The popping of jointed appendages snapped him from the fantasy. The Variants were moving in the shadows of the houses behind them. Some climbed onto roofs, watching his every action like gargoyles. In the sky to the east, low storm clouds rolled over Atlanta, blocking the glow of the moon. Darkness stretched across the landscape.
A howl sounded in the distance, halting Scabs and Frankie mid-stride. They both scanned the street, the sudden noise prompting fear in both men.
“What is it?” Garcia whispered.
Another shriek answered the first.
Frankie’s eyes widened with panic. “Others,” he whispered.
“Beasts,” Scabs said. “A rival group. Hunting. Usually they don’t come this far.”
A cloud of fatigue clamped down on Garcia, and it took him a bit longer than it should have to understand. Exposed and in the open, he hunched next to the closest car and gestured for the men to do the same.
“They’ve never come this far,” Scabs whispered. “They fear the White King.”
He continued talking to himself, but Garcia was hardly paying attention. In the brief pause between shrieks, there was another sound. Faint but sharp, the whistle sent a wave of adrenaline through Garcia. He scrambled on all fours to the bumper of the car and looked south just as the head of a Variant exploded on a rooftop. The body slumped over the side of the chimney and slid down the roof, leaving a wake of gore.
Unheard and unseen, the Variant Hunters were doing what they did best. He wondered how many Variants had made no sound at all as the 5.56 rounds ended their miserable lives.
“Is that fucking gunfire?” Scabs whispered.
Still on his knees, Garcia reached for his switchblade and pulled it from his pocket, using his body to shield the motion from Scabs. He clicked the button and the blade popped out just as a dreadful howl filled the night. His heart was thumping, but not from fear. This was the thrill that came from excitement and adrenaline.
Another torrent of suppressed shots streaked down the street.
Scabs looked over the hood of the car. “What the hell is that sound?”
Clenching his hand around the knife, Garcia gritted his teeth and said, “Death.”
When he spun to stick the man, Scabs was already holding his neck, his face hidden in Frankie’s shadow. Garbled, choking sounds broke from Scabs’ lips.
“Die, you fuck,” Frankie whispered, his wild eyes flitting from Scabs to the bloody screwdriver he held in his hands.
Crimson streamed between Scabs’ fingers, running down his wrists and soiling his chest. He fell to his back, legs kicking, as he choked on his own blood.
The whistle of gunfire continued. Frankie dropped the screwdriver to the ground. It clanked on the concrete next to Scabs’ body. He glared at Garcia and said, “Those your men?”
Shocked but comprehending, Garcia nodded.
Frankie had suddenly transformed back into a soldier. Had he been playing along all this time? Waiting for an opportunity to strike and escape, just like Garcia had been?
“Get out of here,” Frankie said.
“I can’t leave without Stevo.”
Frankie grunted. “The Marine we left down there? He’s already dead. From the moment we left the lair.”
“No,” Garcia whispered. “But...”
“But what? You think those fucking things have any sense of honor? Fuck, man, the White King is no more trustworthy than this piece of shit.” Frankie looked back at Scabs before turning to the Variants advancing toward the car. “I’m sorry, but your friend is dead. And you will be too, if you don’t run. Come on,” he said, shooing Garcia away with a hand. “Get out of here while you still can.”
Scabs writhed on the ground, still fighting for life. Garcia wasn’t even slightly bothered by the satisfaction he felt from the sight.
“What about you?” Garcia asked.
“I’ll distract the others.” Frankie paused, his eyes unfocusing into a vacant stare. “I don’t deserve to leave this city.” There was regret in his voice, and Garcia suspected it wasn’t because of what he was about to do, but rather what he had done over the past month.
Five more suppressed shots whizzed over the street. Five more Variants crashed to the ground.
Garcia held Frankie’s gaze for a single moment, then looked at Scabs one last time. His breaths were shallow and short. He wouldn’t live much longer. Garcia prayed the Variants got to him before he took his last gasp.
“I said GO!” Frankie shouted.
