Immune (56 page)

The sting of the slap on her cheek brought with it a flash of light as Mark’s face swam into view.

His hand moved to slap her again, but this time she caught it.

“Ouch! What are you doing?”

Relief flooded Mark’s face. Beside him, Jennifer’s face had gone so white it looked like she’d seen a ghost.

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of us,” Mark managed. “One minute you were scanning the data and the next your eyes rolled back and you zoned into la-la land. That was fifteen minutes ago.”

Heather rubbed her cheek. “So you decided it was a good idea to beat the crap out of me?”

Mark looked offended. “We tried shaking you first.”

Heather started to give a sharp retort, but the memory of what she had seen brought her back to the moment. Moving closer to the laptop, Heather pointed at the screen.

“I broke the code. I know what Stephenson is doing.”

“Which is?” Jennifer asked, recovering her voice.

“He’s flooding the world with a carrier signal that can reprogram the nanites.”

“Which nanites?”

“All of them. At least the ones that our government is busy pumping into people’s veins all over the planet.”

“That fucking bastard! He’s making a play for the world.” Don Espeñosa tried to jump to his feet, but the ropes stopped him.

“Sit still!” Mark gripped the drug baron’s arm and squeezed. “Move again and I’ll break your legs.”

“Easy, Mark,” Heather placed her hand on his arm. “I get it. Don Espeñosa has a dose of those new nanites—don’t you?”

The drug lord merely scowled back at her.

“So what are we going to do about it?” Jennifer asked.

Heather looked at her friend. “Anything that can be programmed can be shut down. We just need our little computer genius to figure out the shut-down command.”

“That’s not gonna help much,” Mark responded. “Not unless you can broadcast it to the world.”

“I can’t, but we know someone who might be able to, if we supply the program.”

“Jack!”

“And Janet.” Heather turned back to Jennifer. “You think you’re up to it?”

Jennifer nodded slowly. “If you help me with the decryption algorithm.”

“Let’s do it.”

As Jennifer turned her attention back to the laptop, Heather’s visions tugged at the drawstrings of her mind. If they were going to have any chance to put the dark genie back in the bottle, they’d better hurry.

Better hurry. Better hurry.

Heather forced herself to focus. But deep in her mind, the sound of distant laughter echoed.

“Got it!” Janet scanned the new files on her laptop. “Our wonder kids cracked the encryption.”

Jack nodded. “So what’s the bad news?”

“Dr. Stephenson’s new nanites are remotely programmable.”

“Let me guess. It’s related to the weird GPS signal embedding.”

“The GPS satellites are prepared to reprogram all the world’s newly inoculated populations with one massive broadcast.”

“So how do we stop it?”

“The kids uplinked their own reprogramming algorithm to my laptop. It’s designed to send the nanites a shutdown command. Once the nanites shut down, they can’t be restarted.”

“How do they know it’ll work?”

“They say they’ve already tested it on a subject.”

Jack whistled softly. “That’s still no good unless their program can be broadcast over the GPS link.”

Janet nodded. “That’s right. The note says we’ll need to hardwire a link into the GPS control antenna so that the kids can spoof the control center.”

“Why can’t they just remotely override the commands going to the satellites, the same way they’ve been hacking into classified systems around the world?”

“According to the message, they can hack into just about anything, read encrypted data, insert new signals on existing lines, but they can’t interrupt signals that are already on those networks. That means the new commands and the commands already being sent to the satellites would be going out on the same link. The control center would notice the status errors coming back on the downlink.”

“Makes sense.”

“So we have to physically cut the line and reroute it through my laptop. That way our young super-hackers can send all the normal satellite responses back to the control center while we are uplinking the new commands.”

“Where’s the main antenna?”

“Global Positioning System Control Center, Schriever Air Force Base, Colorado.”

Jack stood up. “Grab your stuff. Let’s get going.”

Janet smiled as she clicked the shutdown button on the laptop. She’d almost forgotten how much she missed this.

“Give me five minutes.”

Janet slid the laptop into its case, then turned toward her bedroom. It didn’t take her long to pack. Being pregnant had already cut down on her clothes selection. And the Heckler & Koch 9mm Compact completed her outfit nicely. Giving her hair a quick twist, she slipped her special hairpin into place, glanced around one last time, then followed Jack out of the house.

By the time the private Learjet 35A reached thirty-five thousand feet over West Virginia, Janet had to admit, Jack could still surprise her. She shifted in the co-pilot’s seat to get a better view of his profile. Settled into the pilot’s seat with his headset and microphone, he looked like a Greek god. No. Not Greek—Spartan. But if Jack had been among the three hundred Spartans in that Thermopylae Pass in 480 BC, the Persians would have had their asses handed to them.

Looking through the windscreen toward their destination, Janet knew one thing for certain. Whoever got in Jack’s way was about to get that same treatment.

Garfield Kromly knelt at the graveside, his left hand resting on the grave marker as he gently placed a dozen long-stemmed red roses before it.

An inscription had been etched into the gray marble. Seven simple lines.

Pamela Merideth Kromly

Born January 13
^th
1947 – Died April 5
^th
2003

My Loving Wife and Best Friend.

Long ago, I gave you my soul.

Take care of it for me,

until I find you again.

Garfield

Kromly blinked twice and then rose slowly to his feet. He’d chosen the Fairfax Memorial Park as Pam’s resting place because of the cherry trees. On that April day when he’d laid her to rest, their lovely pink-and-white blossoms had been in full bloom. Now, shorn of their leaves by a November frost, they just looked dead.

