by Cate Noble
“No. But he and my father had no secrets.” Luc’s nostrils flared. “My father gave my uncle the chit and all his notes and sent him ahead. He was supposed to meet my parents later in Bangkok. When my father didn’t show up, my uncle returned to their village and saw the damage. He’s been hiding ever since.”
“I want to speak directly with your uncle,” Travis said. “In addition to seeing all your father’s papers.”
Luc nodded. “You do understand those are two separate negotiating points? That means two retainers.”
Rocco couldn’t believe the kid’s gall. He was also tired of being ignored. “It sounds like we can get everything we need from your uncle.”
“Perhaps. But try finding my uncle without my help.”
“It’s premature to talk money,” Travis interrupted. “Until we’ve established you, or your uncle, have something significant. Something I want.”
“And how do we do that—quickly?”
“Do your father’s papers mention the others who were held at the prison?” Travis asked.
Rocco held his breath, silently willing Luc to say yes. Two prisoners. Max. Harry.
Luc paused, squinting. “As far as other prisoners, my father’s notes say nothing. However…” He waited until both Travis and Rocco looked at him before going on. “I know where the new prison is. But that will cost even more zeroes. Immediate zeroes.”
New prison? Rocco bent forward and slapped his open palms on the table in front of Luc. “Where is it?”
Clearly unwilling to give up anything for free, Luc held his ground, going mute again.
“Your rush for fast money destroys your credibility,” Rocco snapped. “Afraid Mongkut’s men will get you? Believe me, we have the same concern—that they’ll slit your throat before our deal is complete.”
“My rush is my business. And you are not the only potential buyer.” Luc tilted his head toward the jumbled mess of photos that Travis had shoved aside. “I bet I could find plenty of others who would pay for information on him. People who hate Westerners.”
Rocco looked at the topmost visible photo. A group shot, the file folder covered all of the men pictured except one: Dante.
Biting back disappointment, Rocco rapped the photo with his knuckle. “Him? He’s safe and sound. Game over.”
“No.” Slanting Rocco a you idiot look, Luc tugged the photo completely out into full view. “I mean him.”
The man Luc pointed to was Max Duncan.
Rocco shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. “So help me God, if you’re screwing with us—”
Travis held up his hand. The eternal referee. “Trust me, Luc, if that man is alive, it’s worth a lot of zeroes.” Tugging out his phone, he used the push-to-talk. “Bring it in.”
Moments later, the door opened. Grimes came in and set a briefcase on the table, then exited. Travis spun the locks, opening the case before swinging it around for Luc to see.
Rocco knew there was fifty grand, U.S., inside. More than enough to pay off both loan sharks. To this kid, fifty grand probably felt like a million.
In Rocco’s mind it was nothing. Hell, he knew Travis would gladly fork over ten times that amount if it got definitive answers on Max and Harry.
Unexpectedly, Luc ignored the money and instead pinned Travis with an earnest expression.
“That will do for starters. But here’s what I really need: my uncle is in jail in Australia and he’s very sick. You get him out and into a safe house and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Chapter 2
Northeast Thailand Jungle
September 17
Consciousness tightened cold fingers around Max’s larynx, forcing him up. But not fully.
That goddess/bitch—awareness—gave nothing freely. He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t see, but the void that swaddled him was heinously familiar.
He’d been buried alive.
Left behind.
Again.
Panic boiled beneath his skin. He attempted to move but his arms and legs didn’t respond; he was paralyzed.
His mind, however, was anything but and his thoughts leapfrogged, frantic and chaotic. He needed to break free. He needed to find Taz. And then—
Pain slashed the inside of his skull, a razor scraping live tissue from bone. It was a brutal reminder that even the smallest of thoughts about escape were intolerable.
Max panted, sucking air in and out, uncertain why it helped but grateful it did. Slowly the pain diminished, grew tolerable. He wished for light, but all remained dark.
Count: twelve thousand one. Twelve thousand two.
