Project Maigo (19 page)

Or destroy her.

So as much as I’m playing along, I have no intention of trying to control her. And that’s why it’s going to work. Endo felt a backlash from Gordon that was strong enough to put him in a coma. But he was trying to control the man. I’m aiming for a dialogue. If that’s even possible. Who knows, maybe my head will explode. I just think it’s worth the risk.

“Well, then, since we’re all on board,” I say. “How do we get this done? It’s not like we can call Nemesis on the phone and invite her for dinner.”

“Actually,” Endo says, a gleam in his eye that says I’m wrong. “I think we have confirmed that there is one way to draw Nemesis out of hiding.”

Collins, Woodstock and I stand silent, waiting for his revelation, because we sure as shit don’t know what he’s talking about. But then Collins groans and turns her head to the sky. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?” I ask, feeling stupid for not figuring it out.

“You’re the bait,” she says.

“Not exactly,” Endo says. “Nemesis is not interested in harming you. Her intentions seem to be the opposite, in fact. She will come if you are in danger. In
mortal
danger. To save you.”

I turn away from the others. I’d rather watch Scrion’s body be dissected than look into Collins’s eyes. Not because she’s disapproving, but because I might change my mind. “I need to be in mortal danger.”

Endo nods.

“Still sounds like a worm on a hook to me,” Woodstock says.

“We can’t do that here.” Despite the charred remains of the city coast, the area is still densely populated. “And we can’t travel to a remote location without wasting a lot of time. Who knows how long it would take her to follow us, or even if she would? So there’s really only one place we can do this, right?”

I know he’s come to the same conclusion already, so it’s no surprise when Endo steps up next to me and says, “Correct.”

Looks like Boston gets to be Nemesis’s Tokyo after all. “To Boston, then.”

25

Fourteen hours later, I’m standing on top of a 325-foot-tall apartment building, not all that dissimilar from the one Maigo was murdered in—except that this building stands on the coast of Boston’s North End. Or rather, what once was Boston’s North End. While work crews have been slowly working their way toward this part of town, clearing debris, they’ve barely scratched the surface. I’ve heard estimates between five and ten years just to clear out the rubble. Needless to say, this part of town is empty. A wasteland. Although the building beneath my feet was somehow spared, the skyscrapers to my back, and the New England Aquarium to my left, look like they’ve weathered the apocalypse. Those buildings that are still standing are missing windows, their skeletons exposed and their insides rotting in the humid summer air. Straight down the middle is a stretch of molten destruction, where Nemesis self-immolated to clear a path.

So we’ve chosen this harbor-side high-rise with the hopes that Nemesis will choose the path of least resistance. She may not. She might tromp right over Logan Airport again, which has been rebuilt. But the airport has been evacuated of people and planes, so if she does take the shortcut, damage will be primarily to the runways.

Our plan was met with extreme backlash, but in matters of National Security regarding Nemesis, the FC-P pretty much has final say. And with Zoomb supporting the plan, the White House wasn’t about to decline our rather large requests.

So here I am, pacing over the tacky-hot surface of the black tar roof, waiting for Nemesis to come to my rescue. There’s just one problem. I’m not in danger. “We’ve been here for three hours now. I’m not sure Gordon’s going to show up.”

Endo, the only other person on the roof with me, glances back over his shoulder. He’s been standing at the roof’s edge, staring out to sea, waiting for Nemesis’s arrival, pining for her return. “I’m not certain he will.”

I groan. The last thing I expected this mission to be was boring. I toggle Devine, connecting with Woodstock, who is circling the area with Collins and Alessi. Betty has been retrofitted once again, this time with Zoomb’s prototype, Kaiju neural implant. “See anything up there?”

“Not a thing,” Woodstock replies.

A year ago, I wouldn’t have volunteered to stand on a building, waiting for a man-thing who wants me dead, and his Kaiju pets, with the hopes that Nemesis will come to my aid, thus allowing me to enter her thoughts via a neural implant. And now that I’m thinking about it, I realize the ridiculousness of this plan.

