CHAPTER 2
Testimony of the entity known as Franks, former Special Agent of the United States Monster Control Bureau.
* * *
Interrogator’s note: All of my questions, and the awkward periods of silence and angry glaring from the subject, have been omitted for the sake of brevity. I have never, in all my years, encountered anyone or anything this surly and menacing. Franks is completely incapable of mercy or kindness. As this process went on he began to open up, granting me a good look into his thought processes. I know that it isn’t my decision to make, but in my professional opinion I would find the deepest hole possible and bury Franks in it.
* * *
BEGIN TRANSCRIPT
Where do you want me to start? My contract? I kept my word. It was the government that broke Benjamin Franklin’s contract. Stricken shouldn’t have crossed me.
Earlier than that . . .
The first words I ever heard in my mortal life were “It’s alive. It’s alive.” Is that what you want?
Before that even . . . Hmmm . . . Normally I’d kill you for asking.
You want the real beginning, but it’s hard to remember and harder to explain.
Buckle up. This is about to get weird.
Aftermath of the Level 5 ICMHP Incident
12 Days Ago
Las Vegas, Nevada
The man’s ID badge read “Foster.” The command tent was full of people called Agent, but his title was simply Mister. Despite that, he was the one in de facto command. Franks really wanted to kill him, but that would only complicate matters. Foster was from Special Task Force Unicorn, one of Stricken’s handpicked human lackeys rather than one of their monstrous foot soldiers, and was thus worthy of having his neck snapped, but since Franks had been placed in chains and surrounded by guards prepared to shoot him down at the smallest provocation, Foster’s death would have to wait.
“If Franks so much as twitches, kill him,” Foster ordered.
The assembled MCB agents were following orders, but they were obviously uncomfortable with it. Several blocks of Las Vegas were in smoking ruins around them. The situation had descended into complete chaos. The chain of command was broken. There were hundreds of eyewitnesses. Rather than being allowed to fulfill their primary mission of trying to keep the existence of monsters and supernatural threats concealed from the general public, these MCB agents had been tasked with securing the most legendary operative in their organization’s history as if he were some sort of traitor.
One of the men voiced his concern. “I don’t think this is necessary. Franks cooperated fully with your arrest order, Mr. Foster.”
It was true. There would have been no point in resisting, so he’d allowed the arriving reinforcements to secure him until their superiors arrived. Franks had very little faith in the wisdom of mankind, but he trusted Dwayne Myers. Myers would sort this out.
“Don’t give me any lip.” Foster was pacing nervously and checking his phone, waiting for some word from his mysterious supervisor. “You’re going down for this, Franks, you’re going down hard.”
An hour ago Franks had been swatted across the Strip by a dragon made of ectoplasm and nightmares. Bureaucratic plotting seemed inconsequential in comparison.
There was a commotion on the other side of the tent flap. Guards gave challenges, IDs were presented, and then there was a rush of apologies. The flap opened and several men entered the giant command tent. The first through were members of the MCB’s elite mobile strike team. They were hardened warriors Franks had served with many times, and behind them was an innocuous-looking, middle-aged man in a cheap suit.
Franks’ arms were chained to the chair, so he dipped his head slightly. “Sir.”
“Why is my second-in-command tied up?” demanded Dwayne Myers, the Special Agent-in-Charge of Strike Team. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Foster’s response was about as belligerent as could be expected. “Agent Franks is charged with disobeying direct orders, violating security protocols by taking a civilian witness into a monster containment area, and then breaking into the Nevada storage facility to steal seized evidence.”
“Is that true?” Myers asked.
Franks nodded. That sounded about right, but Myers already knew most of the details, since it had secretly been his idea to begin with. Franks had taken Owen Pitt to Dugway because he’d thought the Monster Hunter’s psychic powers could help their investigation. He’d taken three ancient arcane weapons from Area 51 in order to fight the Nachtmar: Lord Machado’s ax, the Attilius gladius, and the Black Heart of Suffering. That last one had done the trick, and destroyed the creature.
“When he was confronted about his actions, Franks attempted to kill MCB Director Douglas Stark.”
Franks snorted. The five men covering him with drawn weapons backed away nervously. They were only following orders, but all of them had worked with Franks at some point, so they were aware that shooting Franks might upset him.
“I’ve known Agent Franks for twenty years. He doesn’t attempt to kill anyone. Holster those sidearms and unchain him. Franks is coming with me.” Myers had recently been demoted, but had been the Acting Director before that, and he was still probably the most respected senior agent in the Bureau.
“Hold on,” Foster demanded. “Franks is in STFU custody.” It was almost like Foster thought that invoking the name of the ultra-secret Special Task Force Unicorn would strike fear into the federal agent’s heart.
Myers glanced around theatrically. “Really? Because these appear to be MCB men, and last I checked, sworn MCB agents don’t take orders from an operation that doesn’t exist.” The MCB didn’t officially exist either, as it was just a line item on the Department of Homeland Security’s budget, but in this business there were levels of not existing.
