Authors: Walter Greatshell

Mad Skills (29 page)

BOOK: Mad Skills

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Then for the fun part. Maddy had once had a fondness for cooking shows—she loved the Food Network, particularly
Iron Chef
. For that day’s challenge, she had a few basic recipes:

Using the meth distillation plant and a few basic household supplies, she whipped up three concoctions: a nonlethal aerosol nerve agent, a stable plastic explosive, and a somewhat unstable rocket fuel. The latter two were based on a bleach derivative called sodium perchlorate, which reacted violently when combined with sucrose, so the final product—a six-foot-long missile made from a heating pipe and carrying an EMP warhead—was powered by a bottle of Aunt Jemima pancake syrup. It was launched out of a bathtub.

The last thing she needed to do was send out an invitation.

THIRTY

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

TWO doctors from the Institute were on hand for the raid. The task force commander, Senior Agent Bradley Cook, had agreed to take them along in case negotiations were necessary. They rode in a convoy of several cars and vans, a combined force representing both state and federal authority. Helicopters circled overhead. It was an impressive thing to see so much manpower working on their behalf. It couldn’t help but inspire humility.

“Oh my God,” said Dr. Plummer. “Poor Maddy.”

“I know, honey,” said Dr. Stevens. “But don’t worry, these guys know what they’re doing. They’re trained professionals—they won’t hurt her.” Dr. Stevens looked like she had a head cold, her eyes puffy and her nose packed with gauze.

Agent Cook said, “No one’s going to get hurt. You two did the absolute right thing in notifying us as soon as she contacted you. Miss Grant is a danger to herself and others, and the sooner we bring her in, the sooner she can get the help she needs.”

“But she told us to come alone,” Plummer said.

“Of course, sir, but who’s to say
she’s
alone? There is evidence she is hooked up with some organized group, perhaps criminals or terrorists. Plus, she may be hyped up on drugs, which would exacerbate her mental condition. The letter she sent you is proof of paranoid delusion, inventing that whole town and the conspiracy against her. She clearly blames both of you for all her troubles, so I wouldn’t go to any private meetings with her. Not unless you want to end up like those unfortunate folks in Bitterroot.”

They pulled up before a strip of identical, town-house-style duplexes, each with a small front yard and a satellite dish. Except for the run-down surrounding neighborhood, the buildings could have been mistaken for luxury condos. But this was government-subsidized, low-income housing—what the zoning laws referred to as Section 8. The residents were accustomed to disturbances at all hours of the day—stabbings and shootings and every variety of dope-fueled mayhem. The arrival of a fleet of armed commandos barely merited a glance out the curtain.

The ATF leader seemed to be having some sort of problem with his radio, fiddling with it and getting nothing but static. “Ten-one, Ten-one,” he said. “I’m getting some interference here—is anyone reading me?”

Sitting behind him in the command vehicle, the two doctors watched as a squad of sweating, Kevlar-plated ATF agents charged the door of Unit B-7. From years of cop shows, the couple knew what was coming next: doors battered down and stunned, half-naked perps dragged from their filthy dens into the light of day. Order restored.

But as the point man ran up the walk to the porch, he hit something—perhaps a transparent strand of fishing line. From everywhere at once came a sudden eruption of billowing whiteness: fountains of smoke shooting out of the sprinklers with a screaming rush like a hundred fireworks. The men disappeared in the thick, spreading clouds, which rolled toward the street and enveloped the nearest vehicles.

At the same time, there was a loud
whoosh
, and some kind of rocket streaked from the building’s skylight, exploding high overhead with a tremendous, reverberating
BAM
.

“Pull back, pull back!” someone shouted, and last thing the two doctors were able to see out the car windows was a roiling wall of smoke, bearing down fast.

“Put these on!” Agent Cook shouted, thrusting a pair of gas masks into the doctors’ hands. Trying to move the car, he found that the engine wouldn’t start. “Come on!” he said, pounding the steering wheel as the opaque fog settled over the windows like a cotton sheet. Visibility fell to zero, and all of a sudden Agent Cook slumped sideways in his seat, twitching.

“What’s going on?” Dr. Plummer cried, pressing the gas mask to his face.

“I don’t know,” Stevens said. “Just stay put so they can find us.”

Everything suddenly went very still. Only the vacant hiss of the car’s police scanner broke the muffled silence. As the heavy smoke parted, swirling, they could see other vehicles sitting like abandoned hulks, doors hanging open and men sprawled on the ground. There was no sign of life. Even the helicopters were gone.

Then: A strange, two-humped shape appeared, looming out of the low murk. Gliding just above the ground like a weird sea creature, a floating nautilus, it made its way down the line of police vehicles with careful deliberation, as though peering into each one. As it drew near, they could hear the rumble of its engine.

It was a motorcycle. A sleek, hornet yellow racing machine with two helmeted riders. The rear passenger was aiming something like a camera into each car they passed, and as the motorcycle drew up alongside, the doctors found themselves in the thing’s sights.

The device lowered; the rider got off the bike and peered into the car. She tipped up her mirrored visor so they could see her face.

“Omigod! Chandra, it’s her! It’s Maddy!”

Alan Plummer jumped from the car, frantically jabbing the button on his wave emitter. It seemed to have no effect. In the excitement, he neglected his gas mask and fell unconscious at Maddy’s feet.

“Whoops,” Maddy said. Her voice was muffled from the helmet. “Don’t worry, it’s temporary.”

She got into the car next to Dr. Stevens. “Hi, Doc.”

Chandra Stevens looked at her unflinchingly, mask to mask. “Hello, Maddy. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” she said. “It’s been a weird couple of weeks. I only have a minute, but I thought we should talk.”

