The Resurrector (The Dominic Grey Series)

by Layton Green

  He cuffed the guards with their own handcuffs and opened the automatic gate for Viktor and Naomi. They drove down the hill and joined Grey.

  The glass and steel guardhouse looked far more modern than the rest of the plant. As did the enclosed walkway connecting the guardhouse to the two-story brick building next to it.

  “It appears the cameras only cover the grounds,” Viktor said.

  Naomi leaned forward on her palms, intent on the monitor focused on the outside of the brick building. Unlike the others, the screen of that monitor never changed. “There’s something in there,” she said.

  Grey took a set of keys attached to one of the guard’s belts. “Let’s find out what it is.”

  One of the keys unlocked the heavy steel door at the end of the covered walkway. The door opened onto a cavernous building with age-spotted brick walls. Iron piping, catwalks, and rusting treatment equipment filled the room. The lack of windows gave it the feel of a giant cistern. Near the middle of the building, stairs led down to a slender walkway that paralleled a canal twenty feet below the surface.

  Fetid water filled the canal, wrinkling Grey’s nose. A modern powerboat with a long, flat, pirogue-type barge attached to the rear was anchored to the railing that ran alongside the walkway.

  It’s the same system as in Iceland, Grey thought. Transport by underground canal.

  Grey herded the two guards into the building, gagged them, and chained them to separate pieces of metal piping. Grey jerked hard on the piping. It would hold.

  The professor pointed down at the canal, in the direction the powerboat was facing. A hundred feet ahead, the tunnel disappeared into the gloom.

  -47-

  Grey dashed back into the guard shack and found a set of keys for the powerboat. When he returned to the building, he decided to take one of the guards with him. He chose the one who had dropped to the ground as soon as Grey fired the gun.

  Naomi untethered the boat. Grey took the wheel and coaxed the boat to life. They stuck the gagged and handcuffed guard, watching with sullen eyes, on his stomach on the floor.

  The boat was easy to maneuver. Grey followed the canal into a claustrophobic brick tunnel with a rounded ceiling, the water gleaming soft and oily in the headlamps. Mineral deposits had congealed on the walls and formed stalactites above their heads. The air was cold and moldy, raising the gooseflesh on Grey’s arms. “How far to the lab?”

  “About ten kilometers,” Naomi said, “if the route is straight.”

  The tunnel delved deeper and deeper into the earth. Brick and silence all around, shadows on the walls, the constant fear of a spotlight flicking on. Or, worse, some monstrosity rising from the murky depths.

  What other boundaries had van Draker toyed with? Grey wondered. How far had his experiments gone? Were there unnamed things gliding beneath the water, following them with lidless eyes, waiting for a chance to drag them out of the boat?

  Grey was not a superstitious man, but after everything they had witnessed, the tomblike passage was getting to him. It felt as if they were drifting down the river Styx, hovering on the boundary between life and death, probing the unknown.

  Just after eleven kilometers ticked by on the odometer, Naomi stood and pointed to the right, at an opening in the wall. Grey eased off the throttle. As they approached, he realized the opening was a tunnel veering gently away, like an exit off an interstate. The new passage was made of concrete and reinforced with steel at ribbed intervals.

  Grey handed the wheel to Naomi, took out the Glock, and ungagged the guard on the floor of the boat. “Is this the right way?”

  The guard nodded. He was short and blond, with the eyes of a snake. A survivor.

  “How far is the lab?” Grey demanded.

  “One kilometer.”

  “Are there cameras? Guards?” Grey pointed the gun at his face. “Look at me. Do you doubt I’ll pull the trigger?”

  A vigorous headshake.

  “Then make sure you tell the truth,” Grey said.

  “No cameras or guards until you get inside.”

  “How do we get inside?”

  The guard hesitated. Grey raised the gun.

  “This tunnel dead-ends at a door. There’s a walkway beside it, with an intercom and a fingerprint ID scanner.”

  “No camera?”

  The guard swallowed. “Sorry. Ya. There’s a camera by the scanner. It doesn’t show the canal.”