Though the voice had only been inside his head, it startled him. Silence pressed in again. A name teased the tip of his tongue, but the pain spiked and stole it just as quickly.
Just count. Twelve thousand five. Twelve thousand six.
Max listened, realized something—someone?—inside him was ticking off seconds: had ticked off millions of them. He followed the hypnotic count—twelve thousand eight, twelve thousand nine—and was rewarded with a name: Hades.
It was more than just the name they called him. Hades was the part that counted. The part that kept his memories, his secrets, secure. But at what price? Was it true he’d go insane without his alter ego? Who had told him that? Taz?
Taz! Holy God, where was his friend? Had he escaped?
Max tried to recall their last assignment. He and Taz had been—
The thought was instantly short-circuited by the sensation of being thrown off a cliff. G-force kicked him in the stomach, turning him inside out as he free-fell.
He hit bottom, landing headfirst on concrete. He felt his brain splatter, but he didn’t die. No, he never died, no matter how badly he wanted to.
Right now he just wanted to puke, a sensation made worse by the awareness of flickering light in the back of his skull where grainy video flashed unevenly, like film that had jumped the track. It felt as if he’d just stumbled, drunk, into a theater mid-movie.
He concentrated, catching words. Title: War, version 7. Title: Apocalypse, version 3.
Oh. Hell. No. He wasn’t doing any of it—
Another blinding blow hit. This time a fist punched through his chest, squeezing his heart, stealing his breath. The pain was beyond anything he’d endured and it carried a promise that it could get worse. Much worse.
Don’t question and it goes away.
Hades was back.
Max began counting again. Twelve thousand twenty, twelve thousand twenty-one. The numbers threaded meaninglessly through his mind, an endless progression that helped him go numb.
At thirteen thousand the pain vanished. But still he felt sick. Hot and internally sweaty. The peculiar clamminess was familiar.
Sweet Mary.
He remembered. It was a sign. He was coming to.
This time when the urge to puke rolled over him, Max welcomed it, clawing to the surface of clarity.
He still couldn’t see. He was tied down on a table, flat on his back. His head was turned to one side and strapped firmly in place so he wouldn’t choke if he vomited.
Recognition hit like an anvil. He was in the lab with Dr. Rufin, being prepped for another mind fuck. A guard was present, too. As much as Max disliked Rufin, he disliked the guards even more.
The bastards thought Max never remembered this. But always, eventually, he did. Step one, the stripping away of old memories, was the worst. If Max tried to hold on to a memory, he was punished. And the pain he endured was nothing compared to the agony of watching those he loved being tortured.
The carefully nurtured false visions they’d implanted of home and hearth—of him as a beloved husband and father—were sown for no other reason than for usage in obtaining his compliance. Max would plead, bargain, beg for their lives to be spared. But in the end, even total capitulation was not enough. He had to endure, suffer. So they could prove their point.
Step two was a black hole, the part Max never r
emembered. Hell, maybe there were twenty steps in that black hole process but always they extracted a promise. Max swore to do X in exchange for Y. No questions asked.
The kicker was that no matter how perfectly Max performed, the promises were always broken. He was deep-sixed, put on ice until the next time.
Weeks, sometimes months, were lost while Max was in that horrible state Rufin reverently referred to as “stasis.” Like it was pleasant.
And while Rufin wasn’t as ruthless as Zadovsky, the difference was inconsequential.
Light seeped in through Max’s closed lids as his senses came back online, albeit unevenly. A foul smell smothered him, as if something dead lay rotting beneath him. His stomach muscles clenched.
Without warning his hearing switched on with eardrum-shattering feedback. He prayed no one saw him flinch. If he gave any outward indication of awareness, they’d put him under again.
Memories of being darted like an animal spun over him. Rufin and the guards kept tranquilizer guns locked and loaded. Max recalled coming to instantly once and springing off the table in a raw burst of energy only to be hit with four rounds of the darts. That much tranquilizer at one time had nearly killed him. Except he was never that lucky.
