by Calvin Wolf
Chapter Nine
1
The Chevy Tahoe cruised slowly down the main street of Fort Davis, stopping in front of the historic saloon-turned-ice cream shoppe. Boris Elkanovitch exited the vehicle, fully aware that he was being watched through a plethora of sniper scopes. Pretending to be a gentleman, he walked to the rear door of the SUV and opened it for Whitney Hummel. She held little Ava in her arms, refusing to let go of her daughter.
Standing in the rain, the man known as Ben closed the door. “Before you try to take my head off, you might want to hear about how your paid lackey is planning to double-cross you,” he yelled. “I’m heading into this fine hotel in front of me, and I would like a nice midnight snack. And throw in some food for my guests, as well.” He ushered his prisoners forward, crossing the deserted street.
He approached the hotel doors and found them unlocked. He held the door open for Whitney, who walked inside with her toddler. When Ben followed, he found himself looking at a dozen heavily-armed mercenaries with guns raised. “Easy there, fellas. I just want to chat with your boss.” Most of the mercs seemed scared, but a few pairs of eyes were defiant. “Don’t try to be a hero,” Ben growled at them. “I’ve put more of your kind in the ground than you can even count.”
“And, even if you can get a shot off, I will exit my current body and take yours instead. I trust you’ve been briefed on that capability?” From the stunned looks, Ben realized that the men had not. They were just hired guns, ex-military men who had seen their brief careers in the Home Guard dashed by the recent political revolution. Hoping for a second chance. Aren’t we all?
“I want some food. What’s on the grill?” The head mercenary beckoned for his men to move back against the walls, revealing the way to the dining room of the hotel restaurant. “Ma’am?” Ben prodded Whitney Hummel forward once more, following her into the dining room. Sitting at a table in the center of the room, surrounded by more elite guards in suits, was the leader of the entire conspiracy.
“Boris Elkanovitch, at last we meet,” the woman said, her voice cold. “What do you have to offer me?”
“Your out-of-control assassin, for one. I know he’s double-crossing you. You think you can box him in, but you can’t. Only someone with my knowledge, skills, and abilities can do that. Oh, and I can get you everyone else on the dream team: Adam Pastorius, Hector Rodriguez, and the Hummel brothers. They’re all on their way here, drawn like moths to a flame.”
“My team is more than capable,” the woman replied. Ben sat down in an adjacent chair and stared her down. She blinked.
“Your desperate mercenaries? Those types always cut and run when bullets start flying. They’ve been loyal so far, but most will take prison over death any day. I’ve seen it in Russia and all over the Middle East. Especially Syria. And Hank Hummel is coming here for his wife and child, both of whom I am leaving in your care. That makes you a target. Now we are partners.”
Angrily, the old woman scowled at him, her brow furrowed. She crossed her arms. “You brought them here - you take them.”
“Sorry, but I can’t do that. I give you custody of them, meaning Hank Hummel will be upset with you if anything happens. Now you need me to help fend him off. Your assassin won’t do that, will he?”
“I’m right here,” Whitney Hummel snapped, having sat in a chair with Ava. “For the record, fuck you both.”
“She’s been a good sport so far, so give her and the girl some dinner,” Ben said. “Put them up in a nice room upstairs. Then, tell me all about this assassin with whom I will be dealing. You’ve got a new partner, and I need to know the franchise rules.” Two mercenaries arrived with trays of food, and Ben selected a plate of steak and shrimp.
2
The storm hit the train, forcing the first responders to retreat and the Delta operators to withdraw inside the cars. A regular Texas gullywasher drummed on the roof as scientists hunkered down and soldiers endlessly checked and rechecked their weapons. They had been warned that there might be additional attacks on the train, probably in the form of projectiles or attempted sabotage. The bodies of the mercenaries who had attacked the train, most of which had been removed by local authorities, had been tentatively identified as cartel hitters.
“Obviously, we’re sitting ducks now,” the Delta commander said over the train’s intercom. “We need to secure the existing MIST samples and come up with contingency plans to prevent them from falling into enemy hands.”
“We’ve got plenty of liquid nitrogen to freeze the hell out of it, but permanent destruction will require either intense heat or an EMP,” the lead scientist replied through his headset mic. “We don’t have either on the train because we were supposed to be heading east by now.” The Delta commander checked on his satellite tablet and discovered that the nearest facility with EMP capabilities was in northern Oklahoma. “We’ve got to improvise on-site,” the commander replied. “You guys are the best minds in the business, so I know you can make it happen.”
