“What would that accomplish?”
She shrugged. “Lots of stuff, hopefully. The biggest things I want to fix are your neural pathways between logic and emotion. From what you’ve told me, you’re starting to feel emotion again. But let’s be honest, you make almost every decision based on logic. Your emotions might influence the goals and objectives you set, but they aren’t directly involved in your decision-making.”
She paused for a moment then went on. “I talked to Director Torres about it, and he thinks the therapy could help. If you’re interested, we could try something basic with the program as early as tomorrow.”
Jarrod’s voice was softer than before. “Will it help me…control myself?”
“That’s exactly what it will do. Are you interested?”
“Yes.”
She grinned and stood up. “It’s settled, then. I’ll get to work on the program right away, and I’ll let you know when it’s time for the first trial.” She moved toward the door then stopped short. “One more thing. I know you can hear me coming, so please sit down before I open the door. I’d like to at least pretend you’re human.”
Eugene and San stood beside the heavy steel door, waiting for Felicity to emerge.
When she strode out and stopped in front of them, San said, “Ms. North. How did it go in there?”
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess. He agreed to the therapy, which is a good thing. But other than that, I’m not sure. Talking to him is…challenging. He’s very mechanical, which makes communication difficult.”
San grimaced, and Eugene’s lips puckered like he was holding back a smile.
Felicity raised an eyebrow and faced Eugene. “What’s so funny?”
He pouted his lips further, obviously pleased with himself. “You know he doesn’t have to be like that, right?”
“What are you talking about? You mean—him?”
Eugene rolled his eyes. “Think about what he was designed for. Solo operations in hostile territory. He would stand out like a sore thumb if he talked like a robot everywhere he went.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Are you serious? It’s like I’ve been talking to a microwave this whole time, and you’re telling me he can act like a normal person?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “After we smuggled him in here, I watched your first session on the closed-circuit camera. It was hilarious.”
Her face reddened, and she turned toward San. “And why didn’t you tell me?”
San took a tiny step back. “I honestly didn’t think to. He’s always been very rigid when he talks to me, and I’ve gotten used to it.”
Felicity sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “What else can I help you gentlemen with?”
San and Eugene exchanged glances then Eugene said, “Actually…we didn’t come down here for you.”
Felicity glanced back at Jarrod’s quarters, and her eyes widened. “You can’t go in there. It was part of the deal, remember?”
“Things change, Ms. North,” San said. “After what happened in New Orleans, we have to explore all our options.”
She frowned. “What happened in New Orleans?”
San’s face turned grim. “A biological weapon was deployed. We believe Katharos was behind it.”
Felicity stood her ground. “That sucks, but it doesn’t change anything for him.” She lowered her voice. “Jarrod said he would kill all of us if we try to manipulate him.”
San let out a hearty laugh that seemed to unsettle Felicity further. “Don’t worry, Ms. North. He won’t hurt me, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else. I don’t intend to manipulate him, but I’m not going to hide the truth from him, either. Thousands of people all over the country are ill and several have died already. We’ve had to relocate Jarrod’s sister to protect her from the contagion. Don’t you think he would want to know about that?”
Felicity covered her mouth with one hand. After a moment, she moved the hand away and said, “I’m sorry—I had no idea it was that serious. Do you think my mother is…is…”
“She’s safe.” San smiled at her. “We can’t have you worrying about your mother; your work here is too important. There haven’t been any reports of the contagion in your home town. But, just to be safe, I put in a request to have her moved to a sterile facility, and she’s on her way there now.”
Felicity’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you, Director.”
“For the tenth time, it’s San.” He winked. “But you’re welcome. I suggest you get upstairs and give your mother a call. She’s worried about you.”
She nodded and hurried toward the elevator.
Eugene watched her for a moment then turned toward San. “If you’re done being Superdad, can we talk to our resident killing-machine about saving the world?”
San extended an open hand. “After you.”
When the door to the small room slid open, Jarrod was standing in his usual spot.
“Hello, Jarrod,” San said. “It’s good to see you. Are you comfortable down here?”
Jarrod blinked. After a two-second pause, he said, “Yes.”
Eugene skirted past San and stretched out on the bed, kicking his feet up and supporting his head with his hands. “Maybe we should skip the pleasantries. How much of our conversation with Felicity did you hear?”
“All of it.”
“Thought so.” Eugene glanced at San. “The floor is yours, Director.”
San stuffed his hands into his pockets, surprised to be moving past the preamble so quickly. “Where should I start?” He stared up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “The attack happened yesterday, taking place at multiple crowded areas across New Orleans, including the airport and train station. Unfortunately, a large number of infected passengers reached their destinations before showing symptoms, and new reports of the disease are coming in from all over the country.”
“What kind of pathogen was spread?”
“From what we can tell, it was a modified strain of Cholera.”
Jarrod nodded. “Thank you for protecting Deedee.”
“It was my pleasure, Jarrod.” San gestured at the chair. “Do you mind taking a seat?”
As Jarrod obeyed, San pushed Eugene’s legs out of the way to make room on the bed, then sat down.
