by Peter Darley
Hurriedly, he threw his clothes back on, placed Garrett’s key card into his pants pocket, and ran across to the closet. After taking a key out of his pocket, he opened it up and grasped a backpack. The bastards had better not have ripped me off. He unzipped it and saw it was filled the $25,000 in cash that Wilmot had paid him up front. Satisfied it was all there, he fed his arms through the backpack straps.
He looked around him and realized he was unarmed. There were no firearms in the room. He would have to acquire them on route.
He returned to the bed and picked up the syringe. As he made his way to the door, he knew that between the room and the main exit, there would be bloodshed.
Eleven
Unleashed
Drake quickened his pace with the hypodermic syringe concealed under his fingers. The needle rested against the sleeve of his jacket. The corridor was deserted, and the elevator was right ahead.
He stepped inside the elevator and selected the ground floor option. As it descended, his eyes were fixed on the doors. Security guards would be everywhere, as would security cameras.
It stopped on the ground floor, and he braced himself as the doors opened. All he saw before him was a bare wall. But what might be on either side of the doors?
He stepped out and glanced around. Behind the myriad of doors were offices, conference rooms, and the gym. Off-shoot corridors led to the laboratories and underground research facilities.
He gritted his teeth with annoyance. He’d woken up in the medical lab ten weeks ago with the promise of wealth as his first ‘welcome back’ message. He’d been blinded by the gold.
But what was this place? He’d never asked that question before. By all appearances, it seemed like a miniature Langley, but why had questioning it evaded his attention? Confusion as he came around, perhaps? His heightened focus on new opportunities? They’d duped him, and the reality finally dawned on him. He’d been a prisoner whose captivity had been enabled by his own unawareness of the fact.
He turned left and noticed a CCTV camera above him. Just keep going.
A security guard turned a corner at the end of the corridor toward him. He was young, perhaps mid-twenties. Drake vaguely recalled his name was Jack. His eyes immediately fell upon the guard’s pistol in the belt holster.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Drake?” Jack said.
“Just trying to find the men’s room.”
They drew closer.
“The men’s room?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna piss all over this shithole.” Drake revealed the syringe.
Jack immediately reached for his gun, but Drake moved with the speed of a cobra, plunging the needle into his neck. The young security guard’s hand relaxed on his holster, and his eyes rolled back within seconds.
Drake cradled his back and eased him onto the floor. After waiting for ten seconds, he saw the lifelessness in the man’s eyes. In that moment, he knew. Lethal injection.
He took Jack’s gun and placed it in his inside jacket pocket.
Security officer Adam McCann glanced at his monitor in the observation room at the moment Drake appeared on the screen. He’d been told Drake was a V.I.P., but what was he doing down on the ground floor with a backpack?
McCann used the console controls to adjust the position of the camera. Jack’s motionless form came into shot. Urgently, he picked up the phone beside him and punched in an extension.
Wilmot sat in his office, anxious to hear from Garrett. His concern became heightened now that the moment of her perilous task should have passed, and he still hadn’t heard from her.
His desk phone rang and he picked it up. “Wilmot.”
“Sir, this is Adam McCann in the observation room. Drake is on the ground floor, and one of the guards has been taken out.”
Wilmot’s heart pounded. Oh, my God. Cynthia. He knew he had to get to Drake’s room immediately to ensure she was all right, although that was extremely unlikely. It was also imperative that Drake didn’t leave the complex. “McCann, send through a command to security. Under no circumstances is Drake to leave the facility. Tell them to shoot to kill, if necessary.” He slammed the phone back on the receiver and ran out of the office.
Drake’s room was only one floor down, but Wilmot couldn’t bring himself to wait for the elevator. He hurled himself down the stairwell, taking three steps at a time.
He arrived at the third floor entrance door, thrust it open, and sprinted along the corridor. Drake’s door was ajar just ahead of him. Oh, please, please, please.
