CHAPTER 3
Every mortal being existed before. Long before this world came to be, there was a world of spirits. There’s a barrier between these two worlds. When humans are born they forget all that came before. I was never born. I do not have this problem. But as long as my spirit dwells in this body I am forced to use a human brain. It is as reliable as a lump of electrically charged fat and protein can be, but flesh can’t fully comprehend the world before. My memory of the before is imperfect.
There was a great council. The Creator presented us with The Plan. There was a disagreement over The Plan. This disagreement led to a war. One third of us broke our oath and rebelled against the Creator.
The fallen made war against the loyal. I was one of the most powerful, but my strength was not enough.
We lost.
The spirits that remained loyal would be born into the mortal world, progress, and eventually return. They were part of The Plan. The third of the host who rebelled were cast out, never to be born, never to have a mortal life or real bodies. Our leaders were cursed, and all who followed were condemned and cast out of the Creator’s presence.
Now, Hell . . . That I remember well enough.
11 Days Ago
Washington, DC
Franks lay on the floor of his apartment, staring at the ceiling.
Since he worked with humans, he kept a human schedule. That meant activity during the day and sleep at night. It was a rather pointless schedule for a man who didn’t really sleep. It was one reason that he preferred to be on an op, because during an op working around the clock wasn’t seen as odd.
Today would be a talky day. He hated that sort of thing. He hated talking. He hated the squishy, pathetic, government-appointed flesh bag overseers wasting his time arguing about regulations and picking apart the definition of words. Franks hated Washington. Of every human city, and he’d been to most of them, it was the worst. He’d rather have been in the slums of Mexico City strangling chupacabras with his bare hands. This city had been named after a true warrior, and Franks knew General Washington would be enraged if he could see the quality of human that dwelled here now. The general would probably run a few of them through with his sword.
Basically, Franks really hated bureaucrats.
At exactly four Franks got off the floor. Since he could see in the dark he didn’t bother turning on any lights. He had grown tired of being stared at in the MCB’s gym, so Franks had rented a basement apartment specifically so he could have a comprehensive weight set and not have it fall through the floor. He worked out for exactly forty-five minutes. One of his arms had taken a hit from the dragon in Las Vegas, so he kept his bench press to a mere seven hundred pounds so as to not stress it until the Elixir had time to properly re-form that bone.
There was no ornamentation anywhere in Franks’ apartment. The walls were still painted the same builder beige as when he’d moved in. There were no pictures, no mementos, and barely any furniture. Franks showered in his undecorated bathroom and then shoveled high protein food into his face in his undecorated kitchen. Pick any cabinet and the cans inside were in neat, orderly rows. Not a single can of peas mingled with the beans, because that would be unforgivable chaos.
Franks turned on the closet light as he got dressed. His night vision didn’t allow for much color differentiation. Not that it mattered since his closet was divided between nearly identical black suits, white shirts, and tactical gear. He did have a lot of ties, but that was because a few of his human coworkers always felt compelled to include him on their gift-giving holidays, and ties were the only thing that made sense. Despite having dozens of ties, he always wore a cheap black clip on.
Last were the holsters and weapons. Franks wore an Artoonian dual shoulder holster rig with an MCB-issued Glock 20 on each side. For most people, shoulder holsters were slower to draw from, but Franks wasn’t most people. They were harder to conceal, but Franks didn’t really care if anybody saw he was armed anyway. He had a compact Glock 29 in a G-Code holster on his belt. He kept six spare magazines of silver 10mm, three on each side of his belt, and a folding Emerson knife in both his right- and his lefthand pockets. Franks was ambidextrous, so it didn’t really matter which hand he killed you with.
Today he would be grilled, questioned, prodded, and annoyed, but sadly, he would not be allowed to kill anyone, and since MCB’s security force whined about hand grenades inside headquarters, he left those in the closet.
At 5:29 the doorbell rang, but Franks had already heard footfalls on the metal stairs and identified them as one of his agents. Franks opened the door and Grant Jefferson held out a giant paper container of overpriced coffee. “I got you some—” Franks rudely snatched the coffee from Grant’s hand. “Okay . . . It was hard to find the place. I didn’t think you’d live in such a bad part of town.”
The neighborhood was filled with criminals. Franks didn’t care. Occasionally one of the gang members who hadn’t heard about Franks’ rep would start something, and it gave him an opportunity to hurt someone. The government frowned on him killing people without an excuse. “Rent’s cheap.”
