ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1) (24 page)

Ellison
turned back to face the doors of the elevator. “There’s just one thing I can’t
wait on— not anymore—and it has nothing to do with you and me. It’s about my
team, and it’s about Chicago, and it’s about you contradicting my orders over
the radio. That can’t happen again. I told G-Force to engage with a hostile
target, and you flat-out told him to ignore my order. That cannot happen again.
Not once. Not ever. When we’re out in the field, I am in command. Why would you
ever think you have the authority—”

“Why
would I?” Mirror stepped back and turned to face him now, her voice rising.
“Why would
you
? What did you think was going to happen down there?
G-Force should be dead right now. You ordered him to face a monster, and he
should be dead.”

 Ellison
nodded. “That’s right. Sometimes our service requires sacrifice.”

“No.
That wasn’t sacrifice. You wanted him to fail. You wanted him dead. Hell, I
think you wanted the whole mission to fail. Like waiting on EOD? You knew there
were explosives in the tower. Why wasn’t there an EOD team in the insertion
chopper? You couldn’t anticipate the door being rigged? Come on, Major.”

Ellison’s
face flushed. “What are you implying—”

Mirror
shook her head. “You’re a lot of things, Stuart, but you’re not stupid. Neither
am I. Let’s stop acting like it.”

The
elevator doors opened, and Mirror walked out. Ellison was left alone.

He
could appreciate her anger. If he could only see half the picture—the half
where a few hundred lives in Chicago were all that mattered—maybe he would be
angry too. But Ellison couldn’t afford that luxury—not anymore. In the end,
Mirror was right: Neither one of them was stupid. Maybe they both just needed
more time.

Ellison
stepped out of the elevator and walked to the conference room. He was the last
to arrive. As he stepped through the door, he could feel everyone's eyes
watching him. Colonel McCann sat at the head of the long table, his face rigid.
Next to him, on his right, sat Hayden. The CIA agent wore a creased gray suit
with his stringy blonde hair twisted up in a bun. Next to Hayden and across
from the colonel sat two men Ellison had never seen before. The first one, the
man sitting closest to Hayden, was tall with broad shoulders and a thick neck.
His face was hard, weathered with age, and the top of his head was covered by
short, dark bristles of hair.

The
second man sat in an electric wheelchair at the foot of the table. Ellison
tried to size him up quickly without staring. He was younger than the first,
thin and pale, and his face was all angles. His head was completely bald, even
devoid of eyebrows, and it seemed to Ellison more a case of genetics than a
conscious choice of his barber. As for the chair, Ellison couldn’t tell if the
man was paralyzed from the waist down or if his legs were missing and replaced
by prosthetics—but one thing was certain: Jutting out of either shirt sleeve,
in place of hands, the man wore a pair of silver hooks.

As
for Mirror, she claimed the seat on the other side of McCann, and she was the
only one of the lot not to look up and stare as Ellison entered—but that was
better. He despised them all, even McCann, for the way they were looking at
him, and he didn’t want to hate her too.

The
only empty chair left at the table was next to Mirror. Ellison pulled it out
and slid into place without a word of apology. He wouldn’t give them the
satisfaction.

Finally,
after the silence had lingered long enough, McCann turned to address Hayden. “I
think you can begin.”

“Right.”
Hayden rose to his feet. “This here is Agent Morris,” Hayden indicated the
bristle-haired man next to him with a sideways nod of his head, “and that’s
Agent Dubov.” Another nod, this time toward the man in the wheelchair at the
end of the table. Then Hayden returned to his seat.

McCann
stood. “It seems that in the wake of Chicago, our friends at the CIA finally
felt like sharing some pertinent information. Agents Morris and Dubov have been
reassigned to Fort Blaney to facilitate our new mission moving forward. Agent
Morris has the details.”

Morris
stood up, reached into his inside jacket pocket, and retrieved a flash drive.
“What you’re about to see is beyond top secret, so you’re only getting it once.
Pay attention.”

