Hybrid (27 page)

“He seemed like a good man, I liked him,” Nelson replied softly.

“We've lost a lot of good men to these things, and one young woman, and possibly a child.” Erik adjusted his position on the van's rear bumper. “I can't stop thinking about Steve's wife, his children; we've succeeded in making another widow, Nelson, and I can only assume that the other soldiers were married or had some family ties.”

“True,” Nelson agreed. “But that's how it always is though. Death doesn't only affect the one that died, it affects all the people that knew or cared for the deceased. It's always been that way. It's what makes us human, I think, grieving for those we lost.”

“I'd rather keep my friends alive, around me,” Erik whispered.

Nelson smiled a sad smile and gently patted Erik on his shoulder. “So would I, son, so would I.”

Both men turned to see several officers escorting what was left of the original scouting party out of the parklands.

Erik and Nelson were not allowed at the debriefing of the three remaining soldiers. Scant minutes after they arrived at the Hopedale Police Station, an armored military transport arrived with several Army brass. After an hour behind closed doors, the brass collected the three officers and the remains and quietly departed. Erik and Nelson waited at the Hopedale Police Headquarters for nearly three hours in order to give a written transcript and verbal account of what they heard over the radio.

Erik answered some brief questions and other formalities, and then was free to go. He didn't know what to do with himself. He felt deeply saddened, guilty, and angry. Three powerful emotions that made him feel powerless over the control of the events surrounding his life.

He headed toward his truck, fired the engine, and drove toward the restaurant that he called home. He needed to smell the scents of fresh brewed coffee, bacon, sausage, and eggs that would be coming from Madame's kitchen. He needed to see the friendly faces of the waiters and waitresses as he sat at his favorite booth. Erik didn't have much material wealth, but he liked where he was and the people he called his friends. Right now, he had lost a friend, and he needed the comfort and companionship of other friends to help him through his loss.

Erik quietly walked into the restaurant and silently made his way to his favorite booth. Alissa quickly poured him a cup of coffee. She studied his face intently, as if reading his expression like a book.

“I'm sorry, Erik,” she whispered.

Erik looked up at her. “What are you sorry for?”

“Your loss, your grief, and your pain,” she answered bluntly.

Erik struggled with his emotions; he would not allow himself to break down, not here, in front of people. “How do you know?” he whispered, fighting back the tears.

“The same way she knows,” Alissa added, pointing toward the front door.

* * * *

Shanda quickly walked through the front door and walked over to Erik's booth. She had a look of concern that was broadcast across the entire restaurant. Alissa smiled at her and walked away. Erik looked up at her and she could read the emotional agony he was experiencing.

“You need to get out of here,” she whispered as she helped him up.

Erik didn't argue, and allowed her to guide him to his apartment. Once there, he sat on his bed. “How did you know?”

“I don't know the what. I only knew that you're in pain, intense emotional pain. I felt it earlier; I knew something terrible was happening.”

“Steve is dead, along with the other two cops and three soldiers,” Erik said with surprising calm.

Shanda gasped with horror as she recalled the jovial officer who paid for her breakfast earlier.

“Those things tore him apart, and I wasn't there, I wasn't there to help him,” Erik said as his voice wavered. “My God, his body, it was in pieces. Those things literally tore him limb from limb.”

Shanda embraced him, and gently touched him telepathically. She could now share his grief and experience his emotions. She saw him screaming into the radio as he heard the sound of gunfire. She felt the sharp pangs of guilt and horror as he heard his friend's final words over the radio.

Erik lay silently in her arms. His mind reeled in spasms of agony as his body tried to cleanse itself from the experience. Shanda refused to let go of her link. She wept with him and held him, doing what little she could to ease his burden.

“It's okay, honey, I've got you. I've got you,” she whispered repeatedly as she gently rocked his body.