The noise modulated to a low hiss. Beneath the static he heard voices—real ones—but the drugs in his system made it difficult to distinguish words. What had they given him this time? They purposely used different drugs to avoid predictability and addiction.
“Almost ready…” Rufin’s voice grew faint again.
Summoning every bit of concentration he could muster, Max latched on to Rufin’s thoughts before the man shuffled away. That Max had been inside Rufin’s head before made it easier to reestablish a mind link.
Taz had taught Max how to slip into another person’s mind, into the pauses between thoughts. Mind wormholes, Taz called them.
It was how the two men communicated without words, how they plotted to survive and formulated a plan of what they would do once one or both of them escaped.
Right now, however, Max found Rufin’s thoughts nearly impossible to follow. The man was a total nervous wreck and that spelled trouble. Too sedated to exert any influence over Rufin, Max focused on the man’s emotions and was nearly blown away by the intensity.
Rufin was worried the current procedure would kill Taz.
Taz was in danger!
Max immediately redirected his energy, probing the room, mentally seeking Taz. Where was his friend?
That Max couldn’t pick up Taz’s presence alarmed him.
Rufin began speaking to the guard, dismissing him. “Prepare room number two.” His voice dropped, but only for a second. “I’ll start the new medication as soon as h-h-he’s up from stasis.”
Rufin was talking about Max now and it took every speck of Max’s willpower to remain unmoving and silent.
As the door to the lab closed, Max mentally scanned the room to make certain the guard had left. Prying one eye just barely open, he followed the tile floor until he spotted Rufin’s shoes. The scientist had moved to a station along the opposite wall and had his back to Max.
Opening his eyes a bit more, Max searched the rest of the lab. His gut clenched as he glimpsed the piece of equipment Rufin worked at, the cylinder-shaped chamber used for programming. The coffin-like place was evil.
And Christ! Taz was inside!
Max nearly catapulted up from the table. The desire to save his friend clashed with the blind fury that wanted to snap Rufin’s neck. God help anyone who killed another of his friends.
Especially Taz.
Taz was the only person alive Max trusted. And vice versa. Everyone else had sold them out. Or left them behind.
Max had to get free.
He was Taz’s only hope.
Dr. Rufin checked the ancient computer. BUFFER FULL. He waited for the cache to clear, for the program to continue.
So much for the state-of-the-art equipment he’d been promised. Of course, the Thai government—if it truly was the Thai government he worked for—hadn’t kept their word on anything thus far. Which had initially made it easier for Rufin to justify his failures. To ask for more time.
But time was up.
If the next trial didn’t go as promised, the government would shut him down. Him, not the lab.
They wouldn’t abandon the project; the potential was too great. No, they would simply bring in another scientist. Rufin would be retained to answer questions, most likely from a jail cell. And then…
He rubbed the tight muscles in his neck as an imaginary finger slashed across his throat. In truth, he’d known his days had been numbered since the shadowy Thai agents took over this facility two months ago following Dr. Zadovsky’s death.
It had only taken the threat of torture to induce Rufin’s full cooperation, especially after being told that everyone associated with Zadovsky’s secondary operations in Jakarta had been jailed or killed. The one exception being Zadovsky’s secretary, on whom the agents had quizzed Rufin briefly. That Boh-dana may have escaped gave him hope.
Zadovsky had double-crossed the Thai government by working a secret deal with the Indonesians and that had naturally infuriated the Thais. Rufin had patiently answered all their questions, but toward the end of their inquisition, he began to realize the Thai agents were fishing for information.
Like most outsiders, they knew Zadovsky engineered viral bioweapons and antidotes, but they hadn’t realized until recently that those projects merely provided funding and diverted attention from Zadovsky’s experiments in mind control. Experiments the Thai agents wanted to continue.
And rather than admit that he’d been left behind to babysit for Zadovsky’s prize test subjects—Hades and Taz—Rufin had led the Thai agent in charge to believe that he could complete Zadovsky’s work.
