by Wesley Cross
“How do I know it’s them?”
“I’ll send you the pictures as soon as I hang up.”
“What about you and your partner?”
“We’ll meet you at the new safe house in a few hours. I want to stick around for the conversation with the Interpol, and Ryan needs to make up a good story for his absence at the precinct.”
By the time Mike was able to get dressed and collect the essentials, he heard a car pulling up to the house. He watched the men getting out of the large van through the closed blinds. Connelly sighed in relief when he saw that they matched the pictures he had received from Chuck.
He stepped onto the porch and let them usher him inside of the vehicle. They were speeding away before he even had a chance to take a seat.
“Nick,” said one of the six men, offering Connelly his hand. “I’ll be in charge of your detail.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Nick,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. The agent had olive skin, which betrayed Latin roots, and a strong Brooklyn accent. For the first time since the ambush in his apartment, Mike started to relax. These guys were the real deal.
The new safe house was a small one-story warehouse in Jamaica. A six-foot brick fence with barbwire on top of it separated it from the outside world. The place was dingy and old, but solid, and Connelly was happy to find another three agents inside the warehouse awaiting their arrival.
“Not too many stars in this hotel, but it’ll do,” said Nick, smiling. “There’s a small kitchen in the back, if you’re hungry, and some bunk beds if you want to rest. My boss will want to debrief you when he gets here, but that won’t be for a couple of hours. So take some time.”
“Thanks,” Mike looked around, taking in the surroundings. “Those bunk beds sound good, actually.”
He limped to the back of the building and hoisted himself onto the bed. It was squeaky, and the blankets smelled moldy and stale, but he didn’t mind. The wounds were taking their toll. He was healing well, but it drained the energy out of him at a quick pace. He hadn’t been that tired since the camp.
• • •
“Sir, wake up.”
Someone was gently shaking him, and Mike blinked, his eyes trying to focus. A young man’s face appeared in front of him.
“What’s up?” he said and cleared his throat. “Your boss is here? And why is it dark?”
“We might be compromised,” said the man quietly. “Our satellite surveillance is picking up some activity around the house. There are two mini vans parked just a block away and we’re seeing too many heat signatures that are staying inside the vehicles.”
“What’s too many?”
“Six in one van. Only two in another, but that one is weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“The driver seems normal, but his passenger’s signature is off. It’s too big and too hot. Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Okay,” Mike said, his pulse quickening. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger. There aren’t enough of them. I think they know it as well, as they haven’t made any moves yet, but more can be on the way, so we called in reinforcements. They’re five minutes out.”
“So we sit tight and wait.” Mike looked around, taking mental notes on everyone’s positions. “I need a gun.”
“Sorry, can’t do,” the man said apologetically.
“They’re moving,” Mike heard Nick shout. “Take your positions.”
Connelly caught the young man’s arm as he tried to walk away.
“At least give me a pistol,” he said. “I can help.”
The man looked at him for a second and then extended him his service weapon, handle first, then he was running away to take his position by one of the narrow windows.
Automatic fire ruptured the calmness of the night. The windows facing the street exploded in a shower of glass, forcing the agents to take cover. A split second later the dry barking of M-16s filled the loft as they returned fire.
Mike heaved the small kitchen table with his good hand tipping it onto its side, then he pulled the thick mattresses off the bed, stacking them in front of the table and ignoring the pain crouched behind the improvised barricade.
“The big guy is moving,” somebody shouted. “He’s going for the main gates.”
“Concentrate your fire on him,” Nick ordered. “Now.”
The building shook as an explosion took down the main gates. From his position behind an improvised barricade Mike could see the satellite screens. The white silhouettes were running through the broken gates, crouching behind parked cars in the front yard. The big man who brought down the gate wasn’t following their suit. He stood on the side of the road for a few more seconds, as if making sure his teammates were in place, then he started walking toward the house, his pace of a person taking a stroll in a park, not storming a building full of federal agents.
Another explosion shook the building, knocking Mike backward. He landed on his wounded arm, the sharp pain striking him like a lightning bolt. He propped himself up, holding the pistol in his left hand. Part of the wall around the main door was missing, three dead agents strewn on the rubble-covered floor as broken dolls.
Two flash grenades rolled in, and Mike dove behind the cover again. The brilliant white light covered the room, momentarily blinding him even behind covers. He heard the footsteps rushing in and a quick staccato of automatic fire.
Mike peeked above the desk just in time to see two men mowing down three blinded agents. He shot one in the face, and when the other started to turn toward him, he put a bullet through his throat just an inch above the man’s bulletproof vest.
One of the agents moved on the floor, and Mike saw Nick trying to get up. He looked disoriented, but otherwise unharmed.
Two more assailants rushed in, spraying bullets. Mike shot one in the stomach, knocking him off his feet, finishing him with a headshot when he hit the floor. Nick let off a long salvo from his rifle, shredding the man’s leg from his knee to his thigh. The man cried out in pain and collapsed in a bloody heap.
