by L C Champlin
“Content yourself with the knowledge that it manages the spread of the Dalits.”
“Manages, not stops.”
“We needn’t know everything about them to use them.”
“True.” Nathan gave a slow nod. “Among my associates is a researcher who works for Doorway Pharmaceuticals. He knows where the data is located.”
“Dr. Victor Anthony Birk, correct?”
Leave it to the little fuck to get captured. Or to surrender to the terrorists for his own gain.
“As it happens,” Cheel went on, “Dr. Birk insists that you hold what we seek.”
“He would, I suppose.” Nathan smirked and shook his head.
“I knew you did not carry the data on your person.” Cheel made an appraising sweep of armorless, weaponless Nathan. “But I am greatly mistaken if you know nothing about its location.”
No jump drive on Birk meant Albin secured the information. By this time Albin should have begun counter operations.
“Then I’m the only one who can find the drive at this point.”
“Then tell me its location.” Cheel went cold.
“It’s not that simple. I only know the first part of the location.” Albin. Where Albin lurked, though, thankfully remained a mystery. “Return my gear, without weapons if it makes you happy, and give me a clear path.” Nathan kept eye contact as he spoke. “Keep me under your sights. If I don’t go, I cannot guarantee the safety of your men or the data.” Albin had probably recovered the firearms from the bathroom. He may have established a sniper nest. “Have Dr. Birk and the others ready for an exchange. I send the doctor over with the data, and you send the others and myself over at the same time. Standard procedure for prisoner exchanges.”
Standing, Cheel locked his hands behind his back and looked down his long nose at Nathan. “Ah, but Mr. Serebus, I said after we received the data we could discuss options for release.”
Instead of the chorus of howls, now only one sang, resonant with the confidence of a hunter. An outside observer watching Nathan’s reaction might have thought Cheel had just related plans to get the mail. “I believe I can surmise the rest of the terms: I give you the data and go with you peacefully and you don’t kill the others or myself. You’ll take us out of the hot zone, and you will use us for hostage trades rather than burning us in wicker-man reenactments. Is that about the sum of your terms, Sri Cheel?”
The Indian cocked his head, smiled. His tight face could indicate amusement or triumph. “Astute. By this same quality you surely have concluded that there is only one viable option: acceptance.”
Nathan smiled and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers and looking over them with cool confidence. “It’s a cold day in Hell when I accept an offer with no modifications of my own.”
Cheel raised a brow. “I assure you it is a bargain others would have died to receive.”
I’m sure they died anyway. “San Francisco just suffered what will be the worst terrorist attack in American history. September 11th won’t hold a candle to it. I’m also aware of the attacks in New York City.”
Cheel’s smile curled a fraction of an inch more at this.
Nathan forged on: “This country has persevered against incredible odds, but this time”—he shook his head, frowning in disgust—“the Perfect Storm just hit. China has only to say the word: call in our debt, dump the dollar. Russia and the UAE have been threatening to do the same. America will fall. In light of this, I need to hedge my bets.”
Cheel stood back, regarding his opponent. “Prophetic words, Mr. Serebus, but what are you adding to the offer?”
“I only work with the government for what they offer me.” Nathan’s lip curled at the last word. “If we’re going to work together, Sri Cheel, I’d prefer a mercenary rather than a hostage role. Your organization uses mercenaries.” He spread his hands in surrender. “While mercenaries are often derided, every relationship is motivated by self interest, wouldn’t you agree?”
Cheel chuckled. “My countrymen have a saying: ‘Can your hands do what your tongue does?’ Your argument is a generalization, but in your case it is accurate. After all, you manipulated the stock prices of your own father-in-law’s company for your interest.”
“Ah, that.” Nathan smiled, mirthless. The bastard wanted to bring that up as a means to . . . what, show Nathan’s amorality? “If you know about it, then you’ll also know Crevan dropped all allegations. We had a bulletproof defense.”
“You had a bulletproof legal team.” Cheel returned Nathan’s smile.
