by Greg Cox
He barely got the words out before the trap was sprung. Flash-bang grenades went off throughout the room, exploding from behind the shelves and cupboards. Blinding flashes went off one after another, disorienting the would-be assassins. Deafening explosions assaulted their ears. Strobe lights flashed overhead, adding to the chaos. The team could barely think, let alone use their abilities. Even if there was anyone to use them on.
Richard heard a hissing sound between detonations. Looking up, he saw thick white fumes pouring into the room through the ventilation grates.
Gas!
Placing his hand over his nose and mouth, Richard raced to the door. He grabbed on to the handle with his free hand, but it refused to budge. A secondary blast door dropped down from the ceiling, nearly slicing off his fingers. They were sealed in tight.
The choking vapors quickly filled the gas chamber. Richard’s eyes watered. His throat burned. He tried to fan the fumes away from him, but it was no good. Nonstop strobes and bangs buffeted his senses. His telekinesis was no good against the formless gas. He couldn’t get a grip on it with his mind.
Whoever had devised this trap had thought everything out.
Evee was the first to succumb to the gas. She crumpled onto the floor. Yul was next. He toppled over, landing across the supine forms of two of the look-alikes. Within seconds, Richard found himself the last man standing.
The gas invaded his lungs. Dizzy, he grabbed on to the edge of the round table to steady himself. He tried to fight back against the narcotic fumes, but it was a losing battle. His legs buckled and he sank to the floor beside his comrades. His eyelids drooped. He coughed on the caustic fumes. The last thing he wondered, before oblivion claimed him, was what the real Marked were up to right now.
His head hit the carpet.
TWELVE
APRIL HAD MADE it to Jordan Collier’s office at last.
Be careful what you wish for.
She perched anxiously on the edge of a high-backed Queen Anne chair in the middle of the impressive executive office. The two Peace Officers from City Hall stood to either side of her. Neither had offered her any clue as to what lay in store for her, although her fearful imagination had generated no shortage of dreadful scenarios, up to and including her being “disappeared” for good. She had heard unconfirmed rumors about what happened to 4400s who crossed Collier.
The room was uncomfortably warm compared to the outdoor plaza. Her hat, coat, and mirror shades hung on a rack by the door, but she still felt overdressed for indoors. She sweated beneath her fluffy mohair turtleneck and tight leather pants. Her mouth was as dry as Prohibition. She couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.
“Tie-dye pigeonhole emeritus?” she blurted.
Roughly translated, What do you want with me?
The guards merely snickered in response.
Her maddening inability to speak clearly only made her involuntary confinement here even more excruciating. A frustrated sob burst from her throat. She gnawed nervously at her fingernails. A clock on the wall revealed that she had been held captive for nearly two hours now. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could take this.
Just get it over with, won’t you?
Finally, just as she felt that she was on the verge of a total meltdown, the office door swung open and Jordan Collier strode into the room. He walked over to face her, while his bodyguards closed the door behind him. A lock clicked shut.
April swallowed hard.
“Hello, Ms. Skouris,” Collier addressed her. Speechifying had left his raspy voice even hoarser than usual. He sipped from a plastic water bottle, whose label identified it as having come from the once-polluted Duwamish River delta. Cleansing those toxic waters had been one of the Movement’s earliest triumphs—and a demonstration of all that Collier intended for Promise City. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. I understand that you’ve gone to some effort to see me … despite my warnings to the contrary.”
His tone was stern and unforgiving. April felt as though she had been called into the principal’s office, an experience she was more than familiar with from her school days. She instantly knew what he had in mind for her.
“Sasquatch fax gravy!”
Terrified, she tried to leap from the chair, but the guards clamped on to her shoulders and shoved her back down onto the seat. Another sickening wave of dizziness sent her head spinning. She whimpered and closed her eyes until the sensation passed. Clearly, she wasn’t going anywhere. She moaned in defeat. “Fetal seraglio …”
Collier laid the water bottle down on a nearby table. He gazed down on her like a judge upon a bench. “It pains me that you chose to disregard my warning, and not only because I sincerely regret seeing any promicin-inspired ability wasted. I have great respect for your sister and her partner.”