The scientific team took a quick inventory of the MIST samples gleaned from Silver Six and determined that there were enough builder cells to create a critical entity or two, assuming that someone could conglomerate all the samples together. “Fortunately, I don’t think anyone outside this train or the president’s teams near D.C. have that equipment,” the second-in-command engineer said as he walked through the tech cars. “If need be, we can have small teams try to escape the train with the MIST. Anyone here have evasive training, either on foot or in a vehicle?”
A small number of the scientists, engineers, doctors, and programmers were former military, with two having done SERE training in the Air Force and one via the Army. One computer programmer was an accomplished amateur rally driver, while an expert on Van der Waals forces was a former teenage and undergraduate street racer from Los Angeles. “Put me in a four-wheel-drive, and they won’t be able to stop me,” the rally driver said with confidence. One of the medical doctors had completed the Paris-Dakar rally, and a second was actually a former Nebraska state trooper with a number of high-speed pursuits under his belt.
“And if we have to evacuate the MIST without the help of Delta, who here can provide any sort of fighting cover?” Aside from the tech and med people with previous military experience, there were two members who had been law enforcement officers and a decent number of hunters and sport shooters. In moments, the lead scientist cobbled together small MIST evacuation teams that combined escape artists and decent shooters. Builder cells were split among four small teams, with slave cells spread among a larger number.
The accumulated technical data, which would not be separated out, would go with the best-prepared team of the rally driver, an Air Force SERE standout, an amateur pistol marksman, and a Golden Gloves boxer. Maps were pulled up on computer screens and bug-out routes were plotted on cell phones and tablets. A programmer brought up the armored train’s inventory, discovering that two rear cars held three half-ton pickup trucks apiece. A third car held two Humvees.
Within minutes, the Delta commander and the lead scientist met in the command car, determining that all vehicles would be made ready for the scientists to evacuate. “If trouble comes, we will provide as much cover as we can from this location. We will try to help you escape, but it is imperative that all seating remain for your team,” the Delta commander said. “All of you guys must make it out safely. If anyone must get captured, it better be us soldiers. Your knowledge of MIST is too sensitive.”
The Delta commander opened a small pill bottle and shook out a handful of white tablets. “This is cyanide. I would never tell anyone this, but it might be preferable to swallow this in the event of impending capture. It’s up to you, but you might consider giving one of these pills to each of the most important members of your team...just in case worse comes to worst.”
3
With a tremendous squelch and splash, the black, unmarked
Bell JetRanger helicopter landed in front of the Hampton Inn. As the rain poured down and spun off the whirring rotors, the copilot jumped out and opened the rear door for a woman and a girl. He pointed them into the rain, and the woman opened an umbrella. Seconds later, as she and the girl were still walking through puddles toward the parking lot, the helicopter took off again. The pilot, desperate to beat the brunt of the storm, could not afford to linger.
Adam Welsh watched his wife and daughter approach, hand-in-hand, through the rain. He smiled and held out his arms to them. Welcome back.
“Adam, it’s you,” his wife said breathlessly as she drew near. “You’re safe! Thank God!” Welsh smiled, happy that his employer’s false tales of lifesaving heroism had worked on his emotional ex. “And you’re really retired?”
“For good, my love,” he said. He had caught a glimpse of himself in a car windshield a moment earlier, and he knew he looked fantastic. Like a movie star. He beamed a smile at his daughter, who stood shyly under her mother’s umbrella. “Hello, Kristi,” he said. “I love you, angel.”
“Love you too, Daddy,” Kristi replied, finally looking him in the eyes.
“Let’s go inside the hotel, where it’s warm and dry,” Welsh said, holding out his hands. His wife and daughter each took a hand, and he guided them toward the glowing lights of the Hampton Inn. “We’ll have coffee and hot chocolate, okay?” The glass sliding doors hissed open to allow them entry, and they could smell rich, desserty wafting from inside. The brightly-lit lobby was deserted, and the trio walked to the coffee bar as soft music twinkled. Freshly-baked cookies were arranged on a plate, and the silver carafes were full of piping hot coffee and hot chocolate.
