“Enter,” a deep voice said.
San pushed the door open and found Daron and Eugene leaning against an oak desk.
“San!” Eugene said, crossing the room. He gripped his friend’s hand and embraced him in a one-armed hug. “I’m sorry to hear about Philip. I promise we’ll do whatever it takes to find him and bring him home.”
San nodded. “Thank you.”
“We have a unique opportunity,” Daron said, still leaning against the desk. “Katharos slipped up today. I think they meant to use Philip as leverage to draw the rest of you out. When your sister-in-law rushed back to give you the news, they tracked her. Luckily, we did too.”
“You tracked Susana to the campsite?” San asked.
Daron nodded. “When she called in to report the kidnapping, we transferred her call to one of our operatives.”
“Agent Ford,” San said.
Daron tilted his hand from side to side. “He’s not really an ‘agent,’ but yes. Once we were able to track her phone, we launched the helicopter. We already knew you were a target, and we’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this. We meant to capture the motorcyclist and bring him in for questioning, but Ford’s shot went high and hit him in the kidney.”
“Hitting a moving target from a helicopter isn’t easy,” Eugene said, shrugging. “It was an amazing shot either way.”
“In any case,” Daron continued, “Katharos made a mistake before the assassin ever arrived. In his rush to get you before you fled, he failed to avoid traffic and surveillance cameras. We were able to locate his home base, a small house in a suburban community.”
“We raided the house,” Eugene explained. “There were two suspected Katharos operatives inside, and we managed to take one of them alive.”
San’s eyes widened. “Do you think he knows where they’re keeping Philip?”
“Possibly,” Daron said. “He’s being transferred to one of our interrogation facilities now, but it might take days to get any information out of him.”
“Oh,” San said, his shoulders slumping.
“Look at it this way,” Eugene said, “as long as you’re alive, Katharos won’t harm Philip. Not if they can use him as bait.”
The thought disgusted San. Given the opportunity, he would gladly trade his life for Philip’s safety.
“But…” Daron cautioned, “hostage rescues can be tricky. Even if we find out where they’re keeping him, I can’t guarantee he’ll survive.”
San’s knees began to tremble. He took a few steps forward, then sagged into a chair next to Daron. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Eugene fixed a sympathetic gaze on San and said, “The best thing you can do is stay safe.”
San wrung his hands. He looked to Daron, who was stroking his chin.
“What is it?” San asked.
“There is someone we could trust with a hostage rescue like this…” Daron said.
San and Eugene both looked on expectantly.
“Jarrod Hawkins.”
Eugene scratched the back of his neck and turned away, having already dismissed the idea.
“But we don’t know where he is,” San said. “He’s been chasing criminals all over the planet. I haven’t heard from him in over a month.”
“That’s true,” Daron said, “but we know how to get a message out to him.”
San’s eyes lit up. “How?”
“He gets on social media every few days,” Daron explained. “He’s only on for a few seconds at a time, but it’s long enough for us to contact him.”
San deflated a little. “But he won’t listen. We tried to convince him to go after Emily before, and he ignored us. He doesn’t care about Katharos. He only cares about revenge against the prostitution ring that killed his family, and we have no idea where that might take him.”
“Africa,” Daron said. “We’ve tracked his web access to nearly a dozen locations, and I think we can convince him to come back. You can convince him to come back.”
Daron put a heavy hand on San’s shoulder and continued. “Jarrod is a killing machine. I’ve seen him in action before. But he has a soft spot for kids, and Katharos has your son. In my opinion, that puts them in Jarrod’s crosshairs.”
San nodded. “Even if that’s true, how can I convince him to travel halfway across the globe to help?”
“You’re the only one who can,” said Daron. “Jarrod’s a walking lie-detector, which also means he knows sincerity when he hears it. You’re the closest thing he has to a friend. If you send him a message, he’ll come running.”
“You think so?” San asked.
