Killer Thrillers Box Set: 3 Techno-Thriller, Action/Adventure Science Fiction Thrillers (5 page)

“What kind of research? What does the company do?”

“Captain — Bryce —“ using his first name as he continued, “my work has always been a roller coaster ride. There’s always someone you’re pissing off one day, and the entire scientific community’s in an uproar because of you the next. We are an environmental research firm, and most of our clients are multinational corporations. Pharmaceuticals, defense systems engineers, even oil conglomerates — they’re all waiting in line to talk to us. We provide a unique form of insurance to our customers: future proofing.

“You see, Capt. Reynolds, most companies are more afraid of the future than anything else — are they going to remain profitable? Are they going to consistently deliver on their numbers and keep their shareholders happy? Are they even going to remain solvent in this economy? These are things they’re worrying about every day, and companies like mine offer an insurance policy against these fears. We can research and deliver the next line of products that will redefine their industries, before their competitors even know they’re working on it.”

Bryce interrupted, frowning. “So, you’re a gigantic research firm working with the world’s largest companies; why haven’t I ever heard of you?” he asked.
 

“Well, first — we’re not exactly a ‘large’ research firm. We only work with a few clients at a time, though conveniently they usually want the same thing — immunity from their competitors’ attacks. Immortality, if you will. They all want to maintain their position at the forefront of their respective marketplaces, and it turns out we can usually deliver on that wish. Due to this extremely proprietary nature of our work, we aren’t well-known outside the small circle of businesses we’ve worked with — and we intend to keep it that way.”

“Ok, great. Makes sense,” Bryce said, finally sitting up fully on the hospital bed. “But what does this all have to do with me?”

“I know about your mother, Bryce,” Whittenfield said, almost cutting Bryce off. “I know she’s suffering from a rare viral infection; a strain that’s rendered her mostly paralyzed.”

Bryce’s eyes flashed in anger, then to a steely burn. “She’s not going to be able to heal. They have no idea what it is — or how to fix it.” He pictured his mother, Diana Reynolds, in bed in her Utah home. A nurse, basically a hospice worker from a local retirement community in nearby Salt Lake City, stayed with her most of the morning and evenings to provide basic care — cleaning, feeding, and the occasional one-way conversation.
 

The memory pained him, but he knew there was nothing he could do for her. He’d already spent both of their life savings on treatment, flying doctors to and from the small cottage, only to be told the viral infection wasn’t contagious. He’d run out of money, and the military’s insurance plan forced him to continue serving on active duty to continue paying for her care.
 

“How do you know about that?” Bryce asked.
 

“There was a small article about it in a medical publication not too long ago,” Whittenfield replied. “One of my doctors found it. What I found most intriguing about your mother’s case is that we had two similar instances like it not six months before the article was published.”

“Two others? I thought it was an isolated incident,” Bryce said.
 

“As did we. But it’s not — while we haven’t been able to understand the
source
of the infection, I do believe we’ve found a treatment.”

Bryce’s hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Could he be telling the truth? After so long; so much time spent chasing a dead-end…
“A treatment? Like an antidote?”

“Yes — well, we’re not finished yet. The first two subjects didn’t survive, but I think we’ve isolated the culprit in the viral cell’s makeup, and I think we can figure out how to heal your mother.

“But Bryce, I need something from you in return. Your performance in the Rangers hasn’t gone unnoticed. I know about your accomplishments so far; your quick mind.

“Dwight Maynes is a close friend of mine from Cambridge — we studied together in our introductory courses, and I’ve been picking his brain lately about his men here in the special forces. You see, we need someone like you out at the research lab,” Whittenfield said.
 

“Someone like me?” Bryce asked. “A soldier?”

“No — not just a soldier. I saw your test results. The comprehension, deductive reasoning skills — off the charts, Bryce. I don’t want someone who can wield a gun; any grunt with two eyes and arms can do that. I need someone who can protect our interests; interests that I’m afraid will be under scrutiny very soon. This notebook was just the first incident: whoever’s after my father’s research —
my
research — is going to continue snooping around until they find what they’re looking for.
 

“If you agree to leave with me now, I can fill you in with the specifics of the job on the way. I am prepared to make you an offer up front — take it or leave it — of one million dollars. If you stay with me for all six months, I’ll pay you another million. I know you’d like to get back your mother, but give me the next six months of your life, and you’ll be set for the rest of it.

“Oh, and suffice it say, anything we can do for your mother’s health will be done. If we find a treatment — and I believe we will —
 
for your mother’s paralysis, you can consider her healed, all expenses paid.”

Bryce was stunned.
Two million dollars in six months?
He couldn’t imagine what this guy would want him to do — it seemed too good to be true. “Well, it sounds like a pretty fantastic offer, but I don’t know anything about your company — what’s the catch? Why are you so interested in protection?”

Whittenfield sighed, but didn’t hesitate in his response. He stood and walked to the foot of Bryce’s bed. “The reason you have never heard of us is that we have been continuing along the same line of research since the mid-1930s that has paralleled a similar, yet much more popularized topic in American culture.

“My father’s initial experimentation in the field of crystal-Uranium synthesis led to a small team of researchers — my father included — discovering the unique characteristics of the Uranium element’s isotopes. The work was highly classified, but of extreme importance to the U.S. Government, and in 1939 an official project was initiated, called the ‘Development of Substitute Materials.’”

Bryce glanced up sharply at the man standing before him. His mind raced as he tried to place what this man — James Whittenfield, Jr. — had just said.
Where had he heard of that before?
 

“My father’s research was paramount to modern American history. What my father’s discoveries led to — what that team ended up becoming — was the foundation for the atomic bomb. Their project was called the ‘Development of Substitute Materials,’ but the American population now knows it by its codename: ‘The Manhattan Project.’”

