Relentless

by Jonathan Maberry

  Outside, there were no sirens, no cadre of police or Fixers or anyone waiting to ambush me. Dawn was breaking on the horizon. As red and bloody as I’d been half an hour ago.

  I had the scientist’s car keys in my pocket and used the fob to locate it with a honk. A blue Saab. Last year’s model.

  We drove away.

  CHAPTER 67

  THE PAVILION

  BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

  STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

  As soon as HK dropped her hand, the lights dimmed, and floods splashed bright illumination onto the demonstration floor. A siren began howling, and the pulleys started moving the targets. The lights began to strobe, making it nearly impossible to understand what was happening at that end of the hall. And the digital clock began ticking down.

  Instantly, the K-110 came back online, the contraption seeming to wake up around its driver. The fighting machine turned with surprising and—to Top—disheartening agility, swinging around toward the madness. The driver brought the arms up, and even under all the noise, Top could hear a faint whirring noise.

  Then the back door of hell broke open.

  The K-110 began stalking forward as the driver opened up with both guns. Shell casings arced through the air as hundreds of rounds chunked into the moving targets, punched holes through the metal, and tunneled through the wood and cinder block. Those rounds chewed up the rear wall of the structure. The standing targets were obliterated in moments even though the pulleys tried to yank them away at high rates of speed. Top realized that the exosuit had some kind of persistent aiming system that locked onto targets, chased them, got ahead of them, and chewed them to pieces.

  Pepper-poppers sprang up from the floor, and now Top could see that some were civilians of four distinct kinds—official-looking men and women in good suits, wearing American flag pins on their lapels and broad photo-op smiles; other men and women wearing the dark suits, white shirts, dark ties of Secret Service agents, all the way down to sunglasses and wires behind their ears; people wearing T-shirts or hats with various political party slogans—both right and left wing; and more of the Fixers in the fancy body armor.

  The K-110’s machine guns fired continuously, cutting every single member of the first three groups to pieces but somehow—despite noise, movement, strobes, and gun smoke—selectively ignoring the Fixers. As the field was cleared, the K-110’s left machine gun stopped firing and swung around and down on a hidden track, allowing a weapon with a bigger mouth to roll up and lock in place. A grenade launcher. It fired eight rounds, and each one struck one of the bigger target vehicles with enough destructive force to blow them to pieces. Debris filled the air and rained down, but none of it fell on the spectators.

  The six Fixers behind the fighting machine now spread out and ran forward, using their weapons to guarantee that any target with a wound was given a kill shot. The K-110 still fired with its right-arm machine gun, but even with the Fixers moving all over the floor, not one round so much as scratched them.

  And then it was over.

  Just like that.

  The echo of the gunfire banged off the walls for a few seconds but died away into a ghastly silence. Even the Fixers in the Pavilion uniforms seemed surprised, dazed. Perhaps they had never seen a demonstration of this magnitude before.

  Then someone began clapping.

  All heads turned toward a small man standing by an open door. He was dressed in a brown suit with a European cut. A swarthy man with glittering dark eyes.

  A few Fixers joined in the applause, and as if that was the last thing holding back a collapsing dam, everyone in the hall began applauding. The entire crowd leaped to their feet, clapping, yelling, roaring out, slapping one another on the back, grinning with overwhelming joy. Eve jumped to her feet and ran over to the small man, threw her hands around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. The way a daughter would kiss her much-loved father.

  Top and Bunny were the last to start clapping, but they joined in, forcing enthusiasm past the walls of their horror and shock. Not just at the level of destruction they’d witnessed—a degree of deadly combat efficiency beyond anything they’d ever seen—but because of that man.

  Because of him.

  In his ear, Top heard Scott Wilson hiss as if burned. He heard Doc Holliday say, “Oh my god,” over and over again.

  And, nearly buried beneath the weight of that crushing adulation, he heard Mr. Church speak the name.

  “Rafael Santoro…”

  CHAPTER 68

  THE PAVILION

  BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

  STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

  The crowd surged forward around Rafael Santoro, Eve, and HK. Everyone seemed eager to elbow their fellows out of the way to shake hands with the small Spaniard. And, to a lesser degree, HK. No one offered a hand to Eve, and she seemed okay with that.

  Santoro was ebullient, smiling broadly, accepting the offered hands and shaking briskly, pausing to speak to specific individuals, even hugging a few. He exchanged cheek kisses with HK and leaned closely to speak quietly into her ear, and the executive blushed a bright red, her eyes twinkling with happiness.

  Top and Bunny lingered near the very back of the crowd. With Bunny’s height and mass, it was tough to remain inconspicuous, but they managed. Shifts in body posture change height and alter physical presence.

  Staying out of Santoro’s line of sight was key because even though they’d never met, there was no chance at all that their faces were unknown to the man.

  “Never thought that fucker would be here,” said Bunny quietly.

  “Uh-huh,” agreed Top, putting a lot of meaning into those two syllables.

  In their ears, Wilson said, “Chaps, you really need to get the hell out of that room.”

