by B. C. Tweedt
“Wait!” Veranda panicked.
Her finger went inside. The hole lit up with a pale blue color, but nothing happened. Until something did. “Ow!”
She withdrew the finger and held it close. A tiny drop of blood appeared where she’d been pricked.
Beep! “G’day,” came a pleasant robotic voice.
And then the desk began to transform. Not all of it. Just the top. It opened, shifted, took the top underneath and came out with a new one – complete with a keyboard, mouse, and monitor awaiting her command.
“Whoa. A comput’ah,” she said in awe, reporting the news to Murray.
Veranda’s hands were locked at her sides, her mouth like a banshee’s. “What did you do?” She raced around the desk and sat when Avery abandoned the chair. “This is highest clearance access!” She glanced at the pencil sharpener. “It must be a hidden PFD.”
[Secure the location.]
Avery fished in her hair, searching for something. “PFD?”
“Pulse, Fingerprint, DNA. It only allows access to someone with a pulse under 70 who has specific fingerprint and DNA credentials.”
Avery removed Murray’s bobby pin from her hair and pulled back the sheath to reveal a needle.
Veranda shook her head at the screen. “We’re going to have to report this to Securi – ACK!”
Avery jammed the needle into the side of her neck and retreated, backing against the wall as the lady stood, ripping the bobby pin away. Her wide eyes began to shrink. “What was th…that?” Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she collapsed with a thud.
Blowing a newly loosened strand of hair, Avery stepped over the woman’s body, raced to the door and pressed the electronic lock. “Location secure.”
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Jarryd was leaning on the receptionist’s desk when he heard the lock; so did the receptionist. Perplexed, she spun in her chair and strode toward the door.
[Location secured. Delay. Give her time!]
“Hey!” he said, a little too loudly. “I have cancer!”
The receptionist stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes locked on his before glancing at the security guards behind. “What?”
“I…have cancer. Want to see?”
She was still frozen, halfway between her desk and the door. The only thing she could say was, “What?”
“Here. Look. Come here.”
She took a fragmented step in his direction. He raised his hand to his face. “See how big my hand is?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s bigger than my face.”
“Okay…”
The guards shifted on their feet – eyeing each other.
“So, I have cancer. It’s legit. All scientific.”
She laughed. “Oh, really?”
“Trust me,” he said, lingering on the words.
“Where’d you hear this?” she asked with a smirk, walking toward him with a glint in her eyes only the gloves could give.
He smiled, relieved that it had worked. “The Ball Cancer Awareness Society of America.”
“Ball cancer?”
He heard the guards snickering and turned to them. “Oh, you’re laughing now. What if you have it?”
SoulPatch huffed. “I don’t.”
“How do I know? Did you do the hand test?”
“I did the finger test.”
Jarryd laughed. “This is even more reliable. Put your hand up to your face. Just takes a second. I’ll tell you.”
SoulPatch looked to his buddy. His buddy looked back. With a shrug, SoulPatch put his hand up to his face.
Jarryd jumped and slapped the soldier’s hand into his own face. “Haha! You fell for it!” The others laughed, and Jarryd gave them high-fives, hoping the needles worked as they should.
SoulPatch had his eyes closed, breathing through his nose as if he were trying to wait out the humiliation – or hold back his revenge.
It hadn’t worked. Jarryd gulped, full of regret – as if he’d just slapped a Grizzly.
Jarryd took a step back, checking the exits. Over the balcony? Into the elevator? Or through the locked office door? None would work quick enough. And then there was the wristband that would do who knows what to him at any moment.
Finally SoulPatch opened his eyes and let out a deep chuckle.
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Emory paced through the banks of monitors, smiling and patting the operators’ shoulders. Everything was going flawlessly. In an hour, the now-bustling facility would be abandoned, their role in the victory nearly complete. It had been a phase he had been looking forward to for many years.
“Sir?”
