Blood Oath (31 page)

The pimp’s shoes snapped at the laces as his feet ballooned. His body was just about used up. Inside, his bones would have been tapped and converted into more food for the growths.

He stopped twitching. The growths slowed, then stopped.

Konrad waited. Five seconds.

The pimp’s T-shirt ripped open, and the roots leaped out of the chest cavity, casting about for any new flesh, a last grasp for survival.

Nothing was within reach, however. The roots waved feebly about for another second and then drooped. Dead.

What was left on the floor looked more like a fungus than a man.

Konrad checked his watch again. Five minutes thirty-nine seconds.

Not bad at all. Almost totally useless as a weapon, of course. It required direct insertion into the subject’s bloodstream, and wouldn’t spread beyond a single carrier. But the process was fascinating, nonetheless. Complete conversion of the human biomass into a nonviable form, rebuilding the entire genetic structure in mere minutes.

This was what his patrons never understood, from the Führer to the Soviets, and now the Arabs. They always pestered him for bioweapons or anthrax or some kind of plague. What Konrad did was not science. It was alchemy. And alchemy was all about nonrepeatable results. It was what made him unique—irreplaceable. He wouldn’t give anyone a weapon they could easily duplicate without him.

Konrad smiled to himself. And to think, they called him mad.

 

 

ZACH SAW EVERYTHING. The windows of Konrad’s place framed everything like a plasma-screen TV. He didn’t bother to close the blinds; he probably never thought anyone would be watching from the bushes.

But Zach saw it all. When Konrad’s victim began to change, to transform into that plantlike thing, he almost screamed. Instead, he lost his footing on the steep slope and slid about twenty feet into a chain-link fence below.

That sick son of a bitch, he thought. He was struggling to get up. The shock was gone. All he wanted now was to punish Konrad. He’d do it with his bare hands if he had to. That son of a bitch wouldn’t get away with this.

Zach started climbing the hill like he was a soldier running for enemy lines.

Five minutes later, he managed to clutch one of the struts supporting the house on the hill, sweating and panting. He’d made about ten feet. He was not in shape. Cade was right. He wasn’t prepared for this.

But Cade was. Cade would probably be overjoyed to hear that the good doctor had finally committed a crime punishable by death.

Zach fumbled his phone out of his jacket and hit Cade’s number on the speed dial.

It took a second to connect. He started talking right away.

“Cade, listen, I’m at Konrad’s place—”

That was as much as he got out when he realized two things.

The first was that he had dialed wrong. He was talking to Griff’s answering machine. Not even his mobile phone. He’d gotten the agent’s home number by mistake.

The second was that someone put an arm around his neck. It felt strong enough to twist his head right off his body. He couldn’t move.

Then, from behind, he heard the voice of the heavyset Latin guy from the night before. Laughing at him.

“You’re hilarious,” Reyes said. “I was almost willing to let you get inside for the laugh factor alone.”

Zach wanted to make some kind of witty remark to save his dignity, as Reyes’s hand reached out and took his phone away.

But he couldn’t breathe. Nothing came out of his mouth as the pressure around his neck increased. The darkness claimed him then, and the cold was all he felt.

D
ylan rubbed his eyes and drank more coffee. It didn’t help. He was falling asleep in the booth of the truck stop.

He’d driven as long and as hard as he could, but he could only get so many miles per hour out of the truck. He wasn’t going to make the rendezvous. All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball on the vinyl seat and close his eyes.

He was not going to make it. Khaled would kill him.

Even worse, he wouldn’t get paid.

He was so out of it, he didn’t know when the man sat down across the table from him.

“You look tired,” he said when Dylan finally noticed him.

Dylan jumped in his seat, even though the man looked harmless enough. Cheap suit, white shirt and black tie. Wire-rimmed glasses.

“Yeah. I’m pretty wiped,” Dylan said cautiously. Maybe this was just some accountant, looking for anonymous sex in a truck-stop restroom. Dylan had heard stories.

