Assassin's code jl-4 Page 10

  Bug was a small man. Thin, spare, slightly hunched from a life spent at the keyboard. His work for the DMS was usually pure support. Crack a code, break through an anti-intrusion firewall, steal some guarded information. Fun stuff. Even when providing real-time intel for the field teams there wasn’t much actual pressure on him. After all, MindReader was the fastest computer on the planet. The basement of the hangar had a cold room lined wall to wall with a supercomputer cluster. The primary computer block was made up of three thousand premarket upgrades of the Tianhe-1A system which flew at a speed of 2.507 petaflops. That was more than thirty percent faster than the Cray XT5 Jaguar. Sometimes Bug would sit with his palms flat on the MindReader obelisk and feel the power surging through him. That was real to him.

  But today… the real world seemed to have found a way past all of his personal anti-intrusion systems. Fear was like an unbearably shrill sound in his ears.

  “Find those other devices.” That’s what Mr. Church had said to him before the Big Man went in for his conference with the president. Not “try” to find them. Find them.

  It was on him.

  Him.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in long and deep through his nose. The air in the fishbowl was ripe with the hot-wire smell of ozone. A beautiful smell.

  “Come on, baby,” he said aloud as his fingers hovered above the keyboard. “Come on, my baby. Don’t make me do this alone. Talk to me…”

  Almost as if in answer to his plea, a bell softly pinged.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Park Avenue and McMechen Street

  Bolton Hill

  Baltimore, Maryland

  June 15, 12:53 a.m. EST

  The bedside phone began ringing at precisely the wrong moment. Circe O’Tree was naked, covered in sweat, painted by candlelight, and on the verge of screaming as she moved in a frenzied pace up and down. Her black curls danced above her bouncing breasts as the rhythm drove her up and up and up toward the crest of climax. Beneath her, drenched and straining and grimacing with the beginnings of his own orgasm, Rudy Sanchez growled out her name over and over again.

  The phone kept ringing.

  They ignored it. They were only aware of it on some distant level, their immediate need transforming the intrusive sound into a mere component in the symphony of sounds and sensations. The music from the speakers, the sounds from the street outside of Circe’s window, the creak of the bedsprings, the urgent slap of flesh against flesh, and their marathon panting breathing were all parts of something much greater.

  “Oh, God!” cried Circe as the orgasm reared above her like a dark wave of velvet beauty, and she screamed incoherently as he came too. Together they spun to the edge of the precipice and plunged over, crying out each other’s names, saying meaningless words, making sounds provoked by sensations that were beyond even the most precise articulation.

  The phone rang through to voice mail.

  Circe collapsed onto Rudy, showering his face with many small, quick kisses as beads of crystalline sweat dripped from every point of her onto his skin. He gathered her in his arms and kissed the hot hollow of her throat and her cheeks and her eyes and finally her lips.

  The phone began ringing again.

  They ignored it.

  It rang five times and stopped.

  Circe could feel Rudy’s heart beating as insistently as hers. She clung to him, her body wrapped around his.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Te quiero,” he murmured.

  Then his cell phone began ringing.

  They both glanced at it.

  “Let it go,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. They did not move as it rang through to voice mail.

  There was silence. Circle let herself fall off of him in delicious slow motion, his arms around her to catch her fall and keep her close. Rudy looked at her. Lean and yet ripe, tanned skin a shade lighter than olive, and eyes that held more mysteries than he could count. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever touched; the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Movie-star beauty coupled with a fierce intellect and a personality as complexly faceted as a diamond. He took a strand of her hair and held it to his nose. It smelled of incense and wood smoke and sex. He wanted to tell her all of this, but in more poetic terms, and he fished for words that would convey what he felt without sounding like lines cribbed from old movies.

  “I-” Rudy began, and then her house phone started ringing.

  And her cell.

  And his cell.

  All at the same time.

  “Damn,” Circe said.

