Winter's Warrior: Mark of the Monarch (Winter's Saga #4)

by Karen Luellen

  “Drop your weapon,” a male voice barked at her.

  “Meg?” Alik’s voice was weak, but audible, even through the pillowcase wrapped over his head.

  Her little brother was held by three metasoldiers, and one was holding a gun directly to his temple.

  Alik was strapped to the wall. His wrists were tied to thick metal loops drilled directly into the cement wall on either side of him. The first thought that smacked Meg across her emotional face was that he looked crucified to the mint-green wall.

  The scene was horrific.

  Two other soldiers were in the room standing on either side of Alik, both of which had their semiautomatics aimed at her body.

  “I said, drop your weapons, M57!” the soldier with the gun to her brother’s head screamed, spittle dangling from his lips.

  Fury wrapped around Meg’s heart.

  Oh hell no! She was not going to let them do this to her brother. Meg hesitated, but didn’t lower her gun from the soldier who dared threaten Alik.

  The thick muscles of her little brother’s chest were exposed as he’d been stripped of his shirt. It hung in tatters hanging around his waist, still partially caught in his waistband. The dark bruises already forming across his torso made it clear what they’d been doing to him in her absence.

  The rage-yell that escaped her lips was guttural, primal.

  “No!”

  “Meg, get out of here,” her brother gasped from beneath the cloth. She could see the material move with his breaths. Her heart screamed in anguish, but she forced her voice to stay calm.

  “Release my brother and I’ll let you live,” she heard herself growl.

  The malevolent smirks on the faces of the three sealed their fate.

  Meg made her move.

  Chapter 3 Let the Melee Begin

  “Where’s Gavil?” Evan asked as he stared at the dark, sticky blood on Creed’s hands.

  Creed followed the young meta’s eyes to his hands and stared at them as though they belonged to someone else. He swallowed hard.

  Farrow answered for him. “He was killed.”

  “Oh, God, no!” Evan breathed watching Creed lock his jaw angrily.

  Knowing she needed to change the subject, Farrow turned to Creed and asked pointedly, “What’s the plan?”

  The soldier blinked hard before looking up at the two metas in his charge.

  “We need to cut out Williams’ eyes. He has cameras everywhere. Any ideas?” Creed asked Farrow and Evan.

  The three stood silently against the cold brick of the Research Hospital, trying desperately to devise a plan to rescue Meg and Alik.

  Evan shook aside his sadness at the loss of an ally and forced himself back into the deep thoughts he’d been frantically searching through since he last spoke to his mother. “The electric breakers,” he snapped, looking up with still glassy eyes.

  “What?” Creed asked, forcing himself to ignore the sticky blood of his brother coating his thick hands.

  “Williams is watching us, right? That’s what you said. We need to take out his ability to see what is happening. The circuit breakers…do you know where they are?” he nodded toward the building where his brother and sister were held.

  Creed’s eyes brightened. “Yeah, I do. First floor—behind the elevators—there’s a facilities closet. The breakers have to be there.”

  “Get me there,” Evan’s hazel eyes danced with both moonlight and renewed excitement. “We’ll take out his eyes, and then we’ll level the playing field.”

  “Let’s go!” Creed whispered

  The group moved. With Creed leading the way, Evan was right at his heels and Farrow followed up the rear with her gun drawn. Everyone’s eyes were on the ready looking for any signs of metasoldiers.

  They made their way to the front doors of the building without seeing a soul. Once in the main lobby, Creed walked them against walls toward the room he knew to hold the electric breakers for the building.

  They walked on silently, hearing the voices of a few soldiers at the nurses’ station further down the corridor, arriving at the wooden door without incident. Creed motioned to it and tried the handle. It barely moved. He scowled at the keypad to the right of the door and grimaced at Evan, nodding toward the locked door.

  Understanding their dilemma, Evan reached into one of the many pockets in his black pants, unzipped it and removed a small case. Farrow recognized it as the case he used to fix the comm device she’d just crushed outside moments before. With deft movements, he removed two tiny tools and moved silently toward the control panel.

  Farrow and Creed watched in amazement as the thirteen-year-old genius metahuman removed the face of the panel and spliced several wires, the last of which caused a soft humming then a slight pop. A green light showed on the dissected panel that hung by the few connections remaining. With his agile fingers he gripped the handle and turned. The door opened with a soft click.

  Evan shot them a small smile over his shoulder before walking unobstructed into the room only lit by buttons emanating from a panel to their right.

  Creed and Farrow both nodded in silent awe. They closed the door behind them and watched the boy walk directly toward one of the panels. All Evan needed was a cursory glance to completely acquaint himself with the mechanical inner workings of this building. His skilled fingers traced the unlabeled switches as he calculated his next move.

  Evan nodded once to his companions; fingers poised on the switches he’d determined were the necessary breakers before flipping them. The humming that was just part of the room’s personality came to an abrupt stop under his fingers.

  “There,” Evan whispered, “the building is completely off-line. All electricity has been cut—lights, cameras—everything.”

