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

by Myke Cole

  I can’t see anyone . . . Schweitzer sent to Jawid, heard the Sorcerer translate to Eldredge behind him.

  “He’s there, trust me,” Eldredge said. “He likes to . . .”

  The heavy door reverberated as something huge and dark slammed into it. Schweitzer’s augmented reflexes sent him leaping back, knocking Eldredge into Jawid. He heard them cry out, but it was as faint as Ninip’s voice, receding in the spectrum of sounds as his hearing shifted to focus on the space in front of him, scanning for threats.

  The jinn was pushing again, and Schweitzer noticed his claws were out, his jaw hanging lower, tongue lolling, fangs lengthening. It wasn’t much of a struggle to rein Ninip back in, but that didn’t mean it was effortless, and Schweitzer froze as he turned his attention toward forcing Ninip back into the sliver of space he’d marked out for him.

  By the end of that moment, the thing that hit the door had begun battering at it. Schweitzer could hear the shriek of something sharp being dragged along the metal between each blow.

  Ninip was trembling. The jinn flashed thought after thought to Schweitzer, a tangled, semicoherent string of images. Excitement over meeting another like him. The thrill of an even contest. Schweitzer opening the door. Schweitzer tearing it off its hinges.

  Schweitzer pushed the jinn away and turned his focus back to the door.

  It thumped, rattled.

  I don’t think it’s going to hold, he sent to Jawid.

  It will hold, he will calm in a moment, the Sorcerer came back.

  And if he doesn’t? You’re going to incinerate us all?

  If he doesn’t, we will freeze him solid. We have done it before. He will thaw.

  But true to Jawid’s words, the battering was already slowing, possibly as the man inside the body wrestled with the jinn, got the upper hand, or as the jinn gave up the effort as futile. The bangs against the door came less frequently, and finally stopped altogether, and the thing in the room moved away from the slot and into view.

  There was little left of the man he once was. Rough, raised purple ridges covered in baseball stitching showed where both arms and a leg had been severed and reattached. Metal reinforcing cables protruded from the flesh, snaked along a few inches, and disappeared below the skin again. Another Frankenstein line of stitching formed a neat X over his stomach.

  He loped, squatting deep on his haunches, strong thighs supporting him. His hands were raised above his head, long claws extending almost to his shoulders, fanning out like an umbrella stripped of its fabric. His teeth were comically long, slicing through his lips, which hung in ribbons between them. His jaw nearly touched his navel, gray tongue spread out on the floor like a carpet runner.

  Tattoos covered him. Death had grayed his dark skin, but it was still difficult to make out the black lines of the ink. Schweitzer could see an Air Force logo on his thigh, a scrolling banner on the opposite leg wrapped around, but Schweitzer could make out the words, REVERES HONOR. A tattoo on his arm was the brightest and easiest to make out, the background marred by the stitching and cabling that held the arm in place. A beautiful woman was done in the likeness of a Benin noble, heavy iron circlets covering her long neck and graceful wrists. A pectoral covered her breasts. Her dreadlocked hair was piled in a tall, iron crown. Her arms cradled two children, their faces done in such realistic detail that Schweitzer knew the tattoo artist had taken them from life. Three names were written below: MALIKA, COLIN, WINNIE.

  His family. The man this monster had once been.

  Cam’s tattered body crouched at the back of his cell, face turned intently toward the door, every muscle tensed to spring.

  His eyes were gone. In the black pools of the sockets burned two marble-sized flames. Bright gold.

  No. There were threads of silver in the fire, like the gouts of blue that entered the flames from a propane tank teetering on the edge of empty.

  What’s that?

  Jawid didn’t need him to explain. That is the man he once was, losing to the jinn he soon will be. He heard Jawid repeating the conversation to Eldredge, a low buzz in the background, insects at play.

  That’s what’s happening to me?

  “No, Jim,” Eldredge answered. “That’s what should be happening to you. Jinn are thousands of years old. That much time beyond life makes them incredibly strong. This is another reason why we pair them with hard operators. They are the few people with the mettle to hang on to some shred of themselves in the face of such power.”

