Ch62
Casca was not having a good day. Despite his repeated assurances that subject eight would shortly resurface, his employer was not appeased. In fact, Irons had shown up in person to chew his ass today, no longer content with making his threats about the missing Bronte via phone. Casca had to admit that the icy displeasure was far more brutal, hence efficient, without the buffer of distance.
He had been signed out of the hospital with unnatural speed. The staff had been very solicitous, producing forms and their soon-to-be-former- patient's civilian clothing with barely contained glee. Irons had raised a brow at their behavior, but said nothing.
Casca had been remanded, in theory, to the Vorshlag medical personnel that his employer had so thoughtfully brought with him. In fact he had been given a cursory once over. They had told him that his health was in far more danger of failing if Bronte was not recovered; heart attacks were not the only thing a person could die from. Microcardial angina was a pleasant alternative to most of those things.
He knew the truth of their cautionary statements; the lethal cold radiating from Irons was something Casca had seen before. Just never directed at him. People died when Kenneth's pale blue eyes picked up that grayish tinge. Those eyes had always reminded Casca of the hue the winter sky would take on before a really bad storm.
The look had never before been directed at him, and Casca found he did not relish the experience in the slightest. It had been enough to short out all arguments he had prepared in his defense and leave him mute and shaking. He could only hand over the reports he had been gathering since his relocation to the hospital and hope Irons attention would be diverted away from him.
It had worked, better than he had expected. After shuffling through several pages, he stopped, attention caught by some piece of data. Irons had turned crisply on his heel and walked out of the room, calling for his aide. As he moved away, Casca could hear him giving out orders to assemble the strike team. He wondered what Kenneth had seen in those reports that he had missed, but knew better than to call attention back to him.
Now he was cooling his heels in an underground facility, buried just on the other side of the artillery range. It had probably been constructed during the Cold War, only to be decommissioned and forgotten, once budget cuts began. Or not. The structure could have always been this way, built by Vorshlag Industries for some seemingly innocent enough reason, if you never looked any deeper than the paperwork filed with the county.
Trust Kenneth to have a secret base right next to government property, however he had come by it. Of course, building it undetected, under their noses as it were, would have just been a bonus. How did these Americans say it? Oh yes, gravy. The slang in this country was endless and ever changing, difficult to remember. It was essential to learn though, if one wanted to fit in, however superficially.
Thinking about slang could not long distract him from wondering what was happening. He was also trying to ascertain what his position was. Had it changed? Why was he here, instead of back at the lab, pursuing his work? Casca opened the door to the room he had been examined in, and found it unlocked. So, he was still trusted that far.
He strode down the hall in the direction Irons had gone, pleased to note that there was no security shadow either, but not too pleased yet. Up until this point, there was really no reason to limit his movements. After all, he had been here often enough. There was nothing Casca had not seen before, nor was there any havoc he could wreak in an empty hall or the mostly bare examining room he had come from.
The hall ended with a rather formidable door. Casca typed his password onto the keypad. If his access code still worked, he would know that his future was not as bleak as he feared. After a second that seemed to last an eternity, the light changed to green and the door opened under his hand, revealing the security nexus for the complex. Irons was sitting in one of the swiveling chairs, watching the monitors with interest.
The interior of Burke's apartment held center stage, the other cameras shunted to the smaller workstations. The view of the bathroom was arresting. Two men in black lay with the stillness that meant death, bodies mutilated by some form of acid. The third man was getting up slowly, clutching his chest as if it pained him. Burke was in the kitchen, drinking a bottle of bitter water, unaware of the recovery of the last of her assailants.
He turned from the monitor, wondering why Irons looked so calm. Surely this was a catastrophe? Even if Irons had ignored everything on his reports that did not pertain to Bronte, he had to know of Burke's importance to the chemical side of the research. Much as he hated to admit it, there was a brilliant mind hiding under all that estrogen and black hair.
"Remember, you can not kill the target until she reveals the location of our wayward child." Irons spoke into the microphone with a tone caught between anger and admiration.
A vein began to pound in Casca's temple. That bitch was essential to his plans. Plans that his employer was clearly not aware of, or had forgotten in light of her very efficient defense. Part of him was tempted to remain silent. Burke had been a pain in his ass from day one. Watching her torture and eventual death would please him greatly, but he wanted the project to succeed more than he wanted the gratification. Besides, it would be far more fitting to make her into the thing she hated, and then destroying her.
"I should prefer it did you not kill her at all, as she is carrying Nottingham's child." It was not an outright lie; the two could have gotten together outside his monitoring. Once he got her under lock and key, he could have her inseminated, if he could not convince Nottingham to take care of the situation in a more time-honored fashion.
"What?" Irons spun the seat around, disbelief written across his face.
"Nottingham spurned the Bronte woman to keep himself in Burke's good graces. She does not yet know of her condition, she believes herself to be protected against conception. This did not suit our plans, so I took the liberty of switching her birth control pills a month ago." Casca was careful to emphasize 'our'. It was the little things that could tip the scale back in his favor, such as implying that he had been thinking about Irons when he had made the decision.
"In a few more weeks she might begin to suspect, but most women chalk up lateness to stress and poor diet. I might have had three weeks at the outside before I had to have her picked up. There was to be an accident at the lab, one that would cover up her disappearance quite neatly. I've had it ready to go for weeks." That much was true, Casca had known from the first day that the troublesome doctor might have to be dealt with, and he'd planned accordingly.
Irons swiveled the chair back around and picked up the microphone. "Eagle two, there has been a change of plans. Bring the target back to the Eyre. Make certain she is undamaged."
