The Hunted

by Steve Scheunemann

  Abbey, as it turned out, was thinking a little more clearly than Matt. He should have known she, with her greater knowledge of how the BGP worked, would figure it all out. The key was the built-in unquestioning obedience the uniformed division had for all Hunters.

  “You. Come here. Now, dammit, don’t make me call you over here twice.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Matt found the image of the slightly built, barely five-foot-tall Asian uniformed officer, who was easily 50 years old and wearing the insignia of a lieutenant, jumping and calling Abbey “ma’am” extremely amusing and felt his lips quivering as he quickly smothered the urge to smile.

  “Do you see the blood on the prisoner’s side? Just what is going on in here? I left strict orders that the prisoner was to be treated with care. I need him in one piece. The bastard didn’t come easily, and I almost killed him during his capture, and now you fools drug him and rough him up even further. I won’t have it. I ought to report you to the Sector Chief.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again, ma’am.”

  “You’re damn right it won’t happen again. I’m taking him out of here. He’s so doped up I’ll have to practically carry him, but I’m sure not leaving him here with you.

  “I’ve decided, in fact, that your incompetence can’t be overlooked Lieutenant….?”

  “Ling, ma’am.”

  “Well, Lieutenant Ling, expect a call from the Sector Chief to your unit supervisor very soon indeed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Abbey quickly crossed to the back of Matt’s cell and slapped him across the face. Despite her calling the guards on their treatment of him, she could not afford to be tender with Matt, no matter how much she might want to, so Matt had expected something of the sort. The strength of the blow left Matt’s head ringing, and he did not have to fake being dizzy as she dragged him to his feet.

  That was all it took. They simply walked out of the lock-up and into the terminal proper. Twenty minutes later they had boarded their plane, and Abbey had taken him below decks to lock him into the cell once again. From there it had been a relatively simple matter to open the hatch over the landing gear well and drop to the tarmac below. It wouldn’t have worked even then, except Matt promised her he could get into the Air Transport database and alter the passenger list to show that they were, in fact, in their seats during all legs of the flight. Eventually, the crew would be questioned, and Malone would know where they had deplaned, but they hoped to have at least a twelve hour head start by then.

  Abbey had taken the cuffs off of Matt’s wrists and both had slipped into stolen ground crew coveralls and simply walked away with the other maintenance personnel.

  They’d been forced to leave almost everything that Abbey had saved in Tokyo behind. They had their PDTs of course, as well as Matt’s potions and the sedatives Abbey had been given. Along with Abbey’s sidearm, that was it.

  Their first priority was to get safely away from the airport. After that, to see to supplies. Matt was concerned by the lack of weapons and almost as importantly, transportation.

  First safety, then weapons, and finally, transportation. They were reduced to simply survival and evasion of the enemy at the moment, but once they had a secure base of operations Matt would begin to plan. He needed to rethink everything in light of his new mission. Abbey, he knew, would either be pleased with the change in priorities, or pretend to be.

  22

  New York City, North American Territory

  May 25, 2080

  “You’re all here because you are the very best there is at whatever it is you do. The very best in or out of the BGP, and people, that’s saying something. All of us are experts at a wide variety of tasks, but look around you. If you are not the very best at a given task, the person next to you may very well be. I don’t care how good you think you are in that person’s area of specialty, they are better. Don’t let that upset you, because in your area, there is none better.

  “I tell you this because if one of your team mates directs you to do something within their field, I expect you to pay attention. Unless you receive direct contradiction from me, or that request materially affects your own area, take it as gospel.

  “Any disagreements among you should be brought to Hu Li, or should she be unavailable, to me. While I’m on the subject of Hu Li, let me make one thing perfectly clear, within Special Operations there are but three ranks. I am the Deputy Director for Special operations, Hu Li is my executive officer, and the rest of you are special agents. I don’t care what your rank was in your previous position, or what seniority you may have, here you all belong to me. Is that perfectly clear?”

  The nine men and women facing Malone all signaled affirmatively in one means or another, as they sat around the conference room table. The room itself was a symbol of the power their new boss wielded. It was the executive conference room in the BGP headquarters building in Manhattan. This room had previously been the sole province of the Director himself. Director O’Banion had turned three shades of purple when Malone informed him he’d need the room, exclusively, for the foreseeable future. This had forced the Director to find another room for his weekly briefings from his Deputy Directors, or more accurately from all but one of his Deputy Directors.

  Deputy Director for Special Operations Malone did not attend the Director’s meetings. He did not answer the Director’s questions in any except the vaguest terms, and didn’t even have the decency to pretend that his directives were requests rather than orders to his ostensible superior.

  Malone began again, “Good. I’m sure you’re all wondering just what ‘Special Operations’ is all about. Some of you, no doubt, are wishing you were back in your old assignments. I’ll tell you what we’re about here. We’re about whatever I decide we’re about when I get up in the morning. You may have noted and possibly even wondered about the new org chart for the BGP. If so you saw that the Deputy Director for Special Operations does not, in fact, report to the Director of the BGP. I’ve uploaded to your PDTs a copy of my charter. At your leisure you may review it, but I’ll hit the highpoints now.

