Heir to the Nightmare
A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller
A novel by
J. J. Carlson
The following is a work of fiction and contains content that some readers may find disturbing. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 J. J. Carlson
All rights reserved.
Visit www.brightinthedarkbooks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
“Man is his own worst enemy.”
Marcus Tullius Cicero
1
The soil had yet to settle into the fresh grave. Beyond the earthen mound, the headstone bore a single word: Ford. There was no first name, no date of birth, no date of death, and no epithet.
Fitting, the woman thought, because the casket buried beneath six feet of earth was empty. They had taken everything from the man she loved. His identity, his mind, his soul. And they didn’t even give him a proper burial in return. His remains had been incinerated and then dumped into a vat of chemicals, erasing any evidence of the alterations to his genome. Now that he was gone, it was as if he had never existed. He wouldn’t even receive a star on the wall at CIA headquarters in Langley.
Such would be her fate when she died. Such was her fate now. They had erased her name from every database on the planet and declared her officially deceased. Then a monster they created had taken Clint from her, too. They had taken everything—every part of her.
Standing over the gravesite, she clenched and unclenched her fists. She was nothing but an empty shell, but even a soulless husk could serve a purpose. Aimed in the right direction, an unthinking artillery battery could maim and destroy. Agent Janson, the final product of DARPA’s “Alpha Experiments,” would become the weapon she was meant to be.
But she would not serve their agenda any longer. From this point on, every action, every trigger squeezed and drop of blood shed would bring her closer to the creature that had taken Clint from her. She would have her revenge.
An unseasonably cold breeze washed over her, sending a chill down her spine. She turned away from the empty grave and strode toward her parked car with her hands in her pockets. She jammed the key into the lock and twisted, then opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat.
“What are you doing, Elizabeth? What’s the point of coming here?”
She closed her eyes for a long moment then glanced at the man in the passenger seat. His square jaw and rugged, wind-worn features brought her both comfort and pain. “I guess I’m here because I’m afraid.”
The man put his hand on her knee. “Afraid of what?”
“The transformation. Wagner said it’s going to hurt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Coming from a man like him, that’s…unsettling.”
“But you don’t have to go through it. You still have a choice.”
Her jaw clenched, and she looked out the window. “No. I don’t.”
“Elizabeth, you know I wouldn’t have wanted this. Vengeance won’t bring healing. Don’t throw your life away.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she met his compassionate gaze. “I know you wouldn’t, Clint. But someone has to stop that monster. And I’m the only one who can do it.”
“You’re speaking in absolutes, Elizabeth. Of all people, you should know better. War isn’t that simple.”
“This isn’t war. This is capital punishment.”
“At what cost? Jarrod didn’t know what kind of monster he would become when he volunteered for the program. But you do. You’ve seen how bad it can get.”
She touched his face, tracing his jawline and feeling the stubble on his chin. “I would have gladly given my life in exchange for yours. And if I have to give up my humanity to honor your memory, so be it.”
He took her hand in his own and squeezed tight. “Don’t do this, Elizabeth. Don’t walk the path Jarrod walked. Don’t become what he became.”
She lowered her head and kissed his fingers. “I’m sorry, but I’ve made up my mind. Goodbye, Clint.”
His deep voice took on a severe tone. “Dammit, don’t do this!”
Janson pulled her hand away and gripped the steering wheel. The world around her began to fade, losing its color and sharp edges. Then, there was nothing but blackness.
She gasped and tried to open her eyes, but the muscles in her skull wouldn’t respond. She brought her hands to her face and groped at the bandages, slowly coming to accept reality—the beast had taken her eyesight, just like it had taken Clint. It took everything from her, leaving her with nothing but pain.
Darkness and pain.
2
September 22nd
Charleston, South Carolina
Thomas Ward stood at the edge of a small room that was clustered with high-resolution computer monitors. At the center of the room, manning the “Watchtower,” stood a living weapon that was once his former employee. A man named Jarrod Hawkins.
“What’s your first impression?” Ward asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Jarrod’s gaze shifted from one video feed to the next. A middle-aged man with bronze skin and coifed hair occupied each of the screens. “He’s arrogant. He didn’t sit down when Kayla offered him a chair. He waited for her to sit, first.”
Ward nodded. He considered making a note of the observation then thought better of it. Kayla Larson was one of his best investigators and a master at reading body language. It was why he assigned most of his security firm’s interviews to her. She had an uncanny ability to read the most subtle changes in posture or shifts in tone. Still, her powers of observation paled in comparison to Jarrod’s. But Ward didn’t hold it against her. She was, after all, only human.
