Relentless

by Jonathan Maberry

  “And, what, you’re here selling it without being able to describe how it works?”

  “Maybe I should have said that I’m just a delivery boy.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. “You’re on the executive level. Maybe lower tier, but you’re no gopher.”

  The Cat glanced at Ghost and then back at me and switched to English. Very good English, with a thin veneer of a London accent. “Look, Ledger, I really don’t know much, but I’ll tell you what I do know, okay?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The junk in those vials is something new. Radical. I got a lecture on it, but I didn’t understand one word in ten. I was military before I started doing this, then did PMC stuff for Romania and Germany. I’m half and half, so I’ve done stuff with corporations in both countries. Ask me about a gun or an RPG or something practical and I can give you details all the way down to the metallurgy, but this is chemistry. It’s some kind of weird chemistry. Not my area. The regular salesperson for this is missing, maybe dead. His boat sank somewhere off the Bulgarian coast. The boss thinks it was sabotage, but that’s a guess. All they ever found was some debris.”

  I said nothing and kept my face blank.

  “R-33 is supposed to be some kind of super juice,” he said. “You ever watch those movies about Captain America? About how he got so big and strong? What did they call it? A super-soldier formula? Well, that’s what this is supposed to be. Something to give PMCs a real upgrade. Not like they become Superman or anything. Just a boost to strength and stamina, maybe amp up their speed and reflexes so that one man can do the work of four. Cuts down on the number of contractors someone needs to hire for a gig. And they’ll work until they drop. That’s what the code letter is for. R for Relentless.”

  “Relentless,” I mused.

  “Right, but it has a double meaning. And I’m afraid if I tell you, you’ll hurt me.”

  I smiled. “If you tell me the truth, then no, I won’t.”

  He thought about it. “Okay, okay … The earlier versions of Relentless were just that. But this new generation, number thirty-three … it has Rage in it.”

  I stared at him.

  “Yes,” he said. “Not enough to go completely insane, not like in Oslo and Korea. Just a touch. It makes them want to kill, but they can still tell friend from foe. The designer originally called it Berserker, after those crazy Vikings. But because it’s married to the Rage compound, they … well, you understand.”

  “Who developed it?”

  “Dr. Dejan Brozović,” he said. “He created Relentless for Kuga but got clumsy and was arrested. They needed him to finish the development of R-33. The stuff in that case is a test version, but it’s probably not very good. I knew that, but these idiots didn’t. We were going to let them test it, and if it did work, then we wouldn’t need Brozović. We were stuck because he was in a German black site prison until the other night. But I guess you know that.”

  And another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Eve and her Fixers were there to get Brozović out to perfect Relentless in time for the American Operation. Right. The fact that they staged that hit when they did was suggestive. Maybe this American thing was going to happen sooner than later.

  “Where’s his lab?”

  He snorted. “They don’t tell guys like me, Ledger. Everything is compartmentalized. Wherever the lab is, they keep all information about it on a need-to-know basis, and the sales force doesn’t need to know. When I need to deliver a product, I get an email or text about where to pick it up. A warehouse or paid storage unit somewhere, or—in this case—a coin locker at the airport.”

  “Okay,” I said, “then tell me about the American Operation.”

  He jerked at the mention of that.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “How do you even know about that?”

  “Let’s go with the fact that I do, and I know a lot,” I lied. “I want you to tell me what you know and if the two stories don’t line up, it’s going to be a bad night for you, Kitty Cat.”

  If he was scared before, then he was absolutely terrified now.

  “They … Look, Ledger, I’m serious … They’ll do more than kill me if they find out I told you anything about that. They know where my family lives. My ex-wife, my kids. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

  I said, “Christmas Eve.”

  But he shook his head. “That was ugly, sure, but it was quick. Santoro and his little blond scorpion—”

  “Eve.”

  “You think he’s psychotic? She’s way past him.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “If you tell me, I’ll have my people get to your family and take them somewhere safe. And then I’ll make sure Santoro and Eve are cleared off the checkerboard. That’s the only option you have. At least with me, your family has a chance.”

  His eyes were wet, and his lower lip trembled. I let him think about it for a full thirty seconds.

  “I don’t know much,” he said, “and that’s the truth. All I know for sure is that it’s going to be soon, and it’s going to be loud and messy. Multiple hits. I’ve heard talk about a concert or a sports thing. They’ve been waiting to see how things open up now that the COVID vaccine is out there.”

  “What’s G-55?”

  He frowned. “I have no idea.”

  Sadly, I believed him.

  “Look, Ledger,” he said, “I know what you’ve been doing. Raiding labs and killing people. People I knew, including friends of mine.”

  “Boo-hoo,” I said.

  “No, listen … I know that I haven’t given you much here. Not about the American Op because I don’t know much. Please don’t hold that against me. Don’t let them kill my ex-wife and kids because I’m a piece of shit. Okay, maybe my ex, she’s a bitch … but my kids, man. They’re just kids.”

  “How many kids are going to die if this American Operation happens?”