  I’m more than a shred.

  “Much more. I want to understand why.”

  Schweitzer lifted an arm, pointed at Cam’s face, which weaved to track his finger like a cat tracking a mouse. What happens when his eyes turn all gold?

  “Then he is gone, Jim. Then what little Cam is left will be lost.”

  And you can still use him?

  “In extreme circumstances, maybe. In most cases, they have to be destroyed.”

  Why?

  “They’re animals, Jim. If you have a dog you know is capable of writing poetry, but all it does is bite you, you don’t wait around for it to spit out a sonnet.

  “You put it down.”

  —

  Schweitzer returned to his cell, sat in the corner of his cell.

  Eldredge observed him through the transparent metal pane after the door had shut. Jawid leaned against the corridor wall behind him.

  “So, you’ve met Cam. What do you think?” Eldredge asked.

  I told you, no questions while I’m in here.

  “Oblige me, Jim. I think I’ve been meeting my part of the bargain.”

  That’s true. Okay, one question. And not about Cam. I’m still processing.

  “Okay . . .” Eldredge paused, thinking. “Why do you sit?” he finally asked.

  Huh?

  “You don’t need to sit. Your body doesn’t feel fatigue. I notice you doing this a lot. Things you don’t need to do: Nodding or shaking your head. Looking at people even though you’re talking to us through Jawid . . . living things.”

  Schweitzer thought a moment before answering. Sarah forced me to read a comic book once, about a masked freedom fighter who unseated a totalitarian government. They made a movie out of it.

  “Comic books don’t seem your style.”

  I loved comic books. I was just more into superheroes. Anyway, Sarah always got what she wanted, so I read it.

  “And? You liked it?”

  Yeah, I did. There was a scene where a prisoner passed a letter to another. “It is the very last inch of us,” she said of integrity, “but within that inch we are free.”

  There’s so little left of me that’s human, Eldredge. Sitting is my last inch.

  “There’s more humanity in you than many living men, Jim,” Eldredge said. “Good night.” He left, Jawid at his heel.

  Schweitzer sat for a long time, thinking about Cam and Eldredge and humanity. His last inch. It would be good to read that comic again, to see if the lines were as he remembered them. He stood, reached out to Jawid to ask the Sorcerer to request the comic . . .

  . . . and found the Sorcerer was already opening the link to him.

  That link was a tunnel connecting Ninip-Schweitzer and Jawid, allowing communication to travel both ways. Jawid was doing his level best to sound casual. Schweitzer had heard it at least a dozen times before in brush passes and back-alley midnight meets with intel contacts. They were inevitably men who had gone rogue for money or some misplaced belief in redemption. Always, they quickly discovered they were in the company of genuine killers with no way out but forward. Always they affected the same casual tone. Always they failed to hide the terror beneath it. When it came to killing, a man could only harden himself so much. There was something deeper that helped you pull the trigger when you had to, and to forget about what the round did after. Some people had it,
most didn’t.

  We are almost ready for your next run, the Sorcerer said. The link connecting them was more powerful than speech, conveyed emotion with a clarity that no expression or tone could match. Jawid’s fear was as thick as summer fog, riding on a current of desperation so keen that Ninip stirred, reaching back up the link toward the Sorcerer.

  Schweitzer felt the jinn extending himself, his presence reaching out for the emotions that filtered down the link from Jawid. Ninip dipped into Jawid’s fear, coiling around it, using it as Schweitzer had used Sarah’s rosewater scent, a path that could be followed back to its source. Schweitzer felt Jawid recoil from Ninip’s exploration, and he reached out to push Ninip back. The jinn resisted briefly, but Schweitzer was much too strong for him now.

  What’s the op? Schweitzer asked.

  It is back to the Baluch, Jawid said. Near to where you were . . .

  I know where it is, Jawid. I’ve been there enough. I thought I made myself clear. This is a partnership now. You don’t call the op and send me. We call it together. That’s how this goes.

