"You don't have to do that," Gunner explained. "All you have to do is find out who won the contract to build the base, then access their files."
"That’s illegal and I can get arrested, Gunner."
"Not if they give them to you." He left how she would get their permission up to her. "The contractor is probably someone in the Salt Lake City area. Most likely the largest firm in town. But if they are no longer in business, look to see if they've been bought out because that firm will have inherited their old files."
"Okay." Seneca wasn't sure she wanted to ask, "Have you looked at the base yet?"
"Yep." Gunner paused. "I'm not going to lie. It's going to be difficult to get them out. The research areas are heavily guarded and that's where Ansel and Cat will be spending most of the day."
Seneca followed his train of thought. "So you’re going to take them at night."
"Not quite," Gunner answered. "The only question now is which one to take first. That's why your research is imperative."
"They’re not being held in the same area?" Seneca found herself holding her breath.
"We don't think so. For security reasons, we think they might be holding Ansel in the brig." After watching how easily Ansel killed a man, a trained soldier, she thought that was a wise precaution on the general's part. Gunner continued, "Obviously, that adds to the difficulty in extracting him."
"Gunner, be careful." She didn't know how to explain what she was feeling. "You know Ansel would never forgive himself if anything happened to you while you were trying to—"
"This isn't about Ansel." Gunner didn't even hesitate. "This is about all of those people, and Ansel understands that better than anyone."
Admiration constricted her heart. She had never met men so willing to put themselves in harm’s way for the sake of others.
"Well then, I better find you those base blueprints," she said more hopefully than she felt. "But what if I can't get them?"
She could hear Gunner take a deep breath before saying, "Then we're screwed."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The general stood in front of Dr. Rumsey, listening to his weekly status report. Shiny machines made whirring noises, spinning down blood and tissue samples to determine something or another. He didn't really care. All he wanted was to get results.
"We've finished our baseline tests with Catherine Miller and Ansel Babineaux. They’re both well above average in intelligence, and physically…" The Doctor grinned. "I must say that Catherine Miller is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Strong, graceful—”
"Pregnant with her husband's child." The general brought the man back down to earth. "Are they ready to begin their therapy?"
"Yes. However, with the pregnancy, I want to take extra precautions to—"
"Start with Sergeant Babineaux," the general ordered, equally concerned about damaging the baby, but more interested to see what could be done with the Ansel.
The boy was already one of the United States' elite soldiers. If they could enhance his God-given abilities, it would be a beautiful thing. And the soldiers he would make with the Babineaux's biological material boggled his mind.
"What areas do you want enhanced first?" the doctor asked.
That was a difficult question. He knew the man was already thinking about escaping, he had seen it in his eyes when they had their disappointing conversation.
If he could just help him understand why this was so important to national security. But what did he expect? Ansel Babineaux was the best of a soft generation. A generation that had grown up constantly being told that they were 'special'.
What a bunch of bullshit.
People used to have a loyalty to this country. However, these days the individual's wants and needs seemed to supersede all else.
But these kids had not lived through Vietnam or the Cold War. And once those wants were taken away by a foreign power because no one was willing to sacrifice for the country that gave them those rights, they would be singing a different tune.
"Enhance his strength first," The general decided. The last thing he needed was to give Sergeant Babineaux more brainpower to plan his escape. "I want to see the results when it's done."
"Yes, sir," the doctor said as the general's phone rang.
"General Hawkins," he said, stepping out into the hallway.
It was Inez. "They're gone."
Shit! He hadn't expected Holstad's team to hang around, but somewhere in the back of his mind he was hoping he had been wrong about the captain. It would be so much easier if he didn't admire the man.
"How long ago?"
"Two days," Sergeant Munoz said. "Captain Holstad has not been heard from since he received the phone call from Seattle. Caffrey and Stockton failed to report in shortly after that."
"And there was nothing in their quarters to indicate where they had gone?"
"No, sir. But we did find evidence that all three of them had been staying together."
"What evidence?" the general asked, curious.
"The amount of food. Three sets of poker chips on the table, and…" Inez paused, which meant the next thing she said would be important. "A shattered cell phone."
"So, they've gone dark." That's why they weren't able to track Captain Holstad. Very disappointing. "Thank you, Sergeant. Now, you and your men get your asses back here."
"Yes, sir." Inez was a good soldier, who knew how to follow orders.
"And Sergeant," the general warned, knowing that he was fighting for the future of this country, "prepare for company."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ansel knew something was wrong five minutes after he drank his orange juice. His brain was foggy, and he was having a difficult time keeping his eyes open.
He picked up his plastic juice container and forced himself to focus. Nothing. And then, he picked up the round foil that sealed the lid to the juice. There it was, hidden in the dark center of the logo.
A tiny pinprick.
They had drugged him. That couldn't be good. He fought the drugs, but it didn't help. The tiny observation window cut into the cell door slid open, and a pair of blue eyes was looking at him.
"He's almost out," the guy said, and that was the last thing he remembered.
