Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (15 page)

Mason saw his point, but couldn’t understand it fully. He assumed it would not be all candy and ice cream to be able to see the future
— to use the knowledge to make the world better — but how could any sane man turn away from such power? This fact added to his skepticism.

He asked Ultar, “Your present staff
— what are their capabilities and limitations? What, exactly, can we learn from these RVs of yours?”

“These fine viewers are of the second protocol. Highly trained. Skilled, their minds well-developed, psychic instruments. They see shapes, colors, sometimes even clear images and interpret them. Connecting what they see with what they have been assigned to see, we are able to translate that into useful information.”

Chief of Staff Edward Thurman turned away and went to the window where Mason had stood earlier. “Bunk!” he said. “I’ve heard enough. Pure bullshit.”

A knock came from the door, and Banks opened it slightly and looked out. When he turned back to the President, he said, “
Marine One
is ready and waiting, but we’ve got some bad weather coming in, Mr. President. The pilots are concerned that if we don’t get you on the way now, we’ll get socked in.”

Mason punched the power button on the television screen. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s get going.”

*  *  *

Sitting on the floor behind the counter in my hardware store, it took a while for me to gather my thoughts and mold them into a halfway functional form. When I checked my new Seiko, it still showed only a couple of minutes past eleven. Its hands were motionless, its crystal cracked and smoky. I’d been damn hard on watches lately.

If I rose only a couple of inches from behind my busted display counter, I could see a large clock in the print shop across the street. Occasionally, I checked it but time seemed to creep around the big clock’s dial. Finally, when it read a quarter till noon, I could take being alone in the store no longer. If I wasn’t insane now, I would soon drive myself crazy — with Harvey’s help. I had to get out and find some sort of distraction from the madness.

I tried calling Michelle again, but now the store’s phone was out, too
— no dial tone. I hoped she had already left for the restaurant. It was a little early for lunch, but getting away to see Michelle’s cheerful face was sure to be therapeutic.

I locked the cash register and grabbed my sport coat. At the cracked front door window, I set the hands on the closed sign for one p.m., and I hoped somehow the world around me would quit tumbling by then. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with all of the broken glass and windows right now. It would have to wait. I would call the glass shop in Summitview when I returned from lunch. I didn’t have any idea what my insurance company would say about the damage and couldn’t remember what my deductible was.

As I stepped outside and locked the door behind me, I noticed two men looking in my direction from across the street.

Harvey was as curious as I was.
What’re they looking at?

I tried to pay them no attention, but after all that had happened earlier, a chill shot through me. On the second glance, as I walked away, they still watched me. One threw his cigarette to the sidewalk and smashed it out with his toe. They both stepped from the curb and started toward me. I expected them to say something, I didn’t know what, but they didn’t utter a word.

Then, I considered the color of their suits.

Navy blue, Superman, like the woman’s.

Navy blue like the guy in the van — the dark-blue van. Like the car that had pulled away from the curb after Mike Wu ran out.
True blue
, I thought.
That means trust
.

Wake up! Get real. Where’d you get this conditioned response
?

I turned up the street and walked briskly, wondering about that
— a conditioned response. It was just something I’d been taught by my parents, grade school teachers — I didn’t know. Then I thought about the first two men who’d waylaid me. At least they hadn’t died — they just vaporized. But they wore no blue.

I looked back to see the two men jog around the corner, so I sped up. After a few feet, I checked over my shoulder. Now, they were running. Still they said nothing, only ran, so I sprinted all out but soon found I was obviously out of shape. I gasped with every breath I took. My legs were like concrete columns. The men were closing in on me. I didn’t dare look back as it would slow me down, but I could hear their footfalls.

I made it to the next corner in front of Prospector’s Bank and had another one of those shooting pains, and I staggered. I turned up Sluice Drive toward the police station. The pain worsened, and I finally had to stop and use one hand to steady myself against the limestone wall of the bank. Whatever was going on wasn’t normal. Two people had died this morning for no apparent reason. I’d driven two men away who had just simply vanished. The meeting with Mike Wu and the breaking glass was far too weird. Now two more men were chasing me, and most of these strangers and Mike wore the same color clothes. And these headaches. It was too
Twilight Zone
.

The pain diminished quickly, and I was about to resume my run when I realized I couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore. The way those guys were sprinting, they should’ve been within a few feet. I took the chance to look over my shoulder again, but saw no one on the street behind me.

Maybe it had been some sort of bizarre coincidence. Those men were trying to catch up to a friend or something. How crazy to think they were after me. When I was back at the store, my concussion must have somehow distorted my perception of Mike’s visit and a sonic disturbance had cracked my windows and broken my glasses and the display case. That was as good of an explanation as any — a lot to happen in this sort of coincidence and compounded by the earlier happenings of the morning, but it took me out of the
Twilight Zone
and back to an explainable realism.

