“The army asked me to come here, to lend my expertise. But I’m afraid the Special Forces unit I came with was killed. I’m trying to get into town where I can contact my superiors.” He glanced at the broken window, and then up the road. “I’m guessing the people at the roadblock weren’t very welcoming.”
“So why are the Red-ops here?” Fran asked.
Stubin adjusted his helmet, and it slipped right back into its original position. “As far as I know, this Red-ops unit crashed here accidentally, and they’re carrying out their objective and treating your town like an enemy territory.”
“What’s their objective?”
“Isolate. Terrorize. Annihilate. That’s what they do.”
“Then why were they asking about Warren?”
Stubin blinked. “Warren?”
“He’s the sheriff’s brother. If they came here by accident, how do they know about Warren?”
“That’s also standard operating procedure. When a Red-ops unit invades a town, they seek out information—phone books, directories, and such—and memorize it.”
Fran frowned. “Taylor called me by my name. How did he know it was me? My picture isn’t in the phone book.”
Stubin shrugged. “They might have accessed the state driver’s license database. Or maybe he looked through your personal belongings. He attacked you?”
“At the diner where I work.”
“The diner? Do you wear a name tag?”
Fran did wear a name tag. She flushed, feeling stupid. But it still didn’t make sense.
“Taylor knew about Duncan.”
“Duncan?”
“My son. Bernie had gone after Duncan.”
Stubin stared at her for a few seconds before he spoke. “I have no idea how they knew that. This makes it a lot worse.”
Fran didn’t know how this could possibly get any worse, but she asked anyway.
“Perhaps the Red-ops units didn’t crash here accidentally,” Stubin said. “Perhaps they’re here on purpose.”
Taylor looked at the woman bleeding out on the shower floor and felt remorse. She was a tasty little morsel, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to really enjoy her. He recalled his past, before death row, and the women he’d been with. There was one girl, in Chicago, a tiny thing with fingers like pretzels that went crunch crunch—
Taylor experienced something like a flashbulb going off in his head, and before the memory became too pronounced the Chip sensed the deviation from the program and rebooted. Without thinking he reached for his case and removed a Charge capsule, breaking it under his nostrils. The fumes—a mixture of acetylcholine, trichloroethylene, amyl nitrite, and several other proprietary ingredients—traveled up his nasal passage, entered his lungs, and then permeated his bloodstream. From there the chemicals reached the brain and defragmented the memory center, clearing it of all unnecessary neurotransmitters.
Taylor stopped thinking about the past and once again reverted to Chip protocol. Interrogate townspeople. Find Warren Streng.
He looked at his partner, Logan, who wore civilian clothes rather than the black body armor, the result of changing soon after they’d landed. Logan enjoyed bloodshed as much as Taylor did and had been the lucky one chosen to kill their handlers in the helicopter, cutting their throats so deeply their heads were practically severed. Taylor would have liked that duty, but he’d been busy helping Santiago set the charges, blowing up the chopper to make it look like it had crashed. In the unlikely event they were caught, the government could claim it was an accident, rather than intentional.
Though the Chip didn’t allow for personal feelings to get in the way of the mission, if Taylor were to pick his favorite team member it would be Logan. They had similar backgrounds. Both were serial killers, with oral fixations. Both equated pain with sexual arousal. Both were behind bars when the Red-ops recruited them. If it wasn’t for one vital difference, they might have been identical twins.
Logan was currently dressed as a townie, but it didn’t fool many people, because everyone here knew who everyone else was and could spot strangers instantly. But if everyone knew everyone, why were they having so much trouble locating Warren?
“Erwin? You in there?”
A male voice, coming from around the corner. Taylor nodded at Logan, who quickly intercepted.
“You’re not allowed back here, sir.”
“My buddy Erwin just went in there.”
“He left.”
“He didn’t leave. I’ve been standing here the whole time. Look, I’ve seen some crazy shit tonight and I just want to make sure … Jesus Christ.”
The man had gotten past Logan and stood in the locker room, taking in the carnage. He was short and bearded and wore filthy overalls and a filthy baseball cap. Taylor could smell the sewage on him from ten feet away.
Logan came up behind the man, placing a knife to his throat. Taylor shuffled over. The name OLEN was stitched onto the man’s bibs.
“Hello, Olen. Where’s Warren Streng?”
Olen’s lower lip bounced like it was made of rubber. “Wiley? He lives on Deer Tick Road, on the little lake.”
Taylor moved closer, getting in Olen’s face. He noted that even the man’s teeth were stained gray.
“You actually know where he lives?”
Olen appeared ready to cry. “I … I cleaned out his septic tank a while back.”
“Do you have his address?”
“Wiley doesn’t exactly have an address. He likes to live off the grid, he says. No mail. No utilities. Only comes into town once in a while.”
That explained the trouble they’d been having.
“Whether or not you die depends on how you answer my next question. Can you take us there?”
Logan drew a little blood on Olen’s neck to drive the point home.
“Yeah … yeah, I can … no problem.”
“Good,” soothed Taylor. “Very good.”
A thought, or the chemical/electric approximation of a thought, flashed full-blown into Taylor’s mind.
Eliminate townspeople.
He guessed it appeared in his partner’s head, as well, because Logan was already kneeling by the backpack and removing gas masks. Taylor forced one onto Olen’s face and put one on himself. Then he and Logan donned clear plastic ponchos, gloves, and leggings, and each strapped on a bandolier of aerosol canisters.
“If you try to run, I’ll pull off your mask,” Taylor told Olen. “And you wouldn’t like that.”
The three of them walked out of the locker room, into the gymnasium. The crowd of over three hundred didn’t react immediately. It took a few seconds for them to notice the gas masks and a few more seconds for them to question what was happening.
By that time Taylor had already activated and thrown two cans, Logan three. The hydrogen cyanide gas was colorless but carried the odor of bitter almonds. The canisters hissed as they rolled through the bleachers, and the smell—coupled with the trio’s attire—induced panic. Screams popped up here and there, then mingled and joined into a communal wail that sounded as if it came from a single entity.
People tumbled over each other, tripping down the riser stairs, falling and trampling and stampeding toward the exits, which did no good because they’d been previously locked. A foolish man rushed Logan, who slashed open his trachea before being touched. Taylor kept Olen in his sights but probably didn’t need to bother; the sewage man seemed frozen to the spot.
After sixty seconds the panicked screams were replaced by another sound: wheezing. The gas entered their bodies through the lungs and mucus membranes, and it quickly induced runny noses, dilated pupils, and tightening of the chest. This was followed by coughing, panting, throwing up, urinating, and defecating. Then came convulsions and death.