She awoke with a start. Sat up. Her heart pumping heavily. Something creaking underneath her. A smooth material like vinyl. Blinding white light above her. Head spinning and pounding. It had been years since her last hangover, but this was exactly what one felt like.
Braden.
Asa.
You serve your country, right?
“Easy there,” said a voice to her right.
She rubbed her eyes and stood, trying to force her head to clear.
“Where’s my son?” she said. “Where is he?”
Braden, where are you?
No answer. Her environment became clearer. She was in what looked like a junk room. Boxes, crates, and plastic bins along the walls. Several couches like the one she’d just been sleeping on. Chairs in stacks. Too much furniture for one room. Not much empty floor. One door, and a guard blocking her way to it. Mk 19 in his hands. He looked at Val with his face set.
“Settle down,” he said.
“Settle down,” Val repeated, rubbing her hands on her face.
Braden, can you hear me? Please answer me.
“Where am I?”
She stepped toward the guard.
“Sit down,” he said.
But Val continued stepping toward him, her knees trembling a little. The guard wore no body armor. Just a black tee, black tactical pants, and boots. On his hip hung a small radio, a knife, and a couple of pouches. He had big arms and shoulders, and of course there was the rifle. No overpowering this guy. Only precision would bring him down, and Val hadn’t done precision hand-to-hand in a long time.
“Or what?” Val said, trying to sound calm, but her voice quavered. “You going to blast me with that gun right here?” She stopped at the end of the couch and stared at him.
The guard only returned her stare.
Braden!
“Where is my son?”
Nothing. His jaw muscles flexed.
“You DHS?” she said.
She stepped toward him again.
“Did you know any of those pricks I killed on the way here?” she said. “Those brave men who helped hunt down a kid and his mother with Dragonflies and guns?”
“Please return to your seat, ma’am,” he said. If she was getting to him, he didn’t show any sign.
“One of them squealed like a little bitch,” she said, still stepping toward him. Her heart pounded. She still felt light-headed from the sedative. She’d already walked into one trap today. Was she making another mistake? Maybe. But now both Kim and Braden were gone. Now she had nothing to lose.
She stood a few feet from the guard, and he did exactly what she wanted. He turned the rifle so that it was aimed right at her.
“I’m not going to say it again,” he said. “You need to return to your seat. Someone will come by shortly to talk to you about your son.”
Val glanced at the rifle and at his hands. His right hand held the grip tightly, but his finger was off of the trigger. And the safety was still on. He wouldn’t shoot her. They wanted her alive.
“Okay,” she said. She let out an exaggerated sigh in order to try and calm her heart. And then she moved.
First, she threw an outward crescent kick at the gun. Her hip protested a little, but the kick didn’t have to be very high. Her shoe struck the guard’s right hand, knocking the gun to one side. It didn’t come out of his grip, though, which was what she had intended.
Dammit.
She advanced. Punched him in the throat. He gasped and wheezed. Left hand let go of the rifle and went to his throat. He tried to kick her shin, but Val shifted her leg and at the same time made an elbow strike to his face. Then she made two more punches to his throat and kicked him in the groin.
“Bastard,” she said. She turned, grabbed the barrel of the rifle with her left hand and spun around, using the circular motion to snatch the rifle from him.
The guard staggered toward her, choking and holding his throat.
Side kick to the solar plexus. Butt of the rifle to his face. He goes down.
He took in a long, rattling breath, preparing to charge her. She moved.
Sick kick. He let out a strangled noise and looked at her, his mouth open stupidly. She struck him in the face with the butt of the gun. Spatters of blood. Bone cracking. Nose turned to one side. Flattened and mushy. He stumbled backwards, the back of his head striking the floor with a loud thump.
Val stood over him and looked down. Blood streamed from his nostrils. His head twitched.
“You’re going to burn in hell,” she said, bending down so that her face hovered a couple of feet above his. “You and everyone else who tries to get between me and my family.”
She stepped toward the door, flipping the safety lever to the off position and shouldering the rifle’s butt. But she stopped.
Only now did she see. The door was locked. And the lock could only be opened in two ways: a keypad and a handprint scanner.
“Son of a bitch,” she said.
She turned and looked at the guard, then back at the handprint scanner. He probably weighed one-ninety. The handprint scanner was five feet from the floor. There was no lifting his hand to scan it. Shooting the handle might work, but there was no guarantee. And the noise would bring people from everywhere.
Now she looked at his knife.
Why not? I’m a terrorist now, anyway.
She went back to the guard and brought the butt of the rifle down on his face again. Just to make sure he was out. No need to torture him, and she definitely didn’t want him screaming. Then she leaned the rifle against the wall and took the knife from the guard’s belt.
“I’d say sorry about this,” she said, glancing at the guard’s ruined face. “But...”
One knee on his forearm, she placed the blade of the knife against his wrist.
For Braden and Kim, she told herself.
The blade was sharp. Sliced through skin and sinew without much effort. Blood spurted and poured, but it was the sound that made Val’s stomach turn. It reminded her of the noise that a chicken’s joints made when she pulled them apart. The man’s body shuddered a moment, then it fell still.
