Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  The intruders turned in unison to look at the helos, putting their arms up to protect their faces from the downdraft wash. Seconds later, all but one of the uniformed targets took off running. The aircraft opened fire, sending a shower of bullets into the scrambling men, ripping them apart like string cheese.

  “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” Bruno said with a grimace on his face.

  The video ended thirty-three seconds later and hung on the last frame. Both men remained silent, eyes focused on the final image of a cactus torn apart in the attack.

  “Did you notice anything strange?” Kleezebee asked, breaking the quiet in the room.

  Bruno shook his head.

  “None of them were armed. The general gunned down unarmed men,” Kleezebee said.

  “That ain’t right, I tell ya, regardless of the intel.”

  “I agree,” Kleezebee added, fiddling with the video controls on his computer. His heartbeat calmed and his logic took over. “Let me see if I can zoom in a bit. There’s something I want to check.”

  He restarted the video, then paused it when one of the intruders’ face was centered on the display. He highlighted the middle of the screen with the video software’s crop handles, then tightened the camera’s focal point. He clicked the Z key on the keyboard several times until the distorted face of the bald intruder was large enough to fill the highlighted area.

  “Now we adjust for pixilation and let the software render the man’s face,” Kleezebee said, clicking a few more keystrokes, “and bingo.”

  The professor’s jaw dropped open.

  So did Bruno’s. “Lucas? How can that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s his hair? Jesus, he’s as bald as me.”

  Kleezebee laughed, though he didn’t want to give the bloody circumstances. But sometimes, horrific situations can be softened with some levity. He and Bruno had certainly seen their share of death and destruction during their space travels before the crash landing on Earth in the 60s. They used to talk about it behind closed doors, but not anymore. They’d seen too much over their lifetimes, becoming desensitized to the mayhem and gore. Mostly for self-preservation, but also to keep logic in control.

  “It’s obviously not our Lucas. I saw him earlier today. Hair and all,” Kleezebee said.

  “No extraneous bullet holes?”

  “None that I could see.”

  “That’s good news. I would miss that kid and his off-color humor. He’s definitely one of a kind. Well, two of a kind now, apparently.”

  “I think you’d miss his mother’s fudge bars more.”

  “They are to die for,” Bruno said, rubbing his hanging belly. “I do have a bit of a sweet tooth.”

  “So that’s what you call it?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Hey, what’s a man to do?”

  “I’ve got the same problem, and I’m not one of you, so what does that tell ya?”

  “That every species loves chocolate. Synthetic or not.”

  “You’ve got that right, brother.”

  Bruno laughed, then his face ran stiff. “Do you think Lucas has something to do with all of this?”

  “Maybe. But this could simply be the result of a software malfunction,” Kleezebee said, letting the video advance a few more frames. He paused the recording again, then centered and zoomed in on a different intruder’s face. This person had long red hair, but the same face. He ran through the same procedure a few more times, showing close-ups of a one-armed man and three others with cheek scars. All of them resembled Lucas. Kleezebee brought his elbows up to rest them on the desk, then dropped his head into his hands, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen.

  “What the hell is going on, DL? How can they all be Lucas? Or versions of him?” Bruno said.

  “I don’t know. Something’s not right here.”

  “Clones?”

  “No, definitely not. Human cloning technology doesn’t exist, even in our time.”

  “Is it possible one of our facilities was breached? Someone may have obtained a working supply of our BioTex, then used it to create an army of replicas.”

  Kleezebee shook his head. “That seems unlikely. Especially since we segregate the BioTex from its activating enzyme and randomly move them to different locations every few days.”

  “And you and I are the only ones who know the current locations.”

  “Precisely. It mitigates the threat level. The odds of randomly selecting the correct pair of storage facilities would be in the neighborhood of five thousand to one. Then, let’s not forget that each Lucas looked slightly different. BioTex copies would all be identical.”

  “Plus, there were almost two hundred of them.”

  “Yes, which is more than our supply of BioTex,” Kleezebee said, appreciating his lifelong friend’s insight.

  Bruno nodded.

  “No, this is something else entirely.”

  “I wonder if any of them survived?”

  “Doubtful. They were cornered, and no match for the gunships. I don’t know what idiot came up with the idea to send them in unarmed, but it was a complete and utter slaughter. What a waste of men.”

  “God rest their souls.”

  “You’d better double security tonight in and around the lab. I’m concerned about the timing of this event. It’s no coincidence this happened the day before our most important experiment. We can’t take this lightly. My gut is telling me that everything has changed somehow. I’m sure the general is more than curious about all the lookalikes. If he identifies the insurgents as being related to Lucas Ramsay, he’ll try to shut us down tonight under the guise of national security.”

  “Consider it done, Professor.”

  Kleezebee pointed at the video screen. “Who do we have in the area where this took place?”

  “Transport Unit 12. Hatcher’s men, sir. It’s his team’s first trip to storage site Delta-3. He should be just about finished with today’s exchange.”

  “Let’s retask him and see if he can find the exact location of the massacre. The general’s men may have missed something. If nothing else, have him collect blood samples for a DNA comparison. Then we’ll know more. If this incursion is some type of elaborate ruse designed to implicate our young friend down the hall, we need to find out who is behind it.”

