by Mat Nastos
“Ninjas?!” Zuz’s voice squeaked in surprise. “You fought ninjas and didn’t think to call me right away…or at least take some pictures?”
“There really wasn’t much time for me to snap a couple of selfies while they were trying to KILL ME!” Mal’s voice echoed loudly through the rat-infested room he had taken refuge in.
“Calm down, man, or you’re going to blow a gasket. Any idea how they found you?”
The question was one that had worried Mal as much as his control issues. “No clue. They jumped me out of nowhere at one of the subway platforms. If they had been tracking me I think they’d have picked someone a bit less public to try and take me down. It may have just been dumb luck.”
Zuz had Mal give him a rundown of everything that had happened to the cyborg since they had spoken earlier that day. When his friend was done, the bald conspiracy nut said grimly, “It sounds like extreme stress is causing your old programming to jump into the driver’s seat. Probably an autonomous self-defense system—like an involuntary reaction to the body’s fight or flight instinct. Spikes in adrenaline may be the source, but I can’t be sure without running a whole battery of tests on you.”
Flashing his trademarked half-grin to himself, Mal joked, “You just want to ask me to turn my head and cough, don’t ya?”
“Be serious, Mal. You need to finish up with Senator McGuinness as fast as possible and get back here to the cabin in California so I can take a look at you. Run some diagnostics—see what the real situation in your head is.”
“You sure you’re safe up there in the mountains by yourself?” asked Mal, genuinely concerned about his friend who, less than a month earlier, had been shot multiple times and nearly killed by a computer-possessed Kristin. The last thing in the world the cyborg wanted was for anymore of his loved ones to get hurt.
“Are you kidding me, Mal?” chuckled Zuz’s voice over the line. “I bought it through a series of dummy corporations and an off-shore bank. There’s no way anyone can find me here. This place is my own little Fortress of Solitude.”
“Well, just make sure no one knows about the giant gold key out front. I thought I had been pretty good about hiding my tracks and I’ve already been attacked.”
“In my defense,” retorted Zuz in the sort of tone a teacher would use to scold a child, “I’m not the one who’s gone and gotten my face plastered all over the Internet.”
“Touché.”
“You need to relax, Mal. There’s nothing you can do now but sit back and wait for Amy to call you,” advised the bald man.
“I know, Z. It’s just hard to stay still when I know the government is out for my blood.”
Nodding, Zuz said, “Here’s what I want you to do: stay in the room. Take a bath, wrap a hot towel around your head…maybe order up some miso soup. That always does wonders for me.”
“‘Wrap a hot towel around my head?’” Mal caught himself laughing out loud at his chum’s banter.
Zuz interrupted his friend’s mirth. His voice flipping the switch from light-hearted to serious almost instantly. “In all the excitement, I forgot to ask you the most important question.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” asked Mal, curiously.
“Did Amy say anything about me?” asked Zuz, hopefully.
Mal shook his head. “On that note, I think it’s time for me to hit the sack.”
“Aw, come on, man. Give me something here!”
“Goodnight, Z,” said Mal with a dramatic yawn. “And thank you.”
“Night, Mal.”
Lying back on the lumpy king-sized bed, Mal closed his eyes and pulled the frayed blankets over his body slowly. They had always been enough to keep the monsters of childhood at bay and he prayed their power would hold now that the monsters were inside of him.
*****
From his position at the edge of an alley across the street from the Friendly Garden Inn motel, Tom Hutchison watched the windows in Malcolm Weir’s room go dark through a pair of miniature tactical binoculars. The field glasses fed a live video stream through a wireless router in the agent’s belt up to his mission coordinators circling the island at forty thousand feet in a flying command center.
Slipping the goggles back under the thin polyester material of his windbreaker to avoid notice from a passing NYPD black and white cruiser, Hutchison punched a fourteen digit access code into an inconspicuous-looking cellphone and began speaking immediately.
