[Anthology] Killer Thrillers

by Nick Thacker

  Where is Wayne?

  After a few seconds, two men ran from the theater, the younger one dragged along by one of the intruders. Jeff didn’t recognize either man, but he knew what he had to do. He reached for his gun, but found only the cold, empty floor. Where is it? He guessed that it had been knocked from his hand by the flashbang…

  Another explosion went off in the theater, sounding like a thunderclap.

  At the same time, the hostage stumbled, dragging his captor down with him. Jeff saw his chance.

  I may not have a gun, but I can sure make these assholes’ escape a little more difficult.

  Jeff’s high-school football coach would have been proud. The tackle was hard, fast, and incredibly effective. Jeff placed the crown of his head right in the soft part of the soldier’s gut, driving forward with his legs. Though shorter and more slightly built, Jeff took down the soldier in a tumbling heap that left them intertwined, rolling on the floor. Before the man could react, Jeff landed a devastating punch between the man’s eyes — a blow that would have been strong enough to shock a bull into motion back on his parents’ ranch. He followed with a few quick jabs to the man’s side — aiming for his liver. The sudden attack only kept the man off balance for a moment. Obviously trained to fight, he quickly regained his composure and started slipping Jeff’s punches.

  Jeff tried to step up his barrage, but he was still feeling the effects of the flashbang and couldn’t get the upper hand. Suddenly, the soldier shot a fist hard into Jeff’s face. Jeff heard his own jaw crack. He instinctively raised his guard against the next blow, but the soldier went to his gut instead. The air left his body, and it was all he could do to reach up and try to wrap his arms around the man, trying to get him into a wrestler’s hold. He held fast, but the larger man was still on his feet and fully in control. With a swift elbow to the head, he dislodged Jeff from his body and fled through the hole in the wall, leaving his young hostage behind.

  His legs like rubber, Jeff collapsed, beaten. He felt his consciousness slipping again, even as he was filled with rage at losing the fight.

  14

  The other man in the room, Johannes Karn, was still slumped against the wall where he’d fallen, having landed there after the American man’s gunshot had knocked him off his feet. The bullet had punched through his clothing, but had stopped only a few millimeters into his Kevlar bulletproof vest. He’d watched as his second-in-command, Vladimir Beka, dragged Cole Reed from the theater, and he’d also watched the American security guard — surprisingly agile for his size — throw Beka’s grenade onto the stage. An impressively quick reaction, Karn thought.

  He had remained motionless against the wall since the bullet had knocked him there. The explosion on stage had rocked the room, but had missed him entirely. He stayed still as the American ran out; he could not let this obviously well-trained guard know that he was still alive, still a threat.

  As soon as the American was gone, Karn rose from the floor and used the cover of smoke to bolt onto the stage and out through the other exit. He would see this “security guard” again — he was sure of it.

  15

  James Whittenfield, Jr. barged into the lounge. He’d been asleep at his estate ten miles down the road and had been alerted to the intrusion before the firefight was even over.

  “What happened?” Whittenfield asked. “What did they want from us?” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Is everyone ok?”

  He gasped as he took in the destruction of the lounge area inside Building E. A gaping, smoking hole was all that remained of the wall that used to separate the backstage area from this room, and debris and rubble from the grenade blast was scattered everywhere. One table had been wiped clear and turned into a gurney, which held the bleeding Alan Behar, who had been shot in the shoulder by the intruders.

  On the floor next to Behar’s table was a rumpled heap of the stage curtain in the shape of a man. Officer Eric Bensen hadn’t fared as well as Behar — a bullet in his chest had left him bleeding and dying on the lounge floor — until the grenade detonated on the other side of the wall, sending a shard of brick through the back part of his skull and killing him instantly.

  Bryce, seated at a table with the Thompsons, explained to Whittenfield what had happened. “We were breached by a well-armed force, one we estimate at least seven or eight strong. They were apparently looking for something. I was running the perimeter check and was ambushed next to Building H. The two guards on duty,” he continued, glancing toward Bensen’s corpse, “were also overpowered.

  “The Thompsons were inside Building E at the time of the attack, and they were able to delay the intruders briefly, but they were eventually outnumbered and outgunned. This man — Cole Reed, was with them. He claims he was abducted and brought here against his will.” Bryce nodded in the direction of a young man leaning against the wall with his hands behind his back. Jeff Thompson was watching the man with barely concealed suspicion.

  “Whoever broke in was looking for something, which they apparently found,” Bryce finished.

  “Any idea what they wanted?” Jeff asked, not taking his eyes off of Reed.

  Whittenfield looked around at the group. He took a deep breath, calming his nerves, and sat down heavily. “Captain Reynolds, when I brought you here I mentioned that my research firm had originally been started by my father.”

  “The ‘Development of Substitute Materials’ project, or something like that.”

  “Exactly. His team was tasked with developing the bomb — the infamous Manhattan Project, as it came to be known. They were supposed to build a laboratory for that project — the Las Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico — but my father declined. He wasn’t happy with the direction of the project, and withdrew in search of a more ‘philanthropic’ breakthrough.”

