Dues of Mortality (52 page)

Xavier
had just gotten the best of Miles Gabriel when Simonton was
practically blasted in half. For a split second, Xavier thought
Glenda’s screams meant that
she
had been hit. He turned only to see her get punched out. She writhed
on the floor, dazed but still alive. Simonton, on the other hand,
wasn't so lucky. Xavier took one look at him and waxed nauseous. A
flashing green orb then danced across Xavier's field of vision. He
stood frozen as the targeting reticule rested on his forehead.

Gabriel
pushed Xavier off him and got up, pointlessly brushing the salt and
dust residue from his coat. The sight of Simonton’s partially
severed corpse made Gabriel livid.

“
Goddammit,”
he shouted to the henchman. “You idiot!”

“
He
was coming at me with that,” the henchman replied and motioned
to the large chunk of wood inches from the body. “It was either
me or him.”

Gabriel
gave the henchman a daggered look. “Why did you have that damn
thing charged so high? I told you we needed him alive! Look at him;
does that look like alive to you?”

The
henchman had nothing to say.

Gabriel
clenched his fists, making his knuckles shine like pearls through his
expensive artificial tan. He turned toward Xavier and drew his lips
across his teeth. The heels of his shoes sang hatred in every step as
he approached him. He felt his expensive shirt rip in the armpit when
his calculated right cross knocked Xavier’s lights out.

I’m
drowning!
Xavier thought
.
That’s what it felt
like when the water went up his nose. A whole pitcher full had been
thrown in his face to revive him. He gulped and shook it off
hurriedly like a wet dog. Reality phased in and he immediately felt
his throbbing cheek and eye that now bore a swollen legacy where
Gabriel had clocked him. He also felt the pull of his makeshift
restraints.

“
You
should be proud of yourself,” a jagged voice said, sawing
through the residual haziness. Jerome Wallace had his pale ass
pressed against a metal table sneering at Xavier like a snotty school
teacher. “You actually moved Mr. Gabriel here to physical
violence. That’s no small task. He considers it beneath him.”
Wallace watched, with a perverted pleasure, the
formerly
ever-cool Miles Gabriel, off to
the side, pacing like a caged wolf. For once, there wasn't an ounce
of that acclaimed and thoroughly contemptible composure left in the
man.
It's
about time
,
Wallace thought. He'd had enough of shitting bricks all by himself.
Gabriel must have finally realized just how much they stood to lose
if this whole thing continued to go south.

Xavier
cocked his head sideways and looked Wallace over. “Anybody ever
tell you...you look a lot like Ronald Reagan?”

Wallace
smiled openly and punched Xavier dead in the mouth. “I see what
you mean,” he said to Gabriel. “He
does
make you want to hit him.”

“
Where
is she?” Xavier asked. He tasted blood, but refused to give
Wallace the satisfaction of thinking him hurt.

Wallace
folded his arms and glared down at him. “She’s alive, if
that’s what you’re wondering. If you'd prefer she stay
that way then your task is simple.”

Xavier
swiveled his head, taking inventory. The room was nothing more than a
cold, dim box, maybe an unfinished office or storage area. The only
amenities were the broad metal table Wallace sat on and the metal
chair to which Xavier was strapped—typical interrogation room
setting. A grating echo bounced around with every sound, making
Gabriel's clacking heels omnipresent.

“
Tell
that to Peter Simonton,” Xavier said.

Wallace
glanced again, in Gabriel’s direction. “Yes, that was a
most unfortunate miscommunication. It wasn’t my intention for
Peter Simonton to be killed. He had some very important information
for me.”

“
Yeah,
yeah, the datapins.”

Gabriel
halted. He stared so intently at the side of their prisoner's head
that Xavier could almost feel the heat.

“
So
he
did
tell you,” Wallace gleamed.

“
Are
you kidding? The guy never shut up.”

“
It
was one of his more annoying qualities.”

“
He
told us what
you
wanted to know, if that’s
what you’re wondering.” Xavier enjoyed throwing the
phrase back at Wallace. “Considering the fact I’m still
here, you must be.”

“
Yes.
Simonton was supposed to pass along the location of the data once his
little blow-up doll was received. Needless to say, I never got it.
I’m
itching
to find out what’s on
them.”

“
Well,
that’s what happens when people get trigger happy; things get
complicated.”

Wallace
paused to let his presence loom for a moment then said, “You’re
a fascinating man, Mr. Hawkins.”

****

Where
is that smell coming from?
Glenda asked herself. The odor
was faint, but still unpleasant, like the geriatric ward of a
hospital. She turned and eyed the steel reinforced door at the back
of the room. It was hermetically sealed and fitted with a series of
sophisticated biometric locks. It might as well have been a vault in
the basement of a Swiss bank.

From
the opposite side of the room, a man in a gray and black uniform,
reminiscent of a security guard's, assaulted her with a perpetual
scowl that probably couldn’t be blown off with a shotgun.
All
six-foot-whatever-inches of him
,
stood next to the only
other door, tracing Glenda's every move with cold, flat eyes.
He
sported a gun-belt armed with the kind of toys one would see on a cop
or bank guard, right down to the handcuffs and taser. The gun he was
wearing appeared to be one of those MAG things just like the one that
had killed Peter and the kind her father had certainly never taught
her to use. Still, if she could just get hold of it or...Oh shit,
what was she thinking? This wasn't a movie. She wasn't Wonder Woman
and she sure as hell wasn't going to lull this hideous freak into
submission with a striptease. She
did, however, feel a whisper
of pride that
escape
and
not
fear
dominated
her thoughts. Yet, even if escape was possible, she wouldn’t be
sure where to go. She was unconscious most of the way here—wherever
here was—and had woken up with a hood draped over her head. God
only knew if she and Xavier were even in the same place.