  He shook his head. “Let me do this,” he said. “Let me give you something else.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You need to run. Get the hell out of Europe. Go home, back to the States. I can give you a name or two to check out there. Maybe they’ll know more, because if anyone’s going to be part of the actual event, it’ll be them.”

  “Give me the names.”

  He did, and also addresses. Deacon Donnelly in Fort Lauderdale and Jimmy-John Harris in LaBorde, Texas.

  “Who are they?”

  “Militia.”

  “What?”

  “Those white supremacists you Yanks are always scared of. Like those Proud Boys and Boogaloos. Like that. Those idiots who are all jacked up about the Third Amendment.”

  “Second Amendment,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. Kuga’s using them. He has his sales guy, Mr. Sunday, recruiting them, and they’re sending guns and money to them. I think they’re going to use them along with the Fixers for whatever this operation is.”

  I digested that. It was a new puzzle piece, and I wasn’t yet sure how well it fit. The problem with this kind of interrogation was that the guy in the hot seat may be giving a lot of intel that is only part of what he really knows, but there’s no way to verify it in the moment.

  “And there’s one more thing,” he said.

  “Hit me.”

  “There’s a shooter on your ass,” said the Cat. “Michael Augustus Stafford. Very dangerous guy. Top of the game.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Maybe you have, but last I heard, he was only about a step behind you. If he catches up, then you’re dead.”

  “I can handle my own.”

  “No,” he said, “you can’t. Stafford’s the best there is.”

  I smiled. “Let me try.”

  The Cat shook his head. “I’m giving you fair warning. I’ve seen him in action. He’s as good or better than Santoro. No, that’s not right. With knives, guns, or hands, he’s better.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said. “Last question. Where can I
find Santoro?”

  “Who the hell knows? Last I heard, he and Kuga were in Canada, but that’s probably misdirection. People aren’t allowed to know where they are. One thing I can tell you, though, is if you get close to Jimmy-John Harris, he’ll know how to get in touch with Mr. Sunday, and Sunday will absolutely know. Play it that way.”

  I grilled him for a while longer, but his well of information was dry. He sat there, head bowed, sobbing. “Please,” he begged. “Please, that’s all.”

  I watched him for a long time. A minute, maybe two.

  I lifted my pistol. The Sig Sauer, not the dart gun. I began slowly screwing a sound suppressor onto the threaded muzzle. He looked up sharply.

  “Wait … I told you everything I know.”

  “Sure,” I said, “and thanks for that.”

  “Then what are you doing with that gun?”

  I cocked my head and smiled at him. “What did you do before you did this kind of thing? Before Kuga. Before you went to work for Ohan. Tell me what you did.”

  He looked startled. “What … The girls? What the fuck’s that to you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “the girls. How many of them did you sell?”

  “I … I don’t know. What does it matter?”

  “It matters,” I said and shot him.

  No witty quip. No “see you in hell” bullshit. All I did was point the gun and fire a single shot. The bullet punched through the crown of his head and blew a hole the size of a lemon out of the base of his skull. His body never even twitched. Just fell over.

  Ghost gave a single whuff, but otherwise did not move a muscle.

  I sat on the edge of the bed for a very long time.

  CHAPTER 133

  NOWHERE

  Mr. Sunday sat cross-legged on the floor. He had tarot cards spread around him. There were bones he’d cast. Some were animal bones; others once belonged to children. He remembered their faces. So sweet and beautiful.

  Candles burned in bowls and holders. Six times six candles.

  He was naked, because he preferred being naked. It was so pure. In the corners of the room, flies buzzed and reptiles wrestled and spat.

  He was about to turn over a card. The Magician. The trickster card. His favorite.

  But the card was upside down, and that made him frown.

  “Someone is speaking my name,” he said aloud.

  Mr. Sunday turned another card. It was the Destroyed Tower. It was another favorite card. It foretold so many delightful things. None of them good. He set it down next to the Magician.

  One of the candles guttered and went out.

  Mr. Sunday stared at it with eyes whose colors swirled and changed, changed and swirled.

  CHAPTER 134

  HOTEL TIMIȘOARA

  TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

  I spent a long time in the shower.

  Washing off the day. Reliving what I’d just done. It had been a strategic choice. I could not take him into custody or even turn him over. Kuga had too much influence backed by an apparently bottomless bank account. And he had Rafael Santoro, the world’s most effective extortionist. They would do whatever it took to silence Die Katze, and there was zero doubt in my mind that innocent people would be hurt or killed in the process.

  On the other hand, if I’d left him unconscious along with the others, then he would be free. He could plead innocence and there was no proof he was involved in any crimes. At worst, he’d lawyer up, make bail, and then go dark.

  No, the math was simple.

  Except nothing is simple.

  I leaned back against the cold shower tiles and let the hot water boil me. Last year, my lover, Junie Flynn, asked if I was becoming blasé about the killing that I sometimes have to do in my job. She was concerned that I was becoming unemotional about it. Detached.

