James Cameron and Charles Eglee own Dark Angel. My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.
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Author's Note: As before, sorry it took longer than I planned to get this chapter posted. The entire story was finished well over a month ago, but I decided something about it was just wrong. So I sent it out for a review from my trusty old beta, Moonbeam. (Well, she also goes by the name of Moonbeam's Predilections, but just typing Moonbeam is easier, and I'm rather lazy.) She did a fantastic job, especially with two scenes that needed serious attention. I cannot thank her enough for her input, all of which was invaluable in making the second half of this story readable.
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Becoming What One Was
Okay, that wasn't quite as easy as I've been assuming it would be, Alec admitted to himself, practically wheezing from the effort of running eight miles. True, I could have kept up with most recreational runners over that distance, but I should be able to do that in world record time. Too many years of living on cigarettes, bourbon, and burgers. That ends now.
He glanced around his new apartment, a rattrap hole in the wall that made his old place look palatial in comparison, wondering if he should take the time to empty his living space of all temptations. It only took a moment to decide against it. I'll never have another cigarette, he promised himself. I don't need them, and they've obviously slowed me down enough to make me vulnerable. I'll keep the bourbon, but I won't touch it 'til my job is done.
The transgenic walked across the room to stand over a footlocker he'd put away years earlier. Nothing special in there, he tried to tell himself, noting that he was having little success. Just don't think about it, he thought stoically, ignoring his mind's suggestion that he was looking at Pandora's Box, and that it contained far more than just a few objects he hadn't used for a long time. There's a part of me in there, he mused, immediately wondering if he was maybe being a little melodramatic. A part of me I swore never to reawaken. He winced as he opened the latch and looked inside. There, just where he'd left them, were weapons he'd never thought he'd use again – a Walther PPK, two Beretta 93Rs, and two H&K MP-5s. No boogeyman jumped out at him; a thin layer of dust had accumulated over the past five years, but other than that there was nothing he didn't fully expect to find. Each weapon still looked almost new, and the strong scent of gun oil bore witness to the care that had been shown to the firearms during their period of use several years earlier.
Five years ago, Alec thought absently. Feels like it's been at least twenty-five. He started with the Walther, taking it out and feeling it settle right back into his grasp as perfectly as it ever had. James Bond's gun, Alec remembered with a smile, Logan's words coming back to him from the past. Alec hadn't even known who James Bond was when Logan made the comment, but in the years since he'd become a fan of 007. At least in the books. As far as the movies went, he felt that only the Sean Connery features (with the notable exception of Never Say Never Again) really seemed to capture the essence of Ian Fleming's super-spy.
Alec stripped down the weapon and began to clean it, his fingers passing lightly over the metal, his transgenically enhanced sense of touch searching for the slightest indication that any parts would need to be replaced. First I go for a run, and then I take out the PPK. Next thing I know I'll be back in the gym. The thought had been random, but it reminded him that he really should find someplace nearby where he could work out.
If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it right. I'll do it the way I did during the war, when Max and I trained together. Eight to twelve miles every morning, then meal time, then firearms practice and cleaning, then weights, hand-to-hand, and the ever-popular 'grab bag.' The 'grab bag' class had tormented him for five years. Some days he loved the hour-and-a-half training session, as when they stole sports cars and practiced high-speed urban driving or had refresher courses in HALO jumps. But for every fun day like that, there were two days of lessons in assorted boring or uncomfortable subjects like explosives disarming (he'd always argued the best method would be running in the opposite direction), safecracking (already one of his specialties) underwater hand-to-hand (he hated getting wet), or his personal favorite – resisting torture (he couldn't think of where to begin listing the reasons he detested that).
I think I'll forget about grab bag time, he decided without a hint of guilt. It's not like there's anyone else here to share new skills like we did back in the day. I already know all the secondary skills I'm gonna need. Maybe I'll review once in awhile, but I don't expect this to take too long. I'll track down my target, torture him for a few months, and then I'll eventually kill him. Not too tough.
He started writing a mental grocery list, trying to decide what foods both tasted good and would provide the protein and carbohydrates he'd need for serious training. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't figure out a way to make General Tso's Chicken and pork fried rice fit the bill. He could just imagine the kind of comments Max would make. "I hope for your target's sake you find him fast, because you're gonna be really nasty if you have to avoid fried foods for any extended period of time."
He shook his head violently, chasing away the mirthful thought. Fuck being happy. Fuck making jokes. I screwed up, and now Keri's dead. First Rache. Then Max. Now Keri. I let myself go. I got lazy. I got sloppy. I got stupid. Now I have to fix it, and that means I have to be focused the way I was back in Gillette. Despite his intentions, he smiled as he realized what Max would have said to that. "When you were in Gillette you were a smart-ass punk who even then was working the system. In exactly what way were you focused?"
"I could have taken on an entire Delta unit by myself and won," he muttered to the ghost of his dead friend. "Now I'd be lucky to escape two 13-year olds with BB-guns." That was enough to chase away any thoughts of Max… and what had happened to her. His body started to shake as he remembered what he had gone through after his friend's death – the winding road that led to vengeance, the resolution of his quest when he finally came face-to-face with White. I spent five years trying to forget those weeks, and now all of a sudden I'm actually trying to get back to being that guy. Like a dam that had given out, he found his defenses against his annoyingly human emotions had collapsed, and now he was being overwhelmed.