After entering the room, his gaze immediately fell upon Garrett’s motionless, naked body. Oh, dear God, no. Devastation coursed through him as he made his way toward her.
He knelt down and noticed her severely swollen face with blood tricking from the corner of her mouth. “Oh, baby,” he muttered tearfully, and gently cradled her head.
Garrett groaned and Wilmot’s spirits soared in an instant. “Oh, thank God you’re alive.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and held her to his chest, overcome with relief.
Ten security guards covered the ground floor in three groups. They examined the main corridor, then the corridors and offices shooting off it. There was no sign of Drake.
A group of four took the corridor to the lab. Still nothing.
They were about to turn around when they heard a rustling noise. There were no other sounds as they looked around them.
They barely had enough time to register a crashing noise above them. Drake landed behind them from an air vent grill. He grasped the head of the first guard and broke his neck. As the corpse fell from his grip, he took his gun.
The remaining three recoiled instinctively, but it was too late. Drake opened fire.
Drake picked up the pistols from the hands of the dead security guards and took the cartridges from them. He heard the clatter of running feet coming from the main corridor and braced his back against the wall.
Three guards were about to pass the lab corridor when one of them noticed him. “Look out!”
But it was too late. With rapid fire, Drake took them out with inerrant shots to their heads.
He ran across the corridor as three more guards came toward him from the far side. This time, he knew he didn’t have the advantage of surprise.
Their footsteps grew nearer. He estimated they were approximately twenty feet behind him. Bracing his chest against the opposite wall, he fired, missing his first target. He sprung back as a bullet blew out a section of the concrete wall. Reaching around again, he fired, taking down the gunman. The remaining two seemed distracted by the shock of their colleague falling dead. Fucking amateurs.
He took the other gun from his inside pocket and stepped out into the open. The guards looked at him fearfully, and he held their stares for a tense moment.
The guard on the left raised his firearm a fraction of an inch, but Drake ensured there would be no chance of him firing. He squeezed the triggers of both guns simultaneously and fired into their hearts without hesitation.
Turning around, he continued his journey toward the exit.
A door opened at the end and DeSouza stepped out. Drake slowed his pace. This was the man with the answers. He needed him alive, at least for the moment.
“Brandon, you don’t have to do this,” DeSouza said. “Let’s talk about it. What happened?”
“What happened? Are you for real? You bastards tried to set me up with that bitch and kill me.”
DeSouza raised his hands peacefully. “I know nothing about that, Brandon. Please. Let me help you.”
“Help me? Help me? After what you’ve done? After what you’ve been keeping from me?”
DeSouza swallowed hard. “Brandon, all is not as it seems. We gave you yourself back.”
“What are you talking about? How long was I under, DeSouza? What year is this?”
“It’s twenty-sixteen, Brandon. We were going to tell you gradually. It’s extremely complicated. You weren’t . . . under.”
Dr
ake lunged for DeSouza, gripped him by the throat, and pinned him up against the wall. The doctor’s face flushed a deep shade of purple. A certain resignation came across his eyes, as though he was accepting his own end. “Y-you . . . were a hero . . . Brandon. You just . . . don’t remember.”
“If it’s twenty-sixteen, I’ve lost four fucking years, you son of a bitch! Now, what happened?”
DeSouza seemed to smile, even through his fear. “He’s . . . still inside you. W-Wilmot . . . wanted me to bring you back . . . and to destroy him. But . . . The . . . Interceptor . . . stayed with you.”
Drake loosened his grip. “What the fuck is The Interceptor?”
The doctor caught his breath. “He’s the voice inside you, just as you were the voice inside him. The world thinks you’re dead, Brandon. Now, you’re unleashed, out of control, and it’s my fault.”
Drake gripped his throat again, consumed with rage. “Tell me, DeSouza. Where the fuck have I been for four years?”
