Escape: Omega Book 1 (Omega: Earth's Hero) (11 page)

Chapter 13

“Glad you could join us, doctor,” Hendricks said as Sally was ushered into the control room. He pointed to a chair near him. “Have a seat and keep your mouth shut.”

Sally knew enough to honor the man’s command. Whatever was going on was indeed serious, as serious as she’d ever seen. That wasn’t what kept her mute, however. What kept her from launching into a tirade with that three-star SOB was the sight on the huge monitor mounted to the wall: Omega… and he was running for his life.

“I guess by now, Dr. North, you’ve caught on to our conundrum.” The general was biting down on his cigar as he spoke. Sally noticed. Any harder and he’d bite right through it. He was impeccably dressed as always, but his flustered complexion could not go unseen. “We have a billion-dollar investment running away like a common criminal. To capture him, we have to stop him. To stop him, we have to injure him. To injure him would risk killing him. To kill him would be—”

“Murder,” Sally suggested, unable to remain quiet any longer.

“A waste of our money,” Thurmond “Anvil” Hendricks corrected. Turning back to the monitor, he added, “To let him go would start a scandal, and have us all ruined.”

Knowing that he wasn’t thinking about anyone besides himself and his elusive fourth star, Sally tried her best to think of something important, even crucial to say. She could find no words.

The whole room sat enraptured. The feed was coming from a cam mounted to a vehicle. It was moving too fast to be anything else. The observation switched to an aerial view, that of an unmanned droid. The zooming started instantly until it showed Omega clearly. There was nowhere for him to run, she realized, as the aerial view fixated on him. Nothing but miles and miles of desert, of canyon, of rock.

General Hendricks stepped over to hear and spoke softly. “I don’t know what you’ve done, or even how you did it. I don’t even care. You will be locked away for years, North. I’ll be dust and you’ll be an old maid before you ever taste freedom again.”

“Me? I… I didn’t do anything.” She met his eyes. It was no easy feat. This was a man that had seen war, felt its hellish embrace, and came out with new brass on his collar for his trouble. He was a winner at the game he played, and she knew he could, and most certainly would, keep his promise.

“To the northwest is Interstate 285. To the southeast is Interstate 70. Straight ahead--dry sand, broken mesas, scrub brush, and the Pecos. He has nowhere to go. Nothing but flat, dry, land.”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Sally said.

“He knows what he’s doing?” Hendricks was shouting. “Does he now? I guess he does. He just walked out the front door of the most secure facility in North America without so much as a scratch. I would damn well hope he knows what he’s doing.” He poked a finger at her. “I want you to tell
me
, doctor,” he slurred the last word as if sprinkling every salt of contempt he could muster upon it, “what he’s doing.”

“How would I know? I have no idea, sir.”

Hendricks stood ramrod straight. “Is that your final answer, Dr. North?”

Before she could speak, an airman at a computer terminal spoke up. “Jets on approach, general.” Hendricks’ smile was that of the devil himself. “ETA: five minutes.”

“Good,” Hendricks said. “Very good.” He turned back to the action. “We’ll see how your guinea pig stands up to some real firepower, Dr. North.”

“Rot in hell,” she said, but doubted he was even listening.

Okay,
Omega thought,
maybe I screwed up.

The Jeeps were in hot pursuit and gaining ground quickly. In a maze of rock cropping, he couldn’t evade them forever. Winded, his strength finally waned. He had never experienced such exertion. He hadn’t thought this out very well, he conceded. In fact, he hadn’t thought it out at all. To his credit, he hadn’t had a choice; the phantom voice’s insistence had overpowered him. Nonetheless, he was the one that would pay the price.

Just as the thought rolled through his mind, he felt fire tear through his right bicep. Blazing heat scorched up and down his arm.

Still, he ran.

Another round sliced his left temple, digging in just enough to blur his vision.

Still, he ran.