As he watched, the sun sank beneath the western horizon, pulling whatever warmth and color remained of the day down with it. Garfield inhaled deeply, then turned toward the car, his steps taking him past a young man who leaned against a tree, face buried in his hands. Without pausing, Kromly passed him by, clicking the unlock button on his key-fob, his own grief so intense he had nothing left to feel for the man.

Pulling open the car door, Kromly had only begun to slide into the driver’s seat when a movement at the corner of his eye turned his head. The young man exploded into him, his hand striking Garfield in the nerve cluster at the base of his neck, sending a kaleidoscope of color blossoming across his vision. Then, along with his consciousness, the colors quickly faded to black.

Pain wormed its way into Garfield Kromly’s head, a squirming snake of fire that started in his shoulders and crawled up his neck, dragging him reluctantly back to consciousness.

He tried to move, but his wrists were bound tight behind his back. Higher up, near his armpits, his arms had been strapped together even tighter.

A memory clicked into place. The North Vietnamese Army had used this particular method on captured US soldiers, airmen, and sailors. Bind the wrists behind them. Then tighten a second strap, forcing the upper arms together until both shoulders dislocated.

So it was to be death by torture. That was okay. It was something he’d prepared for his entire life. Pain. Whoever it was that had taken him had no idea what that word meant.

The image of William Wallace leaped into his head. Drawn and quartered, disemboweled, his intestines roasted while still alive, but defiant to the end. Time for Kromly to give his own Mel Gibson imitation. Screaming held no shame.

“Ah, Mr. Kromly. So nice to see you awake.”

The voice, so silky smooth, with a slight Spanish accent, seemed vaguely familiar. Kromly blinked again, a face swimming into focus before him. Recognition flooded his mind.

Shit! Eduardo Montenegro, a.k.a. the Colombian, a.k.a. El Chupacabra.

A thin smile spread across the Colombian’s handsome face. “I see you recognize me. Good. That will save on introductions.”

The killer turned away, walking out of Kromly’s vision. Garfield tried to turn his head to see where the man had gone, but the pain in his shoulders stopped him.

He was in a single-room log cabin. The rough plank floors were covered with a layer of dirt, the deer heads mounted on the walls draped with cobwebs. A single filthy window let in a stream of daylight from the outside. Except for the chair to which he had been tied, the only other furniture in his field of view was a wooden cot pushed up against the far wall.

Kromly surprised himself with the steadiness of his voice. “You might as well go ahead and kill me.”

Eduardo reappeared, setting a matching wooden chair in front of Kromly before sitting down.

“Now what would be the fun in that? Besides, I have some questions I want you to answer first.”

“If you think pain will break me, then you’re wasting your time.”

Once again the Colombian smiled. “If you think my specialty is pain, then you’ve been misinformed.”

Something in the assassin’s voice sent a chill down Kromly’s spine. He recalled everything he knew about El Chupacabra. One of the world’s most feared assassins, Eduardo settled all his contracts with ultimate efficiency. But, it was his personal killings that revealed the man’s psychopathic underpinnings. Wildly violent, often sexual, orgies of blood. And, with those victims, Eduardo took his time.

If his legs hadn’t been tied to the chair, Kromly would have kicked himself. How had he failed to notice the resemblance of the young man in the graveyard to one of the world’s most-wanted killers? Admittedly, he’d been deep in grief for his lost wife, but there was nothing new about that. He’d been there for five years.

Maybe his worry about the African nanite problems had provided the extra distraction.

Populations that had already been starving remained hungry, but were now strong and healthy. Violent food wars were breaking out all across the sub-Sahara. Roving death squads, which had once satisfied themselves with beheadings, had now become known as Torso Squads, hacking only the arms and legs from the victims, leaving their undying, limbless, nanite-infested bodies as a burden for their families.

Even more nasty Blood Cults had sprung up, their new religion based on nanite worship. Believing that immortality could be achieved by drinking the nanited blood from living bodies, their dark rituals involved hanging victims by their ankles and draining their blood into drinking vessels, which were then passed amongst the worshipers. Meanwhile, the nanites that remained in the victims’ bodies worked their magic, keeping them alive throughout the festivities. At least until they were roasted for the final feast.

For problems to escalate this quickly, while worldwide nanite distribution was still ramping up, should have brought the program to a grinding halt. But it hadn’t. Instead of being a showstopper, the problems were regarded as the inevitable growing pains associated with a major breakthrough, a small inconvenience when compared to the amazing health benefits delivered to the treated populations. It certainly hadn’t significantly muted the clamor in the UN to increase the nanite delivery rate. God only knew what would happen when distribution moved to the other continents, including Asia, Europe, and North America.

“Tell me about the Ripper.”

The question surprised Kromly. As he refocused on the Colombian, a new question occurred to him. Was the assassin’s mission somehow related to the Rho Project? Although it was well-known that Eduardo had a special fascination with Jack Gregory, that was strictly a personal matter.

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“He was seen taking a packet from your pocket at the Washington Monument the day before yesterday. Tell me about that.”

Kromly felt his chest tighten. How the hell did Eduardo have that information? Who had been watching him? A sick sense of betrayal churned his stomach. Someone he’d trusted in his efforts to crack the Stephenson disk must have turned. One of his own people.

Kromly took a deep breath. It appeared that lifetime of conditioning was about to be put to the ultimate test.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry, I can’t help.”