Weir Codex 1: The Cestus Concern (16 page)

Reaching his getaway vehicle, Mal tossed open the passenger’s door and ordered Zuz to drive. The determination setting the cyborg’s jaw was more than enough to keep Zuz from arguing.

“Always let the wookie win,” Zuz thought to himself as he jammed his foot down onto the accelerator and the car peeled out into traffic.

“Here,” said Zuz, holding up a scrap of paper with a telephone number scrawled on it.

“What’s this,” asked Mal, taking the paper in his hand.

“I found Lieutenant Colonel Michael Denman while you were playing with the ‘Ponch’ and ‘John’ back there.”

Mal’s eyes lit up at the news.

“Yeah? Where?”

“He’s right here in Southern California, stationed at Fort Irwin out in San Bernardino County,” said Zuz. “We can be there in an hour.”

“Fort Irwin? What’s the old man doing out here?”

“I don’t know, but that’s his number,” Zuz zigged in and out of traffic as he spoke. “Should we give him a call and find out?”

“No,” said Mal grimly. “I don’t want any surprises waiting for us when we get there.”

CHAPTER 12

A quartet of boxy black Cadillac Escalades, detailed to a gleaming finish an hour earlier and massive V8 engines idling quietly in unison, sat waiting outside the entrance to the US Bank Tower. The four sunglassed drivers, each nearly as bulky and massive as the vehicles they were operating and dressed in matching black suits blatantly announcing them as covert government operatives, seemed completely oblivious to both the red-painted ‘no parking zones’ they were parked next to and the miles of bright yellow ‘crime scene’ tape covering the area.

The normally crowded downtown Los Angeles sidewalk in front of the active business center had been a virtual ghost town since the automobiles had arrived ten minutes earlier. As if warned off by the collective unconscious or by ten thousand years of dealing with self-important government thugs, the foot traffic normally ever present along the northeast side of West Fifth Street had moved across the road.

Behind the dark polarized lenses of their glasses, the eyes of all four men darted back and forth, tracking and taking note of every person or vehicle moving past their location. Each man kept one hand up to the radio wires trailing down from their left ears and the other hand clamped tightly around the MP5s slung over his shoulder.

“Veeps in motion, people,” barked the driver standing near the third armor-plated SUV in line, signaling his fellows through his headset.

Driver three moved away from his still running luxury sports utility vehicle, striding across the glass covered, bloodstained courtyard Cestus had fallen into less than twenty-four hours earlier, only to halt halfway between street and the grand entrance to the US Bank Tower. After a quick visual sweep of the immediate vicinity convinced him the single janitor in charge of clean-up was non-hostile, the security guard signaled to the building with a wave of his hand.

The malfunction of Designate Cestus and explosion at Project: Hardwired’s hub had put everyone from the highest echelons of command to the lowest interns on edge. Because the boys in tech still had no idea what exactly went wrong or who was behind the disaster, the powers-that-be had declared the protection of Director Kiesling to be the top priority.

The security detail accompanying Kiesling as he exited the fractured high-impact glass of the cavernous lobby surrounded both him and Ms. Roslan in a wall of flesh and bone and high-caliber weapons. Almost twenty men escorted the pair to the cars waiting to spirit them away to a meeting with the US Secretary of Defense.

Sliding into the rear of the Escalade along its polished leather seats, Gordon Kiesling had to admit that, in spite of the trouble it was causing, he did enjoy the increased security and attention the escape of Designate Cestus had caused. The extra guards, bulletproof cars and openly displayed automatic weaponry made him feel incredibly presidential.

It was a feeling Kiesling very much wanted to experience for real in the future.

Ms. Roslan interrupted Kiesling’s White House daydreams as she eased into the SUV next to him, smoothing down the deep blue material of her short skirt to keep it from revealing too many of her executive assets.

Noting the way her perfectly sculpted eyebrows stitched a harsh line just above her nose, Kiesling asked, “You look unusually flustered today, Ms. Roslan. Who pissed in your porridge?”

Director Kiesling’s right hand woman stared sharply at the driver, waiting until he had closed the large, faux wood-paneled door and hopped into the front seat out of ear shot.

Once the convoy was in motion, Ms. Roslan finally answered.

“It’s Congressman Fountain, sir.”

