by Jude Hardin
He leaned against the corner of the structure, reached around and tapped on the door.
“Who’s there?” a voice from inside said.
Not abandoned after all.
“It’s me,” Mike said. “Open the door.”
“Use the code word. You know the drill. You trying to get yourself shot?”
“The whole complex collapsed, man. Surely you heard it. A falling rock hit me on the head. I don’t remember the code word. I don’t even remember my own name.”
“Zero one two?” the man inside the shack said.
“Yes. Zero one two. It’s gone. Everything is gone. Please, I need help. I’m hurt bad.”
“Where’s Oberwand?”
“He’s dead, man. Do you hear what I’m telling you? Zero one two. I think I’m the only person who made it out alive.”
There was a long pause.
“Kneel down in front of the door with your hands behind your head,” the man said. “I need to make sure I recognize you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Just do it.”
Mike stepped to the front of the shack, got down on his knees, placed the hammer on the ground a few inches behind his feet.
He laced his fingers together behind his head.
The door creaked open, and the man stepped out of the shack, one hand wrapped around the grips of a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and the other holding a long metal flashlight.
He saw Mike’s face and started to raise the gun, but before he could get a round off, Mike reached back and grabbed the hammer and whipped it toward his head like a tomahawk, the claw end finding its mark and lobotomizing him with a sickening wet crunch.
The man collapsed backwards into the doorway. He never knew what hit him.
Mike rose and stepped forward, grabbed the man by the ankles and pulled him outside. He picked up the 9mm, checked the magazine, unbuckled the holster and pulled it off the man and strapped it on himself. Now that he had a gun, he guessed he wouldn’t need the hammer anymore, so he left it lodged in the man’s skull.
Mike stepped inside the shack. There was a panel with some dials and gauges and toggle switches, and there were some video monitors mounted to one of the walls. The cameras feeding the monitors were situated along several hundred feet of the fence line. Mike figured there were similar shacks with similar setups positioned all around the mountain, making it very difficult for anyone to pass through any part of the perimeter without proper identification.
The three switches on the panel had been marked crudely with masking tape and a black felt-tip pen.
SECTION 37
SECTION 38
SECTION 39
Mike flipped them all to the down position, causing the voltage gauges to drop from six hundred to zero. Assuming those particular sections were the ones nearest this particular guard shack, it would now simply be a matter of going back for Nika, cutting a hole in the fence, and climbing on through to the other side.
But Mike knew better than to ever assume anything. He needed to check the fence and make sure the power had been cut before going any further. He looked around the shack, found a small metal toolbox on the floor under the monitors. He opened it, hoping to find some electrical tools, specifically a multi-meter that he could attach to the fence and check the voltage. What he discovered instead were two paperback novels, a pack of cigarettes, a box of 9mm hollow points, and a half-empty pint of bourbon. Mike grabbed a handful of the cartridges and stuffed them into his pocket.
“Jaguar Three this is Jaguar Seven. Do you read me? Over.”
There was a walkie-talkie on the table beside the panel of switches and gauges. Mike had seen it when he first walked in, figured it would be best to leave it alone. Unfortunately, someone was trying to get in touch with the slain guard now.
Mike picked it up and depressed the TALK button. “This is Jaguar Three,” he said. “I read you loud and clear. Over.”
The brain-computer interface allowed Mike to retrieve and mimic the dead sentry’s vocal patterns, the resonance and inflections and the deep southern accent. The voice was eerily perfect, as if it had been caught on tape and played back.
“Your sections just went down,” Jaguar Seven said. “Everything all right over there? Over.”
“A deer got zapped against the fence,” Mike said. “I shut everything down so I can walk out there and drag its carcass into the woods. Over.”
“Again? Those things are getting to be a nuisance. Fred said next time one wanders into his sector he’s going to buy a keg and invite everyone over for a barbecue.”
“That Fred. Such a kidder.”
“Yeah. Well, you be careful out there, okay? Give me a holler if you need anything.”
“Ten-four,” Mike said. “Over and out.”
He clipped the walkie-talkie onto the holster, just in case anyone else decided to call. The conversation with Jaguar Seven had provided him with the information he needed, that the sections of fence in front of the shack were indeed the ones he’d disabled. Also, that the dead guard had access to the outer perimeter, which meant he had a key to the gate.
Mike went through the man’s pockets, found a disposable cigarette lighter and some spare change and a scratch-off lottery ticket—a ten dollar winner. No key. Another quick look around the shack proved fruitless as well, but it didn’t really matter. The wire cutters were almost as good as a key.
He crawled back across the path, raced back up the hill to the golf cart.
“What took you so long?” Nika said.
“I ran into a little problem. Had to hammer some things out. Are you ready?”
“I’ve never been readier for anything in my life.”
“Let’s go,” Mike said. “Stay behind me, okay?”
Nika climbed out of the cart, followed Mike down the hill. When they got to the fence, Mike pulled the wire cutters out of his pocket, knelt down and started clipping out a section of the chain link.
