JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID (25 page)

Streng cursed himself for being sloppy. He swung out the cylinder—warm to the touch—and yanked the spent brass, feeding in two fresh bullets. Then he moved down the hall, slow and cautious. He led with the Colt but kept his arm bent and tight against his body so the weapon couldn’t be knocked away, reminding himself to aim for the head; Bernie’s body armor might stop Magnum rounds.

When he reached the first doorway—the comptroller’s office—Streng held his breath and paused, an ear turned to listen. Nothing. He brought the lighter forward, saw a desk, file cabinets, a bookcase, the closet door open and empty. Nowhere to hide.

Streng moved on to the washroom, opening the door in a single clean motion, pointing the gun upward. Empty again.

Four offices left, including Streng’s, plus a boardroom and the drunk tank. Streng didn’t feel nervous. He was a seasoned cop and a seasoned hunter. Scary as Bernie was, the man was cuffed and had no weapons. Streng simply needed to stay calm, cool, and methodical, and he’d get Bernie. Dead or alive.

A smell wafted up from the hallway. Smoke. Not the cordite from the Colt; something chemical and sharp. Streng’s nose led him past two doors, to the mayor’s temporary office. On the floor, near the desk, the plastic zip line Streng had used to tie Bernie’s hands. The ends were melted and still smoking.

Bernie was free.

Adrenaline spiked through Streng’s veins. He looked left, then right, not seeing Bernie, wondering how he could have gotten out of the room without Streng seeing it, realizing he couldn’t have so he must have thrown the zip tie in there, spinning around to see Bernie charging at him—

The Colt was shoved to the side just as Streng dropped the lighter, which winked out when it hit the ground. Bernie hit him full body, slamming Streng backward into the desk, driving the air from his lungs.

The sheriff held on to the gun, shoved it into Bernie’s stomach as the killer pounded him in the sides. He squeezed off a shot, point-blank. Bernie recoiled, slipping off of Streng, hitting the floor. Streng aimed where he guessed Bernie to be and fired three more rounds. He waited, trying to hear above the ringing in his ears. Nothing. He fumbled for his man purse, located another lighter.

Bernie lay on the floor, sprawled out and eyes closed. Streng’s kidney burned, and his gun hand shook, and along with the pain and the fear was a bubble of animal rage. One shot to the head and it would be over. Streng had killed before. In Vietnam. In the line of duty, during a liquor store robbery. But he’d never murdered anyone. The distinction was large. In one case, the person was shooting back. In the other, the person was unarmed.

Streng got down to one knee, aimed the barrel at Bernie. The man deserved this, and probably much more. But was it Streng’s job to judge? Even more important than the grayness of right and wrong, would Streng be able to live with himself afterward?

He fired.

The bullet hit its mark, not penetrating the body armor, but flattening out Bernie’s kneecap like a stepped-on dog turd. Bernie’s eyes popped open and he howled, and Streng grabbed his collar and dragged him across the tile floor, to the cell room. Ignoring Bernie’s sobs of agony, he located the correct key, swung open the steel-barred door, and pulled him inside.

Streng didn’t feel any sort of vindication or swell of pride when the jail door clanged shut. He’d stood by his morals and hadn’t murdered a defenseless man, but that might not have been the right decision. Time would tell.

“Stop hurting me, Mommy!” Bernie wailed. “Please stop hurting me!”

Streng left the room.

J
osh checked the rearview mirror and glanced at Dr. Stubin sitting in the back seat. Stubin was petting Woof—the dog had fallen asleep with his head on the doctor’s lap and was snoring softly.

Between Josh and Fran in the front seat, Duncan and Mathison also slept, each sitting with their heads back and their mouths open. Fran stared out her window as they drove, absently stroking her son’s hair.

“So how do we stop them?” Josh asked Stubin.

“The Red-ops?” Stubin rubbed his nose. “Well, we can assume they’re enhanced. Besides the chip implants they’ve probably had other body supplementations. Better vision. Better hearing. Quicker reflexes. Performance-enhancing drugs for bigger muscles and more endurance. I’m guessing they’re wearing the latest in body armor. And possibly, their dopamine and serotonin levels have been tweaked, giving them greater resistance to pain.”

“But they can die, right?”

