San eased the car into his driveway and killed the engine, then rested his forehead against the steering wheel. The cooling motor ticked, and children laughed as they played tag in the street. A chill ran down San’s spine. He imagined a black cruiser mowing down the children, then halting in front of his home and disgorging a team of heavily armed assassins.
To stay would endanger his family and every family in the neighborhood. But where could he run? How could he convince Anita, as patient as she was, to pack up and leave her life behind?
San turned toward the squeals of excitement and delight. His twelve-year-old daughter, Maria, was “it.” She scrambled after a cluster of girls, who screamed and scattered. Maria’s face drooped in a melodramatic frown as she failed to corner her prey. She looked up and, noticing her father, turned her hand back and forth in her best “princess wave.”
The sight simultaneously warmed and broke his heart. He pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped outside, then plodded toward the house. He passed through the front door and kicked off his shoes.
“The wanderer returns,” Anita said, looking up from her book. “Too late for a hot meal, though.” She nodded her head toward the kitchen. “Food’s on the counter. What held you up?”
An insulated plastic tub, similar to the one in his car, stood open on the coffee table. San placed his phone inside and sealed it shut. Anita eyed the tub suspiciously, then held up a finger. She set the book down, left the room, and returned a moment later with her phone. San popped the tub open, and she placed it next to his. She hurried to the window and drew the curtains, then joined San in the kitchen.
“Did you meet with them?” she asked.
San nodded. “A new guy, too. Some sort of defense analyst from the Pentagon.”
“What did he say?”
San gave a tired sigh. “He has a theory about Emily, thinks she’s part of some dark organization that’s been fueling wars all over the world.”
Anita crossed her arms. “It wouldn’t surprise me, after what she did. I bet that bitch would sell her own mother to the devil, if the price was right.”
“Anita, please.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone lacking any trace of sincerity.
San stared down at the table for several seconds before saying, “She deserves worse than insults. And you’re right, we can’t trust Emily. We have to assume she will turn on everyone, including us.”
Anita nodded, then frowned “Wait, what do you mean? Don’t you think she’s already betrayed us?”
San stared toward the street, then at his son’s bedroom door. “The new guy, his name’s Danny, thinks Emily’s organization has deep connections in the United States.”
“How does he know?”
San shivered and said, “After Emily got her security clearance, the investigators responsible died. Every one of them, and supposedly from natural causes.”
Anita followed his gaze to Philip’s door. “But you think someone killed them.”
San nodded.
“And you think the same people will come for us?”
Another nod.
Anita shivered and hugged herself. “What should we do?”
San suddenly felt very stupid. He had worried she would argue with him, resist the idea of pulling up stakes and going on the run. But she loved their children as much as he did. He should have known she would be just as committed to their protection.
Determination swelled inside him. “We’ll run,” he said, “or hide. We’ll do whatever we can to keep the kids safe.”
Anita nodded solemnly. “I can call my sister,” she offered. “I’m sure she’d be happy to have us stay for a while.
“No. We’d just be putting her in danger. You and the kids should get a hotel room, one that takes cash. I’ll take care of the house and continue to meet with Daron and Eugene, that way—”
“Excuse me?” Anita broke in, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. If there are killers after us, you aren’t going to be more than ten feet from me and the kids.”
San started to protest but thought better of it. She was right. He didn’t know how to protect himself against assassins any more than he understood the difference between semi-gloss and satin paint. If he stayed home for reasons of pride or bravado, he would be killed. They would murder him as easily as they would Anita or little Maria.
“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll go together. We can tell the kids to pack for a surprise vacation.”
Anita didn’t ask him how long they would be gone. It didn’t matter. They would leave everything behind without looking back and stay away as long as they needed to. “I’ll pack tonight,” she said. “When do we leave?”
San thought for a moment. He wanted desperately to talk to Eugene or Daron, but he couldn’t risk it. Someone could be monitoring his phone calls.
“In the morning,” he said, “first thing.”
Anita looked at her home as if she was seeing it for the last time. She sighed and said, “Alright, I’ll start with our things, then I’ll help the children. You’d better call Maria inside.”
San nodded and headed for the front door. He was halfway across the living room when Philip started to scream.
“Papa! Come quick!”
3
Anita and Santiago collided at the doorway to Philip’s room. With a tremendous shove, Anita knocked San aside and rushed through.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she cried.
Philip sat forward in bed and spun his laptop around to face them.
“I think I found him. I’ve been looking through paranormal activity forums and—ow!”
Anita whacked him over the head with an open palm. “Forums?” she shouted, striking him again. “You scared me half to death over something you found on your computer?”
“What—ow! Yes, sorry!”
With a huff, Anita pivoted on her heel and stormed out.
“Yeesh, what’s chafing her butt?” Philip said.
“She’s—don’t talk about your mother that way—under a lot of pressure right now. We all are.”
Philip squinted suspiciously. “What do you mean, we all are?”
“It can wait,” San replied. “What did you want to show me?”
