‘Interesting,’ Costa said. He glanced to the silent guard. ‘So when your man tracked the two targets to this spot, he managed to stick them both?’ Hargrove nodded. ‘What happened, then? The compound expire, or the round not penetrate?’
‘That’s still unclear,’ Hargrove answered. His eyebrows furrowed a tad. ‘From my operatives’ statement, both targets were sluggish and ill-coordinated for the duration of their encounter. That argues for the compound’s effect. Yet based on past lab results, both targets should have been paralysed, save for breathing.’ The frown receded. ‘It doesn’t matter, in the long run. We know now it slows them down long enough for severe damage, which is nothing to sneeze at in this situation. What matters right now is tracking their next move.’
He motioned at the two bodyguards. ‘My man couldn’t get a look at their getaway ride, but they won’t risk using it for long; they may not get reported, but locals are still certain to remember strange cars passing through. So they’re back underground, for the next little while, and in one state, which makes it relatively simple to force them into a corner.’
‘So, what, then?’ Costa demanded. ‘We all know what happens to cornered animals – and people. If we’re forced to pin them down in a populated spot again, it’ll turn bloody damn fast.’
‘Then we make sure we don’t – and get to a higher vantage point.’ Hargrove snapped his fingers. Both the entryway guards appeared beside him in a blink, freezing into statues. ‘There’s a permanent garrison at Fort McCoy, in Wisconsin. Also a Ranger contingent, if I remember right. Correct?’
‘Yeah, part of the Rural Rapid Response Teams set up during the Turmoil.’ Costa’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you suggesting? Until now, you wanted to avoid the Army, for reasons I – and the Agency – still don’t fully—’
Hargrove waved the question away impatiently. ‘We set up shop there fast, we’ll be sitting astride all the routes our targets might use, and have quick-response personnel ready to assist if necessary.’ Seeing Costa’s dubious expression, he waved again. ‘The Agency can handle the clean-up here. As for discretion, the garrison commander isn’t going to let anything slip that might make Chicago seem unsecure, now will he?’
He signed off, and made for the exit. The guards moved ahead, brushing past the few soldiers and techs still present. All assets converge on me. Destination: Fort McCoy. Prep for long-distance travel beyond. Glancing to his right for a moment, he saw Myerson, reflected in the security booth window. The officer stooped to check a last piece of debris, before tossing it aside and moving to speak with one of the techs. Hargrove allowed himself a quiet snicker. Everyone else was always one step behind. The entire Agency already was, so that was no great surprise. He strode out onto the street, guards in tow. Soon enough, everyone would be brought up to speed – and he would have the pleasure of doing it personally.
*
Greg turned the key. The pickup’s engine died, with a shake and clatter. Been a long while since I had to use one of theseold rides. Even in most of the Third World spots, I never had to. Although, to be fair, such was never part of theusualassignment. He slid the keys into his jacket. And it looks like it’ll be the same here, too.
With the engine off, the silence was almost complete. Before them, and to either side, loomed a dense tangle of second-growth forest. Towering elms, maples, birches and pines mixed together with thick brush and thickets in a dark mosaic, much of it decorated with late, melting snow. The only sounds came from both sides of the gravel roadway: grass rustling in the wind, the chirping of early-arrived birds and the occasional rustle and snap as a rabbit or other small animal crawled and bounded through the underbrush. Save for the road, there was almost no trace that man had ever set foot here.
Beside him, Leah was taking off her jacket and khakis. ‘You’re sure this is the only way to go about it?’
‘Unless we want to head back to Phillips, or just walk right up to the spot,’ Greg returned. ‘I’d vote the first – maybe we’d even get our ‘rental deposit’ back on this junkheap. That guy in town who owned it was real happy to see new cash in these parts, though, so it might be hard.’
She punched him in the arm. ‘I’m serious. If what we’re looking for is here, isn’t going about it black-ops style just going to spook the target – or just get us killed?’
‘If it is here – and has been for as long as I think – we won’t have to worry about it. There’s only so far the target can go, if he does get spooked.’ His face hardened, just a little. ‘Besides, we were literally made for tracking.’
