Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (43 page)

Blood speckled Perry’s shirt, pants, face, and hands, with larger concentrations on his right hand, which held the pistol. His long fingers curled around the weapon, and he motioned for Dylan to exit. “It’s time.”

Dylan pushed himself off the floor, each step forward slightly lopsided from the loss of his shoe. When he stepped out of the room and into the narrow hallway of the bunker, he saw that the floor was littered with bodies and blood.

Most of the Egyptians had been shot in the head, leaving their faces unrecognizable. Dylan stepped over the collection of lifeless arms and legs that crowded the hallway, looking back at Perry, who had his eyes glued on him with his finger on the trigger.

Dylan continued to walk until he made it into the main room. The Taipan still sat on the table, and the portly, black-bearded man who had looked like he was Perry’s number two was sprawled out on the floor with his neck cut open, covered in fresh blood, his eyes glued to the ceiling above.

“Most of them tried to put up a fight,” Perry said, watching the expressions of fear and disgust wash over Dylan’s face. “Some of them surrendered. I’m sad to say that Ozier was one of them. Such a shame. I’d hoped he would have given more than what he did to stay alive.”

Perry stepped around Dylan, sure of foot, with his eyes still glued on him. Dylan could barely stand, and it took all his strength not to keel over on the floor. The effort to keep his back straight created a constant pulse of pain that started at his ribs and rippled to his head and feet. He kept his hand close to his pocket, waiting for his moment for Perry to break his concentration so he could crush the pill.

“You’ve waited a long time, Dylan.” Perry’s voice was soft, calm, which almost gave the dead bodies that surrounded them a moment of respect. “I’ve been watching you for a very long time. At least a decade, give or take a year. I looked you up when I first gained access to detailed records at Homeland.”

It took Dylan a moment to summon the strength to speak. “Why did you pick me?”

Perry leaned against the table, his muscles relaxing a bit but his eyes and pistol still aimed right at Dylan. He rolled up the sleeve above his right hand, which held the gun, revealing the disfiguring marks and scars. “My father was a troubled man. A wicked, evil man. Whatever demons tormented him unleashed their wrath on my mother and me. He’d hit us with whatever struck his fancy: beer bottles, hammers, his fists, wrenches, chairs, cans; anything and everything could be used as a weapon.” Perry tilted his head to the side. “Your father never struck you, did he?”

“No.” Dylan took a step forward, trying to use the table as cover to retrieve the pills from his pocket. He moved slowly, watching Perry closely. His captor’s finger never moved from the trigger.

“It’s a terrible way to grow up,” Perry replied. “Messes with the head. Stunts emotional growth and hinders attachment in relationships. A ‘cold and distant environment that triggers anxiety,’ if I remember the psychology reports correctly.” Perry paused, the tension in his body relaxing slightly and the barrel of the pistol dipping with it. “I did have one protector, though. My stepbrother. Whenever he was around, my stepfather never laid a hand on me or my mother. When he joined the army, he was commissioned to head overseas to the Middle East. He promised me that when he came back, he’d have a place for me to stay, so I’d never have to feel the harsh sting of punishment on my body again.”

The stiffness returned, and Perry took an aggressive step forward. “Before he could come back, he was killed on some mission in Egypt. The administration in the seventies wanted a different leader in power, and my brother was killed because of this country’s intrusion! We think we have to police the world, and we do so at the sacrifice of everything we hold dear!”

Dylan reached his hand into his pocket, his fingers slowly fumbling over both pills. He couldn’t see which was which, and if he crushed both, he’d die with Perry. “So that’s what this is about? Revenge?”

Perry’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Oh, it’s much more than revenge. When I was burned as a boy by my stepfather, I thought my life was over. And I wished for death. I prayed for it. The pain I felt went on for weeks, and to this day I can still feel the heat of the fire in my dreams. But I learned something from the fire. It left a very valuable lesson that I’ve never forgotten. Fire can cleanse you. It is the great equalizer, bringing everything back to zero.” Perry rested his hand on top of the Taipan and rubbed it lovingly. “All those souls in San Francisco, burned and brought back to the earth from which they came.” He looked back over to Dylan. “Including the two DCF workers who ignored the complaints against my stepfather. As will the three others living in Washington, DC.”