Philip pointed at the screen. The website was dark and decorated with ornate caricatures of demons, extraterrestrials, werewolves, and other strange creatures. White text stood out from the background.
“Death by Nightmare: Finding the Facts. …” San read aloud.
Philip was beaming. “It’s an article from a cryptozoologist in Africa. He says a ghost is breaking into people’s homes and torturing or killing them.”
“Philip…” San admonished, “you shouldn’t waste your time with ghost stories.”
Philip shook his head. “Listen. He says the creature, which locals have dubbed ‘The Nightmare,” stands six-feet tall, is black, red, or clear, and can’t be killed by normal means. He also says the monster can bypass any locked door, is incredibly strong, and…”
“And can walk through walls?” San interrupted. “Honestly, son, you are a bright and talented young man; you shouldn’t be spending time on sites like this.”
Philip rolled his eyes and, lowering his voice, said, “I think they’re talking about your friend. I think they mean Jarrod Hawkins.”
San’s eyes widened. He looked over his shoulder, as if expecting an eavesdropper to be hidden in the corner. Turning back to Philip, he slammed the laptop shut and yanked it out of the boy’s arms.
“Dad! What’s the—”
“Do not speak his name with a computer in the room,” San hissed, “and never, never try to look for…for anything about him online!”
Philip’s face showed guilt tinged with fear. “I’m sorry, I was curious. Why can’t I look for him online?”
San shoved the laptop beneath his son’s pillows, then led the lanky teenager into the living room. In an ominous voice, he asked, “How did
you know about Jarrod’s abilities?”
Philip turned his eyes downward. “I snuck out of my room when your friends were here. I couldn’t help myself. The way they would park down the street and only come in at night…the way you guys would always whisper. I was…curious.”
San sighed. Rubbing at his eyes, he walked over and slumped onto the couch.
“Have a seat, Phil.”
Philip, still showing appropriate remorse, took a seat across from his father.
“I shouldn’t have kept secrets from you, son. You are old enough to be trusted, and I should have known your curiosity would get the best of you.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
San shook his head. “It’s alright. If I had been honest with you, I could have warned you against snooping around online. I think the truth is, I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed.”
San took a deep breath. “In the few times you met Jarrod, did you notice anything different about him?”
Philip shrugged. “He seemed nice, I guess.”
“Jarrod can seem to be many things. In truth, he is…different from us.”
San fixed Philip in a hard stare and added, “What I am going to tell you is confidential. If the wrong people found out I told you, I could go to jail. Do you understand?”
Philip nodded.
“Good. After I’ve explained, I don’t want you to talk about Jarrod to anyone. Not your friends, not me, not your sister or your mom. No one. Got it?”
Philip nodded again, even more vigorously.
San took a deep breath. “I was not a physical therapist when I worked at Hillcrest. Well, not only a physical therapist. I also helped create advanced weapons for the Department of Defense.”
Philip’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s so cool!”
San tried to force a laugh. “It was, sometimes,” he said. “But not with Jarrod. Jarrod came to Hillcrest because he was sick. His family had died in a terrible accident, and he was very depressed. He had nightmares while he slept and flashbacks while he was awake. We couldn’t even get him to eat because he didn’t care if he lived or died. My old boss took advantage of Jarrod’s illness, convincing him to sign up for an experimental project. We took Jarrod to a secret part of the building and we…changed him.”
San took another calming breath and continued, “They gave him something like steroids, and tiny robots that would modify his body and brain. They did surgery after surgery on him. When it was all over, he was a different person. In fact, he was hardly a person at all. They made changes to his DNA and brainwashed him. They taught him the best ways to kill and tried to make him forget how to love, or laugh, or feel any emotion whatsoever. They succeeded, at least partially, in turning him into a killing machine.”
Philip sat wide-eyed, trying to comprehend everything his father told him.
“He is a killer,” San emphasized. “I don’t blame him, I blame myself. I was part of the staff at Hillcrest. I helped them develop the technology and I helped them brainwash him. Now Jarrod understands everything there is to know about war and probably couldn’t recite a single nursery rhyme. We should all be thankful he uses his skills against evil men, but we should never be thankful for what was taken from him. Jarrod deserves our pity and our respect, but not our admiration. Do you understand?”
Philip nodded slowly.
San pressed the point, saying, “Pit bulls are sometimes given food and illegal substances to make them bigger and stronger. Then they’re forced to fight. Their big muscles might look impressive, but would you ever admire a dog like that?”
Understanding crept into Philip’s eyes, and he said, “No, I would feel sorry for it, because it didn’t want to be that way.”
San smiled. “Exactly. And the scientists did the same thing to Jarrod. They took advantage of him and changed him for their own purposes. He, like an abused pit bull, isn’t responsible for what he has become. But at least he is free. The best thing we can do is show him love and hope he can learn to be human again.”
“Okay, Papa,” said Philip. “But why can’t I look for Jarrod online?”
“The experiments done on Jarrod were super top-secret. The government, as you would expect, wants to hide what they did to him. The internet works both ways; you can get lots of information from other places, but people with the right equipment can get information from you.”