A series of shots rang out, and a flurry of bullets thudded into the dirt in front of Mike. The projectiles originated approximately fifteen degrees to the left, two hundred feet out, and thirty feet up. There was a sniper in one of the trees on the other side of the fence.
Calculating the shooter’s exact position based on the muzzle flash, Mike pulled his pistol and aimed and fired twice.
“Did you get him?” Nika said.
“I don’t know. Get down, and stay down.”
Nika did as instructed, and a few seconds later, more shots started coming from the woods on the other side of the fence. Some from above, others from ground level. Oberwand was dead, the facility completely destroyed, but apparently his soldiers hadn’t gotten the memo.
Mike dropped the wire cutters, stepped back a few feet, ran and used the same Fosbury Flop high-jump technique he’d been using to clear the fence at Sidney’s. He sailed over the top strand of barbed wire with ease, fired six more shots while in the air, flipped and landed on his feet on the other side.
Silence. Mike knew that the shots he’d fired were as true as any laser, but he had no way of knowing if any of them had penetrated enemy flesh. Some of them might have burrowed into tree trunks, and it was possible that some or all of Oberwand’s men had bullet-proof vests. All was quiet right now, and that was a good sign, but Mike still wasn’t ready to bring Nika over. Not until he was absolutely certain that the coast was clear.
He crouched down and ran for the woods.
A strobe of automatic rifle fire blazed from above, eight shots from a single location, the same coordinates as the initial blasts along the fence line. Mike had fired in that direction twice already, which told him that the gunman positioned in that particular tree was probably wearing body armor.
Mike fired six more times, varying his aim to include possible head shots, but the AR-15 rounds kept coming. Mike flanked to the right and zigzagged his way to the tree line, dodging several of the bullets as they whistled past him in slow motion. He mad
e it into the forest and leaned against the trunk of an oak tree.
Now it was quiet again. Mike concentrated, focusing intently on any sort of sound, allowing the MK-2 to do its thing and zero in on the sniper’s position.
Then he heard it. A heartbeat that was not his own. He heard it right before the misguided human being whose arteries it was pumping blood to dropped on top of him and knocked him unconscious.
27
The pistol flew from Mike’s hand as he tumbled face-first into the dead underbrush. He’d only blacked out for a second, but it was long enough for the enemy operative to come out on top. The man stood a few feet away, aiming his rifle down at Mike’s chest. He was compact, around five-eight and a hundred and forty pounds, and he wore full tactical gear, all black, everything except a helmet, which he’d probably lost jumping down from the tree.
“Oberwand’s dead,” Mike said. “The complex has been destroyed. Zero one two.”
“Shut up,” the man said. “How did you get through the fence?”
“I jumped it.”
The man squeezed off a single round.
The bullet bored into the dirt just inches from Mike’s face.
“Let’s try again,” the man shouted. “How did you get—”
In one swift and fluid motion, Mike reached into his pocket and grabbed the utility knife, extended the blade, and jumped to his feet. Before the man could pull the trigger again, Mike pushed the barrel of the AR-15 aside and slashed the man’s left jugular with the razor’s edge. The man dropped his weapon and pressed his hand against the side of his neck, trying to stop the copious flow of dark red blood, but his eyes showed an awareness that the efforts were futile. Gasping, keying his walkie-talkie and uttering something incomprehensible, he fell to his knees a split second before a shot rang out and tore the top of his skull off. He spilled forward, a shower of bloody brain tissue splattering on the oak tree he’d been firing from.
Mike turned, saw Nika standing there gripping her pistol with both hands. Teeth clenched, eyes wide and alert.
“Thought you might need some help,” she said.
“Thanks.”
She swallowed hard. “But it looks like you had everything under control. I probably should have stayed where I was, huh?”
“Probably.”
Nika had taken a great risk by cutting through the fence and following Mike into the woods, but he knew that her heart was in the right place. He knew now that she would always have his back, and that he would always have hers.
And when you get down to it, that’s what love is all about.
Nika walked over and embraced him, and then she stepped back and looked up into his eyes.
“Now what?” she said.
“There’s a road two miles that way,” Mike said, pointing north. “From there it’s about thirty miles back to West Memphis.”
“How do you know that?”
Mike tapped the top of his head with his index finger.
“You really need to ask?” he said.
Nika smiled. “I’m still barefoot. You realize that, right?”
“Yeah. Good thing you don’t weigh much.”
Mike lifted her into his arms and kissed her, and then he started sprinting away from the mountain as fast as his computer-enhanced legs would carry him.
28
Oliver Fennel had spent the past three hours sitting in his chair and staring at the wall. Thinking. Trying to piece some things together.
Blake Howitzer had been the best private-contract hit man in the business, yet he had failed to deliver. Brennan was still alive, and apparently he had one of the CereCirc nightshift employees with him, a nurse named Nika Dunning.
Fennel needed for them both to disappear, but he hadn’t quite figured out how to go about getting the job done. Another hired killer? Maybe.
