Aubrey sprung to his feet, pulling his phone from his pocket. After dialing 911 and requesting medical drones and an ambulance, he dialed Aaron Lewis for the second time that day.
His eyes fell on the small girl in the bed while he waited for Lewis to answer. He watched her chest rise and fall. She was alive. Examining the machines along the walls more closely, he knew what he was looking at.
She had BSS.
“This is Lewis.”
“Aaron, are you at the Jorgetsons’?”
“Uniforms are on the scene. I’m on my way. Why? What’s up?”
“I’m sending you another address.” The pit in Aubrey’s stomach grew colder. He couldn’t take his eyes off the little girl. “Come here first.”
15
The Hunter
Jacira Barretto took up a position atop a low wooded knoll with perfect line of sight down the two-lane highway. The air smelled of warm, moist earth. A stream babbled nearby.
She lay on her back, amongst the brambles and high grass watching the live drone footage on her tablet. She watched the bird’s eye view of Martin Aubrey’s car speeding along the curvy country road. She was lucky. Aubrey had selected a rarely trafficked road for the route back to the city. Perhaps he enjoyed the views or just felt like taking a long drive. Either way, it made her job much easier.
She zoomed out on the tablet far enough to find her own position, tapped the small hill where she lay, then tapped the target vehicle. A dotted line appeared from her location to the car displaying the distance between them in a small square along the edge of the screen. The numbers rapidly decreased as she watched.
Rolling onto her belly she lifted the buttstock of the rifle and seated it against her shoulder. The barrel of the long gray weapon sat on a bipod, the suppressor protruding six inches beyond it.
Peering through the rifle’s scope, she ignored the inclination and declination markers on the outer edges of the reticle, and the temperature and wind readouts. It was all bells and whistles to her. She cared only for the small oval in the middle of the reticle with its black X in the center.
Panning the road below, she found the short bridge that spanned the creek, four hundred meters away, then the convenient crack in the bridge’s joint where she placed the small but powerful explosive. From the crack in the bridge she panned up the road until she found the tiny pink dot she’d painted on the pavement, where the proximity sensors would trigger the explosive.
She wanted to place her shot through Aubrey’s windshield several feet before he reached that point. Just shooting Aubrey wasn’t enough, she would need to stop the autonomous car as well so she could make sure the job was done.
Centering the X on the pink spot, she pressed a button on the side of the scope. The X turned red, marking the location. As she moved the scope further up the road, the red X moved from the center of the reticle, floating toward the bottom then out of the reticle altogether.
An orange X replaced the red one in the reticle. She panned the scope back toward the pink spot and the red X appeared again, hovering over the pink dot on the pavement.
The scope would do all the work for her—calculate distance, the car’s speed, how much to lead the target, wind speed. It would even account for tremors in her hands. All she had to do was keep the orange X on Aubrey until it met the red X, then pull the trigger.
She waited. Her heart rate was steady, her breathing even. If she had biologics monitors on her right now, she knew what they’d tell her—she might as well be asleep.
This kind of work had never bothered her. It might have been the years spent in her former life where her job sanctioned killing. And every bit of it was legal. Maybe, she thought, all her training and experience in that life made killing easy. Or maybe she always had a knack for it. Or maybe she was a sociopath.
Being okay with killing people made the transition into her new life an easy one. She’d had a lot to learn; killing angry, disagreeable targets was not so easy. Her new training had been intense and necessarily secret, but required. Finding work, to her surprise, had been easy. Plenty of people wanted other people dead.
It never started off that way. The client always just wanted to watch and see what their target was up to. So, she’d play detective for a while, find what they were looking for, and deliver her findings knowing what they’d ultimately decide.
If, on occasion, she had to fudge the findings to persuade them a bit, so what. One thing her new life and her old one had in common was the steadfast belief that some people just needed to die. And she stood by that belief now as much as she did then.
Glancing at her tablet, she saw Aubrey’s car coming into range. She readied herself.
Staring into the scope, she positioned it so she could catch the car as it came over the ridge in the near distance.
The car rose over the ridge. She sighted the target placing the orange X on the windshield. The glass was darkened against the midday sun, making it impossible to see Aubrey inside. She tapped a button on the handguard of the rifle several times to find the optics display she wanted—biologics.
She now saw the world in gray tones with the exception of Aubrey’s red and pink body sitting on the front seat of the car. A dark red mass pumped in the center of his chest.
A small readout at the top of the reticle counted down the distance to the sweet spot. The meters closed fast.
She followed her target as it coasted down the straightaway.
The countdown passed under two-hundred meters.
Her breathing steady. She brushed her thumb against the trigger guard, verifying the safety was off.
Under one-hundred meters to the sweet spot. Birds overhead chirped excitedly. The creek gurgled, unaware that a body would soon be dumped into it.
Under fifty meters.
All thought left her mind. She became a machine, made for a single purpose.
Under twenty-five meters. Her finger fell to the trigger.
Under ten. She tensed her finger.
A pause. She squeezed.
* * *
Martin Aubrey typed furiously on his laptop, recording everything he saw in the two homes that morning. His notes, his thoughts, his theories—he wrote down everything.