Welsh knew that the hotel night staff was composed of people loyal to his employer, and that this whole thing was intricately choreographed according to his specifications, all the way down to the lobby music. Smiling, he poured a mug of hot chocolate for his daughter. “And some coffee for my beloved,” he said, fixing a mug of coffee to his wife’s exact tastes. He poured a final mug for himself, and suggested they sit in the first floor lounge.
As his wife and daughter sipped their comforting beverages, his phone chimed.
We have done what you asked. Where is the MIST?
The last five cylinders of MIST were in a Styrofoam cooler hidden underneath a Ford minivan in the hotel parking lot. Welsh ignored the text, taking a calculated risk that his employer would not respond with force. They had been tracking his phone, obviously, which meant they knew he had stopped briefly at the fort. If I do not respond, it is easier for them to simply search the fort than to risk accosting me. The former will cost them no casualties, but the latter certainly will.
A family-friendly movie, one with sentimental significance, happened to be playing on the wall-mounted television in the lounge. Welsh found his wife and daughter curled up on the couch, sipping contentedly. “Remember this movie?” his wife asked. “We saw it in theaters.” The man in black replied that he remembered clearly, and that it was his favorite film. The lie was easy, trained.
“We could go anywhere,” he whispered as the lounge lights dimmed. As they all snuggled together, it felt like the good Christmases when Kristi was a baby. “Some place with pretty snows, maybe? Or Hawaii?”
Outside, thunder rumbled and the rain intensified. His phone binged again. Where is the MIST? Do you have it with you? Answer very carefully.
“Sweetie, turn off your phone,” cooed his wife. “You’re retired now. It’s our time now.” Smiling, he turned off his phone.
4
Lucifer arrived in Fort Davis and knew that things were all wrong. He could feel it in his bones. “Ben is here,” he said from the passenger seat. “I can sense him. Like a beacon.” Hank Hummel slowed the Jeep Cherokee and brought it to a stop next to the small town’s elementary school. As rain pounded and lightning crackled around them, Lucifer announced that it was time for the final acts of their lives. “In this town, there are the evil people trying to get their hands on the MIST. It is my task to stop them. It is why I was returned to earth.”
“Just help me bring back my wife and my daughter,” Hank Hummel said, his voice flat. “I can feel it now, too. I can’t explain it, just a sixth sense. Spider-sense, like from Spider Man.” Lucifer understood this reference, and nodded. “That is a decent summary, Mr. Hummel.”
“So, what do you recommend?” Hummel asked. “You are familiar with his tactics and strategies from your time in orbit, I take it.”
“If the conspiracy is here, then he has imbedded himself in it. Like a tick. Trying to go to him would be difficult, for he will anticipate that. It is better to make him come to us. We have to determine what he wants.” Lucifer thought for a while, tapping his fingers on the glove box.
“I sense something. MIST, but not inside a person. Hmm...the conspiracy is here to collect the MIST...from someone.” Lucifer snapped his fingers when his mind finished putting together the puzzle. “Our mystery man is not turning over the MIST. He is hiding it, using it for leverage. Smart, or at least he thinks so.”
Lucifer looked in the rearview mirror at the faint lights of the Fort Davis Historic Site behind them. As lightning sizzled behind the fort, he announced that the MIST was hidden there. “It’s in there, Hank. Not a lot, but a little. Ben may be coming to get it, and soon. But just in case he doesn’t know it’s there, you must make a phone call from inside the fort. They will trace the call and come running.”
Hank Hummel nodded and both men exited the Jeep. Hummel took the keys and stuck them into his jeans pocket, patting the opposite pocket to make sure his phone was in there. Without another word, he began hiking up the hill toward the fort. Within moments, he was soaked. Lucifer trailed behind, using his greater senses to search his surroundings.
Before the phone could be saturated by water, Hummel made a call to the last number that had called him. It was his wife’s number. Lucifer could tell from the man’s face, even through the rain, that he desperately hoped to hear his beloved’s voice. The call was answered, and Hummel began talking.
The two men reached the headquarters of the park and took shelter under the deep porches. Dim lamplights, on some sort of timer, illuminated most of the restored buildings in a quaint, Gilded Age scene. In the stormy night, it resembled a Charles Dickens tale more than an Army fort. “And now?” Hummel asked. He had kept his phone operational, and the device rested on a windowsill.
