Kill Switch

by Jonathan Maberry

  Lydia knew that it could happen to any soldier no matter how they were hurt. The ones who were going to stay in the game knew how to manage their own scars, even use them. Doubt made you seek for truth. Fear made you cautious. They were pillars of wisdom and of survival. Except when they became the defining qualities of a person. That’s when a soldier became a kind of landmine that could kill himself or anyone around him. On the battlefield it created fatal hesitation. It soured judgment and clouded focus. It planted poisoned seeds in the heart from which ugly flowers grew.

  “Come on, baby,” she said, pulling lightly on his arm.

  He got out of the car and let her steer him to their house, but he did it like a robot. It chilled Lydia because it was like the man she loved had stepped out of his own body. She guided him to his favorite chair on their patio, opened a beer and set it on the table next to him, but Bunny didn’t look at it, didn’t take a sip. There were four old men playing bocce on the sand, and half a dozen surfers in black wetsuits sitting on their boards waiting for a wave. A line of pelicans rode on the wind out toward a fishing boat.

  If Bunny saw any of it, he gave no sign.

  Lydia sat next to him, her chair pulled close, her head resting against his shoulder. She didn’t even know he was crying until she felt a tear fall onto her head.

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  THE BLACK TENT

  HOME OF THE MULLAH

  ISLAMIC STATE OF IRAQ AND ASH-SHAM

  MOBILE CAMP #7

  SEPTEMBER 11, 12:16 A.M. LOCAL TIME

  The Mullah rose from his narrow bed and walked out of his house. His staff and the gathered senior officers all turned as he approached. Their conversation died off but their faces were alight with expectation.

  “Is it time?” asked the warlord who had been a skeptic less than a month ago. There was no doubt left in his eyes.

  The Mullah looked at each of them in turn.

  “It is time,” he said.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  BOLTON HOUSE

  RANCHO SANTA FE, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2:18 P.M.

  Bolton did not live small, I’ll give him that. This place must have cost twenty million. I couldn’t afford to mow the lawn. Made me wonder how much of it was bought with innocent blood.

  The Scout glasses told me that there were no motion sensors on the ground floor or the big double staircase.

  “Cowboy to Jester,” I said. “Ghost is coming for you. Follow him in.”

  I used hand signs to order Ghost to run back exactly the way we’d come in. He vanished like a puff of white smoke. While I waited for him to return with Harry, I removed a few sensors from my kit and placed them on the downstairs windows and doors. They uplinked to a small drone and both boosted its signal and focused it on the house. Looking for a large electronic signature. So far, nothing, and that was not encouraging. What if I was wrong? What if that whole dream was nothing more than that?

  Bad questions. Letting my mind ask them was like throwing gasoline on a fire. I heard a sound and turned to see Ghost moving along the line of hedges with Harry running bent over behind him. The kid was not a good runner. His stride was too short and he did not appear to pay any attention to the irregularities in the lawn. And it was his lawn. When he reached me he was out of breath, his face damp with perspiration.

  “Rule one,” I told him. “Cardio.”

  “Yeah, yeah, blow me,” he said, mopping sweat from his eyes. He looked around. “Dad really made a lot of changes to the place. Motion sensors, guards.” He crouched in front of the door. “You were right, these are new locks. He didn’t want me coming home and just waltzing in.”

  I almost said, He didn’t want you coming home at all. Sooner or later it was going to catch up to Harry that the Closers were working for his dad. All of them. Including the ones who tried to kill Harry in Budapest. Maybe the kid already knew that and wasn’t letting himself think about it. Or maybe he had that truth locked in a closet in his mind.

  I removed another of Hu’s doohickeys, peeled off the plastic tape to expose the adhesive, and gingerly attached it to the door. The little green light stayed green. But when I placed a second one on the frame the light turned red. An alarm, and a good one. No problem. I attached wires to the sensor and connected them to another of the signal rerouters, waited until the light turned green, and then let Harry pick the lock. The door clicked open. Easy as pie.