Garcia didn’t hesitate a second more. He jumped to his feet and ran toward the sound of gunfire. He was finally leaving Atlanta, but he was leaving without Stevo. The cross on his arm would now be complete. The Variant Hunters had lost another member, but Stevo’s death hadn’t been for nothing. The intel Garcia carried in his camera and his brain was about to change everything Central Command thought they knew about the monsters.
The pounding on the hatch came at 0400, but Beckham wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t sure he’d slept at all since Kate told him he was going to be a father. The hammering on steel echoed his already racing heart.
“Who’s that?” Kate mumbled groggily. “I don’t know who it is, but they better have a damn good reason for waking you up. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
Apollo sat up, growling at the hatch.
“It’s okay boy,” Beckham said. He patted the dog’s coat on his way across the small quarters.
“Beckham, open up,” Chow said from the passage outside.
Beckham walked over to the hatch and pushed it open.
“Hey,” Chow said. He crossed his arms and squinted at the darkness. Horn was standing with his back to the bulkhead, still half asleep.
“What’s wrong?” Beckham asked.
“Lieutenant Davis wants us to report to Command, ASAP,” Chow said.
“What for?” Beckham hadn’t met Davis yet, and wondered why she would wake them at this hour.
“Didn’t say.”
Beckham pivoted back into the room and walked to the bed. “Got to go, Kate. I’ll be back in a bit.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
She sat up and reached for him. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“To the CIC.”
“Should I come?” She craned her head to see into the passage.
“No, you need to get your rest.” He kissed her on the lips, then joined his men outside.
Horn and Chow waved at Kate. Beckham went to close the hatch behind him, but Apollo tried to sneak out. “You got to stay too, boy. Keep an eye on the lady.”
Letting out a low whine, Apollo sat on his hind legs and Beckham shut the hatch.
The Delta Operators walked through the ship in silence. Beckham desperately wanted to tell Horn and Chow the news, but this wasn’t the place or the time. Five minutes later, they entered the CIC. Despite the hour, the space was a beehive of activity, and the officers on duty watched their screens like hawks stalking prey. A lean woman with cool blue eyes and a sharp jawline met them at the entrance.
“I’m Lieutenant Davis,” she said. “We’re about to get started.”
Beckham followed her into a room with a large conference table covered with maps. It was standing room only. At the head of the table was Vice President Johnson. To his right were Lieutenant Rowe and Captain Rick Humphrey.
Unaware of Team Ghost’s presence, Johnson continued studying a map as Humphrey pointed at several locations. Beckham used the moment to scan the crowded room. Most were officers and subordinate commanders, but there were four bearded Navy Seals and three Marines, who, like Team Ghost, looked out of place. The Marines had on fresh fatigues, but the grime and hard looks they wore meant they had just gotten back from the field.
One of the men stood out more than the others. The Marine sported a thick mustache, sharp brown eyes, and a freshly broken nose. He was flanked by a buff dark-skinned man on his right and a Marine with olive skin and a mustache on his left. Typically, enlist
ed personnel weren’t invited to an ad-hoc mission briefing, but normal protocol had gone out the door long before they’d lost Operation Liberty. The odd assembly of men at the late hour could mean only one thing: There had been a major development on the battlefield, and the soldiers in this room would be dealing with the aftermath.
Lieutenant Davis shut the hatch, sealing the room. The murmurings between the soldiers dwindled, and every back in the room straightened. Beckham pushed thoughts of Kate and everything else out of his mind, preparing himself for whatever had prompted the early morning meeting.
Johnson spoke abruptly. “Listen up, everyone, this briefing is completely confidential. Nothing leaves this space. Got it?”
He didn’t want for a response. Instead, he regarded the Marine with the broken nose. “At 0100 hours, Sergeant Garcia and his recon team returned from a two-day stint in Atlanta. Long story short, they discovered something big.”
The weight of the words was amplified by Johnson’s urgent tone. His friendly demeanor from Plum Island was completely gone. Vice President Johnson was all soldier now.