You and everyone else, she thought bitterly. Apparently even the great Jordan Collier couldn’t resist telling her how wonderful Diana was. April’s eyes teared up. She pounded her fists against the arms of the chair in anguished disappointment. It’s not fair! I was finally somebody, too!
“The truth is indeed a thing of infinite value,” Collier lectured her, “but not when it can be exploited by those who would thwart destiny in order to preserve a future devoid of hope or justice. I have seen what this world will become if our Movement fails. Lifeless oceans of bone. Endless fires burning on the horizon. The stench of rotting flesh and disease. A sky blackened by smoke and acid rain. The never-ending screams of the dying and the damned.”
The frown lines on his face deepened. His eyes turned cold and hard. He shook his head mournfully. Stepping forward, he laid his palms against her cheeks. His cool hands were surprisingly rough and calloused.
“I cannot allow you to interfere with what must be done.”
No! April thought frantically. Don’t do this! She squirmed helplessly in her seat, held down by the looming Peace Officers. I’ve changed my mind! I won’t bother you anymore. You’ll never see me again, I promise!
“Crunchy Teflon sublimes!”
But it was too late for words, meaningless or otherwise. Collier’s brow furrowed in concentration. A tingling sensation, like static electricity, sparked where he touched her. The buzz spread from her cheeks to deep beneath her forehead. A humming noise, like a swarm of angry bees, filled the inside of her skull. The bees started stinging her brain.
She thrashed convulsively upon the chair. The guards struggled to restrain her, and had to use both hands to hold her still. Her jaws clenched involuntarily. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. Flecks of white foam bubbled at the corner of her mouth. Her heart was going a mile a minute. Veins pulsed at her temples. The fierce humming roared like a hurricane. Jordan held her head fast between his open hands. April felt like her very soul was being blasted to bits.
Then, all at once, it was over.
Jordan released her face. The agonizing pain ceased. The humming died away. He stepped back from the chair, his face drawn and weary. His arms dropped to his sides. He nodded at the guard on the right. “It’s done. There’s no need for the aphasia anymore.”
“Understood.”
The guard let go of April, in more ways than one. She felt something shift at the back of her head. Her tongue untangled.
“What have you done to me?” she sobbed.
Jordan replied without coercion. “Relieved you of a gift you proved extraordinarily unworthy of.” He walked away from her and helped himself to another gulp of water. “Let her go,” he instructed the officers, without even looking at her. It was like she was beneath his notice. “She’s no threat to anyone now … except, perhaps, herself.”
The truth had never been so hard to hear. Despair gripped her as she realized that her snazzy new life as a prized government asset was over. Collier was right; she was no good to anyone now. Ralph and Eric were going to have to find someone else to shadow, but that was just the beginning. How was she ever going to face Diana after this?
I screwed up ag
ain. Big-time.
“You smug bastard!” she shrieked at Collier. “You had no right!”
He turned toward her once more. “Not so. I have every right, and more. I gave the world promicin. Therefore it’s my responsibility to see that it is not abused by ungrateful, self-centered people such as yourself.” Water in hand, he headed for the door. “Now then, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long night. Good luck with the rest of your life, Ms. Skouris. I hope this experience has taught you a valuable lesson.”
“Don’t walk away from me!” April shouted angrily. “Where is Danny Farrell’s body?”
He paused in the doorway. A wry smile hinted at a private joke. “As I told your esteemed sister, I don’t have a clue.”
She had no idea if he was telling the truth or not.
“Home sweet home,” Cassie said. “Finally.”
