Authors: Jonathan Maberry
Kill Switch (62 page)
THE BLACK TENT
HOME OF THE MULLAH
ISLAMIC STATE OF IRAQ AND ASH-SHAM
MOBILE CAMP #7
SEPTEMBER 11, 12:19
A.M.
LOCAL TIME
He sat on a low cushion, surrounded by the leaders of the groups who had come together because they now believed that he was a holy man. Or, if they did not believe that, they accepted him as a man of power.
Houston was still burying its dead.
The soldiers at Fort Rucker were preparing to bury theirs.
The staff at the Naval Auxiliary Landing Field on San Clemente Island were picking their dead out of the wreckage of the crashed helicopters.
Each time the Mullah said that he could reach out and switch off the power, he had done exactly that.
Now they gathered to watch the greatest stroke. The crippling blow. The streets of ten cities would be choked with the dead.
Burning with fires so hot that it would melt the hope and the hubris of the Americans.
The Mullah sat before them but he did not look at anyone. His eyes had gone totally dead and they each believed that he was in a spiritual trance. When he was like this, they knew, great things were about to happen.
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BOLTON HOUSE
RANCHO SANTA FE, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 2:24
P.M.
I swapped out the magazine of the Snellig and, with Ghost behind me and Harry behind the dog, we drifted down the hallway to the kitchen. The hall connected to the kitchen at the corner, which meant that they couldn't see me until I reached the doorway. I held up a fist to signal Ghost and Harry to stop. I took a breath, let it out halfway, then wheeled around the corner. I saw three men in white shirts and loosened ties, jackets hung over the backs of chairs, microwave pulse pistols tucked into shoulder holsters, coffee cups and plates and an open bag of Cheetos. They were all looking at the TV hung on the wall. They were watching the news. A panel of experts was arguing about the Mullah's message, the threats, the predicted U.S. response, and the probable location of the ten target cities. One of the men was chewing a big mouthful of the grilled cheese sandwich he held. Another was standing by the stove making another sandwich. The third man was sitting there sipping his coffee.
I did not shout or yell or announce myself. That's stupid.
Instead I fired.
Gas darts caught both seated men on the back of their necks. They sprawled forward. Before the third guy even knew what was going on I was in motion. I put one hand on the table and launched myself, pivoting and bringing my feet up to kick him in the thigh and the side of the head. He caromed into the stove, rebounded and fell sideways, pulling the frying pan with him. As he fell he tried to bring the pan up to ward off my next kick. I stamped down on it and drove the scalding metal against his face. He started to shriek but then I kicked the pan away and pistol-whipped the scream right out of his mouth. His head hit a table leg and bounced back, and I hit him again. He flopped back, dazed and bleeding, burned and in pain, but not out.
I hadn't wanted him out.
“Ghost, watch!” I called, and the big dog swung around, crouched andâI thinkâprayed for someone to come along that he could bite. Harry stood there looking numb, his gun hanging limp in his hand.
I dropped onto the Closer, pinning his arms, caught his throat with one hand, and stuffed the barrel of the Snellig into his mouth. I wasn't nice about it. Teeth broke.
“How many?” I snarled.
He didn't want to tell me. Not how many, and not where. Too bad, because I really wanted to know.
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FREETECH
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 2:25
P.M.
Dr. William Hu staggered sideways, grabbed the side of the molding press, missed, and fell hard. Junie stood there, eyes wide, mouth open, her face and throat and chest splashed with bright, hot blood. Christel fired again and Hu twisted around, crying out in agony as blood exploded from his shoulder.
Junie screamed.
