Dangerous Minds: A Cyrus Cooper Thriller: Book One

by Xander Weaver

  Sam’s target toppled to the cracked pavement like a felled tree. Through his scope, he could still see the telltale pink cloud that drifted in the air a moment after the body had fallen away. It was unpleasant work, Sam thought, as he folded the legs of the rifle’s bipod. He hated shooting down an unarmed man. Furthermore, he had no idea what terrible wrong the man had committed. But, it was the nature of the job. And he followed orders, no matter how unpleasant they might be.

  Zipping shut the soft-sided rifle case, Sam pulled the strap over his shoulder and headed for a ladder that was leaning against the east side of the building. He would evacuate to his fallback position before reporting what had happened, and then once more bury the slight guilt he felt for taking down an enemy without giving him a fighting chance.

  Chapter 28

  The Feedmount Building

  Hennings, South Carolina

  2:40 p.m.

  Sitting on the terrace alone, Cyrus watched Ashley through the sliding glass door. She was inside, walking back and forth across the kitchen as she prepared hamburgers for lunch—vegi-burgers for herself. The grill was already preheated, located away from the furniture, off by itself in the corner of the balcony.

  He took another sip from his beer bottle and thought about what Ashley had explained after ushering him outside and away from the prying ears that were apparently on high alert within the confines of her home. Her awareness of the bugs had come only hours earlier, along with the information William had sent from inside Gertrude’s hidden lab. At first she’d been shocked, she admitted. Surprise quickly gave way to anger. But after moving further through the information that William had transmitted, Ashley said the surveillance of her home paled in comparison to the other outrageous things her grandmother had done.

  Even while Ashley was explaining the broad strokes of her grandmother’s wrongdoings, Cyrus could see the pain grow in her eyes. While Ashley was aware that her brother had gone missing a year earlier, the database contained a detailed account of everything that had happened and everything he had been subjected to during that time. It seemed beyond reason, but there was no question that their grandmother had been responsible for William’s disappearance. However, the reason for it was still unclear. Having had only a few short hours to examine what amounted to tens of thousands of pages of records, reports and raw data, it was evident that it would take a great deal of time to connect the dots.

  Cyrus took another sip of his beer, concentrating on Ashley as she pretended to go about her normal routine. The laptop containing the full contents of the database sat on the table beside him, ripe for the picking. His orders were simply to acquire the information. And while the change in the mission objective had struck him as troubling at the time, it seemed even more wrong now. Understanding the nature of Gertrude Waterford’s work, he wasn’t confident that bringing the data back to the Coalition was the right move. The outfit served a purpose, and his people did important work, protecting the United States and the American’s who lived there. Still, there was something about their commanding officer, Monica Fichtner, that had never set right with him. It was a feeling that had only grown more pronounced with time.

  Fichtner was a cold-hearted, seemingly robotic woman who had run the Coalition since its inception. She was so devoid of human emotion that Cyrus had taken to calling her the ‘Red Queen’, a name taken from the malevolent artificial intelligence in the Resident Evil movie series. And though he had bestowed the moniker as a matter of personal amusement, there was no denying the unfeeling resemblance the woman shared with the fictitious computer construct. More simply, he didn’t trust the woman in charge. And even though he couldn’t say why, he had the sense that putting Waterford’s database directly into Fichtner’s hands wouldn’t be a move in the right direction.

  Ashley appeared at the doorway with the plate of raw burger patties. She smiled as she passed by, setting another beer in front of Cyrus on her way to the grill. Looking at the beer, Cyrus wondered where it had come from. There hadn’t been any in the refrigerator the night before, and he knew Ashley was reticent to leave the apartment. She had explained that her exposure to the thoughts and minds of random strangers was difficult, but he sensed that her description was an understatement. Living in a city like Hennings, he realized, was very likely a daily challenge.

  Pulling the heavy glass sliding door closed along its track, Cyrus guaranteed their privacy. While he took Ashley at her word that inside the apartment was bugged, he had thoroughly searched the balcony for any type of listening device and found it free from observation. There was always the chance that someone was using a parabolic microphone to eavesdrop from a neighboring building, but it was unlikely. The surrounding buildings were not as tall as Ashley’s sixth floor balcony, and the first building with actual line of sight was too far out of range. Just the same, he took out his phone and began playing a streaming radio station to add background noise. It would help confound anyone trying to listen in from afar.

  Lowering the lid on the grill, Ashley turned to see where the music was coming from. “I like that,” she said. “Go with that.”

  The song was Buckcherry’s, Open My Eyes. While his goal had been to subvert surveillance, he realized she appreciated the mood that it set. He couldn’t help but smile. Even though everything she had known about the woman who raised her had been pulled out from under her over the course of the last few days, she still took pleasure in the little things.

  Reaching out, Ashley put her hands on his chest. Her eyes met his. There was a sparkle of something he recognized as deep-seeded caring. The connection he felt when he looked at her was reciprocated, he was absolutely certain of it. Even if neither of them knew what it meant, somehow it was enough. At least for the time being.

