Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  He reached for her knife hand, his fingers closing around her wrist and pinning it against the fence. Callahan screamed in his ear, refusing to yield. Her other fist smashed the side of his head, and she felt him jerk in an attempt to drive her knee into his groin. He twisted enough to avoid that, but it cost him as he felt her wrench her wrist from his grasp, raising the knife above his head and readying it once more to strike.

  Howling in frustration and perhaps even desperation, Baldwin butted her in the face with his forehead and she shrieked with new pain. She sliced blindly with the knife and the blade found him again, this time nicking him across his chest. He staggered backward, reaching for the new wound before stumbling and falling backward to the ground. Already Callahan was moving after him, and Baldwin saw the menace in her eyes as he tried to push himself to his feet.

  Then she stopped, staggering to a halt, and Baldwin saw that a thick silver dart with red plumage had appeared in her upper chest. She gasped, her eyes widening with shock as she dropped the knife and dropped to her knees. Her fingers fumbled with the dart, trying to remove it, but her attempts failed and she fell forward to the grass.

  Baldwin rolled awkwardly to his feet, putting several paces between them as he reached for his pistol, and detected movement behind him. He turned to see Skouris approaching, followed by Alfred Twenter and a contingent of uniformed NTAC agents. Skouris’s own weapon was drawn and held in front of her, and tucked into her waistband was one of the tranquilizer pistols provided by Dr. Hudson.

  “You okay?” she asked, eyeing him as she moved toward Callahan.

  Nodding as he fought to regain his breath, Baldwin said, “Yeah, I think so.”

  Callahan remained still as Skouris knelt next to her, and Baldwin covered her as she locked handcuffs around the other woman’s wrists. Even now Callahan was still conscious, an apparent tribute to her extrahuman metabolism or whatever the hell had been done to her.

  “She’s quite the handful,” Skouris said, watching as a trio of uniformed agents took Callahan into custody. The captured assassin was mumbling something, low and unintelligible, and Baldwin frowned as he strained to hear.

  “What’s she saying?” he asked, moving closer and indicating for the agents to pull her to her feet. As she stood up, Baldwin saw her drugged, bewildered expression, no doubt caused by the tranquilizer. Reaching out, he lifted her chin until he could look into her eyes. “What did you say?”

  “Mission,” Callahan blurted, her jaw working as she struggled to form other words. “Must…complete…”

  Moving to stand next to him, Skouris asked, “What mission? Whose mission? Who are you working for?”

  “She doesn’t know, Agent Skouris,” said another voice, and Baldwin turned to see Twenter regarding them. “Even taking into account the drugs in her system, her mind is chaos.” He closed his eyes, wrinkles deepening on his forehead as his brow furrowed and his lips tightened into a thin line. “She has no idea who’s directing her, or why. All she knows is the targets she’s selected, but not how or why they’re connected. She’s struggled to understand the larger picture, and she’s experienced much frustration and helplessness at failing to do that.” Opening his eyes, he blinked several times before returning his attention to Baldwin and Skouris. “She’s a tool, nothing more.”

  “That’s all she ever was,” Skouris said, shaking her head, “even before she was abducted.”

  Baldwin grunted in agreement. “Sounds like the rest of us, doesn’t it?” Turning to Twenter, he added, “Thank you for your help, Alfred. I don’t know what’ll happen to you, and I can’t promise anything, but you have my word that your assistance in finding Callahan will be taken into account.” He held out his hand. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

  Taking the proffered hand, Twenter smiled. “Thank you, Agent Baldwin.”

  “Come on, Tom,” Skouris said after a moment. “Let’s get you checked out.”

  “Good plan,” Baldwin replied, wincing as his fingers played beneath his torn shirt and over the wound on his chest. “The cuts aren’t deep, but they hurt like hell.”

  Regarding him with a sidelong smirk, Skouris said, “Nothing a little nursing by Alana won’t fix, I hope?”

  Baldwin snorted, holstering his pistol. “Works for me,” he said, nodding to where Callahan was being escorted across the yard to a waiting SUV. “Assuming I live long enough to complete the paperwork you know this case is going to cause.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  WHAT WAS HAPPENING?

  Lona could not understand, could not make her mind focus on what was occurring around her. Dizziness and lethargy seemed to have enveloped her. What had they done to her? Fighting to focus her thoughts, she tried to summon the will to generate the time bubble, but nothing came. She could sense hints of it, tendrils of the mysterious energy she called upon to utilize her incredible gift, but it refused to coalesce around her. Since learning of the power she possessed, Lona had spent a great portion of those months simply coming to terms with it, often wondering if it was something with which she even wanted to cope. It had taken her some time to grow comfortable with this fantastic ability, practicing and honing it until she could command it as easily as she controlled her arms or legs.

  That gift had somehow been taken from her, and Lona now felt the void it left behind. A part of her was gone, and she was weaker for it.

