INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  Amazing application of the blend. Brooks still recalled the astonishment when they realized Stinger wasn’t holding his breath for superhuman periods of time but that he was actually breathing under water. The discovery led to a moment of panic when they thought Stinger had evolved into a full-time water breather. No, he’d developed parallel respiration. Incredible.

  “You’re oriented and know where the extraction point is?”

  Brooks noted that Stinger’s skin flashed a bright red for an instant and he recognized that the man was becoming irritated.

  Fine. This would work or it wouldn’t, no sense coaching at this point. Since Stinger had become so quiet the whole crew had lost sleep wondering if the changes had affected Stinger’s mind.

  “Okay. Sorry. Wait for Lopez to open the doors. You should have enough space under the door to reach the pool. After that it is all you. Good luck.”

  Stinger took off the uniform and felt the pulse ripple across his flesh as it mimicked the just-shed clothing.

  Best dressed nudist in Alamo.

  He heard Lopez speaking to someone outside the van. “... should be done in under an hour.”

  Five minutes later the van backed up near the pool and Lopez opened the rear door. At the sound of the handle, Stinger pressed himself against the wall and let the texture flow to his body and skin.

  Lopez glanced around the van and his face flinched when he looked where Stinger slouched.

  “Oh shit,” Lopez whispered. “Almost missed you. Can’t get used to that. Slide out and get in quiet. Watch out when I use the vacuum.”

  “Right.” Stinger could see a twitch of disgust in the man’s mouth at the sound of his voice.

  Who cared? No time for talking anyway.

  Stinger imagined he was water and crept along the van floor and off the back to the stamped concrete. His stomach felt the pattern and his back mimicked it. He knew without looking that the rest of the skin was matching the colors, as if his eyes were cameras capturing every nuance and shade.

  Not long ago, he remembered the frustration when trying to match colors for the lab boy and he looked like someone holding their breath too long. Once he started to let his body take over, the changes came naturally. Lately it was more of an effort to suppress the changes and appear normal.

  Just a few feet to the pool, a huge free-form work of art complete with a faux boulder waterfall and waterslide snaking around the feature.

  He was tempted to give the slide a try but too much was at stake here. Instead, he made for the edge and crossed a patch of grass that tickled the top of his back as much as his belly—the skin sprouted green shafts to mimic the manicured section of lawn.

  He extended one arm until it touched the water’s edge. Already he could feel the “grass” on his shoulders giving way to the sandy, rough concrete. He poured himself into the water using the discs now growing on his palms to slow his entry and avoid a splash.

  Even if someone was staring right at him when he pulled the move, he doubted they’d comprehend what they’d just seen. His arms blended perfectly, even to his own eyes, and only up close might they appear to be a thick patch of cement.

  Once in the water, he flattened his body against the pool wall and tipped his head up to slowly exhale the air from his lungs.

  Above he heard the compressor start up and Lopez stomping around, trying to be as big a distraction as possible. Stinger also knew that the changes throughout his body heightened his senses.

  He put his head under water, ignored the vestigial urge to hold his breath, and drew the water in. Still a strange sensation, but he was shocked by how comfortable it felt to have the water pass over his sore vocal cords. It never reached deep into his lungs, but at the same time he felt a sensation that he was breathing fresh, albeit thick, air. Oxygen spread through his body.

  When Lopez inserted the pool vacuum it sounded deafening, but his earlier caution was unnecessary. He slid around it with ease and soon enough the man was done. The saltwater pool taste gave Stinger a sense of déjà vu, like he was home.

  He could see through the refraction of the surface the walls of the mansion framing the courtyard. Columns and windows.

  He guessed from the angle of the sun he had another hour or two to wait before making his move.

  He thought he’d be bored, but the quiet and caress of the water filled him with a sense of peace and his mind felt unburdened. Strange, considering where he was and the state of his once-ordinary frame. And yet there was a certain familiarity to it all. He was still a hunter waiting for prey, wasn’t he?

