The Ares Virus

by A P Bateman

  Isobel shook her head at him. “You're sick,” she said vehemently. “What's happened to you?” He bore no resemblance to the mentor she once knew. He was clearly insane.

  “Money,” Hardy announced flatly. He walked over and stood beside the professor. “He's a genius, whose work was always going to be undervalued because of the people he worked for. The government can do that to a person. You give your all, twenty-four-seven, if you have to and for what?” He smiled at Leipzig, who nodded enthusiastically in agreement. “Whatever you do, it is never enough. They play with your budget, challenge your decisions and take all the credit. I know, because I've been there my whole adult life.” Hardy reached into the open flap of his jacket and took out the big Colt .45 automatic. He pulled back the hammer and raised it to Leipzig's head and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening inside the room, and Leipzig dropped to the floor like a wet cloth. Isobel had screamed, but couldn't hear it for the resonance of the gunshot, which echoed from the walls and floor and ceiling. Blood and bone and cerebral matter had sprayed all over the plastic sheeting and was running steadily down the wall in a mass of rivulets, channeling in the creases and folds of the plastic. Leipzig’s body twitched and his toes rubbed the plastic sheeting as the nervous system shut down. It only lasted a few seconds but Isobel couldn’t watch. She stared at Hardy, tears in her eyes.

  Hardy calmly tucked the large pistol into the back of his waistband and turned back to Isobel, looking at her coldly. “Professor Leipzig has retired. You're now in charge of the ARES project. He’d lost it. I’ve never seen someone lose their mind so quickly. I'll make you a different deal to the one I had with Leipzig. The man was greedy and wanted far too big a percentage. The man is now dead. You, I shall give freedom and nothing else. Create what I need and I will let you live. That's the deal and it is not open to negotiation.”

  Isobel was shaking. Her eyes were wide and staring transfixed at the corpse lying crumpled on the floor. The blood had collected in a pool, dammed in by a large fold in the plastic. Soon it threatened to overflow and rush out onto the slate floor and into the channel towards the drain.

  She turned her eyes away from the macabre scene and stared up at him. “Go to hell,” she said coldly. She felt a warm rush come over her.It enveloped the chill and the coldness of the room, enlightened the ambiance of death and raised her spirits. She wasn't scared any more, didn't feel as if anybody could have a hold on her again. “You're a fool, Hardy,” she paused, looked at the cadaver and sneered back at him. “You just shot your last bolt. Have you heard from McCray recently? No? Well that probably means that Stone overpowered him. So that business partner is out of the equation as well. And now you've got all the money for yourself. But really, you have nothing. Who is going to make the virus for you now? Because I certainly won't! How stupid do you think I am? You had a deal with both McCray and Leipzig for Christ's sake. You’ll never let me go when I finish making the virus. So you can take the flash drives and do two things with them; either buy a school chemistry set and try and replicate them for yourself, which is never going to happen,” she laughed. “Or bend over and stick them where the sun is never going to shine.”

  Hardy stepped forwards, took the pistol out and aimed it at her head. “You will make the virus. I know how to get people to do things and believe me, it will be done.”

  “Go get the drives and I'll stick them up your ass right now!” she screamed at him. “Go on! I don't care anymore, just kill me and get it over with!” She lunged forwards and pressed her forehead against the muzzle of the weapon. It was still hot against her cold skin. “Do it, I dare you!”

  Hardy stared at her, his eyes flickering. The indecision was written all over his face. He glanced down at Leipzig's body, a shallow shade of regret behind his otherwise cold, lifeless eyes. He tightened his grip on the pistol and stared at her coldly, then flinched as he heard the heavy knock on the door. He looked at her and smiled. His entire face changing in front of her eyes. There was a degree of certainty and confidence back in his expression. “That will be the good doctor,” he said somewhat smugly. “Which means that your friend Stone is either dead, or soon will be.It would also seem that it were you who has shot their last bolt.” He bent down and glared at her, his face contorted in quiet rage. He twisted her head harshly, forcing her to look at the body on the floor. “Take a good look at the good professor while I'm out of the room. You may soonbe joining him. But know this; if you don’t cooperate then I will kill you. And my God, it will be slow and painful you little bitch.” He pulled at the gag hanging around her neck and wriggled it over her chin and forced it viciously into her mouth.

