The Ancient Breed (30 page)

33

N

ick hesitated outside Rance Osborne’s newly remodeled office, then slowly opened the door. Gone were the garish stainless-steel and mirrored walls, the vanilla carpeting, the lavish wet bar, the polished infinity box backing the liquor bottles, and the futuristic computer and security system control panel that had been built into the late Director Anderson’s desktop. Now the walls were paneled with lustrous teak and adorned with nautical antiques, including a seventeenth century sextant, fifteenth century Mediterranean navigational charts expensively framed, a Civil War gunboat anchor, and a Norse tiller. Rance’s sprawling desk was fashioned from several pieces of hoary driftwood and finished with several coats of a burnished lacquer. Rance was dwarfed in the oversized and overstuffed captain’s chair that resembled a royal throne, while his two guests sat uncomfortably in Spartan chairs, also fashioned from driftwood.

From the
Jetsons
to Captain Ahab. That’s how Nick instantly appraised the radical change of décor as all gazes leaped in his direction as he stepped inside Rance’s nautical museum. Nick strode confidently to an empty chair fronting Rance’s desk and sat down without invitation despite President Hanover’s disapproving, cobalt stare.

“Nick,” Rance boomed. “I believe you know everyone here.”

Nick quickly shook hands with President Shelton Hanover and National Security Adviser, Larry Winnows. He merely tossed a nod in Rance’s direction. The FBI director had sharp, clean-shaven facial lines, piercing brown eyes, a trim physique, and a penchant for expensively tailored clothes.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Rance informed the group. “We’re confronted with an international emergency situation of the highest order.”

The President leaned forward. “Although my wife, Leann, has just been pronounced clean of the alien virus she ingested yesterday, several other world leaders’ wives suffered the same fate and remain infected.” He paused to restrain the tirade that lurked on the tip of his tongue. “Obviously, the Europeans were easy targets for the terrorists because of their lax security measures,” he stated grimly, “but I’d like to hear why our
sophisticated
and informed
security agencies failed to protect the First Lady of the United States!” He slammed his hand on Rance’s desk.

Shelton Hanover was in his early fifties and a longtime politician. He was six feet six, broad shouldered, and possessed a face that invoked both fear and compassion. Many political opponents and prominent members of the press compared his toughness and appearance to that of a World Wrestling Federation star, but only in fun. Hanover was a powerful Washington figure whose influence was far-reaching. Insults and threats were dealt with swiftly through the Washington underground, and his enemies often found themselves unemployable for years. However, people overlooked Hanover’s quick temper and bullying tactics in Congress, because he was a can-do politician who inspired voter confidence with his firm, decisive actions and a commonsense approach to the country’s problems. He was elected twice in a landslide.

“There is no excuse for it,” Nick lied quickly, although he was aware of several, legitimate factors that triggered the security failure. It was best not to argue with Hanover. There was no future in it.

“Of course, Shelton, my people are looking into the matter as we speak,” Rance promptly added, scowling at Nick. “Nick has organized a task force to study the problem.”

Nick nodded earnestly, although he was unaware of any such investigative group.

“When you’ve got that report in your hands, Rance, I’d better see it before the ink dries!” Hanover shouted. “By God, heads will roll on this one.”

Nick cleared his throat. “I believe our time would be better spent discovering why the terrorists targeted the wives of those specific world leaders, and what these terrorists hoped to gain by infecting those women with that one chemical.”

“You
believe
!” Hanover bellowed. “I’ll tell you what to think and when, Bellamy! I don’t give a rat’s ass why Leann and the others were targeted. That’s history. I want to know
which security agency
fucked up.” He leaned toward Bellamy. “And right now, all fingers are pointing in the
Orion Sector
’s direction.”

Nick’s simmering blood came to a full boil. “In all respect, Mr. President, all our information concerning the recent Florida events indicates some larger, worldwide conspiracy that threatens our own existence as human beings. Playing the blame game won’t get us anywhere but behind the eight ball. On top of all that, we’ve got a supernatural killer on the loose that appears to be unstoppable. It’s extremely possible that your wife might be one of its next victims,” Nick retorted.

Hanover was apoplectic; a singular blue vein split his scarlet forehead.

“Listen, you dumb fuck!” he shouted. “I’m calling the shots, and with the information I have received from the best minds in the world, I don’t feel there’s any far-reaching conspiracy at work, Bellamy. You have a history of reckless behavior with the Bureau where your insubordination and imagination have skirted the law you were hired to uphold and wasted precious tax dollars in the process.”