He saw the two children in those homes as turning points in the entire investigation. They were the first cases of BSS; they were index cases, patients zero and one.
He needed time to think, time to put the puzzle pieces together. He needed to talk it over with Malina as she had proven herself to not only be an incomparable hacker, but also a skilled investigator. Aubrey was immensely grateful to have her on his side.
Back at the Binns-Lourdes residence, once the police had verified through the home’s surveillance footage that Aubrey had not shot Mr. Lourdes, they’d agreed to let him go, albeit with some reluctance.
They’d correctly assumed he was the confidential informant leading them to the Jorgetson home, but when Aubrey refused to give up his own sources, they grew frustrated and angry. Aaron Lewis intervened and after a few minutes of haranguing, they dismissed Aubrey.
The car cruised down a gentle rise and Aubrey scanned his notes, ensuring he left nothing out.
The words forced him to replay the discoveries at both houses. Two families afflicted by the same tragedy. The scientists, now dead, were responsible. And some hidden figure pulled all the strings.
He looked up from his laptop, staring absentmindedly out the car’s windshield, noticing the stream ahead. Getting his thoughts down in his notes helped calm his mind.
He closed his eyes to think, when a freight train slammed into his shoulder.
Half-a-second later, a bright flash of light and the front of his car lifted off the ground and slammed back hard onto the pavement.
* * *
Jacira slapped a release on the side of the rifle and jerked down on the pistol grip. A short 9mm pistol slid from the bottom of the rifle, which she left lying on the ground as she dashed down the small hill toward t
he fiery car.
She neared the vehicle, its front end now flat on the ground, tires deflated and the wheels canted to the side ninety degrees to the car. The onboard fire suppressant kicked in, dousing the fire.
A hole the size of her middle finger sat in the middle of the windshield. She rounded the car’s front and moved to the driver-side; she raised her pistol.
* * *
On instinct, Aubrey threw himself flat on the seat of the car. He held his left shoulder, warm blood pouring through his fingers, soaking his shirt and jacket. His ears rang from the blast, but he heard the whoosh of the fire-suppressant canisters dousing the flames under the hood. The operating system must still be functional, he thought. It made sense as the car’s “brain” was in the rear.
He glanced at the windshield, saw the hole there and said a silent “thank you” to his company for purchasing police grade ballistic glass for his car. It had done its job the best it could, but Aubrey guessed the bullet was too fast and too powerful to be stopped entirely. Instead, the glass had slowed the projectile and deflected it. His shoulder was in agony, but on the plus side he wasn’t dead.
Knowing his attacker would be coming to ensure the wet work was complete, he said aloud to his car, “Tint windows. Maximum setting.”
Instantly, the inside of the car went dark. Bright light poured in from the hole in the windshield like a flashlight, but dark otherwise.
Aubrey sat up until he could see outside. He saw a woman running toward his side of the car. She had a sidearm at the ready.
Aubrey, as a licensed investigator and a former cop, stayed armed when he left the house. But he wanted to question the woman. He needed her alive.
* * *
Jacira creeped closer to the driver-side door. She couldn’t see anything through the pitch-black windows. Keeping her pistol trained on the window, she extended her left hand toward the door’s handle.
It burst open toward her. The very edge of the door connected with the gun and sent it flying. It clattered across the pavement. A flash from inside the car. Her leg screamed in pain, sending her to one knee.
A thought occurred to her— Aubrey wasn’t trying to kill her.
She would use that.
* * *
Aubrey held his pistol on the woman as he shimmied out of the car’s front seat. He stood a few feet from her, circling to more open ground. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her olive skin glistened with sweat.
“Hands behind your head and lie on your stomach.” Aubrey spoke in a quiet tone, hoping to calm her, but knowing she was a professional and would not comply.
The woman held her thigh for a moment, then her hands lifted toward her head, surprising Aubrey for a moment. He should have seen the ruse for what it was.
Like a catapult, she sprung from the ground slapping Aubrey’s good arm away with one hand. She produced a knife from thin air with the other.
He threw his body back, bending at the waist to avoid the blade as it slashed through the air across his belly. She missed. The force behind the swing of the knife left her shoulder exposed for a split second as her body turned.
Aubrey, unsteady as he was, kicked; his foot planted hard on her shoulder blade.
He brought his pistol down, leveling it on the woman. Just as he did, she used the momentum of his kick to do a full spin, coming around with an outstretched foot.
Her kick connected with Aubrey’s gun, dislodging it. He didn’t have time to watch where it landed. Her vicious backhand with the blade nearly spilled his bowels.
She missed again, but this time she prevented her own momentum from betraying her. Still crouched, she looked like some sort of scorpion—legs bent like a tensioned spring and the knife gripped in a wickedly fast hand ready to sting.
In one motion, she pounced and lunged with the knife. Aubrey leapt backward in retreat. She jumped to her feet and kicked him in the chest.
With an inhuman quickness, she turned for a roundhouse kick. Aubrey caught the leg, holding it high to throw her off balance, but her flexibility wouldn’t allow it. She slashed and jabbed the knife at his arms and hands, seemingly unconcerned with cutting her own leg.
