Cain (10 page)

Above the door of the containment cell was printed in bold red letters: GENOCIDE ONE, MI-MV, HyMar-I.

Without hesitation she opened the freezer and entered to close it more quie
tly than necessary. And for the briefest moment she stared down, hand tightening on the panel, wondering if she were right. Then love for her child flared and she walked without remorse down the aisle to a row of small bags marked MI, Mil, Mill, MIV, MV, HyMar-I. She reached up slowly to remove the first and turned to a table, careful to keep the bio-suit's air hose close and untangled.

In seconds she removed a stainless-steel syringe from a gray row and with clinical skill inserted the needle into the bag's nodule. Slowly she extracted two hundred cc's of the original Marburg virus, removing the
needle. Then she turned and placed an air-sealing cap on the hypodermic, laying it carefully on the counter. Replacing the MI toxin on the shelf, she opened another freezer to remove a fist-sized liquid nitrogen container.

It was less than six inches long, slate gray and cylindrical, and could easily be concealed in her purse. She placed the unbreakable steel syringe within the niobium-titanium transportation unit and closed the container with an airtight latch, measuring the nitrogen level.

There was enough in the container to keep the syringe at 32 degrees Fahrenheit for twelve days. Staring down, she watched the red needle holding steady. Then she had another moment of guilt and wondered if she were truly right, or even responsible, in what she was doing. But as she paused she recalled the horrific videotape of Cain escaping and somehow knew that, in the end, the virus would be their only chance.

Concentrating, she reviewed all the safety factors; the Marburg virus
was housed in an unbreakable steel syringe sealed with a safe-locked air tight cap; the syringe was housed in another airtight, almost indestructible niobium-titanium transportation unit that held enough liquid nitrogen to keep the virus frozen for twelve days, and she knew that, if necessary, she could destroy it at any time with an injection of mercury.

With that thought she reached up and lifted a small vial of mercury, another syringe for insertion.

Sweating heavily inside her suit despite the chill of the freezer, she tried not to think about the enormity of the risk. She was not only violating federal laws and ethics and international treaties that prohibited the transportation of Class IV viruses, she was conceivably endangering the entire world. But then the world was already in danger and she was certain that conventional military weapons would never finish Cain.

Yes, she'd been certain of that single horrifying fact since the day they finished rebuilding him and his traumatic incisions had healed without scars
within an hour.

And, most of all, there was Amy.

Maggie grimaced: No! Cain could not have her child! He would
never
have her child!

She was certain that if she could hit Cain for even a tenth of a second
with the needle he would be as dead as he'd been before. And in her soul she knew she was more responsible than anyone for starting this; she was willing to give her life to finish it; a penance well deserved.

Face hardening in determination, she lifted the mercury and the nitrogen unit, holding it in a tight fist, and left the laboratory.

***

Soloman hit the deck at the Lear before Chatwell could even stop the Jeep. He saw Ben boarding the hatch of the jet beside a somber Maggie. At his arrival, Ben turned and gave him the thumbs-up.

Soloman
was sweating heavily in the night heat and nodded as he moved toward a fiercely armed Delta contingent: twelve men wearing full body armor and bearing an intimidating array of weapons.

He was on top of them in seconds, commanding like the colonel he'd once been and felt himself becoming
again—mean, disciplined and advising by sheer attitude that he wouldn't take any crap or excuse for failure. These were men that were best led from the front—and that was where he planned to be.

"School circle on me!" he called out, and the men were
instantly around him. "Who's the XO?"

"Here, sir!" A big Mexican stepped up.

Soloman saw that the Mexican was much larger than he was, even larger than Chatwell. He wasn't muscular in the contemporary sense but he held the aura of a deep and natural animal power; something that was hard the day he was born and hardened more by a life of hardship. His bearded face—bearded because Delta commandos were often required to work in foreign countries under civilian cover—made him look like a Cuban drug runner. His eyes were black and implacable with only the faintest crescent moons and Soloman reflexively knew him for what he was: a professional soldier, someone who lived to fight and fought well.

Thoroughly prepared, he was armed with a back
-slung eight-shot Remington 870 shotgun and an MP-5—a compact 9-mm submachine gun that had a nine-hundred-round-per-minute cycling rate. A Colt .45 was on his hip with extra ammo and a large bowie knife. He carried the load as if it were weightless.