“He’ll . . . save . . . them . . . from . . . you.” DeSouza’s eyes rolled back and assumed a lifeless glaze.
Drake realized his fingertips were buried deep into the man’s throat and knew he’d crushed his windpipe. He released him, and the body of Dr. Frederick DeSouza fell to the floor.
His mind was awash with questions. He’d lost four years, but he’d apparently had a life outside of . . . himself? What was that supposed to mean?
He heard an elevator beep in the distance. The exit was only a few yards away. He ran to the key card reader and slipped Garrett’s card into it. A green light came on accompanied by a faint beep. The main doors opened.
A Mercedes pulled up at the front of the complex. A familiar, middle-aged man stepped out and smiled at him. Drake recognized him as one of DeSouza’s colleagues. “Hi, Matt,” Drake said.
“Hi, Mr. Drake. What are you doing out at this hour?
“Just thought I’d go for a drive.”
The man frowned. “I didn’t know you had a car on site.”
“I don’t. You do.” With blinding speed, Drake drew out a pistol and shot the man point blank in the forehead. The car key slipped from his grip onto the asphalt.
Drake picked the key up, threw his backpack onto the back seat, and climbed into the car. Tires screeched as he reversed.
He looked to his right and saw Wilmot heading for the entrance door, pistol in hand. Rage surged within him again. He picked up the gun from the passenger’s seat, aimed it out the open window, and fired. The bullet blew out the windows of the complex’s entrance, and Wilmot leaped behind the corridor wall for cover.
Drake hesitated for a moment. He wanted Wilmot to die for what he’d done, but he knew he was losing time. He’d made it off the grounds, and the freedom of the uncharted desert was right ahead of him. “Another time, motherfucker.”
Gunning the Mercedes forward, he headed for the runway. He hit ninety miles an hour, his mind consumed with questions and hate-fueled determination. Maybe now he’d find answers to what they had done to him. To any who’d get in his way, he would show no mercy.
Twelve
Cover Up
Slamer’s blood-drenched fingers reached through a wound into the skull of the last dead security guard. He retrieved the fatal bullet and cast it into a Perspex container beside him. He’d soaked every ground floor room with gasoline and the stench filled the air.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Wilmot and Garrett. Garrett’s severely swollen, disfigured face took him by surprise. She’d always been a stunning woman, now reduced to the vision of a monster to rival even his own aesthetic misfortune.
“You almost done?” Wilmot said, his tone tempered by heightened distress.
“That’s the last one. I buried DeSouza in the desert. We can’t afford for him to be identified if this bullshit story is to be believed.” Slamer picked up a towel next to the container and wiped the gore from his hands.
“This has been devastating, I don’t mind telling you, Slamer. But we’re all in it, and this has to be covered up.”
Slamer stood to face him. “With the bullets removed, the explosion will blow the corpses to four points of the compass. Forensics won’t even know where to begin to find a cause of death, other than what it looks like.”
Wilmot looked around the place pensively. “Did you know this base never even had a name?”
“Yep.”
“M.O. five-zero-six is all it was ever referred to on paperwork. It’s been an intelligence-gathering and covert training center for twenty-five years. Now it’s all about to go up in smoke.”
“We have no choice, Wilmot,” Slamer said. “These men have families. You need to give them an explanation of how they died without telling them the truth.”
“I know. Drake’s been gone for six hours already. He could be anywhere by now.”
“I’ll find him.”
“Make sure you do, Slamer. All of our asses are on the line here.”
“OK. You two get out of here. I’ll set up the event.” Slamer looked across at Garrett. “What about you? How are you gonna explain that broken jaw?”
“She can’t speak,” Wilmot said. “We’re saying she got hit by a chunk of debris outside when the place blew.”
“Gotcha. Good thinkin’.” Slamer made his way past them, his gaze falling on the corpses all around him. Thirteen dead. Eleven guards, DeSouza, and his assistant.
He headed along the walkway, opened the door to the lower floors, and descended the steps.