  Her mind struggled to clear, if only slightly, and she was able to process what had transpired. The agents had shot her with something, some kind of powerful sedative. Lona suspected it must be affecting her metabolism as well as her nervous system in some fashion. Instead of being able to escape her captors with ease, to kill them all in the blink of an eye, she was laboring simply to remain lucid and on her feet. The effects of the tranquilizer had been severe from the moment the first agent, Baldwin, shot her, but even with that initial impairment she had not been completely incapacitated. She even felt her body beginning to fight the sedative before the second dose, inflicted by Baldwin’s partner, compounded the drug’s debilitative effects to the point where Lona could no longer resist.

  Even now Lona sensed her body laboring to shake off the sedative’s grip. Glancing at the uniformed agents escorting her, she knew they were taking her to prison or perhaps even a special holding facility designed to contain her. NTAC surely had a mandate to learn as much about 4400 abilities as possible, and one sure way to do so was to have live specimens in custody. It was obvious that they somehow had learned of her own power and had taken active steps to combat it. The tranquilizer they had employed already had proven most effective, and Lona feared what might be waiting for her if she allowed herself to remain in custody.

  You must escape.

  Deep within her, the call for her to continue her mission remained, unconcerned with her current predicament. Instead it forced other images into her mind, faces of those who would soon require her unique attention. With so much at stake, there could be no respite. Captivity was not an option.

  They were drawing closer to the gate in the wooden fence separating the backyard from the alley between the houses. Lona knew she was running out of time if she was going to act. Whatever drug she had received, her altered metabolism was finally gaining a foothold in the battle to break it down. She could feel control returning to her with every passing second. Using the techniques she had taught herself through months of practice, she attempted once more to summon the energy field, but it still seemed beyond her reach. She needed a few more moments, but it was going to be close.

  Ahead of her, the lead agent reached for the metal latch on the gate. The mechanism was rusty and stuck, forcing the man to sling his rifle so that he could apply both hands to unbolting it. The other two guards paused, holding Lona several paces back as they waited for their companion.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw something flicker to her left, and she turned in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a smal
l, moving red dot. It was there only for an instant before it disappeared, but she was certain she had not imagined it.

  Lona turned her head to her right, in time to see…

  A single rifle shot pierced the air and Baldwin flinched as he saw a cloud of red rain explode from the side of Lona Callahan’s head, spattering one of the agents escorting her as well as the section of fence to her left. The trio of agents around her scattered and Baldwin grabbed Skouris, hauling her to the ground before the echo of the shot died. Callahan’s body remained upright for an additional moment before collapsing lifeless to the grass.

  “Everybody all right?” Baldwin called out, retrieving his pistol. A chorus of acknowledgments answered him, and he exchanged relieved glances with Skouris before both agents rose to their feet, weapons up and in front of them. “That wasn’t one of ours, was it?” Raising his wrist, he barked into his radio mike, “This is Baldwin. Who fired at Callahan?” His anger only grew as he received word that, so far as anyone could tell, none of the NTAC or other law enforcement personnel was responsible.

  “Where’d it come from?” Skouris asked, looking around in search of a target.

  Pointing toward the east, an expanse of hills and forest rather than rows of houses, Baldwin shook his head. “That way, but we’ll never find the shooter, not now.” He called for search parties to begin combing that area, knowing it likely was a futile gesture. It would be all but impossible to find a single person as sunset gave way to darkness.

  “Damn it!”

  All around him, he noted shadowy figures peeking out from curtains drawn across windows, trying to see what was happening outside their homes. He could sense the tension permeating the air, understanding and sympathizing with the people whose quiet lives had been disrupted by this unpleasant business. On the other hand, he held no doubts that local courthouses in the coming days would see a flurry of new lawsuits charging emotional distress.

  God bless America.

  He walked over to join Skouris where she stood over Lona Callahan’s body. A single ugly wound desecrated her head, and her eyes stared unseeing toward the evening sky. “What do you think?” he asked. “Another watchdog?”

  Skouris released a tired, resigned sigh. “Maybe one day, we’ll find out.”

  Yes, Baldwin decided, that would almost certainly be true.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  CONCEALED BY THE dense line of trees covering the hillside along with the advancing darkness as nightfall approached, he watched through his rifle scope as Lona Callahan crumpled and fell, dead before she hit the ground. It had been a challenging shot from a distance of nearly eight hundred yards, requiring patience as he waited for a clear line of sight to his target. He had been ready, his finger tense on the rifle’s trigger as he watched for his opportunity.

  Lona Callahan would have been proud, he decided.

  Even as the murdered assassin dropped to the grass, those NTAC agents closest to her lunged for cover, vainly aiming their weapons and searching for the source of the single shot. He observed the proceedings play out for an additional moment, even taking the time to play the crosshairs across the heads of Tom Baldwin and Diana Skouris. He had no intention of killing them, of course. That was not why he had come here today.

  Still, it was tempting.

  Lifting his chin from the rifle’s stock, he glanced down at the luminescent dial of his watch, calculating that as few as two minutes would pass before NTAC forces were redeployed in what would be a fruitless attempt to find him. It would be easy enough to determine from which general area the shot had come, but there was a lot of forest to search along with the broken terrain of the hills, and it would have to be done in the dark. He would be gone long before then, the neoprene suit he wore masking his body’s heat from any infrared or thermal imaging cameras carried by the helicopter he could already hear beginning to move in this direction.