Today was Jarrod’s sixth day observing clients, and his insight had already proved to be invaluable. Even from within the Watchtower, he seemed to be able to peer into the clients’ souls. Every few minutes, he would type a question into the computer and send it to Kayla, then she would ask the client. The clients often responded with shock and fear, as if they were sitting across from a psychic. Taken off guard, they revealed details they would have otherwise kept hidden.
Jarrod was like a human lie-detector, which further enhanced the precision and effectiveness of the interviews. Cases that would have taken weeks to sort through were resolved in hours, and two clients even confessed to minor criminal offenses.
The client currently in the interview room was tearfully describing his re
ason for visiting. Ward listened carefully, comparing the story to what he already knew about the man.
Solomon Patel had been all over the news for the past three days. He had been through every parent’s worst nightmare—someone had broken into his home in the middle of the night and kidnapped his two children. The citizens of South Carolina had banded together for an unprecedented search, combing the hills around his home and spreading pictures of the lost children on social media. Ward, who was both a father and a grandfather, felt pity for Solomon, but he also maintained clinical detachment. Too often, grieving clients knew more than they let on.
Jarrod paused the video feed and pointed at the central monitor. “He’s lying.”
Ward blinked. “Really? How can you tell?”
“The way he wrinkles his forehead before answering a question. The arches are deeper when Kayla asks him about the night of the kidnapping.”
“It’s probably stressful for him to talk about it.”
Jarrod shook his head. “That’s not all. The pitch in his voice is fluctuating by more than four hertz compared to his baseline. And the cadence of his speech is compressed by eighteen milliseconds.”
Ward scratched the back of his neck. Sometimes, Jarrod’s ultra-precise reports made conversations with him more difficult. “I’m not as good as you or Kayla, but I can normally spot a liar when I see one. Why don’t you send her a message—see if she agrees with you.”
“Very well.” Jarrod’s fingers rattled across the keyboard then he folded his hands together.
A moment later, Kayla’s response showed up on the screen. “No.”
Jarrod tapped a button to resume the feed. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled.
The breathing always made Ward nervous. Jarrod took deep breaths when he was trying to read someone’s emotions. And, uncannily, it seemed to work. Despite their shared history, Ward didn’t trust him. More than that, he was utterly terrified of him. Less than two weeks ago, Jarrod had arrived in South Carolina seeking help. His face had been mutilated beyond recognition as the result of a drone strike. His ears and nose were missing, and his face resembled a poorly constructed jigsaw puzzle. Now, Jarrod’s ears and nose had regrown, and there were only delicate lines where the scars had been.
Thomas Ward was one of only a few people who knew what Jarrod had become—a ruthless killing machine built in a secret government facility. He was also one of Jarrod’s only friends.
Ward had reluctantly agreed to assist with Jarrod’s therapy. Only two weeks prior, Jarrod had slaughtered a corrupt U.S. Senator. Naturally, the President called for Jarrod’s immediate capture and termination. An elite team of operatives was dispatched to the residence of Adam Hawkins—Jarrod’s father. The operatives hoped to bring Adam in peacefully and use him as bait to lure Jarrod into an ambush.
But things hadn’t gone according to plan. Jarrod arrived at his father’s house and killed one of the operatives. Jarrod’s beloved sister, Deedee, witnessed the killing and fled into her father’s arms.
The shock and horror at his son’s actions had given Adam a heart attack. And Ward arrived too late to intervene. He removed Deedee from the volatile situation and placed her in the care of a loving family; he swore never to reveal her location to Jarrod.
The loss of his father and sister in one night had broken Jarrod. He sought help from a man named Santiago Torres, and Torres delivered him into Kayla and Eric Larson’s care. A few days later, Torres sent a scientist to visit with Jarrod and study his condition. The scientist recommended the work that Jarrod was doing now—consulting with Ward’s firm—as therapy.
Work was meant to give Jarrod a sense of purpose. It was a way for him to contribute to society without resorting to vigilantism. Ward wanted Jarrod to heal, to regain his humanity, so he agreed to allow him into the firm. But standing next to Jarrod in the Watchtower felt like standing next to a ticking time bomb, and Ward feared it wouldn’t be long before the timer ran out.
Jarrod typed out another message, and Ward leaned in closer to see what it said.
Ask him if the children are alive.
Kayla read the message then stared directly into one of the cameras. She wore an unreadable poker face, but Ward knew she was searching for his approval to ask the manipulative question.
Ward chewed his lower lip for a moment before typing his initials into the messenger, signifying his approval.
Kayla’s voice came through the speakers. Her tone was level—neither accusatory nor supportive. “Mr. Patel, are your children alive?”
The client recoiled slightly. “Excuse me? That’s the entire reason I’m here. I don’t know if they’re alive, or dead, or trapped in some cellar or—” His words caught in his throat, and he wiped away a tear.
