by Greg Cox
One of the guards, a strapping blond private named Buchs, raced to Calabria’s aid. Yanking the thrashing victim off his seat, Buchs applied the Heimlich maneuver to no avail; the murderous mussel refused to budge. His face turning purple, Calabria pointed frantically at Tyler. “It’s him!” he managed to gasp. “With his mind …”
The other guardsman, Roest, got the message. Drawing a SIG P225 automatic pistol from beneath his jacket, he took aim at Tyler. An unseen force yanked his arm upward and he fired uselessly into the sky. A second later, the gun was ripped from his fingers. It arced over the Spanish Steps before splashing down in the Baroque fountain at the base of the steps. The startled soldier yelped in surprise.
Pandemonium erupted along the street and upon the nearby steps. Terrified diners dived under their tables. Panicked tourists and artists ran for cover. Screams disturbed the tranquil winter evening. Only Richard Tyler remained immobile, standing motionlessly across the street. His dark eyes remained fixed on his suffocating target. His stony expression held no hint of mercy.
It’s not fair, Calabria thought. Unfortunately, the process of implanting a mind into another body left the Marked unable to acquire preternatural abilities of their own. Darkness began to encroach on the cardinal’s vision. His jowly face took on a bluish tint. I can’t fight back!
Abandoning his futile efforts to perform the Heimlich, Buchs snatched a knife from Calabria’s table setting. The choking cardinal realized in dismay that the desperate bodyguard intended to perform an emergency tracheotomy, minus anesthesia. Calabria braced himself for the pain, but he needn’t have bothered; like the other soldier’s gun, the knife flew from Buchs’s fingers. The man reached for his gun, only to lose that as well. Gasping for breath, the cardinal couldn’t help being impressed by how many objects Tyler was able to manipulate at once. The man had obviously mastered his telekinetic abilities.
“Get him!” Buchs shouted at Roest. Taking the fight directly to the enemy, the unarmed guards charged across the street at Tyler. Horns honked and brakes squealed as the soldiers fearlessly braved the traffic. An artsy-looking student on a green Vespa scooter swerved frantically to avoid the men, and came skidding to a halt only a few meters away from Calabria’s table. The youth’s eyes bugged out at the chaos in front of him.
Tyler waved his arm and the attacking guards were swept off their feet, as though by a powerful wind. Flailing helplessly, they tumbled down 138 flights of steps before crashing onto the piazza below. Calabria abruptly found himself without defenders.
Or maybe not. Unexpectedly, the pretty waitress from before came dashing from out of nowhere. “Demon!” she hissed as she flung a glass of red wine into Tyler’s face. She hurled herself at the startled 4400, kicking and scratching. “Leave the holy father alone!”
The attack broke Tyler’s concentration. The stubborn mussel burst from Calabria’s lips and he found he could breathe again. Hungrily sucking up huge mouthfuls of air, he lurched away from the table, knocking it over in his haste. China and glassware crashed down onto the sidewalk. Pasta and seafood spilled across the pavement.
The fleeing cardinal couldn’t care less about the mess. He needed to get away while he still had a chance!
But time was already running out. Tyler quickly recovered from the girl’s assault. Showing admirable restraint, he telekinetically lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto the canvas awning over the restaurant’s entrance. A bright red stain soaked the front of his shirt. Scratch marks streaked his face. He wiped the wine from his eyes and looked for Calabria.
The cardinal drew a gun of his own from beneath his cassock. He carried the Beretta with him everywhere, even to Mass. Shaky fingers fumbled too long with the safety. The pistol was painfully wrenched from his hands. It flew straight into Tyler’s waiting grip.
Mannaggia! Calabria swore. What he wouldn’t give right now for a palm-sized neural disruptor! Just his luck they wouldn’t be invented for another hundred years, and had proved impossible to replicate with mere twenty-first-century materials.
Deprived of a weapon, escape was his only recourse.
