Chapter 12
TWELVE
It was still sunny, but you wouldn’t know it down here. No guns, just the ceramknife because Reese was coming in from street level, getting onbase with the ID kept just for these visits. Signing the consent form, giving the same answers over and over again.
No headaches. No digestive problems. No dizziness. No bad dreams. No hives, trouble breathing. No, no, no. No degradation.
Different exam suite than last time. The tomboy nurse was nervous. Her pulse was up, and a serrated tang of fear rasped against his nose. What did they tell the medical personnel here? So far as Reese could figure, they thought it was allergy research. Which, he supposed, was incredibly ironic.
Heming probably knew something. He had to, looking at agent bloodwork. The big brains, the architects of this operation, were most likely far away in nice offices, looking down from their heights at the little chess pieces below.
Wait.
What was bothering him? That tickle of instinct again, one wrong note throwing everything out of tune.
“Go ahead and disrobe.” The tomboy had a cute snub nose and freckles, but the slight sheen of perspiration on her forehead was too much. Something wrong in her personal life, maybe.
Then why was he so damn uneasy? Maybe it was the fact that he had a coffee date after he finished here. He’d planned for this to take a while, but if they decided they wanted another MRI or something, he’d be late. Or miss it, and Holly would think...
Now there was a distraction. Just thinking about that delicious, indefinable smell would make things really interesting once he got into the paper onesie on the exam table.
The nurse left, closing the door with a soft snick, and he almost unbuckled his belt.
Stop.
He stepped close to the door, tested the handle.
Locked.
Never done that before. He cocked his head. Sealed door. No windows. Huh. A quick glance up showed him the ceiling wasn’t standard, either. A slight hiss as something exhaled from a grillwork vent, and his skin roughened all over.
Time to think fast.
The ceramknife in his boot was great for avoiding metal detectors, but it didn’t have a thin enough blade to jimmy the door. Fortunately, nobody really looked at a keyring, so you could have all sorts of interesting things jangling there.
Paper clip. Always keep a jumbo for emergencies.
A hot second to bend it, slide the wire into the small hole on one side of the doorhandle, and he paused only to yank the knife free of his boot before slipping through the door.
The hissing intensified behind him, and whatever the fog was, it irritated the hell out of his eyes.
Lock door on the way out, Reese. Quick exhale—he waited until he was down the featureless concrete hallway to inhale again, and the flimsy lock on the broom-closet door was no match for enhanced musculature.
The T-junction at the end of this hall was alive with the sound of movement. Someone was on their way, and he stepped inside the closet’s darkness, blinking his streaming eyes furiously. Damn. Am I blind?
The burning crested, and he almost knocked something over. Froze, the terror of a hunted animal bursting low in his belly, filling his mouth with chemical sourness. If the soldiers had been outside the door when the nurse exited, he might be bleeding out on the hall floor right now.
They came past pretty quietly, moving in standard bottle-it-up. They weren’t agents, which might have made him feel a little better if his eyes didn’t feel like they were being scooped out of his skull.
Just regular ol’ soldiers. Creak of gear, the brassy note of male adrenaline, the smell of discipline, canvas, and disinfectant.
He weighed his options just as the tearing pain in his eyes receded.
His fingers tingled, plus his toes. Some kind of nerve agent, maybe?
It hurt, goddammit, and he couldn’t wait to kill Hemings, that freckle-cheeked nurse, of whoever had given the go-ahead for this.
A slight sound—they’d tested the door to the exam room, found it locked. What precisely were their orders?
Analyze. Fast-acting gas—was it antiviral?
The tomboy nurse’s nervousness. The reception desk, where Donna the friendly was pale and fidgety, checking ID the way she hardly ever did—had the bored NCO on duty at the “secured” door hesitated for a moment before passing Reese through?
The itching from the tolerance jabs last time, lasting a little longer than it usually did. The extra blood draw.
The burning and tingling receded all at once. Sweat itched as it dried, sour with something inimical metabolized. He had the knife, keyring, wallet, and if he’d just been erased they were probably already at the apartment now, tossing it over and wrapping things up.
Whoever they sent to hit his residence would know more than these stupid soldiers. If he got out of here in time, he might be able to catch them at their work.
Bring the heartbeat down. Listen.
Five pulses outside the door. One of them was talking, muffled by something—probably a gas mask. A gossamer-fine tremor in the middle of his bones. Whatever they’d pumped into the room might have effects beyond the immediate.
Carefully, ready for the burning to return, he opened his eyes.
Sliver of light under the door, enough to give him something to work with.
Mop bucket, a forgotten raincoat smelling of fried food and human dung, shelves of cleaning supplies.
A hazmat cleaning station, with a bottle of eyewash he longed for, but the irritation had vanished.
The trembling receded too, as his brain clicked through alternatives.
The physical changes were great, yeah, but not the most useful. Everything before he woke up in the hospital bed with his head bandaged and the fever-sweat thick as grease was gray and dull, seen through a fog. Challenged, they’d called it. Developmentally disabled.
Stupe. Retard. Moron. All those nasty little words.
After the mystery flu, so sick he’d thought he was going to die, he heard different things.
Neuroplasticity. Cortical restructuring.
Off the charts. Waking weak and shaky, the entire world crystal clear in a way it never had been before, suddenly grasping connections in a way he never had.
Agent training, where it was drilled into you: it’s the virus, stupid.
Lose the microscopic invaders and you lost your edge.
