The Seraphim Sequence tfc-2

by Nathan M. Farrugia

  ‘The bitch created a mental disorder just for me?’ Sophia said.

  ‘You should be flattered,’ Grace said.

  ‘Have they shown my photo yet?’

  ‘A grainy one lifted from a security camera,’ Grace said. ‘It wasn’t a good angle, but you should keep your head down all the same. Cecilia is rolling out a new security program in three days across the US.’

  ‘Did she elaborate?’ Sophia said.

  Grace shook her head. ‘Not a word. You think it’s Seraphim?’

  Sophia bit her lip. ‘I hope not.’

  Grace looked at her. ‘Hoping won’t help.’

  There was a knock on the door. Sophia walked over and checked the fisheye. It was Freeman.

  ‘You look ready to kill someone,’ he said when she let him in. ‘A bit sooner than I expected.’

  Grace answered for her. ‘You will be too. Take a look.’ She nodded toward the television.

  ‘Who’s with you?’ Sophia asked Freeman.

  ‘Nasira will be,’ he said. ‘She’s next door with — fuck me dead. That’s not old footage, is it?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Where has she placed herself? FEMA?’

  ‘Officially,’ Grace said, closing the door behind him and locking it.

  ‘Why would she go public?’ Freeman said. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Schlosser was watching the screen intently now. ‘Is this bad for us?’

  Sophia nodded absently. ‘I can’t imagine it improving our situation.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Schlosser asked.

  ‘The brains behind Project GATE,’ Sophia said. When she realized Schlosser was just as confused as before, she explained further. ‘The project that activated pseudogenes in our bodies. It’s where the Chimera vectors came from.’

  ‘You mean the bio-terrorist attack?’ Schlosser said.

  Sophia rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what they’re telling people now?’

  Freeman shrugged. ‘It’s the story they ran with. You’re a bio-terrorist, apparently with an extensive history of mental disorder.’

  ‘Right, of course.’ Sophia returned her attention to Schlosser. ‘The Chimera vectors: one activates genes that assist in enhanced regeneration from injury and disease. The other sterilizes those who possess the psychopath genes, whether the genes are active or latent.’

  ‘There are genes for psychopaths now?’ Schlosser’s mouth hung open.

  ‘Not really a new thing,’ Freeman said. ‘According to Cecilia here, they’ve been around since Neanderthals mixed with Cro-Magnons or comets rained viruses on us. Something like that.’

  ‘You put these two Chimera vectors together and the regeneration goes into overdrive,’ Sophia said. ‘Increases your life expectancy twofold, threefold — we don’t really know how long for humans.’

  ‘Immortality?’ Schlosser said.

  ‘Not quite, but it does switch on a gene — DAF 16—which is more or less like an elixir of life. Sends a nice little package of instructions for repair and renovation of genes. Your supply of natural antioxidants goes up, damping down the free radicals.’

  ‘I thought the elixir of life was a fantasy,’ Schlosser said.

  ‘Far from it,’ Sophia said. ‘It boosts compounds that improve skin and muscle-building proteins, and the immune system gets an overhaul. It becomes incredibly proficient at fighting cancer and infection — which can be problematic when your fast regeneration is healing wounds before you can get to a hospital in time to clean them.’

  Grace was looking at Sophia. They were both thinking the same thing.

  ‘Cecilia—’ Grace began.

  ‘She took the Chimera vectors,’ Sophia said. ‘Before I shot her. Two rounds through the heart. That must be how she survived.’

  Freeman blinked. ‘How is that even possible? A gunshot wound, that’s pretty devastating to the body, the trauma—’

  ‘She could if she took both,’ Grace said. ‘Her body could heal the damage from the wounds, replenish the lost blood. Depending on whether Sophia’s rounds severed her spinal cord.’

  ‘They were 45-caliber rounds from a pistol,’ Sophia said. ‘Not likely.’

  ‘You would need sophisticated medical equipment on hand within minutes for someone who hadn’t injected the Chimera vectors,’ Freeman said.

  ‘And someone with?’ Sophia asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Maybe ten minutes, fifteen?’

