by Calvin Wolf
Chapter Six
1
“It’s magic, basically. Any technology that is sufficiently advanced will be seen, by those unfamiliar with it, as magic. Imagine the natives in the Caribbean seeing firearms used for the first time. Imagine someone in colonial Massachusetts being shown a radio. Or a frontiersman from the 1820s being shown a television. A Civil War soldier being given a laptop. One of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders being given a smartphone. Take one of our new holographic projectors back to Europe during World War I.”
A translucent three-dimensional image of a human body was created by the referenced display, with flashing and pulsing nanites flowing through bloodstreams and along nerves. Dense clusters resided in the brain and brain stem, with similar concentrations coating major organs. “This is MIST at early equilibrium,” professor King explained to his intrigued audience. “The human body is augmented to the peak of natural performance.”
The nanites increased in density, and a latticework began to appear on bones.
“At middle equilibrium, MIST is still programmed to protect the body. It reinforces bones, shuts off pain response, and takes over most nerve conduction. It also begins creating additional structures in the retina to allow for conscious focusing of sight. Our tests also indicated increased auditory sensitivity. Memory recall is tremendously enhanced. This stage was reached by all five of the initial subjects.”
Three-dimensional images of Hank Hummel, Carl Hummel, Hector Rodriguez, Adam Pastorius, and Boris Elkanovitch replaced the translucent body.
“Pastorius and Elkanovitch, as you know, were launched into orbit in the XCAV satellite. The MIST in the bodies of the Hummel brothers and Hector Rodriguez sought new hosts after the three men experienced unexpected and traumatic injuries. It was a brilliant plan! The flesh wounds made the MIST believe that death of the host was imminent, and so it departed using electromagnetic forces.”
“But not all the MIST left their bodies,” the president’s National Security Adviser protested. “Why not?”
“We don’t know. It may have been too deep in the bones, or it may have been programmed to generate the necessary magnetic repulsion to eject the rest of the nanites. Unfortunately, we still don’t have that data.”
A deputy director of the CIA requested information on approximately how much of MIST’s programming had occurred after King and Cuentz left the project. For the first time, the president himself spoke. Instantly, the camera pods focused on him. His face was angry.
“No files or hard data will be transmitted today,” the president vowed. “There are too many leaks for us to risk providing any technical information.” The wall full of talking heads began chattering animatedly, promising their complete loyalty and that of their respective staffs. However, the president refused to yield. “No files,” he declared.
Professor King and Dr. Cuentz, attempting to defuse the sudden tension, explained that a whole team of programmers remained at the laboratories in Laramie after their departure. “It is impossible for us to know what the final programming entailed,” Cuentz admitted. “And, given what happened not long ago, it may never be known at all.”
“Not quickly, anyway,” King continued. “If enough builder cells were captured, we might be able to piece it all together.”
2
The Diplomat watched the armored train through the satellite feed as it languished in the high desert, within sight of the Davis Mountains. Inside, busy as bees, technicians, scientists, and engineers were working on the remains of the satellite. Gnawing on a granola bar, replenishing his depleted energy, the former State Department employee felt despondent. Despite being impeccably well-connected, he did not have an insider on the train.
“We need inside the train,” she said over the phone. Her voice was colder with each call. Though she did not tell her consigliere everything, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Things were going sideways.
“I don’t have a man on the inside, and we’re not getting on by force,” he replied. “Their security is far too strong.”
“We can draw it away. Lure it away. Create a diversion.”
“Ma’am, Delta operators don’t get easily distracted. That’s probably why the president has them on the train.”
The former politician’s voice grew smug as she explained that she had not begun her movement without plenty of outside muscle. “Did you think I wouldn’t have a backup plan?” she oozed. “Fortunately for us, they’re geographically convenient. Had this all happened up North, I might have to re-plan.”
Shaking his head, the Diplomat felt his stomach lurch. This will really tatter my network. They won’t like this. They want a return to law and order, damn it. “You’re not talking about south of the border, are you?”
