Predator

by Linsey Lanier

  “Good work. I’ll have another assignment for you soon,” Santana said as he reached his destination.

  “I will be ready, sir.”

  “That’s all for now.”

  “Very good, sir.” And with a salute, he moved off to his next task.

  Still chuckling, Santana watched him go down the hall.

  He knew Wade Parker and his people would have found a way to trace the prepaid phone by now. It was delightful to tease them into thinking they had made progress in finding the girl.

  The next step would be even more entertaining.

  He opened the door to the lab.

  It was a large well-lit space, all in white, with utilitarian countertops and drawers laden with microscopes and measuring equipment.

  Stepping in further, Santana spotted the locked utility case. Carefully he eyed the vials on the shelves and the clear measured liquid inside each one. They were the most valuable thing in the entire building.

  He moved to the next section of the lab where monitoring machinery and wires were everywhere. A cushioned white chair was suspended from the ceiling, straps hanging off the sides, along with electrodes and monitors, and controls nearby to maneuver the subject into any position desired while he or she was being “treated.” A far superior arrangement than the one in Atlanta.

  Santana found the thin young man he was looking for bent over a microscope in the corner.

  Phineas Lee Bach, genius grandson of Santana’s mentor, Lee Bach.

  Lee Bach, who had headed a secret mind control program for the government in the seventies. The same Lee Bach, who now led the commune in southern Kentucky where Santana had spent his formative years. The Lee Bach, who ran a network of criminal enterprises, all of whom Santana now controlled.

  Lee Bach, whose ideas and philosophies had provided the springboard for Santana’s current project. The most ambitious one of his life.

  The culmination of everything he’d worked for.

  Santana had what some might call tender feelings for the man. But he would never share his fortune with him. Or his power.

  The boy was presentable enough today.

  Santana had made Phineas cut his shaggy hair and required him to wear a button down shirt and tie under his lab coat, though he allowed the boy his jeans. He’d also given him a skin treatment and forbidden chocolate and soft drinks to clear up his complexion. It wouldn’t do for the illusion to be spoiled by an unprofessional appearance.

  Listening to music through ear buds, the boy was absorbed in examining an insect under his microscope, a pretense of scientific investigation that he performed ritually to satisfy his sadistic tendencies.

  Santana appreciated the trait. It would come in handy soon. But he needed discipline.

  He slammed his palm down on the table and yanked the buds out of the boy’s ears.

  With a loud squeal, the boy jumped from his stool, knocking over the microscope and clutching his chest as if he were having a heart attack.

  “Mr. Santana. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “How could you with these on? Haven’t I told you not to wear these in the lab? What if a subject had come in here?”

  “No one’s getting in here. Everyone’s locked in their rooms or practicing drills.”

  There was a firing range on the floor below, fitted with simulated war games. It was a bit of a risk training his recruits to fight, but he would need them for the future. Especially for the takeover from Beasley. Besides it reinforced the guise of a military operation.

  Santana stuck a finger in the boy’s face. “You can never be too careful, Phineas. Your grandfather taught me that.”

  “Yes, sir.” With an adolescent pout, Phineas took the ear buds from him and stuffed them into a drawer.

  From another counter, Santana picked up a small clear bottle containing a colorless liquid. “So this is the Elixir.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s it.”

  Santana smiled at the nickname the younger Iwasaki had given the substance. He had thought of no better moniker for it, so he used it.

  “You should keep this locked up in the cabinet with the rest of it.”

  Forcing back a grimace, Phineas snatched the bottle away from him, put it into an enclosure behind him, and turned the key. “I was using it for the last patient in the control group. I was trying out injection.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “Not well. The hallucinations were sporadic. The fits and twitching were unpredictable. Not as bad as with the spray, but not what you want.”

  What Santana wanted, what he demanded, was a calm clear-headed workforce who would do whatever he commanded without question.

  “Are you saying we won’t be ready in time?”

  “Not at all. The best method, the one that gives you the desired results, is for the subject to ingest the Elixir in a drink. The amount is small, determined by age, weight, and height of the subject.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve tested it thoroughly with Control Group A. I just gave the general and the professor their doses, if you’d like to see it in action.”

  “I would. Where are they?”

  “In the briefing room. I’ll take you there.”

  They exited the lab and went a short distance down the hall to a large meeting room.

  Inside, a long oak table and executive chairs filled the center of the workspace. World maps covered the walls. An image of interplanetary space was projected on a white screen from a laptop.

  Two men sat across from each other at the far end of the table. The elderly one was dressed in battle fatigues. He was General Horatio J. Brown, a man in his sixties with short-cropped pure white hair, a two-star general who was under the impression he’d been pulled from retirement for this mission.

  The other man was ten years his junior, an MIT engineering professor who had been on sabbatical when he’d been approached to participate in a special top secret project.

  He had provided the schematics for the controls in the compound to the south. Santana had ordered them built to those specifications. But he would need to transport the professor to connect and check the wiring. It had to be flawless.