He
plugged the drive into a USB port at the edge of the table, and then the
monitor on the wall flashed to life. It showed a black and white picture—some
security image from a science lab. Two men stood frozen on the screen wearing
long white coats, their backs turned to each other as they faced opposite
walls.

Hayden
took over. “What you’re going to see is a video from twenty years ago taken
from a Reah Labs research facility outside of Davenport, Iowa.”

The
image on the screen began to play. Ellison watched as the man on the right, the
taller of the two, turned to face his colleague. The other man kept working,
unaware. Then Ellison watched as the taller man pulled a small handgun out from
behind his back. He shot, twice. There was no sound, but Ellison could tell
from the kickback of the gun and the flash of the barrel. Two quick shots. It
was obvious from the way the tall man was standing that he wasn’t trained—maybe
he never held a gun before in his life—but from that range it would be impossible
to miss.

The
shorter man collapsed to the floor. Then the taller man stepped over him, stood
above him, and he shot again. He stood there, frozen as if the video had been
paused again, but Ellison could see the timestamp moving. This must have been his
first kill.

Then,
suddenly, the tall man was moving again—quicker this time. He looked panicked.
First he was back to the counter where he was working. He picked up something,
a canister maybe, and he put it inside his briefcase. Then he was at his computer.
He ejected a CD from the drive and put another in its place. He tossed the
ejected CD into the briefcase as well.

The
man was hurrying now. He went across the room to a filing cabinet. He pulled a
handful of files and tossed them into the case. Then it was back to his
computer. He ejected the CD, walked across the room, and loaded it again—this
time in the other computer.

He
looked back at the dead man lying on the floor, and Ellison could see the tall
man’s lips moving:
I’m sorry.

Then
he tucked his gun back behind his pants and turned for his briefcase. He closed
the lid, latched it shut, and walked for the door; as his hand found the
doorknob, he turned one last time, looking up at the camera. The image on
screen froze again.

Agent
Dubov spoke now. “The man you see on the screen is Dr. Jonathan Fairbanks, a
very talented geneticist, for his time.”

As
he spoke, the image on the screen changed. On the right side, it still showed
the security footage and the man staring up at the camera, but on the left side
there was now a color photograph of the man’s ID badge.

Dubov
said, “Fairbanks was recruited by Reah Labs to genetically engineer anomalies.
Twenty years ago, for the first and only time, his process worked. Then this
happened.”

Agent
Morris picked up the story. “For security reasons, everything at the Davenport
facility was segmented, just like here at Blaney. There was no central computer
server. It was all self-contained in that room—on those two computers. When
Fairbanks left, he took it all. He got the files, stole the embryos, wiped both
of the computers with a virus, and killed the only other man who knew how to
make it all work. Then he walked out the front door and never came back.
Needless to say, all our efforts to find the good doctor have proven a dead
end.”

“Until
two weeks ago,” Hayden interrupted. “That’s when we identified a new Anom in
Philadelphia. Thanks to DNA protocols, we know that subject, code name G-Force,
is a direct descended match to the DNA of Dr. Jonathan Fairbanks.”

Colonel
McCann shifted in his seat. “What are you trying to say, Hayden?”

“I’m
saying we’ve found one of our missing embryos, Colonel. G-Force is a real-life,
test tube-born Anom. And even better, we’ve found our missing doctor.”

The
image on screen changed again. Now the picture on the right, the paused black
and white video, changed to a stock photograph of Dr. Jonathan Cross. Side by
side with the picture of Fairbanks, the two likenesses were uncanny. Dr. Cross
was older, heavier, and grayer on top, but otherwise the two men were the same.

McCann
interrupted again, “But Dr. Cross died in the Philadelphia Hospital Bombings
last summer. He’s dead.”

“We
already know that, Colonel,” Dubov snapped.

Ellison
could feel his shoulders tighten. At least when Hayden addressed the colonel he
had enough common sense to feign the respect that McCann’s rank deserved. It
was clear Dubov would afford the colonel no such courtesy.

The
bald-headed man closed his eyes and gathered himself, clicking his hooks
together as if he were strumming his fingers. “How can I put this? The man,
Fairbanks or Cross—whatever you want to call him, walked out of a
government-sponsored research facility with highly classified information. Then
he disappeared without a trace for the next twenty years. You think he may have
had help?”

