Taylor experienced something like a flashbulb going off in his head, and before the memory became too pronounced the Chip sensed the deviation from the program and rebooted. Without thinking he reached for his case and removed a Charge capsule, breaking it under his nostrils. The fumes—a mixture of acetylcholine, trichloroethylene, amyl nitrite, and several other proprietary ingredients—traveled up his nasal passage, entered his lungs, and then permeated his bloodstream. From there the chemicals reached the brain and defragmented the memory center, clearing it of all unnecessary neurotransmitters.
Taylor stopped thinking about the past and once again reverted to Chip protocol.
He looked at his partner, Logan, who wore civilian clothes rather than the black body armor, the result of changing soon after they’d landed. Logan enjoyed bloodshed as much as Taylor did and had been the lucky one chosen to kill their handlers in the helicopter, cutting their throats so deeply their heads were practically severed. Taylor would have liked that duty, but he’d been busy helping Santiago set the charges, blowing up the chopper to make it look like it had crashed. In the unlikely event they were caught, the government could claim it was an accident, rather than intentional.
Though the Chip didn’t allow for personal feelings to get in the way of the mission, if Taylor were to pick his favorite team member it would be Logan. They had similar backgrounds. Both were serial killers, with oral fixations. Both equated pain with sexual arousal. Both were behind bars when the Red-ops recruited them. If it wasn’t for one vital difference, they might have been identical twins.
Logan was currently dressed as a townie, but it didn’t fool many people, because everyone here knew who everyone else was and could spot strangers instantly. But if everyone knew everyone, why were they having so much trouble locating Warren?
A male voice, coming from around the corner. Taylor nodded at Logan, who quickly intercepted.
The man had gotten past Logan and stood in the locker room, taking in the carnage. He was short and bearded and wore filthy overalls and a filthy baseball cap. Taylor could smell the sewage on him from ten feet away.
Logan came up behind the man, placing a knife to his throat. Taylor shuffled over. The name
“Hello, Olen. Where’s Warren Streng?”
Olen’s lower lip bounced like it was made of rubber. “Wiley? He lives on Deer Tick Road, on the little lake.”
Taylor moved closer, getting in Olen’s face. He noted that even the man’s teeth were stained gray.
“You actually know where he lives?”
Olen appeared ready to cry. “I … I cleaned out his septic tank a while back.”
“Do you have his address?”
“Wiley doesn’t exactly have an address. He likes to live off the grid, he says. No mail. No utilities. Only comes into town once in a while.”
That explained the trouble they’d been having.
“Whether or not you die depends on how you answer my next question. Can you take us there?”
Logan drew a little blood on Olen’s neck to drive the point home.
“Yeah … yeah, I can … no problem.”
“Good,” soothed Taylor. “Very good.”
A thought, or the chemical/electric approximation of a thought, flashed full-blown into Taylor’s mind.
He guessed it appeared in his partner’s head, as well, because Logan was already kneeling by the backpack and removing gas masks. Taylor forced one onto Olen’s face and put one on himself. Then he and Logan donned clear plastic ponchos, gloves, and leggings, and each strapped on a bandolier of aerosol canisters.
“If you try to run, I’ll pull off your mask,” Taylor told Olen. “And you wouldn’t like that.”
The three of them walked out of the locker room, into the gymnasium. The crowd of over three hundred didn’t react immediately. It took a few seconds for them to notice the gas masks and a few more seconds for them to question what was happening.
By that time Taylor had already activated and thrown two cans, Logan three. The hydrogen cyanide gas was colorless but carried the odor of bitter almonds. The canisters hissed as they rolled through the bleachers, and the smell—coupled with the trio’s attire—induced panic. Screams popped up here and there, then mingled and joined into a communal wail that sounded as if it came from a single entity.
People tumbled over each other, tripping down the riser stairs, falling and trampling and stampeding toward the exits, which did no good because they’d been previously locked. A foolish man rushed Logan, who slashed open his trachea before being touched. Taylor kept Olen in his sights but probably didn’t need to bother; the sewage man seemed frozen to the spot.
After sixty seconds the panicked screams were replaced by another sound: wheezing. The gas entered their bodies through the lungs and mucus membranes, and it quickly induced runny noses, dilated pupils, and tightening of the chest. This was followed by coughing, panting, throwing up, urinating, and defecating. Then came convulsions and death.
Taylor found it quite enjoyable to watch. He’d been recruited by the Red-ops, secretly saved from death row, because of his appetite for death. For him, killing was like riding a roller coaster or seeing a good movie. His levels of serotonin and dopamine rose, prompting a sense of well-being and pleasure. The Chip enhanced this effect. Taylor licked his lips, and his heart rate increased, but he made no attempt to touch his growing erection. Rape wasn’t in the programming today.
The three of them stood there for almost five minutes. Not everyone died, but those that still breathed were comatose or on their way. Taylor was grateful that the gas mask filtered out odors, because the gym was lousy with bodily fluids. He tugged Olen by the arm and followed Logan to the table near the gym entrance, watching his step. The town treasurer still sat at the table, mouth open and eyes bugged out. He’d managed to get the keys out of his pocket but died before being able to use them. Logan tugged them from his hand.
It took a bit of pulling and pushing to move the large pile of bodies away from the door, and when they got to the bottom of the stack Taylor was tickled to see Mayor Durlock still alive, twitching and wheezing. His chest and face were speckled with bloody vomit, and the front of his pants was stained.
Taylor bent down so the mayor could hear him.
“I lied to you about seeing your wife and daughter again. They’re already dead. But thanks for helping out.”
Mayor Durlock’s face contorted into a lovely mix of shock and anguish, which morphed into pure pain when Logan cut out his eyes. Logan tossed one to Taylor.
“I’ve got an eye on you.”
Then Logan’s face went blank. The Chip, rebooting. No time for play right now.
Taylor unlocked the door and dragged Olen outside.
“Where’s your vehicle?” Taylor asked.
Olen didn’t answer, but he did raise his hand and point to a tanker truck with a skunk painted on the side.
“How far is Warren Streng’s place from here?”
Olen stayed silent. Logan poked him in the stomach with the knife, slipping the blade in an inch.
Olen flinched violently, letting out a scream.
“How far?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Taylor and Logan exchanged a knowing look.