Two weeks, he decided, exerting all of his effort on directing his concentration away from his own emotional turmoil and toward pragmatic matters of physical training. I'll need two weeks to get to the point where I'm far and away better than any ordinary. Within two weeks I may not have even figured out who did this, he decided, part of him missing the ease of his quest the last time he had given in to the thrill of vengeance. This time there was no superhuman adversary he had left alive in the past, given a chance to come back to start the next chapter of their feud in the fullness of time. I should have plenty of time to get ready. Whoever it is probably has money, and guards, and friends. And they're all gonna die. I'm going to kill every last fucking one of them.
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"You seen this guy?" Alec asked curtly as he walked up to what passed for the front desk at the Tikki Motel, holding up a sketch of White that he'd drawn the night before. It was his second stop that morning, and the décor didn't impress him much more than the previous motel had. The charcoal gray carpet was threadbare everywhere but at the base of the walls, which were covered by an off- red wallpaper that he assumed used to be burgundy, decorated with small gold stars. If Alec had cared to give it any thought, he might have decided that the combination of crappy colors and dim, yellowish light almost gave the impression that he had walked into a poorly colorized late 1940's film-noir thriller. Still, at least the rooms here aren't rented by the hour, he noted as he glanced at the rates, printed long ago on a coffee-stained sheet of paper that was taped to the wall behind the clerk.
"Never seen him before in my life," the clerk answered without even looking up from his Mad Magazine.
"Perhaps you'd like to look at the picture before reaching a conclusion," Alec suggested evenly. The man had obviously had years of practice in appearing disinterested in life.
The clerk glanced up just long enough to tell that Alec was holding a piece of paper, and then looked back at the latest adventures of Spy vs. Spy. "Nope, never seen him."
"I see." Alec approached, noting that the clerk's left hand came away from the magazine and moved toward a shelf that was under his desk, just out of sight. Alec leaped forward, his body a blur as he punched the guy squarely in the middle of the forehead, stunning him for a moment and giving the transgenic an opportunity to vault over the desk and grab the .32 that had been within the clerk's reach moments before. "One last try, maybe?" he suggested patiently, popping open the revolver's cylinder and dumping the shells onto the floor.
The clerk finally gave the picture his full attention. "Yeah, he was staying in Room 214. Checked out three days ago."
"Do you know where he went?"
"No. I swear." The smell of sweat and unspent adrenaline rolled off of the clerk – he was every bit as scared as Alec wanted him to be.
"What else can you tell me about him?"
"He always paid cash, always a week in advance. It was always quiet in there, like he was never around, but I never saw him come or go. Didn't get any girls, didn't look for any… umm… extras," the clerk added, his dazed mind unable to produce a suitable euphemism for drugs. "He said his name was Smith. John Smith."
And I'll bet there are enough John Smiths here to hold a convention, Alec thought angrily but without any surprise. He hadn't expected White to leave behind any useful clues. Except… He remembered what the clerk had said about paying cash.
It's a good bet White went out from time to time, whether anyone saw him leave or not, and he's certainly not the type to leave lots of money lying about a motel room in a place like this. I also don't see him as the type to wander around town with hundreds, probably thousands of dollars in his pockets. Credit cards are out, since even stolen ones are traceable… not that it looks like this place does business on anything other than a cash-only basis. He'd probably want ready access to money. "Where's the nearest bank?" Alec asked, taking a step back to give the clerk some room, to let him know that Alec was about done with him.
"Down the block and around the corner – Second National."
Alec didn't bother to offer any thanks, he simply leaped back over the counter and left, deciding that allowing the clerk to keep his life should be thanks enough. Once outside, Alec walked over to his van and climbed inside, looking for a suitable disguise. Minutes later, he was walking inside the Second National Bank.
"Could I please speak to the bank manager?" Alec asked, flashing a Seattle police badge and fake I.D. The young teller behind the window – he guessed she couldn't be more than eighteen – seemed to shrivel in front of him, obviously intimidated by his identity as a cop. I guess that's to be expected, though, when you grew up in a veritable police state. The people in charge can talk about how civil rights are being returned to the people as the government and society become more stable, but you can't change the nature of people who've only known an Orwellian wonderland.
"Could you… umm… could you wait a minute," she stammered. "I… I'll get him." Alec nodded with a grim, official-looking demeanor he'd borrowed from reruns of Dragnet.
He waited patiently at the teller window, taking advantage of the seconds he was permitted to look over his surroundings. And the security system. He had just completed his mental assessment and catalogue of the various cameras and visible security measures when the branch manager came out from a back office and greeted him with a friendly – but wary – smile.
"Can I help you officer?" the man asked. If Alec had been asked to imagine the prototypical bank manager, this man would not have come to mind. He stood almost six and a half feet tall and had large, muscular shoulders that better suited an NFL linebacker than a bank manager. Jet-black hair only served to make his already striking ice-blue eyes seem more pronounced, and the conservative three-piece charcoal gray suit was so well-cut that it more than made up for the fact that the only nod to ornamentation was the simple platinum wedding band on his left hand.
"Detective," Alec answered gruffly, resisting the temptation to scratch at the fake mustache that was tickling his upper lip. Can't take the chance that the adhesive will be weak. His disguise was simple but thorough – a mustache, black wig, gold-framed glasses, a rumpled gray suit, and some body padding to change the shape of his figure. He'd decided he looked a good ten to fifteen years older, so long as no one looked too closely and noticed how wrinkle-free his face was. That had always been his problem with disguises – he'd just never been able to get the fake wrinkles right – and after years of pathetic failures, Major Richards, the military intelligence officer who had trained the transgenics in disguise and infiltration techniques, had finally told Alec to give up. His advice had been simple. 'Always disguise yourself as some kind of official,' he'd said. 'You keep applying wrinkles like that, you're gonna attract far more attention than if you just go without. People are gonna think you have some kind of crazy skin condition or something. No, dress as army or police officers, and people will naturally avert eye contact. Maybe that'll give you the edge you need.'
