by Rick Yancey
“My taste in guys has never been that good.”
“Ashley, he was going to shoot you!”
“I know, can you believe it? The jerk. But being the Operative Nine means never having to say you’re sorry.”
“I am,” I said. “For shooting you. For pulling you into this. And you don’t believe me right now, but I’m going to pull you back out of it. We’re getting off this mountain, I swear, Ashley, and we’ll go somewhere they can’t find us.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time.
“There is no such place,” she finally said, pressing her lips against my neck, and I thought of vampires again and how their kisses brought life to you, through death’s doorway.
01:17:58:54
We crawled from our cave at dawn, sore, stiff, and very cold. Thick clouds marched overhead; it looked like more snow was on the way.
We began the morning with an argument. I wanted to make for the landing pad to commandeer a helicopter.
“It’ll be heavily guarded,” Ashley said. “Exactly where they expect us to go. It’s a zig, Alfred. We’ve got to zag.”
“But zag where?”
“The château. There’s food, shelter, clothing—”
“Right. Along with Nueve and Mingus.”
“And a secure satellite hookup. If we can get to it, we can SOS Abby.”
“And she says to him, ‘Back off, buddy. Give them a cup of hot chocolate and a blanky,’ and then Nueve puts an extra log on the fire.”
“Okay. Then you tell me how we’re going to get past fifty armed agents and an Operative Nine who’s got no problem with putting a bullet through his girlfriend’s head.”
I opened my mouth to answer, closed it, opened it again, and said, “I’m working on that.”
Behind us, from somewhere in the woods came the sound of barking.
“Well, you better work fast,” Ashley said. “Because they’ve brought in the bloodhounds.”
I listened to the braying of the hounds for a couple seconds. They were getting closer.
“You’re working, right? Not just panicking?” she asked.
“A little of both. We could make a run for it.”
“We’re both dehydrated and weak from hunger. I don’t think we’ll get very far.”
“Okay, then we wait for them to find us,” I said. I offered her Nueve’s gun. She didn’t take it.
“Well,” I said. “Those are the options, Ashley. Fight or flight.”
“There’s a third,” she said. “Take off your clothes.”
“Huh?”
“Strip.”
“Right now?”
She began to unbutton my jumper. Her cheeks were red from the cold. Mine were red from being stripped.
Fifteen minutes later two men in heavy parkas with AK-47s slung over their shoulders came into the clearing, pulled along by two massive bloodhounds. The dogs didn’t hesitate: they made straight for the figure in the OIPEP jumpsuit slumped against a tree at the far edge of the clearing. Once they passed our cave, Ashley and I burst from the snow and were on them in five steps, mine very exaggerated knees-up-to-the-chest steps, the kind of running you see in cartoons. Somehow that feels more natural when you’re wearing just boxers and boots in subzero weather. I put Bullet-Foot’s gun against one guy’s head and Ashley put Nueve’s against the other’s.
“Hi, Pete,” Ashley said to her guy, pulling the AK-47 from his hand. To mine, she said, “How’s it going, Bob?”
“Hi, Ashley,” Pete and Bob said.
“We’ll take your parkas and walkie-talkies, too.”
“And the gloves,” I said.
“Right,” she said. “And the gloves.”
Ashley ordered them to sit on their bare hands while I shook the snow out of my jumpsuit and got dressed. Maybe I should have taken Pete or Bob’s jumpsuit, too, since theirs were dry and mine was wet from stuffing it with snow. We slipped on the gloves and parkas. Ashley tied their hands behind their backs with the ends of the leashes and the bloodhounds watched us, tongues lolling from their blubbery mouths, with the happy attitude of all dogs. At that moment, I envied their obliviousness. I knelt beside one and he slobbered all over my face. His spit was warm and thick and under any other circumstances I would have been grossed out, but now my heart pounded with joy. It’s hard to think of a single thing that can bring you more happiness than a good dog.
We hiked west, keeping the ravine on our left, so we wouldn’t end up walking in circles. Occasionally we could hear the steady thumpa-thumpa of a helicopter over the trees to our right, louder, then fainter, then louder again. Ashley walked in front of me, the AK-47 slung over her back, the walkie-talkie pressed against her ear as she monitored the chatter.
It started to snow. Flinty little flakes at first, then fat wet balls the size my thumbnail. The ground began to rise and the trees thinned out.
Ashley stopped suddenly, one gloved finger pressed against her ear while she held the walkie-talkie against the other. Snow and ice clung to the fur of her parka, framing her round face in shimmering crystals. She wore no makeup and her cheeks were bright pink from the cold and her lips slightly blue, but I don’t think she ever looked prettier.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Shh!” She listened for a few more seconds.
“They’re talking about a package . . . on its way . . . This sounds like Nueve . . . All units to rendezvous at the helipad . . . Nueve’s en route . . .”
“Package?”
She looked at her watch. “Thirty minutes.”
“What package?”
She was walking again, quickly now, back into the trees and up the slope. Our boots crunched in the fresh snowfall.
“I’m guessing it’s a replacement for the SD 1031 in your pocket,” she said.
“He gets his hands on that and we’re toast,” I said.
