SPARE PARTS (The Upgrade Book 4)

by Wesley Cross

  She closed the door, careful not to touch anything with bare skin. Then she hurried down the hallway to the elevator. Without the heft of the missile, it was easier going. A police siren went on down the street outside the building.

  The window on the elevator door was dark—she could see the cables dangling in the empty shaft and the outline of the brick wall behind them. Cooper pushed the button and tensed as she heard the gears clank somewhere deep down. Someone must have used it while she was up in the apartment. For a second, she contemplated taking the stairs, but there was no other way to access the basement but by the elevator, and taking the stairs would mean going out through the main entrance. The lone camera there wouldn’t capture her face, but it would reveal her gender and build. Cooper moved the duffel bag to her left hand and patted the small of her back, making sure the handgun was accessible as the door of the elevator slid open.

  “What are you doing here?” A tall, skinny man in a dark-blue building uniform was standing inside of the metal cage, his eyes scanning her up and down with suspicion.

  “Friends,” she said, stepping inside. The wail of the sirens was louder now.

  “There’s nobody on this floor,” the man said. His accent was heavy, Eastern European.

  “Sorry, I thought I pressed the ground floor, but must’ve hit the wrong button and ended up going up.”

  “I’m going to have to call the police.” He moved to block the exit out of the elevator. “You took something. What did you steal? What’s in your bag?”

  She hit him in the solar plexus and as he stepped back, bringing his arms up to his chest, hit him again in his throat. As the man fell, his back hitting the wall behind him, she stepped closer, pressed the gun against his rib cage, and squeezed the trigger twice.

  Even with the suppressor, the shots were deafening.

  Cooper tensed as the elevator continued its slow descent, but after what seemed an eternity, the door opened, letting her out and into the dimly lit basement. She hurried past the garbage bags and up the concrete steps, pausing only for a second to make sure there was nobody to see her exit the building. As she walked back to her car, she glanced at the bridge—a fire was still raging on its top level, illuminating the thick tension cables in a hellish amber glow. A tall column of smoke was rising into the sky, blotting out the stars. At the intersection, Cooper pulled out a burner phone and typed a brief message.

  It’s done.

  A smile emoji appeared on her phone a split second later. She glanced at her car parked across the street, then turned around and walked north. Two blocks away, she found the BMW motorcycle she had parked two days ago under a linden tree. She straddled the seat, put on a helmet and then opened the app for her car. For a moment, her thumb hovered over the button unlocking the doors and then touched the screen. A massive blast shook the ground, smashing the windows in the nearby buildings. A hot shock wave hit Cooper in the back a split second later, throwing litter and small debris down the street.

  She broke the phone in half and threw it on the side of the road, ignoring the chaos erupting around her. The information she had found on Engel’s computer was accurate—this was intended to be her last mission. The flames consuming her empty car two blocks to the south were supposed to kill her. Instead, Jill Cooper just bought herself freedom.

  30

  A pickup truck took a sharp turn off the main road and climbed up a muddy hill, its powerful high beams shining over the splotches of wilted brown grass. The engine whined as the vehicle went deeper into the forest until the spacing between the trees made it impossible to go any farther. Connelly turned the truck around, pointing its mud-splattered grille toward the road below, stopped the truck and shut off the engine. As the lights went out, the night seemed to have swallowed them whole. The cabin shook and squeaked as Martin jumped out of the cargo bed in the back, and then the truck rose a few inches as its coil springs expanded, unburdened from the cyborg’s massive bulk.

  Connelly jumped out of the cabin in time to see Martin pull two large cases off the cargo bed and place them on the ground behind the vehicle. Then, together, they pulled a camouflage net over the pickup.

  “Twenty clicks,” Connelly said, looking at a tablet with a satellite view, his face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen. “What do you think?”

  “On this terrain,” the cyborg’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact, “I can do sixty, maybe sixty-five miles per hour.”

