Extinction Machine (11 page)

“We need you to come with us,” said Beaky Nose.

“Why?” I asked.

“We need you to come with us.”

He repeated the comment with exactly the same deadness of voice. No emotion, no inflection.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer.

“Let me see that ID again.”

Beaky Nose didn’t answer. He stared through the black lenses of his sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes at all, not even the outline of them through the opaque lenses. It was a sunny morning, but the street we were on was shadowed by the tall buildings on either side. I was surprised he could see with such dark glasses.

“We need you to come with us,” repeated Beaky Nose. It was almost robotic. Lifeless.

Yeah, it was a little bit scary.

The whole setup was scary.

And it was all wrong.

“Listen to me,” I said, “I’m a federal agent and I’ve been called in on a matter of national security. Unless you have a warrant, then detaining me is a federal crime. Now, you’re going to get into your cars and I’ll get into mine. You’re going to move your cars so I can get around you. Are we understanding each other here?”

Beaky Nose looked at the Italian, then over to the Scarecrow and Baldy. Then he looked at me again. There was no flicker of expression on his face. He did not repeat his favorite catchphrase. He did not, in fact, say a goddamn word.

Instead he went for his gun.

Up till that moment I’d hoped that this encounter wasn’t as weird and threatening as it seemed. And, up till that moment Beaky Nose had a chance of ending the day without severe physical discomfort.

That moment passed.

I kicked Beaky Nose in the nuts with the tip of my shoe. Very, very hard. I have big feet and my shoes have steel toes. This is never good news for the sorry son of a bitch whose balls get in the way of my rage issues.

He screamed loud enough to crack glass.

“Ghost—
hit
!” He launched himself out of the car like a snarling white torpedo as Scarecrow moved in on me. They went down hard and messy.

I slammed the half-open car door into the Italian, jolting him to a sudden stop, I whipped the door shut and jumped at him with a short-range front kick, crunching the flat of my foot onto the front of his thigh. It knocked his leg way too straight and way too hard and the leverage bent him in half and sat him forcefully down on his ass. Even as his tailbone tried to drill a hole in the asphalt, I pivoted my hips, cocked my leg and gave him a flat-of-the-heel side thrust right above the eyebrows. I’m pretty sure he was in happy land before the back of his head hit the blacktop.

Then I whirled to see the bald guy caught in a moment of indecision—help Scarecrow or go for me. He spun and went for the dog. Wrong choice. I reached him in two fast strides, grabbed his collar and jerked him backward off his feet. His gun went flying straight up into the air. I twisted my hip and dropped into a crouch, using the torque and downward weight shift to slam Baldy’s back against the ground with a meaty thud. Air burst from his open mouth, and before he could take the next breath I leaned over and drove a two-knuckle punch into his solar plexus. He made a strangled screech and lay there, gasping and twitching like a gaffed marlin.

“Off!” I called, and Ghost released Scarecrow’s bleeding arm. Ghost’s metal teeth had done impressive damage. The man screamed in pain. I knotted my fingers in Scarecrow’s hair, half lifted him and used my other hand to punch him in the face twice, breaking nose and mashing lips. He went out like a light and I let him drop.

I spun, crouched, ready for more.

But there was no more.

The Italian and Scarecrow were out; Baldy was trying to figure out that whole breathing thing, and it was going to take him a while to remember the rules. That left Beaky Nose, who was curled into a fetal ball. As I approached him he tried to wriggle away, but we both knew that wasn’t going to happen. I felt something give when I’d kicked him. Probably his pelvis.

I’m a nice guy most of the time.

I’m a really nice guy some of the time. Last night at Rudy’s bachelor party I was everybody’s pal.

When it comes to ambushes, however, I find it hard to be affable.

Chapter Twenty-two

VanMeer Castle
Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Sunday, October 20, 6:26 a.m.

Once the call was ended, Mr. Bones closed the Ghost Box and turned to Howard Shelton. The old man was leaning heavily on the desk, head low, eyes staring fixedly into the wood grain. His color was bad and he was sweating.

“This is scary as hell,” said Mr. Bones.

Howard merely grunted.

