“Felicity, this isn’t something we can discuss over the phone.”
“Are you?”
“No. Well, maybe. Eventually.”
“And what if he doesn’t want to?”
“That’s his choice. It always has been and, as long as I’m in charge, it always will be.”
Jarrod glanced at Kayla then turned away. “Good enough. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that. Call you in a bit.” He hung up the phone and handed it to Felicity.
She shuddered as she took it. “That was really creepy. Don’t ever do that again, okay?” After tucking her phone away, she hung her thumbs in her belt loops and gave a slow shrug. “So…what do you think? Are you in?”
The veins in Jarrod’s forehead turned steely gray. “When I escaped Hillcrest, I hurt several people. The guards did their best to stop me, but they failed.” He took a deep breath. “I will go with you, but if I discover that I am being manipulated, I will escape again. And this time, I will show no mercy. If you do not want Hillcrest to become your tomb, you will not lie to me. Ever.”
Felicity swallowed, and the color drained from her face. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”
9
September 24th
Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center
Baltimore, Maryland
Janson stopped short in the concrete corridor and extended her hands for balance. The optical sensors had given her sight, but it would take time to acclimate to the different settings. With a flick of her gaze, she could switch between infrared, visible, ultraviolet, or binocular vision.
She had been on her way to the cafeteria when she inadvertently zoomed the lenses to sixty times normal magnification. After taking a moment to correct the lenses, she continued forward, ignoring the curious glance of a passing engineer.
Pushing through the double doors with both hands, she grabbed a plastic tray and three plates. She stood at the self-serve buffet and piled food onto the plates until they spilled over, then she filled six glasses with water and arranged them on the tray. Again, she ignored the curious and perhaps judgmental onlookers and took a seat at an empty table.
Before she could take the first bite, someone across the room called out to her.
“What gives? Too cool to sit at the cripple table?”
She glanced at Eugene, who was grinning like an idiot. San was sitting across from him, shaking his head.
“Cripple table?” San said. “That’s in poor taste, Gene. This facility is filled with wounded veterans.”
“And at least one wounded dumbass.” He pointed at his bandaged ribs. Looking at Janson, he added, “C’mon, don’t make me get up.”
Janson sighed then carried her tray to San and Eugene’s table.
Eugene stared down at the pile of food in front of her and let out a soft whistle.
“What?” Janson growled.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You whistled.”
“Did I? Are you sure that wasn’t the sound of your waistline screaming for mercy?”
“Gene, please,” San said.
Eugene held up his hands in surrender. “It’s fine. I won’t judge your life choices. Just…remember all the nice things I’ve done for you if you ever acquire a taste for human flesh.”
Janson didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. She lowered her head, shoveled several forkfuls of food into her mouth, then washed it down by draining one of the glasses of water.
San waited until she finished drinking. “You seem to be healing well from your surgery. And Doctor Wagner did a good job matching your original eye color.”
She was suddenly conscious of the contacts over her eyes. “It’s…not really the same as before. But I can see, which I’m thankful for.”
Eugene jerked a thumb toward San. “Boss man thinks you need more time off. But with my ankle busted up, I need you in the field more than ever. How are you feeling?”
“I feel fine. I just left the gym, actually.”
San interlaced his fingers and studied her. “And your vision isn’t bothering you?”
“It’s an adjustment, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” She raised another glass and began to drink.
Eugene tapped San’s arm with the back of his hand. “I told you, this woman’s a machine.”
The remark took her by surprise, and she inhaled a few drops of water. Coughing violently, she set the glass aside and covered her mouth.
“See what I mean?” Eugene spoke loud enough to be heard above the coughs. “Robots don’t need water, so it’s pretty common for them to choke while they’re pretending to drink like a human does.”
Janson steadied her breathing, gripped the table, and glared at Eugene.
He shifted in his seat, turning away from her withering gaze. “Anyway, what were we talking about? Puppies?”
“You were talking about my sister,” San said. “I was trying to change the subject.”
“And failing. You should get used to it—one of these days, I’m going to propose.” Eugene gasped, covered his mouth with both hands, and tapped San on the elbow repeatedly. “You could be my best man!”
Janson bit down on her tongue mid-chew. The last thing she wanted to hear about was romance. Swallowing the gob of food and blood, she made her own attempt to change the subject. “How are Nicole and Kacen doing?”
The stupid grin on Eugene’s face faded. He looked down and picked at the dirt beneath his fingernails. “Nicole’s okay. She has a broken arm and TBI, but the doctors think they can fix her, the same way they fixed you.”
Janson nodded. She had suffered severe Traumatic Brain Injury during a raid on a chemical weapons facility, but the doctors at Hillcrest had healed her with a series of nanobot injections. Over time, the injections had even improved her reflexes and cognition. “What about Kacen?”
“He’s…alive.” Eugene scraped his thumbnail against a callous on his palm. “Not doing well, but alive.”
“Who does that leave on active status?”
“Me, Yuri, and Eli. Yuri was on leave when the Op came down, but we’ve called him back in.” Eugene shrugged. “And me, depending on the mission. I won’t be running any time soon, but I can still sit behind a rifle.”
