The Fall (35 page)

Hastings remembered his father with respect. Brigadier General Michael Hastings had not only fought in World War II, but he had also served his country in the Korean War as a senior officer under General MacArthur, retiring in 1961 as a one-star general, the highest ranking in the Hastings family.

Until now,
he thought, staring in the mirror at the two stars adorning his shoulders.

Hastings had come a long way in his military career, serving four tours in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne Division. He had been a “Screaming Eagle,” making a name for himself, earning promotion after promotion, award after award, until the Pentagon brass realized his potential and pulled him from the battlefield, planting him in the middle of its inner circle, where his power and influence grew year after year, administration after administration.

Until he became his own universe, master of his destiny, controlling the actions of hundreds of legislators, politicians, lobbyists, and policy makers, never afraid to make the hard decisions, to bend the rules—even break them—to return his country to the glory of yesteryear, when America was
America,
feared by many, respected by all.

And they will respect us again,
he thought, watching technicians install the salolitite modules into the next batch of Orbital Space Suits.

SkyLeap was his baby, his creation, America's future. He had envisioned it, funded it, staffed it, drove it, and protected it from short-sighted politicians, from leaders who lacked the vision and conviction of Theodore Roosevelt, of JFK, of Reagan. He had seen the once greatness of NASA, leader in every aspect of technical innovation, brought to its knees through lack of funding, lack of executive support, and lack of a long-term strategy.

Don't they realize that whoever controls technology controls the world?

Hastings crossed his massive arms and frowned, amazed at the inequity of elected officials, and more so at the sheer stupidity of those who voted them into office.

But the general wasn't about to let idiots elected by idiots define the future of his nation. His family had fought too damned long and hard to pass on not just the gift of freedom, but that of world leadership, of respect and fear, from generation to generation.

And I'll be damned if the trend's broken on my watch.

So he did what he had to do, call it vision, investing for the future, or embezzlement. Hastings took tax money and placed it in the hands of the scientists, of the innovators, of the visionaries. But not to innovate for the sake of innovation. That was for academic prima donnas. Hastings wanted to innovate to control, to rule, to leapfrog the technological advancements of the Chinese, the Germans, the Koreans, even the damned French. To reverse the unthinkable trend of American astronauts using Soviet-era Soyuz technology to reach space, or worse, Chinese rovers paving the way for control of the moon.

But to do that he had to change the rules of the game. He had to compartmentalize his operation, shielding it from the public, the politicians, and even the foreign powers determined to never allow American innovation to lead again. Hastings had to protect his vision at all cost, nurturing it, allowing it to take root, grow, and blossom. He had learned from the masters, from world leaders who had managed to unify their nations and transform them from the ashes of failure, financial deficit, and unparalleled unemployment. He had studied their approaches, their strategies, their successes and especially their failures, the iron fist with which they had to rule to succeed. He had analyzed their tactics—often brutal and unsavory—to incubate an idea, a concept, a vision, until the time was right, until it was ready to be unleashed.

And the time has come,
he thought, as Dr. Salazar walked up to him.

“We're almost done for this week, sir.”

Hastings barely acknowledged him, his eyes on the suits being transported around the assembly line, where a mix of technicians and robotic arms handled the delicate process of creating hardware capable of jumping to other dimensions, to other points in space. And he knew that was just the beginning of the almost-magical possibilities that salolitite had enabled. His army of scientists, like Salazar, were hard at work to allow jumps to other worlds, other galaxies, bridging the universe. And if the laws of space travel could be bent—or even redefined—so could the laws governing time.

“So everything's back to normal at your facility, Doctor?”

Salazar nodded. “Yes, sir. IT has gone through the network. We're clean.”

“Check everything again. Dr. Taylor was seen leaving your building, Doctor. She did
something,
and you need to figure out what it was. I don't care if you need to tear down that building brick by fucking brick. I want to know what that bitch did. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he said, before walking over to the other side of the lab, past the glass accelerator, to take a look at the ISS module. Salazar silently trailed along behind him.

“Still on schedule?” Hastings asked.

“Two weeks,” he said. “Then we move it to the Cape for launch preparations.”

“No more mistakes, doctor,” he said. “I mean it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Salazar, visibly shaken.

Hastings left him like that, in fear, and walked out of the facility and into his waiting SUV, settling in the rear seat before getting on a conference call with his security team, ripping them a new asshole for failing to silence Flaherty and Dr. Taylor at Olivia's house. Plus he added Riggs to his special list of bastards who belonged six feet under, along with his family.

Hastings pinched the bridge of his nose in silent anger, having a very difficult time accepting the fact that Riggs had turned out to be FBI. The thought burned a hole in his stomach, making him question every damn member of his inner circle, from investors, mine owners, and politicians to his key scientists and military officers. Everybody was now a suspect in his mind. Everyone needed to prove to Hastings that they were worth keeping their families alive.

I can't let up for one moment,
he thought, making a fist and staring at it.

An iron fist. He understood then why every successful dictator had to take the same unyielding approach. There was no other choice. He had let his guard down for a moment and ended up with a damn FBI agent as head of his personal security.

But I'll make them pay.

His people were already probing through the FBI database to track down the whereabouts of Riggs, Flaherty, and the crafty Dr. Taylor, and it was only a matter of time before he learned where the Bureau had hidden them.

They think they're safe. But I'll find them. And when I do …

Hastings tightened his fist until the knuckles turned white. There was a time when he would have done the deed personally. But these days, it was in his best interest to remain isolated from his security team, who also didn't get their hands dirty but managed independent teams of mercenaries, hired guns, and contractors—professionals who would kill their own mothers for the right price, and who, if caught, wouldn't be able to incriminate his organization, much less him.

