The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2)

by Col Bill Best

  He deserves to die!

  Lynn looked out from her balcony, sipping her breakfast as she gazed down at the people below. Over the years, she always tried to get on the third or fourth floor as it provided a few moments to respond to an attack and a psychological advantage of surprise. In seconds, she could grab her backpack—which was always close at hand--and jump to the ground and take off running at a record-breaking sprint.

  Returning to her train of thought, her current bio-modeling suggested that she had slowed the process down about four hundred percent from what she’d experienced. An hour after the injection Jason would start to feel a rush. After eight hours, his strength should double, and his IQ should be twenty points higher. After sixty-four hours, he would be three times stronger and he would experience another twenty-point gain in IQ. At the square of sixty-four hours, just under 171 days, he would have four times his original strength and an increase of around sixty points in IQ. But even with her success in slowing down FSAT, he wouldn’t make it to even ten days. It would still kill him, horribly. He just might survive eight days instead of two or three.

  She finished her smoothie breakfast and went back inside for her morning cyber ritual. Typically, she conducted her business in the evenings; mornings were her time to snoop. She scanned various news feeds, commentaries, and international business reports. She’d spend a few minutes checking up on her favorite charities and ministries she had started or supported. Then she checked up on Samantha Knowles and Mick Thompson, from back in the original FSAT days in the early nineties. Likewise, she’d follow the whereabouts and status of her friends from 2006, Roger and Cindy Brandon. She hoped one day to get back in touch with all of them without putting their lives in danger.

  Like, a day when Jason Matthews was no longer a threat. What a thought! Freedom to go anywhere, do anything, be with anybody as herself; not under one of her dozens of aliases.

  She took a deep breath then turned her attention back to her tablet.

  After her normal news and social dump, she often dove deeper. As a world-class hacker, she kept tabs on the news behind the news in several key areas. Over the years, she’d collected and anonymously sent enough information to authorities to break up a few international crime syndicates. She’d also exposed more than a few cases of banking and medical fraud. Then there were the dozens of cases of gross fraud and corruption at both state and federal levels. Evil was certainly alive and well on planet Earth, she would often lament.

  But Jason Matthews...She tried daily to get something to stick to his Teflon façade, but he undoubtedly had CIA-level cybersecurity support, or even better.

  After a few more unsuccessful minutes attempting to find something—anything—to bring him down, she set aside her tablet. She poured a cup of coffee and returned to thoughts of a more direct approach. Injecting Jason with FSAT would be poetic justice that an Edgar Allan Poe or Alfred Hitchcock would appreciate. Give him all the benefits he desires. But also make sure he gets the memo that he’ll only have eight days to enjoy them. Lynn smiled at the thought of giving him an eight-day countdown app for his smartphone.

  But as with everything, she had learned to consider the law of unintended consequences, those unanticipated or unintended second and third order effects of a single action. So, what about the other issue with FSAT? If it also enhances latent aspects of a person’s character, what could that mean for someone already as evil as Jason? That was a characteristic her bio-modeling wasn’t able to predict. What damage might he do in that time? How many more would die?

  Lynn took a long, deep breath and slowly exhaled. Execution by FSAT was not an option. She would have to find another alternative.

  + + +

  Now it was personal. And painful. Skylar never spent a day without an excruciating reminder of his failed takedown of a single woman who left him in agony and with months of rehabilitation ahead. Even then, the doctors couldn’t promise a favorable outcome.

  If we had her and the formula, Clyde and I would be healed by now, he fumed.

  In reality, they still had a part of her. They had collected massive quantities of her blood, tissue samples, and bone marrow. But much of it was already used up. And to Jason’s fury, the rest had spoiled from improper storage. Even the small amount that remained was degraded.

  He put the TENS unit on his knee and turned it to full power. He wouldn’t give up. He’d get her so Matthews could continue his experiments. But now he had his own agenda to do a little “experimentation” of his own to avenge his shattered knee from the morning she escaped.

