A growl, deep in Woof’s throat. He twitched, then rolled onto all fours.
“Thatta boy, Woof!”
Duncan felt Woof’s warm tongue on his face, and he wrapped his arms around the animal’s neck. Then Woof went rigid and began to bark.
“I’ll burn you, too, dog,” Bernie said, just before Woof lunged and dug his teeth into the man’s calf.
Bernie howled, falling onto his butt, and Duncan ran for the front door with Woof on his heels. The night was cold and dark. Duncan knew to go to his neighbor, Mrs. Teller, for help when Mom wasn’t home, but Mrs. Teller’s lights weren’t on. In fact, no one on the block had their lights on. Duncan figured the electricity was out all over. He and Woof ran to Mrs. Teller’s front door and he banged on it with both hands.
Something glowed behind him. Duncan turned around and saw orange fire flickering through the windows of his house. Bernie appeared in the doorway, lighter raised above his head, and spotted Duncan. He began to limp after him.
“Mrs. Teller!” Duncan banged harder on the door. “It’s Duncan!”
Woof began to bark like crazy. Bernie got closer, close enough for Duncan to hear his manic giggling. Behind Bernie, the fire had spread throughout Duncan’s house. He could now see flames in all four front windows, and smoke rose from the roof.
Bernie’s face stretched out in a grotesque smile. He came closer, and closer, and got within fifteen feet when Mrs. Teller’s door finally opened.
“Stop!” she commanded. Duncan looked at her. Mrs. Teller was close to eighty years old, and her back bent in the shape of a question mark, and Duncan had to help her open jars. But she looked totally scary standing there with Mr. Teller’s old shotgun.
Bernie must have thought so, too, because he didn’t come any closer.
“Shoot him!” Duncan cried. “He broke into my house and burned it down and hurt Woof and wants to kill me!”
Bernie giggled. “I saw the house on fire and tried to help.”
“He’s lying, Mrs. Teller!”
“The boy, the boy is obviously upset and confused. I saved his life.”
“You’re not from around here,” Mrs. Teller said.
“I was passing through. Good thing, good thing I did, or else he’d—the boy—would be dead.”
“Where’s your car?”
Bernie’s grin faltered. “What? Oh, there, on the street.”
“That’s the Chavezes’ car,” Mrs. Teller said and then aimed and pulled the trigger.
Santiago probed his chest and winced. The liquid body armor—Kevlar fibers soaked in a sheer thickening fluid suspension of nano-silica particles in polyethylene glycol—had done its job and stopped all four rounds. It not only repelled penetration, but the energy of the impacts had been diffused, preventing blunt force trauma. But it still hurt like a bitch. Santiago promised himself he would pay back in kind when he caught up with the sheriff again.
He sat up and stared at Ajax, who was palpating his own body armor, the usual blank expression on his face. Ajax never had any expression, even while he was ripping off a man’s arms.
Santiago turned to face the woods and squinted. The Red-ops team all had enhanced night vision. Santiago vaguely recalled it having something to do with increased rhodopsin stores in his rods, yet another benefit of the Chip. A quick survey of the area failed to reveal the sheriff or the firefighter who had saved him.
A brief swatch of memory clouded his mind, and Santiago thought back to an earlier time, to his home in Bolivia. He remembered the room where prisoners were taken to be broken. Sometimes for interrogation. Sometimes to use as examples. Santiago always had a talent for causing pain.
When he was fifteen years old his family had a small farm, eating some of the goats, cattle, and chickens they raised, selling the surplus at the marketplace in town. But something began killing their livestock, mutilating the animals in grotesque ways. The eyes and genitals were gouged out. The entrails removed and tied into knots and braids. So many bones broken they no longer had any form.
The villagers spoke in hushed tones of a chupacabra on the loose, an evil creature of legend.
Santiago knew better. He was the one who led the animals, with food and gentle coaxing, to a cave in the woods where he would tie them down and torture them for hours.
After several years of butchery, he made the easy transition from the village’s livestock to the villagers themselves. Abducting a particularly loud young girl led to his capture and imprisonment. But rather than rot in jail, he was recruited by the secret police, getting paid to indulge in his appetites.
He plied his trade for many years. Santiago grinned, recalling a particularly enjoyable interrogation involving a vise and a cheese grater. He could vividly see the man’s face, hear his screams …
The Chip sensed the increased electrical function in the amygdala and hippocampus prodded by the memory and instantly ordered a reboot.
“Charge,” he said.
Without thinking, Santiago reached into his pants and pulled out a capsule of Charge, breaking it under his nose. The fumes took away the pain, stepped up his heart rate, and dissipated the extraneous thoughts and memories, leaving only the next mission objective:
Santiago stood up and faced Ajax. The giant was also sniffing a Charge capsule, his eyes rolled back into his skull. A moment later the two of them were sprinting through the woods with the speed and agility of pro athletes, Santiago ducking and dodging foliage, and Ajax knocking it out of the way. They didn’t become tired or winded, and their pulses remained under seventy beats per minute—resting heart rates for normal people. Ajax stopped once, to pick up the trail, and within fifty paces the sheriff and his friend were within their sights.
The Red-ops members switched to stealth mode, blending into the woods, silently flowing through the environment like liquid. The sheriff wouldn’t get away again.
• • •
Fran Stauffer, lying in the parking lot, her arms tied behind her with a plastic zip line, had never felt such hatred. Fran was a member of Amnesty International. She protested against capital punishment. She even forgave the unknown driver who caused the death of her husband.
But this man, Taylor, had completely shattered her faith in humanity. He did it with one short sentence: “We have Duncan, and we’re going to hurt him.”
Suddenly human rights no longer mattered. Neither did the sanctity of life. If Fran’s hands were free, she would have ripped Taylor’s throat out without a bit of guilt or regret.
“You seem angry,” Taylor said. He smiled. Taylor didn’t look like a monster. He had a strong, angular face that could be regarded as handsome. And his smile was deceptively charming. But Fran had seen what he’d done to Al, and had no doubt he’d do the same, or worse, to her. And to Duncan.
“Leave Duncan alone. He’s just a child.”
“I believe Bernie wants to eat him. I’ve seen him do it. In Bosnia he roasted a man’s leg and ate it while the fellow was still alive. Personally, I prefer mine raw.”
Taylor grinned again and snapped his teeth. Fran fought the revulsion and tried to keep her voice steady, even though it felt like her heart might explode from beating so fast.
“What do you want?”
“I want to know where Warren is.”
“Who’s Warren?”
Taylor smiled, as if he liked that answer, and lifted Fran’s injured foot up to his mouth. Fran tried to kick away, but the man had fingers like steel cables.
“This little piggy went to market,” Taylor sang, running his teeth over her big toe. “And this little piggy stayed home.”
Fran anticipated even more pain, and she wanted to vomit.
