INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  The room always gave Brooks a headache but the security gave him peace of mind that made his pounding skull a trivial matter.

  When the intercom trilled he jabbed at the talk button. “Brooks.”

  “They’re here, Sir.” Lopez.

  “Send Hayden, alone.” He waited through the expected pause.

  “Sir, they say they can’t let him out of their sight.”

  “Anything that happens is on me.”

  “Mr. Parker says he needs to hear that from you directly, Sir.” Lopez spoke in his usual patient tone of voice.

  “Fine.” Turnkey hacks never changed. “Put him on.”

  A new voice came on the line. “Brooks, do you understand what you’re asking?”

  “Shut up, Parker. What I’m asking is none of your damn business. What I’m telling is that you send him up and wait for me to return him when I’m good and ready. Got that? You make me call Governor Davis on this and you’re on the street. That’s a promise.”

  Delicious silence.

  The elevator chimed and Brooks watched the lights indicate the approaching car. The wall cracked open to reveal the small stainless steel elevator with its precious cargo.

  The slim man in faded coveralls blinked at the white interior of the room. He’d lost weight since the photos Brooks saw from his file on the guy. Not a real surprise. He also noticed some gray sprinkled in among the cropped blonde hair.

  “Welcome, Mr. Hayden, please step inside and take a seat. May I call you Brian?” Brooks gestured to a clear Lucite chair that matched the one he was using. The elevator doors closed without a sound behind the man, and the seam vanished.

  “You can call me Stinger.” He raised arms Brooks saw were shackled. “You’ll forgive me for not shaking hands.” He dropped into the seat.

  Brooks wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I am sorry. I should have insisted those be removed.”

  Stinger shrugged. “I doubt they’d have let me come up here without them. I’m still surprised they did. You seem to have more juice than I thought.”

  Brooks let the remark pass. He pulled out a folder from a brown leather satchel leaning against his chair. “How are you finding your time?”

  “What do you mean?” Stinger’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He glanced around the barren room. “And did you hire your decorator from the prison system?”

  “Privacy can be a casualty of this age of technical marvels, but we’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that we may speak freely.” Brooks said. “But back to my question. How do you enjoy ... captivity?”

  “My life sentence? It’s everything I thought it would be.”

  Brooks saw the façade crack for an instant when Stinger shifted in his seat. He glanced at the folder for effect. He’d long since memorized the contents. “Four consecutive life terms total for the murders of half a dozen men over a fifteen-year span.”

  “I got sloppy.”

  “You were betrayed by your client.”

  “Most of my clients knew better than to try. Like I said, I got sloppy.”

  Brooks pretended to read some more. “That client, Mr. Silver, ‘passed away’ before he could bring testimony that might have meant double the number of convictions.”

  “Bad luck for him.” Stinger smiled.

  “Or good for you. It says here it weakened the case enough to spare you the death penalty.”

  Stinger’s shoulders sagged. “That’s where your intel is wrong. It was a death sentence, it just gets carried out day by day. Execution by tedium.”

  “And we arrive at the point.”

  “Which is?”

  Brooks put the papers down. “You were said to be one of the best.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read. I was caught.”

  “What if you had a chance to expunge your record and leave a free man?” Brooks saw the man tense up.

  “I don’t buy bridges.”

  Brooks took out a document and slid it across the table.

  Stinger looked at and laughed. “A death certificate? You went to all this trouble to take me out? You people can do that any time of day or night. What is this?”

  “Just as you said. The end of Brian ‘Stinger’ Hayden, gone from this earth and never lamented.” Brooks took another paper out. “Say hello to Roger Wilson. Or whatever name you like.”

  Stinger let out a long breath. “Who do I have to kill?”

  “Make them comfortable. Mr. Hayden has chosen to hear me out. And don’t interrupt me again.” Brooks switched off the commbox and confirmed the interlocks on the elevator controls.

  Stinger leaned back in his chair. The food and drink he’d eaten had taken off the edge and Brooks thought he’d be more receptive.

  “How much do you know about GenenHealth?”

  “Besides that you guys make a fortune on drugs and medical procedures? Not much. My stock portfolio is kind of thin these days.”

  “You’re talking to one of the founders,” Brooks said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “I have a background in the life sciences but my real gift it turned out was on the business end. Much as I hate to admit it my partner, Wallace MacLean, is the genius behind the company.” Brooks held up a screenshot of Lifeline magazine with MacLean on the cover.

  “I recognize him.” Stinger gazed at the shot.

  Brooks was pleased to see the man studying the picture.

  “He’s the public persona of GenenHealth. His creations have driven the company to where we are today.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that he’s sitting on the greatest discovery in a lifetime. Maybe several lifetimes—and with what we could make on it, the entire net worth of GenenHealth is pocket change in comparison.”

  “So you want me to take this guy out?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “That’s not no. Go ahead.”