  Wayne interrupted. “A breakthrough in what? If my memory is correct, they finished the bomb and built the lab anyway, right?”

  “Good question,” Whittenfield continued. “The project was first called ‘The Development of Substitute Materials’ because that’s exactly what it was — my father and two other scientists on that first team accidentally created a synthetic material that reacted with other elemental materials in strange ways. Not strongly — the material they created was only microscopic and couldn’t be produced on a larger scale — but they saw miraculous results nonetheless.”

  “What kind of results?” Reed blurted. The others all turned, looking at him with uniform disapproval. “What?” Reed protested. “So I’m curious — it’s a good story.”

  Whittenfield paused long enough for the silence to make Reed uncomfortable, then continued. “In one experiment, the scientists mixed the material with water — hydrogen and oxygen, as you know — and the solution solidified immediately. Not like ice, or epoxy, but different. It was still fully water, yet something entirely different.

  “My father began experimenting with different pure substances — helium, potassium, eventually uranium. A year or so after the project commenced, he ended the research abruptly and stopped the project. He withdrew from the team and launched Whittenfield Research Laboratory the next year. He worked in isolation here outside of Washington, D.C. The government was never aware that he’d stumbled onto something big, and they assumed he’d just gone off the deep end.

  “However, we’ve been able to piece together his research over the years. He kept diligent notebooks and diaries, and I believe that he found something so spectacularly powerful in his combination of the synthetic and uranium that he had to keep it under wraps until he could make sense of it and stabilize it.”

  Bryce was having trouble keeping up. “Tell me more about this ‘synthetic material’ you mentioned. How’d they create it? Or where did it come from?”

  “Well, there’s no explanation in his notebooks — his diaries begin during the middle of the first experiments. However, he does mention in one early entry that ‘since we were able to successfully duplicate t
he properties, initial tests are underway.’ We think it means that his team had some sort of material in their possession already, something they were trying to copy. Maybe a pure form of this ‘synthetic.’”

  Suddenly, Cole snapped to attention. “That’s it! That’s what they were looking for!” The others glared at Cole again, but he ignored them, addressing Whittenfield directly. “You said your father kept diligent journals, but he didn’t mention anything about how he came across this synthetic material.”

  “Correct,” Whittenfield replied, still suspicious, but growing curious.

  “Well, while I was… with those guys who abducted me, they did tests on me. Not like anything weird, just IQ tests, physical fitness exams, stuff like that. They kept referencing some ‘crystal substance’ that I think they were trying to learn about. This rock was something they already had there at their place — they mentioned ‘keeping it safe’ and stuff like that. Actually, their main guy kept it on his possession at all times I think.

  “Anyway, I asked one of those guards — I think his name was Karn or something — about it, and he actually told me a little. Apparently their leader had acquired it somehow, but Karn thought it was something that had been passed down through some society or organization that he had ties to. I think he sent those guys here to see if your team had any more information about it. If your father did have a journal that explained where he got that material, it might also explain how it was originally made!”

  Whittenfield’s face darkened as Cole finished. “Who was their leader? Did you hear his name?”

  “Tanning, something. Tanning Vilo — “

  “Tanning Vilocek! Dr. Tanning Vilocek, the founder and owner of Vilocorp!” Whittenfield said, his fury and exasperation building.

  “Who the hell is Tanning Vilocek?” Bryce asked.

  “Dr. Vilocek,” Whittenfield said, exhaling as though he’d just run a mile, “is a genius entrepreneur, owner of one of the most successful private pharmaceutical research firms in the world. That firm, Vilocorp, has made strides toward defeating well-known viral killers as well as other major diseases — bird flu, cancer, those sorts of things. He’s also quite insane — bent on transforming the human body into a science project; striving toward physical and mental perfection in the human race.

  “His ultimate goal, I’m afraid, is to become — himself — a perfect form of the human specimen, and then create a world around his superiority.”

  “Seems like a pretty humble guy,” Cole muttered.

  Whittenfield ignored him. “He’s convinced that something my father discovered — something I’ve been slowly re-discovering myself — can alter the human psyche; change the physical makeup of the brain altogether. I’m guessing he’s stumbled onto this ‘material’ as well, and now he’s hell-bent on figuring out how to use it to his advantage.”

  The Thompson brothers took in the information silently, thoughtfully, as if chewing on each piece and swallowing it slowly; letting it sink in. Cole Reed stood, fascinated yet confused. Bryce was the only one — except for the sleeping Behar — who seemed unfazed by the conversation. Yet internally, his mind was flying through the scenarios, trying to fit it all together; the events of that night, and the possible implications.

  He thought back to his first encounters with Whittenfield; their talks in Iraq and his briefing on the plane. He also thought about the strange notebook; blank, but still addressed to someone named M.J. Whittenfield had hired Bryce and the Thompsons not just for their experience on the battlefield, but because of their intelligence and sense of honor — their intense drive toward doing what was right.

  Bryce realized then that Whittenfield had anticipated this; had even prepared for it by hiring a military-trained security detail.

  And Bryce had failed him.