“Kappa-One reporting. We monitored a communication between target Weir and his accomplice, David Zuzelo. Uploading recording now.”
“Receiving,” answered the tight voice from somewhere six-and-a-half miles above the government operative’s head. “Stand by.”
“Should we move in and secure target?” The tall man waited for the answer to come down from his supervisors, half-worried they were going to have Hutchison and his partner confront Weir.
“Negative, Kappa-One. The big-wigs are bringing in an outside specialist,” responded the voice from Sky-High. “Sit tight and wait for their arrival. Out.”
Hutchison signed off, sighing in relief. Based on everything the veteran black-ops agent had heard about the man, the last thing he wanted to do was face off against someone as one of the Project Hardwired Prime Units with nothing but a rookie as his back-up.
“Understood. Kappa-One out.”
Based on how Weir’s phone call had ended, Hutchison was pretty sure the rogue super-soldier was in for the night and not going anywhere. What that meant for the duo assigned to surveillance on his location was a long night filled with a whole lot of standing around and doing nothing while their target slept in a nice warm bed.
The thought didn’t sit well with senior agent Tom Hutchison and a growl from his empty stomach echoed his dissatisfaction with the idea.
Speaking into the jaw-mounted communicator he wore, the tall agent spoke quickly,” Eyes open, Kappa-Two. I’m going to walk the perimeter and make sure things are locked tight. Wouldn’t want Weir going out a side door, right?”
“Good call, K-One.”
The little man’s voice put a smile on Hutchison’s broad face…that and the idea of a hot meal.
“Let the rookie hold down the fort,” thought Hutchison as he lit up a cigarette and strolled away from the spot he had been staking out for nearly an hour. “I’m going to get some chow.”
CHAPTER 10
Hopping down from the main cabin of the UH-60C Black Hawk helicopter that had brought him into the classified research and containment facility high in the Sherwin Mountains reminded Representative Fountain just how much he disliked the outdoors. He was a city boy, born and raised in the Greater Los Angeles area, and much preferred canyons made of concrete, glass and steel to those made of granite. The only ‘wildlife’ he had any sort of love for were the forty-plus year old cougars prowling the country clubs near his home in the posh upscale neighborhoods of Beverly Hills and Culver City.
His self-diagnosed hay-fever and allergies would always begin to act up as soon as the round-in-the-middle politician left the cover of L.A.’s famous smog-tinged cloud-cover. Ducking down low to avoid the quartet of still-spinning rotor-blades of the Black Hawk and eager to get away from the cool crisp air burning his smoker’s lungs, Fountain made a beeline for the facility’s entrance that carved its way deep into the rock of Red Slate Mountain.
The security team out in front of the massive two-story tall steel door gateway to the inconspicuously named Red Slate Mountain Identification and Confinement Center passed Fountain and Ms. Roslan quickly through a series of seven checkpoints that led into the heart of the restricted facility. Commonly referred to as the ‘Vault’ by those few who were cleared to know of its existence, the installation was home to the sort of projects that the United States government wished to erase any record of having ever existed. Fountain himself had only been granted access to it when he had been assigned the thankless task of burying the withered husk of Project Hardwired.
Allowing himself to be escorted onto an open-topped tram sitting on a rail that descended at a thirty degree angle into the mountain, Fountain asked his executive assistant to update him on the situation. His biggest concern was having been brought out into the middle of nowhere when his offices back in the city were comfortable and far more convenient, at least for the congressman’s own schedule.
“Operative Grail and his team of men have already arrived here at the installation. They brought in the remains of Designate Caliber for processing at approximately zero-four-hundred hours,” replied the sharply dressed woman as the electric cart they were riding in accelerated, hurling itself and its passengers downward at twenty-five miles per hour. “He and his Templars are waiting for us in the Vault’s main conference room now.”
“Templars? What on God’s green Earth are ‘Templars?’” Fountain shook his head. Cestus, Caliber, Grail, Templars…he was getting sick and tired of all the moronic code names these people used.
