Thicker Than Blood (17 page)

He was starting to sweat. Okay Joe keep your cool. Where did he go? He started rummaging through the contents of the empty drawers. What am I doing, he thought. What am I looking for? How long has Amman been planning this? He reached for his phone. He dialed Mark. "Hello?" "Amman broke in. He took everything." "What?! When?" "When I walked to town to get dinner." Joe started rummaging through the piles again. "Did he take my computers?" "Everything." "Oh god." "Exactly." "Do you know where he'll go?" "I," Mark paused, "Don't know." He trailed off in fear. Kento's voice came on the phone, "Joe what happened?" "Amman robbed us." Joe walked in circles kicking through piles of papers, wires and silicon circuit boards. "How do you know?" "The shop is trashed." "I mean how do you know it was Amman?" Kento's voice was cool and even. "I saw him leave." "Did he see you?" Kento asked. Joe paused and raised and eyebrow. "No he didn't." "Do you know where he is going?" He recognized a pile as the contents of his personal drawer. My roll of cash is missing. Where are my tickets, he wondered. "Joe, stay with me." Joe hunched over and sifted through the pile. Throwing things across the room. His throat felt dry. Guilt washed over him. In seconds his guilt turned into fear and then rage. How can I be in this situation, he thought. His mind raced searching for anything outside himself. The whole thing is not logical, he thought, how can curiosity lead to something so terrible. "Joe?"

"The Olympic trials." His blood boiled as he spoke. "How do you know?" "I'm missing my tickets. They start tonight." His voice was excited. "How far are you?" "I'm not sure, maybe an hour." He raised his voice a little. "Don't jump to conclusions." He trotted over to the key table by the door. One set of keys lay beside Kento's motorcycle helmet. "I need your bike." "Joe you don't know how to ride it." "I rode once," he paused, "In a parking lot." "Riding around the parking lot does not prepare you to chase down a car on a parkway. No. You'll get hurt and arrested. You'll be shipped off to Guantanamo for life. We'll never see each other again," the sound of his voice changed as he changed to speaker-phone. "I have to try." He sounded parental, "Joe you don't know he is going to attack anyone. How could he make them into a weapon in a half an hour?" Mark chimed in, his Indian accent thick with stress. "What if he planned this? From the beginning? He'd have the same time we did. He could even draw on our progress and add to it." Kento said, "That's possible. But why strike so soon?" "Surprise," Joe said flatly. "Nobody even knows nanites exist yet. He could destroy trust in the government. The Feds couldn't protect people from a nanite attack without telling them the truth. Total chaos would ensue..." Mark trailed off again. "How did he know about the tickets? Why didn't he take them sooner?" Kento inquired. "Surprise. He could have found them when I brought them here." Joe's voice trembled slightly. "Something's not right." Kento seemed to be thinking out loud. "I'm so sorry." Mark sounded ashamed. Joe was convinced. He grabbed Kento's helmet and keys. He flicked the lights and pulled the door shut behind him. Joe paused and remembered the night Lucy quit. Like the shop mattered anymore, he thought cynically.

I've ridden a motorcycle a little. I test drove a in a foot of snow for Sun Auto. I can do this. "Kento, I need your bike." "Joe don't. That bike is dangerous. It really is a crotch rocket." "He must be stopped." "What will you do if you catch up to him. How can you stop him?" "I'll think of something." "Riding a bike in first gear in the parking lot is different than weaving through New York traffic." "Clutch, shifter, brake, gas. Same as a car." He was hunting around for where to insert the key as he talked. The phone was silent. "Okay Joe. Listen to me very carefully first." He tried to clear his mind. It didn't work. "On the left you have a shifter and clutch. The clutch is the bicycle style lever on the left handle bar. Held down it's out of gear, released it's in gear. Try it now with the bike off." He grabbed the clutch and released it. "Okay." "That is the most important control on the bike. It is a wet clutch, you won't wear it out. Accelerate and decelerate with the clutch, not the throttle. If you forget, you will launch the bike into the air. To control the bike, control the clutch. If you launch the bike into the air it will land on your head. If you must crash, lean the bike over and lay it down. Do you understand?" "Yes"

"On the lower left is the shifter. Down is down, and up is up. Neutral is between first and second gear. You should only let go of the clutch, when the stopped bike is in neutral. On the right the pedal is the rear brake and the lever is the front brake. The right handle grip is the throttle. Do you understand?" "Yes" "There is an emergency stop switch which is currently off. You'll need to press it. It's a red button." "Okay," he pushed the button. "Can you repeat that for me?" Joe's mind was buzzing. "No." "The most important thing is?" "Baby the clutch." "Right," he sounded encouraged. He turned the ignition key. The bike's paint faded from yellow to black, red and yellow flame graphics started dancing across its tank fairing and fenders. The motorcycle looked alive. "Nice flame job." He was impressed. "I leave it off. You pressed the wrong switch. The switch at the center of handlebars toggles the graphics, the kill switch is on the right." Mark's voice chimed in. "He's going to die isn't he." "I'm not going to die." He pushed the button on the right. "Wish me luck." Joe smiled. "Keep your cool. Try to wait till he parks before you try anything. Call for help if you track him down." "Later." Joe hung up the phone and put it in his back pocket. He pulled the pair of gloves out of the helmet and put it on. He climbed on the flickering bike. He put his foot on the brake and his hand on the clutch and turned the ignition key. His heart stopped, but nothing happened. Eventually his heart started beating again. He pushed the foggy visor up and adjusted his Clarks. Joe's eyes floated around landing under the kill switch. "Oh." He shook his head cartoonishly. "The start button." The engine roared as Joe revved the throttle way to far. Okay. Ease the throttle and slowly back off the clutch.