Or maybe he needed a couple of weeks away from the office, as his wife had suggested.
But not for a vacation.
Maybe he needed to get out there and take care of this little problem himself. It had been years since he’d actually done any work out in the field, but maybe the time had come.
Because while Blake Howitzer had been the best hit man in the world, Oliver Fennel was the best tracker. He had the skills to hunt the fugitives down, wherever they were. He would find them and put an end to this matter once and for all, or he would die trying.
Feeling confident that the issue would soon be resolved, he logged onto his computer and started filling out a leave request form.
29
Nika raised her reclining beach chair a notch and stared out at the Mediterranean, appreciating the beauty of the blue sky and the sailboats and the children running along the shoreline. She was content for the moment, but there was an underlying sadness that would follow her for the rest of her life, a gnawing black crater of sorrow that even the seaside breezes of southern Spain couldn’t wash away.
Jason and Gwendolyn would have loved this place.
“Here you go,” Mike said.
He handed her a bottle of San Miguel and sat down beside her.
She took a sip of the beer. “Thanks,” she said.
Mike was letting his hair grow back. Nika liked that. He was a very handsome man no matter what, but she preferred him with hair. The photograph on his fake passport made him look older than he really was, but then Nika’s absence of makeup and brunette from a bottle wasn’t very flattering either. It had been a stressful time, but things were better now. They’d rented a studio apartment in town, and they’d found jobs. Mike was bussing tables at one of the local restaurants, and Nika had taken a housekeeping position at a nearby hotel. Neither of them earned much money, but it was enough to get by.
And best of all, they didn’t have to look over their shoulders every five minutes. It was highly unlikely that anyone would ever find them in this tiny seaside village. Mike had said so, and Nika trusted his judgment. She could breathe here. She could walk the streets alone at night if she wanted to. She could work and play and do all the things you were supposed to do when you were young and in love. It was a nice place with nice people, and she hoped that she and Mike would never have to leave.
“I had the dream again last night,” Mike said.
“The little girl?”
“Yes. Becky. I’m pretty sure she’s my sister. I was very close to getting an answer from her this time. We were playing hide-and-seek again, and I knew that if I found her she would tell me my real name.”
“Are you sure you even want to know at this point?”
“I’m sure.”
They sat in silence for a while.
Leaving her family and friends forever had been one of the most difficult things Nika had ever done. Parking the Range Rover on the I-55 bridge, walking away from it knowing that her death would be ruled a suicide, hiding in squalid little hotel rooms for days while Mike dealt with the forgers and drug runners and other criminals who would arrange for their transport to Europe. Desperate measures, to be sure, but the only alternative was to stay in the United States and be stalked for the rest of their lives.
Not much of an alternative.
And the most difficult part of the process had been bringing the cat along. Mike had insisted on going back to Mill Avenue in Memphis, and he’d found Slick there waiting for him. Getting the animal through customs was an expensive, nerve-racking ordeal that Nika had no intentions of ever repeating. But they’d done it, and now the three of them shared the little Spanish flat in harmony. Actually, it had taken Slick and Nika a while to get used to each other, but now he curled up in her lap on the sofa when she sat down to read, purring softly while she stroked the fur on his neck.
It was a happy life, mostly, and it worried Nika that Mike was still so determined to find out about his past. Understandable, she guessed, but sometimes she hoped that he would never put all the pieces together. She loved him dearly, but if he ever wanted to return to America, for any reason, he would have to do
it without her. She just couldn’t go through that again.
Any of it.
A few days after the ordeal on the mountain, Mike had explained his theory on Oberwand. Nika didn’t want to believe it, but she couldn’t deny that it made sense, albeit in a very twisted sort of way.
Based on the equipment in the underground laboratory, it appeared as though Oberwand was running some sort of cloning operation. Using kidnapped women for incubators, and copies of Dr. Aggerson’s brain-computer interface for enhanced mental and physical capabilities, was Oberwand planning to build an army of genetically identical supermen? There was no way to know for sure now that the complex had been destroyed, but Mike seemed to think that it was possible—probable, even—and that Oberwand might not have been working alone, that other such facilities might exist in other parts of the United States and in other parts of the world.
It was a horrible thought, and Nika tried not to dwell on it. She wanted to put all of that ugliness behind her and try to enjoy the beauty of the moment.
“What will happen if you dream tonight and the little girl tells you your name?” she said. “Will you go back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, for the record, I vote that we stay right here. Forever.”
“Right here? On this spot at the beach?”
“Yes. Just keep bringing me beers, and I’ll be fine.”
“We might get hungry after a while,” Mike said.
“I’m hungry now. Are you ready to get something to eat?”
“Yes.”
Nika tossed her bottle into a barrel on the way to the boardwalk. They went home and ate sandwiches, and they made love until the sun went down, and Nika knew in her heart, maybe for the first time in her life, that as long as she kept moving forward, one step at a time, that everything was going to be all right.
Thanks so much for reading FUSED!
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