  He sensed vibration. He flattened out along the bottom and slowed his breathing. Stinger imagined that he was soaking into the cement, becoming part of it.

  The splash sounded like an explosion. Stinger faced the surface and saw the swimmer twelve feet above him.

  It was him.

  MacLean swam along the surface and a wisp of what looked like smoke drifted in front of Stinger’s eyes. He didn’t understand until he realized it was a few drops of ink, and that it had come from him.

  Time for more Haltizol?

  MacLean took no notice and Stinger felt his confidence return. He’d been startled was all.

  His target splashed above him. Stinger felt strength ripple through his muscles. Brooks never said he might have a chance at him here. Why not? A quick push off the bottom and wrap him up.

  The thought rushed to Stinger’s limbs in an instinctive response to the prey dangling above him.

  No! That’s not the mission. Not like this.

  Stinger remained on the bottom of the pool and watched MacLean swim until the lights bathed the courtyard.

  Strong swimmer. MacLean finally left the pool and Stinger waited for nighttime to take hold. He crept up the pool side rather than swim to the surface. The courtyard lights gave no relief but he was smooth and silent while he slithered over the edge and crawled to the ground-level basement window.

  He knew from the diagrams that this part of the home contained the heating and plumbing equipment. He also knew there weren’t alarms on the tiny window too small for a person to pass through.

  The night was turning chilly partly due to the fact that, appearances aside, he was naked and wet. He did hold a small waterproof kit in a fold of flesh. He took it out and used the tiny pry tool to work loose the one-foot-square glass block. He returned the bar to his kit and concentrated on the next phase. He relaxed, cleared his mind, and then pushed his skull through the opening.

  He had no problem until he reached his shoulders. Just the way the architects intended, he supposed.

  Stinger remembered the training and, though this skill was one of the newest, he was able to get the bones dislocated without too much pain. First the left shoulder. He twisted it slowly and, when it came out of the socket, the collarbone moved down and gave him all the clearance he required. He wriggled through and lowered himself to the floor. He knew this room lacked the motion sensors and pressure pads that littered the upstairs.

  The door was wired, of course, but that wasn’t important. He replaced the window block. He recalled the schematic. The furnace and air-conditioners sat to the left. There.

  He saw the duct like a silver pipeline to his quarry. He’d need to access the furnace ductwork, which looked large enough, though the supply vent looked tiny by comparison.

  He adjusted the control on the furnace to ensure it would not kick on unless the night went from cool to cold.

  Stinger let his one shoulder stay dislocated. He removed the cover to the main vent. He was able to fit inside but the duct leading up would have been a tight squeeze for a child.

  A grown man would never be able to attempt what he was about to try.

  Stay calm. That’s the key.

  He slipped the dislocated left arm up into the vent. The movement should have caused a flare of agony but the adjustment had settled into his body, which seemed to understand what was being asked of it. He felt the discs in his
palms gain adhesion and the muscles filled with strength. He pulled himself up and wriggled until the bones of his skull shifted along with the other shoulder. His rib cage seemed to telescope until the rest of him was narrow enough to work himself along the shaft.

  Despite the bizarre sensation of pressure along his organs and the way he was able to move his body up the smooth vent walls, Stinger felt at home in the enclosed place. More and more it was being out in the wide open that caused him to feel uncomfortable.

  Back to work. He recalled the turns from the schematic and moved slowly, making much less sound than he’d expected.

  The office was dark but Stinger found there was plenty of light for his eyes to see. Funny, before all this he’d been scheduled to see the prison optometrist. He wriggled a finger through the vent slot and managed to work the vent cover free. He was careful not to let it fall. That would have been disastrous, as the intel told him the motion sensors would detect anything moving inside the room. Luckily, they weren’t calibrated to pick up movement inside the vent.

