Invasive Procedures (43 page)

“We can’t let them get away,” she said.

“We can’t risk hitting the patients.”

The elevator doors closed. Frank and Hernandez sprang to their feet and ran to the elevator.

“Can you stop it?” he said, pushing the elevator call button.

“No. But here.” She pointed to a ventilation grill on the wall. With a single kick, she knocked the grill inward, exposing a wide air shaft. “The chimney,” said said. “It circulates the air up to the surface. Without it, we’d all suffocate.”

She climbed into the hole.

Frank followed her inside and looked up. Sunlight shined into the shaft from the open grate at least sixty feet above them. Huge fan blades spun above the grate, sucking out the stale air. A line of ladder rungs in the wall of the shaft began where they stood and ascended to the surface. Hernandez grabbed and began climbing. “Come on.”

Frank sighed. More heights and narrow spaces. He holstered his weapon and climbed after her.

Halfway up, they heard the helicopter engine start and the blades begin to spin. “Hurry,” she said. But Frank was already moving as fast as he was able, constantly convincing himself not to look down. The engine
roared to full power before they reached the top. And when Frank finally pulled himself up and onto the helipad, the helicopter was well out of range and banking south toward LA.

Hernandez crawled back into the chimney. “Come on. If we hurry, we can track it.”

Frank didn’t move, couldn’t move. His only hope of beating Galen, the only hope for Dolores and Byron, was now a disappearing speck on the horizon. Why had they taken it? To keep it from me? And why take the patients?

“Frank,” Hernandez called out. He turned to her wearily. “Are you going to stand there? Or are you going to help me catch a helicopter?”

He didn’t answer but instead took the syringe from the pouch at his hip—a syringe that should have been holding countervirus—and felt despair.

And then it happened.

A volt of electricity shot through him, so powerful and so relentless that he could do nothing except drop to his knees and scream. Every muscle in his body constricted as images flashed through his mind at blinding speed, faces he had never seen but now recognized, places he had never visited but now knew well, events he had never experienced but that now felt familiar to him.

He is taking my mind. He is taking the last bit of me.

Forcing himself to move despite the current surging through him, Frank uncapped the syringe, reached behind his neck until he found the small surgical scar, then rammed the needle into it. The added pain was like another bolt of electricity. Frank’s back arched. His scream intensified. But still he pressed down, forcing the needle deeper into his flesh.

Suddenly the needle tip struck something hard and pierced it. And all at once, the electricity stopped.

Frank collapsed forward onto the helipad, and in an instant Hernandez was beside him, pulling the needle out and rolling him over.

“Frank?”

He wasn’t dead. “Yeah, it’s me.”

She looked at the needle. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Not completely.”

She helped him up.

“Don’t bother the tracking the helicopter,” he said. “I know exactly where it’s going.”

Agent Atkins stayed crouched behind the Audi as a hail of bullets shattered what was left of the windshield. Glass shards rained down around him. He couldn’t stay here. Carter was better trained, a better shot, and clearly not intimidated by Atkins’s little band of analysts who had come out to apprehend him. Each of the analysts had taken cover behind various cars and were now as pinned down and helpless and Atkins was.

He looked to his right. An agent in a biocontainment suit lay facedown on the asphalt, not moving. Carter had shot him. Put the gun to his back and shot him—had shot every armed agent out here. And did so so quickly that Atkins hadn’t even fired his weapon. Once Carter knew he was compromised, all hell broke loose.

An analyst two cars over poked his gun around the bumper and fired off two rounds. Brave soul. Little good it did, except give Carter another target to shoot at. Headlights exploded and tires popped as Carter laid down machine-gun fire into the car.

The voice of one of the analysts sounded in Atkins’s earpiece. “We need backup, some armor.”

“We need to find that truck,” said Atkins. “Hernandez said a white pickup.”

“We won’t find anything if we’re dead.”

Point taken. Atkins got on the radio and called for backup again. He
wished Agent Riggs were here, he and his assualt team. They would know how to handle this. They could take Carter. But Director Irving had sent all of them off on some mission this morning—probably to get them away from the building and allow him and Carter to run things unhindered. It was all a scheme. That was glaringly obvious now.

