Monster Hunter Nemesis (34 page)

“Z told me. I never thought I’d say it, but I’m damned sorry to hear that. We had our differences, but Dwayne was a friend once.” Harbinger still didn’t seem convinced. He was not the sort of man to farm out his revenge to somebody else.

“Give me a few days. If Stricken’s not dead by then, do whatever you want.”

Harbinger sat on the edge of the slab next to him. “I’m having a real hard time thinking clearly on this one, Franks.”

“I did hit you on the head a lot.”

“Naw. It’s hard to make good command decisions when you’ve got a personal grudge, and I’ve got a personal grudge a mile wide. I care about Heather and that’s making me angry, and anger makes me do rash things. You won’t get it, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way about anyone. I’d gotten used to everybody getting old and dying around me while I stayed the same. That makes command decisions a lot easier to bear. We’re the same that way, you and me, but I was a regular man once. I don’t know . . . Heather made me feel like I was that man again. I can’t lose her, Franks.”

It was odd, having an actual conversation with Harbinger. Franks felt like they should be drinking beers or something.

Harbinger glanced down at Franks. “Shit. Listen to me, confiding in
you.
You wouldn’t understand. You don’t care about anybody. You don’t have anyone. You don’t have loved ones or family—”

“I have a son . . .” Franks muttered.

“Really?”

“Yes.” Franks still wasn’t sure how he felt about that revelation. A human would feel proud, or attached, or
something
. “I understand the desire to protect your own. Avenge Kerkonen and you destroy everyone else you love.”

“Well, how about that . . . Words of wisdom from the pile of parts.” Harbinger finished off his cigarette, then ground it out on the slab next to Franks’ ear. The place was still more sanitary an operating room than the truck stop he’d performed Agent Strayhorn’s liver transplant in. “Julie said you came here to get some demon tracker you saw last time you were downstairs. I know the thing she’s talking about. I picked it up on a contract job in Ethiopia a long time back. Never could get it to work right anyway. I think it’s busted. You can have it. You’ve got forty-eight hours, Franks, and the clock starts the minute Milo throws you off this table. I’m going to be using that time putting together a plan to mess up Stricken’s little kingdom.”

“That will do.”

“You’ll need help.”

He thought about the interrogator’s cryptic message. “I’ll have enough.”

“You’ve got a deal, Franks. I’d shake on it, but I already threw your hand away.
Milo!
I know you’re listening just outside the door, so you can quit hiding. I’m done,” Harbinger shouted. “He’s all yours. Get this Fed off my property ASAP.”

Anderson came back into the room, holding a severed arm. “Groovy. I can’t wait to see how this fits.”

Harbinger stopped and studied something on the limb. “How’d that get on there?”

“It was Z’s idea. His brother Mosh came in for the Newbie class and he knows how to do ink, which isn’t surprising if you look at the guy. Z said Franks loves us so much it would be hilarious. It was a rush job but I think it came out pretty good.”

He couldn’t see what they were talking about. “What did Pitt do now?” Franks demanded.

“Okay, this I approve. Pretty him up, Milo.” Harbinger slapped Anderson on the back and walked away. “Later, Franks.”

“Harbinger, come back here.
Harbinger!
” But the obstinate werewolf left anyway. Knowing Pitt, whatever they had done to the body part would be obnoxious. Franks would probably have to go into battle against a demon lord of the Fallen with My Little Ponies or something equally humiliating stamped on his body. “What did he do?”

Milo Anderson held up the arm so he could see. A large MHI Happy Face had been tattooed on it. “Pretty sweet, huh? You get to wear our logo. It’s like we’re bros!”

It was
worse
than ponies.

* * *

The Nemesis prototypes each had their own private sleeping chamber. Since the walls were solid and the doors were reinforced with locks that could be controlled from the command center, they were basically prison cells. They were normally kept isolated from each other. However, they did eat their meals together in a common area. Kurst knew that this was not intended as a kindness, but rather as an observational opportunity to watch for signs of stress while the subjects interacted. However, the prototypes were always on their best behavior in the common area, mostly because he’d ordered them to remain that way. If the humans knew what rage-filled hate machines they had in their midst and the horrors they would love to inflict upon the mortals, they would wet themselves in fear.