‘So was he.’ Leah returned. She sighed. ‘But if we’ve come this far, we may as well take the risk.’ She patted at her chest and sides, checking weapons and armour strength. ‘I’ll take point. Signal every twenty-five metres, from opposite ends of approach.’ When he opened his mouth to object, she put a finger to his lips. Her dark eyes were calm and even. ‘Like you said, I was made for this.’
That much was true. Still, Greg hesitated. ‘If we go together, close proximity—’
He got no further, because Leah was already pushing open the passenger door. Muttering under his breath, he shed his jacket, and jumped out as well. Looking ahead, he could just make out Leah’s slim, dark-clad form disappearing into the brush. Drawing his knife, he plunged it into the mud, making sure the blade was well-covered. Plenty of men, and Golems, had been brought down by the split-second gleam when unsheathing for the kill. He sucked in a breath, then pulled the mask-hood over his face and took off at a steady jog.
His feet made hardly a sound amidst the undergrowth. Every so often, he would pause to gently push aside this branch or that set of bush leaves or ferns. The clinger’s black exterior made him stick out like a moving oil slick – the versions he and Leah had chosen hadn’t been programmed to include winter camo – but he was fast enough to never show more than a flicker of darkness against the trees and snow.
After twenty-five metres, he halted. Almost at once, the thin, rolling note of a female hawk-owl reached his ears. He made the reply whistle, and resumed moving, more slowly now. He was coming to a stop again farther on when a new scent reached his nostrils. Wood smoke – and roasting meat. He froze, eyes darting in all directions. Not sensing anything else, he moved behind a nearby elm, knife hand against his chest. Keeping his breathing steady, he peered around the trunk. Maybe a hundred yards away, he made out the peak of a thatched roof, sitting in the middle of a partially cleared ring of brush. A few wisps of smoke trailed from a slim chimney at one end. Greg’s hackles flared. This is too damn easy. He crouched low, shaping his lips to make the signal call.
A shadow fell over him. Before he could fully turn around, something hard and unyielding smashed into his right temple. As he fell, head spinning, he lashed out with his knife, aiming for where his attacker’s leg should be. A second blow – a bladed hand – cut the move short, snapping his forearm just above the wrist and knocking the weapon from his hand.
Fire streaked up his arm. Pushing it aside, he swung his left fist in an uppercut, aiming for the assailant’s sternum; one punch would shatter it like glass. A rush of expelled air rewarded him – but no crunch of bones. Greg dropped to all fours, rolling over his bad arm to get clear. A massive hand closed on the calf of his left leg. He felt himself being dragged back like a rag doll. Pawing at the front of his suit, he yanked the pistol free and twisted onto his back to take aim. Another blow smacked into his wrist, swatting the weapon away. Then he was lifted into the air, and slammed back to earth, facedown. Winded and gasping, he looked around, and saw his knife, protruding from the snow a few inches away. His left hand darted out to grab it.
A tremendous bulk crashed onto his back, pinning him to the ground and driving out the little breath he had. Almost delicately, a hand closed over his left fist, and pulled the knife free. ‘Easy now,’ the rough voice murmured. ‘No point doing yourself more damage.’ In one sharp flick, the blade was at his throat. ‘How about we call i
n the rest of the guests?’
Another hand closed on the back of Greg’s neck, pulling the mask-hood free. A sharp tug brought him back to his feet and up against his captor’s chest. The man had to be at least six inches taller than Greg, making him past seven feet. The smell of wood smoke, animal fat and human sweat was thick in his nose.
The other man marched him around the tree in a few long strides, coming to a halt in a small space partly covered by bushes and fallen branches. He jerked to either side, testing the stranger’s grip – with one bad arm, he couldn’t yank himself free. He felt the cold blade at his neck again, and desisted. ‘Good move,’ the voice grunted. Then it changed into a ringing bellow:
‘Hello out there! I have your friend here with me! You have fifteen seconds to come out, hands in the clear! If not—’ He didn’t go on, nor did he need to.
