Redzone (29 page)

“Your boyfriend took a beating but he's still with us. We'll pop him on our way out.”

“
Five
of you?” Lee said contemptuously. “It takes five assassins to smoke a psychologist and one cop?” The SWAT team would hear that of course—and know what they were up against.

“There are five of us,” Bye agreed. “But all it will take is one bullet to shut your mouth.” The long-barreled pistol came up, and was aimed at Lee's face, when a window shattered. The report was like an afterthought. And the
second
bullet, the one that could fly straight and true because there wasn't any glass in the way, hit a mutant in the head. Blood sprayed the floor as he went down.

That was Lee's signal to throw herself sideways. She landed hard, and her fingers were clawing at the fancy belt buckle as the surviving assassins hit the floor, and more slugs tore into the walls. “It's a trap!” Bye shouted, as some of her people went to the shattered window and fired their handguns. That was a mistake and one of them was thrown back onto the floor.

By that time Lee had the tiny pistol in her hand. Each action seemed to take forever as she pulled the hammer back, took aim, and fired. There was a pop, and the bullet hit a spot two feet above Bye's head! The derringer was worthless.

Lee rolled to the left as Bye fired. The bullet came within an inch of Lee's face and ripped a splinter out of Kane's hardwood floor. Lee pushed herself up and over as she came into contact with the dead man's body. Then she scrabbled for his gun, got a grip on it, and began what promised to be a time-consuming turn.

Bye fired again. But, like Lee, the assassin was on the floor—and the body separated them. The corpse jerked and geysers of blood shot up into the air as each bullet hit. Lee, who was still in the process of turning, fired five times in rapid succession. Not with any hope of hitting her opponent—but in an effort to force Bye's head down. And the strategy worked. Suddenly, Lee was there, sighting over the body, her finger pressed against the trigger. Time slowed, and a .9mm slug flew straight and true.

Given the angle, the bullet hit the top of Bye's right shoulder, broke her clavicle, and went deep into her chest. Her eyes widened, a look of surprise appeared on her face, and Lee nodded. “Bye-bye, bitch.”

Suddenly, the front door burst open, and Tanaka entered. He was holding an Uzi Pro. It burped three-round bursts as the last two assassins turned to fire at him. They staggered and fell. The acrid odor of gunpowder was thick in the air as Lee spoke into the mike. “Tanaka is here . . . The condo is secure. I'm about to stand up.”

Lee stood, thanked Tanaka, and went looking for Kane. He was lying faceup in a blood-smeared bathtub. His face was puffy, one eye was swollen closed, and plastic ties had been used to secure his extremities. He turned to Lee and attempted to smile. “Sorry, hon . . . Dinner's going to be late.”

*   *   *

The sun-splashed lounge chairs were positioned in front of a glittering pool beyond which the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean could be seen. A freighter was working its way north, but, other than that, there were only the wheeling gulls to capture her eye.

A month had passed since the shoot-out in the condo, and a great deal had occurred. Lee had been cleared by yet another shooting review board, neither one of them was BN positive, and Kane's newly refurbished home was up for sale. “I'm ready for a new view,” is the way he put it. But Lee knew it was more than that. Neither one of them could sit down in the living room without remembering what had taken place there.

As for the future . . . Well, that was something the couple planned to discuss while they vacationed in Santa Barbara. Maybe this and maybe that . . . Time would tell. Lee glanced at Kane and saw that he was reading. She closed her eyes. The sun was warm, and the ocean breeze was cool. Dreams beckoned.

*   *   *

It was cold in the ossuary . . . And the only sound was the steady drip, drip, drip of water finding its way down from above. But the Bonebreaker didn't care about that. He was focused on the beautiful white femur that lay on the table before him. The inscription was finished and that meant he would send the final product to Cheyenne Darling soon. It was a present . . . Something she could place on a bookshelf in her living room. After that? God wanted to confront Cassandra Lee next . . . And it was the Bonebreaker's duty to send her along.