The advice had thus far been beyond beneficial. Alec generally avoided trying to change his apparent age, but when he did he always went for the police officer look. It just happened that such an approach was doubly useful for his current purposes.
"I'm sorry… Detective," the manager apologized, extending his hand. He showed no sign of actually being thrown off by his faux pas. In fact, though still wary, the manager had the air of a man who knew that though his visitor might be able to make life difficult, it did not change the fact that he was still king of his castle. "I'm Mr. Persson."
A light went on in Alec's head as soon as he heard the name, but he only grunted in response, knowing his impersonal demeanor would help to put Persson on the defensive. And that'll hopefully keep him from asking my name or confirming my I.D. downtown, Alec thought happily. He'd had the foresight to expect such a possibility and had accordingly used the I.D. of a real officer, but if Persson asked for a physical description of the 'Detective Brien' that stood before him, he would discover very quickly that Alec was an imposter. "I'm here looking for a simple piece of information," Alec grumbled, trying to keep his voice about an octave lower than usual; it was how he thought someone of his apparent age and weight would sound. He pulled out the sketch of White and showed it to Persson. "I'm looking for this guy."
"Is there a name that I can --"
"No," Alec interrupted. "Lots of aliases, and I don't know which one he may have used here. All I got's a picture."
"Exactly what is it you want, detective?"
"Only to ask your employees if they've seen him around, and if so, whether they can remember his name."
"I see…" Persson's voice trailed off, and Alec decided it was time to shift his personality somewhat as he played his one-man game of good cop-bad cop. He had done his best to put Persson on the defensive, now it was time to take him into his confidence, to make him feel special and exempt from the gruff attitude that Alec would use with everyone else. Time to play the card I was unexpectedly dealt when I heard his name.
"You said your name was Persson?" Alec asked as he pulled out his notepad and pen, making like he was about to make a note of the uncooperative attitude of the bank's manager.
"Yes, that's right."
"That wouldn't be Eric Persson by any chance, would it?"
"As a matter of fact, it is."
"Thought so," Alec replied, allowing a thin smile to cross his lips. "Defensive end, Washington Huskies. You know, I lost a hundred bucks on that Rose Bowl game you guys got crushed by Michigan. What was that, 48-13?"
"48-12," Persson corrected, looking notably less than thrilled with the conversation.
"I remember you had six and a half sacks, though," Alec continued. "They couldn't stop you, even if no one else on your team looked like they showed up that day. That was one of the most insane defensive performances I've ever seen."
"I would have rather had no sacks and won," Persson said, and Alec could tell he was telling the truth and not just speaking the same cliché that most athletes uttered as a matter of course. Team player. I hope that helps make this a bit easier.
"Look, I'll be honest," Alec said smoothly, almost conspiratorially, preparing a thoroughly convincing lie while ignoring the skepticism that stubbornly remained behind Persson's eyes. "I don't have a warrant. You know how it is with the new judges – they're all card-carrying members of the ACLU – and while I appreciate the fact that we're trying to change the way things are done, I also can't sleep while this guy is still on the streets. Every scumbag out there has money to track, but the bank fraud this guy has committed against you is just the tip of the iceberg. We want him because he's running a kiddie porn ring." You never know how apathetic someone might be about crime in today's day and age, but mention kiddie porn and people are liable to go apeshit. Drug dealing and robberies are one thing, but doing sick, twisted shit to kids will motivate people to bust your ass.
"Kiddie porn?" Persson asked, latching onto the bait with the tenacity of a bulldog.
"Sick bastard runs websites and mail-order catalogues, and we're lookin' at him for at least three kidnappings, all of which I'm sure led to sale in the sex slave trade. Latest one is a nine year old girl."
"Son of a bitch," Persson muttered. "I have an eight year old girl, myself." Just as I hoped, Alec thought happily. He wondered how Major Richards would grade this performance. "You just need to speak with some employees, right?" Persson asked, suddenly sounding like a man who had taken a personal interest in letting the cops get their hands on Alec's suspect.
"I'm also gonna want to see your bank records in case anyone remembers anything useful." Alec hated to up the ante right away, but he decided it would be better to strike while the iron was hot, while Persson's disgust at the thought of pedophiles transferring their ill-gotten gains through his bank might help outweigh his concerns about confidentiality in bank records. "I'm asking for your help," he added earnestly. "Help us get this bastard before he gets his hooks into someone else's kid."
"I understand your concerns, detective," Persson answered, seeming truly pained by having to reject Alec's request, "but I'm not permitted to reveal any of our banking information unless you have a warrant. If you come back with a warrant, though, I'd be happy to have my entire staff assist you in getting what you need as quickly as possible." Alec sighed slightly as he realized he was going to be forced into undertaking Plan B. That meant breaking in after-hours, taking god only knew how long to hack into the computer's mainframe. Just the thought was enough to make his blood boil; he was all about instant gratification while hunting down his prey. "Now if, perhaps, you could call one of your fellow detectives at the station and see if they could maybe get a warrant today…"
"I'll go down there myself," Alec muttered, trying to sound more irritated than disappointed, though he had to admit he was indifferent to whether he'd failed miserably in his attempt.
