by Dayton Ward
With nothing left to keep her in the quarantine center, Lona smiled and nodded her thanks to the NTAC agent before picking up the small shoulder bag containing her paltry few possessions. She proceeded through the indicated exit door, walking with other returnees who also had finished their processing. Exchanging smiles with several of the people around her, she noted the mix of anxiety and excitement in their expressions.
Yes, they were free, but what waited for them beyond the beige cinder-block world that had been their home these past weeks? How much had really changed while they were away? The advances in technology were intimidating, but what else would be different? Would the world truly embrace the 4400? Several of the news programs had ceaselessly debated that topic, with opinions split on whether the returnees would be welcomed or shunned. NTAC, as part of its processing procedures, had informed each of them that it might be best if they did not “advertise” their true identities—at least until they got themselves settled wherever it was that they might be going—in order to avoid possible discrimination or other trouble caused by fear or ignorance.
Lona reached the lobby, where armed NTAC agents in paramilitary uniforms stood near the row of glass doors, controlling access to and from the building. Within the high-ceilinged foyer, dozens of people in groups of varying sizes were greeting returnees, and she noted the range of reactions being displayed: tears of joy from a wife as she was reunited with the husband she had lost three years earlier; uncertainty from the adult grandson of a woman thought lost decades ago; friends and former comrades in arms of a man who disappeared during combat in Vietnam.
The interactions were as varied as the people themselves, and along with those Lona saw other people in situations similar to hers with no one here to greet them. In several instances next of kin had not been located, while in other, more extreme cases relatives or friends had refused to come, perhaps due to fear or denial. Lona even knew of one or two instances where returnees had learned that their spouses had moved on after losing all hope of ever again seeing their loved one, harboring no wish to reopen those closed chapters of their lives.
Lona could not help feeling pangs of sadness as she listened to such stories. These people had been taken from their lives without warning or explanation, and now were being asked to cope with the incredible reality into which they had been plunged without even the support of people they once had loved or called friend. It was a challenge that would test even the strongest of wills and constitutions. Some returnees would persevere and ultimately triumph, and she was certain she fell into this camp. Others likely would spiral down wells of despair and depression. How would NTAC handle those crises when they arose?
Leaving behind the procession of reunions taking place in the lobby, Lona made her way through the last door separating her from the outside world. She took her first steps outside the building that had been her home for six weeks, and could not help stopping to take in her surroundings. She recalled the drab, overcast day that had heralded the arrival of the 4400 at Highland Beach, and smiled now at the warmth of the midday sun on her face. Thinking on it, Lona realized that it really was the first time she had seen the sun in twelve years. She shook her head at the latest in the string of surreal thoughts that had occupied her mind during the past weeks, though as before she found herself not needing to dwell on the bizarre nature of her situation as had many of her fellow returnees. She was here and it was now, and there was nothing she could do to change this new reality. Better to concentrate on moving forward.
There’s too much to do now.
A throng of people crowded the front lawn of the NTAC office complex, with returnees as well as families and friends engaging in their own reunions, pleasant or otherwise. A row of police officers manned a barricade at the outer edge of the lawn, beyond which stood others—representatives of media outlets from around the country and even the world as well as hundreds of interested onlookers who had just come down to see what the fuss was all about. Lona scanned the faces she could see from this distance and recognized no one, but that of course did not rule out the possibility of someone observing her from a covert position. Gut instinct told her that was the case, but a cursory check of nearby vehicles as well as the windows and doorways of surrounding buildings offered no evidence. Still, Lona found herself almost counting on the possibility, if only to finally end the question of whether her former handlers even knew she was here.
Hitching her bag higher on her left shoulder, Lona decided against facing the gauntlet of reporters, police, and other onlookers cramming the main courtyard, opting instead for a more circuitous route away from NTAC. She spied a narrow path between the side of the building and a row of high hedges, using the well-groomed shrubbery to mask her movements as she made away from the assemblage. Similar landscaping afforded her additional cover until she was well away from the worst of the crowd, and in short order she was away from the government buildings and traversing a sidewalk that seemed to be leading her toward an industrial area on the outskirts of downtown Seattle. Rows of low-rise buildings and warehouses lined both sides of the street, and the few pedestrians she saw appeared to pay her no notice. She nodded to herself, pleased that she had selected a casual outfit from the massive wardrobe donated to returnees by various charitable organizations. Without the khaki shirt and utility pants such as she had worn in quarantine, she put forth the appearance of just another nondescript citizen, possibly on her way to work or school.
Lona caught sight of the sedan after walking less than two blocks. It was dark blue, without decorative embellishments of any kind save a trio of antennae affixed to the car’s trunk, a dead giveaway even if she had not seen the government license plates. It had been sitting parked along a side street as she crossed an intersection, and she heard it pull forward and turn to follow her after she walked past. Lona kept track of it thanks to its reflection in the windows of various storefronts, and she was able to see that the car held two occupants—a man and a woman—each wearing sunglasses. The woman also wore an earpiece with a coiled wire running behind her right ear. Agency, Lona decided.
