Balchor continued, “The backwash must have been painful enough to make the pilot lose control but not strong enough for the full neurological impact.”
Seichan knew the good doctor was wrong about that last part, which made her wonder again about Fitzgerald’s recovery. Clearly Balchor’s team hadn’t administered any counteragent to help Fitzgerald return to his senses. She glanced over to the weapon in Kowalski’s hand, remembering the doctor’s description of Colossus’s effect, how it could turn off the electrical flow through the cerebral cortex.
Had the shock delivered by Kowalski’s weapon restarted that flow, like some defibrillator for the brain?
The footsteps continued again, heading toward the bar.
Off to the side, she watched Amelia being lifted from her chair, her paper crown fluttering to the tabletop. The gunman hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of flour and headed toward the truck on the beach.
“What will you do with the rest of the people out there?” Rouhani asked as the pair reached the counter, speaking directly over where she and Kowalski hid.
Balchor sighed heavily. “I’ll blast another wave as we leave. Prior tests show that a second insult to such afflicted individuals results in total brain death. They won’t be telling any stories.” He clapped his hands, changing the subject. “It looks as if this bar is self-service at the moment, so I’ll have to go around and fetch my own champagne.”
We’re out of time.
Seichan lifted a fist in front of Kowalski, signaling him.
Don’t move.
After getting a nod from him, she turned to her other side and kicked the man sharing their hiding place. The bartender’s head snapped up, throwing a rope of drool that struck Seichan in the cheek. She remained a statue, not even blinking, recalling Balchor’s earlier warning about the newly awakened.
They will attack anything that moves.
Rouhani leaned over the counter, his head turned, calling over to Balchor. “Maybe I will take a small drink after all.”
The bartender was happy to assist.
The man burst to his feet and dove at the Iranian. Caught off guard, Rouhani failed to react in time. The bartender’s fingers latched on to the colonel’s throat. Rouhani tried to push off the bar to escape.
Not so fast.
Seichan leaped up and twisted around. She swung her arm down and stabbed the stolen butcher’s knife through the back of the colonel’s hand, pinning it to the mahogany bar. Without waiting, she rolled over the countertop and landed in a crouch on the far side.
Balchor was already running for the patio doors, shouting for help.
Before she could give chase, she had another obstacle to address.
Across the cocktail lounge, Dmitry shoved Fitzgerald to the floor and reached for a holstered sidearm.
Not good.
Kowalski had their only gun.
She glanced to her right, hoping her partner saw the threat, but Kowalski was focused elsewhere. At the bar, Rouhani struggled and gurgled. The bartender’s teeth were sunk deep into the man’s neck, ripping his throat open. Kowalski fired his Piezer—but not at the Russian. The scintillating blue flare struck the bartender, sending him flying and hopefully back to sleep.
Still, the dazzling blast succeeded in startling Dmitry. The Russian fell back several steps, but unfortunately, he had freed his sidearm by now.
Using the momentary distraction, Seichan flipped the boning knife in her fingers and flung it across the lounge. Dmitry easily dodged the blade—but the Russian wasn’t her target.
The knife struck the thigh of the woman behind Dmitry. She was the bar patron sprawled on the floor next to a shattered martini glass. The pain of the impaled blade drove the woman to her feet with a furious cry. She looked for the nearest person to blame.
Caught off guard, Dmitry could not turn in time. The woman hit him broadside, taking him to the floor. But the Russian was no amateur. He tossed the woman away and rolled back to his feet, but the sudden blow had knocked his pistol from his grip.
It lay under a table next to him.
He made a move in that direction, but Kowalski fired at him. A fiery blue blast exploded over the tabletop, sparing the Russian sheltered below from the brunt of the electrifying charge. Still, several crystals managed to hit him and drove him away, his face tight with pain. Dmitry twisted around, dug in his toes, and dove toward the patio door.
“Have to reload,” Kowalski called out.
