Nathan had just turned the corner when a man stepped from the chapel at the far end of the corridor and began walking in his direction. He walked slowly, more of a shuffle, head down and slump-shouldered as if—Nathan stopped. Something about the man seemed familiar—the size, the build, the clothes. It had been dark, and things had happened so fast he hadn’t gotten a good look, but Nathan was almost certain this was the man he had grappled with at the motel.
He glanced down the hallway behind him to make sure no one was following. As they neared each other, Nathan reached in his pocket for the silver canister he carried. Unlike the one he had used on the kid in Denver, this one was a powerful neurotoxin that would kill immediately upon inhalation. Nathan had been inoculated prior to leaving Baltimore, so it would have no effect on him.
They were no more than ten feet apart when the man suddenly looked up. Their eyes locked. It was him. There was no question about it. This was the man who had prevented him from taking the girl.
Was that recognition in his eyes?
Still concealed within his pocket, Nathan flipped open the canister’s lid. He would never have a better chance to get rid of him than he had right now.
The sound of whistling came to him from down the corridor as the janitor rounded the corner, pushing the buffer.
Nathan hesitated. If he took out the agent, he would have to take out the janitor as well, and that would increase the possibility that he might get caught.
Then he was beside him. His finger on the nozzle, he was ready to use it at the first sign of trouble, but the man just walked on by as if he had never seen him.
Nathan flipped the lid shut and relaxed his grip on the canister. He would wait. He was used to waiting. It was something he did often. Despite his knee, sitting in the cold didn’t bother him either. He had spent months in far more inhospitable conditions in the desert during Operation Iraqi Freedom.
Back in the truck, Nathan opened the Diet Coke. Because he had handled it without gloves, he made a mental note to dispose of it once he was done. Had he known he was going to be waiting some more, he would have gotten himself something to eat as well.
As he drank the soda, he took out the photo of the girl, his pulse quickening in response. At first, he tried to push down his thoughts of her and remain focused on his mission, but his urges grew until he was no longer able to control them. He closed his eyes as he leaned back against the seat.
A lascivious grin slowly spread across his face as he surrendered to the deviant images playing within his head.
CHAPTER 80
The wind railed against the cabin, tugging and prying at every joint and seam and rattling across the roof like a thousand ghosts seeking entry. Inside, Myles Bennett huddled in front of the FTU, trembling.
The alarms had gone silent. Dietrich’s and Ainsworth’s vitals readout was flatlined, and although their helmets were still communicating, the video displays showed nothing discernable. Ramirez’s and Johnson’s displays had blacked out completely. He had tried to radio each of them countless times with no response.
He had tried to radio out for help as well, but the satellite communication system was encrypted, and only Ainsworth had the codes necessary to radio the outside world. There was no way to contact anyone. His conscience told him that he should go out and try to find the others. Some of them might still be alive and in need of his help. But if the dragons had gotten them, what chance did he have of finding any of them and making it back to the cabin alive?
Not knowing what else to do, he just sat there, staring blankly at the FTU and waiting for the dragons to come.
There was a loud thump as something slammed against the door. Startled, Myles jerked backward and fell from his chair. They were here.
But there was no alarm. There should have been an alarm. Maybe it was just the wind.
On hands and knees, he scrambled across the floor to the bunk in the far corner. He grabbed his pack and yanked it open, desperately searching for something he could use as a weapon, but it was all emergency medical equipment—bandages, inflatable splints, an oxygen canister and mask, blood pressure cuff, several meal rations, flashlight and batteries, and a small plastic case with tranquilizer syringes.
Thump. Thu-thump. The pounding came again, rattling the door in its frame. It wasn’t the wind. There was definitely something trying to get inside.
On the verge of panic, Myles grabbed the syringes and crawled beneath the lowest bunk. He reached out, grabbed one of the chairs by a leg, and tipped it over. He then pulled it against the bottom of the bed. It was pitifully inadequate protection against the creature, but it was all he had.
Another blow and the door flew open, slamming into the wall. Snow and frigid wind swirled in. A shadowy form fell into the room. Myles wedged himself farther back into the corner, a high, thin whimper escaping him.
The door slammed shut and bounced open again, swinging back and forth in the howling wind. Without his helmet’s night-vision visor, he couldn’t see a thing, but he knew it was there—a deadly, hulking presence across the room. And then he heard it—a low, rumbling growl that was quickly carried away by the storm.
He was about to die, alone and forgotten in this godforsaken cabin in the middle of nowhere. It was ironic but perhaps fitting that he was going to be killed by the very creature he had helped to create. Few, if any, would notice his disappearance, and even fewer would mourn his passing. His remains—if there were any—would probably never be found. No one would ever know what had happened to him.