  “We are talking five, maybe six minutes before you get within the range of the Phalanx systems. These babies,” he nodded at the cases, “will be there about ninety seconds before. Should give them plenty of time.”

  Martin nodded without saying a word, making Connelly’s reflection on his shiny liquid-mercury-like helmet surface jump up and down.

  “Remember,” he continued, “those are twenty-millimeter multipurpose tracer self-destruct rounds we are talking about. Coming from four systems at once. We stick to the plan. If I can’t overwhelm them remotely, you fall back.”

  “I can withstand their fire for at least sixty seconds,” Martin said. “Probably more. I’ve done it before.”

  “From one of them, yes, but let’s not tempt our fate with all four. And you’re going to have to deal with the mortars and at least one machine gun.”

  “The machine gun is irrelevant. I can avoid mortar fire, too,” the cyborg said. “But I’ll follow your instructions. Let’s get set up.”

  “Okay.” Connelly craned his neck as he looked up. A thick, impenetrable layer of clouds stretched as far as he could see.

  “Visibility is low,” Martin said, as if reading his mind. “Should help your birds.”

  Connelly picked up what looked like a bulky motorcycle helmet from one case and suppressed a shiver as he glanced at the few rows of sharp needles gleaming in the faint light of the moonless sky. The surface of the soft goggles glistened with moisture and the two organic audio cables were moving like two fat white worms in search of fresh food. “I hate this bit.”

  He pulled the helmet on and tried to relax as the apparatus came to life. For a couple of moments, he was entirely blind and deaf apart from some whirring and scratching noises coming from the inside of the device. Then the goggles sucked onto his eyes, wet tentacles slipped into his ears, and a series of sharp prickles ran down his neck from the top of his head. Another moment later, the night exploded in sounds and colors as Connelly’s view expanded in every direction, giving him a three-sixty-degree field of vision. He focused on Martin and the system automatically zoomed in, opening what looked like a multilayered 3D-model of the cyborg. He could see the power coursing through Martin’s wiring and hear the buzzing of the energy that held together the armor.

  “Ready?” he heard Martin ask, only to realize a half-second later that the message came via electromagnetic wave rather than sound.

  He focused his attention on the two cases. His internal systems paired to the six remote-controlled drones that rose from their charging cradles like a fleet of lethal UFOs. The disks, about a foot tall and four feet in diameter, were covered in a thin layer of radar-absorbing matte-black polymer and bore no identifying markings or lights. They hovered above the two men for a few seconds as Connelly accessed his controls and then disappeared into the sky with a barely audible whoosh.

  “Go,” he said. The projection of the cyborg lit up in Connelly’s enhanced vision. A moment later, Martin took off, plowing through bushes and small trees like a hot knife going through butter. As Connelly returned his attention to the drones, he briefly wondered if they made a mistake, assuming they wouldn’t be able to defeat the defenses of the facility. Watching Martin in action, it was easy to think the cyborg was indestructible.

  By now the drones had climbed to their service ceiling of ten thousand feet and continued on their path toward the target. The black expanse of the unsuspecting forest lay quiet under the unblinking eyes of drone cameras. A minute later, the building came into view as the lenses
zoomed in on their destination. Quiet and inert a few moments ago, now it looked like an angry beehive. The sentries on the roof rotated, bringing the multi-barrel systems online. The thermal imaging picked up a few human silhouettes running across the roof of the building. Judging by the way the Phalanx systems were positioned, they had detected Martin’s approach but hadn’t opened fire yet as the cyborg was still out of range. So far, the drones seemed to evade the radar of the defense perimeter.

