Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (22 page)

Colonel Wu tossed his helmet on the ground. “They knock out our sensors and cameras, they tear through our security fence, they shoot down our helicopter
— yet rescue the crew, and they carry illumination charges to incapacitate our people.” He spun around and looked squarely at Dailey. “Who in the hell are they?”

“Don’t bark at me.” Dailey narrowed his eyes. “I’m only the police chief. You’re the one who’s supposed to be up on this shit. How should I know?”

Wu glared at him.

“And don’t try any of your
thought-projection
crap on me,” Dailey said. “You can bet Xiang will have your ass if you do.” Dailey turned back to his patrol car. “What I do know is that it’s only a matter of time, now. This thing’s coming undone, and the good wave we’ve been ridin’ is about to crash on the rocks.”

*  *  *

I didn’t dare turn on a light. Even though they might expect Michelle would be moving around in the house, I didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances. I scanned the living room in the darkness. The streetlights’ glow and the reflected light from the snow cover filtered through the curtains and weakly illuminated my surroundings. Nothing appeared out of place.

I moved toward the master bedroom, feeling my way along the walls in the dark. The doorway came sooner than I’d expected. When I stepped inside, I found an Indianapolis-racer-style bed illuminated by a nightlight and I realized I was in William’s room. I should’ve remembered every step to take in this house, my house. But I couldn’t, even though I’d lived here over seven years. Back in the hall again, I found the master bedroom doorway on the other side.

In the bedroom, I closed the door. The meager light from the street outlined the closed shades. When I pressed them against the windows to ensure as little light as possible would escape, I found myself in complete darkness. Using a flashlight seemed advisable, but I couldn’t remember where we’d kept one. Surely, we had several, probably one in each of our nightstands. When I knocked over a small lamp on Michelle’s side of the bed as I fumbled around, I realized my memory of this room in which I’d slept thousands of nights was inadequate. After reaching inside Michelle’s bedside table drawer, rummaging around and not finding so much as a penlight or candle, I stood in the dark and considered my immediate situation. Undoubtedly, I would find a flashlight in the garage, in the least inside the glove compartment of our car. The thought of stumbling around in the garage made me shiver. The memory of it was absent from my mind. Besides, a flashlight could cause flashing bursts of light to be seen from the outside, should I mistakenly direct it toward a window or catch the wrong angle of a mirror. On thin shades, it would make telltale circles of illumination. Those on the outside searching for me, looking for something out of the ordinary, would think more of not seeing normal room lights than they would a simple lamplight. If Michelle were alone in the house she wouldn’t be using a flashlight — she’d have the room lights on. Still, I shouldn’t get carried away. Someone outside standing close to a window might catch a glimpse of me. I righted the small lamp by Michelle’s side of the bed that I’d just knocked over and turned it on. I welcomed it’s glow.

The first thing I noticed was that the bed was nicely made and everything seemed in perfect order. I gazed at the framed photos on the nightstands. Michelle’s picture sat on my side of the bed and mine on hers. On the dresser was a photo of Michelle and our son. Nothing seemed unusual.

I opened the dresser drawers. Each one was filled with either her underwear or mine, neatly folded and stacked as if they were fresh from their packages. Oddly, none showed even the slightest wear, elastics like new. They all were creased where they were folded as if the undergarments had been pressed that way or folded for a very long time.

Michelle’s purse lay beside the dresser. I picked it up and rummaged through. I found no car keys. Other than that, nothing was unusual or of any real interest. I took out her wallet and opened it. A Colorado driver’s license with her picture on it was tucked inside. It was a typical DL photo
— her eyes half shut, her hair slightly mussed. Surely, I’d seen it before — I should have remembered it, but I didn’t. A VISA card and a MasterCard stuck out from one side. Both had her name on them.

Above the dresser was the key hook where I always hung my car keys, and they were there, where they were supposed to be. The key ring had a Buick symbol on it, just as I’d remembered. I plucked them off and slipped them into my pants pocket.

I went to the closet and opened the bi-fold doors. The first thing I noticed was the smell, the new smell of a clothing store, new fabric, shoe leather and polish. Added to that was the pleasant scent from the cedar-lined walls. On one side hung Michelle’s dresses, pants and blouses, at least a dozen of each. On the other side were my sport coats, trousers, casual shirts, a few ties, and several belts. All hung perfectly as if in a clothier’s. The shirts still showed the fold creases as if new and freshly out of the packages. Our shoes lined the floor, maybe a dozen women’s and half-a-dozen men’s in a neat row. I picked up several and inspected them. None showed scuffmarks or wear on their soles. Their leather seemed stiff as if they came right from their boxes. Nothing more to be seen in the closet, I stepped out and checked the clothes hamper in the corner. Except for my purple silk boxers, it was empty of dirty clothes.

