“And how does Gary fit into all this madness?”
“Mr. Brown had information we needed, information on—”
Valco pinched his eyes shut and ground his teeth together. “The Green Lama.”
“Correct.” A small part of Gamma felt bad for the man, but it was an insubstantial emotion, barely a registering in the machinery of his mind.
Valco stood and began pacing the room. He eventually spun around to Gamma, his face red from anger or sorrow or both. “And why…? And why haven’t I—?”
“Because you are too valuable, Dr. Valco,” Gamma said simply. “Far too valuable to be left to the hands of our… shall we say, less subtle personnel. Your work with the Delta Liquid Ray makes you unique, and based on your findings—”
“What is this place?” Valco demanded.
“It is everything Dr. Murdoch said it is. A think tank, an enterprise dedicated to science—to the future, as it were.”
Valco ran a hand through his hair as tears began to stream down his reddened cheek. “All the work I’ve done… The Substance, the Delta Liquid Ray… Gary, the Green Lama… You said it’s all for a common goal… Who could benefit from this nightmare?”
“America,” Gamma said with a shrug, “if that’s any consolation.”
Valco covered his mouth and let out a small sob.
Gamma sighed. Must they always cry? “You see, Dr. Valco, we are about to enter another Great War with Germany, one that will eclipse the first in ways you cannot imagine. So, we must walk every avenue in search of ways to protect our men at arms, and we believe the Substance has the potential to do so. With the Substance we can create indestructible soldiers.”
“How could you even think that?”
“The source of the Substance is… unique,” Gamma gave as an explanation.
“And what is the source?”
“Classified.”
After several moments passed in silence Gamma carefully stood up, mindful of the popping in his knees, and walked over to Valco. He placed a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Dr. Valco, I have to be honest with you. You have a choice before you. Either you continue to help us, or we kill you. I’m afraid there will be no bargaining on the matter. Do you understand?” When Valco didn’t respond, he asked again. “Dr. Valco, do you understand?”
Valco closed his eyes and managed a short, slow nod.
Gamma smiled and clapped Valco’s shoulder once, then twice. “There’s a good man. I’ll let you sleep on it and look forward to your decision in the morning.”
• • •
JEAN RAMMED the metal door open with her shoulder and stumbled out into the brightness of day. Her wrists were raw from rope burn, her broken hand thrummed in agony, her right eye had swollen shut, and her head was swimming. Shocks of pain pounded up from the soles of her feet as small bits of glass drove deeper into her skin. She collapsed to the ground, dead leaves rustling beneath her. She couldn’t remember when she had passed out, her memories a blur of seemingly unending torture. She had awoken hours later with Omega long gone. She had wormed her way out her bindings using techniques Jethro had shown her, an effort that had proven excruciatingly difficult thanks to the myriad of wounds that now covered her body. She propped herself up to her elbows and knees, and blinked up at the red and yellow sun peeking between the trees. She had lost a day, maybe more. Behind her sat a squat brick and mortar building, pale blue paint cracked and peeling off the door like dried skin. Bordered up windows lined the building. A sign sat above it all, the color and words faded to time. Small plant life had begun to punch through the foundation; ivy crawled its way up from base to roof.
Jean furrowed her brow and blinked at her surroundings. “Where the hell am I?”
The faint impression of tire tracks snaked into the woods, weaving between the trees like a dried riverbed. Jean climbed to unsteady feet, feeling like she was wading through molasses. She tucked her wounded hand under her left arm and limped her way into the thicket and began walking parallel to the tracks. She couldn’t risk staying out in the open, not knowing when—or if—Omega would return. By her best guess she was a two-hour drive outside New York—significantly more if she walked, and in her condition it was doubtful she could even make it that far. There had to be a town, or at the very least, a gas station, nearby.
“What I could really use is a Greek god who can instantly transport me back to the city.” She gazed up at the sky and waited. Somewhere, a bird chirped. She frowned and shrugged. “Well, it was worth a shot.”
She kept moving forward, bracing herself against the trees as she tried to ignore the growing pain in her feet. She needed to get back, somehow, someway. The world was crumbling down around them and Jethro needed her, now more than ever. If she could only find her way home…
She shambled for a half-hour, maybe less, but the effort was slow going, gaining little more than a few yards while her wounded feet worsened with every step. Sweat beaded at her forehead while her breath grew steadily heavier. The unfamiliar sense of panic began to strangle at her throat when she heard the soft rumble of tires against dirt and vegetation.
Ducking behind a tree, Jean watched two men drive past in a black sedan. Crouching down, she began to double back just out of sight of the car’s rearview. She was taking a risk, especially in her current state, but if these men were connected to Omega—and she had a good feeling they were—then they also might be her ticket back to the city.
The pain radiating up through her body was blinding, and the time it took for the sedan to traverse the path and pull up to the factory was excruciating. Jean moved behind a larger tree on the edge of the clearing and dropped to her knees, relieving herself of some of the agony from her bloody feet.
“Hate coming to this place,” the driver said as he exited the car. He was slightly taller and lankier than his passenger, a scrappy brawler with a crooked nose. “Always a damn mess.”
