I searched every drawer, under and inside the mattress, checked for loose floorboards—
Wait! Who did the woman say had paid for my room?
“Mr. Clemenza.”
Clemenza was a character in The Godfather, one of my favorite movies. As a prelude to one of the film’s major scenes, the fat capo Clemenza had hidden a gun in the men’s room of a restaurant where Michael Corleone could later find it and kill the bad guys who were after his father.
I entered the bathroom. Lifted up the lid that covered the tank—
The gun was sealed in a freezer storage bag, held in place at the bottom of the tank by a brick so that it wouldn’t interfere with the flush valve.
“Thank you, Mario Puzo.”
* * *
An hour later I exited the hotel, dressed in a tux that couldn’t have fit better if it was custom-made. Looming before me was Annecy Castle, the streets bumper-to-bumper with limousines.
Annecy Castle dates back to the eighth century, when the fortress was erected to guard the roadway linking Geneva to Italy. The structure had been destroyed by fire in 1340 and had been rebuilt several times, eventually becoming the medieval residence of the Dukes of Genevois-Nemours. War surrendered the castle to French garrisons and eventually to the governor of Annecy. The city took charge of the property in 1953, converting it into a museum, observatory, and rental for private galas.
I followed guests along a red carpet to a grand entrance guarded by MPs carrying M16s. Invitations were collected and exchanged for nametags. Female servers dressed in alluring red satin see-through negligees circulated with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
Famished, I filled a plate and ate as I took in the guests, startled to recognize many of their faces.
There were foreign diplomats and heads of state … a former CIA director, at least four retired congressmen, three senators, and two members of the Joint Chiefs who were now heavily involved in the military-industrial complex. There were CEOs galore, representing major banks and tech companies, oil oligarchs, and Saudi princes … and there was a colonel. White-haired and in his seventies, the scary-looking bastard was staring at me from across the room.
I took three strides in his direction and was intercepted by an American in his sixties, his head cleanly shaven, his gray goatee specked with crumbs.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I glanced at his nametag: R. Gibbons. “I came to find you.”
“Bastard. How much?”
“How much what?”
“Giselle and I trusted you and you sold me out … you sold out the planet!”
I grabbed him by the arm and led him down an empty corridor that harbored the restrooms. “Listen, pal, I can’t remember anything that happened last night. I woke up in the St. James Hotel in my birthday suit, sporting a typhoon of a headache.”
“You can’t remember anything?”
“Bits and pieces, but nothing from last night or from two days ago when apparently I was here and we met.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a small light attached. Aiming it at my left eye, he turned it on and off, checking my pupil’s response. “Fucking bastard; he used it on you.”
“Who used what on me?”
“Colonel Alexander … Dr. Death. I told you they possess electronic warfare systems, psychotronic devices that can cause you to submit to any command. You didn’t believe me.”
“Who is they, and what is this all about?”
“They is PI-40, formerly SECOR, formerly MAJESTIC-12. I’m a physicist, Dr. Robert Gibbons. Two months ago I completed a zero-point energy prototype.”
“Let me guess … it’s something that can power a car without gasoline.”
“Not just a car, Captain. We’re talking about a technology that essentially replaces jet engines, steamships, internal-combustion engines, gas, oil, public utilities, rockets, and paved roads—abundant, clean energy that never, ever runs out. In the aggregate, you’re talking about replacing several hundred trillion dollars of world activity; by comparison the entire U.S. budget is a mere three to four trillion dollars.”
“And you invented the device?”
“Yes and no. I invented the device, but we’ve had the technology since the mid-1950s. We could have wiped out poverty, hunger, disease, and prevented climate change, only a bunch of rich oil oligarchs, bankers, and warmongers refused to allow us to implement the technology. Giselle provided one of the prototypes to the Jordanian energy minister, Mr. bin Rashidi—”
“Whoa, hold on. I thought bin Rashidi was a Saudi? He was buying Syrian oil from ISIS and selling it to the West.”
