The claymore didn’t explode. At least not for the moment.
Instead, Chapel heard a shrieking sound just behind him. He braced himself for instant death coming from some other quarter. When he didn’t die, he slowly turned around and looked at what had made that noise.
The sliding panel in the reinforced steel door to his side was drawing back, tearing the paint around it as it moved. When it was retracted all the way, he saw a face behind it—the face of a man maybe sixty years old, wearing a pair of thick-lensed glasses. The eyes behind those lenses were hugely magnified. Chapel saw them narrow as they peered toward him.
“DIA?” the man asked. “They sent somebody from Military Intelligence this time?”
This time? Chapel shook his head. No time to unravel that, not with a claymore mine right behind him. “My name’s Chapel. Captain Jim Chapel. I was sent to protect you from the chimeras,” Chapel told him. His arm was still up across his face. Slowly he lowered it. “Please, please, do not detonate this thing. Are you still holding the clacker?”
Jeremy Funt—it could be no one else—held up the green metal detonator for the claymore. His thumb was resting on the trigger. “I am. I’m going to keep hold of it, for now. You have some kind of ID I can look at?”
“It’s in my jacket pocket,” Chapel told him. “I’m going to reach for it now.” The man was a paranoid nut. There was nothing to be gained whatsoever by spooking him. If he thought Chapel was reaching for a gun, he might detonate the claymore on instinct. “Is that all right?”
“Sure. Just do it slow.”
Chapel nodded and carefully removed his laminate from his pocket. He held it up before Funt’s eyes and let the man read it.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Funt said, “if I’m a little careful.”
“I understand,” Chapel said. “There’s one of them in Atlanta right now. We have to assume he’s coming for you.”
Funt shrugged. “So what else is new? That’s an old, old story.”
Chapel frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry? You’re used to being hunted down by dangerous lunatics?”
“If by ‘dangerous lunatics’ you mean ‘CIA hit men,’ then . . . yes,” Funt replied.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+27:03
“Come on, come on,” Julia whispered, pressing the redial button on her phone. “Chapel, pick up already!”
But there was no answer. This was the third time she’d tried to call Chapel’s number and he still wasn’t picking up.
When she saw Laughing Boy coming toward her, she’d panicked. She just ran, not knowing where she was headed, not knowing what she should do. She’d gotten around a corner and found a women’s restroom and ducked inside and started dialing.
She had no illusions that Laughing Boy wouldn’t follow her inside. She just hadn’t known where else to go.
“Shit,” she said under her breath.
And then she nearly screamed, because her phone started to buzz in her hand.
She stared at the screen and saw she was being called by someone whose phone number was listed as (000) 000-0000. What the hell?
The phone kept buzzing. She swiped the screen to answer. “Hello?” she asked, keeping her voice as low as she could.
“Dr. Taggart,” a woman’s voice said, “you’ve been trying to call Captain Chapel for a while now. He’s outside of cellular coverage and can’t take your call, so I thought I’d make sure you were all right.”
“Who are you?” Julia demanded. For all she knew this was somebody who worked with Laughing Boy trying to track her down.
“You can call me Angel,” the woman on the other end of the line said. “I’m sure you’ve seen Captain Chapel talking into his hands-free unit. I believe you said it made him look like a douche bag. I was the person he was talking to.”
Julia shut her eyes and tried to breathe. “Thank God. I’m in real trouble here. I need you to send help or something. There’s this guy—this, I don’t know, he claimed he was a policeman before, but that was in New York, this guy who tried to kill me, and—”
“You’re talking about Laughing Boy,” Angel said.
“Yes,” Julia told her. “He just showed up here, in Atlanta. We’re in some kind of underground mall and—”
“I have your location. Dr. Taggart, I need to ask you a personal question. From everything I’ve seen so far, you’re a pretty strong woman. Would you say that’s a correct assumption?”
Instantly Julia calmed down. She opened her eyes and changed her grip on the phone. “I like to think of myself as a competent person.”
“Right now I need you to be one tough bitch,” Angel told her.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+27:05
“I don’t understand,” Chapel said. “The CIA is trying to kill you? You know that sounds crazy, right?”
“Captain,” Funt said, “I have a clacker in my hand ready to detonate the claymore mine behind you. I’m well protected behind this door. You might be smart about this and not insult me.”
“That’s a fair point,” Chapel said.
“The CIA has been trying to kill me for nearly fifteen years. I know too much to be left free and alive. I’ve survived this long by being quick on my feet and not taking chances. You claim to be a DIA agent, but it would be relatively easy for a CIA assassin to fake those credentials. So I’m assuming that you’re just the latest in a long line of hit men.”
Chapel shook his head. “You have to believe me. You have to trust me.”
“I do?” Funt asked.