  “Thank you for giving me a chance to explain about William,” she said quietly. “I promise, once I’m done you’ll understand that everything he did was necessary. He’s not the bad guy here.”

  Given what little he already knew, Cyrus was inclined to believe her; or, at least willing enough to give her the chance to explain. But knowing that William was regaining his strength was still troubling.

  Cyrus and Ashley stood there for some time, lost in the moment. The connection between them was so tangible that it seemed like a living force. Just holding her in his arms and looking into her eyes was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  Suddenly, Ashley’s pert wisp of a smile turned dark and ominous. “Why don’t we look at the laptop,” she said in a dry voice. “I saw something there that’s been bothering me.”

  He shot her a questioning look. The scale of what she found disturbing had recently fallen into a rapid state of flux. Whatever she’d found must have stood out. It wasn’t encouraging.

  “I think my grandmother has other test facilities,” Ashley explained. She didn’t pull herself from his arms. Though she wanted to show him the records on the laptop, she seemed reluctant to leave his embrace. “As twisted as it might sound, she may have been treating William more kindly than we realized—at least comparatively speaking.”

  The implication made Cyrus’s stomach knot and he suddenly felt a loss of apatite. “That bad?”

  He saw her eyes grow moist at the thought. “I don’t have all the details yet, but I found several mentions of neural implants being tested at a facility called Praxis. Something happened there recently. I think one of their test subjects escaped.”

  “Escaped? As in, being held against their will?”

  Ashley nodded. “I’ll dig deeper. If my grandmother is holding people prisoner, William will want to know.”

  Grinding his teeth, Cyrus wanted to know about it too. The Red Queen had mentioned Praxis when she revised his mission objective. What it was remained a mystery. “Praxis? It could be the name of the facility she’s using, or it could be some sort of code name. Is there anything more specific?”

  “Keegan Porter. Her name was mentioned. I don’t know how she’s re
lated to the incident, but she was named in what little I’ve read so far. Cyrus, we have to do something. My grandmother is—”

  A look of incredible agony flashed across Ashley’s face. Cyrus saw her mouth slam shut and the muscles at the side of her jaw corded with incredible constrictive force. The pupils of her eyes dilated instantly, the irises growing larger and darker than he had ever seen. Her entire body went rigid in his arms and he caught her just as she threatened to fall.

  Even as he lowered her carefully to the tile, Cyrus could see that her eyes were rolling back in their sockets. Her body began convulsing in some kind of massive seizure. Laying her out flat on the floor, he did the only thing he could given the sudden onset of whatever was happening; he circled around behind her and cradled her head to keep his hands between her skull and the hard balcony floor. Barring any residual harm from the seizure itself, he knew that he just needed to keep her from becoming physically injured while it played out.

  The seizure lasted nearly two full minutes. It was the single most physically violent event he had ever witnessed, and he was powerless to stop it. But when the convulsions stopped and he looked at her eyes, they remained rolled back in her head. Even more troubling was the thick crimson blood running down her cheeks. Wiping it away and working his way back up her face to her eyes, he realized the source. The blood was flowing slowly from her tear ducts.

  She remained unconscious, but she was literally crying blood.

  His focus on Ashley, Cyrus failed to notice the five men who had silently slipped into her apartment. The group made short work of searching the condo, confirming that Cyrus and Ashley were alone. Finally ready to make their move, one of the men stepped to the edge of the sliding glass door and looked out onto the balcony. On cue, he slid the door open in a single, smooth motion. At the same moment, two of his teammates rushed out onto the patio. The pair of men stepped up behind Cyrus where he knelt, cradling Ashley’s head. A single blow to the back of his skull caused Cyrus crumple to the tile without a sound.

  …He never even knew what hit him.

  Chapter 29

  Mayflower Lab Facility

  Hennings, South Carolina

  3:52 p.m.

  A burning scrape tore through Cyrus’s arm, and he felt himself being pulled from the darkness. A tingling, pins-and-needles feeling spread through his body like a waterfall of burning liquid as he came back to the real world. His extremities felt as if they were being attacked. First his arms and hands, followed soon by a tightness in his chest that seemed like someone was sitting on him; then came his legs, ending finally when the pain reached his feet. But all of that paled in comparison to the throbbing pain in his head. No—throbbing didn’t do it justice, he realized, as his mind struggled to understand what was happening. It was as if his head was being used as the puck in a professional game of hockey.

  Opening his eyes, Cyrus was assaulted by the harsh glare of the room’s fluorescent overhead lights. He smashed his eyes shut once more but the damage was already done. A lance of pain shot through his skull and he felt his stomach roil in response. It took focus to fight back a crushing wave of nausea.

  “Well,” he heard Gertrude say from nearby. “You’re coming back to us ahead of schedule. It seems you’re just full of surprises.”

  Trying to understand the comment, Cyrus fought against his instinct to once more open his eyes. He’d become aware of the restraints being used to keep his arms at his sides, as well as his legs, which were similarly secured below him. And he could tell without looking that he was lying on some sort of steeply inclined table. Still, he wasn’t willing to risk exposing his pupils to the horrific glare just yet. The prospect of vomiting all over himself wouldn’t improve his situation.