“This isn’t going to work,” I say to Endo. “Gordon’s not an idiot. He’s not going to come after me here. Admiral Ackbar would see this coming a mile away.”

Endo actually chuckles and mumbles, “It’s a trap.”

I sometimes forget that this cold, killing, fighting machine was once a sci-fi loving kid who became obsessed with Kaiju. I’ve done my research. I know his public history, and his private. Interviewed his old friends. His parents. They haven’t seen or heard from him since he joined up with General Gordon, and thinking he was dead or missing, and that I was on the case, they filled me in on his geeky beginnings. That he understands my Star Wars reference shouldn’t come as a surprise. The humor doesn’t last long, though. “I never expected Gordon to show up.”

My pacing stops. “Excuse me?”

“Gordon’s not a fool.”

“I thought...” Past conversations play through my mind. I try to remember the specifics of this plan, as they were presented to me by Endo. I realize that every mention of Gordon in relation to my imminent danger was presented by myself or my team. Not by him. “So we’re just hoping Nemesis is going to show up, then?”

Endo shakes his head. “She will come.”

He says it with such confidence, I nearly believe him. But without me being in danger, the plan won’t work.

“You’re life is in jeopardy,” Endo says, answering my unspoken question. “It has been since the moment you and I stepped on this roof.”

“How so?” I ask.

He looks at his watch. “Because in ten minutes, I’m going to kill you.” The cold glare he shoots my way removes any doubt that he’s bluffing. I take a step away from him, reaching for my sidearm and cursing when I find my hip empty. Endo had told me the metal weapon could interfere with the neural implant’s connection to the hardware on my head. In reality, it would have interfered with the severe ass-kicking I’m about to receive.

Reaching lower, I pull my cell phone out, swipe the screen and try to connect with Woodstock again. No signal. Since Devine can use any and all cell towers, it’s nearly impossible for me to not have a signal. That I’m unable to connect means Endo is blocking my signal, which also means he’s got Zoomb’s support in this.

Maybe the President’s.

Damn, damn, damn. How did I not see this coming?
As much as I loathe Endo, he must feel similarly about me. Probably worse. I see him as a dangerous criminal. A murderer. It’s my job to not like him. But me? I stole his dreams, albeit, by accident. I’d really rather not have a 350-foot-tall guardian.

Endo keeps his back to me, knowing I won’t try to attack him. I’m not in a rush to die. I back step toward the roof entrance. Try the green door’s handle. Locked. The door feels solid. Metal. No way I’m kicking my way through in the five seconds it will take Endo to reach me. I look for Betty and find her five hundred feet up and a half mile away. Even if one of them is looking in this direction, which I doubt, they’d never see me.

I’m on my own.

“I think we’ve waited long enough,” Endo says, turning toward me, his hawkish eyes locked on me, unblinking.

I stand my ground, fists clenched. “How can you be sure this will work?”

“I can’t.” He circles me slowly. “But either of the two prospective outcomes will be positive.”

Two outcomes. 1) Nemesis shows up. 2) I die.

Great.

Endo breaks out of his circular route and struts toward me. His walk becomes a kick that misses my nose by inches. But this was just a diversion, because he’s spinning still and airborne, his other leg coming up. I raise both arms just in time to block the kick, but his shin on my forearms is still painful as hell. And the force of the blow knocks me to the roof.

The sticky tar clings to me as I push myself up. I’m not sure if Endo is being sporting or just trying to prolong my suffering, but he gives me time to collect myself. I shake out my arms. My fingers are cramping up as the muscles in my arms try to shift back in place. I’m lucky he didn’t break them.

He comes at me again, this time leading with his fists. The man’s a blur, punching from every possible direction with the quickness of a striking cobra. I focus on blocking. If I attempt to strike back, I’ll just leave myself open. He batters my aching arms, and despite my best efforts, he lands a few solid blows. To my cheek. My ribs. My gut. This last one pushes me back, hunched over, sucking in air. My heel hits something solid, and I start to fall.