Kyle’s new apartment on the twenty-third floor of the Collier Foundation building was definitely a step up from the abandoned bomb shelter they had squatted in when the Movement had first returned to Seattle, shortly before the Great Leap Forward. A black leather sofa and matching love seat faced a state-of-the-art entertainment center, cobbled together from spare parts by Dalton Gibbs, Promise City’s most brilliant mechanic. A white shag carpet cushioned the floor. A large leather-bound tome, containing the original “White Light” prophecies, occupied a position of honor on the coffee table. A family photo, taken during happier times, before his mom and dad got divorced, rested on a bookshelf. A photo of Isabelle Tyler sat beside it. A framed photo of Mount Rainier, where the 4400 had first returned to the present, decorated one wall. A potted fern, picked out by Cassie, added a feminine touch.
The ritzy digs did little to lift his spirits, though, after that ugly scene at his dad’s place. Flicking on the lights, he angrily tossed his jacket onto the love seat. He couldn’t get over the way his dad and Shawn had tried to guilt-trip him over dinner. “Crap, crap, crap,” he vented aloud. “Things were going so well between us before. Why did they have to spoil it like that?”
“I tried to warn you,” Cassie reminded him. Shucking a knitted shawl, she plopped down onto the couch and kicked off her shoes. She curled her bare legs up beneath her. “It’s not a good idea to associate with those people, not until they see the light.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He joined her on the couch. “But he’s my dad, Cassie. And Shawn’s more than just a cousin. We used to be best friends.”
“I know.” Her tone softened as she snuggled up next to him. She rested his head on her shoulder. “The future has asked a lot of you.”
Tell me about it, he thought. Although he had been meant to be one of the original 4400, a botched attempt at abducting him had landed him in a coma for three years. Then, after Shawn finally revived him, one of the future people had possessed his body and forced him to shoot Jordan Collier. He’d spent nearly a year in Evergreen State Penitentiary before Jordan had finally managed to spring him from custody. Throw in a stint spent in quarantine right after he’d been possessed and almost five years of his life had been shot down the tubes, while rival factions in the future treated him like a pawn in some kind of time-bending chess game. It wasn’t until he’d taken the shot that he’d finally felt like he was taking control of his own destiny.
Maybe.
“It’s just one thing after another,” he moaned. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“It will all be worth it in the end,” Cassie promised. Her gentle fingers stroked his hair. “Everything you’ve gone through, all your trials and hardships, it was all to serve a greater purpose. To bring Heaven to Earth and end mankind’s suffering forever.”
Kyle wanted to believe that. He had to believe that.
“You really think so?”
“Trust me.” A cryptic smile lifted her lips. “Have I ever led you wrong?”
I guess not, he thought. Lifting his head from her shoulder, he contemplated the enigmatic woman beside him. Not for the first time, Kyle wondered where exactly his unconscious mind had conjured her up from. Why “Cassie Dunleavy” anyway? Where had that name come from? Some stray memory from his childhood that had been lodged in the back of his brain until the promicin brought it to life? Maybe a character from a storybook or a girl he’d met in kindergarten? According to Jungian psychology, which he’d studied briefly in college before dropping out to join the Movement, everyone had a female side called an anima. Was Cassie a psychic manifestation of his anima, or something else altogether?
Look at me, he thought. I don’t even know how my own ability works. How pathetic is that?
“I don’t know.” He stared morosely at the floor. “Maybe my dad and Shawn have a point. Who wants another fifty/fifty?” Distraught, he ran his fingers through his hair. He felt like he was at the end of his rope. “I get so confused sometimes.”
“Poor baby.” Cassie gracefully rose from the couch. She reached down and lifted his chin. Striking green eyes gazed down on him tenderly. “You’ve had it hard, haven’t you? But I know just what you need.” She undid a clasp at the back of her dress and the funky purple frock slithered to the floor. To his surprise, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The turquoise pendant shone brightly against her smooth, pink skin. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go to bed.”
His eyes devoured her undraped form, and he felt his body responding, just like it always did. Part of him realized that there was something wrong, maybe even unhealthy, about this new aspect of their relationship, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d felt so alone after Isabelle died, and Cassie had been there to comfort him, night after night.
She’s not real, he reminded himself. She’s my own female self.
But he could see her and smell her and touch her, even if nobody else could.