“Knights from the Crusades…it will all make more sense once you meet Grail, sir.” Ms. Roslan folded her hands across her lap and watched the slick tunnel walls slide by as the tiny train dropped more than four hundred feet into the earth.
The remainder of their descent into the ground left the pair and their trio of escorts in a silence only broken by the clickety-clack of metal wheels shuffling along a rail at high speed. Fountain had to close his eyes to avoid the motion sickness generated by the bounce of the car and accentuated by the bare fluorescent lighting mounted on tunnel’s sides at ten foot increments.
At a depth of one mile into the mass of Red Slate Mountain the four car train slowed and halted at yet another check point, which consisted of a ten-foot long red-and-white striped barrier arm and four marines, armed to the teeth with unslung M27 IAR light machine guns all trained upon the new arrivals. The lead marine’s order for Fountain and his party to ‘stop and identify’ themselves seemed a bit ridiculous to the politician. After all, to even get to the point where the soldiers were stationed, someone would have already been screened and cleared eight times. The entire set-up seemed like a colossal waste of tax dollars to Fountain and was something he’d make sure to investigate once his meeting with Kalita was at an end.
Once they passed the final check-point and were escorted through a seemingly endless maze of plain white corridors to the glass-walled conference room, Fountain and Roslan were greeted with a sight that left the congressman speechless for one of the first times in his very long career.
It wasn’t the array of soldiers, dressed in green and black combat fatigues and holstered weapons, seated on or standing next to the fifteen foot long dark wood conference table that dominated the center of the meeting room. Both Roslan and Fountain had seen variations of that before. Military men, even those of the rougher mercenary variety, were old hat. What overshadowed the eight well-armed men was their leader.
It was the first time either of them had laid eyes on Mark Kalita, the man known in the black ops community as the Grail. In spite of his average height, Kalita’s unique style of dress and the manner in which he carried himself commanded attention. He was a great white swimming with tiger sharks.
Standing at the rear of the room with his legs spread wide and arms clasped behind his back, Kalita waited, unmoving, for the newcomers to speak. Congressman Fountain pushed his way through the group of mercenaries and approached the armored warrior.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kalita,” said Fountain, extending his hand to the man in greeting.
“Please,” responded the man in his resonating British accent, ignoring the proffered salutation. “Do not refer to this one by that name while I wear the raiments of my station. You will call me Grail.”
“Of course, Mr…Grail.” Ms. Roslan’s previous warning about Grail being difficult to deal with echoed in Michael Fountain’s mind. He hadn’t decided whether the gun-for-hire was difficult or just insane. Either way, Fountain wanted to conclude their business as quickly as possible and get back to Los Angeles. “Thank you for coming. I was eager to finally meet the men who have been so much help in our recent run of trouble stemming from the Project Hardwired collapse. Glad to have you on board, Grail.”
“You will do best to remember this one is not a common servant to be summoned at your leisure. We are not your lap dogs,” scolded Grail as he directed his men to spread out around the long mahogany conference table, taking the head seat for himself. A dull ‘thud’ reverberated through the room as Grail placed his helmet on the table before him, its dull red eyes staring directly at Fountain, almost accusingly. “Tell us of the latest monster your government has let escape from its pen, Congressman Fountain. We will see if it is worthy of a hunt.”
“Ms. Roslan?” Fountain gestured for his assistant to brief the arrogant British weirdo. The politician thought it was best to just keep quiet for the time being—an act that required no small amount of self-control for the vociferous man to perform.
A stack of files two-inches thick were produced by the tall woman who had seated herself diplomatically between her boss and the man she knew to be Grail’s second-in-command, Mr. Roddick if she remembered correctly, the beefy giant with eyes that tended to linger on her backside when he thought no one was looking. One of Roslan’s greatest traits had been her ability to quickly evaluate a situation and determine the best course corrections needed to avoid needless bumps in the road. Roddick could be more easily influenced than the inscrutable Grail in his bizarre costume.