Ansel felt strange. He opened his eyes then looked around the bright room. Dr. Rumsey was there, so he asked, "What are you doing to me?"
But the guy did not answer. He was warm. Blankets covered him, including his feet, but he wasn't comfortable. Why? And then Ansel realized that he was strapped down. But not like before.
When they first brought him to the base, he had been handcuffed to prevent his escaping but Ansel could still move. Not now. Now, thick straps that looked like seatbelts where pulled tightly over his ankles, knees, hips, and shoulders.
He could feel something in his arm, and Ansel realized it was an IV line. His breathing grew more rapid and he tried not to panic. Four guards stood in the corners of the procedure room, well out of his reach.
"What are you going to do to me?" he demanded to know.
Dr. Rumsey leaned over him, placing his hand on Ansel's shoulder, and saying in that condescending tone that doctors always took when they think they're calming you down, "Sergeant Babineaux, we’re about to begin your DNA therapy treatment." Fuck! "Don't worry, the restraints are merely precautions taken for everyone's safety."
"You mean, so I won't try and kill you while you alter my fucking DNA!" Ansel shouted, knowing that if he had the chance, he would kill Doctor Rumsey to stop this from happening.
"I understand your concern, Sergeant," the doctor reassured him. "But I'm told that the procedure is not all that painful. You will experience an increase in your heart rate, followed by a tingling sensation and what is described as 'an increased awareness of your senses'."
Ansel had been in dangerous situations before, expecting to die. But this was a different kind of death. He was about to become someone else. Someone different. Would he even know hi
mself? Would he still hate bananas? Would he still love his sister?
Would he still love Seneca?
The thought formed in his mind without conscious construction. Ansel swallowed. His hands were shaking, and he was thankful that the son of a bitch couldn't see them beneath the blankets.
"My concern is more along the lines of you doing this procedure against my will." Ansel glanced at the only people that could help him. The soldiers. "And you're all just letting this happen, involuntary medical testing of US citizens. You ever heard of Josef Mengele?"
They didn't even blink.
"We'll start with twenty cc's," Doctor Rumsey said to his nurse, who handed him a vial of light blue liquid. The same blue liquid that Gwen had used to stabilize their DNA when she ran her tests.
For some reason it was the blue color that made this all real. They were about to inject a portion of someone else's DNA into his body, and he would never be the same.
"Don't!" his mind screamed. Ansel pulled against his restraints, and the soldiers raised their weapons.
Doctor Rumsey ignored him, injecting the syringe into Ansel's IV drip.
"It will take a few minutes for the solution to work its way into your body. But we have found a slow introduction of the foreign DNA into the body provides the best absorption results for the recipient." The doctor smiled. "But as you have one of the highest purities of the anomaly, the likelihood that your body will reject the foreign DNA is…minimal."
Ansel stared at the ceiling. Devastated. He was becoming an amalgamation. No longer himself. That thought was far more painful than any torture they could have inflicted upon him.
"How are you feeling?" Doctor Rumsey asked, but Ansel didn't answer.
He could feel his heart speeding up, but not from fear or exertion. This had a chemical feel that constricted his lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Ansel took deeper breaths to compensate, and then he felt a warmth spread over him. He could hear the soldiers breathing now, smell the blood in the air. His eyesight became sharper; more colors became clear.
But the strangest thing was being able to feel the inside of his own body. Not like a sharp pain or a stomach ache. He could actually feel his muscles, feel the shape of them as the tainted blood surged through them.
Ansel flexed his right hand and felt the individual muscles working together to contract. Instead of his brain telling his body what to do, it was as if his body already knew, reacting before he had even thought about it. His body told him where to apply pressure on the straps to break himself free, but it also told him that his restraints were too strong.
"Let's give him twenty more cc's." Doctor Rumsey said.
Ansel warned, "No!" knowing the threat his body would become to Doctor Rumsey if they made him stronger. While he thought the guy deserved what Ansel would do to him, he was in no hurry to be shot in the back by one of those soldiers when he killed him.
"Why?" the doctor asked. "What are you feeling?"
Ansel showed him, pressing against his wrist restraints and ripping them at the edges. The doctor instinctively took a step back, his mouth falling open.
"I've never seen it work so…well." The man licked his lips, a perverse excitement lighting up his eyes. "All four of you, take him back to his cell and take extreme measures when you remove his restraints," the doctor ordered, scribbling notes in Ansel's file, adding, "I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow."
Ansel’s blood ran cold.
CHAPTER FORTY
It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and Ben sat at work, exhausted. He hadn't been sleeping much, and now that Seneca had gone to Salt Lake City, he wasn't sleeping at all.
He couldn't believe that she was reckless enough to follow the men that had taken her friend, Catherine Miller. It was so dangerous, and to be honest, Ben was still angry with her for going. But he had known Seneca long enough to know that she was very stubborn. All of his logical arguments about her leaving had fallen on deaf ears, so Ben had just stopped trying.
