The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  Mitch followed her gaze to Knightly, who turned absently toward them. The left side of his face appeared normal, but then the right side came slowly into view, marked by an erratic, uncontrolled twitching. His right shoulder hung lower than his left and his right leg took on an odd angle at the knee as he turned, indicating no control over the leg’s movement. Knightly's eyes caused the greatest shock, once sharp and alert, they were now glazed and vacant, completing the picture of a man who’d suffered a massive stroke down his right side. Mitch knew instantly, he was brain dead, alive but mindless, able to stand, but do little else. He realized Knightly had been positioned so his right side was concealed from them as they approached.

  “Abort,” he said, spinning on his heels, dragging Christa with him, then coming to a sudden stop.

  Standing immediately before them, blocking their escape, was Richard McNamara, the ex-NSA officer Mitch had first seen when the helicopter had landed at the Newton Institute. Beside him was Alan Bradick and two other men Mitch hadn’t seen before, but were undoubtedly military types. The two unknown men slipped around beside them, one taking Christa’s arm, the other taking Mitch’s.

  McNamara warned in a low voice, “We'll shoot you here if you try to run, but innocent people will die if we do. Your choice.”

  Mitch’s hand was on the gun inside his coat. He could get off one, maybe two shots, but that was all. He knew without looking, the men flanking them had guns drawn inside their coats. Mitch nodded slightly, easing his hand off his gun. McNamara stepped close until they were almost chest to chest, reached inside Mitch’s coat, removed the gun, then quickly dropped it into his own coat pocket.

  “Very sensible, Mitchell.” McNamara said, before turning to Christa. “You too. I hear you're quite a shot.” Reluctantly, she handed her purse to him. He quickly retrieved her gun and returned the purse. “Now that the formalities are over, come this way.”

  McNamara turned and led them toward the exit. Bradick fell in behind as his two men guided them after McNamara. A long black limousine waited for them outside the Museum entrance with its engine humming. McNamara opened the rear door, then Mitch and Christa were hustled inside. The two guards took positions either side of them, while Bradick and McNamara sat opposite, on the backward facing seats. As soon as the doors were locked, the limo drove slowly away from the Museum.

  Bradick picked up the metal detector waiting on the seat and scanned Mitch. When it beeped, he ripped open Mitch's shirt and tore off the microphone taped to his chest. Mitch winced as his hairs were ripped out, giving Bradick cause to smile before passing the device to McNamara.

  The ex-NSA officer cast a practiced eye over the microphone, with an amused look. “I didn’t know they were still making these.” He lowered the power window and tossed it out onto the street.

  Bradick continued scanning Mitch, finding his second smaller gun strapped to the inside of his lower left leg. Bradick retrieved it, held it up to McNamara with an assured grin.

  “Really, Mitchell,” McNamara scolded. “A woman’s gun?”

  Bradick pocketed the small pistol and finished his scan. In the cramped confines of the limousine, Bradick did not properly angle the metal detector at the heel of Mitch’s shoe and missed the homing device hidden there. Bradick scanned Mitch’s briefcase, then opened it and recovered the box of CDs, which he passed to McNamara, who flipped open the lid and let some compact disks slide partly out.

  “Now, what have we here?” he said curiously. “Is this why you were in such a hurry to meet Knightly?”

  Mitch stared impassively, without replying.

  “I’ll have these analyzed of course. It won’t take long to find out what they are, and who you got them from.”

  “Good luck,” Mitch said. “They’re encoded.”

  “Of course they are. I don’t suppose you want to save me some time, and give me the key?”

  “I don’t know the key. We were going to mail the decryption algorithm once we were sure the drop was safe.”

  “If you think this piss ant little code of yours is any protection, you’re sadly mistaken.” He slipped the box of disks into his pocket. “So what’s on them?”

  “Pictures of your wife. You’ll enjoy them.”

  “What you don’t tell me today, I’ll know tomorrow.”

  “I could beat the fucking key out of him,” Bradick said menacingly.