“Shelton, Nick’s imagination, or as I prefer to label it, instinct, has been an asset to the Bureau. It has enabled us to solve unbelievable crimes against citizens of the United States as well as humanity in general,” Rance interjected angrily. “You will apologize this instant or this meeting is adjourned.”

“Watch your step, Rance,” Hanover warned.

“If that was a threat, Shelton, then this meeting is over.” Rance stood stiffly, favoring his bum knee that took a bullet years ago in San Francisco. “Go cool down.”

Hanover and Larry Winnows stood.

“I will personally recommend that Congress begin its own investigation into the FBI’s inefficiency in this matter, and when the facts are known, there’ll be new faces at every level,” Hanover said, then stormed past Nick.

“Mr. President, you’d better take me seriously. You and your wife are in grave danger,” Nick shouted after them, but his warning was met with stony silence.

The door slammed, and Nick and Rance were alone.

“What’s his problem?” Nick grumbled.

“He’s got a bug up his ass over the whole incident. Leann can be quite the shrew, sometimes, and I’m certain that she’s been nagging him to find someone to fry to pacify what she perceives as public humiliation.”

“An eye for an eye.”

“Something like that.”

“Who in hell pronounced Leann free of the virus?”

“The White House physician, Dr. Leo Hart.”

“He’s crazy. It’s still there, trust me.”

Rance raised his brows. “Really?”

“Her body’s a ticking time bomb, and when it goes off, there’s no turning back from what she will become.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“A deformed, inhuman killer.”

“Jesus!
Inhuman
?”

“From the ancient bones discovered in Florida and Blossom Smith’s story about the physically mutated terrorist who attempted to murder her while she was held captive, I’d say the chances are near one hundred percent that Leann Hanover will achieve that altered state.”

“And the terrorists knew this?”

Nick nodded bleakly. “More than that, I think they’re counting on these transformations.”

There was a long stretch before either spoke again.

“Officially, I wasn’t pleased by the way our security teams performed in Tampa; but off the record, I understand that you and Neo didn’t have sufficient manpower to do the job right. Consider your hand slapped, Nick,” Rance said, with a gleam in his eyes.

“I appreciate your understanding, but you know how I hate failure.”

“Sometimes the cards are stacked against us. You and Neo did the best you could with the hand you were dealt.”

Nick scooted his chair closer to the driftwood desk and drummed his fingers anxiously on the desktop. “The Florida National Guard’s standing watch over the fountain of youth site, Neo’s tracking Walkingman, and Crow has Blossom and Clay covered. Dr. Anders is working with our people downstairs to identify and classify the bones discovered at the Charlotte County construction site. This frees me up to take a sabbatical and get back into the field to do what I do best. I’m no good to you rotting in that office downstairs. I need to get to the bottom of this damn case, and that means getting my ass out there in the real and surreal world where I can dig up critical information.”

Rance sat and considered Nick’s request for several moments.

“Then you believe that all those Florida events are connected?” Rance said.

“I do.”

“Explain.”

“I strongly feel that we’re in the middle of something that started long ago, maybe centuries ago. If I can identify that singular event, it might shed some light on the recent occurrences that we’ve been dealing with.” He ran his hand through his ash hair. “But if I can’t isolate that beginning point, then we’re all up shit creek.”

Rance roamed Nick’s ardent blue eyes. “Not the human race again?”

“That’s about the size of it, Rance.”

“And what about this demon the press is raving about that has mutilated all those people?”

“That’s another loose end. From what I know about demons, I just can’t figure out how it moves through this world without being seen. They’re supposed to be restricted to visible travel in this dimension, or they disappear until conjured again, like a genie in a bottle.”

“Maybe somebody’s conjuring it each time,” Rance proposed.

Nick sighed. “Could be, but I’ve got to get out of this building if I have any hope of finding out.”

“Point taken. Go ahead, Nick. Hit the street and do your thing. I’ll run point for you, Neo, and Crow like the old days.” Rance stood again. “But I will not become the permanent
Orion Sector
director. That’s yours to reclaim when you’ve solved this case. Deal?”

“Deal. What about Hanover and his threats? His congressional committee is going to be counterproductive to our efforts.”

Rance smiled humorlessly. “I’ll handle him. I always do.”

They shook hands.

“Report back to me on a regular basis,” Rance said.

“Count on it. And one more thing. Can you get the Secret Service to keep a very close eye on Leann Hanover’s condition?”

He smiled. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Good. If they notice any physical change in her at all, no matter how trivial, order them to contact you immediately.”