“Director Stark is—”
“Hiding from this giant clusterfuck caused by his lack of leadership,” Myers said. “Our good Director must have forgotten that it is against regulation seventy-two dash B to turn MCB handling of a level five containment to another entity, such as yours, without authorization from the President. So in the meantime I’m the highest ranking member of the MCB available, and I’m making the call. Cut Franks loose. I’m going back outside to try to contain the unholy mess you amateurs made out of one of America’s most popular tourist attractions, before every news agency in the world records video of a street full of ectoplasm and dragon parts. Is that understood, Mr. Foster?”
It was clearly understood, but not particularly liked. “We’re not done, Myers.”
“Oh, I believe that we are.” Myers glanced over and confirmed that the men had put their weapons away. “Remove Mr. Foster from my command tent.”
“I’ve got it,” Franks said. One of the men had been looking for the key to the padlock, but Franks simply took up the chain in his bare hands and twisted until a link snapped. By the time anyone realized what was happening, the chains had already hit the floor and Franks had caught Foster by the arm and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. Foster winced in pain as Franks carried him to the nearest flap, and hurled the Unicorn operative into the street.
Foster hit hard and skidded across the pavement, right into a pile of ectoplasm that had been blown off the nightmare dragon. He came up, indignant and sputtering, covered in the glowing sludge. “Stricken will hear about this!”
“Run away, little man,” Franks advised as he dropped the tent flap and returned to Myers. “You should have just had me kill him.”
“He’s but an insignificant cog in a big dangerous machine.” Myers was wearing a charcoal suit rather than his armor, but as far as most of the MCB were aware, that was because he had barely arrived on the scene. In truth, Myers had been here the whole time, secretly trying to stop the Nachtmar as fast as possible, and head off Stricken’s power-grabbing schemes. “We’ve got our work cut out for us as it is. Agent Jefferson has handled the PR surprisingly well so far, but if we fail to move quickly this event could prove to be the worst breach in MCB history.”
Myers gave a quick series of orders to the waiting agents, about coordinating with the military and local law enforcement, making sure that the given cover stories were consistent, sending out plainclothes agents as witnesses to speak to the media, cleaning up anything that looked paranormal, and placing fake evidence to back up their cover stories. “Martinez, gather up some actors and go give the news some firsthand accounts of this terrorist attack. Nothing too detailed yet though. Remember, good and emotional. They’ll always run with tears and babbling. Barber, contact Technical Branch. Anything floating around the internet, crash it. As big as that dragon was there’s got to be video and I want it scrubbed. Pick the worst virus we have and turn it loose.”
It was like watching a symphony conductor.
“Tobler, where’s my body count? How many corpses are we talking about? And how many wounded?” Myers paused when he was handed a tablet. He quickly scanned it and then swore at the rather large tally. “We’ve got a lot of eyewitness duty on this one . . .”
The men groaned as Myers began handing out more assignments. Intimidating the witnesses into silence was the duty that most agents dreaded. Franks didn’t really grasp why. It was simply another part of their mission. The Monster Control Bureau’s primary responsibility was to keep the existence of monsters secret from the general public. That was their founding principle. It was necessary, but most agents didn’t like threatening innocent monster attack survivors. Humans were soft like that.
On the other hand, Franks didn’t mind a bit. “Orders?”
Myers handed the tablet back. “Walk with me, Franks.”
The two of them went outside.
Dozens of cars had been thrown about, flipped, and crushed. There was a huge hole in the pavement where the Nachtmar had burrowed through. Most of the fires were contained, but Diamond Steve’s Hotel and Casino was burning out of control. The Last Dragon complex was a crumbling ruin, having been ravaged by fire, improvised explosives, a nightmare army, and several hundred desperate Monster Hunters. This event had begun simply enough, with a medical quarantine of a casino, but had quickly spread out of control, with a paranormal rift forcing the evacuation of the entire city. It had all culminated with a nightmare dragon wrecking its way up and down the Las Vegas Strip.
However, Dwayne Myers was the greatest propaganda artist that the MCB had ever seen, and if anyone could contain this, it was him. Franks’ superior surveyed the scene for a long moment. “Yes . . . It’ll be a challenge, but I can work with this . . .”
“Of course, sir.”
“I’ll have to do it without your capable help though. I need you to do something else. Stricken has made his move.”
“Nemesis?”
“Of course.” Myers took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, removed one, and lit it. “It appears he wants that project restarted badly enough to endanger a whole city. The game is afoot.”
“Nemesis isn’t a game.”
“He’s using this event as an excuse. Stricken’s under the impression that Nemesis is some surefire, anti-paranormal super solution, and he intends to convince the President that giving him a blank check will keep us safe. Your contract is the only legal thing standing in the way. You’re going back to headquarters for a full debrief. That albino son of a bitch has already filed a report about all your violations.”
“Trying to get me fired?”
“Dismantled.”
Franks grunted in acknowledgment.
“Don’t worry. That’s not likely. Everyone knows you’re too valuable an asset.” Myers exhaled a cloud of smoke as he surveyed the devastation. “But did you really need to choke the Director unconscious?”
Franks shrugged.
