by David Meyer
Caplan knew what it meant. And his primal instincts told him to break off, to rethink his strategy. But he was no longer listening to them. He was listening to new instincts, ones that had formed five months earlier. Ones that told him to dish out as much pain and anguish as humanly possible.
Lowering his shoulder, Caplan crashed into the predator. Jets of fire shot down his arm, across his chest. Ignoring the searing pain, he kept at it, pushing forward with all of his strength.
The predator didn’t yelp or moan. Rather, a surprised grunt escaped his lips. Releasing the gun, he toppled to the ground with all the force of a full-grown tree trunk.
The prey stumbled backward, trying to maintain control of the gun. But he jolted as his rear struck the concrete and the weapon, a 9mm pistol with fully supported ramped hammer-forged barrel, hit the ground and skidded into the darkness.
Caplan rolled to his feet. The predator jumped up to face him. Lips twisting into a sick grin, the predator stepped forward. Forming a fist out of his right hand, he reared back like a baseball pitcher.
The heavy fist slammed into Caplan’s jaw with bone-breaking force. Caplan whirled in a circle and dropped to the ground. Stars exploded in his head and a dizzy spell nearly sent him into the land of darkness.
The predator appeared, hovering over him like a wraith. Caplan picked himself off the ground. Rose unsteadily to his feet. He had no strategy, no plan of attack or retreat. All he had was an overwhelming desire to release months of pent-up aggression.
Before the predator could launch another attack, Caplan ran forward, throwing fists with reckless abandon. A right one slammed into the predator’s stomach. A left one struck the man’s right cheek.
Absorbing the blows, the predator backed up a few feet. His eyes tightened into tiny orbs.
Rage took over Caplan as he threw more punches. A right cross to the belly. A left uppercut to the chest. The predator hunkered down, trying to ward off the barrage. But a fist to the mouth stunned him and another one to the solar plexus sent him reeling toward the old trashcans. Metal clattered as he smashed into them and fell to the ground.
Shifting his gaze, Caplan saw the prey crawling into the darkness. Hurrying forward, he grabbed the old man. Pulled him to his feet and stared into his eyes.
“What are you doing?” the prey said. “The gun—”
“Who are you?”
The prey opened his mouth to respond. But rattling metal bars stopped him short.
Caplan didn’t need to look to know what was above him. He’d noticed the signs. The shifted trashcans, the misplaced odors, the groaning metal. But he had no desire to flee. Just to fight to the bitter end.
Twisting around, he ran toward the west wall at full speed. At the last second, he kicked his feet against the brick and shot upward. His fingers closed around a rusty metal bar.
Fire escapes were an increasingly rare feature in New York City. Aesthetically unpleasing and considered highly unsafe, many architects had replaced them over the years with fireproof interior stairwells. The ones that remained, the dinosaurs, had been reworked to allow easier ladder deployment.
Caplan pulled himself onto the fire escape. Two men, wide-eyed as all hell, stood before him. One was short with curly black hair poking out from under his hoodie. The other was basketball-tall with long legs.
Caplan jumped. His hands closed around an overhead bar. With a sudden lurch, he launched himself forward. Feet extended, his body soared like a missile into the curly-haired man.
Screaming like a banshee, the man stumbled backward. He lost his balance and seconds later, his head slammed into the metal bars. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell still.
Caplan landed in a crouching position. He started to get up but a sharp kick struck his side. His pain sensors erupted and he stumbled to a knee. A second kick, a brutal one, caught the top of his skull and he crumpled to a heap on top of the metal bars.
A hint of copper snaked into his nostrils. He touched the side of his head. It felt tacky, sticky.
The fire escape rattled and trembled. Caplan felt a breeze and rolled to the side. The baller’s sneaker slammed into the bars, narrowly missing his head.
Caplan lashed out with a kick. It missed its mark, but managed to drive his attacker back a few feet.
Fighting off dizziness, Caplan lifted his back off the bars.
The baller backed up another foot. His eyes glittered like gold.