Don't miss the third Mutant Files novel

GRAVEYARD

Coming February 2016 from Ace Books!

SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER
Misty Roker was having a nice day until her students found a body behind St. Patrick's Church in south LA. Roker was in her classroom, putting instructional materials away, when sixteen-year-old Emily Stills burst into the room. “Miss Roker! A man is lying in the parking lot—and there's something wrong with his face!”

Sunday school was over, but the children's parents were still attending Mass, so Misty instructed Emily to remain in the classroom while she went outside to investigate. A tiny playground had been built behind the church a few years earlier. It was fenced in and the children were gathered at the gate that provided access to the parking lot. Their backs were turned, and Misty could tell that they were staring at something. She clapped her hands. “Go inside, children . . . Emily is waiting for you.”

As the children turned in her direction Misty could see the worried looks on their faces and felt the first stirrings of concern. She had assumed that a drunk was passed out behind
the church. That would require some explanation but she could handle it. Now, based on the complete lack of chatter, Misty sensed that something much worse was in the offing.

As her charges filed inside Misty approached the gate. The man was lying a few feet away, eyes wide open, staring up into the bright sun. That was when Misty noticed the facial discoloration, the swelling, and the hundreds of tiny stitches that ran around the circumference of his face and formed clusters here and there. What the heck?

Misty opened the gate and knelt by the man's side. Because the Sunday school teacher was a nurse she knew how to check the man's vital signs and proceeded to do so. The results were unequivocal. He was dead—and had been for some time.

Misty fumbled for her phone, dialed 911, and reported the find. “My name is Misty Roker. We have a man down behind St. Patrick's Church. He's unresponsive, cyanotic, and I can't detect a pulse.”

The dispatcher promised to send an aid unit, and as Misty waited for the medics to arrive, she noticed the white envelope. It was protruding from the man's shirt, and when Misty pulled it free, she saw that Father Benedict's name had been written on it. Deep down Misty knew that she shouldn't open it, but curiosity got the better of her.

The envelope wasn't sealed. So all Misty had to do was pry it open. That was when she saw five one-hundred-nu notes and a single piece of paper. She opened it up and read what was typed on it:

Dear Father Benedict,

This man has gone to a better place. His name is Joel. Please use the money to cover his burial expenses.

Thank you,

Alcmaeon

Misty frowned.
Alcmaeon?
What kind of name was that?

By that time a siren could be heard in the distance. So Misty stuffed the note back into the envelope—and slid it back into Joel's shirt. The EMTs arrived a minute later along with a police car. The medics went through the motions of checking Joel out, but he was dead, and all three of them knew it. The envelope went to one of the patrol officers, who was careful to hold only the edges of the object before sliding it into a larger envelope. Then, after taking Misty's name and contact information, he turned her loose. Sunday school was over.

*   *   *

Cassandra Lee and Lawrence Kane were looking for a place to live. The decision to live together had been made during a recent vacation, and now they were looking at condos in Santa Monica, an area that both of them liked.

But they were very busy people, which made finding the time to tour properties difficult. And, now that Kane's existing condo was up for sale, the task was urgent. So they'd gone to see two different homes in the morning and were about to discuss them over lunch.

The restaurant was called Mac's and it was located about a mile away from the famous Santa Monica Pier. It had large windows that looked out over the highway to a sandy beach and the pale blue ocean beyond. “So,” Kane began, once they'd been through the buffet line and taken their seats. “What did you think?”

Lee nibbled on a huge strawberry. It was delicious, and the process gave her an opportunity to stall. In spite of the fact that they'd been through a great deal they hadn't known each other all that long—and she wanted to provide a considered response. “Well, the first place is the larger of the two, and I liked that. But it needs a new kitchen.”

Kane had a straight nose, even features, and was wearing
a white polo shirt over jeans. He nodded. “True . . . And the head chef needs a good place to perform his culinary miracles. It might be fun to do a reno. Then we could have the kitchen exactly the way we want it.

