Tom continued, his steps growing more assured, the tug on his person becoming stronger. And as he walked, he had to wonder how deep inside his own mind he had gone. And what his purpose was for being here was—what it was exactly that had drawn him through the fortified metal door to this place of complete darkness, beyond the hallway of memories.
And then, off in the distance, he saw a soft glow. It reminded him of the fireflies he had seen in his backyard sometimes during the summer months. But the closer he got, the larger the area of luminescence became. It was a beacon of light in the shadow, and as he grew near, he realized that something was inside the illuminated circle, and it was calling to him.
It wasn’t a voice exactly but a feeling, a sense that the circle was where he needed to be now, that getting to it was something he was supposed to be doing. He remembered the last time he had felt that way, when he’d accepted the idea of merging with Tyler Garrett, allowing some of the assassin personality’s character traits to become part of his own. It had felt right, as if he were correcting something that was inherently wrong.
The current drawing him toward the circle of light was even stronger now, and he ran, practically carried by the force of it. And finally he saw what was in the middle of the light, but he was more confused than ever before.
It was a bed, a tiny bed. And in the center of the bed, curled up into a tight little ball, was a sleeping child.
A little boy, no more than six.
For the briefest of moments Tom was afraid, stopping short, even though the force continued to tug at him, eager for him to come closer. What was it about the little boy, fast asleep, that terrified him so much? He kept his distance, continuing to stare.
The child stirred, a spastic jerk of his leg, and kicked off the covers. He was wearing pajamas that resembled hospital scrubs. Succumbing to the force of the pull, Tom found himself moving closer.
The fear was still there but manageable as he gazed down from the foot of the little bed at the sleeping boy. Tom resisted the urge to cover the exposed child back up again with the blanket.
Who are you? Tom wondered, staring down at him. And why are you in this dark place inside my mind?
As if answering his question, the child languidly rolled over on the bed, and Tom suddenly knew the answer.
It’s me. This child is me.
Even though she had saved his life, Tyler Garrett was getting a little tired of Madison Fitzgerald and her foolishness.
“I’m gonna ask you again,” he said, applying a certain amount of pressure to his grip on her upper arm to show he meant business. “Where did you put my canister?”
She started to wince in pain but then fought it back, looking defiantly into his eyes. “I don’t know. In all the excitement I must have dropped it.”
He fought back the urge to strike her, certain that it wouldn’t do him a bit of good—though it might have provided him with the littlest bit of raw satisfaction.
But then he noticed the way she was standing; there was a certain stiffness to her posture that he hadn’t noticed before.
“Damn, girl,” he said, smiling at her display of courage. Tyler lunged at her, and she threw herself back against the corridor wall.
“Careful,” he cooed, reaching behind her and down into the back of her low-cut jeans. “Wouldn’t want to have an accident.”
He pulled the small canister from the back of her pants, pushing her away as she tried to fight him for it. “You almost had me convinced that you’d hidden it,” he said, admiring his prize, relieved that it was back in his possession.
“I would have,” she spat, “if I hadn’t been so concerned about saving your stupid life.”
Tyler turned away from her, walking back toward the storage area. “Thanks for that, by the way,” he said. His wrist was throbbing painfully where the biomech had squeezed it, and there were spots on his body that felt like they’d been put there by a blowtorch, but it was nothing that he wouldn’t survive. Tyler actually relished the pain; it proved that he was alive—that he was real.
“I should have let that thing kill you,” Madison said.
He turned his head slightly to look at her, seeing that she was fighting back the tears as she followed.
“But then Tom would be dead too,” she said, lowering her gaze. “And I couldn’t stand the thought of that.”
Tyler resisted the insane urge to go to her—certain that any attempt he made to make her feel better would have been met by her trying to tear out his throat or something equally nasty.
She didn’t care about him and never would. It was Tommy she wanted, and he was just going to have to get used to that.
He couldn’t wait to finish this mission and have Kavanagh get rid of Tom and his pain-in-the-ass emotions for good.
Halfway across the weapons storage area Tyler knew that something was wrong. He tensed as he walked, not letting his concern show. There was electricity in the air, and he had to wonder if more biomechs were about. But then the soldiers emerged from their hiding places, multiple beams of red laser light pinpointing his vital organs as they aimed their guns at him.
“Freeze, Garrett,” a familiar voice barked, and he did as he was told.
Pandora agent Abernathy stood beside Director Tremain and, beside him, his old handler Victoria Lovett.
Tyler smiled. “Did we switch sides, Mom?” he asked the woman while counting the number of soldiers.
There were ten that he could see, maybe more that he couldn’t. From out of the corner of his eye he watched as one of them escorted Madison past him, bringing her to safety.
“Lower the canister to the floor, gently,” Tremain ordered.
Tyler glared at the older man. “You didn’t say the magic word,” he said with a grin.
The director wasn’t amused, and the laser sights were still aimed at Tyler’s head and heart. If he was going to make a move, he would have to do it now. He started to bend his knees, bringing the canister down to the floor. He dropped it, pretending to slowly rise, and then the muscles in his legs coiled like steel springs as he bolted, propelling himself toward the first soldier, about four feet away.