  And what did she mean, ahead of schedule? And who was we? His first waking sense was that of something stabbing him in the arm. A burning sensation remained in the middle of his left forearm. Someone had obviously given him some kind of stimulant—he was sure of it. It explained his rapid and violent return to consciousness, as well as his body’s apparent unwillingness to return to the land of the living.

  But if she hadn’t given him a stimulant, who did?

  After taking a long, deep breath to steady himself, Cyrus slowly opened his eyes. They remained hooded against the glare of the harsh lights for several long moments while he squinted and looked around. He was restrained on an industrial grade medical gurney of some sort. It was assembled out of thick aluminum tubes, and he lay on a sturdy backboard that offered only a minimal amount of padding. The backboard was tipped on the gurney’s frame, turning him about thirty degrees short of a fully upright position; reclined just enough to keep his head from falling forward while unconscious.

  Ashley was bound hand and foot to a wheeled office chair not more than twenty feet away. But while his restraints were two-inch wide leather straps that were part of the gurney, she was held in place more crudely with a gratuitous amount of duct tape.

  At least she was awake, even if she didn’t look happy. She didn’t say anything. Her look of hopeless resignation made him think they had been there for some time.

  Walking up behind Ashley, Gertrude fixed Cyrus with a penetrating stare. She looked like the proverbial cat that had swallowed the canary. And when she stepped around Ashley’s chair, Cyrus realized that the old woman was relying less on her cane than she had in days.

  Perhaps most troubling of all, Cyrus recognized the large room in which they were being held. It wasn’t Gertrude’s own lab at the Mayflower Facility, but it was most certainly another of the labs. This one was outfitted differently, yet the high concrete walls and wide tiles on the raised floor were the same.

  Behind Ashley there was a large bed. At the head of it was a massive machine, the likes of which Cyrus had never seen. It seemed that the bed would slide into the machine—similar to a MRI—but this was something more complicated. The bulk of the machine was far too large, while the look of the technology appeared to be generations ahead of anything ever seen in even the most cutting-edge hospital. While it was obviously some sort of imaging system, he had no idea what its true purpose might be.

  A pair of hard looking men stood in front of the imaging device. They were dressed in street clothes, but Cyrus could tell at a glance that both were trained operators. Both had powerful builds and cold eyes. But they weren’t military—at least they hadn’t been recently. They stood casually, relaxed and overconfident. These were the type of men who were paid well to be on hand in case of emergency, but also the kind who lacked the discipline necessary to remain vigilant at all times.

  Aragon Group, Cyrus concluded. Though familiar with the private security company as a whole, Cyrus had done a little extra research early into his first week of chauffeuring Gertrude around town. The day Cyrus went undercover as Gertrude’s assistant his supervising agent, Greg Boone, had provided additional mission background. The package had included extensive research into Gertrude Waterford’s financial history. Among the details of her spending, Cyrus had learned that his new employer had contracted with the Aragon Group at least a half-dozen times in the past. Aragon had provided personal security for Gertrude on a number of overseas trips and, interestingly, she used the same five-man detail each time she hired the group.

  One of the men stood out from the other. There was something different about the way he carried himself, Cyrus realized. He had an air of authority. The head of the team, Cyrus thought. He became sure of it when he looked more closely at his dark eyes. They were experienced, emotionless, and betraying nothing. The man was studying him as if he were an exhibit on display in a museum or at a zoo. A pale scar bisected his left eyebrow and rounded the corner of his eye before disappearing into the skin of his cheek. The scar was a telltale sign that the man had seen action; but what had once been a tough and jagged slice in his flesh had obviously seen multiple operations to help hide the disfigurement. It meant the man wasn’t as battle-hardened as his stare suggeste
d. He was still a slave to his vanity, and Cyrus factored that into the assessment of his new opponent. When the time came, it would be critical to know his adversaries, and he felt confident he’d already gotten a solid read on the man leading Gertrude’s security detail.

  With the two men in front of him, that left three members of the five member team unaccounted for. Those three men and their locations would become important factors when he made his escape. Until then, he focused on learning as much as possible about his situation while watching for clues to the locations of the remaining three men.

  A series of small computer stations flanked the massive imaging device, and the far left wall of the room was consumed by a enormous display screen. It was off at the moment, but it ran from the far corner of the room, ending just short of the massive sliding steel door that was the entrance; a door closed tight and presumably locked.

  And four inches thick, he recalled.

  The most chilling part of the lab was what Cyrus saw to his right. Deep wooden shelves that weren’t at all in keeping with the cold clinical aesthetics of the lab consumed the majority of the right wall. The shelving unit was at least thirty-feet wide—maybe wider, since it extended past Cyrus’s vertical gurney. It was made of oak and stained a rich, dark color that only made its contents all the more glaring. Each shelf was lined with glass jars pushed up against each other like books with only their binding showing. And while the jars were arranged in a seemingly random fashion that differed in every shape and size, each contained the same viscous, mostly transparent fluid. Each jar also contained a single organic tissue sample of some sort, though no two seemed alike. The front facing lower portion of each jar was labeled with only a small barcode.