The Dragon Factory (33 page)

“Dad.
Alpha
.” Paris snorted. “If we’re evil, Hecate, it’s because he made us that way. He’s a monster. We’re . . . by-products.”

“The apple and the tree, Paris.”

Paris shook his head.

Hecate frowned. “What are you saying, that if you had a choice you’d have done things differently? That you would have chosen a different path than following in Dad’s footsteps?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t want to get into a whole nature-versus-nurture debate, either,” he snapped. When she said nothing he leaned on the rail and stared out over the water as if he could already see the freighter. “I enjoyed what we did. I know that about me, and in a way I’m comfortable with it because I know that it serves my appetites. So . . . maybe there’s a level of corruption—of
evil
—that I’m okay with. Maybe even a level I want to be part of what defines me.”

“But . . . ?” she prompted.

“But I don’t know that I want to believe that I have no limits. That my darkness has no limits.”

“That’s a little grandiose, Brother.”

He turned and spread his arms. “Look at me, Hecate. Look at
us
. We’re grand. Everything about us is larger than life. None of it’s real, a lot of it’s not even supposed to be possible . . . but here we are, and we’ve begged, borrowed, and stolen so much science that we’ve made the impossible
possible
. There’s never been anything like us before in history. Dad calls us his young gods, and in ways he’s not far wrong. We bend nature to our will.” She opened her mouth to speak, but Paris gave a curt shake of his head. “No, let me finish. Let me say this. Hecate, we’ve always been the Jakoby Twins. People would actually kill to be with us. People would kill to be
near
us. You know that for a fact because men have killed each other over you on two continents. We’re legends. We also know we’re not normal. We’re not even true albinos. This skin color is too regular, too pure white. Our bodies are without a single genetic flaw. We have blue eyes and perfect eyesight. We’ve never even had cavities. We’re stronger than we should be; we’re faster. And we’re almost identical twins despite being of different genders.”

“Yes, we’re genetically designed. Big surprise, Paris . . . our father is probably the smartest geneticist on the planet. He wanted genetically perfect children, and that’s what he got. He also made sure that we’re gorgeous and really fucking smart. Smarter than anyone else except maybe the occasional freak. He tweaked our DNA to make us better, to try and create the ‘young gods’ that he’s always dreamed of. So what? This isn’t news.”

“There’s a fine line between genetic perfection and freakism,” Paris said. “And no matter what you or Dad says, we are definitely freaks. If we did nothing else, nothing new or innovative, people will write books about us and talk about us for the next century. Maybe for a thousand years. We broke through boundaries of science no one has dared push.”

Hecate folded her arms under her breasts and said nothing.

“So . . . what does that mean to us?” Paris continued. “We’ve been raised by Dad to believe that we are elevated beings. We’re gods or
aliens or the next phase of evolution, depending on which of Dad’s personalities is doing the talking. Whether he’s right or wrong, the truth is we’re not normal. We’re like a separate species.”

“I know. . . .”

“So, is that why we do what we do?” he demanded, his voice quick and urgent, almost pleading. “Is that why we can kill and steal and take without remorse? Are we above evil because evil is part of the human experience and we’re not quite human?”

“What do you want me to say?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I . . . don’t want to feel bad about what we’re doing, Hecate, and yet it’s tearing me up inside. It was bad before we saw Dad, and now it’s worse. Maybe because when I see him I think,
There . . . that’s true evil in its purest form.
Or maybe it’s that I think that all of this is bullshit rationalization and that we’re just a couple of psychotic mass murderers who have no right to live.”

“Jeez, Paris,” Hecate said with a crooked smile, “when you get a case of existential angst you don’t screw around.” She came over to him and took Paris in her arms. He returned the hug sluggishly and tried to pull away, but Hecate held him fast. For a moment it seemed to him that she was stronger than he was. Hecate leaned into him, her lips by his ear. “Listen to me, sweet brother. We
are
gods. Not because Dad says or the
National
-fucking-
Enquirer
says so. We’re gods because we say so. Because
I
say so. And, yes, we’re evil. Our souls are as black and twisted as the Grinch’s, but there’s no Cindy Lou Who in Whoville that’s going to turn us into good guys in the third act. We’re evil because evil is powerful. We’re evil because evil is delicious.”

Her arms constricted around him with crushing force, the pressure making him gasp.

“We’re evil because evil is strong and everything else is weak. Weak is ugly; weak is stupid. Evil is beautiful.”

She purred out that last word. Then she kissed Paris on the cheek and pushed him away. He staggered back and hit the rail. If he hadn’t grabbed the rail, he might have gone over. Paris stood there, his knees weak, gasping and startled.

“What the fuck . . . ?” he breathed. “What the hell was that all about?”

Hecate smiled at him. Her blue eyes were dark and deep, the irises flecked with tiny spots of gold that he had never noticed before.

“What the hell are you?”

“I’m your sister,” she said softly. “And, like you my sweet brother, I’m evil. I’m a monster.”

Hecate licked her lips.

“Just like you.”

The Warehouse, Baltimore, Maryland

Sunday, August 29, 4:09
A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 79 hours, 51 minutes

We landed at a military airport, and the cargo—paper and human—was shifted to an MH-47G Chinook helicopter that swung us over to what had become my home. The Warehouse had been the base of a group of terrorists that had been raided by a joint police/Homeland task force on which I’d served. It had been that raid that had brought me to Church’s attention, and I was recruited a couple of days later. That was the end of June, and we were still a week away from the end of August. So much had happened that it seemed like I’d been part of the DMS for at least a year. In the last two months I’d only spent three or four nights at my apartment. Even my cat, a chubby marmalade tabby named Cobbler, lived at the Warehouse. All of the operators on Echo and Alpha teams had rooms there, though a couple of them also went home—occasionally—to families.

