by Rick Yancey
“Well, they’ve come in pretty handy. You put my blood in the bullets.”
“I did?” He shook his head again.
“What are you going to do, Alfred?” Mr. Needlemier asked. His voice had gone high-pitched in his excitement.
“That which must be done,” I said, and started up the last hundred feet to the top of the mountain.
48
For once the fog was a blessing. There was no way Mike could see our approach, unless he had infrared cameras mounted in the eaves.
I whispered to Op Nine, “Cover the porch on the back side. I’ll take the front.”
He nodded and faded to my left, disappearing into the fog with barely a sound. I crept toward the front of the cabin, which emerged slowly from the mist as I came closer. There was a deserted feel to it, and I had a sinking feeling I had made that same awful mistake I always made: going with my gut.
I mounted the steps and pressed my ear against the front door. Silence. I held the 3XD loosely in my right hand. I took one step back, a deep breath, then raised my right leg and with two good sharp kicks busted the door right off its hinges.
So much for stealth.
I lunged into the entryway, sweeping the 3XD in an arc from right to left.
“Mike Arnold!” I yelled. “It’s Alfred Kropp! I know you’re here! We’ve got the cabin surrounded. Come out with your hands up and nobody gets hurt!”
He didn’t come out. Instead he came from behind, throwing one arm around my neck and grabbing my right wrist, whipping my hand behind my back and lifting it high toward my neck. His thumb pressed between the two little bones below my palm and I cried out, dropping the 3XD at his feet.
“No, Al,” he whispered. “Somebody is going to get hurt.”
I butted his face as hard as I could with the back of my head. He grunted and I heard something crunch; maybe I broke his nose. He stumbled backward, his grip loosened, and I used the opportunity to rip free. I turned, and a fist landed in my gut—which I inevitably led with—and I doubled over. The next punch landed against the side of my head and I fell to my knees.
“Jeez, what is that smell? Don’t tell me that’s you, Al.” He was standing right in front of me. I dove forward, wrapping my arms around his knees. He fell backward as I pushed hard with my legs, and my momentum carried us both off the stoop and onto the wet rocky ground. He tried to kick free, but I tightened my grip, so he went into a roll, carrying us away from the cabin, down the slope toward the drop off to the ravine. We jounced over the rough ground, picking up speed as the incline grew steeper. As my luck had it, my legs reached the edge first and I kicked frantically, trying to find a foothold in the empty air. I lost my grip at that point, sliding on my stomach, and I clawed at the dead grass and dried leaves and shards of clay, trying to find a handhold before I fell four hundred feet to the bottom of the ravine.
He grabbed my left wrist, but I kept going down, until his smiling face emerged over the edge.
I looked down between my dangling feet and saw a sea of white, churning rivulets of mist weaving between the glistening brown trunks of the pine trees below.
I think I did break his nose: it looked swollen, and blood covered the lower half of his face. Red rings had already formed beneath both eyes. Other than that, he looked no different, just the same ol’ Mike Arnold smiling down at me with blood-covered teeth, smacking gum.
“Al Kropp, you know the story about the bad penny? What happened to your face, man?”
“Pull me up,” I gasped.
“Why would I do that, Al?”
It was a good question.
“I’m not going to hurt you . . .” I said.
He laughed and I saw the tan piece of well-gnawed gum roll over his tongue.
“Naw, why would you want to do that?”
“I just need the Vessel,” I said. “Give me the Vessel and I promise—”
“You promise? Oh. You promise. Make a pinkie swear and then I’ll pull you up.”
I reached over to my left side and pulled the black sword from my belt.
“Oh, what’s this?” he sneered. “Huh? Whatcha gonna do with that, Al? Cut off my hand?” He laughed. “Drop it and maybe I’ll pull you up.”
He was right. What was I thinking? His hand was my lifeline—it was suicide to even think about it.
Mike’s smile faded when a loud voice boomed out behind him.
“Michael Arnold! Stand up slowly with your hands in the air or I will blow a hole in you the size of Nebraska!”