In the master bath, the towels hung neatly folded, none frayed, the fibers firm and crisp, as if they’d never been through a wash cycle. Michelle had been meticulous. Even the soap bars, including the one on the vanity and the one in the shower, were nearly new as if they had only been used this morning. The shampoo bottle was full. The carpet was, for the most part, unworn, and I couldn’t remember if it was relatively new or if it had been in the home over seven years ago when we’d bought it. The walls showed no nail holes or smudges. The tempered glass enclosure had but a few water spots on it probably from my shower this morning. But no signs of those nearly-impossible-to-get-rid-of buildups of soap or mineral deposits were evident on it, the tub, or the fixtures. The commode shined. No unsightly body hair. The toilet paper roll was brand new. At the double vanity, no toothpaste or soap splatters on the mirror. The toothpaste tube had only the slight dent I put in its side hours earlier and the toothbrushes had no toothpaste residue. I picked up my hairbrush. It had a solitary hair on it. I pulled it off and examined it close to my face. I wondered if a crime scene investigator were to inspect the place, would this single hair have been the only evidence I’d actually ever been here, let alone made it my abode for seven years?

I checked the linen closet. Neither Mickey nor his tracks were anywhere to be found. Once again, all of the bed linen and bath towels on the shelves were painstakingly pressed and folded.

I stood in the bathroom doorway and looked out at the bedroom while running my thumb over the bristles of the blue toothbrush I’d used earlier in the day. The brush was stiff, only used once, if I were to guess. I wondered if I would be questioning any of this if it wasn’t for what had happened today. I doubted it. Now, despite my memories of this place, I also doubted it had been my home at any time, let alone the past seven years.

There was no obvious way of solving my mystery here. The answer must be with Chief Dailey, Doctor Xiang,
Colonel
Wu and Mount Rainy Biotronics. Sunny was also suspect, but she was probably long gone — or dead. I shook my head. What the hell happened there? At first she acted enraptured, risked her life for me. The next minute she threatened to shoot me. I hoped she was okay, somehow. But the reports over the police radio didn’t sound positive.

These people would be watching the streets and searching the woods for me now. There would be roadblocks. I could try to sneak out of town. I’d never make it in my Buick. They’d certainly be looking for it
— if it
was
still in the garage. They might have towed it off or made sure it wasn’t drivable some way. It would be a hell of a long walk down fifty miles of winding roadway to Summitview.

The only plan I could come up with was probably suicidal: to someway make it to Mount Rainy Biotronics, get inside and rescue my son. Then, I would steal
— or perhaps carjack if necessary — a getaway car. While I was there, perhaps I would find out what really went on inside that windowless, sterile-white facility.

After turning off the lamp, I went to the door and slowly opened it. The hallway leading to the living room was still dark. The only sound other than the ticking of the wall clock in the guest bath across the hall, was the Eagles softly singing
I Can’t Tell You Why.

I’d make a surer getaway if I left through the bedroom window to the side of the house instead of the front where the occupied patrol car was parked, or the back where the police had gone. But before I left, I couldn’t help but go back into the living room where Michelle lay. I wondered if she was truly who she’d claimed to be. But how absurd of me to question that. Of course she was. She was my wife, mother of my child, companion, lover. I remembered that much in the twisting cyclone of my mind. But with the strange goings on, the lack of crucial memories, the odd flashes of reminiscences and how they presented themselves to me
— perhaps I had been deceived. Perhaps she was somehow alive. Maybe she wouldn’t be lying where I’d left her. Maybe I’d find her sitting in the recliner, listening to the Eagles and sipping a merlot while reading a Good Housekeeping magazine. I was being ridiculous again. She was dead, and she would be where I’d left her, and the way things were going, it could be the last chance I’d get to see her.