As the big helicopter touched down I saw a squad of armed guards waiting for us—and two people who stood slightly apart. Rudy Sanchez and Grace Courtland. My heart did a little happy dance in my chest when I saw Grace. In the interests of professional decorum I kept it off my face.

She was the first bright spot in this whole mess, and she came to meet me as I exited the chopper. She strolled toward me without hurry, a mild smile on her lips, but I knew her well enough to know that the
devilish light in her eyes meant that she was just as happy to see me as I was to see her. I wanted to drag her out of sight behind the row of parked Black Hawks and kiss her breathless. And I knew from experience that she could leave me just as breathless. Rudy hung back, tactful as ever.

“Home is the sailor home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill,” she said with a grin.

“Wrong branch of the service. I was a Ranger.”

“I don’t know any poems about Rangers.”

We shook hands because everyone was looking, but as she released mine her fingers gently stroked my palm. It sent heat lightning flashing through my veins.

We headed toward the door and Rudy fell into step beside us.

“How goes the war?” he asked, picking up the thread of our earlier conversation.

“Bullets are still flying, Rude. How are things around here?”

He grunted. “Welcome to the land of paranoia. It’s amazing what persecution by the entire National Security Agency can do to the overall peace of mind of a group of government employees. I suggested to Church that he make some kind of statement to the troops here and via webcam to the other facilities. They all look to him for more than orders. His calm—you could almost say emotionless—manner—”

“ ‘Almost’?” Grace murmured.

“—has a soothing effect on the DMS staff. He’s so clearly in command that no matter how wildly the feathers are flying, as long as Church is in control—”

“—and munching his frigging vanilla wafers,” I said.

“—the staff will stay steady,” Rudy concluded.

I nodded. It was true enough. Church was a master manipulator, and Rudy had marveled at the scope and subtlety of Church’s tactics. It was there in everything from the choice of paint color on the walls to comfortable private bedrooms. And it was in Church’s attitude. Most of us had seen him in the thick of it, blood on the floor, gunsmoke in the air, screams all around us, and he looked cool in his tailored suits, tinted
sunglasses, and total lack of emotionality. Church made Mr. Spock look like a hysterical teenager with a pimple on prom night.

“Look, Joe,” Rudy said. “I wanted to say goodbye before I headed out. Church wants me out in Denver. We haven’t heard anything for sure about Jigsaw Team, but Church isn’t optimistic. He said that he wants me there in case some bad news comes in.”

“Damn. I hope he’s wrong,” I said, but it sounded lame. “Church thinks a lot of you if he’s sending you all the way out there.”

He shrugged. “I’m a tool.”

I said nothing. Grace laughed.

“Okay,” Rudy said, “I heard it. What I mean is that Church regards me as a useful instrument.”

“ ‘Tool,’ ” said Grace.

“God, are you two in kindergarten?”

We shook hands and he trudged off to the helo that was waiting to take him to the airport.

“Is Church here?” I asked Grace as we pushed through the security door to the Warehouse.

“Yes,” Church said. I nearly walked into him. He was standing just inside, looking like he just walked out of a board meeting. He offered his hand and we shook. “Glad to have you back safe and sound, Captain.”

“Glad to be safe and sound. What’s the latest on Big Bob?”

“Stable.”

“Look, about that . . . I met Brick and I know he lost his leg in the line of duty. If Big Bob pulls through this I know he won’t ever work the field again, but I don’t want to hear about him getting kicked to the curb. That shit happens with Delta Force and—”

“Let me head you off at the pass, Captain,” said Church. “This is the DMS. I’m not in the habit of abandoning my people.”

“Fair enough. On the flight I had a chance to think this through, and I have about a million questions.”

“Glad to hear it, but first things first. I want to take a look at the material you recovered in Denver, Captain. Dr. Hu is preparing a point-by-point presentation of everything we have. We’ll meet for a
briefing in one hour. Until then I suggest you spruce up and then get some rest.”

Without another word he headed out to the landing area.

I glanced at Grace, who was frowning. She saw my look and shook her head. “That’s about all he’s said to me, too. I’ve tried a dozen ways to open him up, but he’s been playing things pretty close to the vest.”

“This meeting should be pretty interesting. It’s going to be real interesting to compare notes . . . but first I have to find a shower and some fresh clothes.”

There were a lot of people around, so she gave me a curt nod and we went our separate ways.

The Residence of the Vice President, Washington, D.C.

Sunday, August 29, 4:11
A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 79 hours, 49 minutes

Vice President Bill Collins sat alone in his study looking out at the trees in the garden. His fist was wrapped tightly around his fifth neat scotch. His wife was upstairs asleep, as if nothing was wrong in their world.

After leaving the Walter Reed, he kept expecting a knock at the door. Secret Service agents. Or, if the universe was in a perverse mood, the NSA.

Maybe he had dodged the bullet. Maybe the President had swallowed the whole can of lies. There was no way to tell, especially with this President. All the talk in the press about how calm and unflappable he was did not begin to scratch the surface of the man’s calm control and his cold ruthlessness when he held the moral high ground in a conflict.

Unless this thing blew over Collins without leaving so much as a whiff of illegality, Collins knew that the President would quietly, neatly, and ruthlessly tear him to pieces.

He gulped more of the scotch, wishing that it could burn away everything to do with Sunderland, the Jakobys, or any of their biotech
get-rich-quick schemes. Everything that had seemed so smart and well-planned before now felt like pratfalls and slapstick.

The bottle of McCallum had been full when he’d come home, now it was half gone. But Vice President Collins felt totally empty. He poured himself another drink.