  “Let’s crash this party,” Connelly whispered, sending the command to the drone fleet. The firing bay windows opened on the sides of each drone and the machines spun around their own axes. As each open slot aligned with the target, the drones spat a swarm of self-propelled laser-guided projectiles. Thousands of tiny tungsten-tipped missiles, each carrying a small explosive, rushed toward the building. A second later, the close-in weapons systems on the top of the building swerved, looking for the new threat, and roared to life, the angry dashes of tracer rounds racing across the sky to meet their targets halfway. The sky illuminated in orange and red glow as the ordinance collided in the air. Each Phalanx system was spitting four and a half thousand rounds per minute, and combined they were disintegrating most of the missile swarm above the forest.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The miniature missiles zigged and zagged in defensive maneuvers, and a few seconds later, the compound lit up like a Christmas tree; a series of explosions decimated the front two Gatling guns and then a split second later the two in the back. The bodies on the roof were still visible in Connelly’s thermal vision, but they were no longer in motion. The four mortar sites flashed fire and Connelly briefly glanced at the silver streak moving through the trees. Martin dashed this way and that, easily dodging the incoming shells, and picked up speed, closing in on the target.

  “Sentries are down,” Connelly said into the mic. Another second later, Martin burst into the clearing around the compound. A series of bright flashes came from the cyborg and four missiles streaked in a low arc across the field, terminating at the mortar sites. Four explosions blossomed simultaneously and the filters inside of the helmet darkened Connelly’s view, protecting his eyes. A bright amber alert appeared in his vision and a loud alarm went off as one of the drone’s cameras identified a new threat.

  “Shit,” he said, “there’s a bird inbound. Actually, make it two. Fall back now.”

  “Roger.” The cyborg rolled into a ball and came up facing away from the building. Another moment later, he sped away from the clearing, ignoring the angry staccato of a large caliber machine gun.

  The camera zoomed in on the incoming helicopters. It was still too far to identify the type, but the stub wings jetting out on the sides of the crafts left little doubt about the military nature of the vehicles.

  Connelly pulled the camouflage net off the truck and, straining, heaved the empty drone cases back onto the cargo bed. Another amber alert pulsated in his vision as the computer identified the threat.

  “Those are two Longbows,” he said, climbing into the truck, referring to the helicopters. “That’s thirty-two Hellfire missiles. They are still out of range, but you better pick up speed. Cut across to the interstate. I’ll pick you up there. I don’t think they’ll have the cojones to fire on us there.”

  “Roger.” Martin’s voice was flat, without a trace of emotion.

  If Connelly didn’t know any better, he could have thought that the cyborg was resting, rather than smashing through the woods at almost seventy miles an hour.

  He revved the engine and let the truck roll down the hill, gradually picking up speed. It was tempting to floor it, but on a muddy surface the risk was too high. He would not help Martin by getting stuck here.

  Finally, the tires screeched as they gripped the asphalt of the main road and Connelly stepped on the gas.

  “I don’t think we are going to make it.” Martin’s voice came through. “I’m going to be in range of the missiles before I get to the interstate.”

  “I know,” Connelly said as the pickup truck sped up through the night, pieces of dirt flying off its rear tires. “We need to buy you thirty seconds, and I might have an idea.”

  He didn’t want to lose the drones, but they seemed to be out of other options. The swarm swerved in the air and headed toward the helicopters. As Connelly merged onto the interstate, Martin jumped in the back, almost tipping the truck over. As the last drone disappeared from his internal vision, Connelly accelerated, heading back to the city. At least for the moment they were home free.

  31

  Alexander Engel was lying in a bed that was propped up for the moment to keep him comfortable as the men and women around him were getting ready. He would never admit it to anyone, but the surgical lights hanging off booms affixed to the ceiling intimidated him. But not as much as a silver sphere, six feet in diameter, that was suspended off a rail running on the ceiling parallel to his bed. Several video lenses and multiple slender, multi-jointed arms made it look like a monstrous cybernetic spider ready to devour him. The serial number RD-24, etched on its side in golden letters next to a pair of stylized wings, stood for Robo Dynamics, a new subdivision of Guardian Manufacturing.

  He let his eyes wander away from the machine. The blinds on the window were drawn, but the light of a setting sun was seeping through the gaps on their sides, coloring the wall in a cheerful shade of orange.