San was stirring his bowl of soup with a spoon. For a moment, Janson thought he was actively avoiding eye-contact. But she shook off her suspicion. San wasn’t a field operative. He had probably checked out of the conversation, having strategic-level problems to worry about.
“How are things going with the new DNI?”
San blinked and looked up. “Fine. He’s not overly interested in what we do here. He has gone out of his way to give us access to NSA and FBI assets, but he’s keeping a safe distance. After what happened to Buchanan, I think he’s a bit reluctant to associate with Hillcrest.”
San had been listening. Janson filed the intel away for later. “We still have free roam, then?”
The Director of Hillcrest took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “DNI Conroy is trusting me to make the right call. For everything. No matter how big the fallout might be.”
“Better you than me,” Eugene remarked.
“You can say that again.” Janson scraped the last traces of food onto one plate, scooped it up, and swallowed it in one bite.
Eugene wrinkled his nose. “Do you even chew?”
Ignoring the question, she said, “Let me know when the next mission drops. I’ll be ready.”
San raised an eyebrow. “Would you mind submitting to a physical to confirm that?”
She hesitated. “Sure. I’ll talk to Wagner.” Pushing her chair away from the table, she stood and carried her tray to a stainless-steel rack near the kitchen. A spike of adrenaline flowed through her system, followed by a wave of guilt. But she rationalized it away—the lies were temporary. As soon as she was strong enough, the hunt would begin. And when Jarrod was dead, she would return to Hillcrest and put it all behind her.
As Janson appr
oached the door, a young woman with a steak of blue in her blond hair passed by. Janson slowed her pace and glanced over her shoulder. The girl, who couldn’t be older than twenty-five, took a seat next to Eugene and began unpacking a sack lunch.
New employees were rare at Hillcrest, and Janson wasn’t in the mood to introduce herself. It was odd, though, that this young woman would feel comfortable sitting with two of the most influential men in the complex—the black-ops team leader and the Director himself.
Janson pushed the door open with her boot and pivoted into the corridor. She would look into it later. Right now, she needed to talk to Wagner about a falsified physical…and her next set of injections.
10
September 25th
Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, Louisiana
“Sir, you can’t smoke in here,” a husky woman in a blue Transportation Safety Administration uniform said.
The man, who was wearing a canvas backpack, baggy shorts, sandals, and a Bob Marley t-shirt, blew a cloud of gray vapor in the woman’s face. “Cool your tits, I’m not smoking.” He held up a rectangular cartridge. “It’s an e-cig.”
The woman glared at him for a moment then pointed at a sign that read, Smoking and E-Cigarette use is prohibited at the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport.
“Aww, shit. When did that become a rule?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She raised an open hand toward the door. “If you want to smoke, you need to do it outside, and at least fifty feet from any entrance.”
The man adjusted his backpack and muttered “Fascist pig,” as he walked away.
“Excuse me?” the woman asked.
“Nothin.” He hurried on and pushed through the door. When he reached the curb, he extinguished the e-cigarette and hailed a taxi. He had spent nearly three minutes near the crowd of people waiting to print their boarding passes—long enough to infect dozens of them.
The airborne release system was ingenious, dispersing clouds of highly-infectious, genetically-engineered Cholera. The passengers wouldn’t experience any symptoms for at least six hours, and by then, they would be hundreds or thousands of miles away from New Orleans. Not that it mattered to him—he had been vaccinated against the pathogen weeks ago.
A lime-green sedan stopped in front of him, and he eased into the back seat.
“Where you headed?” the driver asked.
He smiled. The airport had been his last stop. He had been to the Union Passenger Terminal, the Superdome, and the Audubon Zoo earlier in the day. Now, it was time to celebrate. “Bourbon Street, please.”
“Not a problem.” The driver eased away from the curb and accelerated, forcing his way into traffic. As he picked up speed and left the airport, he glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror. “Have you ever been to the French Quarter before?”
“Yeah, a bunch of times. Used to go to LSU.”
Wrinkles appeared around the driver’s eyes. “Yeah? My son’s a freshman this year.” He watched the road for a moment. “Not sure about the Tigers this season. Got ripped apart by Auburn last weekend.”
The man nodded. He had never actually attended LSU, and this was only his third visit to New Orleans. Hoping to avoid a nuanced discussion about college football, he sank back in his seat and stared out the window. Thankfully, the driver didn’t force the conversation.
The street lights flickered in the man’s face, and the cab lurched to the left to avoid a merging truck. The man’s abdomen gurgled, and he slipped his hand under his Bob Marley shirt. He didn’t usually suffer from carsickness—but his stomach wasn’t adapted to greasy Creole food, either. He caressed his belly for a few seconds then doubled over in pain.
Shit. This was more than indigestion. It was food poisoning. Muttering under his breath, he cursed whoever had prepared the Jambalaya he’d eaten for lunch.
“What’s that?” the driver asked, tilting his head.
