by Nancy Holder
Unless we’re too afraid to, he thought.
CHAPTER EIGHT
J.T.’s head was pounding. Whoever had chloroformed him had clocked him with a blunt instrument as well. Probably a gun, because these guys had a lot of them.
He wasn’t up on his advanced weaponry but he knew submachine guns when he saw them. Also black matte handguns that were so enormous they looked fake. There were maybe six men, and they were dressed in olive fatigues and combat boots. They wore black hoods and bandanas covered the lower half of their faces, which gave him hope of survival. If they planned to kill him, they wouldn’t care if he knew what they looked like.
They told him that they were the FFNY. The FFNY was a paramilitary operation “assisting” someone with a “mission,” and he wasn’t sure it was precisely the mission they had written Maurice Riley about. He didn’t think they seemed very concerned about Mr. Riley’s safety. They didn’t seem concerned about anyone’s safety. They wanted J.T.’s help capturing the beast, not destroying it. They wanted to use it for their own ends. What ends those were, he didn’t know. They hadn’t yet shared their manifesto or whatever with him. But weren’t all manifestos pretty much the same? Your side is wrong, our side is right. Join us or die.
His hands were cuffed behind his back and ropes around his chest and ankles kept him tied to a chair in the middle of a large warehouse half-filled with long wooden shipping crates. There were three men standing on the crates, legs spread wide for balance, Uzis around their necks. Parked in a row were two panel vans, one white, one black, and a quartet of nondescript sedans. J.T. tried to memorize license plates but his vision was blurry and the bare light bulb hanging directly over his head made it difficult to see much.
They offered him water, which he accepted. Those action movies where the brave heroes display their machismo by refusing all food and drink from the enemy? Very bad training films. You had to do anything you could—within your moral compass, of course—to last long enough to thwart the enemy. You couldn’t do that if you were dehydrated and starving. Vincent had taught him that.
“One more time,” said the man who identified himself as Private X—the ringleader of the FFNY. “What have Vincent Keller and the NYPD discovered about the creature?”
J.T. noted his use of the word “creature.” Everyone connected with the experiment—including Cat’s father, Agent Bob Reynolds—referred to Muirfield’s creations as “beasts.” These guys didn’t. Did that mean that they were on the outside looking in—not members of the original conspiracy? On the other hand, if they knew about Lafferty—and potentially Vincent—and they knew that Karl Tiptree had invented a “serum,” then they had some knowledge. Again, the point was not to die a hero—it was live to see another day—and J.T. tried to calculate how much he had to divulge while keeping them as ignorant as possible.
“This new murder seemed different,” he said. “The police suspect the first six murders were committed by a human. That would mean that last night’s murder would be the creature’s first murder in New York City. That they know of, anyway.”
The masked men looked at each other. This was news to them. Whether welcome news or not, J.T. had no idea.
“Why do they think that?” Private X asked as he strode up to J.T. The light from the bulb gleamed on his Uzi. He was wearing black leather half-gloves. He seriously creeped J.T. out.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Vincent about it and—”
Lightning fast, Private X punched J.T. in the jaw. J.T.’s head whipped back and his glasses went flying. Now he would never be able to memorize those license plate numbers.
“Don’t lie to me. Even if you haven’t talked to Keller, you’ve talked to the cops. We have your phone.”
J.T. hesitated. Private X threw back his arm and J.T. flinched. His interrogator snickered.
“Civilians,” he said derisively. “Always weak and in the way.”
“I thought you cared about people,” J.T. said. There was something dribbling down his chin. It was either blood or drool… or pulverized bicuspids. “That you were doing all this to stop the bloodshed.”
Now a couple of the other men snickered. J.T. didn’t like all the snickering. It put him in mind of schoolyard bullies, which he’d had plenty of experience in dealing with while growing up. Bullies took real pleasure in inflicting pain. Yes, maybe they did it to compensate for deep-seated feelings of inferiority or whatever; the point was that pain was their thing.
“Weak, in the way, and gullible,” one of the crate-standers said.
