by Nick Thacker
Jensen Andrews and his niece shared a puzzled look, then one of shock.
“I require you and your niece to join us on this expedition — your knowledge of the Golden Ratio and ancient Egypt dwarfs even my own. We may need that kind of expertise.” His eyes moved slowly from Corinne to the map, finally resting on Professor Andrews.
“Mr. — Dr. — Vilocek,” Jensen stammered, “I appreciate your acknowledgement of my expertise, but why help you? What’s to say you won’t just kill us when you no longer need us?”
Vilocek nodded toward Agent Karn.
Karn smiled almost imperceptibly. He stood up, grabbing a fistful of Corinne’s long, red hair. She gave a yelp as he yanked her to her feet and forced her toward the far wall behind the table.
When they were about twenty feet away, Professor Jensen screamed in pain.
“What the hell!“ Corinne said, as Jensen fell over backward in his chair, clutching his side. He struggle to his hands and knees, crying out in short gasps.
“Help… I… can’t breathe… Please!” Jensen gulped for air, his right hand clutched tightly over the bullet wound in his side.
“Professor Andrews,” Vilocek said calmly, “you were not shot with a ‘normal’ bullet last night. We have developed here at Vilocorp a very unique instrument — one based on the crystal piece our Founding Fathers left to us.
“In addition to its miraculous healing properties, we’ve found that by synthetically bonding the crystal with particular elements — in this case, lead — we can produce some interesting results. You were shot with a lead-infused synthetic crystal that acts as a magnet of sorts — dormant when close to another piece of lead-crystal like it, but when pulled a certain distance apart, it becomes active, turning into a heated piece of metal.
“You,” he continued, looking at Corinne, “are wearing a counterpart piece of this crystal substance, locked to your leg.”
Corinne looked down in horror, just now noticing the small handcuff-like metal band, with a grayish-clear rock attached to one side of it.
“Your uncle is experiencing this phenomena firsthand,” Vilocek continued, waving a careless hand at Jensen. “Eventually, if you get far enough apart, the heat will become so intense that it will literally burn a hole through his body. He’ll be in pain, but eventually he’ll be knocked out from catalytic shock. Our test subjects lasted about twenty minutes, depending on where their bullet wound was on their body. Eventually, though, they all bled out — and I expect the same outcome for your uncle, should you remain separated for that long.”
Corinne had tears in her eyes. “You bastard…“
“You should also know, Ms. Banks,” Vilocek said, ignoring the insult, “that each of us is carrying an identical substance, designed to react with the bullet inside your uncle. If you try to get away, alone, from the men on my team, he will die. Slowly, and very painfully, I assure you.”
Jensen silently rocked back and forth on the floor, seething in pain.
CHAPTER 11
12:13 AM - WHITTENFIELD LABORATORIES Headquarters, Washington, D.C., USA
Bryce sighed with weariness, less from exhaustion than extreme boredom. His wounds hardly bothered him, save for the occasional flare-up in his shoulder where the ball and socket’s tendons had taken a little longer to heal properly. His security detail tonight had him walking quite a bit. His route through the complex was essentially a circle he shared with two other men, one named Eric Benson and the other a fat lumpy fellow named Behar. Bryce couldn’t remember the guy’s first name — kind of sad, since he was Behar’s boss — so he usually just called him “Behemoth;” only in his head, of course.
He shook his head, laughing internally. He walked up the stairs out of the tall tower encasing the facility’s combustion core unit — the power center for the Whittenfield Research center. Except for his two “recruits,” part of the compensation package Bryce had worked out with Whittenfield two months ago in Afghanistan, his team was a pretty shoddy excuse for a security detail. He’d have been happier with some “rent-a-cops” from the D.C. Police force. “Behemoth” Behar was a nice guy; mid-forties, wife and kids in the city, probably liked long walks on the beach, that sort of thing. He just wasn’t much to write home about when it came to physical appearance or agility. Or target practice, weight training, or anything else related to being a security guard at a high-security research firm.