“Imagine that.” Grant glanced over at the graffiti on the walls of the stairwell. The agent didn’t realize that the spray-painted gang signs were a coded message left by the local scum, warning the other scum to not mess with Franks’ stuff, because when Franks got cranky it was bad for continued business, not to mention continued breathing. “You ready?”
That was a stupid question. Franks was always ready.
* * *
The headquarters of the Monster Control Bureau were in an unremarkable office building in Washington, DC. The exterior was a boring ten-story beige concrete and black glass rectangle. The landscaping was designed to thwart car bombers, was purposefully ugly and extra forgettable. They were close enough to the Capitol for business, but not so close that anyone would think they were important. No tourist would ever waste their time taking a picture of this particular building.
The underground parking garage had no names on the reserved spaces, but Agent Franks parked his giant SUV across the closest two spaces to the elevator.
“I think we’re in Director Stark’s space,” Jefferson said as he looked out the passenger side window, “and the one for visiting VIPs.”
Franks put the armored Suburban in reverse, backed up a bit, then pulled forward at an angle so he could also encroach into a third space, which was reserved for the handicapped. Franks killed the engine. Better.
“Uh . . . Okay then.”
Jefferson wasn’t a bad choice for the assignment. He was a talented agent and one of Myers’ confidants, but he also had some weaknesses. He was cocky. Franks figured Jefferson had been overcompensating for some perceived shortcomings long before he’d been traumatized by vampires, and that experience hadn’t exactly improved his outlook. He tried to hide it, but he had a chip on his shoulder. His fellows didn’t completely trust Grant because he was by nature a political animal, the former acting director’s golden boy, and he’d been MHI. But that time at MHI also meant he was passable in a fight. If anything interesting happened, Jefferson would probably suffice, or at least not die badly. Franks might not have been able to grasp all the nuances, but he had plenty of experience judging humans, and they seldom surprised him.
Franks got out and didn’t wait to see if Jefferson was following him. Myers had them working in shifts so that he’d always have at least one handler nearby. Normally Franks would only have a single partner, usually an experienced agent of his choosing. His partner would handle all of the messy business that Franks wasn’t suited for, like anything that required empathy. However, this was an abnormal situation, so Myers obviously felt he needed a support team. Jefferson, Archer, and Radabaugh were experienced combatants and were skilled at running interference. Strayhorn was an unknown, but Radabaugh was his training officer, so he would tag along when it was his turn. Franks didn’t know why Myers had stuck him with a rookie, but he would either succeed or he would fail. If he was lucky failure would occur in the bureaucratic arena rather than in combat. Either way, the outcome wasn’t Franks’ problem.
Most of the federal agencies around the city had fancy lobbies with useless decorations and expensive statues, all paid for by tax money that could be better used for important things, like weapons or training. The MCB building’s lobby was as plain and small as possible. It was because of the secret nature of their duty, but Franks appreciated it nonetheless. He wasn’t one for flash. The security checkpoint was manned by a fat old man who looked like a typical rent-a-cop. His name tag identified him as Terry. There were a couple of video monitors and a clipboard to sign in. There was nothing special enough to get anyone who blundered inside curious about the nature of this particular office building.
“Welcome back, Agent Franks,” Terry said. The guard was old now, but Franks remembered when Terry had been a young agent, crippled in the line of duty almost thirty years ago. He was one of the hundreds who had been hurt serving with Franks. “You’re looking well, sir.”
The pleasantry was useless, as Franks had gone through a dozen different faces since the two of them had first met, but ritual greetings made humans more comfortable. “You’ve gotten fat.”
“Ouch.” He patted his gut. “It isn’t like nightshift desk jockeys have to do PT.” Terry wasn’t completely for show, as there was a SCAR battle rifle hidden under the security desk, but the real security was inside. They were being observed. A red light flashed on the desk. “You’re clear to enter.”
He and Jefferson went into one of the elevators. It looked like any other elevator, but dozens of hidden cameras were studying them in every spectrum, including ultraviolet and infrared. If a visitor was running a temperature, they’d know. If they were too cold, the chamber would be flooded with powdered silver right before it was filled with fire. Body scanners bombarded them with low levels of radiation to see through their skin. Franks didn’t mind. If he got a tumor he’d just replace that part. The regular agents made it a habit not to leave and reenter headquarters more often than necessary. They ate lunch at their desks or in the cafeteria.
There was even a scale in the floor to make sure they were massing correctly. There were all sorts of interesting creatures that would have loved to sneak into MCB headquarters. A voice came out of nowhere. “You’ve put on a few pounds since your last visit, Agent Jefferson.”
