Phoenix

by Mark Dawson

  “Your children?”

  “The viable test subjects—that is what they call them.”

  “What does that mean? Testing for what?”

  “I told you,” he said, as if explaining himself to a small child, “they are seeking metabolic dominance.”

  Beatrix looked at him. It was difficult not to think that his story was ridiculous. She would have been unable to credit any of it save that, whatever else he said, Koralev’s work and his sudden abandonment of it had attracted the attention of the CIA and, in turn, Group Fifteen. Whatever it was that he had done, it had led him to this meeting with her. There was something there, no matter how outlandish his claims. They wouldn’t have been involved otherwise. And her assessment of his story was an irrelevance, anyway. She had orders to follow. That was all that mattered.

  “So you just left?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And no one is paying you to be here?”

  “Have I been bought?” he asked. She nodded, and he shook his head. “No. I have been bought before. I want the opposite now. Freedom from that, from having my name associated with all of it. I wanted to leave while I still could. I chose here because they will not send me back. No extradition. And the CIA has no reach here.”

  Beatrix almost corrected him in that, but checked herself.

  The door rolled up. Milton was crouched down outside. “Beatrix,” he called out.

  She walked across the room toward him. His body was cast in silhouette by the blazing sun. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got trouble.”

  * * *

  Beatrix joined him at the door.

  “Over there,” he said. “You see that building. Right-hand side.”

  She squinted into the brightness. Milton indicated a building on the other side of the yard, near the entrance.

  “You see?” Milton asked.

  “No.”

  “There’s a man behind the building. I just saw him.”

  “A customer?”

  Milton raised his hand with his finger pointing up and circled it. “He signalled a rally point,” he said. “There’s more than one of him. And he had a weapon.”

  She gritted her teeth. “They must have followed us.”

  “Impossible,” he said. “We were thorough.”

  Beatrix allowed herself a very brief moment to lay out the alternatives. Might Milton have been involved? He was right: they had been thorough. But could he have taken this moment of privacy to signal their location? He had been out of her sight for fifteen minutes. It would have been a simple enough thing to power up a tracker, to make a quick call or send a text. She dismissed the thought. They were several miles from the centre of Caracas. It would have taken longer than that to scramble assets to their location. But the thought persisted. Might he have signalled earlier? He had hired the Vivaro. It would have been easy enough to slap a tracker somewhere where she wouldn’t see it. She certainly hadn’t checked.

  She couldn’t disregard it, but her gut told her that he was on the level.

  “Who do you think it is?” he asked her.

  “The Americans?”

  “I thought this was a joint op? Why would they come without telling us?”

  “Maybe he’s too important for them to trust us to deliver him.”

  “Could be the people he’s been working for,” he suggested.

  “He says he’s not working for anyone,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not waiting to find out.”

  “What is it?” Koralev called from inside.

  Beatrix and Milton slipped inside the garage again.

  “We’re leaving,” Beatrix said to Koralev.

  “Why?”

  She went over to him and helped him up from the chair. His age made his bones stiff. He clutched her arm for support.

  “Load up,” she called over to Milton. “Firearms, grenades, ammunition, anything else that you can quickly get into the back.”

  She opened the door of the Vivaro and helped Koralev climb inside.

  “Who is it?” the old man said.

  “I’m not sure,” Beatrix said. “But we’re not going to wait to find out.”

  He didn’t complain. He sat quietly in the minivan, rubbing his wrists where they had been chafed by the cuffs. Beatrix looked at him and wished that they had a little more time.

  “Fasten your seat belt,” she told him.”

  Milton started to toss equipment from the racks inside: a big rifle, an MP5 SMG, a carrying case for a pistol, a bandolier of grenades, night-vision goggles, ammunition. Satisfied, he yanked the door shut. “Here,” he said, tossing the MP5 over to her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll drive. You ride shotgun. Open the door.”

  Milton jogged around and rolled the door all the way up to the top. Sunlight streamed inside the garage; Beatrix squinted out into it, still unable to see any sign of the men Milton believed were outside. He joined her in the people carrier. Beatrix put her hand on the ignition.

  “You ready?”

  Milton had chosen an AR-10. It was a big machine gun that fired a 7.62mm cartridge; a nice, heavy bullet. He flicked the selector to full auto.

  “Ready,” he said.

  She turned the key.

  10

  Beatrix floored the gas. The tyres bit on the concrete floor and she had to wrestle the wheel straight as the Vivaro lurched from side to side.

  The lookout that Milton had noticed saw them first. Beatrix saw him running as they came out of the door. He was wearing black from head to foot, with a balaclava on his head and black gloves. He held a short submachine gun.

  The only way out of the yard was to pass directly by the building that the lookout had used for shelter. There was just enough space to fit the people carrier between the building and an old railway carriage that had been dumped there. It would have been an excellent choke point, but Beatrix and Milton had reacted before the blockade had been arranged. They raced through the gap, jolting and juddering across the uneven ground and passing the running man at forty.