“That is what you were programmed to think. Giselle works for Mossad, the Israelis and Jordanians were working together to—”
He was cut off by a loud gong, the castle tower clock striking the hour, unleashing the first of nine bells.
Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls … it tolls for humanity.
A set of massive ancient doors opened, releasing the tide of guests into the courtyard.
“We have to go!” Before I could stop him he darted back to the main room and was swallowed by the crowd.
Pushing my way after him, I followed the throng outside.
The courtyard stage resembled something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Towering over a wooded clearing was a forty-five-foot-tall statue of an owl. As the ninth gong tolled, a dozen men cloaked in dark brown robes gathered around an unlit ten-foot-tall tepee configuration of sticks, branches, and logs.
For several minutes they pretended to struggle to ignite the bonfire while a voice addressed the crowd over a sound system, alternating every few lines in English, French, and German.
“The opening ceremony begins with the sacrifice of the human symbol known as ‘Dull Care,’ which represents the burdens and responsibilities of you, our world leaders. Help us to ignite the bonfire by praying to Moloch. Join us now, brothers and sisters!”
“Moloch … Moloch … Moloch … Moloch…”
The chanting grew louder as a human effigy was lowered from above.
I glanced over the shoulder of a woman standing in front of me as she Googled Moloch.
MOLOCH: A Canaanite deity worshipped through the sacrifice of children.
Sweet Jesus … I’m surrounded by a bunch of Satan worshippers.…
Wild applause broke out as an aura of light appeared around the pagan statue’s head. With a metallic screech an electrical charge shot out of the giant owl’s mouth and down an unseen wire to the gasoline-soaked pile of wood.
With a whoosh the pyre ignited, accompanied by the haunting sound of human cries blasting over the PA as the human effigy burned and the sick bastards cheered—
Only it wasn’t an effigy … it was Robert Gibbons.
* * *
“Where’s the car, Cowboy?”
Female … European accent. Hot breath in my ear. The stench of expensive vodka and tobacco.
“Come on, big guy. Don’t go limp on me now … on me now … me now…”
The ceiling spun, my brain on fire as I attempted to keep the psychotronic wave of energy from dragging my soul out of my body.
Let me die!
“Shut that damn thing off; it’s like an oven in here.”
The wave disappeared, my soul easing back into my physicality.
I opened my eyes. I was bare-chested and drenched in sweat, seated on one of the wicker chairs in Room 4 of the bed-and-breakfast. I was neither bound nor gagged—my arms hanging limp by my side. Try as I might, I couldn’t move or speak.
The device was situated in a metal attaché on the desk to my left, its disk-shaped antenna aimed at my eye. Even powered down, it was giving off tremendous amounts of heat, turning the bedroom into a sauna.
The white-haired colonel was seated behind me, attaching electrodes to my chest.
Giselle appeared on my right. Her red satin bra and matching thong were moist
with sweat. “The colonel is attaching a lie detector. Your voice box should reengage any minute.” She moved closer, licking the sweat off my neck. “You wanted me last night … I know you did … just like you want me now.”
Her hand slid up my inner thigh, initiating a primal reflex that caused the tuxedo’s pants to rise. “Funny how the first nerve endings to regain their impulses are the sex organs.” After reaching into her purse, Giselle removed another 9mm Glock, this one with a silencer attached. She chambered a round and placed the gun on the desktop to my left.
Then she removed her thong and bra and straddled me.
“I’ll make you a deal, Cowboy. Tell us where the car is … and I’ll unzip your pants and fuck you silly before I put a bullet in your brain.”
My erection had a will of its own, fighting to free itself while my arms hung limp by my sides. Giselle was intoxicating and I absorbed her with all of my senses, inhaling her pheromones, staring at her womanhood—the sight and scent and touch of the high-priced whore doubling my heart rate, quickening my recovery.