  Time to go. Already he could feel the summons, his masters calling to him from the depths of his own mind. There still was much work to be done if the future was to be saved.

  He disassembled the rifle with methodical yet practiced care and returned its components to their padded case, which also acted as a pack he could carry strapped to his back. It took him less than a minute to secure his weapon and other equipment before taking a final look about his sniper’s nest. Certain that he had sanitized the area of any damning evidence, he turned and headed deeper into the tree line, crossing over the hillside and descending to the narrow ravine that would provide effective cover as he made his retreat. Behind him, he heard the helicopter flying low somewhere over the trees, hundreds of yards away.

  Satisfied with what he had accomplished and hopeful as to what it might mean for the future, Matthew Ross smiled as he disappeared into the forest.

  REFLECTION

  JULY 2005

  THIRTY-SIX

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  “SOMEBODY DOESN’T LOOK very happy this morning.”

  Baldwin looked up from his desk and the paperwork piled atop it to see Nina Jarvis entering the office. In one hand she bore a white file folder with an NTAC logo on its cover, which she did not offer either to Baldwin or Skouris as she settled herself on the edge of Baldwin’s desk.

  Dropping his pen onto the papers, Baldwin leaned back in his chair. “I tend to get cranky when somebody shoots people around me.” The anger he now felt had not hit him in the immediate aftermath of Lona Callahan’s murder, but instead had festered throughout the night, keeping him from sleeping and finally driving him to head for the office hours before daybreak.

  “Well,” Jarvis said, holding up the file folder, “if you being mad means you get your after-action reports filed on time, stay mad.”

  “What do you think makes me mad in the first place?”

  Jarvis shrugged. “I’ve got a teleconference with Ryland, a budget meeting, and a security briefing all scheduled for the same two-hour block. Want to trade jobs?”

  “No, thanks,” Baldwin said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

  Nodding at her apparent victory, Jarvis asked, “How are you?” She nodded toward his left arm. “Gonna live?”

  Baldwin held up the arm, the bandage around the knife wound concealed beneath his shirt sleeve. “Afraid so. It wasn’t deep, and didn’t hit any veins or tendons.” Both it and the cut on his chest largely were superficial wounds. Given Callahan’s demonstrated fighting prowess, he was hard-pressed to understand how he had managed to avoid serious injury.

  Blind luck. That, and Dr. Hudson mixes a mean cocktail.

  Her demeanor turning serious, Jarvis shifted her position so that she also could look at Skouris. “Listen, both of you. No kidding, good work on the Callahan case.”

  “Well, maybe up to the point where she got killed,” Skouris replied.

  “The CIA’s taking the lead on that,” Jarvis said, waving away the dismissal. “They want first crack at whoever killed her. Director McFarland sends his warmest regards and thanks for a job well done, that he appreciates the way our organizations came together in pursuit of a common goal, and so on and so forth. He’s sorry about Callahan’s loss, but promises the matter will be aggressively investigated and those responsible will be brought to justice.” She paused, offering a neutral expression before adding, “You see how I got through all of that with a straight face just then?”

  “Nicely done,” Baldwin replied. He had no doubts that McFarland was doing nothing more than putting the final entries in whatever open case files Callahan represented. With her gone, the chances of any details relating to her Agency-approved and still quite classified activities seeing the light of day were remote at best.

  Skouris asked, “What if it turns out another 4400 killed her?”

  “Then you can bet your ass they’ll be back asking for help,” Jarvis countered. “Meanwhile, Ryland’s putting you both in for commendations, and we get back to work. The media
gets a story about the FBI locating the Wraith, and that he was killed while attempting to evade capture. Case closed, everybody’s happy, life goes on.”

  “He, huh?” Skouris asked, shaking her head. “Well, that figures.”

  “Yeah,” Baldwin said, “and if it was another returnee that killed her, programmed like she was? What if there are more of them like her running around out there? How are we supposed to deal with them?”

  Folding her arms across her chest, Jarvis replied, “One of the latest theories from Marco and his boys is that if there are others out there like her, left on their own they might actually provide this ‘balance’ that Alfred Twenter talked about.”

  Baldwin glanced toward Skouris and noted the fleeting expression on his partner’s face. He knew that Marco Pacella’s theorizing had been aided by the visions seen by Maia Skouris, but had agreed to keep that information to himself. Though he believed the young girl’s ability could be a powerful aid to his and her mother’s work, Baldwin had no desire to see Maia’s already difficult life further complicated by being dragged into NTAC’s ongoing investigations.

  “Left on their own,” Baldwin repeated, tapping his fingers on his desk. “For all we know, there’s an army of them, getting ready to wage war with other 4400s.”

  “Well, unless and until that happens,” Jarvis said, “we’re not to discuss this aspect of the 4400 with anyone. The public is afraid enough just from what they know already.”