  They came out from between the buildings and onto the open space that led to the road. She saw them all now. An assault team was mustering, disembarking from two vans and two SUVs, all four vehicles equipped with tinted windows. They must have heard the sound of the approaching vehicle since Beatrix was driving it at high revs; indeed, they had evidently been warned by the lookout that Milton had spotted.

  The parked vehicles blocked the direct route out of the yard and onto the road. Beatrix slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel hard to the left, sliding the unwieldy minivan around so that Milton’s window faced the collection of men and vehicles. She stomped on the gas, the wheels biting in the grit and dirt and sending a spray up behind them.

  Milton pressed the AR-10’s stock into his shoulder, aimed out of the window and fired. The gun roared and a dozen big 7.62mm rounds streamed out. The muzzle brake reduced the kick and made it possible to handle, even in a vehicle that was moving at speed. Milton aimed at the vehicles, peppering them with bullets. Tyres exploded, gouts of steam jetted from pierced radiators and glass flew out of windows. The men dived for cover as Beatrix yanked the wheel in the opposite direction, the tyres carving lazy curves in the grit as she swung the rear end around and pointed at the suddenly accessible path to the exit.

  “Covering fire!” she yelled, but Milton had already replaced the magazine and was out of the window again, this time pointing behind them.

  The AR-10 roared as Milton emptied the second magazine, a third in his lap ready to be slapped in when the second ran dry. Beatrix looked into the rear-view mirror as one of the SUVs exploded, its fuel tank ignited by one of his rounds.

  They raced out of the exit. Beatrix flicked her eyes back to the road ahead just as another blacked-out SUV raced right at them. There was no time to avoid it. The vehicle clipped them on the front right wing, swinging them around to the left, turning through one hundred and eig
hty degrees so that the nose of their vehicle was pointing back into the yard. Milton was slammed against the door by the impact, his grip on the rifle lost as he fumbled it into his lap. Beatrix jackknifed forward, her forehead bouncing against the dashboard. She fought a moment of dizziness and tasted her own blood in her mouth.

  She grabbed the MP5 and aimed through the windshield at the vehicle that had struck them. The SUV had been turned onto its right-hand side by the impact and had skidded for another twenty feet along the road. It ground to a halt, a torn-off wing and a scattering of broken glass discarded in its wake. It had swung around a few degrees and Beatrix could see its underside, the suspension and covers. The two wheels that were off the ground were still spinning.

  She heard a loud thud and then another.

  She watched as the nearside door of the SUV, buckled by the impact, was forced open.

  She saw a hand grasping the sill and then a head and shoulders emerge.

  “Get down!”

  She turned back to look out of the windshield and saw the two men as Milton yelled his warning. They emerged from behind the burning SUV in the yard with their rifles raised. The windshield exploded over them both as a hail of gunfire converged on them, taking out the glass and exiting through the rear window and holes that were punched in the roof. Milton and Beatrix were down below the line of the windshield, with partial protection from the engine block ahead of them. She threw the Vivaro into reverse, stomped on the gas and yanked the wheel, operating blind and entirely on instinct. She realigned the people carrier, skidding back through ninety degrees so that she was pointing down the road.

  “Hit it!”

  She jammed it into first, hit the gas again, and risked a glance back into the yard as they jerked away.

  She checked the wing mirror, expecting to see the two men chasing after them from the yard, but her attention was taken by a figure atop the overturned SUV. It was a man and he, too, was dressed all in black.

  The man jumped down from the wreck, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, and then he started to run.

  Beatrix changed up into second. They reached the pocked asphalt, the tyres gripped, and they started to pull away.

  She checked the mirror.

  The man was still running.

  He reached to a holster that crisscrossed his chest and pulled out a handgun.

  “Milton!” Beatrix yelled.

  Beatrix looked back to the road ahead as a large flatbed truck rumbled out of another exit to the yard. It was slowly turning away from them, the tractor angled sharply as the trailer followed suit. It blocked the road. Beatrix hammered on the brake and swung the wheel to the left, bleeding away enough speed so that she was able to swerve around the obstruction. The Vivaro left the road, bouncing over a raised lip of sun-hardened dirt and crashing down onto a flat expanse of loose gravel and scree.

  Beatrix swung the wheel to the right and changed down into first. She looked into the mirror.

  They had lost speed and the man had gained on them.

  “Take him out!”

  Milton swung around, aimed the rifle between the front seats and out of the back of the cabin. Koralev pressed himself against the door and covered his head with both arms as Milton opened fire. The rifle chugged through the third magazine, the rounds chewing up chunks of road as the rounds sought Milton’s target. The man danced to his left and right, zigzagging. None of Milton’s rounds found their mark, and the man kept coming.

  “I’m dry,” Milton yelled.

  Beatrix reached for the MP5 in her lap and held it up.

  Milton took it.

  The man behind them was ten feet away now. He had been sprinting flat out for over three hundred metres and was still maintaining the same speed. Beatrix had never seen anything like it. His endurance was remarkable.

  The man raised his own sidearm and started to fire.