Op Nine. Mike recovered from the shock quickly. He smiled at me. “Well, you heard the man, Al. I got no choice.”
He started to let go. I screamed Op Nine’s name and at that moment something thin and black rose over Mike’s head . . . then came whistling down. His whole body jerked, his fingers went limp, and as I slipped free another hand shot over the edge and caught me. A shining bald forehead appeared first, then a smiling baby-face.
“Hello, Alfred,” Mr. Needlemier said.
PART FOUR
The Fall of Alfred Kropp
49
We laid Mike on the sofa in the cabin’s main room.
“I heard the commotion and followed the noise,” Mr. Needlemier explained. His face was flushed by the all the excitement or exertion—or maybe both. He had used the tire iron from the Lexus to take Mike out. “I suppose the fog helped cover my approach and of course he was distracted by Samuel here—but I didn’t kill him, did I?”
“No,” Op Nine said. “He lives.”
“Not for much longer,” I growled, and I shouted into Mike’s face, “Where is it, Mike? Where’s the Vessel?”
“Alfred,” Op Nine said softly. “He can’t hear you.”
We searched the cabin for two hours, from the rafters to the floorboards. We checked the crawlspace and under the porch. We walked the grounds, looking for any signs of digging. I had gone through the bedroom twice before realizing I forgot to look under the bed.
I didn’t find the Vessel under there, but I did find a laptop computer. An IBM ThinkPad. I carried it into the main room, set it down on the coffee table, and booted it up.
“What is this?” Op Nine asked.
“It’s an OIPEP computer,” I said. “Maybe after he was fired, Mike stole it like he stole the Seal, but I don’t think so. I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”
“OIPEP?” Mr. Needlemier asked. He looked like somebody trapped in a nightmare. I knew the feeling. “What is an OIPEP?”
“Good people who sometimes have to do bad things,” I muttered.
It seemed to take forever for the screen to pop up, and my stomach did a slow roll when it did.
Op Nine and Mr. Needlemier crowded over my shoulder, and the three of us stared at the screen.
Integrated Security
Interface System
[ISIS]
User Warning: Use of this Interface is restricted to Company personnel with Security Clearances of A-17 or above.
Any unauthorized access of this System will result in immediate termination and forfeiture of all rights and privileges granted to personnel under Section 1.256 of the OIPEP Charter.
For Security Protocols related to use of ISIS, see Section 4 of the Charter.
User Login:
Password:
“ ‘Isis,’ ” Mr. Needlemier breathed.
Mike still lay out cold on the sofa beside us. I pushed Mr. Needlemier out of the way and jabbed Mike’s shoulder.
“Mike! Wake up!”
“That won’t be necessary,” Op Nine said softly. His long fingers raced over the keys.
I stared at him. “You remember?”
He smiled grimly. “A Superseding Protocol Agent has access to all user accounts.”
I peered over his shoulder as he pulled up Mike’s e-mails. Nobody said anything as he clicked them open, one by one.
“What’s ‘Sub-Sub-Sec Op Utopia’?” I asked.
“ ‘Sec Op’ stands for ‘Secret O
peration,’ Alfred. A Sub-Sub-Sec is an operation of the highest secrecy—director’s eyes only.”
“And Utopia?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
Mr. Needlemier spoke up. His voice was shrill with excitement. “I have! A utopia is a perfect society!”
Op Nine stared at him without expression.
“Well,” Mr. Needlemier said. “It is.”
“This is very curious,” Op Nine said. “The Charter mandates that Section Nine operatives be briefed on all sub-sub-sec ops.”
“Aquarius,” I said. “I’ve seen that name before, on your computer.”
“Aquarius,” Op Nine said, “is François Merryweather, the director of OIPEP.”
“That does it,” I said. I grabbed the 3XD out of Op Nine’s hand and jammed it under Mike’s chin.
“Mike!” I yelled. “You’ve got to the count of three!”