Beams of red laser light swirled around like fireflies as they tried to get a bead on him.
Two feet from his target Tyler extended his arms, ready to snatch the weapon away from the man.
And that was when he felt it—felt him.
He’d been wondering where his other half was, hoping that some miracle had happened and that Tom had somehow been absorbed by his brain. No muss, no fuss; gone just like that.
Attempting to ignore the presence in his mind, Tyler grabbed the gun and pulled it toward him, dragging the soldier with it. He wanted the gun, not the man attached by the strap across his shoulder.
It’s time, Tom Lovett said, and it was as if he were standing right beside him, whispering in his ear. This couldn’t have happened at a worse moment.
Tyler threw an elbow into the soldier’s throat, collapsing his windpipe, yanking the gun away from his choking body and breaking the shoulder strap. He was ready to rock. He had spun toward his enemies, finger tensed on the trigger, ready to fire, when the annoying voice inside his head spoke again.
Lights out, it said, and he could feel it coming. Like a runaway freight train it was upon him: a full-fledged narcoleptic attack.
And he could do nothing as he felt the darkness begin to claim him, locking eyes with Christian Tremain, trying so hard to fire his weapon—to take some of his enemies down with him as he went.
“Take him,” Tremain said, his words slurred in slow motion.
And the weapons trained on him opened fire, but he didn’t feel a thing.
He was already fast asleep.
Brandon Kavanagh strolled into the control center, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, took a seat in front of the multiple television screens—all tuned to myriad twenty-four-hour news stations—and started his wait for the first signs that the apocalypse
had come.
Well, at least a good outbreak of plague, anyway.
Noah Wells was already in the room, barely acknowledging his presence as he entered.
“Anything yet?” Kavanagh didn’t even know why he asked the question. The rough timetable that had been set up with Garrett still had at least twelve hours remaining before the virus was to be released, but who knew, he might have been early.
“A hurricane by the name of Margaret is going to hit the Bahamas, the president is forming a research team to further investigate the effects of global climate change, the economy is in the crapper, and we’re still fighting the war on terror,” Wells answered, never missing a beat. “But nothing about a killer plague wiping out a small town in the Midwest, sorry.”
Kavanagh took a sip from his coffee. “Sucks about the economy,” he said.
Wells nodded. “Probably be a tough holiday season for retailers.”
“Ouch,” Kavanagh responded. “Didn’t even think of that.”
“What’s the name of the town again?” Wells asked. He got up from his seat, going to the coffee machine to refill his cup.
“Plainville,” Kavanagh said. “Population two thousand, six hundred and nineteen.”
There was a story on one of the monitors about a squirrel that could water-ski. That was some hard-hitting news.
If only they knew what was coming.
“Why Plainville?” Wells asked.
Kavanagh turned to look at his head of security.
“I’m just curious. I’m sure there are other little Midwest towns that could’ve fit the bill… Why Plainville?”
“No reason,” Kavanagh answered with a slight shake of his head. “It just fit the criteria: small town, probably has a parade on the Fourth of July that the whole town turns out for, a real slice of good old US of A. And won’t it be something terrible when they all turn up dead.”
“Just awful,” Wells agreed, strolling back to his chair.
“But it’ll be just the thing to make our potential foreign investors sit up and take notice,” Kavanagh said with a slow nod. “When they see the kind of damage our product was responsible for, they’ll be shoveling money into our secret Swiss bank accounts.”
Wells frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Kavanagh asked.
“It just kind of sucks that it had to get this nasty, y’know?” the man commented. “But I guess when push comes to shove…”
Kavanagh felt bad, he really did, but they had forced his hand. All he wanted was to sell the technology that he’d developed, to live off the hard work that he had devoted a large portion of his life to. Was that so wrong of him?
But then Pandora had to get involved, scaring away his customers, and suddenly he found himself backed into a corner, being forced to prove what he was capable of.
They’d left him no choice.
Grandma would’ve been proud.
Brandon was amazed at how easy it had been.
Trudging through the woods, returning to his home victorious, his grandmother’s words echoed in his mind. He’d taken control of his fear and used it to make his problem go away.
It was a known fact that Tyler Garrett got up real early in the morning and went fishing at Kole’s Creek and a known fact that if you wanted to go fishing, you didn’t go there.
Sunup had been at least an hour away as Brandon had carefully made his way through the thick brush, the slowly lightening sky helping him to see. There was a part of him—an old part, a part that didn’t listen to his grandma—that hoped that the bully wasn’t there, that he’d decided not to go fishing that morning and stayed in bed. And for a moment that older part that was still afraid of his grandmother, that thought she smelled the way a dead body just might smell—that part of him thought that its wishes were answered.
