Swords Of Exodus Part 8

"There's one man in the guard shack. I couldn't see what kind of weapons. The gla.s.s wasn't thick enough to be bulletproof."

"G.o.dspeed, Lorenzo." Ling's voice cut out.

Interrogating Smoot had showed me that there was no way I was going to get any weapons or electronic devices into the building. The Glock that Smoot had been carrying was personally-owned. I was going to leave it in the truck because everybody, even the guards, got checked at the entrance. Their duty weapons were stored in a locker inside.

The main building dated back to the early '50s. It was a three-story building, ugly and imposing, with very few windows. There were a couple of large radar dishes on the roof, and one giant revolving ball radar that had been rusted solid for decades. There was a second chain link fence around the building, only this fence was topped with razor wire. I parked next to the other cars took a deep breath, and stepped out into the cold.

Whatever is in Valentine's head better be worth it, Bob, because I'm freezing my a.s.s off out here.

There was a single gate in the fence. There was another intercom, a keypad, and a camera that was looking right down at me. I pushed the intercom b.u.t.ton.

"Identify," the bored voice said. The camera made a mechanical noise as it tracked on me.

"Roger Smoot."

"Enter your pa.s.sword." I typed in the four digit number that Smoot had indicated. Since I had been rather persuasive, I was relatively sure that he had finally given me the right number. The light blinked green. Good serial rapist.

"Stand by for thumbprint scan."

Smoot had said that sometimes the electronics weren't very reliable when it was below freezing. "Hurry, up man. It's cold out here." I dramatically shoved my hands into the pockets of my black fatigues, and found the cold lump waiting for me. The box lit up, I pulled the thing out of my pocket, and smashed it against the pad. The pad blinked twice as it scanned the print, and the gate unlocked.

I pushed the gate open and shuffled toward the main entrance. Somebody had shoveled and thrown down salt, causing a layer of cold slush to form. A heavy-set, jowly man in a black uniform and a coyote brown gun belt opened the security door for me.

"You're late."

"I'm hung over too," I followed him in and nonchalantly tossed Smoot's severed thumb in the snow behind me. He wouldn't be missing it.

VALENTINE.

There was a dull throb in the back of my head as the ceiling slowly came into focus. I didn't move. My muscles were cramped and I ached all over. I was dizzy and nauseated on top of it. My heart was racing, as if I'd woken from a bad dream. It's a h.e.l.l of a thing, waking up and realizing you're still in the nightmare.

But I was still in my cell, so that's how it was. I had long since given up hope that this particular nightmare would ever end. I didn't move, didn't attempt to get up because I had no reason to. Why bother? What did I have to gain from getting up?

Whatever else Dr. Silvers' machines, methods, and drugs were doing to me, having to relive the nightmares of my past were the worst. So much death. So many dead faces, blankly staring at me, silently accusing me.

The ache wasn't as bad as it had been last time. I didn't know. I didn't care. A sense of ambivalence had overtaken me. It was more than ambivalence, it was apathy. I just didn't give a d.a.m.n anymore. Whatever Dr. Silvers was doing to me, it was working. I couldn't even muster the will to sit up. My grasp was slipping. The painful memories were still painful, but more distant now. It was like being Calm, but all the time. As I lay there in the dark, I idly wondered what would happen to me if I let go entirely.

Just lay here and die, I thought. No one would blame you. No one will ever know. You've already been forgotten. I grew angry at the thought. So angry my body felt hot, like I was burning with a fever. My hands balled into fists, my jaw clenched. A singular, overwhelming impulse filled my consciousness: kill them all.

The fog in my mind cleared as I seethed, and I became more aware of my surroundings. Wait a minute. The lights are off. The surge of anger subsided somewhat, and my muscles relaxed. I didn't realize it before, but the lights were off in my cell. They never turned the lights off. The maddening buzz of the fluorescent tubes had ceased. The only light came from under the door to the hall. Had the tubes finally burned out? They'd been on, constantly, from the first moment I'd been tossed into that cell. The darkness was strange, but comforting. My cell felt different. It was like hiding under the blankets when you're a little kid. I'd given myself up to the abyss, and I felt at home in it.

I blinked hard as the room spun. I'd never done drugs in my life. Never so much as puffed a joint. Now? I could only imagine the chemical concoctions that they were pumping through my body. If I thought I had any future, I'd have been deeply concerned about the long-term side-effects. I actually made myself laugh out loud at that thought. Holy h.e.l.l, I'm going insane.

"And to think we always said I was the Queen of Crazy Town."

