Subject 12

by S. W. Douglas

  Though it sure was filthy the way I used it.

  Screw it, I decided. I tucked my arms against my side and rocketed off to Syracuse at just under the speed of sound. There were enough cars below me that I didn't have to concentrate particularly hard to do it, either.

  Follow the highway, Redgrave had said. Be careful not to get lost on the side roads when you get there, but keep along the highway till you see the signs for the hospital. Get off there, follow the road running right in front of it, and take the third right. From there you'll want to go left at the third stoplight till you come to the green house with the big sign across the road from it. Take the next driveway and follow it back in. The building at the end of the driveway looks like a single-story shit-hole, but it's just a cover. Once you're inside you'll see.

  Right.

  I could see the edge of the city after ten minutes. The airport I ran across a couple minutes later was a surprise, but I made sure I flew by low enough I wouldn't even register as a bird on their radar. A minute more and I was at the city proper and had to slow down to read the signs. At that point I didn't care if someone in a convertible looked up and saw me. I was going to find the enclave if it was at all possible.

  My understanding was that I had almost an hour's lead on the SUV, which was good because I had the hunch I'd need all of it to find where the hell I was going. Of course, if their equipment was turned on they were probably following a trail wider than a city block but pointing right at me. Good. The faster they got here the faster the fun would begin.

  Kinsey might still be in residence, too. If so, he and I were going to have words. Once the words were over I was going to feed him into a wood chipper, one piece at a time. Before that, though, I was going to finish what I'd started the last time I'd been alone in a room with him.

  I couldn't get the image of that last man, writhing on the ground, as Kinsey had stabbed him until his arm got too tired to lift the knife. It was only then that he'd motioned for one of the four men holding his victim down to give him the pill.

  His body had fought on for another thirty seconds or so, thrashing about, before the toxins could take final hold. The final spasm had been so intense I could almost hear his ribs and spine break as it hit.

  Kinsey had laughed. He'd actually thrown his head back and laughed.

  The turnoff for the hospital was relatively easy for a car to find, but since I could see the damn thing I just flew over it and followed the road as Redgrave had said. I slowed down again, once I was past the parking garage and hospital proper, and watched carefully. I didn't want to get lost.

  I managed it anyway, so I went back and retraced my steps. As long as I could see the hospital I had a frame of reference, so I didn't get too annoyed as I found myself flying over downtown again and again. Alright, I didn't do more than scream curses into the wind as I flew.

  After the tenth time I got lost I decided I'd be better off walking for a little while, so I found a spot, landed, took a deep breath, and sat down on a nearby bench. I could feel the rage seeping away as I sat there and watched the traffic drive by. I had a few minutes. Hell, I had all day, unless Kinsey was leaving. Why not relax a little. Besides, with all the residue I'd spread over the section of town I'd been overflying for over half an hour, they had to know I was coming if they had an eye on the sky.

  Maybe I could let them find me? No, if I did that I'd be in a fight before I could say Peter picked a peck of pickled peppers. Forget the three times fast --- they'd be on me like flies on road kill, which I'd be if I wasn't prepared for them.

  Goddamn it.

  I closed my eyes and tried to focus. I wasn't trying to draw anything to me, I was trying to meditate on what Redgrave had told me. Maybe sitting on a bench next to a busy street wasn't the ideal location, but I wasn't trying to plumb the mysteries of existence. I was trying to remember exactly what I'd been told for directions.

  Bingo. I'd forgotten something. There was a stop sign I needed to hang a left at.

  I smiled as I drew myself back to reality. If I was fast enough, the squad sent to Watertown was going to have a hell of a surprise waiting for them at home.

  Following the revised directions lead me right to the house I was looking for without a single hitch. When I finally saw the place I was looking for, and Redgrave's description of it was quite apt, I circled it once and picked a spot nearby to land. I came down in someone's back yard, stared at the barking guard dog till it stopped and hid in the dog house, and scaled the chainlink fence. Luck was on my side for the moment because nobody saw me.

