Relentless

by Jonathan Maberry

  INTERLUDE 11

  SALES PRESENTATION VIA SHOWROOM

  TWO MONTHS AGO

  Mr. Sunday had a somewhat larger group of buyers online today. So many that he had his team bring in two mobile racks of monitors so that he was able to give a sales pitch to faces on eighty-four screens. The key was to make sure none of them could see the others, and all mics were muted.

  It was a rare day when there were no women among the potential clients. He found that disappointing. He was an equal-opportunity vendor.

  “Gentlemen, so delighted that you could join us. And … so many. You can’t see all the smiling faces, but I can. Well … maybe not smiling yet, but I can guar-un-teee that I’ll have you all grinning by the time I’m done.”

  A few of the faces were smiling. Most were a mix of first-time buyers who were either scowling, frowning in uncertainty, or wearing their best poker faces. Sunday was not fooled. He could read their eyes and none of them would have accepted his invitation had it not been for the teasers in the auto-deleted sales prospectus he’d sent along with the invitation.

  That had been a fun piece of work, and Sunday used a top music video editor to make the blink-or-you-miss-it peeks at the exosuits and other goodies that were fast and sexy. He wondered what most of these men would say if they knew that film editor was Black. Sunday loved his little jokes.

  Not that every face on the screens was white. There were Black and brown faces, too. Not as many, but they were every bit as radicalized, every bit as committed to their causes. When viewed from any objective distance all these men were cut from the same essential cloth. Us, not them. Our way, not anyone else’s.

  Zealotry was Sunday’s oldest friend.

  “I’m here to offer you a chance to get in on the ground floor of what will—without any chance of a doubt—be the biggest damned thing that’s ever happened in the U.S. of A. Something that will change the political landscape and return power to the people—to your people. Now, my fellow patriots,” he said, “let’s talk about how to take back America.”

  CHAPTER 52

  BLUE DIAMOND TRAINING CAMP

  CADDO MILLS, TEXAS

  The window in HK’s office looked out on green trees standing like a wall around a training area. Men and women wearing full gear and backpacks filled with rocks jogged by. Some puffed and sweated and lagged, but most moved with the oiled efficiency of machines. Even among those, there were a handful who seemed to be untouched by the exertions of a ten-mile run with over a hundred pounds of weight, and over uneven and treacherous terrain.

  Each of the fittest and most elite of the Fixers, and the men all wore beards, though some were still new and scraggly. Growing beards was required for this operation, and the length and cut would be determined later. Nearly all of them had tattoos of various kinds—military, patriotic, some prison ink, and a lot of symbology ranging from a dozen variations of Don’t Tread on Me to KKK images, Nazi party images and codes, and flags tied to different political ideologies. Some of the skin art had been in place long before the recruiters like John Saxon scouted them, but a lot was new. It made for a strange mix, because a white man with a Klan tattoo of a burning cross jogged next to a Black man with an Antifa symbol. They joked as they ran. In one of the tents, a group of tattoo artists were at work, day and night.

  They ran past the repurposed middle school, directly beneath HK’s window, and then along a series of trails that took them outside the compound and through the woods.

  They passed under thousands of pine trees. But as alert and trained as they all were, and as sharp as the drill sergeants were, not one of them saw the shrouded figure high in the boughs. None of them felt the invisible crosshairs touching them over the hearts or between the shoulder blades.

  The group ran past a crumbling old shack that had been abandoned by a failed logging company thirty years ago. A row of birds stood on the eaves, their heads turning as the men and women went by. None of the soldiers peeled off to check the shack, and even if they had, they would have needed to lift a section of rotted floor to find where Andrea crouched, covered in a tarp, head bowed over a MindReader screen on which the video feeds from two of the birds played out. Each time a face came into focus, Andrea took a screenshot and fed it to the facial recognition software.

  The Fixers ran on.

  Belle and Andrea might not have even existed for all they were aware of them.

  CHAPTER 53

  FREETECH RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT OFFICE

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  “This feels weird.”

  Junie Flynn sat on a park bench with Rudy Sanchez. Birds by the hundred chattered in the trees. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of softly shifting leaves, dappling everything with lemon drops. Across from the bench was a big field where crews were inflating gorgeously colored hot air balloons. A dozen were already lifting off the ground, their colors almost glowing against a flawless canvas of blue sky.

  “I agree,” said Rudy. “Would you like a different background? Here, let me see if I can change it.”

  “I don’t want anything, Rudy,” said Junie. “Just us talking is fine.”

  The park, the trees, the birds, the sunlight, and the blue sky shimmered and then winked out. Junie was immediately back in her office at FreeTech. Rudy was still there, sitting now on a chair that seemed to fade out at the edges so that it had no legs and an incomplete back. He shimmered, too, but otherwise remained.

  “ORB technology,” he said with a disdainful sniff. “Everyone else seems to love it, but I guess I’m like you. It disturbs my sense of order.”

  “Rudy,” said Junie, diving right in, “I’ve called Mr. Church I don’t know how many times, and I always get the same answer. ‘Colonel Ledger is on an extended field op and has gone dark for security reasons.’ Or some variation on that.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Rudy with a sigh.