“Fountain?” Kiesling was surprised. “I thought we had our favorite politician on lockdown at one of the off-site suites. How much trouble can he cause us without outside contact?”

“We’ve got his cell blocked and no landline or Internet access going in to his rooms. He should be completely cutoff.” Ms. Roslan’s voice trailed off as her face became a mask of frustration.

“Should be…but isn’t?” finished her superior.

“I’ve been fielding calls about the Congressman all morning. Somehow he’s spent the last twelve hours doing his best to throw as many monkey wrenches as he can at us. We just can’t figure out how. If we’re not careful, he’s going to get us shut down.”

“Don’t be foolish, my dear,” scoffed Kiesling, dismissing the idea with a wave of his tanned hand. “If he gets in our way, we’ll get rid of him just like the others.”

“I’m afraid we may find Congressman Fountain to be quite a bit more trouble than the last two government liaisons, Director,” countered Roslan in the closest impression of a grumble Kiesling had ever heard cross her lips. “He has some pretty heavy-duty connections on Capitol Hill.”

Kiesling laughed loudly at the idea but found his own retort cut off by a call coming through to Ms. Roslan’s phone. She smiled apologetically and stuck her index finger into the air in the universal sign for “one moment” as she answered.

“Yes?” Roslan said into the tiny phone that was a weapon as fearsome as the semi-automatic pistol she kept concealed on her lithe form at all times.

Kiesling could hear the raspy, weak-chinned voice of one of Project: Hardwired’s technicians filter out from the phone, but couldn’t tell which. Not that it made much of a different to the Director. One nerd was much the same as any other.

Leaning back, Kiesling half-tuned out his assistant’s one-sided conversation as the parade of vehicles turned off of West Fifth onto the Harbor Freeway on-ramp. They accelerated to seventy miles-per-hour and were well on their way to their meeting location when Roslan called for his attention.

“Mr. Anderson says they’ve got a hit on Zuzelo’s car,” she said, muting her phone for privacy. “A California Highway Patrol unit in Orange County called in a traffic violation attached to the vehicle’s registered license plate. CHP dispatch lost contact with the officers involved.”

“Two lone cops against one of our Prime Units? They didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell,” said Kiesling, punctuating the statement with a derisive snort. “I can’t imagine Cestus leaving the officers in any sort of an identifiable state.”

“The two officers are in critical but stable condition. Local law-enforcement has APBs out for the car and occupants,” Roslan continued her recap of the information she’d been passed by Anderson. “Do we let them run our fugitives down for us or pull them off the trail?”

Kiesling blew out a long, hard breath. He liked the idea of someone else’s budget taking the beating of trying to take down the rogue operative. On the flip side, he hated the thought of word getting out that he’d lost control of the situation. He saw no way to avoid the heat he’d get for having the locals back-off, but there was no way around it.

“This situation has gotten far enough out of hand without bringing in the state police. Get me the CHP commissioner on the line.”

“What about Designate Cestus? All indications show he and Zuzelo are heading out towards San Bernardino County,” Roslan asked.

“Why there? Another hideout of this David Zuzelo like the junkyard?”

Ms. Roslan braced her phone between her shoulder and the crook of her neck, keeping Mr. Anderson on mute, and pulled a tablet PC out of the dark brown leather satchel at her side.

“Best guess is that he’s going to see this man,” she showed the Project: Hardwired Director a montage of images containing Malcolm Weir and an older gentleman in the uniform of a United States Army officer. “Lieutenant Colonel Michael Denman, former commanding officer of Malcolm Weir’s Ranger unit in Iraq.”

Rubbing his chin, Gordon Kiesling tried to put it all together in his head before issuing his next round of orders. What did Weir’s old CO have to do with this—who else was involved? Nothing was adding up.

“Send a unit to follow them,” responded Kiesling. “I want to know exactly what Designate Cestus and this Zuzelo fellow are up to. Who they’re talking to. We need to find out who broke Mister Weir’s programming and how they did it.”

Ms. Roslan nodded and quickly relayed her boss’s orders to the man on the other side of the cellular connection.

Pausing to listen to a question, she looked up and asked, “Do you want Designate Gauss in pursuit?”

Kiesling’s handsome face scrunched up in thought as he considered the question. The director’s face answered her with a frown.