“Obviously. If my plan goes south, so will many of my allies. They have already bought real estate, made connections, and so forth. It was easy, really, to find some cheap muscle. The cartels are eager for a president who will criminalize drugs again and bring back the value of their products. Reduce the supply, increase the price. Econ 101, my friend.”
Alarmed, the Diplomat argued that violence should be avoided, especially when it would be wielded by those who lacked discipline. “Using a legion of machismo-obsessed cartel hitters would be bad. They would talk, and eventually it would come out who hired them. If you don’t keep the violence under wraps, you might not make it a full term in the White House before the proletariat tears down the gates.”
“I will cross that bridge when I come to it,” she snapped.
“But you’re burning bridges right now,” the Diplomat protested. “You’ve only got the backers you have because they think you can do things quietly and efficiently. If you reveal that you can’t do that, they will disappear. Some might even turn you in if they get cornered.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
3
The line of rushing, howling ambulances drew Ben’s attention away from his research. Instantly, his mind recalled the fact that three other MIST-infused individuals were still in the city. And who could draw a line of ambulances? My old friend, Adam Pastorius. Recalling their fierce battles, Ben stood up from the computer and steeled himself for another confrontation. Pastorius was insane, no doubt about it, and was probably causing lots of destruction for some reason or another.
He could be doing it for Allah, for Syria, for his daughter, or any other reason. Ben was only motivated by profits and power, which was far cleaner and simpler. He cared nothing for stopping destruction, but felt there was tremendous value in stopping his foe. At the very least, leaving Pastorius around would complicate things in the future.
“Musta been a plane crash or sumpin’!” a weathered man in oil field garb declared by the library’s checkout desk. “I seen about a hunnert ambulances!” Behind the desk, a middle-aged woman was praying with a rosary. Several mothers were shushing their kids in the library foyer, trying to distract them from the sight of ambulances tearing past on the elevated loop highway.
“Say, you got a company truck out there? A saw one with its lights on,” Ben said to the oil worker.
“Yeah, Concho. Was it a Concho truck? It’s a Silverado.” A microsecond later, Ben grasped the grizzled man’s shaggy hair and drove his cranium into the Formica countertop. People screamed and fled. Quickly, Ben searched the unconscious man’s pockets and fished out a set of Chevy keys. Ignoring people calling 9-1-1 on his behalf, he stormed through the library doors and used the key fob to locate the desired half-ton pickup.
Ignoring normal driving etiquette, he tore out of the library parking lot and made for the loop, sideswiping vehicles and driving over sidewalks and grass. Angry drivers honked and flipped him the bird, but he did not care. His nanites thrummed with energy, and he knew that he was a demigod among mere mortals. Let them honk and curse, for their lives mean little.
He did worry about
police officers, whose firearms might make his MIST try to flee its current host, but figured that they were not interested in a grand theft auto when the city’s entire ambulance corps was being scrambled. They are a bit busy at the moment. Well, unless the oil field worker died. How hard did I hit his head on that counter? Ben only worried about the police deciding to look for the Concho fleet truck, not the possibility of manslaughter. He was many times a murderer, going all the way back to his military days in Afghanistan. As the Soviet Army was withdrawing in 1989, the young lieutenant had surreptitiously done away with a troublesome senior officer. That first time, he had used a knife.
Ben accelerated onto the loop and followed the convoy of ambulances in the distance, their lights twinkling merrily. They exited en masse at Big Spring Street and turned north, driving underneath the loop’s overpass. Ben made great effort to catch up, even running a red light at the intersection. He dodged a lumbering tanker truck and bounced over the curb, cursing as warning lights lit up the dash. Still, the big Chevy did not stall, and he returned the gas pedal to the floor.
Up ahead, the ambulances were hanging a sharp right immediately past a well-manicured cemetery. Ben ran a second red light and was soon on their tail. Though there was the possibility that the last ambulance in the convoy would radio someone about the mysterious white pickup truck on its tail, Ben figured it unlikely. When there was a disaster afoot, extraneous details tended to be forgotten.
The ambulances were taking a dirt road shortcut through a large field, and Ben saw the convoy rapidly approach a middle class neighborhood. Already, a large number of light-barred vehicles was scattered about. Cops. Lots of cops. As the ambulances thundered out of the field and onto the blacktop, Ben hoped their dust would conceal him from the many police officers on scene.