  Rudy cursed quietly in Spanish as he stretched an arm over and picked up both cell phones. Circe took hers and answered first.

  “Dr. O’Tree.”

  “Where are you?” asked Mr. Church.

  She closed her eyes and mouthed the word “Dad.”

  Rudy looked at the screen display on his. It said TIA. Aunt. Aunt Sallie.

  He nodded to her.

  “I’m home,” she said.

  “How quickly can you get to the Warehouse?”

  “Why? I’m off this week. I have to do revisions on the chapter on-”

  “That can wait.”

  “But it’s important.”

  “Not as important as this,” said Mr. Church.

  Circe sighed and considered smashing the phone against the wall.

  Then Mr. Church said, “Bring Dr. Sanchez with you.”

  Before she could ask a single question, he disconnected.

  All of the phones went silent.

  “What?” asked Rudy, and Circe told him. Then she buried her head against his chest.

  “I hate this,” she growled. “I hate that he can just pick up a phone and ruin a perfect moment for me.”

  “I expect,” said Rudy, “that he hates it too.”

  She looked at him for a moment, reading his eyes. She sighed again and nodded. “Damn it.”

  Five minutes later they were in Rudy’s Lexus breaking speed laws all the way to the Warehouse.

  Chapter Twenty

  Warbah Island

  The Persian Gulf, Near the Mouth of the Euphrates River

  Kuwait

  June 15, 8:57 a.m.

  Top Sims sat on the edge of the open door of a stealth helicopter. The helo was a model Top had never seen or heard of before last night-a Nightbird 319, a prototype variation on the OH-6 Loach used by the CIA during Vietnam but updated with twenty-first-century noise reduction technology, better construction materials, and radar-shedding panels that made the craft look like it was coated in dragon scales. The Nightbird had skimmed a few yards above the sand as it crossed the Iranian border, flying well below radar and inside the bank of total darkness provided by the rocky landscape. Almost totally silent beyond two hundred feet, it used special rotor blades that thrummed out a much softer vibration signature than that used by regular helicopters. If the pilot had not sent Top a locator signal, the two cars would had driven right past them in the night.

  Echo Team abandoned the cars and crammed themselves and the rescued college students into the chopper, but then they had to endure a terrible two minutes of waiting and praying as a phalanx of Iranian Shahed 285 attack helicopters came sweeping across the star field above. Top was very familiar with those birds. Each Shahed was rigged with autocanons, machine guns, guided missiles, antiarmor missiles, air-to-air and air-to-sea missiles. Seriously badass, and Iranian helo pilots were no fools.

  However, the helicopters swept past and then split into two groups, heading north and south along the border, their surveillance systems looking right through the bird on the ground.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” breathed Bunny. The three former hostages were panting like dogs. Khalid was murmuring prayers in Egyptian.

  Top felt every one of his very long, very hard years settle over him as he exhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  “We’re clear,” said the pilot over the intercom. The rotor
s spun up to a higher whine-though still eerily quiet-and the Nightbird lifted off. “Next stop Kuwait. First round’s on me.”

  That was ten hours ago.

  Now the three freed American college students were with their families. Laughing and weeping, hugging each other, kissing their families and each other. A happy ending and for once no one had died. Despite his weariness, it made Top feel like there was some clean air to breathe in the world.

  Bunny sat nearby on an overturned milk crate, sipping Coke from a can. Khalid was throwing grapes into the air and catching them in his mouth. Lydia, who had found her own way out of Iran, had her boots off and her feet in a bucket of cool water.

  The three of them looked like they were at a picnic, but Top wasn’t fooled. He knew every trick in the book about the “fake it till you make it” approach to regaining personal calm. All of them were feeling it. Anyone who ran this kind of game or played in this league felt it; but all of the nerves, the fears, the existential doubts were wrapped tight in affectation and shoved out of sight of the rest of the world.

