“French Foreign Legion.”
“Damn.” Ford huffed. “Listen to that accent, too. So we get a desk jockey and some Ruskie who served in an army trained to drop their weapons and run. This is just fucking great.”
Andris fumed, his fingers clenching into fists. “I’m no Russian.” He jabbed a finger at Ford. The muscles in his jaw tensed, and Meredith shot him a look imploring him to restrain himself. Andris let out a breath, seeming to understand her message, and sank back into his seat.
“Whatever you are,” Ford said, “you two aren’t exactly what we were promised. When your Captain said we had to take two of you, I was pissed. But now it looks like two of you weren’t enough.”
Meredith wondered what she’d gotten herself into, wondered if it was a mistake to have volunteered for this. But she’d dealt with worse through her career. The CIA had its share of macho windbags like Ford. Her skills and leadership had been scrutinized time and time again by her superiors. She glanced out the fuselage window as the Huntress turned to a silver speck on the horizon. There was nothing she could say to convince these men that they were fully equipped, both physically and mentally, to deal with the Skulls. It would be up to her and Andris to show them.
***
Bethesda, once known for its prosperity and for housing world-renowned research institutions, now looked like a war zone. Ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars sat useless among military vehicles that had been left behind in the retreat. The entire highway system surrounding the area had been congested by more traffic than Dom had ever seen here during the worst of rush hours. He doubted many had made it successfully out of the city. More likely the vehicles clogging the roadways served as tombs for their occupants.
“Ford’s group is landing near the NINDs,” Frank reported over the comm link. “Reporting minimal resistance.”
“Good to hear,” Dom said.
The chopper began its descent to the NIH. Dom held his binos up. “We’ve got half a dozen contacts converging on our LZ.”
“On your orders, Captain,” Frank said.
“We’re still a go. Six Skulls are no problem.”
The wheels hit the parking lot hard, and Miguel slid back a side door. The six Skulls howled, piercing the growl of the chopper’s engines. Their muscles rippled under the plates covering their limbs and torsos. Several had jagged fins along their spines, and all displayed daggerlike claws, ready to tear into their prey.
Miguel leapt from the chopper first and laid down a heavy stream of fire. Dom exited hard on his heels. Renee joined them, followed by Jenna and Spencer. Glenn exited last and slammed the door shut.
“Here if you need me, Captain,” Frank said as the chopper ascended.
“To the VPPL!” Dom said, catching one of the charging monsters in his sights. He squeezed the trigger. Fragments of bony armor splintered. The Skull was knocked back by the gunfire—but it didn’t stay down.
The monster pushed itself to its feet and continued its frenzied dash. It pounced on top of a sedan and then jumped off, its feet clicking against the asphalt. Its bony armor rattled as Dom fired on it again.
“What the hell?” Jenna said, spraying lead into another Skull. “AP rounds are hardly doing shit!”
“Their armor is strong as fuck!” Miguel yelled.
Dom readjusted his aim, trying to take one of the creatures down. These things must’ve had plenty of food to feast on and more than enough time to support the growth of their organic body armor. Against foes like these, his team had lost the advantage they’d once had with the armor-piercing rounds.
Sparks flew from the asphalt and the cars as bullets ricocheted around the Skulls. Dom’s target grew ever closer, ducking and swerving around his gunfire. Its lips curled in a menacing snarl, baring its fangs, and its crimson eyes glowed with fury. The sight frightened Dom, but a couple of quick trigger squeezes lanced gunfire through those ghoulish eyes. Tumbling forward, the Skull skidded along the asphalt. It left a trail of peeled flesh and red gore. More gunfire chattered across the campus, echoing between buildings. More Skull howls continued to join the growing chorus.
Other choppers landed, dropping off the support Kinsey had promised. A few hovered above as their side door gunners swept M240s back and forth, sending salvos into the churning Skulls.
The last of the half dozen assaulting Dom’s crew went down in a hail of fire.
“Miguel, point!” Dom yelled.