With my back against the hallway wall, I crept toward the living room. As I approached, I noticed my son’s bedroom door ajar, the way I’d left it, and the faint light coming through the doorway. I stepped up to it and pushed the door open. A Buzz Lightyear nightlight glowed from the near wall. Will’s Indy-racer-style bed sat in the middle of the far wall. In the poor light, I couldn’t make out its color, but I remembered its bright, red and white, lacquered finish. I went to it and glided my hand over its smooth surface. I found no chips or scratches. At his dresser, I opened a drawer and removed several pairs of his jeans. All were the same dark shade. Holding them close to my eyes, I could see the knees weren’t lighter than the rest of the fabric and didn’t show any wear, but still felt stiff. I questioned whether they’d ever been washed. I put them away and picked up his Air Jordan basketball shoes from beside the bed and brought them up to my face
— no grass stains or dirt or even rocks buried between the tread. The shoelaces weren’t worn. Will was permanently paralyzed, the neurosurgeon said. He’d never have a need to wear the shoes again — if he’d ever worn them at all. I frowned at the shoes. Doc Xiang had given us hope. I was determined to turn the hope into reality, if I could live long enough. With Mish dead, that was all I had left.

From my peripheral vision, I thought I saw a shadow pass by the door, and I put the shoes down. I watched the doorway for a moment and finally decided it was nothing. Perhaps a car’s lights had created the shadow from a block away, or an owl had flown by the streetlight.

Regardless of what it had been, I reminded myself of the need to get moving. I slipped back into the hall and took three steps to the living room. I bent almost to the floor as I moved swiftly into the room and to Michelle’s side. Through the curtains, I could see the patrol car parked where it had been before I went to the back of the house. The silhouette of the lone officer was still inside the car.

I gently placed my hand on Michelle’s cheek. She lay there as before, her body slightly cooler now. Gazing at her, I forgot about where I was and the danger surrounding me. “I’m sorry,” I told her again, not thinking about the bug.

A sound. Odd. I thought of a hissing snake.

The sibilant noise came from the corner I’d lain against earlier while mourning for Michelle. I looked to it, eight feet away, and saw a dark form huddled there roughly the size of a man. The thing shushed me again, and my heart began to race. Like a phantom, something moved fleetly from the adjacent corner to nearly within arm’s reach from across Michelle’s body. The thing had
two
green dots where the eyes should have been, instead of only one. I realized it must be the armed men in dark-blue fatigues with night-vision goggles, again. They’d caught me. However, even in the bad lighting, this man’s fatigues looked more black than dark-blue, as if that made a difference.

“Shhhh,” the one in the corner repeated as the Eagles softly sang
New Kid in Town.

Chapter 20

The dark figure reached toward my face. I ducked away but found his other hand firmly, yet gently catching the side of my head, and I decided I’d better submit to him. He fumbled with what I thought might be an earpiece in my ear, and I helped him place it. Seconds later, from the earpiece I heard a soft voice.

“Sir,” it whispered, “do not speak. I repeat, absolutely, do not make a sound. Nod if you hear me.”

I watched wide-eyed and panted with excitement at the other dark shape in the corner. His hands covered his mouth as if he might be the one talking and not wishing his voice to carry into the room around us.

“Do you hear me, sir?”

I nodded slowly.

“Cup your hand over the earpiece, sir.”

I did as told.

“Sir, I am Major Lionel Jackson of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command. Lieutenant Carpenter and I are here with a search and rescue team to get you out.”

The Air Force Academy was at Colorado Springs. It made sense they were the ones to come here, but why? Why was I so important to the U.S. government?

More whispering came through the earpiece. “Listen carefully, sir. You must do as I tell you and get yourself out of here. That’s whatever it takes, everything in your power, and at any cost. If something should go awry, you must do your best to escape on your own. Do not, I repeat, do not under any circumstances fall back into these people’s hands. As last resort, sir,” he said, his whispering voice lowering, “you must bite into the pill the lieutenant is handing you and then place it under your tongue.”

The figure across from me held out his hand in front of my face. Contained in a single bubble pack between his fingers was a small pill. It looked gray in the darkness, but I imagined it was as shiny red as my son’s racecar bed.

“Put it in your shirt pocket, sir.”

I complied, but I had no intentions of using it.

“Now, sir,” the man who called himself a major said. He paused, looking at his wrist. I heard a light, tearing noise as if he’d pulled back a Velcro flap that covered his watch dial. “In exactly six minutes and thirty seconds, our helo will be at the clearing about a hundred meters behind this house. Do you know where that is, sir?”

I nodded again and thought of the clearing. I didn’t know whether I would follow whatever orders he had for me even if that area was big enough for a chopper to land, and I was sure it wasn’t.

The major continued. “It might be too late. An opposing force is on its way back here now. But you must do everything you can to get to that helo. We will hold off the enemy as long as possible. But sir, do not go within two hundred feet of that clearing until the helo lands. Also, do not wait for us or any part of our team to get on board. We are all expendable. Do you understand, sir?”