Emory waited for the messenger to go on. When he didn’t, Emory sighed at the inefficiency, giving a snide motion for him to go on.
“Sir, our source in CENT-COM reports that Rubicon has contacted them. They say they have a way to stop the attack. They’re asking the Air Force to allow them over the swarms.”
Gleeful to solve a problem, Emory lowered the microphone from his earpiece to his mouth. The speakers bellowed his commands to the entire room. “It has come to our attention that there are Rubicon teams attempting to infiltrate our swarms from above. They’ll be hiding, but they are there. Find them. Kill them.”
Chapter 76
Sydney ran to Ankeny, concern woven on her face. “Is he okay?”
Ankeny pointed to Greyson’s monitor. “He’s running through the tunnels. Almost to the building.”
“The building? What building? Why?”
Ankeny crossed her arms, already impatient. “He’s going to the top of a skyscraper. When the drones come, he’ll jump off, intercept a drone, and complete the uplink.”
Sydney’s face cycled through a dozen emotions. When she settled on anger, she marched to the middle of the tent, shouting at Grover.
Ankeny smiled, listening in. But then she took the opportunity to enter the tent herself watching the video feeds going crazy. They were bouncing hard as the teams’ helicopters evaded the Air Force, trying to position themselves above the swarms. In one screen she caught a glimpse of one of the swarms – like a runner had taken a picture of a horde of hornets after kicking the nest.
“Mother…” Windsor gasped from Ankeny’s side. The others had joined her, scanning the screens. It was a wonder no one had kicked them out, but the commotion was already too great, and most everyone was too fixated on their screen to care who was behind.
“Did you see that?” Windsor asked.
Drake nodded his head. “God help us.”
Ankeny walked toward another screen as the image started spinning. Then it blinked to static. The soldier at the computer ripped his headset off, his lips pursed, holding off emotion. “We lost Team 4.”
Grover watched the static. “Who did it?”
The soldier replied. “Three of the swarm broke away. Then it happened too fast…”
Grover swore before moving to Murray, who was talking Avery through the hack, eyeing the clock out of the corner of his eye. Eight minutes… “Murray, if they know to look for our teams, they may review their vulnerabilities.”
Murray shook his head, holding back his “I told you so.”
Ankeny caught eyes with Sydney, who had given up her argument with Grover to watch Greyson’s monitor. She had wanted to know why he would allow Greyson to throw himself off a building, but it looked like she now understood – even though she wasn’t happy about it.
Another static screen. “Lost Team 6.”
Grover snarled. “Murray…”
“We’re working on it! There’s layers of encryption. The coding is…”
“Just get it done!
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[Avery, they’ll be on to us any minute now. We’re launching the assault for a distraction.]
She shot up from the screen. “Jarryd.”
[We’ll ge
t him, but I’ll need you to drop the firewall. It’ll give me access to their defenses.]
She glanced at the foreboding door, expecting it to open with a flood of guards and a barrage of bullets. But all she heard was laughter.
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The Redmond guards laughed as Jarryd pushed one on to the couch, giving his butt a slap for good measure. “There you go. You’re the man!”
“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome – but you got the hard part. Cross your arms and fall backward. Stay stiff as a board, light as a feather,” Jarryd instructed.
The guard did as he was told as Jarryd, two other guards, and the receptionist stood beside the couch with their arms ready to catch him as he fell backward.
“It’s the trust fall. You have to trust us to catch you,” he reminded.
“Okay. But I’m heavy. You sure you will…?”
“Do you trust me?” Jarryd asked. He’d shaken his hand and slapped him enough times that he hoped so.
“I guess.”
“Then do it.”
The soldier leaned backward and was about to fall when SoulPatch pulled away, “Hold on.” His hand went to his ear, listening to something.
A voice came in Jarryd’s ear at the same time. [You may be in danger.]