  I had come down less than a block away, but I'd discovered it was actually a nice day, when I gave it a chance, so I didn't mind. It also let me plan some basic strategy for my upcoming entrance.

  Alpha Zulu didn't routinely hire supers for long-term employ. Kinsey didn't like competition or anyone he thought was a threat to him hanging around unless he had some method of control or he trusted them implicitly.

  He'd trusted me implicitly. Perhaps it'd be better to say I thought he had trusted me. The effectiveness of my attempt to kill him spoke volumes as to just how much he'd needed to fear me, and the fact that I'd been allowed to get that close to him and be alone with him for the length of time it took to do all that I did to him testified to some level of trust.

  Maybe I was overthinking it. Still, all things considered, the likelihood of there being many, if even any, supers on-site were low.

  Redgrave had seen perhaps twenty people, not counting Kinsey. I had to think about the people who had taken part in the assault, though. Standard installation sizes may have changed since I was last familiar with them, but a small enclave might have between ten and forty combat-ready personnel and half again as many support staff. I would be surprised if a city this size wasn't home to at least forty soldiers, and most likely it'd be closer to a hundred.

  A hundred would be the base compliment for a medium-sized post, though it wouldn't be out of the ballpark for a city this size to have two hundred.

  Of course, there was nothing important for Alpha Zulu in northern New York state, so keeping staffing at a minimum made sense.

  Assume a hundred, then. That was a lot for one man to take on.

  Then again, they'd only sent four people to investigate when their detector had squealed. If they'd had a hundred troops to call on, why not send ten or even twenty?

  Time for a reality check. I was about to attack a well-fortified installation that I had never been in or seen the floor plan to with an unknown but possibly overwhelming number of well-armed and well-trained paramilitary security forces, often recruited from the best military forces from around the world, backed up by a top-notch security system programmed to lock down in the event of an attack, on the off chance that the paranoid leader of the organization might be in residence. Didn't I see something wrong with this picture?

  I should, at least, have some backup. Syracuse had several well-known and quite powerful Guild members in residence, and I was, after all, a card-carrying Guild Investigator.

  On the other hand, this was far more personal for me than it was of concern to the Guild, slain members or not.

  The fact that I was still walking toward the place Redgrave had told me was the enclave told me that debate was moot.

  I was a fool for doing this, but I really couldn't see it happening any other way. The closer I got to where I was supposed to turn to walk up the driveway the more galvanized I felt and the angrier I got. I wanted blood. I wanted to break the bodies of the men who had murdered those security guards, who had held the women down as Kinsey twisted the knife and gloried in their screams. I wanted to feel their bones shatter and see the light leaving their eyes.

  Soldiers don't act like that. There's a purity to killing, as horrible as it really is. Sometimes there's a lot of pain, but it's not intentional. A soldier kills because it's necessary to stay alive or because he was ordered to, or out of vengeance. It's rarely personal. Even if he took ple
asure in it, he did it as cleanly as possible. To drag it out like that...

  They had crossed the line. There would be no coming back.

  I heard the engine of the SUV before I could see it, the street was so quiet. I had just turned into the driveway and had taken a few steps up its length. Apparently I had spent a lot longer getting lost than I'd thought. Not good, but it gave me an idea on how to start the party.

  I picked up a few loose stones from the driveway and rolled them around in my hands to round them off. One of the advantages of my augmented strength was a much tougher skin --- though to be honest I hadn't ruled out the possibility that I instinctively prevented my skin from tearing when I was doing something risky like that. I'd heard horror stories of super-strong supers who didn't have any extra strength in their skin and bones. The results were... predictable. Tragic, but predictable.

  Messy. Very messy. But, let's face it, predictable.