"Or maybe you're one of those cops who knows people in the courthouse?" Persson commented unexpectedly almost as soon as Alec started moving toward the door. Alec cast a suspicious look at the bank manager. "Oh please, I know how things work in this city," he added with a half-smile. "Perhaps you'd prefer to send an email or something? While I can't give you any information right now, I can, as I said, offer what assistance I'm permitted. How about you ask the tellers if they've seen your suspect, and I'll log onto one of the computers so you can… send an email about him to one of your contacts. If you have any." A conspiratorial nod of the head gave Alec hope.
He went over to the teller he'd spoken to upon entering and showed the sketch of White. "Have you seen this man?"
She nodded nervously. "Every Friday, sir. He comes in and withdraws one thousand dollars in cash. He usually comes to my window, since I'm here every Friday when we open, which is when he comes in. I don't have any classes on Fridays, and --"
"I get the picture," he cut her off with a casual wave of his hand. "Do you happen to remember his name?"
"Blanco," the teller replied, eliciting a sardonic chuckle from the transgenic. "I remember because it's a Spanish name, and he doesn't look Mexican or anything."
"Yup, he doesn't look Mexican or anything," Alec agreed. What a wonderfully American answer, he thought mirthfully. "You happen to remember his first name?"
"No, but it's something normal. Something like William or Robert or something."
"Something normal," Alec grumbled. "Sure. Is there anyone else who'd maybe remember him?"
"Not right now. Suzy mighta known, but she got fired last week." The teller leaned closer and lowered her voice, almost as if she was about to impart the secret of the universe. "She was dipping into the till."
"Anyone else?" Alec asked impatiently.
"Maybe Karen, but she isn't here today. She only works on Thursdays and Fridays."
"Thank you for your help, ma'am," Alec said quickly, turning on his heel and heading back in the Persson's direction before the nameless teller could speak any more. He found her voice and attitude to be slightly reminiscent of fingernails on a chalkboard.
"I hope you found something that could help you get a warrant," the manager said pleasantly.
"I think so."
"That's great," Persson responded. He backed his chair away from the desk. "I've logged you onto the system so you can contact your people. I'll give you a few minutes, since I'm sure you'd like to protect their anonymity."
"You're very understanding," Alec said pleasantly as he sat down, immediately having his suspicions confirmed – Persson had logged onto the main server, giving Alec full access to the bank's records. I could divert millions right now, Alec marveled, dumbfounded at the manager's foolishly trusting attitude. He resisted his larcenous temptations, though, and started searching for customers named "Blanco." It didn't take him long to find Charles Blanco, who'd been into the bank every Friday, withdrawing one thousand dollars each time. His address was the Tikki Motel around the corner, but a quick search of the account's history showed that the initial deposit was a transfer from Whitney Bank, headquartered in New Orleans. Thanking the fates at how much easier it was to access a bank's records when working with a request from another bank, Alec was able to get a second address for Mr. Blanco, this one in Metairie, Louisiana, a New Orleans suburb.
My only lead is in New Orleans? he thought with disappointment. The fact that I traced him back to there probably means that that's where he was hiding out during the war. But the only reason he would have gone back now is if he expected – and wanted – me to track him back there. So either he's disappeared again, or he's waiting for me. Neither possibility was particularly attractive, but Alec couldn't think of any immediate way to track White down in Seattle, if in fact that was where he was. Though he hated to consider it, he was forced to go to Louisiana and hope for the best.
He stood from the terminal and waved at the manager. "Mr. Persson, I want to thank you for your assistance this morning. It doesn't look like I'm gonna be able to get that warrant just yet, but I hope you're true to your word and will help us as much as possible once we have enough probable cause on this bastard."
"Of course, detective."
Alec shook hands again with Mr. Persson, making a mental note to send a stuffed bear or something to the guy's daughter. After all, it was really her that got me what I needed in here this morning. Nothing motivates a guy more to do his civic duty than making him think about what might happen to his own child if he refuses to get involved. Alec left quickly, still playing the part of the irritated though gracious police detective, making certain that none of the bank's employees suspected that Persson had broken the bank's policies by handing out privileged information. The teller had shown just how much people inside talked, and he didn't want Persson to lose his job just because of the slight indiscretion of aiding in a vendetta.
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Alec checked himself in the mirror of his stolen taxi one last time as he stopped at a red light at Donovan and Elm. He was only a few blocks from his destination, a few blocks from the Old Man's home. He knew what would happen to him if he were so much as seen in the neighborhood, to say nothing of actually getting caught out here. The Old Man – Alec shook his head at the fact that he'd never managed to unearth the actual name of his employer – had gone out of his way to make certain that none of his sub-contractors knew where he lived. In fact, Alec had only met the Old Man once, over dinner at Gasperi's. That was when Sergei Ivanov had made the introductions that earned Alec a career.
Years at Manticore, and the brutal deprogramming that followed when he entered the 'real world,' had made Alec suspicious of authority. He was more than willing to follow the orders of someone who paid him as well as the Old Man promised to, but he hated not knowing the slightest thing about his employer. So he waited until the morning of the fifteenth on the second month he was in the Old Man's employ. The courier dropped off the month's assignments – Alec remembered there had been three folders in that day's package – and then did an excellent job of eluding any possible pursuit. Had he lacked either his transgenic enhancements or his rigorous Manticore training, Alec was certain he would have lost the man during the three days it took for the courier to report back to his boss. Guy was definitely former CIA, Alec remembered concluding. He had used many of the trademark methods of the U.S.'s premier per-Pulse intelligence agency, and Alec ended up spending more time wondering how the Old Man found such employees than he did wondering about the Old Man himself.