“Alfred,” Op Nine said. “If you do this, we may never solve this riddle.”
“You don’t remember,” I shot back. My voice was shaking pretty badly and tears stung in my eyes. “You don’t know everything he’s done. Not just to me, Op Nine—Samuel . . .” It felt weird, calling him Samuel after knowing him for so long as Op Nine. “But to everyone.”
“Killing him will not change that,” he answered.
“I don’t care about changing it,” I said. “I care about making him pay.”
“How he pays is not your decision.”
“Don’t bring up God or heaven to me, Nine. Don’t even go near there. I never saw much evidence of him before all this happened and I sure as hell haven’t seen any since it all happened.”
“Put down the weapon, Alfred,” Op Nine said.
“Not till I’ve put him away.”
Mike gave a loud moan and his eyelids fluttered. I poked his Adam’s apple with the muzzle of the gun.
“Wake up, Mike!”
He moaned again. I brought my face close to his.
“It’s over, Mike. We need the Seal and we need it now.”
“Bi . . .” he whispered. “Bi . . .”
“Bye?” Mr. Needlemier said.
“ ‘By’ what, Mike?” I asked. “What is it by?”
“Bite me,” he gasped.
“No thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll just shoot you.”
“Tell him we have her,” Op Nine said.
I looked at him. Who did we have?
“Tell him we have his mother.”
“You’re bluffing,” Mike said. “There’s no way.”
“Michael,” Op Nine said softly, coming to stand beside me so Mike could see him. “Michael, you know me. You know what I am. You know Section Nine.”
Mike’s eyes had gone wide.
“I don’t believe you,” Mike said.
“I shall tell her that. I’ll explain you didn’t believe us.”
“Shut up,” Mike shouted. “Just shut your pie-hole, Padre. I’m not giving up the Vessel.”
“The Great Seal has been lost,” Op Nine said. “What use is the Vessel to you now?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s the only thing that’s keeping Al here from blowing my head off.”
Op Nine smiled grimly. “Tell us, Mike, or I will give the order.”
He held out his hand toward me. I got it immediately, and handed him his cell phone.
“Well, Padre, I love my mom, don’t get me wrong, but I always thought my life might have turned out just a wee bit different if it hadn’t been for her. You know how it is, Al—we got no choice when it comes to parents, and some of them are woefully underqualified.”
“This is Nine,” Op Nine said into the cell phone. “I am authorizing Execution Code Delta-Alpha-Tango. Repeat: authorizing Execution Code Delta-Alpha-Tango.”
“Lemme talk to her,” Mike said.
Op Nine was pretending to listen to the nonexistent person on the other end of the line.
“Yes. Advise her that the Hyena refuses to cooperate.”
“Tell her self-preservation trumps familial loyalty!” Mike shouted. Then he said, “ ‘Hyena’? That’s my target name?”
“Very good,” Op Nine said into the phone. “Yes. Execute Delta-Alpha-Tango immediately.”
“Wait!” Mike yelped. “Okay! Stay the code!”
“Stay,” Op Nine said. The hand holding the phone dropped to his side. “Where is the Vessel, Mike?”
Mike took a deep shuddering breath. “I’m lying on it.”
I groaned. We hadn’t moved him to search. I grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him off the couch. He hit the floor with a “whoomf!” I yanked off the cushions and threw them across the room. There was a cavity right in the center covered by a hinged door. I pulled the door open and brought out the Vessel. A lot lighter than I thought it would be, it was very plain, no fancy designs or markings of any kind, made of brass or bronze, I guess, the metal hammered very thin.
Op Nine flipped the cell phone closed and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to me and held out his hand.
“I said it was hope that separated us from them,” he said to me gently. “But so does mercy, Alfred.”
“Okay,” I said. “But some things are unforgivable too.”
I handed him the 3XD.
“There,” Op Nine said in that same gentle voice. “You see, Alfred? He is here. You’ve just provided us with the evidence.”
50
“What now?” Mr. Needlemier asked.