The bike went nowhere. What the hell is it now, he wondered. He looked at his watch, ten minutes had passed and he hadn't driven a foot. Joe noticed a green "N" lit up in his speedometer. Oh, it's in neutral. Okay I'm stupid. Maybe this whole thing is stupid, he thought. He clicked the gear shift down with his left foot. He slowly eased into the throttle and the clutch. The engine slowed a little as the gear started to catch. He compensated with more throttle. He felt his heart starting to beat faster. The rear tire squealed, the kickstand clanked into place under the bike, and Joe took off into the night like he was shot from gun.

Sergio had a look of pure bliss on his face. Monica Vallone was sitting beside him on the couch stroking his hair. He was upset about something just one minute ago, but it didn't seem to matter now. He was happy. Joe wanted to be happy too. He ran from the stairs to them. He wanted to make his father smile. He wanted to be touched and loved by his mother. Joe imagined himself as a boy running to them. I can reach them, Joe thought. A horn honked. Joe was riding Kento's motorcycle on the Grand Central Parkway. He snapped back to reality, ashamed of his childish longing for comfort. I'm so cold, he thought. He shivered. I don't know where Amman is. I don't see his car. I think I know where he is going, but can I get there before him? If I want to catch him, I had better start passing in between cars. This guy doesn't know what he is doing, he thought. A green triangle pointed towards his lane, indicating a change of direction. I'd better swerve around him. The motorcycle drifted into the breakdown lane as it accelerated. He noticed three cars lined up pacing each other up ahead. He decided to pass in between the left and middle lane. Those two aren't paying attention. He felt the front wheel lift a little as he pushed it up to ninety. He spooked one of the drivers, a blue compact twitched as he passed. This is seriously dangerous, he thought, I hope I can stop him. He heart was pounding. He saw a blue triangle headed right for him. With a quick glance he swerved into the middle lane. Then just like that the triangle was gone. He checked his mirrors. Nothing. No cop, no car at all. Am I tired? He paced the traffic around him. He wiggled his toes and fingers as he rode. They were cold, but not numb yet. He felt adrenaline shoot through his veins. That wasn't the Clarks, but the bike. My eyes were tricked by the flames. He reached his hand forward through the wind and hit the graphics button. The bike turned yellow and black. Now I can trust myself a little more, Joe thought. He looked up from the motorcycle's body and saw a flash of red light to his left. He immediately swerved into the right lane of traffic. He was staring at the brake lights of a blue Volvo. He reached for the front brake and felt some loss of control as he slowed. His foot reached down for the back brake. The rear tire locked up. His mind screamed in fear as the bike screeched to the left and the right. He struggled to control the sliding bike. He took his foot of the rear brake and motorcycle began to whipsaw. He felt the bike lurch, and he had sudden memories of the Camaro going end over end. He leaned the bike onto its side, and slid. He tried to hold his leg to the underside of the bike as he slid along the road. He shifted his weight onto his shoulder where his leather jacket covered him. His Clarks lost understanding of the now sideways road and all vector marks turned to X's just like his last accident. He saw the red light as he slid. It was a transparent graphic audio analyzer LCD film on a red Nissan's rear window, just like his Clarks and the bike. I must have seen the Nissan's bass booming, he thought. Damn it, what a stupid way to die. He slid to a stop on the shoulder. He immediately reached for his cell phone. It's in my pocket, he thought. At least I can tell them to leave without me. He climbed out from under the bike and was relieved to see it was still running and in gear. Several cars stopped as Joe pulled his gloves and helmet off. His right leg was bleeding where his jeans ripped. He could feel the soreness in his right shoulder under the leather. He walked over and pressed the emergency stop button. The engine shut down, and the rear wheel stopped spinning. So that's what it's for, he thought. "Are you okay?" One woman asked getting out of her car. He was confused. Usually he wouldn't be okay. He was bleeding pretty bad from his leg and he was sure his shoulder was hurt too. Joe rubbed it. A man shut his car off and asked as well. "Son, do you need help?"