Go ahead and laugh, J.T. thought. Because… I can do nothing to stop you.
“Tell me why they think the first six murders weren’t committed by the creature,” Private X said.
J.T. tried to think of a plausible lie. Then he decided that a variant of the truth might actually work.
“There was no creature DNA at the first six murders.” That was the truth. Then he remembered that their side was worrying about a possible mole in the department or the lab. Private X might have put them there. Now he wasn’t sure how to move forward. “But at the Patel crime scene, there was a strange reading when one of the CSU techs applied Luminol for the detection of blood. Another substance presented under the black light.” It was a total lie, but it was the best he could come up with while the cartilage in his nose ran down his face.
Private X was listening hard. J.T. didn’t know if the man was waiting to see how much he would lie, or if he was buying what J.T. was selling.
“What did it look like under the black light?” Private X asked.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there and I haven’t gotten to see it. It could have been a false reading.”
Private X turned to one of the other men—way buffed out—and said, “We’ll have to check into that.” Mr. Universe nodded as if making a mental note.
“Now I want you to tell me something else, and I don’t want you to lie to me. I have done some terrible things in the service of my country, and I will not hesitate to do terrible things in the service of the FFNY.”
J.T. thought about asking him what the real name of their group was. They definitely weren’t doing all this in the name of freedom. But the time for banter was over. No more fun and games. Things were about to get real serious. Possibly fatal.
“Okay,” J.T. said. “Got it.”
“Did the army do to Vincent Keller what they did to Lafferty?”
Shock warred with elation and J.T. fought to conceal them both. They don’t know. Vincent’s secret is safe.
“I don’t know,” he said, which was true. Cat’s mother had given Lafferty a serum to combat her violent fugue states and hustled her away. Vincent had visited her in the infirmary a few times, when she had begged him to help her “escape.”
Which, to Vincent’s loyal mind, meant “desert.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Private X said, giving his Uzi a pat.
“I really don’t know. I don’t know what they did to Lafferty.”
Private X smiled thinly. “But you do know what they did to Vincent Keller.”
Damn it, J.T. thought. Had this been Private X’s plan all along? To find out if Vincent was a beast?
“I know they gave him some steroid injections. The effects appear to be permanent. He’s got mood swings, and there was the amnesia…” He trailed off. He was too afraid to say anything else.
Private X just stared at him. Then he looked across the room at someone behind J.T. and gave a sharp nod. J.T. was afraid he was going to wet his pants. He took a deep breath and mentally said goodbye to everyone he cared about—he even included Sara (but not David)—and saved his last goodbye for the best—
“Tess, no!” he shouted.
Because Tess was there. Bound and gagged, her hands tied or cuffed behind her back, she appeared at his side, then was pushed face down to the ground by a soldier who had a tattoo of a skull on the back of his right hand.
“Are you all right
?” J.T. shouted.
Tess rocked herself until she rolled onto her side. She looked hard at him as if she were trying to tell him something. He pursed his lips and gave his head a quick shake; he didn’t understand.
Private X stood over Tess and aimed his Uzi at her head. J.T. fought against his restraints but it was no good.
“Tell me the truth about Vincent Keller.”
Tess blinked at J.T. and gave her head a nearly imperceptible shake. It’s not a choice between them, he reminded himself. If he told these men the truth about Vincent, the world would change.
But if Tess died, his world would change.
I can’t do this. I can’t. He felt himself beginning to check out and shut down. He could not do that to Tess.
Private X stared at him with flat blue eyes. They seemed to have no spark of life in them, as if the man were dead. Or soulless.
“He-he’s strong,” J.T. said. “And his reflexes are off the charts. But if you’re asking me if he’s the creature that killed that woman last night, the answer is no.”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking you!” The soldier planted his boot on Tess’s head. On her head. “Damn shame,” he said. “I told you not to lie. We have eyes and ears everywhere, Dr. Forbes.”