In the end, Alec's pursuit had led to a quiet Seattle suburb that looked like something out of a Frank Capra film. Not just something out of pre-Pulse America, but out of 1950's America, Alec had decided. In some perverse way, it just seems like the perfect place for a murder-for-hire clearinghouse. In fact, it's probably because of the Old Man that this place is so frighteningly idyllic. No criminal with even half a brain cell working would try to do business in the neighborhood of a man who employs god only knows how many professional assassins.
The light turned green but Alec remained where he was, taking an extra few moments to gather himself. "Keep your head in the game," he muttered to himself, noting with satisfaction the unlikely mishmash of Russian and Spanish accents that colored his diction. He winked at himself in the mirror, satisfied that the fake tan lotion, glue-on black moustache, black wig, and red hairnet would do a satisfactory job of hiding his true identity from most casual observers. "They'll never notice you," he assured himself. "You're like a ghost. An elusive, Russian-Mexican ghost." He smiled at the sound of his voice, wondering why he'd even gone to the trouble of imposing such an accent on himself. It's not like most Americans would be able to appreciate the artistry of my lingual abilities. I don't think there're many people in this country who'd recognize the difference between an Italian and a French accent, to say nothing of what I'm doing right now. Now that time in Vladivostok, when I had to speak Russian with a Lithuanian accent… that was tough. And people noticed. It sucks not being appreciated for the genius I am…
The honking horn of a driver behind him reminded Alec that he was sitting at a green light, so he made his turn onto Elm, scanning his surroundings for the slightest hint of a threat even as he made a silent wish that he would find something useful out here in the 'burbs. The Old Man is the most logical starting point, but if it wasn't him… Alec struggled to fight away the endless possibilities, the rogue's gallery of enemies he had made over the years and who would all be interested in a little payback. I didn't get an assignment for the first time in years, and I just happened to get this unexpected time off within hours of my apartment being hit and Keri being killed. I don't believe in coincidences – it has to be the Old Man.
Three blocks up, he turned left onto Clinton and slowed down, heightening his guard and trying to look as though he was searching for an address in an unfamiliar neighborhood. That's how a cabbie would act, he told himself. Don't forget, you're just a cabbie. Don't do anything that would raise anyone's suspicions.
A moment later, all of his precautions suddenly seemed silly. He came around a slight curve and caught sight of the Old Man's house. Yellow police tape surrounded the structure, and it appeared as if at least one room on the second floor had received some fire damage.
He pulled over and got out hesitantly, still looking at the homes around him, gazing at the addresses as he scratched his head, pantomiming confusion. He noticed a young woman pushing a baby carriage along the sidewalk and decided she was the best person to ask for information.
"'Scuse me, miss," he said in his garbled accent. "I's looking for Carter Avenue. Dat near here?"
"Carter Street," the young woman commented condescendingly. Alec had initially guessed she was a nanny, as he couldn't imagine how a woman with what appeared to be a three- or four-month old infant could have hips like hers, but her attitude spoke more of someone who'd grown up in a safe, affluent neighborhood. Few women who enjoyed such a privilege ended up as nannies to other well-to-do families. Nope, she's someone's daughter… probably visiting or babysitting. Maybe house-sitting…
"Carter Street, I sorry," he said humorlessly. "Is dis Carter?"
"This is Clinton," the young woman said impatiently. She took a half step to brush past Alec, but he countered her move and kept her in front of him.
"Clinton," he repeated. "I mussa make wrong turn."
"Obviously."
"But de man on de phone, he say he near de burned house," Alec added. "Like dat house dere. Dat have a fire?"
"No, there was a gunfight there," the woman retorted in her increasingly irritating know-it-all voice. The look on her face belied her disappointment in letting slip something she would rather not have said.
Alec decided he should press the subject, hoping maybe he could succeed not only in getting some information, but also maybe pissing her off. "A gunfight? Like in a robbery?"
"I guess. They killed the old guy who lived there… never would have thought something like that could happen in a neighborhood like this."
"Happen recently?"
"Five nights ago," she answered impatiently. "No wait… six. It was six nights ago. You mind?" she asked, once again moving to get past him.
"Dank you much," Alec said. "I go look for Carter Street."
"You do that."
Dozens of possibilities were presenting themselves in Alec's mind, but he pushed his thoughts from his head. I have to get out of here now, he told himself. There could be people watching, and the longer I stand here, out in the open, the greater the chances of someone identifying me. I can figure this all out later.
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A hideous smile spread across Ames White's swollen, split lips, offering a glimpse of his shattered teeth; defiant eyes gazed back from a puffy, purple face streaked with blood and sweat. For all Alec had grown to despise his captive, he couldn't help but admire the way White took punishment. Two weeks, he thought with a previously inconceivable amalgamation of near-complete frustration and stunned awe. I've beaten him, burned him, electrocuted him, drugged him, hit him with enough sleep deprivation to cause a psychotic break, and still he's able to hold out. Under other circumstances I'd be so blown away by the feat that I'd set him free just on principle. But I can't do that, can I?