"What's your name, lieutenant?"
Soloman squared off, settling up front who was in charge, knowing that he had to do it now or never.

"Lieutenant Garcia, sir."

A snappy reply.

Soloman
nodded: Good, there wouldn't be any problems with these guys because they were the real thing. Not shake-and-bakes with a green M-16 that they couldn't use effectively if you gave them a truckload of ammo.

"Lieutenant,"
Soloman said sternly, "we go locked and cocked when we hit the deck at Fallbrook."

"Is this a drop, sir?"

"Negative." Soloman had come to it, feeling alive as the words gave something back to him. "We've got two slicks standing hot in a pick-up zone to deliver us for a snatch-and-grab. When we get the objective safely airborne we'll have two gunships as escorts. But if things go bad, and they might, we have a naval sanction to use deadly force in civilian territory. You'll be issued a briefing file when we close the hatch."

"We're hot, sir."

"Good. I'm Apache One and Chatwell is Apache Two. What's your designation?"

Garcia smiled, teeth gleaming in a harsh Mexican face that you wouldn't want to meet anywhere but in a church and even then not to hear his confession. He spoke distinc
tly.

"Malo
Hombre."

Soloman
couldn't help smiling as he turned away.

Yeah, he probably was as bad as bad gets.

* * *

C
HAPTER 7

Night ... so nice.

It was so much more pleasant than the hateful light of day that tormented him with so much he could not fully remember.

He stood a time in the concealing dark, beneath the trees, sensing dimly that this paleness was as nothing compared to the stygian fire of his half-forgotten world. Yes, for in that place even the shadows burned with cold flame that scorched his soul and scarred his mind moment by moment with the awakening of pain, pain, too much pain to torment him for eternity because it would never leave his blackened heart in peace.

He growled, raising eyes against the stars where he had risen to cast down his throne. "Almost," he whispered balefully. "I almost brought down that holy pride."

He waited long, and longer, but only silence answered, as the wind fell still. Frowning, a brooding beast in the gloom, he stared over the house, knowing so well that the seed of his life was inside, protected now by men who surrounded the structure with weapons that could never destroy this fantastic form he inhabited.

It was the FBI, he knew. But they could not stop him. Nothing on Earth could stop him because he was more than all the Earth. He was the destroyer of worlds, had always been the destroyer of worlds though this world had been taken from him, until now. But now, yes, here and now he could again become the god he had been.

He was dressed in a black shirt with black pants and boots that he'd stolen from the military surplus store, with a vehicle. Afterwards he had traveled northward, driving along the vast forest roads that twisted through Colorado. It had been easier than he'd anticipated because the military perimeter had finally yielded to the awkwardness of distance, becoming widely gapped at two hundred miles.

Now he was free from the search party, though the physical limitations imposed by this form continued to irritate. And for a moment he cursed the restraints forced on him by seizing this humanity, lamenting the phenomenon that had caused him to forget so much, remembering so little. Yet he knew that the temporary loss of memory was the horrific price paid to cross the void, the price to gain control over this splendid flesh that rendered him impervious to attack and even pain.

He was surprised at first when he had suffered such grievous wounds inside the laboratory at White Sands only to return the force and more, killing easily as his heart gloried in the blood he shed. For he had never expected it to be so easy, had expected more resistance even as he had been resisted when he'd been struck down so horribly and cast out to— Falling.

Days ...

Darkness
...

Floating on
Stygian fire ...

Floating
...

A
wakening
!

He closed his eyes.

Enough, he thought, I am not what I was. I cannot remember what I was. But I will always be more than
them
.

It was no matter. For the agony of this world, and even the agony
of the Abyss, were mere glory compared to the cursed and hated presence of that musical light that he himself had created so long ago to glorify what he would never glorify again. Glorify?

Eyes glowing red, he snarled as fangs emerged.

No, he would never glorify anything but himself.

***

"Okay, Amy! Let's play a game!"

S
itting on the floor of the den, sunlight-blond hair falling over her face to frame angelic blue eyes that were both intelligent and innocent, Amy Milton looked up and saw the kind of vivid fear that adults can never hide.