“You get stuck working a trade show in Vegas and see what happens.” Jefferson stuck his head in a corner. “Grant Donald Jefferson. Agent five-two-two-niner-three.” There was a chime of recognition.
Franks put his eye against another hidden scanner in the wall. The retinal scan matched the last eyeball on record. Keeping his various part swaps updated in the database was a pain. “Franks. One.” The voiceprint matched and a green light activated on the back wall. The fake paneling slid aside, revealing a metal door. It took a minute for it to roll aside like a heavy steel gear.
“I was told all this security is relatively new, implemented right before I joined the Bureau.” Jefferson was still trying to make awkward conversation. “I heard they had to extensively remodel the building after a cinder beast snuck in and burned a chunk of it down.”
“Classified.”
“I heard you were the one that killed it.”
It had destroyed two whole floors of headquarters before Franks had caught up. It had given him third degree burns on much of his body and ruined one of his lungs before he’d twisted its flaming head clean off. However, the remodeling afterwards had given him the opportunity to secretly add a few things to the building to satisfy his paranoia. “Classified.”
“Bet that was wild . . .” Jefferson took a drink of his coffee. Humans were so annoying, with their need to communicate. Luckily for him the secret door was open. On the other side four armed men were waiting to greet them.
“Good morning, Agent Franks, Agent Jefferson.” The senior man seemed extremely nervous. “I’ve been asked to have you both disarm.”
Franks raised an eyebrow.
The four guards took an unconscious step back. The first swallowed hard. “I’m really sorry, sir. Director Stark just implemented a new policy. No weapons in headquarters beyond the first level. Only the designated security team is allowed to carry weapons upstairs.”
That was new. It was stupid and it totally missed the point of defense in depth, but Stark was an idiot. “Hmmm . . .”
“Sorry, sir. I’m really, really sorry, and this is nothing personal, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way and—”
“Locker?” A couple of the men quickly pointed, just glad that Franks was mad at Stark instead of them. He went over, opened one of the lockers and began shoving Glocks and magazines inside.
“I’m sorry, sir. Edged weapons and explosives too. The Director’s memo was very specific. Nothing deadly.”
“Should I cut my hands off?”
“That wasn’t on the memo.”
Franks glowered at him. The agent gave an involuntary shiver, but Franks went back and tossed the folding knives inside as well. This had to be related to his choking Stark unconscious in Vegas, like disarming Franks would make any difference if he really felt like murdering someone. Bullets just meant he didn’t have to chase them down first. He slammed the door shut and took the key. Jefferson had brought fewer guns, so was already disarmed and waiting.
Now Franks was really in a foul mood.
* * *
The MCB memorial for those who had fallen in the line of duty took up a lot of space on the first floor. It was a marble fountain, and it was really the only thing vaguely ornamental in the whole building. The badge of every agent who had been killed in action since their founding was inset into the base of the fountain, and they were shiny under an inch of clear running water. There were a lot of badges.
As expected, their rookie was here, standing at the rail and staring into the water.
“What’s up, Strayhorn?”
The rookie jumped. He hadn’t heard Archer coming. “Just reading names. Do you guys need me for something?”
“Nope. I was coming back from a smoke break and realized that if I do any more reports right now my eyes are going to start to bleed.” He stood next to Strayhorn and looked over the badges. Archer hadn’t been in the Bureau for very long, but it was sobering how many of those shiny badges he’d known as living and breathing men and women. “I figured you’d be here.”
“How come?”
“The first time a new guy comes to headquarters, they always gravitate right to this spot. Can’t help themselves. They’ve seen the stats, read the histories in the academy, but they need to see the names to put it into perspective. I know I did.”
“That’s a lot of badges . . .” Strayhorn trailed off.
“Sure, it’s dangerous, but we’ve been around since 1902.” Archer didn’t want to point out that he’d seen the statistical analysis, and their casualty rate was higher now than it had ever been. Things were really picking up out there, but there was no need to depress the new guy already. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somebody needs to give the rookie a tour, and your training officer is a trigger puller. He probably doesn’t even know where half the cool stuff is.” Archer walked back toward the elevator and the rookie followed. “What’s the MCB’s mission, and the First Reason for that mission?”
“Is this a test?”
“Humor me.”
Strayhorn quoted from his training. “The MCB’s primary mission is to keep the existence of monsters and the supernatural a secret. The First Reason is the more people who believe in the Old Ones, the more powerful they become.”
“Correct. You might think it sounds a little crazy right now, or you might be having some doubts about our mission or our tactics, I know I was when I was in your shoes, but believe me, the first time you see a monster tree the size of this building rampaging across the countryside sucking all the light and happiness out of the world, you’ll be all in favor of doing some crazy shit too. The Bureau has four main departments to achieve our goals . . .”
