“Franks goes through eyes like crazy. I hear he keeps a jar full of them in his fridge,” Radabaugh said as he looked over at Strayhorn. “That’s right. The rumors are true. Franks is built out of body parts.”
Archer was still thinking of his last oddly staffed op, so he watched the rookie carefully. He wasn’t about to get bit in the ass again.
The rookie was pretty darn good at keeping his emotions hidden. “There was some talk about him at the academy.” Strayhorn said cautiously. “Some of the guys said that he’s really Frankenstein.” Archer liked how he added the some said. The rookie wasn’t giving away whether he believed them or not, just in case the senior agents were pulling his leg.
“You mean Frankenstein’s monster, but yeah.” Radabaugh grinned. “Welcome to the big time, Rook. Dr. Frankenstein was a myth. The real mad scientist was named Dippel. The book came out way later. Franks isn’t a code name either. He named himself that because he was built in the real Castle Frankenstein.”
“I see . . .”
“I doubt that!” Radabaugh insisted. “Franks is a three-hundred-year-old, one-man wrecking ball. Anything the MCB really needs to shut down, they drop Franks on it. Boom. Done. He’s way faster, stronger, and tougher than any of us. I’ve got the top hand-to-hand combatives score in the Bureau three years running and I wouldn’t last thirty seconds against Franks. He gets blown up, we bag the parts, and the egg-heads stitch him back together . . . Few days later he’s back in the fight, mean as ever. And don’t go thinking that because he’s an antique he can’t be that badass; they’ve been making improvements on him the whole time. He can shrug off things that would kill any regular man, and when he’s moving, just keep out of his way. If we get called up for something and it turns into combat, stay behind Franks.”
“He only needs us to deal with the red tape. In a fight you’re basically his gun caddy,” Archer said. “Keep your head down and keep handing him weapons. There’s nothing Franks can’t kill once he puts his mind to it. Plus, he’s like a tactical genius, but I figure that’s just because he’s been doing this for so long nothing really ever takes him by surprise.”
Grant leaned forward conspiratorially. “Franks killed a Great Old One.”
“That’s supposed to be impossible.” Strayhorn frowned, probably thinking back to his training. “You can’t kill a Great Old One.”
“He did have help,” Archer said.
“Pitt?” Grant snorted. “That jackass?”
“Well, him and Isaac Newton, but if anybody knows Franks well at this point it has to be Owen Pitt.” Archer looked back at Strayhorn. “Sorry. That’s a long story.”
Strayhorn seemed intrigued. “We’ve got a long flight. Look, I’ve heard Franks’ legends, every recruit has. He’s supposed to be like the most intimidating guy ever, but come on . . .”
“I once saw Franks beat a werewolf to death with its own arm. He was like that how come you keep hitting yourself bully from elementary school, but with more blood. Only Franks didn’t actually say that, because he’s one humorless motherfucker,” Radabaugh said. “If the Frankenstein origin story isn’t true, then it’s a pretty elaborate cover, because the real Franks is some sort of supernatural scary-ass killing machine.”
Now that they were telling stories, Grant didn’t want to be outdone. “I’ve seen them open him up for field surgery after he’d been injured. He’s got extra hearts, like a relay system, and he can turn them on and off as he needs them. He doesn’t have ribs like we do. It looks more like they stuck an armored vest inside his chest to keep his guts in place. I heard Franks even has extra brain tissue grafted along his spine, like backing up a hard drive, in case he gets his brains blown out. He might look like a man on the outside, but he’s not.”
“No kidding?” Strayhorn was nodding along. Even in an organization made up of professional liars, the others were just too earnest. Archer didn’t know what his introduction to monsters had been, but it must have been something good, because Franks’ story didn’t seem to shake him too badly. “So what’s he like as a person?”
“Person?” Archer snorted. “Don’t make that mistake. He’s the scariest thing you’ll ever see. Franks is like the definition of does not give a shit. He’s cold. He’s got extra hearts, but he doesn’t have a heart. There’s just something not right about him in the head. I mean he’s smart, and he’s freakishly rational, but he’s just not wired like a real person. When he looks at you it’s like he’s doing math. I don’t think he gets people either, or he does get us, but he doesn’t care. When you’re talking to him, you get this feeling that you’re talking to a fucking space alien wearing a human costume, and he’s just looking at you with his blank eyes the whole time, and you just know the only reason he doesn’t murder you is because you’re not worth the paperwork. . . . I’d call him a sociopath, but that’s too humanizing.” Archer realized that the other three were staring past him toward the ramp. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
Radabaugh gave him a nervous nod in the affirmative. “We forgot to mention that he’s got superhearing too.”
“Shit.” Archer turned back. The monstrous Agent Franks was walking down the center of the cargo bay, a giant bag slung over one shoulder. The loadmaster tried to give him directions to stow his gear, but he ignored her and kept walking. She took one look at the hulking brute and wisely let it go. The ramp began to rise.
Franks stopped before the agents, towering over them. He was as wide as any two of them put together and imposing as hell. His eyes swiveled over them, taking stock of his handlers—as if anybody could truly handle Franks—and scowled. Grant and Radabaugh nodded respectfully and simultaneously said, “Sir.” Strayhorn tried to say something but failed, because once in the overwhelming presence that was Franks the truth had been confirmed, and that had to be fairly unnerving.