The Hunters ran to a shuttle bus with broken windows. Shards of glass sparkled next to it and crunched under their boots like ice. From there they spread out and covered each other. They made it through the parking lot toward the VPPL one car at a time.
Another wail rent the air. A pair of Skulls careened from a trailer parked in a loading dock. The Hunters fired on the creatures. But the Skulls quickly hid. They scrambled between cars, their howls rising up over the lot and their claws scraping all the while.
“Can’t get a shot on ‘em!” Glenn shouted.
Spencer fired round after round. The bullets plunged into the cars as the Skulls skittered along.
Dom sprinted to flank the creatures, with Miguel hot on his tail. With the monsters’ focus on the others, he found a clear firing lane directly into their sides. He and Miguel sent a volley of fire. Spent cases pinged against the asphalt, and rounds slammed into the creatures, knocking them from their trajectory.
They twisted, snarling and spitting. A bullet caught one in its underarm, and blood seeped from the wound, drizzling over its bony protrusions. Bending low, the monsters turned their focus from the others and barreled straight at Dom and Miguel.
“Well, shit, Chief!” Miguel reloaded his rifle, gritting his teeth. “That didn’t work as planned!”
Dom tried to beat the two monsters back with gunfire. But again their heavy armor withstood the storm of lead. Bone chipped and cracked, but not quickly enough. Dom started backing away, firing all the while. Miguel mirrored his actions. A bullet finally caught one of the creatures through its nasal cavity. Its head whipped back in a spray of crimson, and its body crumpled.
The other ignored it. With its claws slicing through the air, the Skull jumped and landed in front of Dom. It knocked the rifle’s barrel aside and kicked Miguel backward. The Hunter crashed into the hood of an SUV. Dom wanted to see if Miguel was okay, but all his energy was focused on parrying the Skull’s blows with his rifle. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. The monster screamed, and saliva sprayed across Dom’s face. Its claws connected with his rifle again and again. Metal against bone. Dom spent more time defending himself than delivering blows. Vaguely, he could hear the sound of his other Hunters yelling and their rifles chattering. More Skulls. More deafening howls.
The Skull battering him hissed. Its face shot forward, snapping at him desperately. Dom finally hammered the stock of his rifle into the creature’s jaw. Its mouth closed with a sickening crunch. A moment later, broken shards of teeth trickled out when it roared. Dom hit it again, and the Skull staggered, dazed. Again and again, he pummeled it. It reared back, its claws outstretched, but it never got a chance to strike.
The creature went suddenly still. Blood poured from its mouth, and its eyes rolled back. Miguel peered out from behind it, pulling his blade from the back of the monster’s skull. Its body fell forward.
“You’re welcome,” Miguel said, his characteristic shit-eating grin plastered across his face. But the expression faded almost immediately. “Drooler!”
Twisting, Dom saw the abomination clamber onto a nearby minivan. Dark reddish-brown liquid oozed from the gashes in its throat and dripped from the remains of its mutilated jaw. Its gargling grew louder until a geyser of acidic bile sprayed from its mouth. Dom jumped, rolled, and picked up his rifle. Miguel held the Skull he’d just killed before him like a shield. The Drooler’s acid spray splattered against the bony armor of the Skull, dissolving it into a sizzling mess. In one swift movement, Dom shouldered his rifle and aimed at the
Drooler’s head. He sent a wave of gunfire into the creature, knocking it back. Acid sprayed wildly as the monster’s body twitched in the throes of death. Dom ducked behind a sedan. Specks of the acid spray smacked against the lawn bordering the parking lot. Where the bile hit, the grass withered almost instantaneously. The beast’s limbs settled, and the dark liquid mixed with its own blood and pooled around its carcass. Dom shoved the mutilated remains of the other Skull off Miguel.
The Hunter looked up at him with wide eyes. He shook his head back and forth slowly. “Holy shit, that was close.” He locked his gaze with Dom’s. They both caught their breath. “Those things are fucked up.”
Dom lent a hand and helped Miguel to his feet.
“You see what that thing did to the other Skull?”
