some matches, the Tylenol, and the electronic communicator thing, which vibrated just as Streng picked it up.
It reminded Streng of a Zippo, but slightly larger. A shell of black metal, no obvious buttons or switches, with an outlet in the bottom to plug in a cord. It vibrated again. A pager of some kind? Streng squeezed the top, tapped it on his desk, and pressed the sides. Nothing happened. Then he noticed a tiny seam along the back. He held the bottom, pulled the top, and the cover slid open, revealing a text message on a small green phosphorus screen.
Streng felt a surge of anger. They must have found Wiley.
He played with the device for a few seconds, trying to retrieve older messages, but it didn’t seem to have that function. It didn’t have a keyboard, either, or any way to send text messages. Just a single button and a small speaker to talk into. Streng figured it translated speech into text, then sent it via microwave or some other high frequency. He tucked it into his man purse and zipped it closed.
Time to move Bernie.
He picked up the lighter, palmed the Mini Fry, and headed back to his Jeep. Bernie’s fit had ended and he sat quietly, staring straight ahead. Streng got into the back seat with him, wondering how a man so obviously crazy could be recruited by an elite commando unit. Something to do with those Charge capsules? Ultimately he didn’t care. Understanding Bernie was much less important than incapacitating him.
Streng didn’t fool around. He used the stun gun.
He held the device to Bernie’s neck, the two protruding metal prongs connecting with his skin, and pressed the button to discharge the weapon.
A crackling sound accompanied the white spark, and almost a million volts surged into Bernie’s body, disrupting the electrical impulses the nervous system sent to the muscles, causing them to rapidly contract.
Streng knew from experience how it worked—when he’d bought the device he tried it out on himself with the help of a coworker. A one-second burst brought blinding pain. A two-second burst brought extreme muscle spasms. Three seconds could knock a person down, rapidly converting blood sugar into lactic acid and causing instant energy loss. Four seconds brought dizziness and disorientation. Five seconds could pacify even the most determined attacker for up to a few minutes.
Streng hit Bernie with a five-second burst. Bernie jerked, shook for a bit, then flopped over. Streng gave him a hard slap on the cheek to see if he reacted. He didn’t. Streng kept the Mini Fry pressed to Bernie’s side in case he needed another jolt and used his free hand to unbuckle him. Then he half pulled/half coaxed Bernie out of the car and onto his feet. The killer weaved a bit. Streng grabbed on to the back of his collar to steady him.
“Electricity,” Bernie mumbled.
“That’s right. Keep moving, or you’ll get some more.”
They came to the front door. Streng held it open and shoved Bernie inside. Since he didn’t have three hands, he couldn’t also hold the lighter. The office was too dark to lead Bernie to the cell.
Bernie said, “I have a chip in my head.”
“Good for you.”
Streng needed light, but he wasn’t letting go of the pyro, and he wasn’t about to put down the stun gun. So he gave the man another jolt. Bernie dropped to his knees. Streng kept his hand on his collar and shoved the Mini Fry into his fanny pack, fishing around for the lighter.
“I think you rebooted it,” Bernie said.
Bernie bolted. Streng reached out with both hands to grab him, but Bernie’s momentum took him forward and he scurried down the hall, blending in with the darkness.
A millisecond later Streng had cleared leather on his holster and fired his Colt twice, the reports snapping in his ears and the muzzle flash making him blink. He flicked on the lighter and held it up. The hallway was empty. Did the building have a back entrance? Streng couldn’t picture it, but chances were it did. Bernie’s hands were still tied, so he’d have a tough time unlocking doors. He was probably crouching somewhere, ready to pounce.
Streng cursed himself for being sloppy. He swung out the cylinder—warm to the touch—and yanked the spent brass, feeding in two fresh bullets. Then he moved down the hall, slow and cautious. He led with the Colt but kept his arm bent and tight against his body so the weapon couldn’t be knocked away, reminding himself to aim for the head; Bernie’s body armor might stop Magnum rounds.