“Agreed,” I said, clearing my throat, my mind racing to keep the conversation going, fighting to buy time. “First tell me … why? Why keep this energy system from the rest of the world?”
“Why? Because free, clean energy would completely even the global playing field. Big Oil would go belly-up, wiping out the banks. The stock market would collapse … there’d be chaos. And for what? So a bunch of Third World countries can have sewage plants? A society where everyone is rich doesn’t work, Cowboy. Equality and peace undermine evolution; we are who we are because of the law of the jungle. If you make everyone a predator, society would stagnate.”
The trigger finger of my right hand twitched. “Point taken. Who the hell wants peace when we can spend eternity fighting the War on Terror.”
“War is profitable, which is why we encourage it.”
“Enough!” the colonel barked. “Gibbons is dead; all we need is the car.”
I felt pins and needles as sensation slowly returned to my body. “You’re right about one thing, Giselle, I do want you. Send grandpa on his way and let’s do this.”
“First the car.”
“Parking lot … two canals to the south. Third floor … near the east stairwell.”
Giselle turned to the colonel. “Well?”
“He’s telling the truth.” Quickly and methodically, the white-haired sociopath detached the lie detector, then packed it in the metal attaché along with the psychotronic device. “Are you coming?”
“You go. The captain and I have unfinished business.”
“You searched him for weapons?”
“The nine-millimeter was found in the laundry cart, along with a clip of blanks. But if it comforts you—” She ran her hands across my bare, sweaty chest, wiping them along the inside of both pant legs. “You may be right; he’s definitely packing something.”
The old man rolled his eyes and left.
Giselle kissed me on the lips, her flitting tongue tasting of booze and tobacco. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? I know you’re stalling, attempting to regain control of your muscles before I kill you. So we’ll have a contest—I won’t shoot you until you come inside me.” She reached between her legs, unzipping my pants. “First one to shoot … loses. How long do you think you can hold out, Cowboy?”
I moaned as she reached inside my open fly and beneath my boxer shorts, her left hand working to free me—
—as the fingers of my right hand walked down my right calf muscle to the elastic holster holding the gun strapped around my ankle.
“You ready, Cowboy?” She rose up to guide my traitorous genitals inside her—suddenly noticing the gun quivering in my right hand.
“Shit.” She lunged for the 9mm as I blindly squeezed off three shots, the handgun barely a foot off the floor.
The first bullet struck the ceiling, blasting a six-inch divot in the ancient plaster.
The second whizzed past my head.
The third spun her around as it punched a hole in her right scapula.
She looked at me and laughed, the 9mm clutched in her right hand, her arm no longer able to lift it. “You shot first.”
“Guess I lose.”
She coughed up a wad of blood as we both struggled to raise our weapons, Giselle reaching around with her left hand as I rolled forward off the chair and onto the floor, gaining the critical leverage I needed to get off one quick shot—
It was high and wide, but she spun into its path, the lead missile splattering bone as it jerked her head backward, her shattered skull spitting out gray matter. The Glock flailed wildly in her lifeless left hand, its bullets tearing into the sunshine-orange wall behind the bed.
For several minutes I remained on my back, gathering strength. Finally I crawled to the bathroom on my hands and knees, the effort gradually reducing the molten-lead feeling in my bloodstream. Pulling myself using the sink, I ran the cold water and rinsed Giselle’s taste from my mouth. When I was through I staggered to the toilet, lifted the lid off the tank, and flushed, draining the water so I could remove the brick, exposing the plastic freezer bag.
“Assholes … you can keep the damn car.”
I dressed as quickly as my muscles would allow, making sure I wiped my prints from the revolver before leaving it behind—a lesson Clemenza had taught Michael Corleone on the eve of his battle.
For a long moment, I stared at the zero-point energy device—a precious seed that could alter humanity … if it could be nurtured and protected. Until then it was simply a honey pot, its enemies legion, its possession placing a target on my back.