The other five members of the team weren’t much better. He had only really met one of them, mostly because the kid was out drinking the night he was supposed be on the clock with Bryce. Not well-suited to dishing out tongue-lashings, Bryce had just stared him down when he finally returned from his “night out,” two hours late for his shift. The kid’s conscience seemed to have taken over from there, and he’d caused no more trouble. Bryce thought his name was Adams… Adamson? No, Adam something. Whatever, he thought. The remaining three men didn’t strike Bryce as anything more than the standard career-type guards. At least they were all nice enough, and got along pretty well together, but not one of them was higher than average in any regard. They were all just guys punching a clock, looking forward to quitting time. They all went home at the end of the day, forgetting about work until their next shift.
Only Bryce and his two hand-picked recruits — Privates Wayne and Jeff Thompson — lived at the firm’s headquarters, in the same residence wing with the scientists and some of the other staff. The three of them shared a room, Bryce on one side and the brothers on the other, in a bunk bed unit. Wayne “Ranger” and Jeff “Hawk” Thompson were actually out tonight enjoying the D.C. nightlife, but Bryce expected them back within the hour for the shift change. They were good men, and great soldiers — Bryce had trained with them a few years ago, and they’d been close with Bryce since college.
The Thompson brothers were from Texas, raised on a ranch north of Abilene. They had grown up most of their lives farming, hunting, and wreaking havoc on their sleepy town. Their father was an avid farmer and rancher, and their mother was a housewife. Both the boys enjoyed a comfortable existence living the American Dream.
To outsiders, the family of four seemed to have a normal existence, but their commonalities with the traditional American way of life ended with a home-cooked meal each night.
Their father, Mr. Thompson (Bryce hadn’t ever heard his first name used), was an ex-Marine who had served in Vietnam and the Gulf War, and had a distinguished service record that contradicted his nonchalant farming life. As boys and young men, the Thompson brothers were trained by their father to track, hunt, and shoot like soldiers, and the three of them had even spent weeks at a time on numerous occasions living off the land on camping trips and survival expeditions on their 100-plus acre Texas farmstead.
In college, Bryce loved to listen to their stories, often told by the brothers via intense bickering and arguing matches; Wayne staying coolheaded and understated, while Jeff would exaggerate the stories beyond recognition. The effect was a hilarious hours-long epic, complete with animated descriptions and accounts acted out by the pair.
One of Bryce’s favorites was the time when twelve-year-old Wayne and ten-year-old Jeff, home for the summer from middle school, had decided to go on a camping trip for the weekend down by the farm’s brook — this time unaccompanied by their father. They’d gone to the same location plenty of times and had long before stashed gear and supplies at the campsite for a quicker setup. This particular weekend the boys had forgone their mother’s prepared picnic-style meals, planning instead to catch or hunt their own. The only food item they brought, however, was a plastic 12-ounce Coca-Cola bottle Jeff had filled with dry ice from the supermarket on the way home from school. He didn’t tell Wayne he’d brought it, and when they were about to cast their lines, Jeff filled the bottle with water, tightened the cap, and threw it in a bit farther upstream. As it floated past, he casually asked his older brother to grab it, claiming he’d accidentally dropped it in.
As Wayne reached for t
he bottle, the pressure inside from the reaction of the melting CO2 and water forced the plastic to expand and explode — right in Wayne’s face. Half of the busted cap left a shallow yet bloody gash from his left cheek to his ear.
At first Wayne didn’t respond. The pain of the small cut didn’t immediately set in, so Wayne’s first reaction was to chase Jeff through the campsite and neighboring farmland. Being older and faster, he eventually caught Jeff near the house and started to deliver a memorable beating — which was abruptly interrupted by their mother, who happened to glance out the kitchen window just in time. The tongue lashing she gave both boys was almost as bad as the beating Wayne had tried to give Jeff; to make matters worse, their father came home and restricted both boys to the house for a week.
