by Ronie Kendig
Raoul moved like lightning, gliding forward with stealth and ease. Straight between Ciro and Ms. Bisset. So quick, so focused, that Ciro only saw Raoul’s eyes locked on him. Barely caught a crisp, clean scent before the soldier—still not breaking eye contact—returned to his place in formation.
Ciro frowned. Was that supposed to impress? That he could move fast? “I am not—”
A strangled yelp came from behind.
Someone bumped into his back. He shifted and scowled at Bordeur, who slumped against him. Ciro pushed him off with a muttered oath at being interrupted. “Get yourself to—”
Gurgling, Bordeur twisted. Staggered. And collapsed. Only then did blood spread over his light blue shirt.
Shock riddled Ciro. He stepped back. Glanced from the dying—dead?—man to the Gen2, who stared straight ahead. No remorse. No hint he had just delivered a lethal blow. “What—? How?”
Raoul didn’t respond.
“He is trained to answer only to his colonel,” Ms. Bisset said.
Adrenaline bottoming out, Ciro felt the telltale tremor in his arms. “Why him?” he asked, stepping forward. “Why did you kill Bordeur when you could have killed me?”
“Speak up, soldier,” the colonel ordered.
“Tactical advantage, sir,” Raoul said. “He’s enough to make a point, but not high enough up to disrupt our program.”
“He was second in charge!” Ms. Bisset objected.
Raoul gave her an apathetic shrug. “Replaceable. You weren’t, and the commander could have the entire program terminated.” Another lazy shrug. “Besides, Bordeur refused me second helpings on the meatloaf last night.”
Nervous chuckles trickled through those still standing.
“What did you use to kill him?” someone asked. “You don’t have a weapon.”
“With respect, sir, anything can be a weapon,” Raoul said. “Ms. Bisset had a pen in her clipboard.”
She glanced down at the brown fiberboard in hand and gaped at the apparently missing pen.
Greco leaned in. “A call, sir.”
Irritated at the interruption, Ciro glared at the proffered phone, then snatched it. “Hello?”
“Sir, your asset in Germany reports Rutger’s Neiothen have learned the location of the facility you’re in. They’re coming to intercept.”
“Understood.” He ended the call and nodded to the soldiers. “Gentlemen, you are about to have an opportunity to test your skills like never before.” He started for the door, then hesitated and spoke over his shoulder. “None should be left alive.”
FIFTEEN
DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA
Gliding through the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, Leif guided his dive prop to the surface and glimpsed the Golden Mile, a sandy stretch of beach that ended on one side at the uShaka Marine World. Hours after close, the amusement park lights were lessened but were made up for by the superb—or as their native consultant called it, lekker—nightlife throbbing through the city.
Abandoning their props, the others bobbed to the surface and treaded water as they waited.
Leif scanned the dark waters that seemed to play catch with the lights of KwaZulu-Natal’s biggest metropolis. Though Durban was South Africa’s second-most populous city, the people were being exploited and therefore were poverty-stricken. In a city that could easily hold its own against Cape Town or Johannesburg, police struggled to combat the high crime rate, and this coastline had become a thriving den of criminal activity.
The Neiothen had considered hiking in from north of the city, but that would’ve had them trudging through slums and encountering a desperate population—drawing attention and trouble. The images of the thriving city set against the poverty of slums and miles of garbage disturbed him. South Africa had its troubles, but they seemed increased since ArC had made its moves across Africa.
To his right, a black shape swallowed the lights of the city. Leif sank lower and eased his weapon from its holster as a boat approached. The others were already slipping beneath the surface, and Andreas gave him a nod before vanishing, too.
Nose and eyes above the water, Leif kicked to keep himself afloat as the boat swung astern, the engine churning a foamy wake. Someone moved from the wheelhouse to the stern foremost.
With criminal activity rampant in this port, Leif wasn’t taking risks or prisoners. He aimed at the person and registered the four Neiothen approaching from both starboard and port. Light came in a series of flashes from the pilot, unaware anyone was so close.