  “I am authorized to draft any ten agents from anywhere within the bureau for permanent assignment to my team. That’s you, plus one already in the field. I am also authorized support personnel and logistical support “as the Deputy Director for Special Operations deems necessary to complete his assigned tasks.” That means; I want it, I get it. I am authorized to operate worldwide as I deem appropriate. Finally, any requests I make of the military may only be turned down by the Chief of Staff himself.’

  Malone looked at the incredulous expressions on the faces of more than one or two of his new troops and hid his smile of satisfaction. It was obvious they were in awe of the unprecedented authority he’d been granted. Not even the Director of the BGP could order the military around at the level Malone was claiming.

  “Okay, so now you know my reach. Let’s talk about what it is I want to grasp,” Malone continued as he stood with his back to his subordinates, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the waters in New York Harbor.

  Turning back around, Malone gestured towards the holographic tank centered over the table, as the image of a young man appeared. He was handsome, with dark hair and eyes, slimly muscular and moved well, centered and in control as he crossed the lobby of the hotel on the other side of the world.

  “This image came from Tokyo, where the young man was attending a conference for paper shufflers. He’s no personnel clerk, no matter what his registration says. A thorough background check turned up no one by the name of Anson Leitner. Or rather, no one who possibly could have been our young man here.

  “My sources tell me he was there to meet with Angus Mac Leod. Yes, that’s right the Angus. You all know he was, until the time of his death at my hands earlier this month, our single most wanted criminal. What some of you don’t know is that he was not gene trash. He was a deserter from the military.”

  Ga
sps and indrawn breaths could be heard from several of those at the table. Every Hunter knew that there had been attempted desertions before, but the BGP had always put the traitorous scum down.

  “Ten men and women died the day he made good his escape. They slowed me just enough for him to get away. You may be wondering why ten people came up against a man they knew would kill each and every one of them, just so one other man could escape? I’ll tell you why, because they were part of a larger organization that valued the life of a military defector more highly than the ten who died at my hands that day. Why? Because of what he represented more than what he was. He was one of us, not a Hunter but from the same genetic stock. If they could turn him, then anything was possible. He was a symbol.”

  The display in the holo-tank changed to a slowly spinning representation of the entire planet.

  “I know the existence of a worldwide organized resistance is officially denied. Most within our organization even believe that it does not exist. Oh, they admit that there are still plenty of ethnically or religiously motivated rebels out there, but have relegated them all to the small-time status of the group we recently destroyed in Serbia.

  “Those groups are out there. The Basques in Spain, the Jews, the Mormons in the Utah mountains, Muslims, the Tibetan rebels, the list goes on. These groups are out there still. We have a good handle on most of them and can usually bring them down in relatively short order.”

  As Malone mentioned each of the groups in question, the geographic location in which they were active lit with a glowing amber light on the display. Then near the bottom of the world a small group of islands lit a brilliant red.

  “The only real resistance remains New Zealand. The Kiwis on their islands at the far end of the world. If not for all the pesky other groups I just mentioned we’d have finished off the Kiwis too. The difference is, New Zealand is still considered a military situation, while the other groups are at least accessible by us. Actual pitched battles are the military’s to handle, but we have infiltrated, and destroyed from within, more than one group.

  “What we’ve never found was the link between these groups and New Zealand. I believe it’s there. We’re going to find it. Many, even most, of the different separatists may not even be aware of their organizations’ ties to New Zealand’s terrorist actions, but it’s there, all right. I intend to bring the genetic trash polluting our planet down. If we can clean up the rest of the planet then we’ll be able to move on New Zealand as well.”

  “Angus was a part of the Kiwi underground, but he died rather than be interrogated. In light of his military training, as well as the tutoring he’s received since, he was too dangerous to take down with half measures. We can’t interrogate him, but we can interrogate his little friend here.”

  The picture returned to the image of Matt crossing the hotel lobby in Tokyo, then stilled and slowly zoomed in to a close-up of his face.

  “What we do know is limited. He is known to us at this time simply as Matthew, or Matt. He is no longer in Japan, and in fact may well be here in New York, although I find that doubtful. We do know he managed to get on board a flight to New York. That flight stopped in Beijing, Nepal, Baghdad, Budapest, and Dublin, before crossing the Atlantic for New York. My guess would be China, or possibly Europe. I know that’s a lot of ground to cover, but we have all the resources of the BGP to work with here. We’ll find him. I’m also looking into the possibility that he had outside help. Possibly even from within the BGP.”

  More gasps could be heard at that announcement, and Wallace blurted, “Impossible.”

  Malone, ignoring the outburst, paused and looked out the sky-scrapers window at the statue out in New York Harbor. The tall, majestic green lady held her torch aloft. As his gaze fell upon the Statue of Unity, Malone was unaware that she had ever gone by any other name. Unaware that the plaque on the pedestal had ever borne any words other than those inscribed there now. “All the world united in prosperity, all the world united in peace, all the world united in order, all the world united.”