Nick crawled to the window and peeked out. When he turned back, his face was pale.
“What is it?” asked Mike quietly.
“There’s only one left,” Nick said.
Mike heard the approaching footsteps. They were slow and deliberate, almost mechanical. He leaned his shoulder against the desk, trying to keep the pistol level.
A large metallic boot stepped over the threshold, and Mike opened fire, aiming for the head. Nick’s automatic rifle joined a split second later.
A deadly whooshing of ricocheting bullets filled the room, then the monster came into full view. The head was hidden under a smooth, shiny helmet, its surface so perfect it looked like liquid mercury. The neck and torso were clad in scales of the same metal, each scale in fluent motion in sync with the giant’s deliberate steps, but the armor wasn’t what struck Mike the most; it was the limbs. They were artificial. He could see them being connected to the torso with massive gears and pistons.
The giant stopped once he entered the room and turned to Nick. The agent jumped to his feet, brought the rifle within an inch of the assailant’s smooth helmet, and squeezed the trigger, but to no avail. The big man didn’t even move as the bullets hit the helmet. Finally Nick stopped shooting, staring in disbelief at the smooth surface of the helmet.
The metallic arm moved with lightning speed, swatting Nick’s hand away. The agent cried out in pain as his wrist was shattered into pieces.
Mike watched as the scales moved on the big man’s arm and the gun barrel protruded from the opening. A single shot rang out, taking a half of federal agent’s head. The limp body collapsed onto the floor, blood squirting out of the severed arteries.
Mike lowered his gun. There was nothing else he could do. He watched, as from above, as the strange creature walked toward him and pointed the stub-nosed business end of the weapon at his face. Mike took a deep breath.
He was ready to die.
Nothing happened for a few seconds. The shiny helmet tilted to one side as if the monster was deciding what to do, then in the middle of its mirror-like surface appeared a slit and the helmet opened, revealing a large face with pasty skin covered in acne scars.
“Fuck me,” said Mike, looking at the familiar face. “What happened to you, Martin?”
CHAPTER 36
“Just so you know, I’m not supposed to be telling you these things,” said Jason, as he watched Max from his chair.
“We weren’t supposed to be cheating the system either,” said his friend, “but we did. What’s next?”
“First, we need to make sure we secure some new contracts. I’m assuming Engel will be pressuring the clients to drop Asclepius to try to choke me and show the shareholders that I’m bad for business.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Max said, getting up. “Let me show you something.”
He stood and went to another room. A few moments later he came back with a paper in his hand.
“Page four,” he said, dropping the newspaper onto Jason’s lap.
“What am I looking for?” said Jason, leafing through the pages. “Oh, wow. Department of Defense. Competition for this contract will be stiff.”
“Sure,” said Max, sitting back in the chair. “It might be actually already taken, but if by some miracle you can get it, that would mean complete independence from Engel and his company.”
“We can get it,” said Jason.
“We?”
“Oh yes, my friend, there’s no way in hell I’m doing this without you. As of this morning I created a senior strategy advisor position, and they’re drafting an offer for you as we speak.”
“I’m not sure you can afford me,” said Max, smiling, then threw his hands into the air. “Alright, alright, I’m joking.”
The doorbell rang, the sound echoing throughout the apartment.
“Expecting someone?” asked Jason.
“No, and I don’t feel like getting up.”
The doorbell rang again. Longer this time.
“What a persistent asshole,” said Max, getting up. “I’ll see who this is.”
Jason picked up the paper as Max walked out of the room. He could hear voices in the foyer, then there were steps. He looked up from the paper.
Two men in blue windbreakers hats were standing in the living room. It read FBI on the front of their jackets.
“Mr. Jason Hunt?” the older one asked. “I’m Special Agent Christopher Toro, and this is Special Agent Michael Lemm.”
“What’s this about?” he said, getting up from the chair.
“You’re under arrest for stock manipulation, insider trading, conspiracy, and cyber terrorism,” the younger man answered, producing a pair of handcuffs. “We don’t have to use these as long as you come with us willingly.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Jason. “Can I at least change?”
“No sir, I’m afraid we have to take you immediately,” said Toro.
“I’m wearing a fucking housecoat. You can’t give me thirty seconds to put on clothes?”
“Turn around please,” said the younger man, approaching him with the handcuffs.
The two agents wrestled Jason to the ground. The cuffs clicked, painfully cutting into his wrists.
“Just so you know,” said Max, “this house has internal video surveillance, so I promise you guys, when this is over you’ll lose your jobs.”
The agents hustled Jason out of the apartment and into the elevator. He shivered as they went outside, the cold crawling up his bare feet. They ushered him across the street to a parked SUV with tinted windows. There was a police car right next to it.
“Special Agent Toro,” Jason heard someone say.
He craned his neck to see who it was. A gray-haired cop got out of the patrol car holding a piece of paper.
“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans,” he said. “I have to take this gentleman from you.”
“On whose orders?”
The policeman handed the paper he’d been holding to the agent. Toro studied the paper for a few seconds and gave it back to the cop.