Seichan rushed forward, diving across the floor. She scooped up the abandoned handgun, a .50-caliber Desert Eagle, and fired at Dmitry. But the Russian, running low, pursuing his employer, had made it out to the terrace, where a storm was brewing.
In his hurry to escape, Balchor must have stepped on a few comatose patrons, rousing them in his wake. They in turn disturbed others. Cries and screams rose out there, accompanied by the breaking of furniture.
Kowalski’s weapon blasted again. Seichan ducked and turned in time to see the sharply dressed madwoman go flying backward, her chest dancing with blue fire.
Almost forgot about her.
Out on the terrace, Dmitry fled through the escalating riot, punching and elbowing his way forward. Across the pool, Balchor tripped and fell down the far steps, landing near the bumper of the truck. One of Dmitry’s men helped him up, guiding him toward the cab as the engine growled louder, preparing to leave.
Kowalski skidded up next to her, the muzzle of his weapon glowing. “All set. What now?”
She ignored him for the moment and picked up the boning blade that had knocked free during the scuffle and crossed to Fitzgerald. “How’re you feeling?”
The pilot sat up, looking stunned, but nodded. “O . . . okay. Better.”
Good.
He had clearly returned to his senses, and she could guess why.
As she sliced the man’s bonds and freed him, she finally answered Kowalski’s question. She nodded to his weapon. “That seems to shock them out of their madness.” She pointed out to the patio. “So you’re on crowd control.”
She swung around and headed in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” Kowalski shouted after her.
She pictured Amelia. The girl was already aboard the truck with the others. “Making sure somebody has a happy birthday.”
9:09 p.m.
Standing beside the unplanted garden bed, Seichan yanked the pin connecting the flower-laden trailer from the Kawasaki ATV and hopped onto the seat. Earlier she had noted the sleeping gardener’s keys were still in the ignition.
She started the engine and gunned the throttle, bucking the vehicle up on its back wheels. Then the front tires slammed down, and she shot forward. She cut across the newly planted lawn and over gravel paths, aiming for the dark wing still under construction.
No lights shone there, but such places were where she worked best.
In the shadows.
She wasn’t the only one. The air was full of bats, swooping and keening in ultrasonic fury. The winged horde had grown tenfold thicker in just the short time she had been inside the hotel. A stray bat struck Seichan’s face and fluttered off, leaving a welt of pain. She ignored it and sped faster, her knobby tires chewing through the terrain. She dared not slow.
A minute ago, as she had exited the back of the resort, she had heard the truck engine’s roar settle into a steady growl.
The others were already leaving.
With Balchor’s team having a head start, she refused to lose any more ground. She reached the far corner of the resort and sped around the turn, lifting up on two tires, challenging the limits of the ATV. As she cleared the bend, she had to dodge through an array of construction equipment and supplies: piles of concrete pavers, stacks of lumber, a parked backhoe.
She cursed the obstacle course, trying not to slow down. In her haste, her front bumper clipped a crated statue. The ATV skidded sideways. Instead of braking, she let it spin a bit further, then gunned the engine
and sent the vehicle racing for a slab of granite that had slipped off its stack and fallen crookedly in front of her. She shot up the makeshift ramp, caught air, and flew several yards. She landed with a crunch and a bounce in the gravel of a parking lot.
Finally clear of the construction zone, she sped toward the road that led into the forest. Distantly through the trees, she spotted the rear lights of the trucks. The fleeing vehicle was even farther ahead than she had feared.
Behind her, the occasional shotgun blast echoed, continuing proof that Kowalski was still alive and doing his best to manage crowd control. She left him to his work and raced to the road and into the forest. She kept her lights off and followed the glow through the trees.
The road paralleled the curves and bends of the island’s coast, allowing her to stay out of direct sight, but eventually the path straightened. Fearing she would be spotted, she guided her ATV to the edge of the trees, doing her best to stay in the darker shadows under the canopy, hiding from the moon and stars.