“I can help with that,” the man said.

Definitely a perv. Dylan’s face curled into a look of disgust.

The man smiled. “I’m not coming on to you, Dylan. Or should I call you Ayir al-Kelba?”

The guy knew his name. The guy knew his secret name. Now Dylan knew he should run. But fear kept him rooted in his seat.

Before Dylan could make up his mind, the man passed him a plain paper envelope.

“What’s that?”

“Open it.”

Dylan was suspicious. If this was a trick, it made no sense. If this guy was from the government, he already had to know enough to arrest him. Why would he bother to set him up?

The man’s eyes betrayed a hint of impatience behind his glasses. “I’m not trying to entrap you. I think you’ve watched too much TV. Just open the envelope.”

Dylan did as he was told.

Pills. Yellow tablets, with no markings.

“What are these?”

“A little something to help you stay awake. Keep driving.” The man stood. “Don’t worry. No one will stop you. Just keep your eyes on the road.”

Dylan looked at the pills, then at the man as he walked toward the door.

“Who are you?” he hissed, trying not to attract the attention of the other customers.

“A friend,” the man said. “Drive safe.”

He left, walking into the light of the false dawn, the glow reflected over the horizon that appears long before the sun actually rises.

Dylan looked back at the pills in his hand.

Oh, why not, he decided. He swallowed all of them with his coffee.

Before he knew it, he was back on the road, driving steadily, his exhaustion a distant memory. He felt like he could take on the world.

He had no idea who that guy was, but this was great shit. He wished he’d said thanks.

T
he call from the White House came just before eight a.m. The president wanted to see Griff. Immediately.

Curtis looked grim when he arrived. Wyman looked ready to burst into song.

This isn’t good, Griff thought. He was concerned he’d pushed too hard on the Kuwaiti connection. Maybe overstepped some diplomatic boundary. But Wyman ... Wyman looked too happy.

“Where are Cade and Zach Barrows?” the president asked quietly.

“I haven’t checked in with them yet today, sir.”

The president chewed on that like a stick of gum. He nodded to one of the Secret Service men. “Show him.”

The agent turned a video screen on a rolling cart to face Griff. It displayed a bombed-out building, shattered concrete and broken glass spewed all over a parking lot.

“What is that?” Griff asked.

“That,” the president said, “is what’s left of the Los Angeles safe house.”

Griff pushed down the panic. Cade was all right. He could survive worse than that. But if it happened in the day ...

“We covered it as a gas explosion with the locals,” Wyman said. “We didn’t find any bodies.”

Relief washed over Griff. Then something else worked its way to the front of his thoughts.

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“We figured you already knew,” Wyman said. He threw a thick folder at Griff. “Read that.”

Griff did.

Phone records. Calls, back and forth. All from Griff to the Promethean Clinic, in Los Angeles.

Then a copy of an electronic flight reservation, made in Griff’s name, for a flight to L.A. next week.

And finally, in the back of the folder, his medical history. Including the latest round of tests, which confirmed the recurrence of his cancer.

Griff felt something plummet in the pit of his stomach.

Griff looked at President Curtis. There was pity in his eyes.

“No one is above temptation,” he said. “Especially when they’re facing a death sentence.”

“None of this is true. These are faked.”

“Sure they are,” Wyman mumbled.

It all became clear to Griff at that moment. They thought he had sold out, for a taste of whatever miracle cure Konrad could offer.

Griff tried to think straight. But it was hard, with the blinding rage pouring through him.

“After all I’ve done—”

“How did this happen, Griff?”

“—I can still see some of the things, when I close my eyes, the things I’ve had to face to keep this country safe—”

“Griff, you have to admit, it doesn’t look good—”

“—children torn to pieces, bodies stacked up on shelves in a supermarket, things that don’t even have names, and, after all that, the shit I have waded through, you have the stones to accuse me—”

“Agent Griffin!” The president was shouting now.