Ambulances braked, and paramedics began leaping out from all doors, both cab and bay. Teams of men and women began organizing stretchers and backboards. Ben left his pickup running and climbed out. As uniformed people ran to and fro, he marched over to the first policeman he saw standing solo. The cop was a young man, probably less than thirty years old, and he stood roughly the same height as Ben’s current host. The youthful cop was entering data on a tablet computer, occasionally leaning into the open driver’s door of his cruiser to check things on his in-dash unit.
Ben sidled up behind the man and deftly slipped the officer’s expandable baton from his belt. As the man whirled around, his unaugmented reflexes no match for Ben’s MIST-aided nerve conduction velocity, he saw the baton swinging across his field of vision.
4
Roger Garfield listened to the plan as the stolen F-150 cruised down Highway 64 toward the small town of Cimarron. Returning to the site of the secret prison where they both had almost died seemed ludicrous at first, but the UW criminal justice professor certainly had a way with words. By the time they reached the halfway mark, the FBI agent was on board. He was going to become a mole.
“So, we go to where the conspiracy probably has a bunch of people, which is right in this neck of the woods. I hole us up in a barn or shed or abandoned house or something, and then I call the deputy director on your phone. I give a big rant about how you’re all traitors, and how I found out that you, special agent in charge Roger Garfield, was a traitor, too. I’ll make them think that you got recruited by someone for this whole shindig. Then, you turn the tables on me and cuff me. You call the deputy director for help, and he sends the goons we want.”
“And what do we do when they get to us?” Garfield asked nervously.
“An ambush, buddy. They’ll be sending a bunch of yesterday’s Home Guard rejects. We get the drop on ‘em, tie ‘em up, and start working up the chain. Their phones’ call logs will be their undoing.”
The pickup crested a rise and then descended into the small town of Cimarron, which was nestled in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Spotting an abandoned house, the professor vowed to make things look realistic. Before Garfield could protest, the truck was throttled over the dead front yard and scrunched, noisily, into the weathered porch. “Jesus! People will hear!” Garfield exclaimed.
“Quickly, then,” the burly prof said. The men exited the cab of the truck and staggered up onto the porch. The front door was unlocked, and they soon found themselves inside a den of musty yesteryear. After a bit of poking around, the duo determined that the home had been abandoned for at least five years. Garfield settled onto a threadbare couch with an old National Geographic while the professor made a call to the Denver office of the FBI deputy director.
“You’re one pathetic son of a bitch,” the professor said as soon as the call was answered. Impressive start, Garfield thought as he read about DNA recombination. He wondered how his wife and children were doing, and felt guilty for not contacting them yet.
“Yeah, I’ve got Garfield here. He’s another one of you fucking traitors. Bad-mouthing the president, all that. He wants to make profit off the MIST, says it should be regulated and sold to those who can ‘appreciate it,’ he says. I ought to put a bullet in him. I thought he was one of the good guys, but he’s just like you.” The professor’s rant continued, and Garfield began wondering where he might procure something to drink. I wish there was bottled water around here.
Quietly, Garfield got up off the couch and tiptoed into the decrepit kitchen as the Wyomingite in the living room continued his rant. Though the electricity had long been shut off, water still ran from the sink. After a streak of reddish-brown liquid spat from the faucet, Garfield turned the handle to off and firmly decided against trying the water. Moments later, as the FBI agent poked through the pantry for bottled water, the ranting in the other room ended.
“That went really well,” the professor said, his voice a bit hoarse from all the pontificating. “I got your corrupt boss all riled up. He vowed all sorts of fire and brimstone.”
“Jesus! Aren’t you worried that they’ll come for your family? You’ve got kids, man!”
“Don’t freak out, Rog. I’m a criminal justice professor, remember? The deputy director and his cronies will play this as quietly as possible, especially since they know I have his phone. They may have put out an APB, but they won’t name me by name. And after what happened a few months ago, I told my wife to take the family out of town in the event of another crisis. This shit usually happens in multiples, you know.”