Morris
picked up, “Trust us, Colonel. That research—hell, maybe even the other
embryos—they’re stored away somewhere safe and sound. We intend on finding
them.”

Ellison
was on his feet. “You’re insane—all of you.”

“That’s
enough, Stuart. Sit down,” McCann hissed from across the table.

Ellison
ignored him; he turned instead to Hayden, “Tell the truth. You don’t care about
the doctor. You want his research.”

Hayden
reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes, “That’s
right. We said as much already.”

“Now
tell him the rest. Tell him what you want it for. You want to grow a whole army
of Anoms. You can admit that much, right?”

Hayden
pulled one of the cigarettes and lit the end; he took a deep drag and then
peeled it from his mouth, “Of course that’s what we want. You saw what just one
of those things could do in Chicago. Having a whole army of ‘em sounds pretty
good to me. Now listen to the colonel and sit down, Stuart.”

Ellison
turned to face McCann. “You heard that, sir. You heard what they want. They’re
not talking about using Anoms as a shield—they’re not even the sword—they’re
the barbarians at our gate. If you can’t see that, Colonel, then it’s already
too late.”

There
was no answer—only silence.

Ellison
looked back at Hayden and then he turned for the door.

McCann
called after him, “Stuart, where are you going?”

Ellison
wheeled around. “I have another briefing, sir, and I’m already late.”

He
didn’t wait for the colonel’s answer. It didn’t matter. McCann’s authority was
gone. Ellison turned and left the room.

Nakata
Hiroshi rode quietly in the back of the luxury sedan, staring out the window.
He was surprised by how normal it all felt. The gray leather interior, the muffled
noise of the traffic around him, the familiar sights of Tokyo passing by the
window, even the half-empty water bottle he clutched in his hands—it all worked
together to create something incredibly ordinary.

Nakata
wondered if all abductees felt so calm in the moment, or was this sensation
particular to him? He would have to remember the juxtaposition of fear and
boredom when he wrote his story—if he lived to write it at all.

The
car slowed and came to a stop at a red light. For a brief second, Nakata
considered jumping from the car. Then he looked to his right, and he thought
the large man in the dark suit and sunglasses might take exception to his early
exit from the vehicle. If not, the driver or the man next to him in the
passenger seat would certainly intervene. No, it was better to stay in the car
and play the part of the journalist. Besides, they wanted him for a reason. He
would be safe, for now.

The
light changed and the car started moving again.

Most
of the day had been like any other for Nakata. He spent his morning at his desk
at the Yomiuri Shimbun working on an article. He wondered now if that was what
kept him so calm—because the day had started so normal.
Every day is normal
until it’s not.
Nakata took a drink from his water bottle. He would have to
remember that line for his story.

The
car turned to the right. They were starting over the Rainbow Bridge across the
bay, the familiar white towers and cables looming ahead through the windshield
and the white skyline of Tokyo beyond. Were they taking him back to Yomiuri
already? Then Nakata uncovered a new feeling: disappointment. He wanted to see
this through, no matter what.

For
Nakata Hiroshi, the normal part of his day ended after three in the afternoon.
That’s when his editor at Yomiuri Shimbun called him into his office. The
newspaper had received a telephone call from a man requesting an interview. He
claimed to be a former member of the Ryoku terrorist organization, and he
wanted to share his story. He asked for Nakata by name, and said to meet at the
southeast corner of Toyosu Park. His editor gave him a choice. Nakata agreed to
go.

He had
been waiting at the steps to the park for almost an hour when the black sedan
pulled up and the man in the dark suit climbed out. He ushered Nakata into the
backseat of the car and closed the door behind them both. Then the car pulled
away. That was when Nakata felt most nervous.

He
tried to ask questions at first: Where were they going? Who were they working
for? Did they mean to harm him? Not one of the three men would answer. At least
the man in the back had offered him the water. Nakata remembered thinking then,
How bad could they be?