Using the SureFire mounted to his gun, Leif sent his reply.
“Hurry,” the man said in heavily accented English. “Coast Guard not far.”
Holding point, Leif waited as his team stealthily eased onto the craft.
The pilot finally caught sight of Andreas and let out a yelp. Clearly rattled to find them already aboard, he gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, good.” He gave a frantic wave to Leif, who caught the edge of the rig. “We hurry.”
Leif climbed up and noticed the fishy scent. Several bins of fish sat along the hull.
Lights whirled, and deep voices hollered Afrikaans over the bow. A Namacurra-class harbor patrol boat loomed toward them, swinging a spotlight across the deck. Even as Leif dove for cover, the other Neiothen slipped over the port side and back into the water, narrowly avoiding the beam. Leif slithered up behind the baskets of fish, tugging a net over him as he struggled not to recoil at the accosting stench.
Within minutes, two Coast Guard patrolmen thumped on board, rattling off something in their native tongue. They thudded closer, flashlights sweeping the deck, the fish. Leif forbade himself from moving as the beam glared in his eyes.
One patrolman stormed belowdecks as the other got into a shouting match with the boat’s driver, who waved wildly. The coastie shifted toward the fish baskets. Kicked one. These weren’t well-meaning patrolmen. They were men looking for bribes.
With options this limited, shoot-to-kill was his only choice. Weapon trained on the coastie, Leif was not about to lose to corruption and willed him to go the other way. This mission depended on getting to shore. No way was he getting stalled in the ocean before he ever set foot on land.
Go back, he willed again.
The man kicked the basket of fish crammed against Leif’s leg, then held out a hand to the driver. The second coastie returned, and both stood, shaking their heads. One produced handcuffs.
No freakin’ way. This could not happen.
The first kicked the basket again, then shifted and kicked harder—and this time, he made contact with Leif’s boot.
The coastie jerked at the hard impact, and his gaze swung downward.
Leif steadied his breathing, ready to fire. Planned how to shoot one, then extricate himself and hit the other. First part of that plan was an ace. Second part . . .
With an exclamation, the boat’s pilot hurried to the other coastie with a placating tone. Rattled something off. Then produced a wad of paper.
Bright whites shone beneath the glower of the searchlight as the two coasties slapped the driver’s shoulder, gave Leif’s position one more confused glance, then shook a warning finger at the driver and disembarked.
Bribes were a common currency in South Africa. Leif hated it, but suddenly found himself grateful for it. Grateful it was enough to get the coastie to look the other way.
Hearing the thump on the side of the boat, he knew the Neiothen were there. “Go,” he growled, still concealed. “Get us out of here.” He slid from behind the baskets as the others slipped back onto the deck.
The rumble of the engine vibrated against his backside as he stayed low and shed his dive suit. Andreas knelt and tugged the ruck closer, then distributed their gear. Five minutes delivered them to a less-populated and dimly lit section of beachhead. They scrambled up the sand, divided into two groups, and hustled across the street, guided by the GPS. With Hermanns’ technological experts, they’d plotted a path of well-timed surveillance blackouts. By sticking
to the shadows and the plan, they should go unnoticed.
In a light jog, they wove around and behind the Southern Sun Elangeni and Maharani resort hotel and headed southwest, ducking around the Grey Street Complex and across a half-dozen train tracks. The route took them east again and past—unbelievably—a KFC, of all restaurants.
The medical facility loomed just off Dr. Yusuf Dadoo Street. It was a center for the deaf and blind—a sick cover for what happened below it.
Never slowing, they traveled the five klicks in record time. Leif had to admit, it was really nice not having to conceal his abilities or worry someone would notice he wasn’t out of breath or exhausted. Not having to hold back or feel bad about the enhancements. All Neiothen were enhanced, and that made the operation go faster and smoother.