  Part of him wanted to get out of the confining vent near the ceiling. He held the cover in place and waited. Brooks had told him that MacLean never went to bed before getting in a couple more hours of work.

  Stinger looked around the room. He was positioned above a huge mahogany desk but, true to form, MacLean left the workspace immaculate, free of any interesting reading to digest before the main event. There were wood bookshelves that stretched near to the ceiling and a fine wooden library ladder. He didn’t see the vault but knew which book to pull to expose the lock interface.

  Stinger felt vibrations through the sheet-metal walls of the vent. Stronger than earlier times. Now he heard soft tones from a keypad and the distinctive click of a lock. The lights snapped on before the door even opened and Stinger was sure the sensors were now dormant, silent at the arrival of their master.

  The thick wood paneled door, which Stinger knew from Brooks was steel-cored and bulletproof, opened. MacLean strolled in wearing a silk bathrobe. He was alone. He moved across the room to the desk and pressed a thumb to a pad, which responded by activating his computer.

  Stinger held his breath. From the angle where MacLean stood, the vent would be just inside his field of vision. He wanted to slide backward but didn’t dare risk dropping the vent cover. His flesh mimicked the vent and smooth metal, but MacLean never glanced his way.

  Soon the man took a seat and became lost in the glowing display. Stinger could hear him breathing through his nose amid the clicking of the keyboard.

  Time.

  Stinger pushed the vent out and held the cover with one finger. He poured the rest of his body over the edge and used his arm first, then his leg, to slow his descent until he must have resembled a crushed heap on the floor.

  MacLean stopped typing and sniffed the air. “Bleh.”

  Stinger rose and felt his bones click back into place, while new muscles lifted his frame ever higher.

  “What is that?” MacLean muttered, and now Stinger had reached his full height. He flexed his arms and enjoyed the power infusing the limbs. He noticed that, without thinking, his skin had adopted the royal-blue silk robe MacLean wore. He concentrated on showing his real face. Brooks had assured him there weren’t any cameras inside the sanctuary.

  Stinger took a step forward and cast a shadow over the desk.

  MacLean had already begun to turn and he whipped around at the sight of the shadow.

  Stinger tried to laugh at MacLean’s expression, but didn’t recognize the sound that came out of his own mouth.

  “How did you get in here?” MacLean backed up into his desk and faced Stinger while fumbling near the top drawer. Stinger watched carefully and saw the man’s fingers near a panic button.

  “No.” Stinger lashed out one hand and seized MacLean’s wrist. He felt strong enough to crush the bones and made sure not to apply too much pressure. “Sit.”

  Stinger eased MacLean into the leather chair.

  “Who the hell are you?” MacLean stared at Stinger. “Why are you wearing one of my robes?” He jabbed Stinger in the chest.

  His expression!

  What looked like robe must have felt like rough, warm flesh.

  “I didn’t take your robe.” Stinger’s voice sounded raspy and it required more effort than he recalled to enunciate the words. Getting crowded around his vocal cords, he supposed. “And it doesn’t matter who I am, just who you are.”

  Now it was Stinger’s turn to stare at MacLean. He felt the impression sink in and his body responded.

  “Like looking in a mirror?” Stinger rasped. He was impressed how fast MacLean recovered his wits.

  “Brooks. He sent you, didn’t he?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re a blender. He’s improved his process.” MacLean looked Stinger up and down. Then he glanced over his shoulder and must have seen the open vent. “Chromatophores, phenomenal elasticity ... squid DNA?”

  “Cuttlefish.”

  MacLean nodded. “Makes sense. For some reason, the adaptation took faster. But they weren’t stable.”

  “Haltizol works well. And he can reverse.”

  MacLean looked startled, then smiled. “He told you that? He would, wouldn’t he?” Now MacLean shook his head. “Sorry. Brooks used you, my friend.”

  “He said you’d lie.” Stinger felt fear and anger combine. He checked his temper. Can’t leave a mark on the man—but the fear lingered.