“Everyone hates lawyers until they need one. Then they’re the big damn heroes.”
“You are no stranger to . . . shady dealing, as they say. How can I trust you?”
Nathan leaned back. “Loyalty that’s bought is often stronger than one based on tradition.” Machiavelli rolled in his grave at these words, but they resonated with people who employed freelancers.
Cheel began pacing at a measured stride. “Just as you do not employ every applicant, we do not employ every mercenary that stumbles upon us. I respect you, sir, therefore I offer two choices for the demonstration of loyalty.”
“Go on.” The classic exercise: prove your allegiance switch. What would Cheel choose? Killing a hostage? Watching a hostage die but not reacting? Getting the data? Spin the bottle?
The Indian judged suitability even before Nathan undertook the challenge, like Professor S and his psychological experiments. Even mercenaries required some code of ethics; no one wanted a mercenary who changed allegiances constantly, contracts and wages be damned.
Cheel paused, looked down for a moment, then back at Nathan. “Your first option is this: kill one of your associates.”
No surprise, but Nathan’s throat constricted and his shoulders tightened. One, two, three, four. He held up a hand for pause. “Isn’t that wasteful? My associates are highly valuable hostages.”
“I consider this an investment.” Cheel’s steel eyes and squared shoulders left no doubt about his sincerity.
Nathan’s brows climbed. “Who chooses the sacrificial offering, may I ask?”
Cheel slid into his seat. Folding his hands on the table, he sat straight like nobility about to make a decree. “I give you the choice of selecting the subject or of allowing the subject to be selected for you.”
“How generous.” You fucking cock-sucking son of a bitch excuse for a human being. Nathan sat back, drummed his fingers on the table. “If I select my own ‘sacrifice,’ you would suspect me of choosing someone I disliked. If you choose, you risk choosing the same person I would have. You’ll most likely pick the least-valuable hostage. With option one, I know exactly who will die. With option two, I have a fair guess. What’s my second choice?” For all he knew, it could involve killing two prisoners instead of one.
“You have a close ally who is not currently our guest.”
Albin. Nathan fought his stomach down from around his heart.
“Contact him via the radio, request that he bring the data and place himself in our custody. He is your man and as such I expect him to abide by your choice of allegiances. You two comprise a formidable team, and thus your reunion would benefit us all.” Reassuring smile. Hands spread in supplication. Most car salesmen would kill for skills like his.
“He would have privileges equal with my own?”
“Perfectly equal.”
If Albin surrendered, Nathan would lose his best hope of escape and his greatest threat against the terrorists. Failing to bring Albin and the data in, however, would call Nathan’s loyalty into question.
“My ally may be my employee, but he’s not my man. Were I to ask or order him, I highly doubt he’d sacrifice himself.” Would he? He shouldn’t. “His survival instinct is highly developed and doesn’t go in for heroics. He’s probably half a mile away by now.” Getting a spec-ops team from the Armory.
Cheel leaned forward. “Have you ma
de your choice?”
The tips of Nathan’s fingers tingled. “Sri Cheel, give me a weapon. Choose the lamb for the slaughter. I’ll prove I mean business.” Let the fucker continue to believe he controlled the situation.
Cheel’s grin widened. He stood, motioning for Nathan to do likewise. “Let us go. Time is short.”
On his feet, Nathan trailed the other man, who halted before Captain Ali. “Your handgun, Captain.” He held his hand out. Chrome Springfield 1911 hit flesh, like a scalpel handle slapping into a surgeon’s palm.
Chapter 67
Rodeo
Iron – Within Temptation
Albin rocked to his feet, stepped away from the guard’s corpse and to the security control room’s door. The keycard gained him access. Inside, three doors greeted him, one on each wall. The card opened all. Through the bullet-scarred door ahead lay the camera control room. It held wreckage and carnage. The room on the right stored janitor’s supplies. Its twin across the entry chamber contained extra electronics: computer mice, keyboards, monitors.