He aimed his weapon straight at Tess’s face. Time slowed horribly for J.T. He saw her eyes above the gag, enormous; he saw the gun move into position. The men in the room strained to watch—
J.T. contracted his body with every fiber of strength at his command, attempting to throw his mass between the imminent fusillade of bullets and Tess’s body.
All he succeeded in doing was throwing himself off balance; the chair smacked the concrete floor hard, and his head slammed against it. He was dazed, and he figured he must be hallucinating, or dying, because his blurry field of vision burst with the image of Private X dropping to one knee beside Tess and aiming high, sweeping the positions of the three men on the crates with a torrent of ammo. They dropped one-two-three. The other nine or so FFNYs had time to react, fanning behind crates and returning fire.
Private X dragged Tess by the feet behind the nearest crate. Then he returned for J.T. Bullets were zinging and pinging all around them; J.T. had no idea why they hadn’t yet been hit. He shouted with fear as somehow, Private X dragged him and his chair behind the same crate as Tess. He didn’t question it; he just kept his head down and prayed to God he wasn’t about to become dead weight in the literal sense.
This guy is outnumbered, J.T. thought. There’s no way any of us are getting out of here alive.
As if on cue, Private X gave a shout. One minute he was standing over J.T. and the next, blood was spurting out of his arm and he was collapsing behind him. Then J.T. felt a sharp, nearly electric pain and he grunted because he was too scared to yell.
“Damn it, do the rest,” Private X said in his ear.
The rest? What rest?
And then J.T.’s bound wrists magically came apart. It took him a few seconds to realize that Private X had cut through his handcuffs. Then the most wicked-looking knife he had ever seen in his life was slapped into his hand. His circulation had been cut off and hundreds of fire ants were crawling over his skin, but he bent forward and sawed through the rope around his chest. Private X was working on his ankle restraints. The guy had taken a bullet and he was still going.
Oh, my God, could he be the beast?
J.T. had no more time to wonder because now that he was free, he crawled over to Tess. Private X shouted, “Fire in the hole!” and J.T. instinctively threw himself over her. He had watched enough war movies to know that that meant something bad was either incoming or outgoing. He prayed it was out.
The world shattered as sound waves shut down his eardrums. He couldn’t hear anything, could barely think. Knife, he had a knife. Tess was underneath him. Enormous chunks of debris were crashing down all around him. Something struck him on the back and he held on more tightly to Tess, protecting her.
Dust, dirt, and smoke clogged his nose and eyes. He pushed himself up, elated to see that he still had the knife, and sawed at her restraints. She yanked a hand free and pulled down her gag.
“I wasn’t choosing Vincent over you,” he said. Or hoped he said. He couldn’t hear anything.
Her mouth moved but without his eardrums or glasses he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then she pushed him off herself and scrambled toward Private X, who was lying in a pool of his own blood. His eyes were half-open. For a moment, J.T. thought he was dead, but when Tess patted—not slapped—his cheek, he stirred and blinked his eyes. She bent down and put her ear to his mouth. Then she shook her head and tapped J.T. on the hand, pointing to his ears. He gave her a thumbs-down.
Machine gun fire strafed the area where they were sitting; now it was Tess who threw herself around J.T. She took one of Private X’s arms. J.T. took the other. As they began to drag him, bullets ripped down his torso. Tess let go of him immediately and grabbed J.T.’s hand. In a low crouch, she rushed forward, and he understood that they had to leave Private X’s body behind.
The warehouse was burning. Bullets chased them. J.T. still couldn’t hear anything. Tess and he were running side by side and then something blurred past him. He prayed to God it was Vincent and then he prayed that it wasn’t because these guys had massive weaponry and Vincent wasn’t Superman; he could be hurt.
Or killed.
Then the smoke thinned and they were outside, falling to their knees in the gravel. Wearing a bulletproof vest, Cat appeared from behind a Dumpster and gestured toward them. Then someone was helping him back up and guiding him toward the Dumpster.
Heather?