  The engine note grew as it approached the driveway. I could hear the brakes squealing as asbestos pads scraped the against cast iron rotors. At least one of the wheels hadn't been torqued down right because I could hear the pads slipping on the uneven surface, the wobble throwing the whole system off and making the SUV vibrate in a manner I would have found very unpleasant as a passenger.

  I positioned myself right in the middle of the driveway, far enough from the road as to make sure they'd pull totally off before coming to a stop.

  The dust from the now-round stones drifted to the ground slowly, the breeze carrying some into the grass off to my right before it came to a rest.

  My mind was as clear as my intent, a surprising turn of events. It used to be that when I keyed up before a mission all I could do was go over the details till my feet hit dirt. I preferred this. I even felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth as the behemoth vehicle pulled into the driveway.

  I could imagine the comments and general feeling of annoyance at seeing me. Assuming they didn't recognize me and try to run me down --- which would be about as successful as invading the Bay of Pigs --- they'd be coming to a stop right about... there.

  The driver rolled his window down and leaned out. "Sir, would you please move? You're in a restricted area and we need to get through."

  "Oh," I said, feigning distress. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Look, I really need some help here..." I looked over my shoulder with mock worry painting my face. I looked back quickly and made sure I really laid it on thick. "My wife; she's not well."

  I kept my hands at my sides and stepped forward. They'd pulled in far enough that they'd cleared the sidewalk. Perfect.

  "Sir, if there's a problem you should call the police or an ambulance. We can't help you," the driver continued, looking bored and annoyed. "However, if you won't move I have authority and orders to use deadly forced to move or remove you as needed. This is your last warning."

  Motherfucker liked his job, I could see. Didn't matter. He wasn't the ranking soldier in the vehicle so he was useless to me.

  "Please," I said, taking one last step closer, bringing the last occupant into view. Sure enough, it was Sergeant Binder. "My wife..."

  "Move or die," the driver said, revving the engine.

  "Not today," I said to myself as I opened my hands and dropped the stones.

  They remained subsonic mostly because I didn't want them to sound like gunshots as their descent changed trajectory and speed radically. Instead of falling straight down they curved forward, then up, around, and in the open window. The first one flew in the driver's open mouth and lodged in his throat, blocking his airway. I think it tore some tissue as it pushed past his tongue and tonsils. That was the only explanation I had for the blood that came out of his mouth when he doubled over and tried to retch the obstruction up.

  Stone two hit the passenger in the front seat in the throat, slightly below the larynx (which had been my target), but with enough force to crush the cartilage ring supporting his trachea. His hand flew to his throat and he gasped uselessly for air.

  The third stone I didn't have the focus to finesse properly, so it hit the third soldier in the eye (the only vulnerable spot I could actually see) and kept going. His body spasmed, thick, dark blood poured out the hole, and the seatbelt held the corpse upright as it jerked and shook in its death throes.

  I rushed forward to pull the driver out of his seat through the open window. Both his hands were wrapped around his neck as his face had changed color rather drastically. I threw him to the ground and ripped the door off, throwing it after him as the vehicle started to drift forward. I jumped in, punched the passenger in the jaw to knock him out so he wouldn't thrash around any more, and jammed my foot on the brake. I threw the shifter into park and turned my attention to the rear seat.

  Binder was a combat vet, so his reactions had been good. As soon as he recognized he was under attack he'd tried to throw himself out of harm's way. It's hard to do that when you're lashed down by a seatbelt in the back seat of a motor vehicle. If he hadn't been, he wouldn't have whacked his head so hard on the armored glass that he split his scalp open and ended up bleeding into his collar. The blow had disoriented him, which was good for me. I reached back, unhooked his seatbelt, and pulled him out of the SUV behind me.

  I didn't need him alive but I didn't feel like snapping his neck yet.

  His sidearm was still in its holster, held down by a woven nylon strap with a snap-closure, so I pulled it free and tucked it into my belt. Old habits die hard.