  “Are you comfortable, Mr. Engel?” The woman with gray hair, neatly tied into a ponytail, walked up to his bed and bent over him. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as if she smiled, but since most of her face was covered by a blue surgical mask, Engel couldn’t tell if that was the case.

  “I’m fine. Not too happy about the restraints.” He pulled on the belts securing his feet and arms. “But I guess I’ll have to get over it.”

  “I’m sorry about those,” the wrinkles around her eyes appeared again, “but we have to make sure that you stay absolutely still. Once you are sleeping, they won’t bother you anymore.”

  “How long did you say it will last?” He looked at the table next to his bed. Now that the procedure was about to start, the view of glistening metal and wires laid out on the surgical table covered in a blue cloth was making him nervous.

  “We are hoping to be done in twelve hours,” she said. “It’s not an exact number, of course, but I don’t expect it running much longer than that.”

  “Good.”

  “And here’s your team,” she said. “You know most of them. I’ve selected Doctors Guevara and Schwartz to assist me today. There are also four nurses. And Rodin, of course.”

  “Rodin?” He looked at her with surprise.

  “This guy right here.” She pointed at the spherical machine with her chin. “As in Auguste Rodin.”

  “Touché.”

  “Miss Martinez here is the circulating nurse; she’ll keep track of time and will get you ready. She’ll also be in charge of the other three nurses who will come at various stages of your procedure. Messrs. Petrov and Bernard are your surgical technicians. Doctor Acharya is your anesthesiologist.”

  “Don’t break anything,” Engel quipped. “If you break it—you buy it.”

  “Doctor Acharya will take it from here.” The surgeon stepped aside, letting a short, slim man step forward.

  “Mr. Engel.” The man walked around the table, lowered it into a horizontal position, and looked at the monitors to check his vitals. “Don’t worry, you’re in excellent hands. Your surgeon is the best in the world.”

  “I know. I hired her.”

  The needle seemed to appear out of nowhere and there was a blunt pain as it went into the vein on his left hand. The pain grew stronger and as Engel was about to complain to the doctor, it disappeared as quickly as it came. Then the room went out of focus.

  He couldn’t see at first when he came to. He was cold, groggy, and nauseated. There was a garbled noise, too, but after a few moments of panic, it dissipated without a trace.

  “
Can you see me, Mr. Engel?” he heard the nurse say. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  A dark, shapeless silhouette floated in front of his face. He blinked and then, without a warning, it looked like a woman’s hand, her index finger touching her thumb in what resembled an okay sign.

  “Three,” he said. It came out as a croak. His throat was raw and when he tried to swallow, it ended up in a painful heaving somewhere down in his chest as he couldn’t produce enough saliva. He was in a large suite with walls painted in gentle blue, lying on a bed fitted in a starched white linen. A heavy blanket covered him almost all the way to his chin. The bed was facing the window, and the curtains were open, but the outside was completely dark—all he could see was the reflection of the room. “I need something to drink.”

  “There you go,” the nurse said, bringing a small plastic bottle to his lips.

  The liquid sloshing inside had a noticeable blue tinge and smelled like a cheap soap, but he greedily downed it in a few gulps. The pain in his chest became dull but didn’t disappear.

  “That should get you on your way.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “About thirteen hours,” she said. “The doctor and the technicians will be here shortly, and they’ll be able to answer all your questions. Rest now.”

  With that, the nurse hurried away, leaving him alone before he could say anything else. He tried to shift the blanket down, but his hand wouldn’t move—the restraints were still attaching him to the bed. Engel tugged on it harder, but they wouldn’t bulge.

  “They have to stay on for a little while longer, I’m sorry,” he heard the doctor’s voice and a moment later, she walked into his field of vision. Instead of the scrubs, she wore a gray checkered wool pantsuit and a black turtleneck, and this time he could see her smile. “Everything went smoothly, but we need to run some diagnostics first, to make sure the parts fused and are functioning as they are supposed to. Then we will switch on the power and remove the restraints. This is for your own protection.”