“I figured as much . . . Poor Doug. I bet he’s wishing he’d never taken my job now. I warned him it was stressful.” Myers chuckled. “Stricken is crafty enough to know that I’ll be stuck here until this is contained, so I can’t maneuver against him. He’ll strike while the iron is hot and push for Nemesis authorization while everyone is panicking. Sorry, Franks. I have to see to the mission first.”
That went without saying. The mission always came first. The more people who believed in the supernatural, the more they believed in the other worlds, the stronger those worlds’ influences became, the more the lines between them blurred, and that could not be allowed. Humanity never fared well when the lines blurred.
The two of them watched the casino burn in silence for a moment before Myers sighed. “We can’t keep this up forever.”
“No, sir.”
“The MCB has done its best, but the time is coming when the truth will get out. I’m afraid that when that happens, there is going to be somebody like Stricken ready with a cure that’s worse than the disease. . . . Do you trust me, Franks?”
Franks nodded. More than any other human currently alive. Though Franks used the word to keep communications simple, and he’d referred to certain coworkers as friends over the years, he didn’t really understand the human concept of friendship. Logically Myers probably qualified as a friend.
“Then I wish you’d tell me the real reason you’re so dead set against Project Nemesis.”
Franks didn’t respond.
“That’s right. Classified. Even for me . . .” Myers shook his head. “You know, I’ve got to hand it to Stricken. You’re the one thing standing between him and what he wants, using his own system’s rules against him, and as long as those stood, he was stuck. So he put you in a spot where you had to choose between breaking the system and failing a mission.”
“I’ve never failed a mission.”
“Then let’s not start now. There’s a Blackhawk inbound that will take you to Nellis. I have a plane waiting for you. I’m occupied, so you don’t currently have a partner. I’ll send some of my trusted men to serve as handlers.”
“Don’t need them.”
“I’ve seen your interpersonal skills in action. This is interagency politics now, Franks. You need someone capable of smiling and kissing congressional ass. I’ll assign Grant as your counsel. Come to think of it, I’ve got a few other agents with skillsets that could prove useful in this endeavor . . . There’s one in particular . . .” Myers trailed off, seeming deep in thought. “Never mind the roster. I’ll take care of it. Get back to headquarters and tell your side of the story. There will probably be a hearing. Just be yourself and we’ll be fine.”
Franks glanced over, curious.
“I’d better clarify. When I said be yourself, I mean tell them the unvarnished truth, not murder everything . . . Stricken is gaming the system, but I don’t think he’s willing to break it. Yet. I’d tell you to be careful, but I know you’ve got eyes in the back of your head.”
“Tried that once. Too disorienting.”
“You’re a very literal man, Franks. . . . The powers that be know Stricken. He’s their pet snake, but they still understand they’ve got a snake. On the other hand you have an exemplary service record for over two centuries. You’re a known quantity. Some of them might fear you, but they know you won’t blow smoke up their asses. I think it’ll work out . . . Hopefully we’re not too late.”
Myers wasn’t allowed to know, but if they couldn’t stop Project Nemesis then the destruction they saw here today would be nothing in comparison.
* * *
“Franks duty?” Grant Jefferson asked his partner as they approached waiting aircraft. “What did we do to deserve this?”
“Myers probably just wants us out of Vegas since we helped him screw over STFU,” Archer answered.
“Shhh.” Grant glanced around the runway. “Don’t say that out in the open. There could be bugs.”
Grant’s lack of technical surveillance knowledge was funny, but most MCB personnel didn’t have Archer’s technical know-how. He’d been in the Tech Branch of the Admin and Logistics division of the MCB. Grant was Media Control, and that assignment was more about smooth talking than smarts. “If Unicorn has directional mikes good enough to pick us up over those engines spinning up, he deserves to know about our great Waffle Hut conspiracy.”
Grant nodded. “I sure hope you’re right.”
“I sure hope Stricken hasn’t arranged for our flight to crash mysteriously.”
“That’s not going to happen.” But since both of them worked for a shadow government entity that specialized in fabricating conspiracy theories and falsifying evidence, Grant didn’t sound convinced. “Probably. Stricken might be willing to sit around and let extra innocents die, but he isn’t going to start murdering other Feds . . . But if the crew starts parachuting out, I’m going with them.”
“Like Stricken would tell the Air Force? Fat chance of that. If I was him, I’d just have one of our wings rigged to blow clean off.” Archer had been in the 82nd Airborne and had made a lot of jumps in his life, but they’d all been out of perfectly good aircraft. “You can’t exactly overcome centrifugal force and cleanly exit a plane that’s corkscrewing its way into the ground. Well, Franks maybe could, but I hear as long as there’s enough left of him to scrape into a Ziploc bag they can make a new body, so Franks doing something stupid doesn’t count. All those military training accidents you read about where some plane falls into the Med with no bodies recovered? That’s got monster cover-up written all over it. Just because we’re not briefed in doesn’t mean it wasn’t us. I knew this one dude—”
“Okay, enough. I already hate flying when I’m not the pilot.” Grant had to shout as they got closer to the plane. They both got their plugs out and stuck into their ears. C-17s were loud as hell on the ramp. Since the MCB was a rather special entity within the government, when they needed military resources they got them fast. “It’s not fair. I was doing a great job on PR. Getting stuck Franks-sitting . . . That’s the most boring job in the Bureau until the minute it turns into the most dangerous. What’s the fatality rate on Franks-sitting?”
