Monster Hunter Nemesis (7 page)

Now that was one particular puppet whose annoyance was quickly outweighing his continued usefulness. Stricken took the phone. “What, Doug?”

“I tried to give the order to have Franks arrested, but the committee—”

“I already know. While you were taking your sweet time somebody else informed me about how you sat there like a moron while Myers’ golden boy spouted off about my secret organization. Way to go, champ.”

The line went quiet for a long time. Stark knew he was in trouble. They both knew the only reason he’d gotten the directorship was because of Stricken’s string-pulling. “I tried to call as soon as—”

“Make sure Franks stays put. Don’t go near him. I’ll be in touch.” He ended the call, then handed the phone back. This one didn’t get bagged. He had so much dirt on Stark that it didn’t matter at this point. “Myers, you clever bastard. What are you up to?”

They were supposed to have ruled Franks a menace. The MCB should have detained him. The President’s hands would be clean. Everyone would be happy. There were only a couple of facilities in the country that could hold something like Franks, and Stricken had already made arrangements at both of them for Franks to get obliterated trying to
escape
. But Myers was good . . . He’d moved first and spooked the Subcommittee members who were in Stricken’s pocket. Word was that Myers was getting Las Vegas under control surprisingly fast, which meant he would rush back to the action to really try to screw Stricken over.

It had been a long time since he’d so enjoyed a game of chess like this.

They were a lot alike, and both of them knew how to play the system, but the difference between him and Myers was that Myers still had faith in the system actually working as designed, checks and balances and whatnot. He would expect Stricken to run for cover and start doing damage control. He’d expect meetings and heated arguments, maybe some internal investigations, that sort of thing.

Myers sure as hell wouldn’t expect what would happen next.

Despite his opponent’s considerable intellect and ability to spin lies with the best of them, Myers was at heart a decent, patriotic man. That made him vulnerable. Myers reserved his ruthlessness for paranormal enemies. Stricken didn’t make such distinctions.
You’re either with me or you’re in my way.
Considering what he suspected was coming down the pike, for America—hell, the human race—to survive, then they’d need somebody with the guts to do what was necessary running the show. Stricken knew he was that man.

In any other time, Myers probably would have been sufficient. Now? He just wasn’t up to the task. And Dwayne Myers had even been willing to nuke Alabama to stop the Old Ones. Stricken considered that a
nice start.

“We’re launching our contingency plan immediately.” The STFU bunker was so big that the distance between his office and the control center was significant, so he used the time to give a series of rapid-fire orders to his subordinates that fell in behind him. “Foster, you’re running this op. Call up Renfroe. Pull the spider out of the tank. I want it wired with explosives so it doesn’t get any funny ideas about running off on the job.”

“This is Franks we’re talking about,” said one of his men. And these were all men. His inner circle would never contain any supernatural members again. Adam Conover had taught him a valuable lesson about the trustworthiness of monsters. “Our most reliable team was lost. Want me to call up some extra muscle?”

“Not yet.” It was too bad about his first string. Those monsters had shown real potential, but Kerkonen had been the only one to get out of the nightmare realm alive. “Red isn’t right for this job. Sending her against foreign terrorists is one thing, but Americans? And MCB at that? She’s got a soft spot for cops. PUFF exemption on the line or not, she’d balk and screw this up.” Managing monsters and black ops teams was a real challenge; he had to sort them not just by capabilities, but by which ones had functioning moral compasses. “Send her to the Flierls’ team. They’re a bunch of goody-goodies too. We’ll hold them in reserve in case this goes sideways.”

“If the Flierls find out we’re operating outside the law, they’ll flip out . . . Hell, Renfroe won’t like this assignment much either.”

“His employment isn’t exactly voluntary, now is it?”

The men laughed, because when Stricken made a joke, you’d damn well better believe they laughed like it was the funniest damned thing ever. Intimidating subordinates was a guilty pleasure of his. One of them held open the door to the command center for him.

