Dark Angel: The Eyes Only Dossier

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Seattle ca. A.D. 2020 A post-Pulse city crawling with cops on the take, crooks on the make, genetically engineered supersoldiers, and hundreds of thousands of plain folks just hanging on by a thread to the sputtering engine that was once the all-powerful American economy . . .*November 12, 2021: My name is Logan Cale—though whoever finds this material will undoubtedly know me better as Eyes Only. In the years after the Pulse struck, greed, corruption, and cruelty exploded on a scale I never before imagined possible. Something had to be done.I began working as an investigative journalist to expose the truth, but the truth brought a lot of enemies out of the woodwork. So I went undercover, and EYES ONLY was born. For years, with the help of a lot of good people, we’ve uncovered many wrongs and made them right. No matter what the dangers, this work needs to survive, and continue . . . especially some of the more explosive facts still need to be revealed. Facts concerning the Grand Coulee massacre, the secret government program known as The Phoenix Project, and the Conclave’s breeding program, to name but a few.Putting these documents together in one place poses a big risk—not just to the corrupt, but to the innocent as well. Yet the chance that these truths might remain unspoken is an even bigger risk.People may die, but the truth must live on.From the Trade Paperback edition.From the Inside FlapSeattle ca. A.D. 2020 A post-Pulse city crawling with cops on the take, crooks on the make, genetically engineered supersoldiers, and hundreds of thousands of plain folks just hanging on by a thread to the sputtering engine that was once the all-powerful American economy . . .November 12, 2021: My name is Logan Cale—though whoever finds this material will undoubtedly know me better as Eyes Only. In the years after the Pulse struck, greed, corruption, and cruelty exploded on a scale I never before imagined possible. Something had to be done.I began working as an investigative journalist to expose the truth, but the truth brought a lot of enemies out of the woodwork. So I went undercover, and EYES ONLY was born. For years, with the help of a lot of good people, we've uncovered many wrongs and made them right. No matter what the dangers, this work needs to survive, and continue . . . especially some of the more explosive facts still need to be revealed. Facts concerning the Grand Coulee massacre, the secret government program known as The Phoenix Project, and the Conclave's breeding program, to name but a few.Putting these documents together in one place poses a big risk—not just to the corrupt, but to the innocent as well. Yet the chance that these truths might remain unspoken is an even bigger risk.People may die, but the truth must live on.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.IMAGER IS EVERYTHINGSECTOR THREE,11:00 P.M.TUESDAY,MARCH 2,2021Like a relentless boxer, rain beat down on the city, firstjabbing with sharp needles, then smacking Seattle with hugefat drops that hit like haymakers, the barrage punctuated bythe ominous rumble of thunder and the eerie flash of lightning.An unmarked black car drew to a stop in a rat-infestedSector Three alley, the rain rattling the metal roof likemachine-gun fire. Two men in dark suits climbed out, to beinstantly drenched, though neither seemed to notice. Eachwore a radio earplug with a short microphone bent towardhis mouth.Sage Thompson--the man who'd emerged from the passenger'sside--was relieved that the headsets, at least,seemed to be waterproof. In their coat pockets, each mancarried one of the new portable thermal imagers that, justthis week, had become standard equipment. Thompson--barely six feet, almost skinny at 180 pounds--wondered ifwater-tightness was among the gizmo's various high-techbells and whistles.Water sluiced down the alley in a torrent that seemed toexpress the sky's anger, eventually bubbling over the edge ofa rusty grate maybe ten yards in front of them. Thompsonwas forced to jump the stream and his feet nearly slid outfrom under him as he landed and bumped into a triangle ofgarbage cans, sending them crashing into each other, creatinga din that rivaled the storm's, his hands flying wide tohelp maintain his balance. Then his hands dropped back tohis sides, the one holding his flashlight clanging off the imagerin his coat pocket, the other moving to make sure hispistol was still secure in its holster on his belt.The hefty man who'd been driving--Cal Hankins--shonehis flashlight in Thompson's face, huffed once, and easedaround a dumpster that looked like it hadn't been emptiedsince before the Pulse. Moving slowly ahead, their flashlightssweeping back and forth over the brick hulk in frontof them, the two men finally halted in front of what had oncebeen a mullioned window.The interior of the six-story brick building--an abandonedwarehouse, Thompson surmised--seemed a blackhole waiting to devour them without so much as a belch.Next to Thompson, his partner Hankins swept a flashlightthrough one of the broken panes, painting the rainy nightwith slow, even strokes. Darkness surrendered only briefglimpses of the huge first-floor room as it swallowed up thelight."You sure this is the right place?" Hankins asked gruffly.There was no fear in the man's voice--Thompson sensedonly that his partner didn't want his time wasted. At forty,bucket-headed Hankins--the senior partner of the duo--wore his blondish hair in a short brush cut that revealed onlya wisp or two of gray. His head rested squarely on his shoulders,without apparent benefit of a neck, and he stood nearlysix-three, weighing in (Thompson estimated) at over 230.But the man wasn't merely fat--there was enough gristleand muscle and bone in there to make Hankins formidable.Still, Thompson knew their boss--that nasty companyman, Ames White, a conscienceless yuppie prick if thereever was one--had been all over Hankins about his weightand rode the older guy mercilessly about it. Though he knewbetter than to ever say it out loud, Thompson consideredWhite the worst boss in his experience--which was sayingsomething.White was smart, no doubting that, but he had a sarcastictongue and a whiplash temper that Thompson had witnessedenough times to know he should keep his mouth shut and hishead low."This is the right place, all right," Thompson said, raisinghis voice over the battering rain. "Dispatch said the thermalimager team picked up a transgenic in the market inSector Four.""This is Sector Three.""Yeah--they followed him here before they lost him."Hankins shook his head in disgust. "Then why the fuckain't they lookin' for him, then? What makes us the clean-upcrew for their sorry asses?"These questions were rhetorical, Thompson knew, thoughthey did have answers, the same answer in fact: Ames White.And Hankins spent much of his time bitching aboutWhite, behind the boss's back, of course. But they bothknew it was only a matter of time before White found a wayto get rid of Hankins .... . . and then Thompson would have to break in a newpartner, possibly one even younger than himself. Then hewould be the old-timer. The thought made him cringe.Not exactly a kid at twenty-seven, Thompson was the antithesisof Hankins: the younger man seemed like a long-neckbottle standing next to the pop-top beer can that washis partner. Married to his college sweetheart, Melanie, andwith a new baby daughter, Thompson was the antithesis ofHankins in terms of home life, as well: the gristled bulldoghad been divorced twice and had three or four kids he neversaw and didn't really seem to give a damn about.