by Karen Hayes
One beam hits my face, momentarily blinding me. I squeeze my eyes tight and begin to rub them.
"Over here, sweetie," Adam takes my hand and leads me away from the dance floor to the rest area.
We thread our way toward the bar. At its opposite end, the impeccable and unapproachable Morty is busy watching the stage.
I climb a bar stool. Adam leans on the bar and signs to the barman, pinching a hundred-dollar note between his fingers.
"Two Mad Dogs," he says.
The barman mixes two shots of vodka, a layer of syrup and a drop of something bright red on the bottom.
"This is tabasco," Adam says in my ear. "Drink it. You need to relax."
I obey. The cocktail is so strong that my eyes stream. Warmth fills my throat, reaching down my stomach. The drink makes me slightly nauseous.
Still, I smile. As wide as I can.
Adam nods his satisfaction, then downs his own drink. His eyes acquire a frantic glow. He's beaming as if it's his birthday. Even his golden hair seems to be glowing blue under the strobe lights.
"I'd like you to do something for me, babe," he says.
I glimpse the image of what he wants from me in his mind. I understand. I recoil in horror.
An experiment? A training practice? What, now? Here? No! You can't do that!
Still I slide off the stool and sashay toward the stage swaying my hips. Up the stairs and onto the platform where the DJ is standing.
Two security guards in black block my way.
"Let me through," I command.
Obediently they move aside.
Holding onto the railing, I climb the steps and walk across the stage toward the DJ.
He pulls one side of his plush headphones off an ear and stares at me in surprise. Long greasy hair hangs over his face.
I lean closer to him. "Turn off the music and give me the mike."
He does as I tell him.
The music stops, submerging the room into silence. The dancers stop in surprise. Some ask what's going on, others cuss.
Adam watches me closely from the bar. Trace and Job are already there next to him. Adam half-closes his eyes and focuses, as if readying himself.
Then he opens his eyes and nods to me.
I bring the mike to my lips and say,
"All these people are your enemies. Kill them."
The words that fall from my lips are filled with incredible power which surges over the room like a tsunami.
Hundreds of eyes glow in the darkness dissected by the beams. They all look at me. They all heed my command.
A young guy by the stage turns round and punches the guy next to him in the face. A girl screams and digs her nails into a friend's face.
I lay the mike down. "Put the music back on."
The speakers shudder back to life. The drum beat reverberates through my stomach. The beams pick out people thrashing about, the pummeling fists, the mad eyes...
I can't watch it. Still, without Adam's command I can't turn away. What have I done... Good Lord, what have I done?
The DJ next to me peels off his headphones, rips off his jacket and launches himself at the crowd.
Chapter Seventeen
Chris
THEY PUT ME up in a room which is almost identical to the cell where they used to keep me and Sarah. It's on the same floor, only in the living quarters.
The room is plain, Spartan even. The concrete walls are painted a dirty beige, same color as the lino on the floor. A bed, a closet, a bedside cabinet, a small desk and a chair in the corner.
A clock is ticking over an empty bookshelf. A far corner is fitted with sliding plastic doors. Behind it is a shower, very primitive compared to the one I used to have in Hermetis.
They've already returned my wallet. It's now in my jacket pocket. The jacket itself is hanging on the back of the chair. I'm standing in the shower enjoying its powerful jets and generously soaping my head, my neck, chest and shoulders. I'm snorting and spluttering as I rub my skin mercilessly; I even stomp my feet on the floor, raising a cloud of spray.
Finally I wash the soap off, turn off the tap and come out. I rub my body raw with a stiff towel, then don my jeans and sit on the chair opposite my bed.
I slide my feet under it, lock my fingers behind my head and start doing crunches in order to warm up, touching my forehead on alternating knees. I follow up with fifty pushups, then repeat. Crunches and pushups. Crunches and pushups. I need to keep my mind off Sarah.
Finally I stand up, about to take another shower - icy cold this time - when someone bangs their fist on the door.
Pulling on the T-shirt, I pick the Taser up off the desk as I head for the door barefoot. There's no peephole. I click the door open with one hand while keeping the other behind me as if rearranging my T-shirt.
It's Cox, the giant Russian guy. My eyes are parallel with his neck.
"We need you in the conference room," he booms with a faint Russian accent, sizing me up. "Now."
"What's up?" I sit on the chair to pull on my socks and sneakers. The Taser is slim, much thinner than a regular gun. It doesn't hinder my movements at all. No need for me to take it out.
"Dunno. It's weird. You'll see."
I spring off the chair. "What's weird? Is it about Sarah?"
"I don't know, do I?" he motions with his shovel-like hand, "Follow me."
As we walk toward the stairs, he studies me out of the corner of his eye, then suddenly says,
"I remember you. I knew you when you were still knee high to a grasshopper."
"Meaning?" I ask, uncomprehending.
"I was in the team who kept an eye on your house. Or rather, your Dad's house."
"Which team do you mean-" then I understand. "Did you spy on me when I was still a kid?"