  ‘Someone must have helped her,’ Sophia said. ‘After we all left. After Denton left.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just put an extra round into her head?’ Grace said.

  ‘I suppose he had other things on his mind,’ Sophia said. ‘Like getting out alive.’

  She paused, turning scenarios around in her mind. Everyone was silent, probably doing the same.

  ‘I don’t think Denton’s worked for the Fifth Column since,’ she said.

  Grace nodded. ‘I’m willing to bet he’s rogue now, just like us.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ Schlosser asked.

  ‘Depends,’ Sophia said. ‘A psychopath like Denton will destroy you instrumentally if you’re in the way of something he wants immediately. But he’ll forget you once he has a new desire that doesn’t involve you.’

  ‘Cecilia’s different,’ Freeman said. ‘She can think abstractly, plan far into the future. Something most psychopaths can’t do. Cecilia will destroy you if you threaten something long-term.’

  Grace’s watch beeped. ‘Sixteen hundred,’ she said. ‘I’m clocking out.’

  Freeman gave her a curt nod. ‘Grab some sleep next door.’

  ‘I might get some food first, I haven’t eaten today,’ she said.

  Under the hotel owner’s specific instructions, these rooms were not to be disturbed by staff, not even with room service. If anyone wanted food, two people needed to go downstairs to retrieve it.

  ‘Take Nasira, she’s next door. Her shift starts and she needs the energy,’ Freeman said.

  ‘Roger that.’

  Sophia watched Grace leave. ‘It’s my shift, I’ll watch Schlosser,’ she said. ‘Did you make contact with the skipper from the submarine?’

  Freeman nodded. ‘We’re lucky. The sub was near the surface for communication. They’re already on their way, they’ll be here by sundown.’

  He handed her a piece of paper printed with the words YOUR FEEDBACK IS MOST APPRECIATED. Under it, he’d scribbled GPS coordinates in blue pen. ‘They’ll be waiting at this location for forty-eight hours.’

  ‘We’ll need some scuba gear. And a boat,’ Sophia said. ‘We should do this tomorrow night.’

  Freeman’s mind was back on Cecilia. ‘She has to be running Project Seraphim,’ he said. ‘She wanted Schlosser dead.’

  The scientist was still watching the television even though it had changed to a news update.

  ‘They have just made America a no-fly zone,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know they could even do that.’

  ‘Doctor,’ Sophia said, walking over to him, ‘is there anything else you know that Cecilia doesn’t want us to find out?’

  He pinched his nose and dug out a plastic card from his wallet. ‘This.’

  Sophia took the card. It was an access card. ‘What does this get me into?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing any more.’ Schlosser’s shoulders slumped. ‘I do not know if it is of use to you, but it used to give me access to the Seraphim installation in Alaska.’

  Sophia thought of Benito’s Interceptors, which were in DC’s daypack.

  ‘It still might come in handy,’ she said. ‘This card was able to get you to the transmitter controls?’

  Schlosser nodded. ‘Radio frequency identification. But I think they would have revoked my access by now. The card will be dead. Sorry I cannot give you more.’

  It occurred to Sophia that Schlosser might have an RFID implanted under his skin. The Fifth Column commonly injected them into operatives and employees alike,
and she doubted they removed them when employment ended. She reached for the pressel switch on her radio, under the collar of her T-shirt.

  ‘Nasira, I need you right now,’ she said. ‘Center room.’

  No response.

  ‘Grace, is she with you?’ Sophia said.

  ‘Negative,’ Grace said. ‘Getting dressed.’

  ‘Can you get her?’ Sophia said.

  She seized Schlosser’s left arm and felt along the underside with her thumb. Freeman was moving for the door. She found a tiny lump, like a hard grain of rice.

  ‘We have an RFID,’ she said.

  Freeman paused, the door open a crack.

  ‘My knives are next door,’ Sophia said to him. ‘Sterilize one.’

  ‘You got it.’ He stepped through the dividing door and locked it behind him.

  Schlosser’s eyes were on her now. ‘Phoenix,’ he said. ‘The men who took me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Sophia said.

