Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  More carefully placed shots rang out, sparking against the armor on Jarrod’s head and chest. He made no effort to fight back. Instead, he turned, crouched, and leapt directly onto the balcony—landing in the Diplomat’s Gallery. He strode up the stairs, put a bloody hand on Leopold Buchanan’s chest, and pushed the DNI out of the way before disappearing into the hallway.

  38

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Thomas Ward couldn’t count how many times he had underestimated Phoebe’s capability for grace and mercy. When he arrived at his home in South Carolina, she welcomed him with open arms and helped him unpack. When he told her everything that had happened, she listened attentively, and her face never showed an ounce of judgment. She never brought up his failure to answer his phone and did her best to make him comfortable after the stressful trip.

  Now, swaying in his favorite rocking chair with a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, he watched her wage war against a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Her gray hair reached to her shoulder, framing her jawline. She looked regal but friendly—and she was, inside and out. Without her, he would never have the strength to face the darkness in the world and still believe it was worth saving.

  In the kitchen, his phone began to ring. Phoebe glanced at him, and worry crept across her face. Thomas’s assistant had a phone line specifically reserved for emergencies, and when she used it, his phone let out an unmistakable trill.

  Ward rose from his chair, answered the call, and put it on speaker. He returned to the living room and locked eyes with his wife. “Yes, what is it?”

  “You need to turn on your TV.”

  “Which channel?”

  “C-SPAN.”

  Phoebe hit the power button on the remote. The television lit up with a cartoon—the grandchildren had been over the night before. She scrolled through the menu and switched to the Cable-Satellite Public Affairs Network. The screen went black.

  Thomas frowned. “I don’t see anything.”

  “They cut the feed. Where are you right now?”

  “In my living room.”

  A keyboard clacked on the other end. “I’ll patch in the recording. It was a live broadcast of an emergency Senate hearing, and it ran for about thirty seconds before they shut it down.”

  The television lit up, showing a view of the Senate Chamber in the Capitol building. Everyone in the room was either standing or leaning to one side as if recoiling in fear. The camera angle switched, revealing a burly, black figure gripping a smaller man by his face.

  Ward dropped to his knees.

  The sound of furious typing continued. “I’ve contacted one of your old clients—a producer at CBS. She’s agreed to let us tap into the live footage.”

  The screen blinked forward, showing a crystal-clear image of Jarrod’s muscular back. He stood in front of a wide desk, and the senator was laid out like a human sacrifice.

  “Do you have audio?” Ward asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  As if on cue, Jarrod turned to face the camera and pointed. A gravelly, ominous voice came through the stereo. “And you…you have hidden beneath a blanket of ignorance while children are tortured and molested in your own neighborhoods.”

  Ward sank back on his heels. The world spun around him, gaining speed with every passing second. He thought he would be sick. Then the screams echoing through the speaker brought him back to reality.

  Jarrod was literally ripping the senator open. Ward lunged for the remote and mashed the power button. He glanced toward the couch. Phoebe was shielding her eyes and sobbing softly.

  “I—I’ll call you back in a minute,” he said, then tapped the phone to end the call. Easing onto the sofa, he wrapped his arms around the woman he loved more than anyone or anything in the world.

  “That can’t be him,” she said between sharp inhalations. “It isn’t him. Tell me it isn’t him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ward replied, his voice hoarse. “I wish I could. But that thing…it’s what Jarrod has become.”

  She broke down again, wailing loudly. When Thomas had first told her about Jarrod’s transformation, she turned sullen for days but didn’t shed a tear. She had been in denial, and the live footage had forced her to accept the painful truth. The man she had known for so long, whom she loved like one of her own children, had become a vicious human weapon.

  Thomas rubbed her arms and whispered hollow consolations, but his mind raced to forecast the fallout from Jarrod’s actions. They would hunt him now. To the ends of the earth, if they had to. The question was how.

  The answer came to him like a blow to the head. His throat went dry, and he said, “I have to go.”