  The Sorcerer was silent.

  Where’s Eldredge? Schweitzer asked. Get him back in here.

  He is coming soon, Jawid said. I wanted to talk with you first.

  The Sorcerer’s fear traveled down the link with such strength that Schweitzer felt buffeted by it. There were two ways to deal with a frightened man, go nuclear and cow him, or go easy and make him feel safe. Both were dependent on the subject’s personality, both carried risks, and both were disastrous if you guessed wrong as to what the other person needed.

  Schweitzer made his choice. You can tell me, Jawid. I’m not about to go tattling on you to Eldredge.

  The Sorcerer hesitated. Schweitzer felt the moment balance on a knife’s edge. Either Jawid would shut the link and cut the connection, or he would talk.

  I know I can trust you, Jawid said. I am less sure about him.

  Ninip? Schweitzer asked. He’s done. He felt a pulse of anger from the jinn at that but no movement.

  I . . . wanted to talk to you, Jawid went on. We are both prisoners here.

  Schweitzer muffled his surprise. He could feel the vibration of the link that connected them, understood that as Jawid’s emotions were flowing to him, his were flowing in reverse. Was the Sorcerer as powerful as Ninip when the jinn was in control of their shared body? Ninip had been able to read Schweitzer’s thoughts and emotions with ease. He didn’t know if Jawid had the same ability. Schweitzer had only ever known the steady rhythm of their communication, Jawid faithfully translating until he faded into the background, Schweitzer barely noticing he was there.

  I can’t imagine that they’d want someone with your abilities having weekends off, Schweitzer said, hoping Jawid couldn’t see into Schweitzer’s mind, discover that Schweitzer was attempting to manipulate the Sorcerer into opening up.

  I am given my rest, Jawid said, but I am always watched.

  Schweitzer felt Jawid push his consciousness down the link between them, pressing into Schweitzer’s thoughts, trying to white out his vision so he could tell another of his picture stories. This time, Schweitzer pushed back, closing himself off and forcing Jawid to recoil back into himself.

  He felt the Sorcerer’s shock. Schweitzer was getting better at this whole being-dead thing.

  No, Schweitzer said. You don’t walk into my mind anymore. You want to tell me something, then tell me.

  I was going to show you my home, where they keep me.

  I’m sure it’s very nice.

  I have seen your home. Before the attack. From pictures, not from invading your mind. I swear it.

  I believe you. Schweitzer realized that he did believe him, that he could feel the honesty vibrating through the link that connected them. There was so much to learn about how this new unlife worked, about what he could do.

  I think we are the same this way, Jawid said. Denied family. You asked me about the girl you saw . . . in my mind, back in COP Garcia.

  You said that she was lost to you, that it was pointless to look over your shoulder.

  Schweitzer could feel Jawid’s embarrassment. Before the Talebs took me, I was promised, betrothed. I would be married now were I still in my homeland. I will never have her now, or the children that would have come of it. We have both lost loved ones.

  Schweitzer felt his anger spike at the comparison. He felt Jawid shrink from the rage resonating up the link to him. Schweitzer hauled on the emotion like a line, brought it in.

  Schweitzer calmed himself with an effort, then spoke. It’s not the same thing. I lost people I’d built a life with. You’re mourning a vision that might never have come to pass.

  Of course, I’m sorry. Schweitzer could feel Jawid’s anger giving the lie to his conciliatory words, mingled with disappointment. The Sorcerer wasn’t sorry. Jawid wanted something else out of this conversation.

  What was her name? Schweitzer asked. The girl you were betrothed to.

  Jawid’s shock resonated down the link. The Sorcerer clearly hadn’t been expecting the question. It took him a long time to answer. Anoosheh. She was called Anoosheh.

  You ever see her?

  I think I did, once. My father beat me for that.

  Schweitzer knew enough of Jawid’s culture to understand that seeing unmarried women was forbidden. Children could get away with it, but by the end of adolescence, a woman’s skin exposed to sunlight was treated like pure gold and toxic waste in equal measure.