  “And now Toys is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “He said he wanted to look into something and then, poof, he vanishes from the face of the earth. I tried to get in touch with Top and Bunny, but apparently, they’re on an operation, too. God, Rudy, you have to give me something. Like … since you’re there, can you talk to Church? I thought I was in the inner circle, but he, Scott Wilson, and the others have closed me out. It’s not right, and it’s not fair. I don’t need to know every detail, but at least someone should be able to tell me if Joe is all right.” Junie paused and looked into Rudy’s eyes. “Can you tell me something?”

  Rudy looked uncomfortable, even pained.

  “I can tell you some things I discussed with Church before I set up this call. And, quite frankly, I read him the riot act for closing you out like this. Church, as you know, is a man more concerned with fighting the war than dealing with the human emotions of the people on the field and—more to your point—on the sidelines.”

  Junie leaned forward, her fists knotted together in her lap. “Rudy … is Joe alive?”

  “Yes,” said Rudy, managing what looked like a careful smile. “He is alive.”

  Junie closed her eyes for a long moment, taking very slow and very deep breaths.

  “Is he hurt?” she asked, looking once more at him. “Is that what this is? Is Joe in some hospital somewhere with half his face torn off or a bullet in him? What is it this time? I can tell something’s wrong.”

  “As far as I know, he is not injured. Not physically.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Then she paused. Two vertical lines appeared between her brows. “This is about Christmas Eve, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  “What is it, though? Some kind of PTSD because of what happened?”

  “PTSD is the very least of it,” said Rudy, his rich baritone voice filled with cracks. “Listen to me, Junie, you know that Joe is who he is because of trauma. The horrors inflicted on him and his girlfriend, Helen, when they were fourteen destroyed much of the person he’d been bef
ore that. You know that this trauma created fractures in his psyche that resulted in the emergences of a number of limited-dimension shadow personalities. Many of them at first, and since he and I began our therapy, that number was reduced to three.”

  “Yes, the Modern Man, the Cop, and the Warrior.”

  “Correct. The Modern Man is the closest to who Joe might have become had his life not been so profoundly overshadowed by what happened at age fourteen and then again later when he found Helen after her suicide.”

  Junie nodded. She knew that the suicide had also done considerable damage to Rudy, because Helen was the first of his patients to take her own life.

  “The Cop shadow self is the one that gives him the balance, the pragmatism that allows him to function in day-to-day life but that collects and refines his acquired skills in ways that made him an excellent police officer and later detective. He tries to be the Cop every minute of every day of his professional life. You’ve seen that aspect of him, but I suspect you are most in love with the affable, somewhat goofy Modern Man—that lover of rare steaks, craft beer, Hawaiian shirts, and baseball.”

  Junie smiled despite the stress, and she nodded, then added, “But I love all of him.”

  “Is that really true, though? You mentioned his third shadow self, the Killer, but you used the older nickname Joe had for that aspect when you called him the Warrior. In truth, I believe the Warrior part of him was really an extension of the Cop self, in the same way that a pragmatic policeman who tries to prevent or investigate crimes might be required to draw his weapon and even take a life. The Cop is the true Warrior—a person who studies the art and science of warfare and is sophisticated in his understanding of the often ugly things such a person is forced to do in defense of those incapable of their own protection. However, since joining the old Department of Military Sciences, his third shadow self has had cause to become far more aggressive than before. Less a warrior and more of a primal savage. Not mindless or heartless—rather the reverse; possessed of a deep and unshakable need to protect the weaker members of the tribe. In that defense, there is no limit to what the Killer would do. I have heard the slang that it is ‘going to war under a black flag.’”

  “Yes,” she said, “Joe’s tried to explain that to me. I try to correct him when he calls that self the Killer. He pretends he doesn’t hear me.”

  “He hears you,” said Rudy. “We’ve talked about it in therapy.”

  Junie thought about that, then nodded. “So what are you trying to tell me? That the Killer has gotten off the chain? That it’s become his dominant personality?”

  “Junie, please,” said Rudy, “let’s be clear … Joe does not suffer from multiple personality disorder. Not in any clinical sense of that diagnosis. His blend of shadow selves is unique in my experience. Joe perpetuates the three-personality verbiage, but they are really aspects of a central personality that is in great turmoil. He is plagued by self-doubts when he is not on the job and is almost inflexible when in combat. His inner certainty of right and wrong is uniquely structured, and it gives him one particular skill set that makes every other quality he possesses function with an unnatural efficiency.”

  “You’re talking about his lack of hesitation? Isn’t that one of the reasons Mr. Church hired him?”

  “Yes. It’s more than merely being quick-brained and having superb reflexes. Joe does not hesitate at all in combat.”

  “He’s like that a lot,” said Junie wistfully. “Ever gone shopping with him? He doesn’t browse. He goes right for what he wants. And if you offer him a choice—like when we were browsing online at that place in Eureka, California, he likes—Big Fun Shirt Company—he’ll go through their catalog and then straight to checkout. No thinking about it, no waffling.”

