by L. T. Ryan
Two of the men in the escort group stayed in the room while the other four exited. The door clicked shut. Haeli figured they weren’t going far.
“Give me the key,” Benjamin said.
The younger of the two guards reached in the breast pocket of his fatigues and handed over a small silver handcuff key.
Haeli looked around the lab for something she could use as a weapon if the opportunity presented itself. There wasn’t much. A small fire extinguisher hung from brackets at the far side of the room. Not incredibly useful, but maybe she could work with it.
During her visual scan, one thing stood out. Not a weapon, something better. In the corner to her left was a metal ladder that disappeared into a two-foot by two-foot opening in the ceiling.
Blake, you glorious bastard, you were right.
Benjamin walked around Haeli and freed her wrists. She resisted the urge to rub the deep depressions. She wasn’t sure how much pleasure her supposed father would take in even the smallest acknowledgment of suffering.
“I’m sorry about the handcuffs, Haeli. It’s barbaric, really. I told them they weren’t necessary. We’re all on the same team. Right?”
A cold callousness oozed from her father’s voice and demeanor. It was jolting. Not because it had changed, but because it hadn’t. She wondered how she could not have noticed it before. The dangers of trust.
“You can’t honestly believe that,” Haeli said.
“Haeli, what have I done? What have any of us done to aggrieve you in such a way?”
“I don’t know, let’s start with lying to me, handcuffing me, kidnapping me, and holding me at gunpoint.” She glared at the two silent men flanking her father, the H&K MP7s slung on each of their shoulders pointed in her general direction.
“Yes. But all that nasty stuff was for your own good. I told Levi that you were not a liability. You’re an incredible asset. For many reasons. Don’t be silly, girl. You’re safe now. You’re home.”
Haeli wanted to lash out. For the first time in her life, she wanted to hurt this man. To deliver the physical approximation of her own internal pain. But she knew it would be the wrong move. She needed to buy herself time. To see how it played out.
“Don’t pretend you care about me or my feelings,” Haeli said. “This is about preserving Techyon’s investment. About retrieving your precious super-soldier. What I don’t understand is why send someone to kill me? What, was Levi afraid someone would get ahold of his precious technology. Or was it just an ‘if I can’t have her, no one can’ kind of thing?”
Benjamin let out an awkward laugh. “Please, child. You think this is still about building the ultimate war fighter? No. It’s much, much bigger than that.” He pulled a stool from where it was tucked under one of the several floating work-counters. He motioned to an identical one, a few feet away. “Please, have a seat.”
“I’ll stand.” Her anger manifested as a throbbing in the muscles of her thighs, shoulders, and jaw.
“Suit yourself. If you read my notes, you’d already know the experiment was less successful than we had hoped. Don’t get me wrong, you’re an extremely capable, deadly operative. A great asset to any mission. But marginally better than those who rose to the top through, how should I say it, natural selection. But what we didn’t know in those early days, what we couldn’t have known, was just how resilient your body really is.”
“What does that mean?” Haeli’s impatience was becoming too strong to mask.
“Your cells, Haeli, I’m talking about your cells. We have been doing weekly analyses since you were born. Blood work, cheek swabs, hair samples, and, in the spirit of honesty, I will admit that we have harvested a few of your eggs.”
She changed her mind. She didn’t want to hurt him. She wanted to kill him with her bare hands.
“But we were looking at the wrong things. You would never lift a truck over your head or run fifty miles an hour or any of the things a comic book character might do, but you are superhuman. At the molecular level, your cells closely resemble those we might see from a teenager, not a thirty-four-year-old woman.”
Haeli let go of her anger for a moment while she tried to process what her father was implying. She worked up the nerve to say the words out loud. “I’m not aging?”
“I’m saying you’re aging at an incredibly slow rate. Your cells rejuvenate faster, mutate less. Wounds heal faster, muscles and bones remain stronger, even your skin has kept its elasticity. Surely you’ve noticed that?”