  Hardy closed the door behind him, tucking the big pistol into the back of his waistband as he walked across the large open floor space towards the front door. He opened the door expectantly, but his expression dropped when he looked into the face of the Vermont county Sheriff.

  “Sheriff Harper, Sir,” the lawman smiled amiably and showed his ID wallet for extra verification. He made great pains to fold it and replace it carefully in his breast pocket. “We have a report that a 9-11 call was made from this address. Can you tell me anything about that?”

  Hardy stared blankly at him, genuinely bewildered. “Err ... no. No, I can't,” he said incongruously. He glanced casually down at the sheriff s sidearm.It was unclipped from the holster’s leather thumb break and the sheriff's hand rested somewhat casually on the butt. It was a passive gesture, butit also put the .40 Glock a little too close for comfort. There was no way that Hardy could reach for the rear draw quicker than the sheriff.

  “Well, that's mighty strange.” Sheriff Harper frowned and scratched his brow with his left hand. “You see, dispatch don't make mistakes like that and I have to follow up the call. We can get a trace on a call real quick these days, so I drove on up to see if everything’s okay. Perhaps you, or someone else knocked over the telephone by accident. These things happen, I'm sure... Dispatch heard and recorded raised voices. They thought it might be a domestic disturbance. Is anyone else here with you? Your wife, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re on your own,” Harper frowned. “Now that is a puzzle…”

  “It is. Well, I'll just go and check the phone,” Hardy said. He stepped back from the door but stopped as the sheriff stepped into the threshold, his hand a little tighter on the butt of the pistol.

  “Whoa there, chief,” Harper smiled. “How about I go check with you?”

  “Certainly,” Hardy smiled. “Come on in.”

  ***

  Stone reached the edge of the wooded copse, crouched down low and caught his breath. He had heard the muffled gunshot from a little over two hundred yards away. He had dropped to the ground, fearful that he was under fire, but had soon realized that it was a long way distant and a one off. But then he had started to worry.It was a soft thud of a sound and not the high-velocity crack of a large caliber hunting rifle which is what he’d have expected in these parts. And then he had realized that if it wasn't a hunting rifle, then it was obviously a pistol shot and that it may not have been fired from a great distance, but from inside the house.

  He had ran the rest of the way, careful to keep to the rough course he had plotted from the screen of the laptop. However, when he had finally pushed through the thick undergrowth and reached the fringe of the trees, he had seen the sheriff’s cruiser pull in and park alongside the BMW. There was still fifty yards of open ground between the cars and the log cabin and by Stone's estimation he figured that the tracking device was inside the car. What the hell was Sheriff Harper doing here? Was the man involved as well? No, he couldn’t be. But nothing so far had been straightforward.

  Stone crept forwards and reached the car, his eyes on the house at all times. A cursory glance through the passenger window told him that the tracking device that the assassin had placed on Isobel was in fact in her shoulder bag, as it was clearly in view on the passenger seat. He looked back at the house an
d saw Sheriff Harper step inside. He knew that there was little time and darted back to the edge of the trees and started to skirt the periphery of the property, keeping his eyes on the log cabin.

  ***

  “You see...” Sheriff Harper sounded perplexed. “I can understand that the receiver could quite easily get knocked off the cradle, but what I don't understand is that it should call 9-11. That's a hell of a chance, don't you think?”

  “Gee, I guess,” Hardy did his best to sound dumb and innocent. “But this cabin is a rental, perhaps 9-11 is on the memory button, in case foreign visitors don't know the number?”

  “And the voices?”

  “The television.”

  “What show were you watching?”

  “Nothing. Just surfing the channels.”

  Sheriff Harper stared at him and shrugged. “Maybe you're right. Mind if I take a look around?”

  “I'd rather you didn't,” Hardy said, a little too quickly. “I'm ...”

  “What?”