  Beat you badly, huh? Schweitzer asked.

  I lived. Jawid’s voice was light, but Schweitzer could feel the pain in the memory.

  Why are you talking to me about this? Schweitzer asked. Can’t you . . . you know . . . talk to someone alive?

  They force me to talk to their psychologist, Jawid said. I meet her each week. She is kind.

  That help?

  She is . . . her questions . . . She is not seeking to help me. She is seeking to keep me calm. To know my intentions. To ensure that I keep working, that I do not flee.

  Schweitzer had been off to see the wizard enough to know that the psych docs’ open smiles and soft voices could never conceal their mission: to determine if you were still fit to keep the government’s secrets and to do its dirty work.

  You didn’t need magic to see that.

  My guards do not speak with me, Jawid went on. The analysts here do not even use their real names.

  Eldredge?

  Eldredge is . . . all that man does is work. I have never seen him sleep. I have never seen him gone from here for more than a few hours. He is a machine.

  So, you’ve got nobody to talk to. You want a buddy, is that it? Schweitzer asked, but he knew it wasn’t. The emotions traveling down the link told him that Jawid wanted something specific. He was feeling Schweitzer out.

  I thought . . . you are a father, Jawid said. I thought you would understand.

  I was a father, Schweitzer replied, and that’s why I do understand. Family is everything.

  And as Schweitzer said it, his own words rocked him.

  All those years, his pride in his profession, his commitment to his art. Lying beside Sarah as she drifted off to sleep, fearing that loving her would strip away all in the world that made him great.

  All of it possible because of her and Patrick. Her standing at the top of the stairs to her loft studio, grinning down at him. Patrick, before he could walk, seated in his pack and play, cooing and reaching. Each after action, Schweitzer marinating in the realization of what he’d done. What he’d accomplished. What he’d endured. Telling himself he was hard, that it didn’t matter, that he could shrug it off.

  It had been Sarah and Patrick, hadn’t it? Before Sarah, he had been strong by leaning on his brothers and sisters in the teams. And after, he’d leaned on her. Even as he’d told himself he was being strong
for her. His family was the foundation on which everything he’d achieved rested.

  Sarah and Patrick, always.

  Peter’s face flashed before him. Schweitzer remembered being chased by a dog as a little boy, running into his brother’s arms. Peter had swung him into the air and into safety. In a way, he’d never let him go. Proud of you, bro.

  That no person made it on their own was hammered into SEALs from the first day of training. They were a band, they were a team. They won together or they fell together. They left no man behind.

  Always leaning. Always.

  He’d never truly appreciated it until this moment. Now that family was utterly beyond him, he finally understood their significance.

  Family is everything, Schweitzer said again, and this time he let the emotion kindled by those words, his amazement at how much his family meant to him, reverberate up the link to the Sorcerer. He felt the emotion touch Jawid, envelop him. He felt Jawid respond to the feeling that he had never known, had always desired, savoring it much as Ninip savored fear and pain. This was a thing Jawid and Schweitzer shared, uniting them through the silent language that all men knew, the love of home and hearth and of the ones who came up with us.

  Jawid had wanted to know what it was to have a family of his own, and now he felt it through Schweitzer. The Sorcerer drowned in the sensation and dropped his guard entirely. The link between Schweitzer and Jawid opened wide, the fear momentarily dissipating and leaving the link as wide as a corridor, a tunnel between their two souls.

  Without knowing what he was doing, Schweitzer stepped into the link, pushed his presence up the channel of communication with Jawid, following the instincts of his new existence, flowing like water through the path of least resistance.

  Schweitzer found himself in two places at once. Half of him remained in his own corpse, locking Ninip firmly in place as the jinn leapt to follow him. The other half of Schweitzer’s consciousness passed up through the link and into Jawid’s consciousness.

  Jawid felt Schweitzer’s invasion of his inner space. The Sorcerer ripped himself from his reverie, his rapture shifting to anger, surprise, and panic. He pushed madly against Schweitzer, trying to force him back down the link that connected them.