Haeli thought about it. She felt young. But she had no frame of reference to compare it to. A sudden and surprising sadness overtook her. She spoke without conscious intention. “Will I ever grow old?”
“You will. But there are still so many questions. We don’t know if the aging process will speed up. Or slow down. You could live two hundred years for all we know. Or your body could fail at eighty, despite the biological advantages. That’s one reason continuing with this research is so imperative. I told you, you’re special. You are the only one of your kind on this earth and your very existence changes the future of humanity.”
Haeli wasn’t sure how to absorb this new information. How to incorporate it and remain herself. She did what most people would do. She ignored it for the time being. A reckoning would inevitably come. At some point she would be forced to face the implications of its meaning if it were true. But that time was not now.
“So that’s what this is all about?” Haeli asked. “The fountain of youth? Then why is there someone trying to kill me everywhere I go. If I’m so important to the future of humanity, wouldn’t I be more useful to you alive?”
“Yes, infinitely more useful. But Levi didn’t take kindly to you going around marauding and pillaging or whatever you were doing, which I assumed was some kind of tantrum to get back at me. Using your unique skills to hurt innocent people crosses the line, even for Levi.”
“That’s a load of crap and you know it. He wanted me out of the picture. Maybe you know why, maybe you don’t, but he has a reason and whatever it is, it has nothing to do with protecting the innocent.”
“Maybe so, but I am the one who stood up for you, Haeli. I am the one who vouched for your character and convinced Levi to let me bring you back into the fold. And do not worry, he gave me complete assurances that you would not be harmed.”
“You’re not just a liar, you’re a fool. You’re no less of a pawn than I am. Do you really think vouching for my character made Levi Farr change his mind? Really?”
“I must admit, you may be right. He was a tad more amiable when I convinced him I’m on the verge of several major discoveries. Discoveries that will put the name Techyon in the history books for a hundred generations to come. I just had to convince him I needed more time.”
“And delivering me back to Levi somehow buys you more time?”
“Precisely. Look, Haeli, I’m not a well man. I hadn’t told you this because I didn’t want you to worry. But I have a rare genetic condition. My heart is failing. And there’s almost nothing I can do to stop it. I’ve tried, believe me, I’ve tried everything.”
“Almost nothing?”
“Ah. You always were keen at parsing language. One treatment, a stem cell therapy, appeared to be promising at first. The problem was that my stem cells are pre-programmed with the genetic abnormality. I realized what I needed were stem cells from a healthy individual. Only they would have to come from a close relative to be useful.”
“And I’m your only living relative.”
“You are.” Benjamin punctuated the statement with a pointed hand gesture.
“So not only can you repair your heart cells, but you—”
“—can ensure they’re pumping for many, many years to come. Now you’ve got it.”
Haeli inhaled loudly and rubbed her temples. “That’s why you set me up? To get my stem cells?”
“Understand what this will mean for my work, Haeli. I will usher in a new dawn of scientific discovery. I’l
l be able to witness the technological advances of the next century. Think of the continuity of work. Even the most brilliant minds lose their edge. Their bodies tire, their priorities change. Look at Einstein as he grew old. I will have the time to see it through.”
“You could have just asked,” Haeli said. She wasn’t defeated, not yet anyway, but the tone and tenor of her voice implied otherwise.
Benjamin’s mouth sagged and his eyes glistened. It was subtle, but it offered some hope that a few scraps of decency may have survived, buried deep within the desperate man.
“Well,” Benjamin said. “I’m asking now.”
“No,” Haeli said, matter-of-factly.
Benjamin’s frown disappeared as he scoffed. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. I will need to extract marrow from your femur. But I promise the procedure will be quick and painless. You’ll be sedated.”
“You are right about one thing,” Haeli said.
“Which is?” Benjamin yawned.
“You are a sick man.”
