Spectrum

by Ethan Cross

  Carter joined him and started slipping on a set of the body armor. “You two wait here and let me do a recon first,” Nic said.

  “Are you sure? I can handle myself in a fight, kid.”

  “I know that, but I can move quieter on my own. And right now, we may be able to learn more by stealth than force.”

  Nic handed Carter one of the handheld radios, adjusted the frequency, and said, “I won’t speak if I’m not able, but if you hear me key my radio four times in a row, you get ready to back me up.”

  Carter nodded, but from the back of the BearCat, Burke said, “Do I get a gun?”

  In near perfect unison, Nic and Carter looked to the young doctor and said, “No!”

  Burke’s brow furrowed like a child being scolded, and to Nic’s eyes, the genius, who had proven himself so intelligent and capable, truly looked his age.

  “Don’t worry, doc,” he said. “I’ll probably just find one of Verbeek’s security guys up there with a prostitute or something. Verbeek’s probably not even here.”

  Nic moved toward the gate and pushed it forward only enough to slip through the opening and take a low position behind the security station. Using a small extending tactical mirror, he peered over the wall and through the glass into the small guard shack. Two men in rent-a-cop uniforms lay in pools of crimson on the floor. A broken coffee cup rested beside one of the men, the black liquid mixing with the blood.

  Checking around the corner with the tactical mirror, Nic rounded the backside of the security shack and entered through the unlocked door. A display of monitors mostly showed the exterior of the compound, but on one of the views, he saw a tall, blond man pacing back and forth on a back balcony. He appeared to be talking animatedly into a cell phone.

  Nic exited the building and, while still trying not to make a sound, rushed around the building in order to come up beneath the blond man undetected.

  Up close, through the slats of the boards in the balcony, Nic could getter a better view of the man. He was tall and well-muscled. He wore a white suit with a black shirt. The left side of the suit bulged in such a way to indicate a large handgun hidden beneath its folds. The man’s voice was strong and confident and carried an Australian accent.

  “Are you sure that you can trust Kruger, sir? … No, I would never question your orders …. She’s doing very well …. Is that completely necessary? She could be an asset to the organization …. I understand …. Yes, I’ll terminate her and Verbeek and bury them in the desert,” he said.

  The Australian sighed and leaned his hands against the railing as he put away his cell phone. He stood there for a moment, as if considering whether his orders were worth following. Then the big man shook his head, placed his right hand into his coat, and retrieved a black Beretta pistol with a sound suppressor threaded over its barrel. He placed the gun behind his back as he moved toward the closed door of the balcony.

  Knowing from the overheard conversation that two people were about to be executed, Nic wasted no more time. The balcony was inaccessible from the ground, but he managed to jump off the side of the house and grab the edge of the raised walkway. He quickly pulled himself up and readied his Sig Sauer. He unslung his rifle and laid it by the door, opting for stealth over firepower.

  Staying low and checking the corners with the mirror, he followed the Australian into the house. The room attached immediately to the balcony was dark and empty, but Nic saw a light down the hall and heard a woman speaking with words of anger and a man laughing.

  He moved down the hall toward the light and found a man in his underwear tied to a wooden dining room chair. Heavyset, in his forties, with shaggy gray hair, Nic immediately recognized the man in the chair as Carl Verbeek. Oddly, Verbeek was the one laughing, while his apparent torturer—a gorgeous young woman with auburn hair—had started to sob uncontrollably. Verbeek’s feet looked like piles of ground beef, and a blood-stained hammer dangled from the woman’s right fist.

  The woman barely acknowledged the Australian man coming up behind her. She was an easy target. All the Australian had to do was raise the gun and squeeze the trigger with a quick double tap. The gun would issue two thump-pings, and the woman would be dead. Then the Australian would repeat the procedure on Verbeek.

  Nic wasn’t about to let that happen. However—not knowing who these people were, how they were involved in any of this, and what information could be learned from them—he was hesitant to execute the blond man in the same fashion. Nic wanted all three of these people alive.

  The Australian raised the gun, and the woman recognized the danger too late, her eyes going wide with shock at the sight of the barrel in her face.

  Standing up to full height, Nic swung into the room, aimed his Sig, and said, “Police! Drop the gun!”

  The Australian didn’t listen. He twisted toward Nic, bringing the suppressed weapon to bear. Nic rushed forward with two long strides, drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, and wrapped his left hand around the Australian’s right wrist. The gun fired, two bright flashes and deafening pops in the small dimly lit room. Legs still churning, Nic drove the big man back against an unfinished wall, cracking the Australian’s gun hand against an exposed stud.

  The weapon involuntarily falling from his grip, the big blond drove his left palm up into Nic’s nose. Pulling back just enough to keep the thrust from driving the cartilage of his nose up through his brain, Nic wasn’t ready for the incoming head-butt. The Australian’s forehead collided with Nic’s nose, and he felt sparks of pain lance through his skull and a flash of light briefly blur his vision.

  But if there was one thing Nic was good at, it was taking a hit. Still seeing stars, he swung an elbow into the man’s jaw with a satisfying crunch of teeth and bone.