As he held the syringes tightly in his hand, Myles considered simply stabbing them all into his leg before the dragon could get to him. At least it would be quick and painless—
As preoccupied as he was with the contemplation of his own death, it was several moments before he realized the creature wasn’t moving. Could it have been hit by one of the darts? Dietrich had said it had taken three to down one. Maybe it was just slower acting than they had anticipated, or maybe one of the men had hit it with regular weapons fire. If so, was it dead or just wounded? He certainly didn’t want to go anywhere near the thing, especially if it was wounded, but he couldn’t continue to cower under the bunk for the rest of his life either. Sooner or later, he was going to have to do something.
After he gathered what meager amount of courage he still retained, Myles pulled the protective plastic caps from the tranquilizer syringes. He grasped them in his right hand like the hilt of a knife and then, with his left hand, rattled the chair against the bed, hoping the noise would lure the creature to him and give him the opportunity to stab it with the syringes as it tried to get at him.
Expecting it to pounce, he tensed in anticipation, but nothing happened. He rattled the chair again, more blatantly than before, but there was still no movement. Could it be the thing was actually dead? Surely, it wasn’t smart enough to play possum. The dragons possessed rudimentary intelligence, and there was no way to anticipate what they might have learned during their time in the wild; however, it was still hard to imagine it being that clever. The prospect of capturing one of the offspring alive was especially exciting. The knowledge they could gain from such a creature and its value to the program was incalculable.
Cautiously, he slipped from beneath the bed. He picked up the chair and held it before him in a poor imitation of a lion tamer. He crept around the table. The faint illumination from the FTU bathed the upper reaches of the cabin in a ghostly blue light. He could just make out the outline of the dark form lying in the doorway. It was smaller than he had anticipated. There was no spiny ridge along its back, and instead of the large, leathery wings, it had … arms.
Myles’s heart leapt as he realized one of the men had found their way back to the cabin. He quickly stepped over the inert form and closed the door. The latch bolt was bent, and the wood around the catch plate was cracked and splintered. Leaning into it, he managed to force it back into place, but it was a loose fit at best. It would never hold up against a
n attack. He took the chair and wedged it between the floor and the door’s wooden crossbeam. It was the best he could do.
He knelt over the body. There was a large gash in the helmet. It would have taken an incredible amount of force to cause that much damage to the specially constructed helmets. In spite of its protection, it was likely the wearer had at least suffered a concussion, if not a contusion. Taking every precaution, Myles carefully rolled the body over and removed the helmet. It was Ramirez.
“Javier, can you hear me?”
Ramirez groaned. His eyes fluttered and then opened. Frightened, he began to thrash about. Myles called out his name over and over, struggling to hold him down while reassuring him he was safe. Gradually, he seemed to recognize where he was and that he was no longer in danger. The terrified look on his face slackened, and his arms fell to his sides.
Myles grabbed the medical kit. After he pulled out the flashlight, he lifted each eyelid and checked the pupils. They appeared slightly enlarged but were responsive to the light, which was a good sign. Ramirez even lifted his hand in an effort to shield his eyes.
“Javier, it’s Myles. You’re safe now, okay? Do you understand?”
Ramirez looked at him and nodded slightly. His eyes appeared more focused than earlier.
“Can you stand?”
“I … think so,” he managed to whisper.
Myles helped him to his feet. Ramirez leaned heavily on him, swaying unsteadily with each step like a punch-drunk boxer. It was a long, slow process, but they eventually managed to reach the bunk. Concerned with the amount of blood flow to his head, Myles propped Javier up in the corner instead of letting him lie down. A fine sheen of greasy sweat covered the young man’s face. Because he feared Ramirez might have a subdural hematoma and because the suit’s internal monitoring system was no longer transmitting, Myles checked his pulse and blood pressure manually. His pressure appeared to be elevated but not alarmingly so. He made a mental note of the readings for later comparison.
Not taking any chances, Myles dug through the medical equipment again, pulling out a portable oxygen canister and mask, which he placed over Javier’s nose and mouth. By maintaining cerebral perfusion, he hoped to reduce the effects of shock and to minimize the potential of brain damage. But the fact was that he had no way of knowing just how extensive Javier’s injuries might be or how quickly his condition might deteriorate. The young man needed to be transported to a hospital as soon as possible.
Once Ramirez appeared to be resting comfortably, Myles returned to the FTU, hoping for signs of survival from the others. The display remained black. Without Ainsworth’s passcode, they still had no way to radio for help, but at least there was no activity by any of the creatures at the moment. Hopefully, they had managed to tranquilize or kill them all.
Suddenly, he found he didn’t care about the success or failure of the mission. He was not devoted to his work to the point that he was willing to risk his or Javier’s lives in an attempt to retrieve one of the creatures. Nor did he care about the response of General Colquitt, who at one time had terrified him to the point that he would never have considered crossing him. All of that had changed. He had seen things infinitely more frightening than the general tonight. At this point, all he cared about was making it back home alive and in one piece.
But as he looked over at Ramirez, he feared even that was a long shot.
CHAPTER 81
Maryland
The geisha filled the tiny porcelain cup with sake and handed it to General Colquitt, careful to make sure that none was spilled. She wore a pink kimono adorned with purple nightingales in flight up and over her shoulder and a gold satin obi around her waist. The obi, embroidered with gold thread in an intricate pattern of cherry blossoms and pine branches, hung down to her feet, upon which she wore the traditional white tabi socks with six-inch-tall, wooden okobo sandals.