“How 'bout number two?” he inquired. “It's smaller, but it comes with
two
parking slots plus a place to keep your bike.”

Lee's Harley Road King Police Edition motorcycle was a problem since most condo buildings provided two parking places max, and she hoped to keep the bike nearby. Lee was about to respond when her phone started to dance across the table. Kane made a face. But he knew that Lee was on call. “Hello, Detective Lee.”

“Sorry,” Deputy Chief Jenkins said. “Life sucks.”

“No kidding. What have you got?”

“Something weird,” Jenkins said. “That's why I called you.”

“Screw you,” Lee replied. “And the horse you rode in on.”

Jenkins laughed. “Somebody dumped a body in the parking lot behind St. Patrick's Church.”

“Okay,” Lee said. “But that doesn't qualify as strange. Not in LA.”

“True,” Jenkins admitted. “But, based on a preliminary evaluation by the coroner, this guy probably died as the result of a botched face transplant.”

“That
is
weird,” Lee agreed.

“Oh, but there's more,” Jenkins responded. “The dead man is
B. nosilla
positive.”

Lee was surprised. The John Doe was a mutant! Thirty-one years earlier, back in 2038, a terrorist called Al Mumit (the taker of life) had turned a spore-forming bacteria called
Bacillus nosilla
loose on the world.

The bioengineered bacteria was delivered to
Kaffar
 (unbelievers) all around the world by 786
Shaheed
, or martyrs, each of whom had been selected because
they had light-colored skin, were elderly, or only a few months old.

The results were even better than what Al Mumit had hoped for. Billions fell ill as
Bacillus nosilla
spread, and of those who contracted the disease, about 9 percent survived, with slightly better odds in developed countries. And of those who survived many but not all went on to develop mutations. Some of the physiological changes were good, but many were disfiguring, or in some cases lethal.

In Los Angeles, hundreds of thousands of people were declared communicable, some mistakenly, and herded into hastily organized “recovery” camps. Over time the recovery camps morphed into “relocation” camps and untold thousands of people were loaded onto trucks and sent east into the states of Idaho, Nevada, and Arizona. The sudden influx of mutants caused the “norms” in those states to flee west—and those who were
B. nosilla
negative were allowed to stay.

Meanwhile other parts of what had been the United States were going through a similar process. The result was a patchwork quilt of so-called red zones, where mutants lived, and the green zones, occupied by norms. It wasn't long before zones and collections of zones gave birth to nation-states like Pacifica, which consisted of Washington, Oregon, and California.

Meanwhile the Republic of Texas annexed Idaho, Utah, and Arizona. And
that
, Lee knew, was likely to be the area where the dead man had come from. “This is going to be tough,” she predicted. “Assuming this guy came in from the RZ, he'll be hard to identify.”

“Patrol officers responded,” Jenkins put in, “and they found a note on the body. According to the person who wrote it, the deceased is named Joel. But I agree. That isn't a whole lot to go on. Head out to St. Patrick's and collect what information you can.”

“I'm on my way,” Lee replied.

“Yanty will meet you there,” Jenkins said. “I'll see you in the morning.” Lee heard a click.

Lee looked at Kane as she put the phone away. “Sorry, hon . . . Gotta go.”

Kane had been through it before. He smiled. “No problem . . . Let me know if you'll be home for dinner. So, if you had to choose between the condos we looked at today, which one would it be?”

“The larger one,” Lee replied, as she took a final sip of coffee. “It had an incredible view of the ocean. There's a room for your office, and a kitchen reno would be fun.”

“And your bike?”

“There's bound to be a storage unit somewhere nearby.”

“That's very nice of you.”

“I can be nice,” Lee said, as she got up from the table. “Sometimes.”

Kane laughed. “Shall I get a box for your food?”

“Please,” Lee said. “I'll call you.” And with that, she left.

Since Lee was on call, both of them had driven cars to Mac's. Lee's vehicle was a so-called creeper, which was street slang for an unmarked car. Except that most of them not only had been tagged a dozen times—but were often decorated with the letters TIACC. “This is a cop car.” Her sedan was no different.