Still panting, I chuckled to myself and bent over, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. For a while, I had been wondering if I might run smack into the extended belly of Alfred Hitchcock or the grim face of Rod Serling. After all, I had convinced myself I’d been plucked from reality and dropped into the middle of one of their films. I was being far too paranoid, and neither the concussion nor Harvey was helping.

Then came the scream. Several people from across the street ran toward the front of the bank. I cautiously walked in that direction. In spite of my breathlessness, when a man’s voice called out, “Get a doctor!” I trotted to the corner.

Careful, Superman, it could be a trap.

I slowed up at the intersection and edged to the corner of the bank. Carefully, I peeked around it.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. Just past the corner, two groups of a half dozen or more people had gathered about twenty feet apart. Someone lay in the middle of the closest group.

I shoved my way through the crowd. There before me was one of the men, the cigarette smoker, his body still, eyes parted slightly, lifeless. At the center of the other group was the second man. He also lay motionless.

It was too much to bear. Something terrible was happening, and I sat unwarily in the eye of it. For some reason people were dying because of me. Who else might die? Would others in the crowd drop dead if I didn’t get away from them? Would more people in blue chase me? Should I go to the police, a doctor, a priest? If I were to go to Michelle, would she also be in jeopardy?

I could think of nothing else to do but run.

And I ran aimlessly. Hiding behind trash dumpsters, in alleys, in corners and behind delivery trucks. But all along I felt I was being watched. When I came to the Gold Rush Memorial Park, I ran into it and finally collapsed under the protective boughs of an old blue spruce tree surrounded by spirea bushes.

Exhaustion and bewilderment took over. I curled into a fetal ball, as a montage of memories came to me in images like pictures on playing cards shuffling through my mind. My head ached again, this time a steady and throbbing stab that debilitated me. The card-like images tossed, fluttering in all directions inside my head. From around the neighborhood, came explosions of various magnitudes — the pops of streetlights to dynamite-like blasts of electrical power transformers. It would be absolutely crazy to think they were somehow related to my dilemma, but I was sure they were.

I soon passed out in pain and confusion.

Chapter 12

Major Jackson had been speaking with Sergeant Chambers at the fence when they were interrupted by odd popping noises. He frowned curiously at the distant sound of explosions. Something unusual was happening in Gold Rush. Was it hand grenades, gunfire or fireworks? He hoped whatever was taking place wouldn’t interfere with their mission.

When Lieutenant Carpenter called out frantically for Jax, he turned to see his young officer standing over Sunny who was sprawled on the ground.

Jax rushed from the fence line and knelt beside her. As he lifted her limp head and shoulders, Carpenter said, “She passed out, sir. Fell out of the DPV right here in front of me.”

“Sunny,” Major Jax said lightly, noting her skin was pale, almost blue. “Come on, Sunny, wake up.”

He shook her, but got no response, her eyes closed. He laid her down gently and felt for her pulse. It was rapid and weak. He carefully pealed back her eyelids. Relieved to see her pupils were responsive, he placed his hand on her forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy.

“Damn it,” Jax said. “Give me a canteen.” he instructed, and as soon as he did, he found one next to his hand. He poured a handful of water and splashed it on her face, then patted her with his wet palm. “She seems in shock — nearly comatose.” He nodded toward the back of the DPV. “Get me a thermal blanket.”

Jax lifted Sunny, took her to the passenger’s side of the vehicle, and sat down with her in his lap. The lieutenant shook out the thin reflective blanket and placed it over the both of them, camouflaged side up.

The major held Sunny — her legs up and head down to keep sufficient blood flow to her brain — and kept her warm, while the other two men watched the small camp’s perimeter. If Sunny was down for the count, their only hope to save Dan and the others would be an all-out blitz on the Biotronics Facility. But, right now, his concern was that she might be out for good.

*  *  *

From the corners of his eyes, Xiang watched Consul General Meng and drew close to the microphone on the control counter. Meng stood inside the control room door, his head bowed respectfully. He had seen the whole thing. Meng had witnessed Wu’s encounter with Subject 374, the ensuing glass shattering and finally the monitor blacking out. Of course, Meng had no idea of what was happening, that Xiang had lost control, did not have control even now, of their most promising subject — but then, why did it matter what Meng knew?

The first thing Xiang had noticed about Meng was that he was a fingernail chewer. The squat little man wore a navy blue suit
— some sort of expensive silk, probably — and his shoes seemed reptilian. Xiang had no idea of brands or styles, he did not care for those kinds of snotty amenities.

“Find him,” Xiang yelled into the mike. “Now!”