“As many of you know, there have been reports trickling in from around the world about the development of the Variants. From breeding to...” Johnson paused to search for the right word. “Communication.”
Beckham fidgeted as he flashed back to the Variants Team Ghost had encountered in battle over the past five weeks. There was the beast at Fort Bragg that had seemed to be leading the ambush, and there were the monsters in New York that had displayed higher intelligence. He wanted to ask why Kate hadn’t been invited to the meeting, given the subject. The military was represented well in the room, but where were the scientists?
“In this case, video speaks louder than any words, but first I’ll let Sergeant Garcia brief you all,” Johnson said. He offered a short nod to the Marine with the broken nose.
Garcia grimaced as he leaned slightly and shifted his weight. Apparently his face wasn’t the only injury he had sustained in Atlanta.
“As Vice President Johnson already said, my team returned from Atlanta at 0100. We were there to recon breeding habits of the Variants. Following intel, we set up position at Turner Field. This is what we saw.”
Davis shut off the lights and switched on the projector. Every body in the room turned to the bulkhead with the wall-mounted screen. An aerial video of Turner Field emerged. On screen, there was a blur of motion behind home plate. Hundreds of Variants streamed out of the concourses. A few minutes later, a human survivor crawled across the overgrown grass toward the pitcher’s mound. Several smaller Variants circled the man. There was nothing overly disturbing about the video—nothing Beckham hadn’t seen already.
“What are we looking at, Sergeant?” Johnson asked.
Garcia ran a finger over his mustache, back and forth. In a matter-of-fact tone voice, he said, “The next phase of the Variant’s evolution, sir.”
This time Beckham raised a brow. He squinted, trying to get a better view of the video, but Garcia’s camera had been too far out to see much.
“Those children aren’t what they look like,” Garcia said. “They aren’t human kids turned into monsters. They are monsters born from monsters.”
Beckham’s heart flipped in his chest. Kate had mentioned the creatures were breeding, but this was the first time he had seen one of the juveniles.
“The offspring are born with scaly skin, which seems to develop into some sort of armor. I’m not sure how strong it is. We didn’t get a chance to shoot any of ‘em.”
There was a single grim chuckle in the room. Garcia continued without giving the man a second of his attention. “As you can see, the Variant on the pitcher’s mound seemed to be teaching the things how to hunt.”
“Which means they’re going to be just as dangerous, if not more dangerous, than the adults,” Johnson cut in. “Another reason to deploy Kryptonite as quickly as possible.”
“There’s something else, sir.”
Johnson nodded, signaling for Garcia to continue the briefing.
“After escaping the stadium, Corporal Steve Holmes and I took refuge in a sewer. Our position was compromised, and we were captured and brought to a lair by two human collaborators.”
“There we encountered a Variant the collaborators referred to as the White King. It appeared to be blind, but that wasn’t the case. What I’m about to tell you is going to sound crazy.” Garcia paused again. “I honestly wondered if it was real at the time. But it was.”
There was a moment of silence that lingered long enough to be uncomfortable.
“The White King spoke to me. It wanted—” he corrected himself. “—it ordered me to show the two collaborators where other survivors were.”
“Bullshit,” said a Navy SEAL in the back of the room. “Those things can’t speak. I’ve been out there. I know.”
“It’s not a lie,” Garcia snapped. “That thing ripped off Stevo’s arm and fed it to its fucking kids. Then it told me if I didn’t find survivors, it would kill him.”
The SEAL snorted. “Nah, man. You were hearing shit. Those things aren’t that smart.”
Johnson held up his hands. “We’re all revolted and shocked, but keep your questions and comments until later.”
The words silenced the SEAL, but Garcia continued glaring at him. “That thing used Stevo as bait, then killed him. The White King wasn’t some mad, mindless beast like the others. It couldn’t communicate like you and me, but when it did speak, it was very clear in what it wanted.”
“Yeah, it wants food,” the SEAL said. “I believe that.”