“Last time we worked with Franks only half of us died. Plus that dick Torres even deserved it. Don’t be a wuss, Grant. We’re not going operational with Franks. We’re going to watch him fill out paperwork and maybe growl at a congressman. I’m probably just here because I type fast.”
“This is just a letdown. That was one of the biggest cover jobs in MCB history and I was doing a damn good job locking it down.”
To be fair, Grant really had. Some of them were just better natural born liars, and some, like Archer, were better at supporting the liars. “Your career will survive. Our last two directors partnered with Franks at some point. Supporting the big dog is a prestige assignment. Think of this as a resumé builder. Everybody knows you’re gunning for a SAC position eventually.”
Grant got a little red in the face. The MCB had a very hands-on warrior culture. No field agent wanted to get a rep as a political hack, especially now that the biggest political hack in the Bureau was their new director, and Stark wasn’t exactly a popular figure.
Archer didn’t bring it up, as Myers hadn’t had a chance yet to brief them on the details of their particular assignment, but with everything that was going on in Vegas right now, Myers could barely afford to spare anyone, let alone four agents. There was something going down, and since he and Grant were some of the few who knew about Stricken’s illegal activities, it had to be related.
The female Air Force loadmaster led them up the ramp and showed them where to stash their gear bags. She couldn’t help but give Grant a flirty little look. The dude was just so annoyingly classically handsome that he had that effect on nearly every woman they met. Half the time Grant could simply charm their witnesses into silence. They were still in their issued black MCB armor, though both of them had managed to avoid being set on fire or covered in ectoplasm, so all things considered they appeared rather respectable. Only Archer was skinny and goofy-looking. She gave Grant a long once-over, barely noticed that Archer was alive, then went back down the ramp as they continued going forward. Grant inspected her backside through her flight suit and turned back grinning. “Thank you, stewardess . . . What?”
“That’s why you’re assigned to Franks. Myers figured you had charm enough for both of you.”
“Hey, I’d seduce a congresswoman if it furthered the mission. Don’t ever say that I’m not willing to take one for the team.”
The interior bay was large enough to carry a tank and had seats down the sides. There were two other armored MCB agents already strapped in and waiting. Of course there were no nameplates on a mission like this, but Archer knew one of them. The muscular guy was Radabaugh. Like many members of the MCB recruited from the military, he was a former spec ops badass. Radabaugh was a long time member of the Strike Team and had even been in Natchy Bottom. That was the sort of thing that earned an agent some street cred. Archer shook his hand. “Good to see you here.”
“Hey, Henry,” he shouted back. “Grant. You guys Franks-sitting too?”
“Afraid so,” Grant answered before turning to the last agent, who was a rather average-looking young man with thinning blond hair. He wasn’t very tall, and a little overweight for an agent, which meant he probably wasn’t from the Strike Team. “I don’t know you. What department are you in?”
“Thomas Strayhorn.” The young agent stuck out his hand to shake. “I was transferred over from the Marshal’s Service. I’m still unassigned.”
“Nice to meet you, Agent Strayhorn.”
“Probationary agent. He got out of the academy a week ago,” Radabaugh said. “I’m his TO.”
“Still in training and you’re on Franks’ detail?” That was surprising. Archer shared a nervous glance with Grant. From the look on his face they were thinking the same thing. The last time Franks had been put with new agents it had been to smoke out a mole. That op had exposed the traitor Torres, but it had gotten Herzog killed in the process.
“A week, huh?” Grant asked suspiciously. “Isn’t that something? Is he cleared on Franks?”
“He’s cleared, but he’s not had the full briefing yet, just the sanitized version from the academy. I just got the word from Myers half an hour ago to be here.”
“You must have either impressed the hell out of him, or really pissed Myers off somehow. Welcome to Franks duty, Strayhorn. It’s a real joy to work with him. Most bosses you have to guess if they really like you or not, but with Franks that’s never in question. He hates everyone. Our job is to run interference, be the public face—”
“Fetch him snacks. Rub his feet,” Radabaugh said. “Basically we do whatever he says all while trying to keep stupid people out of his way.”
“Franks especially hates stupid people, and he thinks everybody is stupid.” Archer sat next to the new guy. He’d ridden in plenty of C-17s, and compared to some of the other military aircraft the MCB routinely commandeered it was a pleasant ride in comparison. Conversation was even possible if you didn’t mind yelling. “A rookie, huh?”
“I spent three years in federal law enforcement—”
“The sooner you get through your head that means jack shit when dealing with monsters, the better,” Radabaugh corrected him. “That’s Henry Archer you’re talking to. Don’t let the flattop fool you. He may look like Vanilla Ice but he’s the real deal. Archer here took point on the New Zealand op. You heard of the Arbmunep?”
“Oh.” That got his attention. “They talked about that in training. Impressive.”
