“A vial of H12K, please,” he said to an orderly.
“Doctor,” the orderly said, “just so you know: that’s the last of the initial new batch.”
“So?”
“Well, it was earmarked for subject 714, who’s next on the list and has been waiting in the prep room.”
“This one is more important,” the doctor snapped. “Get me the vial and send 714 back to his cell.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The orderly opened a tabletop refrigerator, took out a vial, and handed it to the doctor, along with a freshly unsealed syringe.
The doctor inserted the needle through the cap of the vial, drew out a precisely measured amount, then held the needle up and depressed the plunger until a clear drop appeared, quivering at the hollow tip. He looked up at the one-way mirror with an anticipatory expression.
“Pendergast?” came the general’s voice over the intercom. “Last chance to speak.”
There was a long silence. Then the general’s voice sounded again. “Inject him.”
66
Over an hour ago they’d brought Coldmoon up from the cell, blindfolded, cuffed to one of the two guards, and wearing the filthy hospital gown belonging to Luís, stenciled over the chest with the number 714. After a circuitous journey, they took off the blindfold and he found himself in a small room — a sort of annex, it seemed — in beige cinder block, with two benches screwed to the floor, along with a locked medical cabinet. He had been seated on a bench, the guard he was cuffed to beside him. The other guard took the seat opposite, his M16 laid across his lap. Both guards were bored, clearly used to this routine. Coldmoon was careful to maintain a defeated attitude, adopting a listless shuffle that had annoyed the guards into prodding him forward more than once.
As the minutes had passed, Coldmoon had marveled at how silent the room was. There was a large, stout door in the opposite wall that, he figured, led to the laboratory where the inmates were experimented on. He had no idea what those experiments might be, although he assumed they involved the horror of self-amputation. If this was the waiting room, then soundproofing made sense — he imagined what came next would be a pretty noisy ordeal.
As the minutes passed, Coldmoon considered his next step. On the one hand, he could continue to wait until he was called. The imprisoned man had told him there were ninety minutes between appointments — for want of a better word — and as far as he could tell, his own ninety were nearly up. A better course of action would be to take charge now and force the action himself, when he knew the lay of the land and his adversaries were least prepared. The guard sitting next to him was half-asleep, and the other beginning to nod off as well.
He’d never get a better — or even another — opportunity.
Pretending to be weary himself, Coldmoon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head nodding, arms drooping down. He yawned quietly, resignedly. Slowly, he reached one arm under the hospital gown he was wearing and grasped the butt of the Browning he’d strapped to his upper calf. He freed it from its holster, careful to make no noise. And then, with a smooth, unhurried motion, he brought it up and fired point-blank at the guard next to him, the sound of the shot deafeningly loud in the confined space, spraying the cinder-block wall with gore. The other guard jerked his head up just in time to receive a bullet in the face. He slammed backward against the wall, then rolled onto the floor.
Soundproofing or not, Coldmoon knew the tremendous loudness of the shots would probably generate a response. His own ears were ringing. Laying the Browning aside, he grabbed the guard’s M16 with his free arm and crouched, aiming at the stout door.
A second or two later, the door slammed open and Coldmoon let loose a burst, taking down a uniformed guard who had come to investigate. With the weapon clutched under his right arm, still aimed at the door, he knelt down, plucked the handcuff key from the dead guard on the bench, and unlocked the cuffs. Then he moved forward toward the door, waited a moment, and kicked it wide.
He found himself in a large, dazzlingly lit laboratory. There, to his astonishment, was Pendergast, strapped and tied to a wheelchair, an IV rack beside him. Two orderlies and a doctor fell back in confusion and horror, the doctor dropping a syringe. Two soldiers who were overseeing the proceedings began to turn toward Coldmoon. He dropped them both with one long burst.
“Behind that mirror!” said Pendergast with a nod. “Kill everyone but the woman.”
Glancing in the indicated direction, comprehending immediately the mirror was a one-way observation window, Coldmoon trained the weapon on it and raked it with a two-second burst. The glass shattered in a huge spray, plates falling free, and behind it he saw a military officer in camo struggling to stand up, next to a woman. A third burst stitched its way up the general’s trunk from groin to throat, and he pitched forward, falling from the ruined window into the laboratory below with the sound of wet meat hitting the floor, as the woman scrambled away in panic. Coldmoon swung the M16 around to take out the doctor and orderlies — but they had already escaped out one of the lab doors.
Sirens went off in the room.
“The parang,” said Pendergast, pointing at it with his eyes.
Coldmoon snatched up the parang and used it to slice Pendergast free of the wheelchair. Pendergast ripped the IV from his arm and leapt to his feet, seizing an M16 from one of the dead soldiers.
The sirens continued to sound. And now a red light in the ceiling began to revolve.
Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Shall we take our leave?”
“Hell, yes.”
67
As they burst through the back door, they saw the woman staggering out of the observation room and into the hall in front of them.
She turned. Coldmoon saw her face was streaming blood, cut by flying glass.
“I can’t... I can’t believe...” She gasped, wiping blood from her face. “I had no idea...”
“Pull yourself together,” Pendergast said. “You’re going to show us the way out of this chamber of horrors, Ms. Alves-Vettoretto.”
“I have limited passkey privileges. But...” She swayed and Pendergast grasped her arm to keep her from collapsing. “The doctor... he ran by and went in there.” She pointed to a closet door with a bloody hand. “He has full access.”
“Stand back.” Pendergast went to the door and tried the knob. Finding it locked, he fired the M16 into the lock and kicked the door open. The doctor was crouching behind a set of shelves with glass bottles, the orderlies trying to hide on either side.
Pendergast strode forward. The orderlies, unarmed, shrank back as he seized the doctor and hauled him to his feet, knocking the shelves over with a crash. The man cringed and burbled with fear. “Don’t, please don’t kill me. I didn’t want to do any of it; they forced me—”
Pendergast shook him like a rag doll. “You’re going to lead us out of here.”
“Yes! I will, of course I will,” the doctor babbled, his eyes blinking in servile agreement, head nodding.
Pendergast shoved him out through the door. “Best way out, no trickery.” He turned to the woman. “You too.”
“Best way out.” The doctor nodded, his look of servile terror morphing into a grotesque grin. “This way.” He scurried down the hall, and they followed.
The doctor used his passkey to open a door at the far end. “Through here.”
They went through the door into another hallway that led off to both the left and the right. The doctor turned down the right passage.
“What’s the route?” Pendergast asked.
“I’m going to take you out past the barracks. Fewer guards.”