His cold, dead eyes fell on Archer last. “Welcome aboard, Agent Franks,” Archer squeaked. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you again, sir.”
Franks merely grunted in acknowledgement. He either hadn’t heard Archer’s psych-evaluation or didn’t disagree with the findings. Franks brushed past and went forward, where he took up two of the small, uncomfortable military seats.
The agents sat in silence while the plane taxied and took off. Franks stared off into space the whole time. Awkwardness was the norm when you were working with Franks.
What have I gotten dragged into this time? There was a power struggle in the MCB and Archer had sided with the hard-ass Myers against the moron Stark, and in doing so he’d probably put himself on the bad side of a top secret black op that was up to who knew what awful business. Franks had pissed off Unicorn, so now he and a few other men got to be glorified gophers to run interference while the world’s most dangerous killing machine had to kiss and make up with a bunch of bureaucrats capable of ending all of their careers.
Something about this assignment was bothering him. Grant could be a narcissistic douche at times, but he was really smart and worked hard. Radabaugh had always struck him as a reliable tough guy. Strayhorn was a rookie and an unknown. The whole thing felt way too much like the time he’d been undercover at MHI.
For a man who hated conspiracies and lies, Archer had certainly gone into the wrong line of work.
* * *
Normally people were supposed to feel some sense of awe when they met with the President of the United States. Even if you didn’t care for the man personally, despised his politics, or wouldn’t let the fellow babysit your kids, you were still supposed to respect the office, and thus the man, but as Stricken watched the President dither over what to do next, all he could think to himself was what a chump.
Luckily, Stricken was very good at feigning sincere respect. “Mr. President, I’m afraid Franks has already proven how unstable he’s become. We’ll need time to get our precautions in place. I’m afraid I’m going to need your decision as soon as possible.”
It was just the two of them in the
Oval Office, the President and his Special Advisor. No other members of the Special Subcommittee had been invited to this meeting. “Are you sure detaining him is necessary?”
“Absolutely. This is the safest move for everyone involved. Provided Franks cooperates, nobody will be hurt. If he doesn’t . . .” Stricken spread his hands apologetically. “Even the most loyal dog needs to be put to sleep when it turns rabid. It’s time to take Ol’ Yeller behind the barn, Mr. President.”
The President chewed on his pen as he thought that through. Normally he’d listen to his legion of sycophantic advisors or take an opinion poll, but the nice thing about working at this level of clearance was that it separated the wheat from the chaff. There were very few individuals in the entire government cleared to know the details of this sort of event, and most of those were still occupied dealing with Las Vegas.
The most powerful man in the world pushed a button on his desk. “Bring in the Franks’ contract.”
Stricken made a show of studying the various decorations in the Oval Office while they waited. Of course, he’d memorized every item in it the first time he’d been here, and could tell down to the individual paperclip what had been moved since his last visit, but gawking was expected behavior, and staring at the man on the other side of the Resolute desk while he waffled on policy would be considered uncouth.
The contract must have already been pulled out of the archives earlier, as a moment later it was placed in the President’s hands by a secretary who seemed very relieved to flee the Oval Office and Stricken’s gaze. He had that effect on the sensitive types.
The contract was written on old parchment and sealed in a glass box. The President held it awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Stricken didn’t understand why he needed to see the original. Every man who’d sat in that chair had read it at some point. A copy would do just as well, but sentimental foolishness was to be expected from a leader who was governed by his feelings rather than his iron will.
While the President studied Ben Franklin’s scribbling and Franks’ X, Stricken mulled over his takedown strategies. He already knew he’d be given permission to detain Franks, as if he were just some human being that they could throw a bag over his head, toss him in a van, and redact his ass to Poland. This was Agent fucking Franks they were talking about here. The President didn’t have the balls to order Franks outright eliminated, so he’d take the middle road of locking him up for everyone’s safety. That had been a forgone conclusion before Stricken had ever requested this meeting. He’d been laying the groundwork for this moment for a few years. Of course, it was also a forgone conclusion that Franks would resist being stuck in a cage, so that freak of nature would die resisting, and permanently this time.
The President sighed as he finished reading the old parchment.
“Those are not idle threats, sir. If we violate that covenant, Franks fully intends to do everything he said there. He is that irrational and violent, which is why I need your blessing before I proceed.”
“Over two hundred years of service,” the President said as he put the contract down, discarding it like he’d been so quick to discard every other founding document he’d found inconvenient. “He’s saved this country, and maybe the whole world, more times than we can count.”
That was an exaggeration. The correct number was only sixteen tops, and that was being generous because most of those probably wouldn’t have gone all the way to an extinction level event. The earlier Special Advisors had been pussies when it came to estimating what the other side was really capable of.
“Yes, Mr. President, but we need not let yesterday’s patterns hold tomorrow hostage. Franks is a remnant of a more barbaric time.” Stricken managed to keep a straight face as he said that, which was quite an achievement, since his own history was rather blood-soaked, but what didn’t make it into the President’s daily briefings wasn’t his problem. “He’s a relic that needs to be retired.”