  As if seeing the statue brought it to mind, Malone continued, “Unity. That’s what’s at stake here. We have united almost the entire world under one flag, one government. If we didn’t have to worry about the last few holdouts, imagine the world we could create. We’ve come so far already. We could go so much further. Do you, any of you, know what we lost during the wars that our government was forced to fight to bring the fractious world to its current state of near perfect order? I’ll tell you. Global communications are so severely limited, because every major communications satellite in orbit was ordered to self destruct. Do you know why we can’t just nuke New Zealand and be done with it? No nukes. They were all deactivated and rendered useless by forces loyal to the former governments.

  “The American and Russian space programs were scrapped too. NASA actually blew up their rockets when it became clear that our forces were going to take both Cape Canaveral and the Johnson Space Center. Not just the rockets either, but the computers, documentation, everything. All of this and more was lost.

  “Almost all of this can be rebuilt, when we have the resources to do so. Today the BGP consumes 35% of the GWP. You didn’t know that. I didn’t know that last week.”

  Malone paused and took a drink of water from a cut crystal glass. Ice rattled in the glass as he replaced it on the long, highly polished table.

  “We’ve lost so much, but have gained even more. One world government. We can do anything with the whole world focused on it. Let’s find that link to New Zealand, let’s kill it and we can sweep up all these pesky separatist groups, and get down to the business of taking out the Kiwis.

  “I want to see the team in the gym at 1300. I have a new toy to introduce you all too. Until then your time is your own. Study the downloads in your PDTs and be prepared to answer questions on them at our meeting. Pay particular attention to the file labeled M-100. I think you’ll like what you see. That’s all, people. You have your orders.”

  Malone smiled in anticipation of trying out his new toy. He’d conceived his new toy about 2 years before, and turned it over to BGP research and development. The R & D boys had refined and improved his original concept. The result was an ideal weapon for a Hunter.

  For now it was known only as the M-100 baton. At first glance it looked like any other baton. About thirty inches long and as thick around as the average man’s wrist, it functioned well as a simple baton.

  When placed into the hands of someone who knew how to use it, it became a terrible weapon.

  For as long as mankind has used firearms, it has been known to those who pay attention that, while a gun is an effective weapon, the thought of being shot and dying is nowhere near as terrifying as the thought of being sliced open. The image of being flayed or having limbs severed had a much more visceral effect than that of a bloody little hole in one’s torso. It didn’t matter that both resulted in death. The manner of one’s death could be as potent a weapon, psychologically speaking, as the threat of harm to loved ones. Strong men, men who had faced death and pain and loss time and again had been known to break down completely as their bodies were sliced apart. In many cases, the simple threat of such could accomplish more than the most thorough beating ever would.

  Some of the most effective methods of torture involved cuts. Starting small, slicing off a toe, for example, combined with the threat of ever increasing damage, even when there was no threat of death, would break any man.

  Malone, having studied the effect of fear that suddenly and unexpectedly got much worse than it had previously been, knew that this was even more effective than a simple single huge dose of fear.

  Fear that started high, then doubled or trebled was his goal.

  He relied on his being a Hunter to supply the initial jolt of fear. He knew how to enhance the effect his mere presence had. Simple things, and they varied from one individual to another. In some cases it was a simple direct stare and speaking forcefully. Sometimes i
t entailed speaking in a whisper that made the victim strain to hear you, all the while avoiding looking directly at them, as if they were beneath notice. Oh yes, Malone could supply fear all by his lonesome.

  To add new heights to that fear, Malone had conceived the M-100. At one end the baton had a detachable weight, connected by 10 feet of a most remarkable new fiber. It had a long name that told those with a background in metallurgy as well as bio-chem what it was made of. To everyone else it was simply known as Spiderwire.

  One-third the diameter of a human hair, a single strand of Spiderwire would hold a load of 900 pounds. Originally it was used in braided cables, providing heretofore unheard of strength-to-weight ratios. It was infinitely supple, would not deteriorate under any conditions. Spiderwire was a zero memory wire. It could be wound into the tightest coil imaginable, left that way indefinitely, and when uncoiled would still hang straight under no more than its own weight. It could not be kinked, and retained its integrity in the heart of a nuclear explosion, or at absolute zero, and would never rust or corrode. It would not stretch one micron. Upon reaching its limit it simply broke, without any backlash of any kind.

  Spiderwire was used in all manner of applications, from construction, to mountaineering. Even surgery - Spiderwire made an excellent bone saw. Given enough pressure it would cut bones cleanly.

  The M-100 would, after a sharp twist to free the weighted end, allow a Hunter to flick it out and cleanly cut to the bone. If the weight were to swing around the victim’s neck, bolero style, it would remove the head with no more than a slight tug.

  It would be even more effective when used to remove a hand, or even a leg, from a fleeing victim. It didn’t look all that dangerous, just a small weight attached by a wire so thin as to be almost invisible. When the victim saw and felt how cleanly and effortlessly it took their body apart piece by piece they would be reduced to senseless, blubbering madness.