“Yes! There’s a man coming for you right now, someone who isn’t a CIA agent but who definitely wants to kill you. I don’t know what kind of threats you think you’ve survived all this time, but—”
“In 1998, they sent a team of men in commando gear, carrying M4 rifles, to my home. I happened to be coming back from the grocery store at the time and so I nearly walked in on them ransacking my place. I turned around and drove away and never went back. Since then I’ve been moving every few months, staying light on my feet. In 2001, they caught up with me in Montana. You ever been to Montana, Chapel? It’s big sky country. Lots of open space, not a lot of good places to hide. They only sent one man that time, maybe because they figured I would be expecting a team, maybe because they thought they had me cornered. This guy was pretty slick. Claimed to be FBI, like I used to be. Said he wanted to discuss some old cases with me. I had him inside my house and pointing a gun at my face, ready to shoot. The only reason I survived was because I’d already poisoned his coffee.”
“Jesus,” Chapel said. This guy was crazy. Dangerously crazy.
“He lived. I didn’t want to kill anybody, not back then. I just fed him enough rat poison to give me time to get out of there. To escape. I went to New Orleans. Now there’s a place a man can lose himself. Or at least I thought so—until 2003, when the same man, the one I’d poisoned, came for me again. I couldn’t take any chances that time. I set fire to my own apartment on the way out. Maybe he got out in time, maybe he didn’t. I didn’t go back to check. In 2006, a new guy started coming for me.”
I’m going to die here, Chapel thought. I’m going to die because this man is insane and he thinks anyone who comes looking for him is an assassin.
“This one figured he’d play it real simple. No false ID, no tricky attempts to convince me he was an old friend. He just walked up to me in the parking lot of a Starbucks and started shooting. I got out of there by the skin of my teeth.”
“So the bomb in your house—”
“Just in case,” Funt explained.
The story was nuts, but it explained one thing. There had been dust all over Funt’s house, far more dust than could be easily explained. At least, it couldn’t be explained if Funt had set the bomb only after Angel called him.
No. This guy had been expecting an assassin for ye
ars. He had no idea that this time the assassin was real—but not human.
“Weird thing about this latest guy. He couldn’t stop laughing, the whole time he was plugging away at me. He came back in 2009—it must have taken him that long to track down my newest identity. I saw him coming in time. Then in 2010—”
“Wait,” Chapel said. “Hold on. Laughing? He was laughing the whole time?”
“It was creepy as hell. I don’t know who you really are, Captain Chapel, but at least you look normal.”
“I know that guy,” Chapel said. “The laughing guy. He is CIA, that’s true. And he’s definitely a killer.”
“Mm-hmm. Do you still think I’m crazy, then?”
Absolutely, Chapel thought. But maybe not delusional. It was possible that the CIA really was trying to assassinate Funt. The fact they’d failed so many times was a little hard to accept—but then again, how many times had they tried to kill Fidel Castro and never got him? “You said you knew too much,” Chapel said. “That’s why they’re after you. I think I have an idea what it is you know, and why it’s so sensitive.”
“Figures. They would’ve briefed you on me when they sent you down here to kill me.” Funt raised the clacker so Chapel could see it again.
“Wait! It’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s why I was sent here, yes, but to protect you!”
“Choose your next words carefully,” Funt told him.
“It’s about the chimeras, isn’t it? That’s what you know about. The chimeras they were holding in some prison camp up in the Catskills. You need to know something, Special Agent Funt. You need to know they escaped. They escaped, and one of them is in Atlanta right now, coming for you.”
Funt looked like an electric shock had run through him. Chapel thought he could see the hair standing up on the man’s knuckles.
“Malcolm got loose?” Funt asked. “Oh crap.”
ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+27:15
“That’s right,” Chapel bluffed. “Malcolm. Malcolm the chimera. He had your name and address and I came here to make sure he didn’t kill you.”
Funt stared at Chapel. “No offense, guy, but you’re not up to this. I don’t know what kind of training you’ve had, but Malcolm—he’ll be all grown up now. He’ll be more than a match for anything you bring to the table.”
“I can handle him,” Chapel promised.
“They must not have told you anything about the chimeras. They’re tougher than you can imagine, faster than anything human. They’re also meaner and more—”
“I killed one in New York, yesterday,” Chapel said, because he needed Funt to trust him.
“If that’s true—and I doubt it,” Funt said, “then you got extremely lucky. When I first saw Malcolm, he was ten years old. Even then he left me in the hospital for months. No, if he’s coming here . . . I’m as good as dead. Damn, damn, damn. I’ve got to think. I’ve got to think about this.”
“I can help,” Chapel pleaded.
“I’ll need to lay some more traps. I’ll need to get a gun . . . damn. Damn! Malcolm, after all this time—he won’t stop. The CIA goons, they lose their nerve after a while, but Malcolm . . . he’s got good reason to kill me. And they never even need a reason. Damn!”
“Funt,” Chapel said, softly, “you must realize you stand a better chance if you work with me. If you want to live through this, you can’t afford to turn down any help.”
Funt stared at him through the sliding hatch in the steel door. He reached up with his free hand and scratched at his eyebrows. He looked like he was about to start screaming in panic. “Not here,” he said.
“Special Agent Funt—”
“I didn’t live this long by being dumb! I need to think. I need to make some plans. Damn!”
“Just come with me, I’ll take you someplace safe,” Chapel promised.