“I want you to get better, Jarrod. I want you to heal—mind, body, and soul. Which makes this very difficult for me, but I’m convinced I don’t have a choice.” San took a deep breath. “Will you help us?”
Jarrod didn’t answer right away. He took on a more casual demeanor, allowing natural pauses for Eugene’s benefit. “Help you…with what?”
Eugene lifted his legs over San’s head and spun around, moving into a seated position. “The guy who unleashed the bio-weapon got sick. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting to, and he wasn’t happy about it. When he reached the hospital, he admitted to what he had done and passed along a few pieces of Intel.”
“Is he in custody now?”
Eugene shook his head. “He died a few minutes after arriving at the hospital.”
“And you can trust the intelligence he gave out before he died?”
“We think so. His last words were, ‘I hope Stokes rots in hell.’”
Jarrod nodded. “Did you learn anything useful?”
Eugene shrugged. “It was good Intel, but incomplete. We learned the time and location of another attack, but not how it would go down.”
“Which is why we need your help,” San added. “The bio-agent was spread in New Orleans with a small, handheld device. It was completely innocuous, and it’s possible that Katharos will use a different but similarly sophisticated weapon in the next attack. We need your abilities, Jarrod. We need you to hunt them down.”
Jarrod shook his head. “No. I can’t kill anyone. If I do—”
“We’re not asking you to kill anybody,” Eugene said. “In fact, we need to take a terrorist aliv
e if we can. If you come with, your job will be to watch the crowd and report anything suspicious directly to me. It might actually be good for you—to go on a mission that doesn’t involve ripping people to shreds.”
San nodded, agreeing with the sentiment if not the manner it was expressed. “Millions of people are going to get sick, Jarrod. And weapons like these disproportionately affect children and the elderly. If you don’t help us, there’s no telling how many people will die.”
Jarrod rose to his feet and rolled his broad shoulders back. He untied the robe and let it fall to the floor, revealing the black armor beneath. In the small room, bathed in artificial light, he looked more terrifying than ever. “When do we leave?”
12
September 27th
Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii
The high-pitched whistling descended in pitch as the Boeing C-17’s auxiliary power unit began to shut down. The inside of the transport aircraft had been hastily reconstructed as a tactical operations center—desks and chairs were held in place with cargo straps, and a skeleton crew of support staff was huddled in front of ruggedized laptops.
Janson leaned over a steel table beside Eugene, looking over his shoulder at a satellite image of Honolulu. He zoomed in on a cluster of resorts bordering a swath of white sand and tapped the screen with his index finger.
“They’re allegedly targeting Waikiki first,” he said. “They want to hit it during peak hours before moving to the airport.” He tapped a button, and a series of blue circles appeared on the screen. “We’ll position our scanners in these locations. If they detect anything unusual, our phones will automatically receive an estimated distance and direction to the source.”
A row of green dots appeared on the beach, and Eugene continued, “There are undercover cops and FBI agents all over the beach, so the response time to the threat, once we locate it, should be minimal. But the beach is going to be packed with tourists, so every second counts. I want you at the center of the beach, ready to move in when we have a target.”
Janson nodded, feeling the familiar tingling in her extremities that always accompanied life-or-death operations. There had been a debate—well above her pay grade—over the decision to evacuate the beach and shut down the airport, or leave them open. In the end, it was concluded that the terrorist or terrorists carrying out the attack would be impossible to track, and shutting down the beach and airport would only divert the attack elsewhere. The attack was deemed inevitable, and the focus was shifted to rapid-response. The reactive mission went against Janson’s nature, but she was determined to help in any way she could. If she could save even one person by getting to the terrorists first, it would all be worth it.
And deep down, she was glad to be back in the game. It was a welcome reprieve from the constant anger she felt at Hillcrest. This mission was more important than her need to mourn or her desire for revenge. Right now, she was part of something bigger.
Eugene handed her an encrypted radio that looked exactly like a smartphone. “Comm frequencies have been pre-programmed, and our ride should get here in ten. You might want to get changed.”
Janson nodded and moved toward the nose of the aircraft. Because of her pallid skin and bodybuilder physique, her beachwear had to be unusually modest. The long, flowing sleeves and pants would cover most of her body. A wig, wide sunglasses, and a heavy application of makeup would conceal her scalp and face.
When she finished changing, she returned to the makeshift operations center and said, “Did I miss anything?”
Eugene studied her for a moment then used a bottle of liquid makeup to cover a patch of gray skin on her neck. Satisfied, he stepped back and said, “You look like you’re ready for clown-school prom, but it’ll have to work.”
Janson rolled her eyes and grabbed an earpiece off the desk. “Where are you going to set up your observation point?”
“On top of Rainbow Tower on the north side of the beach.”
She nodded and pushed the earpiece into her ear. “Radio check.”
Eugene adjusted his own earpiece and replied. “Read you loud and clear. Me?”
“Same.” Janson’s hands instinctively moved to her abdomen, where she would normally wear body armor, spare magazines, and a first-aid kit. She frowned then stood awkwardly with her hands at her sides. “I feel naked in this.”
