Gemini Cell: A Shadow Ops Novel (Shadow Ops series Book 4)

by Myke Cole

  But he felt his single-minded command of his limbs for the first time since he’d died, looked at Nightshade’s face, looking almost as if the man slept, and realized that he had to ask the questions now. The alternative crouched in the darkness beside him, reduced but present, alert and ready for his moment.

  More, he had to have answers that mattered, had to weigh them himself. He sniffed the rosewater in the air, stronger than ever, and thought of Sarah. The whole world told you who to be, Schweitzer thought. Wife, mother, homemaker. You gave them the finger, took what you wanted, and made something better than they’d ever imagined.

  He had to be like Sarah, whose artistry had shaped his own. Death had only raised the bar. He had to be better.

  He saw the pickets long before they saw him. They lay on their bellies, covered by dried bushes, heaps of rubble and tumbleweeds masking the barrels of their .50 caliber long guns. Their spotters crouched beside them, eyes fixed to their field glasses, motionless as stones. Schweitzer could hear the buzzing of the drone miles above him. Perhaps it had his position now, was relaying it to the spotters. Perhaps it was still searching for him, pinging his tracker uselessly.

  The helo was a lump behind them, rotors folded and covered with camouflage netting. He could sense Jawid now, the spicy musk of his magic rising as Schweitzer approached. Schweitzer wondered if the pickets would fire on him, decided that his utter lack of stealth would put them as much at ease as men that vigilant ever were.

  We see you, Jawid sent when Schweitzer was practically on top of them. Had his own faculties been so weak in life? Could an enemy have gotten so close to him without being spotted? He remembered the lopsided fight on the tanker, Chang going down, his breathing as rough and shallow as Nightshade’s. Maybe he had gotten so used to fighting as a dead man, he’d forgotten what it had been to fight as a live one.

  You see me? I thought I told you to look at the stars? Schweitzer sent back to him.

  He felt the pickets’ fear as the men rose, guns at the low ready, and advanced to him, postures so alert he thought they might fire their weapons if he so much as sneezed. He didn’t envy them their uncertainty, their hyperconscious mortality. It was a thing about life he would never miss.

  He stepped out of the shadows, the starlight washed over his bare face, and the men froze, horror and the resulting tangled decision plain in the trembling muzzles of their weapons.

  His helmet, he remembered with a start. It was gone.

  Jawid, Schweitzer sent, you might want to call off your dogs before they punch more holes in me.

  Ninip made a weak flail toward attacking them, easily slapped aside. For a moment, Schweitzer saw himself as they must see him, stepping out from the shadows and laid plain in the starlight, ragged wound of a throat, horror of a face, contorted and stretched into a mockery of their own.

  Black pits, balls of silver flame in their depths.

  Even hard operators were human. This wasn’t a sight they’d been trained to process.

  They were taught as he had been: that it was better to be judged by twelve than carried by eight. When in doubt, shoot.

  Schweitzer lifted Nightshade’s body toward them, a peace offering. The gun muzzles rose.

  McIntyre jogged out of the darkness behind them. “Stand down, stand down.”

  He stopped short at the sight of Schweitzer’s face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Schweitzer tried to answer him, even a monosyllabic word of assurance, but his larynx was flayed now, and the wind whistled hollow from his throat, the sound of a teakettle on low boil.

  He knelt instead, laying Nightshade down as gently as he could, standing as Jawid and Eldredge joined them along with three more Americans in Pakistani uniforms. He watched Eldredge’s expression harden as he took in the horror on the operators’ faces, pointed an emphatic finger at the man lying in the dirt.

  “Why the hell is this man alive?” McIntyre asked, indicating Nightshade.

  “That is a very good question,” Eldredge added, looking meaningfully at Jawid.

  Tell Eldredge my throat is shot out. I can’t talk.

  Jawid only pointed.