  McNamara looked thoughtfully at Mitch. “That won’t be necessary, Mr Bradick. He probably doesn’t know it, and even if he did, I doubt he'd tell you.”

  The limousine had gone half a dozen blocks from the Museum when the driver took a right turn. Ahead, cars started banking up as the traffic lights turned red, causing the limousine to slow, then come to a halt. Mitch gauged the chance of escape, but with the two enforcers either side of them, there was little hope of making a break for it.

  Bradick turned to Christa and began scanning her with the metal detector. It beeped as it passed over her broach. He removed the ornament, taking plenty of time feeling her breast as he did. Christa simply stared at him, looking bored. The two heavies grinned at the groping, then Bradick handed the broach to McNamara, who held it up to examine in the light from the window.

  “Now this is clever. Custom made? At least we know your two accomplices are close by. It’s obviously short range. Although without you and the lovely lady, I doubt they’ll be much of a threat to us now.” He tossed the broach camera out the window.

  Bradick continued sweeping Christa for electronic devices, pushing the metal detector up under her dress between her legs. He stared into her eyes with a leering grin, while the two muscle men chuckled. Christa glared back at him icily. McNamara watched the scene aloofly. These kind of games were of no interest to him. Bradick blew a kiss to Christa, then sat down satisfied she was debugged.

  “So much for the pleasantries,” McNamara said. “Now we can enjoy the view. It'll be a short drive, less than an hour.”

  “What’s going to happen to Knightly?” Mitch asked. “Is he going to stand there like a cigar store Indian collecting dust forever?”

  “My people will put him in storage, in case we need him again, although, there isn’t much we can do with him.”

  “How did you get him?”

  “Really Mitchell, I thought you of all people would know. Ex Secret Service, admittedly dishonorably discharged, but even so.”

  “Echelon?”

  McNamara nodded. “We almost had him sooner, but the Monitors went off the air. It became obvious they knew we were receiving Echelon intercepts. I’m still not sure how they figured that one out.” He watched Mitch for any hint, then shrugged. “No matter. It turned out some assistant to an assistant just had to call home to find out how her sick daughter was doing. A mother’s love, is there nothing sweeter?”

  Christa voice betrayed her fear and anger. “How many did you get?”

  “Knightly’s entire command unit, more than thirty people. We were lucky Knightly wasn’t one of those killed when we took them out, but unfortunately he didn’t survive the conditioning process. He’s alive, but you know what I mean. We knew it was a risk with him, but he was very uncooperative. He left us no choice.”

  “How did you know there was a risk with him,” Mitch asked, “As opposed to anyone else?”

  McNamara’s face showed some surprise. “So, your investigation hasn’t got that far. It’s the alpha waves, the signatures generated by the brain itself. Squiggly little lines as distinctive as fingerprints. We can tell who is susceptible to ENP conditioning and who isn't. Unfortunately, Knightly was about three standard deviations out, which means he had a very low chance of surviving. Surviving intact that is. We explained it to him, but he just wouldn’t cooperate.”

  Mitch felt a sudden burst of respect for Knightly, resisting until the end, knowing what he faced. He hadn't particularly liked the man, but he always admired courage. “So you fried his brain.”

  “Like bacon,” McNamara gl
oated without remorse.

  “You bastard!” Christa raged.

  “Let it be a warning to you, we’re not in the business of negotiating.”

  “You’ll pay for that one day,” Christa promised coldly. “And for all the others.”

  He smiled confidently. “I doubt it. We’re very close to perfecting the technology, and your little group is the last organized resistance against us. Very soon, we will have nothing to fear, because nobody else knows we exist.”

  “So who is ‘we’?” Mitch glanced meaningfully at the two strong men seated either side of them and at Bradick. “Certainly not this brains trust.”

  “We the people, the people who matter. The people who make decisions, the people who run things. I mean, the people who really run things.”

  “You mean the fat assholes who screw over everyone else.”

