Invasive Procedures (42 page)

Irving’s face reddened. “Agent Atkins, take this man into custody.”

Atkins didn’t move.

“The doctor who performed the surgeries, a cardiologist, is probably on the missing person’s list. You don’t believe me, check it out.”

“Another one of your victims, no doubt,” said Irving. “Agent Atkins, I will not ask you again. You will remove Dr. Hartman or shoot him should he show further resistance.”

Frank looked at Atkins. “I can prove it. Dr. Owens is right outside and will confirm everything I’ve told you.”

Irving turned white. “She’s outside?”

“As well as three other people who will testify on my behalf, two of whom are also infected.”

Irving ran to a phone and picked up the receiver. “Get me Carter.”

“No,” said Frank.

Atkins pointed the gun at Director Irving. “Wait. Put the phone down.”

Irving stared. “Are you a fool?”

“You said
she
,” said Atkins.

“What?”

“You said, ‘She’s outside.’ You knew this doctor was a woman.”

“He said it was a woman,” offered Irving.

“No I didn’t,” said Frank.

“Put the phone down,” said Atkins.

“I will do nothing of the sort. And you, sir, are guilty of insubordination.” His attention turned to the phone. “Carter, it’s Director Irving. I—hello?” He looked down at the base of the phone, where a young female analyst had her finger pressed on the button, cutting the line.

Atkins advanced slowly. “If this is a misunderstanding, then we’ll resolve it without Agent Carter’s assistance. And without yours.”

“This is insane. What’s the matter with you people?” He backed away from the desk. “You’re going to believe a murderer, before you believe your own superior. I am a presidential appointee!”

He was floundering now, backing away from them toward his office. He bumped into an agent, turned, reached into the agent’s suit coat, and pulled out a gun. Before the agent could respond, Irving had the barrel pointed at the man’s head. “Stay back,” he said.

Everyone froze. “Put the gun down,” said Atkins.

“I told him not to involve you, Dr. Hartman,” Irving said. “I knew you’d be trouble. But he wouldn’t listen to me. And now you’ve gone and made a mess of everything.”

“Put it down,” repeated Atkins.

“You think I’m going to let you get the countervirus? You think I’m going to let you stop it?” He pointed the gun at Frank and fired. Bullets ricocheted off the wall behind Frank as he dove for cover behind a desk. Two more bullets splintered the edge of the desk, not far from Frank’s head.

People screamed and dived for cover.

“Stop,” said Atkins, running toward the back of the room.

Frank peeked over the desk and saw Atkins chasing Irving down the back corridor. Frank raced after them.

He caught up to Atkins at the door that led to the subway line. It was sealed tight.

“He went inside,” said Atkins.

“Open it.”

“I can’t. Analysts don’t have access to T4.”

Frank pounded the door once with his fist. This couldn’t be happening. Irving was headed to the subway line. And from there to T4, where the only vials of countervirus were kept. And unless Frank stopped him, he was certain Irving would try to destroy the vials. Now that his cover was blown, Irving had nothing to lose. He’d do whatever was necessary to keep Frank and the others from eradicating the virus and stopping the transformation.

“We have to open it,” Frank said. He looked around him, desperate for a wedge to slide the doors open. He saw a fire hose coiled behind some glass on the wall. “Break the glass,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t. I might cut my suit. Just do it.”

Atkins brought his elbow hard against the glass, shattering it. Frank reached in, took the long nozzle, and quickly unscrewed it. Then he held the nozzle like a hammer and hit the space where the two sliding doors met. The clang echoed through the chamber but made only a small dent in the surface.

“You’re wasting your time,” said Atkins.

But Frank continued pounding, hitting the same spot with explosive force over and over again, gradually increasing the dent until the metal was pressed in far enough that Frank could wedge his fingers inside.

“You’ll never get it open that way,” said Atkins.

Frank strained and the doors parted a few inches.

Atkins looked stunned. “How’d you do that?”

Frank pulled again. Gears creaked as he slid the door a foot wide. Then he squeezed himself through just as the subway car was pulling out of the station. He jumped over the subway attendant, now lying facedown on the platform, and ran toward the car as it pulled away.