“Yep,” Dom said, shouldering his rifle. He played his barrel across the parking lot and covered the others. They brought down a handful of other Skulls. The gunfire quieted momentarily, and the Hunters started making their way to Dom.
Miguel was still staring at the heap of smoking flesh and gristle that had once been a Skull. “The acid turned this fucker into Jell-O,” he said.
Dom nodded. “I think we may have found ourselves a new weapon.”
-27-
It was almost a relief to hear the click of keys in the lock and the handle turning on the door. Shepherd couldn’t tell if he had passed out for thirty minutes or two hours or half of a day. Regardless, maybe he’d get some answers now.
“Stand.”
Shepherd did as commanded. Rough hands grabbed his elbows and guided him out of the cell. The door slammed shut, and once again he was led blind through an underground complex. The chilling air bit at his skin, and he couldn’t help shivering. Door hinges squeaked, and Shepherd was shoved forward. Hands pressed him into a seat, and someone tore off the bag from his head. He blinked as his eyes slowly adjusted to the harsh fluorescent light.
A man sat across from him at a table. His hands were folded together, and he stared at Shepherd through the mirrored lenses of a pair of aviator sunglasses. His dark hair was cut short in typical military fashion, but instead of an ACU, he wore an expensive-looking suit. Behind him was what Shepherd presumed to be a one-way mirror.
“Tell me everything you know about the Amanojaku Project,” the man said.
“Who are you?” Shepherd asked.
“Name’s not important. But if you need one”—he paused—“call me the Judge.”
“Fort Detrick needs me,” Shepherd said. “Why in the hell did you bring me here?”
The Judge stood and paced back and forth with his hands clenched behind his back. His polished shoes tapped on the concrete floor. Abruptly, he stopped and slammed his palms on the table. “Tell me what you know about the Amanojaku project!”
Shepherd was taken aback but maintained his composure. “Tell me who the fuck you are and who you’re working for. Then maybe we’ll talk.”
“Who I’m working for? Who are you working for?”
Shepherd could feel the man’s icy gaze behind the aviators. “I work for the United States government, the goddamn US Army.”
The Judge raised an eyebrow that barely peeked above the aviators. “That’s the story you’re going with?”
“That’s the truth.”
“Kinsey says differently.”
Shepherd’s stomach twisted. “Where’s the general? Did you people do something to him?”
The Judge laughed. “Kinsey is just fine. In fact, you’re here at his request.”
Doing everything in his power to control his boiling anger, Shepherd gritted his teeth. “Prove to me you work for the United States.”
The Judge depressed a small button over an intercom speaker on the wall. “Shades up.”
The one-way mirror became completely translucent. Behind the window, two men in their class A dress uniforms stood beside another couple of men in black suits that matched the Judge’s.
“You see Colonel Harvey Johnson and Brigadier General William Gould are in attendance.”
Shepherd gaped at the two Army leaders until the Judge ordered the one-way mirror reverted and once again, Shepherd was looking at his own reflection. But he’d recognized Johnson. The man had grown famous—or at least infamous—for his special forces operational detachment called Gamma Force. Brigadier General Gould had supported the creation of Gamma Force and their high-risk missions against the likes of ISIS and other insurrection-borne terrorist groups.
“What the hell are they doing here?” Shepherd asked.
“Not your concern.”
“How do I know they aren’t being held prisoner like me?”
“I don’t have anything to prove to you. I’m the Judge, and you’re the lying sack of shit.”
“I’m not saying anything. For all I know, you’re the enemy.”
“We’re not the enemy.” The Judge paused. “Then again, depending on your allegiance, maybe things aren’t so clear cut.” The Judge sat again. “I’m getting those answers from you regardless of what’s going on in that twisted little mind of yours. Now tell me what you know about the Amanojaku Project.”
Shepherd kept his lips shut tight. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew how to handle himself in a scenario like this one. Then again, he’d never trained for when the hostile forces interrogating a prisoner were his own goddamn comrades.
“All right, that’s how you want this to work.” The Judge turned to the one-way mirror and beckoned.