  He popped another narcotic pain pill and turned his attention to his tablet. The rest of the team still knew better than to cross him. They provided him with all the tools he needed to access camera feeds while otherwise incapacitated. Never mind that he was using classified equipment from a bed in a rehabilitation center. They still jumped at his command. But he perceived that hairline cracks were forming and spreading in his organization. He knew there was a buzz about how he and Clyde let a single unarmed woman best them, even cripple them, in a matter of seconds. He had to stay on top of things, show he was still Top Dog.

  Something on the tablet made his heart skip a beat.

  Really?!

  Was this the same elusive target who had evaded him all these years? There she was. Street cameras, security cameras, all tracked her to the mall. No reason for her to hide up to that point. But then he picked up a woman of the same height, manner of walking, and the exact same clothes walking from the mall a few minutes later! Sure, her hair color was different, and she carried a duffle bag instead of wearing a backpack. But it was her!

  All right, lady, let’s see where you’re heading to now.

  He trailed her as she walked across town, from street camera to street camera. In a few more minutes, he saw her enter a bus from a bus station security camera. And he knew.

  Atlanta, Georgia. Really?

  He followed her from the Atlanta bus depot to the hotel she stayed at for her first week. Then he contacted local officials using the senator’s status and one of the better pictures from a security camera. Within an hour they called him back with a name from hotel management.

  “Hello, Lynn Blalock,” he whispered with satisfaction.

  5. CONFRONTATION

  “I

  agree and approve.”

  That was all Skylar needed to hear from Jason. He put Randy Craig in charge. “RC” as they called him, had been Skylar’s “Second” for twelve years now, having started at thirty after years of interstate truck driving. In spite of the considerable and intimidating tattoos across most of his otherwise pale arms and back, he had a cool, quiet disposition. Then there was the six feet, four inches and two hundred forty-pound frame the tats adorned. He was a study in contrasts, but RC could be tough as nails when needed.

  Skylar saw the task as a chance to save face from his own defeat: “RC, you need to know that this genetic modification isn’t a trick. This woman can out lift, out run, and out think anyone alive today. Clyde and I had a plan that would have been one hundred percent against any other human. Not her. The boss has given us permission to use enough of a classified gas he’s getting for us, that we would be able to knock out an elephant for a full day. You’ll have a med tech with you, so if it kills her, we can still get all the blood and other samples we need before it all goes bad.”

  “So…we don’t have to take her alive at all costs?”

  “That’s correct.”

  + + +

  By choice and necessity, Lynn lived a quiet and solitary life, at least to the extent possible. Anyone she got close to would be in danger from Jason, either as collateral damage or for him to capture and use as bait to get to her. And few, other than Samantha, Mick, and the Brandon’s, could be trusted with her secret. What if the world knew that her body might hold the cures for cancer, viral and bacterial infections, and genetic defects? That the same genetic change could increase IQ, physical strength, and
lifespan? Well, there would be thousands of “Jason’s.” From all over the world, scientists and entrepreneurs would be after her. Governments like the U.S. would fear the final, complete breakdown of the Social Security system as people lived and continued to draw money many decades after their retirement. Armies would want to enhance soldiers. Anything could happen.

  So, Lynn quietly continued her own research. Anything she discovered that would be beneficial and not destructive, she would anonymously make available to the public domain. But she would release nothing that might lead to anarchy or that could be weaponized.

  So far, after decades of research: Nothing.

  Lynn was exhausted. She took a quick shower and decided to skip her normal business activities for the day. She felt drained after the escape from Jason just a few weeks earlier. A lot had changed. Most of her time involved planning how to carry out his execution. She spent less time reading and meditating on Scripture, less time in prayer, and virtually no time to praise and worship the Lord.

  That night, she went to bed early.

  + + +

  From a car secluded a full hundred yards away, RC used binoculars to observe the front window. Lights had gone out at eight.

  Slade reported that Lynn had closed her balcony curtains at seven thirty, and all the lights were off. He was almost two hundred yards away.