Frank put on a burst of speed. The car was only a few feet away but quickly getting faster. Just before it disappeared into the tunnel and just before Frank ran full speed into the concrete wall that marked the end of the platform, he launched himself into the air, arms fully extended, reaching for the ladder rungs on the back of the car.

He caught one and swung painfully down against the rear of the car, his dangling feet only inches from the track below. The force of his landing rocked the subway car.

A shot rang out, and a bullet ripped a hole through the metal a foot to Frank’s right. He pulled himself up to the rung above him and kicked his feet until they found purchase.

Just as he was reaching for the third rung, the car banked hard to the left. Frank felt himself swinging away from the ladder and slamming back against the car, holding on with one hand and kicking desperately to right himself again.

Another shot and another hole, this one dead center on the ladder, precisely where he had clung to the ladder only a second before.

The track became straight again, and Frank swung back into the rungs. He quickly got his footing and scurried up the ladder to the top of the car. The tunnel walls and ceiling whipped past, and Frank felt the wind push at him fiercely as the car picked up speed.

He lay on his stomach and clung to the small rivets on the car’s exterior, hoping Irving hadn’t heard him.

He apparently had.

Glass shattered as Irving smashed out the subway car window. Then Irving’s head emerged from it. He turned and looked up onto the roof. He saw Frank and raised the pistol just as Frank kicked out with his leg, catching Irving’s arm and sending it swinging back in an arc against the tunnel wall. There was a brief flash of sparks as the gun scraped the wall and was torn from Irving’s grip. Irving cried out and pulled a bloody hand from the wall as the gun bounced and disappeared onto the track behind them.

Irving looked at Frank, his face trembling and twisted with anger, then disappeared inside.

But only for a moment. When he reappeared, he was no longer wearing his suit coat. And as he climbed out of the window and crawled up to the roof, Frank could see why. Irving had wrapped the coat repeatedly
around his hand, not to make a bandage but a glove. Gripped in that hand was a foot-long shard of glass from the shattered window.

“You could’ve been the master, Frank. You could’ve done great things. But you went off and made a mess of it, made a mess of everything. Stone was right. You are no longer worthy.”

Frank kicked out to disarm him, but Irving was waiting for it. He dodged and lashed out with the glass, slicing through the biosuit and cutting Frank’s leg.

Frank winced. The cut wasn’t deep, but the look in Irving’s eyes told him it was just a taste of things to come. Frank clawed his way forward, pulling himself against the wind, trying to put some distance between them.

Suddenly the car shot forward, increasing its speed.

Irving flattened himself against the roof and grabbed hold as the wind pushed harder against them. Then, once steadied, Irving pushed off with his feet and forced himself slowly forward despite the gale, coming for Frank.

Frank clung to the rooftop, unable to move any farther. The wind was too strong now. It was all he could to do to keep from sliding backward. He turned his head just enough to look behind him. Irving was in his airflow and therefore still crawling forward.

In a second he’ll be on me, he thought.

He turned his head back to the front and saw the bend in the tunnel just before the car banked hard again to the left. The force of it ripped his hands from their holds, and he felt himself sliding off the roof.

He caught the bar on the edge of the roof just as his body tumbled over the side. Now he was hanging, the track racing below him, the tunnel wall only inches behind him. He looked back as Irving tumbled off the roof as well, catching the bar and nearly falling away from the car.

They hung side by side, Irving within striking distance. Before Frank could stop him, Irving lashed out with the glass and sliced Frank across the arm.

Frank cried out. Blood poured from the wound, spilling out of the biosuit.

A glint of victory twinkled in Irving’s eye. He reared back the knife again, but Frank was faster. He swung his body hard to the side and rammed Irving with his shoulder. Irving’s head snapped back from the
blow, and when he looked up again his face was covered in blood. But not his own blood. Frank’s blood. Blood from the cut on his arm.

The virus attacked instantly, boring into and searing Irving’s skin. He screamed, dropped the glass, and wiped at his face furiously with his free hand. But it did little good. In a second, the virus was spreading down his hand and across his face.

He looked up at Frank, his face blotchy and black. “I have failed the master.”