  “In experimenting with animal genetics, Wally made a fundamental breakthrough. He was able to infuse certain traits into a human. At the genetic level.”

  “You want to corner the market on freak shows?”

  Brooks tamped down his irritation. “He was looking for way to adapt healing and other benefits that our bodies can’t manage on their own.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “No. Stay with me, here.” Brooks ran his hand through his hair. “He succeeded. He wasn’t looking to create human animal hybrids from birth. He wanted to add certain genetic traits into an established subject. He called them ‘Blenders.’”

  “I see.”

  “Not yet. The process requires a precise insertion of DNA strand segments. Without the exact codes, what Wally calls recipes, the combinations killed the hosts.” Brooks paused, recalling some of the grotesque early failures.

  “Why would anyone agree to go through such a thing?”

  “Everyone has a price,” Brooks said. “Wally also managed to model some of the effects to minimize the need for live human testing.”

  “Again, what’s this got to do with me?”

  Brooks took a sip of the amber liquor that sat on the table in front of him. Mellow warmth crept down his throat. “We made remarkable strides in so many areas. Strength enhancement, adaptability, endurance. The bio-boys at the Pentagon were drooling.”

  “Good for you.” Stinger looked impatient.

  Funny reaction for a man with nothing better to do than return to rot in prison.

  “Then Wally lost his wife and nearly his daughter from complications with her pregnancy. Despite the finest care, Death got the last word. But not for little Brenda.”

  “The daughter?”

  “Right. She was born with a heart defect and not given much chance to survive a month.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Wally couldn’t accept the grim prognosis. Baby Brenda became a test subject at barely a week old. Wally and some of the most loyal people we had took the baby to a secret location.”
/>   “I can imagine some people were looking for him.”

  “They were. But, as you’ll see, he’s rather good at staying secluded. Wally and his team gambled on what they thought was a lost cause.”

  “And?”

  “By the time the police caught up to him more than a month later they were braced to file kidnapping and wrongful death charges.”

  “But he bought his way out?”

  “No. There was no death. Brenda was alive and well. Completely well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The hole in her heart? Healed. Not repaired, regrown. The hospital and police changed their minds on the kidnapping, and yes, I’m sure some funds changed hands. But I really think the hospital was eager to find out how he’d cured the defect.”

  Now Stinger was paying attention again. Good.

  “How did he do it?”

  “They used the blending process on the baby and gave her the attributes of a creature with regenerative powers.”

  “What creature?”

  “A starfish.”

  “But there were complications.”

  “Life is funny that way.”

  “I find nothing funny about the need to keep a tiny girl isolated because part of the process completely suppressed her immune system.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “In order to get the body to accept the foreign DNA we had to suppress the natural defense systems. In the early days it was an all-or-nothing prospect. As such, the changes blended in with the host but sadly the subject was highly susceptible to infections and disease.”

  “Not a great trade.”

  “Agreed, however we’ve made massive improvements to the process.”

  “How is this girl Brenda doing?”

  Brooks looked away. “That’s the problem. When Wally acted we hadn’t perfected the process. He got the healing effects as I mentioned but ... the changes didn’t stop at regeneration.”

  “No?” Stinger stared at Brooks.

  “It started at the fingers and toes. At first they thought it was a rash or some other illness but it was the new normal for her. The skin mutated to look identical to regular pebbly starfish skin.”

  “And then?”

  “We worked night and day. Everything at our disposal to slow the runaway reaction.”

  “But you failed?”

  “No! We created a drug that halts the reaction while enabling the immune system to function normally. The blended capabilities are essentially invisible to the body so the immune system won’t attack them. We call it Haltizol.” Brooks spoke with undisguised pride.

  “And Brenda?”

  “Fast wasn’t fast enough.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Wally was so blinded in his grief he turned against the entire program. Just when we were so close.”

  “Why not run the program without him?”

  “We tried. And the team here made enormous strides in all areas but one.”

  “Yes?”

  “The recipes. We don’t know how many strains of animal he has, but despite our best effort we can’t isolate a single new recipe. Wally is the only one with the catalogues, and after what happened to Brenda, he’s secured the data and gone into hiding.”

  “Why such an extreme reaction?”

  “Do you have any children?” Brooks knew the answer.

  Stinger shrugged. “I’ll take your word. I think I see where I come in. You need him out of the way to get the data and resume your monster factory, is that about right?”

  “Almost. But I need your full agreement, in writing, if we’re to proceed.”

  “And if I say yes and deliver on my end?”

  “I call downstairs and send Parker and the guards away.” Brooks saw the glint in the man’s eye. “After, you are a free man. And a rich one.”

  The Next Day

  Brooks entered the egg room to find Stinger poring over the building schematics. He’d slept in his clothes, if he slept at all.

  Stinger looked up at the sound of the door hissing open. He waited until the egg resealed itself before speaking. “Looks like you’re going to have to send me back to prison.”