  The realization of that failure came on him like a brick to the head. He was upset with himself for letting Whittenfield down; for getting Behar shot and Bensen killed and the Thompsons beat up; but one piece of the puzzle nagged at him, keeping his mind in the game.

  “If Vilocek wanted something from you, your father’s journal, how did he know about your research? hell, how did he even know about you and this place?”

  Whittenfield sighed heavily. “Bryce. All of you — I need your help. Tanning Vilocek must not achieve his goal. This pure substance — whatever it is — must not end up in his hands. Vilocek will do whatever it takes to acquire that substance, and he will destroy anyone or anything in his way to do it.

  “You see, Vilocek is a man I feel I know intimately. I have never met him, but my father knew his father well. They were close friends and colleagues.

  “I remember their long talks in my father’s study when I was a boy — I understood little about what they talked about, but they would stay in there for hours together, arguing, talking, laughing.”

  Bryce had a feeling he knew where Whittenfield was headed.

  “Tanning Vilocek’s father was also a member of that original research team that made up the ‘Development of Substitute Materials Project.’ Enko Vilocek wanted to push forward and help create the bomb, and he went on to work at Los Alamos during World War II. My father and Enko Vilocek had different opinions on what to do with their research, and when my father resigned from the project and took his research with him, Enko never forgave him. He tried stealing the research a few times over the years until his death in the sixties, but he never got far.

  “However, I suspect he did take one thing from my father: the original piece of the material that my father was able to duplicate. We’ve been working with the duplicate ever since, knowing that it was a copy, a synthetic replica of a pure substance, but I never imagined that it might already be in Vilocek’s possession,” Whittenfield shook his head.

  “So,” Cole said, “they’ve figured out that you’re close to a breakthrough, and wanted to see if your father’s old notebooks had any insight into where this object came from. Mr. Whittenfield, do you have any of these journals we could take a look at?”

  “Of course — but I’ve scoured the notebooks numerous times, looking for some sort of earlier reference to the substance, and I’ve not found anything. But if you’d like to try, I’ve got one right here.“

  He walked to a far corner of the room, where an overhead projector sat on a rolling cart, somehow still unharmed in the midst of the destruction. There was a stack of files on the projector, with a brownish, faded leather journal wedged in between.

  “We had a public presentation this afternoon,” Whittenfield explained to Cole. “It was a small gathering of members of the scientific community in the area. I’m part of a philanthropic outreach team that meets once a quarter to discuss the impact of our research, and I used one of the journals as an exhibit.” He handed the journal to Bryce. “It had nothing to do with the material Vilocek was after…” His voice trailed off.

  Bryce flipped through the small notebook, scanning sections of text every few pages. Shrugging, he held it out to Cole.

  Cole reached for the notebook, but his hand stopped in midair.

  “What the… ?” Cole breathed. Bryce, holding out the journal, looked down. The journal was inches away from Cole’s hand, which was emitting a faint bluish glow from the tips of the fingers to a few inches below the wrist.

  Cole jerked his hand back, wide-eyed. Everyone in the group leaned in to look, but his skin had returned to its normal hue.

  “Woah,” Wayne muttered.

  Bryce moved closer to Cole, who was visibly shaken. Bryce extended the journal toward Cole, whose skin — this time over his entire body — again turned a light blue, causing him to glow like a faint blue lightbulb.

  Cole reluctantly took the leather-bound journal from Bryce. As his finger touched the first page, a swirling text begin to appear, superimposed on top of the original entries from Whittenfield’s father. Whittenfield — immediately recognizing his father’s handwriting — grabbed both the journal and Cole’s open han
d, letting it continue to touch the page.

  He read the newly revealed handwriting aloud from the top of the page: “After countless efforts and countless days of trial, it seems as though there is no immediately substitutable elemental material that can warrant the same effects as the original. We are lucky to have the duplicate, though without the original source, our attempts at creating a suitable alternative have failed.

  “We will continue to test the properties of this duplicate material, and our assumption and hypothesis shall be that the pure form of the material, now lost to us for some years, would have the same reactions with the elemental matter, though on a much more powerful scale.”

  Whittenfield’s voice and hands started to shake. “They created the substance as a duplicate. Vilocek’s father must have stolen the original, leaving the much-weaker substance to my father. And you, Mr. Reed — they must have injected you with something that reacts with whatever this ink is made of — do you remember anything of that sort?”

  Cole looked around at the group and shook his head. “No — I told you, all I remember were the physical exertion tests, fitness exams, IQ assessments, and — “

  He stopped for moment. “Now that I think of it, I only remember about two days of my time there. On the third morning I woke up and felt like I’d been asleep for much longer. Maybe I was drugged…”

  The group sat silently, trying to piece it all together.

  The break-in by Vilocek’s men, and the attempt to steal one of the journals.

  One of their own killed, and another seriously wounded.

  The rescue of Cole Reed, who for some reason glowed like a blue firefly when close to the journal.

  And finally, the fact that they were the only people besides Vilocek and his team who knew about the material and its potential. And Vilocek was obviously willing to kill to get the journals.