Eugene was kneeling in front of a backpack, loading it with gear. After zipping it shut, he threw one strap over his shoulder and stood. “The terrorists will be incognito, so I doubt they’ll be carrying weapons. And from what I’ve heard, you can handle yourself in hand-to-hand combat. Ready to roll?”
Janson nodded and followed Eugene down the ramp into the blinding Hawaiian sun.
As the day wore on, Waikiki beach transformed into a colorful mosaic of beach towels, sun umbrellas, and tourists. Hidden among the crowd were dozens of federal agents and local law enforcement. And, in all likelihood, at least one terrorist armed with a biological weapon.
Eugene peered through a spotting scope, scanning the area from east to west. From his position on Rainbow tower, three hundred feet above the sand, he could see virtually every man, woman, and child on the beach. But the problem was, he had no idea what to look for. Smoking was strictly prohibited on the beach, so it was possible Katharos had devised another way to deliver the next bio-weapon. Without a clear target in mind, Eugene’s only option was to look for anything vaguely out of the ordinary.
The scope passed over an overweight man in a black Speedo swimsuit who was standing to stretch. Eugene’s eyes narrowed—the man was slowly turning his head, but his gaze remained focus on something ahead of him. He was watching someone or something and didn’t want anyone to know. Eugene followed the path of the man’s gaze then grunted in irritation. Two bikini-clad teenagers were sunning themselves in the man’s line of sight.
Returning to his scan of the beach, Eugene quickly found another suspicious individual—a woman sprinting through the crowd, hurdling blankets and knocking over sandcastles. But a few seconds later, he realized she was chasing a toddler who had made a daring escape.
A small cloud appeared in the corner of his vision, and his heart skipped a beat as he zoomed in on the source. A young man was spraying a woman with aerosolized sunblock. Eugene watched the pearlescent cloud drift and disappear on the wind, then he glanced at his phone. The sensors concealed throughout the beach would send him a signal within seconds if the cloud of aerosol was laced with a biological or chemical weapon.
Time seemed to slow, and his gaze flicked from the couple on the beach to his phone and back again. He waited, growing tenser with every beat of his heart.
Nothing. The sensors were quiet.
Eugene exhaled sharply and resumed his vigil. Even for a former Recon Marine, this was torture. He scanned for another full minute then keyed up his radio. “You see anything?”
Janson whispered her reply. “Nothing.”
He pinched his eyes shut for a moment. It was the answer he was expecting, but it bothered him nonetheless. The concept of an unpreventable attack was foreign to him. When he was in the Marines, he had often been tasked with overwatch—guarding a foot patrol or convoy from an elevated position. And his keen eyes had saved lives by spotting gunmen hiding in windows or militants carrying RPG’s onto rooftops. But today, his job wasn’t to prevent an attack, it was only to identify and track the perpetrators once the attack began. And the concept made him sick to his stomach.
Keeping one eye on the beach, he adjusted his radio to transmit on a different frequency. “Do you see or, uh…smell anything suspicious?”
The voice that came through his earpiece was unfamiliar to him, but he knew it was Jarrod Hawkins. Eugene had used a unique encryption key to set up a private line with the human weapon on the ground.
“Two possible targets on the ground, forty meters east of your position. Males, dressed in green uniforms, carrying gardening equipment.”
Eugene gripped the
spotting scope and aimed at the ground near the hotel. He searched for several seconds then said, “I don’t see them.”
“One’s carrying a bucket and a small shovel. The other is carrying a plastic container labeled ‘glyphosate.’”
Eugene thought for a moment. “Isn’t that weed-killer?”
“Yes, but I’m not detecting any traces of glyphosate coming from their direction. I will move in to intercept.”
“No. Stay where you are, I’ll send Janson.”
“There is no time. They are priming the weapon for deployment.”
“Janson can get there in time. Make yourself scarce.” Eugene switched the frequency on his radio. “Target located—two males in green uniforms on the north side of the beach, forty meters east of my position. Stop the man with the bottle of herbicide.”
“But none of the sensors have been tripped,” Janson said.
“Just get there, dammit!”
The sound of wind crossing the microphone accompanied her response. “On my way.”
Janson took long strides on the beach, leaping over clusters of reclining tourists and ducking past umbrellas. She had no idea how Eugene could have identified a target without the sensors detecting any airborne contagions, but the stakes were too high to waste time arguing.
Following her lead, several of the undercover agents began moving north. She passed them like they were standing still then picked up even more speed when she cleared the overcrowded section of the beach. Her legs pumped so rapidly, her bare feet seemed to float above the sand. She scanned the vegetation bordering the beach, searching for the men in green uniforms, then skidded to a stop.
Someone was screaming.
Turning toward the noise, she lowered her head and sprinted at full speed, juking between palm trees and leaping over a bed of ferns. She found two men lying on their backs, shrieking in pain. One man was clutching at his face, trying to wipe away the blood that was pouring into his eyes. The other man held his forearms against his chest in an attempt to stem the flow of blood from the stumps where his hands had once been. A bottle of herbicide lay on the ground at the second man’s feet.
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