Lee's vehicle was equipped with a nav system, which she rarely used. After college she'd gone straight into the police academy, graduated near the top of her class, and spent four years as a patrol officer before making detective. And, like most street cops, she knew the city like the back of her hand. So she chose to take 10 east and exit onto National Boulevard, which morphed into Jefferson Boulevard. The latter was a four-lane road that delivered her to the church with a minimum of fuss.

St. Patrick's was a large building with a green roof,
towers that were somewhat reminiscent of the Spanish missions, but with a more modern aesthetic.
That's Kane talking,
the voice in her head said.
Since when did you care about architecture?

So? Lee answered. That's how it is when you have a relationship with someone. They rub off on you.

Or they come to own you,
the voice suggested.

That's bullshit, Lee thought, as she pulled in behind the church. Maybe
you
would like to spend the rest of your life with a bunch of cats. Personally, I'd prefer a man.

“This is 1-William-3. I am Code 6. Over.” There was no need to say where she was, since the dispatcher could see the creeper's location on the computer screen in front of her.

Church was over—so there were only a few cars in the parking lot. The body had been removed by then, but a police cruiser was still on the scene, as was the middle-aged crime-scene investigator who everyone called “Moms.” She was busy taking pictures of the area while the bored patrol officers looked on.

Detective Dick Yanty had seen Lee pull in and made his way over to meet her. He was balding, wore wire-rimmed glasses that had a tendency to slide down his nose, and was wearing the usual plaid sports coat. Technically both of them worked for Lieutenant Brianna Wolfe, but both Yanty and a detective named Prospo had been assigned to work with Lee on the Bonebreaker case. “The Bonebreaker” being the name the media had bestowed on the serial killer who was responsible for killing Lee's father and eight other cops over the last sixteen years. “Hey, Lee,” Yanty said. “Does this suck or what?”

“It sucks,” Lee agreed solemnly. “So what, if anything, do we have?”

“First there's
this
,” Yanty said, as he handed her a sheet of paper. “It's a copy—so don't worry about prints.”

Lee read it:

Dear Father Benedict,

This man has gone to a better place. His name is Joel. Please use the money to cover his burial expenses.

Thank you,

Alcmaeon

“
Alcmaeon?
Who the hell is that?”

Yanty pushed the glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “What did you do while you were in college? Everybody knows who Alcmaeon of Croton is.”

“That's bullshit,” Lee replied. “You ran a search on it.”

Yanty grinned. “Yes, I did. It seems that Alcmaeon of Croton lived in the fifth century
BC
—and was one of the most eminent medical theorists of his time. Although he wrote about medical stuff, most of the time he studied astrology and meteorology, too.”

“So he was a nerd.”

“Yup.”

“That's interesting,” Lee said. “And it seems to support what Jenkins told me.”

“Which was?”

“The coroner thinks Joel might have died of complications following a botched face transplant. We'll know after the autopsy. But try this on for size . . . The hack who botched the operation felt guilty about Joel's death. So he dumped the body here, along with some money to pay for a burial.”

“And signs the note Alcmaeon because he or she identifies with the old goat for some reason,” Yanty put in.

“Exactly,” Lee said. “And how much you wanta bet that the perp is Catholic?”

“Perhaps,” Yanty replied cautiously. “But maybe Joel was Catholic—and the doctor knew that.”

“Good point,” Lee said. “How 'bout video? Do we have any?”

“Yes,” Yanty replied. “The church is equipped with a full-on security system, so we could get lucky. A guy named Mike agreed to work on that. Come on . . . Let's see if he found anything.”

Lee followed Yanty through a small playground and into the church. They found Mike in a nicely furnished office sitting in front of a monitor. He turned to look over his shoulder as they entered the room. Lee assumed that Mike was one of the parishioners. He had mocha-colored skin, short hair, and a serious expression. “I have it,” he announced. “At least I think I do.”