Agent Dubov spoke now. “The man you see on the screen is Dr. Jonathan Fairbanks, a very talented geneticist, for his time.”
As he spoke, the image on the screen changed. On the right side, it still showed the security footage and the man staring up at the camera, but on the left side there was now a color photograph of the man’s ID badge.
Dubov said, “Fairbanks was recruited by Reah Labs to genetically engineer anomalies. Twenty years ago, for the first and only time, his process worked. Then this happened.”
Agent Morris picked up the story. “For security reasons, everything at the Davenport facility was segmented, just like here at Blaney. There was no central computer server. It was all self-contained in that room—on those two computers. When Fairbanks left, he took it all. He got the files, stole the embryos, wiped both of the computers with a virus, and killed the only other man who knew how to make it all work. Then he walked out the front door and never came back. Needless to say, all our efforts to find the good doctor have proven a dead end.”
“Until two weeks ago,” Hayden interrupted. “That’s when we identified a new Anom in Philadelphia. Thanks to DNA protocols, we know that subject, code name G-Force, is a direct descended match to the DNA of Dr. Jonathan Fairbanks.”
Colonel McCann shifted in his seat. “What are you trying to say, Hayden?”
“I’m saying we’ve found one of our missing embryos, Colonel. G-Force is a real-life, test tube-born Anom. And even better, we’ve found our missing doctor.”
The image on screen changed again. Now the picture on the right, the paused black and white video, changed to a stock photograph of Dr. Jonathan Cross. Side by side with the picture of Fairbanks, the two likenesses were uncanny. Dr. Cross was older, heavier, and grayer on top, but otherwise the two men were the same.
McCann interrupted again, “But Dr. Cross died in the Philadelphia Hospital Bombings last summer. He’s dead.”
“We already know that, Colonel,” Dubov snapped.
Ellison could feel his shoulders tighten. At least when Hayden addressed the colonel he had enough common sense to feign the respect that McCann’s rank deserved. It was clear Dubov would afford the colonel no such courtesy.
The bald-headed man closed his eyes and gathered himself, clicking his hooks together as if he were strumming his fingers. “How can I put this? The man, Fairbanks or Cross—whatever you want to call him, walked out of a government-sponsored research facility with highly classified information. Then he disappeared without a trace for the next twenty years. You think he may have had help?”
Morris picked up, “Trust us, Colonel. That research—hell, maybe even the other embryos—they’re stored away somewhere safe and sound. We intend on finding them.”
Ellison was on his feet. “You’re insane—all of you.”
“That’s enough, Stuart. Sit down,” McCann hissed from across the table.
Ellison ignored him; he turned instead to Hayden, “Tell the truth. You don’t care about the doctor. You want his research.”
Hayden reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes, “That’s right. We said as much already.”
“Now tell him the rest. Tell him what you want it for. You want to grow a whole army of Anoms. You can admit that much, right?”
Hayden pulled one of the cigarettes and lit the end; he took a deep drag and then peeled it from his mouth, “Of course that’s what we want. You saw what just one of those things could do in Chicago. Having a whole army of ‘em sounds pretty good to me. Now listen to the colonel and sit down, Stuart.”
Ellison turned to face McCann. “You heard that, sir. You heard what they want. They’re not talking about using Anoms as a shield—they’re not even the sword—they’re the barbarians at our gate. If you can’t see that, Colonel, then it’s already too late.”
There was no answer—only silence.
Ellison looked back at Hayden and then he turned for the door.
McCann called after him, “Stuart, where are you going?”
Ellison wheeled around. “I have another briefing, sir, and I’m already late.”
He didn’t wait for the colonel’s answer. It didn’t matter. McCann’s authority was gone. Ellison turned and left the room.
Epilogue
Nakata Hiroshi rode quietly in the back of the luxury sedan, staring out the window. He was surprised by how normal it all felt. The gray leather interior, the muffled noise of the traffic around him, the familiar sights of Tokyo passing by the window, even the half-empty water bottle he clutched in his hands—it all worked together to create something incredibly ordinary.
Nakata wondered if all abductees felt so calm in the moment, or was this sensation particular to him? He would have to remember the juxtaposition of fear and boredom when he wrote his story—if he lived to write it at all.
The car slowed and came to a stop at a red light. For a brief second, Nakata considered jumping from the car. Then he looked to his right, and he thought the large man in the dark suit and sunglasses might take exception to his early exit from the vehicle. If not, the driver or the man next to him in the passenger seat would certainly intervene. No, it was better to stay in the car and play the part of the journalist. Besides, they wanted him for a reason. He would be safe, for now.
The light changed and the car started moving again.
Most of the day had been like any other for Nakata. He spent his morning at his desk at the Yomiuri Shimbun working on an article. He wondered now if that was what kept him so calm—because the day had started so normal. Every day is normal until it’s not. Nakata took a drink from his water bottle. He would have to remember that line for his story.