The door opened a moment later. The two men in suits wheeled a large wooden table between them. One started adjusting the table until it was sloped at fifteen degrees. There were two metal rings at one end of the table and another two along the sides. He unlatched them.
Shepherd couldn’t help the hammering in his heart. He knew what was about to happen. “You can’t do this to me! I’m a US citizen and a commander in the Army.”
The Judge stood, cracking his knuckles, and strolled to the intercom once more. One of the suited men deposited a bucket of water with a cloth draped over its handle near the entrance.
“That makes what you did so much worse,” the Judge said, his voice dripping with venom. “Treason, in a time like this, is absolutely despicable coming from a man in your position.”
“W-What the hell are you talking about?” Shepherd asked, his voice cracking. These men were insane. They were insane, and they were about to fucking waterboard him.
The Judge nodded to the two suits. They forced Shepherd to stand. They uncuffed him roughly and shoved him onto the table. He struggled and thrashed against their grip, but it didn’t do any good.
One elbowed Shepherd in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The suits took advantage of the moment and strapped Shepherd’s wrists into the metal rings. They snapped the other metal cuffs around his ankles.
Shepherd could feel the blood pooling in his head at that uncomfortable angle. “This is torture!”
The Judge pretended to look around the room. “I don’t see any torture.”
He snapped his fingers and pointed at the door. The two suits exited, and the door slammed shut behind them. A metal partition dropped over the one-way mirror, ensuring no one saw into the chamber. The Judge dragged one of the wooden chairs to Shepherd’s side. He took his suit jacket off and draped it over the back of the chair. After rolling up his sleeves, he leaned over the bucket of water, dipped the cloth in, and wrung it out.
“Tell me everything you know about the Amanojaku project,” the Judge said.
“You first.”
The Judge didn’t say another word. Instead, he placed the wet cloth over Shepherd’s nose and mouth. Shepherd felt water begin to pour over the cloth. He gagged as the inescapable feeling of drowning threw his body into panic mode. His fingers clenched and unclenched. His legs kicked out. Vomit trickled from his stomach and into his esophagus, burning all the way. He fought against choking on it, coughing and gasping underneath the wet cloth.
Men from some special forces underwent training where they endured waterboarding to hone their resistance to interrogation. But even they admitted they’d buckled to the simulated sensation of drowning. Shepherd harbored no illusions he could do any better.
He tried to count the seconds, waiting in agony for it to end. Ten seconds...twenty...thirty...oh, God, when would it stop? Then he shot up, the cloth was removed, and he gulped down air again. One, two, three breaths, and down he went. Cloth, water. Suffocation. The Judge kicked the lever and let the table right itself once more. A mixture of sweat and water covered Shepherd’s face. His lungs burned. He tried to inhale as much sweet oxygen as he could. This time he breathed five, six, seven times. No more cloth. No more water.
“Tell me what you know about the Amanojaku Project.”
Shepherd coughed but said nothing.
“This can all be over. Just tell me what I want to know.”
Shepherd’s chest rose and fell. Shivers crept up and down his flesh, but all he said was, “Fuck...you.”
Down he went. His muscles screamed for oxygen, and he fought the overwhelming primitive instincts roiling in his mind. Even as his body struggled to stay alive, his mind began to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to give up, to let death take him. Shepherd rejected those thoughts. He willed himself to stay strong. Then he was given a few clean breaths before the torture began anew. The process repeated itself until Shepherd could no longer remember what it was the man in the sunglasses wanted from him. His entire body was shaking with uncontrollable tremors, but it felt strangely distant, detached.
Finally, he was left upright for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. The Judge stood and threw the cloth into the bucket. Shepherd flinched. The involuntary reaction snapped him back to sanity. He was terrified—not of his torturer and the inhumane waterboarding, but of the fact that he had almost broken. But he would not fail his duty or his country. “If...if you work for Kinsey, then why are you doing this? The general knows I’m not a traitor.”
The Tide (Book 3): Salvage Page 19