  Bunny turned toward Top’s button camera and pretended to scratch his chin with his extended forefinger. Leaving was not an option, because it would draw too much attention. This was their first day at the Pavilion, and any unusual movements would be dangerous, if not fatal.

  So, instead, they drifted over to where a couple of techs were helping the K-110’s driver out of the fighting machine. There were a series of snap releases, but it still took assistance to disengage. As Top saw it, that was one of very damned few design flaws.

  The driver was sweating and accepted a towel and a bottle of water from a friend.

  “That’s one hell of a show,” said Top, coming over to shake the driver’s hand.

  “Thanks, man,” said the driver. He glanced at Top and Bunny’s street clothes. “You boys new?”

  “New kids in school, brah,” said Bunny.

  “Welcome to the monkey house,” said the driver, grinning broadly. He stripped off his sweat-sodden shirt and tied it around his waist. Top noticed that there was a small, barely healed scar on his upper chest, about the size and placement typical of a pacemaker. It was the fifth or sixth time he’d seen a Fixer here with the same scar, but now wasn’t the time to ask. The driver looked at his machine with obvious genuine affection. “What d’you think?”

  “It’s fucking awesome,” said Bunny, and Top thought that the big man didn’t need to feign his enthusiasm. As frightening as the demonstration was, the level of technology was so superior that it was, undeniably, impressive as hell.

  Top tapped the K-110’s shell. “Can you run in this thing?”

  “Yeah,” said the driver, “but she’s a pig. Turns fast, fires fast, runs like a cow. But hey, after all that shit, I can just stroll away.”

  “I heard that,” said Bunny. “Totally badass. Like … serious next-level Star Wars badass.”

  “You got that right.”

  “How much of your ammo did you burn through?” asked Top.

  “All of it except two grenades,” said the driver. “Once it’s spent, the weight is cut in half, but it’s still slow getting out of Dodge.”

  “That why you have the ground troops?” asked Top. “Cover your back for exfil
?”

  “I guess,” said the driver. “We haven’t really gone into exfiltration logistics yet. That’s coming up, I hear.” He was about to say more and then indicated something with an uptick of his chin. “Here comes the man.”

  Top and Bunny glanced across the room and saw that Santoro was heading their way, flanked by Eve and HK.

  “Gonna peel back and let you get your kudos,” said Top.

  “Totally awesome demo, man,” said Bunny. They swapped fist bumps with the driver and then melted into the thickest part of the crowd, angling away from Santoro’s path.

  They saw the Spaniard embrace the driver and then link arms with him and walk the Fixer toward the door. They vanished into the sunlight outside.

  A supervisor came over and herded the new recruits into a bunch, told them to go back to their rooms and get some rest. Armed Fixers accompanied the recruits, and once inside, Top and Bunny heard the locks click from outside.

  That left them in their shared suite. There was no chance at all that the rooms were not being monitored, so they did not fall into conversation about what they’d seen. Instead, they took turns using the bathroom, made some food in the kitchen, and while eating had a conversation of exactly the kind men like they were pretending to be would have. Then they went to bed.

  Top lay awake for a long time, replaying every detail about what happened. There were so many things about all this that scared the living hell out of him. And so few things on which he could hang the thin garment of his hope.

  Sleep came reluctantly, and it was filled with very bad dreams.

  CHAPTER 69

  MARIA BEATRICE HOSPITAL

  FLORENCE, ITALY

  When the door to his private room opened and the man stepped in, Alexander Fong nearly screamed. The shriek got as far as his throat when he realized that this was not the same man.

  This was not the monster.

  But the similarities. Same height, similar coloring, blue eyes and blond hair, and the same muscular build and pantherish walk.

  But it was not the man who’d nearly killed him. It was not the maniac who’d murdered all of Fong’s colleagues and destroyed their research. It was not the cruel bastard who’d forced him to betray the organization. This man wore a lab coat and carried a clipboard, and he had a stethoscope looped around his neck.

  “Dr. Fong?” asked the man, smiling disarmingly. “I’m Dr. Bianchi.”

  His name was northern Italian, but the accent…? Was it genuine? Fong wasn’t sure. He’d grown up in Tuscany, but his own accent had Cantonese overtones because his parents had always spoken it at home.

  “Yes,” said Fong uncertainly.

  Bianchi came into the room, closed the door, and walked over to the bed.

  “Just want to check your vitals and ask a few questions.”

  “Sure,” said Fong. “Okay.”

  The doctor smiled and came close. He put the earpieces in and listened to Fong’s heart, front, and back, asking him to take deep breaths at the right time. Nothing unusual there. Then he took a pulse and glanced at his watch.

  As he did that, Bianchi said, “So, you were caught up in that awful terrorist attack at the lab?”

  “What? Oh … yes.”

  “Such a shocker. A tragedy. Did you lose many friends?”

  “They … they were all killed.”

  “But not you?”

  Fong shook his head. “No. Thank god.”

  Without looking at him, Bianchi asked, “Why not you?”

  That took a moment to register. “Wh-what?”

  “Why were you spared, Alexander, and all the others killed?”

  Those blue eyes turned to him. Looked down at him. Into him. And the grip on his wrist tightened.