“That tree was a mean son of a bitch, but it was a team effort.” Monster Hunter International had done a lot of the heavy lifting on that one, but since MCB agents’ opinions on that company ranged from MHI being cowboys deserving a little grudging respect all the way over to them being a bunch of money-grubbing, borderline criminal cutthroats, Archer didn’t want to open that particular can of contractor worms.
But Radabaugh did anyway. “And Grant here is former MHI. He dealt with more oddities in a couple of years than most of us will over a career.”
Strayhorn seemed intrigued. “That’s weird. I’ve heard some MCB retire and then go private, but I don’t know too many private Hunters that go government. Kind of backwards, isn’t it? I hear they get paid tons, but we just start out as GS-12s. I’ve heard about MHI. They’re supposed to be kind of shifty.”
“Uh huh . . .” Grant said as he took his phone out and pretended to check his email. “Before you read too much into their character, our boss, MCB legend Dwayne Myers once worked for MHI too. He was even best friends with Earl Harbinger.”
“I knew that.” It still shut the rookie up. Archer was a little envious of how easily Grant could manipulate a social situation. Most experienced agents would have just browbeat the new guy, but Grant put him in his place and still came out looking like a nice guy.
“Myers has enough problems right now without any of us bringing up his past,” Archer said. “In case you’re wondering, he’s a good boss. He knows monsters better than anybody.” And if he wants us here, there’s got to be a damned good reason. Myers was a hard-ass, but he was competent, and most of all, Archer’s gut instinct told him that Myers was basically an honorable man. He cared about the safety of his country above all, which was more than Archer could say for his replacement. Stark was a doofus.
Immediately after the Copper Lake incident, Archer, like most of the MCB, had thought that Doug Stark was a hero. Archer had grown up only a few miles from Copper Lake. The whole Upper Peninsula would have been awash in zombie werewolves if it hadn’t been for Stark’s quick thinking. It wasn’t until later, when he’d been assigned to the cover-up and was interviewing locals, that he had learned that contrary to the official record, Stark’s real actions had consisted mostly of cowardice and stupidity. Harbinger, some rival Hunters, and a bunch of locals had been the real heroes. That had been a letdown. Then while picking through the aftermath, Archer had discovered the originator of the vulkodlak plague that had endangered his home town had been one of Stricken’s pet monsters from STFU.
Between those two facts, it was no surprise that he’d sided with Myers in the MCB’s internal power struggle.
“I’d never bad-mouth Myers. I’ve only heard positive things about him.” Strayhorn left that hanging, waiting to see if any of the more experienced men would correct him. He seemed satisfied when they didn’t.
“Don’t worry about it, Rookie . . .” Grant said. “But yes, MHI are shifty. They only care about themselves. They’re a bunch of glory hounds and hotdogs, but they’re not all bad.”
“Projection much?” Archer muttered.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Thank goodness for the engine noise. Archer actually liked the MHI people he’d worked with, but then again, he wasn’t the one whose fiancée had dumped him to marry a magic accountant.
Grant put his phone back in his pocket. “Well, anyway, I’m sure this assignment will either be boring as hell, or we’ll all die on an op and Franks will harvest our corpses for spare parts. . . . Come to think of it, I sure hope you’re right, Archer, and I’m here because I’m good with people and not because Franks picked us out because he needs some new parts.” Grant made an exaggerated motion around his face. “Who wouldn’t want this?”
“Makes sense,” Archer responded. “Holly Newcastle did just tell me I’ve got nice eyes.” And since he was thinking of MHI people he didn’t mind working with . . . Wow. That was one enemy he wouldn’t mind fraternizing with.
“Franks goes through eyes like crazy. I hear he keeps a jar full of them in his fridge,” Radabaugh said as he looked over at Strayhorn. “That’s right. The rumors are true. Franks is built out of body parts.”
Archer was still thinking of his last oddly staffed op, so he watched the rookie carefully. He wasn’t about to get bit in the ass again.
The rookie was pretty darn good at keeping his emotions hidden. “There was some talk about him at the academy.” Strayhorn said cautiously. “Some of the guys said that he’s really Frankenstein.” Archer liked how he added the some said. The rookie wasn’t giving away whether he believed them or not, just in case the senior agents were pulling his leg.
“You mean Frankenstein’s monster, but yeah.” Radabaugh grinned. “Welcome to the big time, Rook. Dr. Frankenstein was a myth. The real mad scientist was named Dippel. The book came out way later. Franks isn’t a code name either. He named himself that because he was built in the real Castle Frankenstein.”
“I see . . .”
“I doubt that!” Radabaugh insisted. “Franks is a three-hundred-year-old, one-man wrecking ball. Anything the MCB really needs to shut down, they drop Franks on it. Boom. Done. He’s way faster, stronger, and tougher than any of us. I’ve got the top hand-to-hand combatives score in the Bureau three years running and I wouldn’t last thirty seconds against Franks. He gets blown up, we bag the parts, and the egg-heads stitch him back together . . . Few days later he’s back in the fight, mean as ever. And don’t go thinking that because he’s an antique he can’t be that badass; they’ve been making improvements on him the whole time. He can shrug off things that would kill any regular man, and when he’s moving, just keep out of his way. If we get called up for something and it turns into combat, stay behind Franks.”
