. Frazier was behind her, but she couldn’t see or hear him. He was like a ghost, blending into the rain and darkness, but the rifle he carried was solid enough. Its muzzle pressed against Jenna’s spine, the same gun that had killed David.
They followed a twisting path across Rikers Island. Frazier steered her between cell blocks and fences, down alleys and service roads that had turned into raging streams. Jenna obeyed his orders and walked in silence, confused and terrified. She couldn’t understand why he hadn’t killed her. Why did he shoot David but keep her alive? Was she more useful to him as a prisoner? But it was pointless to guess his intentions, because the man’s brain was damaged. She couldn’t even be certain that he recognized her. For all she knew, his memories had gone haywire again and he saw her as someone else entirely, an enemy from his past or a monster from his nightmares. In an instant he could change his mind about her and pull the trigger.
Soon they approached a pair of modern steel-and-concrete buildings, both of them taller and more brightly lit than the surrounding jails. Frazier whispered, “Get down!” and Jenna crouched behind a car, a waterlogged SUV parked by the seawall. Peering through the car’s windows, she saw a Stryker armored vehicle cruise past the buildings and rumble onto the bridge she’d noticed earlier that night, the long causeway that connected Rikers Island to Queens. Several other vehicles were already speeding down the bridge, their headlights pointing south. She felt a sudden stab of hope in her chest—Hector’s doing it! He’s drawing the soldiers away! But then Frazier clamped his hand around the back of her neck and crushed the hope out of her.
“You got a choice, bitch.” He pulled her head back so he could growl into her ear. “You can either keep quiet, or you can try to fuck me over by making some noise. But that second choice won’t do you any good. If the soldiers hear you, they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. So you’ll end up dead, understand?”
Jenna nodded. Although she was scared out of her mind, she’d recognized the change in Frazier’s situation. He was avoiding the other FSU officers. They’d clearly turned against him. Maybe they’d realized how fucking crazy he was. “What happened? Why are you running from them?”
He squeezed her neck, and an electric spasm ran down her vertebrae. “You’re curious? You want to get inside my head, like your brother did?”
She was in so much pain, she couldn’t speak. Closing her eyes, she remembered the last thing David had told her, about Raza struggling with a big, vicious soldier. And she imagined the worst.
“That’s who fucked us up today, your little freak of a brother. Why do you think you got so lucky at the footbridge? You really thought it was just a coincidence?” Frazier shook her by the neck, and she saw stars against the backs of her eyelids. “No, I figured it out. That little bastard has been manipulating everything. He fooled everyone into thinking he was dead, then he tricked me into chasing you to Randalls Island. But I’m not fooled anymore. This time, I’m gonna kill him and make sure he’s fucking dead.”
He let go of her, and she collapsed against the SUV. Her head swam and her stomach heaved, and the whole ugly island whirled around her. It was hopeless. She couldn’t reason with Frazier. She couldn’t even understand what he was saying. Her only hope was to get the attention of the other FSU men. Maybe they could gun down this maniac before he got a chance to hurt Raza.
Frazier grabbed her arm and lifted Jenna to her feet. “Come on, let’s go. You’re gonna help me do this.” He raised his rifle and pushed her forward. “Before I kill your brother, I’m gonna kill you first. Right in front of him.”
* * *
At first glance, the two brightly lit buildings looked identical, but as Jenna drew closer to them she noticed an important difference. Behind the building to the north, just outside its back entrance, three dead FSU officers floated in the brackish water.
Frazier stopped to examine them, bending over the corpses. He glanced at the building to the south, just a hundred feet away, then pointed in that direction. “He exited the Research Center, over there, and came here to the headquarters. Then he killed these three idiots and went inside.” He stood up and pointed at the back door, which was propped open by a fourth corpse that lay across the threshold. “And now we’re gonna follow him. He’s doing all the work, getting rid of the guards for us.”
Jenna was confused again. “Who are you talking about?”
Frazier prodded her with his rifle. “Shut your mouth and get going.”
He shoved her toward the open doorway, and she stepped through it, averting her eyes from the dead man at her feet. Then she started climbing the building’s stairs, with Frazier right behind her.
Water dribbled off her hair and clothes and puddled on the concrete steps. Jenna looked ahead and listened carefully, hoping to hear the clomping boots of FSU officers somewhere in the building. She was ready to start screaming as soon as they came within earshot, ready to draw their fire. The only footsteps she heard, though, were Frazier’s and her own. At the fourth-floor landing she stopped short—rivulets of blood trickled down the next flight of stairs above them. But Frazier poked her with his rifle again, and she climbed the bloody steps.
The officer’s body was on the fifth-floor landing, sprawled on its side. Jenna trembled, thinking of Raza. She had to grip the handrail to stay upright. Biting her lip, she stepped over the corpse and kept going up.
The stairway ended at the ninth floor. When they reached the top landing, Frazier lowered his assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he removed a big black pistol from his belt holster. He grabbed Jenna’s left arm and yanked it behind her back. He curved his other arm around her body and jammed his gun against the right side of her forehead.
“Okay, here’s where things get interesting.” His damp torso leaned against her shoulder blades, and his chin jutted above her head. She looked straight up and saw his face looming over her, looking down the front of her shirt as he wrenched her arm. “You’re gonna be my human shield. Keep moving, bitch.”
Jenna stepped forward, using her free hand to open the stairwell door. Ahead of them was the ninth-floor corridor, about six feet wide and a hundred feet long. It had a tile floor and several doors on both sides and a pair of double doors at the far end, like a million other office-building corridors. But the sight of this one was so sickening that Jenna doubled over and vomited on her sneakers. At least twenty bodies lay strewn across the floor.
Frazier laughed. “Whoa, this is it! We’re in the right place!” He craned his neck and peered over Jenna’s head, staring at the far end of the corridor. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone down there? Look, I know all these assholes didn’t commit mass sui
cide, so someone must be there!”
He pushed Jenna down the hall. She tried not to look at the bodies, but she had to glance down to avoid stepping on them. Half of them wore the black FSU uniform, and the other half wore dark suits and radio earpieces. Frazier kicked one of the suited corpses and laughed again. “Damn, this was a real party! You snuffed some Secret Service boys too! Nice fucking job!”
It was the longest hundred feet Jenna had ever walked, but by the time she reached the end of the hallway, she could guess who was on the other side of the double doors. She knew only one person, aside from Frazier, who was that good at killing people. A moment later Frazier turned sideways and, without letting go of her, rammed his shoulder against the doors, flinging them open. Then he turned toward the man standing in the middle of the office, a seven-foot-tall black man cradling an assault rifle and wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants.
Jenna’s guess was confirmed. It was Derek Powell.
Frazier glared at him. “Don’t even think about raising that rifle, motherfucker. My reflexes are just as good as yours.” He pressed his pistol against the side of Jenna’s head. “Before you can point that thing at me, I’ll blow her brains out.”
Derek ignored him. He focused on Jenna. He smiled.
Frazier shook with fury. He pressed the gun harder against Jenna’s skull. “And don’t try to fuck with my head again either! It won’t work this time. I know how to stop it now.”
Derek didn’t even glance at him. He kept his eyes on Jenna. And then he said something to her, although he didn’t open his mouth or move his lips. He just stared at her, and the words rang inside her mind.
Jenna? It’s me. Raza.
* * *