The Never Army

by Hodges, T. Ellery

  Olivia held up a hand, her mind still racing to make sense of it all.

  “You meant for her to escape,” Olivia said.

  Delacy made no effort at denial. “If the chance presented. In the end, she left this facility in a manner I never could have foreseen.”

  Beneath the table Olivia’s fingers were becoming fists—though she was beginning to wonder why she bothered hiding her anger.

  “The point is,” the General said. “The timing of last night’s siege was all the more suspicious when you consider that all the commotion caused would have given her the chance she needed to slip out.”

  Olivia blinked. “But Leah was trapped. Locked in Jonathan’s cell before the attack even began.”

  General Delacy nodded. “We should assume that nothing about last night was happenstance. If that is the case, Jonathan and his allies wanted her there—always planned to retrieve her. Wanted her and Rivers in that room before they made their move on the alien’s containment shell.”

  Olivia listened, but with each passing moment she was finding it harder to compartmentalize her growing contempt. The gross misuse of power. The treason. And yet at that moment, it was the sheer nepotism that boiled her blood. Involving his daughter in a highly classified operation she had no justification being anywhere near.

  Yet, Delacy could not have reached the position of power he currently resided in by being reckless. Olivia was privy to a great deal more information than the average citizen on matters within the government. Everything she knew about General Delacy—the public figure—were the sort of details one read in his military personnel file. Still, those records painted the picture of a career officer with an impeccable record. Until this moment.

  Anyone could be broken if pressure was applied to the right point of weakness, and the loss of a child was a textbook example of what could cause such a lapse in judgment.

  “The charges didn’t fire because your daughter and grandchild would have been caught in the blast. That was why you disabled the detonator. It never mattered who pressed the trigger. He knew the charges were never going to fire, knew her father wouldn’t let her die down there.”

  When the trigger had failed, she believed she’d fallen for the long con. She’d seen a sort of evil genius in it all; Jonathan going to so much trouble to prove his honesty, so she’d believe the one lie that mattered when the time came.

  She’d believed the rumbling in the floor was The Mark’s shell malfunctioning. In reality, the UTO had been tunneling toward them, shaking the facility the entire time. She and everyone in the room had every reason to believe that the charges had finally detonated when that thing came ramming through six feet of cement.

  And now, she saw that while all that misdirection was clearly intentional, Jonathan still hadn’t lied.

  The one question that remained was why the General believed that if she knew all this, she would change her mind about Jonathan’s motives.

  The answer came to her before she opened her mouth to voice. “Your son . . . that’s why you need to believe.”

  The General held her gaze but folded his arms across his chest.

  “So that’s it, now that it’s clear the alien’s contacts are not his victims or slaves. If Jonathan is the enemy, then so was your son.”

  “My son was a good person,” Delacy said. “And so is my daughter.”

  A crackle over the radio on Olivia’s belt interrupted, which she was glad for, because the words she had for the General at that moment would likely be ones she’d later regret.

  “Olivia, we have a confirmed sighting of Jonathan Tibbs.”

  Her eyes widened; she hadn’t expected he would surface this quickly. She was on the line immediately as the General watched with interest.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Downtown Seattle,” the agent said. “What are your orders?”

  She exchanged a glance with Delacy.

  “He not only has my daughter, but your agent.”

  Olivia took a long breath. “I want him brought in alive.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  OCT 16, 2005 | 7:30 AM | SEATTLE

  JONATHAN APPEARED IN an alley behind an apartment building downtown. With his implant active, he managed not to make too much noise pushing through the deadbolt on the back door, but the first person that came this way would notice the forced entry.

  He took the stairs up to the fifth floor. No one answered when he knocked on a door at the end of the hall. Mr. Clean had assured him the tenant’s cell phone was on the premises. He tried the knob and was surprised to find the door unlocked. After he stepped inside, he engaged the deadbolt behind him.

  The smell had hit him right away. It was a mix of open liquor bottles, poorly cleaned up vomit, and air permeated by the breath of someone who spent the last few days on a bender. When he entered the living room, he saw what his nose had told him to expect.