“Nothing.” He took a few shallow breaths and pinched his eyes shut. Pain coursed through his entire body, sending his heart racing. A bubble of gas worked its way up his esophagus, and he belched. “Actually…do you think you could pull over? I’m not feeling too good.”
The driver glanced over his shoulder. “Aw, hell—I just had those seats cleaned. Try to hold it in, alright?”
The man nodded, but it was a meaningless gesture. Seconds later, his abdomen spasmed, and his colon emptied its contents into his shorts.
The driver swore loudly and slammed on the brakes. “Get out! Get out of my car!”
The man didn’t move. Clenching his stomach with both arms, he said, “I…I need a hospital.”
The driver hesitated then shook his head and eased forward. “Alright. But you’re paying to have my cab cleaned.”
“Thank you. I will. I—” he stopped short as another wave of diarrhea coursed through him. He told himself over and over that it was food poisoning, nothing else. He’d been vaccinated—the disease couldn’t touch him. His brethren would never betray him like that.
But as the pain twisted his insides once more, he knew it was a lie.
11
September 26th
Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center
Baltimore, Maryland
Felicity North shivered as she passed the burly woman with the grayish skin and short haircut in the hallway. She had asked Eugene who, or what the woman was, and he responded that she was a cranky field operative then refused to give any more details.
But Felicity knew the woman was connected to Jarrod somehow. San had made it clear that there were to be absolutely no discussions about their friend in Sub-Level Five while the woman was nearby. Felicity didn’t like the secrecy, and she planned to find out the truth.
After riding the elevator down to Sub-Level Five, she picked up her pace. The sound of her own footsteps in the hollow corridor put her on edge. She passed twenty doors that she had neither entered nor seen anyone else enter, then she reached the end of the hallway. She peered into a retinal scanner beside the door, and it slowly rolled open. It was solid steel—meant to keep unauthorized personnel out and one very dangerous man in. Though, from what she’d heard, no door, cage, or chain could contain Jarrod for long.
Thankfully, Jarrod had made no attempt to leave his quarters. Felicity approached the room, took a deep breath, and typed a six-digit code into a keypad. The door slid open, and despite her best effort, she flinched.
Jarrod was clothed in a navy-blue robe and standing in the center of the room, his hands at his sides and his head level. His posture wasn’t threatening; what bothered Felicity was the knowledge that he was always standing like that when she wasn’t around. Yesterday morning, Eugene had pulled her aside and said, “Want to see something super creepy?” Regretfully, she agreed, and Eugene showed her an image on a computer tablet, which depicted Jarrod standing in the center of his quarters.
She had shrugged and said, “So what?”
Eugene smirked and replied, “This isn’t a picture. It’s a time-lapse video of the past sixteen hours.”
The revelation had nearly brought her lunch back up. Eugene could be a real prick sometimes.
Exhaling, Felicity crossed the room and sat on a steel chair. In response, Jarrod sat on the bed that he had no real need for.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
He didn’t ask what she was referring to. “Movement burns fuel reserves, and the light in this room is not adequate to replenish them.”
Felicity blinked. “Fuel reserves. You mean calories?”
“Yes.”
She leaned forward. “And…light can replenish your calories? I mean—you can eat light?”
“Negative. Eating implies digestion. I can synthesize glucose from water in my diet and carbon dioxide in the air. Light is necessary for the reaction to take place.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. How do you do it?”
“I do not know.”
“They di
dn’t give you a user’s manual when they made you into…” she made a circular motion with her palm facing his body, “this?”
“No. I have been responsible for discovering my capabilities on my own.”
“That’s…inconvenient.” She leaned back as her thoughts strayed elsewhere. “Do you know who the woman with the gray skin and short hair is?”
“Did you come within close proximity of her recently?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you are probably referring to Agent Janson.”
“Hold on. Go back to the proximity thing. Why does that matter?”
“I detect her chemical signature on you.” He paused. “Her scent.”
Felicity shook her head. “They gave you some weird abilities down here. So…what’s your relationship with Janson?”
“We do not have a relationship.”
“Does she have any reason to, uh, dislike you?”
“She has several.”
Felicity bit her lower lip. “Go ahead, give me all the juicy details.”
“I have attacked and injured several of her teammates, on more than one occasion. I also attacked her, inflicting significant trauma. And I killed Agent Ford—a man she held strong affection for.”
There was a long moment of silence before Felicity whispered, “Holy crap. No wonder they don’t want her to know you’re here.” She cleared her throat and looked into his eyes. “I’ve been browsing through the research archives, and I found something interesting. Apparently, the nanomachinery in your brain can be used to treat a whole bunch of different psychological disorders.” She shrugged. “It was only a footnote because DARPA is more interested in combat applications. But I think—with the right tweaks—we can use the Mental Conditioning equipment to help you.”
Jarrod nodded once and waited for her to continue.
“The downside is…the only person who knows how to completely rewrite the Mental Conditioning software is Emily Roberts. And she’s not available, for obvious reasons. But, with the help of some of the software guys, I think I can rebuild some of the connections between the different hemispheres of your brain.”
Heir to the Nightmare Page 5
