Legacy (The Vs. Reality Series Book 3)

by Blake Northcott

  He thought he was in the clear, but now he wonders if his carefully laid plans are suddenly unravelling. According to the news, Mayor Kerrigan had recently disappeared, and now there’s an unexpected visit in the middle of the night from a mysterious woman who claims to know the General. Coincidence? Not likely.

  Molloy has few options at this point. He quickly tucks the handgun into the back of his jeans and pulls his worn New York Yankees shirt overtop to conceal it, then unlatches the series of locks and chains.

  “Thanks,” Dia says flatly, pushing her way past him as he opens the door. She takes a few steps into the apartment and stops short of the couch, dropping the black bag on his wooden coffee table. “Just to set the record straight, I don’t trust you, but the General seems to think you’re smart. Smart people are a rare commodity, so that’s why I’m here at three in the morning instead of catching up on my beauty sleep.” She folds her arms and cocks her head slightly, staring curiously at Molloy. “So...how much?”

  “How much what?” he replies curtly.

  She takes a step forward and her expression darkens. “I advise you to watch your tone of voice with me, Sean. When I ask you a question I expect an honest answer, and I expect it without the condescension. How much?” Dia gazes at him for a moment, but he doesn’t reply. “In your bank account. We know that Kerrigan paid you to perform additional tasks on his behalf last year, so how much did he pay you?”

  There’s no point in lying now. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Dollars?”

  “Euros,” he replies softly. “I’m planning to retire somewhere in Greece.”

  Dia nods approvingly. “Good call. Beautiful weather, gorgeous islands, all the souvlaki and gyros you can eat...”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” A single bead of sweat rolls from his brow. Molloy reaches behind his back and tightens the grip around his pistol, readjusting his fingers as the sweat from his palm slickens the handle.

  Danica wanders around his small living space with her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans, glancing at the small framed photographs that line the walls. “It always amazes me: you slide someone a pile of cash and you can talk them into virtually anything. Loyalty becomes hollow, honor is discarded. The influence gained by handing over wads of meaningless paper is actually quite staggering.”

  “So you’re working for the General on a volunteer basis, I take it?”

  She glances back over her shoulder, playfully leveling a finger at Molloy. “Careful, Sean. Tone.”

  The detective nervously clears his throat. “So you’re telling me that you’re not motivated by money?” He continues to buy time by making idle conversation, but he’s not sure what he’s buying it for. Opening fire will certainly make things worse; if she’s here on the General’s orders, the chances that she came here alone are slim. Even if he makes a run for it, stepping out into the hallway could be suicide – for all he knows the entire area is a kill box, and he’ll be torn apart in a cross fire.

  She smiles broadly. “I’m not motivated by money. I’m motivated by power.”

  “So we’re after the same thing, then.”

  Danica’s smile vanishes and she turns to Molloy, stepping within arm’s reach. “Money is not power, Sean. It has its uses, of course, and it can be a means to an end – but money is just the illusion of having power. What I’m after is my rightful place in history, and the influence that comes with unquestioned authority.”

  He keeps his fingers clasped tightly around his weapon, continuing to weigh his options as she advances.

  “When you have power,” she continues, “real power, it’s more than just a title, or a position that’s bestowed upon you by easily-persuaded voters. And it’s more than being able to buy the loyalty of the weak. It’s the ability to wield fear like a weapon. It’s like a super power all its own.” Dia extends her hand and looks down at her palm, and then gazes up into Molloy’s eyes. “When you have it, you don’t need to explain it with words, and you don’t need to make idle threats. The people you encounter inherently know the consequences of their actions.”

  Molloy slowly pulls the gun from his pants, and places it in Danica’s hand.

  “Smart move,” she says with a small, patronizing smile. “The General has a mission for you, and you have to leave the country. Immediately.”

  “Look,” Molloy says, trying to mask his frayed nerves. “I’m just a cop, not a secret agent. There has to be someone at the CIA who is more qualified for whatever he needs.”