  McNamara ignored the comment. “Now about your two friends, Szilinsky and Wartenburg. If you call them in, we’ll consider merely incarcerating you. Otherwise, well . . . you look to me like the kind of man who won’t respond well to a few billion neurological adjustments to your brain structure. Surely you don’t want to become just another cigar store Indian?”

  “Why don’t you do me a favor, and shoot yourself.”

  “And if I don’t, I’ll turn around one day and you’ll be there?”

  “No. You won't get a chance to turn around.”

  “Like the drug dealer you whacked. Or was he a pimp? They never did find the body, did they?” McNamara leaned forward conspiratorially. “You can tell me Mitchell, what did you do with the body?”

  “The same thing I’m going to do with yours, asshole,” Mitch said, his eyes fixed on McNamara with a burning intensity.

  The ex-NSA officer's confident exterior faltered for a moment. “Perhaps you're more of an extremist than I’d realized. I can see it'd be a mistake to let you live, or at least to let you think unclean thoughts.”

  Bradick drew his gun and checked the load. “You don’t want us to do the girl as well?” He glanced lasciviously at Christa. “At least not until the boys and I have entertained her a while.”

  Mitch lunged forward at Bradick, but the muscle man beside him caught his arm, as Bradick raised his knee, catching Mitch in the chest. Mitch threw a crashing punch into Bradick’s jaw with his free hand, then Bradick pinned his free arm and placed his gun against Mitch’s forehead.

  A slight trickle of blood appeared on Bradick’s lip where one of his teeth had punctured skin. He licked the blood and smiled. “For that, when you’re gone, we’ll be extra rough with the little lady.”

  “I’m going to remember you!” Mitch said menacingly.

  The heavy beside Mitch dragged him back into this seat and pinned him with his weight.

  “Really Mr Mitchell,” McNamara said, “These displays of testosterone just make my choices all the clearer. Of course, if you were to call in your two friends, I could ensure that Miss Malleson will not have to endure the intimate company of my three associates.”

  So that’s their game, use Christa to blackmail me.

  Christa sensed the intention. “Nothing you say will make us do anything to help you.”

  Mitch glanced at her, knowing she was saying it as much to him, as she was to them.

  “Besides, I know you’re not going to harm me.”

  Mitch at first thought she was bluffing, then realized she was speaking with certainty.

  McNamara looked from Christa, to Mitchell and back, then chuckled. “True. You’re far too . . . unique . . . to damage. Mitchell however, doesn’t possess your special talents. He's completely expendable.”

  They know about her! How?

  The small intercom mounted on the side panel near McNamara buzzed. He picked up the telephone and listened as the driver made his report. “Call Arizona. Tell them to get control of the traffic system and give us a clean ride out of town. I want to be moving in two minutes.” He hung up with a trace of irritation. “I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re stuck in traffic?”

  Mitch glanced outside, amused.

  “Yes, of course you have,” McNamara continued. “Thanks to all the little toys you were carrying, your friends no doubt know you are enjoying the pleasure of our company. Unless I’m mistaken, we can thank your pet computer geek for hijacking the city’s traffic computer to prevent our departure.”

  Mitch couldn’t confirm McNamara’s suspicion, but the longer the car sat gridlocked in traffic, the more likely it was that Mouse was scrambling the city’s traffic systems. “Maybe your driver just doesn’t know his way around town.”

  “He isn’t helping you. All he’s doing is giving us a chance to trace him. Our systems are so powerful, he has nowhere to hide, no hope of beating us. I would have thought Szilinsky would have figured that out by now.”

  “We escaped,” Mitch said.

  “Yes, you did,” McNamara conceded. “But I have you now.”

  Mitch saw through the front windshield the lights turn green.

  McNamara followed his gaze, glancing over his shoulder. “You see? We now control the city’s traffic system. We could drive from here to LA, and never get another red light.”

  The lead cars started to move, then the traffic lights went out, along with every store front light the length of the street. At the intersection ahead, impatient drivers trying to force their way across the road became gridlocked worse than before.

  “No red lights, asshole,” Mitch grinned. “No green ones either. No power!”