I am okay, he thought. I don't even think I'm woozy. "I think so," he grinned. Joe felt his meekness drain away. "In that case, you where driving like an asshole back there. Somebody gunna die? What's the big idea buddy." He recognized the twitchy driver's car. The man started walking toward him. "What could be so fucking important that you have to swerve through us like that." He spoke without thinking, "Terrorists," he paused, "are going to blow up the Olympic trials." "Then call the cops. Why be a hero?" Great. Now what do I say? Joe continued his confession, "They will arrest me." "Are you telling me you are a terrorist?" The large forearmed man approached Joe. "I'm calling the police." The woman shouted from a distance. She got back in her car. Oh great, that helps a lot lady, he thought. His mind was racing. "I am not a terrorist." "How do I know that?" The man was red in the face. He was inches from Joe. He felt almost panicked. I don't have time to tell him the truth. He wouldn't understand even if I did. He felt a strange calm come over his body. This is bigger than me, he thought. I know what I have to do. A thousand, no ten thousand lives depend on me. I must do this. He flexed his muscles to ready himself. Joe's phone rang. "Hello," he stared into the mans eyes as he picked up his phone. He felt the man's hot breath on his face. "Joe, I know where Amman is," Mark was yelling, "He just stopped at my Dad's apartment ranting about my last chance to get out." "Is he still there?" "No he just left. He's probably not even on the parkway yet," Mark sound like he wanted to cry. The man started to back away with fear on his face. The man seemed to realize he was serious. Joe figured he heard. "I'm on my way."

He hung up the phone and lifted up the bike. He looked it over. The bike was gray where the LCD film was scraped away, but it didn't seem to be leaking anywhere. The damage seemed superficial. He felt a tickle on his wrist. He looked at his hand as drop of blood ran into his palm. How long will I last before the nanites don't help anymore. He looked down, his ripped blue jeans leg was soaked with blood. If I loose consciousness I'm as good as dead. He sighed to himself. I guess I have to trust you Mark, don't let me down. He reached his right arm across his body and performed a circle and double tap motion on his arm computer. He put his helmet back on and slid his Clarks into it. The second HUD read four percent. I wonder what that means, he thought. He started the damaged bike and launched back onto the parkway.

Nathan Jones was standing backstage just out of sight of Scott's audience. He was sure Scott saw him. Just a few minutes ago he looked straight at him and gave him a wink. He peered around the curtain at the audience of fifty top ranking Generals and Admirals, all in full dress. They sat under a red white and blue banner on the far wall that read "Welcome to the MIR Age." He needed to talk to Scott right now. He thought about interrupting the whispering speech reciter behind him, but imagined Conner repeating his warnings about Vallone verbatim. I've seen what happens when Scott's teleprompter goes dead, and it isn't pretty. Nathan smiled to himself. All he could do was wait and listen. Scott spoke with a pronounced twang. "Traditional rules of warfare no longer apply. American soldiers wearing our exceptional armor and fully populated with our latest blood enhancement serum is no mere chemistry, but a directed machine capable of enduring heavy small arms fire for weeks, injured, and with no supplies. Severely injured men will be able to hibernate for three hours with no heartbeat until help arrives, and with Datahold's latest developments men could fight in an enhanced physiological state without drinking fresh water for three days and not eating for two weeks." Scott paused while the crowd murmured. He swore he heard someone laugh out loud. He talked over the murmurs, "Gentlemen, the United States armed forces will be unstoppable. It will be as if the lord himself will guide our bullets and cast our many enemies aside." He wondered what God really thought of Scott and MIR. He shuttered and forgot it. "In just a few short months, I will call upon you to each volunteer some of your best men, to train in the new techniques required to realize the full potential of the enhancement serum. In the meantime I must remind you this is top secret and repeating anything you heard here tonight to the uncleared is akin to treason." Scott looked as stern as he could muster. "Once again, thank you for agreeing to push this meeting up. I still expect to meet at our original time in a few weeks to begin planning initial testing, and to fill you in on some of the details I have omitted as a courtesy to your time. Please extend my apologies to your families for any disruption and inconvenience this may have caused, but as you can see this can be a deadly tool in the hands of the enemy. Good night and safe travel home." Scott smiled and waved as he walked off stage. His audience applauded. As soon as he had walked past the curtain the smile dropped off his face. He grabbed Nathan's arm and began pulling him away from the stage. "You tell me the reckless son of a bitch that caused me to wake up every four star General in the world is dead or in jail." "Close enough sir. We've got a panicked call to Vallone about an Iranian named Amman." "What?" Scott looked intrigued. "I did some digging, It seems Mark Mavdavi has an Iranian cousin." "Go on." He was smiling. "Amman Ibrahim is a political refugee. He was a nuclear scientist for the Iranians. He cut a deal with the US for political asylum. He was practically a slave in Tehran. Vallone and Mavdavi seem to think he's is some kind of terrorist threat." He was grinning now. "Is he?" "Most likely no. This is a man without a country. The Iranians hate him. He needs the US more than we need him. He has had access to a couple of CIA honeypots after all ties were cut and did nothing. He probably panicked when he realized what they were involved in. I'm checking now to see if he has turned himself in yet." He whispered letting his language slip. "Just wonderin, how'd ya find him?" "Amman stands out like a sore thumb on the list, once I had his name." "Well done Jones. Get up there and kick some doors in." He turned to leave, paused and turned back. "No wait, get the locals on it now and catch up later. When the dust settles, take a week of R and R." "Sir, what if they are using the nanites? They could be a threat."