Val stood, holding the severed hand.
“I am sorry,” she said, glancing at what was left of the guard’s face. No doubt the poor bastard had thought he was serving his country.
She picked up the rifle and held it in her right hand while she pressed the man’s palm against the handprint scanner. It didn’t work.
“Come on,” she said.
The light beside the scanner remained red. What the hell? Could it tell when someone was alive?
But when she lowered the hand, she saw the problem. Blood was smeared across the scanner. She leaned the rifle against the wall again and wiped the scanner with her shirt, then cleaned the hand. Now when she pressed the palm against the black plate, it issued an affirmative beep. The light turned green, and the door lock clicked.
Tossing the hand onto the floor, she picked up the rifle and eased the door open. She put her head through and looked in both directions. Just a short, empty hallway lined with four more doors and handprint scanners.
Braden? she thought. Still nothing. Wherever he was, it wasn’t here.
She stepped into the hallway slowly, rifle at the ready, finger on the trigger.
To her right, the hall ended at another door. To her left, it ended in a junction with another corridor. She would go that way. But probably any way out would be locked with a handprint scanner. Groaning under her breath, she turned and looked at the severed hand, which lay on the floor, spatters of blood like a trail behind the wrist.
Letting out a long breath, she retrieved the hand, shoving it into her pocket as best as she could. Then she started down the hall toward the junction.
You’re like that raccoon, Braden had told her in the culvert last night. Val wondered what he would think of her now as she crept around with a dead man’s hand sticking
out of her pocket.
When she neared the junction, she moved close to the left wall and slowed her steps. She looked around the corner to her right. In that direction, the hallway had two doors on one side and a bare wall at its end. Left, then. She eased forward toward the left turn.
The foot seemed to come from nowhere. Val reeled away, but not before it struck her left hand and forced it to let go of the rifle barrel. Another foot flew and struck the side of the gun, knocking it out of her right hand. With a clatter, it slid across the hall floor into the opposite wall.
Val shifted backwards, putting up her hands. Asa ran around the corner and advanced on her. He threw a left jab followed by a punch, and Val barely blocked both. She responded with a round kick aimed at his ribs, but he blocked with his knee. Her shin connected with his, sending slivers of sharp pain up her leg and into her hip.
“This is what I love about you,” said Asa, advancing on her again.
Val scrambled backwards, nearly losing her footing after the failed round kick.
“You never give up,” said Asa. He faked another jab, and Val fell for it, throwing up her left forearm in an inside block and leaving her left side open. He made a hook into her ribs and sent her staggering backwards. “Even when you know you’re going to lose.”
Braden, she thought through the pain. Kim.
She screamed at him and shifted into a defensive side-stance. Tremors of pain ran up and down her body from her shin and ribs.
Asa squared off with her, his arms still raised in an offensive position. They had often sparred each other during off time in Iran, and Asa had never been able to get the best of her. Now Val wondered if he’d been letting her win.
He came at her again, faking a side kick and then shifting to a hook kick. Val ducked and let his foot pass over her head. Then she responded with a side kick, striking him in the upper chest. The blow knocked him backwards, but it wasn’t enough to wind him. She’d missed his solar plexus.
“You’re off,” he said, his eyes alight. He was enjoying this. “You’ve been living a domestic life for too long. Or is it because you’re fighting me?”
Now he shifted into a defensive side stance, too, his palm out to block any punches to the face.
“Your son is safe,” he said. “I was on my way here just now to see if you were awake. I was going to take you to see him.”
“Where is he?” said Val, shuffling toward him. The rifle was to her right about ten feet. She might drop him with a spinning sweep kick and then go for the gun. But her right leg felt slow after that failed round kick.
“He’s in a room made just for people like him,” he said, taking one step toward her. “And there are others like him here.”
“You...” she said. She shifted forward. They were in striking distance of each other now, each still in side stance. What could she say to disarm him? “You said that you loved me, but you’re just a fucking snake.”
That did it. He lowered his defensive hand just slightly.
“Look, Val,” he said, a look of pity crossing his face. “What if something happened to your husband? What if you and I—”
Back knuckle to the face with her right hand.
His hand went up to block.
Inverted punch to the side with her left. Connected with his oblique muscle.
His right hand rose for a back knuckle. She blocked with her forearm.
She swung her body around for a round kick with her left leg, hitting his lower back.
Asa groaned and staggered forward as her shin drove into his left kidney.
Reverse punch to his right kidney.
Asa screamed.
Axe kick. She threw her right leg high over him, her hip joint screaming at her, and brought her heel straight down into the back of his head where his skull joined his spine. Asa fell head-first into the floor, groaning.
She’d meant to break his neck, but the pain in her hip had thrown her off. Still, he lay on his side, rocking back and forth.
“You beat me,” he croaked, turning his head to look up at her. The barest hint of a smile crossed his lips.
“I always beat you,” Val said.
She crossed the hall and picked up the rifle.
“And now you’re going to shoot me, right?” said Asa. “For screwing you and leaving you alone in Tehran.”