  “In the middle of something, right now.”

  “What's that, if you don't mind me asking?”

  Hardy hesitated and then smiled. “I'm working on a novel. I'm using this cabin to get away from interruptions.”

  “Oh, I 'm sorry about that,” Harper said indifferently. “Perhaps you wouldn't get interrupted if you took more care with your phone. Or surfed the channels so much. Can’t imagine someone writing with the TV on.”

  Hardy smiled, stepped forwards and placed a hand on Harper's shoulder. “I will do just that, from now on. Now, if there's nothing more I can help you with ...”

  The sheriff smiled. “No, you carry on. I'll just take a look around, and I'll be on my way,” he paused. “How much is one of these cabins to rent anyway?”

  Hardy sighed. “Just under two thousand a week, with taxes and the agency fees. So I'd appreciate getting some use out of it.”

  “Two thousand bucks a week!” Harper exclaimed. “You must be a successful writer. What was it you said you write?”

  “I didn't.”

  “No. You didn't,” Harper pulled away from him and ambled across the room. He did it casually, taking in the paintings and photographs that adorned the walls. “I like mysteries myself. Detective stories.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Sheriff Harper smiled at him. “So you're famous, right?”

  “No.”

  “But you've written a lot, to afford this place, right?”

  '”No. As I said, I'm working on a novel.”

  “Right,” Harper moved closer to the door to the utility room. Hardy tensed. Harper saw the movement and looked back at him. “So what's it about, this novel?”

  “I ...” Hardy hesitated, frowned. “Look, sheriff... I am sorry if I wasted your time ... But you are wasting mine now. I am paying a fortune for this place for a little peace and quiet and I would like to think that it wasn't being wasted. Can you please accept my apologies and leave me to get back to work?”

  Harper smiled. “Of course,” he paused, his hand hesitating on the door handle, “I'll just take a quick look though, just to satisfy my report.” Harper turned his back on him briefly, noticed a sudden movement in the periphery of his vision and looked back at Hardy.

  The Colt .45 was aimed straight and steady, the hammer back and tension on the trigger. Hardy's face was behind it, his eyes cold and every bit as steady as the pistol. “You wouldn't fucking listen. Had to keep nosing around. Well Sheriff, how about unhitching that gun belt and kicking it to one side?”

  Harper did as he was told, slowly and surely and careful not to make a sudden, unsolicited move. “You can't do this,” he said quietly. “They'll send someone else when I don’t call in.”

  “What, another half-assed sheriff? I think I’ll manage.” Hardy glared at him, kept the pistol steady. “Now, satisfy your curiosity and open the door.”

  Harper turned the handle steadily and pushed the door inwards. He peered inside, his shoulders seemed to sag, like he knew it was hopeless, that there was too much distance between them and that his only hope of survival nestled snugly in the holster on the floor. He looked back at him, his face ashen at what he had witnessed and the hopelessness of his predicament. He was scared and Hardy could see it clearly in the man's eyes. He looked at Isobel squatting on the mattress, at the bloody mess surrounding the body on the floor. Hardy moved closer, kept the heavy pistol trained on him. He smiled, enjoyed seeing the expression of fear upon the man's face. “Go inside and join them.” Harper reluctantly did so and Hardy started to follow a few paces behind.

  There was an eruption gunfire and wood splinters and chunks of stucco disintegrated in a cloud of plaster dust. Hardy turned and faced the gunfire, opening up with a salvo of .45 that sounded like canon fire in the confines of the cabin.

  Stone darted out from the hallway and took cover in the doorway of one of the bedrooms. He fired a short burst from the machine pistol and four bullet holes punched into the wall inches from Hardy’s face. The CIA man returned fire, then dropped onto one knee as he fished a magazine out of his pocket and reloaded the Colt. He dropped the slide forward and fired a double tap at Stone, who had already started to move.