“Admin and Logistics, Media Control, Research and Development, and the Special Response Team.”
“Good for you. I was still so freaked out that monsters were real that I missed half of the nuts and bolts stuff from the academy,” Archer lied. He was a nuts and bolts kind of guy. Archer slid his keycard in the reader and pushed the button for the fourth floor. “You’ll be assigned to one of those after this Franks duty.”
“What department does Franks belong to?”
“None. The Bureau just lets Franks do his own thing. Were you Special Forces or anything like that?”
“Not even close.”
“Then you probably won’t go to the Strike Team. Yeah, that’s not the official name, but we don’t call them SRT. We had that name first, but then the FBI came along and stole it. They’re our resident badasses who ride in black helicopters and go in guns blazing,” he explained as the elevator rose.
“I heard they’re pretty tough.”
“Of course. You’ve been listening to Radabaugh. They’ve got some offices here, but mostly they stage out of military bases and train at Quantico. Myers is their boss now, and his number two is this crazy guy named Cueto. You don’t want that assignment though.”
“How come?”
“They’re most of the badges in the fountain.”
* * *
Archer returned to work, satisfied that he’d done his good deed for the day. The rookie seemed like a pretty sharp kid. R&D was always a crowd pleaser, with all of the dissected monsters and equipment prototypes laying around, then they’d gone through Media Control, where the MCB worked their magic discrediting and slandering witnesses, manipulating the news, and even producing their own easily debunked conspiracy theories. Strayhorn seemed a little put off by that department, though he’d tried to hide it, but that was a fairly normal reaction. Then Archer’d turned the rookie back over to his TO and gone back to his cubicle on the ninth floor.
He found that Grant was waiting there, grey-faced and anxious. It was unusual to see Grant disheveled, let alone looking like he was about to barf in the trash can. “Man, you don’t look very good.”
“That’s because I just got off the phone with our boss.”
“What did Myers say?”
“First off, situation in Vegas is looking better. They’ve mostly got it under control and our usual media shills are doing a great job. The phone videos that popped up from the witnesses are being mocked as Photoshop.”
“Myers is like an artist.”
“He’s trying to come back as soon as possible. Second, he didn’t say why, but we’re not supposed to go anywhere near operational, especially with a rookie along, and Franks is supposed to stay put, no matter how excited he gets to kill something.”
“That makes sense I suppose.” Going on an op with Franks was a duty best left to the badass snake eaters on the Strike Team. Those guys were mostly former SEALs and SF, like Radabaugh. Archer knew he was pretty good at his job, but he couldn’t help but feel a little dumpy next to those guys.
“No, you don’t get it. A giant kaiju monster could be climbing up the Washington Monument and Myers still wants Franks to stay put. No monsters. Period. You know what that means?”
Archer had to think about it for a moment. Franks’ inclination was always to walk up to the most dangerous monster in the room and punch it in the face. Only they’d just pissed off an organization that actively recruited monsters and used them for wet work. “Whoa.” Was Myers actually worried about an STFU setup?
Neither one of them wanted to confirm it out loud here. Their office probably wasn’t bugged. “Uh huh. Exactly. Nothing concrete, just Myers’ gut instinct, but Franks stays here.”
Where it’s safe and nothing can get to him. If anything happened, he really didn’t want to be the one to try to get Franks to stay at his desk. . . . But that couldn’t be why Grant looked like he’d just gotten off a roller coaster. “And?”
Grant swallowed hard. “And finally, he ordered me to go throw my career away.”
Archer sat down across from his partner. “Wait . . . What?”
He gave a resigned sigh. “I guess this is what I get for picking a side in a battle of bureaucrats. I’m reaping what I’ve sown. Damn it. See, Henry, this is what happens when you try to do the right thing. You get screwed every single time.”
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Myers thinks they’re going to try to crucify Franks in today’s Subcommittee meeting. We need to shift the blame to where it really belongs. Myers wants me to tell the truth about our friends in Vegas.”
Bring up Unicorn? “Wow.” No wonder Myers wanted Franks to stay at MCB headquarters. They were about to flip the lights on and watch the roaches scurry for cover, only these cockroaches specialized in assassinations. Exposing Special Task Force Unicorn would be like a declaration of war. The implications sank in. “Oh hell . . .” Archer suddenly didn’t feel very good either.