“For thinking you could come between me and the people I love,” said Val. She raised the rifle and aimed it right at his head. “For talking about my husband. For even thinking I’d ever prefer you to him. And when I’m done with you, I’m going to find every damn—”
But suddenly fire ripped through her body. Her limbs shook with the pain, and she knew even as she fell down that she had been tased. The rifle clattered to the floor beside her.
“The two of you sure cause a lot of damn trouble,” said a rough voice. The face of a mustached man hovered over hers. “And is that—is that a hand in your pocket?”
38
His pulse still pounded like a jackhammer in his head. He needed another drink.
“We’re taking over custody of the Anomalies,” said Tolbert, sitting on the corner of Bowen’s desk. He smoothed his mustache with the tips of his thick fingers. “Well, two of them. Celina and Francis. We’re integrating the program into the CIA, and we’re putting those two into Project Eris. You can go ahead and put Theresa to sleep. She’s not worth spending any more resources on.”
Bowen had been eyeing the bronze statue of Aphrodite that he kept on his desk. Kelly had given it to him as a Christmas gift years ago. Back when they still gave each other gifts. But now he looked up at Tolbert.
“Say that again?”
Tolbert smirked. “You heard me.”
Bowen waited a moment to speak, his throat tightening. He leaned back in his chair and looked over his clasped fingers. First at Tolbert. Then at the senator, who sat across the desk from him. Then back at Tolbert. He wondered if the two of them were screwing. Men and women who worked together as often and as closely as the general and the senator usually were.
“You want me to kill Theresa,” said Bowen. “And you’re taking Celina and Francis.”
“It’s time,” said Jones-McMartin. “Theresa has languished enough. It’s time to give her some peace. The other two will be a tremendous asset to U.S. interests. So many countries have returned to older methods of communication and information transference that digital espionage simply isn’t enough anymore. Project Eris will give us an advantage that no other developed country has. Not yet, anyway.”
Bowen breathed through his nostrils slowly, trying not to sound as panicked as he felt. Celina gone. Theresa dead. This wasn’t supposed to happen for another two years. Project Eris meant that Anomalies would be surgically fitted with audio recorders and cameras, as well as devices in their abdomens that could torture, sedate, or poison them if they stepped out of line. Celina would do well. In fact, she would probably enjoy it. Maybe too much. Francis would be miserable. He’d probably kill himself eventually. Probably for the best.
But Theresa. What a waste.
The general stared back at Bowen with his mouth turned down in a self-satisfied expression. No doubt the old bastard was enjoying himself.
“Nothing?” said Tolbert. “I figured you’d have some kind of reaction.”
“You want Theresa euthanized,” said Bowen.
Tolbert nodded.
“Dead,” said Bowen.
Tolbert went on looking at him, his smug expression unchanged.
“There’s no need to kill her,” said Bowen. “We can continue research—”
“The girl witnessed her parents’ death,” said Jones-McMartin, her hands folded on her crossed legs. She eyed Bowen with her head leaned to one side almost like a curious bird. “She’s not nearly as powerful as the other two, so she doesn’t show any promise in terms of her usefulness to the program. Probably not to your research, either. Alive she�
��s just unhappy and eating up resources that could be directed to more useful ends.”
Useful ends.
“Nothing is being taken away from you,” she continued. “You and Simmons will still be in charge of researching the causes of the abnormality. We need you to find a way to replicate these Anomalies. What you’ve done here is just the beginning.”
Bowen put his hands in his lap, trying to appear as calm as possible. They were taking everything away from him, and he only had a year left. Less than a year.
“How are we supposed to do research without test subjects?”
“The boy is going to stay here,” said the senator. “For now. Until he’s old enough to join the Eris program. And it looks like he’s even more powerful than the others. You should have plenty of fun with him. And we know from Jessica Brantley that there’s another Anomaly who needs to be retrieved. Just think what you’ll be able to do with an infant who has this ability.”
If what Braden had done when DHS raided his home was any indication, he was dangerous. But having him and the parents together for the duration might prove fruitful. The infant was another matter altogether. An infant might present opportunities they hadn’t had with the other subjects, but it would also mean all sorts of headaches. And working with the infant would take time—time that Bowen didn’t have. And they were taking Celina and Theresa.
“I don’t want to euthanize Theresa,” he said. “She might be useful in some way that we haven’t seen yet, and—”
“The girl goes,” said Tolbert. His eyes flashed.
Bowen gripped his knees with his fingers. He wanted to take the Aphrodite statue and shove it up old General Mustache’s ass. Maybe force him over the desk and give the old fart a good reaming with it. Since his wife had given him the statue, Bowen didn’t mind putting it to good use.
Jones-McMartin shifted forward in her seat.
“I knew you wouldn’t love the idea,” she said. “But I thought that since you were getting the boy and the infant, you’d be able to live with this. There’s no point in keeping the girl alive just to live the rest of her life in captivity. She can’t return to the world, but she’s not powerful enough to be of any real use to us.”
The Way Out Page 21