Suitably impressed, Garfield agreed that his friend’s plan was acceptable. “So now what? When do we pull the switcheroo and put me on the phone?”
“We’ll wait at least a few hours. But we’ve got to make it look real for when the goons swoop in. Roger, I need you to hit me in the face.”
5
The police detective walked swiftly and silently, his feet shod in running shoes rather than the more traditional loafers. With the whole north side of the city losing its mind, the young man knew there was little chance that his absence from normal duty would be noticed. As he slunk up the walkway to the nondescript ranch-style house, enjoying the mature oaks that cut the sun’s August rays, he felt for a key in his windbreaker pocket. While some passers-by would question the wisdom of a windbreaker in the simmering heat, the detective knew that most drivers on the adjacent street were focused on rushing back to the office from lunch. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets, lest anyone notice the leather gloves.
He unlocked the front door of the small house and rushed inside, his days as a college athlete flooding back to his muscles. Lithe and agile, he spun through room after room with pistol drawn, searching for his target. He had memorized the layout of the safehouse, about which nobody in his pay grade should have known. Someone had sent it to him, anonymously, from a one-time-use email address.
Damn. Not here.
As silently as he had arrived, the young detective departed. The house had been dark and still, likely unused for a week or more. A thick layer of dust had collec
ted on flat surfaces, and nothing had broken the cloying smell of industrial-grade cleaners. He wondered if his contact had been wrong about the doctor being taken here.
The cop slipped back into his unmarked Dodge Charger and turned the key. The engine cranked, but would not start. God damn it! Angrily, he pulled the handle near the accelerator pedal and popped the hood, preparing himself for a look at the engine. If he had to call for a department mechanic, he would have to come up with a story to explain why his duty vehicle was parked in front of a secret safehouse. Better take off the damned windbreaker.
He was in the middle of wrestling off the windbreaker when old detective Watterson ripped open the car door and fired twin barbs from a taser into his abdomen. Despite his athletic prowess and iron will, the young cop writhed helplessly from the unexpected voltage coursing through his core. Still, he managed to lash out with a well-muscled arm and grab Watterson’s button-down. An instant later, Watterson’s non-taser arm swung a happy slapper into the young man’s temple, and he saw stars.
“Fuck,” the corrupt detective croaked. Watterson hit him again, and unconsciousness turned out the lights.
Behind Watterson, the rear door of an old Toyota 4-Runner began to open. “Stay in the car!” the old lieutenant gasped, his heart pounding from the excitement and exertion. The door closed again as the internist decided that it was indeed unsafe on the street. Whoever had sent the young cop to assassinate the doctor was likely nearby, and Watterson prayed that the puppet-master wasn’t looking through the scope of a rifle.
Quickly, Watterson grabbed the unconscious detective under his armpits and pulled him out of the sedan, straining more heavily than he had in years. I’m gonna feel this tomorrow. Probably messed up my back. Ignoring his shrieking muscles and aching spine, he dragged his corrupt colleague across the blacktop and opened the back door of the Toyota. “Help me here,” he told the doctor, who obligingly grabbed the young cop’s lapels with both hands. Working together, they managed to heave their quarry onto the bench seat.
“I should’ve known they would try to kill me,” the doctor muttered as he used a syringe to ensure long-term sedation of the captured man. Up front, Watterson clambered into the driver’s seat and fired up the old SUV. As the grizzled detective had explained it, the 4-Runner was an unregistered gift from an acquaintance who owed him a favor. The anti-establishment acquaintance had outfitted his “bug out” vehicle with fake license plates and a cloned VIN, rendering it the perfect ride for eluding surveillance.
The ride was less than smooth, but Watterson did not plan on remaining in the city. There were plenty of places at the end of dusty county roads where he could find out everything the young assassin knew.
6
The nightmare had begun in Whitney’s driveway and grown to encompass her entire world. First, she had heard the gunshot from her respite in the master bedroom. Numb from crying, she had hoarsely yelled for Michael to grab Ava and come to her. Thankfully, the boy had moved quickly and not asked questions, rushing audibly through the house with his young sister in a protective embrace. “Want me to get Dad’s gun?” he asked, his voice serious and his eyes scared.