  I did a lot of soul-searching over that. But then, on a small island off the coast of North Korea, while leading Havoc Team on a mission to discover what had killed all the inhabitants, I had an epiphany. We found the body of a young woman. No ID, no way to ever know her name. She lay in an artless sprawl, her dress hiked up, body robbed of all life, all emotion and potential. Her senseless murder became the focal point for me. I swore to her that I would find whoever did this and tear their world apart. It was for people like her that I did this. It was because there were predatory monsters in this world who will kill the innocent for the political leverage it offered, for profit, for strategic gain, to make a point, or a dozen other criminally obscene reasons. I did not know then that I was hunting Santoro and Kuga.

  We stopped that plot and another that was piggybacked onto it. Hooray for the good guys, right?

  Not really. Everyone on that little North Korean island is still dead. As are more than half the population of a South Korean island hit by the second wave of that bioweapon. And scores of people at the D9 denuclearization summit in Norway. Thousands of innocent victims. And why were they killed? It wasn’t to prosecute a political or ideological agenda, and it wasn’t a religious crusade. No. The whole thing was to make a profit.

  Kuga used the attacks on the two Koreas as a practical demonstration of the kind of mayhem his organization peddles. And the ruin of the D9 summit destabilized the global sense of safety, which in turn sent governments and private corporations scrambling to arm up because the shit was hitting the fan. Kuga’s black market for weapons ranging from bacteria to high-end combat drones had exploded with new sales.

  Bottom line? He won.

  But because I’d done a little bit of damage in the process, Kuga sent Rafael Santoro to slaughter my family. Part of me died that day, too. Not my spirit, not my drive or resolve. No, what they killed was some crucial part of the control I normally have. Last year, I would not have done what I’d just done to Die Katze. Last year, I would have found some other way. Last year, I had a different set of restraints.

  Maybe last year I was more human.

  I don’t know. I should probably talk to Junie about it. Or my best friend, Rudy Sanchez. Or someone.

  Instead, I kept it all bottled up inside. Pushed in, stamped down. Like shoveling too much coal into a furnace.

  The woman and Woodpecker were low level, and they were local criminals, not part of the Kuga empire. Die Katze was. When I’d left America to go hunting for Santoro and Kuga, I’d done it under a black flag. That was the only banner of war for the Darkness. For what I’d become.

  I knew I’d just committed murder. An execution.

  What would Junie say?

  What would Rudy say?

  What did I feel about it?

  The water pounded my skin as I stood there. I could see the hazy outline of Ghost through the shower curtain. He was not troubled by moral dilemmas. He was part of my pack of killers.

  I turned off the water and stepped onto the tiled floor. Not caring about leaving puddles. The mirror was fogged, and I hand-wiped it clear, then stood looking at my reflection. Midthirties, with blond hair darkened by water. Blue eyes filled with ghosts. Scars everywhere. I still had the habit of running my tongue over the bridgework from where Santoro had knocked a few teeth out. My nose was more askew than it used to be. Hard to believe I was the man in the mirror. He looked alien to me now. Like a monster wearing a skin suit and only pretending to be human.

  What did I feel about myself?

  What did I feel about having just executed a helpless prisoner?

  What did I feel about the real possibility that even if I won this fight, I’d lose myself to the Darkness forever?

  What did I feel about any of that?

  I’m not sure I felt anything at all.

  CHAPTER 135

  THE PLAYROOM

  UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  NEAR VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

  It was another late call in a string of them.

  Knowing that Sunday was probably going to call made Kuga start drinking early so that by the time the phone rang, the bourbon would have sanded off all the edges. E
ven so, that first ring hit his nervous system like a bucket of cold water.

  As always, Kuga took the call in his room—though it seemed that Sunday had some creepy way of knowing when he was alone. That had bothered Kuga for months, so he had his people do regular sweeps of his bedroom, walk-in closet, bathroom, sitting room, and even the hallway outside his personal suite. No bugs.

  And yet Sunday never called except when Kuga was alone.

  He pressed the button. “Hello.”

  “You sound grumpy.”

  “It’s late. The hell do you want?”

  “Oh, it’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you—not as an employee but as a friend and advisor.”

  “‘Friend’?”

  “Oh yes,” said Sunday, “we are friends. We are very close, even if you don’t invite me over very often. How many times has it been now? Oh, that’s right—once.”

  “Sorry if your feelings are hurt.”

  “I’m sorry to see you so stressed all the time.”

  “Who says I am?”

  “It’s in your voice,” said Sunday. “It’s in your attitude. And it’s obvious in that you never leave that fortress of yours. Time was when you’d have been bouncing from one place to another, living the high life, getting laid in only the very best places. Now … you’ve become a nervous hermit.”

  “Well, it’s not like half the first world nations don’t want my head on a pike.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” said Sunday, “that had a certain someone not bungled Oslo and allowed the authorities to make an educated guess as to who ‘Kuga’ really is, your life would be a lot more comfortable.”

  “Hey, that was as much my fault as Rafael’s.”

  “Was it? Tell me—and don’t lie because you know I always know—if Santoro had not gone totally against policy and physically been on-site in Oslo, would the world governments have actually connected the Rage attacks directly to you? To you personally? No, I don’t think they could have. Before he was videotaped engaging in pointless fisticuffs with Joe Ledger, your involvement was only a rumor. But since you and he were the only two people broken out of that prison two years ago, the connection became obvious.”