The car accelerated a bit, just enough that the driver could guide the vehicle past her until it pulled alongside the curb farther up the street. Lona kept both hands visible as both front doors opened and the occupants climbed out. The man, his brown hair cut short in a military style, wore tailored gray slacks and coat over a white dress shirt and red tie, while the woman sported a dark blue pantsuit with a white silk blouse and blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. Each sported bulges beneath their left arms, and Lona caught a glimpse of the woman’s weapon—a Glock, most likely—as she pulled herself from the car.
“Ms. Callahan?” the woman asked, much to Lona’s surprise. So far as she knew, only five people besides herself in the entire world could connect her face with her real name, and this government lackey most definitely was not one of them.
As though sensing Lona’s apprehension, the woman reached into the right side of her jacket and extracted a thin wallet, opening it to expose what Lona recognized as standard-issue identification for employees of the Central Intelligence Agency—or a masterful forgery, at the very least. “My name is Deborah Wright, and this is my partner, Richard Malick,” she said, indicating the man who was coming around the back of the car. “We’re with the CIA. Deputy Director Nicholas McFarland has sent us to make sure you’re brought in safely. Our authorization protocol is Alpha Omega Three Nine Five Five.”
Despite herself, Callahan blinked as she heard McFarland’s name and the recall cipher. It was one she herself had selected as part of her planning for her last assignment. She was to have provided the code upon successful completion of the mission, notifying her handlers that she had reached a safe location and would soon be in contact for further instructions.
Recalling one of the challenges she had drafted for use as secondary verification, Lona asked, “I’m sorry, but I’m late meeting my husband at the theater.”
Lona nodded, satisfied. Her suspicions had been correct all along, and her former superiors did indeed know that she had returned. They obviously had been waiting for an opportunity to make contact that would preserve her cover while she resided in quarantine. Now that she was out in the open, Nicholas McFarland doubtless viewed this as an opportunity to conduct a long-overdue debriefing, and it was likely he was considering the potential of having her once again in his arsenal of covert weapons. To make that happen, she would first need to be brought in. So far as these two agents knew, they were acting to protect a valuable Agency asset.
They were wrong.
“I still can’t go with you,” she said. “As I said, I’m late for another appointment.”
Holding up her left hand, Agent Wright shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Ms. Callahan. We have our orders.” Both agents’ right hands were moving for the weapons concealed beneath their jackets.
In one easy motion, Lona slipped the bag from her shoulder and flung it at Wright. It struck her in the right arm, spoiling her attempt to draw her pistol and giving Lona all the time she needed to close the distance separating her from Agent Malick. She reached him just as his own Glock cleared its holster and she slammed the heel of her hand into his nose. Malick yelped in pain, staggering backward and dropping the pistol. Lona kicked the weapon away before retreating a few steps, aware that Wright had drawn her gun and now was aiming it at her.
“Freeze!” the agent snapped, leveling the pistol so that its barrel pointed directly at Lona’s chest. Lona had been on the business end of enough guns not to be panicked. To her, it was simply another tactical condition to be negotiated and conquered. She felt no anxiety, but instead sensed a strange, warm glow beginning to envelop her body. It seemed somehow soothing, for reasons she could not explain, coupled with a sudden awareness that she was in supreme control of the current situation.
She stepped toward Wright.
“Stop!” the agent ordered, her jaw tensing as she realized Lona had no intention of obeying her orders. Lona felt the warm glow around her intensify, and watched Wright blink as she pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the confines of the narrow street, and Lona flinched in anticipation of the bullet striking her.
Instead, the bullet stopped.
It seemed to hang in midair, less than two feet in front of her. Feeling her mouth fall open in shock, Lona stared at the suspended round and noted that its motion had not been arrested, but instead reduced to an incredible degree. She noted the slow rotation of the bullet as well as its agonizingly slow advance toward her. As for Wright, the woman also seemed to be struck motionless, her determined expression frozen on her face even as she remained in her firing stance.
Unsure of what was happening but realizing that her own ability to move had not been compromised, Lona stepped around the bullet before closing on Wright. She was two paces away when the agent began to move again. Her face twisted into confusion and fear as she realized Lona was nearly on top of her, by which time Lona grabbed her weapon arm and jerked the pistol up and away. Spinning her body around, she flipped Wright over her hip and slammed her down onto the sidewalk. The agent cried out as Lona yanked the Glock from her hand.
Lona turned in time to see Malick lunging for her, blood streaming from his broken nose. He was too close for her to use the gun, so she dodged back and to her right, working for some maneuvering room in order to defend his attack. The warm glow again washed over her just as Malick closed to within an arm’s length, ready to strike, and in that instant his body slowed almost to a stop. He simply hung before her, impossibly balanced on the ball of one foot and with his right arm and fist extended in mid-swing. His expression was one of rage, his eyes wide and with spittle hurling from the corners of his mouth, each fleck hanging in the air before his face.
What in God’s name is going on?
