Amanda had to finally admit that indulging Mittens had not made her stronger. Instead, each time she lost control and surrendered herself to her alter-ego she had dug the hole a little deeper and the gnawing emptiness filled it. Mittens was nothing more than an articulate manifestation of all the base instincts and drives that lived in the dark recesses of every mind and could never be completely satiated. Each death only increased her appetite. Everyone had their own Mittens. Unfortunately, Amanda’s version had been amplified to a compelling level and came with the ability to indulge even the slightest whim without consequence.
The ultimate test of restraint. Are you up to it, Amanda? Michael asked.
His perspective flipped from first to second person with enough regularity that she began to wonder if the thoughts were even hers. Could this be her Michael communicating from a different reality? Was this another aspect of her evolution: communicating with the dead?
“Are you real?” She whispered, and waited for an answer. To have him back, even if it was just a voice in her mind, would change everything. But all she felt was silence.
Nothing more than voices of the past, Mittens answered after a long minute.
The bored flight attendant with the painted-on smile asked Amanda and her seat-mate if they wanted something to drink. Amanda declined, but he asked for a rum and Coke and took the opportunity to surreptitiously compare Amanda’s cleavage with the flight attendant’s. Amanda lost. She smiled, wondering how the horny traveler would feel if he knew what the smiling stewardess was planning to add to his drink.
***
Ted Alam had been walking the Washington mall for nearly an hour, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. He sidestepped the multitude of tourists who were snapping pictures of the cherry blossoms and of the distant Capitol, and kept moving. He was certain someone was watching him—either members of Lon Chang’s organization or his own organization, the FBI, or both—and he refused to let them have an easy time of it. Two o’clock was late for lunch, but on a day like today, with mild temperatures and the sun warming DC for the first time in months, he had a reasonable excuse for his wanderings. Officially, he was in Washington to complete a class he had begun over a year earlier. He had worked through lunch to finish early, and then made a point of letting his proctors know that he was off to enjoy the day.
He tossed a handful of birdfeed to the very well-fed ducks that were returning in numbers to the pools. Lon Chang was late, which was typical but unnerving nonetheless. He strolled in front of a large group of elderly tourists and offered to take their picture. They thanked him, and the half dozen senior citizens slowly assembled and loudly yelled “Cheese” just before he snapped the picture. He retrieved his briefcase, which contained File: PLAX 7344963-8772, and continued his wandering. It wasn’t a paper file but three CDs: the complete FBI security evaluation of the Port of Los Angeles. His earlier indiscretions had been unimportant internal memoranda regarding budgetary allocations, and if Ted hadn’t been so impaired at the time he probably would have realized that the information could have been legally obtained. This file was a whole different story. It was a blueprint for terrorism.
He walked by the southwest corner for the sixth time, but still no Chang. He was the epitome of a compromised agent, an absolute textbook example of what not to do, including keeping this latest development from his superiors. He knew what he was doing was a mistake, and he had debated long and hard about how to handle his predicament, finally deciding that handling this himself was the lesser of all evils open to him. The file required a key, a deciphering program that happened to be loaded on his laptop. He would open the CD file on his laptop, proving to Chang that it was the file in question, and then pass the worthless CDs over to the Chinese national. He would then stroll back to his life.
Of course, there was almost no chance any of that would happen. Chang would certainly know that the files were encrypted and would require a program to be opened, so he would either demand the key or Alam’s laptop, or—worse still—would have his own laptop loaded with a copy of the deciphering program. In which case Ted would arrest the small man and both their worlds would unravel.
Of course, that was unlikely to happen as well. Chang played the part of a low-level agent, more fool than spy, but it was just a role. He would come prepared, almost certainly with a team of well-armed and well-trained operatives whose goal would be recovery of the CDs and, if necessary, and if possible, Chang himself. Ted was armed and prepared as well, but harbored no expectation he would survive a gun battle with an unknown number of hidden agents. He would draw his weapon if Chang resisted arrest, but then drop it once the small man played his last hand by calling in his team of operatives. Ted would let Chang and his men take the CDs and his case and allow them to leave. Once at a safe distance, he would detonate the charge that occupied half of the laptop’s battery compartment. With a little luck, it would do more than just take off a hand.
Ted swung around the metal bench that he assumed would be the exchange point for the seventh time and started back up Jefferson Drive. After he passed Twelfth Street a distant clock chimed the quarter hour, and out of sheer frustration he glanced back at the empty bench. Nothing. He rounded the Smithsonian and a Frisbee skidded across his path. The lawns were filled with families and sunbathers, all enjoying life, and Ted felt more isolated than ever. He stepped over the disk and kept walking.
“Dude, a little help?” a longhaired twenty-something yelled. Ted glanced over; immersed in troubles of his own making, he didn’t realize that he had violated Frisbee etiquette. “Toss it, man …” The young man was dressed in a torn tie-dye shirt, cut-off jeans over pasty white spindly legs; a leather thong gathered his dirty black hair into a ponytail. He stood facing Ted with an expectant look, fifty years out of time. Ted flicked the disk back to the ersatz hippie, who caught it with one finger. “Seventh and Madison, just in front of the pool. Go now,” he said quickly and then turned and jogged back to the center of the field, throwing the Frisbee to another pretend-hippie with practiced expertise.