“What’s the plan?”
“We have to stop him before he takes delivery.”
“That’s more of a goal than a plan,” I pointed out.
“I’m open to suggestions.”
I tried to come up with one. We were two against OIPEP’s full force on the mountain. Ashley was a trained field operative and I wasn’t exactly a novice by this point; still, there were only two of us and a lot of them, plus Nueve who wouldn’t let niceties like keeping casualties low stand in his way. Even if we took a hostage, Nueve wouldn’t care. A frontal assault was suicidal, but how could we sneak in? They knew Ashley and they sure as heck knew me.
“We have to create some kind of diversion,” I said. “A fire or explosion—and while they’re distracted . . .”
“And what are we going to blow up, Alfred? The only bomb we have is inside your head.”
I stopped walking. She didn’t notice at first, she was so focused on making it to the helipad before the chopper landed. When she did, she turned and stared at me.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve got it,” I said. “The one thing he wants that we have.”
“I know, but he’s getting another one.” She had a concerned look on her face, like she was worried I had finally cracked.
“No,” I said. “There might be a hundred little black boxes, but there’s only one Alfred Kropp.”
01:17:04:39
Twenty-five minutes and a hard hike through dense woods and heavy snow later . . .
A helicopter hovers over a landing pad nestled in a valley in the Canadian wilderness . . .
While forty heavily armed men encircle the perimeter . . .
. . . and a dark-haired man with a lean face and piercing black eyes waits, leaning on a black cane, thinking, maybe, that the kid should have killed him when he had the chance because it’s done now, the game’s over . . .
. . . as the kid lies on his belly a dozen yards away, hidden in the trees, sweating despite the bitter cold that’s caused icicles to form on his eyebrows, praying he still has one move left in the game that the Operative Nin
e assumes is over . . .
Beside him, the girl whispers, “Now?”
“Not yet.”
Must move before Nueve reaches the chopper. Timing was everything in this game and up to this point the kid’s had none. Events have controlled him and the kid is now at the point where he either takes control of events or the events overwhelm him. Dr. Mingus waits at the château with his scalpel and his vials.
So when the skids of the chopper brush the icy concrete, the kid is up and running, straight for the pad, tossing his AK-47 to the ground, both hands over his head, one empty, the other holding the black box, his thumb resting on the blue button.
The foot soldiers don’t get it. They swing their rifles toward the kid, fingers quivering on the triggers, centering his tall, lanky frame in their scopes.
The Operative Nine gets it though. He gets it immediately, because that’s his job—to get it before anyone else does; in the time it takes for most people to realize a new move’s being played, he’s already absorbed the play and all its repercussions, and he’s making his countermove.
He shouts for them to lower their weapons, but they can’t hear him over the roar of the chopper, so he makes a slicing motion across his throat as the bird settles to the ground. The pilot cuts the engine.
The kid keeps walking, up to the line of the men standing between him and the chopper and the place inside the circle of guns where Nueve stands.
Hands high.
Thumb on the button.
If he’s wrong about this, he’s dead. The girl, too, probably. Nueve would kill her because alive she serves no purpose. And it doesn’t matter that she loves him—or used to love him—and his feelings—if he has them—don’t matter either. He is the Operative Nine, and nothing matters but the mission.
The kid prays there’s a purpose to Mingus and the vials. He doesn’t know what that purpose is, but he prays he’s still a Special Item in OIPEP’s eyes.
“Lower your weapons,” Nueve said in a calm voice. “Let him through.”
I walked through and their line closed around me. I held the box, Nueve held his cane, and the men behind us held their assault rifles.
“This is the moment when I say, ‘Ah, Alfred Kropp, we meet again,’ ” Nueve said.
“We’re checking out of Club OIPEP,” I told him. “Me and Ashley.”
“It’s more akin to the Hotel California, Alfred,” he said.
“What?”
“An obscure reference to a song well before your time. You intend to press the blue button. Proceed. Press it.”
My thumb hovered over the button.
“He who hesitates,” Nueve said softly.
I pressed the blue button. The red one next to it began to low.
“You truly are extraordinary, Alfred,” he said. “In another life, you would have made a superb Superseding Protocol Agent. You are about to say you have no choice because we’ve given you no choice.”
I nodded. “You’ve given me no choice.”
“That the choice between spending the rest of your life here as our lobotomized guest and dying here, right now, is no choice at all. You would rather die.”
“That’s right. I’d rather end it now than spend the rest of my life as a vegetable.”
“And you are gambling that your death would completely disrupt our plans for you.”
“I knew you’d get it.”
His dark eyes danced. “I get everything. What would you say, Alfred, if I told you that we have more than enough samples to render your continued existence irrelevant?”
“I would say you’re bluffing,” I answered.
His right eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. “Because?”
“Because if that were true you wouldn’t have ordered them to hold their fire. You still need me. I’m not sure why exactly, but you need me, and if I push this button you won’t have me. Bottom line: if you want me, Nueve, you’re going to have to let me go.”
“That much is true, yes,” he said with a nod. “But not the issue. The issue is . . . will you do it? Can you do it? I must believe the answer to that question is yes for this to work. You understand that.”
