Relentless

by Jonathan Maberry

  CHAPTER 86

  IN FLIGHT OVER GERMAN AIRSPACE

  It wasn’t a very long flight from Rotterdam to Berlin, but it still gave me time to think.

  I felt like a bit of a shit for what I’d done to Toys. The more I thought about it, the more I regretted it. And, of course, once he told Junie what I’d done, that would likely be the last damned straw.

  Was I trying to drive her away?

  The Darkness whispered one answer to me; the other voices—the Modern Man, the Killer, and the Cop—whispered another. But each answer was another shade of yes.

  Ghost had his head in my lap and was benefiting from my jangling nerves by getting even more pets and treats than usual. Dog therapy. It’s a thing.

  The feel of his soft fur and the awareness of his unconditional love were an anchor. Possibly the only clean tether I had left. The only other thing holding me to the desire to remain alive was the fact that Santoro was still sucking air. But … what was going to happen if I caught and killed him? Where—and who—would I be then?

  At one point, I got up and went into the toilet, locked the door, and stood for a long time looking into my eyes. I’d come out of the total control of the Darkness. I thought. I hoped. But I still had so many questions.

  What was the Darkness? I mean, exactly. Had my cracked mind completely fractured? Could it ever be put back together again?

  At times, during brief moments of terrified lucidity, I wondered if this was more of Kuga’s mind games. During the Kill Switch case, he used the God Machine to actually invade my mind. Top’s and Bunny’s, too. He’d forced them to commit murders. Was that happening all over again? I almost hoped it was. Though even my wishful thinking couldn’t help me construct a scaffold of probability for that, because I was doing damage to Kuga.

  If not that, then what? I even flirted with the possibility that this was demonic possession. I didn’t actually believe in demons, but there was a bright and silvery thread of hope in that. A chance for this all not to be my fault.

  If it was neither of those things, then what was I left with?

  Me.

  Damaged. Broken beyond repair.

  And, no, I didn’t think that just because I felt it was my hands currently on the steering wheel that it was over. Nor did I try to lie to myself that what I did, however extreme, was for the good of all. That it was the right thing to do. I’d tried that rationalization on back in Italy, but it fit no better then than it did now.

  So, where did that leave me?

  Who was I now?

  What was I now?

  And … was there any real way to ever go home again?

  PART 5

  BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP FOR DEATH

  The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe.

  I know that ghosts have wandered on earth.

  Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad!

  Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!

  —EMILY BRONTË

  One need not be a chamber to be haunted.

  —EMILY DICKINSON

  CHAPTER 87

  DAS VERARBEITUNGSZENTRUM

  WANNSEE, BOROUGH OF STEGLITZ-ZEHLENDORF

  BERLIN, GERMANY

  The place did not exist.

  Not officially. That’s what I was told. That’s what I read in RTI reports.

  Not in any computer record or database. It was never mentioned by name in any email or data file sharing. The few people in Germany, England, and the United States who knew about it also knew better than to make any references in any traceable way. Spies were everywhere—in cyberspace and the real world. Someone was always watching or listening.

  When the place had to be referred to, even obliquely, it was given the bland nickname of Das Verarbeitungszentrum—the Processing Center. There were thousands of places in Germany that processed something—sales, deliveries, Amazon fulfillment, insurance claims. It was the kind of name that never rang a bell or raised a red flag.

  Only eight key people within those three governments knew that the Processing Center was a prison. Which made it the ultimate black site. Prisoners who went there might as well have slipped through a hole in the dimension. They were simply gone.

  The staff knew, of course, but they were sequestered in six-month shifts without Wi-Fi or internet. No email, no cell phones, no contact at all with the outside world. Only unmarried soldiers were assigned to the facility, and they were deeply screened beforehand and carefully debriefed afterward. Those employees each signed a nondisclosure document that erased all their rights should they break their oath. A single fracture in the chain of confidentiality would result in arrest, the ruin of their families and their futures, and very possibly incarceration in one of the cells within that forbidding place. Yeah, we live in fun times.

