Extinction Machine jl-5

by Jonathan Maberry

  Then the pilot turned the bird to bring his 30mm gunpods to bear.

  “Kiss my ass,” I yelled, then spun and ran like a son of a bitch for the living room even as the first bullets began tearing the rear of the house into splinters, broken glass and flying debris.

  Junie was right there and I did not even pause. I shoved her toward the door and I was pleased to see that she took the force of my push and used it to settle into a nice, fast, efficient sprint. For a tall woman she ran well.

  The machine gun fire was continuous, the sound enormous; with that din we never heard the sounds of the other helo firing its rockets.

  We were a dozen feet from the sassafras trees when the house exploded.

  A huge, rolling, tumbling ball of superheated gases chased us across the lawn, caught us, plucked us off the grass, and hurled us screaming into the forest.

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Hadley and Meyers Real Estate

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 10:59 a.m.

  Tull pulled to the curb outside of a real estate office that had a small parking lot. The windows were dark and the lot was empty. The lot was partly sheltered from the street by the exterior wall of a Dunkin’ Donuts, so Tull pulled into the Dunkin’ lot and killed the engine. Tull and Aldo got out, opened the back, stripped the cover off the false tire and removed several items from the safe. They packed everything into a pair of nylon gym bags, closed the car, and walked around to the back of the real estate office.

  The place had an expensive security system. Aldo smirked at it. They were inside less than two minutes later.

  The middle room had no windows, which allowed them to turn on lights without drawing attention. They cleared everything off a big worktable, and Aldo began emptying the bags while Tull set up the Ghost Box. Once it was booted, the system hacked the Wi-Fi, bypassing all security as easily as knife through wet tissue.

  “Okay,” said Tull, “I’m recalling the pigeon drones. Open the window in the back room.”

  “We’re going to be deaf for a while. Can we risk that?”

  Tull shrugged. “Not going to matter much if we move fast.”

  Chapter Sixty-six

  The Warehouse

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 11:04 a.m.

  Rudy Sanchez sat in his office at the Warehouse. The door was locked and the anti-intrusion devices activated, however he felt as if covert eyes were peering at him. He scolded himself for allowing the pervasive air of paranoia to set its hooks in him. Rudy prided himself on his detachment, but today he found that increasingly difficult to manage.

  The list of names and contact numbers Mr. Church had given him was placed neatly in the center of his desk blotter. Rudy fitted a Bluetooth onto his ear and punched in the first of the numbers. The call was picked up after a few rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this George Noory?” asked Rudy.

  “Sure. Who’s calling?”

  Church had given Rudy a certain phrase to use when reaching out to the names he’d indicated were “friends in the industry.”

  “A mutual friend told me to tell you that ‘Eden still burns.’”

  There was a profound silence at the other end. George Noory was the popular host of the overnight radio show Coast to Coast AM, which was broadcast to well over five hundred radio stations as well as streamed over the Internet to more than ten million people a night. Rudy was a long-time listener and enjoyed the often lively discussions of everything from Bigfoot to flying saucers. More than once he caught elements related to DMS cases and he found it fascinating how public perception often spun stories into wild new forms. Looking back on those shows — and now knowing that Noory was a friend of Church’s — Rudy appreciated the subtle way in which the host dialed down needless panic and kept the discussions in the realm of intelligent speculation.

  Noory said, “You’re a friend of the Deacon?”

  “I am,” said Rudy. “Dr. Rudy Sanchez, I am—”

  “The house psychiatrist at the DMS,” cut in Noory.

  “You’ve heard of me?”

  Instead of answering, Noory said, “What can I do for you?”

  “The DMS is currently involved in a case that includes elements that are somewhat outside of our usual comfort zone.”

  “With the things you fellows deal with I’m surprised anything’s outside of your comfort zone.”

  “Unfortunately the Fates seem to take each new day as a challenge when it comes to the DMS.”

  Noory laughed. “What are they throwing at you today?”

  “We … have been tasked with obtaining the Majestic Black Book.”

  “Wow,” said Noory.

  “You’ve heard of it, I gather.”

  “Of course. How can I help?”

  “We need to put together a list of persons most likely to possess a copy.”

  “Well, first understand that there aren’t ‘copies’ of the Black Book. There’s the original and that’s it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you familiar with MJ-12 and M3, or do we need to start at square one?”

  “No, I’ve actually read a couple of Junie Flynn’s books.”

  “Good. Are you talking to her, too?”

  “We’re working on that but there have been some complications. Mr. Church said that you were also an expert on the book.”

  “Kind of him, but I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve had Junie on the show a dozen times, but she’s the one who knows everything.”

  “Miss Flynn was able to provide us with a list of possible current or former members of M3. If I share those names with you, might you be able to help us cull the list to the most likely? As Mr. Church is so fond of saying, time is not our friend.”

  “I can’t make any promises, Doctor, but I can take a pretty solid swing at it. Is that the only thing Deacon wants from me?”

  “Actually, I have a second request. This case involves groups of men Miss Flynn refers to as ‘Closers.’”