“Now we wait,” Lucifer replied.
Lightning flashed, blindingly close, and thunder boomed. It was enough to briefly overwhelm Lucifer’s heightened senses. A second later, when he recovered, he noticed that Hank Hummel had disappeared.
5
Whitney Hummel was in the hotel room when she heard someone in the hallway give the order to search the fort. “If there are any witnesses, make sure they are neutralized. No warnings.” She returned to the queen-sized bed and hugged Ava tight to her. She did not know what would happen, but she would protect her daughter until the end.
Someone unlocked the door to her room, and she watched as an old woman entered. Two guards in tactical gear tried to follow, but the woman waved them off. She reached inside her designer purse and pulled out a chrome pistol. “I’m fine, gentlemen,” she declared to her protectors.
Agreeably, the muscle-bound mercenaries waited in the hallway. After closing the door behind her, the woman held up Whitney’s cell phone. “Your husband has made it here to Fort Davis. We spoke on the phone. I sent a team out to kill him.”
“Go to hell. Your Army rejects aren’t killing Hank. If I were you, I would let me and my daughter go right now.”
The old woman laughed, and Whitney managed a wry smile. “I had to try,” the younger woman said. Ava, shy, buried her face in her mother’s chest and hid from the visitor. Smiling, the gun-wielding crone talked about how beautiful the little
girl was.
“Whitney, do you believe that little Ava is exceptional?” the old woman asked.
“Yes,” Whitney replied confidently.
“I’m glad. It’s so important for parents to truly believe in their children. Are you and Hank good parents?”
“We try to be.” Whitney’s brow furrowed.
“You want to give Ava the world, right? And Michael, too, of course.” To this, Whitney did not bother to reply. She only hugged her daughter tighter.
“Now we have the world to give to our children, Whitney. The MIST, which I’m sure your husband told you about, is the world. It’s magic, pure magic. They say that technology that is sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic. There are six adults who have successfully achieved MIST equilibrium, but their time is past. The children are the future - imagine what they could do if given MIST from an early age?”
“You want to put this stuff into children?” Whitney gasped, horrified.
“It can turn them into the best possible versions of what they could ever become. Taller, faster, stronger, smarter. Once we reprogram the MIST, we can even use it to create designer babies. Forget genetic engineering! We’ve skipped over that step. Using nanotechnology to adjust the phenotype is so much faster and more powerful. How much would people want that?”
Whitney was tempted. She imagined what a charmed life Ava would lead if given the gifts of physical perfection, a photographic memory, and tirelessness. For Hank, the MIST was a curse, something that separated him from society. But what if MIST was a part of society? What if Whitney was one of many who had it, and would not be alone?
You’re talking about a dystopian future society, where a social caste of designer babies grows up to control society. Is that what you want?
She was ambivalent.
“You know, Ava could be the first. The very first of a new generation of perfect leaders, guaranteed to enjoy the very best this world has to offer.” The old woman reached out her hand to touch Ava, the Whitney knocked the hand away. “Don’t touch her!” Whitney hissed, eyes hard and jaw clenched. The gun-wielding grandmother sighed and shook her head sadly.
“Hank is not coming back, Whitney. You need to realize this. You can join us and be part of tomorrow, or you can be buried with today. Ava would be invaluable to us, and so would you. There is so much left to learn about MIST. Some of my scientists think that the nanocells could even be altered to halt the aging process, perhaps even reverse it. Do you know what that means?”
“My daughter will not be your science experiment! Hank would not allow himself to be one, and I damned sure won’t let my daughter be a guinea pig in your laboratories!”
“Would you rather die? I’m all about usefulness, my dear, and I don’t have the time or resources to spare for prisoners who aren’t giving me something of value.”
“Yes,” Whitney replied after some thought. “I would rather die. Living with your sick and twisted cast of deplorables would be worse than death.”
“As you wish,” the old woman growled. She pointed the gun at Whitney and was prepared to fire when a radio squawked from her expensive purse. “We’ve got a situation at the Hampton Inn. Code red.”