For a moment, Ted wasn’t certain he had heard what he thought he heard, and he remained rooted in place. The pair continued to toss the disk, yelling with each athletic catch, and after several more throws their game began to drift towards Madison Avenue and a small fountain inside a reflecting pool. Ted paralleled their progress and turned left on Seventh. Another group of tourists, all with headphones in place, stood facing the Capitol while their bored tour guide droned on in German. Ted skirted the group and found Mr. Chang propped against a tree, playing Angry Birds on a tablet.
***
“I am completely addicted to this game,” he said as a surviving pig laughed at him. “But I can’t seem to clear this level.” His English was perfect, much better than Ted had remembered, and he shook the tablet in phony frustration. “You passed me three times and never even noticed.” He finally turned from the game and faced Ted. “Or anyone else.” His threat hung in the air.
“I just want to get through this as quickly as possible.” Ted crouched down, slid the laptop out of his briefcase, loaded the first of the three CDs, and then handed the computer to Chang.
“Perfect. Is this everything?” Chang asked, immersed in the program.
“Here,” Ted said tersely and handed the Asian two more CDs. Chang closed the program, swapped discs, and when that disc opened immediately, repeated the process with the third CD.
“Excellent,” he said, closing the computer screen after pocketing the three discs. “Of course these files are encryp …” Without warning, Ted jumped to his feet. Chang dropped the laptop into the grass and was on his feet only an instant after Ted.
***
A light brighter than the noonday sun suddenly filled Chang’s mind. A moment later it resolved into the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Her beauty was so overpowering that it made his head throb; he felt lighter tha
n air and was certain that his feet had left the ground. He steadied himself against the smooth bark of the tree, and from her brilliance floated the most beautiful voice he could imagine. A mixture of music and soft caresses, it spoke in a language that no simple human mind could ever understand. Ted’s rough and ugly voice interrupted its perfect harmony, and abruptly the spell snapped. A lovely young blonde woman wearing a yellow sundress approached them. Alam spoke again, and Chang’s mind cleared enough to recognize the name “Amanda.”
“What are you doing here?” Ted asked, and Chang wondered why Ted was so upset with the arrival of this exquisite creature.
“I can’t let you do this, Ted,” she said, and Chang struggled to understand what they were talking about. He felt drunk, and his mind slowly translated the English words to Korean. Alam was worse than a fool. He was an American fool. He saw an Asian face and immediately accepted that Chang was from China. It amazed and shamed him that such a narrow-minded, egotistical society was responsible for his proud country’s survival. Still, they had brought with them the wonderful concepts of free markets and unrestrained capitalism.
“What’s going on here, Ted?” Chang said, a little thickly, trying to shake off this woman’s narcotic effect. He looked past Ted and found one of his four colleagues across the street, alert to the fact that things were not going to plan. Chang was running point for the five-man team that had worked the American agent for more than a year. A great deal of money and effort had been expended in maneuvering Ted to this very spot, and now this woman’s unexpected appearance threatened their investment. “Who are you?” He took a step forward and had a clear view of Amanda.
“He’s not who you think he is,” she answered, ignoring Chang’s question. “Ted, you don’t have much time …”
Chang reached for the gun beneath his jacket, but his mind exploded into an infinity of stars, and the wondrous voice filled the spaces between. He was on his knees, then on his back, and finally on his stomach as the beautiful angel transformed into a hideous and vengeful demon. An invisible hand forced his face into the dirt and he watched Ted scoop up the laptop and the precious discs. He could hear them talk, but their words held no meaning. He heard his name, his real name, and the astonishment made him struggle. He tried to move, but the invisible hand only pushed harder; he was breathing dirt now, and his body was being crushed by the unseen force. He began to panic, and images raced through his mind. His parents, their Seoul apartment, school, university, induction into the Army, and then an alien but crystal-clear memory of a small blonde baby. A tall, muscular American with an inviting and mischievous smile followed.
Josh and Michael, are you there? a woman’s voice whispered in his mind, and repressed emotions of love, longing, and loss—having finally found an outlet—filled his soul. They were her emotions and it was her voice; the woman Alam had called Amanda. Images of her life mixed with his as the two talked above him. He was forced to listen but prevented from understanding until they came to a long pause and the woman turned her attention back to him.
I’m going to let you up, Bong-hwa, she boomed into his mind in a language that was neither English nor Korean. Sit there and be good and I won’t hurt you. The pressure on his back eased off, and he gasped to re-expand his lungs. His head was released, and he rolled on to his back.
“What are you?” he panted. Amanda was a few steps closer, but Ted had retreated into the shade of a tree several steps up the sidewalk. Chang looked around for the rest of his team.
“I sent them away,” she answered, and turned back to Ted. “They were going to take you, and the discs,” she told the American.