“
I
don't suppose you'll tell me where we are?” she asked Big And
Ugly.

He
answered her with a distasteful twitch of his eyelid.

Overgrown
troglodyte
. He probably hadn't understood a word she'd
said. She regarded, again that massive steel door to the rear. She
noticed view screens embedded in the walls above it and that its
locks appeared to be sophisticated biometric devices.
What is this
place?
And where is
Xavier?
What are they doing to him
? She bore down,
trying to call up the events in the warehouse. She was dazed at the
time, but recalled that the guy in the expensive suit seemed angry
when Peter got killed—obviously unintended. Peter hadn’t
given them the information on Beaumont yet and she bet they had no
notion of the deposit box or its key.
They'll
have no choice but to hope Peter had spilled the beans to one or both
of us. So unless he tried something stupid
—which she
wasn't too confident about—
Xavier
should still be alive
. But would they risk killing him if
he didn’t cooperate? Had they already? Glenda's imagination was
sending her under.
Stay cool
girl, like Xavier
taught you
.
Stay
cool
.

****

Agent Brisby picked up the call
through his comwatch and flicked down his earpiece.

“
Brisby,”
he said, answering. After half a minute, he verified the trace and
made tracks for the briefing room. All he knew was that the caller
had mentioned Millenitech and a kidnapping and the new receptionist
should get a raise for knowing exactly where to transfer the call.

In
an adjacent office, Marcel McCutcheon was going over the details of
what had been found on the body at the latest crime scene. He and
another agent were staring at a holographic map projection with a
number of red reticule-style icons marking several locations from
Cleveland to Washington D.C.. McCutcheon looked ready to call it
quits for the day when Brisby walked in on them with his hair on
fire.

“
Boss,
you better take this,” Brisby said.

McCutcheon
put the call through on his own earpiece, leaving Brisby on the line.
“This is ASAC McCutcheon,” he said. He listened carefully
to the voice on the other end. In just the first few seconds, his
face must have translated half a dozen reactions, not a one of them
good for his blood pressure. “Who is this?”

The
man on the other end sounded intense, wired, like he was about to be
pushed out of an airplane at thirty-thousand feet. He kept talking,
cutting through McCutcheon’s inquiries like he was recording a
voicemail and giving only the information he was told to give.

“
Can
you, at least, tell me
who
you are?”

The
line went silent.

“
Hello?
Hello? Shit!”

“
He’s
still transmitting,” Brisby pointed out.

McCutcheon
paused no longer than a blink. “Send the location to HAZMAT,
tell them to meet us there.” He then turned to the other agent
he’d been conferring with. “Round up a fire-team and get
to the helipad. I want to be airborne in five minutes!”

****

The guard at the front gate of
the Upstate Facilitated Octahedron sat in his kiosk, absorbed in the
television squeezed in his sweaty mitt. The Browns were up fourteen
to seven against Pittsburgh. There were three minutes to go in the
fourth quarter and he could practically smell the two hundred bucks
from the football pool.
As he watched the play-clock
tick its way to a win,
a slender unassuming figure emerged
from the darkened dirt road and approached the kiosk practically
unnoticed. The shadows of the hulking complex's arrowhead fences fell
diagonally across his body and he looked like something out of
ancient film noir. Mystified, the guard immediately flipped the
television closed and stuffed it into his pocket. He stepped out of
his kiosk and sauntered up to the gate, a hand on his holster.

“
Hold
it!” he shouted at the stranger.

The
visitor stopped in his tracks.

“
Who
are you?”

“
I
work here,” the visitor answered.

“
Employees
usually don’t enter here unless they’re driving. Besides,
the night shifters should already be in.”

“
I
need to see Mr. Wallace.”

The
entrance was fairly well lit, but the stranger was still standing in
a small pocket of shadow. The guard maneuvered a bit to get a better
look at the man’s face. “Mr. Wallace doesn’t take
visitors, especially ones that wander up out of nowhere.”

“
H...He’s
expecting me.”

The
guard went quirky at the sound of the familiar stammer. “Holy
shit.”

****

“
Xavier C. Hawkins,”
Wallace stated, “former military police officer, dishonorable
discharge following a court martial for dereliction of duty resulting
in the death of one Elana Hatten. Mother was Madeline Hawkins
(deceased), brother is Dr. Bennet Hawkins, married two years to his
wife Cassandra. They’re expecting their first child in six
months.”

Xavier
just sat there, stone-faced. He was desperate for options. Maybe he
could convince Wallace his information was faulty. “Who the
hell are you talking about?”

Wallace
looked curiously at him. “Very convincing,” he said quite
honestly. He glanced at Gabriel. “Miles?”

Gabriel
reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the old .38 caliber Smith
and Wesson revolver. He tossed it over to Wallace, who nearly missed
the catch. Wallace then cocked the gun and aimed it straight at
Xavier’s head.

“
Your
fingerprints, Mr. Hawkins,” he said. “That’s how we
found out who you are. And since the police aren't the ones who found
the gun, I wouldn't expect them to come running to your rescue at the
last second.”

Xavier
tugged at his restraints. “The Cleveland police not doing their
job; go figure.”

“
Then
you're beginning to understand, Mr. Hawkins. Should anything happen
to your brother or any member of your family, no one will have reason
to suspect me.” Wallace beamed, secure in the knowledge that
Bennet Hawkins and his wife were already dead. “But I don't
think we'll have to go there, will we? You’ve gone above and
beyond the call trying to protect Glenda Jameson. It only seems
natural you’d tell me what I need to know just to keep
her
in perfect health.” Wallace
clasped his hands. “By the way, we also found the implant that
Richard Kelmer gave you. Thank you. It will come in handy.”