  From the outside, it looked like the fiction its designers were selling. A slab-sided block building with few windows, loading bays for trucks, and a security fence that looked absurdly nonthreatening. What passersby could not see were the motion sensors, camouflaged high-def cameras, satellite surveillance, and frequent flyovers by drones designed to look exactly like common hooded crows. And, although the fence was not electrified, there were panels on all the surrounding interior grounds and walkways that were. The default setting was approximately that of a moderate Taser, but during a crisis, they could be dialed up to give a lethal jolt of two hundred milliamps. That’ll curl the hairs on your nuts effectively. Those pads were weight sensitive so as not to fry birds, cats, or raccoons.

  The windows were false. Each was a rear-screen projection of long loops of footage of real office buildings taken elsewhere. Behind those screens were steel panels. The doors opened with simple key cards, but once inside, there were massive security doors requiring several types of scans—retina, thumbprint, exhaled breath, and spoken day codes. Breaching the walls would require a hell of a lot of explosives, and those walls—and every door—were wired to alarms that rang audibly or quietly but in the right places to send a lot of grouchy German soldiers with guns.

  The plan had been direct and effective: to make Das Verarbeitungszentrum fade into the background of a sleepy tourist suburb of a major city and to be essentially impregnable.

  “No one can find it,” the designers assured the three governments that shared the invisible prison. “No one can beat it.”

  CHAPTER 88

  PHOENIX HOUSE

  OMFORI ISLAND, GREECE

  “Boss,” Bug shouted, leaning his head out of his office and yelling loudly enough to make everyone jump, “I got him!”

  Church, who had been in deep conversation with Scott Wilson, wheeled around.

  “Where?”

  “Germany.”

  “Germany?” exclaimed Wilson. “That isn’t on our list of possible targets for him. Are you sure?”

  “Pretty darn sure.” Bug waved Church and Wilson into his office. Outside, at least thirty staff members had already clustered, craning their necks, jostling one another for a view.

  “Someone hit our safe house on Krampenberger Straße in Berlin,” he said. “Darted the poor guy stationed there. Guy woke up a few minutes ago and says last thing he remembered was watching a rerun of a cop show. Something called … Alarm for Cobra something-something.”

  “Alarm für Cobra 11—Die Autobahnpolizei,” translated Wilson. “Highway police show that’s been on forever.”

  “Yeah. So that rerun started at 2:00 p.m. local time.”

  Church looked at his watch. “That’s nine hours and change.” He glanced at Bug. “What did he take?”

  “A full field kit, including a MindReader substation and tactical computer. Bunch of drones, weapons, clothes, you name it. And the officer there thinks maybe an old TradeWinds kite.”

  “For what possible purpose?” asked Wilson.

  Church ignored that and instead said, “The substation has a tracker…”

  “Oh, already on it. Looks like Joe’s in
the suburbs. Here, let me pull it up.” Bug loaded the tracking software, which immediately brought up a map. He pulled in on the screen, which brought up an overlay with town and street names.

  “Wannsee,” read Wilson, “in the borough of Steglitz-Zehlendorf. Why’s he…?”

  Then he stiffened so quickly it looked like he was snapping to attention. He turned to Church. “No … surely not…”

  “I think he is,” said Church, and there was the faintest hint of an admiring smile on his lips.

  “Is … what?” asked Bug.

  “He’s going to try and break into Das Verarbeitungszentrum,” said Wilson. “Which, of course, is impossible.”

  CHAPTER 89

  DAS VERARBEITUNGSZENTRUM

  WANNSEE, BOROUGH OF STEGLITZ-ZEHLENDORF

  BERLIN, GERMANY

  So, I broke into the processing plant.

  Took about three minutes.

  Even brought Ghost, and he loves this kind of thing. Going where we’re not supposed to go. Pissing on someone else’s floor.