6
Carl Hummel raced through the mountains in the rented Ford Explorer, getting his aunt’s money’s worth from the turbocharged engine. She had sprung for the sport model with the turbo and the all-wheel-drive, helping her nephew cut down on travel time despite the rain he encountered as far east as Pecos. While most speeding drivers would have spun off the road before leaving the foothills, Carl’s acute vision and reflexes allowed him to avoid the slickest spots on the asphalt, even in the darkness.
He raced into Fort Davis and his headlights swam over the historic fort, revealing the bizarre sight of lines of armed soldiers running across a field. This must be the place, Carl realized, braking and guiding the Explorer into a grove of trees off the side of the highway. He doused the lights and turned off the engine. I was down to a quarter of a tank anyway. Rain drummed his face and back, and thunder rumbled loudly.
Peering between the trees, his eyes adjusting to the night by turning his vision into something he had only seen with night vision goggles, Carl saw the soldiers spreading out and flowing through the many buildings of the fort, beams of illumination coming from handheld and rifle-mounted flashlights. They’re searching. For what? In a flash of lightning, he saw a man-shaped being race across the field toward the soldiers, darting from cover to cover.
Quickly, the running man reached the side of a building and toppled a soldier. A second later, the soldier’s rifle had been appropriated. As lightning flashed again, the shooting began. As Carl watched from a distance, the mystery man shot a nearby soldier and darted over to appropriate a second rifle. He then disappeared inside the nearby building as soldiers began returning fire.
Well, this is something to see! He felt disappointed that the soldiers were damaging the old fort. As lightning flashed, he saw the raking of automatic fire stitch lines of holes in historic barracks. Those soldiers might be good guys. I need a closer look.
Leaving the safety of the trees, Carl sprinted toward the fort. He had no weapon, and no body armor. After he paused for cover behind a twisted oak, he caught sight of the lone mystery man firing from the second story of an unrestored building. The soldiers, not anticipating his current location, were hit from behind. Two fell and did not get back up. Feeling confident that he was completely unnoticed, Carl ran again as the soldiers opened up on their attacker’s location.
Reaching the buildings of the fort, Carl ducked inside a restored hospital wing. He dropped to the floor and crawled to the nearest window. Though the rain was drumming on a metal roof, he could still clearly hear the sounds of warfare outside. In flashes of lightning, he could see dead bodies lying in the commons between rows of historic buildings. The mystery shooter was proving very effective.
Suddenly, Carl felt his nerves tingling. I am not alone. Someone else is here.
“Brother, am I glad to see you,” Hank Hummel announced as he entered the hospital wing from a side door. He had an assault rifle in each hand.
“Jesus, Hank! Are you the one who was shooting everyone?!”
“No, that’s Adam Pastorius. Long story. He wanted to bait those mercenaries into a trap; they’re part of the big conspiracy.” The brothers faced each other and, after a moment, awkwardly embraced.
“Glad you’re here,” Hank said. “I need your help, bro. I made a deal with the devil.” Carl promised that he was there until the bitter end. Seconds later, both men felt their nerves tingling. “Is that Pastorius coming?” Carl asked, checking his rifle. As a former shooting instructor, he was warming up his mind and remembering his drills.
Hearing more gunfire outside, Hank looked through the window and replied that Pastorius was shooting from the far north side of the fort. “Then why am I feeling this? Someone with MIST is coming,” Carl insisted.
“It’s Ben,” Hank realized.
7
The president took the data that Roger Garfield had sent from Colfax County and quickly found a federal judge to sign midnight arrest warrants. “I want them rounded up and charged with treason!” he yelled at the White House bullpen, where aides, advisers, and interns were scrambling. The train outside of Alpine was a sitting duck, and everyone was on edge. New locomotives were racing to the site from all directions, but it would be almost forty-five minutes until the first one arrived.
Garfield and his friend, a criminal justice professor from the University of Wyoming, had sent documents and e-mails revealing the scope and breadth of the MIST conspiracy. “We’ve got local law enforcement all across the west and southwest who are part of this,” the Director of Central Intelligence said into a phone as he emerged from the bullpen. “Send state police and military units to round them up.”
Eight FBI speci
al agents were also named, in addition to the one already identified on the UW campus. More warrants were quickly signed, with the detained agents to be interrogated immediately. “Freeze assets and bank accounts of everyone on the list,” the president told the head of the Secret Service, who typed in the necessary codes on his encrypted laptop. While many of those named by Garfield had already cleaned out their accounts and fled to the wild, the digital freeze caught scores unaware.