Lona, still able to move, let her instincts and training take over as she lashed out at the agent, catching the side of his head with her fist. Time sped up again and he crumpled from the force of the blow, dropping to his knees and grunting in new pain. Lona followed the attack with another, kicking Malick in the face and sending him flipping to the ground on his back, where he lay still.
Her breath was coming in rapid, deep gasps now, and Lona realized she had broken into a seemingly instantaneous and drenching sweat. Putting a finger to her throat, she searched out her pulse and found it racing. She felt as though she had just run three miles at a full-out sprint. Whatever had just happened, her body was paying the price for the abrupt, unexplained exertion.
Lona heard sirens now as well as the revving engines of approaching cars—backup units, she guessed. Even with the echoes carrying across the confined street, she could tell that vehicles were approaching from multiple directions. She felt her grip tighten on the Glock she’d taken from Agent Wright, and anticipated the coming fight even as she began scanning the street and the surrounding buildings and alleys for some avenue of escape.
Another engine caught her attention, this one higher-pitched and much closer, and Lona turned in time to see a motorcycle explode from an alley a block up the street. Its rider was dressed in black leather with matching helmet, and seemed to be in complete control of the street machine as he angled it toward her. Lona raised the pistol to aim at the newcomer, but the motorcyclist kept coming, only slowing when the bike was within twenty feet of her before skidding to a halt. Ignoring the gun pointed at him, the rider reached up and removed his helmet.
No, not his helmet. Hers.
Dark brown hair fell out of the helmet, cascading down around the woman’s shoulders. Brilliant cobalt blue eyes stared back at Lona, eyes she had looked into on countless occasions and instantly recognized.
“Reiko?” she breathed in disbelief.
“Come on!” called out Reiko Vandeberg, her voice tinged with a hint of the German accent she never had been able to suppress. Lona saw new lines around the woman’s eyes and mouth, but she still looked as radiant as the last time she had seen her, twelve years earlier and before Lona had left for the assignment in Baltimore. How was she here, now?
You called for her, fool. Think!
“We have to go, Lona! Now!” Reiko shouted, donning her helmet once more and revving the motorcycle’s engine. With one hand she reached for Lona, her eyes visible and pleading through the helmet’s face shield.
Lona had figured attempting to contact her assistant and lover would be a long shot, thinking that Reiko had to have moved on with her own life in the years since Lona’s disappearance, and assuming law enforcement agents had not caught up with her. Instead—and as she always had—Reiko had come through, arriving when called, this time in response to the summons Lona had issued with the assistance of that NTAC agent, Baldwin.
The cars were close now. Movement up the street caught Lona’s attention and she looked up to see another dark sedan turning a corner and heading straight for them, a flashing blue globe atop its roof. From behind her, she could hear another car closing in. Time was running out.
Jumping forward, Lona swung one leg over the seat of the motorcycle, her hands slipping around the comfortable curves of Reiko’s torso just as the other woman gunned the bike’s engine. The back wheel spun, laying a streak of melted rubber upon the street before gaining traction and propelling the motorcycle forward. Lona held on, her hands gripped tight around Reiko’s waist as the other woman leaned into the bike’s handlebars, guiding the machine back down the alley.
What had happened back there? The question screamed in Lona’s mind. How had she been able to do the things she had done? Had something been done to her and if so, who—or what—was responsible?
No answers were forthcoming. With nothing to do save hang on, Lona pressed the side of her
face into Reiko’s back, closing her eyes as her lover drove them into the hive of activity that was downtown Seattle.
EIGHT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
WELL, TOM BALDWIN thought as he stood within the cordoned section of street less than a mile from NTAC, this didn’t take long.
Police tape was draped across both lanes of the street, and uniformed officers had been placed at intersections two blocks away in all directions, tasked with rerouting traffic away from the area. A few dozen onlookers stood beyond the tape, curious as to what might bring law enforcement to this part of town in the middle of the day. More than one person had inquired as to the location of any bodies, walking away in apparent disappointment when none were revealed. The air stunk of diesel fumes from passing trucks that had become trapped along the narrow thoroughfare, unable to escape from between buildings lining each side of the street. Heat radiated from the asphalt, reflecting the rays of the afternoon sun. Only outside for a few minutes, Baldwin already was starting to sweat.
Admit it. You came back because you miss this crap.
“She left her bag behind,” said a voice from behind him, and Baldwin turned to see his partner, Diana Skouris, walking toward him. She held an olive-drab shoulder bag in one hand and a familiar-looking manila envelope in the other. The envelope was stamped with the NTAC logo and carried a stark white label with a bar code, and Baldwin recognized it as the packet of information and vouchers supplied by NTAC to each returnee who had elected to leave quarantine.
“Alicia Colbern,” he read aloud from the label stamped on the envelope. The name was familiar, though for the moment he could not place it. Opening the packet, Baldwin extracted the laminated blue card adorned with its owner’s assigned number, in this case, 3085. “She’s out of quarantine less than half an hour and somebody tries to mug her?”
“Don’t look at me,” Skouris said. “You’re the detective.” A small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, she waved one hand to indicate the scene. “So, detect something.”