“All this for two cities?” Dylan held both pills in his fist now, outside his pocket. All he had to do was separate the two, crush the yellow pill then swallow the green before the deadly effects of the poison kicked in.

“I would hope you didn’t think I would be so shortsighted as that, Captain. The rest of the nuclear arsenal will level the Middle East, sending the region into chaos and sparking an international conflict that will burn the world. Bringing it back to zero. Bringing it to a balance. That’s what my stepfather made me the night he burned me, Captain. I became the equity of the world.”

Dylan deftly passed the pills between his hands, separating the two without looking down. He continued his shallow breathing, each dagger of breath further crippling his ability to stand.
Just a little longer. Wait for your moment.

“And of course there was your father,” Perry said. “When my step-brother left for Egypt, he managed to threaten my stepfather into sobriety for almost a week. To celebrate the milestone, my mother booked both me and my stepfather on a trip. A fishing charter that was set out of Boston. She and I both knew he loved to fish when he wasn’t drowning in alcohol, so he agreed. It was an overnight excursion, and we slept on the boat. I can’t remember what time it was—late I know—but my stepfather had found his way into some of the liquor on the ship and stumbled into the cabin stinking drunk, waking up everyone. He grabbed me by the back of my head and pulled me onto the deck. He slapped my face a few times, and each time I tried to get away, he’d snatch me up and hit me harder than before. The commotion woke up everyone on board, and when your father walked out, he ordered my stepfather to stop. But once he started drinking, there wasn’t anything that would stop him. He was like a freight train. The next hit knocked me out, and I woke up in a hospital with my stepfather hovering over me. It wasn’t till I started working at Homeland that I learned the truth. Instead of filing a police report that my stepfather had beaten me, your dad said it was a fishing accident.” Perry scoffed. “A fishing. Accident. He could have told the truth, but just like everyone else, he swept it under the rug!” Spit flew from Perry’s mouth, and he jammed the pistol into Dylan’s chest, bringing the two men nose to nose. Dylan could smell the blood on Perry’s breath, warm and fresh. “A few days later, my stepfather got the bill from the hospital stay in Boston, and he went on a bender. He pulled me from my bed that night and taped me to a chair. I could already smell the gas that was on his hands when he tied me down, and when I saw him pick up the can in the corner of the room, my heart started to beat out of my chest. I just screamed, louder than I’d ever done before, but no one came. He dumped the gas over me, the floor, and furniture until it was empty, and then tossed it aside. He smoked like a chimney, so he always had matches on him, and when he struck the match head against the striker, I watched the flame flicker in his eyes in the night. Right before he dropped the match, he looked me in the eye and said I wasn’t worth the price of saving.”

Perry took a step back, all the way to the Taipan, and pulled it toward him. “I’ve experienced the flames that gave me these marks, Dylan. And now I will be the one to put the final mark of man on this Earth, using the very weapons they designed to protect themselves. The sins of both our fathers will be on our hands.”

The moment Perry looked over to the Taipan to type something into it, Dylan looked down at his left hand, which held the green pill. He quickly squeezed his right hand, crushing the yellow pill, and then tossed the dust into the air. The motion caused Perry to quickly squeeze the trigger, and a bullet connected to Dylan’s right chest before he had a chance to swallow the antidote.

Dylan smacked to the floor, and the yellow dust wafted into the airflow of the room. Perry watched the particles float and dance. “And what is this, Dylan? A last attempt at—” Perry dropped the pistol and fell to his knees, clutching his throat.

The pain from the gunshot seared through Dylan’s body. That combined with the broken ribs left him paralyzed on the floor, but he tilted his head up long enough to see the blood pouring from Perry’s nose and eyes.

“You’ve… already… lost… Captain.” Perry coughed up blood, falling to his knees. His body seized up, the blood pouring steadily out of his ears and mouth now, adding to the rivers falling from his nose and eyes. His pupils turned purple, and his skin grew pale. He choked and spat blood, gargling in pain, the seizures increasing until he collapsed into a pile of his own blood.