When he reached the first doorway—the comptroller’s office—Streng held his breath and paused, an ear turned to listen. Nothing. He brought the lighter forward, saw a desk, file cabinets, a bookcase, the closet door open and empty. Nowhere to hide.
Streng moved on to the washroom, opening the door in a single clean motion, pointing the gun upward. Empty again.
Four offices left, including Streng’s, plus a boardroom and the drunk tank. Streng didn’t feel nervous. He was a seasoned cop and a seasoned hunter. Scary as Bernie was, the man was cuffed and had no weapons. Streng simply needed to stay calm, cool, and methodical, and he’d get Bernie. Dead or alive.
A smell wafted up from the hallway. Smoke. Not the cordite from the Colt; something chemical and sharp. Streng’s nose led him past two doors, to the mayor’s temporary office. On the floor, near the desk, the plastic zip line Streng had used to tie Bernie’s hands. The ends were melted and still smoking.
Bernie was free.
Adrenaline spiked through Streng’s veins. He looked left, then right, not seeing Bernie, wondering how he could have gotten out of the room without Streng seeing it, realizing he couldn’t have so he must have thrown the zip tie in there, spinning around to see Bernie charging at him—
The Colt was shoved to the side just as Streng dropped the lighter, which winked out when it hit the ground. Bernie hit him full body, slamming Streng backward into the desk, driving the air from his lungs.
The sheriff held on to the gun, shoved it into Bernie’s stomach as the killer pounded him in the sides. He squeezed off a shot, point-blank. Bernie recoiled, slipping off of Streng, hitting the floor. Streng aimed where he guessed Bernie to be and fired three more rounds. He waited, trying to hear above the ringing in his ears. Nothing. He fumbled for his man purse, located another lighter.
Bernie lay on the floor, sprawled out and eyes closed. Streng’s kidney burned, and his gun hand shook, and along with the pain and the fear was a bubble of animal rage. One shot to the head and it would be over. Streng had killed before. In Vietnam. In the line of duty, during a liquor store robbery. But he’d never murdered anyone. The distinction was large. In one case, the person was shooting back. In the other, the person was unarmed.
Streng got down to one knee, aimed the barrel at Bernie. The man deserved this, and probably much more. But was it Streng’s job to judge? Even more important than the grayness of right and wrong, would Streng be able to live with himself afterward?
He fired.
The bullet hit its mark, not penetrating the body armor, but flattening out Bernie’s kneecap like a stepped-on dog turd. Bernie’s eyes popped open and he howled, and Streng grabbed his collar and dragged him across the tile floor, to the cell room. Ignoring Bernie’s sobs of agony, he located the correct key, swung open the steel-barred door, and pulled him inside.
Streng didn’t feel any sort of vindication or swell of pride when the jail door clanged shut. He’d stood by his morals and hadn’t murdered a defenseless man, but that might not have been the right decision. Time would tell.
“Stop hurting me, Mommy!” Bernie wailed. “Please stop hurting me!”
Streng left the room.
Josh checked the rearview mirror and glanced at Dr. Stubin sitting in the back seat. Stubin was petting Woof—the dog had fallen asleep with his head on the doctor’s lap and was snoring softly.
Between Josh and Fran in the front seat, Duncan and Mathison also slept, each sitting with their heads back and their mouths open. Fran stared out her window as they drove, absently stroking her son’s hair.
“So how do we stop them?” Josh asked Stubin.
“The Red-ops?” Stubin rubbed his nose. “Well, we can assume they’re enhanced. Besides the chip implants they’ve probably had other body supplementations. Better vision. Better hearing. Quicker reflexes. Performance- enhancing drugs for bigger muscles and more endurance. I’m guessing they’re wearing the latest in body armor. And possibly, their dopamine and serotonin levels have been tweaked, giving them greater resistance to pain.”
“But they can die, right?”