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Casca was not having a good day. Despite his repeated assurances that subject eight would shortly resurface, his employer was not appeased. In fact, Irons had shown up in person to chew his ass today, no longer content with making his threats about the missing Bronte via phone. Casca had to admit that the icy displeasure was far more brutal, hence efficient, without the buffer of distance.
He had been signed out of the hospital with unnatural speed. The staff had been very solicitous, producing forms and their soon-to-be-former- patient's civilian clothing with barely contained glee. Irons had raised a brow at their behavior, but said nothing.
Casca had been remanded, in theory, to the Vorshlag medical personnel that his employer had so thoughtfully brought with him. In fact he had been given a cursory once over. They had told him that his health was in far more danger of failing if Bronte was not recovered; heart attacks were not the only thing a person could die from. Microcardial angina was a pleasant alternative to most of those things.
He knew the truth of their cautionary statements; the lethal cold radiating from Irons was something Casca had seen before. Just never directed at him. People died when Kenneth's pale blue eyes picked up that grayish tinge. Those eyes had always reminded Casca of the hue the winter sky would take on before a really bad storm.
The look had never before been directed at him, and Casca found he did not relish the experience in the slightest. It had been enough to short out all arguments he had prepared in his defense and leave him mute and shaking. He could only hand over the reports he had been gathering since his relocation to the hospital and hope Irons attention would be diverted away from him.
It had worked, better than he had expected. After shuffling through several pages, he stopped, attention caught by some piece of data. Irons had turned crisply on his heel and walked out of the room, calling for his aide. As he moved away, Casca could hear him giving out orders to assemble the strike team. He wondered what Kenneth had seen in those reports that he had missed, but knew better than to call attention back to him.
Now he was cooling his heels in an underground facility, buried just on the other side of the artillery range. It had probably been constructed during the Cold War, only to be decommissioned and forgotten, once budget cuts began. Or not. The structure could have always been this way, built by Vorshlag Industries for some seemingly innocent enough reason, if you never looked any deeper than the paperwork filed with the county.
Trust Kenneth to have a secret base right next to government property, however he had come by it. Of course, building it undetected, under their noses as it were, would have just been a bonus. How did these Americans say it? Oh yes, gravy. The slang in this country was endless and ever changing, difficult to remember. It was essential to learn though, if one wanted to fit in, however superficially.
Thinking about slang could not long distract him from wondering what was happening. He was also trying to ascertain what his position was. Had it changed? Why was he here, instead of back at the lab, pursuing his work? Casca opened the door to the room he had been examined in, and found it unlocked. So, he was still trusted that far.
He strode down the hall in the direction Irons had gone, pleased to note that there was no security shadow either, but not too pleased yet. Up until this point, there was really no reason to limit his movements. After all, he had been here often enough. There was nothing Casca had not seen before, nor was there any havoc he could wreak in an empty hall or the mostly bare examining room he had come from.
The hall ended with a rather formidable door. Casca typed his password onto the keypad. If his access code still worked, he would know that his future was not as bleak as he feared. After a second that seemed to last an eternity, the light changed to green and the door opened under his hand, revealing the security nexus for the complex. Irons was sitting in one of the swiveling chairs, watching the monitors with interest.
The interior of Burke's apartment held center stage, the other cameras shunted to the smaller workstations. The view of the bathroom was arresting. Two men in black lay with the stillness that meant death, bodies mutilated by some form of acid. The third man was getting up slowly, clutching his chest as if it pained him. Burke was in the kitchen, drinking a bottle of bitter water, unaware of the recovery of the last of her assailants.
He turned from the monitor, wondering why Irons looked so calm. Surely this was a catastrophe? Even if Irons had ignored everything on his reports that did not pertain to Bronte, he had to know of Burke's importance to the chemical side of the research. Much as he hated to admit it, there was a brilliant mind hiding under all that estrogen and black hair.
"Remember, you can not kill the target until she reveals the location of our wayward child." Irons spoke into the microphone with a tone caught between anger and admiration.
A vein began to pound in Casca's temple. That bitch was essential to his plans. Plans that his employer was clearly not aware of, or had forgotten in light of her very efficient defense. Part of him was tempted to remain silent. Burke had been a pain in his ass from day one. Watching her torture and eventual death would please him greatly, but he wanted the project to succeed more than he wanted the gratification. Besides, it would be far more fitting to make her into the thing she hated, and then destroying her.
"I should prefer it did you not kill her at all, as she is carrying Nottingham's child." It was not an outright lie; the two could have gotten together outside his monitoring. Once he got her under lock and key, he could have her inseminated, if he could not convince Nottingham to take care of the situation in a more time-honored fashion.
"What?" Irons spun the seat around, disbelief written across his face.
"Nottingham spurned the Bronte woman to keep himself in Burke's good graces. She does not yet know of her condition, she believes herself to be protected against conception. This did not suit our plans, so I took the liberty of switching her birth control pills a month ago." Casca was careful to emphasize 'our'. It was the little things that could tip the scale back in his favor, such as implying that he had been thinking about Irons when he had made the decision.
"In a few more weeks she might begin to suspect, but most women chalk up lateness to stress and poor diet. I might have had three weeks at the outside before I had to have her picked up. There was to be an accident at the lab, one that would cover up her disappearance quite neatly. I've had it ready to go for weeks." That much was true, Casca had known from the first day that the troublesome doctor might have to be dealt with, and he'd planned accordingly.
Irons swiveled the chair back around and picked up the microphone. "Eagle two, there has been a change of plans. Bring the target back to the Eyre. Make certain she is undamaged."
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