Shoving it in my pants pocket, I gathered my belongings and left.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steve Alten is a New York Times and international bestselling author of sixteen thrillers, including the MEG series, which was green-lit by Warner Bros. (March 2018 release) starring Jason Statham and Ruby Rose. He is also the founder and director of Adopt-an-Author, a free nationwide reading program for high school teachers. Steve can be reached through his website at www.stevealten.com.
* * *
EDITORS’ NOTE: This story takes place after the events of Patient Zero. It is a sequel to the short story “Deep Dark,” and as such contains some spoilers for that story, but otherwise it can be enjoyed as an independent adventure.
* * *
CONFUSION
BY NICHOLAS STEVEN
BELOW PAR
TOP-SECRET RESEARCH FACILITY
CONRAD, MONTANA
_______________
“You sure we’re in the right place?” Top asked, looking around.
Aside from the ruins of the partially constructed Perimeter Acquisition Radar (PAR) site in the middle of nowhere, Montana, there was nothing but barren fields for miles. Not exactly my first guess for a terrorist target, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about any collateral civilian casualties if things got messy.
The situation reminded me of our recent mission in Pennsylvania. “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re smarter than the average bear,” Bunny said.
“You’re mixing up your Yogi quotes there, Staff Sergeant.”
“No way, those were both Yogi Bear quotes.”
Top rolled his eyes. “You quoted Yogi Bear, Cap quoted Yogi Berra.”
Bunny shrugged his massive shoulders in a What’s the difference? gesture. “That just sounded like you said Yogi Bear with a Super Mario accent: ‘It’s a me, Yogi Bear-ah.’” When Top and I didn’t humor him with a laugh, he said, “Seriously, there’s a real person named Yogi Berra?”
I exercised a lot of self-restraint not to smack him upside his head. A lot. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”
“What?”
“He’s one of the greatest catchers in baseball history. How can you not have heard of him?”
“It’s un-American is what it is,” Top chimed in. I cou
ldn’t have agreed more.
“When’d he play?”
“From 1946 to ’65.”
“Dude’s almost as ancient as Top—no wonder I never heard of him.”
I chuckled at that. Being the oldest field operative in the Department of Military Sciences at forty-one, First Sergeant Bradley Sims was often the recipient of old-man taunts, just as Staff Sergeant Harvey Rabbit had to put up with little-kid jests and carrot jokes.
My momentary good mood soured when I saw who was waiting to greet us at the entrance to the top-secret underground government facility. The whole reason this felt like déjà vu was that just a few weeks ago we’d been called out to a suspected terrorist infiltration of an ultra-high-security biological research facility in the Poconos. Only this time we were at the supposedly abandoned PAR site. From a quick scan of the mission brief, I’d gathered that the Perimeter Acquisition Radar was intended to detect incoming ballistic missile warheads as they crossed the North Pole region, then the info would’ve been sent off to the Aerospace Defense Command. At only 10 percent complete, construction was halted because of the ratification of the SALT I Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty in 1972. Either that, or they figured Santa’s sleigh runs would set off too many false alarms.
Or perhaps the whole thing had just been a smoke screen for building the underground base that now apparently had a terrorist problem. And by “apparently” I mean “that’s the lie we were fed to get us out here,” because the reason the security guard smiling and waving at us like an idiot intensified the disquieting feeling of déjà vu cooling my blood was that he’d been there in Pennsylvania.
I had a very bad feeling about this.
Yeah, I came here to face an unknown force of terrorists and only now was I getting a bad feeling in my gut. That’s because last time I saw Lars Halverson, we came up against something much worse than terrorists. Welcome to my world.
“Man, am I glad to see you guys,” the security guard said.
“Hey, aren’t you the head of security from the Vault?” Bunny asked.
Halverson grinned. “Guilty as charged. ‘I do one thing at a time, I do it very well, and then I move on.’”
Joe Ledger: Unstoppable Page 3