“I mean,” continued Bones, “on one hand we should be happy that she’s still clueless about the cyber-attacks and—”

“Fuck the cyber-attacks,” snarled Howard. “We’ve got that safeguarded seven ways from Sunday. What about this thing in D.C.? What the hell is happening?”

“It’s definitely not the Chinese.”

Howard’s lip curled back from his dentures. “Yeah? And how do we know those slippery bastards aren’t screwing us?”

“We know because they can’t. Remember the last time they tried? That entire lab complex in Tangshan became the epicenter of a very, very big earthquake. Worst of the twentieth century, am I right? You really think they’re going to risk that again?”

“How the fuck should I know?” growled Howard, his face becoming livid. “
We
keep risking it. Any risk is worth it. Mount St. Helen’s, Haiti … even if someone ever puts two and two together, they’ll see how everything we’ve had to do is all for the ultimate good. That’s easy math. Besides, if we hadn’t gotten lucky with the organic component we’d be in the same boat as them.” He shook his head. “But it’s not the damn Chinese I’m worried about. Or the Russians or the frigging North Koreans or anyone.”

“Then what?”

“What Yuina said … about the Truman Projection. Christ, Bones, what if she’s right?”

“Oh God, you’re worried about that? You think we’re being invaded by aliens?” Mr. Bones burst out laughing. “Yuina is a very brilliant, very dedicated, very crazy lady and she’s been in the lab far too long.”

“Yeah, but what if she’s right?”

“She’s
not
right. ET’s gone home, Howard. We have junk and burned bodies and nothing else. This is all past tense and you know this.”

“What if she’s right?” Howard insisted.

“Not a chance in hell,” said Mr. Bones with absolute certainty.

Howard merely grunted, but sweat continued to boil from his pores. It ran in lines down his cheeks.

“Jesus Christ, Howard,” yelped Mr. Bones, “what’s wrong?”

“I … I think you’d better get my nitro,” said Howard very carefully. “I feel like shit.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Baltimore, Maryland
Sunday, October 20, 6:33 a.m.

We were starting to draw a crowd. I ignored them.

Beaky Nose kept trying to wriggle away, but I moved into his path of retreat and squatted down. He took one look at me and gave up.

I took his ID case and looked at it. The photo was bland and uninteresting. The name printed on the card was “Stephen Albert.”

“Who sent you?” I asked him.

Instead of answering he leaned over and vomited. His eyes were glazed and his face had turned a bright red. Huge spasms racked him from hair to feet.

“Let’s come back to that,” I suggested, and went over to pick the pockets of the other agents. Baldy was Benjamin Carr, Scarecrow was John Woods Duke, and the Italian-looking guy was Mark Bucci. I didn’t recognize any of the names. MindReader would get me every last detail about them, so I pocketed the IDs. I also took their guns and removed the keys from the ignitions of both cars. While I was at it, I checked the glove compartments and trunks of each vehicle and found nothing. The cars were as clean as if they’d just rolled off a Detroit assembly line. Not even a pack of gum or an owner’s manual.

The only remarkable thing I found was a small rectangular piece of metal Agent Albert had in his pocket. It was about the size of a Zippo lighter, but thinner and with no moving parts that I could see. I would have dismissed it as nothing more than a piece of junk except for the fact that he carried it and had nothing else of a personal nature. So it wasn’t a worry stone or a good-luck piece. It weighed next to nothing and was warm to the touch. I put it in my pocket.

Agent Albert was on his knees with his hands cupped around his balls, but his red face had turned gray-green. I squatted down in front of him.

“Who sent you?” I asked.

He tried to say something, but he couldn’t make coherent sounds. His lips formed the words:
Fuck you.

“You’re not making this any easier on yourself, Albert.”

He didn’t respond to my use of his name. Not a twitch. His bug eyes stared at the puddle of vomit in which he knelt. People were coming out of buildings and stepping out of cars. A few began moving closer, but Ghost gave such an eloquent growl that they retreated to a minimum safe distance.

I leaned a little closer to Agent Albert. “Listen to me, asshole—I don’t know what they told you when they sent you four morons out on this pickup, but they didn’t give you enough information. You just stepped in shit and believe me when I tell you that a kick in the junk isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you today. On the other hand, if you tell me who sent you and why, I can see your luck definitely improving.”