The
car turned left. They were moving slower now—off the major highways. Nakata
didn’t know anymore where, exactly, they were. His best guess was in Minato,
somewhere near the water. He could see a low warehouse rising up on the right
side of the car, and out of his own window, on his left, there was an industrial
complex with gray metal storage tanks and rows of cement-mixer trucks parked
along the street.

They
stopped. The road was at its end. Out the windshield, Nakata could see the blue
waters of Tokyo Bay and the white steel of the Rainbow Bridge rising in the
distance, and standing immediately in front of the car, he saw a man.

The
man was young, in his early thirties maybe, with long, dark hair gathered
behind him in a loose ponytail. He wore a white dress shirt, un-tucked, and
black pants. In his hand he held a folded newspaper.

Nakata
turned to the man in the suit sitting next to him. “Who is that?”

The
man didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his door, stepped out, and walked around
to open the door for Nakata. Nakata followed his lead and stepped out as well,
facing the man in the white shirt. Now he was nervous again.

The
white-shirted man spoke in perfect English. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hiroshi. Thank
you for coming.”

Nakata’s
face twisted. “You’re an American?”

The
man in the shirt laughed. “So I am. But I’m also Japanese.” He leaned closer to
Nakata, as if he were about to share a secret. “If you don’t look close enough,
you miss it. Two names—two labels—each one different, but they’re still
connected.”

Nakata
was even more confused now than before, but for the moment, that uncertainty
replaced his fear; more than anything, he wanted answers. “Who are you?”

The
man in the shirt smiled again. “This way, Mr. Hiroshi.”

He
turned and walked through an open gate leading to the property of the
warehouse. Nakata followed. The man in the dark suit who rode in the car
trailed behind them. He closed the gate and kept his distance.

The
man in the white shirt spoke again. “My name is Kaito Yoshida. Does that mean
anything to you?”

Nakata’s
mind raced. Of course the name meant something. Kaito Yoshida was the known
leader of the Ryoku terrorist organization. He was dangerous, ruthless, and a
wanted man. He claimed responsibility for more than a dozen attacks over the
last three years and countless other murders across south Asia. To his men,
Yoshida was known as the Shogun. To everyone else, he was Yoshida the Khan—like
his namesake—a new butcher to be feared above all others.

Nakata
nervously shook his head. “I’m sorry. I—I don’t know that name.”

“I’m
surprised. Some believe I’m the leader of the Ryoku.”

“Please,
don’t.” Nakata suddenly fell down to his knees. There was no longer any room
for curiosity or false bravado. Nakata didn’t want any more answers; he wanted
to live. He raised his hands in protest as the tears burned his eyes. “I don’t
know anything. I swear. Someone called the paper. They gave no name. Hurting me
now won’t help me remember what I don’t already know.”

“Nakata,
Nakata.” Kaito’s voice was calm. He reached down for Nakata’s hand and raised
him back to his feet, looking the man over. “I’m sorry. That was rude. May I
call you Nakata?”

Nakata
nodded vigorously as he wiped the back of his sleeve across the snot dripping
from his nose.

Kaito
laughed. “I’m the one who called the paper, Nakata. I’m the one who wanted to
meet. I’m sorry about the car and the secrets. I hope they didn’t give you the
wrong idea about what this was. I did it for your own protection—to protect us
both, really.”

So
he wasn’t going to die then—at least not yet. Nakata rubbed his hands across
his face and tried to regain some semblance of composure. He had to think. If
Yoshida wasn’t going to kill him on the spot, he would need to write a story
about this—but what could he say? What would Yoshida
allow
him to say?
The curiosity returned.

“Why?
I mean, why would you ask me to come here?”

“I’ve
read your work, Nakata—several pieces actually—but your article on the recent
events in America was exceptionally well-written. Your style is very…present. I
enjoy it.”

Kaito
handed the folded newspaper across to Nakata. It was an issue of the Yomiuri,
less than a week old. Nakata remembered it. He opened to the inside front page
and saw his article on Chicago. It was an editorial titled,
What Now: The
Rise of New Biological Weapons in the West
.