"You're tougher than I ever imagined," Alec admitted. White grunted in response. He'd stopped talking three days earlier, and Alec chalked that up to some degree of success on his part – White simply no longer seemed to have the strength, or perhaps the cognitive ability, to speak. "I'd love to keep this little experiment going," he continued, "but the truth of the matter is that I don't have any more time. The situation is getting worse, and my extended absences haven't gone unnoticed. I still need info from you, but it's obvious that if I keep this up you'll succeed in pushing to the point that you die, rather than break. I can't have that." Alec noted the slightly defeated tone in his voice; while he hated the fact that it was genuine, he also knew it served his purposes. He needed White to think he'd won, or at least that he was winning. Alec had gotten to the end of the line with his guest, and it was time to play the last card he had.
"The funny thing is that you've spent the past two weeks struggling to find a way to sleep, to regain some energy to continue opposing me. But I know that tonight, as soon as I leave and turn off the light so you can finally have what you've been hoping for, you're gonna try to keep yourself awake as long as possible, to keep your body sliding toward death. Just to spite me. Too bad you're human enough to keep that from happening; you'll sleep, and you'll get some of your strength back. Then we'll see where we are." Alec left his prisoner alone, turning out the lights and leaving the speakers and electrified floor plates off. We'll let him rest a bit. I need him to be clear-headed for what I have planned. He has to be completely aware of what's going on, or it won't work.
Once he was out of the room, he waited. Ten long, boring hours crept by as he let White sleep, regaining his strength and allowing his mind to begin recovering from the stress it had been under. As the appointed hour approached, Alec was surprised to discover how much he didn't want to follow through with his plan. There's no other way, he told himself, though his doubts remained and a strange twinge of nausea started to well up within him. "If Max ever finds out…"
She'll never find out, he assured himself. She'd never understand why it was necessary. He sprang to his feet and walked quickly to the back room, determined to begin before his maddening conscience could instill any more doubt within him.
"Wake up!" he shouted as he entered White's cell. White's eyes flickered open, and his sick grin returned.
"You let your prisoner sleep?" he asked mockingly, surprising Alec with the amount of strength he'd seemed to recover in such a relatively short time. "What kind of interrogation techniques did they teach you at Manticore?" Alec ignored him. "I mean, I thought transgenics were supposed to be bright. That's what my father used to say, anyway. He made fantastic claims about your abilities, but in the end you've proven to be no better than the common man – just another talking monkey taking up space a few steps down the evolutionary ladder."
"This is your last chance," Alec said evenly, suddenly turning to stare into the Familiar's eyes. He was startled to find himself offering a merciful final opportunity to give in, despite the fact that he knew White would never accept. Alec again silently cursed Max's influence as he struggled to ignore White's mocking glare. "Fine," he sighed. "Don't ever forget that you had this chance, and that you chose to throw it away. Everything that happens from here on out is on your head."
Alec walked out of the room and returned immediately, wheeling the machine he had used earlier for electro-shock therapy. The Familiar looked at the machine and sneered. "Back to square one?" he guessed. "Or was that square two?" Alec ignored him. He poked his head outside the room again, only to bring in the chair he had strapped White into during the first day of his imprisonment. "How many days have we been here, just to have you decide to start all over?" White scoffed. "You must have been in Manticore's remedial classes."
Alec continued to ignore the Familiar's taunts as he began to pore over White's shackles. He did notice, however, that Ames fell silent when Alec did not move him over to the second chair. Again Alec left the room, which was not only silent as a grave, but also suddenly seemed colder. Alec allowed a few painful minutes to creep by before he finally returned, allowing White's mind to wander and tease him with imagined terrors that would never be matched by anything Alec could imagine. When Alec finally reappeared, he had Ray's limp body slung over his shoulder.
White's eyes went wide with stunned disbelief, and then narrowed into a venomous stare. "You wouldn't dare," he spat as Alec placed Ray into the second chair and securely strapped him in.
"I'm not Max," Alec stated simply. "If she had her way, Ray would still be safely hidden somewhere halfway across the country. But you made the mistake of pissing me off, so now we get to play hardball. Like I said, everything that happens from here on out is on your head."
"You're bluffing," Ames said. Alec noticed the hint of uncertainty in his captive's voice, and he didn't bother to suppress his satisfied smile. The transgenic reached into his medical bag, pulled out a syringe, and injected a stimulant into Ray's arm, waking him up. The child was groggy, but he was certainly aware enough to realize that he was being held captive, and that his father – looking far worse for wear – was with him and unable to help.
Before the child could speak, Alec slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth. "I really don't care what he has to say," he commented with a shrug as he glanced back at White. "We can still hear him scream, and that's all I need. How about you?"
"You have no idea what I'll do to you if you go through with this," White threatened. Alec's only response was to cut off the tee shirt that Ray was wearing and place electrodes over his chest. The child was obviously starting to panic, and Alec almost fell over in shock as he heard a completely unfamiliar tone of voice coming from Ames' mouth. "It's all right, Ray," the Familiar said soothingly, reassuringly. "It's going to be all right. Remember all the things I taught you, and you'll get through this."
Rather than comfort, White's words seemed to cause Ray to grow ever more anxious. He was starting to realize that his father was powerless to help him, that he was completely at the mercy of a stranger who'd already worked his father over ruthlessly.