  “Owww … Let me go … You’re hurting me…”

  Dr. Bianchi smiled. “Hurting you? No. Not yet. But we can explore that if you’d like.”

  Fong opened his mouth to scream, but Bianchi whipped the pillow out from under his head and thrust it against the doctor’s mouth.

  “Shhhhhh,” warned Bianchi. “I’m not here to hurt you, Alexander. I just want some information. If you cooperate, then everything’s going to be just fine.” Fong was thrashing against the smothering pillow. Bianchi leaned close. “Fuck with me and we’ll both find out just how badly I can hurt you. Trust me when I say that you don’t want to know the answer to that. Now … if you want this to be a nice, friendly chat, then stop struggling.”

  After a moment, Fong did that, though his body was shuddering with terror. Bianchi eased the pressure but kept the pillow in place.

  “I’m going to move this away from your mouth,” he said. “If you start to scream, well … I don’t really see the need to spell it all out, do you?”

  Fong waved his hands back and forth, the closest he could manage to a headshake.

  The fake doctor removed the pillow, and Fong stared up with horrified eyes at the man who stood over him. Another blond-haired, blue-eyed monster. It was the smile that was the worst. There was something in there. Not the same thing he’d seen in the killer’s eyes—that had been a darkness of soul. No … this man smiled like he had no soul at all.

  “Now,” said Bianchi, “we both work for the same man, the same organization. We won’t say his name, but I want you to understand me. Good, I see you do. That’s lovely. Now, I want you to tell me everything that happened when Joe Ledger came to your lab. I want to know what he said, what he did, and—this is really the most important part here, Alexander—what you said to him.”

  CHAPTER 70

  THE PAVILION

  BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

  STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

  Her name was Mia Kleeve, and she was a very efficient killer.

  It was something she accepted about herself. She’d known it since her first active tour as a Green Beret. She’d been one of the first women to join the Army Special Forces even though it had been open as a possibility since the Pentagon opened all combat jobs to women. At five foot two, though, she was a tough sell to that distinguished and elite group. But Mia earned her place.

  Her family had emigrated from South Korea, where her ancestors had served with the military going back centuries. Those, of course, had been male ancestors, since that was one of many nations reluctant to let women participate in actual combat. Mia had been in the army for six years before she applied for Special Forces, and she’d fought her way through layers of resistance, sexism, and abuse. What her stubborner male comrades discovered, however, was just how powerful and determined women can actually be. Some of those soldiers had learned this lesson in extremely painful ways.

  But her time in the army had not turned into the lifelong career she’d intended. Four years ago, while in Iraq, a noncombat field exercise had turned into a firefight when her platoon encountered a Taliban group of three times their number. The encounter took place in an area supposedly free of Taliban presence, but the bullet that punched through the sergeant’s throat had changed that math forever. The lieutenant was the next to fall, and in under six minutes, more than half of her fellow soldiers were down, dead or wounded. It left Mia, a newly minted corporal, in charge, and she rallied her remaining men, found good cover in a cluster of tall rocks, and engaged the enemy. By then, night was falling, and as soon as it was too dark to see, she’d put on her night vision goggles, told the others to hold fast, and went searching for survivors. She dragged three soldiers back to the rocks, and on her fourth sally encountered a group of four Taliban who were sneaking up on her position. They were spread in a wide line, attempting to encircle the rocks.

  Mia slung her rifle, drew her knife, and went hunting in the dark.

  She was terrified and had not, until that night, ever drawn blood in a fight.

  When dawn came and helos came whipping in over the mountains, the rescue team found five American dead, several wounded, and seven Taliban with their throats cut. In that long, hellish night, Mia had avenged
her five fallen brothers-in-arms, and then took two more as punishment. She earned the Silver Star and the nickname Little Devil. It was notable that none of the soldiers tried to minimize that as Little She-Devil.

  One month later, an older, middle-aged Black woman who looked remarkably like Whoopi Goldberg was waiting for her in the colonel’s office at the base. The woman introduced herself as Aunt Sallie and said she worked for a domestic counterterrorism rapid response group called the Department of Military Sciences. And she was there to offer Mia Kleeve a job.

  Mia ultimately joined Manitou Team, a DMS team based in Colorado Springs. From there she rolled out on missions on six continents and became a personal favorite of Aunt Sallie’s.

  Then two things happened. First, Aunt Sallie had a terrible stroke and was forced to retire. It broke Mia’s heart. Auntie had been like a real aunt to her.

  And shortly after, the DMS closed up shop in the United States and re-formed in Greece as Rogue Team International. Everyone who worked for the DMS was given a choice of retirement with full pay and benefits package, or they could travel the world and kick more terrorist ass. For Mia, it was not even a question.

  Now she was officially part of Chaos Team, though Mr. Church tended to send her out on solo missions. Mia was fiercely independent and liked the autonomy.

  And all of that brought her to Stevens County, Washington, where she currently crouched in the shelter of shrubbery, a pair of high-powered binoculars pressed to her face, watching Top and Bunny train with a group of Fixers. All the time waiting for the call from Phoenix House to send her in, knife in hand, for some fun and games.