Dylan brought his finger to his nose and saw the shimmer of blood. He felt his organs seizing up, his heart hammering to the point of bursting. He tilted his head to the right, and there on the floor was the green pill, just out of arm’s reach.

Dylan pulled himself to his side, blood steadily pouring from his chest and the first few drips oozing from his eyes. He could feel the gurgle of blood rise in his throat as he dragged himself across the floor, the knife like pain in his side digging deeper into his body with each movement. He reached out his left hand, and his fingertips grazed the pill. He was losing dexterity in his hands and fumbled the pill once then twice.

Tremors ran through his body as the effects of the yellow poison took full effect. Dylan lay there, convulsing, blood pouring from his eyes, nose, and ears. He coughed, spitting up blood, just looking at the green pill that would be his salvation if he could just grab it.

Finally, he reached out his shaking left arm one last time, gathered what was left of his energy, and scooped his hand around the pill, pulling it toward him. He leveraged the pill between his hand and chin then flipped it into his mouth. He crunched down hard with his molars, and it exploded into dust against his tongue. He shut his eyes, focusing all his strength and energy on chewing.

The taste of chalky, gritty blood flooded down his throat and into his stomach. Dylan rolled from his side to his back and lay there on the floor, the tremors in his body slowly subsiding. He awaited his fate, bloodied on the concrete, the strength sapped from his body.

Dylan closed his eyes and felt the blood collect on his eyelashes. When he opened them, the tremors had stopped, and he no longer felt the draining of blood from his body except from the wound on his chest. He tilted his head up, and saw Perry’s lifeless, drained body. But above Perry, on the screen of the Taipan, a clock was counting down.

It took a moment for Dylan to realize what it meant. Perry had already set the nuclear strike, and there were less than three minutes before the nukes launched. Dylan lay there on the floor, trying to push himself up but struggling.

When Dylan made it to his side, a waterfall of blood cascaded from his face and body, dripping onto the floor. His hand slid in the warm liquid, and he managed to get a shaky right leg underneath him. He groaned in pain and exhaustion as he pushed himself up and slammed against the counter for support. He pulled himself along the edge, the clock at less than two minutes now as he reached for the Taipan.

Dylan’s mind was fuzzy and lost as he tried to recall the code sequences to shut the device down. He found the entry settings on the device, and the screen prompted for the first code. Dylan reached a bloodied hand onto the keyboard and slowly typed.

The clock ticked below ninety seconds as the code cleared then prompted for the second and then the third and fourth. Dylan found a rhythm, pushing through the pain as the clock flashed thirty seconds and started to beep an alarm on the final stretch of the countdown.

Dylan’s knees buckled and whatever blood and consciousness that was left in his head felt like it rushed to his feet as he collapsed to the floor. He eyed the bullet wound on his chest with a dazed confusion and pressed the palm of his hand to the oozing liquid. His mouth felt dry, his body exhausted, and his mind fried. But the beeping alarm continued its hounding and he forced himself back up to the counter to finish the codes.

Finally, with only twenty seconds left, the Taipan prompted the last sequence. Dylan started typing the nine-character piece of data, his bloody fingertip smearing on the keyboard, but when he made it to the last number, he froze. The last digit escaped him. He shook his head, trying to rattle loose the last piece of data he needed, typing a two then deleting it, and replaced it with a nine, his fingers shaking with each stroke.

The clocked wound down to ten seconds, and Dylan shut his eyes, trying to remember the last number.
Seven? Six?
The clock was under five seconds now, and just before it hit three, the number flashed in his mind. “Eight!” He typed it in then pressed enter, and the clock stopped at 0.7 seconds.

Dylan collapsed to the floor and leaned his back against the counter. It was over. Perry was dead. The device was deactivated, and he would be left to die. He didn’t think the rescue team would make it down in time to save him, but at least he’d die knowing he’d made it. Even when there wasn’t anything left in the tank, he had the grit to push through. At last, his family was safe.

Chapter 13

Sean and Mary sat on the leather couch on either side of Mark. The three of them watched the news stories roll across the television’s flat screen in Peter’s house. Cleaning crews had fixed the damage done by the terrorists that had attacked and killed Evelyn.