The echoes faded. Not even the birds seemed to make a sound. Greg held his breath. Come on, Leah. Don’t do anything stupid.
‘Five seconds!’ The blade pressed deeper. A dribble of warmth ran down Greg’s neck. He held still as he could, ready to move if he saw the tiniest chance.
Just before the final second, a pfft! sound reached his ears, off to the right. At almost the same moment, his captor let out a grunt. The knife hand was withdrawn, and he felt the grip on his clinger loosen. He yanked himself free, swinging his left leg out in a wide sweep. The stranger made a crouching leap, avoiding the strike, but his move was sluggish. Instead of bringing his other leg or good hand up for a strike, Greg back-flipped away from him, landing in a combat crouch. Looking about wildly, he spotted a rock twice the size of his fist, and snatched it up, clenching it tight in his good hand as he wheeled to face the stranger.
To his surprise, the other man was stumbling backwards, crashing through the brush. He was gurgling loudly, as if trying to form words. His left hand was clamped over his right upper arm, which hung limp. Staggering and lurching like a world-class drunk, the giant finally crashed onto his side, crumpling a wide patch of undergrowth beneath him.
Breathing hard, Greg let the rock drop. Cradling his busted arm, he turned to his left at the sound of crackling twigs. Leah emerged from behind two bushes, and stepped into the clearing. In one hand she held her silenced pistol. The other clasped the strange gun picked up from Brown Coat. Both were aimed unwaveringly at the huge man lying prone before them. Without taking her eyes from the still form, she asked, ‘You all right?’
‘I’ve been better.’ He let out a short hiss – the bones in his arm were resetting themselves. Looking at the silvery new weapon, he remarked, ‘Smart move. Didn’t think it would work on him, though.’
She flashed him a smirk. ‘Honestly? Neither did I.’ She pressed the second weapon against her waist, letting the nano-fibres close over it while she kept her pistol at the ready. ‘Given how it turned out with us, felt like a safe bet it would again – particularly on him.’ Her face clouded, just for a moment. ‘Last time we get to make it, though – there was only one round left in the clip. If whoever that was back in Chicago had something strong enough to trank us, you’d think he’d have backups.’
‘We’ll worry on that later,’ Greg said. He studied the mammoth, crumpled form. ‘Right now, let’s just worry about this. If he dies—’
As if in denial, the stranger groaned. His legs began to twitch. Whatever the trank might be, it was wearing off. Leah unsheathed her knife at once, tossed it to Greg, and trotted over to stand above the stranger’s head. Drawing her gun, she aimed at his temple.
Up close, the stranger looked much less immense and animal-like. His clothing was rough flannel and wool, decorated in homemade civilian woodland patterns. He wore battered, heavy work boots, which should’ve given him away at the smallest step – but hadn’t. His face was both angular and muscle-bound, with dense, close-cropped brown hair and beard. His eyes, a startlingly light green, were flicking in every direction, looking for escape or a weapon, or both. When Greg stepped closer, those eyes fixed on him. The man’s jaw champed fiercely, as if chewing gum. At last, he forced out, ‘Who – are – you?’
Sharing a long glance with Leah, Greg pressed the release at his throat, letting the clinger suit peel away down to his waist. He held out his right arm. In the crook of his elbow, just barely visible in the morning light, was a tattoo, written in black-blue ink: G-250/228.
The stranger’s eyes went huge. Greg crouched beside the stranger, taking his limp right arm in both hands, pushing back the sleeve of his coat and shirt. In the exact same spot, a tattoo in similar colours was inscribed: G1. Solemnly, he said, ‘We’re family – Cayden.’
Chapter 7
A fire crackled merrily in the hearth. A pot of venison stew hung suspended above the flames, steaming and bubbling. Cayden dipped a long metal ladle and poured out three large bowlfuls with practiced care. ‘Sorry for the lack of variety,’ he grunted. ‘Other than the occasional night-time trip to Lac Court Oreilles, I get all food from the forest. Sounds hokey, but in this case it’s true. All the leftover New Age types’d probably run screaming back to the suburbs, if they had to live it.’