“Come to me, lover,” she whispered huskily. “Let Cassie make it all better.”
“I’ve lost so much,” he whimpered.
“But you still have me, Kyle. Forever.”
Taking her hand, he let her guide him toward the bedroom.
“You’re just making this harder for yourself,” Dennis Ryland said.
Richard was a prisoner once more, but his new quarters made his old cell in Virginia seem like a penthouse suite at a luxury hotel. Sickly green paint failed to insulate the drafty stone walls. Instead of a bunk, there was only a hard concrete bench with no sheets or pillows. You’d have to be totally exhausted to sleep on something like that. Not that Ryland and his stooges had given Richard a moment’s peace since he’d woken up here, wherever that was. Shackled to a chair in the center of the cell, his wrists handcuffed behind him, Richard had no idea where he was being held. An orange jumpsuit had replaced his commando garb. His bare feet rested against cold cement. A draft chilled him to the bone. He wondered if he would ever feel warm again.
“I’m not telling you anything,” he said wearily. Ryland had been interrogating him for hours without a break. He was hungry and thirsty and exhausted. His prison togs were soaked with sweat. His stomach growled. His mouth felt dry as dust. His bandaged arm ached where the dog had bitten it; he’d been given antibiotics and a tetanus shot, but no painkillers. He would have killed for a sip of water.
“What a shame,” Ryland said. The man’s dapper suit gave him the look of a corporate executive, not a torturer. He took a swig from a bottle of imported spring water. “Your daughter was much more cooperative, at least for a time.” Ryland had briefly tricked Isabelle into conspiring against the 4400 a few years back. “We had a good working relationship, before she went berserk.”
Richard glared angrily. How dare this witch-hunting bastard defame his daughter. “Go to hell.” If his telekinesis was still working, he would have yanked the water bottle from Ryland’s manicured fingers. But he was back on the inhibitor again. “Why should I talk to you, of all people?”
He’d first met Ryland years ago when the man had ordered all the 4400s into quarantine. At the time, the man had seemed l
ike just another paranoid government bureaucrat. Then Ryland had tried to poison all the 4400s with an early version of the inhibitor, mounted an armed assault on a 4400 safe house run by Richard, and corrupted Isabelle. To say there was little love lost between them was an understatement.
“To stop Jordan Collier from killing millions of people?” Ryland’s voice was deceptively calm and reasonable. “All we want is for you to confess that Collier is developing an airborne version of promicin.”
Richard groaned. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I don’t even know if that’s true.”
“What difference does that make?” Ryland asked cynically. “We just need you to say so, on camera.” Surveillance cameras, mounted to record the interview, were currently switched off. “That’s all the justification we need to launch a preemptive strike on Promise City.”
“Forget it.” Richard stared defiantly at the other man. “I’m not giving you a bogus excuse for an invasion.”
“Who says it’s bogus? Collier?” Ryland shook his head at Richard’s apparent naïveté. “Haven’t you learned by now that you can’t trust a word that man says?” He knelt down in front of the seated prisoner, so they were eye to eye. “Remember that beating in Virginia, those crooked guards that were going to blow your head off?”
Richard could hardly forget that, but said nothing.
“Collier set that up,” Ryland declared. “It was all a ploy to secure your loyalty, by arranging to save your life.”
The accusation caught Richard off guard. “You’re lying,” he said uncertainly. Doubt sapped his words of conviction. “That’s not true.”
“Pretty convenient how Collier’s freak squad showed up just in time to pull your butt from the fire, don’t you think?” Ryland chuckled at the coincidence. “You ever wonder about that?”
“Maia Skouris,” Richard insisted. “She warned Collier what was going to happen …”
“Is that what he told you?” Ryland shrugged. “Maybe that’s so. Or maybe that creepy brat didn’t see the whole story.” He rose to his feet and looked down sadly. His vulpine face projected a patently insincere facsimile of sympathy. “You don’t owe Collier a thing, Richard. Why endure all this misery to protect him?”