  Lincoln was passed out on the floor between his couch and his coffee table—as though he might have started on the couch and rolled off at some point. The end tables, the mantle, really any place there might have once been a clear surface was now cluttered with empty bottles or cans.

  It added up, Jonathan realized with some sadness.

  Paige had gone out on a single date with his trainer. Neither had ever spoken of it or asked after the other. This had struck him as odd but, given how little he’d been willing to share about his own life, he avoided asking anyone questions of a personal nature. Early on, he found it left him in a position where he felt rude when he couldn’t reciprocate.

  He’d known little about Paige’s childhood at the time. Since then, he had learned that her father had been an alcoholic. If Lincoln was a recovering alcoholic, it made sense that he’d have told her before letting her become too emotionally invested. It wasn’t a huge leap that she wouldn’t want to invite that into her life.

  If he’d fallen off the wagon, it wasn’t a far stretch to think it had something to do with the gym letting him go. Jonathan had been—busy—in the days leading up to his capture by The Cell; was at the gym less frequently. He could have easily missed the signs that had led to Lincoln’s manager cutting him loose.

  Jonathan considered walking out.

  When the world is ending you tend to cut your losses for the sake of the bigger picture. He hadn’t made it to the hallway before he turned back. The unconscious man never knew, but Jonathan wouldn’t be standing there today if Lincoln hadn’t walked up and told him he was doing everything wrong a few months earlier.

  You know when you first showed up here, I admit, I didn’t think you’d have the spirit for this, but sometimes, well, I wish I had some of whatever is driving you.

  At the time, the trainer seemed interested in where he’d found the drive—the discipline—to train like his life depended on it. Looking at him now, Jonathan realized he’d misunderstood—gotten the man all wrong. Lincoln had been fighting a war of attrition. The sort that could only be won if he possessed an unwavering will.

  But there was no such will. And in the end, willpower, discipline—they weren’t the only things that had kept him alive. Jonathan had always had the support of his friends.

  “Lincoln,” Jonathan said.

  The man on the floor didn’t move. Didn’t come around at all.

  Jonathan found the kitchen in the adjacent room. The place looked as bad as the living room. Bottles, overflowing garbage, unwashed dishes. He eventually located a coffee pot and after a few minutes of searching cupboards he found the rest of the necessities. When he had the brew started, he finally lifted the man back onto the couch.

  Being lifted off the floor was enough to jar Lincoln out of his stupor, a bit. But it was when Jonathan went with the classic pull open of the drapes to let the sun in that Lincoln started to rouse. It wasn’t a particularly bright day out, but in his condition, Jonathan might as well have aimed a spotlight at him.

  “Ohhh God,” Lincoln groaned as his hands
covered his eyes.

  It took the big man a moment to realized he wasn’t alone, squinting as he noticed Jonathan in the living room. “Tibbs? That you? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I need your help.”

  Lincoln snorted and rubbed at his eyes. “Uh, I got canned—I’m not allowed in the gym.”

  “Yeah, I got your message,” Jonathan said. “How long ago did you . . . relapse?”

  Lincoln bristled. “That depends, what day is it?”

  “Yeah, right, never mind,” Jonathan said.

  Lincoln leaned forward and began to sift through the bottles on his coffee table. Finding them empty, he sighed, leaned back into the couch, and sniffed at the air. “Are you making coffee?”

  Jonathan stepped over to a window in the kitchen, parting the blinds enough with his hand to get a view of the street. “Need to clear your head enough to listen. Don’t know how much time we’ll have.”

  Lincoln lifted an eyebrow, as if deciding he didn’t much care what Jonathan was talking about. He got up from the couch and stumbled to the kitchen.

  Satisfied momentarily with the street’s emptiness, Jonathan found a mug and poured a cup of coffee, but by then, Lincoln had found a bottle that wasn’t empty. Just as he was bringing it to his lips, Jonathan swiped it out of his hand. Now, had Lincoln been in possession of all his faculties, he might have noticed the action had been remarkably swift. But in his current state, he looked at his empty hand perplexed before he noticed Jonathan holding out the mug.