"That's what I'm saying, ain't I? That's when we just found out you were a dual. Your old man wasn't with us then. I was there when those shitheads attacked you. We hurried to the house and shot one of them. The others scrammed double quick. We followed them and I shot another one with these very hands. No dual can survive a bullet to his head. I used to be much faster then than I am now. I was young then; I'd just arrived in the States. I'm from Siberia originally. Then the General posted me as a bodyguard to your old man. For three years I followed him everywhere. So there you are."
As we walk up the stairs, I keep studying him inconspicuously. He's too big and healthy-looking to guess his age correctly but he seems to be about ten years or so older than I am.
"So you saved my life, then?" I ask. "I mean, all of you."
The burly Russian pauses, mulling over my question, as we walk along the corridor. "Not really. We did save your old man, though. The duals would have killed him like they killed your mother. But you... no idea whether you'd have lived or even whether they'd have kidnapped you that night. If they had, they'd have probably taken you with them. Then you would now probably be another self-righteous dual like all of them."
"I wouldn't," I say but he's not listening anymore.
Cox pushes the conference room door open. The General and Magna are already there, watching the three screens mounted on the wall.
All three show the same picture. A night street crowded with ambulances flashing their lights; crying and groaning people ambling about; police cars arriving with the wailing of sirens. A crime scene tape is fluttering in the wind.
A curious crowd is heaving restlessly behind the taped-off area. Some look scared and confused, others film the scene on their smartphones. Police cars are parked up to the right of a particular building's wide open doors.
I know this place. This is Oshumare club.
Ambulance workers are rushing in and out, rolling out gurneys with lifeless people hooked up to dangling IV drips.
The TV man trains his camera on a CBS presenter.
"We're back reporting live from the scene," the presenter rattles off. "About half an hour ago, in the very heart of Manhattan, the Oshumare club became the scene of
a massacre. According to the few eyewitnesses who still have the mental capacity to describe the incident, the club's patrons started a mass brawl which took over the main dance floor. Due to-" the presenter falters and steps aside, pointing at the mayhem in front of the club, "due to the exceptional nature of the event, both police and city officials refuse to comment. We do know, however, that the FBI has arrived at the scene."
The camera shifts again. A familiar face flashes into focus.
That's the club's manager. Can't remember his name now. Snobby bastard. Still, now he's a sorry sight. Two cops are dragging him out through the door by his armpits. He shakes his head and tries to kick them, mumbling something unintelligible, spitting and spewing blood. Is he on drugs?
The picture swerves as if someone bashed the cameraman's elbow. Then it's back to the studio which looks so neat and quiet compared to the anxious crime scene flashing with blues'n'twos. A female presenter offers the audience a quick run-down on the club and its owners "while we're waiting for more news from the scene of the tragedy".
"What's going on?" I ask.
On the General's sign, Magna sits down at the computer. The wall screens blink. One continues to stream the club scenes while the two others show two more TV studios, their presenters also reporting on the "Oshumare massacre".
Magna mutes the sound. The General turns to me,
"You heard it. I have a funny feeling that Adam just might be behind this."
"You do?" I ask. "This club is where Sarah and I got the files from Stier. That's where you attacked us and wiped our memories. Of course he's behind it! What exactly happened there?"
"Nobody knows anything yet. There's very little information to go on. Buffalo has his man working in the police department. I'm sure he'll contact us soon. Then we'll know a bit more. Apparently, customers just went for each other's throats for no reason whatsoever."
He must have read something in my stare because he shakes his head, "No, Chris, it wasn't us. And in any case, this isn't how the neural suppressor works. This," he points at the screens, "is something totally different."
"That's exactly how your suppressor worked for me and Sarah though."
"Your reactions were extremely uncommon. Normally, all it does is it zones people out."
"Okay. Let's presume it's Vector's work. Why would he do it? And why there? Sarah and I chose this club at random. I wonder if... But of course! The files!"
"The files? What do you mean?"
"Remember the files you gave to Andy Hill? I copied them to my phone. There was a very interesting report there, about some rioting in a military mental hospital. Not just any rioting: according to the report, that was a massacre. Just like this one."
"Not really," the General says. "According to our source, the mental patients were much better organized. At the very least, they didn't turn on each other. Still, there are some similarities. There's one more thing: the disorganized fighting which Sarah saw in the lab. According to her, it was Adam who told the test subjects to fight each other. So it just might be the same here..."
"It's a dress rehearsal. Does that mean he can control crowds from the comfort of his tower?"
Before the General can reply, Buffalo strides into the room, pressing a headphone to his ear. In his other hand he's holding a device with a small screen which looks like a children's game console.
"Are you sure?" he asks in the microphone while walking around the desk toward us. "Okay. Get on with it. Shit!"
He stops between me and the General. "I have two bits of news for you. Brownsville gangs seem to be on the move. They're concentrating in the area around Hegeman Avenue. Armed but not aggressive. The police have only just realized what's going on. They had their hands full with the Oshumare massacre."
"What's that got to do with Adam?" I ask. "Is he planning some rioting here too?"
Buffalo ignores me completely. He turns his back on me, then continues to report, "I made arrangements to tighten security. Unfortunately, we don't have enough staff. Most our men are either watching Hermetis HQ or are away in Minnesota with Brana Sr."