Griff realized he was standing, with his fists clenched.

He took a deep breath and sat down again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

The president scowled. “You say this isn’t true,” he said, pointing to the folder. “You say you don’t know where Cade and Zach are, or even what happened to them. I’m not sure, but I’d almost rather you were lying about that.”

“Sir, I will find them. Cade has probably gone underground. It’s standard procedure when there’s been a security breach.”

Wyman snorted. “You’re the security breach, you dumb bastard. You think we’re going to let you cover your tracks now?”

Griff clenched his jaw and tried to ignore him. “Sir,” he said, directly to the president, “I’m not stupid enough to leave a trail like that. And if Cade and Zach are in danger—”

“We’re all in danger,” the president said. “We still have a threat out there, and our efforts to find it have literally blown up in our faces. Maybe next week we can sit down and sort out this mess. If nobody’s dead. But right now, I have thousands—maybe millions—of people in danger. Right now, your problem shouldn’t be what’s on my desk. Do you understand me?”

Griff hung his head. “Yes, sir.”

Curtis took a deep breath. “Do I really need to tell you what happens next?”

“No, sir.”

The president looked sick and angry. “Get out.”

Griff stood and turned for the door.

He didn’t look at Wyman. At that moment, the VP’s face would have been more than he could take.

GRIFF WAS ALMOST out of the White House when security at the gate told him to wait. He wondered if they were going to arrest him after all.

A few moments later, Wyman strolled out a side exit, three Secret Service agents trailing behind. Great, Griff thought. He wants to gloat.

He stepped over to Griff and tried to look solemn. “Agent Griffin,” he said. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

They had not taken his gun. Griff thought about that. He could probably get it clear of the holster before the Secret Service reacted. He could shoot at least once before they brought him down.

Wyman waited for a reply.

“Is that all?” Griff asked.

Wyman looked torn. He seemed genuinely curious about something.

“Will you walk with me a moment, Agent Griffin?”

Griff considered that. He wondered if Wyman needed to die. If he wasn’t just greedy and incompetent and corrupt. If he was genuinely evil.

Maybe someone like that shouldn’t be that close to the presidency. Maybe this was supposed to be Griff’s last act on Earth.

“Depends,” Griff said. “You need the entourage?”

Wyman turned to the agents. “Give us a little room, please.”

The lead agent nodded, and Wyman’s detail dropped back a few dozen feet as he and Griff walked toward the Rose Garden.

The day was turning warm. Spring arriving early this year. Griff wanted to see the cherry blossoms. He’d have enough time to do that.

Provided he didn’t die in a hail of bullets right here.

He and the vice president walked side by side easily enough. Neither man said anything until Wyman spoke up.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

Griff turned, surprised. “Doing what?”

Wyman’s eyes searched Griff’s. “Dying. You don’t have to.”

Griff laughed. “We all have to.” His hand was in his pocket. His suit coat flared out, covering his motions. He could easily reach to his holster.

“No,” Wyman insisted. “You don’t. Let’s cut the bullshit, okay? I know you’re not involved with Konrad.”

He hissed the last part, in case the Secret Service was eavesdropping.

Griff almost went for the gun right there.

“But what I don’t understand is, why aren’t you? He could cure you. He could save you. Hell, he could make you immortal.”

Wyman was right. Griff had read the files. Konrad could reset the clock on his body, could wipe out the cancer like a spill on a countertop.

“You really don’t understand a damn thing,” he told Wyman.

“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t use something that could save your life.”

Griff looked at Wyman—really tried to see the man beneath it all.

“Don’t you have something you wouldn’t trade? Not for anything?”

Wyman stared back blankly. “I don’t follow you.”

Griff gave up. It was like trying to teach algebra to a slug. He suddenly felt tired. No, more than tired. Done. Done with all of this. He wasn’t sure if this was some other angle Wyman was playing. The man did nothing but play games, really. In truth, Griff didn’t care anymore.