Cat’s sister threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. He tried to extricate himself so he could get back to Tess, but a guy in a do-rag was run-walking with Tess toward them. Once Tess reached them she kissed J.T., hard, and then she joined Cat. Cat pointed to her left leg and Tess squatted down, yanking up Cat’s jeans leg and pulling a pistol out of a holster. Wow.
Tess and Cat started moving in unison toward the burning warehouse. J.T. bounded after them. Tess whipped her head around and gave him a stern look. He frowned at her—he was going back in, too, damn it—and then she pointed at him and made a cutting motion across her neck.
A big strong hand clasped his shoulder and dragged him backwards. It was the do-rag kid. J.T. was in no shape to take him on and reason began to seep in along with his circulation: He was unarmed, he was injured, and he was exhausted. He didn’t know battle tactics, either. Loath though he was to admit it, he would serve Tess better by remaining out here with the other non-combatants.
* * *
One beast, half a dozen well-armed soldiers of fortune.
It wasn’t a fair fight.
And when it was over, still partially beasted out, Vincent carried the steely-eyed, cigar-smoking man out of the blazing inferno, his memories rocketing back to that horrible day in Afghanistan. And he thought, Yes. This is the soldier I went back to save, and didn’t.
He had come full circle.
Except… against all odds, the man had survived that day. He would not make it through this night. His luck had run out. The only reason he had lived this long was the Kevlar armor he was wearing under his fatigues.
Catherine approached and said, “Vincent, he saved Tess and J.T. I don’t know if he’s undercover, or what, but he was a plant.”
As if speaking for him, defending him, Vincent inclined his head to indicate his understanding. Then he waved her off with a twist of his chin. As relieved as he was to see her, he needed to be alone with this man in his dying moments. Cat got it, and gave him room.
Vincent dropped to his knees, cradling the broken body in his arms, cushioning the man who had given his life to save J.T., protecting him from the broken glass and gravel on the ground. Private X was coughing up blood. He didn’t have long.
“Was that you in the warehouse?” Vincent asked him. “Last night?”
But Vincent couldn’t know that. If someone crouched nearby with a parabola antenna and a good set of earphones, his secret would be out.
He wanted to give this mysterious man the peace of a definite answer, but that exceeded the parameters of the mission. Instead he said, “Who is it? How do we stop it?”
“I loved her,” the man murmured. He was fading. “I would do anything…”
Vincent jostled him. “Stay with me, soldier. Is it Lafferty?”
The man clenched his jaw. He was in agony. “Tiptree,” he ground out.
“The beast is Tiptree?” Vincent asked. “Tell me.”
“Muir…”
“Muirfield?” Vincent filled in. “Are you part of Muirfield?”
“Pocket.” His eyes widened as if in surprise, then focused on something behind Vincent. As if the Grim Reaper were standing right there with a scythe. Vincent turned and focused too, confirming that there was nothing there. Whatever the man was seeing, it was a sight reserved for the dying.
“Pocket. Take it,” he ground out urgently.
After extricating the ruined body armor from the man’s chest and abdomen, Vincent began gently going through his pockets. From a Velcro pocket in Private X’s parachute pants, he pulled out a military ID and stuffed it in the pocket of the jumpsuit he had stolen. He found an ammo clip and a knife with a serrated edge.
“These?” he asked Private X.
The man’s eyes shifted from the ghost behind Vincent to Vincent himself. Steely blue and fearless. His heartbeat was slowing.
“Bone… do…”
His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He continued to look at Vincent as if willing him to understand. Vincent touched the man’s breast pocket. It was empty.
“I’ll get it done,” Vincent said. “Stand down.”
For just one flicker of an instant, the corner of the man’s mouth struggled upward—maybe it was a smile—and then his body failed him. Vincent locked gazes with him in case the brain hadn’t yet finished working and there was still something there; he felt a kinship he hadn’t experienced since everything had gone south in Afghanistan. When he’d enlisted, it had meant something to him. The betrayal had shaded his wish to defend his country with terrible undertones of conspiracy and corruption. But seated here in the dirt with a man he didn’t know, whose agenda he was uncertain of, he still felt a small restoration of his faith in good soldiers.