  Stone knew that in close quarter battle there were two types of people. Those who moved and those who died. He crouched low as he ran and felt Hardy’s bullets pass inches from his face. He fired the machine pistol again, but it recoiled twice then clicked empty. He had the Glock 9mm out of its holster and ready to fire as he got to the central open fire place in the middle of the lounge area. It was three feet high and provided a barrier of bricks to crouch behind. The metal conical canopy provided more cover. Just a two foot space for Hardy to shoot through. Stone knew the person with the most cover had the best chance. He fired three shots and Hardy let out a scream and dropped the Colt on the floor. He bent to retrieve it but Stone fired three more shots. They missed, but threw up splinters of polished floorboard in the man’s face. Hardy, held his injured arm and retreated to the doorway of the utility room. He was bleeding badly. He caught hold of Sheriff Harper’s gun belt and scrambled to his feet. Stone crouched on his knees, sighting on the man’s back, but he disappeared from view before he could fire.

  Hardy stepped into the room pulling the .40 Glock clear of its holster. He looked for both Sheriff Harper and Isobel, had the pistol held out in front of him, dropped the empty gun belt to the floor. Where were they? He felt a wave of adrenaline wash over him as his eyes searched the room desperately. The mattress was in front of him and Isobel was gone. He turned to look for the sheriff, realizing that both he and Isobel could only be behind the door and by the bank of shelving. The searing pain that followed surged through him like a firebrand. His upper body contorted and his legs gave way as he dropped the pistol and clawed and grasped at his neck.

  Isobel kept both hands on the handle of the butcher’s knife and plunged it deeper into his neck, twisting and sawing and pressing it deeper to gain better purchase. Most of the ten inch blade was buried deep inside him and a wave of blood surged out and over her hands with every pulse of his weakening heartbeat. She grit her teeth together tightly and hissed at him: “How does it feel to die you bastard?” she panted. She continued to push the blade deeper, grunted under the effort. Hardy was on his knees, but pinned in place by the knife. He could not pull forwards and away from the blade and neither could he push backwards because Isobel’s knees prevented him from moving. The sheer size of the blade was skewering him in place.

  Harper was behind her, his expression aghast. He had used the knife to cut her bindings free, but she had grabbed it from him as the door had opened. Now his hands were on her shoulders pulling her away. But she resisted, shrugging him away.

  “You lock me in a fucking slaughterhouse and think I'll just sit tight and wait to die? How does it feel?” She screamed at him through clenched teeth. She continued to twist the knife and the blood flow slowed and almost stopped altogether. Hardy wa
s motionless now. She stepped backwards a pace and his body slumped forwards, the weight pulling the blade clean out of his neck as he fell, leaving the knife in Isobel’s grasp.

  Rob Stone was in the doorway and he slipped his weapon back into its holster and caught hold of Isobel's bloodied wrists. Her bindings hung loose from each wrist, sliced through. He whispered for her to let go and she suddenly seemed to snap back into herself and looked appalled at her blood-soaked hands. She gradually released her grip on the knife and it dropped onto the floor next to Tom Hardy’s body. His blood flowed slowly along the sloped floor and channeled into the gutter, before swirling into the purpose built drain in the floor.

  SIXTY FOUR

  The sun shone brightly onto the bay and the lapping waves broke the reflections shimmering like polished gems on the surface of the sea. The ocean was emerald green, and the sky above was azure between fast moving broken white clouds. The air was fresh and autumnal chill was starting to grip tighter and take hold, pulling the city into the fringe of winter.

  The waitress brought the two cappuccinos and Danish pastries on a silver tray. She placed each item down beside them, smiled and left to clear another table. They sat with their backs to the coffee house and looked out over the bay. In the distance the Statue of Liberty stood tall and proud and true. She was the watchtower of the city, the guardian landmark of the United States. Stone lent back in his chair and watched a tour boat go past. The cameras were clicking on both port and starboard sides as the tourists were taken out to the bay to sail near Liberty Island to capture a piece of America for prosperity, then on towards Staten Island and back around Ellis Island and Governor’s Island back to Manhattan. The people on board new nothing of super viruses or dishonest CIA officers or insane professors or relentless assassins. They occupied a different realm in reality. Stone took a sip of the hot coffee and placed the cup back down on the saucer.