As a last minute idea, he dropped a broom handle from the janitor’s closet between the main door and jamb, blocking the door open two centimeters.
Once in the hall, he nodded to Behrmann. Taking the body by the arms, they dragged it into the main concourse.
“The combat knife.” Albin held one hand toward Behrmann while producing the syringe with the other.
“This has to work,” she whispered, withdrawing the knife from its sheath on her vest and pressing the handle into his palm.
He frowned while uncapping the syringe needle. The time had come: holding the blade, he squirted the oil over the grip. In the hall, he positioned it near the deceased’s left hand, then backed away as if he’d released a viper.
Now came the most difficult portion of the plan: maneuvering the cannibal to the corpse and keeping the monster near until the terrorists investigated.
Albin retrieved the Beretta, then they returned to the loading dock and their guest. The cords held; apparently the cannibal lacked the ability to undo knots or break the wires. It strained against its leashes, oil pooling on the floor as it drooled and vomited its toxic fluids in a mockery of a cephalopod’s ink defense.
Bile burned its way up Albin’s esophagus as the creature’s small-muscle groups twitched and spasmed like tissue exposed to electric stimuli. The compulsion to end the thing’s existence tightened his finger on the handgun’s trigger.
Ssssssaaaahhh.
Whoever or whatever created the agent deserved the lowest pits of Hell.
He tossed the syringe in a corner and slid the Beretta behind his belt. “The signaling system functions thusly,” he began as he unclipped the terrorist’s scavenged radio and set the channel. “Click the transmit button twice when the terrorists approach. Click again for the hostiles’ numbers. The all-clear is another double-click.”
Behrmann came abreast of him to take the radio. “This is going to be a heck of a rodeo.”
“So long as I am not the clown,” Albin muttered.
Head to one side, he returned his attention to the cannibal. He moved with slow tread to a place four meters ahead and to the left of it. “That is odd.” Squinting, he crossed his arms as he stared at the blistered flesh.
“What is?” Behrmann appeared, suddenly half a meter away from him, peering at the captive monster.
Albin stepped back, snatched the rubbish bag with its cord and a pre-cut strip of duct tape from a table. Like cats, people of Behrmann’s type required manipulation to serve a purpose.
Sssssaaaahhhh. The thing strained against the nooses, snapped its oily teeth at Behrmann while reaching for her with its left arm.
“Observe its eyes,” Albin went on, moving along the wall toward the cannibal’s right. Unfortunately, his movement caught the infected’s attention, made it turn its head. “Closely.”
Behrmann took a step nearer. The proximity of prey snapped the cannibal’s head back to the newswoman. Out of peripheral vision range, Albin moved in, rubbish bag open and up. I am approaching an ill human, that is all.
“I don’t see—Be careful!” Behrmann’s flinch to prevent herself from reflexively reaching toward Albin further interested the cannibal.
The bag whisked down over the captive’s head. Twist, then tape to secure the hood completed the task.
Albin backpedaled from arm-range, left hand following the extension cord back to the garage door. Would the cannibal grow calm in the absence of visual stimuli, like a hooded raptor?
After taking a full three seconds to absorb the situation, the cannibal shook itself as best it could while restrained, then clawed at its eyes.
Albin pushed his hip into the cord to give himself slack to untie the line, pulling the captive against the cage. “Untie your end and let’s proceed while it’s distracted.”
After she untied her cord, he pulled his cord tight. “The cannibal stays exactly between us at all times.”
“Like crossties on a horse,” Behrmann replied with a nod as she leaned against her line and toward the door to the main building.
“I am going to hold the lines from inside the security control room. When I enter, throw me your line.”
“Sure.” Behrmann spared a hand to open the door, then after a glance outside, backed out. Watching the angle of the cord as it extended from the cannibal’s fore, Albin matched the degree with his cord.
The cannibal moved with little resistance, its attention still on the hood, which it attempted to wipe out of its eyes. Its claws would tear the plastic in five more seconds.
Correction: three seconds. And . . . gone.
