“How did you—?”
“Back entrance. Came at them from behind. Fran worked the hatch as a diversion. You hit?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then move your ass.”
Josh didn’t have to be told twice. They hurried to the entrance and Warren twisted one of the dead deer’s hooves. The hatch opened, revealing a metal slide.
“Thanks for—”
“Not over yet. They’re watching us, and now they know how to get in. Move.” Warren stared down at Josh’s mangled right hand. “Can you shoot lefty?” he asked.
“Not very well.”
Warren handed Josh a massive handgun. “Now’s your chance to learn. Anything that comes down the ramp, kill it.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to put an end to this. How many?”
“Santiago, Taylor, Ajax is the big one. And Dr. Stubin—he’s the leader.”
“I also saw a girl.”
Josh shook his head.
“Are they armed?”
“I only saw knives. But they’re experts with them. Also, there’s a dog. Woof. He’s one of the good guys.”
Warren nodded, shoved Josh onto the ramp, and the firefighter fell onto his butt and slid down into the darkness. Josh almost dropped the gun, and his broken fingers banged against the wall, causing him to cry out. He saw purple light below, and when he hit the bottom someone pointed a shotgun at his head.
She set the gun on the ground and hugged him, hugged him so hard that it almost hurt. Josh hugged her back, surprised by the depth of emotion he felt. He never wanted to let go.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her cheek on his ear.
“I’ll live. Duncan?”
“He’s here, with Sheriff Streng.”
A clanging sound from the outside. Warren had closed the hatch.
“They’re coming,” Josh said.
“I know. My father told me what to do.”
“Your father?”
“Long story. Come on.”
Fran picked up the gun and led Josh to the only doorway in the large room. It opened up to a brightly lit hallway. When Fran saw his hand she lost all color.
“Oh, my God, Josh. And your face …”
She touched his chin, which he didn’t feel because he was still numb from the lidocaine. The blurry vision had returned. He removed the metal case from his pocket but couldn’t open it with only one hand.
“We can deal with that later,” he said. “Can you open this and break one of the capsules under my nose? I’ve got cyanide poisoning.”
“Oh, Josh …”
Fran didn’t ask how it happened, which saved him from telling her that most of the town had been killed. They could compare horror stories when they were safe.
The Charge fumes hit, and it was like being shaken awake. After a minute of deep breaths he felt better.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked.
“Warren said this hall was a perfect bottleneck. We’re going to catch them in a crossfire, me in the kitchen, you in the storage room.”
“Sounds good. Let’s—”
Josh stopped midsentence as they both heard the unmistakable sound of the hatch opening.
Wiley lifted the night-vision monocular to his eye and surveyed the woods around him. All clear. He hadn’t bothered with the ghillie suit because it was bulky and often became tangled on things; Wiley wanted to be able to move as fast as possible. He wasn’t sure that at his age, in his condition, he could take out three highly trained soldiers, even though he had the firepower advantage. But that wasn’t his goal. You didn’t win at chess by killing pawns—you won by checkmating the king.
The night was as cool and crisp as biting into an apple, something he hadn’t done in a while. Wiley ordered supplies and food through the Internet, using a credit card with a false name and a delivery service that drop shipped pallets to his property once a month. Fresh produce didn’t make the cut.
Wiley butted up to a pine tree, breathing heavy, and absently wondered if Duncan liked apples. There were a lot of things he wondered about Duncan, and Fran. Maybe, if he cleaned up this mess, he’d have a chance to learn some of those things.
Most men never got a second chance. But this was Wiley’s. To make it right. To stop being afraid.
To finally forgive himself.
He peered through the monocular, the lens gathering up the ambient light and focusing it into a green image. There, thirty yards away, a man walking a dog. He saw the outline of the helmet, the different uniform, and watched the man walk through the woods with the grace of a drunk on roller skates. Dr. Stubin.
He came at them from the side, staying low and stopping every four paces to check for other enemy combatants. As he got closer, he noted Stubin wasn’t carrying any weapons and the dog wasn’t on a leash. The dog would pick up his scent, or hear him, any time now. Wiley decided to speed up the process.
Hiding behind a thick oak, Wiley hooted like an owl. Woof responded by whining.
“It’s just an owl, you stupid dog,” Wiley heard the man say.
When Woof poked his nose behind the tree, Wiley gave him a pat on the head, stepped out, and pointed the shotgun in the guy’s face.
“Hoot hoot,” Wiley said.
Stubin called for help. Or at least he began to before Wiley broke his nose with the stock of the Benelli. The man dropped to his knees, sobbing and gushing blood. Wiley kicked him over, put a foot on his chest.
“You’re Stubin, right?”
“Yes … yes …”
“You running the show?”
“You broke my nose …”
Wiley touched the shotgun barrel to Stubin’s head.
“Are you running the show?”
“I’m … I’m a scientist …”
“Then you’re no use to me.”
Wiley unclipped the tactical folder from his belt and flicked open the blade with his thumb.
“I’m the leader,” Stubin blubbered.
“You’re going to call off your men.”
“I … can’t.”
Wiley pressed the blade to Stubin’s cheek.
“I can’t! They have microchips implanted in their brains … they’re following an uploaded program … they won’t stop until their mission is complete, no matter what I tell them. I’d have to reflash their BIOS, and I only have that equipment back at my lab!”
“So the only way to stop them is to kill them?”
“Yes!”
Wiley waited. Stubin lasted three seconds before shaking his head, sprinkling blood and tears.
“No! There’s an EPFCG in Mathison’s collar. You press the button, it explodes, emitting an electromagnetic pulse. It will fry everything electronic within fifty yards.”