Caplan shot a quick glance at the ground. The predator remained still among the fallen trashcans and mounds of garbage. The prey remained glued to the concrete, seemingly frozen with fear.
A surge of anger appeared in the pit of Caplan’s stomach. It swirled upward, outward, spreading to all corners of his body.
Rushing forward, the baller unleashed yet another vicious kick. Caplan could’ve blocked it. But he was too angry, too enraged to think straight. Wading forward, he ignored the sneaker, letting it crunch against his left thigh. And then he was on top of the man, overwhelming him with his weight. The baller lost his balance and toppled over the safety rail.
Caplan fell with him.
Air rushed in Caplan’s ears as they hurtled to the ground. Less than a second later, the baller’s side smacked sickeningly into one of the trashcans. The impact sent Caplan flopping onto the concrete and he slid forward, knocking aside rotten vegetables, beer bottles, and slimy tissues before coming to a halt.
For three full seconds, he lay on the concrete, dazed and bloodied. His pulse raced non-stop. His pores, opened wide during the fight, caused sweat to streak down his grime-covered face.
The baller stirred. Kicked his legs slightly. Jerked his arms as if he were a newborn.
Caplan crawled to the man. Saw blood oozing from the guy’s forehead. Felt it splatter against his palms and slip between his fingers. His breathing sped up. He felt an uncontrollable lust in his heart.
A lust for blood.
Caplan grabbed the baller’s hair. Swung a heavy fist at the guy’s nose, busting it open and causing blood to spurt out of the nostrils like water out of twin faucets.
The impact stung Caplan’s hand. But he reared back and delivered another thundering punch to the man’s face. And another one. And then another one.
After a few more punches, he released the hair and watched the man’s bloodied face sag to the concrete. Standing up, he swung around to face the prey.
The old man stood slack-jawed in the alley, shifting his gaze between the baller and Caplan. Then he started backing toward the fallen pistol. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t showed up.”
A single look into the man’s eyes told Caplan everything he needed to know. His body ached from the blows he’d sustained as he strode forward. His hands were in desperate need of ice baths.
The old man stooped to pick up the pistol. But Caplan’s boot pressed down, pinning it to the concrete.
The old man looked up. Gave Caplan a confused look.
Caplan smiled. Shifted sideways.
And slammed his left fist straight into the old man’s kisser.
The old man’s head snapped back. His legs folded under him and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.
“Thought you could pull a con job on an innocent, huh?” Caplan whispered between breaths. “Thought you and your boys could draw in prey of your own with that little performance of yours? Well, guess again.”
For a moment, Caplan stood over the vanquished old man, breathing rapidly and allowing his adrenaline to ease. His ribs hurt and he could feel blood trickling down the side of his face. It wasn’t his first fistfight, but it was definitely one of the more painful ones. He’d taken a tremendous beating. And for what? To punish some gang of thieves for trying to prey on good Samaritans?
He crouched next to the old man. Patted the guy’s pockets until he’d located a wallet. Pulling it out, he peered at the man’s license.
“James Corbotch?”
With a frown, he tossed the license—clearly fake—onto the old man’s unconscious form. Then he marched out of the alley, still frowning. He wondered what kind of confidence trick the old man had intended to pull with the license. And what kind of gullible person would actually believe it? After all, James Corbotch wasn’t just another Joe Schmo.
He was the richest man on the planet.
Chapter 3
Date: June 19, 2016, 4:28 a.m.; Location: Upper East Side, New York, NY
Hunger pangs hit Caplan’s stomach as he half-walked, half-limped into his tiny, dilapidated apartment. His groceries, along with the cotton tote bags, had disappeared by the time he’d gone back to retrieve them. It pissed him off to no end. This was why he hated the city, hated everything about it. There was always some lowlife waiting in the shadows, looking to take advantage of a good Samaritan.