The voice had come from the darkness, only a few feet away. Someone was sitting on the edge of my bed. I stayed perfectly still, breathing loudly though my nose, jaw clenched, as I tried to stave off panic. My earlier sense of detachment was replaced entirely with fear.

"It's okay," she said. The voice was familiar. Friendly. It came from nearby, but was at the same time distant. Like an echo, or a memory. I clenched my eyes shut as I realized the room was now very cold, like they'd left a window open or something. "Please," she insisted. "You can open your eyes. It's okay."

If I'm insane I might as well embrace it. I willed myself to sit up. The room spun so badly that I thought I was going to fall out of bed. It settled down after a moment.

In the dim light, I couldn't see much of her. An outline, a shadow, more of a presence. But there was no doubt about it. It was her.

It was Sarah.

I looked down at the bed. I couldn't face her. I couldn't bear it. I just shook my head and tried to focus. "I . . . I missed you," I managed. The words came out as little more than a throaty whisper.

"I know," Sarah said. There was a sadness in her voice that hadn't been there before.

"I'm sorry I left you."

"You didn't. You stayed until the end, just like you said you would."

"I . . . what . . . what are you doing here?"

"A better question is, what are you doing here, Michael?"

I looked up at her. It was easier to see now. Her face was as I remembered it. Auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her eyes were a luminescent green. I blinked hard to make sure I wasn't imagining it. She was still there when I opened my eyes. "Even for a ghost, you're being awfully cryptic."

Sarah smiled as she leaned closer. "Let go. Please, just let it all go. Let me go. You'll need to if you want to survive," she whispered into my ear. Then she pulled away. It was like she was fading into the darkness. "You don't have much time left."

"Sarah wait!" The words were hollow in my empty cell. I was alone. I was sweating, breathing heavily. I was dizzy, shaking.

Oh, G.o.d. I buried my face in my hands. Oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d. What are they doing to me? Is any of this even real?

"Mr. Valentine, can I be honest with you for a moment? I'm a little disappointed in you right now." The new voice came from my right, from the far side of the room. I could just barely see someone standing there, nothing more than a shape, out of the corner of my eye.

Gordon?

The dark figure hung there, but I couldn't bring myself to look directly at him. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my head. The room was too cold. The air was heavy and stale, oppressive, even.

"You had a great deal of potential," Gordon Willis said. "You still do. My former colleagues here certainly seem to have picked up on it. A lot of people would kill for some of the opportunities you're being presented with. Heh, no irony intended, of course."

"This isn't happening," I said aloud. "This isn't real. This isn't real." I clenched my eyes shut and brought my hands up over them again. "Oh G.o.d. It's not real. It's the drugs. It's just the drugs."

"You didn't mind your dead girlfriend visiting," Gordon sounded disappointed. "Maybe it's the drugs, maybe not . . . Maybe in that messed-up head of yours I represent Majestic and all it stands for, so I'm just here to gloat . . . I must admit, this isn't what I was expecting. Of course, I wasn't expecting you to murder me in my own home, either, so I guess you're just full of surprises." He laughed.

"Go away!" I screamed. "You're not real!"

"I don't know what to tell you about that. I'm trying to be straight with you here."

Even in death he was full of s.h.i.+t. "What do you want from me?" I asked, finally looking over at him. Gordon was leaning against the wall. His s.h.i.+rt collar was unb.u.t.toned, and a designer tie hung loosely around his neck. Behind it was the dark and b.l.o.o.d.y wound where I'd shot him.

"You're a survivor, Val. You mind if I call you Val? Anyway, you're definitely a survivor. More than you can say for me, right?" He laughed at his own joke again. "So putting yourself in my shoes, you can probably understand my surprise at finding you like this. Not at all what I was expecting. You never struck me as a quitter."

Gordon got closer to me. I looked away and shut my eyes again. "This isn't happening," I repeated to myself. "It's the drugs. This isn't real. This isn't real." I held myself in my arms, rocking back and forth. "G.o.d, please, make it stop. It's not real. It's not real."

"There are things in motion now that can't be stopped. You can be a part of it or not. But you're better than this. You have a unique opportunity here. Don't let it pa.s.s you by."

"Leave me alone!" I jerked upright in bed. My eyes were wide, and I was covered in sweat. My heart was beating so hard that I could almost hear it. Slowly, very slowly, I looked around my room. I was alone. The lights were still off. I hadn't dreamt that part at least.