Daron shrugged. “I think it’s our best shot.”
San took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll do it. Just show me how.”
“A voice recording will be our best bet,” Daron said. Circling the desk, he reached into one of the drawers and removed a digital recorder. “Just push the red button and talk.”
San fumbled with the device, and sweat broke out on his forehead. The weight of the responsibility was immense—if he couldn’t convince Jarrod to come back, it might mean Philip’s death.
Eugene nodded toward the door and said, “We’ll give you some time alone.”
Daron, who was watching San with crossed arms, took the hint and followed Eugene out.
Alone in the office, San stood and began pacing. He closed his eyes, searching for the right words. Nothing came. How could he convince Jarrod, who was as much machine as he was man, to make an emotional decision? It would be illogical for him to abandon his mission, travel across an ocean, and risk his life to save Philip.
Pain spread up San’s forearm, and he realized he was clenching the recorder in a death grip. He closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do but beg for help, both from Jarrod and from God. Settling back into the chair, he bowed his head as if to pray, then pressed record.
“Please…” he began softly. “I need your help. I’m so afraid, and I’m so lost. They took my son from me. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead…I just know I want him back. I’m begging you, please save him. I have nothing to offer in return, but I can’t do it on my own.” Tears spilled onto his hands. “If I could, I would give my life for his. I would do anything to keep him safe. But I can’t. I don’t have a hope without You. Only You can save him.”
Sitting up, he opened his eyes and stared at the device’s microphone. His voice grew harder as he said, “Jarrod, someone abducted Philip. I know what you’re doing is important, and I would never ask if I thought there was another way. In a few days, there may be an opportunity for a hostage rescue, and you are the only person I trust to save him. Please, Jarrod, come back. I don’t want my son to die this way.”
25
The night wore on, and the clouds thickened until they could no longer bear their own weight. Rain pounded the forest as Jarrod stalked his prey. He had left Franco alone while he ventured into town and searched the local hospitals. He found the steel pressurized container attached to the ventilation system. The container had impressive anti-tampering measures, and it had taken Jarrod nearly twenty minutes to safely disarm it. Now, carrying the deadly cylinder, he was ready to finish his discussion with Franco. It wouldn’t take him long to recapture the man—the trail he had left was broad and painfully obvious, even in the darkness and rain.
Jarrod reached him a few minutes later. Franco was a pitiful sight, drenched in sweat and supporting himself with one trembling arm.
“What the hell did you do to me!” Franco yelled.
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” said Jarrod. It was obvious that Franco’s legs had been severed mid-thigh and bound with tourniquets.
Franco let out a grunt and collapsed. Exhausted, he lay with his face in rotting leaves, the heavy rain pounding his head.
Jarrod knelt and said, “It could be worse. Much worse. Cooperate and I’ll take you to a hospital.”
“I told you already,” Franco spat, “I don’t know a
nything. You’re wasting your time.”
Gripping Franco’s shoulder with a clawed hand, Jarrod lifted his victim off the ground and tossed him against a tree.
Franco coughed from the impact, spitting blood onto the forest floor. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, then felt a pinch. When he looked down, Jarrod was depressing the plunger on a hypodermic needle.
“What the bloody hell—”
“Broad spectrum antibiotics,” Jarrod interrupted. “It’ll keep you from succumbing to an infection, at least for a couple of days.”
Franco shut his eyes and let his head droop against the tree. “I’m telling you, I don’t know anything. Please, just put me out of my misery.”
“You said you’ve been to four bases. Where are the other three?”
With his eyes still shut, Franco listed off the locations. “Dublin, London, and Kremnica. That’s in Slovakia. But I was just a guard. A nobody. I didn’t have any authority until I got sent here.”
“You don’t know of any others?”
Franco thought for a moment, his eyes rolling around in his head. “That’s all I know for sure. I’ve heard rumors about a bigger base—Emperor’s palace.”
“Where is the emperor’s palace?”