  She took a shuddering breath and squeezed his hand. After a long moment, she focused her bloodshot eyes on his. “Can you…save him?”

  “God only knows. But I have to try.”

  39

  Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Buchanan stumbled into the elevator in a dreamlike state, his mind too busy to focus on the outside world. A woman mumbled something, but he paid no attention. When he was assigned tasks, his brain normally analyzed any available data and crafted hundreds of different outcomes, then narrowed them down to the best course of action. For the moment, the only outcome he could foresee was failure and death.

  But even the Director of National Intelligence had to follow orders.

  The elevator decelerated, then stopped. The doors slid open, and four people stared back at him.

  “Sir, are you alright?”

  Buchanan followed San’s gaze downward, then put his hand on his blood-stained shirt. “It’s…not mine.” He stepped out of the elevator, but instead of proceeding to the nearest conference room, he crossed the hallway and rested a hand on the concrete wall.

  Janson stepped forward and held the director’s arm to steady him, then pulled back his sleeve and placed two fingers on his wrist. “Your blood pressure is dangerously low, sir. You need to sit down before you fall down.”

  Buchanan hesitated, then nodded. With Janson’s help, he lowered himself to the floor.

  “I can have the medics bring you to the infirmary,” San offered.

  “No, thank you. It will pass.” The DNI shook his head and chuckled. “The stress is getting to me. Can you believe that? I spent five years undercover in Moscow and three in Beijing. Never broke a sweat. Then Four-Seven-Charlie comes along and makes me feel like a frightened toddler.”

  The rest of the group sat down on the cold floor, and Eugene said, “He can have that effect on people. In fact, I think he was designed to have that effect.”

  Buchanan sighed. “Yes, he was. I actually helped develop some of the sabotage and psy-ops subroutines that were written into his mind. But I never thought he’d use them against me. Or anyone, really.”

  San nodded. Project Nerium, the secret program that culminated with Jarrod’s transformation, was purely experimental. Hundreds of combat enhancements were applied to his body simultaneously, so decades of research could be conducted in a few months. But he had escaped before the final phase of the program, when the most rigorous and revealing tests would have taken place. “We, uh, saw the footage.”

  “You, and ten million other people. Once the smoke cleared, our people locked down every television network in the country and confiscated every byte of data relating to the incident. But it leaked before we could delete every copy, and it went viral. In the four hours since the attack, it’s been viewed more than thirty million times by ten million people and counting. Fort Meade can’t find the videos and remove them fast enough. It’s like the subway executions all over again.”

  Ford cleared his throat. “Forgive me, sir, but what does that have to do with us? Our computers are mostly closed-circuit; we aren’t equipped for cyber warfare.”

  Buchanan smiled. “Daron was right, you’re as mission-focused as a cruise missile. Thank you, Agent Ford. Yo
u’re right, I didn’t come here to discuss damage control.”

  “Not digital, anyway,” Eugene put in.

  “That’s right. As you can imagine, Four-Seven-Charlie’s actions have…unsettled many of our citizens. There is rampant speculation about how a creature like him could exist. Some of the opinions are far-fetched, but a growing number are dangerously close to the truth. Including the President’s.”

  Eugene smirked. “There goes plausible deniability.”

  “That’s precisely the problem. With our dirtiest secret out in the open, our support in the government is collapsing. The administration is distancing itself from DARPA. They’re mounting a witch hunt. POTUS ordered me to bring him Four-Seven-Charlie’s head on a platter.”

  San fidgeted. “And…how did you respond to that request?”

  “The only way I could. I told him I would mobilize every asset I have. That, Agent Ford, is why I’m here.”

  “Did you tell him how difficult it is?” Eugene asked. “And how much risk is involved?”

  “No. The extent of Four-Seven-Charlie’s abilities is classified above the President’s clearance level. And the less he knows, the better. Our allies will soon be demanding to know everything he does. The Secretary-General of the U.N. has already gone on record comparing Four-Seven-Charlie to illegal chemical and biological weapons production.”