Even as Dr. Silvers' techniques and contrivances had torn me down, even as I wanted to just give up and die, a part of me still resisted. The more times they fed me to the machine, breaking down my will, the angrier I became. Two halves of my mind were at odds with each other. Even as I contemplated trying to kill myself, I darkly desired to kill Dr. Silvers, to kill Neville, to kill Reilly and Smoot and Davis and the rest. To kill them all. Each time they worked their horrors on me, I came out more broken, more disconnected, but at the same time stronger, angrier. Hatred and apathy battled for control of my will.

My head suddenly hurt, as if merely thinking about it was giving me a headache. What was happening to me? Was I going crazy? I could've sworn I actually heard an audible click as my brain s.h.i.+fted gears. The misery, the anger, the rage, the fear, the regret, it all coalesced, condensed into a tight little ball of determination. A familiar cold wave washed over my body then. The jumbled thoughts rapidly fluttering through my mind slowed and focused.

For the first time in a long time, I was Calm.

I'm getting out of this hole.

LORENZO.

The first floor of the building had an entry control point, a break room, and lockers. The second floor was offices, though Smoot said they weren't used much. The top floor was the control center, which was where I needed to go to disable communications and shut down the security cameras. The bas.e.m.e.nt was where the prisoners were held, and where the uglier side of what they did here went on. Smoot had told me all about the mind games.

"You look terrible," the guard said as he ran the metal detecting wand over me. He looked like an out-of-shape bull. There hadn't been a file on this one.

"I was up all night, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, whatever, Roger. Grab your gear and head up to the control room."

Luckily he gestured in the direction of the locker room while he was talking. I walked away, trying to look casual. The interior was old and run down, a relic from the Cold War. The modern computers and equipment inside looked entirely out of place. I made my way to the security lockers Smoot had told me about. I found his locker and, using his key, opened it and took stock of his equipment.

Inside were several sets of the black fatigues. Body armor, holsters, a helmet, and other gear were all in coyote tan, which must've looked really stupid with black uniforms. I put on Smoot's duty belt, only to find it was a little too big for me. I had to quickly cinch it down so it wouldn't look off. I buckled it around my waist and grabbed his issue weapon, another Glock 23. There was a knife too, a CRKT folder. I tested the edge, found it relatively sharp, then stuck it in my pocket.

Smoot told us quite a bit about the operations at North Gap. He had considered it a s.h.i.+t detail. Apparently Majestic had several out-of-the-way places like this. Prisoners came and went, but Smoot insisted that there weren't that many currently being held here. All of them had been picked up domestically, and he never knew the why. He knew who Valentine was, since the Zubaran info dump had made him something of a celebrity, though he had no idea why he was still being held, nor did he care, hated the guy though. Valentine had once stabbed him in the knee with a pen. Smoot didn't like it when I'd laughed in his face about that. I have room to talk. Valentine had done worse to me. I still can't hear right in one ear, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Lucky for me, not all of the staff would be on duty at any given time. They worked in s.h.i.+fts like anyone else, and most of them would be in their residences in the refurbished base housing, asleep. If things got loud, that would probably change in a hurry. Smoot said that there were always at least two guards in the bas.e.m.e.nt level at all times. As a rule, no guns were allowed down there except under extreme circ.u.mstances. Only a moron would let somebody like Valentine anywhere near a firearm. A couple more men would be in the control room on the third floor. I found the elevator and made my way up.

The radar station was tapered, so that the top floor was not nearly as large as the bottom. There were windows at this level, but it was dark outside. There were several desks with computer monitors, and three bored-looking men in black fatigues. Bundles of cables were strung across the room. Screens for controlling and monitoring the security systems were mounted on one wall.

One of the guards was using the Mr. Coffee. The second was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around on Facebook, and the last one was actually doing his job and watching the camera feeds. Thankfully, none of them bothered to do more than glance in my direction.

"Smoot, what's up, dawg?" the one at the coffee machine asked. He was tall, skinny, and dark. I remembered his picture from the files. Local law enforcement background, until he'd lost it and beaten a prisoner to death. Perfect Majestic material. He had a complicated Slavic last name. I'd just think of him as Mr. Coffee.

"Hey." When you're trying to impersonate somebody, it's best not to talk much. You don't want to give them much to work with. "'Sup?"

"You hear what happened to Randy?" the one reading Facebook asked. I drew a blank on him. "Guess what happened while you were on leave?"

"Uh . . ." I was scanning back and forth. I needed to kill their alarms. I didn't know what kind of response would happen when a secret prison that wasn't supposed to exist was attacked, and I didn't care to find out. There wouldn't be much time before one of these a.s.sholes realized I wasn't who I was supposed to be, and I didn't want to start shooting until I could disable the comms.