When my body reaches a thirty degree angle, I catch a glimpse of what’s beneath me. Nothing. I’m falling off the side! My only escape. I embrace it and let myself drop.

Then I stop, hovering out over a 325-foot fall. Endo has me by the shirt. When I reach out to wrench his hand away, he catches my wrist, yanks me up and flips me. After a short flight, I reach the terminus of my descent, landing square on my back. I’m wracked by coughs, as I roll to my knees and climb to my feet. Endo stalks toward me again and resumes his merciless assault, this time landing more punches than not.

A slap strikes my cheek. An
open-palm slap
. The man is fucking with me. Humiliating me! Before I can think, I lean into his punch, absorb it with my kidney and throw my hardest jab. I’m not sure whether it’s a good punch or because of the sudden reversal in strategies, but the strike connects hard with Endo’s chin, snapping his head back. While he stumbles back, I crumple to the roof, clutching my side, wishing I had arms like Shiva so I could clutch the rest of me.

Endo rubs his jaw. Blood drips from his mouth. “You can’t win.”

His arrogance is really starting to grate on me. As he closes in to resume my beating, his guard up, I lose my patience. With an angry shout I charge forward, linebacker style, arms spread wide. He makes me pay for the sloppy move by driving his foot into my crotch, but momentum and anger carry me past the pain.

I hit him hard, lifting him off the roof. I can feel his elbow driving into my back, again and again, but the pain is numb. Distant. It’s like when you have a headache and someone tells you to bite your finger, one pain driving the other away. Whatever he’s doing to my back can’t compare to the pain in my balls.

I jump, lean forward and slam the much smaller man into the roof, allowing my shoulder to compress his belly. He shouts in pain. Satisfying pain. Before he can recover, I fling myself away from his fist and wrap his lower limbs in a vicious leg lock. When I’m done with him, his days of prancing around me will be over.

I squeeze hard, eliciting a scream of pain from Endo. His muscles tear. His ligaments stretch, ready to snap. “You can’t win!” he screams again. Before I can wonder why he’s still convinced of victory, I feel a burning sensation spreading through my thigh. The burn transforms into mind-numbing pain, and my brain screams at me that something is fundamentally wrong with my body. I lean up to look, my side roaring in pain, and I see what’s happened.

There’s a knife in my leg.

26

The part of my mind that hasn’t gone numb, quickly takes stock of the injury. The blade is buried in the muscle of my leg, to the right of my femur, nowhere near my femoral artery. So I’m not going to bleed out. But that’s a weak bonus when you consider the fact that I’ve still got a fucking knife in my leg.

And then, it’s not. Endo pulls the blade free, and the pain loosens whatever grip I still had on the man. While I scream through grinding teeth, Endo rolls back to his feet. His face is flushed with pain and anger. I nearly had him.

My eyes find the knife in his hand. A small, two inch blade. The damage to my leg won’t be severe. While I climb to my feet, mental gears spin, tumblers fall into place, and I come to a realization.

Endo could have killed me. Probably several times during our fight, but certainly with the knife. I checked for my femoral artery because in a fight to the death, that would get the job done. And Endo certainly has the skill to have inflicted the wound, even while leg-locked. But he didn’t. He stabbed my muscle. With a small blade. The effort was enough to free himself, but not to seriously wound me. Sure, I’ll be limping for a while, but I’m far from dead, or even incapacitated.

Fists clenched and head tilted to the left, I share my discovery. “You’re not actually trying to kill me.”

Endo is expressionless for just a moment, but then his shoulders sag in defeat, and I understand: Endo wasn’t trying to kill me, but he needed
me
to believe he was. That was the plan all along, but I couldn’t be told.

A vibration moves through the roof, nearly knocking me over. “The hell was that?” I ask.