I was stunned.

“Sir?”

I nodded once more, wishing he would quit calling me sir, at least in such a precise military fashion. However, I couldn’t understand how he or any of his men could be expendable, and I wanted to ask him what was going on, to shout out in frustration.

The major seemed to be looking over my head and out the window. The lieutenant still faced me, and although I could only see green dots, I was sure his eyes were on me.

The major spoke again. “We have little time, sir. I need answers, direct and honest. I must now ask, what is your involvement in the Brainstorm Project? Answer me softly, sir.”

I shook my head. I knew nothing of a
Brainstorm Project
. “Never heard of it,” I whispered.

“What about Daniel McMaster? Have you seen him? Do you know where he’s being held?”

Sunny’s husband — I remembered. “I hadn’t heard of him until today,” I told him. Then, I said something that I’m sure was confusing to the major, “In a dream.” I quickly added, “A woman named Sunny said that was her husband’s name — and two guys asked me about him this morning.”

“So, you haven’t seen him? Don’t know where he is?”

“No,” I said. “Unless he’s where they’re keeping my son — at Rocky Mountain Biotronics.”

Although I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t hear emotions in his low voice, I was sure the major was disappointed by the way he shook his head and bowed it thoughtfully for a moment. I heard him take a deep breath before saying, “One more thing, sir. No matter what happens, do not give up. Your country, the free world and God himself may be depending on you.”

Heartache Tonight
came on the CD player.

I finally realized they had the wrong guy. All of this was about someone else. I’d never been involved in anything in which “my country, the free world and God himself” would have to depend upon me. I knew nothing of a project called
Brainstorm
. I’d never been to Stanford. These yahoos and the woman who called herself Sunny had screwed up. I was a freaking dry goods storeowner, for Christ’s sake!

Still, it was not a good time to tell them. Sure, I could stand up and call out,
Hey, you’ve got the wrong guy. Check your records. Take my fingerprints and you’ll believe me. Now, let’s all quit this silliness and go home. No hard feelings, right? Whadayasay, boys?
That would’ve only gotten me about twenty pounds of lead added to my ass at this point.

I was beginning to wonder if maybe my first group of pursuers was responsible for the deaths
— more accurately the murders. Maybe someone like a sniper with some of those tiny darts as in the movies, someone with some sort of deadly electronic device that not only stops hearts but breaks glass, or somebody with a kind of a biological weapon was responsible for the six deaths, including Michelle’s. It could’ve been something
they
had done to me. But no way had all these people died solely from something I had or was doing. And
they
, whoever
they
were, would pay. On that, there would be no doubt.

I would give total support and trust to my new captors, for now. The entire situation was too mind-boggling for me even to begin to figure out. At least these guys hadn’t tried to kill me, up to this point. Once aboard their helicopter, I would explain the situation
— that I was the wrong man. Maybe they’d believe me, and I could straighten this all out and save my son. If not, I was sure when I got to where they were taking me, I would be able to talk with the officials and rectify the situation. Then, when I had all the chips and it was my turn to deal, we’d play a little game called payback. I’d have whoever was responsible slapped with criminal charges — murder — so hard, it’d make their helmets spin.

I thought about that crazy woman again, Sunny, she called herself. She was so very attractive. I found her alluring. She had helped me, maybe. Was she tied in somehow to the major? Or were they on opposite sides? Was she alive? There was one way to find out.

“Sunny?” I asked in a low voice.

The major whispered, “She’s safe.”

They
were
allied with her. She was okay. I was relieved, and my trust in them grew quickly with that news. “Who is this Dan McMaster?”

The young lieutenant glanced back at me and the major. The major shot a look back to the lieutenant.

“Keep watching,” he told him, and then he turned to me.

I didn’t know what kind of game we were playing, but I wanted to know at least a few of the players.

“They kidnapped him, like you,” the major said. “And we won’t leave this place without him or you,” he said. “You can be sure of that.”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t kidnapped. I live here.”

“Do you?” the major asked.

Those simple words caused my thoughts to spin again.
Do you?
Of course I did . . . didn’t I? I couldn’t help but raise my voice and say, “Where the hell did I come from, then?”

The major held his hand out in an attempt to calm me down. “Please, sir, whisper.”

“What about the others?” I asked, fishing more than anything.

