“First the car.”
“Parking lot… two canals to the south. Third floor… near the east stairwell.”
Giselle turned to the colonel. “Well?”
“He’s telling the truth.” Quickly and methodically, the white-haired sociopath detached the lie detector, then packed it in the metal attaché along with the psychotronic device. “Are you coming?”
“You go. The captain and I have unfinished business.”
“You searched him for weapons?”
“The nine-millimeter was found in the laundry cart, along with a clip of blanks. But if it comforts you—” She ran her hands across my bare, sweaty chest, wiping them along the inside of both pant legs. “You may be right; he’s definitely packing something.”
The old man rolled his eyes and left.
Giselle kissed me on the lips, her flitting tongue tasting of booze and tobacco. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? I know you’re stalling, attempting to regain control of your muscles before I kill you. So we’ll have a contest — I won’t shoot you until you come inside me.” She reached between her legs, unzipping my pants. “First one to shoot… loses. How long do you think you can hold out, Cowboy?”
I moaned as she reached inside my open fly and beneath my boxer shorts, her left hand working to free me—
— as the fingers of my right hand walked down my right calf muscle to the elastic holster holding the gun strapped around my ankle.
“You ready, Cowboy?” She rose up to guide my traitorous genitals inside her — suddenly noticing the gun quivering in my right hand.
“Shit.” She lunged for the 9mm as I blindly squeezed off three shots, the handgun barely a foot off the floor.
The first bullet struck the ceiling, blasting a six-inch divot in the ancient plaster.
The second whizzed past my head.
The third spun her around as it punched a hole in her right scapula.
She looked at me and laughed, the 9mm clutched in her right hand, her arm no longer able to lift it. “You shot first.”
“Guess I lose.”
She coughed up a wad of blood as we both struggled to raise our weapons, Giselle reaching around with her left hand as I rolled forward off the chair and onto the floor, gaining the critical leverage I needed to get off one quick shot—
It was high and wide, but she spun into its path, the lead missile splattering bone as it jerked her head backward, her shattered skull spitting out gray matter. The Glock flailed wildly in her lifeless left hand, its bullets tearing into the sunshine-orange wall behind the bed.
For several minutes I remained on my back, gathering strength. Finally I crawled to the bathroom on my hands and knees, the effort gradually reducing the molten-lead feeling in my bloodstream. Pulling myself using the sink, I ran the cold water and rinsed Giselle’s taste from my mouth. When I was through I staggered to the toilet, lifted the lid off the tank, and flushed, draining the water so I could remove the brick, exposing the plastic freezer bag.
“Assholes… you can keep the damn car.”
I dressed as quickly as my muscles would allow, making sure I wiped my prints from the revolver before leaving it behind — a lesson Clemenza had taught Michael Corleone on the eve of his battle.
For a long moment, I stared at the zero-point energy device — a precious seed that could alter humanity… if it could be nurtured and protected. Until then it was simply a honey pot, its enemies legion, its possession placing a target on my back.
Shoving it in my pants pocket, I gathered my belongings and left.
Steve Alten is a New York Times and international bestselling author of sixteen thrillers, including the MEG series, which was green-lit by Warner Bros. (March 2018 release) starring Jason Statham and Ruby Rose. He is also the founder and director of Adopt-an-Author, a free nationwide reading program for high school teachers. Steve can be reached through his website at www.stevealten.com.
EDITORS’ NOTE: This story takes place after the events of Patient Zero. It is a sequel to the short story “Deep Dark,” and as such contains some spoilers for that story, but otherwise it can be enjoyed as an independent adventure.
CONFUSION
BY NICHOLAS STEVEN
“You sure we’re in the right place?” Top asked, looking around.
Aside from the ruins of the partially constructed Perimeter Acquisition Radar (PAR) site in the middle of nowhere, Montana, there was nothing but barren fields for miles. Not exactly my first guess for a terrorist target, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about any collateral civilian casualties if things got messy.
The situation reminded me of our recent mission in Pennsylvania. “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re smarter than the average bear,” Bunny said.
“You’re mixing up your Yogi quotes there, Staff Sergeant.”
“No way, those were both Yogi Bear quotes.”
Top rolled his eyes. “You quoted Yogi Bear, Cap quoted Yogi Berra.”
Bunny shrugged his massive shoulders in a What’s the difference? gesture. “That just sounded like you said Yogi Bear with a Super Mario accent: ‘It’s a me, Yogi Bear-ah.’” When Top and I didn’t humor him with a laugh, he said, “Seriously, there’s a real person named Yogi Berra?”
I exercised a lot of self-restraint not to smack him upside his head. A lot. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”
“What?”
“He’s one of the greatest catchers in baseball history. How can you not have heard of him?”
“It’s un-American is what it is,” Top chimed in. I couldn’t have agreed more.
“When’d he play?”
“From 1946 to ’65.”
“Dude’s almost as ancient as Top — no wonder I never heard of him.”
I chuckled at that. Being the oldest field operative in the Department of Military Sciences at forty-one, First Sergeant Bradley Sims was often the recipient of old-man taunts, just as Staff Sergeant Harvey Rabbit had to put up with little-kid jests and carrot jokes.
My momentary good mood soured when I saw who was waiting to greet us at the entrance to the top-secret underground government facility. The whole reason this felt like déjà vu was that just a few weeks ago we’d been called out to a suspected terrorist infiltration of an ultra-high-security biological research facility in the Poconos. Only this time we were at the supposedly abandoned PAR site. From a quick scan of the mission brief, I’d gathered that the Perimeter Acquisition Radar was intended to detect incoming ballistic missile warheads as they crossed the North Pole region, then the info would’ve been sent off to the Aerospace Defense Command. At only 10 percent complete, construction was halted because of the ratification of the SALT I Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty in 1972. Either that, or they figured Santa’s sleigh runs would set off too many false alarms.
Or perhaps the whole thing had just been a smoke screen for building the underground base that now apparently had a terrorist problem. And by “apparently” I mean “that’s the lie we were fed to get us out here,” because the reason the security guard smiling and waving at us like an idiot intensified the disquieting feeling of déjà vu cooling my blood was that he’d been there in Pennsylvania.
I had a very bad feeling about this.
Yeah, I came here to face an unknown force of terrorists and only now was I getting a bad feeling in my gut. That’s because last time I saw Lars Halverson, we came up against something much worse than terrorists. Welcome to my world.