“He’s so effective though.”
Yeah, but he’s in my way. But Stricken just smiled and nodded, glad that his eye and skin condition gave him an excuse for wearing his odd persimmon-colored sunglasses indoors, because he had no doubt that if the President saw the hate in his eyes, he’d probably scrap the whole thing and burn STFU down. “He’s Frankenstein’s monster, sir. He was built to be effective, but he’s still a monster.”
“Spare me, Alexander. Your entire operation is based on using rehabilitated monsters, and look how successful that’s proven to be.”
Idiot. You can’t rehabilitate a monster. You can only coerce them into being temporarily useful, then send the docile off into obscurity and execute the uppity. “Thank you, Mr. President.” He dipped his head politely at the ignorant attempt at a compliment. “So you realize that I understand monsters better than anyone, so believe me when I tell you that if any of my recruits continued to demonstrate such erratic, violent tendencies as Franks has, I would have them dismissed from my program.” Dismissed. That was an amusing euphemism. More like fed into a wood chipper, Saddam Hussein-style. Now, there was leadership with panache.
“I don’t know . . . We spend billions on security, and they’re still telling me our single best operative against the supernatural is this old pile of body parts that kids dress up as for Halloween. Hell, there’s cartoons and breakfast cereals based on him.”
“I take it you’ve never met the real Franks in person?”
The President shook his head. “The Secret Service didn’t think that was a good idea . . . This is just so . . . Well, I don’t know. Myers keeps telling me how vital Franks is to our defense.”
A real leader needed to be decisive. He needed to declare a clear objective and then do everything necessary to seize that objective. This president lacked those necessary traits, that spine, that strength of purpose. He was uncertain, and Stricken couldn’t abide uncertainty in a commander. The President was shrewd enough when it came to normal politicking, but when the subject turned to supernatural threats, he was in way over his head. He’d once confided to Stricken that when he’d been briefed about the existence of the Old Ones, it had felt as if he was drowning in an angry sea. That had been music to Stricken’s ears. He’d served in one capacity or another in six administrations now, and none of this man’s predecessors had been nearly this easy to manipulate. When someone felt like they were drowning, anyone who could throw them a lifeline would be seen as a savior. Myers had been too honest in his assessments, and the truth was too frightening to a soft man like this. Stricken, on the other hand, was more than willing to massage the truth, to throw that comforting lifeline. Of course, the President saw it as a lifeline. Stricken considered it a leash.
“Myers is partially correct. We do need something with Franks’ capabilities, but that doesn’t change the fact that the MCB’s best asset is aging and shows signs of serious mental deterioration. He’s a ticking bomb and he will go off eventually. Whether you deal with Franks now or not, the fact remains that he will need to be replaced someday. Either he loses his mind and causes something that we can’t cover up, or eventually something destroys him. That’s why it’s so vital that you approve my Nemesis Project right away.”
“That again?” The President leaned back in his chair. “You really expect me to approve the creation of an army of Frankensteins?”
Frankenstein was the creator of the fictionalized monster, not the monster itself, you fucking illiterate, but Stricken just gave the President a patient smile. “Nemesis assets would only be partially based on what we’ve learned from studying Franks’ physiology. This technology is far superior. Franks is the Wright brothers’ plane and these would be Predator drones. Give them a mission, turn them loose, and no matter what happens there’s no bad press for you and no grieving families on TV. Everyone wins. Let me try a prototype out. My operations are so secret no one will ever know if it doesn’t work out.”
“Try them out? According to this Franks contract the
re aren’t supposed to be any. Ever.”
“I misspoke. We’d have to build some first, and I’d need approvals for that, obviously. But if they work like they think I will, I promise you’ll want to use them for everything else. A squad of these and Las Vegas never could have happened. Since these assets would be starting with a clean slate, they are programmable for complete loyalty. They simply can’t go rogue.”
“Unlike Franks,” the President muttered.
This was too easy. “For what we can accomplish with them, Nemesis assets are a bargain. The only thing that kept the previous administration from implementing my plan was this thing.” Stricken picked up the contract and gestured at it dismissively. “This is ancient history. This is tradition blocking progress. It’s a contract, not a suicide pact.”
The President didn’t have to mull it over nearly as long that time. “I’ll think about it and give you my decision later.”
“Of course, sir.” That was a little disappointing, as he was tired of waiting, but Stricken could tell the President would come around. He’d come around and order Franks terminated eventually, but Stricken had more important things to do than wait around for the inevitable. He would go with plan B, and once that was done, the President would look back on this conversation and kick himself for not heeding his Special Advisor sooner.
“No matter what I decide, Franks deserves our respect. If he’s to be retired, I want this nice and clean, nobody gets hurt.”
Like that was going to happen. “Whatever you decide, I’ll take care of everything.” Like I always do.
“Thank you, Alexander.”
There were very few people who called him by his real name. He preferred his codename, Stricken, as it had gravitas. He’d been using that name since he’d started his career murdering KGB operatives in back alleys in Bucharest. “Good luck with your press conference, Mr. President.”
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