Was the fog an antiviral? Probably not in aerosol, but still. Had they decided he couldn’t keep the little bastards?
First step was getting out of this hole, then getting offbase. He was already moving. One against five, and they were armed—but there was the jacket, a whole array of chemicals, his knife and the mop.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, very softly, and set to work.
* * *
It wasn’t a bad apartment, really. A nice view, even if that meant a chance of being trapped with nothing but glass between him and a six-story fall.
There was chrome, and stainless steel, and glass, and leather.
It was a stage set more than anything else, but it was his, and no matter how much they cautioned against getting attached to your hidey-hole, it was still where he slept and kept a few things that mattered.
So it was the first place they would send a cleanup team, and if they had already found the bodies he’d left behind at the base, more would be on the way to net him and back the cleaners up, too.
Why? Why are they after me now?
No time to worry. This was what he had trained for.
Now, he bolted down the hall. Everything depended on speed. They’d sent a three-man team to clear the apartment, but again, none of them were agents. The one watching the hall he’d taken silently from behind; now there were just two.
They’d been busy as beavers. Garbage bags, latex gloves, window open because something was smoldering in an ashtray. Probably a passport, but if they could find an item, he could afford to lose it.
There goes the security deposit. On his knees, sliding, hitting the first—a linebacker in a suit—with a crunch.
Real gorillas, these boys, but if they were doing this they were smart muscle.
Both of them would’ve had extra weight on him before the infection, more mass meant he had to apply more force, and he’d almost dislocated his shoulder during the little brawl in the hallway.
His eyes still smarted, his cheeks slicked with saltwater, and he could still smell the janitor’s jacket and the battlefield bowel reek as the last soldier in the hallway died hard.
A patriot ought to feel bad about killing his own.
Even a giant went down when a knee was taken out.
Splintering crack like greenwood, and the other reason Reese had hit the ground was for the .
38 under the glass-and-steel coffee table.
Gorilla One dropped like a head-tapped ox, and Reese’s aim was off.
The gun roared—just past noon and the complex was usually deserted, but someone might call the cops.
The way his day had been going, it was pretty damn likely.
It was a gutshot instead of a good clean kill, which meant he anticipated even more noise as he hauled himself up and took care of Gorilla One on the floor.
Gorilla Two was writhing in shock, sucking in air and trying to scream.
Still, Two had presence of mind enough to strike out wildly as Reese was on him.
He did not go gently, but the crack of a neck breaking and the foulness of loosened sphincters followed each other almost immediately.
Only three so far. A good thing, lucky as hell.
A glance at the watch told him he had less than ten minutes before he had to jump, probably more like seven. He already had a mental list of what to grab.
Keeping one for questioning had been an option, but he didn’t have time. Getting the hell out of Dodge was his best bet.
I’m not going to make my coffee date. Dammit.
Or so he thought until five minutes later, when he circled the parking garage below the building, pressing the unlock button on the key fob the lookout had been holding.
A nice black SUV lit up like a beacon, and as soon as the door opened he saw the files tucked under the driver’s seat.
Reese slid inside, closed and locked the doors, and decided he had thirty seconds to do some reading.
Two manila folders. There were no cameras down here; still, he glanced nervously over his shoulder before flipping through the first.
There he was, name and vitals, a good black-and-white of him clean-shaven and walking.
Another of him scruffy and slouching, looked like it was on the Krakow job.
Now that had been a balls-up, and he hadn’t thought anyone could catch him even with a telephoto.
Time to rethink his movement strategy between hides.
The second file...
Reese sat for a moment, his pulse leaping and thudding in his ears. His eyes welled with more hot water, but it was probably just leftovers flushed from whatever they’d pumped inside the sealed room.
Holly Rachel Candless.
Reese scanned each page precisely once, hoping he wasn’t losing cognitive function.
Name. Vitals. Marriage and divorce dates.
CV and medical précis—looked like she’d lost a lot of weight since her last checkup.
Huh. Bloodwork a little odd, but that was two years ago.
Maybe they hadn’t been able to pull her recents?
Goddamn them. He’d spent too much time talking to her, and someone with a telephoto lens had noticed.
Or there had been a wrong note in his psych eval, or something else.
It could be as simple as a random check on agents, easier to do inside the borders of the good old US of A with a camera on every damn corner.
The point was, he’d gotten too close and she was going to pay for it unless he reached her in time.
Unacceptable, Reese.
He came back to himself with his forehead resting against the steering wheel, an ache building in the very center of his skull. How long did he have, if whatever they’d dosed him with was killing the happy little buggers in his bloodstream?
Doesn’t matter. He tucked the files into his backpack. Black, heavy-duty and modified ever so slightly, it was now his lifeline. So long as he retained possession, he could be sure of not losing one of the few edges he had left.
Vanishing as soon as he left the SUV and the parking lot was his safest bet.
Deep cover and far away, keeping his head low, and finding a corner of the globe they didn’t care about was the smart thing to do.
He had wheels elsewhere, and there was probably a transponder in this piece of government-issued metal.
Reese jammed the key into ignition, twisted it hard.
He needed a few minutes to get the capsule out of his hip—passive beacon or not, they would soon begin scrambling serious resources to find him.
The faster he could find some place to ditch the tracker, disinfect the incision he’d have to make, and move on, the better.
Damn. What am I going to do?
As if he didn’t know.
Looked like he was going to make his coffee date after all. The only problem was, someone else might have met the lady first.