“You can’t be here,” Alam said, fear filling his voice.
Chang tried to reconstruct the previous two minutes of his life, but they seemed to be lost. Something important was happening, but he didn’t have the capacity to recognize it, only to sense it. It was difficult and somewhat painful to formulate coherent thoughts, and then a childhood nightmare flashed through his mind. He was running through the streets of Seoul, but they were covered in waist high snow and an unseen horror tracked him. The vision passed but the terror it reliably produced remained. Both time and reality seemed to have been warped, and his mind searched frantically for something solid to hold on to. He rolled into a sitting position, and his hand brushed against the cool metal of his fallen gun. It slipped into his hand with a familiarity that helped to clear some of the mental inertia.
There had been rumors about the American “psychic soldier” projects since before he had been born, but he had no idea they had made such progress. Not even a whisper of their success had reached his ears, or the ears of anyone else who lived in his world—a world that used information as currency. This made everything he, his boss, and their clients had worked for completely obsolete. The Port Authority plans were worthless when the Americans could tell when, where, and how the attack was coming. In fact, they must have seen him coming. Alam’s willingness to deliver vital US secrets was a ploy to draw him and his men out into the open. It was likely the FBI was closing in on him at this very instant.
Panic stricken, Chang jumped to his feet. Ted sensed the movement, saw the weapon, and began to run towards Amanda. Chang’s first shot struck Ted just beneath the left scapula as he tried to shield the woman. The second shot struck him in the knee and he fell fifteen feet short of her. Chang recentered his aim and fired his third shot in less than three seconds. Amanda’s eyes were wide with surprise but narrowed with something else just as he felt the weapon recoil.
Time seemed to have stopped, and in the instant that lasted an eternity, Bong-hwa Son, AKA Lon Chang, had an almost perfect clarity. He saw the tourists reacting to the gunshots; their attempts to flee the carnage were frozen in his mind. He saw Alam down on his left side, blood already staining the concrete. He saw each of his four colleagues running in different directions, their minds confused and their intentions scrambled. But mostly he saw Amanda. She filled his sight and mind. He felt where the bullet had struck her, just below her right collar bone. Not a kill shot, but close; only, to their mutual surprise, she was for the most part unharmed. It felt no worse than being struck by a paintball; a paintball that in actuality had been a hollow-point 9mm bullet traveling at fifteen hundred feet per second.
“You really should not have done that,” she said, and Chang didn’t have enough time to wonder where the voice had come from. The gun seemed to ignite in his outstretched hand. He tried to drop it, but the molten metal and plastic dissolved into his hand and then poured up his arm. His jacket sleeve ignited in a flash, and instinctively he began to pat it with his left arm. The living, red-hot metal jumped to his other arm, and an instant later he was engulfed in flames. His only scream was cut short as the fire poured down his throat. He fell to the grass with his mind yelling that he was burning alive. The woman refused him the peace of unconsciousness, and she whispered that he would suffer for as long as he lived. Time had no meaning as months and years passed. He felt a pull on his right arm, and with perfect clarity he watched it fall to the grass; a similar pull and what was left of his left arm fell across the charred remains of the right.
Beg to die, her mind screamed, and he had no choice but to obey. He was well beyond human suffering and should by all reason already be dead.
Please, he pleaded across the mental bridge that separated them, and then all at once he was on his back, the sun shining brightly into his eyes. His hands, which should have been charred remnants, flew to his perfectly intact face and chest. An ache in his right shoulder and a spot just below his collar bone told him that he was still alive. He felt something slither up his left pant leg, and then his right. He tried to jump to his feet, but his legs no longer functioned. More cool, slithering somethings found their way into his jacket and then down across his waist. He tried to twist his body but nothing seemed to work.
Snakes! his mind screamed.
&n
bsp; You didn’t think this was over, did you?
The first bite was just below his knee, the serpent blunting its fangs against his shin bone, then into the fleshy portion of his thigh. The venom was like acid and his leg began to liquefy. His belt snapped as the mass of snakes found his midsection. The terror broke his mind. His mother’s oldest threat was finally being realized. The next bite was to his left testicle, but instead of it dissolving, the serpent began to tear at the tissue. A second, then a third, then too many to count as the organ was ripped from his body. The agony was everything he had been promised so long ago by those who should have loved and protected him. He begged to die, but the only answer he received was a bite into his right testicle. Later, when the snakes had fulfilled every aspect of his mother’s threat and he could no longer breathe, they started on his penis. His heart gave out just after they finished.
CHAPTER 35
Amanda knew that she had to move, but she was beyond exhausted. Instead of energizing her, Chang’s long slow death had depleted her. She stood over his body, his head oddly misshapen. She kicked his foot for good measure and a small metal object rolled from beneath his shoe. She stared at it, its existence somehow compelling. She stooped to pick it up and nearly lost her balance when the world around her began to spin. She staggered over to Ted, but before reaching his body she turned away. He was dead beyond question. Death had its own unique flavor.
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