“Not just food,” Garcia said, his eyes hardening. “It wants the same thing that we want. For its species to survive.”
Vice President Johnson wrapped the meeting up as abruptly as it started. As the room emptied, Lieutenant Davis motioned for the Delta Operators and the Variant Hunters to join her at the table with Captain Humphrey, Lieutenant Rowe, and Vice President Johnson. Garcia watched Team Ghost with a curious eye. He was still fuming at the Navy SEAL who had given him shit. For the Delta team’s sake, Garcia hoped they weren’t going to act like dicks. He wasn’t in the mood to argue.
“Sergeant Garcia, Corporal Talon, and Sergeant Thomas, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. I don’t think you have officially been introduced,” Johnson said. “This is Master Sergeant Beckham, Staff Sergeant Horn, and Staff Sergeant Chow of Delta Force Team Ghost.”
Garcia thought the legendary Team Ghost didn’t look like much. After hearing about Beckham’s role in bringing Colonel Wood down, there was no denying he was a hero, but the dull look in his eyes reflected a warrior broken by the horrors of war. For a fleeting moment, Garcia saw the faces of the Variant Hunters in front of him. They were all there, staring back at him. Both teams had weathered the same horrors, and both had lost brothers to the monsters.
“Good to have you on the ship,” Garcia said. He pointed at his men and gave them informal introductions. “Tank and Thomas.”
“Horn and Chow,” Beckham said, jerking his chin toward the men in turn.
With formal and informal introductions out of the way, Humphrey took over. The real reason for the early hour briefing finally became apparent.
“We’re in the beginning stages of putting together a joint strike team. You have all been out there and survived multiple incursions with the Variants. You’ve succeeded where countless others have failed.”
Garcia wondered if Beckham was thinking the same thing—that they had hardly succeeded. Scraping by with your life was surviving, not succeeding.
“The intel Garcia brought back has given us a glimpse into the evolution of these creatures, but we are still in the dark about their offspring. We need to know if Kryptonite will kill them,” Humphrey said.
Johnson scratched at a five o’clock shadow on his chin. “In a few hours I’m going to share this information with President Ringgold and Dr. Lovato, but first I want a game plan.”
“A ga
me plan, sir?” Beckham asked.
“I’ll lead a mission, sir,” Garcia said. He had a feeling where this was going.
“No,” Johnson quickly replied. “You’re in no shape to go back out there right now. You need to rest. Lieutenant Davis has been assigned the role of picking members for strike teams. They will be inserted in multiple cities across the US to give us the best chance of capturing a live specimen.”
“Sir, with all due respect, my team is the best shot you got.” Garcia glanced at Beckham. “We’re the best you got.”
A knot twisted in Garcia’s stomach. He knew exactly where this was going, and no matter how Johnson sold it, this was a fucking suicide mission. There was a reason the juvenile Variants had only recently been discovered. They dwelled in the lairs where they were protected by their parents. Garcia surviving his encounter had been mostly luck, but the experience he had gained was invaluable. It made the Variant Hunters the perfect team for the job.
“That’s why you’re being assigned to prepare the teams that will go out there, Garcia. You will brief them, train them, provide intel, and supervise the mission. But you will remain here on the GW,” Davis said.
Garcia looked at the floor, holding his tongue. Now wasn’t the time to protest. Especially in front of the Vice President of the United States.
“Any questions?” Johnson asked.
None of the men said a word, but Garcia could tell he wasn’t the only one holding back questions. Beckham looked like he wanted to speak too.
“Good. Rest up for a few hours. The science briefing is at 0900 on the Cowpens. And clean yourselves up,” Johnson said, looking at Garcia. “The new President of the United States will be there.”
-14-
Kate left Apollo with a sailor assigned to the other bomb-sniffing dogs, and boarded the Blackhawk at dawn. Outside, lumpy clouds rolled across a gray sky, and curtains of rain fell across the horizon like a waterfall. She took a seat next to President Ringgold, admiring the woman’s neatly pressed suit and the small American flag lapel on her collar.
Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) Page 17
