by James Hunt
“That’s because they don’t want to know,” Mack said.
***
The sight of the safe house was a welcome reprieve. The unassuming home nestled in the low-income-housing suburb well outside New York’s city limits in the Garden State of New Jersey didn’t look like much, but Sarah had always been taught as a child to look beyond outer appearances. A lesson she used to her advantage in the field. Rarely did her enemies find her a threat until after she kicked their asses.
Three quick knocks at the front door, and Grace answered, throwing her arms around Sarah’s neck the moment the two made eye contact. “Thank God you’re alive.”
“Not sure God had anything to do with it, but it never hurts to throw one up to the big guy.” She pounded her fist against her chest twice, kissed two fingers, and then pointed to the sky. Bryce turned the corner from a hallway and saw the gesture just as she finished.
“Sucking up again?” Bryce turned to the laptop sitting on the coffee table in the living room and sat on the couch. “Not sure it’ll help you sneak through those pearly gates after what you’ve done.”
“It’s more of a mutual respect,” Sarah answered, and then she noticed that Bryce had showered, his hair still damp. “Tough sledding getting out of HQ?” Both Grace and Bryce cast their eyes downward, and Sarah’s stomach sank to her knees. “How many?”
“Hank,” Grace said.
The big, lovable oaf that had guarded the front doors of their headquarters in the city was what the world would have referred to as a gentle giant. Of course, he did have the capacity to rip a normal human being to shreds, just like any other giant, but that was rarely talked about.
It was quiet for a moment longer until Bryce finally broke the stagnant air and motioned for the two of them to join him by the computer. He pointed to the screen, which revealed a satellite image of Virginia.
“There was a small convoy that left Langley early this morning, and it arrived in Washington, DC, on the back corner of the Capitol building,” Bryce said. “I’m betting it was Mallory and Mack.”
“They’re already putting him on trial?” Sarah asked.
“Not publicly, at least,” Bryce answered. “But I can bet you Mallory was summoned by the appropriations Senate committee that oversees the CIA’s budget, because I did a cross scan of any important political figures, and I found this guy.”
A picture of Senator Runehart appeared, a stock photo from the federal congressional website.
“He looks like a douche,” Sarah said bluntly.
“Well, he’s definitely given the CIA and the rest of the intelligence agencies a hard time as of late,” Bryce said. “He’s a ‘secrets don’t make friends’ kind of guy.”
Grace raised both eyebrows. “If Mallory and Mack are meeting with Runehart, then that means they are already starting an investigation. And that means—”
“Once the investigation is over, the contents of the investigation become public record,” Bryce said, finishing Grace’s thought. “And the moment any of that information goes public, it sinks any chance to save Mack. The media and government will brand him as a traitor, and he’ll be sentenced to death.”
“Not to mention the data they have on every GSF employee,” Grace said.
“Not unless we can find some proof that Grimes framed us,” Sarah said.
Bryce exited out of Runehart’s bio page and brought up the satellite’s database. “Grimes covered his tracks very well.” He sifted through the lines of code until he brought up the false narrative that Grimes had planted in their systems, the same narrative that the global intelligence community was using to condemn and hunt them. “From what I’ve discovered about the program so far, it looks like he used a simple algorithm, and because the data was so miniscule, it managed to weasel through the security protocols unchecked. It had no viruses, no hidden agenda. It was like sending an email.”
“Except it was an email that made us look like the bad guys,” Sarah said. “What does everyone know?”
“Well,” Bryce said, bringing up the information, “the beauty of Grimes’s program is that once I recognized the correspondence he planted, the source code of the algorithm changed from delivery to extraction. It was a mutating virus born from the Global Power coding. But aside from personnel files and the locations of a few safe houses, I managed to shut it down before it got anything classified top secret.” Bryce slammed his fist on the desk. “I should have seen it coming.”
Grace placed a hand on Bryce’s back. “The satellite was just spread too thin.” She kissed the top of his head. “Grimes had been planning this for years. And with his OCD, it was bound to be air tight.”
Bryce jumped up from his chair then paced in small circles. “He had to have something as a backup. I mean, he was confident, yes, but arrogant?”
Grace agreed. “Having a fail-safe does fit his psyche profile.”
“So where would he put it?” Sarah asked.
“He would have kept it analog,” Bryce said, lost in thought. “He wouldn’t have risked me trying to find it with the GSF satellite. He knew its search capabilities would have exceeded his coding skill.”
“Had he communicated with anyone recently?” Grace asked. “He may have been a loner, but there had to have been people he worked with besides the twins.”
“Anyone that would have been a loose end, he would have killed,” Sarah answered. “He wasn’t one for leaving things unchecked.”
“Then he would have looked for someone with like-minded thinking,” Grace said. “Someone outside the agency. Maybe even someone who wanted to bring it down.”
“The whole ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ type of deal?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah,” Grace answered. “Something like that.”
“Well, let’s assume he didn’t send anything to anyone,” Sarah said. “What else could we link to Grimes?”
“Black Box,” Bryce said, his voice now at a whisper. “Which is now in the hands of the CIA at Langley.”