  “Can’t talk, eh?” Eldredge asked. “Okay.” He turned to McIntyre. “Sergeant Major, I’m afraid you’ve just become privy to a special access program that is going to require some additional discretion on the part of your people.”

  McIntyre shook his head with the resigned disgust that Schweitzer had seen on Ahmad every time she shut out a contingency, focusing on the core tasks needed to get a job done. “I figured. That doesn’t change the fact that your man was supposed to push a button on this bitch. Instead, he is lying in front of me engaging in a repugnant behavior that looks suspiciously like breathing.”

  Eldredge smiled, turned to Schweitzer. “The sergeant major would like to know why you elected to capture the target you were sent to kill.”

  Tell him I got him intel, Schweitzer sent to Jawid.

  “Intelligence,” the Sorcerer said, his eyes never leaving Schweitzer, his face taut with shock.

  “This fucker isn’t going to talk”—McIntyre gestured at Nightshade—“and we already know anything he’d tell us. We needed him put down.”

  So, put him down, then, Schweitzer sent to Jawid.

  “He says then you should shoot him,” the Sorcerer translated.

  McIntyre looked at Schweitzer, his eyes appraising now. “You are one ugly motherfucker.”

  Schweitzer reached down and grabbed the soft webbing between the liquid cells that covered his crotch, squeezed.

  Eldredge laughed, and McIntyre threw up his hands. “This is your problem, Eldredge,” he said, heading back to the helo. “You handle it.”

  Eldredge stepped close, traced his fingers along the ragged edge of the hole in Schweitzer’s neck. “This is going to take some work to patch up. Don’t think we’ll be able to get your speech back either, not all the way.”

  That’s fine, Schweitzer sent to Jawid. It’s not like any of you are particularly stimulating conversationalists.

  Jawid translated, and Eldredge laughed again. “You’re amazing, Jim. In all my time on this program, I have never seen one of our Operators so . . . so human.”

  What were the rest of them like?

  Eldredge responded to Schweitzer, answering Jawid’s question. “The rest of them were . . . the more recently deceased side of the pairing was weaker. The jinn had more control.”

  All SEALs?

  “Not all, but all of them pipe hitters like you. A few of them only lasted minutes before the jinn won out.”

  Schweitzer turned to Ninip. You hear that, buddy? This time, the good guys win.

  Jawid translated, and Schweitzer waved his hands.

  “You’re talking to Ninip.” Eldredge nodded. “I know. How’s he . . . handling all this?”

  He’s unhappy, but we seem to have reached an understanding.

  Eldredge stepped back, apparently satisfied with his inspection of Schweitzer’s wound. “So, it’s you who wins out. That’s never happened before.”

  What do I win?

  Eldredge paused, shrugged. “You get to go on. That’s something isn’t it?”

  It’s not a whole lot. Who is this guy? Why did you send me to kill him?

  “We didn’t send you. We sent a new entity that is a combination of you and Ninip. And the jinn was the only part who did his job.”

  Not good enough.

  “And what if I don’t tell you?”

  Maybe I’ll fucking kill you. Maybe I’ll head back to the FOB and kill everyone in it. Ninip would like that. Indeed, the jinn stirred at the words. Jawid’s eyes widened at that. He took a step backward, the fear scent thickening.

  Eldredge only snorted. “You’re not going to do that, Jim.”

  How the hell do you know? The que
stion was genuine, Schweitzer’s curiosity piqued by the fact that Eldredge was absolutely right.

  “Because you broke into a hallway and faced down a flamethrower to save a complete stranger. Because you spared this scumbag even when you’d been expressly ordered to kill him. Because you’re a killing machine who wants to read books and visit his family’s grave.

  “Because you’re a good guy, Jim. And somehow, that makes you different. Somehow, that makes you stronger. It may make you the most powerful asset this program has ever produced.

  “I have to get you back to the US yesterday. We’re out of here just as soon as I make sure this particular band of brothers understands the importance of keeping their fucking mouths shut.”