Unlike the rest of the crowd, who were fleeing the area in droves, the student with the scooter lingered to take in the action. Desperate to get away, Calabria dragged the youth off the Vespa and claimed the scooter for himself. His black cassock tangled about his legs as he hastily climbed onto the seat. White knuckles gripped the handlebars. He hit the gas.
If I can just put enough distance between myself and Tyler, get out of range of his ability … !
The scooter’s rear wheel spun furiously, but the vehicle didn’t go anywhere. Calabria fumbled with the controls, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong, then realized that the problem wasn’t with the Vespa. He glanced back over his shoulder to Tyler glaring at him. The vengeful 4400 held on to the scooter with his mind.
Calabria understood that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“No,” he pleaded. “You’ve got the wrong person.” He saw his life as Emanuel Calabria coming to a rapid end. He could only hope that his allies from the future would find him a new host after they recovered the nanites containing his personality. “I had nothing to do with your daughter’s death …”
Richard just stared at the other man. Calabria wondered what he was waiting for.
“You’re looking the wrong way,” a voice called out, speaking Italian with an American accent. Calabria spun his head around to see another black man step out from beneath the awning of a nearby café. He was younger and stockier than Tyler, but had the same grim expression. He furrowed his brow. His eyes narrowed in concentration. “Say your prayers.”
The scooter’s handlebars suddenly grew hot to the touch. The temperature gauge on the dashboard flashed red. Steam rose from the engine mounted behind Calabria. He crossed himself out of sheer force of habit.
The Vespa exploded beneath him.
Richard watched the fireball engulf the Marked cardinal and his hijacked vehicle. He threw up his hands to protect his face from the heat and glare while simultaneously enclosing the explosion in an invisible bubble to keep any bystanders from being injured by flying shrapnel. Bright orange flames shifted to white-hot as his partner, Yul Lacey, used his thermokinesis to make sure every last inch of Calabria’s body was consumed. It was vital to make sure all the microscopic machines in the cardinal’s brain were destroyed; otherwise the Marked could just implant his consciousness in another innocent host.
Or so it had been explained to him.
A twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. Although he had piloted bombers in Korea, he’d never killed anyone in cold blood before.
This was for Isabelle, he reminded himself.
Sirens blared from all directions, growing louder by the second. A police car squealed to a halt a few yards back from the burning scooter. Officers in blue uniforms poured out of the car. Shielding themselves behind their vehicle, they drew their guns on Richard and Yul. “Fermate!” a tense-looking cop ordered.
Richard flexed his mental muscles. There had been a time, when he was first discovering his abilities, that he could only lift a few small objects at a time, but that was a long time ago. He effortlessly threw the men backward. They scattered like bowling pins as they went rolling down the street. Up on the awning, the heroic waitress wailed in despair.
Enough, Richard thought. They had done what they had come to do. Now he just wanted to get out of here. Where’s our ride?
As if on cue, a sleek black Porsche came speeding onto the scene from the opposite direction of the cops. The sports car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side door swung open. The young Goth chick, Evee Borland, called out to the two men. “You guys done here?”
Richard questioned Yul with a look.
“He’s toast,” the other man said, referring to Calabria.
“And the nanites?” Richard asked.
“Nothing but slag.”
That was good enough for Richard. They piled i
nto the Porsche, which drove up onto the sidewalk to execute a tight U-turn before accelerating back toward their safe house in Trastevere. Police cars and fire trucks, their emergency lights flashing, raced past them as they left the cardinal’s scorched ashes behind. Richard slumped back into the passenger seat while Nicole and Yul congratulated themselves on the success of their mission. They had been shadowing Calabria for hours, with the help, ironically enough, of a clairvoyant nun who was one of the original 4400, just waiting for their designated target to leave the safety of the Vatican. Tonight all their efforts had paid off.