Bryce had met the brothers in college in a required physical fitness course and liked them instantly. They tried to meet up often, to work out, grab a pizza, or just hang out often. By the time they’d finished their degrees — Wayne’s in Agricultural Economics and Jeff’s in Recreation Studies — Bryce had watched them grow into two of the finest men he’d had the pleasure of knowing.
When they trained together — in college or as young soldiers — they would usually get into competitive lifting sessions that would leave them sore for days afterward. Bryce loved their charismatic personalities; wherever they were, people seemed to flock to them. They had great hearts and cared for people, a trait instilled into them by their parents and cultivated over years of hard work managing the farm’s cattle, fields, and the multitude of daily chores. Bryce considered them his closest friends, even though he hadn’t seen them for more than three years prior to hiring them for this job. It was great to be back together — almost like college again.
Bryce shook off his nostalgia as he approached the final checkpoint of his round. After this stop, he’d reenter the research base for a brief 15-minute break. Following that he’d start the entire loop over again for a final round, a one-hour trip around the facility’s buildings and research labs, followed by one more check of the power plant’s core unit. Finally, after six trips around the base — equal to about a 7.5-hour shift — he’d retire for the night as the Thompson brothers and a few of the other security guards took up the early morning shift.
His last stop for the route was a small building set apart from the main facilities. Its construction was similar to the rest — white, stucco exterior with few windows — but Bryce wasn’t sure what was inside. The building had only one door on the southeast side and was simply labeled “H.” As the building was set on a small hill, he liked to take a brief pause at its north side and look out over the rest of the complex. Getting a bird’s-eye view of the entire place let Bryce see how sprawling the Whittenfield Research firm’s grounds were. From here, nine buildings filled his vision. All painted an eggshell white, all mostly the same size and roughly the same shape — one or two stories tall; the smaller ones about 50 yards long by 50 yards wide, and the largest, in the center of the grounds, about 200 yards long and 100 wide.
Looking down, Bryce noticed the Thompson brothers returning from their trip out on the town. They were too far off to make out the details, but he instantly recognized their walk — an ambling gait, sort of a hybrid between a duck and a cowboy who’d been on a horse for too long. Stealth wasn’t in their nature. Bryce chuckled to himself as he watched their lazy stroll toward the building’s glass entranceway, their motions indicating that they were again engaged in a heated — though certainly trivial — argument.
As they closed in on the front door, Bryce noticed something else. Something moving behind the brothers, around the next building to their north. His eyes darted over to the spot, the rest of his body instinctually going stiff.
There it was again.
If he hadn’t been focused at the spot, he would have completely missed it. It was a very large man, crouching down and clad in black. It looked like Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame — if Quasimodo had been a larger-than-life football player. The man was clearly stalking something — sneaking toward the building the Thompsons had just entered.
Bryce unclipped his handheld radio unit and lifted it to his mouth.
“Attention all detail. We have a breach. Single male suspect appears to be entering the main hallway of Building ‘E’. Remain on high alert and await further instructions, out.” With his other hand, Bryce lifted his pistol from its holster.
If the brothers can just get to the room, I can reach them on their handsets, he thought. I can keep watch until they’re in the room, call for backup, and approach the intruder myself.
As the black-clad man slowly crept forward, keeping to the shadows, Bryce reconsidered. Wayne and Jeff wouldn’t make it to their room before the intruder reached the doors; there was no time to wait. Bryce needed to get control of the situation right now. He wasn't sure who this guy was, but he certainly wasn’t dressed for a business meeting.
With a flimsy outline of a plan — overtake the intruder first, ask questions second — Bryce stood and quickly plotted his route down the hill. Before he could take a step forward, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was behind him.
Turning on a heel, he swirled his body around and down, planning to land prone, gun drawn and forward. As he dropped, something hit him on the left side of his neck, causing his mind to jumble. His body went weak as he fell forward, but he could just make out a figure in front of him.