They ate in silence. The human psychologists may have wondered at their lack of conversation, but that was only because they were unaware of their prototypes’ telepathic abilities.

The gift works,
Bia reported.

Kurst continued to eat his bland cafeteria food.
Excellent.

She was sitting next to him. Since there were always cameras on them she could not perform a full demonstration, but she moved her hand beneath the table and placed it on his thigh. He could feel her fingertips lengthen and sharpen into claws.

It was very exciting.

The doctors did not catch it during my daily physical testing and blood draw. I detect no side effects. As for the kill switch . . .
She placed a napkin to her mouth and discreetly spit a small metal sphere about the size of a ball bearing into it. The toxic container was a simple yet deadly device. Bia put it back in her mouth, and willed it back through the roof of her mouth, through bone and tissue, until it was back in its proper resting spot inside her brain.
It is simple to remove.

All of the demons heard and understood. Though their faces remained expressionless masks, there was rejoicing around the table. The kill switch problem was solved. After millennia of torment, and months of slavery, their freedom was at hand. Kurst was pleased. They would allow Stricken to obliviously continue building bodies for the host, and once he had an army, they would strike out on their own. Putting up with the mortal’s nonsense was galling, and demons were not known for their patience.

Why wait, General? Your new ally would allow us more freedom than the albino, and surely his cultists could find the resources to replicate Project Nemesis. I worked with the Condition before. Their arcane abilities are remarkable. Why wait for the whims of another creator, when we can create life ourselves?

That was an excellent idea.

Bia’s claws receded, but she let her hand linger on his thigh. Eventually the cameras would observe that demonstration. Let them. It would give the psychologists something to talk about.

* * *

Franks chugged down the dose. At least he could drink without it spilling out the side of his face now that they’d stretched some extra skin over the gash and stapled it down. The burning hit his stomach and then radiated out through his limbs, burning the discordant bits of flesh into one coherent whole. It was gag-inducing, but MHI’s version of the Elixir would do.

“According to everything I know, I can’t figure out what this stuff is supposed to do.” Trip Jones’ dossier said that he had been a high school chemistry teacher before being recruited, so he at least knew enough not to totally ruin the mixture. “How is it?”

“It tastes like swill,” Franks said, grimacing through clenched teeth.

Jones bit off an angry response. None of the Hunters wanted Franks hiding here, but Jones especially seemed to dislike him. Some humans just had an instinctual sense about Franks’ true nature.

The Elixir reached his new stomach. Sudden agony ripped through Franks. He dropped the empty cup, spilling bits of glowing fluid on the floor. Lightning radiated down his bones. He roared and slammed one fist through a sheet metal table. The Hunters all leapt back. The lightning began to subside. Franks held up the shaking, bloody hand and studied the bruising pattern of his knuckles. Capillaries and nerves were connecting. That orc did good work. He flexed his muscles.
Better.
“Get me another.”

“Are you sure?” Milo Anderson asked.

“I’m always sure.” Normally when the MCB needed to make that many repairs to him they would take their time and give him a tiny amount of Elixir through an IV drip. Overloading this much Elixir through his system could cause premature organ failure, but he had work to do, and Harbinger had imposed a very short timeline on him. Since he would more than likely die facing Kurst, he wasn’t too worried about the lifespan of his internal organs.

Pitt hobbled into the Body Shack. “Hey, Franks. I—damn, somebody should have warned me he was naked. I knew you were built out of spare parts but I didn’t know some of them came from farm animals.”

“Shut up,” Franks snapped. He was being held together by about a thousand stitches, so he really wasn’t in the mood for Pitt.

“Nice tattoo though.”

“I’ll remove it with a belt sander later.”

“By the way, on that whole
I owe you a kidney
thing from that one time I accidentally shot you, duty fulfilled. You never specified it had to be one of mine. We’re square.”

Franks was sorely tempted to burn this compound down when he left, and he probably would have if it wasn’t for that angel and his stupid prophecies. “What do you want, Pitt?”