He paused. "Now, the second piece of news. Magna, I want you to check this email," he gives her an address and a password. "This is the mailbox my man in the police department uses to contact me. Anything there?"
"A letter," she says. "And an attachment. A short video."
"Play it for us, will you?"
Once again we stare at the screens.
"This is a fragment of the club's indoor CCTV footage. My man didn't have the time to compress a bigger one. According to him, it shows some interesting details."
The central screen blinks. A black and white footage of a dance floor comes into focus.
People are fighting desperately, clawing and punching each other, using their own fists and feet and everything they can lay their hands on. A few bodies lie lifelessly on the floor.
The fact that there's no sound makes the scene even more frightening. They look like a troop of apes on mind-altering drugs. I can almost hear them screaming and groaning, hear the snapping of chairs and the thudding of punches.
A countdown in the corner of the screen counts the seconds left. 00.47.32... 33... 34... The camera moves slowly, shifting the angle.
I clench my hands into fists. My nails dig deep into my palms.
She's walking along the wall away from the camera with her back to us. A petite girl with a dancer's swagger to her gait. He's walking next to her, his hand resting on her shoulder, his blond hair falling onto the collar of an expensive suit.
Two more men seem to cover them. I realize they must be Trace and Job.
In the heat of the unfolding massacre these four seem to be invisible to the crowd, as if protected by a power shield. No one's even trying to get closer to them, let alone fight them.
The group walks toward the emergency exit. The girl casts a brief glance back before exiting. For a split second, I stare at Sarah's face.
Even the black and white picture can't conceal the doll-like dead sheen of her eyes.
The footage stops at 00.48.42.
"He's controlling her!" I manage.
"What's that supposed to mean?" the General says through clenched teeth. For the first time his face shows some semblance of emotion. He's close to furious. "Why did no one report Adam leaving the building?"
"I don't understand it, either," Buffalo appears confused. "Our men reported several people and cars leaving the premises. None of the descriptions match Adam nor the girl."
"He's controlling her," I repeat. "I can tell by the expression on her face."
"Bullshit," Buffalo snaps. "A carrier is unable to control another carrier with the same ability. It never happened before."
"It has now," I repeat. "Don't forget that Adam is stronger than most."
Buffalo reaches for his headphone, pressing it to his ear.
"General," I begin.
The door opens, letting in Diana and Ramiro.
"What's going on?" she asks.
"I have an update," Buffalo announces for everyone to hear. "The three gangs reported earlier are heading for Brownsville. Also... damn! Adam Vector has just left the Hermetis building via the front entrance, accompanied by the girl and four bodyguards. They're heading north in two cars."
No one says a word, digesting the news. Magna is the first to speak,
"But we've just seen Adam and the girl leave the club... and no one reported them back..."
"Well, they must have come back the same way as they left the building. I'd love to know how! And now they got out again, heading- where? Magna, give me the city map."
The US map on the wall begins to blink, zooming into NYC.
"What's that in the north?" I ask. "The Triborough Bridge?"
Magna taps the keyboard. The bright blue line of the cars' route appears on the map.
"The bridge?" Buffalo says. "Is he coming to see us? Or..."
Cox shrugs. "The airport."
"Of course! That's where he's heading! But how did he do that? Twice he escaped our surveillance. Three times, even, if you count his return trip from the club. And now he leaves the building in full view! Why?"
"Maybe it didn't work this time," Diana offers. "Something might have prevented them from leaving the building unnoticed. In any case, why did they need to go back to Hermetis if they left again almost straight away? If Adam decided to travel, it would be logical to head for the airport directly from the club."
"That's if he wanted to travel," Buffalo points out. "We still don't know what they want with the airport. General, Sir? What if we- Oh, excuse me."
Once again he presses his hand to his ear, listening. "The gang units seem to be moving up on our base."
Ramiro cusses in Spanish. Cox too mutters something. All eyes are on the General.
After a pause, he says, "We need to intercept Adam's car. What's with the surveillance drones?"
"They keep feeding us the picture," Buffalo turns a knob on the console without taking his eyes from the monitor. "If we leave now, we just might make it."
"Right. I'll need you here. This gang meet is only a decoy. Adam thinks it might tie us up. Diana, Ramiro, Magna, Cox, get in the car. You are to intercept Adam's car and eliminate him."
"Don't kill Sarah!" I scream. "He's controlling her, don't you understand? It's not her fault!"
"Diana, you're in charge," the General continues. "Chris will go with you. I don't want any conflict between you. Give him a gun. Keep us constantly posted. Buffalo will feed you the car's coordinates."
"Should we try and capture him alive, maybe?" Diana's voice rings with doubt.
"Listen, if he's capable of mass control like he did with those guardians in the lab, I don't think it's a good idea. Much safer to just take him out. And as for his new carrier..." the General gives me a long look, "very well, Chris, we'll keep our part of the deal. She should live. Diana, make sure the girl doesn't get hurt. Do what you can. Dismissed!"
* * *
There're about a dozen cars in the parking lot behind the old factory. A few of them are blue Fords, carbon copies of the one that waited for me by my father's house, the one rammed by the bearded truck driver.