  “Excellent.” Creed had been quietly searching the room, looking for something with the small flashlight he’d pulled from his pocket. “Now stand back,” Creed nodded toward a thick metal wrench he just scored.

  Crash, crash, crash!

  With three deafening blows of metal on metal, Creed destroyed the panel.

  “And now,” Creed breathed, “no one can fix it without a serious amount of hardware and a whole lot of time.”

  “Fantastic,” breathed Farrow as she reached back toward the door. Evan could see her in the faint glow of the emergency lights that remained…filling the small room with red.

  “Let’s go,” Creed said decisively, stepping in front of Farrow.

  MetaMonarchs, Part 2

  “Let me be sure I understand, Kenneth,” the professor was leaning forward now, very much interested in the tale Williams was telling.

  “You say you’ve developed a serum that will change an average human child into something extraordinary?”

  Both men were working on their second glass of Scotch after ordering the waiter to bring the entire bottle. They didn’t want to be interrupted any further during their discussion.

  “Yes, sir,” Williams beamed with pride.

  “What is the rate of morbidity in your subjects?”

  “Admittedly, it has been high. Essentially, I have found if the subject survives the first week after dosage, he or she is in the clear.”

  “What happens to those subjects who don’t end ‘in the clear’?” The professor raised a brow mischievously.

  Williams shrugged. “The bodies are studied then disposed of.”

  “And how have you managed to create your entire Institute of Neurobiological Studies in California where you’re presumably able to conduct your—work, and remain untouched by authorities?”

  Dr. Williams leaned back confidently in his black leather seat, “I am above suspicion. It’s easy to do when you’re far more clever than the authorities.”

  The professor found that incredibly funny. His laughter was genuine, and ended with him nodding in appreciation of all Kenneth Williams had told him.

  “So what is it you want to know about the Monarch Program?” the professor offered, shrewdl
y opening the door for discussion without promising any alliance.

  “I am under the impression that it was a mind control program originated by our CIA to create the perfect assassins.” Kenneth took another sip of his Scotch.

  “For the sake of our discussion, let’s just assume I agree with that highly simplistic definition of the program.” The professor’s piercing gray eyes never left Kenneth’s face. “How would the program be of interest to you?”

  “No, sir.” Kenneth smiled a wide, wicked grin. “You misunderstand. My program should be of interest to you.”

  A conspiratorial glint sparkled in Arkdone’s eyes that had nothing to do with the empty liquor glass in his hand. “I’d be very interested in taking a tour of your Institute.”

  “That can easily be arranged.” Williams was smiling, quite pleased with how well the conversation was going.

  “Currently what use are your…what was it you called them?”

  “Metahumans.”

  “Yes, of course. For what purposes are your metahumans used?”

  “Many assignments where physical strength and stamina are essential. They are all trained in the art of warfare including tactical and strategy, physical hand-to-hand and martial arts combat, all weapons ranging from crossbows to sniper rifles. Of course, there is more.”

  “More?”

  “Yes. Each metahuman is unique.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, for example, I have parties interested in purchasing anywhere from one to twelve trained metahumans. The subjects are too young to be distributed to their sponsors, but my investors have been so impressed with what they’ve seen thus far, they’re willing to financially back their projects until the subjects’ training has come to fruition.”

  “Let me put it bluntly, Dr. Williams,” Professor Arkdone leaned forward and waited for his colleague to do the same before he continued. “I would like to know what assignments would best suit a metahuman.”

  “That depends on the metahuman.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “Yes, that’s essentially what the serum does.”

  Professor Arkdone narrowed his gaze, beginning to tire of the game.

  “Forgive me, sir,” Kenneth shifted in his seat. “I mean the serum ‘elaborates’ the natural given talents of each individual metahuman. So, for example, you are a professor of psychology. Had you been dosed with the serum before the age of eight and survived the first week, you would have developed not only physically but intellectually as well. Your understanding of the human mind would have been…enhanced.”

  “So, if a subject who had a genetic predisposition toward telekinetics or telepathy were given your serum, they could become a very powerful tool in their investor’s arsenal.” The professor leaned back, his hand holding his chin thoughtfully, the handsome smile returning to his aristocratic face.

  Kenneth Williams watched the professor with cunning and waited for him to speak.

  “Yes, I can see how your program would be interesting to me, and I’m starting to imagine how my program could be of interest to you. However, allow me to feign ignorance. Please explain how you believe the Monarch Program could be of use to your work.”

  “I’m sure a brilliant mind like yours has already drawn the correct conclusion.”

  “Humor me.”

  “You do realize I have laid all my cards out on the table, and you haven’t given me any more information about yourself than I already knew coming into this meeting.” Williams shrugged innocently.

  “I know of what I am capable. If you’re looking for a collaboration of some sort, you must be willing to dispense with your reluctance toward being forthright with me.”

  Williams nodded, “I could say the same to you, sir. However, because I believe you to be a shrewd and discreet individual, I do not mind the current level of disclosure on my part.”

  “You have assassins right outside this room ready to kill me upon your signal. Am I correct?” Arkdone’s voice was calm, calculating.