  The inside of the house was all dark wood and expensive art, hardwood floors and rugs with complex patterns. Vases sat on little tables and a huge Bolton coat of arms hung over a stone fireplace that was bigger than my first apartment. There was a motto inscribed on the heraldry. Vi et Virtute.

  Harry saw me looking and translated it. “By strength and valor.”

  He looked like he wanted to throw up. I placed my hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “You’re here, kid. It took courage to come in here. A lot of it. You could have stayed back at the Pier. You didn’t. Hold on to that, it could be useful.”

  He nodded and wiped wetness from the corners of his eyes.

  Ghost went ahead to sniff for guards and immediately returned to me, looking over his shoulder three times. Three guards down a hall that led to the kitchen. I could smell a faint whiff of grilled cheese and coffee. The entrance to the basement was in the kitchen. No way to avoid it. In other circumstances I’d have tossed in a flash-bang and then let Ghost go to town. But that would be noisy and we weren’t ready for noise.

  Not yet.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

  FREETECH

  LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2:19 P.M.

  Toys stood in the doorway and watched Dr. Hu work. The scientist was bent over a modeling press, making another of the protective skullcaps. Toys wore one already and he hated it. Apart from the fact that it was too small and hurt his head, it looked bloody ridiculous. Junie wore one, as well, as did Christel Sparks, the head of security. The two women stood on either side of Hu. Junie was working the forming press, and Sparks was standing guard, her hand resting on the holstered Glock she wore on her belt.

  “How many more?” asked Toys.

  The doctor looked up from his work. “I don’t know. I might even be wasting my time. They haven’t been tested yet. I’ve refined the design from the ones I gave Ledger and Bolton’s son. Not sure if I made them better or worse.”

  “Wait … we don’t even know if these sodding things will work?”

  “No,” said Hu.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Actually,” said Sparks, “they don’t work.”

  Hu didn’t even glance at her. “And I suppose you’re an expert on such things?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she said as she drew her sidearm, “I am.”

  She shot Dr. Hu in the back.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

  THE PIER

  DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2:19 P.M.

  First Sergeant Bradley Sims sat alone at a table in the mess, a coffee cup standing filled and cold nearby, a plate of eggs and bacon untouched. The TV was on and CNN was using its endless news cycle to dredge up every gory detail about the slaughter at the gas dock.

  Top had come into the Pier to clear out his locker. The two U.S. marshals were with him throughout, each of them stone-faced. However, Top had talked them into letting him come in here for a last lunch before he left. Montana Parker, Brian Botley, and Sam Imura were also in the building because Director Bolton had wanted to interview them to see where they stood in terms of loyalty to their country and involvement with the recent catastrophes. Federal marshals dogged each of them, too. The rest of the staff had been sent home. It was all over. All crashing down. Top sipped his coffee and felt his heart breaking into pieces.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his palms. He was so damn tired but he did not dare go to sleep. They would be waiting for
him. The ones he’d murdered. They would be standing around his bed and Top knew that they always would be. For the rest of his life. Faces empty of life and painted with blood. Dead eyes watching him, dead hands lifted to point fingers at him.

  “Top—?” said a voice. Sam Imura.

  “Go away,” he said without opening his eyes.

  “Top, look at me,” said Sam. He sounded confused.

  “Go the fuck away.”

  “Top, what the hell are you doing?”

  Anger overtook his remorse for a moment and Top dropped his hands and glared at Sam.

  At Sam.

  At …

  Sam Imura lay on the floor, his face white with agony, his clothes torn. He sat there, legs spread wide, hands clamped over his stomach as red blood poured from between his fingers.

  Top stared at him. “Wh-what—?”

  This wasn’t the mess hall. He wasn’t even in that end of the facility. This was the hallway outside of the armory and the door was ajar. Sam lay on the floor beside it as if trying to block the exit with his body. Top felt something in his hand and he looked down to see a big serving fork clutched in his fist.