Aubrey couldn’t match her speed and skill. He could only hope to overpower her. He had to go to the ground and hope to get his gun back.
With a vicious leg sweep, he took her down, landing on top of her. He managed to secure her knife hand in an iron grip and wedged an elbow under her chin. Scanning the area, Aubrey spotted the gun—five feet away near the mangled front of the car.
She punched with her free hand again and again, but Aubrey didn’t dare loosen his grip on her knife hand.
Her legs wrapped around him, squeezing his ribs like a python. Her head slammed into his. He saw stars. She was too close for him to effectively strike, so he used his weight, applying all of it into his elbow, raking it across her face. She squeezed tighter, punched him several more times in the head.
He worked her knife hand and slammed it into the hot pavement, but she held fast. He maneuvered his hand around to get a reverse grip on her wrist and twisted backward until he felt a pop.
She screamed in pain and the knife came loose. He reached for it, then felt a clamping, sharp pressure on his forearm. She bit him; her teeth sank deep. He groaned with pain and anger.
Taking a page from her book, he threw his head back and slammed it forward into her face. She relented.
The blow left her dazed and Aubrey took the opportunity to go for his pistol. From his knees he lunged for it, but his feet slipped and he came up short by a foot.
Expecting his attacker to be on him any second, he rolled to his back and braced himself. She was there, but she didn’t pounce, she stood there holding her own gun. She had recovered hers first and pointed it straight at his heart. Aubrey wore no body armor.
A crooked smile crossed the woman’s face under a bruised and battered eye.
A shot and Aubrey jerked, but he felt nothing. Instead, the woman tumbled to the side, landing on her shoulder.
From her side, she fired down the street in the direction Aubrey had come. He rolled and caught sight of a vehicle parked catty-corner across the road. Someone fired over the car’s hood at the assassin, feet from Aubrey, rounds creating pockmarks in the pavement.
She rose to a kneeling position, unleashing controlled fire on the car. Standing, she began walking backwards around the front of Aubrey’s car maintaining steady fire as she went.
Aubrey crawled the two feet to his gun, secured it, aimed and fired. She buckled sideways and spun on Aubrey. He fired again, she flinched backward, but remained standing.
Body armor.
She ran, holding her side and firing at Aubrey and the other car. She crossed the bridge, making for the woods nearby.
Aubrey rose to his knees, inhaled a deep, slow breath and fired a carefully aimed shot.
She spasmed, arching her back and stumbled into the metal guardrail on the bridge. She bent over it, hanging there for a moment while Aubrey got to his feet.
A familiar voice shouted behind him.
“Marty.”
Aubrey didn’t turn. He kept his eyes on the assassin.
“Don’t move,” he shouted.
They had her. She could lead them to the source of everything.
With his weapon trained on her, he took a step closer. She was fifteen feet away, bent over the guardrail. She stared down into the rushing water. Was that defeat on her face?
“Don’t move,” Aubrey said again. “There’s no getting out of here. More cops are on the way.” He took another step toward her.
She glanced at Aubrey then back at the water. She leaned further over the guardrail and with a feeble kick of her legs, she fell headfirst into the rushing creek below.
Aubrey ran to the guardrail. He reached it and frantically searched the water below for any sign of her.
He couldn’t see a thing. The trees were so overgrown and the creek was so deep a
nd so fast, she’d disappeared.
Footsteps behind him grew louder. Aaron Lewis joined him on the bridge.
“We’ll get the drones out,” he panted. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll find her.”
No, Aubrey thought, they’d never find her. But he had a feeling they’d meet again.
II
Part Two
16
Rewards
Dion Hill felt special. The Professor had come to him for this mission when he could have asked anyone. Dion wouldn’t let him down. All he had to do was lie in his bed real still, use the breather machine the Professor had given him, and, when the time came, kill a man. Not a big deal for him.
“No problem,” Dion had said.
The Professor didn’t have to ask twice after he told Dion he’d get his hands on that black-handed bastard of a murderer. And, like most people in their ward, he trusted the Professor. If he said the breather would work, then it would work. If he said Dion was helping the other prisoners, then it was true.
There was also the other thing Dion had to do.
“Get his hand,” the Professor said. They spoke in the shower room that morning under the intermittent spray from the rain tree. Dion leaned in close to hear. “His left hand. As in, the one that isn’t blackened all to hell. Understand? We need that hand or none of this is going to work.”
The Professor gave Dion the shiv, which must have been made special for this job. Like him: special.
Under his blanket before lights out, Dion ran his thumb along the five-inch serrated edge. It was jagged and would make for a rough cut, but it wasn’t his arm he’d be cutting off, so he didn’t much care. He’d done more with less.
Killing that son-of-a-bitch in the mess hall was nothing for Dion. If not for a guaranteed Tapping, he’d have done it a long time ago, for fun. This way, at least, he got a prize out of it—eliminating that slimy scumbag of a Tapper.
And all the rest—protecting his friends, helping the Professor start the revolution—all of that was a fat fucking cherry on top of an already delicious sundae.
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