“No, just sit on the floor by the bed,” she replied, her heart racing. She knew that Hank kept his reserve deputy handgun in a special compartment in his nightstand. On shaky legs, she walked around to his side of the bed and accessed the compartment. Using skills she had learned from her mother, she checked the clip and clicked off the safety.
“Stay here. I’ll check it out. Call 9-1-1 on my phone and report the gunshot, okay?” Michael set Ava down on a floor-bound throw pillow and grabbed his mother’s cell phone. Whitney slipped her feet back into her sneakers and walked, shoelaces flopping, to the front door. Peering outside, she saw a semicircle of armed men in biohazard suits standing around the driver’s side of her Jeep. What the hell?
The men moved closer around a prone body, which lay on the concrete in civilian clothes. Suddenly, like a cat, an arm lashed out and swept a CBW-suited man off his feet. The man in civilian clothes sprang up and knocked an assault rifle from someone’s hands. There was yelling, flailing, and then shooting. “Michael, get down!” Whitney yelled. She ran back to the bedroom, praying that no stray bullets would enter her house.
In the bedroom, she closed and locked the door. “Cops are coming,” Michael said quickly, his voice filled with terror. “Here, the operator is still on the line.” Whitney took the phone and began explaining everything she had seen to a middle-aged woman. With the routine punctuation of three-round bursts outside, she struggled to make the 9-1-1 operator understand what was going on. It sounds crazy. She probably thinks that it’s some sort of drug deal gone bad and I’m out of my mind on drugs.
Putting the call on speaker, Whitney set the phone and pistol down and pulled her two children close to her. Whispering prayers, she hugged them and waited for the police to show up. She waited, and waited, and waited. The shooting stopped, voices could be heard, and shooting would start again. Emails, Facebook messages, and texts from her neighbors lit up her phone screen. The 9-1-1 call disconnected as other calls overwhelmed the system.
She heard someone enter the house and close the door behind him. Hank. Thank God. Footsteps approached the bedroom, and Whitney climbed to her feet. Instead of Hank unlocking the bedroom door with the key that rested atop the door frame, a booted foot kicked it in. Standing in the doorway was a man who was not Hank Hummel. As Michael gasped and clutched Ava, Whitney dove for the pistol on the carpet.
Though she moved fast, the man in the doorway moved faster. The blond city police officer kicked the gun away and grabbed Whitney’s upper arm with a powerful, thrumming hand. “Not today, ma’am,” he said jovially. “Violence is never the answer. Besides, bullets won’t do much to me now. I’ve got too much life inside of me!”
“What do you want?!” Whitney spat. Her mind reeled, and she began putting together the pieces.
“I need some bargaining chips, and you’ll get Hank to come straight to me. I’m putting together a nice little MIST monopoly, and competition is bad for business.”
7
“We’ve got an officer down!” someone yelled, and Lucifer saw without opening his eyes. He zoomed in on a distant police car, parked on the outside of the metal scrum of vehicles, and saw a group of uniformed men and women standing around a prone, shirtless body. Someone took that officer’s uniform. And did so quickly enough that nobody nearby even noticed. Like Flash Gordon. Or Ben. Ben!
Lucifer’s MIST went from neutral to howling in a microsecond. Nothing in the world was more evil than Ben, the Russian rogue who thought of nothing but profit. He must be stopped immediately.
Fortunately, none of the men in the sophisticated suits had considered the possibility that Lucifer’s consciousness could have remained in the original host. Although the .308 shell through his throat was easily lethal to a normal man, the MIST was strong enough to overcome the horrific wound. Within seconds, it had begun forming a lifesaving lattice. Seconds later, it had allowed him to fight back with superhuman strength.
He had lain low when the second team of men had arrived, and they had swiftly turned on each other out of confusion and fear. When the local authorities had begun arriving en masse, he had played possum once more, buying time to regain his strength. Someone did walk past me and into the house. Was it just a local cop checking on the Hummel residence? Lucifer cursed himself for his stupidity. The footsteps passing between him and the house had belonged to Ben.