Philip’s brow was knitted. “So what? Is it a crime to be curious?”
San winced. He had left out an important detail about his relationship with Jarrod. “No…but Jarrod didn’t leave Hillcrest. He escaped Hillcrest. He’s a fugitive.”
“Oh,” Philip said. “You’re saying we’ve had a fugitive at our house?”
San blushed and said, “Yes…but it’s complicated. My old boss was embarrassed by Jarrod’s escape, so he claimed that Jarrod was dead and called off the search. Still, I don’t want to take the chance that someone might still be looking for him, or for people who know something about him. People like me and you.”
San saw the opening to tell Philip about Emily, but he decided to spare the boy’s feelings and keep the remainder of the conversation vague. “There’s something else. One of my old associates went rogue and stole dangerous technology from Hillcrest. This…associate is a danger to anyone who worked there, including me.
“There is no reason I should be singled out,” San lied, “but as a precaution, your mother and I think we should go on vacation for a while.”
“Vacation? But school isn’t out yet.”
San shrugged. “Your mom and I will sort things out with the school. You’ll just get to start summer break a few weeks early this year.”
Philip’s face lit up at the idea of skipping final exams. He jumped to his feet and said, “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. You can start packing now, but…” San held up a hand in caution. “Do not mention anything we have talked about to your sister. We aren’t in any real danger, and I don’t want her to worry.”
“Sure, sure,” Philip said. He ran to his room, and began throwing open dresser drawers.
A few minutes later, Maria was joyfully packing as well, and the air was electric with the idea of an impromptu holiday. San did his best to wear a mask of happiness, but inside, his heart was filled with dread.
4
Eugene’s synthetic body suit was all but invisible under the cloudy night sky. Kevlar fibers, interwoven with nylon and polypropylene, gave the suit a supple ruggedness. Still, the suit was far from bullet-proof, and it would fare no better in a firefight than a denim jacket. If he wanted to remain alive, he needed to rely on stealth. Having spent years in an elite Marine Recon unit, Eugene was well-accustomed to silent movement, especially when a whisper, cough, or snapped twig meant certain death.
Two pouches protruded from his hips. The left contained a multi-spectral camera with a laser microphone and enough memory to record forty hours of video. On his right hip was a FNS long-slide 9mm pistol with a seventeen-round magazine and a custom trigger. In Eugene’s practiced hands, the pistol and its single magazine would be enough to take down seven or eight men, but he prayed he wouldn’t need it. There were at least five times that number in the building ahead.
The structure was massive and looked to be nearly impregnable. Only one of the building’s concrete faces was exposed; the rest were buried beneath forty feet of North Carolina soil and bedrock. Infrared cameras dotted the structure and stood on high poles in the open area around it. Twelve-foot fences jutted up from the rolling terrain at regular intervals.
Eugene was already deep within enemy territory. He had slipped past four fences already, and only two remained between him and the earthen fortress. Dozens of men patrolled the grounds behind him, half a dozen more ahead. Every stoic guard carried night-vision, a high-powered rifle, and a radio.
The heightened security wasn’t paranoia, and it was no coincidence. Daron Keeler, through countless hours of networking, interrogation, and
careful application of the National Security Agency’s assets, had discovered the time and location of a who’s-who-in-the-black-market meeting. Mafia bosses, terrorists, defense contractors, billionaire doomsday-preppers, and sovereign nations were all rumored to have representatives in the meeting. Inside the concrete building, handshake deals would move enough weapons to supply a small army and enough cash to fund a war.
Eugene inched forward on a grassy berm. Getting inside was suicide. He had been courageous, or foolish enough to make it this far, but he would go no further. This was prime real-estate for intelligence gathering. The pomp and circumstance, with its associated ass-kissing, would take place inside the building, but the important conversations would happen outdoors, under the orange light of expensive cigars.
Eugene moved his hand toward his left side. The motion was painfully slow, a necessity to avoid drawing attention. Several minutes passed before he lifted the camera to his eye. The hard edges of the camera had been filed down, the smooth surfaces roughened, and the lens covered with a filter to prevent glare. Eugene put his thumb on the laser mic and settled in for a long, uncomfortable wait.
The humidity thickened as the night cooled, and pockets of mist shrouded low-lying areas. Two hours passed before anyone left the concrete building, and a half-hour more before anyone of importance came into view. Eugene’s neck and back cramped from the extended wait, but he ignored the pain with practiced ease.
With a barely discernible motion, he shifted the camera toward a pair of men near the eastern corner of the building. On the left was a heavyset man in a tailored suit with the tie loosened. He had his hands in his pockets and stood at ease. The other, a man with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, kept his hands at his side and surveyed the grounds. A buyer and his bodyguard, Eugene guessed—not a valuable surveillance opportunity.
To be sure, he activated the laser mic. His earpiece crackled to life with the sound of the heavyset man’s voice. It was hoarse from decades of chain-smoking, and he spoke English with a trace of a Hungarian accent. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “The waitress with the short hair was much hotter.”
The Path Of The Nightmare Page 3