The truck suddenly veered to the left, leaving the road, which continued following the coastline. Seichan hurried to close the distance. As she reached the corner, she discovered the turnoff led to a long pier, where a floatplane—a Cessna Caravan—waited at its end. A large cargo hatch was open on one side, its lighted interior shining in the darkness.
Fifty yards ahead, the truck had pulled alongside the base of the pier. Men busied themselves around it.
She could’ve abandoned the ATV and gone on foot, using the cover of the forest, but she heard Balchor shout.
“Get Colossus onto the plane! Then the test subjects!”
Seichan pictured the paper crown falling from Amelia’s bowed head and made a sharp turn onto the side road and headed straight for the truck. She raised her huge pistol—the stolen Desert Eagle—and fired over the hood of the truck. She struck a man in the shoulder, sending him spinning from the impact of the large-caliber slug. The recoil almost tore the pistol from her grip, but she tightened her fingers and kept her aim high, away from the back bed and cab, fearing she might hit one of those “test subjects.”
Return fire sparked toward her, but the shots were wild as the crew was caught by surprise. She crouched low, balancing her wrist on the ATV’s short windshield, and fired back.
Four men managed to lug the dish device out of the bed and ran with it down the dock, dragging cables. Balchor fled alongside them, guarded by Dmitry. The bulk of the truck blocked her from shooting after them. Still, she dropped another Russian by the back bumper. The rest of the crew finally abandoned the vehicle and followed the others—especially as the floatplane’s engine roared louder, readying to depart. Its propellers spun faster.
As Seichan reached the truck, coming in fast, she braked hard and skidded the ATV sideways, slamming broadside into it. She hopped out of the seat and quickly checked the rear cab and back bed. Sedated bodies were tossed inside both compartments like so much firewood. She spotted the thin limbs of a child.
Amelia . . .
Seichan shifted to the front of the truck, leveling her big pistol across the hood of the vehicle. Balchor was already aboard the plane, waving for the others to haul Colossus into the cargo hold with him. Dmitry helped, looking as if he could pick up the unwieldy contraption all by himself.
She held off shooting, afraid of drawing return fire toward the truck, where a stray round could injure or kill those sleeping inside. Plus, if her count was right, she was down to a single round. Still, such restraint made her grit her teeth in frustration.
Even before the final man was aboard, the plane headed across the water. The last straggler tossed the dock lines and dove into the hold. Seichan watched the plane gain speed and rise off the water, skimming the waves, then climbing higher. She imagined Balchor’s research lab must be hidden on one of the many tiny islands that dotted the North Atlantic. She would leave it to Painter to discover where the doctor might be holed up.
Impotent and angry, she watched the Cessna continue upward—but then the wings tilted. The aircraft swung in a wide, low turn, coming back around. Seichan glanced over her shoulder toward the resort. Distantly a shotgun blast echoed to her. She faced the floatplane again as it circled in her direction. The cargo hatch was still open. The interior cabin lights revealed men clustered around Colossus, positioning the dish to face the door.
Apparently the bastards weren’t leaving without first saying good-bye. They must intend to deliver a parting shot before they fled home. She remembered Balchor’s description of the effect of a second wave striking those already afflicted.
Total brain death.
She retreated several steps, watching the Cessna complete its slow turn, the open hatch coming around. Men fled back into the hold. She spotted a large bulk standing behind Colossus.
Dmitry.
The Russian loosened the dish and swiveled it down. He pointed toward the forest ahead of her—but that was not the true objective. As the plane turned, the device’s wave would soon sweep over her and the truck.
Though there was no sound, no visible sign, she felt Colossus activate. It was like a sunburst in the forest, the heat burning her face and arms—and she knew this was just the weapon’s backwash. Her skin grew steadily hotter as the plane continued to turn, swinging the beam’s full force toward her.
Still, she kept her position, determined to guard the truck and its occupants.
She planted her legs, cradling the Desert Eagle in both hands. She lifted her arms and aimed toward the cargo hold, toward Dmitry. Her skin burned, her eyes wept, but she held steady. The rising pain made her want to scream—so she did as she fired.