‘No complaints here,’ Leah answered. She took her portion in both hands. ‘Way we’ve been travelling lately, hot food of any kind’s a luxury.’ She nodded at their surroundings. ‘And after yesterday, a place like this was just the kind of “off the grid” we were looking for.’
The room around the three of them was small, but comfortable. Although the exterior of the cabin was rough-hewn logs, the inside walls were smoothly planked, except for the door and the small solitary window looking out on the clearing. There was a secondhand card table in the far corner with two folding chairs, all of them bearing ancient Park Ranger labels. A shabby armchair and coffee table sat near the fireplace; a couple of tattered paperbacks rested on these. Another opening led to a much smaller bedroom, with a handmade down mattress and pillow resting on a rough-carved frame, and a handful of clothes hung on wooden hooks.
The only decorations in sight were a handmade quilt, and a pair of wolf skins. A thin strip of wood jutted out over the fireplace, on which rested a single photograph in a cheap, dented brass frame. The image was of a man’s face: light brown hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a grave expression, as if he were incapable of smiling in any way.
Cayden’s features were set in similar lines. ‘Until today, I thought it was – which is why I reacted the way I did. We may be “family” in the sense that we shared the same background, but you haven’t convinced me yet not to torch this place and move on – with you two in it, if necessary.’
Leah slurped nonchalantly at the stew. ‘Then it’s a good thing we brought a little unexpected backup.’ She patted at her chest, with her free hand, where Brown Coat’s gun was attached.
Cayden still didn’t smile. ‘Another reason why I should be long gone.’ After a perfunctory sip, he set the bowl down, and faced Greg. ‘There’re plenty of questions to ask, but I think the first one’s obvious.’
Greg met his gaze. ‘And easily answered.’ He set his bowl down, too. ‘Leah and I heard the Doctor mention this state plenty of times, mostly when he talked about his hiking trips up north, in this area. Given the closer ties you had with him than the rest of us – and your last mission before the Seattle Bomb, not too far away – it wasn’t that much of a stretch to assume you’d be holed up nearby.’
Cayden grunted, in what might’ve been acceptance or scepticism. ‘It wasn’t a mission – at least not one needing Golem attention. But Upstairs insisted.’ He stirred his soup. ‘Some backwoods loners had been sniping at National Guard convoys moving from Eau Claire to the Twin Cities. Took me less than two hours to paint them for the airstrike, then strike out on my own. Heard about the Bomb a day later, and rumours about the supposed clean-up of the Project not long after, from some hacked Army reports. That’s when I went underground, and made my way here.’
He gestured at Greg’s clinger. ‘But you’d probably already
know that, given how you just happen to have the last suit model made for the Project before it folded. And the weapons, and whatever that compound is you used on me?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘From here, it looks like a sweeper operation. Better late than never?’
‘It’s not,’ Leah said bluntly. ‘We came by the suits and other gear legit – more or less. The compound – that’s a different story. Which, from all we’ve learned, can only be answered with your help.’
The taller man’s brow furrowed. ‘How’s that?’
By way of answer, Greg stepped over to the armchair, where the two duffels sat. Reaching inside his, he pulled out the metal canister, and held it out. ‘You ever see anything like this before?’
Cayden took it cautiously in both hands, looking it over from every angle. He shook his head. ‘No. Where’d it come from?’
‘From the archives vault at what used to be an office for Advent Tech – one of the main military contractors for the Pentagon during Daniels’ time,’ Leah answered. ‘They also worked as part of certain side projects—’
‘ – Like Golem, yeah,’ Cayden interrupted. ‘They designed the first nanotech for the clingers, and the earliest battlefield versions, too. Then they backed out, to work on other projects, while the Project continued working on it with off-the-books funding. We all knew that from the start – the earlier generations, anyway. I can’t speak for yours.’
‘Then you’ll probably also know how close and how often the Doctor worked with the Advent design teams,’ Greg said. ‘He was always fretting over the clingers, trying to personally make sure they weren’t just functional, but protective. Like a helicopter parent on steroids, at times.’
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