  The Australian, blood and spittle flying from his mouth, screamed and grabbed Nic in a bear hug, pumping his legs and driving them both back toward the interior of the house. His arms wrapped around the blond in a fit of rage, Nic could do little more than hold on for the ride as his attacker pushed him backward, out of the unfinished room, and over a set of wrought-iron railing bordering the home’s inner catwalk.

  Nic felt himself go weightless as they both tumbled over the edge, a mass of flailing limbs and flying blood. The Australian had gone berserk, still head-butting and kneeing as they fell. Nic’s only thought was to keep a hold on the Sig Sauer in his right hand. If he could hit the ground and get a few feet of distance, he could end the confrontation decisively. And he was no longer worried about asking this maniac any questions.

  He looked over his shoulder as they tumbled through the air to see a large sheet of plywood set up on sawhorses in what he presumed was the home’s living room. The good news was that the makeshift table would break their fall. The bad news was that it was covered in all manner of sharp tools.

  Nic tried to brace himself for the impact, but it did little good. His head collided with a miter saw, shattering the plastic housing. The plywood table folded under their combined weight with a shotgun blast of splinters and sawdust. His arm struck something hard and metal, sending pain up his side and down his spine. The breath pushed from his lungs, his vision flashed dark, but he refused to succumb.

  Nic pushed himself up and stumbled to his feet, realizing that he had lost his gun. He scanned the floor around him, but his attention quickly returned to his opponent when he heard the activation of a battery-powered Sawzall.

  The Australian tore off his white suit jacket, tossed it aside, and revved the motor of the saw like he was preparing for a drag race. The man’s eyes were wild with anger, but Nic also saw a confident composure. His opponent was obviously a professional killer and not a man who lost a fight.

  The Australian, eyes wild and teeth red with blood, issued a battle cry as he rushed toward Nic, slashing with the razor-sharp blade of the saw. Nic rolled over the remains of the plywood table and flipped one half of the broken wood on its edge, pushing it toward the Australian.

  The big b
lond shoved it away with his left shoulder and rushed at Nic again slashing the vibrating blade of the saw in wide arcs. One of the slashes caught Nic on the left arm, and he screamed as the blade chewed into his flesh. Luckily, he was able to back up before the next swing took off his head.

  Searching for any weapon of his own and still unable to find his pistol in the darkened room, Nic snatched a two-by-four from a pile against the wall and swung it at the big Australian.

  The blond simply ducked his head and raised his shoulder, absorbing the blow as the board splintered and broke in two. Then he was coming at Nic again with the swinging arcs of the saw.

  Nic saw a Paslode framing nailer sitting inside an orange case, and hoping that the battery was still in the device, he picked it up, ducked beneath the Australian’s next swing, and grabbed the saw by its base. Then he jammed the framing nailer into the muscular blond’s stomach and squeezed the trigger of the gun in rapid succession.

  The Australian screamed in agony as the nails penetrated his flesh, but the guy must have been part crocodile because he shook away the pain and attacked with another head-butt and a knee to Nic’s groin.

  Nic doubled over in pain and caught a left-handed uppercut to the jaw that sent him flying onto his back amid the scattered tools, sawdust, and blood.

  The wild-eyed Australian raised the Sawzall up like he was Leatherface in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Nic was on his back with nowhere to go, blocked by sawhorses on his left and a pile of OSB sheeting on his right.

  He reached out to try and slide one of the pieces of sheeting off the stack and use it as a shield, but as he saw the vibrating blade coming toward him, he knew that he would be too late.

  A loud blast cut through the churning metal whir of the saw, and the Australian’s head jerked with the impact of a bullet. He fell to his knees, his finger releasing from the saw’s trigger and the room going silent.

  Nic fought to catch his breath and wiped the sweat and sawdust from his eyes. Looking up toward the balcony, he saw Carter rush forward to the edge, his gun up and ready.

  But who had shot the big blond maniac?

  Nic sat up and looked over his shoulder just as August Burke walked up to him, stepping in between the mess of tools and lumber. Burke cocked his head at the dead man, and then he lightly tossed the Sig Sauer onto Nic’s lap. Then Burke headed toward the stairs leading back up to where Nic had fallen from.

  Over his shoulder, Burke said, “Told you I needed a gun.”

  Chapter 90

  When Nic stumbled his way back up the stairs to the room of Carl Verbeek’s violent interrogation, he discovered two things. Carter had captured the woman with the hammer. She was now on her knees with her hands in cuffs behind her back. That was the good news.

  The bad news was that one of the Australian’s wild shots had struck Carl Verbeek in the chest. The heavyset security contractor now sat hunched over with hollow eyes. And with him, their best lead had just died.

  The three of them stood around the bound woman. Her head hung low, and her eyes studied the floor. Blood-spatter covered her face and arms and clung to her like a scarlet letter. Tears filled her eyes.

  Carter pulled up a chair and spoke to her in his calm fatherly voice. “According to Nic here, your friend was about to kill you. Do you know why?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Nic overheard a phone conversation that mentioned trusting Kruger and ended with the order to eliminate you and Mr. Verbeek. Does that mean something to you?”