“I’ll set the wheels in motion as soon as you leave.”

Nick’s gaze dropped to the glistening wood floor.

“Anything else on that nefarious mind of yours, Nick?”

“I’ve got a really bad feeling about this one, Rance.”

“How bad is
really bad
?” Rance demanded.

Nick folded his arms across his broad chest. “
End-of-the-world
bad.”

34

L

inton Pines was nestled amidst a copse of tall, dense pines outside West New York, New Jersey, along the banks of the Hudson River. The four-story, ramshackle building had been a lunatic asylum in the 1940s before the state laws were revised during that decade. The new laws had stipulated that all the patients in this and similar facilities be released from such inhumane confinement. The new laws had been a travesty. Most freed inmates had been unable to cope with the demands of freedom and had been quickly incarcerated in prisons for vagrancy and petty crimes, while others simply ended their social confusion with a thick noose or a single bullet to their addled brains. Despite the once beautiful structure’s historical relevance, the state government allowed it to slip into ruin.

The shattered windows and all but the pair of oak front doors were crisscrossed with rotten, warped boards. The wood shingles were thick with green moss and walnut patches of wet rot, and the gray tile roof was pockmarked with vacancies. The eight gables remained defiant against the ravages of age and neglect, staring like blind, beetle-browed eyes out onto the Hudson. The overgrown, gravelly ribbons snaking from the main road to the front entrance resembled withered twin serpents.

An obscure subsidiary of Aspirations, Inc. purchased Linton Pines seven years ago. It proved to be the ideal secluded site for illegal experimentation with their age-defying products on human subjects. Grant Donovan was responsible for the research and development branch of the company, and he relished his role in that callous operation.

A black Hummer H2 crunched to a stop on the loose gravel at the entrance to the nine thousand square foot facility, and two men emerged and strode briskly through heavy shade to the old smoking veranda. The unseen sun sat on the edge of the western horizon beyond the pines and cast an orange and purple mantle across the piebald sky. Grant Donovan unlocked the oak doors, opened them, and then punched in the security code that opened the heavily armored steel door hidden beyond the decaying threshold.

Grant and Tobias Simpkins made their way through the dusky, dimly lit foyer to another steel door inside. After entering another security code, the men entered a sterile room awash in brilliant white light. Computer stations bordered two of the laboratory’s walls, while a bank of color surveillance monitors displayed the activity in the basement and at the asylum’s perimeter. The technologically advanced security system continuously recorded all activities on DVD in real time. The fourth wall of the long, rectangular room contained a sophisticated chemical laboratory where compounds were formulated, mixed, examined, and tested.

Tobias slipped into a white lab coat, printed the latest readouts on the seven subjects confined in the basement, and perused the voluminous data. Grant reclined in a plush chair at one of the three desks and inspected the time-lapse digital video of their basement test subjects. Twenty minutes later, Tobias dropped the final report on the stack and looked up at Grant who had finished moments earlier.

“I think you’ve done it,” Tobias said in a weary voice. “The last three subjects have reacted in a favorable manner.”

Grant smiled. “We’re in business,” he replied, rubbing his dry palms together. “The enzyme has been completely absorbed into their systems, leaving no trace that the feds can find with their crude testing.”

“I can’t believe you succeeded so soon. Those three women show no signs of mutating.”

Grant nodded. “I told you not to sweat it. We’ll rake in megabucks that will fund our worldwide, terrorist operation. And, once the wives of those powerful, government heads of state mutate and do their thing, the free world will be thrown into social and economic chaos. Small investors will panic at the news and lose their asses in the world markets, large investors will predictably hoard their fortunes, and the world’s financial systems will take a major hit.”

“Meanwhile, we’ll put our own people in those vacated leadership positions so that we can dictate the world’s social and monetary policies in our favor. Our subsidiaries will grow fat while our competitors founder,” Tobias added.

“We’ll rule the frightened humans with social and economic power. Everything is in place.”

Tobias leaned back in the chair, his expression analogous to the cat that swallowed a canary. “We’ll accomplish what Senator Hollis Danforth and others of our kind have failed to do—rule the world and destroy the half-breed humans.”

“Once we have the power, we can methodically eliminate the humans by adding the elixir enzyme into our companies’ various products, such as cosmetics, bottled water, canned vegetables and fruits, and our worldwide fast-food restaurant chains. Tobhor’s enzyme will transform them into cannibal mutants, and they’ll feed on each other until they’re extinct. There’ll be no escape. No place to hide. No defense. Only the super-rich will survive.”