Five minutes after the Secret Service director froze the accounts of all those implicated on the captured phone’s hard drive, interns feverishly reading the phone’s e-mails realized that the vice president himself might be part of the conspiracy. “Bring him to me,” the president ordered. “But exercise extreme caution. Don’t let him make any phone calls or send out any sort of possible signal.” Yelling and confusion erupted from the bullpen, and someone announced that the hastily-assembled MIST research labs near D.C. had been sabotaged.
“We’ve had a series of explosions, sir!” a Marine major explained, a cell phone attached to each ear. The president immediately asked if the key scientists were okay, and in a few minutes was told by his National Security Adviser that the trio was alive. “All three are headed to the hospital and are pretty shaken up, but they’re alive. They were apparently arguing about literature in a courtyard when their lab exploded.”
“Other casualties?”
“Some deaths, lots of injuries, especially techs and guards,” the NSA responded. A political adviser informed the president that his opponents were going to argue that he was weak on public safety, and the president hit him on the shoulder with a stapler snatched from a nearby cubicle desk. “Not the time, Ron!” the aging chief yelled. “Not the damn time!” Ron retreated, massaging his shoulder.
“How are we on getting people into Fort Davis?” the president called out over the fray. A couple of generals in dress uniforms bounded over and reported that convoys were on their way. “Closest National Guard unit we’ve got is en route from Odessa, with backup from Midland joining in. We’ve drawn up units from Lubbock and El Paso, as well. Fort Hood is prepared for aerial transport as soon as the weather clears.”
An Air Force general announced that a strike force of loyal pilots could decimate the heart of the conspiracy if it could be tracked to individual buildings within the towns of Fort Davis and Alpine. “We can’t land in these conditions, but we can flatten any building they’re in, sir.”
“As soon as I’ve got people on the ground, I can get you that,” the commander-in-chief replied. “Have everything on standby. When I get you the info, I want shit moving!” The military men snapped off crisp salutes and hurried toward the exits, eager for action. One could be overhead suggesting that newer drone models could be massed for maximum effect on ground targets.
The president accepted a can of energy drink from an intern’s cart of refreshments and cracked it open. He had only taken the first sip when the call came in from the train that there was a new situation.
8
William Watterson was soaked to the bone and cursed his poor judgment. He had let the oath-violating doctor, who had sold out Hank Hummel to the bad guys, take his vehicle on to Fort Davis. To do what? To help Hank Hummel when he got there? Like that was gonna happen. What was I thinking?
Shivering, the detective lieutenant realized that he was actually at risk of contracting hypothermia. He remembered that there was a dive shop across the highway from the state park, and figured that it was probably free of mercenaries. Getting up off the ground, he hugged his wet blazer around his torso and began walking briskly toward the road. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and discovered that the rain had already rendered the device waterlogged. Fuck!
In minutes, he reached the road. Cold and tired, he did not bother trying to conceal his presence from the horde of gun-toting mercenaries who were undoubtedly still all over the Balmorhea State Park. Single-mindedly, he jogged across the road and across the empty parking lot of the dive shop. All of the shop’s lights were off, but its porch was deep and kept away the driving rain. Seconds after Watterson got out of the rain, a bolt of lightning blasted a tree only a quarter of a mile away. The thunder was deafening.
After regaining his bearings, the grizzled detective decided it was time to get inside the building. The front door was locked, but there were big windows. He shrugged out of his blazer and wrapped the thick fabric around his knuckles. With a cry of effort, he punched out the window. Reaching his hand through the hole, he unlocked the doorknob. He opened the door and went inside the establishment, relishing the warmer, drier air. If they’ve got a land-line phone, I can work with that.
Unable to turn on the lights, lest he alert the mercenaries down the road, Watterson had to inspect the interior of the dive shot during flashes of lightning. After one particular flash, he spied a rack of tourist-y shirts and hustled over to it. Using his sense of touch, he found a decent-fitting shirt and replaced his wet button-down with it. A second rack displayed swim trunks, which he used to replace his soaked slacks. In a few minutes, he went from being a dripping wet detective to a retiree tourist.
