But then Hale spotted what he needed, lying only feet from Obo’s prostrate body, and he staggered forward to pick it up. The L210 LAARK was prepped with one round and ready to fire.
Hale swore as a projectile knocked his right leg out from under him. He hit the concrete hard, fought to roll over, and brought the launcher into position. There wasn’t enough time to use the scope properly, to take careful aim, but the Angel was only fifty feet away.
So Hale pulled the trigger, felt the rocket leave the tube, and gave thanks for a direct hit. Judging from the horrible caterwauling noise it made, the stink was hurt, but he knew how tough Angels could be, so he struggled to reload as the Chimera spidered forward.
Meanwhile, Tanner had struggled to his feet and leveled the minigun at the surviving Hybrids. The weapon’s multiple barrels produced an ominous whine as they began to rotate, followed by a throaty roar as the gun began to fire. Waves of advancing Chimera fell as he hosed them down, his teeth bared, blood pouring from a shoulder wound.
That gave Hale the time he needed to finish loading the LAARK and fire a second rocket at the Angel. There was a loud
The Angel was dead, but by some miracle a Steelhead had survived Tanner’s barrage and gained the platform. Auger firing, it was advancing on Hale.
The Sentinel thought about the Rossmore, and realized it was back in the office. He was waiting for the stink to kill him when Ralf attacked. Because the Auger bolts were a threat to Spook, who was just coming around, the Howler went for the Steelhead’s throat, tore it out instantly, and remained crouched over the body.
Jacoby wheeled himself out onto the platform. Broken glass made a persistent crackling sound as it broke beneath the chair’s wheels. Coming to a stop, the Freedom First leader aimed a glob of spit at one of the lifeless Hybrids. It hit dead-on.
“Bastards,” he said defiantly as Hale regained his feet. “This is
The battle for the Adams/Wabash station had been won.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Live Bait
Santa Barbara, California
Thursday, December 6, 1951
It had been a clear winter’s day in Santa Barbara, as the sun began to sink over the Pacific Ocean, and shadows gathered between the houses that lined Garden Street. It was a quiet neighborhood, in which people had a tendency to keep to themselves, so other than the elderly man watering his lawn on the opposite side of the street, there was no one present to witness the arrival of a black Humber town car in front of Hannah Shepherd’s house.
The house was a modest affair, indistinguishable from the homes around it except for the gold star displayed in the front window, and the meticulously kept garden out front. The man watched expressionlessly as the car’s driver got out, circled the town car, and opened the rear passenger-side door. Then, as a man in a gray business suit made his way up the walk that led to the Shepherd house, the neighbor heard his wife call him in for dinner.
It was Thursday, and that meant meatloaf, one of his favorites. So he turned off the hose, walked around to the side door, and went inside.
Life was good.
Having arrived on the tiny front porch, Dentweiler switched his briefcase from his right hand to his left, straightened his tie, and pressed the button located next to the door. He could hear the distant
As the door opened Dentweiler found himself facing a woman with shoulder-length brown hair, a narrow, almost patrician face, and an expressive mouth. Her eyes were big, brown, and warily neutral. He recognized her from the photos in her husband’s voluminous personnel file.
“Yes?” Hannah Shepherd said, careful to keep one foot behind the door. “How can I help you?”
The ID case was ready and Dentweiler flipped it open to expose a picture of himself over a full-color presidential seal. “My name is William Dentweiler,” he said. “May I come in? There’s something important that I need to talk to you about.”
Hannah looked up from the ID case and frowned. “Are you from the Department of Veterans Affairs?”
“No,” Dentweiler said smoothly. “I’m from the Office of the President.”
Hannah’s eyes grew wider. “As in President of the United States?”
“Yes,” Dentweiler replied matter-of-factly. “It’s about your husband, Jordan.”
“But he’s dead,” Hannah objected, as the color drained out of her face and her eyes flicked toward the star in the window. “He was killed in action.”
“Yes, and no,” Dentweiler countered mysteriously. “May I come in?”
She nodded and pulled the door open, waited for the man with the rimless glasses to enter, and closed the door behind him. There was no hallway—the front door opened directly into the small living room, the main feature of which was a brick fireplace and a highly stylized oil painting of Jordan Adam Shepherd that hung above it. He was dressed in an Army uniform, and judging from his expression, was determined to wear it with honor.
Dentweiler crossed the room to examine the portrait more closely. Even allowing for some help from the artist, Shepherd looked quite handsome. A far cry from the monstrous
“The painting was a present,” Hannah explained. “From Jordan’s parents… after his death.”
“It’s nicely done,” Dentweiler replied. “May I sit down?”
“Yes, of course,” Hannah replied apologetically. “Where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” Dentweiler responded as he unknowingly sat in Jordan Shepherd’s favorite chair. A contemporary-looking couch took up most of the wall across from him. That was where Hannah sat down, careful to sweep her housedress back under her thighs and keep her knees together.
Dentweiler had two categories for women. Those he deemed worth having sex with—and those he wasn’t interested in. And Hannah Shepherd fell into category one. Partly because of her slim good looks, and partly because she came across as so pure that Dentweiler felt a perverse desire to bring her down. But that would have been pleasure, and he was there on business.
He cleared his throat.
“First, please allow me to apologize on behalf of the United States government. Simply put, most of the things you were told about your husband’s death weren’t true. Jordan, and hundreds of men like him, volunteered to take part in a top secret program that resulted in a serum which helps our soldiers survive wounds that would kill you or me. He wasn’t allowed to tell you about it, nor were we, and the program remains secret even now.”
“So, Jordan’s alive?” Hannah inquired eagerly, her voice full of hope. “He wasn’t killed in action?”
“No,” Dentweiler allowed soberly, “he wasn’t. But I’m sorry to say that as a result of the program, your husband underwent many mental, emotional, and physical changes. That didn’t happen to all of the volunteers, but our experts believe Jordan was immunocompromised at the time of initial treatment, which produced some unanticipated results.
“It was the government’s intention to care for him, of course,” Dentweiler added quickly. “But all such efforts came to an end when he escaped.”
“Escaped?” Hannah echoed. “How? And from
“Due to all the changes he underwent Jordan could be violent at times,” Dentweiler explained darkly. “He
