The Extinction Files Box Set

by A. G. Riddle

He closed the laptop and returned to the racquetball court. He scooped Desmond up in his arms, and his men and Doctor Park followed him upstairs, through the back door, and under the cover of the old oak trees into a neighbor’s yard. The neighbor’s house was empty, as he’d suspected. The people on this street in Atherton owned homes in the mountains and on the coast—and on remote islands. Some even owned the islands themselves, and the private airstrips on them.

  In the garage he found a Fisker Karma, plugged in, and a black Chevy Suburban.

  “Take the gas guzzler,” he said.

  When Desmond was loaded in the back, he turned to Doctor Park. “Location?”

  “It’s near Bair Island. Hold on.” Park studied the map. “It’s the airport at San Carlos.”

  Conner considered that. It was the perfect place for an ambush. But he had no choice.

  Chapter 48

  The two vehicles raced through the winding Spanish roads at high speed, Avery behind the wheel of the lead truck, Adams driving the other. Between the hills and curves, Peyton felt like she was on a roller coaster.

  “Avery, if you drive any faster, we’re going to travel back in time!”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” She pressed harder on the accelerator, and the engine screamed louder.

  At the Santander airport, they loaded onto a Spanish Air Force jet while Lin and Adams conversed with a colonel commanding the forces there. Lin refused to take any additional troops with them. Soon Avery was in the cockpit, and they were once again in the air.

  At cruising altitude, Avery engaged the autopilot and joined the others in the crew compartment. It was an open space with seats at the rear and reminded Peyton of a smaller version of the plane she and her EIS agents had taken from Atlanta to Nairobi a month ago. That felt like another lifetime. And on this flight, she felt like the student, her mother the teacher. A teacher reluctant to share her knowledge.

  “A destination would be nice,” Avery said. “Other than the American South.”

  Lin unrolled a sleeping bag and slipped inside. “Soon.” She motioned for Peyton to bed down beside her.

  Peyton unrolled another sleeping bag, and the others did the same. Adams and Rodriguez had arranged to take turns staying up to monitor the autopilot.

  Everyone was exhausted, and in Peyton’s estimation, Lin most of all. Her face was inches from Peyton’s, and when Lin closed her eyes, the strength seemed to drain out of her. What she had done at Altamira had taken a toll on her, though she had hidden it well. There was so much Peyton wanted to ask her mother, but the questions would have to wait.

  Just before she slipped off to sleep, Peyton noticed that her mother was hugging a bag, like a suitcase with shoulder straps. She was sure she hadn’t taken it to Altamira. She must have gotten it there. But when? And what was inside?

  Chapter 49

  Avery couldn’t sleep, so she returned to the cockpit and suggested to Adams, who was currently on shift, that he catch some shuteye. He was happy to oblige; he was as exhausted as the rest of them.

  Avery couldn’t turn her mind off. She kept thinking about the siege at Desmond’s home, imagining them storming it, Desmond getting shot in the crossfire. She wanted to be there more than anything in the world.

  The sat phone buzzed, and she grabbed it. “Price.”

  “Avery.” She knew immediately from David Ward’s tone that it was bad news. “We lost ’em.”

  “You’re kidding. How? I mean, you had them—”

  “Conner McClain is good—”

  “I don’t want to hear how good he is. There are only two possibilities: he left the house or he’s still there.”

  “We tracked down all the vehicles. It took almost ten hours—”

  “Ten hours?”

  “They used X1 troops as human shields. We couldn’t fire. Had to run them down. They went in four different directions. We didn’t find McClain or Hughes. We… interrogated his second in command. He insists McClain was in the last van. He wasn’t.”

  “Then he’s still in the house.”

  “We’ve searched it—top to bottom.”

  Top to bottom. For a moment she was back in the racquetball court, sweating, panting, volleying with Desmond, then rolling across the floor, him leaning down to kiss her and the wall inside her breaking down.

  “Avery? You still there?”

  “I’m here. There’s a hidden room.” She had assumed the standoff would have ended in a firefight, never a game of hide-and-seek in the house. It never occurred to her to tell them about the racquetball court. She felt like such a fool.

  “Yeah, the reading nook in the study. They found—”

  “No. It’s under the garage. A racquetball court. You access it from the basement—through the wine cellar. There’s a false brick that opens the door.”

  “Hang on.”

  She could hear him making a call on another sat phone. Then he returned. “They missed it. I’ll call you back.”

  Avery answered the second the sat phone rang.

  “We searched the racquetball court,” Ward said. “They’re not there, but we found some MRE cartons, recently eaten. We think they slipped out after the search teams left the first time.”

  Avery thought for a moment. Desmond chose his home as a location for a reason. Why? To get help? To put himself on their radar? That was likely. If it was true, what would be his next stop? An escape route? Another location they both knew. One that offered options.

  Only one place fit that description.

  “I think I know where they’re going. The San Carlos Airport.”

  “We’ll deploy teams—”

  “Don’t. Let’s not make the same mistake. Let it play out. You remember what Des told us there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want you there, David. Please.”