He stuck his gun in the waistband of his swim trunks and felt his way back to the front counter. When lightning flashed again, he saw a telephone at the far end of the counter. He went over to it and saw the little lights blinking on its surface. He picked up the receiver and listened for a dial tone. But who to call? Local cops? They might be in league with those goons down the road. State police?
Taking a calculated risk, Watterson fired up the desktop computer that was sitting next to the phone. He needed to find the right phone numbers. Slowly, the old machine booted up. Fortunately, it did not require a password, and Watterson was able to get to the operating system. He double-clicked on the Internet browser and prayed that the old dive shop was wired for it. After almost a minute, a Google homepage opened.
Watterson founded the number he wanted and was punching it into the phone’s keypad when he was hit with the bean bag round. Doubling over from the projectile punch, the old detective fell away from the phone. Seconds later, he was swarmed by black-clad mercenaries. “If it isn’t our friendly neighborhood cop,” one sneered, obviously remembering him from the 4-Runner. Roughly, Watterson was rolled over onto his stomach by gloved hands and felt his wrists being zip-tied behind his back.
I should’ve stayed in the damn car.
9
The Diplomat grabbed his bug-out bag and prepared to flee the cabin. The jig was up. His bank of computers told him that the feds were moving rapidly on the information gleaned from Colfax County, filing warrants and sending out APBs. While many of their listed suspects would not be caught quickly, having already gone underground, the Diplomat knew that some would be rounded up. And someone would talk. People always talked.
Frantically, the Diplomat went over the blueprint of the conspiracy in his mind, trying to decide how he should run. Could he remain in the country, perhaps in a rural cabin in Montana or Idaho? Should he go to Canada, just to be safer? Was it necessary to go overseas? The worst-case scenario, impending arrest, would likely prompt him to eat a bullet. Though the Diplomat was not a violent or aggressive man, his cabin was not unarmed. A pistol was hidden in a desk drawer, and there was a hunting rifle in a bedroom closet.
He would not suffer through the humiliation of a trial, or risk beatings and rapes in a maximum-security prison.
Most people in the conspiracy have no idea about the MIST. They were fed vague promises and operated mainly on good old right-wing hatred for the new president’s democratic socialism. They gave money and supplies, probably thinking they were funding some sort of militia. All they know are pseudonyms. Some more were fed promises of wealth, and others were promised position and title once the president’s administration crumbled. But how many actually knew about the MIST? How many? The Diplomat’s throat tightened as
he realized that he could never know who knew what.
Though all the information was supposed to flow through him, his gut told him that rules had inevitably been broken. People get eager, they get greedy, and they get sloppy. There really is no honor among thieves.
Moving as fast as he could, the Diplomat finished zipping up his duffel and pulled on his rain jacket. Rain still drummed on the roof and it was a bit of a walk between the cabin and the Chevy Suburban he had hidden in the woods. He buttoned up the jacket, jammed a baseball cap on his head, and grabbed the car keys from a nail by the front door. As he was unlocking the door, prepared to flee into the night, a call came over his emergency speakerphone.
“Leaving so soon? Let’s wait a minute, friend.” It was his employer, her voice condescending.
“I should have figured that you bugged this place and put in hidden cameras,” the Diplomat sighed. Part of his brain said to run, to ignore this old bitch and save his own skin, but part of his brain said to be cautious. He knew what she was capable of.
“That’s what you get when you accept a fully furnished cabin in the woods free of charge. Of course, that was before you knew what was going on. I’m surprised you didn’t sweep the place. Isn’t that Foreign Service Officer protocol 101? My people should have taught you better.”
“I’m done. The feds are on the move, and I’m not waiting for the agents from Albuquerque or Lubbock to scoop me up and throw me in a concrete hole.”
“Oh come on, they don’t have your name. You’re still anonymous. And you only get the reward if you stick through the risk.”
“There are too many people who are part of this thing. I should have known better. There more people there are, the more leaks there are.”
An ominous sentence crackled through the speaker. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Our club just got a lot more exclusive. Go back to your monitors, and you’ll see what I mean.”
10
“That’s not Adam Pastorius, or Ben. Not even close,” Carl said, squinting through the storm as two figures advanced toward each other across the fort’s enormous quad. There had been more shooting, and the remaining mercenaries had decided to flee the scene, escaping into the night. A younger blond man and a middle-aged bald man were now facing off, oblivious to the rain. Both pairs of eyes glowed yellow.