And let go.

Frank watched as Irving’s body dropped into the darkness and disappeared from sight. Dead. Or as good as dead. If the fall at this speed didn’t kill him, the virus shortly would. Frank felt sick. He had never intended to kill. He only wanted to be whole again. But Irving wouldn’t allow it. Frank was a threat to the master’s plan. Master. The master of what? Deceit? Manipulation? Selfishness? I didn’t kill Irving, Frank realized. Eugene Irving died the moment he lost his will to George Galen. Galen was the killer, the master of death, even after he was dead himself. And Frank could easily turn into Galen at any time.

Fatigued and aching, Frank pulled himself back up to the roof and lay flat. In moments the car began to slow. When it came to a stop on the platform, an armed agent in a biosuit was waiting. “Don’t shoot,” Frank said.

“It’s me. Hernandez. Atkins called ahead. He explained everything.”

Frank slid off the roof and onto the platform. “Let me see your hands,” he said.

“My hands?”

“Hold them out.”

She did. Her gloved hands were calm and steady. “You going to read my palm or something?” she asked.

She wasn’t part of it. “Why didn’t you stop the car?” he asked.

“I tried. Irving must have overridden the system on the other end. You okay? You’re bleeding.”

“It’ll heal itself. Just keep your distance.” He pulled a bandage from the first-aid kit at his hip and began wrapping his arm, covering the blood and containing the virus.

She looked in the car. “Where’s Irving?”

“About a half mile back. You have a key to that door?”

She led him to the entry and swiped her card key. The retinal scan
confirmed her identity, then the door opened. Two agents lay on the floor in the corridor ahead of them, darts protruding from their backs. Frank and Hernandez ran to them.

“What happened in here?” he said.

“I don’t know. I’ve been on the platform all morning. Before that it was peace and quiet. Are they—?”

Frank found a pulse. “No, sedated. These are Healer darts. You didn’t hear anything?”

“The doors are too thick.”

“Who else has come through here?”

“No one. Not down the subway line. Not since Carter left.”

He took one of the agent’s sidearms. “Call Atkins. Have him look for a white pickup truck at Westwood Park. Tell him the site is hot and requires maximum containment. There are people inside who need immediate attention.”

“I think Atkins has his hands full engaging Carter, but I’ll tell him. What are you going to do?”

“Retrieve samples of the countervirus.”

“From the infirmary? Not alone, you’re not. I’m coming with you. I’ll radio Atkins on the way.” She put in the call and led Frank through the labyrinth that was T4. He was grateful to have her. They passed more sedated agents along the way, all lying helplessly at their desks or on the floor in the corridors. There were no signs of resistance; the attack appeared to have happened all at once and caught everyone unawares.

They rounded a corner close to the infirmary and stopped in their tracks.

“Did you hear that?” she said.

“Sounded like a child screaming.”

They listened and heard it again. Definitely a child. A little girl.

“Come on,” she said.

They burst into the locker room, guns at the ready. On the far side of the room were the doors to Level 4, now wide open. Cautiously Frank and Hernandez approached them. It was silent inside. They went through another series of doors and into the infirmary. The doors to the patient rooms were open as well.

“This one’s empty,” Hernandez said, checking a room.

“This one, too. How many people were still in here?”

“Seven or eight.”

Frank ran down the line. Every room was unoccupied, and the tousled bedsheets and scattered personal items suggested that they had left in a hurry. He ran to the nurses’ station, grabbed a syringe, then ran to the spot where he had left the metal trunk.

The trunk was gone. No countervirus.

In the distance, a child screamed.

Frank stuffed the syringe into a pouch on his hip as he and Hernandez rushed out of the infirmary and toward the elevator, where the sound had originated. As they rounded the corner they saw Stone carrying the trunk of countervirus into the elevator. Lichen was behind them, carrying the young Turner girl, Kimberly, who was crying and looking distraught. Several more frightened patients were waiting inside the elevator.

“Stop!” Frank said.

Stone saw them, turned with his dart gun, and fired. Frank pushed Hernandez away and took cover as a hail of darts dotted the wall where they’d been standing.