Sarah looked down at the indentations the Russian bullets had left behind on her jacket, knowing all too well where this newfound knowledge would lead. “God I hope the CIA agents guarding Langley are worse shots than the Russians.”
Chapter 3
Runehart took a moment to adjust his hair and jacket in the mirror just before exiting the Capitol building. His press secretary had scheduled a quick meet and greet with some reporters in regard to the situations that had unraveled in Pakistan and India, and the United States military response to help stabilize the region. It was the perfect opportunity to praise the brave men and women in uniform while still highlighting the need for transparency with their own intelligence agencies.
He smiled, though this was the unpracticed, wild grin that his PR specialist had described to him as unelectable. He took a breath, regained control, and readjusted the mask that had become a second skin and almost felt natural. Almost.
Cameras and microphones swarmed Runehart the moment he stepped from the building on his way to the black sedan parked on the street.
“Senator, what is your comment on the Pentagon’s response to the India-Pakistan conflict that has developed over the past few days?”
The response called for a mixture of sincerity and concern, but not so much concern that he looked weak. That was something the viewers would find off putting. No, he had to walk that tightrope carefully, but he’d become incredibly good at it over the past few years.
“Our brave men and women in uniform never cease to amaze me,” Runehart said, taking a moment to stop on his walk, staring at the ground and giving a few head nods. “They put their lives at risk for the sake of not just America’s security, but that of people all around the world.”
“How does this affect the legislation you’ve been trying to push through that would expose the more classified missions of the United States military?”
Runehart retained his poise despite the opportunity to spike a winner.
Polling showed his constituents enjoyed it when he paused for effect. “Whenever decision makers that John and Jane Taxpayer didn’t elect to a position choose to spend their money without notification of how it’s being spent and what it’s being spent on, there will never be any accountability. My policies aim to protect everyone involved, and it’s time that our president gets with the program and starts listening to the people which he has been charged to serve. Thank you.”
Another flurry of questions flew his way, but Runehart evaded them by ducking inside the back of his sedan and drove off.
A young woman, beautiful by any standard of man, typed quickly on the small mobile device in her hands. “You’re going to be late for your two o’clock.” Rose’s eyes remained glued to the screen. “You need to drop the impromptu press conferences. It’s too many.” She finally looked up from the device. “Polling data says it makes you look needy.”
“The people want to see me,” Runehart answered. “We get a bump in favorability numbers every time I make the six o’clock news.”
“The bump hasn’t been as strong lately.” She returned to her device. “You’re losing your touch.”
Runehart’s cheeks flushed red. A grimace he never would have shown on camera exposed itself in the privacy of the car. He snatched his chief of staff’s wrist, his large hand engulfing her bone-thin arm in one bite. “You have one job, and that’s to keep my days running smoothly. Aside from that, you’re nothing more than a desk organizer. Don’t forget that.” He tossed her wrist aside and slowly reclined in his seat.
Rose cleared her throat, a red handprint on her porcelain skin. “I’ll cancel the meeting with Congressman Cleary. We’ll finish the day back at the office.”
“No,” Runehart said, tossing a side-eye glance in her direction. “I want to go to the lab.”
“Senator, we’ve talked about this,” Rose said. “It’s not a good idea for you to go there during the day. Too many eyes. I’ll work it into your schedule later this week to—”
“No, we go now.” Runehart adjusted his shirt and tie. He could only take wearing his monkey suit for so long before it started to constrict his body and mind. But it was all just part of the game, and it was a game he wouldn’t need to play for much longer.
The facility they arrived at was well guarded, but the security booth stationed in the gap in the fence around the perimeter let Runehart’s car pass without inspection. The driver pulled up to the front door, and Runehart and Rose quickly stepped out and passed through the automatic doors.
A woman was waiting to greet them inside the lobby. The end of her white lab coat cupped around her ankles and the black high heels that she wore. Her hair was in a tight bun, and she held a clipboard tucked close to her chest. She offered a tight smile, her teeth hidden by a closed mouth, and extended a hand. “Senator Runehart, it’s good to have you visit again.”
Runehart ignored the hand, his eyes already cast to the closed double doors to the left, where the lab resided. “Is it ready?”
The woman lowered her hand and clutched the clipboard. “We’re actually just finishing up some tests if you’d like to take a look.”
“I would.” Runehart followed the woman past the double doors, alone.
The lab itself was small and looked more like a sports training complex than a laboratory. Treadmills, weight equipment, a pool, an agility course with rope climbs, ladders, raised platforms—it was a gymnast’s dream. Only a handful of scientists were employed, but with Dr. Kline at the helm, there wasn’t need for much staff.
Runehart’s heart rate increased as he passed the woman in the lab coat and made his way to the plexiglass wall that caged the animal inside. It looked human, it spoke like a human, it even thought like a human. But it was controlled like an animal. No, he thought, because even an animal had the tendency to disobey—this was something else. Something better.
Runehart placed his hands against the plexiglass and leaned forward until the tip of his nose made contact. Dr. Kline had his back turned, but Runehart recognized the balding spot on top of the doctor’s head and the untamed white hair that sprouted around the sides. Two other scientists stood inside the hamster cage with him, but dwarfing them all at a towering six feet five was Specimen 289-02.