  Brooks took a seat. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Sorry to say it. But if this is his house and the drawings and reports are correct, there’s nothing I can do and I really don’t understand the point of even asking.”

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “Walls, security teams, cameras, and dogs for starters. And that’s not even the biggest concern.”

  “No?”

  “This,” Stinger held up a manual. “You say this describes the vault where he keeps the data stick?”

  “Correct. I expect he’s added some customization as well.”

  “But why me? I know I got into some tight spaces and the Feds never did figure out how I penetrated security for several of my targets, but this is past state of the art.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So when does he come out? He might be vulnerable then.”

  Brooks held up a hand. We’ve thought of that. He hasn’t been seen in public in over two years and rarely even videoconferences.”

  “Let’s get clear. You do want him gone, right?”

  “We do.”

  “We?”

  “Confine your questions to the mission.” Brooks forced a smile. “Please.”

  “The only good intel you’ve given me is that you know where he is.”

  “But we can’t reach him.”

  “Of course you could. You’re the co-founder, aren’t you?”

  “I meant in a more permanent fashion.”

  “You could drone strike him, raid the place, concoct bogus charges and arrest him, start a fire and smoke him out, any number of things. I’m sure ‘We’ has vast resources, am I right?”

  “On every point. But obliterating MacLean and the data with him serves no purpose and would land some of us in prison.”

  “Perish the thought.” Stinger smirked at him.

  “We need him removed as an obstacle. And we need the data that permits us to utilize the asset he is hoarding. His death must look like an accident.”

  “That means getting close, and getting out.”

  “With the data stick.”

  “Right. Don’t you think it will be missed?” Stinger shook his head. “Assuming I could get it out in the first place?”

  Despite the pessimism in his tone, Brooks could see Stinger’s interest sharpening. “I applaud your honesty. Under current conditions I don’t think you could penetrate the security. But, even if you could, the vault he’s built is a monument to his paranoid genius.”

  “All safes can be cracked.”

  “I’ve seen it. Yes in some ways you’re right, it’s essentially a sturdy metal box subject to the laws of physics, as any safe is. The problem is that any breach of the safe walls or locks without MacLean will cause the data to scramble, becoming worthless to us.”

  “MacLean runs a risk with a system that’s so touchy, doesn’t he?” Stinger said. “Sounds like one wrong entry and he loses it all.”

  “Not quite. We’re certain MacLean could reconstruct the data from other hidden sources, but the nature of the lock itself is advanced biometric. Only MacLean can open it.”

  Stinger folded his arms across his chest. “Why not get in there and compel him to open it? I can get the wet work done but coercive torture isn’t my specialty.”

  Brooks shook his head. “He wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “Come on. You know better, everybody breaks.”

  “No. He has to be relaxed. Stress will ruin his signature. And we need his death to appear natural. Besides, he doesn’t deserve to suffer.”

  “You’re a true friend.”

  Brooks let that one go. “You see what we’re up against.”

  “You didn’t bring me here just to tell me what I couldn’t do, did you?”

  “In a way, yes. But we n
eeded you to understand the task and accept that you’ll need help to accomplish the mission.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Cuttlefish.”

  One Month Later

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like someone came in overnight and unbolted every joint in my body.” Stinger sat up in the bed. The IVs continued their feed. Stinger reminded Brooks of old-style cancer patients, right down to the hair loss.

  One big difference—those chemo patients didn’t add thick muscle to their frames.

  “You’ll compensate with your strength. How are your arms?”

  “They itch where that linear rash started but I feel like I could crush an oil drum.”

  “Hang in there. We’ll switch to the Haltizol after this session. Give you a chance to catch up.”

  “Will that chop my strength?” Stinger asked.

  “No. All the changes, they’ll hold where they are.”

  “The reversal is another process altogether, right? For after?”

  “That’s right.”

  Stinger glanced around to confirm the techs weren’t listening. “Can I keep some of the changes?”

  Brooks kept his expression in check but felt the elation surge in his chest. They might have a winner here after all.

  “We’ll talk about that later.” Brooks pointed to the IVs. “Do you feel up to matching some color sheets after we get you unhooked?”

  “Tell the lab boys to bring plaid!” Stinger’s laugh accentuated the change to the sound of his voice.

  Three Months Later, Alamo, California

  Brooks watched the camera feed from inside the van. They’d cleared the main gate for the house and he could see Stinger sitting on a canister of cleaning chemicals. The other cameras, all on encrypted feeds that went to the “office” of Infinity Pool Service, showed the massive pool where the van would perform routine service, with one notable exception.

  “You can hear me?” Brooks whispered into the microphone. He stared at the screen. Stinger nodded toward the camera. During the last phase of his transformation, he’d begun speaking less and less. The lab doctors explained that the vocal cords were getting pressured to make room for the internal gills.