Another volley of bullets sunk into the Audi, and Atkins pulled himself up into a tight ball as glass and shrapnel rained all around him.

Where the hell was backup?

The sound of an approaching helicopter was music to Atkins’s ears. About time. He crawled along the car until he could see the helicopter coming in from the north. It was the BHA’s, flying low. But who was flying it? Hernandez?

It flew overhead and began a rapid descent toward Carter. The door slid open, and Atkins saw the billowing black cape of a Healer. Atkins raised his weapon and fired, but Carter was already climbing inside. Atkins ran out from behind the car and sank two shots into the back of the helicopter, but it was too late. It was already ascending again. When it reached a safe height, it thrust forward and accelerated toward the south.

Monica and Wyatt were squeezed against the floorboard as far as they could go. Byron sat huddled by the passenger door, and Dolores lay sleeping across the seat. The gunfire had been deafening. And close. Monica couldn’t see through the vines that covered the fence to the Federal Building, but the shots were clearly coming from that direction. How Dolores had slept through it was mystifying.

“I hear a helicopter,” said Byron.

Monica heard it, too, then saw it, over the fence. It descended quickly into the Federal Building parking lot and momentarily disappeared from sight. Then, as quickly as it went down, the helicopter was up again. There was brief gunfire and then quiet.

“I think it’s over,” said Byron.

They waited, and the silence continued.

“What should we do?” he said.

“Frank told us to stay here.”

“And if something happened to Frank and he’s not coming back? Or if they’re looking for us? Are we going to sit here and wait for them?”

“I’m scared,” said Wyatt.

She held him closer. “I know, sweetheart. Me too.”

Dolores’s whole body stiffened. Her eyes shot open. And she screamed.

The others covered their ears as the piercing, anguished cry reverberated inside the truck’s cab.

Monica threw her arm around Wyatt to protect him, and then the screaming stopped and Dolores passed out.

Byron discovered he had been screaming as well only when Dolores stopped. He silenced himself, put a hand over his heart, and tried to slow his breathing.

Monica’s heart was racing. Every nerve in her body was on alert. Wyatt continued to bury his face into her stomach.

Dolores stirred, batting her eyes open.

“She waking up,” said Byron.

Dolores jerked awake suddenly, startling everyone. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, looking confused.

“Dolores?” said Monica.

Dolores put her hand to her head, still drowsy, and looked at herself in the rearview mirror. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep. Then you started screaming.”

“Screaming?” She looked at Monica with a blank expression. “Sorry. Sometimes I get nightmares. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

“Where are we?”

“Behind the Federal Building. Frank went to get help.”

“He hasn’t come back yet?”

Monica shook her head.

“We can’t stay here. They might find us.” She reached for the wheel.

Monica stopped her. “You’re in no condition to drive. And Frank told us to stay put.”

“It’s been almost an hour,” said Byron. “There was a lot of gunfire. What if. . . . How long are we going to wait?”

Monica glanced at Wyatt and saw that he was twisting his right forefinger nervously. “And where would we go?” she said. “Who could help us?”

Byron didn’t answer. There was no answer.

A BHA van bounced into the parking lot from Sepulveda. It idled for
a few paces, then—as if searching for the truck and suddenly spotting it—turned on its siren and shot toward them.

“They found us,” Dolores said in a panic. “We got to get out of here.” She reached for the steering wheel. Monica didn’t know whether to stop her or to help her. It didn’t matter. Neither would have made much difference. The van skidded to a halt near them, and four agents in biosuits got out and surrounded the truck. They didn’t draw their weapons, but their hands were on them, ready to do so if needed.

“Dr. Owens?” one of them said.

Monica felt panicked. How to respond? She nodded.

“I’m Agent Atkins, a friend of Dr. Frank Hartman. I’m here to help.”

“Don’t believe them,” said Dolores.

“Unlock the door and come out of the truck,” he said.

“Don’t do it,” said Dolores. “It’s a trick.”