  “You didn’t come here to impress me. What do you want?”

  Stinger rolled the chair with MacLean in it over to the library shelf. The heavy brass casters dug into the carpet but it didn’t slow Stinger. He pulled on the book, The Island of Dr. Moreau by H.G. Wells. “Brooks didn’t mention your sense of humor.”

  A section of the shelf slid aside and a biometric reader extended from the metal door of the hidden safe.

  “The joke’s on you. I won’t open it. If you try to force me, the stress will ruin the read.” MacLean said.

  Stinger took MacLean’s hand in his left and placed his right fingertips into the reader while putting his eye against the iris reader.

  A harsh buzz confirmed his failure.

  “Told you.”

  Stress.

  Stinger practiced his breathing and imagined himself back in the pool.

  The reader beeped and flashed green and then the door opened with a hiss.

  “No! Don’t do this. Brooks wants to sell blenders to the military.”

  Stinger took the memory stick out and added it to his pouch. He replaced it with one Brooks had provided. Perfect match.

  “He’s lying about the reversal. You’re stuck the way you are, or worse. And think of the others.”

  “I’m not paid to think.” Stinger didn’t usually converse with his targets but this one was making him think.

  “Do you believe if Brooks had a reversal process developed he wouldn’t have approached me? I invented the technology. I didn’t mean for it to fail.”

  “I’m proof you didn’t.”

  “You’ll be proof I did soon enough.” MacLean sighed. “The Haltizol only slows the change, it doesn’t stop it.”

  Stinger recalled the urgency for developing the drug in the first place. “How do you know?”

  “My daughter.”

  “I know about her. Brooks said it was too late.”

  “He didn’t tell you she lived, did he?”

  “No.” Stinger knew he shouldn’t be listening. He had what he needed, finish the job and go.

  But he didn’t.

  “I’ll show you pictures. Back at my desk.” MacLean pointed across the room.

  Despite red flags that a rank amateur would notice, Stinger set aside his caution and allowed the man to stand, keeping one hand on MacLean’s shoulder while they walked across the room to the desk.

  “Careful.”

  “Her transformation was advanced by the time we had an experimental serum
to test. One of the last things she said out loud was that she didn’t want anyone to see her like she was. I told Brooks we lost her. It wasn’t far from the truth.”

  Stinger felt the man shudder.

  “We ran experiments on other subjects, but all the while I was giving Brenda the same infusions. For a moment, we hoped it would reverse the effects, give the body a chance to reassert its genetic dominance.”

  “No?”

  “You’ve felt for yourself what happens without the Haltizol. The changes roar ahead. Not so with the drug, but the body develops a resistance to it and added concentrations don’t work.”

  “So what happened to Brenda?” Stinger disliked how the need to know felt like a craving.

  “May I?” MacLean pointed to a right-hand side drawer.

  Stinger watched the hand. “Slowly.”

  “Of course.” MacLean pulled open the drawer with two fingers and withdrew a folder he placed it on the desk. “These are the last pictures of what she became.”

  Stinger opened the folder and noticed the edges were finger-oil stained from frequent handling. His body grew cold and he saw the flashing colors across his skin before he regained his composure. For an instant he didn’t know what he was seeing. It looked like a human shape covered in pebbly orange skin. Where the head should have been he saw a crude star-shaped mass with only a mouth visible.

  “In the end, we let her make the choice. The hell of it was that she was healthy, but she wasn’t Brenda. Not even close. You can still see the spot where she died over there.” MacLean pointed to a section of parquet floor.

  Stinger tore his gaze from the image and all he noticed was a polished floor. A flash of movement caught his eye.

  He turned and saw the MacLean’s hand dart forward.

  And hit the panic button.

  He heard no sound but was certain security forces did and were now charging to the room. “That was a mistake,” Stinger said.

  MacLean looked grim. “Was it? You felt sorry for me and were going to spare me? I know Brooks.”