Crouched in an alcove around the corner of Charlotte Maxeke Street, Leif used his thermal nocs to scan the street and the twenty yards to the facility. He eyed the purported entry point. Getting here and getting in, however, were two entirely different things. Intel knew this was the location—most likely. They weren’t a hundred percent on that. Through a process of elimination, they had determined it must be belowground. HUMINT proved all six aboveground floors were in use for medical research, but they’d been assured there were no actual patients.
Hermanns’ tech team had warned it was likely the facility’s security protocols were off the normal grid, that even when it went dark for a couple of minutes, there’d probably be additional surveillance measures in place.
In other words: be prepared for contact.
Still, they were ordered not to engage. Only to reconnoiter. Find out what or who was down there and report back so a detailed mission plan could be assembled to ensure efficacy.
Sticking to the shadows, Leif and Vega hurried along Charlotte Maxeke toward their entry point. Andreas, Elvestad, and Ibn Sarsour were scouting from the north. Since the building was sandwiched between others, they only had to worry about two sides.
Vega surged ahead and used his skills to bypass a keypad. A soft click granted them access to the doctors’ entrance. Leif slipped inside.
“November Five and Four are in,” he subvocalized in their short-range comms. He slid left, his back to the wall as he cleared that side, hearing Vega do the same to the right. Their lines of sight crossed, and they both faced forward, reading for any engagement.
Leif took point, and Vega swung around, walking backward to protect their six. As they moved through the semidarkened hall, the GPS devices strapped to their wrists also mapped the interior of the facility. Leif glanced at his and saw the grid filling in doors and rooms in response to Andreas’s team working their way through halls on the other side of the building. This would make it easier to execute their actual raid later.
That bugged Leif. If they were here . . . why not execute? But he was the new guy, still learning, so he’d play by the rules.
Has that ever worked for you?
Shouldering aside the thought, he slowed as he noticed a juncture ahead. A mirror mounted on the opposing wall threw a swell of light into the hallway. He felt the gentle press of Vega’s back against his own and crouched, eyeing the corridor in each direction. To his three was a heavy door with a stairs sign. To their nine, another corridor.
Over his shoulder, he signaled to Vega, who nodded. Leif checked the mirror again, then did a quick look-see to verify the hall was empty. Something tugged at his awareness. He glanced again to his three. They’d been told six floors—aboveground. What if the stairs also went down?
He had Vega hold point on the passage as he slipped to the heavy door, eased it open, and nosed his muzzle into the stairwell, scanning left and right, up and—sure enough—down. With a jerk of his head, he redirected Vega.
“November Five and Four in”—he glanced at his GPS—“east side stairwell. Heading down.”
Realizing too well the fish-in-a-barrel risk, they hugged the concrete wall as they descended. With each step, Leif anticipated trouble. Down two flights to a landing. Then three more flights until they came out in a narrow, dark corridor with a lone door at the far end.
Death trap, anyone?
Something vibrated in his brain as he stared at the gray door thirty feet away and the halo of blue light around a biosensor pad. This has to be the Gen2 lab. What would they face? Would opening that door get them killed? Bigger problem—how would they get past the biosensors? His gaze popped to the ceiling, where two black bulbs peered ominously down at them.
Using the laser weapon Hermanns’ team had provided, Leif aimed at the first camera and pressed the button, sending a short burst that disabled it, then hit the second one.
“Contact!” Vega hissed through the comms, his weapon thwapping three times. “Target down.”
Leif pivoted, went to a knee, sighting their six where a guard crumpled to the concrete. There was a hidden checkpoint under the stairs that they had missed. So much for only reconning.
Vega was dragging the body out of sight.
“Wait.” Leif pointed to the biosensor pad—the only way to get access. Together, they carried the body to the far end of the hall. They used his hand and badge to clear the sensor. It beeped, and then Leif noticed the eye-level camera. He nearly cursed. They hoisted the guard upright and wrestled the body into place so Leif could lift the eyelid. “Three . . . two . . . go.”
Vega swiped again and held the man’s palm to the pad as Leif angled the head and eye at the camera. The light blinked green.