* * *
The day proved to be as miserable as Franks had expected, filled with paperwork, useless reports, and foolish questions from petty men. He’d been grilled by members of the Subcommittee on Unearthly Forces, various high ranking MCB officers, and was now currently facing his main accuser, Director Stark. So far this meeting had been particularly shrill, with lots of dramatic table pounding for emphasis.
“And then as I confronted Agent Franks about his illegal actions and theft he physically assaulted me!” Table pound. The two congressmen, their aides, and other government teat suckers and hangers-on nodded thoughtfully. The augmented guard force just stayed in their corners, nervous at this display that was way over their pay grade as their Director continued his rant. “Not only did he put my life in jeopardy, but he also endangered the MCB’s response to the Las Vegas incident. I was in command and without my leadership—”
Franks snorted.
“Don’t mock me, Franks!” Stark struck the table with both fists that time. “I’m sick of your crap. You should be in jail right now.”
He’d always thought that Stark looked like a bulldog. Animals didn’t like Franks and tended to shy away from him, but Franks had always found the bulldog a fascinating creature, all slobbery, and ugly, with ill-fitting skin and labored breathing, yet they were determined beasts. Their awkwardness made him like them as much as he was capable of liking anything. The bulldog was proof that the Creator found joy in the cumbersome.
Stark on the other hand was just an asshole.
“You weren’t in charge,” Franks stated.
Double table pound. “Yes, I was! I had the situation in hand until your reckless actions endangered our entire operation.”
“You weren’t in charge. Unicorn was.”
The briefing room was packed with people, and they all began to mutter at that. Only a handful of them were probably cleared to know about the existence of STFU, but Franks didn’t care.
Grant Jefferson cleared his throat and leaned forward to speak into his microphone. “I believe that Agent Franks is saying that although Director Stark was present at the quarantine, the de facto command of the operation was in the hands of a high-ranking covert official code-named Stricken. Former Acting Director Dwayne Myers has obtained evidence that this Stricken was in fact aware of the full capabilities of the Nachtmar, and kept those facts to himself, needlessly causing—”
“That’ll be enough of that,” one of the congressmen interjected. The other one just looked confused.
“Needlessly causing danger to MCB personnel, local responders, and civilians. Dwayne Myers is currently running the Las Vegas operation, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to testify before the Subcommittee about how Mr. Stricken subverted our mission for his own ends—as soon as he returns from cleaning up Mr. Stricken’s careless mess.” Jefferson had a good stage presence. Franks recalled from his file that he’d been a lawyer once. He sure talked like one. “Agent Franks was placed in a difficult circumstance, when forced to choose between following procedure or containing a Level Five outbreak, he choose to abide by the spirit of the First Reason. If Franks had not acted decisively, then thousands of other civilians would have been exposed to the supernatural. The record needs to indicate that Franks wouldn’t have faced this difficult choice, if Special Task Force Unicorn hadn’t overstepped their bounds.”
“What is Special Task Force Unicorn?” asked one of the confused officials.
“They are a covert action group that recruits monsters to serve as soldiers in exchange for PUFF exemptions,” Jefferson answered immediately.
The conference room was suddenly very loud. Most of those cleared for this hearing were high-ranking MCB, and this was news to them.
“Whoa there, son,” the first congressman said, glancing around the room nervously. “This isn’t the time or place to get into that.”
Franks scowled. Because everybody knows there’s no such thing as unicorns.
Jefferson gave him a nervous glance. If Stricken had the majority of the Subcommittee cowed, then they were in worse shape than expected. He turned back to their questioners. “You can’t expect Franks to defend himself if he’s not allowed to explain why he did what he had to do.”
“Who does this Unicorn thing answer to?” demanded one of the MCB section commanders.
“You would have to ask Mr. Stricken that, sir. But whoever it is, they need to hold Stricken accountable for his careless actions in Las Vegas.”
The chairman ordered the room to be silent. Franks was glad to see that there was still some fire in some of the MCB’s leadership. Stark was red in the face and sweating. He’d not expected his string-pullers to be so blatantly exposed.
Then a senior administrator addressed them. “Officially, there’s no record of any other agency or entity involved with running the quarantine. Rest assured that we’ll listen to what Special Agent Myers has to say when he returns tomorrow. In the meantime this is an internal MCB matter, so let the record show that Director Stark was in command the entire time.”
Franks was not amused. “So the MCB is a sock puppet for Stricken’s murder squad now?”
Though most of the room were still in the dark, there were a lot of uncomfortable glances shared around the Subcommittee’s table. One of the congressmen hurried and grabbed his microphone. “Let’s have Agent Franks write up a statement for us pertaining to any sensitive information, then we’ll reconvene this hearing tomorrow.” He banged his gavel.