  Why?

  “You’re something new,” Eldredge said. “I have to understand why.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  ON THE LAM

  The miles disappeared beneath spinning tires. The landscape grew steadily more rural as Sarah angled northwest, her GPS instructed to avoid highways at all cost. She flicked her eyes to it as much as she dared, alternating glances between the tiny screen, the road, and the rearview mirror, with its view of Patrick, sleeping fitfully in the backseat.

  She used to love driving, letting her subconscious navigate the roads, the gentle vibration of the motor massaging her, her conscious mind free to think and plan, to draw sketches in her brain that she would later commit to paper. Now she focused entirely on the task at hand, ensuring she wasn’t followed, that where she was headed wasn’t obvious.

  Jim had taught her the basics of countersurveillance, how to make and shake tails, more as a fun exercise than because of any real need, and now she was grateful. She kept to five miles over the speed limit, generally meandering toward her goal, doubling back from time to time. The trick was to obscure her route without seeming like she was obscuring her route. Jim had told her that it was a balancing act that you could never know if you had gotten right. She stopped once to refill her tank, being sure to pay with cash. She always kept a hundred-dollar bill Scotch-taped to the back of her library card for emergencies. Jim had teased her about it, saying it was a waste of money, but again, she was glad of it now. That money should see her to Peg’s. Just barely, but enough.

  She picked up her cell phone to call her sister, then dropped it onto the seat beside her. A moment later she picked it up and turned it off, set it down. A moment after that she picked it up again, pulled the battery out, stuffed it all in the glove compartment. She didn’t know if she could be tracked by her phone, but it stood to reason that she could. Better not to risk it. Peg would be surprised but pleased to see her.

  You’re being paranoid, she thought. You have no reason to believe you’re being targeted. But she thought of Ahmad’s cool tone, of her insistence that they meet. Her gut churned with terror, her blood racing as if the cells themselves were crying out in warning. They had killed Steve. They were going to kill her, too. She knew it in her bones.

  Just like she knew Jim was alive.

  The certainty shook her, as concrete as the metal frame of the car around her, as the pressure of the dark sky. Jim was alive. He was alive, and he was searching for her.

  My God. I am going crazy.

  Fine. If she was crazy, then she was crazy. It was her they wanted. Patrick was too little to say anything to anyone and be believed. She would leave him with Peg, then . . . and then she had no idea. Get a tent, a pack, flee into the forests of West Virginia. Live on trail mix until she figured everything out. It was a terrible idea, but she didn’t have any others just now.

  She glanced in the rearview at Patrick again, saw the glowing bands from the lights along the highway striping his pale cheeks. Rage surged in her. They won’t hurt him. I won’t let them. She recalled the canvas-cutting knife twisting in her hands as she plunged it into the man’s throat, the stubby wooden handle suddenly slick with his blood. She would get a gun. Jim had taken her shooting, ensured she knew her way around the full range of options, short and long, shotguns and carbines and high-caliber pistols. They might be SEALs, killers of long experience with the force of authority and technology that could make a man into something more.

  But she was a mother protecting her son. She would take at least one of them with her.

  The night stretched on, and she calmed, the rhythm of the road giving her some small measure of peace. And with it came the first gentle touches of fatigue. The dividing lines striped her vision, forming a blinking, hypnotic pattern that lulled and distracted. After another hour she found her eyelids growing heavy. She needed to stop. She needed to sleep, if only for a few hours.

  She couldn’t use a hotel. They would need ID, a credit card; they would be suspicious of a cash payment. Hadn’t Homeland Security instituted some kind of requirement? She was too tired to remember. They’d have to sleep in the car. Patrick was passed out, snug in his car seat; it was for her to make do. Pull over in the middle of the woods? Risky. She needed a semipopulated space. A small town where the one cop was asleep but where she’d have recourse if some lunatic happened upon her.