  “You got it, chief. Anything else?”

  Kleezebee tossed the fabric piece to Bruno. “Drop this by Griffith’s lab and have him run a complete analysis. I wanna know exactly what we’re dealing with here. While you’re down there, stop in and make sure Lucas is still Lucas and has a pulse,” the professor said, winking. “You know, just in case.”

  “Roger that.”

  “And check if the E-121 has been delivered. If not, get on the horn and find out where it is,” Kleezebee said, closing the video window on his computer. “Lastly, when the new lab tech arrives, I’ll need ten minutes with her to bring her up to speed before she meets Lucas and Drew. I don’t want Darby walking in unprepared. Those two can be a handful for the uninitiated.”

  “I thought her name was Abby?”

  “This is a different gal. The other one changed her mind about the intern position. Called me late last night.”

  “Talk about waiting until the last minute.”

  “Yep. Kids these days.”

  “Why’d she change her mind?”

  “Safety concerns, but I really don’t know why she felt that way. She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t want to pry. So I went with my second choice, Darby Richardson. She’s more than capable.”

  5

  Randol Larson flipped on the blinker of his 2012 Lexus sedan for a few seconds before moving his car onto the roadway’s shoulder. Clicking the turn signal was a habit he couldn’t break, even though there wasn’t another car around for miles. Hell, he’d do it without thinking when pulling into his driveway at home.

  A few seconds later, he put on the brakes, then eased the vehicle into the shade under
a seldom-used railway overpass twenty miles outside of Tucson. He turned the car off but left the key in the auxiliary power position, then unbuckled the seatbelt. Larson turned on his portable MP3 player and plugged it into the car’s stereo system, choosing the first classical music selection.

  He let the melody cradle him for a full two minutes before turning his attention to the latest draft of lab expansion contracts. He pulled the paperwork from his briefcase, seeing a cover sheet of paper with notes on it from his paralegal secretary, Krystal Richardson. Her handwritten note identified three new sections needing his approval. Every few minutes, he checked the rearview mirror, looking for a black SUV that should arrive any moment. He hoped the buyer would be on time today, not like the last time when the man was over an hour late.

  Larson never would’ve chosen this meeting location, especially since he was without his cell phone. Nobody knew where he was or who he was meeting with, and that was by design. Of course, even if he wanted to let someone in on his illegal activities, he didn’t know who he was meeting with. His buyer was a ghost—some anonymous corporate spy, who paid him well to leak technical specs and project information from the university. Three small purchases thus far, but this time was wholly different. Today was about a life-changing amount of money, meaning he could pay off his mounting debt and right his financial ship. Possibly even retire, if all went according to plan.

  He looked around, checking the surroundings in all four directions. No cars, no homes, no signs of life. He was alone—utterly alone. If his car broke down, or if this meeting went sideways, nobody would find him for hours, possibly days. But he didn’t have a choice in the matter. The buyer insisted he come alone and without his cell phone whenever they met.

  Larson assumed the buyer chose this spot for both its remoteness, and to take advantage of the cover provided by the railway overpass. Plus there were the regional power lines that ran parallel to the train tracks. Their massive electrical field should scramble any remote listening devices pointed in their direction.

  The buyer’s attention to detail was impressive, but this clandestine meeting still made him nervous. An inner battle was raging between his military training and the money he was going to be paid. For a few moments, he considered turning around and heading back to town, but the piles of cash he was about to receive won the argument. They convinced his inner marine to ignore the obvious risk and complete the exchange.

  He had seven kids to put through college, and even though he was paid handsomely by the university for his legal skills, his lifestyle and family were far more expensive than he could afford. Plus, he couldn’t say no to his wife or kids, so that left him only one choice: earn some serious cash on the side. Besides, it wasn’t like he was committing treason or selling secrets to the Russians. All he was doing today was sharing schematics for an experimental reactor. A reactor that would probably never work because it was designed and built by a pair of grubby faced youngsters in one of the campus labs.

  He exhaled, then continued reading the expansion agreements. He circled a few sentences with his fountain pen for Krystal to change, then left her handwritten notes in the margin of the pages. She was a proven assistant, though she didn’t always spellcheck like she should before handing the document to him for review.

  Ten minutes passed before something caught his eye—a reflection in his car’s side mirror. He studied the image, then realized someone was approaching, but it wasn’t a black SUV. It was a black four-door car with a light bar mounted across the top and twin push bars sticking out from the front bumper. The car was traveling in the right-hand lane when its lights started flashing red and blue. Seconds later, a siren chirped twice.

  Larson put his seatbelt on and started the car, waiting to see what happened next.

  The police cruiser slowed its approach and pulled alongside his Lexus. It stopped, and the passenger-side window rolled down. Inside was an overweight female cop—Hispanic.

  Larson rolled his window down and leaned through the opening, consciously wanting the officer to get a good look at him. He didn’t want her to see him as a suspicious person or a threat, so he smiled at her.