The second man paused to light himself a cigarette. “What was the name of the subject?”
“Farrell, Jean. Alias, ‘Parker.’ Actress.”
The second man tsked in disappointment. Several moments passed before either spoke.
“You’re just going to hang back?” the second man asked in a cloud of smoke.
“Are you?” the driver asked incredulously.
The second man rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck like he was about to jump into the ring. “Need to prepare myself for this.”
The driver sighed and began to march toward the factory and waved the other man on. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
The second man took one last puff of his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and followed after, disappearing into the shadowed factory.
Without waiting for them to return, Jean sprang across the clearing to find the car door thankfully unlocked. Her heart racing, she climbed inside, disappointed—yet unsurprised—to discover the keys missing from the ignition. It was times like this, though, that she was once again glad she had dated good old Andy Lawton back in Montana. Lawton hadn’t been good for much, but he did show her how to jack a motorcycle, so stealing a car shouldn’t be much different, just a little bit bigger and with a couple of more wheels. With her good hand, she reached into her hair and found a lone bobby pin still clinging to her locks. Wrestling the pin into the slot, she felt the locking mechanisms click, but the ignition refused to turn.
She futilely pumped her bleeding foot against the gas pedal. “Come on come on come on.”
“What the hell?”
Jean looked up to see the two men staring at her from the doorway, their mouth agape. She let out a sigh. “Shit.”
The two men rushed toward the car and drew their sidearms. Jean twisted the bobby pin one last time, wincing as she slammed her foot down on the gas. The engine roared to life. Without hesitating, Jean snapped the gearshift into drive and the wheels spun, kicking up dirt. The sedan flew forward, striking the second man in the midsection. Hanging off t
he hood of the car, his gun went off, the bullet blasting through the windshield, sending glass flying. Jean covered her face but kept her foot on the pedal. A second later the car slammed into the factory wall, crushing the man from chest to stomach. Jean caught herself against the steering wheel—narrowly avoiding cracking her head open—and risked a glance forward. The man stared at her with a fogging gaze, his face twisted in pain, shock, and disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, spilling blood down his chin. His head slumped forward, banging against the hood with a hollow thunk.
Before Jean could react, the driver’s side door swung open and the driver shoved his gun against her temple. The harsh metallic snap of the hammer being pulled into place echoed through her skull.
“Get out!” he barked.
Jean raised her hands. In the corner of her eyes she caught sight of a large shard of glass laying in the foot well. “Okay, okay,” she said calmly. “Just get that thing off my head so I can move. That sound good to you?”
The driver shoved the gun harder against her head, but Jean stayed calm.
“If you were planning on killing me you would have, but I’m guessin’ that’s not your job, is it?”
Several seconds passed before the driver reluctantly moved his gun away. “Move,” he instructed, stepping back.
Jean slid toward the door and put her bloody left foot on the ground, when she crumpled down. The driver took a half step forward but Jean held up a placating hand.
“It’s all right. It’s all right,” she said as she reached into the foot well and began to push herself up. “Just cut up my foot—”
In a spinning motion, Jean flung the glass shard at the driver, striking him in the eye. The driver cried out as he staggered back, his free hand clutching his bleeding eye. Jean leaped forward and grabbed his wrist and pushed the gun away just as the pistol fired. The bullet harmlessly struck the side of the car with an audible ping as Jean twisted around and clocked the driver in the jaw with her elbow. The blow knocked the driver’s head back but it wasn’t enough to take him down. His blood covered hand snapped around her throat.
“You little bitch,” he growled as he began to squeeze. Jean tried to pry herself free, digging her nails into the back of his hand as he fought to aim his gun at her head with his other hand.
She tried to keep her arm locked straight, but the driver was stronger and the gun began drifting toward her. Realizing she could either be shot or suffocated, Jean hooked her uninjured forefinger around his trigger finger. She quickly stepped to the side and dropped her weight to the ground. His arm swung down, the gun aiming at his foot. Jean squeezed down on the trigger and the pop! of gunfire was immediately followed by a small explosion of blood from the driver’s shoe. She slipped the gun free as the driver screamed in pain and fell away. She whirled around and aimed at his chest, fighting the urge to put one through his heart.
“Where’s Omega?” Jean snapped.
“Aw, you bitch!” the driver screamed, holding his hands out toward his shattered foot. “You fuckin’, fuckin’ little whore!”
Jean pulled back the hammer. “I won’t ask again.”
The driver bared his teeth, his eyes burning into Jean. “You think you’re safe? You think it’s all going to get better now? Fuck you, missy, the pain’s just about to start.” His tongue began moving around his mouth when something clicked loose and a small lump formed in his cheek.
Only then did Jean realize what he was doing. She rushed forward. “No no no!”
But she was too late. He bit down on the capsule with an audible crunch. White foam bubbled out of his mouth as his eyes rolled back and his head lolled to the side. It was over in seconds.