  “Men in Black, sure.”

  “I need everything you can tell me about them as well.”

  Noory whistled. “Tall order. I hope you have a comfortable seat, Doctor, this might take a while.”

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Elk Neck State Park

  Cecil County, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 11:06 a.m.

  We slammed into the trees.

  A month later and those trees would have been bare sticks and the crooked fingers of the countless branches would have plucked the skin from our bodies. But summer had lingered well into October and the trees were still thick with leaves. If those leaves were not as butter-soft now as they would have been in July, then at least there were a lot of them. Junie and I were curled into balls, arms wrapped around our heads, knees pulled to our chests like kids cannon-balling into a pool.

  The blast punched us through the branches and gravity pulled us down to the thick grass. She hit first and then me, landing in a bad heels-first attempt at grace but powered by too much momentum. We tried to turn the landing into a clumsy run, but that was for shit. I lost sight of her as my body pitched forward and suddenly I was a big clunky wheel rolling over and over down a slope and I’m pretty sure I hit every goddamned moss-covered stone and fallen branch. Pain erupted all along my hide like a string of firecrackers. At the bottom of the slope I found a fragment of balance and ran halfway up the next hill to slough off the force. Everything hurt. My muscles hurt, my joints hurt, my teeth hurt, even my hair hurt. The world did a drunken Irish jig around me and my guts wanted to throw up everything I’d eaten since last March.

  Instead, I whirled and looked for Junie. She was sprawled in a thick rhododendron. Her wild blond hair covered her face and one hand was flung out onto the grass. It was covered with dirt and ashes and blood.

  She wasn’t moving.

  “Junie!” I cried and then I was racing down the slope toward her, dropping to my kn
ees, sliding the last yard, reaching for her.

  Her fingers closed around my wrist.

  “Joe…” Her voice was a faint echo of pain.

  I tore leaves and branches out of the way. “Are you hurt?”

  “I … don’t think so.”

  There was a sound behind me and I whirled, one hand scrabbling for my pistol.

  Which wasn’t there. I’d lost it in the trees.

  Something moved quickly through the brush and then I saw a flash of white.

  Junie looked past me. “Ghost!” she cried, and the fuzz monster came pelting down the slope. He was as much of a mess as we were. Sooty, singed, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, but for all that he was full of excitement to see me.

  And he rushed right past me and began licking Junie’s face.

  With dogs, it’s always an ego boost knowing that you’re the center of their universe.

  “Hey,” I said, and Ghost gave me a quick token lick and half a wag.

  He does more than that when he smells the neighbor dog’s ass.

  Nice.

  There was another sound from up the hill. Men shouting, and I realized with a start that the helicopters were no longer overhead. They must have touched down to deploy their crews of killers.

  The Closers.

  I pulled Junie down behind some wild shrubs.

  “Persistent sons of bitches,” I said, then I gave her a shrewd look. “No offense, but this seems like a lot of firepower to kill one woman.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand it. I don’t know how to fight, they could have sent one man with a gun.”

  “Why do they want to kill you at all?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Junie … really, now’s not the time to be coy.”

  “They’re coming!” she said urgently. Indeed they were, a line of men hurrying down into the woods.

  We edged away and as soon as we could, we bent low and ran for our lives.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Elk Neck State Park

  Cecil County, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 11:12 a.m.

  Ghost tore ahead of us, plunging through the brush, picking out a rough path for us, and we followed. Junie next, me behind her, watching her back. Studying this enigma of a woman.

  Despite the shock and trauma of the last fifteen minutes, she ran well, moving with a flowing grace, her stamina impressive. I’m bigger, heavier, and I’ve had more wound-repair surgeries than most people have had hot dinners. On a short sprint I’m a pale Usain Bolt, but after about fifty yards my knee starts sending me hate mail. After half a mile at full speed I can feel each separate inch of scar tissue, each area of knitted bone, each screw and pin.

  Junie Flynn ran like a deer. Ghost was right beside her.

  “No,” I said in a grouchy wheeze, “I’m good, don’t stop for me.”

  They didn’t hear me and weren’t meant to.

  The land angled downward and wound through the woods. I looked over my shoulder and could no longer even see the column of smoke from the ruined lighthouse. The manicured lawn and beds of wildflowers were gone, replaced by a primal forest filled with deadfalls, gullies, hairy vines, twisted roots, and unexpected marshes. Once I heard a gunshot — the harsh boom of a shotgun — but it was ahead of us, far deeper into the woods. I almost stopped, but Junie flung two quick words over her shoulder.

  “Deer hunters!”

  Swell.

  The lingering temperature kept fooling me about what time of year it was. It was fall, and fall meant hunting season was underway. Beginning in September, deer hunters begin walking these woods, armed with bows, shotguns, and even muzzle-loaders. And there are waterfowl blinds on the bay and along the Elk River. It would be so hilarious to have escaped helicopter-fired missiles and actual Men in Black with freaky weapons only to take a load of buckshot in the teeth. I’d die embarrassed.

