Jon pointed to his shoulders. “Front and back of both shoulders, down my back and on both hips,” he answered.
The physician motioned for Jon to remove his shirt and Sherrard quickly pulled it off, tilting both shoulders toward Douglas and then turning around so the man could see the line of welts running straight down his spine.
“That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” Douglas muttered, turning his patient back around and looking closely at one of the welts on Jon’s face. He thought he could faintly see a tiny hole in the middle of the bump. When he looked at another one, he saw the same thing. “Jon, have you been out of the country lately?”
“No, why?” Jon answered, figuring that having his consciousness running around in cyberspace didn’t count.
“I’m not sure, but I’m wondering if we’re dealing with some kind of a parasite here,” was the reply. He stood up and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you what I want to do, Jon. I’d like to get a couple X-rays. Maybe see if we can see something beneath the surface here.”
“Whatever you say, doc,” Jon nodded.
Doc Douglas opened the door and then looked at his patient. “I’ll have Jeanine come down here and take you to X-ray. We’ll try and get this looked at pretty quickly.” A moment later, he left.
Jon was grateful that the doctor’s office wasn’t busy, and less than thirty minutes later, he found himself sitting back on the examination table, looking at an X-ray of his shoulder as Doctor Douglas pointed to a pair of thin, wavy white lines buried beneath the flesh. “What is that?” he asked worriedly.
Doc Douglas shook his head. “I can’t be certain, but my guess is that you’re looking at a parasitic worm of some kind.”
“A worm?” Jon wrinkled his face in disgust.
“It sure looks like it,” he replied, pointing to where one end of the worm was located just beneath the surface of the skin, while the other end looked like it was part of his collar bone. “I don’t know what kind we’re talking about, but I think it’s safe to say that it’s something along those lines.”
“What do I do about it then?”
“Well, I’d like to get a local biopsy here and pull one of these things out to see what exactly we are dealing with. Unfortunately, it looks the worm has attached itself to the bone and there’s no telling what that would do,” he answered. “So, I’m going to make an appointment with the hospital for you tomorrow morning. I’d like you to go in and have them surgically removed, so we can see what it is.”
“So I get to have it cut out?”
“They can do it under a local, Jon,” he nodded. “You’ll be in and out in a couple hours.”
“Anything I can do in the meantime? Any drugs or antibiotics I can take?”
“I’m not certain if any standard treatment is going to work, but I’ll get a couple of scripts written for you just in case,” he answered. “I wish I could tell you more, Jon, but I honestly don’t know what this is. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Sherrard shivered. “Man, this is just weirding me out,” he sighed.
The doctor patted him on the arm. “That’s understandable,” he replied. “Hang tight and we’ll get something for you, as well as a cream to hopefully help with the itching.”
A moment later, he was gone and Jon was left to wait, pondering what was happening to him. Absently, he pressed a finger to one of the welts, and with a startled cry, jerked his hand away in pain. Looking at his finger, he could see a single drop of blood forming as if from a pinprick. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him as he realized that whatever was inside him had just bitten him.
Chapter 12
Spokane, Washington, International Airport: The man leaned back and relaxed in his seat as the airplane descended, touching down on the runway with the normal bump and jostle of its passengers. As the plane taxied slowly to the terminal, he remained seated and unmoving, his sharp mind listening and processing the varied conversations that had been happening around him for the last few hours.
For him, it was simply an exercise. His target was nowhere near him and at the moment, he was in no hurry to make contact. But the flights that brought him from Venezuela into the heart of the United States’ Pacific Northwest gave him the opportunity to exercise his mind, and he never missed out on a chance to do so. For example, he knew that the lady sitting two rows behind him was filing for divorce from her husband, just as soon as she completed her week-long visit to her alleged “sister” in California. He knew that the man sitting across from him was involved in an illegal trading scam with his investment firm and that his mounting nervousness would soon get him caught. He also knew that the young blonde airline attendant who had served him coffee while making a point to lean over and display her ample cleavage to him, was involved with the married co-pilot and that the two were planning a rendezvous at the hotel upon landing in Los Angeles.
He knew all these things because that was what he was trained for. He knew how to listen, to size up a situation, to discard the useless information and to take full advantage of the rest of it. He had been doing it for years, and something as simple as a flight from one city to the next afforded him excellent opportunities to keep his senses sharp. Those unsuspecting people around him would be eternally mortified if they knew what he knew about them. But by the same token, they could be equally grateful to know that, to him, they were nothing.
As the passengers began to disembark from the plane, the Venezuelan slowly stood and pretended to stretch. It was a ruse, as was everything else about him, performed to put anyone else around him at ease. In truth, his body was honed to near physical perfection, on par with his mind, and he could sit for hours in a cramped position waiting for a kill shot opportunity and then explode into action with no protests from muscles that would be cramped into immobility for anyone else.