All he did was give me a slow, stubborn shake of his head. I sighed. Twenty minutes ago I was in a warm bed with a beautiful woman. A beautiful naked woman. I’d intended on sleeping until noonish, then wake her up, romp with her some more, and afterward the two of us would go on a prowl for the thickest steaks in Baltimore. Instead, I was here. I felt like crap due to lack of sleep, residual booze in my system, a hangover that made my head feel like it was held together with duct tape and enough postconflict adrenaline to make my eyes twitch and my hands jump.

Plus there was that whole “the president has been kidnapped” thing that was setting fires in my head.

“Last chance,” I said to Albert.

Another slow shake.

I sighed. “Your funeral, pal.”

“Yo!” called someone from the crowd. “What’s going on over there?”

I got to my feet and held up my ID. “Federal agent. This is a crime scene. Clear the street.”

They milled but none of them left. Everyone seemed to be taking photos with their phones. In the distance I heard the banshee cry of sirens.

I made two quick calls. The first was to my brother, Sean, who was a detective here in Baltimore. I told him the details that mattered but nothing of what was really happening. Sean didn’t really know what I did for a living—like most folks from my previous life, he thought I worked for the FBI—but he promised to pass along word that I was to be allowed to leave the scene. He said he’d call our dad, too. Dad’s the mayor of Baltimore. Sometimes nepotism is the best grease for the gears.

Then I called Church and gave him the full story.

The sirens were really close.

“Theories?” asked Church.

“Not a goddamn one.”

“Okay, get out of there as soon as you can. I’ll handle things with Baltimore PD and we’ll see about a transfer to bring those four to a facility where we can interview them. I’ll also get Jerry Spencer out there to take samples and sweep their cars.”

“Cars are clean. Doubt Jerry’s going to get anything besides fingerprints.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Jerry was a former DCPD who now headed up the DMS forensics unit. He was damn good at it, too, though he never seemed to enjoy it. World-class grouch. No visible social skills. One of the DMS guys privately described him as “Sherlock Holmes with hemorrhoids.” Like that.

“Any news?” I asked, and he knew what I meant.

“No,” said Church.

“Call me paranoid, boss, but I find it strange that these jokers took a hard run at me today.”

“Because of this morning?”

“Maybe. Or maybe because the veep is now the commander-in-chief. Last time he was in the Oval Office he sicced the NSA on us. Could be doing the same with the FBI.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“Don’t know. Timing’s weird, though. And … the wattage is dialed up. These guys wanted to hurt me. They were drawing guns when I made my play.”

“I’ll make sure they land in our custody,” said Church in a way that was not intended to suggest that these guys were going to spend the rest of the day getting blow jobs and eating bonbons.

“Cops are here,” I told him as the first units screeched to a stop.

“Ghost—down and quiet,” I said and he obeyed. With that command he’d even let me get cuffed—if it came to that—without doing anything that might get him shot.

I stepped clear of the cars and raised my hands; one was empty and the other held my NSA credentials.

The officers pointed guns at me. They yelled at me. They manhandled me. They took my gun. I had to reinforce my orders to Ghost because he doesn’t like seeing people manhandle his pack leader.

“National Security,” I said over and over again.

Ghost growled.

One of the cops drew his Taser and pointed it at him.

“Listen to me,” I said in my most reasonable tone, “I am a federal officer involved in a matter of urgent national security. You can run my ID and do whatever you have to do, but if you Tase my dog I’m going to shove that gun so far up your ass you’ll be shooting sparks out of your nose.”

Maybe they weren’t impressed by the trash talk, but nobody fired a Taser at Ghost. For his part, my dog held his ground, though he eyed them like they were items on a menu.

The cops tried to cuff me. I’m not stupid enough to try physical resistance, but I kept trying to stall them with credentials and the National Security angle. That worked only long enough for the juice to kick in. A call came down the line that made them suddenly back off and change their attitudes toward me. Maybe it was Sean, or my dad … or, more likely, Mr. Church. They handed me back my gun. The guy with the Taser holstered his piece and didn’t meet my eyes.