Josh’s scream went on and on. Wiley couldn’t imagine what horrible thing they were doing to him. He picked up the remote and switched it off.
“Put it back on,” Fran said.
“Don’t torture yourself by watching it.”
“We have to save him.” Fran’s eyes were glassy, pleading. “He came back for us.”
“I know you don’t want to risk Duncan’s life just to save Josh.”
“Please.” Fran was crying now. “Please do something.”
“We can’t. He’s dead. Forget him.”
Fran walked up to him, met his eyes. “That should be you out there, not Josh. He’s a good man. Have you ever done a single good thing in your life?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Of course it’s about you. Everything has always been about you, you selfish bastard. If you’re not going to do anything, I am.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“I’d rather die fighting than live in fear.”
“You’ll leave Duncan without a mother?”
Duncan appeared at his mother’s side. “Mom?”
Fran knelt down, hugged her son. “I’ll be back, baby. It’s okay.”
Wiley shook his head, amazed. “This man means that much to you?”
Fran looked up. “Yes.”
Wiley cleared his throat again. When was the last time he’d spoken to someone? Weeks? Months? When was the last time he cared about anyone other than himself?
He looked at Ace. “You and Duncan hold down the fort. I’ll need Fran to work the hatch.”
Duncan looked up at him, his small face so full of hope.
“Are you going to save Josh, Wiley?”
Wiley stared down at his grandson. What would a grandfather do? He chose to pat the boy on the head and wink at him.
“I sure as hell am going to try.”
Dr. Stubin had to walk away because Josh’s screaming was giving him a headache. While the brain specialist had never broken a bone, he couldn’t imagine why a few bent fingers would make a man howl like that. That Special Forces sergeant Stubin killed earlier had his arm blown off and made a lot less noise.
Stubin had set the timer on the explosives in the helicopter footlocker—left there for him by the Red-ops team when they’d landed—and blown up the Special Forces team when they landed. The sergeant babysitting him had barely even whimpered—even when Stubin beat him to death.
Stubin sighed. This operation had taken much longer than necessary. Stubin didn’t blame himself. Warren Streng had proven much harder to find than anyone could have guessed. The lottery ruse was a quick and relatively simple way to gather and interrogate a small group of people, and it had been used by the Red-ops many times throughout the world. Greed had no color, race, or political affiliation. But it turned out no one knew where the bastard was hiding. And even now that they’d found him, they couldn’t get him out of the bunker he’d built for himself. Under that fake deer was a steel hatch that couldn’t be forced open, not even by Ajax. If torturing Josh didn’t gain them entrance, they’d have to go back into town and raid the hardware store to make explosives.
Stubin checked his watch. The military had quarantined the town, as expected. But General Tope would be sending in more Special Forces units soon. Good as the Red-ops were, they were only five people, and Ajax was functioning in a diminished capacity and might not last the night.
Stubin wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. Truth told, he hated these monsters that the army had forced him to create. Ajax cut up his parents at the age of eleven. Bernie had been given the death penalty for burning down a nursing home. Taylor—a vicious schizoid serial killer—was another death-row rescue. They’d gotten Santiago from South America, a sadistic freelance interrogator who wound up working for the wrong side and was captured by the CIA. And Logan was another psycho who’d been plucked from the mental ward, prone to such violent outbursts that her diet consisted mainly of thorazine.
Human garbage, each of them. But they were the only ones he was allowed to perform the implantations on. The only ones he could experiment on. The military spent incredible amounts of time and money teaching soldiers how to kill, and some of them still hesitated at the moment of truth. How much easier it was to take killers and turn them into soldiers.
So now, under his care, he had five Hannibal Lecters with Rambo training and transhuman modifications. The Chip made them programmable, controllable. The Charge rebooted the Chip when it sensed other thoughts interfering with the program. It also fine-tuned their instincts, making them more aggressive, faster, stronger. There were also indications it unlocked powers of the mind known only to monks and mystics. The ability to withstand pain. To function in extreme conditions. To heal faster. Some experiments had shown it could even enhance extrasensory perception.
But who was utilizing this untold power? Who was the subject of his brilliance?
Psychotics and maniacs.
Stubin wanted to work on normal people, not crazies. But the government wouldn’t allow it, and no private company would dare fund such a project. When he acquired the film, everything would change. After spending decades being a slave of the U.S. government, he’d get out of his indentured servitude and wind up with some serious money, as well. Stubin figured the film was worth at least two hundred million. He’d set up another lab, one with complete freedom, in Mexico. He’d run his experiments on the locals—bribes ensuring the full blessing of the Mexican government.
And what better way to fulfill his dream than to use the very Red-ops unit he’d been forced to create? They were supposed to be in Afghanistan now, wiping out some village where the Taliban was suspected of hiding. But Stubin decided to run his own program instead. Instead of the Middle East, he brought them here, to find Warren Streng.
The military thought they could control Stubin, keep him in line.
They had greatly underestimated him.
A dog whined nearby, and Stubin froze. That stupid mutt the kid doted on. Maybe if breaking Josh’s fingers couldn’t get them to open the doors, setting the dog on fire would.
“Here, doggy,” Stubin said, his voice high-pitched and sounding ridiculous. “Here, Woof. Come to Dr. Stubin.”
Woof jumped out from behind a tree, his tail wagging. He had some rope tied around his snout.
“Good boy. Come here. Come here, doggy.”
The beagle took a few tentative steps toward Stubin and stopped, looking away.
Then the gunfire began.
Josh had been willing to die to protect Fran and Duncan. He didn’t want his suffering to put them in jeopardy and had done his best to not react to the pain. Seeing the hatch open made him feel dirty, as if he hadn’t tried hard enough.
Santiago continued to hold him, putting a knife up to his throat. Taylor blended into the woods. Ajax stood there watching.
Two seconds passed.
Then five.
Ajax approached the entrance. Then the hatch closed again.
Before Josh could figure out what was happening he heard half a dozen shots come from behind. He was pushed forward, Santiago falling on top of him.
Josh rolled onto his side and Santiago was already up and stumbling into the woods. Someone ran up to Josh and fired a shotgun in Santiago’s direction, then swung it ninety degrees and fired at the retreating Ajax.
“You hit?” Warren Streng asked Josh.
Josh had no idea. It had all happened so fast.