  She turned off the road and headed to where the lines thickened a bit on her GPS map. After another fifteen minutes, she found what she was looking for, a wider road, mostly gravel and broken asphalt winding through a section of sparse trees, narrow trunks showing the land had been logged just a few years back. She could make out two farmhouses in the distance, dark and silent, abandoned for all she knew. Still, the evidence of human habitation comforted her.

  She stopped the motor, killed the lights, and cracked the window ever so slightly. She pushed the seat all the way back, looking up through the sunroof at the stars, so intensely clear this far from any light pollution.

  Jim, I’m here. She pushed her thoughts out up to them. I’m here, and I need you. She pictured the thought as a tossed piece of paper, caught in a wind, tumbling as it blew, pushed along by the breath of those stars, across the long miles until it reached him.

  The certainty gripped her again, so strong that her chest tightened and her breath came in hitching sobs. He had heard her. He was alive and he was coming. I’m crazy. I’ve lost my mind, and I’ll never get it back. But it was a comforting madness, and she took refuge in it as she let the chorus of chirping insects and peeping frogs lull her into a shallow and restless sleep.

  —

  Sarah sank into a kind of wary half-life. She was aware of her closed eyelids, of the deeper and slower rhythm of her breathing. Her muscles were relaxed, but her senses wouldn’t rest. Her hearing reported the night sounds, pattering of tiny feet on the unpaved road around her car as opossums and raccoons investigated, drawn by the unfamiliar smells. Her other senses worked as well. She could smell the pungent odor of gasoline, the rich, wet decay of the woods around her. She could feel the firm pressure of the car seat against her back and shoulders.

  Jim had described it before, explained that on some of the more grueling ops, he’d literally learned to sleep while standing up, even while walking. She’d never understood until now, aware of the weird dichotomy of her body simultaneously at rest and prepared for danger.

  Which was why she noticed as the pattering of animal feet silenced, was replaced by a steady, heavier crunch.

  Footsteps.

  Sarah resisted the impulse to bolt upright. She glanced down. She’d put the keys in the well beside the driver’s seat, closed the cover. She’d have to move, make noise to open it. She cursed herself for not having the foresight to leave them in the ignition. Stupid stupid stupid. Stop it. That won’t help.

  She satisfied herself with reaching one hand beside the seat, getting a firm grip on her steering wheel lock. It was a heavy and unwieldy club, but it was all she had. Easy. You don’t go there unless you have to. If you can get out of this with a simple excuse, so much the better. Maybe whoever it is will go away.

  But they didn’
t go away. The crunching drew closer, finally stopped just outside her window. She heard a click, light flooded in.

  No sense in staying still now, she flung her arm over her eyes, giving a moan that she hoped sounded groggy, tensing her grip on the club.

  The light moved away. “Sorry, ma’am.” A man’s voice. Older. Kindly. She relaxed a fraction.

  “Whatcha doing on the road here?” Her eyes were already readjusting to the darkness, and she made out a man’s face, jowly and long, with a neatly trimmed beard. Something dark and peaked covered his head, a baseball cap, she guessed.

  Patrick began to stir, moan. “Sorry,” she said, opening the door and pushing it outward, hoping to force him to move away from the vehicle.

  It worked. He took three steps backward as she got out, relieved to find he was stooped and weak-looking, of a height with her. If it came to it, she was confident she could take him without too much trouble. His right hand held the flashlight. His left was empty.

  She relaxed a bit more. “Sorry,” she said again. “I was planning to drive straight through to my friend’s place. Tired kinda snuck up on me. Was just planning to take a catnap and drive on.”

  He nodded, said nothing. Patrick began to blink, started crying. She unbuckled his straps and gathered him into her arms, swaying gently. “What are you doing up so late?” she asked.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the farmhouse up the hill behind him. “My place,” he said. “You should know better than to sleep in a car on a road out here with your boy in the back. Ain’t right.”