  To let it show would be to admit openly that they were human, and they couldn’t do that. Not on the job. Not in front of people. Not when there was another mission ahead, and another after that.

  Top ached for the cigarettes he’d given up fifteen years ago. Or maybe a nice cigar. That would give his hands something to do, and concentrating on the smoke rolling down into the lungs and then swirling out again was something orderly and controllable. Even if the cigarettes were killing you, the process of lighting, inhaling, holding, exhaling, watching the smoke, shaping it with lips and tongue as it flowed out, and tapping the ash-all of that was deliberate process. Process was part and parcel with calm. But he didn’t have a smoke and promised his ex-wife that he would never start again. So, instead he chewed a piece of gum very slowly and precisely, and he grinned at the hikers and their families.

  It was Bunny who finally spoke, starting the process of talking about it. “Smith should be here pretty soon.”

  Top nodded. Smith had called from a border post right before climbing into a jeep with a Kuwaiti sergeant. “Any time now.”

  A few seconds blew by on the hot wind.

  “You think the Cap’s okay?” Bunny asked.

  Khalid caught two grapes in his mouth, bobbing and weaving like a boxer to get under each of them. “Cowboy’s always okay.”

  “Uh-huh,” agreed Top. It was a lie, though. Their captain spent as much time being stitched and splinted as the rest of the team put together. And they all knew that he was half crazy. Maybe more than half crazy. No one had the details, but rumors had leaked out in DMS circles that Captain Ledger had a party going on in his head. Not that it mattered to them. As far as Top was concerned, the captain could have the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “Ave Maria” in his head and it didn’t change a thing. Ledger was their captain and their friend, and they’d follow him into hell. Top thought about that and smiled ruefully. They had followed him into hell.

  His earbud buzzed and he tapped it. “Go for Sergeant Rock.”

  “Sit rep,” said Mr. Church crisply.

  “Sir, all quiet on the western front. Waiting on Chatterbox and Cowboy.”

  “Give me a status report on combat readiness,” interrupted Church.

  Top winced and almost cursed aloud. He was bone weary, and he ached for a hot bath, a cold beer, and twenty hours of sleep. Preferably with someone curvy, brown, and warm snuggled up against him.

  “Always ready to rock and roll, sir,” he said with energy in his voice that was a total fabrication. “What’s the op?”

  Khalid and Bunny shot him looks that went from inquisitive to surprised to murderous in the space of a second. Top spread his hands in a “what can I tell you” gesture.

  Bunny bowed his head and sighed. “Oh, man…”

  “We are at Firehall One,” said Church. That rocked Top and slapped all the fatigue from his nerves. Firehall was DMS combat code for a nuclear threat.

  “Jesus…”

  “Acknowledge,” snapped Mr. Church.

  Top stiffened and the others caught the sudden jerk of his body. They clustered around him.

  “Acknowledge Firehall One, sir,” said Top, and the others exchanged stunned looks. “Echo Team is ready to respond.”

  “Then listen closely,” said Church. “Time is critical…”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Kingdom of Shadows

  Beneath the Sands

  One Year Ago

  The King of Thorns rose from his chair and loomed above Hugo Vox. In the dense shadows pale figures crept closer, surrounding Vox with burning red eyes and hungry mouths.

  Vox turned in a slow circle, looking at the twisted figures. Some were vastly old, with crooked bodies and crippled limbs; some had the blank moon faces of deeply inbred retardation; but seeded throughout the crowd were creatures like Grigor. Taller, whole, and powerful, their skin the color of milk, their eyes blazing with intelligence and an unnatural vitality that seemed to burn into Vox, threatening to steal away his life and breath.

  Vox held up the detonator. “Careful now,” he murmured in a ghost of a voice. “Let’s all be very, very careful.”

  “I am not afraid of your bomb,” sneered Grigor. “The Upierczi do not fear death.”