  Eugene chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

  Buchanan chewed his lower lip. “None of the world’s most powerful nations abide by weapons prohibitions. That isn’t what bothers me.”

  San and the black-ops soldiers fell silent and waited patiently for the DNI to continue. Buchanan wrung his hands together and stared up at the artificial light. “I have already received mission parameters. Rigid mission parameters. The brilliant minds in the White House want us to take hostages and draw Four-Seven-Charlie into an ambush.”

  San’s feet scuffed the floor. “You can’t be serious.”

  Buchanan nodded slowly. “Your team has been tasked with visiting the home of Adam Hawkins and taking everyone inside into custody. By force, if necessary.”

  40

  Eugene kicked a wheeled chair; it rolled halfway across the Team Room and crashed into a steel cabinet.

  Janson settled into a chair and began thumbing armor-piercing rounds into a rifle magazine. “Be careful, you’re starting to remind me of Daron.”

  Eugene exhaled sharply, then wrinkled his nose. “Dammit, you’re right. I just…I can’t understand how some people can be so stupid.”

  Ford buckled a utility belt over his metamaterial armor and grumbled, “Daron used to say that.”

  Eugene squinted. “Potato pancake pork chop sandwiches. Bet you didn’t know I was going to say that.”

  Ford slid a shrapnel grenade into a pouch on his hip. “You’re an idiot.”

  Finally, Eugene broke into a smile and sat on the edge of a stainless-steel table. “But at least I’m not a jerk.”

  “Usually,” Janson added.

  Eugene frowned. “Fair enough.”

  Janson set the magazine aside and began loading a second. “Aren’t you going to kit up?”

  “Nope.”

  “Like I said—idiot.”

  Janson shook her head. “At least put your armor on.”

  “Tried that,” Eugene said, stretching out on the table. “Didn’t do much good. Plus, it gives me wedgies.” He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, then said. “What if we just…don’t go?”

  Ford replied without hesitation. “They’ll send a JSOC team to the house. And if Adam doesn’t cooperate, they’ll zip-tie him and drag him outside. If Jarrod’s shows up, he’ll probably kill them all.”

  Eugene groaned and sat up. “You’re right.” He hopped off the table and reached for his combat boots. “I hate it when you’re right.”

  A minute later, the team was suited up and ready to go. Janson and Ford were loaded down with newly-developed weapons and multi-spectral goggles; Eugene slipped a flashlight into his pocket.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Ford said.

  Eugene shrugged. “It’ll be dark when we get there.”

  Janson holstered a pistol and snaked her head into her rifle sling. “You aren’t bringing a weapon?”

  Eugene made two fists and held them up. “Other than Bonnie and Clyde? No.”

  The door slid open, and San walked in. As he appraised the team, Ford said, “Sir, do you think you could talk some sense into our team leader?”

  San eyed Eugene for a moment, then turned to Ford. “Actually, I think he has the right idea. Strip off your extra gear. Our objective is to talk Mr. Hawkins into coming with us—you should look as non-threatening as possible. If you dress up like a G.I. Joe action figure, I can guarantee Adam won’t cooperate.”

  Janson gripped her rifle tighter. “Sir, I don’t feel comfortable going into a potentially dangerous situation without a weapon.”

  “Fine. Bring one, if you must.”

  Eugene grinned. “You’re specifying mission loadouts now? I like the new San. Confidence is sexy.”

  San interlaced his fingers and began twiddling his thumbs. “Normally, I leave such decisions to the experts—meaning you. But this time it’s different, because I’m coming with you.”

  Janson and Ford froze. They both glanced at San, and Janson said, “Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “And I respect your opinion as much as anyone’s, Agent Janson. But I believe our best chance for success, tonight, is diplomacy. When it comes to Jarrod, we will always be outgunned. That’s the point, isn’t it? He was designed to be unstoppable. And I don’t want to imagine what he might do if we take his father by force. Consequently, that will be our absolute last choice.”