“He only needs us to deal with the red tape. In a fight you’re basically his gun caddy,” Archer said. “Keep your head down and keep handing him weapons. There’s nothing Franks can’t kill once he puts his mind to it. Plus, he’s like a tactical genius, but I figure that’s just because he’s been doing this for so long nothing really ever takes him by surprise.”
Grant leaned forward conspiratorially. “Franks killed a Great Old One.”
“That’s supposed to be impossible.” Strayhorn frowned, probably thinking back to his training. “You can’t kill a Great Old One.”
“He did have help,” Archer said.
“Pitt?” Grant snorted. “That jackass?”
“Well, him and Isaac Newton, but if anybody knows Franks well at this point it has to be Owen Pitt.” Archer looked back at Strayhorn. “Sorry. That’s a long story.”
Strayhorn seemed intrigued. “We’ve got a long flight. Look, I’ve heard Franks’ legends, every recruit has. He’s supposed to be like the most intimidating guy ever, but come on . . .”
“I once saw Franks beat a werewolf to death with its own arm. He was like that how come you keep hitting yourself bully from elementary school, but with more blood. Only Franks didn’t actually say that, because he’s one humorless motherfucker,” Radabaugh said. “If the Frankenstein origin story isn’t true, then it’s a pretty elaborate cover, because the real Franks is some sort of supernatural scary-ass killing machine.”
Now that they were telling stories, Grant didn’t want to be outdone. “I’ve seen them open him up for field surgery after he’d been injured. He’s got extra hearts, like a relay system, and he can turn them on and off as he needs them. He doesn’t have ribs like we do. It looks more like they stuck an armored vest inside his chest to keep his guts in place. I heard Franks even has extra brain tissue grafted along his spine, like backing up a hard drive, in case he gets his brains blown out. He might look like a man on the outside, but he’s not.”
“No kidding?” Strayhorn was nodding along. Even in an organization made up of professional liars, the others were just too earnest. Archer didn’t know what his introduction to monsters had been, but it must have been something good, because Franks’ story didn’t seem to shake him too badly. “So what’s he like as a person?”
“Person?” Archer snorted. “Don’t make that mistake. He’s the scariest thing you’ll ever see. Franks is like the definition of does not give a shit. He’s cold. He’s got extra hearts, but he doesn’t have a heart. There’s just something not right about him in the head. I mean he’s smart, and he’s freakishly rational, but he’s just not wired like a real person. When he looks at you it’s like he’s doing math. I don’t think he gets people either, or he does get us, but he doesn’t care. When you’re talking to him, you get this feeling that you’re talking to a fucking space alien wearing a human costume, and he’s just looking at you with his blank eyes the whole time, and you just know the only reason he doesn’t murder you is because you’re not worth the paperwork. . . . I’d call him a sociopath, but that’s too humanizing.” Archer realized that the other three were staring past him toward the ramp. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
Radabaugh gave him a nervous nod in the affirmative. “We forgot to mention that he’s got superhearing too.”
“Shit.” Archer turned back. The monstrous Agent Franks was walking down the center of the cargo bay, a giant bag slung over one shoulder. The loadmaster tried to give him directions to stow his gear, but he ignored her and kept walking. She took one look at the hulking brute and wisely let it go. The ramp began to rise.
Franks stopped before the agents, towering over them. He was as wide as any two of them put together and imposing as hell. His eyes swiveled over them, taking stock of his handlers—as if anybody could truly handle Franks—and scowled. Grant and Radabaugh nodded respectfully and simultaneously said, “Sir.” Strayhorn tried to say something but failed, because once in the overwhelming presence that was Franks the truth had been confirmed, and that had to be fairly unnerving.
His cold, dead eyes fell on Archer last. “Welcome aboard, Agent Franks,” Archer squeaked. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you again, sir.”
Franks merely grunted in acknowledgement. He either hadn’t heard Archer’s psych-evaluation or didn’t disagree with the findings. Franks brushed past and went forward, where he took up two of the small, uncomfortable military seats.
The agents sat in silence while the plane taxied and took off. Franks stared off into space the whole time. Awkwardness was the norm when you were working with Franks.
What have I gotten dragged into this time? There was a power struggle in the MCB and Archer had sided with the hard-ass Myers against the moron Stark, and in doing so he’d probably put himself on the bad side of a top secret black op that was up to who knew what awful business. Franks had pissed off Unicorn, so now he and a few other men got to be glorified gophers to run interference while the world’s most dangerous killing machine had to kiss and make up with a bunch of bureaucrats capable of ending all of their careers.
Something about this assignment was bothering him. Grant could be a narcissistic douche at times, but he was really smart and worked hard. Radabaugh had always struck him as a reliable tough guy. Strayhorn was a rookie and an unknown. The whole thing felt way too much like the time he’d been undercover at MHI.
For a man who hated conspiracies and lies, Archer had certainly gone into the wrong line of work.
* * *
Normally people were supposed to feel some sense of awe when they met with the President of the United States. Even if you didn’t care for the man personally, despised his politics, or wouldn’t let the fellow babysit your kids, you were still supposed to respect the office, and thus the man, but as Stricken watched the President dither over what to do next, all he could think to himself was what a chump.