  “Hughes asked me the same thing. Look, Avery, things are in motion here. The whole world is coming unglued—”

  “And you can’t hold it together. We can’t play defense. It’s time to stop these people. Hughes is the key. Please. Go there—for me. I’ve never asked you for anything.”

  “You want me to take myself out of the middle of the action here, go there, and simply wait and hope Hughes shows up?”

  “Yes. If you remember, he asked me to do that once. I didn’t like it, but I did it. And it got us this far. Please, David. He asked you. And now I’m asking you. There’s nobody I trust more. We need him.”

  “We? Or you?”

  “Both, okay? I need him. I want to see him. But it’s more than that. He’s the key to everything.”

  A long pause. Avery thought about pressing the point, but one thing she knew about David Ward: he always pushed back at aggression.

  “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll go. I’ll give it twenty-four hours. I’m leaving after that.”

  Avery exhaled, relieved. “That’s fair. Thank you, David.”

  Chapter 50

  The Chevy Suburban drove through the night, headlights off, the streets lit only by moonlight. The roads were eerily quiet, deserted, like a world after people.

  From the back of the van, Dr. Park provided directions to the airport at San Carlos, his face illuminated by the smartphone. The phone was like a modern-day talisman, guiding their band to an artifact that would save their people and their cause. They had to know where Desmond had hidden Rendition. It was their only hope. Conner’s only hope of getting his brother back.

  The airport’s gate was open, and the place looked deserted. Conner rolled down his window and inhaled the smell of San Francisco Bay. It was a mix of salt water and fresh water; nearly half of California’s rivers and lakes drained to the sea here. The Bay Area was a symbol of the new world, and of the Citium itself: a nexus of thinkers, people creating a new society, their technology unleashed upon the world, for its betterment, whether the rest of humanity wanted it or not. The Citium would take the masses into the next world, kicking and screaming if they had to. />
  “Hangar twenty-seven,” Park said, looking at the smartphone’s screen.

  The soldiers got out, broke in, and pulled the hangar doors wide open. Conner had expected to see a plane waiting—perhaps Desmond’s escape plan. But he saw only corkboards littered with pages and photos, connected by strings. Tables ran in rows between the corkboard, empty except for a few cardboard boxes.

  He moved behind the wheel and eased the SUV in. The hangar doors closed behind.

  He got out and took in the strange scene, paying particular attention to the articles pinned to the boards. Pictures. Bios. News articles. He recognized them.

  How was it possible?

  From the vehicle, Dr. Park called, “We’re getting a new feed. Memory is starting.”

  On his phone, Desmond clicked the address Conner had sent him. The directions led to a pier in San Francisco.

  Avery had left only a few minutes ago, the moment she had heard the address. Was she going there? He desperately wanted to know what was going on with her. He sensed that he had been lied to, and that hurt—particularly coming from her.

  Questions about her dogged him as he drove north, out of Atherton, toward San Francisco.

  The Kentaro Maru was larger than he remembered. It sat tall in the water, long along the wharf. The gangplank was guarded by two Citium Security operatives.

  One held up a hand as Desmond approached.

  “I’m here to see Conner McClain.”

  “Name?”

  “Desmond Hughes.”

  They checked over the radio. Instead of waving him on, they stood still. Two Citium Spec Ops members approached and asked Desmond to follow them.

  On the ship’s bridge, he waited, taking in the glowing floodlights scattered across the harbor.

  “Hello, brother.”

  Desmond turned to find Conner in a merchant marine uniform for a company he didn’t recognize: Terra Transworld. He saw the change in Conner immediately. A rigidity. A military composure. What happened to him?

  Desmond was at a loss for words. Conner wasn’t.

  He held out his arm. “This way.”

  In the conference room, Conner closed the door. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

  “I’m not interested in apologies. Give me a reason.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you a reason.” Conner smiled for the first time. “We’ll talk after.”

  He led Desmond into the bowels of the ship, past crewmembers covered in grease and carrying provisions. Based on the size of the packages, Desmond suspected they were preparing for a journey. In what looked like a modified locker room, Conner instructed Desmond to put on a biocontainment suit like a CDC employee might wear.

  What has he done?

  Desmond donned the garment in silence and followed his brother into the ship’s hold, where rows of cubicles spread out. They were framed by metal posts and wrapped in sheet plastic. Yellow lights glowed inside, but the contents of the cubes were obscured. One group of suited personnel was pushing a cart down the aisles, stopping at each cube, ducking through the plastic flaps, and re-emerging with buckets, which they emptied.

  Another group pushed a cart piled high with bodies.

  “Conner,” Desmond said, breathing hard. He waited, then realized the suit didn’t have a radio.

  Conner continued forward, leading him through the giant chamber, like a warehouse within the giant ship. At the other end, they entered a decontamination room. A spray engulfed the suits, then ceased, and they unzipped their suits and doffed them.

  “What is this, Conner?”

  “I’ll explain everything, Des. It’s why you’re here.”