I turned to Ashley. “Get on the chopper.”
She looked at me. She looked at Nueve. She didn’t move. I said it again: “Get on the chopper.”
She took a step toward it and Nueve’s cane whipped in the air, the six-inch dagger protruding from its base. I raised the box over my head and yelled, “Do it and I hit the button, I swear to God I will, you Spanish bastard!” and the blade froze a centimeter from her throat.
Our eyes met . . . and Nueve blinked first. He slowly lowered the cane. His eyes met Ashley’s and he gave the slightest of nods.
“Go,” I said to Ashley.
Nobody said anything as she trotted to the chopper and disappeared into the hold.
I turned back to Nueve.
“Are you familiar, Alfred,” he said, “with the law of diminishing returns?”
I backed away, keeping my eye on Nueve. The guys with the guns didn’t matter. Only Nueve mattered. With a flick of his wrist, he could signal for them to open fire. But he wasn’t going to do that. Halfway to the chopper, I realized he really was going to do it: he was going to let us go.
“There is no escape, you know,” he called to me. “No place on earth where we cannot find you. You are merely delaying the inevitable, Alfred.”
“You do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do,” I said.
I climbed into the hold and fell into the seat beside Ashley. I tossed the box into her lap and told her to hold it because knowing my luck I’d hit the red button by accident.
The pilot was staring at us. I twirled my index finger and the engine roared to life. A minute later we were off the ground and climbing above the treetops. I looked out the window and saw a solitary figure below, and he wasn’t so far beneath me that I couldn’t see the ironic smile playing on his lips.
HELENA REGIONAL AIRPORT
HELENA, MONTANA
01:12:49:55
I dialed the eight hundred number from a pay phone outside Captain Jack’s Bistro & Bar, the airport’s sole restaurant, while Ashley waited at a table inside. I was interrupted a couple of times by travelers asking directions. In my black jumper, I must have looked like a maintenance worker.
A lady with a foreign accent answered. “Office Directory Services, how may I direct your call?”
“Abigail Smith,” I said.
There was a pause. “Dr. Smith is not available at the moment.”
“I need to get a message to her. A very important message.”
“I could direct you to her voice mail.”
“I’ve already left her a voice mail.”
There was another, longer pause.
“Dr. Smith is currently indisposed,” the operator said.
“That’s the problem,” I said. “So am I.”
I hung up and dialed Mr. Needlemier’s number. I didn’t have any money, so I made the call collect. On my first try, he refused to accept the charges. I called right back and the operator came on the line and relayed the message that my party didn’t appreciate prank calls and if I persisted he would report me to the FCC. The third time was the charm. I told the operator my name was Samuel St. John and he accepted the call.
“Mr. Needlemier, it’s me, Alfred Kropp. Don’t hang up.”
“Alfred Kropp is dead. I should know; I buried him myself. Well, not personally, but I was there.”
“I can prove it’s me.” I bit my lower lip, trying to think of a way to prove it.
“The picture,” I said finally. “You remember the picture you gave me at the hospital? You found it in the ashes after Jourdain Garmot burned my father’s house down. It was me and my mom . . .”
He didn’t say anything. The silence dragged out.
“Oh my dear Lord!” he whispered. “Alfred!” His voice climbed an octave, cracking on the last syllable. “Alfred, this is
extraordinary!”
“OIPEP faked my death,” I said. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“They brought me your ashes in a can! A tin can!”
“Really? Look, Mr. Needlemier, I need to find—”
“I was in quite a quandary. Your mother is buried in Ohio and your father here in Knoxville, and we never discussed where you might prefer to be laid to rest.”
“Right,” I said. “Mr. Needlemier, here’s the thing: I’ve extracted myself from the extraction and—”
“In the end I buried you in Ohio, next to your mother.
You met Bernard only once as I recall and knew him only after his death—or of him, I should say—so burying you here would be a reunion of strangers or near strangers.”
“That’s good,” I said. “You did the right thing. Here’s why I called—”
“A lovely service, Alfred. Cold, but clear skies and not a bit of breeze . . .”
“Who came?” I asked. He had sucked me in.
“It was—an intimate gathering. Myself, the priest, of course, and a gentleman by the name of Vosch, who told me he had worked closely with you on a special project.”
“That would be the attempted beheading,” I said. Only three people at my funeral? One, the priest, had to be there, and the other guy was there for his job, which was to kill me. “Vosch works for Jourdain Garmot. Probably there to make sure I was really dead. What about Samuel? He was there, right?”
Mr. Needlemier didn’t give me a direct answer. “The last time I saw Samuel was after his release from the hospital. He asked all sorts of questions about the arson and the suit involving the estate. Your death has complicated things a bit and nothing’s been decided, but you see you have no heirs, no living relatives. Jourdain has a good chance now of seizing control of your father’s business as well as the estate . . .”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t care about that anymore. I need to find Samuel.”
“Well, he did give me his cell phone number should I need it.”
He gave me the number.
“Did he say where he was going?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew. He was going after Jourdain. He was going to kill him, if he hadn’t already, or die trying.