  “Yes, I suppose he does that.”

  “He’s only slow and picky when buying beer. He’ll spend an hour in the cold aisle at Vons or Trader Joe’s.” She cocked her head to one side. “But this is off point. Where are you going with all this? Has the Warrior or Killer or whatever taken over?”

  “If it had,” said Rudy, “I’d be able to sleep at night.”

  “Oh my god. What are you saying?”

  “When his family was killed on Christmas Eve, when you were so badly injured and nearly died, I believe we witnessed the birth of a new shadow self. A true shadow. Not a personality with dimension, possibly not even with morals or a mission beyond revenge. Junie, he calls it ‘the Darkness,’ and it is so large, so powerful, so potentially dangerous to him that he begged me to find a way to get rid of it for him.”

  “Can you?”

  Rudy shook his head. “I don’t even know. We talked about it during his convalescence, and because he was unable to access this new shadow self in any meaningful way that would allow him to evaluate it or even properly describe it … we made very little headway.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  Rudy paused for a long time, clearly weighing his words with care. “It is very dangerous, Junie. To Joe and to anyone—and I do mean anyone—who might get between Joe and his goal of finding and killing Rafael Santoro and Kuga.”

  “And you let him go into the field?” roared Junie.

  “No, no, please,” pleaded Rudy, holding his hands up, palms out. “I did everything I could to stop him. I spoke to Jane Holliday, Scott Wilson, and Church and—”

  “And they all agreed?”

  “No,” said Rudy quickly. “Jane and Scott were totally opposed to the idea of Joe returning to active duty. Not merely in the short term but ever.”

  Junie stared at him, her fists clenching so tightly that her knuckles ached. “Church let him go?”

  “Yes,” said Rudy.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve asked him that question a hundred times, and I always get the same answer.”

  “Which is what?”

  “He tells me that this is war. And that’s all he’ll say.”

  CHAPTER 54

  HOTEL EDEN

  ROME, ITALY

  The burly fellow with the bushy mustache never saw the other man come out of the stairwell. He did not hear him come up behind him. He was entirely unaware of the man’s presence until he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against the nape of his neck.

  “Easy does it, Luigi,” said the man.

  “Who…?”

  “An old friend. Here, let me have that key card. Jolly good.” The man with the gun swiped the card, turned the handle with his free hand, and then nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe. “Inside. There you go. And don’t try any of your stunts on me, Luigi. You didn’t take enough karate to help last time, either.”

  Luigi stepped inside, frowning, trying to connect the voice to a face, a name.

  “Face the wall,” said the man with the gun as he closed the door. “I’m going to pat you down. You know how this works. Good. Spread your feet wider. Brilliant.”

  The pat-down was quick but thorough, and it was very professional. The gunman removed a small Beretta from a belt clip and a switchblade from a pocket. Then he stepped back.

  “You can turn around now, old son,” said the gunman.

  Luigi turned, and when he saw who it was, he gave a small, sharp cry. A yip, like a kicked poodle. He gaped, sputtered, stammered, and finally choked out a name.

  “Toys?”

  “Surprise, surprise, old chum.”

  Toys held his little automatic with the comfort of a professional, keeping it low and out of reach, the barrel pointed center mass.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Luigi. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I get that a lot,” said Toys. “But, no. Still a bad penny.”

  “What is this? Why come after me with a gun? What have I ever done to you? Are you an assassin now? Is that it?”

  “Oh, settle down, Luigi,” Toys said, stepping back and waving the man toward a pair of comfortable chairs by the window. “If I’d wanted you dead, you be
on your way to the morgue right now. Now sit down and stop pissing your pants.”

  Luigi sat. Toys pulled the other chair to a safe distance and lowered himself into it.

  “I need information,” he said.

  “I … I don’t do that anymore,” said Luigi quickly. “I’m out of that business. I swear.”

  Toys crossed his legs and rested the hand holding the pistol on his thigh. “I have a sound suppressor in my pocket,” he said. “Shall I screw it in place and see how many kneecaps I need to blow off before you stop telling lies?”

  “No—no!”

  “Then let’s try this again. I need information. You have information because you always have information. You’re no more out of the game than I am.”

  Luigi licked his lips and clutched the arms of the chair with nervous fingers.

  “What kind of information?”

  “Ah, there we go,” said Toys, smiling. “I’m looking for a few people. Now, you’re going to want to take the piss and pretend you’ve never heard of them. I understand why. They’re scary people, and if they ever found out you were telling me anything, they would do very bad things to you. Very bad indeed. You’re already starting to sweat. You never did have the stomach for this. God only knows how you got into the information trade.”

  Luigi stared at him.

  “I will say three names,” continued Toys. “You can give me a price for information. I’m willing to negotiate, and if things go well, there’s a bonus on top of it. But … if you lie to me, or if you tell anyone I was here … well, really, do I need to be explicit with what those consequences might be?”

  “No…,” whispered Luigi. Sweat really was bursting from his pores and running down his cheeks.

  “Here are the names,” said Toys. “Try not to shit your pants. Neither of us needs that.”