  They climbed a staircase and entered a conference room that was filled with people. A large screen hung on the wall displaying a world map with red glowing dots. A plate glass window on one wall looked down on the hold full of glowing cubes, like Japanese lanterns floating on a concrete sea.

  This is wrong.

  Conner stood at the head of the room, confident, an almost possessed look in his eyes. His words rang out clear and strong, drawing the attention of every person in the room.

  “Soon, the world will change. Stay the course. The coming days will be the most difficult of your life. But when this is finished, the world will know the truth: we saved the entire human race from extinction…”

  When his speech was finished, the room cleared, leaving Desmond alone with Conner—except for the two security operatives by the door.

  Desmond’s voice came out soft, labored. “What have you done?”

  “What had to be done.”

  “Conner.” Desmond stared at him. “These are my Rendition subjects, aren’t they? You’ve reused them like they were—”

  “They’re terminal, Des.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to—”

  “They volunteered.”

  “What are you testing?”

  “A distribution method.”

  “For what?”

  Conner nodded to the two security operatives. They left and closed the door behind them.

  “Rapture,” he said.

  Desmond’s mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”

  “This is the only way.”

  “What is it, Conner? What are you and Yuri doing?”

  “What must be done.”

  “Is it a gene therapy? A retrovirus? Why?”

  Conner was silent.

  “You’re not going to tell me? The truth and partnership ends here?”

  “I’m asking you to let me handle this part of the project. Yuri has trusted me with it. I hope you will too.”

  “How many will die, Conner?”

  “Very few.” Conner shook his head. “People die every day—for things worth far less than the Looking Glass. Everything has a price. The Looking Glass is worth it.”

  Desmond opened his mouth to respond, but closed it. This was not his brother. “What happened to you?” It came out before he could stop it.

  “Nothing has happened to me.”

  “I feel like I’m talking to a different person, Conner. You even look different.”

  “I’ve taken on new responsibilities.”

  Desmond squinted at him.

  “I’ve been given command of Citium Security. I’ve been training.”

  “For what?”

  Conner stepped closer to Desmond. “The beginning. It’ll be painful, but don’t worry, Des. I’ll handle it. That’s why we’re a team—you, me, and Yuri. We each have a role to play. I’m asking you to let me play mine.”

  Desmond took a step back. “I need some time.”

  “Now that is something we don’t have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Things are in motion.”

  The words were like an alarm going off in Desmond’s head.

  He tried to come up with the words that would bring his brother back—make him see reason. But as Desmond stared at him, he realized that Conner was too far gone. He and his brother were different in one very important way—a way Yuri had understood. Understood and exploited. Conner’s wounds ran deeper than Desmond’s. Both brothers had been burned by the same fire, but Conner had suffered more, longer. He was vulnerable in the same way as Desmond, but on a deeper level. He was capable of being brainwashed. Used like a knife to slice the world open.

  For the first time, Desmond saw Yuri’s true nature—and he was afraid. The things the older man had said were true: the world was unfair, and cruel, and needed to change. But his solution was savage. A price too high to pay—for Desmond. But not for Conner.

  And Yuri knew that. He had told Desmond as much. His specialty was reading people, knowing what they were capable of and what they would do. He moved the pieces, and he had positioned them perfectly.

  Desmond was in a corner. There was only one way out. He had been here once before, on the day Dale Epply came to Orville’s house, escorted him to the garden shed, and gave him th
e choice: kill or be killed.

  He felt the weight of the decision upon him. He knew that his entire future would turn on this moment. He had dedicated his life to the Looking Glass. And Yuri’s plan. But the price… it was too high. He hadn’t signed up for this. He wouldn’t sacrifice innocent lives. He would fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. He would stop Yuri, even if it cost him his brother.

  “I understand,” Desmond whispered.

  Conner exhaled. “Good. I knew you would, Des. I told Yuri that.”

  Desmond made his tone neutral. “What happens next?”

  A smile curled at Conner’s lips. “We have some work to do.”

  “What kind?”

  “Stops to make.”

  “Where?”

  “Just get Rendition ready. Won’t be long now, brother.”

  As he drove away from the pier, Desmond’s mind raced, playing scenarios out.

  Confront Yuri. Bad play—Yuri had certainly already prepared for that.

  Call the FBI. No. They’d be more likely to lock him up than help him.

  Call the Washington Post. That could work. But not if they were starting from scratch. A story like this took time to research and verify, and as Conner had said, time was something he didn’t have. He would need to find a journalist who had already scratched the surface of the Citium conspiracy—someone who would believe him, and publish quickly.

  At stoplights, he searched on his phone, typing in the names of Citium subsidiaries and investment vehicles. He stopped short when he found an article published in Der Spiegel by a journalist named Garin Meyer. What the man had done was amazing. He had already connected many of the Citium subsidiaries, thinking they were some sort of organized crime syndicate—a new breed of twenty-first century high-tech companies colluding to rake in profits. And he was partly right, though those profits were being channeled to a cause—the Looking Glass.

  Desmond knew he had to contact Meyer. But first, he had a stop to make.

  He knocked on the door, nervous, suddenly unsure of the decision.