Picking up his laptop case from the floor near his seat, he draped the carrying strap over his shoulder and then opened the overhead compartment to take down his carry-on. A few moments later, he was walking down the jetway and into the terminal, mentally reviewing any and all information he had on Perry Edwards and the company known as FutureTek.
Bethany Edwards felt her body go numb as the wriggling alien tendril pushed through the skin and soft cartilage of her left temple and into her brain. She felt strangely disconnected with her body as the second one entered her skull through her right temple, and a third entered through her right eye. Optical fluid from the ruined orb ran down her face, but strangely, she felt no pain. Somehow, though, she didn’t think it mattered anymore.
“It’s okay, Beth,” she heard a soothing voice coming from somewhere in the fog that was rapidly descending on her mind.
It took a moment before she thought she recognized it. “Perry?” she said, but while her words were clear in her mind, her mouth only moved silently, her one remaining eye open and unseeing, her body held easily in the grasp of her attacker.
“Yes, it’s me,” Perry answered his wife in her mind, even as he fed on it.
“But…you’re dead,” she thought back after a bit, oddly unconcerned that her thoughts seemed to be fragmenting.
“No, I’m not,” he countered with what had to be a mental chuckle. “Definitely not death. I prefer to call it freedom.”
Beth became vaguely aware of her body again and felt a slight twinge of pain inside her head. But a shifting of the wriggling things that were eating through her brain sent the physical sensations flying away as leaves on the wind.
“See how easy it is?” he went on.
“I…don’t....understand,” she tried to say and found the words were coming much harder now.
“There’s nothing to understand,” Perry’s voice answered almost coldly as he continued.
For Bethany Edwards, her own thoughts were beginning to grind to a stop and she began to see flashes of her past brought before her. Dreams and memories, thoughts and ideas came flooding out, as if someone had
uncorked the part of her mind that stored everything about her, letting it all spill out unbidden.
“Isn’t that better?” Perry asked, a smile in his voice as he savored the experience.
It took Beth an eternity to bring forth the only word she was able. It would also be the last word she ever uttered. “Why?”
“Because I can,” he answered with finality, driving deep into her brain with a final thrust. Bethany Edwards’ body shivered violently for a few moments, before finally going still. For a few moments, her killer continued to hold her, drawing out the last physical remnants of her brain, before finally withdrawing and letting her lifeless body fall to the floor.
He looked down at her mortal shell and at the holes driven into the sides of her head and through her eye, which leaked a small amount of blood. For a moment, he considered the implications of what he had done, but in the end, it did not matter. He had simply done what had to be done. Without a word, he turned and walked back out the door and into the night.
Marquis Chavandar watched the figure disappear into the darkness and considered following him for a moment. But since the man wasn’t his target, he quickly abandoned that idea and moved forward through the darkness of the night. He was mildly surprised to see the door standing open, with no lights shining from windows.
He paused to evaluate the situation. His instincts told him that something else was at play here and he found himself wondering if another organization had become involved. As far as he knew, Perry Edwards had only been working with the Venezuelan group, but he recognized that anything else was certainly possible in his realm of work.
He slipped his hand inside his jacket and withdrew his Glock. The barrel was long, a silencer already screwed onto it. He remained still for several more minutes, listening closely for any sounds that would alert him to dangers unseen. Finally, hearing nothing more than a soft breeze through the trees around him, he moved forward again, cautiously picking his way across the lawn, staying within the darkest of shadows. Finally, from the edge of the porch, he paused again, taking in all his surroundings. Seeing nothing that would alarm him, he silently and quickly vaulted over the railing and slipped inside the open door, closing it silently behind him.
Once more he remained frozen, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darker interior of the hall and letting his exceptional hearing take in any and all sounds. This house was dead silent. Finally satisfied that no one was moving about, he pulled out a small LED flashlight and snapped it on. The light from the small cylinder was bright, but tightly focused, and there was very little glow that escaped the beam. At the moment, the light was aimed at the floor and illuminating the face of a dead young woman. It was Bethany Edwards, which was something of problem for him. Her husband, Perry, was his target.
The Venezuelan knelt down to examine her, the light playing over her face and head. She had a hole punched through both temples and her right eye was gone. Initially, he assumed she had been shot. But upon closer examination, when shining the light closer to her empty eye socket, he was shocked to see the light penetrate all the way to the back of her skull. He didn’t have to be a medical doctor to see that her brain was gone.
Chavandar had been in the assassination business for many years and had seen some truly gruesome sights in his time. But this one unnerved him. Standing quickly, he gripped his weapon tighter and flashed the beam quickly around the room, absorbing the layout of the place. It was a typical American household, full of furniture and personal knick knacks. Other than the dead woman lying on the floor in the entry hall, nothing else appeared out of place. Controlling his own rising apprehension, he began to move through the house, searching until he was satisfied the house was empty.