  The rest of the team—two of Skylar’s best—would join once RC gave the word. All communications were old tech…smartphones. Skylar warned them that any NSA-type wireless headsets would be what she’d expect and was likely able to intercept and monitor. They were on a three-way.

  “You see any other lights on around her apartment?” RC asked Slade.

  “No, it looks like she got the first apartment they opened back up after their renovation. Others look empty.”

  “Agreed. Kinda quiet. We’ll give it another hour or two.”

  Waiting was hard. But no one wanted a shattered knee or fractured neck. Or worse.

  Most nights, the neighborhood was quiet. An occasional car stereo, loud muffler, or open pipe motorcycle could be annoying, vulgar, or in this case, a good cover for the noise of breaking windows. Jerome, the fifth man on RC’s team, rode by on an old Harley with open pipes, slow enough to mask the sound of RC and Brandon firing gas canisters through each of the front two windows. Slade and Curtis did the same through the back window and the sliding glass door.

  Each canister was on target. Each released its classified, powerful gas. Any canister alone would take down a locker room full of NFL players. Together, the four canisters were deadly inside the confined space of Lynn’s apartment.

  The four men had waited till they believed no one would see them, and now with no sense of urgency they walked up the stairs. They sent a text to Jerome to ride back on the Harley. As he rode by, they set off the explosive to blow the locks on the apartment door.

  One of the unique characteristics of the gas that led to its Secret classification was that it quickly dissipated and became harmless shortly after it was exposed to air. So, they walked right in to collect the body.

  But RC took Skylar’s warning seriously. The men were each armed with large caliber handguns, which they could use much quicker than rifles. RC and Slade each had two guns, and the one both of them had drawn and cocked was an even higher powered, long barrel version of the Judge. At the close distances inside the apartment, one shot would be devastating no matter how “enhanced” the lady was.

  RC was surprised at how small the apartment was inside, probably under eight hundred square feet instead of a thousand.

  No one could survive four canisters in that small an area.

  And he was correct.

  As the men entered and spread out to search the kitchen and the bedrooms, the last place they expected to find the body…was behind them.

  Again, like a cat, but this time barefoot and like a cat stalking prey, Lynn slid up behind Slade in the living room. With her right hand, she grabbed his gun hand, covering the hammer so it couldn’t drop onto a round. Before he could make any noise, she rendered him unconscious for a very long time. She quietly lowered his body to the floor, took his gun, and turned off his light.

  In seconds, she was behind Crush as he looked into her master bathroom. His take-down was even smoother, as his handgun didn’t have a hammer. She grabbed his wrist in a death grip that had the gun pointing back at him. Even if he could have pulled the trigger with his wrist broken, it would have discharged into his chest. He didn’t, and she also lowered his unconscious body to the floor.

  The third man was down in a few more seconds.

  They had been in the apartment for almost a full minute. His men were meticulous, quiet, and should be through by now. Since no one had said anything, it appeared they had a very, very embarrassing miss-fire. RC was not looking forward to reporting back to Skylar—or even worse, directly to Jason—that they had blown it even worse than Skylar and Clyde.

  “OK, guess we screwed up. Grab the canisters and let’s get outta here.”

  Silence.

  RC rarely got scared. And he never showed it. Until now. The large man started shaking. He turned off his light, put it in his pocket, grabbed his second gun and cocked it. In a slight crouch, he crept back toward the living room.

  Still no sound, and no flashlights. The darkness unnerved him. He wanted to turn the hallway light on, but he didn’t dare.

  His foot kicked something. He crouched down and felt cold hard steel. A gun?

  His eyes grew more accustomed to the dark. A third-quarter moon on a cloudless night along with area streetlights provided just enough light to cast two more small shadows on the floor. The other guns?

  His shaking increased and sweat stung his eyes. Was she a witch? A demon? He’d seen as many scary movies as anyone. But this wasn’t entertainment. It wasn’t on the big screen. And it wasn’t about someone else.