“This is highly unusual,” he said, letting go of Jason’s arm and pushing him toward the cop.
“Not my call to make.” The cop shrugged. “I was told to pick him up, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”
• • •
Sitting in the back of the patrol car, Jason closed his eyes. Panic was setting in, but he knew he had to keep cool.
There’s no way they were going to figure this out so quickly, he thought. He was sure it was just Alex Engel exerting his influence, bending some rules to see if he would break and confess. Jason wasn’t going to make things easy for Alex.
They arrived at the police station in less than ten minutes. They took his housecoat away, and he was shivering in a thin t-shirt and boxers. After he was processed, a short wiry cop walked him to a large holding cell. It was an open space twenty by twenty, with two long narrow benches running along the back wall. There were a few men in there, most of them sitting on the bench, eyes half closed. One older man, who looked as if he were picked up off the street, was sleeping on the floor. There was also a man with disproportionately long sinewy hands pacing back and forth from one side of the cell to the next. The place stunk of sweat, urine, and desperation.
Jason shuddered as the door locked behind him. He wanted to sit on the bench first, but there wasn’t much empty space and he just leaned against the bars.
The man who was pacing back and forth stopped in front of Jason and looked him up and down.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” the man said. His breath was a pungent mixture of flavors that made Hunt’s eyes water.
Jason didn’t answer and looked away. The last thing he needed was getting into an argument with some criminal.
“Are you deaf, asshole?” The man shoved Jason against the bars.
“Guards,” shouted Jason, “this guy is bothering me.”
An ugly smile appeared on the man’s face.
“You think someone is going to rush in and save your ass, don’t you?” said the man, bringing his face within an inch of Jason.
Jason shoved the man back and brought his hands up. The situation was getting uglier by the second.
The man swung with his left, aiming for his chin, but Jason saw it, coming and swatted the man’s hand away.
“Guards,” he shouted again. “I need help.”
The man charged at him, faking another punch with his left and immediately kicking Hunt in the stomach.
Red hot pain exploded in his gut as he doubled over on the dirty floor. He could hear other inmates cheering as they watched the fight.
He tried to get up but the man launched a barrage of vicious kicks on him, forcing him into a fetal position. When the madman stopped for a split second, Jason tried to grab his ankle, but missed, and the assailant stomped onto his elbow breaking the bone.
Jason cried out in agony.
“You like it, huh?” The man stepped on Jason’s arm and drove his heel into the broken elbow.
Jason’s vision started to blur. He saw the man kneel next to him, then the overly long hands grabbed his broken arm and twisted it around. The pain blinded Jason.
“You know, some call me the Butcher,” the man said, bringing a small gleaming object in front of Jason’s face, “but I like to think of myself as more of a surgeon.”
“What the fuck,” managed Jason, as his eyes focused on a small blade in the man’s hands.
The man pulled Hunt’s broken arm out and stabbed him in the armpit, then with a swift, practiced move he sliced the flesh all the way to the elbow. In horror, Jason stared as his muscles parted as a blossoming flower, revealing the white bone underneath. A split moment later the blood flowed into the wound, coming in powerful rhythmic streams, then everything faded away.
CHAPTER 37
Kowalsky was st
aring out of the SUV’s window, speeding to the meeting with the ISCD liaison, when he heard Constantine take the call. He watched Greg listen to the caller, nod a few times, and finally hang up. He knew Greg well enough to know something went wrong.
“The safe house was hit,” the director finally said. “No survivors. Connelly is missing.”
“What a clusterfuck,” said Chuck. “How could they possibly know? We moved twice.”
“I don’t know yet. But there’s something else. All surveillance equipment had been destroyed, but we recovered a recording from an apartment building two blocks away. I haven’t seen it yet, but the analyst described one of the assailants as…” he paused for a moment. “As a cyborg.”
Chuck snorted first, but caught himself as he saw a frown spreading on Greg’s face.
“That’s just crazy,” he finally said. “What does it even mean?”
“Like I said, I haven’t seen the footage yet,” said Constantine, “but frankly I’m not so shocked. I’ve heard the rumors that DOD and some private corporations were working on technology like this. I just had no idea that somebody actually made it happen already.”
“You’re serious?” said Chuck, studying his friend’s face. “Like a part human, part robot?”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“Man, oh man. Is it okay if I tell Ryan?”
“Yeah,” said Constantine, “you can tell him when we pick him up. But just so we’re clear, when we’re meeting the ISCD officer, both of you are going to stay as quiet as a fish, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
They rode in silence for the next few minutes, Greg making some quick notes on his smart pad and Chuck musing about the implications of the new world filled with corporate executives vying for power who used cyborgs to do their bidding.
They slowed only for a moment to pick up frozen looking Bill Ryan from a corner of a small street.
“What’s going on, guys?” he said as he rubbed his palms together to get the blood flowing.
“Well,” said Chuck, glancing at Constantine for a second as if checking that he still had permission, “the safe house was hit. Everyone was killed. Mike is missing.”