He came to the door of a particularly hazardous power supply room, which was the main source of gas for the facility. An explosion would cause a cataclysm, and the ground floor would collapse. Fire would rise rapidly, creating a chain reaction of secondary explosions from the electricity supply and the gas contained within the pipes through the upper floors. Very quickly, the complex would collapse in on itself like a house of cards.
He picked up a large wrench from a toolbox beside the door and took it across to the main gas feed pipe. His herculean biceps bulged as he loosened the bolts around the central collar. He soon realized they were so tightly fixed, they may as well have been welded on, and he had five more to remove.
It was an arduous task, but he finally drew out the final bolt as perspiration dripped from his brow. After removing the collar, he forcefully prized open the pipes a fraction of an inch. Exposed to the air, fumes hissed as they escaped.
Slamer took a small device, no larger than the end of his thumb, and a length of thread from his pocket. He slipped the thread through the back of the casing, gripped the severed pipe, and tied the device to the point of separation. With the touch of a button, it was armed—a small, fragile incendiary that would do no more than create a spark. The device would be burned into vapors, and there would be no trace of evidence. He had five minutes to get away from the complex.
Slamer ran back along the corridor with a sense of urgency. Wilmot’s undercover plan had always been haphazard at best, but he paid well, as Treadwell once had. The director’s assumption that an elite team of operatives, who had proven their worth, would bypass intelligence protocol may have had some merit. A slap on the wrist followed by a golden handshake was what Wilmot had always counted on. They would have had no knowledge that Operation: Nemesis had always been Treadwell’s pseudo-terrorist cell.
But success was no longer an option. The entire project had failed spectacularly. A formidable killer was now on the loose, having left a bloodbath behind him. Drake’s very existence jeopardized them all. If the truth was discovered, there would be no defense to their mutual involvement in an undercover mind-control operation, an illegal fabricated death, and countless unauthorized assassinations over the years. Slamer and Wilmot had been principle members of Treadwell’s team, which would finally be discovered, leading to charges of treason. At all costs, Drake had to be neutralized.
Slamer stopped momentarily to pick up the container of bloodied bullets and the towe
l, and then continued briskly toward the exit. He glanced at his watch: three minutes fifty-seven seconds to detonation.
Wilmot and Garrett stood beside a top-of-the-line BMW. Anticipation was apparent in their eyes as Slamer ran toward them.
Slamer looked at his watch again. “Three minutes. Get the hell out of here.”
Garrett climbed into the passenger seat, and Wilmot approached Slamer with a briefcase. “Here. The other half on completion. I need to get Cynthia to the hospital.”
Slamer took the money, although given his other concerns, the cash was a moot point. It would, however, be useful. He threw the case, the towel, and the container of bullets into his passenger’s footwell, and fired up his Camaro.
Seconds later, the two cars raced away from the complex and into the night.
With one hand on the wheel, Slamer took out a piece of paper containing the details of the Mercedes Drake had escaped in. Casting it onto the passenger’s seat, he glanced at his watch again. One minute remaining. With his foot firmly pressed on the accelerator, he sped along a dusty, desert road. I’ll find you, Drake, no matter what it takes. You’re a dead man, bud.
The night came alive with a violent shock wave. He glanced in his rear-view mirror to see a cloud of flame in the background, accompanied by repeated, distant explosions. The Mojave complex had breathed its last.
Thirteen
Road Kill
Drake had driven over three-hundred-fifty miles since his escape from the facility. He checked the digital clock on the dashboard: 05:37.
He needed sleep, but he’d already decided where he was heading. To find answers to questions he didn’t even know, the most logical place was for him to go back to the beginning. That meant two-thousand miles. In the meantime, he had to dispose of the car. They knew what he was driving, including the license plate.
He kept his focus on the desert road ahead of him and estimated he couldn’t be far from Flagstaff, Arizona.