“Yes, sir,” Chief Dailey’s voice answered over the speaker. “It won’t be easy without the cameras. Power’s out at a number of locations — some of our radios aren’t working. Might be why we’ve lost contact with Yudin and Kozlov — the Russians we had tailing him. Hopefully, they still have him in sight. If they’ve lost him, though — ”

Xiang said lower, but still agitated, “No excuses! The project itself is at stake. I want everyone on this. All available security, going door to door, looking under every rock. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Dailey said. “We’ll find him, sir. You can bet your life.”

“It will be your life, Dailey. No one seems to realize the ramifications. This matter has not been taken seriously. Tranquilize him if need be, but allowing his escape is unacceptable. I do not care who else dies, just get him, alive. You know, like in your westerns, dead or alive. Except, if you do not get him alive, you are the one who will be dead!”

Xiang turned back to the Consul General.

Meng’s eyes widened, his small mouth tight. He spoke his apologies anxiously to Xiang in Mandarin.

Xiang glared. “We speak English here. You are not inside your New York Consulate or at one of your big government parties in Beijing.”

“Very sorry, Doctor Xiang,” the rotund man said, his anxious bow of respect past the point of balance. He stumbled forward, his arms out, groping for stability, and Xiang caught him by the hand. The doctor’s large hand constricted around Meng’s meaty palm, Xiang’s half-inch-long manicured nails digging into the skin on the back of Meng’s hand.

Meng gave a reluctant and submissive smile, and his lips trembled. “So very good to meet you, Doctor Xiang.” He tried to shake hands with the doctor, but Xiang wouldn’t budge. Meng’s smile left briefly, returning to be even broader and more patronizing. “I have heard so much about you and your work. So very sorry if I have intruded upon--. ”

“Silence!” Xiang said, still holding Meng’s fat little hand. He began squeezing.

Meng’s eyes bugged. “Ah, Doctor Xiang,” he said trying to pull away from the doctor’s grasp. His face reddened. “You hurt Meng.”

Xiang kept the pressure, steadily increasing his grip when the intercom buzzed. It was Wu’s voice. “Doctor Xiang?”

“Yes, Wu. Go ahead,” Xiang said, still compressing harder. With concern for Wu but oblivious of the Consul, he asked, “How do you feel?”

Meng frowned. His mouth twisted, and his face contorted in pain.

Wu said, “I am recovered, sir. Please forgive me for my weakness. But there is news. Senator Avery Lawrence has had a heart attack. He is in serious condition.”

Xiang was puzzled. He frowned at the report.

“Also, we just received the call from Germany. Kyoto is dead.”

Xiang smiled. “Thank you, Wu.”

“Yes, Doctor,” his assistant returned, and the speaker went silent.

Even with the good news, Xiang did not let up. He could feel Meng’s hand bones through the thick layers of flesh, pressed them hard knuckle to knuckle. The veins obtruded on Meng’s temples.

The death of Japan’s Prime Minister Kyoto was no surprise, nor was that of Spanish President Garnica the week before. Xiang’s telepathic assassins had gotten within range of their targets, close enough for eye contact, and done their jobs well. But this news about the senator was perplexing. Senator Lawrence was to be Subject 374’s initial target, that was correct. However, the morning television interview the subject had watched was taped — months ago. And the purpose of its showing was to only familiarize the subject with the target. Yet the TV did explode unexpectedly. There had been an incredible amount of power released — unlike Xiang had seen before. But was it only a coincidence, a fluke? Still, he smiled when he realized what Lawrence’s disability meant, coincidental stroke of luck or not — now, Subject 374 could go on to his primary target, President Mason.

“Over such a long distance,” Xiang said aloud but to himself as he turned his glare to Meng, “and to a person without actual eye contact, how could that be?”

Tears came to Meng’s eyes, squeezed tight in agony. His voice eeked out, “Ple-ease, Doc-tor.”

Xiang clutched fully, his teeth set. More pressure still, constricting tighter. His thoughts were not on the Consul General. Subject 374, Robert Weller occupied his mind now. Perhaps Xiang had finally perfected his device to such degree that it surpassed all his hopes. If this was true, Subject 374 had somehow transcended space and time.

The cracking of Meng’s hand bones brought back Xiang’s thoughts. Finally snapping under the pressure, the sound, the feeling caused Xiang’s eyes to widen with pleasure. Meng shrieked. He moaned and whimpered under the torturous mashing, but the doctor would not let up until he felt the metacarpal and phalanx bones crush into fragments. He worked his strong fingers against Meng’s appendage, wringing it until blood streamed to the floor, and the Consul General’s hand seemed like a boneless fillet.

“Open your eyes, Meng!” Xiang said, his voice strong, but no longer containing anger. He released his grip slowly, could feel Meng’s pulse throbbing into the broken vessels, swelling the tissue, darkening his fleshy extremity into a solid red bruise.