Jarryd eyed SoulPatch, a jolt of fear catching his breath as he felt at the wristband. He gave it an inconspicuous tug, expecting it to inject poison into his blood at any moment.
[We are about to launch the assault. If you can get in the office, do it.]
His eyes darted to the door. It was locked. Avery would have to open it from the inside. He eyed the balcony. The drop to the production floor was too far. The elevator would take too long.
The gun. His eyes stopped on the guard’s automatic rifle, leaning against the wall where he’d put it before stepping on the couch for the trust fall.
“What’s going on?” the guard asked, still on the couch.
Jarryd gulped at the lump in his throat, watching SoulPatch, trying to read his eyes. They latched on to Jarryd just as the lights went out.
PEEEEEWWWWW…
More and more lights clicked off. Emergency lights revved on, lighting the halls and restarting the receptionist’s computer. And the wristband popped open, falling from Jarryd’s wrist, thanks to Murray.
The guard jumped from the couch, walking toward the production area as row and row of fluorescent lights turned off, bathing the massive factory below in darkness. Jarryd followed for a few steps, getting a glimpse of the assembly lines – the drones hanging from robotic arms, workers with blowtorches suddenly turning off, emergency alarm lights twirling, bringing the whole machine-like operation to a close.
And then the roof exploded, collapsing inward like an avalanche. Light rushed in from the hole, so bright that they covered their eyes. And even before the debris had slammed the ground, six ropes dropped inside, a soldier zipping down on each one.
“CODE RED!” SoulPatch belted, racing toward the balcony. He turned to the others. “Secure this area! They’re going for Redmond’s terminal!”
And in the midst of the chaos, Jarryd saw the light click in SoulPatch’s brain. The office. The terminal. The girl.
Jarryd was scared, but the guard didn’t move. SoulPatch glared at him, eyeing the rifle in the boy’s arms.
“Don’t move,” Jarryd growled, pointing the gun at him. Am I really doing this? I am, aren’t I? No going back now. Do it right.
SoulPatch tapped at his device and they all turned to see Jarryd’s wristband vibrate on the carpet, useless.
Jarryd swiveled the barrel to the other soldiers, motioning them to the balcony as gunfire erupted in the production area. “Slow. Nothing stupid.”
The death glare he received from SoulPatch made it all the easier to back toward the door. He heard it open behind him.
“Jarryd!”
“Yeah, babe?” he asked, his eyes and trigger finger not wavering.
“Hurry!”
Jarryd barked at the receptionist. “You! Inside!”
The woman obeyed, scared to the point of tears. When she was past, Jarryd blew out air as if he were breathing into a paper bag. He saw the guards’ hands going toward sidearms, ready to make their move. He couldn’t let them.
Do it, Jarryd! Do it!
He opened fire at the carpet in a deafening salvo. The couch erupted in stuffing, providing just the cover Jarryd needed to slip inside the door and slam it shut, avoiding the returned fire.
THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK!
Jarryd’s heart pumped as hard as the bullets hit their bulletproof door. The pounding continued as Jarryd backed away. The wooden door shook on its hinges, beginning to give way. But just before it did, a heavy metallic door dropped from the ceiling – a blast shield built for times just as these.
[That should buy us a few minutes.]
Avery’s thin frame heaved with adrenaline; her hair had fallen out of place, her freckles backed by pale skin flushed red. But when Jarryd gave her a chin pump, she cracked a smile and ran to the desk, typing furiously.
Jarryd turned the gun toward the receptionist, but she had curled into a ball in the corner. Then there was Veranda sprawled awkwardly on the carpet. Finally a bit relieved, he took a small step toward the blast shield, listening to the explosions and gunfire on the other side. Faint shouts seemed so far, but he could hear just enough. Explosives. They were arming explosives.
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Greyson held his chest as he ran. He knew it had been bruised. Maybe he’d even broken a rib. It hurt to breathe. But it didn’t hurt enough to stop, so he just had to ignore it and fight through the pain. If Diablo could do it, so would he.
