The Siren Project (38 page)

Mitch grabbed Christa’s arm, and whispered
urgently, “That’s him, in the doorway!”

The general disappeared back inside the
convention center as the double doors shut behind him.

“Did you get him?”

“No, he was too far away to register.”

The soldiers on the trucks now boarded the Humvee
as Bradick climbed into the cab of the rear truck and its engine growled to
life.

Mitch raised the radio to his lips. “Gunter,
we need the car on the south side, now.”

“We’re leaving?” Christa asked surprised.

“Yes.”

“But we don’t know if the general is
conditioned.”

“Yeah, we do,” Mitch said with certainty. “He
isn’t.”

“How can you be sure?” Mouse asked.

“Because that bonehead Bradick saluted him.
Bradick wouldn’t salute a robot, he’d only salute the real thing.” Without
waiting for further discussion, Mitch started toward the southern periphery of
the FBI cordon.

They hurried after him. “Is there something
we should know?” Mouse asked suspiciously.

“We have to test Lamar,” Mitch replied, not
taking his eyes off the trucks that were slowly pulling away from the curb
behind the Humvee.

“Christa said he wasn’t conditioned.”

“Not that kind of test. I want one of those
machines.”

“What the hell for?” Mouse glanced
apprehensively toward the three military vehicles now moving away from the
convention center. “In case you happened to be on some other planet for the
last five minutes, those guys were soldiers! They’re carrying assault weapons.”

“I know.”

“Do you know what kind of damage a bullet
from an assault weapon does to human flesh?”

“We’ll have to be careful.”

“Even if we get hold of one of those
trucks, then what?” Christa asked. “Are you just going to hand it to Lamar?”

“That’s the plan. If he’s rotten, he’ll
give it back to Bradick. If he’s one of the good guys, he’ll hang on to it. He
might even get some Bureau egghead to figure out what it was.”

“That’s a good plan?” Mouse asked
incredulously. “You left out the part where those military rednecks cut us to pieces
with their machine guns.”

“Lamar is just a cop, Mitch,” Christa said.
“Even if he keeps the machine, he’s going to have no idea what he’s up against.”

“If he’s the real deal, he'll figure it
out.” Mitch ducked under the FBI tape and ran to where Gunter waited with the
car. He jumped into the car and pointed down a side street. “That way, and step
on it.”

Christa climbed into the rear while Mouse
hesitated.

Mitch turned to him. “What are you waiting
for?”

“This is nuts,” Mouse said with obvious
frustration.

“You got a better plan? You know anyone in
the Pentagon, the CIA, or the Justice Department we can trust?”

“What makes you think Lamar is worth the
risk?”

“I'm betting he’s too much of a hard ass to
be a traitor. And we're desperate.”

Mouse shook his head resignedly, then climbed
in beside Christa.

Gunter planted his foot on the gas, quickly
speeding away from the FBI cordon, swerving onto the road the convoy had
disappeared down. Several blocks flashed by, then they spotted the two green
trucks threading their way through traffic in convoy behind the Humvee. The
military helicopters had vanished, satisfied that no news helicopters were tailing
the convoy.

“Don’t get too close,” Mitch said. “We’ll
see where they take those things, then we’ll grab one of the trucks.”

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you,” Mouse
said, “That the only way they could get those things out of the convention center
is with Lamar’s agreement.”

“Maybe. I’m betting they fed him a cover
story. Got his agreement without him knowing what he was agreeing to, or maybe
some faceless man in Washington gave Lamar his marching orders.” Mitch threw a
knowing look back at Mouse. “You know the story, someone whispers national
security and the shadows close in. If I’m right about Lamar, that would have pissed
him off. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes having his
jurisdiction overruled.”

Up ahead, the trucks turned to the right,
and for almost a minute were lost from sight. Gunter sped up to close the
distance, then worked the brakes hard as they rounded the corner, running a red
light in the process. Two blocks ahead, they saw the convoy.

“They’re taking the Holland Tunnel,” Mitch
said. “Get closer, we don’t want to lose them at the other end.”

Gunter threaded their car through the late
night traffic until there were only a few vehicles separating them from the
convoy. Progress under the Hudson River was slow, but once through the tunnel,
the pace picked up again. The convoy turned south, heading back around toward
the quiet riverfront, forcing Gunter to let the trucks pull ahead so they
wouldn't be detected. The convoy slowed as it entered the warehouse district
close to the wharves, then the Humvee stopped and a soldier jumped out to open
a large metal roller door. Gunter turned into a side street a block from the
warehouse and parked. Before the car had fully stopped, Mitch jumped out and
ran to the corner, where he watched the trucks drive inside the warehouse. A
few minutes later, two men emerged, locked the roller door and drove off in the
Humvee. Mitch waited several more minutes, but no one else exited the
warehouse.

“They’ve locked the trucks up for the
night,” he said when he returned to the car, “The escort is gone, looks like
the drivers too. I guess they’re confident they weren’t followed.”

“Did everyone leave?” Mouse asked
suspiciously. “If they saw us following, there could be a welcoming committee
waiting inside.”

“We’ll have to wing it, and be suitably
prepared,” Mitch said as he checked his gun's ammunition.

Gunter drove toward the warehouse, cruising
past slowly so they could take a closer look before entering. The warehouse had
a few small windows placed high in the wall overlooking the street, but none
showed any light. Gunter parked a short distance from the warehouse, leaving
the engine running. Mitch climbed out and approached the roller door
cautiously, followed by Christa and Mouse, listening for any sound that might
indicate a trap. The hum of the car’s engine was the only noise disturbing the empty
street's silence. At the roller door, Mitch placed his ear against it,
listening, then studied the metal lock and handle embedded in its center. Mouse
produced a small leather wallet, unzipped it and selected a sliver of metal
which he inserted in the lock and twisted, testing the tumblers.