Black cargo pants, military combat boots. Voices above him, speaking another language. Russian? The figure moved closer, and bent down to retrieve something from the ground. Bryce hadn't realized he’d dropped his pistol when he was struck. The figure straightened, and Bryce drifted into unconsciousness onto the grass.
CHAPTER 12
WAYNE AND JEFF HAD BEEN inside the building for barely two seconds when the two security officers on duty rushed past. Behar was already dripping in sweat and heaving as he waddled by. “Captain Reynolds issued an early alert order,” Bensen called in passing. "Must be some kind of drill; we haven't heard any update," he finished.
The brothers picked up the pace toward their shared room; their ongoing argument about which lady at the bar was obviously single suddenly unimportant. "You think there's something going on?" Jeff asked his older brother.
"No idea, seemed pretty quiet out there tonight.”
"Yeah - let’s just grab our gear; we can change later if we need to."
As they entered their room they could hear scuffling sounds in the hall ahead, around the corner to their left.
They both froze at the sudden unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
"What the hell?" asked Wayne.
"Watch my back,” Jeff said, tossing Wayne’s gear toward him. “I’ll see if I can get a look around the corner.” He grabbed his handgun and radio and hustled back into the hall with his brother close behind.
At the corner Jeff crouched, peering carefully around the corner.
A shot from somewhere down the hall narrowly missed his unprotected head.
"Shit!" he yelled, ducking back undercover.
Wayne grabbed him by the collar. “Let’s go around — we can block their exit from the north wing!”
Jeff followed his brother the other direction, crouch-running in the dimly lit hall. With no sounds from behind them, they focused their attention forward, expecting a threat at any moment.
This building housed the scientists' quarters — mostly dormitory-style rooms along the exterior wall. The rooms on both floors opened onto the inner perimeter hall, with a single large amphitheater and meeting hall taking up the center of the structure. The brothers intended to intercept the shooters — whoever they were — by cutting off their escape route either through the theater or around the hallway.
The theater entrance was directly in front of the main doors. Wayne slowed and took up a position outside the theater doors, careful to stay out of the light coming through the main entrance. He signaled for Jeff to s
tay put.
Jeff turned, automatically taking up the rear guard. "If they come through the theater, they'll have a straight shot through the main doors," Wayne whispered almost inaudibly. "Stay here and don’t let ‘em get past you. I'll move up to the next corner and see if they're trying to get around the back way.” Without waiting for a reply, Wayne ran forward, hugging the wall. He paused for a second at the corner, peered around it, then disappeared from Jeff's view.
Wayne could see the far end of the hall clearly. Two men — soldiers from their looks — were standing against the wall, looking the other way. At first they didn’t see him coming toward them at a determined trot, but one of them eventually caught the movement in his peripheral vision. With a swift turn, the soldier lifted his assault rifle to his eye — just as his head disappeared in a cloud of blood as Wayne’s hollow point impacted the bridge of his nose.
Wayne’s Smith & Wesson Compact 9mm wasn't silenced, and in the closed-in hallway the shot was almost deafening. Without slowing, he targeted the second man — now fumbling around, trying to bring his weapon to bear — and fired two more shots, putting the man down. As he fell, Wayne continued his quick jog, only slowing down as he reached the bodies and the next corner. As he dropped to one knee to check for vital signs and move the weapons out of reach, Jeff ran up, clearly making sure his brother hadn't been caught alone in a gunfight. Taking stock of the situation, Jeff breathed a sigh of relief.
“Let’s get to work,” Jeff said, almost solemnly. His entire demeanor had changed completely. Five minutes earlier, he had been a fun-loving, carefree kid brother. Now Wayne saw Jeff’s face take on a steely resolve; the quietly angry look of a cowboy who’d just learned that there was a trespasser on his land. Wayne knew from experience that in situations like this it was best to point him in the right direction and stay the hell out of the way.