  As soon as Santana entered, both men shot to their feet.

  The general saluted him. “Commander Santana. We’re ready to give you our report. I’m afraid it’s not looking good, sir.”

  “At ease, General,” Santana said, drinking in the deference. “Please be seated.”

  He took a seat at the end of the table and pretended to study the projection on the screen with concern.

  “The enemy aircraft is holding steady over the Baltic. We can’t be sure when or where they will attack.”

  Phineas had managed to make them believe the United States was under attack from a UFO. As yet they were unable to identify the source of the attack.

  Santana would have to use the story in public when Phase I was over, and he did not want to name any specific country as the enemy. He would make China an ally after the takeover, and the Middle East would be of use, as well. No need to blame this on them.

  “And what do you recommend, General?”

  “Deployment of our most powerful weapons. Immediately.”

  “I concur,” said the professor.

  “Are you certain that’s necessary?”

  The professor launched into a technical explanation of the possible capabilities of the alien aircraft and the damage it might do to the US.

  Santana found it difficult to keep a straight face, but he managed.

  “The president must give the command, as you know,” the General said. “But we must be at the ready. We can’t be sure what this vessel’s intentions are.”

  “I will pass your advice onto the president. And see that he gets this report ASAP.”

  Santana rose, saluted, and left the room with Phineas.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Was that to your satisfaction, sir?” Phineas was hungry for his app
roval.

  Santana allowed him a smile. “I must say I’m impressed. But there’s one more thing I came to inspect today.”

  “And what’s that, sir?”

  “The project in the basement.”

  Phineas’s Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I had Gregor in charge of that, and Yovenko supervised the construction.”

  “Are you telling me it’s not done?”

  “No, it’s done. I just don’t like going down there.”

  Santana laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I want you to show it to me.”

  “Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”

  They made their way back to the secret elevator, this time bypassing the garage and going lower, into the deepest bowels of the building.

  They were deposited onto the stone floor of a dark concrete hall and had to pass through several bolted doors to get to the spot.

  The final door creaked open and Santana stepped into the space.

  From the center, he surveyed the six cells, three on each side. Each one was fitted with chains, straw, and a minimal commode.

  The walls were solid, a foot thick on each side, constructed of sturdy cinderblock painted a dark gray. But the interior wall in each cell had been fashioned so it could slide down, opening to the space between the two rows. Escape was prevented by thick bars, yet the prisoner was provided a clear view of the table at the center.

  Here there were straps and chains and all manner of equipment.

  Santana drank in the sight, the desire for revenge rising to a feverish pitch inside him.

  Here was where the team would watch the entertainment as each of them took their punishment.

  “Excellent work,” he said to Phineas in a faraway voice.

  “Um, sir, is this what I think it’s for?”

  Santana turned to the boy and saw his face had turned pale. “What do you think it’s for?”

  “I mean, the deadline. We’re going to make it. I know we will. And we have enough supplies to produce a year’s worth of the Elixir.”

  “Enough for everyone?”

  Phineas bobbed his head. “Absolutely, sir. I’ve done the calculations three times.”

  “Excellent.” Santana strolled over to the table and picked up one of the straps. The rough leather would bite deliciously into the skin of those who struggled against it. “We’ll be moving most of the supplies soon.”

  “To the target location?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll have it all packed and ready. We’ll be on time. You won’t be needing this place.”

  Santana had to chuckle. The boy thought this basement was for him. “Well, now you have a point. If by some chance you do not meet the deadline, you might find yourself down here, Phineas. If you’re still alive.”

  “But, sir, I—”

  He patted his thin back. “Don’t worry. I have every confidence you’ll come through.” The deadline was the first priority, of course. His plans for these rooms did not quite fit the timeline, but he would work something out. “No, these chambers are for the guests who’ll be arriving soon.”

  “Guests?”

  “Do you remember the detective team who ruined the underground lab in Atlanta?”

  The fear on his face was replaced by a jolt of anger. “Of course, I do. One of them shot Drew.”

  “Yes. They will be our guests.”

  His eyes nearly popped from his head. “They will?”

  Santana nodded. As soon as he lured them all in. “They have committed other offenses against the organization, as well. Perhaps you can help me devise some of the penalties they’ll suffer for their crimes.”

  As he eyed the table, the boy’s lip curled in a hungry expression that gave Santana a strange thrill.

  “There will be a young girl with them.”

  “A girl?”

  Now Santana thought he saw a bit of drool in the corner of Phineas’s mouth. He laughed aloud at the reaction and clapped him on his back.

  “She’s pretty. Perhaps she’ll be your first.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Miranda sat on the sofa in the suite, her head in her hands, the image of the orange-tattooed man from the Golden Dreams Riverboat Casino still burning in her brain.

  After their subway car had pulled away from the platform where Gregor had outwitted them, they’d ridden to the next stop, found a train back to Boston Common, and reached the Lexus just as the parking meter ran out.