Kaito
spoke again. “I did have one question. Your article—it begins with an
assumption that you never really prove. You believe these—let’s call them
genetic anomalies—are manufactured by the West. You call them
unnatural
.
Why is that? Where’s your proof?”

Now
it was Nakata’s turn to laugh. “Of course they’re manufactured. How else would
you explain—”

“But
there are stories from all over the world—folktales and legends. Hercules, for
example. Or Samson? Take for instance the Japanese story of Kintaro. Why
couldn’t any of these be a genetic anomaly?”

“I’m
afraid they’re called stories for a reason, Mr. Yoshida.”

Then
Kaito Yoshida was no longer smiling. Instead his face was hard—angry. Nakata’s
legs felt weak, as if he might fall to his knees again, but there was no sense
of panic like before. It was a different feeling now—somehow more certain.

Kaito
stepped back without speaking a word. He looked to the sky and raised both his
hands high above his head, his fingers outstretched, straining for the air.
Then Kaito swept his hands around in a quick circle, and as they came together,
a black sphere appeared between them. It looked to Nakata like a cannonball.

Kaito
spoke again. “It’s solid air, Nakata. That’s the best I can say to describe it.
I don’t know—I don’t know how else to say it. Here, touch for yourself.” Kaito
held out the sphere in his right hand. Nakata poked at it with his finger. It
felt cold, and hard—solid and smooth like metal. Then Kaito closed his hand,
and the cannonball turned to black water, rushing between his fingers, but
before it could splash to the ground, even the water was gone—evaporated again
into the air.

Nakata
laughed in spite of himself. “It must be a trick.”

“It’s
my ability, Mr. Hiroshi. It’s my gift, and it is my burden. I can change the
state of matter, because
I
am a genetic anomaly, just like the man in
Chicago. And that’s what you missed.”

Nakata
felt his stomach twist. “What? What did I miss?”

Kaito
leaned forward again with another secret. “That we’re
all
connected.”

Nakata
shook his head, “I-I don’t understand. What is it you want from me?”

Then,
as quickly as his attitude changed before, Kaito was smiling again. “I only
want you to watch, Mr. Hiroshi. I want you to watch, and I want you to write
what you see. That’s all.”

Kaito
turned and gave a nod to his man in the suit. The man stepped forward, and
Nakata understood he was meant to stay behind even as Kaito Yoshida walked
away.

Nakata
stepped closer to the man in the suit. “Will someone be taking me back to the
paper then?”

The
man in the suit didn’t answer, and Nakata didn’t bother to ask again.

Instead
he turned back to face Tokyo Bay. He had to focus now. He had to remember it
all. Such was the burden when a reporter foregoes a recording, but not even
Nakata was dumb enough to try and tape a meeting with the Ryoku—let alone a
face-to-face with Yoshida the Khan. He would have to write it all down as soon
as he got back to Yomiuri. Everything Kaito said. Everything he did. Or…at
least most of what he said and did.

“Excuse
me, Mr. Hiroshi.” It was the man in the dark suit. It was the first he had
spoken since he offered the bottle of water.

Nakata
turned, “Is it time to go?”

“The
Shogun asked for your attention.” The man in the suit pointed, past Nakata’s
shoulder, out toward Tokyo Bay and the Rainbow Bridge.

Nakata
turned just in time. He saw the tower on the Rainbow Bridge suddenly warp and
fall away. It looked like someone was holding an ice cube under the faucet as
sheets of milky white water fell from the steel tower into the bay. Nakata
could hear the sick groans of twisting metal from where he stood. Then the
suspension cable collapsed to the road’s surface, and the other side of the
tower twisted away. Then the second tower on the left pitched forward, the
steel buckling under the stress. For a second, the road still floated in
mid-air over the water—held up as if by magic—but then it fell away. It all
happened so fast—in a single breath—but for Nakata he could see it all
unfolding: the cars dropping in slow motion, the roadway breaking apart like
shattered glass, and the towers crashing down sideways through the water.

Nakata
saw everything, and all he could do was watch.