Luckily, Stricken was very good at feigning sincere respect. “Mr. President, I’m afraid Franks has already proven how unstable he’s become. We’ll need time to get our precautions in place. I’m afraid I’m going to need your decision as soon as possible.”
It was just the two of them in the Oval Office, the President and his Special Advisor. No other members of the Special Subcommittee had been invited to this meeting. “Are you sure detaining him is necessary?”
“Absolutely. This is the safest move for everyone involved. Provided Franks cooperates, nobody will be hurt. If he doesn’t . . .” Stricken spread his hands apologetically. “Even the most loyal dog needs to be put to sleep when it turns rabid. It’s time to take Ol’ Yeller behind the barn, Mr. President.”
The President chewed on his pen as he thought that through. Normally he’d listen to his legion of sycophantic advisors or take an opinion poll, but the nice thing about working at this level of clearance was that it separated the wheat from the chaff. There were very few individuals in the entire government cleared to know the details of this sort of event, and most of those were still occupied dealing with Las Vegas.
The most powerful man in the world pushed a button on his desk. “Bring in the Franks’ contract.”
Stricken made a show of studying the various decorations in the Oval Office while they waited. Of course, he’d memorized every item in it the first time he’d been here, and could tell down to the individual paperclip what had been moved since his last visit, but gawking was expected behavior, and staring at the man on the other side of the Resolute desk while he waffled on policy would be considered uncouth.
The contract must have already been pulled out of the archives earlier, as a moment later it was placed in the President’s hands by a secretary who seemed very relieved to flee the Oval Office and Stricken’s gaze. He had that effect on the sensitive types.
The contract was written on old parchment and sealed in a glass box. The President held it awkwardly, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Stricken didn’t understand why he needed to see the original. Every man who’d sat in that chair had read it at some point. A copy would do just as well, but sentimental foolishness was to be expected from a leader who was governed by his feelings rather than his iron will.
While the President studied Ben Franklin’s scribbling and Franks’ X, Stricken mulled over his takedown strategies. He already knew he’d be given permission to detain Franks, as if he were just some human being that they could throw a bag over his head, toss him in a van, and redact his ass to Poland. This was Agent fucking Franks they were talking about here. The President didn’t have the balls to order Franks outright eliminated, so he’d take the middle road of locking him up for everyone’s safety. That had been a forgone conclusion before Stricken had ever requested this meeting. He’d been laying the groundwork for this moment for a few years. Of course, it was also a forgone conclusion that Franks would resist being stuck in a cage, so that freak of nature would die resisting, and permanently this time.
The President sighed as he finished reading the old parchment.
“Those are not idle threats, sir. If we violate that covenant, Franks fully intends to do everything he said there. He is that irrational and violent, which is why I need your blessing before I proceed.”
“Over two hundred years of service,” the President said as he put the contract down, discarding it like he’d been so quick to discard every other founding document he’d found inconvenient. “He’s saved this country, and maybe the whole world, more times than we can count.”
That was an exaggeration. The correct number was only sixteen tops, and that was being generous because most of those probably wouldn’t have gone all the way to an extinction level event. The earlier Special Advisors had been pussies when it came to estimating what the other side was really capable of.
“Yes, Mr. President, but we need not let yesterday’s patterns hold tomorrow hostage. Franks is a remnant of a more barbaric time.” Stricken managed to keep a straight face as he said that, which was quite an achievement, since his own history was rather blood-soaked, but what didn’t make it into the President’s daily briefings wasn’t his problem. “He’s a relic that needs to be retired.”
“He’s so effective though.”
Yeah, but he’s in my way. But Stricken just smiled and nodded, glad that his eye and skin condition gave him an excuse for wearing his odd persimmon-colored sunglasses indoors, because he had no doubt that if the President saw the hate in his eyes, he’d probably scrap the whole thing and burn STFU down. “He’s Frankenstein’s monster, sir. He was built to be effective, but he’s still a monster.”
“Spare me, Alexander. Your entire operation is based on using rehabilitated monsters, and look how successful that’s proven to be.”
Idiot. You can’t rehabilitate a monster. You can only coerce them into being temporarily useful, then send the docile off into obscurity and execute the uppity. “Thank you, Mr. President.” He dipped his head politely at the ignorant attempt at a compliment. “So you realize that I understand monsters better than anyone, so believe me when I tell you that if any of my recruits continued to demonstrate such erratic, violent tendencies as Franks has, I would have them dismissed from my program.” Dismissed. That was an amusing euphemism. More like fed into a wood chipper, Saddam Hussein-style. Now, there was leadership with panache.
“I don’t know . . . We spend billions on security, and they’re still telling me our single best operative against the supernatural is this old pile of body parts that kids dress up as for Halloween. Hell, there’s cartoons and breakfast cereals based on him.”
“I take it you’ve never met the real Franks in person?”
The President shook his head. “The Secret Service didn’t think that was a good idea . . . This is just so . . . Well, I don’t know. Myers keeps telling me how vital Franks is to our defense.”