"I'd love to see if I could break you," Alec told White, "but like I said before, time is short. So now we won't concern ourselves with your ability to withstand pain. Now we'll deal with Ray. I've already asked you a hundred times what I want to know, so I won't bother with any of that shit anymore. I'm just going to stand here and let you watch Ray. Feel free to contribute at any time." Alec pressed a button; Ray winced, and then let a tear slip. Alec looked to White and saw that the Familiar's gaze was riveted on his child; it was obvious that Ames was proud of his son's bravery. "That was the lowest setting," the transgenic stated. "I won't be using that one again. From here on out it gets nasty." He pressed another button, and Ray winced again. The next button on the machine's long faceplate elicited a moan, and the one after that a scream that only seemed more horrific for being muffled by the duct tape.
Minutes passed, and White never turned from Ray. Several times Alec wondered whether Ames was trying to make a point, that he could even face the torture of his son. But there was also what Alec had heretofore found unthinkable – that White was trying to support his son, to share his pain and imbue with him with the strength to endure. Just like a normal father would, Alec marveled, wondering if the same Ames White who seemed so distraught over his son's pain was the same man who had followed his people's traditions and strangled his first two children when they were fresh from the womb.
Fifteen minutes later, Ray was slightly convulsing with every shock, though his eyes, completely dried up, no longer shed tears. He wheezed with every breath, struggling to get enough air through his nose. His breathing grew increasingly labored, and Alec decided to remove the duct tape. Not that it matters at this point, he decided. The kid's hardly conscious.
"Dad?" Ray whimpered, at a loss for what to do with the man who had always protected him suddenly being unable to offer so much as a comforting pat on the back.
"There are no words to express the amount of pain you're going to endure," Ames White seethed, finally turning from his child and leveling a murderous glare at his captor. "I'm going to keep you alive for months as I work you over, you fucking freak. I'm going to take you apart, piece by freakish piece, just like you were thrown together in the first place."
"Then keep this in mind when you do it," Alec commented, finally pushing the button that he knew would knock Ray unconscious. The child passed out, though he continued to twitch for several moments afterward. Ames looked back to his son, then promptly began to dry heave for several minutes, giving Alec enough time to unstrap Ray and take him into the holding room next door.
"Please excuse me while I freshen young Ray up," Alec said mockingly as he glanced back at Ames. "He's not going to have much time to rest, and I want him as fit as possible for the burn session. You remember how that goes, right? I believe that was Stage 3." The transgenic closed the door behind him, and then carried the unconscious boy out of the holding room and down a hallway to a spare bedroom.
He untied Ray's hands and placed a damp cloth on his forehead, trying to comfort the boy as he struggled not to think of what he'd just done. Or what he was about to do. The shelf on the wall next to him, containing jars of acids, alkaloids, accelerants, and a canister of liquid nitrogen all made that well nigh impossible.
Ray began to stir, and Alec tried to soothe him. "Relax," he told the child. "It'll all be over soon." At least, I hope it will.
"Dad?"
"He's not here," Alec replied. "He's… tied up," he added, grimacing at what might have been considered an unintentional joke in other circumstances.
"I want to see my dad," the boy wheezed.
"Soon."
"Very soon," another voice said from behind Alec. The transgenic turned just in time to see the broken steel chair leg in Ames' hand slam down on his left shoulder. His collarbone shattered under the impact, and Alec fought to maintain consciousness as he staggered away, bumping up against the wall. White swung again but Alec, still seeing spots, managed to dodge and produce a butterfly knife in his right hand. An instant later the chair leg connected with his right forearm, knocking the weapon from his grasp and causing his entire right arm to go numb.
How the hell did he escape? Alec asked himself as he fought to gain some quarter. He looked at the chair leg – it had been bent until it broke at the weld point. He actually snapped the chair apart without getting any leverage, Alec marveled, realizing that the only thing that had likely kept Ames a prisoner as long as he'd been was the fact that he started out in the stronger chair that Ray had been sitting in for the greater part of the last hour. It wasn't until he was already broken down a bit that Ames had been secured to the smaller, less sturdy chair. And I'm the asshole who let him sleep and get some of his strength back…
White gave Alec no chance to retreat, no time to regain his senses. He was a man consumed with rage and bloodlust, and Alec knew his adversary was no longer thinking about visiting months of torture upon his transgenic enemy – for the moment Ames White far more closely resembled a bear protecting her cub than the coolly detached uber-human he'd always claimed to be. In desperation, Alec launched a kick at White's knee, not bothering to stop and thank his lucky stars when the strike connected and White staggered. Alec darted to his left, leading with his crippled shoulder as he searched for some room to move. Feeling was quickly returning in his right arm, and he shot a quick jab into White's throat as he danced past him. The Familiar dropped his chair leg and collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath; but when Alec bent down to scoop up the Familiar's lost weapon, he carelessly opened himself up to another attack. He realized too late that White's collapse had been a ploy, that he had hit the floor not because he had been hurt, but because he was picking up a new weapon to replace the chair leg. The transgenic only fully appreciated how thoroughly he'd been duped when White slid Alec's lost butterfly knife into his belly, the metal blade scraping the bottom of his rib cage as blood began to flow freely from the gaping wound.
Alec staggered back and gazed into the crazed eyes of his would-be executioner. White took a half-step backward, moving closer to Ray as Alec lurched in the opposite direction, wondering if White would try to stop him if he made a run for it.
"Dad?" Ray called out, his eyes coming into focus as he sat up on the bed. Ames began to shuffle toward his son, but his gaze remained riveted on his adversary.
"You're all right now," White said confidently. "Stay there. Just let me take care of this."