Franco chuckled, but it came out as a wet cough. “Not ‘the emperor.’ Just ‘Emperor.’ It’s his name. And all I know is it’s in Siberia. Good luck finding it in that endless wasteland, you ugly bastard.”
Jarrod took the insult as a sign that Franco’s brain was functioning properly. Apparently, removing Franco’s limbs had the desired psychological impact—his anger and bitterness overrode the fear from the evening before. Jarrod wouldn’t need to use the epinephrine he brought from the hospital for at least a few hours.
“What do you call yourselves?” Jarrod asked.
Franco took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, he cracked a half-smile and said, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Refusing to play along, Jarrod said, “It’s just a name. No one is going to punish you for telling me. Besides, I doubt very much they know where you are right now. I can check you into the hospital under a false name and no one has to know what you told me. Otherwise, I could leave you in the woods to die a slow and agonizing death, or turn you in to the police.”
Franco’s eyes shot open for a flash, then closed again.
“Interesting,” Jarrod said, leaning so close his armored face nearly touched Franco’s nose. “Why are you afraid of the police? A brave man like you, throwing insults despite having no legs…”
After a long pause, Franco said, “We’re called Katharos.”
“Why are you afraid of the police?”
“I’m not. It’s…It’s Empress. If I get taken to jail, she’ll know. And I’ve heard stories about what she does if you get caught.”
“Go on.”
Franco swallowed. “I heard she takes you in for her experiments. Sticks probes in your brain and turns you into something else, like a machine that can’t think for itself. I’d rather die than end up as a toaster oven.”
Jarrod’s mind raced, connecting thousands of data points from previous interrogations and overheard conversations. Only one person fit the description of Empress—Emily Roberts.
Less than two months prior, Jarrod had discovered her betrayal, though he failed to stop her in time. She had brainwashed him, making it impossible for him to even think of doing her harm. She also hardwired in a weakness to a synthetic chemical compound. If he breathed in the compound, it triggered dementia, hallucinations, and eventually paralysis. After manipulating him for months, she used the chemical to capture him, then tried to kill him by dumping him in the ocean.
It was the closest he had ever been to death. His dense body sank like a rock for hundreds of feet before he regained control of his limbs. He would have suffocated, but the saltwater washed through his mouth and nose, cleansing him of the mind-altering poison. When he finally broke the surface and gasped for air, he was faced with another problem—the rapid depressurizing created nitrogen gas bubbles in his bloodstream. Each tiny bubble of nitrogen was as dangerous as an embolism. The bends, as it was commonly known, left him sick. He inflated his armor to create a makeshift life vest, then floated on the water for hours before he fully recovered. It took another three days to reach one of Virginia’s barrier islands, where he hid and recuperated before returning to civilization.
Roberts had nearly killed him with the neurotoxin, but failing to do so had made him stronger. His mind broke through mental blocks Hillcrest had intentionally left behind, giving him unprecedented control over his enhancements. And they would help him crack Franco wide open.
“You are afraid of becoming a machine?” Jarrod whispered. “A passenger in your own body?”
Franco recoiled. “Of course. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Then perhaps you should reconsider your loyalty,” Jarrod growled, his voice deepening to a low rumble. “Because I am capable of more than your empress could even imagine. You are afraid of being a machine? I will make you a puppet.”
As Franco fought to understand Jarrod’s words, a black hand clamped down on his mouth. Tendrils grew out of the hand, probing his nose and reaching down his throat. He shook violently as hundreds of worm-like appendages entered his sinuses and passed through his tear ducts. He tried to scream, but the things coated his vocal cords and plugged his airways.
“Soon,” Jarrod said, “I will penetrate your brain and turn you into my slave. You will no longer be your own, unable to speak or move without my permission. It’s a pity; I really thought you would be more informative.”
Franco convulsed, and his eyes rolled back into his head.