“No,” Funt said. “No. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I’ll assume you are who you say you are. And I’ll meet with you so we can figure some things out together. But not here, not now. Oh my God—what if he’s already on his way? What if he’s coming here right now?”
“Funt—”
“Stone Mountain. The top of Stone Mountain, eight hours from now. Just be there, and I’ll find you. We’ll talk.”
“Please,” Chapel begged.
“Not now! Not here!”
Funt slid the panel in his door shut with a clang. Chapel grabbed at it and tried to force it back open, tried pushing it with his fingers. Eventually it slid back a fraction of an inch. He pried it open the rest of the way and peered through, even though he knew what he would find.
The room beyond was empty. Funt was gone.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+27:21
There were a dozen stores in Underground Atlanta that sold the same ugly T-shirts and schlocky merchandise. Julia picked the nearest one and ducked inside, bending low as she flicked through a rack of cheap clothing.
“Souvenir for your trip?” the clerk asked.
Julia gave her the best smile she could manage. “I like this hoodie,” she said, holding up a bright pink sweatshirt with a graphic of jazz musicians printed on the back. The musicians were picked out with glitter and sequins. “And these hats,” she said, picking up an Atlanta Braves baseball cap.
“That’s official Braves merchandise. See the hologram?” the clerk asked, not moving from where she leaned against her counter. “It’s not a knockoff or anything.”
“Perfect. Just ring these up, okay?” Julia stared through the windows of the shop, looking for any sign of Laughing Boy.
Julia had never been so frightened in her life. Even when the chimera had jumped in the cab with her, she’d been too shocked to be scared like this.
“Wait,” she said, as the clerk started bagging up her purchases. “I’m going to wear these out.”
“You got it,” the clerk said.
Julia pulled on the cap first. It hid most of her red hair. The hood of the sweatshirt covered the rest and zipped up easily over her black sweater. The jeans she was wearing were common enough they shouldn’t make a difference. When she was finished putting on her new purchases, she looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself.
“Wow,” the clerk said, and clicked her tongue. “You look like a genuine hoodrat.” She laughed. “When you came in here, I made you out for some kind of lawyer or doctor or something. This makes you look ten years younger.”
Julia gave her another smile. “Perfect.”
She stepped out of the store trying her best to keep her head down so the brim of the cap shaded her eyes. She desperately wanted to scan the crowd and look for any sign of Laughing Boy, but Angel had been very clear—if she was going to live through this, she needed to keep a low profile.
There was an exit from the Underground straight ahead. Julia could see sunlight filtering down from the streets above. It wasn’t more than a hundred yards away. She moved in that direction, forcing herself not to run. Forcing herself to act natural. It was so hard not to panic and just make a break for it.
On her left a group of boys whistled at her, but she didn’t look up. On her right was a store that looked like it had been closed for years, judging by the dust that had collected in the display windows. She caught her reflection in the grease-smeared glass and saw that she was fidgeting with her hands. She forced herself to shove them into the pockets of her new hoodie.
Fifty yards to the exit. She let herself walk a little faster.
Twenty yards.
Fifteen.
“Nice try,” Laughing Boy said, stepping out from behind a cart that sold cell-phone accessories.
She squeaked a little in panic and turned around, intending to run back the way she’d come as fast as her legs would carry her. Before she’d taken a step Laughing Boy grabbed her arm. He squeezed hard enough on h
er bicep to make her squeal again.
“Maybe you think I won’t do anything out here in public,” he told her, his voice little more than a whisper. He giggled every time he stopped for breath, a raspy sound like his constant laughing had dried out his mouth. “So help me God, I will shoot you in front of a hundred witnesses if you try to fight me or run.”
“Just don’t hurt me, please,” she begged.
“Really? Are you that stupid? I have no idea what Chapel sees in you. Come on. Walk at a normal pace. You were doing a pretty good job for a while there. The clothes might have thrown me off if I didn’t watch you buy them.”
“You saw me the whole time?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. You’d do well to remember that. Now come on. We’re headed over there.” He pointed her toward the closed-up store. “I’ve got a nice little place in the back all ready for you.”
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
“Exactly what you think. The guy who’s going to kill you.” He chuckled at the thought.
“But the laughing—what’s that about?” she asked.
“It’s a medical condition, and I’ll thank you not to be rude about it,” he told her. “I’d expect better from the likes of you. It’s called hebephrenia.”
“That’s a kind of schizophrenia, isn’t it?” she asked.
“That’s right, I forgot you were a doctor of some kind. No, this is different. It’s neurological, not psychological. I took a metal fragment in the head a while back, in Iraq. Messed up the wiring. I’ve been laughing ever since and I can’t stop. I have drugs to stop the laughing, but when I take them I can’t drive or shoot straight. And today I need to shoot.”
Julia bit her lip and tried not to scream. “I-Iraq,” she forced herself to say, instead. “So you’re a veteran, like Chapel?”
“Chapel was in the army. I was a civilian consultant. This is the place.”
They had reached the closed store. The teenaged boys lounging across the way watched her as she was marched up to the doors. What would happen if she screamed for them to help? Would Laughing Boy shoot them? Could he shoot them all before they overpowered him?
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