“We’re going to do everything we can,” the major said checking his watch. He stood and looked to the street in front, then down the hall toward the back of the house. He motioned for me to stand, also. But when I began to obey, the lieutenant planted his hand on my shoulder and shoved me back down.

In my earpiece a different voice said, “No!”

“What?” Major Jackson whispered.

“The one in the car, he’s gone,” Lieutenant Carpenter answered. I imagined him much younger from the tone of his voice.

“Shit,” Jackson said. “Go!”

The lieutenant stepped over Michelle and hustled to the front door. He stood to one side then the other, looking through the small, diamond-shaped window in the top of it.

“No one,” he said.

The night was quiet except for the Eagles softly singing
Hotel California
. I thought I could hear the clock ticking. It sounded louder than before, even though I was farther away from it — but the ticking stopped. The two military officers said nothing as each of them moved about the room.

Major Jackson began pulling me up and then suddenly yanked me toward the hallway. It hadn’t been the ticking of a clock I’d heard, but the bolt of an MP5 chambering a round and its safety being released from outside the house. The major’s voice came through the earpiece in a yell that made my ear hurt. “Window!”

It was too late. A figure stood opposite the large front window. The plate glass suddenly exploded into shards as silenced bullets broke through. They struck Lieutenant Carpenter’s body armor, but also his arms and legs. Carpenter turned to his assailant as he fell, his M-16 spitting out a volley of rounds, its voice loud like a chainsaw. They hit the cop, and so did the charge from the lieutenants grenade launcher fixed underneath his rifle barrel. It shot not a grenade, but what must have been a much softer projectile — I thought immediately,
beanbag
— that hit our attacker in the helmet. The man’s protective cover flipped backward into the yard and he fell into the room face first. At the same time, something pelted me like pebbles. The tiny projectiles had bounced around the room and thumped me on the chest, arms and legs, and I happened to catch one of them in my hand. As I ducked, I squeezed the small pellet that had ricocheted off the cop or the wall. It was made from some kind of hard rubber. The lieutenant had fired rubber bullets and a beanbag — nonlethals.

Major Jackson was already at Carpenter’s side. Dark streams lined Carpenter’s face, and the arms and legs of his dark fatigues glistened from the streetlights now glaring through the vacant window frame.

Outside, several patrol cars screeched to the curb one after another, sirens blaring, like half a dozen cats fighting in a gunnysack.

Jackson turned back to me as I stood hunched over in the doorway. His voice was loud and clear. “Go,” he said, “get to the chopper.”

He looked to the cop lying about ten feet from him. The cop groaned and his arms began thrashing. Jackson took three quick steps to the man and gave him a sharp tap on the jaw with the butt of his weapon. The cop’s arms fell to his sides, and he lay still.

As Jackson hustled back to his comrade’s side, I saw the young lieutenant facing me, his goggles and helmet now under one limp arm. His hair was closely cropped, his skull thick and angular. I hadn’t actually seen his face, couldn’t now because of the shadows, but I imagined it. He was a warrior in the highest tradition. Tough, dedicated and patriotic. He could have marched with Washington, ridden with Lee or Jackson, driven tanks with Patton, charged up bloody hills with Chesty Puller. He was true and blue, and as American as Harley Davidson.

But why was his weapon loaded with nonlethal, rubber bullets and a beanbag?

Lieutenant Carpenter’s voice came to my earpiece. “Get out, sir. Don’t let me die for nothing.”

I couldn’t help but pause there as I gazed at his dark form, but what he was saying finally sank in. I turned and ran for the back door. As I did, the lieutenant’s voice continued in my ear. It took a higher pitch as he wrestled death and said, “Get out of here, major!”

At the kitchen doorway, I found another colorless figure squatting next to the back door. His hand came out to halt me.

“Stop, sir,” he said. “I’ll clear your way.”

The soldier opened the door carefully and scanned the back yard.

I glanced back and saw the major halfway down the hall dragging the lieutenant’s limp body by the shoulder straps beside him. Major Jackson stopped, turned toward the front and lowered his big-barreled weapon. Large projectiles spat from it and burst onto the floor and walls several yards out in front. The foamy-looking covering that the projectiles produced grew to nearly a foot thick.

The soldier at the door tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned, he was already out in the yard about twenty feet, kneeling and sweeping the trees beyond him with the muzzle of his rifle.

I had to look back again.

The major had made it to the kitchen with his fallen buddy, but light from the front, which seconds ago had illuminated the hallway with a soft glow, was now blocked by several silhouettes. At first, they ran toward us, their weapons spewing bullets.