“I’m sorry,” Kayla said softly. “I had to ask.”
Ward felt heat rising around his collar. He glared at Jarrod and said, “Are you convinced now?”
“Yes. I’m convinced.” Jarrod pushed away from the desk and took a step toward the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ward gripped one of Jarrod’s rocklike arms. “Where are you going?”
Without a word in response, Jarrod pulled his arm free and shoved his way through the door.
Ward watched him go. He couldn’t stop the bio-engineered super soldier if he tried. He hesitated for a moment, then returned to the desk and typed out a desperate message.
Get the client out of there. Now.
Kayla had barely finished reading the message when the door to the interview room swung open.
Ward stared at the screen, unblinking, and waited for the horror to begin.
Kayla shot to her feet. She glanced at Jarrod then at one of the cameras. After a brief pause, she said, “Mr. Patel, this is Harold Dawkins. He’s, uh, one of the investigators at our firm.”
Solomon Patel rose from his chair and extended his hand.
Jarrod took the hand in a firm grip, squeezing just hard enough to make Patel wince. He pulled the client in closer and growled, “People will want to know where you hid the bodies. Your wife will want closure.”
Patel pulled his hand away. “Where I hid the bodies?” He bristled with anger. “How dare you? I’m here seeking help from your firm because I—”
“Because you want to make it you look like you care,” Jarrod finished for him.
Patel blinked for a moment then shook his head. “This is an insult and an outrage.” He rounded the table and grasped the doorknob. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take my business elsewhere.”
Jarrod placed his palm against the door. “You aren’t going anywhere until you tell me where the bodies are.”
Patel tugged once, then twice, then gave up. He took a step back and fished his phone out of his pocket. He pointed the device at Kayla. “If you don’t let me out of here, I’m going to call the police.”
Jarrod’s hand whistled through the air and connected with Patel’s forearm, knocking the phone away.
Patel cried out and hunched over, clutching his arm. He groaned for several seconds then glared at Jarrod. “You son of a bitch; you broke my arm!”
“I am not a patient man,” Jarrod said, “so let me be perfectly clear: you will tell me where you hid the bodies. The amount of suffering you go through before we get to that point is up to you.”
Patel turned to Kayla. “Are you just going to stand there and watch? Because my lawyer will take your firm for every penny it has.”
Kayla sank into her chair and covered her face with her hands. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not going to watch.”
Before Patel could unleash another indignant tirade, Jarrod grabbed him by the throat. The client’s eyes widened.
“Tell me…” Jarrod’s voice dropped, taking on a rumbling, inhuman quality. “Where they are.”
Patel’s mouth open and closed, and he stared into Jarrod’s eyes. What he saw made him shake with fear. Jarrod’s irises were nearly b
lack, and the normally white sclera shimmered like liquid metal.
Black tendrils swept upward from inside Jarrod’s shirt, covering his neck and face, then weaving together until they formed a featureless helmet. Jarrod loosened his grip, and his prisoner took a hoarse breath.
“You’re…you’re that…thing.”
Instead of responding, Jarrod lifted Patel up and slammed him against the steel interview table. “I asked you a question. You have five seconds to answer before the real pain begins.”
“I—I didn’t kill my children. You have to believe me…”
Kayla began rocking back and forth in her chair. Keeping her palms over her eyes, she used her thumbs to plug her ears.
“Time’s up.” Jarrod held up a hand; the black substance crept up his arm, and his fingers elongated into needle-sharp spines.
Patel thrashed against Jarrod’s grip, though his gaze remained locked on the black claws. “I swear, I didn’t do it!”
The spines pierced the skin on Patel’s forehead, and the substance shimmered in the artificial light. Patel trembled, letting out soft, blubbering moans.
“Do you feel the pressure?” Jarrod asked, whispering in the man’s ear. “The pressure in your skull? That’s a metamaterial liquid feeding into the sinuses between your bones. This liquid obeys my thoughts, following nerve signals in my brain. In the time it takes for an electric pulse to travel from my mind to your face, I can change the metamaterial from a liquid to a solid—a solid that’s harder than diamonds. What do you think that will do to your face, Solomon?”
Patel took a shuddering breath, then shouted “Alright! I did it.” He let out a sound that was both a sniffle and a moan. “I cut my kids into pieces and dropped them into Lake Marion.”
“Where in Lake Marion?”
“The s-s-south end. Down by Wilsons Landing.”
“Thank you. That will do.” Jarrod fed more of the metamaterial into Patel’s body. Then, with a thought, he ordered the molecules to take on a crystalline form.
Patel started to shriek then suddenly stopped short. His body convulsed in silence for several seconds and finally became rigid. The hands and feet twitched sporadically—a product of nerves firing at random—but his life had gone out of him.
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