Jarrod didn’t have the ability to possess his captive. It was all a ruse, but it served its purpose. He let Franco’s imagination run wild for several long seconds, then withdrew the tendrils.
“P—please!” Franco begged, drawing hoarse breaths. “I’ll tell you anything! Just stay out of my head!”
Jarrod’s voice returned to normal. “Good. Why is Katharos enabling terrorists?”
“It’s all part of Emperor’s big p-p-plan. He needs to…stir the pot.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It has something to do with global defense spending. Humanitarian aid or something.”
Jarrod sensed the man’s honesty, and his ignorance. Franco really didn’t know what the big picture was.
“Let’s talk about something you do know,” Jarrod said. “Describe the bases you’ve been to, starting with Dublin. Do not try to hide anything from me, and do not leave anything out.”
Franco nodded, took a deep breath, and began revealing every secret he knew.
Philip Torres ran his fingers along the concrete wall as he took laps around the small room. His fingertips grazed a steel box, and he stopped. He hadn’t checked to see if there was anything inside since he woke up. Gripping the box’s smooth handle, he pulled straight out. There was a plastic tray inside that held his lunch—a hamburger, fries, baked beans, a plastic fork, and a napkin.
He sighed and took the tray to his bed. Growing up on action films and violent games, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to be taken captive by terrorists. He had never imagined this. It was too quiet, too hospitable. It was almost as if he was serving out a prison sentence. He hadn’t even seen his captors. In the van, a man covered him with a blindfold and held him in some sort of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu stranglehold. Nobody drugged him or tied him up, they just brought him to this building and locked him in a little room. So far, no bearded terrorists had tried to beat, berate, or behead him. There was a stainless-steel toilet and sink in the corner that he could use whenever he wanted, a soft bed, and a stack of paperback novels near the door. Food and water showed up in the steel box every few hours, and it even tasted pretty good. The only problem was how boring it all was.
And he had no idea why he was there. He wondered if he had been
abducted by terrorists after all. Maybe the federal government thought he was a spy. But that didn’t make sense. After all, his dad had a crazy high security clearance. The government was probably watching their house all the time, or at least listening to their phone calls. They would know he wasn’t a spy.
Biting the end off of a fry, he took one more look around the room. It had to be terrorists or the mob or something.
Eyeing the books in the corner, he set the tray aside and brushed the salt from his hands. He picked up one of the books and returned to his bed. It was old, with yellowing pages. The blocky title declared it to be a translated copy of The Odyssey. For a moment, he wondered if there could be hidden clues inside that would help him escape, but he quickly dismissed the notion. This wasn’t a movie, and there was no way out. For whatever reason, somebody wanted him to stay exactly where he was, and there was nothing he could do about it. Munching another fry, he resigned to his circumstances and began to read.
26
Geoffrey Pierce poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler, drained it in one gulp, and refilled it. He had just received a call from a very dangerous man, someone he had hoped never to hear from again. Now, more than eight months after Pierce had quit his job as lead engineer at Hillcrest, it seemed his past had finally caught up with him.
Pierce shivered at the dark memories and swallowed another mouthful of the forty-year single malt whisky. He had left Hillcrest shortly after Jarrod Hawkins escaped. He wasn’t exactly afraid of Jarrod, but he didn’t want to remain in the dark halls of the underground facility while a human super-weapon was on the loose, either. The day after the escape, Dean Wagner had assured him that the threat had been eliminated. Pierce didn’t believe it for a second. He had helped design the metamaterial for Jarrod’s armor and pioneered the carbon nanotubules that were incorporated into his cells; he knew better than anyone what their terrifying creation was capable of.
Within a week of the escape, Pierce was back in the Allegheny mountains enjoying the luxuries of his hillside manor. It had been in his family for generations, and he always missed it dearly when work called him to Baltimore. His seventieth birthday was fast approaching, and he was happy to retire and spend more time with his grandchildren.
The Path Of The Nightmare Page 17