  Lincoln frowned at him suspiciously, then quirked an eyebrow as though he couldn’t tell if Jonathan were being serious. To be fair, the contrast between the two of them had always been a bit comical. The trainer outweighing Jonathan by at least a hundred pounds—all of it muscle.

  “Tibbs,” Lincoln said. “I’m not in the mood for an intervention.”

  “Just need a minute of your time,” Jonathan said.

  Lincoln sighed, but he took the coffee. “I’ve heard it all before, and I know how this works. I’m not gonna stop until I actually want to.”

  Jonathan nodded. “I get that.”

  Lincoln sipped slowly at first. As the coffee cooled, he took longer pulls. When he finished, Jonathan handed him another.

  He looked at the cup, rolled his eyes, but took it. “You gonna watch me drink the whole pot?” Lincoln asked. “Or are you going to tell me what you want?”

  Jonathan smiled. “I got an opportunity for you. It’s worth sobering up for.”

  “Doubt it,” Lincoln said.

  “I want your help saving the world.”

  Lincoln brought the mug up, took a long gulp, then slowly brought the cup down and considered Jonathan. “Alright, I admit, this is a new angle.”

  Jonathan smirked, then walked back to the window to take another glance outside.

  “But, let me take a guess,” Lincoln said. “Before I can save the world, I need to save myself? That about where this garbage is heading?”

  “No, I was being literal,” Jonathan said, his fingers spreading the kitchen blinds once more to look outside. “I need you sober for a few weeks, maybe a few months. Afterward, you can get right back to—whatever you call this.”

  Lincoln took another sip of the coffee and considered Jonathan again. “You’re acting weird, Tibbs.”

  “I hear that a lot these days.”

  “Why do you keep looking out the window?”

  “Some friends of mine have been watching your place,” Jonathan said. “Knowing them, any minute now they’ll come try and bring me in.”

  Lincoln appeared to hold back a scoff of disbelief. The peculiarly frank way Jonathan said all this seemed to leave the larger man at a loss as to whether he was kidding.

  “You in some kind of trouble?” Lincoln said.

  “Pretty much all the kinds, I think,” Jonathan said. “And I didn’t mean to bring it down on you, but I didn’t plan on finding you—well—like this.”

  “And if you’d found me otherwise?”

  “You’d already have agreed to come with me,” Jonathan said.

  “Oh, I would now?” Lincoln asked. “Where exactly is it you want me to go?”

  Jonathan turned away from the window. “You’ve always wanted to know what I was training for. You still want to know?”

  “Hmmm, not if you’re about to tell me it’s been to save the world,” Lincoln asked. “Sorry, there ain’t enough beer in the world to believe that.”

  “Come with me,” Jonathan said. “All you’ll need to do is believe your own eyes.”

  Lincoln frowned. “Think I’ll pass.”

  He stood up from his kitchen table and headed toward the counter where Jonathan had put the bottle.

  Jonathan stepped between them.

  “Come on, Tibbs. Just don’t.”

  Jonathan smiled pleasantly but shook his head. “Hmmm, nah.”

  Lincoln’s patience was short, but he didn’t appear ready for violence yet. He moved to push Jonathan aside, most likely thinking his weight would easily get the job done. He found the task more difficult than it should have been.

  Jonathan could see the wheels turning in the big man’s head. Lincoln assumed he’d simply misjudged. He tried again, this time making sure to use more than enough force. Jonathan didn’t so much as budge. Despite his hangover, Lincoln seemed to realize that something wasn’t right. Shoving Jonathan was like trying to push aside a metal statue that was bolted to the floor.

  “What the . . .”

  Jonathan lifted a hand and put it on Lincoln’s shoulder. He was about to say something, but the front door burst in with a loud crash as the dead bolt tore through trim. The main window in the living room was next, shattering as men coming up the outside fire escape stepped over the windowsill.