Whoosh! Sanitized air rushed at them.
Leif snapped his weapon toward the opening.
Vega whirled, pinning the body to the wall and monitoring their six.
“Clear,” Leif said. “Hide the body inside.”
They moved the dead guard into the small vestibule of the new area and tucked it behind a corner bin. On a knee, Leif glanced at the map on his wrist and frowned. It wasn’t logging their movements anymore. He checked the upper right of the screen and gritted his teeth. No signal. In fact, the map had logged them going down only two levels. They must be too deep underground for a signal, but this equipment should’ve still worked.
“November Three, come in,” he subvocalized, eyeing Vega, who looked concerned. He skipped a glance around their new position. No doors. The wall curved out, away from them with no access points. No entry or exit. No cameras. Nothing.
What the . . . ?
Vega moved into the open, his steps cautious, expectant.
The lone light dimmed, and a section of wall slid away, revealing a small hub that held counters, systems, and . . . thick, darkened glass.
“Whoa,” Vega murmured.
Leif trailed him, reticent. Instinct screaming that they were walking into a trap. But how was that possible? Nobody knew they were coming.
Be prepared. Hermanns’ warning echoed in his head.
“Check this out, man,” Vega whispered as a system came to life, its display muted.
The dark glass slowly cleared, providing a view into a brightly lit lab. A large, hairy shape loomed on the other side.
Vega pitched backward, right into Leif.
“Easy,” Leif muttered, flicking up his nocs and nudging past Vega. “It’s one-way.” He scanned the small area that seemed to be an observation deck overlooking six bays and, on the far side, an unlit lab.
Brown and broad, the hairy back in the nearest bay fogged the glass, forming a strange halo that emphasized powerful shoulders.
“Hey.” Vega nodded at the console.
Leif eyed a joystick flanked by arrows. He leaned it to the right.
The door behind them whooshed shut. The octagonal observation hub rotated to the left with a hard shunk. Another room slid into view on the other side of the glass. This one contained sectioned-off rooms of cots. The observation hub’s one-way glass met another window that was part of the lab on the other side. Enough barrier to protect observers.
A warbling sound seemed to bounce off the wal
ls. Leif searched for an audio switch and flipped it. Shrieking pierced his ears as he noted something in the corner of a room—a man slumped against the glass, gripping his head, his face contorted.
Stricken, Vega reached over and slapped off the sound, accidentally hitting the directional switch. The hub rotated again, this time opening to a room of complete chaos. While the previous lab they’d looked into had a clear window, this one had a steel-reinforced window in a steel cage. Hairy orange shapes trounced and jumped. One leapt toward the glass, thudding against it hard.
“Orangutans,” Leif said with a breathless laugh he didn’t feel.
He and Vega drew back as the nearest creature fell to the floor. Flung itself away, then, focused on the glass, took a running start and hurled itself at it again.
Horror struck Leif. The primate’s features . . . It was definitely an orangutan, but there was a . . . humanness about it somehow.
“Dios mío,” Vega hissed.
There were four of the beasts, all in a wild, frantic rage. The orangutan repeated the move, as if it somehow knew this was the way out. As if it knew someone who didn’t belong was on the other side. Despite the impacts, the glass held strong. This time, however, something fluttered on a nearby wall.
Leif flinched, half expecting something to attack him. Instead, a piece of paper floated to the floor. He retrieved and read it. “‘Japan approved experiments that would allow for animal-human hybrids to be born for the first time ever.’”
“No way. That’s fake.” Vega stared in disbelief at the primates, the one with the nearly human face.
“It’s an article from Business Insider dated 31 April 2019.”
“No way,” repeated Vega, but his words held no conviction now. “This . . . no way.” He looked ready to blow chunks. “They did this? They really did this—crossed an ape with a human?”
“Why are we surprised by human-animal hybrids? Look what they did to us.” Leif grieved for the poor, crazed creature as the sickening truth registered. “They’re playing God.”