Monica reached for the door lock.

“Mom.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s going to be fine.” She unlocked and opened the door. Agent Atkins offered a hand and helped her down. Then he reached in and lifted Wyatt out. Monica knew then. They were sincere. They were here to help. She took Wyatt in her arms and cried.

On the other side of the truck, another agent helped Byron out. Byron thanked him profusely and even patted the man on the back. The agent then offered a hand up to Dolores. She reached out a hand to accept it, but instead grabbed the man’s wrist, spun him around and kicked him in the back, sending him to the asphalt.

“Dolores!” screamed Monica.

Agents rushed over to subdue Dolores, but she climbed back in the truck and closed the doors before they reached her. The engine revved to life, and Dolores threw it into reverse, causing a few agents to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. Dolores rammed the gearshift into drive and hit the gas, charging straight at Monica. Monica froze, unable to move. Agent Atkins dove to the side, and at the last second, Dolores swerved, pulling right up next to Monica instead of running over her. She rolled down the window long enough to say, “Your work is appreciated, Doctor. I never got a chance to thank you . . . then again, maybe another one of me already did.”

Agents rushed over, but Dolores was already peeling away. She shot
out of the parking lot, narrowly avoiding an accident on Sepulveda, and sped away out of sight.

Byron ran to Monica. “Are you all right?”

She looked at him with a dazed expression, then nodded. For those few moments in the truck, she hadn’t been talking to Dolores; she’d been talking to Galen. She looked at Wyatt. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head.

Agent Atkins got to his feet. “There’s a reason I’m not a field agent. Everybody okay?”

Another siren sounded, then several BHA vans raced into the parking lot. Before the lead van had stopped, Frank jumped out and ran to Monica.

Relief washed over her. He was alive. She had imagined a hundred different things happening to him, but he was alive.

He reached her, his face taught, a look of concern.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Wyatt and Byron are fine. But Dolores, she . . . she took the truck. She . . . transformed.”

He nodded. He understood.

Agents hurried out of the vehicles and urged the gathering bystanders to get back while they contained the area.

“You have the countervirus?” she asked.

He sighed. “There’s no time to explain. Stay with Wyatt.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“To end this.” He turned to Byron. “You’re with me. The moment we have the countervirus, you need to be on hand to receive it.”

“You’re hurt,” she said, noticing the red bandage on his arm.

“I heal fast, remember?”

She didn’t laugh.

He took both of her arms, and she looked into his eyes. She could see that he wanted to say something to her—to reassure her, maybe, calm her, perhaps. Or was it something else? A part of her wanted it to be. A part of her wanted to hear him talk about anything other than this, something normal, even something they had talked about already. But he said nothing. He merely smiled weakly and climbed into the van.

“Don’t go,” said Wyatt.

“I need you to take care of your mom. Can you do that?”

Wyatt took his mother’s hand and nodded. An agent helped Byron
into the rear of the van, and the doors closed. She stood there and watched it turn out of the park.

“Dr. Owens?”

She turned around to face an agent. “Yes?”

“Ma’am, I need you and your son to put these bags on until we can get you inside to decon.”

She wiped her eyes and took the bags. “Of course. Thank you.” She looked back toward Sepulveda, but Frank’s van was already gone.

“Let me get this straight. You have some of Galen’s memories,” said Byron, “but not all of them?” He was bouncing in the back of the van, wiggling into a biosuit.

“I broke the circuit before everything was hardwired,” said Frank.

“Then do the same to me. Now. Break it so the change can’t happen.”

“And risk missing the chip? This is your brain stem we’re talking about. I did it to myself because I had no other choice. It could have killed me or left me brain-dead. I’d rather not risk doing that to you. If we can get the countervirus inside you first, the reaction won’t occur.”

“But what if we don’t get the countervirus in time? I’d rather be dead than him.”

“That’s why Agent Hernandez here is preparing an EMP collar. The moment you feel a jolt of abnormal energy levels on your body, it will hit you with an electromagnetic pulse, which we hope will short-circuit the chip and stop it.”