  Relaying what had happened in the subway to Becker had been painful. Her colleague was now back at his desk staring at his blank laptop screen, looking as bewildered and depressed as the rest of the team.

  Everyone was sprawled around the suite in their usual spots, their half-eaten lunch spread over the coffee table. No one had felt much like eating.

  A tapping sound came from the corner where Becker was drumming his finger on the table.

  Suddenly, he turned to the team. “What if the Man in Boston tossed the phone, and this guy with the tattoo picked it up? You know, by chance?”

  Holloway scowled at Becker from his armchair. “You think the guy who worked for a criminal enterprise in New Orleans just happened to pick up Mackenzie’s phone?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the same guy. It’s kind of weird, but there are probably a good number of guys with orange Phoenix tattoos.”

  Holloway’s scowled deepened. “Huh?”

  “I mean there’s more than one guy with a tattoo like that.”

  “It was him,” Wesson said, heading to the kitchenette for coffee. “I got close to him in New Orleans. I know it was the same guy.”

  Becker spread his hands. “What would he be doing up here if he works in New Orleans?”

  Parker rose and took his plate to the sink. “He was reassigned after the demise of the operation there. I appreciate the effort, Detective. But I believe you’re grasping at straws.”

  Holloway got up and went to Becker’s desk. “Let’s look at our sting operation. Did we get any clicks yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Of course, they hadn’t. And they wouldn’t. The Man in Boston was too smart for that.

  Miranda rose and went to stare out the window. The overcast sky and the gnarled bare branches of the Garden below made her feel even more bleak and empty. She could just see the edge of the Boston Common where they had followed their target just the way he’d wanted them to.

  Like puppies after a new toy.

  It had been a plan. A carefully constructed one. She thought again of the explosion in Los Angeles. That had been meticulously planned, too. She thought of the man she had seen through the smoke and fire. She thought of being held captive by Irina Stavos in Kiev. The woman had been insane about what they had done to her brother. She’d wanted revenge. Her boss, the Man in Boston, would be ten times as enraged at the damaged they’d caused to Udar and his other criminal enterprises. And he was ten times as lethal.

  He wanted revenge, too, and this was it.

  He had taken her daughter, the person who was most precious to her.

  She had to admit it. She had to face the truth.

  No matter how hard they tried to find her, there was a very good chance she’d never see Mackenzie again.

  She felt Parker’s warmth at her side, then heard his tender voice. “I will never stop looking for her.”

  He was thinking the same thoughts. He was precious to her, too.

  She turned and touched his arm. “I know you won’t.”

  But how long would that take? Years probably.

  She couldn’t keep the team here. They were spinning their wheels with little hope of results. They had lives back home. Wesson had a relationship with her sister and niece to nurture. Holloway had his ex-wife. Fanuzzi needed Becker, no matter what she said.

  She nodded in their direction and spoke softly. “It’s time to send them home.”

  Parker’s face was dark with despair, but she could see he agreed.

  Taking
a deep breath, Miranda turned to face her team and make the announcement.

  But just as she opened her mouth, Wesson’s phone rang. The secure one.

  Jumping with surprise, Wesson fumbled for it. “It’s Sloan,” she told them as she answered it. “Hello? Okay. Just a minute.” She set the phone down on the coffee table. “He wants to talk to everyone.”

  She pressed the Speaker button, and Sloan’s deep radio voice filled the living room. “Good afternoon, everyone.”

  “Good afternoon, Agent Sloan,” Parker said. “I didn’t think we would hear from you.”

  “Well, here I am. I understand you could use a little help from us.”

  “I assume Detective Wesson has explained the situation to you?”

  “She has. We have some ideas.”

  “We’re listening.”

  “Meet me at this location in an hour and we’ll talk.” Sloan began to rattle off an address.

  Looking irritated, Wesson grabbed a pad and pen from a side table and scribbled it down.

  “All of us, Sloan?” Miranda said, as annoyed as Wesson at Sloan’s esoteric style.

  “All of you, Ms. Steele. See you then.” And he hung up.

  As the room went silent, they stared at each other for a long moment.

  “Are we going?” Becker asked.

  Miranda shook herself out of her surprise. “Of course, we’re going. Pack up all your equipment. We’ll need to show Sloan what we’ve done so far.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Exactly an hour after Sloan’s call, the Lexus turned down a cozy street in Boston’s South End and pulled up to the last house on the block.

  Miranda studied the three-story, red brick brownstone with a pretty bow front window that was so much like the rest of the homes on this street. “This is an FBI office? Are you sure you got that address right, Wesson?”

  “This is what Agent Sloan gave me.”

  “It certainly is a good cover,” Parker said as he turned off the car and got out.

  Under the overcast afternoon sky, they marched up to the front door, rang the bell, and were greeted by Special Agent O’Cleary, who was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  It was the right address.