But who was utilizing this untold power? Who was the subject of his brilliance?
Psychotics and maniacs.
What a waste of my talents, Stubin thought.
Stubin wanted to work on normal people, not crazies. But the government wouldn’t allow it, and no private company would dare fund such a project. When he acquired the film, everything would change. After spending decades being a slave of the U.S. government, he’d get out of his indentured servitude and wind up with some serious money, as well. Stubin figured the film was worth at least two hundred million. He’d set up another lab, one with complete freedom, in Mexico. He’d run his experiments on the locals—bribes ensuring the full blessing of the Mexican government.
And what better way to fulfill his dream than to use the very Red-ops unit he’d been forced to create? They were supposed to be in Afghanistan now, wiping out some village where the Taliban was suspected of hiding. But Stubin decided to run his own program instead. Instead of the Middle East, he brought them here, to find Warren Streng.
The military thought they could control Stubin, keep him in line.
They had greatly underestimated him.
A dog whined nearby, and Stubin froze. That stupid mutt the kid doted on. Maybe if breaking Josh’s fingers couldn’t get them to open the doors, setting the dog on fire would.
“Here, doggy,” Stubin said, his voice high-pitched and sounding ridiculous. “Here, Woof. Come to Dr. Stubin.”
Woof jumped out from behind a tree, his tail wagging. He had some rope tied around his snout.
“Good boy. Come here. Come here, doggy.”
The beagle took a few tentative steps toward Stubin and stopped, looking away.
Then the gunfire began.
Josh had been willing to die to protect Fran and Duncan. He didn’t want his suffering to put them in jeopardy and had done his best to not react to the pain. Seeing the hatch open made him feel dirty, as if he hadn’t tried hard enough.
Santiago continued to hold him, putting a knife up to his throat. Taylor blended into the woods. Ajax stood there watching.
Two seconds passed.
Then five.
Ajax approached the entrance. Then the hatch closed again.
Before Josh could figure out what was happening he heard half a dozen shots come from behind. He was pushed forward, Santiago falling on top of him.
Josh rolled onto his side and Santiago was already up and stumbling into the woods. Someone ran up to Josh and fired a shotgun in Santiago’s direction, then swung it ninety degrees and fired at the retreating Ajax.
“You hit?” Warren Streng asked Josh.
Josh had no idea. It had all happened so fast.
“How did you—?”
“Back entrance. Came at them from behind. Fran worked the hatch as a diversion. You hit?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then move your ass.”
Josh didn’t have to be told twice. They hurried to the entrance and Warren twisted one of the dead deer’s hooves. The hatch opened, revealing a metal slide.
“Thanks for—”
“Not over yet. They’re watching us, and now they know how to get in. Move.” Warren stared down at Josh’s mangled right hand. “Can you shoot lefty?” he asked.
“Not very well.”
Warren handed Josh a massive handgun. “Now’s your chance to learn. Anything that comes down the ramp, kill it.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to put an end to this. How many?”
“Santiago, Taylor, Ajax is the big one. And Dr. Stubin—he’s the leader.”
“I also saw a girl.”
Josh shook his head.
“Are they armed?”
“I only saw knives. But they’re experts with them. Also, there’s a dog. Woof. He’s one of the good guys.”
Warren nodded, shoved Josh onto the ramp, and the firefighter fell onto his butt and slid down into the darkness. Josh almost dropped the gun, and his broken fingers banged against the wall, causing him to cry out. He saw purple light below, and when he hit the bottom someone pointed a shotgun at his head.
Fran.
She set the gun on the ground and hugged him, hugged him so hard that it almost hurt. Josh hugged her back, surprised by the depth of emotion he felt. He never wanted to let go.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her cheek on his ear.
“I’ll live. Duncan?”
“He’s here, with Sheriff Streng.”
A clanging sound from the outside. Warren had closed the hatch.
“They’re coming,” Josh said.
“I know. My father told me what to do.”
“Your father?”
“Long story. Come on.”
Fran picked up the gun and led Josh to the only doorway in the large room. It opened up to a brightly lit hallway. When Fran saw his hand she lost all color.
“Oh, my God, Josh. And your face …”
She touched his chin, which he didn’t feel because he was still numb from the lidocaine. The blurry vision had returned. He removed the metal case from his pocket but couldn’t open it with only one hand.
“We can deal with that later,” he said. “Can you open this and break one of the capsules under my nose? I’ve got cyanide poisoning.”
“Oh, Josh …”
Fran didn’t ask how it happened, which saved him from telling her that most of the town had been killed. They could compare horror stories when they were safe.
The Charge fumes hit, and it was like being shaken awake. After a minute of deep breaths he felt better.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked.
“Warren said this hall was a perfect bottleneck. We’re going to catch them in a crossfire, me in the kitchen, you in the storage room.”
“Sounds good. Let’s—”
Josh stopped midsentence as they both heard the unmistakable sound of the hatch opening.
Wiley lifted the night-vision monocular to his eye and surveyed the woods around him. All clear. He hadn’t bothered with the ghillie suit because it was bulky and often became tangled on things; Wiley wanted to be able to move as fast as possible. He wasn’t sure that at his age, in his condition, he could take out three highly trained soldiers, even though he had the firepower advantage. But that wasn’t his goal. You didn’t win at chess by killing pawns—you won by checkmating the king.
The night was as cool and crisp as biting into an apple, something he hadn’t done in a while. Wiley ordered supplies and food through the Internet, using a credit card with a false name and a delivery service that drop shipped pallets to his property once a month. Fresh produce didn’t make the cut.
Wiley butted up to a pine tree, breathing heavy, and absently wondered if Duncan liked apples. There were a lot of things he wondered about Duncan, and Fran. Maybe, if he cleaned up this mess, he’d have a chance to learn some of those things.
Most men never got a second chance. But this was Wiley’s. To make it right. To stop being afraid.
To finally forgive himself.
He peered through the monocular, the lens gathering up the ambient light and focusing it into a green image. There, thirty yards away, a man walking a dog. He saw the outline of the helmet, the different uniform, and watched the man walk through the woods with the grace of a drunk on roller skates. Dr. Stubin.
He came at them from the side, staying low and stopping every four paces to check for other enemy combatants. As he got closer, he noted Stubin wasn’t carrying any weapons and the dog wasn’t on a leash. The dog would pick up his scent, or hear him, any time now. Wiley decided to speed up the process.