“They got new bodies,” Hank explained casually, as such a thing was commonplace. “The Silver Six satellite got de-orbited, and those two bodies were state troopers who opened it up. I guess the MIST can survive in outer space and retain someone’s consciousness even after their body dies.” Carl shook his head, unable to say anything. What a world we’re living in, he thought.
“Do we just let them kill each other?” Carl asked. Lightning flashed, and the two antagonists continued to advance on each other. Thunder boomed, but neither yellow-eyed killer flinched. “I don’t know if they can kill each other in the conventional sense,” Hank replied. “But it probably won’t hurt us if they do.”
Carl noticed the gooseflesh on his arms and felt the intense tingle of having the two MIST-infused foes, and his MIST-infused brother, so close. “If we can sense them, can’t they sense us? They’re just letting us hang out in here while they have a Wild West showdown?” Angrily, Hank insisted that he had no answers. He sounded fearful, and his fear made Carl scared as well.
Be brothers to each other, their Mom had once said, but neither man knew how.
10.5
Ben fired, relying on the advice of his original Soviet Army trainer to always strike first. The 9mm bullet, despite flying true, did not drop Adam Pastorius to the sodden ground. Instead, the Syrian began firing back. Apparently, his nemesis had acquired an arsenal while mowing down the horde of ex-Home Guardsmen. By Ben’s estimation, the Islamic terrorist had killed a full fifty percent of the wannabe commandos before the rest turned tail. Bodies in expensive black gear littered the fort from east to west, flashlights haphazardly illuminating the field and surrounding buildings with rays of jagged light.
Now shooting, Ben and his enemy darted and jagged, running toward each other. Some bullets missed, but others hit. Their pain sensors overridden by the MIST, neither combatant felt anything. Instantly, nanocells began healing torn flesh. Nanite-coated bones deflected bullets rather than being cracked or splintered by them. Adrenaline was augmented by MIST-released electrical impulses in muscles. In seconds, both men were out of ammunition and dropped their weapons. Snarling, Adam Pastorius launched himself at Ben, his face a rictus of hate.
Reacting faster than any normal man, Ben parried the first blows and struck back with a hammerfist. The hit landed squarely on Pastorius’ new face, but caused no damage. Sweeping a leg, the Syrian threw Ben off balance and the Russian’s new body dropped to one knee. Before he could rise, Ben’s lapels were seized and he was dragged to the grassy mud. The fight continued, with neither man tiring in the slightest.
There has to be an end to this, Ben thought as the two briefly separated and circled warily. Their battles in outer space, fought nanocell to nanocell in the sealed capsule of the satellite, had been epic. But I don’t think so.
Both men lunged at each other again, each intensely focused on finding a way to damage his opponent. Ben wondered if separating Pastorius’ head from his body might do the trick, and broke from the scuffle to run for a building with an axe or hatchet. If I can get my hands on that thing before he can, I can at least take off a limb.
Sprinting, Ben feigned fear and a desire to escape. As expected, Pastorius pursued. Ben bounded onto the porch of a restored carpenter’s shop, its interior revealed by flashes of lightning, and dove through a historic glass window. As Pastorius followed behind him, Ben spied a vintage axe and wrenched its blade free from the stump into which it had been plunged as a tour prop. Whipping around, he aimed the blade at throat level. Pastorius’ reflexes were fast, and he ducked backward. The blade cut only skin, causing no real damage.
The Dodge Charger police cruiser plowed through the brick-and-adobe wall at full speed, sending debris puffing into painful clouds. Its front windshield cracked as the blade of the axe hit it dead center. A millisecond later, the car flipped onto its side and crashed through the back wall of the carpenter’s shop as its left front tire struck an old-fashioned anvil. Headlights illuminated the ruins beyond through the pouring raindrops, and red flashers began blinking at its rear. The front end was crumpled in the middle, as if it had struck a sturdy pole.
Seconds later, the car rocked back onto all four tires with a loud clatter that was almost drowned out by thunder. The driver’s side door opened and Hector Rodriguez climbed out, his face covered in silver-tinged blood. “I hope the MIST heals this shit,” he winced. Gingerly, he popped an arm back into its socket.
He turned around and looked at the destroyed building behind him. Both Adam Pastorius and Boris Elkanovitch lay twitching on the ground.