The car turned to the right. They were starting over the Rainbow Bridge across the bay, the familiar white towers and cables looming ahead through the windshield and the white skyline of Tokyo beyond. Were they taking him back to Yomiuri already? Then Nakata uncovered a new feeling: disappointment. He wanted to see this through, no matter what.
For Nakata Hiroshi, the normal part of his day ended after three in the afternoon. That’s when his editor at Yomiuri Shimbun called him into his office. The newspaper had received a telephone call from a man requesting an interview. He claimed to be a former member of the Ryoku terrorist organization, and he wanted to share his story. He asked for Nakata by name, and said to meet at the southeast corner of Toyosu Park. His editor gave him a choice. Nakata agreed to go.
He had been waiting at the steps to the park for almost an hour when the black sedan pulled up and the man in the dark suit climbed out. He ushered Nakata into the backseat of the car and closed the door behind them both. Then the car pulled away. That was when Nakata felt most nervous.
He tried to ask questions at first: Where were they going? Who were they working for? Did they mean to harm him? Not one of the three men would answer. At least the man in the back had offered him the water. Nakata remembered thinking then, How bad could they be?
The car turned left. They were moving slower now—off the major highways. Nakata didn’t know anymore where, exactly, they were. His best guess was in Minato, somewhere near the water. He could see a low warehouse rising up on the right side of the car, and out of his own window, on his left, there was an industrial complex with gray metal storage tanks and rows of cement-mixer trucks parked along the street.
They stopped. The road was at its end. Out the windshield, Nakata could see the blue waters of Tokyo Bay and the white steel of the Rainbow Bridge rising in the distance, and standing immediately in front of the car, he saw a man.
The man was young, in his early thirties maybe, with long, dark hair gathered behind him in a loose ponytail. He wore a white dress shirt, un-tucked, and black pants. In his hand he held a folded newspaper.
Nakata turned to the man in the suit sitting next to him. “Who is that?”
The man didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his door, stepped out, and walked around to open the door for N
akata. Nakata followed his lead and stepped out as well, facing the man in the white shirt. Now he was nervous again.
The white-shirted man spoke in perfect English. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hiroshi. Thank you for coming.”
Nakata’s face twisted. “You’re an American?”
The man in the shirt laughed. “So I am. But I’m also Japanese.” He leaned closer to Nakata, as if he were about to share a secret. “If you don’t look close enough, you miss it. Two names—two labels—each one different, but they’re still connected.”
Nakata was even more confused now than before, but for the moment, that uncertainty replaced his fear; more than anything, he wanted answers. “Who are you?”
The man in the shirt smiled again. “This way, Mr. Hiroshi.”
He turned and walked through an open gate leading to the property of the warehouse. Nakata followed. The man in the dark suit who rode in the car trailed behind them. He closed the gate and kept his distance.
The man in the white shirt spoke again. “My name is Kaito Yoshida. Does that mean anything to you?”
Nakata’s mind raced. Of course the name meant something. Kaito Yoshida was the known leader of the Ryoku terrorist organization. He was dangerous, ruthless, and a wanted man. He claimed responsibility for more than a dozen attacks over the last three years and countless other murders across south Asia. To his men, Yoshida was known as the Shogun. To everyone else, he was Yoshida the Khan—like his namesake—a new butcher to be feared above all others.
Nakata nervously shook his head. “I’m sorry. I—I don’t know that name.”
“I’m surprised. Some believe I’m the leader of the Ryoku.”
“Please, don’t.” Nakata suddenly fell down to his knees. There was no longer any room for curiosity or false bravado. Nakata didn’t want any more answers; he wanted to live. He raised his hands in protest as the tears burned his eyes. “I don’t know anything. I swear. Someone called the paper. They gave no name. Hurting me now won’t help me remember what I don’t already know.”
“Nakata, Nakata.” Kaito’s voice was calm. He reached down for Nakata’s hand and raised him back to his feet, looking the man over. “I’m sorry. That was rude. May I call you Nakata?”
Nakata nodded vigorously as he wiped the back of his sleeve across the snot dripping from his nose.
Kaito laughed. “I’m the one who called the paper, Nakata. I’m the one who wanted to meet. I’m sorry about the car and the secrets. I hope they didn’t give you the wrong idea about what this was. I did it for your own protection—to protect us both, really.”
So he wasn’t going to die then—at least not yet. Nakata rubbed his hands across his face and tried to regain some semblance of composure. He had to think. If Yoshida wasn’t going to kill him on the spot, he would need to write a story about this—but what could he say? What would Yoshida allow him to say? The curiosity returned.
“Why? I mean, why would you ask me to come here?”
“I’ve read your work, Nakata—several pieces actually—but your article on the recent events in America was exceptionally well-written. Your style is very…present. I enjoy it.”
Kaito handed the folded newspaper across to Nakata. It was an issue of the Yomiuri, less than a week old. Nakata remembered it. He opened to the inside front page and saw his article on Chicago. It was an editorial titled, What Now: The Rise of New Biological Weapons in the West.