Hastings stared out the window, his thoughts drifting to those aged and yellow photographs in his father's study. He remembered their battlefield faces, marred in dust and blood, recalled the awards, the medals, all carefully arranged in sealed shadow boxes on the walls, and those priceless vintage rifles and pistols behind the glass of humidity-controlled cases.

And one day all of it became his to own, to cherish, and eventually pass on to his own son. But Hastings never had time for a wife, let alone a family, always too focused on his career, on his vision.

He slowly shook his head, imagining the conversation at the family dinner table.
Honey, how was your day? Today I had breakfast with drug dealers from Juárez, spent the morning with the Russian Mafia transporting illegal minerals into the country, and the afternoon blackmailing politicians—could you pass the bread, please?

Besides, Hastings never actually came across a woman he considered worthy of his seed, someone with that unique combination of strength, courage, conviction, and intelligence to enhance the Hastings's unique gene pool, to create the right specimen to carry on his legacy—someone who wasn't afraid to fight the good fight, who would never surrender, even when confronted with seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

Hastings realized that what he needed wasn't a family and the burdens and obligations that came with it. He didn't need a wife or a home or a fucking Thanksgiving dinner. GW had raised Michael Hastings after Ulysses perished in World War I. GW hadn't needed a wife or a family to continue the legacy. He had just needed one strong boy, the one who survived the Spanish Influenza epidemic while his siblings and his own mother perished. GW had simply needed someone he could shape into his image, could instill the code of honor passed down from generation to generation.

As his mind recalled all of those medals and awards, from Theodore, GW, Ulysses, and Michael, he realized that what he needed was just a strong kid, someone whom Hastings could guide, coach, develop into his successor. And to do that all he needed was a disposable female host with the right attributes, from strength and intellect to unparalleled courage under fire—the key characteristic of his distinguished family tree.

He needed a female host who would never shy from fighting the good fight, someone who simply didn't know how to quit, how to capitulate, even when facing appalling odds.

And that's when the thought came to him.

Hastings shook his head at the simple and devious elegance of his solution to creating an offspring.

He quickly contacted his security team and said, “Kill everyone … except Angela Taylor. I want to be very clear about this. I need her … unharmed.”

*   *   *

Getting out unharmed proved challenging.

Jack had spotted one sentry still standing by the palmetto thickets lining the corridor at the edge of the parking lot, which he had to cross to get to his truck.

But what he hadn't realized was that the couple who had apparently been making out in the car hadn't been just a pair of hormonal college kids.

They were actually operatives, who wasted little time exiting their vehicle the moment Jack stepped out of the building, where Angela and Layton would remain hidden until he could fetch the truck and pick them up.

The mercenary by the palmettos remained put, like a lookout, while the couple moved in swiftly for the kill.

Jack pretended not to see them as he went straight for the weathered truck, drawing them in, but always keeping at least one row of cars in between as he cut back and forth, forcing them to split up, before dropping out of sight, rolling under an SUV and retrieving his SOG knife.

The male operative appeared first, making the mistake of not wearing combat boots, which would have protected his Achilles tendons when Jack slashed the steel blade out from under the vehicle, severing the sensitive ligaments on the right foot.

The operative fell, screaming in Russian, his pronounced Slavic features tight with obvious pain, fingers reaching for the wound while Jack rolled out, surging to his feet and kicking him across the left temple.

One down.

The woman came at him like a jungle cat, silently, swiftly, agile, short blades protruding in between the index and middle fingers of her fists. Her long hair in a tight ponytail swinging around like a loose whip, her eyes, as dark as her hair, focused on him as she pivoted on her right foot while bringing the edge of her left foot up at an impossible angle, catching Jack by surprise, smacking him across the face.

He shifted back, momentarily stung, but glad that she didn't weigh much more than Angela, meaning less mass behind her strikes. Had that roundhouse been delivered by a large male operative, Jack probably would have been knocked out.

But what she lacked in strength, she more than made up in speed as she pivoted again, like a deadly ballerina, with grace, speed, and a ridiculous stretch that signaled she was double-jointed.

He focused on the blades and her torso, and this time he was ready, blocking the incoming roundhouse kick with his left forearm while palm-striking her sternum, knocking her light frame toward a parked van.

He risked a quick look toward the palmettos, spotting the operative now running toward them as she bounced against the fender, fell, rolled, and was back on her feet before Jack could follow up. Her eyes, glistening with anger and pain, matched her compressed lips as she charged again, hands crisscrossing fast, the blades glittering, reflecting the streetlights, aimed for his throat.

Damn, she's quick,
he thought, dropping to a deep crouch to get away from those sharp edges while pivoting on his left leg, swinging his right one just a foot off the ground in a wide and fast arc, striking her calves, knocking her legs out from under her.

She yelled and fell, landing hard on her back.

He was about to kick her across the temple, too, when she rolled away, her legs scissoring as she pivoted to her feet, her hands still clutching the knives, coming at him again.

She definitely gets an A for effort.

Jack stepped back, avoiding the slashes before stepping in, stiffening the index and middle fingers of his right hand, like a viper's tongue, stabbing her eyes, shocking the optic nerves before driving the heel of his right palm against her nose at an upward angle.

She instantly dropped the blades, falling to her knees, before collapsing on her side just as the third operative stopped ten feet away, a hand reaching inside his jacket.

Jack threw the SOG knife on instinct, the blade slashing through the space separating them, flickering in the dim yellow light, its scalpel-sharp tip piercing the mercenary just below the chin, slicing through his windpipe.