He slammed his door so hard paintings would’ve rattled in their frames if he’d actually owned any paintings. After locking the dual-bolt mechanism, he dragged himself to his couch and eased himself into its lumpy cushions. The sofa, a three-seater purple mess he’d bought from the local Kettler Thrift Store, was an eyesore. But what did he care? All of Manhattan, from the shocking amount of waste to the soulless skyscrapers, was an eyesore.
A dull ache sprung up in his jaw. Gently, he touched the tender skin. While he hurt all over, the predator’s punch hurt most of all. He wondered about that. After that first strike, the predator had hunkered down and taken Caplan’s punishment. Why? Why hadn’t he fought back? Wasn’t the whole point of the scheme to draw in a good Samaritan? To trap that person and rob him?
A few doubts entered Caplan’s brain. On one hand, he knew a scam when he saw it. And a single look into the old man’s steady, calculating eyes had confirmed it. But maybe he’d gotten the scheme wrong. Maybe they weren’t trying to rob him. Maybe they were trying to capture him, use him for something. Like steal his organs or one of the countless insane crimes he’d read about in the free subway newspapers.
Caplan’s side started to hurt. Then his belly stung. Lifting his shirt, he checked his wounds. He wasn’t anywhere near hospital shape, but he still required medical attention.
Wincing, he stood up and trudged to the bathroom, cursing his bloodlust the entire way. It had felt therapeutic in the moment, but he was paying for it now.
As he neared the bathroom, he cast a glance at a tall dresser. The wood was heavily splintered and covered with stains. It wasn’t fit for a homeless shelter, let alone an apartment. But so what? It held his clothes just fine.
An unframed photo atop the dresser caught his eye. Two small rocks propped it up. The photo showed a young woman, backed by a forest of willows, pines, and oaks. She wasn’t smiling. Instead, she looked like she’d always looked, as if she were about to bitch someone out. Her eyes, sharp and blue, were surrounded by eye shadow. Her nose was a bit big for her face, but certainly not unbecoming. Her cheeks were rounded at the top and angular all the way down to her pointy jaw.
His gaze flitted to her long blonde hair, shiny and swept back into a simple updo. The updo glittered under intense sunlight.
He stopped and stared at this gorgeous creature. This woman he’d once loved with all his heart and soul. This woman that he’d ripped out of his life five months ago. Not because he loved her any less, but because he no longer deserved her.
Some sins, after all, could never be forgiven.
“I don’t know what you’re doing right now, Amanda,” he whispered under his breath. “But I hope you’re happy.”
Chapter 4
Date: June 19, 2016, 4:28 a.m.; Location: Hatcher Station, Vallerio Forest, NH
The air whipped as Amanda Morgan swung the rifle butt in an arc, cracking it against Secretary of State Barbara Slayton’s skull. Secretary Slayton, all eighty-three years of her, slumped to the ground. Blood seeped from the back of her head, staining her bluish-white hair and oozing across the hardwood floor.
The screams and shouts halted. The other prisoners, clad in silk suits and formal cocktail dresses, backed into the center of the room. One by one, they found their seats at the circular tables.
Morgan inhaled a deep breath as she faced the prisoners. A ripped white lab coat hung limply from her well-toned body. Her blonde hair was scraggily and damp with sweat. “Consider that a warning,” she shouted. “Next person who disobeys an order gets a bullet in the face.”
The prisoners swapped uneasy looks.
Morgan’s eyes drifted to the room itself, known internally as the Eye. Giant monitor banks, one per wall, shifted video feeds every fifteen seconds. She saw wild horses, bison, and zebras grazing in steppe grasslands. Asian and African elephants, along with deer, grizzly bears, and jaguars, weaving their way through dense forests. Mountain goats and camels feeding gracefully on the foliage of arid mountains, keeping watchful eyes out for mountain lions and other predators.
Normally, workstations, desks, and computers covered the floor space between the monitors. Well-trained rangers used them to maintain a distant eye on the various ecosystems that made up the Vallerio Forest. But hours earlier, the room had undergone a transformation. The normal occupants had been shuttled off to their quarters for the evening. Their workstations and desks had been pushed to the sides of the room. Circular tables, covered with white cloth and surrounded by chairs, had taken their place. Extravagant food and the finest wines had been wheeled in on fancy carts. A party celebrating … something … had commenced.