  ‘They want the Phoenix.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘What’s—’

  Schlosser’s face shattered. The crack of a rifle reverberated outside, rolling off the sand and the treetops. Sophia dropped back into a ball.

  She uncurled behind the bed. Blood covered her hands and face. Schlosser lay slumped in front of her, half his head torn off. Her heart went into overdrive. It took an extra second for the adrenaline to hit her bloodstream, but when it did she was ready. Her fingers shook. She flexed them. One hand was already reaching for her pistol. Her stomach was twisting in panic. She couldn’t see properly, Schlosser’s blood burned in her eyes. She forced back the need to vomit, heard a small bang from outside. Det-cord on the front door.

  She moved on her elbows to the end of the bed and aimed at the intruder. With her hands still shaking, she went for center of mass. Nothing. Except the two grenades that landed in front of the other bed, between her and the front door. They weren’t smoke or flash. If she stayed here, it would be the last thing she ever did.

  She considered throwing them back, but there were two, and this had to be a shocktrooper. The grenade would be cooked. She had two seconds at most. The balcony was closest. The safety glass had already shattered from the round that killed Schlosser. There was a chance the shooter was covering it. It came down to weighing up the risks.

  She ran through the door with a low kick. The glass buckled and peeled as she pushed through. She jumped the balcony, letting her pistol drop; there was no time to fidget getting it into her jeans. Her fine motor skills were gone. She gripped the railing and hung on, checked the distance below. There was only one balcony below her and then the ground floor. She needed to—

  The grenade detonated.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jay jumped up from his recliner chair, splashing himself with alcohol. Beside him, salt-rimmed glasses and a small plate of kalamansi fruit toppled into the sand. The cracking sound resonated along the beachfront shops. Fireworks. They always sounded a little too close to gunfire for Jay’s liking. He glanced over to find Damien’s chair empty.

  Kids were playing frisbee on the sand in front of him. Beyond them, a diving boat teetered on the aquamarine water. The closest he’d come to being anything like James Bond was lying here on this beach as a civilian. In fact, this was the first hotel he’d stayed in that didn’t have cockroaches. He adjusted his twenty-dollar sunglasses and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the toppled drinks. A waiter would replace those soon enough.

  Something exploded in the distance. The deep rumble knocked the sunglasses from his nose. He rolled off his chair, almost on top of the glasses and fruit.

  ‘What the shit was that?’

  Dusting the sand off his chin, he noticed Damien’s daypack was still there. He rifled through it, found his own prepaid cell and called the only number he had stored: Douchecanoe. Code for Damien. Another cell rang inside the bag.

  ‘Douchecanoe,’ he mumbled to himself.

  He checked the water. A few kids were playing in the shallow fringe, where the water was peacock blue. No Damien.

  People were filtering from the shops and standing up at their tables, their attention cast south along the beach. No one seemed to know the cause of the noise and Jay couldn’t see from here. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. The natural course of action would be to return to his room, pack his things and relocate. Paranoia was a wonderful thing. But they’d been extremely careful about not being followed here. Like, Damien-level careful.

  But what if Damien was involved in the noise?

  Slinging the daypack onto his back, he moved past the glazed onlookers, scanning their faces. He looked for anything out of place, over baseline and ill-fitting. A sun-baked rotund man lurched off his bar stool and almost collided with Jay.

  ‘Christ, watch where you’re going!’ he yelled after Jay.

  Jay’s footsteps were faster now. Running. He weaved through the crowd. Sprinting. He could see white smoke lifting from a hotel. It was just few blocks ahead. He slowed as he approached. People were evacuating. As he drew closer he could make out a bar and outdoor restaurant. Tables dotted with seafood and cocktails. Beyond the restaurant was a four-story hotel that overlooked a garden with a circular swimming pool. Smoke belched from a window on the third floor.

  Jay crouched and moved through the tables. He could hear screaming from inside. Gunshots echoed through the building, the sound carrying off the walls to reach his ears. He dug a hand into the backpack, disappointed to find Damien hadn’t packed the Glock. It’d be back in the hotel-room safe with the subcarbine.