And then Toys flung himself across the room in a rugby tackle that drove Christel into a workbench. Tools and materials flew everywhere. Toys chopped down on Christel's wrist, smashing her bones against the edge of the table, sending the gun flying. Despite the agony she had to be feeling, Christel drove her other elbow into Toys's face. He twisted to take the blow on his cheek rather than his nose, but it still rocked him. Christel was a tall and powerful woman and she knew how to hit. She hammered backward again and again, driving him away from the table, forcing him to use his forearms to shield his face. As soon as he covered up, she kicked Toys in the groin with such savage force that it tore a whistling scream from him. He staggered backward and she followed with a series of vicious, powerful kicks. Toys threw his body away, dropping and rolling partway under the table to avoid her feet.
Christel used her good hand to snatch the fallen pistol from the floor, but as she raised it, Toys lashed out at her shins with both feet. The shot was powerful and very fast, and it completely knocked her legs backward, tilting Christel forward into a belly flop. She landed hard, striking knees and chin on the floor. Toys wheeled around, got to one knee, and kicked the gun out of her hand. Then he dove for it, came up with the pistol, and pointed it at the security woman's head.
“No!” cried Junie, rushing forward and slapping his hand away. “Don't. Toysâlook at her eyes.”
Christel was struggling to get up and come after him, and though her mouth wore a grimace of bloodlust, her eyes were totally dead.
“She's been taken over,” said Junie.
Toys lowered the gun, then thought better of it, and reversed it in his grip. “Sorry, love, but needs must.”
He whipped the butt of the pistol across the base of her skull. Christel's blank eyes rolled white and she collapsed. Toys, panting, stared past her to where William Hu lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
“Christ!” bellowed Toys as he rushed forward. “Junie, call nine-one-one. Get me the medical kit, andâ”
Before he could finish, Junie Flynn stabbed him in the back with a screwdriver.
He coughed, staggered, dropped the gun as he fell to his knees. He tried to reach behind him, tried to understand. Tried to beg for help. As he turned to reach for the handle of the screwdriver, Junie tore it free. He looked past the bloody tool and all the way up to her eyes. Her dead, dead eyes.
“Noâ¦,” he whispered.
She raised the screwdriver like a dagger and rushed at him.
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BOLTON HOUSE
RANCHO SANTA FE, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 2:37
P.M.
The Closer told me that there were fourteen other operatives in the house. That did not count the men outside. Most of them were down in the basement.
“Doing what?” I demanded.
“M-managing assets.”
I cut a look at Harry Bolt, who was standing in the kitchen doorway with Ghost. Harry's face had gone a pale gray-green at the sight of the blood.
“Where's Santoro?” I asked the Closer, but he didn't know anyone by that name. I tried it a different way, reinforcing my request with a jab of my gun against his mashed lips. “Where's Priest?”
“Down ⦠there,” he said, and then he choked on the blood in his mouth and began coughing. Terrible coughs, that made his whole body twitch. I stood up, looked around the kitchen, sighed, and shot the man with a gas dart.
Harry came over and knelt to reposition the man and clear his airway. “He could choke to death,” he said.
“He's lucky I didn't put a bullet through his brain pan,” I said, then in a flash of anger I grabbed Harry's shoulder and hauled him to his feet, shook him like a rag doll, and thrust him backward against the table. “This is war, kid, grow the fuck up. Now get your shit together and find me a way down to the subbasement.”
Harry pushed away from me, smoothing his clothes and looking scared and hurt. As he crossed the kitchen he shook his head as if unsure how someone like me could be one of the good guys. He had a lot to learn about how good guys win wars. It was always a mistake to confuse good with nice.
The cellar door turned out to be a fake. Beyond the wooden one was a steel security door. Top of the line and with a high-tech keycard scanner of a kind that is very tough to bypass.
A lot less tough, though, when you can pick the pocket of the assholes who were supposed to be guarding it. I used a bloodstained keycard to open the hundred-thousand-dollar lock. The door opened. No alarms rang.
“Ghost,” I said, “ready.”
The dog shifted to an angle where he could spring at anything or anyone who came out of the door I was about to open. He crouched, muscles etched like stone beneath his fur.
“Jester, watch my back.”