“He went nuts and tried to kill me!” Director Stark shouted. Double table pound. They’d worked together before, so Franks knew Stark had always been a fake, hiding his cowardice behind a wall of bluster and bravado. When the shit got real, Stark could be counted on to fold, but right now they were in his element, where talking about actions meant more than the actions themselves. “What are you waiting for? I demand that Franks be locked up!”
Franks rested his big hands on the table. “Try it.”
Stark shut his mouth.
“That will not be necessary,” said one of the congressmen.
The MCB security force breathed a collective sigh of relief.
* * *
“They named you in the Subcommittee hearing, right in front of everybody. They talked about the Task Force and said that Myers had evidence, the works.”
Stricken listened carefully as his source continued describing the testimony. It matched almost exactly what another source from the same secret meeting had supplied a few minutes earlier. It was nice to have multiple moles. It kept everyone honest.
“Thank you, Elwood. I’ll remember the favor.” Stricken hung up on the congressman, then tossed the iPhone to one of his subordinates, who immediately sealed it into a bag. There were protocols in place for anything that might prove useful for future blackmail purposes.
A different man handed him another phone. “It’s Director Stark.”
Now that was one particular puppet whose annoyance was quickly outweighing his continued usefulness. Stricken took the phone. “What, Doug?”
“I tried to give the order to have Franks arrested, but the committee—”
“I already know. While you were taking your sweet time somebody else informed me about how you sat there like a moron while Myers’ golden boy spouted off about my secret organization. Way to go, champ.”
The line went quiet for a long time. Stark knew he was in trouble. They both knew the only reason he’d gotten the directorship was because of Stricken’s string-pulling. “I tried to call as soon as—”
“Make sure Franks stays put. Don’t go near him. I’ll be in touch.” He ended the call, then handed the phone back. This one didn’t get bagged. He had so much dirt on Stark that it didn’t matter at this point. “Myers, you clever bastard. What are you up to?”
They were supposed to have ruled Franks a menace. The MCB should have detained him. The President’s hands would be clean. Everyone would be happy. There were only a couple of facilities in the country that could hold something like Franks, and Stricken had already made arrangements at both of them for Franks to get obliterated trying to escape. But Myers was good . . . He’d moved first and spooked the Subcommittee members who were in Stricken’s pocket. Word was that Myers was getting Las Vegas under control surprisingly fast, which meant he would rush back to the action to really try to screw Stricken over.
It had been a long time since he’d so enjoyed a game of chess like this.
They were a lot alike, and both of them knew how to play the system, but the difference between him and Myers was that Myers still had faith in the system actually working as designed, checks and balances and whatnot. He would expect Stricken to run for cover and start doing damage control. He’d expect meetings and heated arguments, maybe some internal investigations, that sort of thing.
Myers sure as hell wouldn’t expect what would happen next.
Despite his opponent’s considerable intellect and ability to spin lies with the best of them, Myers was at heart a decent, patriotic man. That made him vulnerable. Myers reserved his ruthlessness for paranormal enemies. Stricken didn’t make such distinctions. You’re either with me or you’re in my way. Considering what he suspected was coming down the pike, for America—hell, the human race—to survive, then they’d need somebody with the guts to do what was necessary running the show. Stricken knew he was that man.
In any other time, Myers probably would have been sufficient. Now? He just wasn’t up to the task. And Dwayne Myers had even been willing to nuke Alabama to stop the Old Ones. Stricken considered that a nice start.
“We’re launching our contingency plan immediately.” The STFU bunker was so big that the distance between his office and the control center was significant, so he used the time to give a series of rapid-fire orders to his subordinates that fell in behind him. “Foster, you’re running this op. Call up Renfroe. Pull the spider out of the tank. I want it wired with explosives so it doesn’t get any funny ideas about running off on the job.”
“This is Franks we’re talking about,” said one of his men. And these were all men. His inner circle would never contain any supernatural members again. Adam Conover had taught him a valuable lesson about the trustworthiness of monsters. “Our most reliable team was lost. Want me to call up some extra muscle?”
“Not yet.” It was too bad about his first string. Those monsters had shown real potential, but Kerkonen had been the only one to get out of the nightmare realm alive. “Red isn’t right for this job. Sending her against foreign terrorists is one thing, but Americans? And MCB at that? She’s got a soft spot for cops. PUFF exemption on the line or not, she’d balk and screw this up.” Managing monsters and black ops teams was a real challenge; he had to sort them not just by capabilities, but by which ones had functioning moral compasses. “Send her to the Flierls’ team. They’re a bunch of goody-goodies too. We’ll hold them in reserve in case this goes sideways.”