29
The dashboard clock read 9:29 PM. Blake bypassed the parking area and proceeded around to the tarmac side of the hangar building.
Henderson Executive Airport was eerily still. At ground level, the orderly patterns of red, blue, yellow, green, and white lights broke down into a jumble. Even in the sun's absence, heat rose off the blacktop. The lights shimmered and waved like paper luminaries floating along a quiet, inky river.
Blake left the truck in front of the door and let himself in. He hurried through the classroom, following the sound of voices to the maintenance hangar.
Despite his exuberant entrance, he was greeted only by the acerbic odor of petroleum and burnt metal.
“I’m here,” he declared. “Are we all set to go?”
All four men remained engrossed in their various tasks. Loading magazines, oiling parts, and whatever Griff was doing, sprawled out on the floor and peering through a tripod mounted sniper rifle. Not one of the four men looked up from their work, but at least Grant went out of his way enough to acknowledge him.
“About time.” Grant pulled a patch of cotton wadding through a disembodied pistol barrel, then held the barrel to the dangling fluorescent light fixture like it was a miniature telescope.
“Jump in, Mick,” Fezz said. “I’ve got a tach vest for you right here. As far as toys go, there’s plenty of stuff left to choose from.”
“I was thinking about what we talked about earlier.” Griff drew his legs up into a squat and then stood. “I know we’re all on board with the shock and awe approach, but we should be prepared to go in as quietly as possible. The longer we can avoid bringing the whole thing down on us, the better.” Despite being behind the other men and out of their line of sight, Griff shifted his eyes with unnecessary furtiveness, pinning them toward his teammates.
Blake got the message. He couldn’t agree more. The trick would be to fire as few rounds as possible without bringing attention to themselves. Small caliber subsonic ammunition. If they could get close enough, a knife would do the job even better. Blake didn’t relish the proposition. Close-quarter combat was messy and personal. The men who would inevitably stand in their way were doing their job. Following their own orders. He held no resentment toward them; and he’d had enough killing, period. But for Haeli, for his team, he would do anything necessary.
They don’t call it wet work for nothing.
“Here.” Fezz slid a Glock 17, suppressor already attached, across the stainless-steel bench.
Blake trapped the pistol with the tips of his fingers before it reached the edge. “You know me well, my friend.”
The Glock 17 was Blake’s go to sidearm and had been for years. All of them knew his preference just as sure as they knew his name. Except maybe Kook.
This was Blake’s first experience working with Grant. It would be imprudent to add a variable to the team at the last minute for a high-risk mission, especially one falling square within the modus operandi of multiple state and federal criminal penal code definitions. It took years to build the unbreakable trust that Blake, Fezz, Khat, and Griff enjoyed. But Grant’s impeccable reputation, Fezz and Khat’s unwavering endorsement, and sheer necessity made it digestible, if not palatable.
“Mine’s better,” Fezz bragged, displaying his own Glock 18 as if he’d invented it himself.
Visually, the Glock 18 was almost identical to the Glock 17, except for the addition of a turret selector switch, which allowed the pistol to switch to fully automatic mode. Fezz had added a small buttstock for better stabilization. With the stock, the thirty-three-round magazine, and the six-inch-long suppressor attached, the pistol looked more like the submachine gun it was.
Blake dove into the crated stockpile, coming up with a desert tan colored Kriss Vector SMG. He examined the receiver. Its etched markings verified that it was chambered for 9x19mm pistol cartridges. He counted the find as a minor victory.
The futuristic looking weapon was perfect for their purposes. At twelve hundred rounds per minute, the angry little machine could mow down an entire rugby team in less than a few seconds. To add to its general nastiness, the downward reciprocating bolt design virtually eliminated recoil, making it a breeze to tame the upward creep that accompanied compact automatic platforms.
He cradled the weapon in the crook of his left elbow and dug back in the crate with his right. He located a second Kriss and rested it against the other. Two more dives in the cache yielded two more identical weapons. The fifth, however, proved fruitless.