Born in a test tube and raised in this facility, 289-02 was the perfect human. It was genetically superior, free of disease and abnormalities. It had strength and speed that would put any professional athlete to shame. And unlike the current evolution of humans who were programmed with free will, 289-02 had no other purpose than to serve.
“Dr. Kline,” the lab coat woman said, pressing the intercom on the sidewall, “Senator Runehart is here.”
Dr. Kline turned around, offering a friendly wave that was in contrast to the stoic expression plastered on his face. He walked over to the phone on a nearby desk and picked it up. “I didn’t realize the senator was coming in today. Just in time to watch our boy go through his tests. It should be something to see.”
Our boy, Runehart thought. The doctor was a brilliant geneticist, but he might have been the only scientist in the world who thought of himself as the specimen’s father figure first and its creator second. Runehart cared little about patriarchal bonds. All he wanted to know was if Kline’s monster could do what he said it could.
“We’re going to run through some agility tests, followed by strength and conditioning.” This time Kline smiled. “I hope you’re ready to be impressed, Senator.” The doctor set the phone down and walked over to his genetically perfect son, placing a hand on his shoulder, which the specimen didn’t react to. Kline pointed toward a small obstacle course setup that consisted of jumps, climbs, crawls, and sprints. The doctor took a step back and removed a stopwatch, raised his arm high above his head, and dropped it.
289-02 sprinted forward in a blur, hurdling over six-foot walls in a single springing leap. From there, it darted to a body of water that measured at least twelve feet in length and cleared it with one effortless hop.
Dr. Kline looked over to the plexiglass wall and gave Runehart a half smile as the doctor’s prodigal son turned the corner on the course and ducked into a tunnel twenty feet in length, coming out the other side in what felt like only a few seconds.
Its hands and feet found the crevices and grooves carved into the vertical surface, and it scaled the fifty-foot wall that eventually curved horizontally, with 289-02 dangling from the ceiling like a monkey as it moved toward the lip of the edge and pulled himself upward.
The animal didn’t even break a sweat as it navigated a six-inch-wide beam with ease, its eyes locked on a piece of rope that dangled from the middle of the ceiling, and then leapt off, arms and body extended like Superman in flight, grabbing hold of the piece of rope that swung violently back and forth due to the newly attached two-hundred-and-fifty-pound pendulum.
The hulk pumped the rope back and forth, gaining momentum, and then catapulted its body to the other side of the room, where it landed perfectly on another six-inch-wide ledge that it sprinted across and then leapt off, its heavy body hurtling toward the ground, where it landed with a nearly silent roll and then sprang to its feet.
A series of five Olympic weight bars with rubber padded weights on either end greeted it for the next challenge, the first weighing in at two hundred pounds, with fifty pounds added to each subsequent bar, the last totaling a whopping four hundred pounds.
289-02 bent down and snatched the two hundred pounds over its head as though it were a pillow and then dropped it. The next three were just as swift, but when it arrived at the four-hundred-pound weight, it had to concentrate. Its muscles bulged, and when it threw the weight back down on the floor, the ground rattled.
After the weights, 289-02 moved to a small table with a series of firearms strewn across the top, with targets measured at twenty, forty, and sixty yards away. It loaded the first pistol and bulls-eyed the first test and then moved to the rifle, doing the same with that weapon, and then to
a machine gun, which sprayed a hole the size of a golf ball through the middle of each target.
Finally finished, the specimen returned to the starting point and returned to its rigid, motionless posture. No flush coloring of its cheeks, no sweat, no signs of fatigue. It was as if the previous sixty seconds had never happened.
When Dr. Kline exited the hamster cage, Runehart clapped. “Doctor, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Dr. Kline couldn’t hide his smile. “He’s magnificent, isn’t he? And this is just the physical aspect. Let me show you something.”
Runehart followed the doctor into a separate room that had a few monitors and computers set up at different stations. He logged into one of them and then opened a file from the desktop. “Since his maturation into adulthood, he has mastered a dozen languages, understands quantum mechanics, and has even started to dabble in art. Take a look at this.”
A replica of the Mona Lisa appeared, and Runehart’s jaw went slack. “It looks like the real thing.”
“Only a computer can tell the difference,” Dr. Kline said. “I had art experts from all over the world examine it, and they said it’s the most realistic recreation they’d ever seen. They could hang it in the Louvre, and no one would know.”
All of this was impressive, but Runehart didn’t come to see their creation just run around in a lab, earning his doctorate, and finger painting. There were more practical applications for him to be used for. “So he’s ready for the field?”
Dr. Kline let out a sigh. “Just a few more weeks, Senator. Then I can assure you we’ve worked out any and all kinks in his behavior.”
Runehart threw up his hands in exasperation. “I just watched him run a triathlon, and he barely broke a sweat! He did exactly what you told him to do!” Runehart inched close enough to smell the aftershave on the doctor’s cheeks. “I need him operational. Every second he stays in the cage is one more those GSF agents get to breathe. And the longer those people are alive, the more danger our nation will be in. Do you understand?”