  Williams casually placed his empty crystal tumbler on the mahogany table between them. “I have no more intent to kill you than you do me, should this conversation prove—fruitless.”

  Knowing smiles curled across both their faces.

  “I like you, Dr. Williams.” Arkdone nodded, watching Williams with a shrewd eye.

  “The feeling is mutual, sir.” Williams barely contained his excitement at their shared appreciation for evil.

  “What is it you’d like to know about the Monarch Program?”

  “Everything.”

  “Too vague. I could teach a class on the subject, were such a topic allowed at the University.”

  “All right, let’s start at the beginning.”

  “Origins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some believe the origin of many Monarch Programming techniques used today began during occult rituals described in the Egyptian Book of the Dead written around 1500 BC,” Donovan Arkdone began.

  “Likely subjects?”

  “The perfect subjects are from three to twelve-years-old and above average to exceptional intelligence. Like your metahumans, they can be male or female. We call them ‘candidates’.”

  Kenneth Williams sat at the edge of his seat committing every word Arkdone spoke to memory while trying to think of how to word his next question.

  “How are they programmed?”

  “Ah, now that’s a question that could take quite a while to answer,” Arkdone reached for the half-empty bottle of Scotch and offered to fill Williams’ tumbler. Williams politely shook his head. The professor shrugged and poured himself another tall glass of the golden liquid. He took a leisurely sip before continuing.

  “How much detail do you want to know?” Arkdone asked.

  “As much as time will allow for now. Later, I want to know all of it.”

  “Not everyone has the stomach for the vulgar details of my work.”

  “Not everyone has the stomach for the vulgar details of my work, either. I believe we can agree we’re both exceptions to the rule.” With that, Williams reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out the two eyeballs and placed them carefully on the decorative silver platter in the center of their coffee table.

  Arkdone leaned down to get a better look. He removed a royal blue Montblanc pen from his breast pocket and used it to roll the orbs. It only took a moment for him to realize what they were. “Nicely preserved,” he commented, nodding his appreciation. There wasn’t a hint of disgust or horror behind his steely gray eyes.

  Williams grinned widely. I chose my partner well, he thought.

  “Do I want to know to whom these belong?”

  “A nobody.”

  “Good. As long as they didn’t belong to your last business partner, I’m fine,” Professor Arkdone smiled wickedly.

  Williams laughed heartily at the professor’s humor.

  “So as for the methods—they are trauma based. Over the span of a few years, the candidate is systematically exposed to mind-shattering events. Often in the beginning, psychotropic drugs are used to help achieve the altered state of mind. The subject is forced to perform acts that go against everything they ever believed was right and good. They are forced to kill, maim, consume, witness and participate in any and every despicable, horrific, deplorable act ever thought up by the most sadistic human minds—the most deviant of whom are already on my payroll, of course.”

  “Impressive,” Dr. Kenneth Williams was in awe. “I’d very much like to take a tour of your facility.”

  “In due time, I’m sure that could be arranged.” The professor grinned handsomely.

  “So, after your programmers have torn down the psyches of the candidates, then what?”

  “That’s where the programming is vital. Their minds have been shattered. They’ve experienced such horrible traumas, their minds split into multiple personalities. Each personality has a job to do to make it so the entire ‘system’ functions. That
’s why it is so vital we invest our time in only the most brilliant-minded subjects. Their intelligence gives their brains a certain malleability we need—an elasticity that allows these dissociative identities to coexist inside the same body.”

  “What happens if you were to use a subject of average intelligence?”

  “What do you think would happen, doctor?”

  “I imagine the shattering of their minds would leave them a puddle of useless flesh.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That has happened before?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what do you do with those defective subjects?”

  “They are used in the program as another means to traumatize those subjects who have survived the programming.”

  “Fascinating!”

  “Yes, it truly is,” Arkdone smiled with sick pride. “The subjects in trauma-based mind programming are specifically designed to have different personalities, none of whom allow themselves to be known to the core personality.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Well, it’s quite an intricate process, but through diligent training, a candidate is trained to respond to a code. The code is usually a certain phrase, but it could also be a song or a scent depending on what our client requests.”

  “Who are your clients?” Williams asked.

  Arkdone raised a single brow at his companion. “We’ll get to that later, Kenneth.”

  Williams smiled. He liked to hear the professor make plans that included him.

  “As I was saying,” Arkdone continued. “The candidates are programmed with a code, a trigger of sorts, that when activated, brings out the alter personality. That personality performs the given tasks without hesitation and without question. Another trigger word is in place to close the door to that personality, bringing the core back.

  “Doesn’t the ‘core’ as you put it, question the loss of time? The acquisition of injuries? The strange locations they must find themselves?”

  “They are taught not to question those things. They have no memory of what happened while they were in the altered state and having been raised since they were children in this manner; they think it’s completely normal to have gaps in their memories, cuts and bruises they have no recollection of receiving, different clothing styles in their closets, food in their refrigerator they don’t remember buying. All these things are normal to our candidates. They have been trained to maintain elusive lifestyles. They have little or no interaction with others. They are completely managed by their masters.”