So why don’t I feel more euphoric? Richard wondered. His face stung where the Italian girl had scratched him. Unlike his new comrades, he felt more deflated than elated by tonight’s events. Vengeance turned out to have a bitter aftertaste. He couldn’t help remembering that the real Emanuel Calabria had perished along with the insidious invader occupying his body. He wished there was some way to free the innocent victims of the Marked instead of simply killing them, but, according to Collier, that was not the case. The only way to eliminate the threat of the Marked was killing them along with their hosts. Richard sighed at the bloody road ahead of him.
One down. Six more to go.
EIGHT
MARCO POPPED INTO the morgue—literally.
One minute the tardy genius was nowhere to be seen. The next, he suddenly appeared between Tom and Diana as they waited for him in NTAC’s private medical facility. Floppy brown hair needed combing. Intelligent brown eyes peered out from behind a pair of horn-rimmed black glasses. He wore a tweedy jacket over a faded concert T-shirt. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Marco!” Diana blurted, startled by his abrupt manifestation. She clutched her chest to quiet the racing of her heart. “You know you’re not supposed to do that. Especially not at work.”
The endearingly nerdy analyst had gained the ability to teleport after surviving fifty/fifty. Pretty much everyone at NTAC knew what he could do, but public displays of promicin abilities were strongly discouraged. Diana shook her head in disapproval. Marco knew better than to ’port around like that. What if some higher-up from D.C. was visiting?
“I know,” he admitted. “But it’s just so convenient. And I didn’t want to keep you folks waiting.” He glanced around the sterile, stainless-steel morgue. “So what did I miss?”
“Just the usual weirdness,” Diana said.
In total, they had found four identical copies of Danny Farrell’s body at the funeral home. All four specimens were now laid out on autopsy tables in the center of the morgue. Clean white sheets partially covered the bodies. If there was any way to tell the cadavers apart, Diana sure couldn’t see it. She could only imagine how disturbing this was for Tom. Suppose these were four identical copies of Maia …
“What’s the story?” he asked gruffly. “Which one is the real Danny?”
“None of the above,” Abigail Hunnicutt replied. The twenty-something blonde had joined Marco’s Theory Room team shortly before fifty/fifty. A graduate of MIT, she stood beside one of the bodies, her ungloved fingers splayed across its chest. The outbreak had turned Abby into a human DNA sequencer who could “read” genetic codes without the aid of artificial equipment. She wiped her hands on a blue lab coat as she reported her findings. “These specimens are almost-but-not-quite genetic duplicates of Danny Farrell. About ninety-nine percent identical to the real thing.”
“Clones?” Marco speculated.
Abby shook her head. “More like Danny’s DNA has been superimposed on someone else’s.” She struggled to put what she was sensing into words. “There’s still an ‘echo’ of the original DNA left in the cells. My guess is that somebody is trying to turn other people into perfect twins of Danny …”
“Before or after they’re dead?” Diana wondered.
“Good question.” Abby shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t tell from the DNA.”
A preliminary examination had suggested that all four bodies had died from an overdose of promicin, not unlike the real Danny, who had been suffering from a massive buildup of promicin in his system before his brother euthanized him. Perhaps full autopsies would turn up more info, but Diana had her doubts. They were way beyond conventional forensic science here.
“But why would anybody want to do something like this?” Tom asked. Although he was holding it together, his obvious frustration frayed at his voice. He clenched his fists. “Why couldn’t they just let my nephew rest in peace?”
Marco scratched his chin. “You said you found promicin at the mortuary? My guess is that someone is trying to duplicate the process that turned Danny Farrell into the ‘Typhoid Mary’ of promicin, creating a living biological weapon capable of spreading the fifty/fifty effect everywhere he goes.” His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Maybe even an army of carriers …”
A hush fell over the morgue as the ghastly implications of what Marco was saying sunk in. One Danny had nearly destroyed Seattle. A legion of Danny clones could cause untold death and devastation.
“Someone like who?” Diana asked, breaking the silence. “Jordan Collier?”
“Let’s find out,” Tom said.