* * * *

Shanda was sitting on Erik's sofa. Erik was in a dead sleep in his room. He had been sleeping for nearly two hours when there was a knock on his door. Shanda opened the door, but there was nobody there. She looked down and saw a large platter of food and four iced beverages. She picked up the tray and placed it on a table. She nibbled on a turkey sandwich and took a deep drink of ginger ale while she continued thumbing through old gun magazines and detective trade journals scattered on a coffee table. After another half hour of reading, she decided that her boyfriend really needed better leisure reading material. She heard Erik stir from his bed, and heard his footsteps as he entered the room.

“How long?” he asked

“A little over two hours.” She gestured for him to sit by her side.

“When did this get here?” Erik asked as he picked up a chicken club sandwich from the platter.

“About a half hour or so, somebody knocked on the door, and when I opened it, this was there.” Shanda looked deep into his eyes. She could see the haunted expression he was still wearing—the look of a man who's known too much pain and too much loss. “How are you?”

“I'm numb. I still can't believe this happened. I've lost one of the few friends I have,” he answered sadly.

“I'm so sorry about this, Erik. How far back do you two go?” Shanda asked.

“About four or five years. There was this narcotics case.... “Erik spent the next hour recalling some of the cases that he and Steve had crossed paths on. Recalling the happier memories seemed to soothe the hurt, so Erik continued with more stories, remembering events and episodes from the handful of cases that he had worked on with the Hopedale Police Department.

“Then,” he concluded, “we come to the Lisa Reynolds missing persons case.” Erik paused and sighed heavily. “You already know how that one ends,” he said sadly. “I can't help thinking that if I had been up there, maybe I could have made a difference somehow.”

“Erik, is it worth the risk of Brianna grieving for her father, too? What if you were brought out in pieces, what would be going through her mind at this very moment?”

Erik was silent. He stood up and began pacing back and forth. “It still doesn't make me feel better, but it is a consolation that she's spared that.”

“You have to remember that there are people here that love you and want you around. You're not alone, what you do does affect other people's lives.” She walked toward him and put her arms around him.

“You'll just have to keep reminding me,” he whispered as he looked down at her.

“I can do more than that,” she whispered and then kissed him.

* * * *

Richard Pendleton sat alone in his spacious board room, listening to the bootleg tapes that were intercepted from his man at the Hopedale Police Department. As he heard the sounds of men screaming and dying, he drained his glass of scotch.

Richard was suddenly filled with remorse and regret. What had they done? What manner of creatures had they freed from slumber? How much more blood would have to be on his hands before this was all over? Richard could no longer sleep at night; he barely spoke to his wife, or her daughter. It was so easy to plan these things—manipulate the fates of men from a distance, to hear that they were dead from some impassive piece of paper, or disinterested business associate—but to hear the actual screams of men dying, the sound of gunfire, and the hideous roar of some weird creatures brought it all home for him.

He had caused the deaths of those men, the first research team, and the recon team. All of that blood was on his hands and his alone. The ‘buck’ stopped with him, at his desk. He knew he could not deflect any blame to anybody else.

He poured himself another glass of scotch from the decanter, emptying it of its contents. He had gone too far to turn back now. He'd have to play the game to its conclusion and hope he was smarter and more efficient than those investigating the goings on in Hopedale. Richard was confident that the Hopedale Police would do their usual standard investigation, his people could easily mislead and derail that. What concerned him was the Erik Knight factor.

Knight had been convinced to stay out of the action, but that probably didn't mean he wouldn't be looking at things from the sidelines. Conrad was right; Knight had become a very formidable man, not only physically, but also intellectually. He had read some of Knight's work in the police files. He was able to come up with leads and clues that the police were seemingly oblivious to. Knight was the only person to discover any actual physical evidence in the Lisa Reynolds missing person case. How he was able to pull that off was something Pendelton was very interested in discovering. His company, his wealth, and most assuredly his personal freedom relied on him playing this through to the bitter end, reluctant or not. He would not wind up losing his family fortune or spend time in any federal or state penal institution.

Richard drained his second glass of scotch and studied the plans he'd drafted for his next operation. He reached over to the telephone and punched four keys.