The general bowed in appreciation as he took the cup from Miko. It was a taste he had acquired—both for the sushi and sake as well as the geisha—during his time stationed in the Pacific. He admired the attention to detail and dedication to perfection that personified the geisha, ranging from the ritualized chanoyu, the tea ceremony, to the formal social interactions of an ozashiki to the precise, structured movements of the mai, the traditional dance of the geisha.
Fortunately for the general, the Kyoto Rose was one of the finest establishments found anywhere outside of Kyoto. On the outskirts of Annapolis, the Rose—as it was affectionately known by the regulars—was frequented by many of the professors and officers from the naval academy who, like Colquitt, had served extended tours of duty overseas. The décor was authentic, with dark teakwood beams and rails and a pine floor polished to a brilliant white. The bamboo walls were festooned with brightly painted scrolls, each one a highly stylized depiction of Japan during each of the four seasons.
Downstairs, the common dining area was a large, open space with a bar and a stage for public performances. Above, colorful paper lanterns hung from the rafters of the high ceiling. Upstairs, a balcony ran around the room, off which the private ozashiki were located. Unlike the typical Japanese ochoyas, however, the partitions between each of the ozashiki as well as the fusuma, the sliding entry doors, were of solid, soundproof construction instead of merely linen or rice paper.
The ozashiki was lavishly decorated in the style of the Gion Kobu District of Kyoto, with tatami floor mats and short, square tables with linen cushions to sit upon. In the corner was a small rock garden with a gently gurgling fountain, the water trickling over layers of carefully arranged stones before lightly splashing into a shallow pool stocked with colorful koi.
Colquitt took a bite of sashimi, savoring the exquisite flavor of the raw tuna and wasabi. The cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate, shattering his blissful reverie. Who the hell could be calling me at this late hour? he wondered as he checked the display. It had been transferred to his cell from his secure line, which meant that it was encrypted but offered no caller ID information. As much as he hated to, he had to answer it. As he held up his hand for the geisha to wait, Colquitt answered the phone.
“Anderson, are you intentionally trying to fuck me up the ass?” It was Wade. The man spoke so loudly even Miko heard him, her eyes widening in shock before she could look away.
Colquitt’s face flushed.
“Miko, would you excuse me for a moment?” he asked, struggling to maintain a pleasant facade.
“Yes, general-san,” she replied courteously as she bowed. With little, shuffling steps, she made her way out.
“Arigato.”
As the fusuma slid closed, the general spoke. “How dare you talk to me like that,” he snapped. He was sick of Wade’s vulgar bullshit. He could just imagine what kind of pervert the man must be, probably an ass-fucker himself.
“Don’t give me any of that righteous indignation crap, Anderson. I know how you boys in the military talk to one another.”
The bastard was intentionally trying to piss him off. And he was doing a damn fine job of it. “What do you want?” the general growled.
“Do you even know what the fuck is going on in Montana? I just got a call from our contact raising hell because one of the agents out of Seattle got whacked. Said he didn’t sign up for that. The bastard actually had the balls to threaten to go to the feds with the whole story. So do you know what the hell he’s talking about?”
“No, I don’t,” Colquitt replied. “But if there was collateral damage, then I’m certain it was unavoidable. My man is very conscientious. He would not complicate things unnecessarily.”
“Well, he has complicated things. Considerably. And now he’s going to have to clean up his own mess.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that he needs to take care of the mole—that’s what. And I want it done by the time my men get back with your little present. I want this thing over and done with, do you understand me? My balls are in a vise right now, and if that son of a bitc
h gets cranked any tighter, I’m coming after yours for replacements. You got me?”
“I’ll take care of it,” the general responded flatly.
“You’d better, or it’s your ass,” Wade replied and then hung up.
The general snapped the phone shut. The moron couldn’t even be consistent with his anatomical threats. But that didn’t mean they were to be taken lightly.
The general slammed down his sake and then poured another, allowing time for his anger to wane while thinking the situation through. He would not be hasty in regard to this matter. Hasty decisions led to mistakes. Mistakes led to casualties.
In the end, however, as much as he hated to admit it, the general came to the same conclusion as Wade. With one minor exception.
Colquitt opened his phone again and dialed into his secure system. Once it connected, he had it forward the call to Nathan’s phone.
When Nathan answered, the general didn’t question him about what had transpired—that could be handled later. He simply gave him the information about the new target and told him to call back after he was finished with the job. There was one more person for him to visit before his return.
The general slammed the remaining sake, imagining Wade’s surprise when Nathan showed up on his doorstep. I wonder if he’ll be worried about his balls then, he mused, a satisfied grin slowly spreading across his face.
He clapped his hands twice, signaling for Miko’s return.
The fusuma slid open, and she shuffled back into the room, her head bowed respectfully. “General-san is happier now, yes?” she asked.
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