  Jay moved for the far table. As he did so, he spotted movement near the swimming pool. Someone was lying there, injured. He could see blood. That better not be Damien.

  Thirty windows: anyone could take a shot at him. There was no easy approach. He could make out two people lying poolside. He recognized them. Sophia and Benito.

  Walk away, he told himself. Just walk away. They’ll have help.

  He walked — toward them. Ran.

  Benito was saturated in blood. He wasn’t moving, eyes closed. Jay checked his pulse, then his airway. Nothing. He tried giving him oxygen, but his hands came away from his chest soaked with dark deoxygenated blood. He pulled back, realization setting in that Benito had died long ago.

  He shifted to Sophia. She looked in a shit state. Her leg was swollen below the knee, possible fracture. Blood covered half her face, now coated with dust from the explosion. One arm was slicked red, the forearm swollen, the other pale and trembling. He checked her pulse. Strong. OK, that was good. Dilated pupils, shallow breathing. He put his ear to her mouth. Airway sounded clear. No other injuries that he could see.

  A pistol lay between her and Benito. He recognized it as her P99.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘How many?’

  He heard something crunch underfoot. It came from one of the balconies. He ran for the pistol, checked the chamber. Round inside. He moved back to her.

  ‘How many?’ he said again. ‘Where?’

  Her mouth parted, but she could barely make a sound. He followed her attention over his shoulder. He turned, aimed, found a target inside the charred hotel room. Before the figure could raise its pistol, Jay fired. At this range he didn’t have much of a chance, but it was enough to force the figure back into the smoke.

  His first-aid training flashed back. Don’t clean the wound. Don’t put unnecessary pressure on the wound. Don’t try to push brain matter back into the head. All the things he’d hoped would never happen.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you up,’ he said. ‘Here’s hoping your spine isn’t broken … too much.’

  He slowly pulled her into a fireman’s lift. She roared, almost deafening him, then convulsed into a soundless scream. He tried to lift the weight off her injured leg. Her torso seemed fine on the outside, but there was no telling what internal injuries she’d suffered. All he cared about right now was getting her to cover.

  As soon a
s he got her clear of the restaurant and bar, he scanned the beach for a vehicle although he’d hardly seen one since he’d arrived. It was no surprise there still weren’t any. His hotel wasn’t far. He’d have to get her there. Ignoring the silent onlookers, he hobbled her past a taco stall and off the white sand, down a narrow paved alley.

  ‘Benito,’ Sophia whispered.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Jay said.

  Phone lines dangled above and a radio blared a boxing match from inside a compound. Jay kept moving, ignoring Sophia’s gasps. A little girl emerged from an adjoining alley on a tricycle. She paused, waiting for Jay and Sophia to shuffle past.

  ‘Need to say goodbye,’ Sophia said.

  ‘We can’t do that,’ Jay said.

  He pushed the hotel gate open and dragged Sophia through an overly manicured garden, under the arches, past the fountain, left across the dining area. He ignored the patrons inside, who watched mid-mouthful as they stumbled past.

  ‘I can’t just leave him.’ She was sobbing now. Her body started to shake.

  ‘You’re no good to anyone dead,’ he told her.

  He reached his hotel room, shoved the keycard in and kicked the door open. Blood smeared the door. Stepping inside, he dropped the keycard into the slot. The room flashed with light. He leaned to one side, lowering Sophia to the tiled floor, her back propped against the bed. The door closed itself behind him. He locked it.

  He slipped off the daypack and found Damien’s first-aid collection, which was smaller than he’d hoped. His first concern was the blood that matted her hair. Her eyes rolled. She’d taken a high fall, which explained the broken and fractured bones. But no gunshot trauma; that was a plus. With a pair of nitrile gloves over his hands, he traced the blood to the back of her head. A thin line, but it ran deep. He couldn’t see any depression in her skull or any splintering, so that was good. He unwrapped a packet of Oleas trauma dressing from Damien’s backpack and pressed it against the fracture. He wrapped the tails, one at a time, around her head in opposite directions, making sure they covered the dressing but not her eyes or ears. She might still need those. Blood soaked through the dressing.