  San glanced down and noticed that his hands were visibly shaking. He clasped them behind his back and said, “Is everyone ready?”

  Ford and Jason dropped the last of their equipment on the table. They wore nothing but skin-tight armor and carried nothing but a rifle each.

  Eugene stepped forward. “We’re ready. Lead the way, boss.”

  San turned around and walked into the hallway. When he was momentarily out of sight, he crossed himself and whispered. “God, give me strength. And the courage to face the mistakes of my past.”

  41

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  The Airbus H155 helicopter touched down in an alfalfa field a mile from the Hawkins’ residence. A pair of SUV’s were waiting for them, delivered by a pair of FBI agents who wanted nothing to do with the secretive mission.

  San and Eugene set out on the country road in one vehicle, and Janson and Ford in the other; the FBI agents hunched low and hurried over to the helicopter. The pilot would deliver them to the Charlotte Douglas International Airport, where they would deny having any knowledge of the missing vehicles. As for the black-ops team, they would retrieve Adam and whoever else they found in the house, then a complex set of transfers would begin. The “guests” would be delivered to different vehicles, riding alongside U.S. Marshals with the witness protection program until they arrived at a designated safehouse. Then, when everyone breathed a sigh of relief, they would figure out how to trap Jarrod.

  San leaned back in his seat. He dug the thumb of his right hand into his left palm, squeezing the pressure point hard to distract him from the lead weight of anxiety. It wasn’t the logistics of the mission that worried him—his team could handle those details with their eyes closed—it was the meeting itself. For the first time, San was about to meet Jarrod’s father. The father of a man whom he helped transform into a war machine. And he didn’t expect a warm welcome. If the roles were reversed and San was meeting a man who had twisted Philip’s body and mind, he would probably strangle the man at the earliest opportunity.

  Eugene wheeled the SUV through a lazy curve and tilted his head. A moment later, he nodded and said, “Roger, I’ll pass it on.”

  “What is it?” San asked. He ha
d refused to wear even the smallest radio earpiece during the mission. He was a doctor, not an operative.

  “ISR—the drone, I mean—hasn’t seen any trace of Jarrod. It’s no guarantee, but it’s a good sign. Normally, Jarrod glows like road flare on infrared.”

  “Alright,” San replied softly.

  Eugene glanced at him, then back at the road. “Do you think you can talk Adam into coming with us?”

  “Honestly? No. But I owe it to Jarrod to try. The thought of a special-ops team showing up and putting him in handcuffs makes me sick. I just wish there was more time.”

  Eugene was quiet for a moment, then he let out a soft chuckle. “You know, if Daron was still in charge, he would have ordered a CIA team to intercept Adam on his way to bingo night, put a bag over his head, and drag him into a black van.”

  “Yes. And maybe that would be the right decision. But Daron sees people as pieces on a chessboard. I don’t. To me, Adam Hawkins could be me, or my uncle, or my brother, or my best friend. He’s done nothing wrong, and he deserves to be treated with respect.”

  The SUV slowed to a crawl and rolled toward the comfortable home at the end of the street. Eugene leaned forward to look around and said, “See anything?”

  San shook his head, then realized Eugene had been talking to Janson and Ford, who were wearing night-vision goggles. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths. When he felt the vehicle stop, he gripped the door handle and pushed it open without hesitation. Ford and Janson rushed forward, taking positions on either side of the driveway and scanning the shadows. Eugene caught up to San and walked beside him.

  “Take your time in there. This will be much easier if he walks out on his own.”

  San nodded, stepped up to the front door, and depressed the doorbell. Eugene took a seat beside a boxwood bush, and silence settled onto the quaint property. The seconds dragged on like overburdened barges, but finally, the interior door opened, and a dark-haired woman with a round face looked out.