Axel Eichel, Managing Director of the International Monetary Fund, sat up straight. A longtime member of the Socialist Party and hailing from the 5th arrondissement of Paris, he was both beloved and despised for his gentle handling of the continuing European debt crisis. “We’ll behave.” He eyed the room’s other prisoners. “You have my word.”
“Good, good.” Morgan licked her lips. There were twenty-one prisoners in total. Four top-level Vallerio Foundation executives. And seventeen guests who wielded an incredible amount of power between them. Besides Eichel, their ranks included four prominent politicians from four separate continents, five high-ranking members of the United Nations, four bankers, and three directors of major global businesses. The prisoners, a curious combination of nationalities, came from all ends of the political spectrum. Social progressives sat alongside social conservatives. Neoconservatives rubbed elbows with anti-war liberals.
Deborah Keifer, a stern bird-like woman and president of the Vallerio Foundation, glared at Morgan. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.
Ignoring her, Morgan glided across the room. She stopped next to Charlie Lodge, one of the world’s foremost geneticists and a five-year resident at Hatcher Station. “Watch them closely.”
“But that guy said—”
“That guy is a bureaucrat,” she said, finishing his thought with her own. “In other words, a born liar.”
Lodge’s breaths sped up to the point of hyperventilation.
Morgan looked into his eyes. Saw his fear, his anxiety. “Are you sure you can handle this?”
He tugged at his lab coat. “It’s just that, well, I’ve never shot anyone before.”
“Me neither.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll send some backup.”
Morgan walked to the door. Pushed it open and entered Hatcher Station’s central core, better known as the Heptagon. The Heptagon, consistent with its moniker, contained seven equidistant walls. Separate doors were mounted in the middle of each wall. One door led outside to several rings of security fences and, farther back, the vast Vallerio Forest. The other six doors led to Hatcher Station’s various sections, including the Galley, the Barracks, Operations, Research, the Warehouse, and of course, the Eye.
“Fei.” Her gaze turned to Fei Nai-Yuan, a brilliant Chinese-American geophysicist. “Charlie needs help.”
Nai-Yuan, equipped with one of the many rifles seized during the coup, gave her a brisk nod. With quick steps, he made his way into the E
ye, shutting the door behind him.
Morgan strode across the Heptagon, passing a collection of bound guards along the way. They sat in a circle, backs to the middle. Six people, a mixture of scientists, technicians, and rangers, kept them in check with rifles. The station’s primary physician, Dr. Ankur Adnan, moved silently about the guards, checking their stitches and rebandaging their wounds.
She grasped Research’s doorknob. As she opened the door, a distinct humming noise, the product of computers and machinery, filled her ears. Strong heat reached out, causing a thin layer of sweat to bubble up all over her body.
She paused, giving herself a moment to adjust to the sudden temperature change. Then she strode through the doorframe, paying no attention to the mounted Stop: Restricted Access, Research Only sign.
She walked through the maze of tables and machinery. A metal hatch, roughly three feet on each side, occupied the room’s far right corner. Other than some giant hinges on one side and a handle on the other side, the hatch was perfectly flat with the floor. A small computer screen was embedded into the metal. It showed ever-changing strings of digits and letters, bright green against a black background.
Two women sat at a long table near the hatch. Their gazes were fixed upon laptops. Their fingers swept over the keyboards, pecking keys at a high rate of speed.
Morgan cleared her throat. “Well?”
“Nothing yet,” Bonnie Codd said without looking up.
“You’ve been at this for hours.”
“We’re making progress.”
Morgan rubbed her forehead. Normally, the hatch—which was controlled by computers far beneath them—took mere minutes to open. Unfortunately, this was no normal situation. “How much progress?”
Codd clucked her tongue in disapproval. “If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you try that back entrance you mentioned?”
“Because it’s just as hard to open from the outside. Now, how much progress have you made?”