He then returned to the office that could only be Perry’s. Now in more of a hurry to leave, he risked turning on the light to facilitate his search. Keeping his weapon out and ready, he went through the room quickly and efficiently. The office appeared to have been cleaned out recently and it didn’t take him long to realize that the item he was looking for was not in the office and, by the looks of things, probably would not be back. This situation had been fluid from the beginning and he believed he was now working against the clock.
Turning so that his back was against the far wall and he was facing the doorway, he pulled out his cell phone and thumbed a number. One ring later, the phone was answered on the other end by a woman who spoke a single word. “¿Sí?”
“Ha desarrollado un problema,” Chavandar spoke in Spanish. “Conécteme a nuestro contacto americano inmediatamente.” There was a short pause before the line was connected.
After half a dozen rings, it answered. The voice sounded tired. “Yeah?”
“We have a problem,” the Venezuelan said quietly, speaking English now. “The courier and the package have moved.”
“The courier is dead,” the voice on the other end replied, suddenly awake. “Where are you?”
“Unimportant,” Chavandar answered, suddenly tense. “Why was I not informed of this?”
“It just happened the other day,” the voice on the other end snapped. “However, I can only converse with you when your corporation makes contact with me. They haven’t called me for several days.”
“A necessary precaution,” he replied coolly, referring to the fact that his company acted as an intermediary between him and their business contacts abroad. That kept both sides safely anonymous and afforded a great amount of protection in the event of a mishandled job. The only downside was that potentially important information could take longer to get to the proper person. It was a downside, however, that the corporation deemed acceptable, which was why it employed people like Marquis Chavandar who could think on their feet and required no supervision. “What is the status of the package?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” was the answer.
“Do not trifle with me,” Chavandar warned ominously.
“I’m not,” the voice on the other end responded sharply. “Look, I want my cut as much as you want the item. This whole thing has gotten way out of hand because of Edwards. If he hadn’t gotten greedy, this would all be over with by now.”
“You are as much a part of this deal as he was,” Chavandar said icily. “While you will of course be compensated at the agreed price, upon successful acquisition of the package, you also bear the same responsibility that he did. If we do not acquire the item for our buyer, it will be most unfortunate for you that he is already dead.”
“Look, man,” the voice replied with a hint of fear. “I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t know why Perry decided to cut and run on us, but he got Homeland Security involved. They have the device.”
“Then perhaps you should get it back.”
“Are you kidding? They know what Perry was trying to do and they’re calling him an enemy of the state. That prototype is locked up tight right now.”
“I am familiar with FutureTek’s employee manifest and their families,” Chavandar said, letting the threat loom large. “I suggest you do everything in your power to ensure we receive that which is due to us before there are more casualties.”
Chavandar thumbed the call over and pocketed his phone. In truth, the fact that Edwards was dead simply saved him a bullet. He was under orders to kill Edwards once he had the device, but the other phone contact didn’t need to know that, particularly since there was a contract on his life as well. With half a billion dollars in the swing for the tech, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that the corporation would take steps to ensure they never paid the money. He would have to get his hands on the item first, though.
For the moment, though, he would have to improvise in order to track down the technology and that likely meant another killing, which really meant nothing to him in the end. He had killed many people in his career, many of them contracts and many more as simply necessary to complete a certain contract. This would be no different.
Shutting off the light, he waited on
ly until his vision had readjusted to the dark before leaving the room. A short time later, Chavandar slipped back out the front door and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 13
Sherrard Residence, Helena, Montana: “Honey?” Jen Sherrard’s voice slipped into Jon’s subconscious, beckoning him to awaken. “Jon?” she called out as he struggled to open his eyes and focus.
“What time is it?” he mumbled, reaching up and pressing the palm of his hand to his aching forehead.
“About nine,” she answered, a trace of worry in her voice. She was sitting on the bed next to him, her hand resting softly on his shoulder. “You need to get up.”
“Why?” he groaned, wanting nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep and sleep off the horrible headache that was blasting through his brain at the moment.
After a short pause, she answered. “The police are here.”
Jon opened his eyes a little more, but that only increased the magnitude of his headache, so he closed them again. “What do they want?” he grumbled.
“I don’t know,” Jen answered and he detected the barest hint of distrust in her voice. It reminded him what his wife’s former occupation was and that brought all his senses online. “They said they would like to talk to both of us.”
Pushing down his worry, Jon heaved a great sigh and rolled out of bed, putting his feet on the floor. Leaning his head between his legs, he said quietly, “I’ve got a terrific headache.”
“I’m worried about you, Jon,” she said softly, taking his hand and squeezing it.
“I know, hon,” he replied, placing his hand over hers. “Look, let me get some clothes on and grab something for this headache and I’ll be right out. Then maybe we can try to figure things out.”
“Okay,” she answered and stood up. Casting another worried glance at her husband, she turned and walked out of the bedroom.
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