The big gun blasted, the recoil driving her arms up.
She failed to hit Dmitry.
But again he wasn’t her target.
The large-caliber slug sparked off the upper lip of the dish; the impact kicked the loosened dish up, pointing it toward the roof of the cargo hold. Sharp screams of agony cut through the engine’s low roar as the searing wave washed over the passengers.
The plane canted wildly. Then the nose lifted, shooting the plane higher and away, as if the pilot were trying to escape the fire in the rear cabin. Then it dipped down, wings bobbling back and forth. But as it fled toward the resort, its path began to straighten.
Seichan scowled.
Someone must have managed to switch Colossus off.
The aircraft steadied and banked over the resort, turning toward the volcanic cliffs—but would it continue away or would the bastards come around and try again to blast the resort with Colossus’s beam?
Seichan held her breath.
In the end, the decision was taken from them.
The large dark cloud that swirled above the hotel suddenly gusted higher, spiraling toward the source of the ultrasonic blast. The plane was quickly lost in a mass of furious bats.
Again the aircraft wobbled wildly, as if its wings were trying to swat away the bats. Its engine coughed, likely inhaling some of the horde. Blinded and assaulted, the Cessna dipped and dove faster over the treetops, still out of control, canting madly—then slammed into the nearby volcanic cliffs and exploded.
A fireball lit up the black rock, then rolled higher, trailing smoke.
Seichan let out the breath she had been holding.
But another distant shotgun blast reminded her that there was still work to do.
She crossed over to the truck, discovered the keys were still in the ignition after the team’s hasty departure, and climbed inside. In short order, she had the truck turned around and was trundling back to the resort.
As she reached the beach, she parked the vehicle at the foot of the wide staircase that led up to the terrace. The truck’s headlights revealed dazed figures seated on the steps, some crying, others holding their heads in their hands.
She climbed out, wary at first, but it was soon clear that the men and women here had recovered from their madness, the same as Fitzgerald. The likely source of t
heir “cure” called out from the upper deck.
“Is that the last of them?” Kowalski yelled.
“Think so!” Fitzgerald answered. “At least out here!”
Seichan hurried up the steps. She reached the top in time to see Kowalski grab a middle-aged woman by the face and shove her into the pool. Five other figures splashed and howled in the waters, teeth gnashing, hands clawing.
Kowalski noted her arrival. “Check this out.”
He stepped back, aimed his Piezer at the pool, and fired.
A flash of blue fire shot into the water. Electricity danced outward in sparks and skittering lines across the surface. The half-dozen bodies—trapped in the pool and caught in that shocking wake—shook and twitched in the water. But as the effect faded, the figures slumped and stumbled around in bewilderment, still conscious, but plainly returning to their senses.
Fitzgerald called and waved to them, ready to help them out. Other recovered patrons came forward to assist him.
Seichan glanced to Kowalski as he hiked his weapon to his shoulder. A lit cigar was clamped between his back molars.
When did he have time to—
Never mind.
She shook her head, having to at least respect the man’s resourcefulness at coming up with this economical way of using his ammunition.
Kowalski crossed to her and sighed heavily. “So now can I go on vacation?”
April 18, 7:09 a.m.
By the next morning, order was mostly restored.
As the sun rose on a new day, Seichan stood at the edge of the shadowy forest. A borrowed motorcycle was parked behind her. She stared out at the sprawl of the resort, the curve of sand, the bright pool.
Out in the bay, a Portuguese military cruiser bobbed in the water. A pair of ambulances sat on the beach. Overnight, medical crews had turned one floor of the hotel into a makeshift hospital, attending to the injured, trying their best to mitigate the physical and psychological damage inflicted here. The more critically wounded had already been evacuated by helicopter to Ponta Delgada.
Seichan had also reached Painter Crowe last night. He was already working with Portuguese intelligence services to locate Dr. Balchor’s lab. The director had also managed to cover her involvement in events here, along with that of Kowalski and Fitzgerald.
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