  The fork, his hand, and his wrist were soaked with Sam’s blood.

  “What?” he repeated.

  “T-Top…,” wheezed Sam, then his eyes rolled up and he slid sideways onto the floor and lay in a boneless sprawl.

  “First Sergeant Sims,” bellowed a voice, and Top turned to see Montana Parker behind him. A federal marshal lay unconscious at her feet. Another sat on the floor, his back against the wall, eyes closed as if sleeping.

  But Montana …

  She had her gun held in a two-hand grip, the barrel pointed at Top’s chest.

  “Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head,” roared Montana. “Do it now.”

  “What?” he asked her.

  He heard a sound behind him, half turned, saw Botley behind him, saw the gun in his hand. Pointed at Top.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE

  THE BLACK TENT

  HOME OF THE MULLAH

  ISLAMIC STATE OF IRAQ AND ASH-SHAM

  MOBILE CAMP #7

  SEPTEMBER 11, 12:19 A.M. LOCAL TIME

  He sat on a low cushion, surrounded by the leaders of the groups who had come together because they now believed that he was a holy man. Or, if they did not believe that, they accepted him as a man of power.

  Houston was still burying its dead.

  The soldiers at Fort Rucker were preparing to bury theirs.

  The staff at the Naval Auxiliary Landing Field on San Clemente Island were picking their dead out of the wreckage of the crashed helicopters.

  Each time the Mullah said that he could reach out and switch off the power, he had done exactly that.

  Now they gathered to watch the greatest stroke. The crippling blow. The streets of ten cities would be choked with the dead.

  Burning with fires so hot that it would melt the hope and the hubris of the Americans.

  The Mullah sat before them but he did not look at anyone. His eyes had gone totally dead and they each believed that he was in a spiritual trance. When he was like this, they knew, great things were about to happen.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

  BOLTON HOUSE

  RANCHO SANTA FE, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2:24 P.M.

  I swapped out the magazine of the Snellig and, with Ghost behind me and Harry behind the dog, we drifted down the hallway to the kitchen. The hall connected to the kitchen at the corner, which meant that they couldn’t see me until I reached the doorway. I held up a fist to signal Ghost and Harry to stop. I took a breath, let it out halfway, then wheeled around the corner. I saw three men in white shirts and loosened ties, jackets hung over the backs of chairs, microwave pulse pistols tucked into shoulder holsters, coffee cups and plates and an open bag of Cheetos. They were all looking at the TV hung on the wall. They were watching the news. A panel of experts was arguing about the Mullah’s message, the threats, the predicted U.S. response, and the probable location of the ten target cities. One of the men was chewing a big mouthful of the grilled cheese sandwich he held. Another was standing by the stove making another sandwich. The third man was sitting there sipping his coffee.

  I did not shout or yell or announce myself. That’s stupid.

  Instead I fired.

  Gas darts caught both seated men on the back of their necks. They sprawled forward. Before the third guy even knew what was going on I was in motion. I put one hand on the table and launched myself, pivoting and bringing my feet up to kick him in the thigh and the side of the head. He caromed into the stove, rebounded and fell sideways, pulling the frying pan with him. As he fell he tried to bring the pan up to ward off my next kick. I stamped down on it and drove the scalding metal against his face. He started to shriek but then I kicked the pan away and pistol-whipped the scream right out of his mouth. His head hit a table leg and bounced back, and I hit him again. He flopped back, dazed and bleeding, burned and in pain, but not out.

  I hadn’t wanted him out.

  “Ghost, watch!” I called, and the big dog swung around, crouched and—I think—prayed for someone to come along that he could bite. Harry stood there looking numb, his gun hanging limp in his hand.

  I dropped onto the Closer, pinning his arms, caught his throat with one hand, and stuffed the barrel of the Snellig into his mouth. I wasn’t nice about it. Teeth broke.

  “How many?” I snarled.