She saw her babysitter, Kathy, smiling too much and talking too fast and acting as if there were nothing to fear, and Amy knew clearly that there was something to fear. "What's happening, Kathy?" she asked, in a soft voice. "Who are those men outside? Why do they have guns?"

"Nothing's happening, Amy!" Kathy smiled disarmingly. "There's just a bunch of policemen outside. They're making sure that we're safe."

"Safe from what?"

Kathy paused. "Just ... safe."

But her reply couldn't conceal her fear and then she blinked, as if realizing she'd failed. Slowly she reached out with a gentle hand. "I don't know, Amy," she said, reality there. "I wish I did, kiddo. But I don't."

A moment passed and then the babysitter leaned forward to hug the six-year-old, already dressed in her pajamas. Eye to eye, holding the child's tiny shoulders, Kathy added, "But you know I'm gonna stay with you. We're in it together." She winked, smiled. "And your mom's gonna be home soon. She'll tell you."

"Those people aren't going to hurt us?"

"No," Kathy whispered, openly amazed at the question. "These men aren't going to hurt us, Amy. They're the FBI."

"What's the FBI?"

"They're good people, Amy. They're our friends."

Amy's eyes gleamed with a perception rare for her age; it was the kind of intelligence adults feared because it told a child what they really thought. She said nothing as she gazed at the older girl.

"It's going to be all right, kid," Kathy said, smiling. "Like I said, we're in it together. These people will protect us."

Amy lowered her head, blond hair falling over soft blue eyes.

"But ... from what?"

***

Screaming in at two hundred miles an hour, the Nightcat burned a black trail on the tarmac of Fallbrook National Airport.

Soloman
glared out the window to see emergency vehicles racing alongside, yellow lights flashing, and in a hot combat mode unbuckled his belt. He stood as the pilot lifted the horizontal flaps to aid the brakes and then he was leaning over the squared face of Chatwell, yelling above the roar of reversing engines.

"Lock and cock when we hit the deck and remind Malo that he's got a standing green light to fire on acquisition of this thing! I want six men per slick and tell that police chopper we're
coming in fully armed at full-tilt boogie! Make sure you put Maggie with the wingman!"

"Yes, sir!" Chatwell obeyed without hesitation. He unfastened his belt and staggered toward the rear of the jet where the twelve-man Delta squad was already on their feet, loading.

Soloman moved across the aisle. "Ben!"

"Yeah!"

"Tell the FBI we're coming in hot! If they haven't moved her yet, tell 'em to hold their ground!"

"Are you sure about this, Sol?" Ben's eyes gleamed with excitement. "You're sure we're not wasting our time?"

Soloman sharply shook his head. "There's no way to be sure! But I'm not taking the chance! After we get the girl relocated we'll get down to tracking this thing!"

"Good enough!" Ben reached up and snatched a plane phone off the
hook. He was speaking in seconds, shouting over the twin engines as the Lear slowed hard, wheels almost skidding on the tarmac. Bracing himself, Soloman snatched up the black bag of shells and the SPAS-12 shotgun before turning to stare at Maggie. "You're getting in the secondary chopper!" he shouted. "Just do as you're told, Maggie!"

Her eyes were blazing with concentration, catching every detail second by second with amazing speed. She wasn't intimidated by any of it,
Soloman could see clearly, and her grim frown revealed that she'd caught a measure of his combat heat. She grabbed his arm strongly as he turned away.

“Sol! If you
have to fight then you have to hit Cain dead-center in the chest and keep hitting until he falls! The only chance you'll have is to cause a shock trauma to his heart because conventional weapons won't penetrate the internal plates! Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, Maggie." He nodded. "I think so."

She repeated it, screaming over the chaos of the jet. "It's all psychological! I saw it on the tape! Everyone hits Cain hard but then they hesitate because they expect him to fall! And Cain uses that moment of hesitation! Soloman! Listen to me for a second!"

He stared down.

A measured breath and she continued, "Listen! If Cain comes to launch a counterattack! The only chance you have in a stand-up fight is to hit him repeatedly in the chest! That might cause his heart to skip or even stop and could put him down for a few seconds until Hy-Mar gets his heart back on line!"