  Grey grabbed him by the back of the head and forced the gun into his cheek. “A little girl’s life is at stake. Lie to me again, and I’ll make a canal between your ears. Do your prints get us inside?”

  The guard gave a reluctant nod.

  “How well do you know the layout of the lab?”

  The guard described the interior, as well as the position of the guards on the other side of the wall. After he finished, Grey checked his watch, replaced the man’s gag, and waited.

  At the bottom of the hill leading to van Draker’s manor, a dozen men from the Cape Flats poured out of a flatbed truck. Each of them carried a homemade smoke bomb in one hand, a can of Castle Lager in the other, and an assortment of homemade fireworks in their pockets and rucksacks.

  The mercenary the men had nicknamed “Harrison,” due to his roguish resemblance to Indiana Jones, had made the smoke bombs himself and paid for the beer and fireworks.

  The men melted into the woods and fanned out in a wide circle. At precisely two a.m., they started climbing the hill. Once they reached the wall, they launched the smoke bombs, smothering the lawn with a cloud of greasy smoke. Next they released the fireworks from the safety of the trees, knowing they might get shot if they ventured too close.

  Doors slammed open. Floodlights kicked on. Guards from the manor shouted across the property.

  After releasing a barrage of noise and gunpowder that sounded like an advancing army, the men from the Cape Flats fled down the hillside, whooping and spilling beer, happy to have stuck a thorn into the side of the White Crocodile, a relic of Apartheid, the rich boss man infamous around the Western Cape for his cruelty to blacks.

  Still, once they reached the bottom, they wasted no time hurrying into the truck and speeding away. Not only did they risk the wrath of the local police and van Draker’s guards, but they feared the specter of unholy experiments that hung like a shroud above the hill.

  The manor was not just a house, and they all knew it. Each of them had relatives in Khayalanga or knew of someone who did. People talked. Communities shared. Every Xhosa within a hundred miles had heard the stories, and every single one of them knew that the van Draker manor was the place where the Bad Things happened.

  At five minutes after two, Naomi eased the powerboat to a stop when the canal dead-ended at a wide steel door. Viktor tied the boat to an iron stake on the platform that abutted the waterway. He eyed the place where Grey had slipped into the water and took a deep breath, trying not to think about the price of failure.

  Grey knew what he was doing, the professor told himself, though he knew competence wasn’t the issue at stake. The look in Grey’s eyes said he would go to any lengths to get inside van Draker’s complex, no matter the risk, no matter the danger.

  Once the boat was secure, Naomi ungagged the guard, took off his cuffs, and leveled the shotgun at him. “I’ve lost my job, my house, and my best friend. Don’t think I won’t take it out on you.”

  The guard licked his lips and said nothing. Naomi wasn’t as convincing as Grey, and Viktor wondered if she would really kill the guard in cold blood if he failed to perform. He rather hoped she wouldn’t, but he wasn’t sure.

  Thankfully, Grey had a chat with the guard before he left, one that left the blond man shaken. Viktor suspected that conversation carried as much weight as the current one.

  “It’s time,” the professor said.

  Naomi nosed the shotgun towards the walkway. The guard climbed out of the boat. His shoulders slumped as he stepped up to the intercom and the fingerprint scanner ju
tting out of the wall, to the left of the steel door.

  Naomi raised the shotgun. The guard stiffened and pressed a button on the intercom.

  “Delivery,” he said.

  Nothing.

  He pressed it twice more, repeating the command, until a voice came through. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Henson. Open up.”

  “This isn’t scheduled. We’ve got a situation at the manor.”

  “I know. I have reinforcements.”

  “Sent by who?”

  “Captain Waalkamp.”

  A pause. Naomi kept the shotgun aimed at the guard. Viktor could only hope he was telling the truth about the cameras not pointing at the canal. If not, then that door would never open, and Grey would never leave.

  “Send them in, then,” the voice over the intercom said. “Don’t know what’s going on, but we might need them.”

  As Viktor caught his breath, tensing in anticipation, Henson pressed the tips of his fingers against the face of the scanner.