“Conrad?”

A voice responded through the headset.

“Have the packages arrived at our private hangar yet?”

The voice responded.

“Well, let me know as soon as they arrive. We need to be ready to move out within the week. All hell is going to break loose in that mountain pretty soon, and we need to be ready.”

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Chapter 10

Thursday afternoon, Pendelcorp Hangar 1:35 p.m.

Conrad and the two technicians studied the Apache helicopter that Pendelcorp had just appropriated, meticulously. The contractors who had given the airship the army-olive paint job were well worth the additional expense. The helicopter looked flawless, right down to the bogus white registration lettering and army star on the ship's tail section.

Conrad examined the two weapons pods and two hard contacts that were mounted on the ships small wing sections. He spotted the ship's armaments carefully stockpiled in one corner of the security hangar.

Carefully stacked in wooden crates were two typhoon air-to-ground missiles. The warheads of each missile contained as much concentrated high explosive as fifteen tons of TNT. The coordinates of the Hopedale excavation tunnel had already been preprogrammed into the Apache's tactical computer. These coordinates could quickly be fed into the missile's internal guidance system and fired with lethal accuracy, but the aircraft had to be within the typhoons’ limited operational range. The solid rocket fuel engines of this missile type were extremely limited. It would be necessary to be inside of a half mile of the site before the weapon could be effectively utilized. In another large packing crate were sixteen rockets that would be loaded into the two launchers under each wing of the craft.

The two technicians spent nearly twenty minutes carefully studying the ship, examining the flight control system computers and the navigation consoles specifically.

Conrad watched them impatiently. “Well, can you do it?”

“Yeah,” one of the technicians answered. “It's quite a bit more complicated than the other bird we wired, but it can be done.” He paused, glancing at his partner. “For an added cost. The time involved is substantially more than before, and the electronics needed will be more sophisticated. Plus, we'll need a bigger charge to rupture the fuel tank—that makes it tougher to hide.” The technician paused then added, “Do you want to use the same frequency?”

Conrad nodded, staring at them as they continued to survey the chopper.

“You'll be well compensated for your efforts. Begin the work immediately, and remember, gentlemen, confidentiality is the key word,” he emphasized in a dangerous tone.

“No worries, mate,” the other technician responded in a deep Australian accent. “We won't bite the hand that feeds us—poor business.” He tipped his hat slightly.

“Excellent, I'm glad we understand each other. Contact me when the work is completed,” Conrad replied as he departed the hangar.

Conrad walked toward the awaiting company car. The chauffeur opened the passenger door for him and closed it as he made himself comfortable in the car's spacious seat. He picked up the Nexus phone, keying the transmitter.

“Richard, are you there?”

“Go ahead,” Pendleton's distinctive voice answered.

“The package has arrived and is being prepared for service; all is going according to plan.”

“Conrad,” Pendleton answered after a moment's silence. “We can have no loose ends.”

Conrad was puzzled for a second, then understood the meaning of his employer's last words. He approved of Richard's thinking, and chastised himself for not realizing the potential breach himself.

“I'll see to it personally,” he answered. “Conrad out.”

He picked up the phone in the car and dialed. The phone rang three times before it was picked up, and a synthesized voice answered.

“It's me,” Conrad began. “Reference number 5862-31.” He paused while the party on the other end input his account number into a database. After a few quick seconds, the voice on the other end of the line gave Conrad the clearance to continue.

“I have a contract for you, two marks. I'll send you the details in the usual manner.”

Conrad listened to the voice on the other end for almost thirty seconds before responding.

“The fee is acceptable,” he replied. The connection was then severed.

Conrad reached into the portable bar and poured himself a large glass of iced scotch. It had been a busy day and there was still much to do. Conrad looked out the window as, suddenly, the lead-gray skies unleashed a torrent of rain upon the city. This was the part of his job he disliked, he had no problem with embezzlement or other white-collar crimes, but he never fancied himself as a contract killer.