A real leader needed to be decisive. He needed to declare a clear objective and then do everything necessary to seize that objective. This president lacked those necessary traits, that spine, that strength of purpose. He was uncertain, and Stricken couldn’t abide uncertainty in a commander. The President was shrewd enough when it came to normal politicking, but when the subject turned to supernatural threats, he was in way over his head. He’d once confided to Stricken that when he’d been briefed about the existence of the Old Ones, it had felt as if he was drowning in an angry sea. That had been music to Stricken’s ears. He’d served in one capacity or another in six administrations now, and none of this man’s predecessors had been nearly this easy to manipulate. When someone felt like they were drowning, anyone who could throw them a lifeline would be seen as a savior. Myers had been too honest in his assessments, and the truth was too frightening to a soft man like this. Stricken, on the other hand, was more than willing to massage the truth, to throw that comforting lifeline. Of course, the President saw it as a lifeline. Stricken considered it a leash.
“Myers is partially correct. We do need something with Franks’ capabilities, but that doesn’t change the fact that the MCB’s best asset is aging and shows signs of serious mental deterioration. He’s a ticking bomb and he will go off eventually. Whether you deal with Franks now or not, the fact remains that he will need to be replaced someday. Either he loses his mind and causes something that we can’t cover up, or eventually something destroys him. That’s why it’s so vital that you approve my Nemesis Project right away.”
“That again?” The President leaned back in his chair. “You really expect me to approve the creation of an army of Frankensteins?”
Frankenstein was the creator of the fictionalized monster, not the monster itself, you fucking illiterate, but Stricken just gave the President a patient smile. “Nemesis assets would only be partially based on what we’ve learned from studying Franks’ physiology. This technology is far superior. Franks is the Wright brothers’ plane and these would be Predator drones. Give them a mission, turn them loose, and no matter what happens there’s no bad press for you and no grieving families on TV. Everyone wins. Let me try a prototype out. My operations are so secret no one will ever know if it doesn’t work out.”
“Try them out? According to this Franks contract there aren’t supposed to be any. Ever.”
“I misspoke. We’d have to build some first, and I’d need approvals for that, obviously. But if they work like they think I will, I promise you’ll want to use them for everything else. A squad of these and Las Vegas never could have happened. Since these assets would be starting with a clean slate, they are programmable for complete loyalty. They simply can’t go rogue.”
“Unlike Franks,” the President muttered.
This was too easy. “For what we can accomplish with them, Nemesis assets are a bargain. The only thing that kept the previous administration from implementing my plan was this thing.” Stricken picked up the contract and gestured at it dismissively. “This is ancient history. This is tradition blocking progress. It’s a contract, not a suicide pact.”
The President didn’t have to mull it over nearly as long that time. “I’ll think about it and give you my decision later.”
“Of course, sir.” That was a little disappointing, as he was tired of waiting, but Stricken could tell the President would come around. He’d come around and order Franks terminated eventually, but Stricken had more important things to do than wait around for the inevitable. He would go with plan B, and once that was done, the President would look back on this conversation and kick himself for not heeding his Special Advisor sooner.
“No matter what I decide, Franks deserves our respect. If he’s to be retired, I want this nice and clean, nobody gets hurt.”
Like that was going to happen. “Whatever you decide, I’ll take care of everything.” Like I always do.
“Thank you, Alexander.”
There were very few people who called him by his real name. He preferred his codename, Stricken, as it had gravitas. He’d been using that name since he’d started his career murdering KGB operatives in back alleys in Bucharest. “Good luck with your press conference, Mr. President.”
“I’ve got the White House press corps eating out of my hand. I could tell them Las Vegas has been attacked by escaped circus monkeys and they’d run with it. That’ll be all.”
Stricken rose from the chair and adjusted his suit, trying not to look smug. This was a temporary hitch. The decision had been made a long time ago. Fate had just required Stricken to guide everything to its inevitable conclusion.
The President leaned back even further in his chair and put his feet up on the Resolute desk. It was a false show of confidence. Stricken knew it. The President might have known it too, but it didn’t matter, whatever made it easier to think he was really the one calling the shots. “I’ll have to think more about this Nemesis proposal of yours. Get me a proposal written up. What you’re talking about would be incredibly controversial. If it were to get out, heads would roll.”
Stricken made his living using monsters as black ops weapons against all enemies, foreign, domestic, and unearthly. If the President knew half of what had been accomplished since Special Task Force Unicorn had been restarted he’d lose his mind. Stricken was one of the greatest keepers of secrets and lies who had ever lived, while this administration of petulant children and useless Ivy League college lecturers leaked like a sieve. Who the fuck are you to tell me how to do my job? “Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll see to it that my people use the utmost discretion.”
He was escorted out of the White House. Stricken’s name would never show up on any visitor’s log. His job title was Special Advisor, but the most dogged of reporters would never be able to figure out what was special about him or who he advised. His Task Force didn’t formally exist, his budget was nebulous, and most importantly he had almost zero oversight. By government standards, Stricken was a ghost, though he thought that was a stupid comparison, since he had real ghosts working for him.
He made a single, brief phone call on his ride to STFU’s secret headquarters. “We’re on.”
Events were in motion. Franks would be dead soon enough.