  Grey crouched to grasp the iron handle with both hands, ten feet deep in the cold and fetid water, his lungs straining. A manual failsafe the guard had told him about, the handle was attached to the bottom of the steel door at the end of the canal. Grey used it to hold himself in place so he wouldn’t have to expend precious energy treading water.

  As soon as the door rose a foot off the bottom, Grey shot under it, using the handle to propel himself forward. Once through, he used a breaststroke to traverse the length of the holding bay.

  According to the captured guard, Grey had fifty feet to swim. He could see shadowy figures moving around the holding bay above him, guards opening the door and preparing for the entry. Only two or three, if they were lucky and the diversion had worked.

  Despite the exertion, Grey shivered with cold. He needed more body fat for a mission like this. Spots of black filled his vision, and he stretched his fingers as far as he could, vowing not to surface until he felt the wall. Leave the water too soon and he’d be a sitting duck.

  Even if things went as planned, it was going to be close.

  His lungs spasming from the effort, Grey finally touched a hard surface and shot upwards. It took all of his willpower to take baby sips, and not gasp in air, when his head broke through.

  He didn’t have time to wait. He had to take out the guard in the control room before he could alert the rest of the compound.

  His hands on the edge of the wall, Grey lifted his eyes out of the water. A glance confirmed the guard’s description of the holding bay. A central basin of water surrounded by a concrete docking area full of crates and winches.

  Grey risked a look behind him. The wall was up and the powerboat drifting inside, the captured guard at the helm. Per Grey’s instructions, Viktor and Naomi should be lying unseen on the floor, Naomi pointing the gun into the guard’s crotch.

  A single guard stood on the dock watching the boat come in. Excellent.

  Grey whipped around. The control room, which gave access to the main compound, lay twenty feet ahead. It also contained the intercoms and surveillance equipment. Grey saw a guard inside, facing the monitors, probably watching the situation unfold outside van Draker’s manor.

  So far, so good. Grey was lucky neither guard was facing his way. One glimpse of Grey, one push of a panic button, and the advantage was lost.

  Viktor and Naomi had seconds before they were spotted. None of the weapons were waterproof models, so Grey had to leave the boat unarmed. He had also left his shoes and socks behind to streamline his swimming, and so the shoes wouldn’t squeak.

  He slipped silently out of the canal, a barefoot wraith from the deep. Dripping water, he walked in a crouch towards the guard room, wincing at the rustle of his wet clothes. Ten feet. Still no movement from the guard.

  Five feet.

  Three.

  The guard turned as Grey pounced, ripping the man backward off his chair by the back of his shirt. Grey heard shouting behind him, the guard yelling for help and Naomi yelling for the guard to stand down. Would the noise reach anyone else, Grey wondered? He had ordered Naomi not to shoot unless she had to.

  The powerboat rumbled to life. More shouting. Grey couldn’t risk turning.

  His maneuver had dazed the guard, a flaxen-haired man with ruddy cheeks and a lean but muscular build. Grey could tell he was well-trained because he didn’t panic and he tucked his chin as he fell, stopping his head from bouncing off the cement floor.

  The guard tried to rise but Grey put a knee on his stomach and crossed his hands in an X on his collar, applying a front choke by twisting his wrists and squeezing. The guard’s bulging eyes said no one puts on a choke that fast. He gasped and gurgled and clawed at Grey’s face. Grey head-butted him twice and choked harder.

  Gunshots from behind. Viktor shouted his name.

  Grey still couldn’t turn.

  The powerboat roared as the guard went limp in Grey’s hands, finally allowing him to spin around.

  The other guard was lying on his back on the dock, covered in blood and unmoving. There was no sign of the boat. The door had lowered. Naomi must have had to retreat, and shot the guard to cover Grey as the door came down.

  Fine. Grey could reopen the door. He kept the choke on until sure the guard would stay asleep, then rose to survey the control room. Before he could find a switch to let the boat in, the door to his left opened. Damn. He was afraid of that. Someone nearby had heard gunfire and come to investigate.