“Ready,” said Harry. He had his gun pointing down at the floor and he was sweating badly.
Chilled air wafted out at me from the stairwell and it carried a strange blend of machine oil, old meat, ozone, and mold. Ghost bared his teeth in a silent snarl. Fear or anger, it was impossible to say. Probably both.
Beyond the door was a lighted hallway that ran six feet to a set of stairs. I went in first, taking the steps quickly and silently, watching the corners as the stairs reached a landing and turned. Ghost swarmed down after me. I quick-looked around the bend and saw that the second flight took us down to a stone floor. The lights were on down there but I heard no conversation. Ghost came abreast of me and sniffed, then wagged his tail twice. No one in the immediate vicinity.
We went down into a room that was set up as a computer center, with twenty workstations and high-end electronics. Comfortable wheeled office chairs, a full coffee bar, area rugs over the stone, and even discreetly positioned speakers from which Mahler's Symphony No. 6 in A Minor played softly. Nothing but the best for the employees of a supervillain.
We moved over to the computers. The screens all had the same display. It chilled me to the bone.
KILL SWITCH PROTOCOL
And beneath that was a digital clock.
Yeah. Actual ticking clock? Check.
Shit.
As I watched, the clock went from 14:29 to 14:28.
Harry grabbed my arm. “Wait, does that mean they input the code?”
“Yes,” I said. “It damn well does.”
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THE BLACK TENT
HOME OF THE MULLAH
ISLAMIC STATE OF IRAQ AND ASH-SHAM
MOBILE CAMP #7
SEPTEMBER 11, 12:37
A.M.
LOCAL TIME
Akbar had arranged ten laptops in a row, positioned so they could all watch as history unfolded before them. Each screen showed an image sent by a small fixed camera. Each of the video feeds showed cities viewed from a distance. Akbar had written the names of each in ink on the frame of the laptops.
New York
Los Angeles
Chicago
Houston
Philadelphia
Phoenix
San Antonio
San Diego
Dallas
San Jose
Ten American cities. Ten fields to be sown with the seeds of retribution, each by one touch of the fingers of God. On the bottom of each screen was a small digital counter. They were all in sync. 19:01:08. In less than twenty minutes the world was going to change. It was like raising a veil. A different world existed on the other side and nothing would everâ
could
everâbe the same again.
It made Akbar want to weep.
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THE COMCAST BUILDING
1701 JOHN F. KENNEDY BOULEVARD
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
SEPTEMBER 10, 11:38
A.M.
LOCAL TIME
His name was Trey Willis and he had worked as building supervisor since the tower opened in 2008. He had a staff of thirty and they kept the building clean, fully functional, and efficient. Trey had worked in maintenance and building supervisions for nearly twenty-two years and taught management courses three nights a week at Philadelphia Community College. He had a wife and three daughters, the eldest of whom was pre-med at Jefferson. His wife was a nurse practitioner in the neonatal unit at Children's Hospital. Trey had no criminal record and an honorable discharge after serving four years in the air national guard. He paid his taxes, went to church, had middling interest in politics, and planned on retiring to Ocean City, New Jersey, in five years. He already owned a little place there not two blocks from the beach.
Trey was absolutely the wrong person for the job he was undertaking. Which made him the right man.
All day he had felt a little uneasy and wondered if he was coming down with another migraine. He hadn't had one in years but something was definitely wrong with his head. Concentrating on anything, even little tasks, became increasingly difficult as the day wore on. Eventually it got so bad that he told his assistant to take over and Trey went to his office to close his eyes for a moment. Leaving early was never his plan. He hadn't taken a sick day in eleven years and wasn't going to let a headache break that record. So he locked his office door and stretched out on his couch.
It was the wind that woke him up.
Not the breeze from the air-conditioner. It was wind.
He opened his eyes and very nearly screamed.
He was no longer in his office. He wasn't even inside the building. Nor was he lying down.