Fortunately, it already moved forward, its attention locked on Behrmann. This freed Albin to restrain the thing while the newswoman baited it.
It stumbled through the door and around the corner. Four heart-twisting seconds passed before he too stepped into the hall. As long as he felt tension on the line, he knew the cannibal hadn’t broken free and turned to investigate the backward pressure on its neck.
At the main hall ahead, Behrmann nodded the all-clear back at Albin, who belayed four meters behind the cannibal. Yes, as simple as walking a very domineering mastiff.
The procession entered the hall; halfway there by distance. By now the cannibal decided, or however it controlled its actions, to assess its situation: it planted its feet and wheeled toward Albin.
He gritted his teeth as the rust eyes bore into him. Oil bubbled from the thing’s lips and splattered onto the floor. The infectious agent did not appear to confer extra strength, but that could change. Already the cannibals showed improved mobility.
“Cht!” Behrmann brought the cannibal’s attention back to her with a tug on its leash.
The parade from Hell resumed. Albin skirted the saliva drops on the floor.
“Psst!” He motioned for her to continue past the camera control room’s hall.
Sssssaaaaahhhh. The cannibal protested as its handlers halted. Behrmann swung left while Albin pulled right. Now with two targets in its awareness, it twitched with excitement. Down the hall, Albin centered himself just in time: the thing yanked backward from Behrmann, then sprang toward her. Her face went white, but reflexes launched her clear. Albin yanked the cord down and back with the cannibal in midair.
Thud!
The attacker hit the ground face-first. Teeth cracked on the floor, but the cannibal recovered as if it had landed on a mattress. Wheeling toward the source of restraint, it dropped to all fours and lunged at Albin. Behrmann put her full weight on the cord, but it barely slowed the charge.
Still holding the cord, Albin turned and pounded toward the security door.
He whipped the door open and swung around the jamb. The broom bounced off the far door as he kicked it clear. Feet slapped on the tile outside, mere meters away. He threw his weight against the door, wedging himself against the barrier with adrenaline strength.
Caught between door and jamb, the cord prevented the lock from activating. Pulse roaring in his ears and breath catching in his dry throat, he squeezed his eyes shut as the cannibal slammed into the door. Four centimeters of particleboard and metal separated him from a nightmare. Its fetor wafted through the door’s bullet holes.
Thud. The blow shuddered through the door, through Albin’s chest.
They could have made do with the knife. Weaponizing a cannibal and attempting to aim its kill drive made sense only if he had taken all leave of his senses.
Thud. Albin’s trainers skidded a few centimeters as he braced himself.
In a moment, armed terrorists would arrive. They put this monster to shame. Fumbling in his pocket, his sweat-slippery fingers locked around the keycard.
Thud.
As the door thunked back against the cord and jamb, Albin risked edging to his right, card stretching toward the lock. A little farther—Success! He lunged for the closet’s handle. Around and in, cord on the floor, then he slammed the door. The lock’s click sounded sweeter than any Beethoven symphony.
Bang! The main door burst open under the cannibal’s assault.
Sssssaaaaahhhh.
Shuffling outside, then fumbling against the door. Albin backed to the closet’s far end, against the mops and brooms. Emergency lighting filtered through the gap beneath the door. Something moved across the light: the cannibal.
Breathe. As he pressed against the wall, the handgun dug into the small of his back. It would remain a last-resort due to noise.
His hand brushed against the spare syringe in his pocket. If only he’d filled the syringe with oil, he could use it against the gunmen and gain a benefit from this scheme yet.
He shifted his weight, only to bump a jug of industrial cleaning product with his foot. The torch flicked from his breast pocket. Its beam illuminated the bottle label as he readied the syringe: All-Purpose Cleaner with Bleach. Splendid.
He held the torch in his teeth as he fought the childproof lid off the bottle, then dipped the needle in and filled the syringe. Sterile water burned like fire when injected, according to his mother, so military-grade cleaner should at least sting.