  As Junie jumped over a fallen log something fell from the loose pocket of her sweater. She felt it fall and turned, but I bent and picked it up.

  It was one of the freaky-looking pistols. There was a single smudge of blood on the handle. Junie looked at it and then at me. She shrugged.

  “I picked it up from the man in the kitchen.”

  “Do you even know what it is?”

  She nodded. “Microwave pulse pistol.”

  “You say that like it’s something everyone knows about. I play with guns all the time and I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

  Junie held her hand out for it, but I held on to it for a moment. “I need a gun.”

  “You need to answer a bunch of questions before I put a weapon in your hand.”

  We heard muffled shouts far behind us.

  “Move!” I snapped, shoving the pistol into my waistband. Junie gave me a furious look, but she didn’t press the issue. Not then, anyway.

  We cut across a well-worn hiking path that I knew as the Lighthouse Trail. Junie wanted to go that way, but I pulled her back into the brush.

  “We’d make better time,” she insisted.

  “And they’ll know that. This is where they’ll look for us.” I flipped open my rapid-response folding knife, went ten yards deeper into the brush, cut a leafy branch, and used it to wipe out our tracks on the road. Then I tossed some stones and loose gravel across the spot I’d cleared, and picked up some leaves and let them fall haphazardly over the stones. The old trick of brushing out your trail is useful for fooling the inept, but a trained tracker will see the distinctive erasure marks. The key is to then disguise the marks of the branch. Best way to do that is with casual debris. If I had time I’d have found some deer poop and dropped it there, too. The older and dryer, the better. But in a poopless scenario, stones and dry leaves would do it. You work with what you have.

  We started running again and I took the branch with me, finally discarding it a quarter mile away.

  “Junie,” I said, “we are going to have that talk.”

  She looked at me, then turned away and pretended to concentrate on picking a path through the woods. If we were back in the world and if what happened this morning in D.C. hadn’t happened, then maybe I’d cut her some slack. She didn’t strike me as an agent of evil or a closet supervillain, but she was clearly hiding something. A little time alone in a holding cell or an interview room might give her a chance to sort through her options and make the right decision.

  But we didn’t have that kind of time. We had no damn time at all. With the jammers on I couldn’t even check the countdown from the video, but I could feel the seconds burning, burning …

  After ten more minutes I touched her shoulder to stop her, then sent Ghost out to scout. He’s trained to do that several ways. For this I wanted him to stay out there as long as he saw nothing. If there was anyone within five hundred yards of us, he would come back at a fast, silent run.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’re good. Let’s talk.”

  She kept moving.

  I took a big step forward and wheeled around in front her, forcing her to a stumbling halt.

  Junie exhaled a ball of tension and nearly collapsed. She put her face in her hands and sat that way on the weedy edge of a shallow ravine, feet propped on a rock, body hunched.

  I let her have about two minutes of that.

  “Junie,” I said, “we’re going to have to have a conversation, you know that, right?”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m not screwing around here. This is more than just your life.”

  That did it. She raised her head and gave me a long, flat, uncompromising stare. “You think I don’t know that, Joe?”

  “Frankly, sweetheart, I don’t know what you know. You’re hiding something from me and my patience for that kind of bullshit is wearing pretty thin.”

  She whipped an arm out and stabbed a finger in the direction we’d come. “Those men are trying to do more than kill me,” she snapped. “They’re trying to kill the truth.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, very nice. Can we use that as the tagline if someone makes a movie of your life?”

  Junie glared at me. “I’m not being overly dramatic. The Closers want to shut me up because of something I said on my podcast last night.”

  “Which was?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then raised her face and looked up at the sky. “Last night I announced that I had a complete copy of the Majestic Black Book and that I was going to share it with the entire world.”

  I stared at her for a long five seconds. “Well kiss my ass. Why in the world would you want to do something like that?”

  She stared at me. “Do you even grasp what these people are trying to do?”

  “According to you and my friend Bug, they’re reverse-engineering UFO parts and making a shitload of money. What else do I need to know?”

  “How can you be so naive?”

  “I’m not naive,” I said. “I lack information, and I feel like I’m being dicked around here. Instead of the dramatics, why not come straight out and tell me what’s going on?”

  “Joe…” She winced as if saying anything were physically painful for her. “During the conference back there … I didn’t exactly tell you the truth.”

  “Really? Well gosh, Junie, I’d have never figured that out.” I sighed. “If you’re thinking that now’s a good time to unburden your soul, then I’m all for it, ’cause we’re ass-deep in it right now. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been this confused in my entire life, and believe me that is saying a hell of a lot.”

  She took a steadying breath. “Okay, I told you that I had a source who told me about the Black Book.”

  “Right, and the Closers cooked him in a rigged car crash. What about him?”

  “He was more than a casual contact, Joe.” Her eyes were bright with pain. “He was my father.”

  And I said, “Yeah, no kidding.”

  “Wait … you … know?” she gasped.

  “I know.”

  “When did you figure it out?”