  The rear side window blew into the cabin. Beatrix felt the hot rush of a round as it passed close by her head, slicing through the already perforated roof. Two more chinged against the bodywork. A rear airbag detonated, the air exploding out of it almost as soon as it had inflated as a second round punctured it. Blue talc from the deployment mechanism sifted into the interior. The people carrier slewed to the side, Beatrix fighting hard to keep it pointing ahead.

  The man had caught them up. He was alongside now.

  Milton aimed the MP5 at her.

  “Down!”

  Beatrix did as he asked, lowering her head between her arms and driving blind. The muzzle of the submachine gun was close to her ear and its roar was deafening as Milton loosed an automatic volley. When Beatrix raised her head and glanced into the mirror, she saw their pursuer lying flat on his back, his arms splayed out wide, a crucifix facing up into the sky.

  “Go, go, go,” Milton urged.

  Beatrix yanked the wheel around again, bounced over the raised lip of hardened dirt and bounced onto the road once more. She changed up to second and then to third and, still accelerating, she drove them away from the yard.

  11

  Beatrix raced ahead, aiming to the west and the start of the run to the exfiltration point on the coast. The wind rushed in through the open space where the windshield had been. She caught a glimpse of her lap: she was covered in glass, large jagged jigsaw pieces and tiny fragments that glittered like diamonds on a velvet cushion.

  She glanced across at Milton. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Beatrix glanced into the rear-view.

  “Koralev?”

  The old man was leaning at an angle, held up by his seat belt.

  “Koralev?” she repeated. “Check him.”

  Milton swung around in his seat. “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “He’s been hit. Just below his shoulder.”

  Beatrix cursed, slapping both hands against the wheel.

  “It’s bad,” Milton added.

  She looked ahead. They were approaching Hoyo de la Puerta. There was a slip road that exited Route 1 and she took it, turning on to the much quieter El Café Road. There was a hotel with a large parking lot. Beatrix turned into it and parked the Vivaro between two larger vehicles. They would have had to stop, anyway. The vehicle had no windshield, and the wing and hood had been perforated so many times that they looked like Swiss cheese. It was hardly inconspicuous.

  She switched off the engine, opened the door and went around so that she could slide in next to the old man. Milton was right: a round had struck him halfway between his pectoral muscle and clavicle. His shirt was already sodden with warm blood and his breathing hissed in and out in frequent, hungry gulps.

  Beatrix made an immediate diagnosis: his lung had been punctured and was in danger of collapsing.

  She told Milton to get her the duct tape that she had seen in the back of the people carrier and ripped open the old man’s shirt. She would try to delay the process by creating a one-way valve. She needed to stop air from getting sucked into Koralev’s chest through the wound as he breathed in, yet still allow excess air to escape through the bullet hole. She tore off two pieces of tape and stuck them together so that there was no sticky side and then placed it over the entry wound. She taped down three sides, doing so loosely so that there was a little slack. She left one side open and then checked. Whenever Koralev inhaled, the valve lid was sucked down to seal the wound so that air could not get in. When he exhaled, excess air from the chest pushed up the lid so that it could escape through the edge that was not taped down. It was makeshift, and far from perfect, but it might buy him a few extra minutes.

  Koralev reached for her, his hand falling limply on her elbow. His mouth opened and closed and she realised that he was trying to speak.

  “Phoenix,” he said.

  “Hold on,” Beatrix said. “We’re going to get you a doctor.”

  Milton opened the passenger door and went around to retrieve the gear.

  Koralev shook his head. “No. No
doctor. Not that.”

  He coughed.

  She leaned closer. “What then?”

  He grunted with pain, taking a long breath until he had mastered it. “There is a house. Cortada de Maturín. There is a track on the road to the north of the town.”

  “Is that your house?” she asked. “We’ve seen the track.”

  He nodded. “Take it. It goes into the mountains. The house… the house is a mile later.”

  “You want me to go there?”

  He nodded again.

  “Why?”

  “My work. Everything is there.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll get it. What is it? A computer?”

  He didn’t answer. “There is a person on the Internet. He believes… freedom of information. He will publish it. If we spread it wide”—he coughed violently—“if everyone sees it, they will understand what we have done. The monsters we have created. People will understand what Daedalus is trying to do. And then, perhaps, they will be forced to stop.”

  His skin, already pale, was becoming tinged with blue. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

  “Stay with me,” Beatrix urged.

  “Phoenix,” Koralev said weakly.

  “What?”

  “Phoenix is there.”

  “What is Phoenix?”

  “You must… must…”

  The words sighed away into nothing.

  “Igor,” she said, shaking him gently.

  There was no answer.

  The scientist’s eyes were closed.

  “Shit.”

  “Is he dead?” Milton asked.

  “No. Still breathing. But he can’t have long.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We can’t exfiltrate him like this—he won’t make it to the pickup. He needs a doctor.”

  Milton shook his head. “We can’t take him to a hospital—”

  “I know we can’t,” Beatrix snapped, cutting him off. “Call the quartermaster. He’ll have a re-tread you can take him to.”