I must still be weak. I should have felt him, detected him.
Lucifer used his extraordinary senses to detect the scene around his apparently-lifeless body. Paramedics, firefighters, and local law enforcement ran to and fro. Some of the dead and wounded had been removed, but others were still being inspected. Radios were squawking and people were yelling. Lucifer searched around, look
ing for a tool he could use.
There is an M4 under the Jeep. It clattered under there and none of the first responders have seen it. Opening his eyes, Lucifer rolled over and reached out an arm. His senses sang and blood pounded through his veins. He grabbed the rifle and pulled it out from underneath the SUV. He stood and checked the magazine, discovering plenty of ammunition.
“Sir! Drop the weapon!” Someone has noticed.
Lucifer began firing and weaving, carbine tucked firmly into his shoulder, scattering police officers in all directions. The rest of the world was moving in slow motion. Returned fire decimated the body panels and windows of the Jeep, but he avoided it deftly. Within seconds, a small army of local cops and deputies had taken cover behind their cruisers. Lucifer crouched behind the hood of the Jeep, plotting his next move.
Do not give them time to think. Right now, they are terrified and unknowing.
If Ben walked past me and into the house, without having to force the front door, he likely left that door unlocked behind him. I did not hear a lock click. Get to the door, and I can face my adversary.
Using up the last of his ammunition, Lucifer spun from behind the Jeep and raked fire across a line of idling cruisers. Glass flew and metal squealed. Before a return salvo could be made, he darted to the front door and ripped it open. Bullets slammed into the brick and wood as he slipped inside, the confines of the front porch protecting him from most of the gunfire. Still, he felt one bullet punch through his bicep and another slice through his thigh.
Dropping to a knee, he spun around and kicked the front door shut behind him. As it closed, he rocked back on his haunches and used a free hand to click home the deadbolt. A few more bullets scarred the porch, but then the shooting stopped. Somewhere high above, a helicopter approached, its rotors whuffing the hot summer air.
The house was quiet. Where is Ben? Where is Hank’s family?
A French bulldog emerged from a hallway and snarled at Lucifer, nails clicking on the stained concrete floor. Looking around, Lucifer saw that the back door of the house was slightly ajar. They left through the back. He stood and checked his rifle, discovering that he had no more bullets. Walking through the living room, he felt his upper arm and quadriceps burning and tingling as the MIST scaffolded and closed his wounds.
The dog ran to block his path, apparently protecting the kitchen. Lucifer reversed the rifle in his hands and prepared to bring the butt of the weapon down on the little critter’s head. Suddenly, the back door swung open and Hank Hummel stood in the doorway.
“Touch that dog and I’ll kill you,” the college instructor growled, his eyes glowing yellow in the dim kitchen. He held a pistol in his left hand.
8
The explosions tore through the University of Wyoming campus thirty-six minutes after the lunch rush died down at the student union. Two large trucks, carrying tarpaulin-covered equipment from the secret MIST labs, detonated simultaneously as they drove past the Human Capital Market building. A split second later, most of the third floor of the Engineering Building exploded in deafening fireballs. Immediately, the campus went into lockdown.
A call was sent from federal agents on the ground, who were overseeing the transfer of MIST equipment to Washington, to the private line of the president himself.
“False flag is a go, sir. The simulation was a success.”
“Any injuries?” the president asked, his voice anxious.
“No, sir. Trucks were being run on driverless mode. Buildings were all evacuated. Data going through HumCap had been routed to secondary servers in the bunkers as of twenty minutes ago.” The president could be heard breathing a sigh of relief.
None of the vital equipment had been destroyed, only generic things like vacuum pumps, fans, office computers, and random scientifica gleaned from the university’s other labs. To anyone who was part of the MIST conspiracy, however, it would appear that irreplaceable machinery and computers had gone up in flames. Hopefully, those men and women would blow their cover by placing frantic phone calls to their contacts.
“Make sure you have eyes and ears on all suspects. When someone slips off or acts funny, I want it reported. They’ll be trying to make those calls soon, no doubt about it. I’m in a fucking pickle because we haven’t been able to pick up any of the MIST hosts!” The nation’s chief executive sounded close to a nervous breakdown.