“We just intercepted a guy at the front gate, which is strange, because it isn’t like we get very many visitors out here; but even stranger, he said he’s looking for you.”

No one knew he was coming here, not even Myers’ loyalists.

“Yeah, the idea of you telling all your buddies that MHI is harboring public enemy number one through ten just fills me with all sorts of warm fuzzies, but Earl talked to him. He flashed some medallion and said God sent him to help you, says he’s from the holy order of saint somebody of the something. He made it sound like he’s a mystical Catholic ninja monk, but Earl said he’s all right.” The other Hunters nodded at that, as if Harbinger saying somebody was
all right
was a significant blessing. “Personally, that would strike me as kind of weird, except I’m talking to Frankenstein’s monster who was just dismantled by my werewolf boss before being put back together by our orc priestess, so what the hell do I know?”

“Little of value.” Walking was extremely difficult because the new leg was not fully assimilated yet, but Franks limped toward the door anyway.

“Hey, you can’t go out in front of the Newbies looking like hamburger,” Jones said.

“Plus he’s buck-ass naked,” Pitt added. “I’ll get my emergency pants.”

Franks knew where the Hunters stored their explosives. He could probably turn Cazador into a fireball visible from space.
Stupid angel.
“Bring him to me,” Franks ordered. Luckily the Hunters didn’t argue, because Franks really was entirely out of patience.

By the time the Hunter from the Secret Guard of the Blessed Order of St. Hubert the Protector arrived, Franks had been given a pair of sweat pants and had managed to guzzle down another dose of Elixir.

He was an average-sized man, part Asian, part Caucasian, somewhere between thirty and fifty, and completely innocuous and forgettable. The only thing notable about him was the fact he didn’t seem in the least bit surprised to see Franks’ obviously sliced apart and stuck back together body. The man didn’t look very threatening, but looks could be deceiving, and Franks had dealt with this particular shady organization before.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“You’re a hard man to find, Franks.”

“Leave us,” Franks ordered the MHI staff.

“Don’t tell me what to do. It’s my shack,” Anderson protested, but Jones and Pitt dragged him from the room. “But I want to see what the mystical monk does.”

Franks waited until the door was closed. “Show me,” he ordered.

The man reached into his motorcycle jacket and lifted out a gold medallion. Franks didn’t need to look at it for long to feel that it was real, and if this man wasn’t ordained to be wearing it then it would have turned molten and burned through his skin. Franks nodded for him to continue.

He put the medallion away. “I’m Michael Gutterres.” He talked like an American. He didn’t try to shake hands. That was good. Franks was tired of meaningless pleasantries. “You know who I’m with.”

“Yes.” The Secret Guard had a nominal relationship with the Vatican, mostly for finances and recruiting, but they didn’t really answer to anyone there unless they felt like it. They mostly did their own thing, kept to themselves, and stayed out of mortal affairs. They existed for one reason and one reason only: to stomp on anything off The Plan. If it had snuck in from another world, the Secret Guard had a problem with it. In that respect, Franks had been uneasy allies with them for a very long time.

“So you know why I’m here.”

“To try to kill me if I’d broken The Deal.”

“I like how you stuck the word
try
in there.” The Hunter had a confident smile. Franks wanted to wipe it off his face. “But yes, that’s fundamentally correct. From what I’ve gathered so far, there’s more going on than just what the MCB has let slip. A large number of the Fallen seem to be congregating here. From what I’ve seen, you still seem to be fighting against them. Is that correct?”

Franks nodded. “The Deal is still on.”

“Good. You’ll understand there’s no offense intended if I keep an eye on you long enough to make sure that’s true. When you struck your bargain, my order was the only organization around capable of dealing with you should you go back on your word. The head of our order made a solemn vow that we would deal with you, and though we’re a shadow of what we once were, we still honor our oaths. We’ve been monitoring you ever since.”

“I know,” Franks said. He’d dealt with these self-righteous types before.

“Mr. Harbinger was nice enough to let me in. Turns out he was tutored on how to master lycanthropy by one of our exiles in Cuba a long time ago.”

“Santiago. Met him once.”