  Her eyes were on him, though her right hand was busy on the computer terminal mounted to the dashboard, only inches from a tactical shotgun.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, leaning her upper body to the right—the seatbelt still wrapped around her shoulder.

  “Yes, Officer. I’m just taking a break. Resting my eyes,” he said, hoping the cop wouldn’t get out of her car and ask for his ID. If she lingered, the buyer might get spooked, and then Larson could kiss the money goodbye.

  “You live around here?” she asked in that special tone that cops use.

  “No, ma’am. Just passing through on my way to an early meeting.”

  Her eyes tightened. So did her jaw. “Where? What kind of meeting?”

  “I’m an attorney for the University of Arizona. We’re negotiating with several contractors for a campus expansion. I have a meeting with the highest bidder in Nogales,” he said, reaching for the contracts sitting on the passenger seat. He held them up for her to see. “I was up all night working on the agreements. Didn’t get much sleep.”

  “There’s no stopping on the pavement,” she said with authority. “You need to get moving. There’s a rest stop fifteen miles ahead. I suggest you use it.”

  “Okay, will do. Thank you.”

  She studied his car for a few seconds, then gave him a sharp mini-wave of her hand. She closed the passenger window and drove off, accelerating to high speed as she sped around the curve and out of sight.

  He exhaled and held his stare for a few seconds, letting the back of his head hit the headrest before looking at the fabric covering the underside of the roof. He rolled his eyes.

  “What the hell am I doing here?”

  He took a long minute to let his pounding heart slow down. It did. But before he could decide what to do next, a black SUV pulled alongside of him, skidding to an abrupt halt. His blood pressure surged into overdrive again, sending a sudden rush of adrenaline pumping into his system.

  “Here we go,” he mumbled, preparing himself for what he hoped would be the final encounter with this man. He grabbed his data recorder, swiped the menu screen to the second page of icons, and turned on the covert audio recorder. He waited for the screen to go blank, then got out of the car.

  The buyer—a smartly dressed businessman in his forties, with a thin nose and pale lips—got out of his car and walked to the rear of his vehicle. The man pulled a semiautomatic Glock handgun from a shoulder holster hiding under his suit coat. He cocked the weapon and pointed it at Larson’s face.

  “Easy now,” Larson said, taking a shallow step back and putting his hands up. He could feel the beat of his heart pounding at his eardrums. His military training kicked in, helping him appear calm. “Let’s not do anything rash.”

  “What the hell was that cop doing here?”

  “She stopped to see if I needed any help.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “That I was just resting my eyes. Taking a break from driving. She bought it and drove off. End of story. No reason to get jumpy.”

  The buyer didn’t respond or move.

  “Look, she was just doing her job and I took care of it. It’s all good. Are we gonna do this or not?”

  The buyer stared at the pavement ahead, then put the gun away. “Do you have it?”

  “Yes. In my briefcase.”

  “Give it to me, before the LEO returns.”

  “Do you have the money?”

  The buyer nodded, but only once.

  “Let me see it.”

  The man opened the rear hatch of the SUV. He pulled out a green canvas bag with an exaggerated sag at its midpoint. He opened the bag, showing the contents to Larson—bundles of hundreds were lying inside.

  “One million, as agreed. Do you wanna count it?”

  Larson didn’t want to ext
end the exchange any longer than necessary. The cop might circle back any minute, putting his ass and his family’s future on the line. “No, I trust you,” he said, leaning into the Lexus. He opened the briefcase and grabbed the thumb drive from inside one of the pouches. He stood, holding the storage device in front of his face. “You hand me the money and I give you the drive. Agreed?”

  The buyer held the money bag out with one hand, extending an upward facing palm with the other.

  Larson put the drive into the man’s free hand and snatched the bag by its straps.

  “Oh, and there’s one more thing,” the buyer said, slipping the flash drive into his pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  “We need an exclusive.”

  “What kind of exclusive?”

  “The campus experiment needs to be shut down, today.”

  “That’s a tall order, my friend. I don’t have that kind of authority. Only the Advisory Committee can terminate a university-funded research project.”

  “Can you do it, or not?”

  “It might be possible,” Larson said after a two-count. “But it’ll cost extra.”

  “How much?”

  “Another five hundred large should cover it.”

  “That’s a bit steep.”

  “What you ask is difficult. I may have to grease a few palms along the way, not to mention the added risk I’m taking.”

  The buyer looked at his shoes for a few moments, then made eye contact with Larson. “Fine. Five hundred thousand. But you’re committed now. The project gets terminated—today,” he said, yanking out his gun again. He pressed the barrel hard against Larson’s chest. “Otherwise, you get terminated tomorrow. Understood?”

  It look Larson a few seconds to find his voice. He sucked in a few extra breaths to energize his vocal cords.

  “Yes. Completely. Won’t be a problem.”

  “Good. Then we have an understanding—a binding agreement, if I choose to speak in your vernacular,” the buyer said, with attitude in his voice.

  Larson nodded.

  The buyer lowered the gun and returned to the SUV. He slipped in and spun the car around, then drove off with squealing tires, leaving a trail of burned rubber and black smoke.