“No,” responded the overseer of Project: Hardwired, shaking his head. “Gauss had his chance to bring Weir down. Twice. He’s on the bench for now.”

Well-manicured hands reached out and snatched away the tablet computer Ms. Roslan had resting on her lap. The pair sat in silence as Kiesling moved slowly through a mountain of computer data, hunting. He smiled as he found the subject of his search.

“We should give someone else a chance, especially now that Designate Talos is gone,” he said as he held the thin silver and white computer screen up for his assistant to see.

Kiesling enjoyed the look of surprise on Ms. Roslan’s face.

“Him? Are you sure?” asked the beautiful woman. “His last mission was…messy.”

“I’ve been trying to keep things clean up until now,” said Kiesling, icy blue eyes growing dark. “But I think it’s time to get a bit messy.”

Roslan nodded and moved her tiny smartphone back up to her mouth.

“Mr. Anderson,” she said, “Have the May brothers reactivate Designate Pyroclast. We’ve got a job that requires his…unique set of talents.”

CHAPTER 13

The single piece of wisdom David Zuzelo would always remember from his time on the run with Malcolm Weir was this: arriving at an active military facility in a bullet-ridden vehicle, wearing burned and battered clothing, and asking to see the man in charge of the base will only result in having a large number of fully automatic weapons pointed out you.

That was precisely what occurred when Zuz and Mal rolled up to the front gates of Fort Irwin and announced their desire to meet with Lieutenant Colonel Michael Denman. The sentries, dressed in standard-issue gray and black urban pattern ACUPAT uniforms, took one look at the pair, pointed their M16A4 riles menacingly at the men and promptly called for back-up. Which, according the Mal’s internal computer system, resulted in a grand total of sixteen guns being aimed at them.

Zuz was pretty sure the computer had miscalculated the number of arms with a bead on them. By his own count, there were closer to a billion guns about to shoot them.

Give or take, that is.

“Please exit your vehicle and keep your hands above your heads,” shouted one of the soldiers. “Move it!”

“I’m starting to sense a pattern here, Mal,” Zuz said flatly as he started to open his door as slowly and non-threateningly as possible. “I feel like people have been pointing guns at me all day.”

“Same here—and it’s beginning to piss me off,” growled Mal, the plates and cables of his living metal arms bulking up substantially in reaction to the potential threat posed by the cadre of soldiers focused on them.

Seeing his friend’s nanotech transforming into a more aggressive attack profile, Zuz began to hyperventilate.

“Mal,” he wheezed, “I don’t want to get shot—don’t get me shot, Mal.”

The only response Zuzelo received was a not entirely reassuring half-smile from his friend as the cyborg exited the car, palms held high and facing out to show he was unarmed. The staccato drumbeat of nearly every gun snapping focus onto Mal echoed across the open grounds surrounding the public entrance to Fort Irwin and the National Training Center, causing Zuz to unconsciously smile. At least they were no longer pointing in his direction, thought the terrified man.

Paying no heed to the potential storm of small caliber fire from the near dozen-and-a-half MPs training their ordnance in his direction, Mal targeted the soldier nearest to him and marched forward slowly towards the man.

“Sir, stand down or we will be forced to open fire on you,” ordered the solider, a pretty-faced private with the name ADORNO emblazoned over the left pocket of his uniform.

Mal stopped less than six feet away from the private and caught the young man with his eyes.

“My name is Captain Malcolm Weir, Third Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, Private Adorno,” Mal said, shooting a withering stare down the barrel of the machine gun pointed at him by the youth. “I’m a grunt, just like you.”

Adorno licked his lips, caught as he was in Mal’s gaze and unable to look away. Sweat ran down the back of his neck and for one brief moment Zuz was afraid the beleaguered youth was going to start shooting.

“What can I do for you, Captain Weir,” said Adorno, finally lowering his weapon and signaling for his comrades-in-arms to do the same. Zuz could feel the tension drain away from everyone in the area as guns were slung, pistols were holstered and the soldiers began returning to their stations.

“Thank you, Private Adorno,” smiled Mal, warmly. “If you’d be so kind as to get Colonel Denman on the horn for me. Let him know Malcolm Weir is here for the poker game. He’s expecting us.”