“Now some answers,” Op Nine said. He pulled Mike from the floor and plopped him down on the sofa. “What is Operation Utopia?”
Mike started to smile, but the look in Op Nine’s eyes killed it.
“A very noble cause that a very stupid kid ruined,” he said after a pause.
“The Charter is explicit in regards to—”
“Oh, don’t quote the Charter to me, Padre,” Mike said. “This is bigger than the Charter.”
“Your termination was a hoax, wasn’t it?”
Mike looked away. Op Nine didn’t seem to care.
“What was the director’s intent, Michael?”
“In a word? World peace. Oops. That’s two words.”
“The director went outside the Charter, did he not? He arranged your phony termination, the extraction of the Great Seals from our Vaults . . . He wanted you to free the outcasts in order to—what?”
“You’re the SPA. Isn’t it as plain as the boils on Al’s face?”
“Blackmail? The director would use the fallen to enforce world peace?”
“It’s beautiful, doncha think?” Mike said. “Once we made our little demonstration in the desert, who’s gonna have the guts to challenge the Company’s new world order? No more petty dictators or rogue states mucking around with peace and security. Somebody breaks the rules, we break the Seal. Perfect. Or at least it was on paper. Of course, we never considered the Kropp factor.” He looked at me. “One day I’m gonna kill you, Al, swear to God.”
“OIPEP wants to take over the world?” I asked.
Op Nine shook his head. “Not OIPEP, Alfred. Merryweather. It seems our director has decided to throw the Charter out the window. We have been duped.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m getting used to it.” I turned to Mike. “So that’s why you tried to kill me? Merryweather knew about my blood and he was afraid it might be used to fight the demons?”
“Of course he knew,” Op Nine said. “It was contained in your dossier. After Mike ‘stole’ the Seals, I gave the order for Ashley to extract you. I did not know for certain, but I hoped your . . . gift might be useful in the 3XD. Therefore Merryweather needed Mike to extract you first.”
“In an extreme way,” I said. I started for the door.
Op Nine said, “Wait, Alfred.”
“We’re almost out of time,” I said. “We have only two hours to get to Florida.”
“I’m not sure that is entirely wise,” Op Nine said.
“We don’t have
a choice,” I shot back. “They’ll consume us if we don’t go.”
“But if we go, there is nothing to stop them from consuming us.”
“Well, that’s been the problem all along, hasn’t it?”
“Game’s over,” Mike said. “There’s no way out.”
“I might be able to help,” Mr. Needlemier said. “But nobody has bothered to tell me exactly what is going on with these Seals . . . and who this OIPEP is . . . and what these demons are . . . and . . . and et cetera . . .”
We ignored him.
“Look, Op Nine,” I said. “It’s just the two of us, and I was given a deadline in Chicago with the clear understanding that if I miss it, there’s gonna be hell to pay—literally. I guess I made what you call a deal with the devil—more like sixteen million of them—but it was either that or lose all hope and that’s about all that we have left.”
Mike laughed. “What about your health, Al? Oh. Never mind.”
“Where’s that tire iron?” I asked Mr. Needlemier.
“Alfred, you do not understand them as I do,” Op Nine said. “You cannot presume they operate in good faith.”
“No, I’m presuming they’re going to keep eating me until I’m used up. Not dead. I’m already dead. I’m the walking dead, Samuel—that’s the message of the maggots. It’s already too late for me, but maybe it’s not too late for the world.”
“Paimon will not risk returning to its prison. It will never surrender the Seal.”
I took a deep breath. “Why don’t we blow it up?”
He gave me a quizzical look.
“How much of my blood did you put in those bullets? It couldn’t be more than a drop or two. What if we . . . used more?”
“Alfred,” Op Nine said. “What you’re suggesting—”
“I think that’s a terrific idea,” Mike said. “Let’s blow Al up.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “If I can get close enough to Paimon . . . it might give you a few seconds.”
“Hey, Saint Alfred,” Mike said. “Where was the death wish at the ravine? You had the chance.”