Rather than passing the information down the table to Grail, the big man tore open the tape sealing the folder and began flipping through the pages held within. The pages documented every moment of Malcolm Weir’s life and career, from birth in Cypress, Texas, through his rebirth as Designate Cestus one year earlier.
A high-pitched whistle loosed itself from Roddick’s lips as he reached the technical specifications file containing detailed information on the Centurion-Class Cybernetic System that had been created for Cestus, along with the nanotech-enhancements added to them the previous month.
“This guy is an animal, boss,” said Roddick, impressed. “Fifty-two successful combat ops in three months. Nearly six-hundred confirmed kills. This Weir took down three other Project Hardwired Prime units solo.” Closing the unruly stack of printed pages back into their manila container, he slid the folder down the table to Grail. “Looks like a contender.”
Halting the folder’s momentum with the tips of his gloved fingers, Grail leaned forward, ignoring his lieutenant’s evaluation. Instead, he stared at the man seated in the chair opposite him and asked “What are the sins of my target?”
“His…‘sins?’” repeated the congressman, taken aback by the seemingly random query.
“Yes. What has Malcolm Weir done to warrant this one’s attentions? Why should the Grail intervene?”
Fountain’s head cocked to one side.
“Because we’re paying you an inordinate amount of money to do it, Mr. Kali—” A glare from the thin Englishman caused Fountain to reconsider what he was saying. “…Grail.”
“It is not enough,” responded the knight, politely but firmly, growing more and more tired of dealing with petty men and politicians. Grail preferred action and directness to the words of small men.
Fountain and Roslan exchanged looks. Neither one was completely sure what to think of the green-armored individual’s request for ‘sins.’ Roslan had never personally dealt with Grail before and nothing in her research for the meeting had prepared her for something so out of the ordinary. When she shrugged, her supervisor glared and bobbed his head back toward the uncooperative mercenary: the politician was out of ideas, so it was on her head to make things work.
“Mr. Weir…Designate Cestus…was responsible for the deaths of nearly one hundred military men and civilians in Los Angeles,” said Roslan.
“Not enough,” responded the Grail flatly, eying the woman who had interrupted his conversation with Fountain.<
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“He destroyed two government facilities and caused billions of dollars in damages,” she continued, undeterred by the man’s unusual demeanor.
“Not…enough.”
“He stole classified government information!” This time it was Fountain’s turn to interrupt. He was growing impatient with this Grail’s attitude and seeming lack of interest in the job he was being hired to do. The Congressman had no patience for someone who didn’t respect money.
“Not enough, Congressman Fountain. You are wasting this one’s time,” stated Grail, donning his helm as he turned towards the exit and started to leave.
“Weir betrayed the country he was under oath to protect. He dishonored us,” Roslan’s voice took on the same emotionless tone the Grail had been using to rebuff them. She had figured out his game.
Grail pondered the woman’s unusual statement. Every eye in the room focused on him for ten long seconds as he did. Finally, he answered.
“It is enough,” nodded Grail, smiling at Ms. Roslan behind his helmet, recognizing her as the real power behind the congressman…the intelligence and wisdom.
“Excellent!” beamed Fountain, leaping to his feet and rushing around the table. “Glad to have you on board, old man.” Fountain started to smack Grail on the back in a friendly gesture but was stopped by the mercenary’s eyes.
“Do not confuse our compliance in this matter for subservience or even sentiment, Congressman.” The disregard Grail held for the man burned like a flame, obvious to all. “This one does not like you anymore than we liked your predecessor. We accept the assignment only because of the brief respite from boredom this Designate Cestus may grant us. Pray he does not fail and pray our paths never again cross.”
Hoping to defuse the situation before things got worse, Roddick rose to his feet in a dramatic fashion. The last thing the big man wanted was to miss out on a big paycheck because of his boss’s temperament.