As blood flowed from his arm in scarlet rivulets, his body slowly faded to numbness. His feet flopping, he tripped, crashing forward. His face smashed hard against a pile of rock that resembled a withered tree. The sharp surface peeled away skin from his cheek. Like being slapped with a handful of acid, the impact made his throat seize. The rock pile stopped him cold, and for just a moment, Omega considered surrender.

The Jeeps were louder behind him. The gunfire shot up sand on all sides. Blood trickled from his face, his head, and poured from his hair. Never in his life had he felt so defenseless, so weak. His arms shook at his sides as he leaned against the rock. The wind blew gently, superheated air like a breeze straight from hell. In the distance, he heard the faint rumbling of jet engines.

Twenty-seven years old and about to die. How he hated it so. Twenty-seven long years under the iron grip of Hendricks and other men just like him. Training every single day: Christmas, Thanksgiving. And while he didn’t even know when his birthday was, he was certain he’d been drilled just as hard on that celebratory date. Never had he sat alone and listened to music he enjoyed. Never had he held the hand of another in his own. Never had he known affection, the warm, loving embrace of a lover. Never had he seen the ocean under moonlight and felt the sweet icy tickle of snowflakes on his skin.

If he didn’t move his ass, he never would.

In a hail of gunfire, he pushed himself away from the rocks, shooting around and gaining speed. A grenade exploded to his right. It was too far away to stop him, but shrapnel volleyed into his chest, into his arm, as he shielded his eyes.

Finally, he fell.

Lyle Houston was riding shotgun in the lead Humvee. A gunner stood behind them, through the roof opening manning a gun turret. The driver, Dixon, stared forward, his hands clenched tightly on the wheel. Houston’s kidneys had taken quite a beating, but there was little to be done about it. Staring through binoculars, he saw the fugitive.

Leaning against a rock cropping, he looked defeated. Deadly force was authorized and he would use it. That was what he trained to do. Nevertheless, he was not a stone cold killer. Houston did not know what this man had done, what crime against the government he’d committed, but he did know that the general’s blood pressure had been right through the roof.

Behind Houston’s transport, two other Humvees and one Jeep drove in a left flank formation, so that all gunners would have good shots at slightly different angles. As far as Houston was concerned, these boys at the turrets couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a Buick. One man, four 50-caliber rifles, and the man was still standing. Too many video games, like the Wii and that other thing--the Xbox, if you asked him. While only a month past his thirtieth birthday, Houston recognized the downfall that started with his generation. Too many kids staying inside to play with electronic gadgets, instead of going outside, playing in the fresh air, and by God, learning how to shoot.

It didn’t matter. They were a hundred yards and closing. The escapee had a good head start, but on foot, he was bound to lose the race. It made no difference how fast a man could run. Against the cold horsepower of a modern engine, the race just wasn’t going to last.

Eighty yards and closing. The man wore a BDU’s. Had he went AWOL? No, that couldn’t be it. No way Hendricks would have all this firepower for an absconder away without leave. Had he stolen research from the labs, the same labs off-limits to him and his buddies?

Then, for just a second, Houston caught a slight glance at the man’s profile. He recognized him immediately. Almost anyone on base would have.

“Holy shit!” Houston shouted to the driver. “It’s him!”

“Him?” the driver, Pepcheck, asked. “Him who?”

“The Pope. No. The super soldier, you idiot.”

“Oh,” Pepcheck said, never taking his eyes from the terrain ahead.

Sixty yards.

Forty yards.

Twenty-five.

Ten.

Pepcheck hit the brakes and the Humvee skidded sideways. Houston saw the driver fight with the wheel. He was slung about the cab as the tires fought to find purchase. While the other vehicles made quick--though, Houston suspected, more graceful stops as well--Houston jumped from the seat, out into the desert heat, and radioed in.

“Ground team to base. We have suspect. He’s no longer running. He’s down. Awaiting orders.”