Once Rufin had sworn allegiance, the Thai agents had produced a jumble of papers and computer data pilfered from Zadovsky’s lab and residence in Jakarta.
Given the ill will between the two countries over long-standing border disputes—the agent inferred a huge coup. Given the disarray of the material, it was anything but.
At first glance, Zadovsky’s papers confirmed what Rufin had suspected all along: that Zadovsky had been passing off Rufin’s formulas as his own work. Rufin had been furious to realize that Zadovsky had made a fortune selling the designer drugs Sugar-Cane and JumpJuice—both of which had been created by Rufin.
When he’d calmed down enough to dig deeper into Zadovsky’s work, Rufin found that basically all of Zadovsky’s credited genius was stolen. From Rufin and others.
With one huge exception: the miraculous Serum 89, which Zadovsky had created while working with neurotransmitters and psychotropic drugs. Without doubt, Zadovsky’s decades of clandestine experiments in mind control had put him light-years ahead of anyone else.
Serum 89 had been a critical success. Using the serum in conjunction with the neural reprogramming that Rufin had perfected had yielded unprecedented results. They had proved numerous times that they could make a man do almost anything.
And with Serum 89, the survival of test subjects surged. Rufin’s work to control the deadly side effects and seizures had been crucial to that success.
Unfortunately, by the time Rufin perfected all the adjunct systems, they’d been down to two test subjects. And the Serum 89 was gone.
Creating more had proved impossible. In fact, after poring over Zadovsky’s journals for the hundredth time, Rufin concluded that the highly revered Russian scientist had somehow lost the recipe and the priceless research for Serum 89.
Ironically, Rufin’s knowledge of Zadovsky’s work, combined with his own attempts at replicating the serum, had now inadvertently put him light-years ahead, too. If anyone could reproduce Serum 89, Rufin could. Eventually…right now no one could get it right on the short timeline the Thais had given. Too much of Zadovsky’s data was still missing.
Eager to distract his own thoughts, Rufin
checked the computer screen in front of him. Still downloading.
Grabbing a tablet and pen, he scribbled a computation but then crumpled it after realizing it was something he’d tried weeks ago. The nagging feeling that he was close haunted him. That and the certain knowledge that whether he succeeded with these experiments or not, the Thai government would kill him.
Fortunately, Rufin wasn’t as gullible as he’d led his Thai handlers to believe. While he’d long dreamed of escaping with the data, it had only been recently that he’d figured out a way to actually pull it off. If anyone deserved to profit from it, he did.
Now if his luck would just hold a bit longer…
The computer beeped, drawing his attention.
“Finally.” He pressed ENTER then moved to the viewing window on the hyperbaric chamber.
Taz, the older of the two remaining test subjects, was inside. How strange that Rufin didn’t think of them as human anymore, but with his own life at stake, ethics meant little.
Of course, even stranger was the notion of Taz and Hades working willingly with him. Taz, who had twice tried to kill Rufin, was now his unwitting accomplice and savior. Soon Hades would be as well. Once these newest programs were installed, Taz and Hades would give their lives to protect Rufin.
Still, it truly unsettled Rufin to know he’d eventually have to sacrifice Taz.
In many ways, Taz had been more fascinating to study with his uncanny ability to stabilize and adapt. It had appeared that no matter what they threw at him, he’d survived. Flourished. At least for a while.
Lately, Taz’s ability to recuperate seemed slower. Inarugably, they’d made some seemingly irreversible errors with him. Zadovsky had likened it to faulty wiring that did too much damage to the circuitry before it was detected. But wasn’t that how progress unfolded?
Rufin consoled himself with the thought that he’d still have Hades. They had proceeded more cautiously with Hades and it had paid off. Hades was the real gold mine. A nearly perfect specimen.
Hades was almost there, and once Rufin fully controlled Hades, could make him do the morally unthinkable on command—