“If the Flierls find out we’re operating outside the law, they’ll flip out . . . Hell, Renfroe won’t like this assignment much either.”
“His employment isn’t exactly voluntary, now is it?”
The men laughed, because when Stricken made a joke, you’d damn well better believe they laughed like it was the funniest damned thing ever. Intimidating subordinates was a guilty pleasure of his. One of them held open the door to the command center for him.
The name was kind of a misnomer. When he’d first heard command center he’d pictured something like NASA mission control. This was more like an office overlooking the laboratory floor, populated by a handful of nerds armed with computers and some big screens on the walls. It wasn’t impressive because of how it looked, but rather, what he could screw with from here. The nerds looked at him fearfully as he entered and then furtively went back to their work. They reminded him of a bunch of ground squirrels.
“I don’t know who you intend to use for this mission then, sir, because we’ll need time to get other assets together. You don’t intend to send only our regular forces, do you?”
It had been Foster who had asked that question. It was a reasonable question, since the former CIA man had just been put in charge of a hit against the biggest badass in the federal government, but Stricken figured the hesitancy was because Foster was still a little squeamish from his encounter with Franks in Vegas. No STFU man wanted to go up against a monster without monsters of his own.
“Of course not, Foster. I’m a firm believer in letting our subcontracted employees do the bleeding on our behalf.” He spotted exactly who he was hoping to find in the command center and walked directly toward her. “Hello, Dr. Bhaskara.”
She turned and nodded politely to the albino. “Mr. Stricken.”
Stricken liked the Project’s head scientist. She was an attractive Indian woman in her mid forties, with a British accent that reminded him of Mary Poppins, but she was every bit as driven as he was, and as far as he could tell, she’d never been weighed down with any of those pesky medical ethics some of these brilliant science types seemed to get hung up on. “Any new developments with our babies?”
Dr. Bhaskara sniffed. She didn’t like when he referred to the Project Nemesis prototypes as babies. “Of the thirteen we have decanted so far, the prototypes are still testing at peak efficiency. Their ability to learn is remarkable. There has yet to be a single testing failure, cognitive or physical, thus far.”
“What’re the new scores looking like?”
“Far better than expected. They are remarkable. Let me put it this way, Mr. Stricken. Take ten minutes to demonstrate the skills necessary and another ten minutes to explain the rules of the sport to them, and then they would easily win the Olympic gold medal for that event and their human opponents wouldn’t even have a chance.”
“I’m not rigging the Tour de France, Doctor, hilarious as that would be. I’m talking combat capabilities.”
“Weapons familiarity training has been going well. Since we last spoke I have tested the first prototype against captured vampires of various strains and ages. A particularly nasty, well fed, fifty-year-old specimen only survived two and a half minutes of hand-to-hand combat.”
“That’s my boy.”
“He is still by far the most capable of the prototypes, but I hope the others catch up.” Dr. Bhaskara was justifiably proud. “I have no doubt that if we had a Master to test against, our prototypes would stand an excellent chance at winning.”
That was probably pushing it. The doctor had read papers about Master vamps, but Stricken had dealt with them up close and personal. He wasn’t placing any bets. But luckily Stricken had a baker’s dozen of growth tanks that could pump out a new body every six months. And since this whole Project was stupidly illegal and he wasn’t even supposed to be testing, he’d done all that in secret. Once Franks was removed from the equation and he got an official go-ahead, he’d build hundreds of tanks. Then he’d have the quality and quantity to take all comers.
“Are you confident in their ability to follow orders?” That was his greatest concern. He’d taken them out for a few little things, like bodyguarding him that time he’d confronted Earl Harbinger in Alaska, or popping some easy targets of opportunity, but the prototypes had never done anything too complex yet. What he had in mind would be challenging.
“Absolutely. All of our psychological testing has shown that they are completely incapable of disloyalty. They are programmed to obey no matter what.”
Programming was appropriate. They were basically like robots made out of flesh. He’d seen some of the footage of those tests. Order a prototype to hold a position no matter what, and then you could inflict all manner of pain and suffering on it, but they’d rather die than budge. Electrocute them, set them on fire, it didn’t matter. It had been harsh, but fascinating. “The outside world isn’t quite as sterile as your lab.”
“Should one go rogue, we can simply activate the preprogrammed kill switch.” Conover’s treachery had caused them to add that improvement. “Even as incredibly resilient as their systems are, the release of the neurotoxin would incapacitate them instantly, and before you ask, yes, the rapid necrotic dissolution will destroy the evidence. Even their blood decays too quickly to extract DNA evidence.”