  I dragged Binder along as I followed the driveway to the house at the end. Redgrave hadn't lied when he'd said it was run down. The place looked like a crack house, right down to the gun-toting prick sitting on the porch. He saw Binder, said something into his shoulder, and rushed to my side with his submachine gun pointed loosely in my direction.

  "What the fuck happened?" The door opened and someone came hurrying out with a white package with a red cross on it. "He alright?"

  I nodded, glad my friend riding on my shoulder had started moaning. The blood dripping from his hair was a nice touch.

  I let him sag to the ground as the guard held me at gunpoint, my hands in the air. The guy who came running from inside had left the door open. I watched as he started cleaning the pressure cut, keeping as much of my attention on the guard as I could. My opportunity arose the second he put his hand on the ear not turned to me and he took on the air of someone listening to something nobody else could hear.

  A quick step and I was inside the reach of his arms. A stiffened hand drove my fingertips into his chest right over his heart. I felt my fingers pierce the chest cavity, tear through membranes and rip muscle, before I felt his heart. My fingers tore through it as well. A single gasp left the guard's lips and he collapsed, blood rushing out of the wound in his chest in a veritable river as I turned my attention to the helpful newcomer. He looked up just as I stepped away from the guard, giving me the perfect target.

  One finger through his eye, which I hooked up to catch the brow ridge of his skull, and with a yank ripped a finger's width of his skull, forehead, scalp, and brain tissue out. It flew into the air and I didn't watch to see where it landed before I stomped on Binder's face, ignoring how soft it became under my foot as I stepped away.

  Six down. Maybe another ninety-four to go.

  I eyed the still-open door. It was going to be a long day.

  I grabbed the radio mike on the guard's collar and ripped it free. I searched the visible areas of the building front to see if I could find a camera but I didn't see one. I nodded to myself. Standard protocol on a small installation like this was to keep as low-key as possible. I never understood why that meant posing as a crack house instead of, say, having a few security cameras and a "beware of dog" or "trespassers will be violated" sign on a well-maintained-but-commonplace fence, but it wasn't my policy.

  "Contact! Contact! One visible assailant. Taking fire! Repeat, taking fire! Man down! Man down! Medic!" I held the transmit button and smashed the mike. Hopefully i
t'd stay locked on, but I wasn't going to count on it. Sure enough I heard a voice ask for more information.

  At least it'd gone through. Of course, that meant I'd have between five and ten cocked, locked, and ready to rock hard-chargers on my ass in under a minute --- assuming they weren't too busy stroking it to be prepped. I was about as concerned as a beatnik with a lit joint in his mouth, though.

  I twisted my head to the side so my neck cracked. In the momentary quiet the sound was very loud.

  A smile crept onto my face as a familiar feeling stole over me. The last time I'd felt it was during my last operation for Alpha Zulu. The memory was sharp: I was ten minutes away from a zero-landing insertion in an Asian jungle an hour's hike away from some tin-plated dictator's weekend getaway. I was going in with six other guys, each a crack trooper, just before dawn, with orders to sweep the building. Resistance was expected to be minimal, but we'd trained for two weeks with the understanding that "minimal resistance" usually meant "you're actually outnumbered three-to-one and they have an arsenal that would do an army division proud", so we were pretty tight.

  Tight. That's the way to describe it. A pleasant tension in every major muscle group stimulated by a slow trickle of adrenaline --- or whatever passed for it in my system --- and the heightened senses of impending action. I felt, truly, alive.

  They came in a rush, though the door was an effective bottleneck that slowed their exit from the building. Silenced submachine guns pointed, they shouted at me to hit the ground, put my hands on my head, and a variety of other things I had no intention of doing.

  Someone fired. The bullet returned to sender rather spectacularly, ripping through the black uniform shirt, the bulletproof vest under it, and both lungs --- sideways. The man standing next to him noticed, tried to say something, and quickly discovered his jaw wouldn't move and that as hard as he struggled, he couldn't get any air to move into or out of his lungs.