Blake approached Grant’s station and swept his forearm along the slick countertop. The meaty wiper blade moved the small horde of weapons Grant had compiled for himself. An eclectic assortment which included a Desert Eagle .50 caliber and a short-barreled 12-gauge shotgun with a pistol grip. Blake placed the Kriss Vector in the newly cleared space.
“Aw, come on,” Grant said.
The team understood Blake’s authority over the mission. It had always worked this way. The one with the most invested, the most passion for the cause, often took the lead. The willingness of his teammates to follow was shown not in words, but actions.
Grant was no different. Besides, Grant’s short-lived protest had already given way to fixation as he caressed the Kriss, his mouth moving as if whispering sweet nothings under his breath.
Blake was never a huge fan of guns. He saw them as a tool to master, as any tradesperson might. Grant was something else entirely. And, although Blake wasn’t sure how much of Grant’s eccentricity was schtick, he was sure his experiences had knocked a couple of screws loose.
“You are one unique individual, Kook,” Blake said.
“Thank you,” Grant said, with an unabashed grin.
Blake moved on to Khat and then to Griff. Fezz had already set himself up with the Glock 18, so Blake kept the last Kriss for himself. He gathered a handful of suppressors and dropped them onto the workbench between Fezz and Grant.
The Santa Claus routine had most likely spoken for itself, but Blake felt the urge to explain.
“The Kriss Vector 9mm SMG. Compact, quiet, vicious.” Blake paced along the opposite side of the bench as if he were a chemistry teacher. His four pupils, lab partners who grouped together to goof off. “But above all of that, one important distinction.”
“Glock magazines,” Grant said.
“Standard Glock magazines,” Blake said. “We carry one kind of ammunition. We carry identical magazines. Sidearms included. As many as we can hump. If any of us runs dry, well, nobody runs dry.”
Grant kicked the metal stool backward. The clang echoed off the corrugated roof. He slid the Kriss Vector toward Fezz. “Gotta grab something from my truck.”
Grant jogged across the hangar to the far wall, which was bare except for a three-buttoned control panel and the conduit that fed it. With a press of a button, the twenty-one-foot-tall hangar doors parted with a squeal. Grant released the button and picked up his jog toward the three-foot gap.
“Is he wearing flip flops?” Blake asked.
Grant’s choice in footwear stood out not from the setting, but from the rest of the ensemble. Half dressed, Grant wore desert camouflage cargos and kneepads, a drop holster strapped to one leg and a six-magazine pouch strapped to the other.
“Looks like it,” Griff said.
“I’m getting a sense of why you call him Kook,” Blake said.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Fezz replied, “the guy is solid. Smart as hell, too. And Kook doesn’t mean what you think it means. Not in this case, anyway. It’s a surfing thing.”
Blake provided the obligatory follow up. “A surfing thing?”
“We were in San Diego, and Kook had taken a couple hours to go off and surf. When he got back, he was all pissed off, going on and on about how these kooks kept getting in his way or something. I guess the term means a beginner or a wannabe. Apparently, there’s a hierarchy out there, an etiquette, and these so-called kooks just crap on it. Of course, after hearing that, we started calling him Kook. It got a rise out of him at first, but then it just stuck.”
The clopping of Grant’s flip flops preceded his return through the dark slot. He clutched an assault rifle as he ran, first to the controls, then back to the group. He placed the rifle on the bench.
“Modified Troy 9mm,” he said, catching his breath. “Full auto conversion, Glock mags.”
“That works,” Blake said. “Now let’s get moving.”
“Hold up,” Grant said. “I need the rundown of the place. You mind drawing me a quick sketch?”
“We’ve got better than that. Blueprints. Got a computer handy?”
“In the front office,” Grant said. “You get that cued up, I’m gonna load some big boys onto the truck. In case we run into an ambush on the way in or out. We may need to go loud.”