  McNamara’s face betrayed his irritation, then the intercom buzzed. He snatched up the phone. “ . . . I can see that! Tell them to fix it!” He slammed the phone into its cradle, glaring at the cars crowded around them.

  Through the armor plate of the limousine, Mitch became aware of distant sirens. Drivers outside began honking their horns while others climbed out of their cars to get a better look at what was happening.

  “Maybe if you call Arizona again,” Mitch suggested, “They could send us a pizza. We aren’t going anywhere and I’m getting hungry. By the way, I like anchovies.”

  McNamara ignored the taunt as the shop lights came back on and the traffic lights flashed to green again. Once more the traffic started moving, and McNamara relaxed. “I don’t think you’ll have time for pizza.”

  The sirens grew louder as the cars ahead began to move, then suddenly all the cars ahead stopped, even though the traffic lights were green. The honking of car horns began again, as impatient motorists tried to badger those ahead to move.

  “Now what?” McNamara said, looking forward again.

  Several large fire engines appeared at the end of the street, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Firemen jumped down and began unraveling hoses, connecting them to fire hydrants. The engines blocked the street, trapping the cars.

  Mitch grinned. “You were saying?”

  McNamara glanced at the heavy beside Mitch. “Shut him up!”

  The guard thumped Mitch hard in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He suppressed a cough as he stared at the guard. “You call that a punch?”

  The sirens kept growing in intensity as more fire engines approached, and then behind the fire engines, ambulances began to appear.

  McNamara picked up the intercom again and buzzed the driver. “Enough of these games! Tell those eggheads to get control of every single system in this city, not just the ones Szilinsky is using. A simpleton can see he’s changing tactics as soon as we counter. I want this street clear. Now!” He slammed the intercom phone down again.

  Mitch leaned forward. “Did he say anything about my pizza?”

  “Enjoy yourself Mitchell. You’ll have little to laugh about soon enough.”

  The car seemed surrounded by sirens now as emergency vehicles descended on the crowded street from all directions. The sound of rotors rhythmically beating the air, drowned out the sirens as a shadow passed over the limousine, and ropes fell onto the cars beside them from above. More
shadows played over the cars as black clad men rappelled down the ropes fast. They landed on the cars and the road, then light weight machine guns appeared in their hands a moment later. In seconds the NYPD Emergency Services Unit team had surrounded the limousine. Overhead, the helicopter loud speaker roared:

  “THIS IS THE POLICE, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”

  McNamara hesitated, for the first time genuinely confused.

  “I guess you should have paid that parking ticket, huh?” Mitch remarked.

  Anger surged across McNamara’s face. He glanced at Bradick, who was studying the situation outside with a professional eye.

  “Our car’s armored, windows, doors, everything,” Bradick reported. “We could take them SWAT pussies easy, but it’s crowded outside. Would be a lot of civvy casualties. With this traffic, there's no way to extract. No chance to exfil on foot with that chopper overhead. And we got no anti-air with us.”

  “JOHN MITCHELL, WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS.”

  Mitch glanced at McNamara with surprise. “What do you know? It’s not you after all. I guess Arizona screwed up again.”

  An ESU officer stepped up close to the limo, his black clothes and body armor now clearly visible. He tapped the window with the barrel of his machine gun a couple of times, then his muffled voice could be heard, “Open up!”

  McNamara sighed, defeated. “Open it!”

  The guard beside Mitch unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  “We’re coming out. Don’t shoot.” Mitch yelled as he took Christa’s hand and gently pulled her from her seat, intending her to go first.

  Christa pushed toward the door, driving her heel into Bradick’s shoe, making him jump as it crushed a toe, then she stepped out, straightened and raised her hands. Mitch then pushed his way past his burly guard until his face was close to McNamara. “And they say there’s never a cop around when you need one.”

  Mitch moved to climb out past the guard that had punched him. Without warning, he struck the guard in the head with his elbow, knocking him out. “Oops!” he said as he stepped out of the limousine and raised his hands. “I’m John Mitchell. Don’t shoot, I’m unarmed. I surrender!”