Stubin flashed his crooked teeth. “Everything dies, Josh.”

Josh wasn’t convinced. “One of them, Ajax, is the biggest guy I’ve ever seen. Has to be seven feet tall.”

“Human growth hormone experimentation. I’ve studied that. Very difficult to pull off. You said there are four of them?”

“Four that we know about. Ajax, Santiago, Taylor, and Bernie.”

“A Red-ops unit in Wisconsin. Amazing.”

Josh didn’t care for the note of admiration in Stubin’s voice. “You think terrorism is amazing?”

Stubin shifted, pushing Woof off to the side.

“You have to understand, Josh. Pure research doesn’t exist anymore. You need to have funding. There are the pharmaceutical companies, but they only dump money into drugs. Charities and philanthropists are trying to cure cancer and AIDS. The only group willing to pay for cutting-edge research is the military, and only if it is applicable to some aspect of warfare. But this research has farther-reaching applications. Think of a world without learning disabilities. Where brain disorders are things of the past. Where people could be programmed to know right from wrong and criminal impulses could be controlled.”

“And what about freedom of choice?” Fran asked.

Stubin leaned forward. “Do you really believe that freedom of choice exists? India still has a caste system. Most of the Middle East treats women as inferiors and those who practice other religions as enemies. China regulates how many children couples can have, genocide abounds in South America and Africa, Malaysia has a booming underage sex trade, and the list goes on and on. All around the world the people in power abuse it and human rights are ignored. But what if we were incapable of hurting our fellow man? What if our core impulse was to help each other rather than control each other? The human race is destructive. This research could fix it. Purify it.”

“I remember another historical figure trying to purify the human race,” Josh said. “It didn’t work out so well.”

Stubin sneered. “Hitler was a fool. You can’t breed perfection out of an imperfect species. Genetics are the problem, not the answer.”

Josh looked at Fran and saw she was thinking the same thing he was: Stubin had a few loose screws. But the army must have brought him here for a reason other than lectures.

“So what’s your function in this?” Josh asked.

“I’m here in an advisory capacity. But unless I can contact the military, my role here is pretty much useless. When I tried to get close, they shot at me.”

“And why did you bring the monkey?”

“If I leave Mathison home alone, he gets bored, drinks all the beer, and breaks things. Or maybe he does it out of revenge. When I teach him sign language someday, that’s the first thing I’ll ask him. Where are we going, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The roadblock won’t let us get to the hospital, so we’re visiting a local doctor to patch up Duncan and Fran.”

“Is the doctor nearby? I noticed we just turned onto Old Mason Road.”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “He lives off Old Mason, at the end of Duck Bill. Are you familiar with the area?”

“I memorized the maps while taking the helicopter here.”

“The helicopter. That was the explosion earlier?”

“Unfortunately. They landed at the Red-ops crash site. Apparently it had been booby-trapped.”

Josh had searched the crash site thoroughly but hadn’t seen any traps or explosives. He must have gotten lucky and not triggered any.

They drove for another ten minutes. Josh kept glancing over at Fran, checking on her, and twice he caught her looking back at him. If they got through this,
when
they got through this, Josh wanted to see as much of Fran as he could. He hoped she felt the same. They had a lot of lost time to make up for.

He turned off of Old Mason, onto a sand and gravel road surrounded by forest.

“This is Duck Bill?” Stubin asked. “Why hasn’t it been paved?”

“That comes up every few years at the town meeting. The residents here say they like their roads rustic and old-fashioned and want to keep them that way. I think it’s because they don’t like change.”

“Change is inevitable,” Stubin said. “You can’t ignore technology.”

“Ignoring it and choosing not to embrace it are two different things, I think,” Josh said. “Here we are.”

He parked the Roadmaster on the grass next to Doc Wainwright’s house and touched Fran’s shoulder. “I’m going to see if he’s home. Do you and Duncan want to come in with me?”

“Duncan’s asleep. I don’t want to wake him up.”

“Will you be okay?”

Fran met his eyes. “We’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Josh let his hand linger for longer than necessary, then nodded and exited the vehicle. The general practitioner lived in a ranch, on the west shore of Big Lake McDonald, surrounded by trees. His electricity seemed to be out, just like everyone else’s. Josh had visited him once at his office in town to have a large splinter removed from his palm. He found Wainwright’s bedside manner excellent and his skill with a scalpel and tweezers adequate at best. The quintessential country doctor.