He took his arm away from his chest and tried to run normally, like the other soldiers in the tunnel. Those he had run past had given only cursory looks in his direction. None had stopped or asked any questions. Their minds were on their orders. They weren’t in the mindset of guarding the tunnels. This was their base, where they felt safe. And seeing a boy running through didn’t register as a threat. A peculiarity, for sure, but not a threat. Drones were a threat, and there weren’t any down here.
Troop carriers rumbled past, exiting into the light ahead, but Greyson swerved into the underground parking ramp where the command post had been set up – complete with banks of computers, maps, and thick cables. Luckily he didn’t have to pass it to reach his destination. The door to the stairway was on his left and he exited before he was spotted.
“In the stairway,” he said, catching his breath as the door clicked behind him. He craned his neck to see up the stairway. Seventy-two floors.
[Get to the elevators. You’d never make it up in time.]
“Roger,” he said, checking his map.
[Multiple bogies in the lobby. I’ll provide cover.]
Greyson eyed the blueprint, and his route appeared as a holographic line before him, climbing the stairs.
Diablo’s voice lost its rush. [Anyone who stands in our way is our enemy. Understand?]
Greyson raced up the stairs, nodding to himself. He knew what the soldier meant. They’d be military. Wearing U.S. uniforms. And if they tried to stop him, Diablo would have to shoot them. He stammered a reply, “R-roger.”
[Sometimes to defeat the black…]
You need to be Gray.
He didn’t slow down until he reached the door to the lobby. It had a window, so he paused to look through. His HUD tagged the Marines with red triangles. They were coming off the elevator across a long open stretch of beautiful carpet. A fountain, luggage carts, exquisite furniture, and potted plants stood between them. Other Marines stood at the revolving doors, unloading gear. They were evacuating themselves. They had the right idea.
But it hadn’t been fast enough.
RATATATATATATATATAT!
Gunfire erupted, downing the firs
t two Marines and shattering the glass walls facing the street. The others hollered orders and took cover, returning fire outside, where three men were firing inside. Greyson saw the epaulettes on their shoulders and swallowed his hate. Plurbs.
[Use the distraction. Go now.]
Greyson gripped the silver suitcase handle with one hand as his other shoved the door open; he barreled through, entering the fray.
Chapter 77
Mayhem. Frightening mayhem. Marines fired from the left to the street, Plurbs fired from the right, and everything exploded between them. Like God had decided to wipe them from existence, pots would suddenly blast apart, lights would crash from the ceiling, men would fall. But Greyson trusted Diablo – that he would get him through.
As Greyson ran, Diablo’s invisible lightning bolts struck around him, each one deadly, piercing, and silent – unless it came close enough to his ear to hear its whistle.
[Banister. Smoke.]
He slid behind the banister, fired a Magic Hate Ball, and switched to infrared. The red heat signatures were all around – more than he had known – hidden, firing over their cover. [Couch. Go.]
He chose his path, racing to the couch and jumping over. A Marine spotted him, peeked over his cover, and was struck by Diablo’s lightning.
[Elevators. Wait.]
He waited with little cover, bullets still whizzing every which way. But he heard the crack of Diablo’s rifle. Rhythmic. Steady. Triangles vanished from his HUD.
[Far one. Go.]
Greyson pushed up to a sprint, leaping a body, a suitcase, shattered pottery. He veered to the row of golden elevators. None were open. The tile floor was smooth, riddled with shell casings, but no soldiers were in sight.
He pumped his arms toward the last elevator at the edge of the building. But a door opened in front of him. Two Marines poured out, joining the battle, finding targets. One turned and found him. A target.
His slingshot was too slow. He hadn’t been ready. His muscles jerked taut and he slid to a stop as Diablo struck. The soldier was ripped from his feet, back into the elevator. Not a moment later, the other joined him, dropping his rifle next to his boots.