Jean let out a string of curses before moving to search the man’s corpse. Looking through his pockets she found the usual—car keys, matchbook, cigarettes, and wallet—but no driver’s license or I.D. He had a small notebook in his inside jacket pocket, dog-eared from constant use. She quickly leafed through the pages, finding the book filled with a long list of four-digit codes made up of random letters, numbers, and symbols. Jean instinctually rolled the notebook tightly in her hand lest she drop it, grabbed the keys, and headed back to the car.
It was going to be a long drive.
• • •
THE ROOM was cold, bordering on frigid. Small wisps of his breath flowed out of his mouth before evaporating into the dim light. At some point they had removed his shirt and strapped him onto a T-shaped examination table, his arms bound at the wrists, his legs braced together with a large leather belt. It had been several hours since they had brought him here, several more since his abduction, though how many he couldn’t tell. They had kept him blindfolded and drugged. He heard the door open as faceless men walked in at irregular intervals to inject him with sedatives. Jethro made no effort to fight them, no attempt to escape. He needed to wait. The time would come and they would talk—they always did—and then he would know how to stop them. He had underestimated his adversaries. He wouldn’t do so again.
When the sedatives began to take hold, he would close his eyes, recite a silent mantra and let his mind drift—as it often did—to Jean. He had no way of knowing if she was here, if she was safe, if she was even alive, but he held on to her face, on to the memory of her touch. As always it was through her that he had found his strength. But the sedatives did their work and unconsciousness visited again.
Hours passed before the door opened for the last time.
Jethro was awakened by the sound of footsteps, slow and methodical, clipping against the cement floor. The blindfold was removed. Spots formed in his vision as his eyes tried to adjust to the bright light shining inches from his face.
“Ah… Mr. Dumont, so good to finally see you again after all this time!”
Jethro knew that voice, a relic from another era. “Who’s there?” he croaked, blinking at the silhouette pacing around him.
“Who? Who? Who? Such a good question. Allow me to provide the answer,” the silhouette tittered. A red-gloved right hand reached out and turned the light toward the shadows.
Jethro let out a soft gasp through his chapped lips. “Dr. Pelham…”
“Indeed,” the Crimson Hand said with a steeplechase grin. He was wearing a pure white lab coat, glowing in the darkness. “I must confess, Mr. Dumont, had I known you were the Green Lama all those years ago we could have avoided so many unpleasantries. Truly, it would have saved us so much time.”
“No…” Jethro breathed. “You’re supposed to be in jail.”
“Am I? Hm.” The Crimson Hand frowned in consideration before allowing his smile to explode once again. “I suppose I should be, but here I am. Funny how life works, isn’t it? It brought us together again, yes, continuing our tale long after everyone thought it had finished. But, I digress, distracting myself with mindless ponderings. Let’s get on with the task at hand, shall we?”
The Crimson Hand leaned forward and began examining Jethro, pulling at his cheeks, forcibly turning his head, and peering closely at his eyes and skin. “My, my, you are pale, Mr. Dumont. Your eyes are bloodshot, red under the eyelids. Hm. You haven’t slept in months have you? Not one night, though I’m sure you faked it quite well. Couldn’t let anyone know could you? And what’s this?” The Crimson Hand moved around the examination table and palpated the green veins lacing Jethro’s arm and neck. “These veins look quite infected, Mr. Dumont. Very green and distended. Hm. All extending from the curious scar on this finger. Very interesting.”
The Crimson Hand cocked his head to the side and gave Jethro a mournful expression. “Tell me, Mr. Dumont, how long ago did you realize you were dying?”
Chapter 15: The Crimson Hand’s Revenge
SOMETHING STIRRED inside Gary Brown; a black, pulsating thing that slithered through his mind, engulfing every piece of him bit by bit. He could feel his memories slip away, replaced with an endless crawling chaos. Black oil and blood leaked from the open wound on his forehead, his eyes, nose an
d mouth, spilling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. His stomach roared a hunger that echoed into his muscles, into his bones. His jaw opened and shut, involuntarily gnawing at the air. He opened his grey-white eyes and stared into the darkness enveloping him. He was losing himself, every part of him stolen away.
Except her. Except them. He kept their faces in front of him, hidden from the black tendrils invading his soul. He would hold on, he needed to hold on.
For Evangl.
For Marie.
Even when the shadows claimed him, he would never let them out of his sight. They would be his light; they would be his way back home.
• • •
“ARE YOU GOING to be all right?”
“Yeah, fine, fine,” Betty Dale said, brushing off Caraway with a bandaged hand. She eased down into a worn wooden chair in a corner of the squad room, her dress singed or outright burned, in several places. Soot covered her reddened cheeks, but the petite woman looked as strong and resolved as ever. “Just a little crispy is all. Besides, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve been through.”
“I don’t doubt that, but you should really be in a hospital.”
“So should you,” Betty shot back, tugging at Caraway’s burned sleeve.
“Yeah, but this sorta thing makes me look good,” he said with a winning smile as he fixed what remained of his tie.
“Don’t try and flirt with me, John. I’m a one-man woman. And while I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” she said, her lighthearted tone melting away, “we both know things are about to get messy—at least messier than they already are—and I want to be on the frontline. Besides, why would I want to be away from all the fun? No, no, John. This is where I am and where I’m staying.”
The Green Lama: Crimson Circle Page 26