The call ended and the undercover agent slipped the phone back into her leather bag. Disguised as a university professor, she hurried through the halls of the Arts & Sciences Building with dusty tomes of Russian history tucked under the crook of her elbow. That particular building, due to its central location, allowed her to see most of the campus’ hustle and bustle when she was on the top floor.
Pausing at a window, she used her phone camera to record images of students and faculty streaming east on Prexy’s Pasture, headed off campus as the alarms blared. Campus cops directed the migration, yelling and pointing. Switching from camera mode to an app that appeared to represent a popular coffee chain, the faux professor began watching her own personnel moving about on a digital map.
None of the men and women on her team knew they were being tracked - such secrets were simply part of the game of working in field intel.
As expected, at least one dot was out of place. Valerie Vick, a thirtysomething former lawyer and interrogation whiz from Des Moines, was out of rotation and using her personal cell phone. Got one. She’s reporting in to someone, wondering what the hell those explosions were about. Ducking her head to her collar, the Russophile used her lapel mic to send a trio of large male door-busters to apprehend agent Vick. Then, she thought better of it.
“Negative on that arrest. Surveillance only. Once we cuff her, she’ll clam up. We’ve got limited time before the stolen MIST goes sideways, so we can’t risk having our first break in the case play the quiet game.”
“Roger that,” one of the door-busters replied, his voice like a lumberjack. While the professorial agent knew about the mysterious kidnapping of agent Roger Garfield, her immediate supervisor at the Denver office, that information had been withheld from anyone below her pay grade. Some agents had been dispatched to search the home of a renowned criminal justice professor, but that had also been kept hush-hush. It’s not good when there’s so many secrets, the agent thought to herself as she climbed down the stairs to the second floor. Things start to spin out of control.
9
The man in black purchased more dry ice in the small town of Balmorhea, but felt a sense of foreboding when he looked at the glass cylinders of MIST. Normally sedate, the nanoparticles were swirling faster than usual. Law of increasing entropy, he thought. This stuff can only be contained for so long.
He thought about calling his wife, and his burner phone instantly dialed her number. Considerately, as if knowing that he was far away in the driver’s seat, the device automatically set itself on speaker mode. “Hello?” she asked, her voice coy. He started the engine and dove into the recesses of his mind, searching for the words that would work. Months ago, he would have been curt and simplistic. Now, thanks to the technological marvel infusing his grey matter, he could even recall high school poetry.
“It’s me, angel. I’ve missed you, you know,” he soothed. He had not talked like that during the entire last year of their marriage. I was too harsh. I see that now. A woman needs connection, tenderness. He cruised slowly down the highway, the historic town halved on either side. Despite the fact that the entire United States government was searching for him, presumably with orders to shoot to kill, he was entirely focused on this maddening woman. I must win her back.
“They told me what you did,” she said. The man in black smiled as his wife asked him about the story of his noble heroism, which had been fed to her by the conspiracy’s silver-tongued spokespeople. They did come through on that. Probably even got her therapist on board. Lord knows they manag
ed to bribe everyone else.
Hanging an unexpected left, he drove toward Balmorhea Lake. There, where the conspiracy would not be expecting him, he could talk and plan. He knew that advance personnel had undoubtedly begun infiltrating Balmorhea State Park, setting traps for his arrival. “I just want out of the business, Mary. I want to be a family again.” Though he did not feel emotional, he made his voice anguished. His voice control was award-worthy.
“They said we could come visit you,” his ex-wife said. “Your daughter misses you.” My daughter. She never said it like that before.
He begged her to come see him. He promised that he was a changed man. As he parked the Charger next to the lake, the heat shimmering off the water’s still surface, he swore that it would be a changed world. A new world. “Things more amazing than you could possibly imagine are coming, Mary. I want you by my side for it.”
Mary agreed. “I love you,” he said. He meant it. Oh, how he meant it.
“I love you, too,” she said softly. “I’ll tell them to bring us to you.”