  I could have gotten actual permission to enter the facility, but there were three good reasons why I didn’t.

  First, it would take too much time. The world runs on red tape, and I hate bureaucracy with the fiery intensity of a thousand suns. I’m stealing that quote, though I neither know nor care who from.

  The second reason is that going through channels would likely result in me being accompanied by agents of Barrier—the UK’s most covert black-operations outfit—some CIA spooks, and a team of busybodies from Germany’s own off-the-record group of black-ops shooters, Der Leuchtturm. I wasn’t really in the mood for a party. Ghost was all the company I needed, and he was never all that chatty. And, let’s face it, with Toys reporting back about me shooting him, and Church evaluating all the intel on my—actions? Crimes? Hard to pick the right word—he’d likely make the calls to ensure that I’d be met by a platoon armed with Sandman darts and a big butterfly net. No, thanks.

  And third, a very bad man told me—reluctantly, I might add—that a very highly placed member of the Kuga organization was incarcerated there. Not entirely sure if it was the Darkness or me who asked those questions. My mind is still clogged with mud. For now, I suppose, it’s enough to remember the answers I … we … got.

  The prisoner was a Catalonian named Casanova. Actual name. Born Diego Casanova, but later dropped the given name. Maybe he thought that would get him laid more often, but from the surveillance photos I acquired, he was no charmer. Looked like Steve Buscemi, if someone had hit Steve in the face repeatedly with a one-by-three. And he was a brute. Six foot three, three-twenty, with the shoulders and arms of a mountain gorilla. A guy like that wasn’t getting laid unless he was paying for it, and even then, he could send even a hardened prostitute straight to therapy.

  Casanova worked for Kuga. He worked with Rafael Santoro. Which meant that his ass was worth only what value I was willing to put on it. A chatty Casanova who could nudge me a step closer to getting my fingers around Santoro’s throat was likely to live long enough to see how good his retirement plan was. A reticent Casanova was going to have a very, very bad night.

  What really sucked for Casanova was that he was the one person who might finally put me on the path to finding Santoro and Kuga. And by find, I mean tear to pieces so I could piss on their corpses. I didn’t need the Darkness to want to do that. Or to give me some kind of spiritual or existential permission.

  And the fact that Casanova was in one of the counterterrorist community’s secretest and most impregnable black site prisons did not worry me all that much. Actually, it amused me in a weird kind of way. Lately, a lot of very strange things amused me. I should probably get that looked at. Rudy Sanchez would likely have a lot to say on the subject. But at the moment, I wasn’t much in the mood for analysis, a sermon, or a lecture. I wasn’t taking his calls or anyone else’s. This was a solo gig. Except for the big white fur monster, of course.

  I didn’t have my own team with me, either. Havoc Team was composed of the best of the best when it came to tier-one SpecOps shooters, and when things were going south, they could get real mean and damned ugly. But … they wouldn’t approve of what I was doing. Well, not the way I was doing it. Not even a little.

  So that left Ghost and me.

  To bypass the fence, I used a TradeWinds MotorKite. It was an older one, and the motor was on its last gasp, but I didn’t need it to do much. Best it could manage was twenty feet of lift and seventy yards of distance.

  We sailed over the fence as the lurid red sunset was fading to a muddy and indistinct purple black. The kite soared over the fence silent as a shadow and approached the building from one corner.

  I had a jammer clipped to my belt that would futz with the motion sensors and cameras for the duration of our flight. And the Google Scout glasses I wore helped me avoid the heat signatures from the high-voltage paving stones. I’d stopped by an RTI safe house and took as many goodies as I could. The agent on duty was sleeping off a Sandman dart, and I seriously doubted I’d be getting a Christmas card from him.

  Ghost hung from my chest in a Mylar sling, his legs and tail dangling, tongue lolling as if this was fun. The dog’s a bit weird. He also likes skydiving, which I really do not.