From a small hill he’d looked down through an overgrown thicket and tangled brush at Kole’s Creek and found it peacefully empty. The moon and the stars were reflected in the natural blackness of the creek, its surface smooth as glass, and at that very moment Brandon Kavanagh thought that it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
Everything was different at that moment, his grandma’s hissing words silenced in his head. There was only himself, the creek, the forest, and the dwindling night. He wished that he could always feel this way.
But wishes were for magic lamps and falling stars, and he hadn’t come across any of them since leaving his grandmother’s home in the early hours of the morning.
Tyler Garrett arrived not two seconds after Brandon wished he wouldn’t, the serene setting suddenly disturbed by the bully’s hacking and coughing as he emerged from the woods, fishing pole slung over his shoulder.
Brandon sighed then, knowing that after this point, everything was going to be different. Clutching the cane his grandfather had made, he left his observation place to go down to the creek. The cane seemed to give him a strange surge of power; it was as if the moment his grandmother had put it in his hands, the way things were supposed to be—had to be—suddenly became clear, the old walking stick acting as a kind of focus.
Brandon moved carefully, silently through the forest, traveling around the creek, wanting to approach Garrett from behind.
He’d taken the cane while his grandmother was having her nightly bath, sneaking into her bedroom and snatching it from where she’d left it hung around one of the posts of her bed. She wouldn’t be needing the stick, and he’d planned to have it back to her long before she got up in the morning. It was sort of funny, the idea that had taken shape inside his head as to what to do about his problem hadn’t become quite clear until the cane was in his possession.
He’d thought about the different ways he could do this: calling to the boy from the woods, drawing him in, but it didn’t feel right. Brandon’s fear was great, and he needed to take control of it completely or he was sure it would kill him. Clutching the cane tightly in his hands, he emerged from his cover. Brandon expected the boy to turn immediately around, seeing him—freezing him in his beady-eyed stare—but it was almost as if his surroundings were somehow in league with him, stifling the sound of his approach, allowing him to creep up on Tyler Garrett completely unheard.
Staring at the back of the boy’s shaggy head, Brandon remembered all the pain, hate, and rage that had been heaped upon him since Tyler had decided that it was his personal mission to make his life a living hell. He felt the punches again, the kicks, the words of scorn as they burrowed into his ears, taking root inside his brain. And he felt them all at once.
Well, what are you gonna do with it? he heard his grandmother ask him, the cane—his hate and fear taken shape—clutched tightly in his hands. And he knew exactly what he wanted to do, what he needed to do, but decided that it couldn’t be this way.
He couldn’t come at his foe from behind; Tyler needed to know. He needed to know who it was that had taken his power—taken away his control. “Tyler,” he said softly, the word leaving his mouth on a gentle puff of air.
And the boy turned, his big dumb face slack, his eyes dull, but then there was the spark of recognition, and with that, a glint of maliciousness was ignited. He looked like he was going to speak, to say something nasty.
But not this morning, Brandon thought, stepping toward the boy, the cane clutched tightly in both hands. And he reared back, swinging with all his might, the knotted end of the cane connecting with the side of Tyler’s face, and he watched the lights go out as Tyler tumbled to the creek bank with a grunt.
Brandon was amazed at how easy it was.
He raised the cane above his head, bringing it down again on his unconscious foe’s skull. The sight of blood glistening on his enemy’s face, on the grip of the cane, froze him momentarily, shocking him into the realization of what he had just done—what he was about to do.
Are you ready for this? asked a voice in his head.
Yes, he told it, not wanting to be afraid anymore, and he raised the weapon above his head,
bringing it down again and again, smashing his fear, defeating it—driving it into the dirt.
Just like that it was done, and he knew that he was forever changed, that things for him would be different, and that if he ever felt fear again in his life, he would remember this moment and know what he was capable of.
The image of Tyler dead, beaten to death on the bank of Kole’s Creek, stayed with him his entire walk back to the house, a constant companion filling him with a kind of strength and confidence he had never known. The house was silent as he entered through the back way, still far too early for any of the help to have arrived yet. The cane felt like it had become part of him, still firmly clutched in his hands, but he knew that he needed it to get it back to his grandmother before she awakened. And using his newfound strength—this courage—he’d climbed the stairs and, as silently as he could manage, opened the door and gone into the old woman’s room.
His plan was to leave the cane beside her wheelchair, sneaking out of the room as quickly and silently as he had entered. But that wasn’t how it worked out.
The light by his grandmother’s bedside clicked on, freezing him in place.
Grandma stared at him standing there, her property in his hands, and he prepared himself for the worst. And the strange thing—the most wonderful thing—was that he wasn’t afraid.
She squirmed herself up into a sitting position, pillows wedged behind her scrawny back. Her eyes never left him.
“Just look at you,” she said, a bony arm coming out from beneath the covers to gesture at him. “Don’t you look a fright.”
And in the light he looked at himself realizing that the front of his clothes—his shirt and pants—were spattered with dark red stains.
“Is that my cane you got there?” she asked him.
He held it out to her, and as he did, he saw that it too was covered in blood.
She waved him away, gesturing toward her bathroom across the room. “Get me a washcloth,” she commanded.
Sleeper Agenda Page 14