The name was kind of a misnomer. When he’d first heard
command center
he’d pictured something like NASA mission control. This was more like an office overlooking the laboratory floor, populated by a handful of nerds armed with computers and some big screens on the walls. It wasn’t impressive because of how it looked, but rather, what he could screw with from here. The nerds looked at him fearfully as he entered and then furtively went back to their work. They reminded him of a bunch of ground squirrels.

“I don’t know who you intend to use for this mission then, sir, because we’ll need time to get other assets together. You don’t intend to send only our regular forces, do you?”

It had been Foster who had asked that question. It was a reasonable question, since the former CIA man had just been put in charge of a hit against the biggest badass in the federal government, but Stricken figured the hesitancy was because Foster was still a little squeamish from his encounter with Franks in Vegas. No STFU man wanted to go up against a monster without monsters of his own.

“Of course not, Foster. I’m a firm believer in letting our
subcontracted employees
do the bleeding on our behalf.” He spotted exactly who he was hoping to find in the command center and walked directly toward her. “Hello, Dr. Bhaskara.”

She turned and nodded politely to the albino. “Mr. Stricken.”

Stricken liked the Project’s head scientist. She was an attractive Indian woman in her mid forties, with a British accent that reminded him of Mary Poppins, but she was every bit as driven as he was, and as far as he could tell, she’d never been weighed down with any of those pesky medical ethics some of these brilliant science types seemed to get hung up on. “Any new developments with our babies?”

Dr. Bhaskara sniffed. She didn’t like when he referred to the Project Nemesis prototypes as
babies
. “Of the thirteen we have decanted so far, the prototypes are still testing at peak efficiency. Their ability to learn is remarkable. There has yet to be a single testing failure, cognitive or physical, thus far.”

“What’re the new scores looking like?”

“Far better than expected. They are remarkable. Let me put it this way, Mr. Stricken. Take ten minutes to demonstrate the skills necessary and another ten minutes to explain the rules of the sport to them, and then they would easily win the Olympic gold medal for that event and their human opponents wouldn’t even have a chance.”

“I’m not rigging the Tour de France, Doctor, hilarious as that would be. I’m talking combat capabilities.”

“Weapons familiarity training has been going well. Since we last spoke I have tested the first prototype against captured vampires of various strains and ages. A particularly nasty, well fed, fifty-year-old specimen only survived two and a half minutes of hand-to-hand combat.”

“That’s my boy.”

“He is still by far the most capable of the prototypes, but I hope the others catch up.” Dr. Bhaskara was justifiably proud. “I have no doubt that if we had a Master to test against, our prototypes would stand an excellent chance at winning.”

That was probably pushing it. The doctor had read papers about Master vamps, but Stricken had dealt with them up close and personal. He wasn’t placing any bets. But luckily Stricken had a baker’s dozen of growth tanks that could pump out a new body every six months. And since this whole Project was stupidly illegal and he wasn’t even supposed to be testing, he’d done all that in secret. Once Franks was removed from the equation and he got an official go-ahead, he’d build hundreds of tanks. Then he’d have the quality and quantity to take all comers.

“Are you confident in their ability to follow orders?” That was his greatest concern. He’d taken them out for a few little things, like bodyguarding him that time he’d confronted Earl Harbinger in Alaska, or popping some easy targets of opportunity, but the prototypes had never done anything too complex yet. What he had in mind would be challenging.

“Absolutely. All of our psychological testing has shown that they are completely incapable of disloyalty. They are programmed to obey no matter what.”

Programming was appropriate. They were basically like robots made out of flesh. He’d seen some of the footage of those tests. Order a prototype to hold a position no matter what, and then you could inflict all manner of pain and suffering on it, but they’d rather die than budge. Electrocute them, set them on fire, it didn’t matter. It had been harsh, but fascinating. “The outside world isn’t quite as sterile as your lab.”

“Should one go rogue, we can simply activate the preprogrammed kill switch.” Conover’s treachery had caused them to add that improvement. “Even as incredibly resilient as their systems are, the release of the neurotoxin would incapacitate them instantly, and before you ask, yes, the rapid necrotic dissolution will destroy the evidence. Even their blood decays too quickly to extract DNA evidence.”