  There were two pairs of security guards on routine patrol, but I’d waited until they were heading around to the far side. It took them approximately six minutes for a circuit of the building, working in different directions. I touched down just as they were each turning opposite corners, walking the kite to the wall as I hit the button to collapse the wings and released Ghost’s sling. He immediately turned and watched my back, hunkering low, eyes moving over the landscape. The whole kite rig collapsed down to the size of a folded beach umbrella, and I quickly stowed it behind a line of manicured hedges.

  I was dressed all in black, with a balaclava that hid my face, with thin but very tough limb pads and body armor. It was a blend of Kevlar and spider silk around layers of D30, a gooey substance that in its raw state flows like syrup, but when struck locks together, absorbs, and disperses energy as heat before returning to its semifluid state. The body armor can stop most bullets, even .223, 5.56, and 7.62×39 rifle slugs; and the spider silk–polymer blends can turn a knife, which Kevlar alone can’t. I also wore the latest generation of shock-reducing ballistic helmet. Sensors sewn into the fabric of my clothes sent real-time data to one screen of my glasses.

  Raiding the RTI safe house was a bad risk, but the gear was necessary. And it felt oddly comforting to be back in an official combat rig. Though, yes, that also conjured guilt for what I’d done to my friends over the last month.

  Inside my head, the Darkness laughed as if saying that I would never live long enough for those kinds of regrets to matter. Ghost whimpered as if he could sense or even hear those thoughts.

  The door I wanted was a bland, metal variety set into the wall eighteen feet from where we’d touched down. As I reached it, I removed two small devices. The first was the size of a postage stamp and painted a neutral gray, with a clear plastic strip on the back. I peeled that off to expose photosensitive chemicals and then pressed it to the side of the metal door for three seconds. When I finished counting Mississippis, I pulled the strip off and saw that it was now the same color as the door. I turned it over and removed the tape from the other side, exposing a strong adhesive, and then pressed it to the door at about knee level, below where the eye would not naturally fall. Unless you knew exactly where to look, the thing was invisible, blending in completely with the paint. The little chameleon bug had incredible pickup and could relay info up to a quarter mile.

  Next I took a gizmo about the size of a nickel, removed the adhesive backing, then placed it on the underside of the key card box that was mounted to the right of the door. I then took one of our blank magnetic key cards and went through the process of having MindReader load it with the proper codes.

  Of course, I knew that using that Q1 tactical
computer meant that what I was doing would be sent to Bug. He would tell Church I was in Berlin, and where in Berlin I was. Ah well—couldn’t be helped. Made me wonder how quickly the big man would send someone to intercept me. I doubted it would be Toys. Who did that leave? Perhaps Violin? Or my old buddy Oskar Freund? Whoever it was, it was inevitable someone would come, and I needed to finish and get the hell out before they arrived.

  I pulled the door open, and Ghost followed me inside. Then I eased the door shut, and the lock clicked comfortingly as if nothing at all had just happened.

  Total elapsed time from lifting off with the MotorKite to hearing that click was three minutes. Impregnable, my ass.

  CHAPTER 90

  BERLIN BRANDENBURG AIRPORT

  BERLIN, GERMANY

  Michael Augustus Stafford ran down the steps of the private jet Kuga had loaned him for his mission. After the fiasco in Rotterdam, Stafford had appealed to him for better logistical support. The jet—a 2006 Gulfstream G150, which was the closest one available—was comfortable and fast, and Kuga’s logistics team stepped up and convincingly fudged diplomatic clearances. It amused Stafford that he was flying as a representative of the World Health Organization on the hunt for a new COVID mutation. Everyone tripped over themselves smoothing the way for him.

  There was a car waiting for him, with a driver who knew the area exceptionally well.

  “Where to, sir?” was the only thing the driver said.

  Stafford told him, and the car—a roomy and luxurious BMW X5—set off.

  That driver also provided a box of goodies for him, and while they tore along the darkened streets, Stafford outfitted himself with knives, guns, explosives, and electronics.