  “Not to worry, this mission is painfully simple.” She sits and quickly unzips the black bag, extracting a small laptop. It’s a nondescript computer with a smooth, unmarked titanium casing. “This is what you’re going to do: travel to Western Australia, and make a delivery.”

  Molloy scratches his scalp, running his fingers through his short greying hair. “I don’t know much about Australia, but I’m pretty sure they have a post office.”

  “They do,” Dia says. “But the General wants you to make this delivery in person. A man matching Donovan Cole’s description tore up a little pub in the middle of nowhere, and he was joined by a girl; someone who looks suspiciously like my sister, Paige.”

  Molloy’s eyes widen as the realization sets in. “I knew I recognized you. You’re Dia Davenport...the General’s daughter.”

  “It’s Danica. And yes, I’m her. Just blonder. Can we move on?”

  He nods and attempts to appear calm and collected, but his concerns grow. The Mayor referred to this woman as a terrorist – part of the group responsible for the New York building collapse, and the deaths of several federal agents. She was the one who ripped open the portal, started the flood, and destroyed the building. Which means she’s a super powered being...and she’s sitting right here, in his apartment. Molloy suddenly wonders if his handgun would have been enough to kill her.

  “Great,” she continues. “So like I said, you’re going to make a delivery, and drop this off.” She spins the laptop around and flips it open, revealing what appears to be a standard monitor and keyboard. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary. “Then you’re going to power it on for them.”

  The skepticism is written clearly across Molloy’s face. “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it,” Danica replies with a friendly smile, shutting the case and sliding it back into the bag before zipping it closed.

  “So where exactly am I making this delivery?”

  She removes the phone from her pocket and starts tapping at the display. “Typically a bar fight wouldn’t have set off any alarms. Australia is a big country, and even if it was Cole and Paige, we had no idea if they were still in the area. But then we caught some satellite stills of this.”

  She holds the device in front of her, allowing Molloy to see the strange occurrence in the desert. Even on the small screen it’s clear that a small mob has assembled and is converging on something, but their destination is seemingly an empty space.

  “Okay, so that’s a hell of lot of Aborigines. Where are they headed?”

  “Nowhere,” Danica says. “That’s the point. This is a few hundred kilometers east of the pub, and there’s nothing there. So if there’s nothing there, how do we explain this?” She drags her finger across the touch screen and magnifies the surrounding area, revealing the next satellite shot – dozens of the tribesmen, dead. Many of them are lying in pieces, either beheaded, or with missing limbs.

  “Someone killed them,” he says.

  “Exactly. And I’m thinking it might be my dear sister and her trigger-happy friends.”

  Molloy leans closer to the screen and narrows his eyes. “So where are the shooters located?”

  “See this?” she says, tracing her fingernail around a light grey hue that outlines the area where the Aborigines are converging. “It’s cloaked. Our satellites can’t see their hideout because they’re using some sort of stealth technology to camouflage it. If you look closely you c
an see a bit of the shadow around the edge when the image is enhanced.”

  “Huh.” Molloy squints harder, but still can’t make out the line that she’s indicating. He shrugs and shakes his head. “Well, it looks like you’ve got them where you want them. Why don’t you just send in some drones and finish the job?”

  “It’s not that easy. We need visual confirmation, and that’s where you come in. The General isn’t going to authorise an air strike on a friendly nation without being certain that we have right target.”

  He furrows his brow and stares at Danica, unconvinced. “So let me get this straight: you want me to fly halfway around the world, trek into the Australian outback, and go knock on the front door of a hideout...an invisible hideout?”

  She nods slowly.

  “And no one else can handle this job?”

  “If the General wanted someone else,” Danica says, biting off her words, “he would have asked them. I’m going to open a portal and drop you off a few kilometers from the front door. Just make the delivery, take a look around and then get back to us.”