“All right.”

“I just found out everybody I know in Denton has been taken into protective custody. That’s not the weird part.” She tossed a sheaf of printed-out photos on the doctor’s lap. “I don’t think Beth and Roger Grant are even the real Beth and Roger Grant. They look sort of the same, but not that much. You know what I think? I think these people started impersonating the Grants about fourteen years ago. Right around the same time you adopted me and gave me to them.”

“Maddy, that’s absurd—”

“Stop. I found the records. I know you think you’re playing some kind of mind game, but believe me, you want to start telling me the truth.”

“Maddy … I’ve already told you the truth. It’s your own mind that is playing games. By this point you’ve discovered that for yourself; you just refuse to accept it. Stay with us, and we’ll do everything we can to help you. It’s not too late.”

“Bull. That’s total bullcrap. Here’s the thing: If you don’t tell me the truth, and immediately expose to the world everything that’s going on at Braintree and Harmony, then I am going to be forced to deal with it myself. I have nothing to lose anymore.”

Several other motorcycles pulled up. The riders were women—very alarming women. They were road warriors, dressed for medieval combat in studded boots, chain mail, and spiked leathers. Their helmets had been converted to some kind of improvised breathing apparatus that made them look like giant hornets. They were members of a biker club: On the backs of their leather jackets were red she-devils and the letters FPKK.

Dr. Stevens said, “What do you think you’re going to do? Who are these people? What do they want from you?”

“Just some ladies I met on the road. It’s a motorcycle gang. This one is Locust.”

“Yo,” said Locust huskily.

“Dear God, Maddy. And I suppose
they
believe you, is that it?”

“No, they pretty much think I’m bonkers, too. But I’ve been able to demonstrate my usefulness to them, so we’ve worked out a mutually beneficial agreement. My brains in exchange for their brawn. You know, I never realized how easy it is to make money off the Internet. Give it a couple months, and I think you’ll be seeing these guys in the Fortune 500. So what’s your answer?”

Dr. Stevens shook her head, then scornfully dropped her gas mask and breathed deep. Instantly, she convulsed and fell unconscious.

Looking at the twitching form, Maddy sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

She got back on the bike, hugging Locust around the waist. With a wave, they were gone.

THIRTY-ONE

CASTLE DRACULA

LOCUST paused her motorcycle by the roadside, staring up the steep sloping lawn to the big silvery cube at the top.

“So that’s it, huh?”

“That’s it,” Maddy said.

“Doesn’t really look all that sinister, does it?” Locust sounded disappointed.

“It’s not Castle Dracula, no.”

“And you say they’re making zombies in there? By the hundreds, like a big assembly-line thing? Beaming out brain waves to control everybody, like something out of the Body Snatchers?”

“Yeah.”

“Right here in this building? With the employee parking and handicapped access and all?”

“Yes.”

“Let me get this straight. The guys who wash the windows, and the landscaping crew, and all the secretaries and everybody—none of them know about this? Or is it that they’re all cool with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hell, that’s a first. You don’t know. But you’re sure this is the right place? It’s not some other generic office park you’re thinking of?”

“No.”

“All right, all right. If you say so.”

Locust was still not over her surprise at first laying eyes on Maddy Grant. She might have believed the kid was a Girl Scout selling cookies, but the idea that this walking, talking Raggedy Ann doll could be a dangerous wanted felon was too much.

The bikes all caught up, and Locust signaled them to wait. “So, what’s our next move, hotshot?”

Maddy wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Her thoughts were suddenly garbled, fuzzing in and out like a bad phone connection. It was a feeling she hadn’t had for some time, not since her encounter with the firemen, but this time she recognized it for what it was: interference. They were messing with her head.
Nice try,
she thought, turning up the gain on her signal blocker.

“Give me a minute, okay?”

“Knock yourself out.”

After speaking to Dr. Stevens in the car, Maddy had ridden north with Locust and the FPKK, retracing her path back to Braintree. The trip had been uneventful. They’d traveled in an invisible storm of radio interference, so that no one without a landline could immediately report their passing. There were a few run-ins with the highway patrol, but those were quickly defused by either diverting the cops elsewhere with fake radio signals, or—if they were really determined—frying their cars’ electrical circuits with the portable EMP cannon that Maddy had rigged to the back of Locust’s motorcycle. They made good time, ignoring the speed limit and stopping only to eat or go to the bathroom. By nightfall, they had arrived at Braintree.

Locust was getting impatient. “So what’s it gonna be, kid? You wanna turn back or what?”

“No,” Maddy said. “Let’s go in.”

LOCUST signaled the other motorcycles to follow. They advanced in a line.

As the train of bikes cruised through the open gate and up the driveway past the empty parking lot, the security cameras all mysteriously went dark. Likewise, phones and computers in the whole complex went dead, so that when the lead motorcycles charged up the wheelchair ramp and blew through the glass doors into the lobby, none of the frantic skeleton crew could alert police. The automatic alarms did not go off.

There was a small security contingent, six heavily armed and gung ho Homeland Security fast responders, who took positions in the foyer and were instantly rendered unconscious by a homemade gas grenade.

The rest of the staff was already gone. Rather than challenge the wheeled invasion, they had abandoned their stations and retreated for the fire exits.

As the last of the bikes streamed in, Maddy consulted the floor directory, and said, “Communications Suite—Sublevel Two. That must be where the carrier wave originates.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s below ground level and probably well shielded. In case it’s still functioning, we have to go down there and knock it out directly.”

“How?”

“Just pull the plug. Follow me!”

BOOK: Mad Skills

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