CHAPTER 7

10:46 PM - UNIVERSITY OF New Mexico - Department of Ancient Studies, Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA

Professor Jensen Andrews felt exhausted, and it was only Wednesday. It seemed like as he got older, the days got shorter, yet somehow he ended up even busier. Tonight he had a stack of papers in front of him that needed to be read and graded, but he’d pushed them aside and was now hunched over a National Geographic magazine, fighting back much-needed sleep. He had intended to take a break from grading the essays — an hour ago. It was approaching midnight, and he wondered if it would be easier to just sleep on his office’s futon mattress instead of driving all the way home.
 

The hall outside his office was darker than usual. The exit signs at each end and the safety light at the restroom door were the only illumination. During the day and throughout most of the nights during the school year, the halls were filled with the whitewashed glow of florescent ceiling lights. The Geography and World Studies wing of the college was one of several 24-hour facilities on campus, and most of the professors and even some of the students often stayed after hours to finish up grading and assignments.
Must be the football game tonight,
he thought.

His eyes wandered over the page on his desk in front of him, sleep sneaking in and causing him to drift away. Finally exhaustion won out, and his eyes closed for a brief moment, his head propped up by his fist. No sooner had he drifted off than his head snapped back upright, and his bleary eyes blinked back open into focus.
What was that?

He could have sworn he’d heard a noise outside his office. He sat dead still at his desk for a full minute, not hearing anything. Finally he rose to his feet and walked — quietly — to his office door. His heart was suddenly pounding, and he stood at the doorway for a moment to catch his breath. Why was he so shaken up tonight? Most likely it was just some kids down the hall, or a night janitor on the other side of the building, nothing to worry about.
 

Thwap
.

There it was again, only this time louder. He tensed, frozen in place, straining to hear around the corner. Absolutely silent, he reached out and pulled open his office door. The gentle
click
of the handle retracting made him stop for a second to listen again, but there wasn’t a sound.
 

With the door half open, he leaned his head out slowly and pushed his glasses upwards on his face, as if somehow it would improve his sight in the near darkness. Squinting, he could make out the exit sign at the far end of the hall to his left; to the right he could see about twenty paces until the blackness overcame the feeble light.

“H-Hello?”
 

The silence seemed to intensify. After what seemed an eternity, he let out his breath — he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it — and took one step into the hallway.
 

Ever so slowly, he turned to the left and moved tentatively toward the exit. After a few steps his pace quickened, and his timidity gave way to curiosity.
 

He was about halfway to the end of the hall when his instincts kicked in. He slowed, suddenly unsure, and tried again to focus on the exit, now about fifty feet ahead.
What is that?
he thought, as his eyes passed over a large, dark shape on the floor in the corner.
 

His heart raced again. The shape slowly became clearer to him. A pile of clothing… no, a coat, and a…

Oh my God.
 

It’s a body.
 

As he drew closer, he could make out that the person was unnervingly still — not at all like someone sleeping or even passed out drunk. Jensen had never seen a dead body before — yet he somehow knew that he was looking at one now.
 

His heart was racing.
Who was this, and what had happened?
 

He rolled the facedown body over, and only then noticed the growing pool of blood on the floor underneath. That alone would normally have caused him to jump back, but it was the round bullet hole directly between the man’s eyes that pushed him into a state of panic. He dove back against the wall, fighting to keep from hyperventilating.

As he stared in shock, he realized the dead man was a security guard. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he actually recognized the man — perhaps he’d spoken to him once or twice before.
 

Ok, Jensen, what the hell do you do now?

He never had time to come up with an answer.
 

Thwap.
 

CHAPTER 8

BRYCE’S WEEK HAD BEEN A blur. After Mr. Whittenfield left him at the infirmary, Bryce made his final preparations and packed for his departure. The last 72 hours he’d been traveling nonstop, first from the forward operating base to the airstrip four hours south. From there, he’d been flown to an aircraft carrier off the coast and then to a military base outside of London. His wounds, healing quickly, still hurt and provided him with an excuse to continue taking the powerful painkillers the doctor in Iraq had given him. While he was at the base in London, he charged his cell phone and placed a call to his mother’s home in Utah.
 

Linda Ortiz, the nurse charged with providing the at-home care, answered and updated him with details on his mother’s health over the past few weeks. It had been awhile since he’d called, so he listened quietly as Linda gave the same response he’d heard countless times.
 

“She’s doing well; about as well as can be expected. She’s not hurting, but the symptoms haven’t changed. I’m sure she misses you, too, Mr. Bryce.”

“I know. Thank you, for everything — actually, I may be able to get back sooner than I’d expected. I’ll let you know for sure. Thanks again, Linda.”

He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket, slowly, as his left arm was feeling tight. He stood, walking to the window, and tried to picture his mother before the virus had taken her livelihood.
 

She was a great woman; strong, but in a gentle way. After his father had passed away six years ago, she’d moved from Denver to the quieter life of a sleepy Utah town. Bryce moved regularly during his first few years in the military, but he had recently rented an apartment in Salt Lake City, less than an hour from her place.
 

Good thing, too. He remembered the night she called; confused, frantic; unable to feel her feet or hands. It had taken her three tries just to dial his number.
 

By the time he got to her house, she was on the floor in the living room, unable to move.

The doctors kept her in the hospital for two weeks, but weren’t able to figure what was wrong. Experts in viral and bacterial infections were flown in, but could not isolate the foreign strain that was holding Bryce’s mother hostage. It seemed to be a rare occurrence of an infection chemically similar in composition to Encephalitis, but without the continuing negative side effects. Instead, she was paralyzed from the neck down but stable. Bryce had argued and negotiated, but finally persuaded the hospital staff to set up a bed in his mother’s home where she would be continuously monitored and cared for.