Soloman
had already thought of that because it was the classic mistake of a soldier. They hit hard but then hesitated to see what kind of effect the blow had, and that's what got them killed. He'd seen it over and over in his career. He was genuinely impressed that she'd perceived it on her own, and so quickly. He realized that her intelligence was astounding, and it wasn't limited to the laboratory.

"Thanks, Maggie," he said cur
tly. "You can count on it."

He turned away as the emergency vehicles pulled up and he saw that some had red-blue code equipment; civilian police, federal agents only used blue. Then the door was yanked open and he was the first man off, Delta commandos close.

In seconds they reached their two Hueys. The rotor blades were already spinning lazily. They split into squads, Soloman leading Squad One, Malo leading Squad Two. Soloman turned as he heard a police officer frantically hailing Ben.

Running quickly to the patrol car, Ben spoke over the whining en-gines as
Soloman placed Maggie on the wingman's chopper, the blades roaring feet above their heads. Then above the din he heard Ben screaming and spun.

And knew.

The general's voice was barely audible above the ungodly roar.

"They've lost her!"

***

Night echoed with the howls of dying men as Amy Milton ran quickly through the woods at the back of her house, for she'd seen the giant charging through the white flashing maze of gunfire, had seen him hurt the other men, the FBI men who were there to protect her. Then she saw the monstrosity on the front steps and was backing into the kitchen as it hit the door, smashing the wood into sections.

Standing dark in the door, he was drenched in blood. His shirt was smoking as his head turned until he sighted her and then the terrible face split in a horrible grin and Amy knew
she
was the one he wanted.

With a scream she fled, glimpsing Kathy as she wildly threw herself in the giant's path. Then Amy heard Kathy's scream die to nothing as she frantically jerked open the back door where wounded men crawled and limped across the backyard. Raising hands to the screams she ran through them, knowing somehow that they couldn't save her, and then she was beyond the grass, legs flashing white in the moonlight.

She whirled back as she cleared the yard to see the giant following, always following, down the steps. Then deafening gunfire erupted in the night as the FBI also saw him and began firing.

It was a war face-to-face and Amy staggered, seeing the thing fall backward at the assault before he rose with a vicious roar. He leaped over the hood of a car to hit a man hard in the chest and then the rest of them were on top of him, firing, firing, always firing.

It wasn't enough.

The monster went through them, bloodied and ugly and horrible, and as the red eyes saw her again he howled in laughter, leaping forward only to be engaged by other FBI men who never stopped firing and then they were all fighting together in a haze of blinding noise.

So loud, before silence.

Amy was deep inside the tree
-line as a horrible roar followed her into the darkness.

"
Aaaaaaamy
!"

***

Like gleaming black dragonflies the Hueys swept in over Amy's house, turbos straining. But they saw nothing except ambulances and police cars and innumerable infrared signatures. Soloman ordered a tight circular pattern at two hundred feet. "Infrared is useless, Colonel!"

Soloman
cursed, expecting it. He'd hoped that the infrared signature of Cain would be colder or somehow different than the rest but it was obviously the same, if it was there at all. He searched for another tactic, thinking furiously.

"What do you want to do, Colonel?" the pilot shouted.

"Use air to ground lighting!" Soloman yelled. "Put those quasars at ten million candlepower and light this place up!" He turned to the six Delta commandos. "Visual search! Find the girl or find Cain! One or the other I don't give a damn!"

Dividing three by three—each man already belted to his seat—the teams instan
tly leaned out the open hatches. They pointed weapons downward ready to open fire on sight as the massive searchlight beam descended from the belly of the Huey.

"Colonel!" the pilot shouted.

"What!"

"They've got a report from a wounded FBI agent that the girl was running in a northeast direction with Cain in foot pursuit! They say she ran into an eighty-acre section of woods!"

A Delta commando pointed sharply. "There it is, Colonel! Right behind the house! It leads to that water treatment plant at two o'clock!"

"Set this bird down on the north side of the treatment plant!" Soloman shouted. "Relay the command and tell the other slick to land south! Advise Malo to initiate a three-by-three pattern on infrared for a blood trail! Then I want both of these birds lighting up the forest in a holding pattern until we locate Cain or the girl!"