  He didn’t want to tell me. Not how many, and not where. Too bad, because I really wanted to know.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

  FREETECH

  LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2:25 P.M.

  Dr. William Hu staggered sideways, grabbed the side of the molding press, missed, and fell hard. Junie stood there, eyes wide, mouth open, her face and throat and chest splashed with bright, hot blood. Christel fired again and Hu twisted around, crying out in agony as blood exploded from his shoulder.

  Junie screamed.

  And then Toys flung himself across the room in a rugby tackle that drove Christel into a workbench. Tools and materials flew everywhere. Toys chopped down on Christel’s wrist, smashing her bones against the edge of the table, sending the gun flying. Despite the agony she had to be feeling, Christel drove her other elbow into Toys’s face. He twisted to take the blow on his cheek rather than his nose, but it still rocked him. Christel was a tall and powerful woman and she knew how to hit. She hammered backward again and again, driving him away from the table, forcing him to use his forearms to shield his face. As soon as he covered up, she kicked Toys in the groin with such savage force that it tore a whistling scream from him. He staggered backward and she followed with a series of vicious, powerful kicks. Toys threw his body away, dropping and rolling partway under the table to avoid her feet.

  Christel used her good hand to snatch the fallen pistol from the floor, but as she raised it, Toys lashed out at her shins with both feet. The shot was powerful and very fast, and it completely knocked her legs backward, tilting Christel forward into a belly flop. She landed hard, striking knees and chin on the floor. Toys wheeled around, got to one knee, and kicked the gun out of her hand. Then he dove for it, came up with the pistol, and pointed it at the security woman’s head.

  “No!” cried Junie, rushing forward and slapping his hand away. “Don’t. Toys—look at her eyes.”

  Christel was struggling to get up and come after him, and though her mouth wore a grimace of bloodlust, her eyes were totally dead.

  “She’s been taken over,” said Junie.

  Toys lowered the gun, then thought better of it, and reversed it in his grip. “Sorry, love, but needs must.”

  He whipped the butt of the pistol across the base of her skull. Christel’s blank eyes rolled white and she collapsed. Toys, panting, stared past her to where William Hu lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

  “Christ!” bellowed Toys as he rushe
d forward. “Junie, call nine-one-one. Get me the medical kit, and—”

  Before he could finish, Junie Flynn stabbed him in the back with a screwdriver.

  He coughed, staggered, dropped the gun as he fell to his knees. He tried to reach behind him, tried to understand. Tried to beg for help. As he turned to reach for the handle of the screwdriver, Junie tore it free. He looked past the bloody tool and all the way up to her eyes. Her dead, dead eyes.

  “No…,” he whispered.

  She raised the screwdriver like a dagger and rushed at him.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX

  BOLTON HOUSE

  RANCHO SANTA FE, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2:37 P.M.

  The Closer told me that there were fourteen other operatives in the house. That did not count the men outside. Most of them were down in the basement.

  “Doing what?” I demanded.

  “M-managing assets.”

  I cut a look at Harry Bolt, who was standing in the kitchen doorway with Ghost. Harry’s face had gone a pale gray-green at the sight of the blood.

  “Where’s Santoro?” I asked the Closer, but he didn’t know anyone by that name. I tried it a different way, reinforcing my request with a jab of my gun against his mashed lips. “Where’s Priest?”

  “Down … there,” he said, and then he choked on the blood in his mouth and began coughing. Terrible coughs, that made his whole body twitch. I stood up, looked around the kitchen, sighed, and shot the man with a gas dart.

  Harry came over and knelt to reposition the man and clear his airway. “He could choke to death,” he said.

  “He’s lucky I didn’t put a bullet through his brain pan,” I said, then in a flash of anger I grabbed Harry’s shoulder and hauled him to his feet, shook him like a rag doll, and thrust him backward against the table. “This is war, kid, grow the fuck up. Now get your shit together and find me a way down to the subbasement.”