  “Down on the ground now!”

  Another team of men, armored to the teeth in tactical gear, came pouring through the front door. Lincoln was turning about, trying to keep up with all the commotion and finding he was surrounded by heavily armed men, their weapons trained on him and Jonathan.

  “Mr. Clean,” Jonathan said, “now would be good.”

  “Sorry,” Jonathan said. “The disorientation is pretty bad even when you aren’t hungover.”

  “Oh God . . .” Lincoln barely had enough time to get that much out before puking.

  “Take it easy,” Jonathan said, standing behind him. “Should pass in a minute or two. Though, in hindsight, I admit the coffee wasn’t fully thought out.”

  “What just happ—oh God . . .”

  The dialog, broken up by vomiting, continued in this disjointed manner. But despite the interruptions, they managed to get through the basic Q&A.

  “What just happened?”

  “We teleported to a safe location.”

  “Why am I the only one vomiting?”

  “It’s teleportation sickness. It doesn’t affect me; we’ll get to that later.”

  “I’m dreaming.”

  “I wish, brother, but we’re not waking up from this one.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Sorry, not a drop for miles. That probably doesn’t sound like good news at the moment.”

  “Why the hell would it be good news?”

  “Because you don’t need to hit bottom here,” Jonathan said. “Sobriety is no longer optional.”

  At this point Lincoln was well enough to stand. He looked around and saw nothing but trees in every direction.

  “This is a forest. I’m in a forest,” Lincoln said.

  Jonathan smirked. “You are.”

  “Well, which way do I go to get out of it?”

  Jonathan looked up at the sun, considering. “Seattle is South, but I don’t recommend trying to get there on foot.”

  “Tibbs, you better hope this is a dream,” Lincoln said. “Because you’re pissing me off.”

  “That’s fair,” Jonathan said with a nod. “But why not sit for a bit. Hear me out. See if you’re sti
ll angry after.”

  Lincoln stomped around a bit longer, stubbornly reconfirmed that there was no sign that any particular direction was better than another. Finally, he threw his hands up and found a rock that looked comfortable. Once he’d calmed down, the scope of what had transpired started to weigh in.

  “I’m not hallucinating,” Lincoln finally said.

  Jonathan shook his head sympathetically.

  “That was a SWAT team that broke down my door.”

  “Well,” Jonathan said, his tone apologetic. “They weren’t actually SWAT but the difference is splitting hairs at the moment.”

  “They were after you?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  Lincoln was quiet for a minute. “So what then? You’re a teleporting terrorist.”

  Jonathan appeared to consider Lincoln’s summation of the situation. “No, but that is how the authorities currently see it. Unfortunately, after what just happened in your apartment, they’ll assume you’re an accomplice. Even if you get home, it probably won’t be good.”

  “I’m starting to get that,” Lincoln said. “I kind of thought we were friends. So, why the hell did you involve me?”

  Jonathan looked for his own rock to sit on while he answered. “You couldn’t know this, but if we hadn’t met, I’d probably be dead.”

  Lincoln frowned, glared at him as though the statement were far too dramatic to be true.

  “Jesus . . . Tibbs, you were a client,” Lincoln said. “When we met, all I was trying to do was make a living.”

  “You know, that is a great way to look at this,” Jonathan said. “I’ve got a couple hundred clients for you. They all need the Tibbs training regime. But this time, you’ll know what you’re training them for.”

  Lincoln tongued at an incisor as he looked around. “Clients? We’re standing in the middle of an empty forest.”

  “They’re closer than you think,” Jonathan said.

  Lincoln looked at him blankly.

  “Mr. Clean,” Jonathan said. “You want to uncloak a back door for us?”

  Seeing as Jonathan appeared to be talking to an imaginary friend, Lincoln scowled. A moment later he nearly fell off his rock retracting in surprise. The forest had come to life a few feet from his head as Mr. Clean’s outer camouflage retreated and a large door into Hangman’s Tree appeared.