Just a quick peek, Alec mentally pleaded, hoping he could somehow will Ames to steal a glance toward his son. A fraction of a second, that's all I need. And I need it soon, he realized as his vision started to grow cloudy. He began to lean toward his left, toward the doorway and the PPK he had hidden on the shelf next to it, concealed behind a jar of sulfuric acid.
White unexpectedly gave him what he wanted. He didn't even move his head – he simply looked out the corner of his eye – but that was all Alec needed. He spun to his left, grabbing the jar of sulfuric acid with his right hand as he whirled, and launched it in White's direction as he came back around. He wasn't sure whether the scream that escaped his lips was in his head or out loud, but it was the only sign of his shock and instant regret as the jar left his grasp. In the fraction of a second Alec had his back turned and grabbed the jar, Ray had thrown himself into his father's embrace.
White's eyes were vacant as he appeared overcome by the elation of having his son back in his arms. He never saw the acid Alec had intended for Ames' chest – the jar that now hurtled unchecked at the side of Ray's face. The container shattered on impact, and the boy screamed in agony as shards of glass tore at his skin. White looked at his son in shock, and then turned his attention back to Alec. The transgenic fumbled for the pistol and got it into his grasp as Ray's cries became horrifying squeals of agony, an otherworldly shriek that Alec would forever hear echoing in the still night air every time he dared attempt to sleep. The industrial-strength acid consumed Ray's skin; the sizzle of disintegrating flesh and bone provided a soundtrack for the bloody carnage that Alec later found required at least a fifth of Beam to banish from his mind.
Ray convulsed violently, lashing at his face, oblivious to the fact that he was only succeeding in getting acid on his hands, exposing them to the same fate as his head. White joined in his son's panicked, futile effort, also indifferent to the burns he was receiving. Alec backed away, out into the hallway and away down to the service elevator on the north side of his warehouse. He rode up to the roof and then sent the elevator back down to the ground, hoping that if White pursued, he would be thrown off-track. Once he'd achieved at least momentary safety, he allowed himself to think about the horror he had inflicted on an innocent boy. He's gonna die, Alec realized. Dumb kid didn't stay put like his dad told him to. The pain of drawing in his next breath alerted him to another fact – Ray might not be the only one who wouldn't see the end of the day.
I need help, Alec realized, his bloody hand dipping into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone. He was halfway finished dialing Max's number when a new thought occurred to him. And what, exactly, am I supposed to tell her? No way can I admit to what just happened because of me. She's let a lot of things I've done slide, but not even the great and compassionate Max would be able to forgive this. He cleared the number, trying to think of someone else he could call for help, when the phone began to ring.
Once. Twice. A glance at the incoming number showed the last thing he wanted to see – Max was calling. He wanted to let her call go into his voicemail, but something in his mind made him hit the button to answer the call. "Yeah?" he asked, doing his best to keep from wheezing, gasping, or in any way giving the slightest indication that he was seriously wounded.
"Alec, where you been?" she asked. "I've been trying to get in touch with you."
"You have?"
"Haven't you checked your voicemail?"
"Not recently. Some Sector Cops caught sight of me while I was getting supplies, and I've been laying low in an abandoned apartment for the past sixteen hours," he lied. "I'll be back soon, though."
"Oh my God, you don't know," Max gasped. Her words put Alec on edge – he'd missed something big. But there isn't the usual misery and frustration in her voice, he noticed for the first time.
"Know what?"
"It happened about ten hours ago," Max explained. "Joshua got a call from Sandeman. He contacted us, Alec! He promised to get us out of here, to out his people; and about two hours ago the information was leaked. The news has been running it for about an hour now, nonstop. Governors, senators, presidents, prime ministers, generals around the globe… They've all been revealed, and people see what's going on. I have a press conference in, like, forty-five minutes."
"A press conference?" Alec asked dumbfoundedly.
"The president himself called and offered us clemency," Max explained. "It turned out his chief of staff was a Familiar, and now he's scared shitless. Sandeman let it be known that he created us to oppose the Familiars, to take the fight to them and preserve humanity. The president offered us freedom and full citizenship as long as we fulfill Sandeman's plans."
"We're going to war," Alec realized.
"But we're free now," Max answered, naively unaware of the price her people were about to pay for their freedom. She shouldn't have made the deal, he raged silently, keeping his concerns to himself. I never would have let her do that if I were there. She must have been in one of her moods… she must have thought there was no other way, so she made a deal with the devil.
"Max…"
"I want you there with me when I go on TV," she said impatiently.
"I don't know if I'll be able to make it," Alec muttered, risking a look at the bloody wound in his gut.
"You have to," Max insisted. "You helped get me through all this. I want you there to share the victory with me."
"I'll do my best," Alec promised, knowing even as he said the words that he wouldn't be there with her. I have to go somewhere to lick my wounds, before White finds some of his cronies and comes back looking to finish me.
"Great," Max said excitedly. "Just come back to T.C. We're doing the announcement right outside the front gate. The president will be there by video."
"I'll do my best," Alec repeated miserably. What the hell have I done? he asked himself. I should have been there. With Logan having to leave because of all the biohazards in Terminal City, I was the only one with real world experience who could have given her guidance. Instead I come out here and torture her nemesis… then let him escape while she's making the biggest political blunder since Neville Chamberlain labeled Hitler a reasonable man and declared there'd be peace in his time. I can't even imagine how I could have fucked this up any more than I did.
To be continued……………………………………