* * *
The downtown skyscraper that now served as Collier’s new headquarters was the old Haspelcorp Building, an irony that surely amused Collier. A huge canvas portrait of the new messiah, many stories high, adorned the outer façade of the structure. Smaller portraits hung inside the palatial lobby.
Talk about a cult of personality, Tom thought. The ubiquitous posters reminded him uncomfortably of Maoist China and other authoritarian regimes. Wonder when the fifty-foot statues start going up?
“Can I help you?” a security guard addressed the agents as they entered the lobby. The elderly sentry, who appeared to be in his sixties, was not very physically imposing, but he didn’t need to be; as a positive, he no doubt had other ways to repel unwanted visitors. He sat behind a high marble desk. A name badge identified him as HOYT.
More guards were stationed by the elevators, stairwells, and fire exits. Collier was obviously taking no chances with his security. Tom couldn’t blame him. Despite all of the Movement’s philanthropic efforts, plenty of people still blamed Jordan for fifty/fifty and the deaths of their loved ones. He had already survived several assassination attempts.
Diana flashed her badge. “NTAC. We’re here to see Jordan Collier.”
The guard looked unimpressed. Tom and Diana were frequent visitors. He peered at the slender brunette accompanying the two agents. Her dark eyes glinted impishly. A tailored Burberry Prorsum jacket testified to a generous clothing allowance. Expensive perfume wafted from the petite young woman, who looked to be in her early thirties. A dollar sign was tattooed upon her wrist.
“What about her?” the guard asked.
April Skouris was Diana’s black-sheep younger sister. A former tattoo artist and con woman, April had been one of the first people reckless enough to take a promicin shot when Jordan made them available to the masses. Her newfound ability to compel people to tell the truth had eventually landed her a cushy job working for both NTAC and the FBI. Tom frankly found her a little off-putting, but if she could help them pry some answers out of Collier regarding Danny’s remains, he was willing to borrow her for this visit.
“I’m NTAC, too,” she boasted, proudly displaying her own ID. After growing up in the shadow of her more accomplished older sister, she seemed eager to point out that they had achieved parity at last. “April Skouris, agent-at-large.”
“Uh-huh.” Hoyt lethargically keyed her name into his computer. A frown deepened the heavy creases around his mouth. “Sorry. You’re on the black list. No access allowed.”
“What?” Instant indignation colored her voice. “Who says?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed automatically. He couldn’t have lied if he’d wanted to. “The computer just says so. You’ve been flagged as a security threat.”
“Crap! This is completely unfair!” She l
ooked to Tom and Diana for support. “Are you going to let them get away with this?”
“I guess so,” he admitted. NTAC operated in Seattle only at Collier’s sufferance. They were in no position to throw their weight around. “Guess you need to wait in the car.”
“Are you serious?” She raised her voice and all but stamped on the floor. “Diana,” she whined, sounding more like a bratty kid sister than a government agent. “Do something!”
Her outbursts attracted the attention of the guard by the elevator, who crossed the lobby to investigate. He was a tall, hatchet-faced man with a light brown brush cut. Besides his unknown abilities, the guard was armed with a pistol and stun gun. GALLOWAY, read his name tag. His hand rested ominously on the grip of his sidearm. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Diana insisted. “Just a misunderstanding.” She spoke softly to her sister. “I’m sorry, April, but Collier has blocked us here. And we really need to speak with him today.” Taking the other woman’s arm, she guided her gently toward the exit. “Why don’t you head back to headquarters. Maybe we can talk later.”
“Fine,” April said petulantly. She yanked her arm free and headed for the door. “See if I ever volunteer to help you guys again. Thanks for nothing, sis.”
She stormed out of the building. Part of Tom was relieved to see her go. Despite her occasionally useful ability, she was a real loose cannon. Plus, there was something distinctly unsettling about being around someone who could make you tell the truth whether you wanted to or not. He still cringed when he remembered the time April had mischievously forced him to reveal a sexual fantasy about his partner, right in front of Diana, no less!
No wonder so many people wanted nothing to do with the 4400 and their successors.