  “Yeah, it means quite a bit.”

  “Would you like to tell us who you are?”

  “Constable Isabel Price, South African Police Services.”

  Nic wasn’t expecting that answer. He had pegged her as an assassin or merc, maybe one who had screwed up or had a personal vendetta. But definitely not a fellow law officer.

  “What is a cop from South Africa doing here torturing a US citizen?” he said.

  “He had information. At least, I hoped he did.”

  “Information on what?”

  “Where to find Kruger.”

  “And who is Kruger?” Nic asked.

  She raised her eyes from the floor. “He’s the guy who robbed that GoBox building. A seven-foot boogeyman who is also responsible for the deaths of over 300 South Africans. You asked why a cop would be torturing this man. I’d do anything to put an end to Kruger.”

  “Are you referring to the squatter camp massacre?” Burke said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you were the investigating officer?”

  “In a way. I lost someone in the massacre.”

  Burke twirled his dirty blond hair as his eyes narrowed. “Do you have any pictures of the victims?”

  Both Nic and Carter twisted their necks toward the doctor with looks of confusion. “It’s relevant,” Burke quickly added.

  The woman nodded toward a computer bag in the corner. Burke retrieved it and booted an old IBM laptop he found inside. She gave him the directory, and he pulled up the photos and started scanning through them.

  Burke’s face showed no reaction, no emotion, as he scrolled through the grisly images. Nic looked over his shoulder and had to quickly look away. The bodies were missing their hands, heads, and feet.

  Then Burke actually smiled at the gruesome photos. “This makes sense,” he said

  “How does the brutal murder of an entire village make sense?” Isabel asked.

  Burke showed them a few of the photos and said, “See here. They removed the limbs and heads so that the actual cause of death wouldn’t be evident. But you can see the petechiae here on the chest and torsos. Were autopsies and full tox screens done on these bodies?”

  Isabel laughed. “They were 300 homeless white people in South Africa. I had to fight to keep them from all being thrown into a mass grave.”

  “What are you seeing, Dr. Burke?” Carter asked.

  “These people were exposed to the same designer pathogen as the hostages at GoBox. This was a botched experiment. They probably wanted to test the virus on a few members of the camp and somehow it spread to them all.”

  “Do you see a connection between our case and this?” Nic asked. “It was obviously the same big bastard involved.”

  Burke thought for a moment. “My guess would be that the GoBox incident was meant to be a smoke screen. Maybe Yoshida was in charge of both projects and when one went South, he knew that the CIA or whoever he actually answers to would make him pay for the screw-up. So he decides to make it look like the incident was the result of terrorists, the same ones who attacked GoBox, and then he told them how to steal the battery so that they could come out the other side of this with their tracks covered and swimming in money.”

  “But he would need a fall guy,” Carter said. “Someone to take the blame.”

  “Probably the redhead from the robbery and our big friend. I bet the redhead was someone who worked for him and still does. But once he has the battery, he’ll pin it off on one rogue researcher and her mercenary companion. The battery tech won’t be recovered, and the Chinese will miraculously release the same technology a year from now.”

  Nic shook his head. “He killed all these people to cover his ass and get rich.”

  Carter shrugged. “Drug addicts and gang members kill people every day for a few dollars. At least, he’s thinking big.”

  “Yeah, by betraying his country and everything he once stood for.”

  Burke turned back to Isabel. “How did you become part of this?”

  “A crime boss called Mobius told me that he’d help me get what I want.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “Kruger’s head mounted on the wall of my apartment.”

  “Looks like that deal has changed.”

  “Yeah, Christopher was going to kill me. I thought he was … Mobius and Kruger must have kissed and made up.”

  “Would Mobius be interested in the battery?” Burke asked.

  She shrugged.
“I don’t really know. He has his hands in all kinds of established businesses, legal and illegal. I believe his comment was everyone from ‘Saudi princes to American telecom magnates’ were in his pocket.”

  Burke’s forehead wrinkled up, and he twirled his hair. But he didn’t say anything.

  Nic decided it was time to address the elephant in the room. He placed a hand on Carter’s shoulder and said, “With Verbeek dead, what’s our next move to track down Kruger before he turns over the battery and disappears?”

  Carter didn’t answer. He just looked over at the dead man with a defeated look in his eyes.

  “Before we get too depressed, let me find his computer,” Burke said. “I have a few ideas.”

  “I thought Allanon was the wizard,” Nic said.

  Burke grinned. “He is. But The Force is stronger with me.”

  Chapter 91

  Burke put on his Beats over-the-ear headphones, turned off all the lights in Verbeek’s office—which was one of the only completely finished rooms in the house—and started up a heavy metal playlist. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before even touching the keyboard. He had told the others to wait upstairs. He needed to concentrate and relax and that was impossible for him while in the presence of other people.

  After a moment of centering himself, his fingers flew over the keyboard. He fell into the digital world like it was a part of him. The 1s and 0s were so much easier to understand than people and emotions. He only needed to understand the underlying infrastructure and the basic tenets of the system, and then he could make it bend to his will.