The only thing he could do now was tell her where her cell phone was located. Or rather, the location of the car with Seneca's phone in the trunk.
While he was worried about Seneca, the other phone trace scared the shit out of him. If she was recording a three-star general, Seneca was in some serious trouble. Ben spent half of the day with his hand on a phone ready to call the authorities, and his nights trusting that what Seneca told him was the truth.
Even if he did make the call, the army would tell the local authorities one of two things: that Seneca was crazy, or that she was a national security threat and needed to be arrested.
Either way, she was in trouble.
As for himself, Ben didn't know what to do. If he were caught running unauthorized traces, at a minimum he would be fired. Worst case scenario, he could go to jail.
But if what Seneca was saying was true, that the army had abducted Catherine Miller and her brother…It was his responsibility to help them. Ben couldn't just stand by and watch a building burn when he knew there were people inside. He would try to save them, knowing he was risking his life.
This was the same situation.
Wasn't it? Fuck, he didn't know. He never thought straight where Seneca was concerned.
He shook his afternoon protein shake, and then took a swig just as his boss knocked on his door. "Hey, Ben."
"What's up?" He set the chocolate shake down on his desk.
"I just got a notification that you're running a trace on a level one phone?" His boss looked at him, as confused as ever.
"I guess so." Ben shrugged to hide the fact that his pulse had doubled. "I just ran the numbers Homeland Security gave me to run." He had made sure to bury the general's number among the legitimate phone numbers Homeland Security requested he monitor.
"Oh, okay." His boss clearly had no idea what to do next. "So you'll run the trace for a week just like all the others?"
"Yeah, I'm following all the normal protocols," Ben nodded, adding, "Who knows why Homeland picks the numbers they pick. I swear to God, last week I was recording an eighty-three-year-old grandmother from Iowa." That, at least, was true. Ben shook his head and smiled, so his boss did too.
"All righty," the man said, seeming satisfied. "I guess I'll let you get back to it."
"Hey," Ben stopped him. "Are we still having that all hands meeting on Friday?" he asked, so that the last thing on his boss’s mind when he left Ben's office would be the presentation he had to give.
"Yeah, four o'clock. Marketing is going to talk about the new products being launched." His boss rolled his eyes. "And then they’re going to let the people who actually made those products speak."
"Well, that's nice of marketing."
"Just kill me, please," his boss attempted to joke.
"Not until Saturday." Ben hoped he wasn't smiling too much. But as his boss craved constant admiration, he didn't think the guy would notice. "Someone's got to do that presentation."
"Keep it up and you'll be the one speaking at that meeting." His boss pointed at him and Ben chuckled, "Well, I guess I better go work on my speech."
You do that. "See ya." In about a week.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
"They will be expecting us at to assault the base at night." Gunner was looking down at the original 1941 blueprints Seneca had managed to get from the contractor, along with the plans of new upgrades made to the base since then. "So, let's not hit them when they expect us."
"Captain?" Win was skeptical. "A daytime assault—"
"I don't want to hit them during the day either."
"Then when do you want to hit them?" Drew stared at him like he was crazy. "Because last time I checked, day and night were our only options."
"I want to hit them at breakfast." Gunner smiled. "Dawn to be exact."
"What?" Drew's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Are you crazy?"
"Hear me out." Gunner put his hand up so they would wait before passing judgment on his
plan. "I know General Hawkins. He will expect us to hit the base at three or four in the morning, and will increase patrols at those times.
“But if we go in at breakfast, right at shift change and as the civilians are arriving for work…" He waited for them to absorb what he was saying. "Nobody knows the new guys on duty except the men handing out the duty rosters. If we get there at the beginning of the shift, the base will be confused and disorganized. They won't even realize what we've done until it’s too late."
"And what will we have done?" Win asked.
Gunner pointed at a spot on the blueprints. "You and Drew walk into the barracks like you own the place." Drew laughed, but Gunner ignored him, continuing, "Take Catherine. And if anybody objects, you tell them that you've been sent by General Hawkins to get her. The guards at the barracks are there to make sure the prisoners don't escape, not to stop other soldiers from carrying out their orders."
"And what will you be doing while we stroll into these barracks and requisition Catherine Miller?" Drew asked, his sarcasm warranted.
"I'll be getting Ansel out of the brig."
"How?" Win asked with a detached curiosity.
"With a pair of scrubs." Gunner had thought about this long and hard. "There are two communities working on the base. The scientists and the soldiers there to protect them. The two groups rarely mix."
"True," Drew conceded.
"I'll pose as a medic and go to Ansel's cell, telling his guards that I need time-sensitive blood samples taken every hour on the hour." Gunner shrugged. "These guys will have just started their shift, and they will just assume that these samples were being done throughout the night."
"And if these guards recognize you?" Win asked, glancing at his blond head.
Gunner was a bit of a legend in the army. He had accidentally become the face of Special Forces. Something about his white-blond hair and pale blue eyes unnerved people, and they tended to remember him.
It was a serious problem.
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