Kaito spoke again. “I did have one question. Your article—it begins with an assumption that you never really prove. You believe these—let’s call them genetic anomalies—are manufactured by the West. You call them unnatural. Why is that? Where’s your proof?”
Now it was Nakata’s turn to laugh. “Of course they’re manufactured. How else would you explain—”
“But there are stories from all over the world—folktales and legends. Hercules, for example. Or Samson? Take for instance the Japanese story of Kintaro. Why couldn’t any of these be a genetic anomaly?”
“I’m afraid they’re called stories for a reason, Mr. Yoshida.”
Then Kaito Yoshida was no longer smiling. Instead his face was hard—angry. Nakata’s legs felt weak, as if he might fall to his knees again, but there was no sense of panic like before. It was a different feeling now—somehow more certain.
Kaito stepped back without speaking a word. He looked to the sky and raised both his hands high above his head, his fingers outstretched, straining for the air. Then Kaito swept his hands around in a quick circle, and as they came together, a black sphere appeared between them. It looked to Nakata like a cannonball.
Kaito spoke again. “It’s solid air, Nakata. That’s the best I can say to describe it. I don’t know—I don’t know how else to say it. Here, touch for yourself.” Kaito held out the sphere in his right hand. Nakata poked at it with his finger. It felt cold, and hard—solid and smooth like metal. Then Kaito closed his hand, and the cannonball turned to black water, rushing between his fingers, but before it could splash to the ground, even the water was gone—evaporated again into the air.
Nakata laughed in spite of himself. “It must be a trick.”
“It’s my ability, Mr. Hiroshi. It’s my gift, and it is my burden. I can change the state of matter, because I am a genetic anomaly, just like the man in Chicago. And that’s what you missed.”
Nakata felt his stomach twist. “What? What did I miss?”
Kaito leaned forward again with another secret. “That we’re all connected.”
Nakata shook his head, “I-I don’t understand. What is it you want from me?”
Then, as quickly as his attitude changed before, Kaito was smiling again. “I only want you to watch, Mr. Hiroshi. I want you to watch, and I want you to write what you see. That’s all.”
Kaito turned and gave a nod to his man in the suit. The man stepped forward, and Nakata understood he was meant to stay behind even as Kaito Yoshida walked away.
Nakata stepped closer to the man in the suit. “Will someone be taking me back to the paper then?”
The man in the suit didn’t answer, and Nakata didn’t bother to ask again.
Instead he turned back to face Tokyo Bay. He had to focus now. He had to remember it all. Such was the burden when a reporter foregoes a recording, but not even Nakata was dumb enough to try and tape a meeting with the Ryoku—let alone a face-to-face with Yoshida the Khan. He would have to write it all down as soon as he got back to Yomiuri. Everything Kaito said. Everything he did. Or…at least most of what he said and did.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hiroshi.” It was the man in the dark suit. It was the first he had spoken since he offered the bottle of water.
Nakata turned, “Is it time to go?”
“The Shogun asked for your attention.” The man in the suit pointed, past Nakata’s shoulder, out toward Tokyo Bay and the Rainbow Bridge.
Nakata turned just in time. He saw the tower on the Rainbow Bridge suddenly warp and fall away. It looked like someone was holding an ice cube under the faucet as sheets of milky white water fell from the steel tower into the bay. Nakata could hear the sick groans of twisting metal from where he stood. Then the suspension cable collapsed to the road’s surface, and the other side of the tower twisted away. Then the second tower on the left pitched forward, the steel buckling under the stress. For a second, the road still floated in mid-air over the water—held up as if by magic—but then it fell away. It all happened so fast—in a single breath—but for Nakata he could see it all unfolding: the cars dropping in slow motion, the roadway breaking apart like shattered glass, and the towers crashing down sideways through the water.
Nakata saw everything, and all he could do was watch.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my beautiful and brilliant wife Vanessa and our two wonderful children, Aidan and Fiona, for their love and patience over the last two and half years as I’ve worked on my novel.
I also want to thank my family and friends for their unending sup
port and encouragement as I’ve chased my dream. I especially thank my mom and dad, my sister Courtney and her husband Doug, my in-laws (Ray, Joyce, Whitney, and Joe), my Uncle Tommy and Aunt Vicky. There are simply too many others to name here.
I’m especially thankful for my brother Michael who provided so much of the inspiration for this book.
I’m also eternally grateful to my trusted team of “Beta Readers” and advisors. They include my wife Vanessa, my sister-in-law Nan, my brother Michael, and my dearest friends: Curtis Homan, George DeVol, and Michael Morgan.
Thank you to Liam Carnahan and the team at Invisible Ink Editing for polishing my rusty prose. Thank you to Andreea Vraciu for designing a brilliant cover for my debut novel. And a special thank you to my friend Kristy Straub and Syllipsi Photo for the great photographs they took for my website.
For more information about my writing and future installments in the ANOM series, please check out my website at:
www.jasonrjames.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1) Page 25