The man in black used the phone number he been given to call a number in New Mexico. From his Internet search, he had deduced that the number connected to someone in or around the town of Ruidoso. “This is Richard Warren,” he said, identifying himself. “I was told you would be expecting my call. I need some phone numbers.”
10
“Ben has your family,” Adam Pastorius said from the mouth of the state trooper. Hank Hummel could see a shimmering silver mesh holding together the man’s throat. There were multiple other discernable wounds. Someone shot the hell out of this guy. Hummel warily focused on Pastorius’ assault rifle.
“Where did he take them?” Hummel asked. He did not know else what to say. Angrily, his French bulldog barked and snapped at Pastorius, who was not Pastorius.
“I would like to know the same thing. He must be destroyed.”
A phone began ringing from somewhere in the house. Quick as lightning, Hummel aimed his pistol at Pastorius’ head and demanded that the man retreat to the couch. “Drop the gun and sit down.” Surprisingly, the world’s deadliest terrorist did exactly that, letting the M4 clatter to the concrete.
“As you wish, old friend.”
Hummel approached the sound of the phone, keeping the gun steadily aimed at the intruder’s head. I don’t know how much a head shot will do, but it doesn’t look like they’ve hit him there yet. It might be the magic key.
The ringing was coming from the bathroom. Hummel opened the door and saw his son bound and gagged on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes. Ignoring the psychopath on his couch, Hummel rushed to his son and removed the wadded t-shirt from the boy’s mouth. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here, Michael. I’m here. It’s okay.”
“He took Mom, and Ava,” Michael cried. “I tried to stop him. I’m sorry, Dad.” The boy was battered and bruised, likely from being callously thrown across a room by the MIST-augmented madman. The phone rang again, and it turned out that the device was in the breast pocket of Michael’s polo.
“He put my phone in there,” Michael moaned as his father grabbed it.
“This is Hank Hummel.” The caller was his wife’s number, but Hank had a horrible suspicion that it was not she who was calling.
“Hank, Hank, Hank,” said Boris Elkanovitch from another man’s body. “I’m glad I finally got ahold of you.”
“If you harm them, I will make you suffer,” Hummel promised, his voice vicious.
“I just want you, Hank. Once you come to me, to the right place, I’ll let them go. They mean nothing to me. I need you...and Hector Rodriguez. If you come alone, I’ll let little Ava go free. Bring Hec with you, and your wife gets to go free as well.”
“Where do I go?”
Hank’s phone suddenly announced the presence of a new call. Somehow, the malignant force known as Ben knew about it. “Let’s put that new call on three-way, shall we?”
Numb, aware of little but Adam Pastorius standing still behind him, Hummel answered the incoming call. It’s Whitney. He’s going to have Whitney talk to me. He felt a sudden bolt of emotion, fearing that she would be in tears.
“Hello, Hank,” a man said. The voice was vaguely familiar, as if he had heard it once before. Long ago, perhaps.
“Do I know you?” Hank asked. The outside world, which included a veritable army massing outside his house, ceased to exist. Everything seemed focused on this single phone call. “You sound familiar.”
“I tried to kill you once, several years ago. You had impressive moves for a teacher. I guess I always assumed that our paths would cross again, me needing to finish what I started and all that.”
“What do you want?” Hank snapped. His heart buzzed and hummed and his fingertips tingled. He could practically feel electricity sparking from them.
As Michael and Adam Pastorius watched silently, almost like extras in a play, Hummel received directions. From somewhere nearby, for he could not have gotten far, Ben listened silently. After some instruction, the mystery man announced: “And, as for the other man listening in on this call, I would like to meet you as well. I feel that a summit of our kind would be mutually beneficial.”
“I know who you are,” Ben replied, his tone angry. “I made you what you are. You should have died on the pavement.”
“So you are too afraid to meet me?” the man asked, his voice weary and resigned. “I should have figured as much.”
Though the reverse psychology was crude, Hank knew that Ben would never be able to resist the challenge, whatever it was. He was not disappointed. Ben announced that he would go to Balmorhea. “We should talk,” the mysterious man urged. “Don’t call us,” Ben replied over the line. “We’ll call you.” With that, both callers hung up and Hank Hummel was left holding a lifeless phone.