  What happened next almost made the tough man whimper.

  “Stop where you are. Or die.”

  The voice was strong and confident. Compelling. Terrifying.

  “I have the Judge from one of your men. Before you can fire at me once, I can blow off both of your knees and both elbows and leave you here to bleed out. Put both of your weapons down and walk into the living room.”

  He complied.

  “We will talk. If you cooperate, I may let you live. I’ll even render you unconscious so you can make excuses to Jason. Sit down.”

  Again, in spite of all his training, all his close calls, and everything else that made him the man he thought he was, he complied.

  She stepped into the middle of the room, ten feet from where he sat. The gun was by her side, not even aimed at him. But she had the casual confidence that assured him that he would never get to her before she could carry out her threat. According to Skylar, she could just as easily grab him and throw him off her balcony, head-first.

  “You took long enough to follow my bread crumbs. I expected you last week. Got tired of sleeping on a blow-up in the next apartment.”

  That revelation took any remaining wind out of RC’s sails.

  “You…expected us…?” he stammered.

  “Jason Matthews is an evil, wicked man. On the slight possibility that any or all of you might be legitimate security, I have let you live. So far. But I have some specific questions, and I want detailed answers. And you need to know that I can break your arms, your legs, and even your neck with my bare hands. I’m also totally pissed about a lot of bad things he did to me and wants to do again. So, talk!”

  “Yes, Ma’am!” Crap, did I really say that?

  6. TEAM’S END

  Skylar grew more anxious by the minute. As he popped another narcotic painkiller, he glanced at the clock in the rehab center for the twentieth time in five minutes.

  “Should have heard by now. Why am I not hearing something…?” he muttered as he rubbed his sore knee. How he wished that he could pace or was at home where he ha
d a lot more at his disposal than just painkillers.

  What in the world would he tell Jason now if something went wrong? He glanced at the clock again, feeling weak and sick. He was out of action for several more months. Clyde would not be rejoining the team. What if he lost the remaining five men? And still didn’t get the lady?

  No, Jason would not be happy at all.

  + + +

  Jerome parked his loud motorcycle a half mile away and stepped into a transfer van they had modified. Inside was a large container with enough ice to pack out a large deer. Or a full-grown woman. If she were dead, as they all expected, they had a plan to transfer her body to the van without raising suspicions. He would drain and collect all her blood and put it into cold storage. Then he would chill her body until they could transport it to a prepared facility. Once there he could take his time harvesting marrow, eyes, brain tissues, and everything else on the long shopping list provided by Jason’s “medical research” team.

  He drove the van to her apartment and backed into a spot across from her stairs. After five minutes of waiting for the expected call, Jerome got out of the van and crept up the stairs to her third-floor open door. He drew his gun; a long barrel 357.

  Did he hear a conversation as he approached the door? The surprise gave way to apprehension when he detected a strong woman’s voice demanding answers, and a subdued RC giving them. Back against the wall beside the doorway frame, he turned and glanced in, seeing a woman’s back as she faced RC sitting in the shadows. No sign of the rest of the team.

  He drew in a long, slow breath and stepped into the doorway, feet spread, and a firm two-hand grip on his revolver for the kill shot. He fired; center mass, just below the lungs to smash her backbone but allow him to harvest her heart.

  The well-aimed shot completely missed Lynn, instead slamming into what had been the forehead of RC, sitting behind her.

  Certain breeds of dogs might have detected his slow, deep breath as the wind swooshed into his nasal cavities; or the sound of denim against skin as he spun into the doorway. Lynn heard both and stepped aside to avoid the shot. She was fast, but she knew she wasn’t fast enough to dodge a second shot. She had already verified from RC that these were not legitimate security personnel. Her decision was instantaneous and final. Her single shot from the Judge spread a pattern right above the gun in Jerome’s outstretched arms, above any vest he might be wearing, to his neck and chin. It was immediately fatal.