“It’s hard to autopsy slurry. Good work, Doc. If you weren’t a complete psycho, I’d marry you.”
“Sadly, I am married to my work, Mr. Stricken.”
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you heard the report card . . .” Stricken picked up a remote control from one of the desks. One wall screen began flashing through various interior shots, the growth vats, the glowing cylinders of alchemical slime, and then finally the testing center. “If we’re going to use these things to save the world, I think it’s time we conduct a more in-depth field test.”
The camera was fixed on a man sitting cross-legged on the floor of a padded room, staring off into space. His bare torso was hooked to several different monitoring machines. Every muscle group stood out with perfect definition. It was like he’d been sculpted by an artist whose only instruction had been to demonstrate perfection.
“The first prototype . . .” Foster whistled. They’d all seen what these things were capable of, and the oldest was special even by Nemesis standards. “Poor Franks will never know what hit him.”
The man appeared to be an ideal human specimen, but he was so much more. He was a blank slate on which could be inscribed the perfect soldier. Other than the nearly inhuman level of muscle tone, he appeared to be a white male in his twenties. They’d varied the genetic mix in each tank so that he could have assets available to blend into any culture. Stricken had to admit, he felt a little proud. He’d played god and gotten away with it. He had to wonder if Konrad Dippel had felt like this when he’d electrocuted a slab of meat and brought Franks to life.
The first prototype was staring directly into the camera.
* * *
He could smell his visitor approaching.
The albino had the scent of dark magic on him. He’d been touched at some point in his life and it had left him twisted. There was a blight on his soul, but unlike most damaged humans, the one called Stricken had embraced the darkness and used it to make himself stronger instead. He had a lust for power that was rare amongst mortals. It would be wise not to underestimate the albino.
The door of his cell opened and Stricken entered, alone. He was not afraid. Stricken believed he was in control. They had surgically implanted a device inside his skull, and should he rise up against his creators, they would destroy this body.
That was unacceptable.
“Looking good there, my badass genetically engineered killing machine.”
He remained seated as Stricken approached. If he moved too much it would pull the needles and sensors from his body and that would upset the doctors. Their poking and experiments were tiresome, but the indignities were a small price to pay to have a physical body. It was not right to treat a prince like this, but he would bide his time, and once ascended, he would remember every single insult inflicted on him by these humans and he would repay each one a thousandfold.
“I know you’re not into small talk so I’ll get right down to business. I’ve got a job for you to do and I need to decide if you’re up to it. Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“You want to go outside?”
He nodded again.
“You mind killing some people for me?”
He shook his head in the negative.
“Of course you don’t. Mr. Foster will brief you. This operation is under his command. You’ll do exactly as he tells you. You will not fail and you will not allow yourself to be captured. Your primary target will be Agent Franks of the Monster Control Bureau.”
Franks? It was a common enough human surname. “Will you tell me about this Franks?”
Stricken seemed a little surprised that he’d bothered to ask a question. “That’s just what Franks named himself. He’s a powerful flesh golem.”
It was fate. Yet, they still think he is a mere golem? That is all? Franks had successfully hidden his true identity all this time. Such patience and restraint was remarkable, especially for one capable of such anger.
“Don’t worry. Franks is old technology, nothing like you and your siblings. We’ve arranged it so that he should be unarmed, but just in case I’ll be sending some help with you. Foster will give you a rundown on Franks’ known capabilities. He’ll also brief you on your secondary and tertiary targets and mission parameters. This one will require some finesse and then a whole lot of bloodshed. Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“I knew my first prototype wouldn’t let me down.” Stricken began walking away. He paused at the door. “You know what? That’s stupid. We can’t go live and still be calling you First Prototype all the time. We need to think up a name for you.”
“You said the flesh golem Franks named himself. Am I allowed to give myself a name?”
“Getting a little uppity there, aren’t you, buddy?” The albino frowned as he thought it over. “Well, it’s not like my mom named me Stricken . . . You were designed to be capable of autonomous problem solving, so I don’t see why not. Keep it simple though. Name tapes charge by the letter.”
He waited several minutes after Stricken had left. The doctors would observe his every move. He wanted them to believe that he had to think this decision over, even though the decision had been made for him a very long time ago. The name was remembered from the before time, bestowed upon the leaders of the rebellion by the World Maker when they’d been cast down and exiled to Hell. He stared into the camera and made his pronouncement.
“I am Kurst.”