Meng’s eyes fluttered, his face now pale in misery.

“Open them,” Xiang said somewhat softer, encouraging.

They opened, at first still grimacing in pain, but soon his face slackened, his look empty.

Direct eye contact made, Xiang entered Meng’s thoughts. He soothed the screaming receptors, calmed the throbbing nerves, banished the pain reporting to Meng’s brain. “You feel no pain?”

Meng’s lips moved slowly, without emotion. “No, Doctor Xiang.” He stared blankly into Xiang’s eyes.

“You will go to the nurse’s station. Have them bandage your hand. Tell them Doctor Xiang says you only need it dressed
— that it will be okay, and they are not to be concerned. Then go to the plane, find a comfortable place to sit, and wait. We will leave in the morning.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Meng said, and turned toward the doorway. As Xiang got up and opened the door for him, Meng held his own right arm by the wrist, fingers flopped over like those of an empty, bleeding glove.

“Thank you, Doctor Xiang,” Meng said smiling, his voice as natural and pleasant as if he were bidding hello’s at a Sunday social, and he stepped through into the hallway.

As the Consul General left, Xiang wiped the blood from his hand onto the shoulder and back of Meng’s silk coat.

The injured man stumbled away toward the nurse’s station, and Xiang watched with an air of satisfaction. Augmented by the wonderful report from Wu, his meeting with Meng had been nearly orgasmic. But Doctor Yumi’s appearance, stepping up slowly from the opposite direction, was a surprise.

At first Xiang found an unfamiliar feeling
— at least unfamiliar over the last fifty or more years. Shame. He felt as if he were the naughty little boy whose mama had just caught him setting fire to the cat. The feeling didn’t last long — after all, he never knew his mother — and it quickly turned to pride.

Yumi approached cautiously, awe on her face. She watched Meng, then gaped back at Xiang. “Doctor, what . . . ?”

Xiang held the door wider. “Please, come in, Yumi.” He felt his smile quiver as he gazed down into her lovely, frightened eyes, the limpid russet ponds. Through their visual connection, he entered for the first time a place he had kept sacred just for such an occasion — her thoughts — and he found an incredible fear. It pleased him greatly.

She stepped into the room, her countenance blank.

His smile became a grin. Perhaps the good turn of events and his adrenaline-surging meeting with Meng was cause to celebrate.

The intercom buzzed. It was Wu again. “Dr. Xiang, the Russians are dead. Subject 374 is loose!”

*  *  *

Over three hours had passed since Sunny had fallen unconscious. After holding her for more than an hour, her color had slowly come back, and Major Jax had gently wrapped her in the reflective Mylar blanket rated for Artic weather. In the low sixties now, it was still important to keep Sunny warm to help stave off shock. Soon the temperature would drop rapidly, and tonight there was to be a hard freeze.

Now, while Sunny dipped from motionless calm to the depths of REM sleep, Jax watched over her from the driver’s side of the DPV. Without taking his gaze from his best friend’s wife for longer than ten seconds at a time, he consulted their SatCom laptop computer. After bringing the laptop out of standby, a new message appeared without sender name or location trail. Again, it seemed to materialize from nowhere, from the ether. The message consisted of only six numbers followed by four words —
THE KEY — before sunset
. Any military man would recognize the numbers as 100-meter map grid coordinates. Jax did not know how, but he was sure the message came from his dead wife, Moonfeather. He briefly smiled, and in his thoughts he thanked his long departed companion.

Jax dreaded their next step. They would have to go in without Sunny and with guns blazing. They would use the grid coordinates to hunt down Robert Weller, snatch him and interrogate him on the run, while avoiding a heavily armed defending force. Then, they would attack the Biotronics facility with their helicopters, attempt to find and rescue Dan McMaster and as many hostages as they could. They would use their nonlethals as much as possible, but still inflict, and have inflicted upon them, heavy casualties
— likely including civilians. And if they were lucky, at least one of the choppers would make it out, rescuing a handful of the captive innocents at the cost of dozens of their rescue force. This was the scenario Jax feared would be the most to hope for.

Jax softly called out to Lieutenant Carpenter, and the young officer immediately returned to the major’s side.

“Yessir,” the lieutenant said, concern on his face.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to proceed without Mrs. McMaster. I want you to take her back. Chambers and I will keep watch here until you return. Come back with both DPVs, Senior Airmen Craig, Jagger and Chang, and bring the dynamic hologram illumination devices. Tell Gunny Sampson and the pilots we’ll go live thirty minutes after sunset. I’ll radio them instructions. Keep radio silence until then.”

The lieutenant only stared at him.

“I don’t know how we’re going to find him, but we have no other choice, Lieutenant.”

“I understand, sir.”