“It’s hard to autopsy slurry. Good work, Doc. If you weren’t a complete psycho, I’d marry you.”

“Sadly, I am married to my work, Mr. Stricken.”

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you heard the report card . . .” Stricken picked up a remote control from one of the desks. One wall screen began flashing through various interior shots, the growth vats, the glowing cylinders of alchemical slime, and then finally the testing center. “If we’re going to use these things to save the world, I think it’s time we conduct a more in-depth field test.”

The camera was fixed on a man sitting cross-legged on the floor of a padded room, staring off into space. His bare torso was hooked to several different monitoring machines. Every muscle group stood out with perfect definition. It was like he’d been sculpted by an artist whose only instruction had been to demonstrate perfection.

“The first prototype . . .” Foster whistled. They’d all seen what these things were capable of, and the oldest was special even by Nemesis standards. “Poor Franks will never know what hit him.”

The man appeared to be an ideal human specimen, but he was so much more. He was a blank slate on which could be inscribed the perfect soldier. Other than the nearly inhuman level of muscle tone, he appeared to be a white male in his twenties. They’d varied the genetic mix in each tank so that he could have assets available to blend into any culture. Stricken had to admit, he felt a little proud. He’d played god and gotten away with it. He had to wonder if Konrad Dippel had felt like this when he’d electrocuted a slab of meat and brought Franks to life.

The first prototype was staring directly into the camera.

* * *

He could smell his visitor approaching.

The albino had the scent of dark magic on him. He’d been touched at some point in his life and it had left him twisted. There was a blight on his soul, but unlike most damaged humans, the one called Stricken had embraced the darkness and used it to make himself stronger instead. He had a lust for power that was rare amongst mortals. It would be wise not to underestimate the albino.

The door of his cell opened and Stricken entered, alone. He was not afraid. Stricken believed he was in control. They had surgically implanted a device inside his skull, and should he rise up against his creators, they would destroy this body.

That was unacceptable.

“Looking good there, my badass genetically engineered killing machine.”

He remained seated as Stricken approached. If he moved too much it would pull the needles and sensors from his body and that would upset the doctors. Their poking and experiments were tiresome, but the indignities were a small price to pay to have a physical body. It was not right to treat a prince like this, but he would bide his time, and once ascended, he would remember every single insult inflicted on him by these humans and he would repay each one a thousandfold.

“I know you’re not into small talk so I’ll get right down to business. I’ve got a job for you to do and I need to decide if you’re up to it. Are you ready?”

He nodded.

“You want to go outside?”

He nodded again.

“You mind killing some people for me?”

He shook his head in the negative.

“Of course you don’t. Mr. Foster will brief you. This operation is under his command. You’ll do exactly as he tells you. You will not fail and you will not allow yourself to be captured. Your primary target will be Agent Franks of the Monster Control Bureau.”

Franks? It was a common enough human surname.
“Will you tell me about this Franks?”

Stricken seemed a little surprised that he’d bothered to ask a question. “That’s just what Franks named himself. He’s a powerful flesh golem.”

It was fate.
Yet, they still think he is a mere golem? That is all?
Franks had successfully hidden his true identity all this time. Such patience and restraint was remarkable, especially for one capable of such anger.

“Don’t worry. Franks is old technology, nothing like you and your siblings. We’ve arranged it so that he should be unarmed, but just in case I’ll be sending some help with you. Foster will give you a rundown on Franks’ known capabilities. He’ll also brief you on your secondary and tertiary targets and mission parameters. This one will require some finesse and then a whole lot of bloodshed. Are you ready?”

He nodded.

“I knew my first prototype wouldn’t let me down.” Stricken began walking away. He paused at the door. “You know what? That’s stupid. We can’t go live and still be calling you First Prototype all the time. We need to think up a name for you.”

“You said the flesh golem Franks named himself. Am I allowed to give myself a name?”