He approached the front door warily, as if something might pop out at him at any moment. The woods—a source of tranquility for Josh as long as he could remember—no longer seemed safe or familiar. Josh stopped and studied a shadow on the porch, judged it to be a lawn chair, and continued onward. He knocked three times, waited, and knocked again.

“Doc? It’s Josh VanCamp, from the fire department. I have some people here that need medical attention.”

Josh waited and knocked once more. No sounds of life from inside the house. The doctor was either a heavy sleeper or he’d been lured into town by the promise of lottery riches. On impulse, Josh tried the doorknob. Unlocked, just like most houses in the Northwoods.

“I’m going to check if he’s home!” Josh shouted back to Fran.

He wondered whether she and Duncan would be okay with Dr. Stubin and decided to chance it. Even with everything that had happened to her, Fran seemed able to take care of herself just fine. When they were dating, Fran had told him she suffered from panic attacks. He’d even seen it happen once, during a Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a carnival he’d taken her and Duncan to. Fran froze up when the ride ended, and it took Josh and two carnies to pry her hands off the safety bar and remove her from the car. Perhaps she’d since conquered her demons.

Josh entered the house cautiously. He was breaking and entering, and if Wainwright was waiting in the darkness with a shotgun he’d have every right to blow Josh’s head off. But Josh was willing to risk it. Even if the doctor wasn’t in he probably had medical supplies. God only knew when they’d get Fran to a hospital. At the very least she needed antibiotics.

“Doc! You home? Anyone here?”

No answer.

He tried the light switch on the wall, which didn’t work, and made his way into the kitchen by feel. People kept flashlights in easy-to-reach places, like drawers, or atop the refrigerator. The latter is where Josh found a Maglite, one of the models that used half a dozen D batteries, making it a weapon, as well. He spotted Wainwright’s phone. A busy signal. Then he searched cabinets, discovering only dishes and canned goods.

Moving on, Josh located Wainwright’s office and quickly found a medical cabinet stuffed with equipment. Josh filled a pillowcase with free samples of Cipro, a vial of lidocaine hydrochloride, a can of aerosol antiseptic spray, two sealed syringes, some acetaminophen samples, forceps, hydrogen peroxide, and a sealed suture needle package.

Outside he heard Woof bark.

Not a friendly bark. A warning bark.

Something was happening. Something bad.

Josh rushed out of the office, through the front door, just in time to see the Roadmaster pulling away down Duck Bill Lane.

• • •

T
aylor noted that Olen had begun wheezing. While the gas mask protected the man from inhaling hydrogen cyanide, the chemical had soaked into his clothing and subsequently his skin. From there, it bonded with every cell it could, preventing them from getting oxygen. Taylor figured he had perhaps five minutes left to live. Because of this he took over the driving. They were currently on a rarely used dirt road and had to slow down to navigate the sharp turns.

“How far are we?” Logan asked, poking Olen with the knife. Olen was bleeding from a dozen or so previous pokes.

“We’re … close. Feel … sick …”

Then he puked in his gas mask and fell forward, banging his head onto the dashboard.

Logan stabbed him again. Olen didn’t flinch.

“He’s dead,” Logan said.

Taylor hit the brakes. He and Logan tugged Olen out of the Honey Wagon and left him on the side of the road. Then they took off their masks and protective plastic garments and tossed them into the trees. Taylor opened the MMDSC and pressed the talk button.

“Location 1.6 kilometers east on Deer Tick Road. Attempting to locate nest.”

Logan spat. “Now we have to search for him. You could have given the guy some of your Charge.”

“You could have given him some of yours,” Taylor snapped back. “This road is a dead end. If Warren Streng lives anywhere on it, we’ll find him.” Taylor scanned the tree line and saw a rusty sign nailed to a tree that read “Private Property, Trespassers Will Be Shot.”

“Besides,” he said. “I think we’re close.”

W
hen the perimeter alarm went off, Warren “Wiley” Streng switched the video monitor feed to his plasma-screen TV and sat in his lounger, watching the Honey Wagon approach. It stopped, and two people in gas masks pulled a third out of the truck.