  He wrings his hands nervously.

  “Oh, don’t panic, Sean. You’ll send your pacemaker into overdrive.” She drops his gun on the table with a loud clank and hands over the black bag. “Pack a pair of walking shoes and some sun block. And be quick about it, because I’m tearing open your portal in five.”

  Molloy is taken aback at the mention of his pacemaker. He’s alarmed that the General was able to track down his home address since he’s unlisted, but scouring his private medical history is far more disconcerting. Even his brothers don’t know about his open heart surgery last year. That wasn’t a passing comment she made about his pacemaker; it’s clear that she mentioned that one specific detail on purpose. It was her way of indicating that the General can get to him anywhere in the world – there’s nothing he can’t locate, and no one he can’t get his hands on.

  He looks down at the bag, and without thinking, asks one final question before his journey. “So how do I know that this laptop won’t just blow up in my face when I power it on?”

  She throws back her head, exploding with a boisterous laugh. After a moment she regains her composure and stares Molloy dead in the eyes. “You don’t. Now get ready to go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Malapert

  Western Australia | January 28, 2012 | 2:30 pm, Western Standard Time

  The Aithon returns to the compound, touching down silently in a swirl of red dirt. Once inside, Cole and Paige recount their journey in as much detail as possible, up to and including their daring escape. Cole explains that the General had the remote mountain ranges of Tibet under surveillance, assuming that their team might try and contact the clairvoyant. The jet sustained a small measure of damage during the fray, but luckily, they all returned unharmed.

  Goto, concerned that they might have been followed, checks in with the control room downstairs; their radar isn’t detecting any enemy aircraft, so it’s highly unlikely their jet could have been followed. He assures everyone that even if a bomber was to attempt a fly-by, their countermeasures would prevent the compound from sustaining any damage. The base, he explains, has a built-in defence shield that will destroy any incoming missiles, blasting them out of the sky. It can only protect them from a limited number of attacks, but it will provide more than enough opportunity for a safe evacuation should the situation arise.

  After the discussion, Jens and Brodie retire to the living room to start yet another gaming session, while Allison digs through a basket of fruit by the front door. Cole and Paige idle between the kitchen and the living room, seeking additional information from Goto.

  “Now that we’re all caught up,” Cole says, “can someone explain who the walking corpses are?” He suspiciously eyes the kitchen, where two pale skinned strangers are rummaging through the pantries.

  “Yeah, I see what you mean,” Paige adds, squinting at the pair while adjusting her glasses. “They don’t look very...healthy.”

  “He’s some kind of a zombie overlord,” Allison shrugs, taking a bite from an apple as she saunters by. “And the ho is probably his girlfriend.”

  “Zombies?” Paige asks, crinkling her nose.

  “We fought a couple hundred zombies out front of the compound,” Allison explains in between munches. “He brought them here. Zombie dogs, too.”

  Cole raises his eyebrows. “Zombie dogs? Animals can be zombies?”

  “Yeah, it was a big thing. Gunfire, grenades, biting – I took care of it, though.” Allison tosses the core into a nearby waste basket and rubs her palms against the sides of her skirt. “Are we gonna start the interrogation now?” she asks expectantly, glancing towards Goto.

  “That’s not quite what I had in mind,” Goto replies in a lowered voice, hoping Allison will take his cue. “I was thinking this might take a little...finesse. And there will be no ‘we’ about it.”

  His answer elicits a disappointed pout from Allison, who rolls her eyes before joining Jens and Brodie on the couch.

  As the group converses, Goto catches a stray thought drifting through his subconscious (which is not uncommon for the telepath); it’s more of a sensation than a clearly formed idea, but whatever it is, it’s heightened – like a frayed power cord sparking with energy. He turns towards the source and notices Cole’s eyes locked onto the kitchen. He’s staring at Trent and Amber, like a predatory cat observing his prey, studying their every move. The striations in his neck become pronounced, and his knuckles whiten as his fingers coil into tightly-clenched fists.