  A well-built man in a military uniform stepped through the door, and the flesh on Grey’s arms prickled when he spied a familiar rubbery face, a blond haircut from another era, and eyes as cold as the grave.

  -48-

  At least, Grey thought, only one soldier had come to investigate the gunshot.

  Unfortunately, that soldier was Klaus.

  Though Grey didn’t have time to reach for a weapon, he saw the Nazi a split-second before Klaus saw him. Grey used that increment of time to kick the assault rifle out of Klaus’s right hand, sending it spinning into the corridor behind him.

  Taken by surprise, the blond man took a step back but recovered fast enough to parry Grey’s attack, a high-and-low elbow-and-shin combination. Grey’s follow-up attack would have been the end of the fight for most people. An experienced opponent might have stopped two or three of Grey’s five blows.

  Klaus blocked them all.

  Grey knew he wasn’t dealing with a normal opponent. Perhaps not even with a human being at all, at least under the standard definition. He didn’t know what biomechanical enhancements Klaus had acquired when van Draker revived him. The Nazi didn’t react to pain in the normal manner. He probably had bones and joints reinforced by steel or some other material.

  Grey couldn’t rely on body mechanics, the principal weapon of jujitsu, to fight this enemy.

  Still, jujitsu was born in feudal Japan. Developed by peasants fighting for their lives against the terrifying might of armed samurai. Using an enemy’s strengths against him, adapting to every situation, doing anything and everything one could in the face of impossible odds: that was the essence of Grey’s art.

  He might not be able to rely as much on the skills he had spent a lifetime refining, but the principles and desired outcome remained the same.

  Cheat.

  Improvise.

  Win at all costs.

  Klaus took a step to the side and drew a knife. Grey disarmed that as well, chopping down on Klaus’s forearm as he raised the weapon, relieved the maneuver worked. But it cost Grey the momentum, and Klaus rushed him. Grey wasn’t able to avoid the maneuver in the tight quarters, and the Nazi picked him up and slammed him on the bank of monitors. Grey tightened his muscles and did his best to curl his body, taking away some of the damage, but his back screamed in pain.

  He lashed out with a heel and caught Klaus under the jaw, snapping his head back. Desperate for a weapon, Grey’s eyes canvassed the room as best he could while scrambling off the compu
ters and diving out of reach. The other guard’s firearm must be in a drawer somewhere.

  A ring of keys. Wooden clipboards. A windbreaker Grey could use as a garrote on a normal opponent.

  Klaus saw the police baton before Grey did and jerked it off the wall. Grey spun left to avoid the first blow, but Klaus caught his left shoulder with the second. Pain shot down Grey’s arm. Diving backwards to avoid the next swing, knowing he stood no chance in such cramped quarters, Grey scrambled on his back out of the control station.

  With an impassive expression, Klaus followed him onto the concrete loading bay, his baton echoing in the chamber as it cracked on the ground beside Grey. Once, twice, three times it missed him. Grey took a chance and leapt to his feet, the next swing missing his face by less than an inch. Instead of retreating, Grey rushed inside and caught Klaus under the jaw with a palm strike, catching him by surprise. The blond man threw Grey back, rubbed his jaw, and grinned.

  Grey had seen enough. In the moment he had bought himself, he turned and ran towards the body of the dead guard, lying on the edge of the water. Klaus realized what he was after and bounded after him.

  Two glints of metal caught Grey’s eyes. One was a pair of handcuffs attached to the guard’s belt. The other was an assault rifle two feet beside the body, half-covered in blood. He dove on the floor, fingers outstretched. The slick cement and pockets of blood and his wet clothes all carried him forward in a long slide.

  Just as Grey’s fingers closed on the weapon, the baton snapped down on Grey’s wrist. Bone crunched. Grey screamed.

  Klaus had broken his wrist.

  Grey swallowed the pain and pushed to his feet. How had Klaus gotten there so fast?

  The blond Nazi kicked the guard’s corpse into the water and advanced again. His right hand limp like an injured bird’s wing, Grey dodged another blow and darted to his right, towards the lever that raised the steel wall. Klaus cut him off with a smirk, knowing there was nowhere left to go.