Christa looked surprised. “So, you’re a
computer geek by day and a cat burglar by night?”

“How do you think I got my first computer?”
Mouse retorted glibly, then nodded to Mitch, indicating the lock was open.

Mitch covered the entrance with his gun as Mouse
pulled the roller door up, revealing an empty shell of a building. The small
windows along the walls, close to roof level, let in only meager illumination, but
the two army trucks parked in front of the entrance were clearly visible. Hundreds
of oil drums stacked on top of each other lined the walls either side of the
trucks, while the air was thick with the stench of fuel oil. Mitch walked
cautiously into the warehouse, passing the length of the first truck. He
glanced into its empty cab, then circled around the second truck, acutely aware
of the pungent petrochemical smell, and remembering how ferociously the
accelerant had burned in the convention center.

Mouse inspected the drums nearest the roller
door. “At least we know where they assembled the fuel air bomb.” The drums had
US Army markings and fire hazard warnings painted on them. He sniffed,
wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Nothing like the smell of a fuel air bomb in
the morning. Uncle Sam sure knows how to brew the best.”

“Careful,” Mitch warned. “It wouldn't take
much of that stuff to turn you into a fireball.”

Mouse backed away from the drums nervously.
“Hmm . . . I think I'll inspect the trucks.”

“Mitch!” Christa called, her eyes searching
for something unseen.

He turned toward her, sensing the urgency
in her voice. “Yeah?”

“There’s someone else in here. No! Two. Not
conditioned. They’re right in front of us!”

“Where?” Mitch asked tensing, then he felt
the cold barrel of a gun press against the back of his neck.

“Under the truck,” Bradick sneered from
behind him. “Now drop the piece.”

Mitch hesitated only a moment, then let his
gun clatter to the ground. From the other side of the truck he heard a thud, as
Mouse fell to the concrete floor, stunned. Christa, standing near the warehouse
entrance, saw Mitch under Bradick’s control and started to retreat toward the
street.

“No you don’t, bitch,” Bradick ordered. “Get
in here, nice and easy, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Christa stopped, then moved slowly into the
warehouse as instructed, her empty hands visible by her side. The second man
appeared with a M16 balanced on his hip, dragging Mouse by the collar. Mitch
recognized him as one of their abductors from the Museum, when they'd gone to
meet Knightly.

“You spotted our tail?” Mitch asked.

“No, just checking for rats before we lock
down the cheese. Now where’s that fucking kraut?”

Mitch remained silent, while Christa
started to circle to the side, hoping Bradick would not be able to watch the
entrance and her at the same time, but Bradick waved her back. “Stand over
there bitch, where I can see you.”

The second man released Mouse’s collar,
letting him crumple to the floor. Mouse made a weak attempt at movement, but
hadn’t regained enough consciousness to do more than roll his head sideways,
eyes closed. A red stain matted his hair, and a trickle of blood ran down his
neck.

Get ready!
Christa’s voice sounded in Mitch’s mind, a clear, unmistakable
thought.

He glanced toward her startled, confirming
she wasn't speaking. Her eyes were focused on Bradick, but with the barrel of the
M16 jammed against the base of his skull, Mitch was not ready to do anything. He
mouthed to her helplessly, “What?”

Christa didn’t notice Mitch’s mouthed word,
but another thought filled his mind
. I can only do this
once!

“Do what?” He mouthed silently, this time
realizing her thought didn’t ‘sound’ like her voice, yet it was unmistakably from
her. She had a distant look in her eyes, and her face was pale as she focused
her concentration.

Bradick nodded to the entrance. “Do the kraut,
he’s got to be out there.”

“Right,” the second man said. He strode
confidently to the entrance, stepped onto the sidewalk, then the side of his
head exploded as a bullet blew his brains out, felling him instantly.

Behind Mitch, Bradick screamed, and the
pressure of the M16 against his skull vanished. Mitch looked back uncertainly
as the M16 clattered to the ground. Bradick stepped back, clenching both fists
in pain and surprise. He opened his fists and stared at his palms confused, not
understanding where the burning pain came from. Mitch leapt at Bradick,
surprising him with a punch that sent him reeling backwards. Bradick’s years of
special forces hand to hand combat training took over. He rolled smoothly off
the ground to his feet, shaking off the impact of the punch and forcing himself
to ignore the pain in his hands as he assumed the crouched stance of a trained fighter.

Mitch reached down for the M16, but Bradick
charged, kicking the weapon across the floor and following through with a
crashing punch to Mitch’s face. Mitch staggered back, blocking Bradick's next
punch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christa sitting weakly on the
concrete floor, her head bowed, breathing deeply as if recovering from a
terrible physical shock. Bradick threw another punch, this time low to the
stomach, sending Mitch stumbling backwards, gasping for air, as the glint of a
thick bladed commando knife in Bradick’s hand caught his attention.

“I don’t need a gun to finish you,
Mitchell,” Bradick hissed menacingly.

Mitch backed away towards the empty oil
drums, as Bradick lunged forward with the knife. He darted sideways narrowly
avoiding the blade as it flashed perilously close to his stomach. Bradick
swiveled on the balls of his feet, and thrust back again in a fluid motion. Mitch
caught his wrist, twisting it until Bradick's elbow locked, then punched the
joint. There was a crack as elbow ligaments snapped, then Mitch threw his
weight forward, turning the blade still gripped by Bradick’s broken arm up into
his stomach. Bradick coughed blood, then slid slowly to his knees before
falling face first onto the cold floor.

Mitch rolled him over, grabbing his shirt
and partially lifting him off the ground. “Why are they doing this?”

Bradick gasped for air, making a gurgling
sound as blood seeped into his lungs. “Screw . . . you,” he hissed, as he died.