  “Mister Cole,” Goto says calmly, and with a hint of diplomacy, “you’ve had quite a morning. Maybe you could use a little rest?”

  As if anticipating his response, Paige reaches out and places her hand on Cole’s muscular forearm. Her touch causes the protruding veins to subside. “Might be for the best,” she says. “Take a break, and you can chat with our guests later.”

  His expression darkens. “Call me if you need anything,” Cole says flatly, stomping down the long corridor towards the living quarters.

  Paige and Goto exchange glances as he leaves. Even though they’re psychically connected, he doesn’t require any preternatural abilities to read Paige’s mind: whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly. Cole can be reasoned with to a degree, but Goto can’t be sure he won’t do something insane before he has a chance to question their unexpected visitors.

  In the kitchen, Trent continues to scour the kitchen. He’s flinging cupboards open and tossing items aside, periodically flinging a cereal box or a package of crackers over his shoulder as he searches. “I don’t mean to be picky,” he says, stooping to study the contents of the open fridge, “but do you have any diet soda? And as far as snacks go it doesn’t look like you have anything gluten-free around here, either.”

  “Terribly sorry, we weren’t expecting visitors,” Goto says, no longer able to mask the impatience in his voice. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do with what we have for now. The others might have some personal supplies, but given your attempt to have us eaten...”

  “Dude,” Jens interrupts, shouting from the living room couch. “Come over here and make with the details. We’re all dying of suspense.”

  “I have to agree with Mister Jennum,” Goto adds briskly. “I think we’re all owed some answers.”

  “Right! Right...so finding you guys was surprisingly easy.” Trent snatches a bottle of Lightning Liquid from the fridge and strolls over to the couch. The girl he arrived with follows and sits at his side, as still as death.

  “I’ve been communicating with Paige through a re-routed IP address,” he continues, “The same one that Brodie used at Harvard when he was E-mailing about his newest stash. So right away I knew he was involved. Then I just traced the source using a program I developed – and here I am.”

  “So what was with the zombie attack?” Allison shouts.

  “Again, they’re not ‘zombies’.” Trent clarifies. “The
y’re just dead bodies that I reanimate. And I needed to make sure you were all worthy.”

  Goto, Allison, Paige, Brodie and Jens study each other’s expressions for a moment, as if waiting for someone to ask the obvious question.

  “‘Trent’, is it?” Goto says, “I might be off my head a little here, but can I ask precisely what we’re supposed to be worthy of?”

  Trent lets out a wild laugh. “Of me! I wasn’t going to just join any team – I had to see if you passed my test first. I was impressed; although by the time the horde got to your front steps you all looked pretty terrified. What was your plan if Allison hadn’t hit me with that tennis ball? Hide inside and push furniture against the doors?” He laughs again before gulping down the rest of his drink and tossing the bottle aside.

  “Why do you need to join anyone at all?” Paige asks.

  “Because you’re the guys the New World Council is looking for. I follow the news, man – and I can see the writing on the wall. Eventually this thing is going to become a war, and if this is the biggest battle the world has ever seen, I want in.”

  “So you wanna fight in a war,” Jens interjects, “...a war against the entire government? And you’re not worried that you’re going to get killed?”

  “Not so much.” Trent leaps from his seat and yanks his t-shirt above his chest.

  Allison gasps, and Jens groans in disgust, but everyone stares with fascination, unable to avert their gaze. The scars that cover his body are remarkable: holes from gunshots, slashes from knife wounds, and a number of other haphazardly stitched-up tears that could have been caused by virtually anything. The most recent wounds are over his heart and through his abdomen, being held together by dozens of tiny staples.

  “What the hell are you?” Allison blurts out, her face contorting as she leans back in her chair.

  Trent cracks a disturbing smile. “I’m a regular guy...just dead.”