"Randy got temped to Arizona, where it's warm. They're actually giving him something interesting to do. Lucky son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Oh?" There was a fuse box on the wall, an ancient metal monstrosity with heavy cables running into it. I could just kill the power to the entire building. That could work. In the far corner was a big locker. That had to be where the long guns were stored.

"Uh-huh. Apparently higher authority asked Silvers if she could spare somebody for an op down there, and she picked Randy. Some FBI puke was poking around in organization business, and then he disappeared."

Bob? "Okay."

"n.o.body knows where this FBI dude went. He just dropped off the map. They've been watching his house, but he hasn't come home. His wife and kids are there, so they're gonna raid the place, have a few words with the family. I bet the organization's going to try to apply some leverage, if you follow me."

Everything just changed.

"Man, wish I could've gone," Mr. Coffee said, taking a sip. "Anything to get out of this s.h.i.+thole."

The guard at the monitors finally spoke. "Screw that noise. This job is a cake walk. Steady pay, free housing, and we don't actually do any work. I don't know what you v.a.g.i.n.as are whining about."

I casually made my way over to the bank of screens, to see what he could see. The facility didn't have a huge number of cameras, but it had enough that Ling and her people wouldn't make it to the building undetected unless I did something.

Facebook Guy disagreed. "Dude, this place blows! It snows half the year, there's nothing to do in town, and we don' t get any action!"

"Action? To h.e.l.l with that," the monitor-watcher reb.u.t.ted. "I was in the operations division for a while, until I got shot . . ." I recognized him from the files. Frost. Former Army, drummed out for criminal misconduct, then recruited by Majestic.

I studied the screens. Several of them showed prisoners in their cells. Most of them were sitting on their beds or on the floor, not doing anything interesting. The fourth cell was different. Unlike the others, it was dark, and the camera was on IR mode. The prisoner was sitting up in bed. It looked like he was talking to someone that wasn't there.

"What're you doing?" Frost asked.

"Valentine?" I nodded toward the bank.

Frost looked at the monitor I suspected, confirming I had the right man. "Yep. Your buddy. How's the knee, by the way?" he laughed.

I smiled like that was hilarious. "What's he doing?"

"Talking to himself," Frost suggested. "I don't know. Silvers made your boy down there her pet project. I don't know what she's doing to him, but he's f.u.c.ked up."

"Who cares?" Mr. Coffee whined. "I'm sick of sitting up here, freezing my d.i.c.k off, watching Silvers play head games with the prisoners. I want to get out there and get some action. Maybe get laid once in a while." I casually made my way over to him, as if I was going to get a cup of coffee.

"You say that like it's fun and all until command screws up and you get your a.s.ses shot off," Frost said.

Mr. Coffee reb.u.t.ted. "Frosty, n.o.body wants to hear your war stories again." Frost gave him a dirty look and went back to watching the screens. Mr. Coffee then popped me in the shoulder. "Now this guy, he's got a way with the ladies." He laughed. "They should have sent you to Arizona, dawg. You'd probably get that FBI guy's old lady to talk." He guffawed at his own humor.

My pulse was racing. I struggled to stay in character. "Booyah! You know it, dawg!" Smoot habitually said 'booyah'. In general, he talked like a douchebag, and anybody who said booyah and dawg I had no problem sawing their thumbs off. "When are they doing it?"

"What?" Facebook guy finally looked up from his monitor. "Geezus, Smoot, you look like s.h.i.+t. You got gonorrhea again?"

"When are they raiding the house in Arizona?"

"Randy said tomorrow night. Why, you wanna beg Silvers and try and get in on it?" He took another sip from his mug. "You really itching to get out of here that bad?"

I started to laugh, laugh like Mr. Coffee had said the funniest G.o.dd.a.m.n thing in the world. Then I hit him, palm-struck him in the face. I smashed his coffee mug into his teeth and up his nose. His head snapped back in a splash of coffee, blood, spittle, and broken porcelain. Before he could react, I grabbed the back of his head and smashed his face into the desk.

"What the f.u.c.k!" Frost shouted, jumping up from his row of monitors, stunned that one of his friends had just brutalized the other.

Facebook Guy was staring at me, wide-eyed, from his chair. He was in shock, stammering for words. I didn't give him a chance to speak. I grabbed the pot of hot coffee and lobbed it at him as hard as I could. The pot shattered on his face, sending scalding hot coffee and broken gla.s.s into his eyes. He let out a blood-curdling, high-pitched scream, fell out of his chair, and clawed at his eyes.

Frost fumbled for his gun.

I was faster.

BLAM.