  That annoyed Vox and he snapped, “Don’t lie to me, Grigor. Not to me. Everyone fears death. Even monsters like you. And… monsters like me. I’m not here to bring death and you damn well know it. I brought the bomb because I need to speak openly with you. No coy bullshit. We don’t know each other enough for trust, so shared fear is a good platform. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Grigor ran his tongue over the serrated ridge of his teeth.

  “Talk,” he said.

  Vox took another step, which brought him to within reach of Grigor, but the pale man remained motionless, his eyes glittering.

  “The Scriptor and the Red Order don’t give a shit about you unless they need you to do their dirty work,” said Vox. “To do the work they are too weak and too afraid to do themselves. Isn’t it time to stop being their dog?”

  Grigor’s eyes seemed to blaze with real heat. “Yes.” He hissed the word, filling it with endless hatred and cold fire.

  “Yes,” agreed Vox.

  “I know what happened to you. I know that eight hundred years ago Sir Guy LaRoque, the first Scriptor, sought out the Upierczi because the Order had a need for killers. Not any killers, but the best. Better than the Hashashin the Tariqa were using for their part of the so-called Holy Agreement. Nicodemus told LaRoque where to look, and he found an Upier in England, in Newburgh. He found another in France, and more in Italy, Poland, Russia… all through Europe. Not a community of you. Individuals. Hunted, wretched, hungry. Persecuted by the church. Condemned as monsters, as demons, as the unholy. LaRoque brought the Upier back to Nicodemus, and the priest created the Order of the Red Knights. Must have sounded pretty great at the time. To those poor, miserable fucks who had been hiding out in crypts and forests and ruins-to them it must have felt like they were people. Like they mattered. And, I guess they did matter; but only in the way a bullet matters if you want to shoot a gun. That’s what the Upierczi were, no matter what fancy-ass labels the Red Order hand out. Tools, weapons, slaves. For you guys, all three words mean the same thing.”

  Grigor gave a single, slow nod.

  “But the Order hit a snag with you. Something Sir Guy and Nicodemus didn’t foresee. You guys can’t breed worth shit. There are no female Upierczi, which screws things up from the jump. You guys are genetic freaks, a sideline of human evolution that didn’t pan out. The genes that make you what you are rarely present in females, and when they are the females look human and they sure as hell don’t want to breed with you. Not by choice. That meant that the Red Order had to start a forced breeding program. How many women did they take over all those years? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? More? And every one of them had to be
forced. Eight hundred years of rape isn’t a legacy to be proud of.”

  Grigor sneered. “They are women. Who cares?”

  Vox smiled. “Yeah, I’m the last person to throw stones. Anyway, the breeding program hit some of its own snags. Turns out only one in fifty or a hundred women was able to give birth to a healthy Upier. Most of the babies were-how should I put it? Less than successful? Stillbirths, freaks. Once in a while one of the breeding slaves popped out a half-breed. Always female, though, right? Whaddya call ’em? Dhampyr?”

  “Abominations!” The word rippled through the darkness, spoken by a hundred mouths.

  “Glass houses, stones. Any of that ring a bell?” asked Vox, amused. To Grigor he said, “The real bitch of it all was that the Red Order focused their breeding program on those few women who could produce Upierczi. They bred them and their children, over and over again, which left a pretty shallow fucking gene pool.” He gestured to one of the Upierczi who had mongoloid features and a vacuous expression in his eyes. “Inbreeding didn’t work for the Hapsburgs, and it sure as hell didn’t work for you.”

  “That is the past,” growled Grigor.

  “I know,” said Vox, smiling broadly. “I know that really goddamn well, which is why I’m here. Charlie LaRoque’s dad, who was probably one of the better Scriptors, as far as that goes, decided to try something different. Genetics. Gene therapy, gene splicing. Not rebreeding but a careful and deliberate remodeling of the Upier DNA. Very smart, very expensive, and very illegal. Which is how I found out about it, because if it involves science and it’s against the law, I’m always involved, I’m always making a buck on it, and I always find out about it.”