BRAINSTORM Read online

  “Is he insane? Close the facility? Damn it, he can’t be serious. This is a ten-billion-dollar operation, thirty-five years of work, five thousand lives! He won’t do that.”

  I tried to analyze what they said. What did the Chairman of the Board of Mount Rainy Biotronics have to do with this situation? Chief Dailey was understandably upset. Closing Mount Rainy Biotronics’ research facility would make Gold Rush die within weeks. And what about William? We’d have to transfer him to another hospital.

  “He can,” Xiang said flatly. “And he will. He is very upset at the breach of security—that they were able to get this far. We have until morning. Your orders are simple. As Colonel Wu has said, if you see the subject, shoot to kill.”

  I shrank back with a gasp I hoped wasn’t audible, but I kept watching. No one seemed to have heard; however, Michelle looked my way again. She was playing along with them, she must have been. She knew it was the only way to keep me safe from whatever they were up to, I was sure of it.

  My giving up was certainly out of the question now. If these were the good guys, I would have hated to see the bad. I faced a triple dilemma. I not only had to escape from this mess myself, but I also had to rescue Michelle and then Will.

  The doctor went on. “We have others. Granted, they are not the specimen he is, but even those with half the talent will serve the purpose, especially with our refined devises.”

  Again, I questioned their choice of words. Talent?

  “What if we can take him alive?” the chief asked. “And the woman?”

  At-a-boy, Chief, I thought.

  But Mike Wu shook his head as Dr. Xiang answered, “Do not. Neither of them. And we will need their bodies for proof.”

  “All right,” the chief said. “All right, but I don’t like it.”

  “You do not have to.”

  The radio squawked on the police cruiser, and one of Dailey’s deputies went to answer it.

  “One Adam two, this is Prater. Do you copy, over?” Along with the cop’s voice came the snaps of silenced weapons and several echoing pops from what could have been Sunny’s pistol, perhaps from MP5s and M-16s.

  “This is one Adam two, go ahead Corporal Prater.”

  “Yeah, Hank, we’re about a quarter mile east of Checkpoint Alpha. I think we got ‘em. He got Sergeant Qian, though. Just like the others.”

  The doctor said to Dailey, “Apparently you will not have to worry.”

  The chief spat his tobacco, and it splat in the snow on the street. “No,” he said softly as if there might be remorse in his voice. “No, I guess I won’t.”

  The window motor complained again, and the limousine drove away.

  Chief Dailey reached over to Michelle and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “You did your part,” he said, and as he did, Mike Wu scanned the area, making me duck. Dailey told Michelle, “Sorry it had to end up this way.”

  “It doesn’t matter, chief,” she said. “I’ll have other opportunities.” Her voice was cold and void of feeling.

  That a girl, Michelle, I thought. She must have seen me. Good act. I didn’t understand what she meant by other opportunities, though.

  A rapid and sharp hammering echoed from the woods. It came from several miles away, but still, I recognized the sound. The snaps of the silenced bullets hadn’t carried this far. Sunny’s little .32 caliber couldn’t do that, nor even the bad guys’ MP5s in the snowfall. These were the unmistakable reports of a fifty-caliber machinegun.

  More static squawked over the radio and Prater’s yelling voice came on again. “We need the meat wagon down—” Confusion and yelling voices interrupted Prater, and he sounded distracted. He called out away from his keyed mike. “What? Did you get her? Is she dead? What about Weller?”

  I took the chance of looking over the edge of the window again.

  A dome of yellow light rose above the trees followed by a sudden slam like two train cars colliding.

  Back into the microphone Prater’s voice bellowed, “They’ve shot down a chopper, and we need reinforcements and medevacs!”

  Mike Wu immediately called out to the men surrounding the house, “Go! Checkpoint Alpha. Now!”

  Dailey yanked open his patrol car door. “Davis, you and Gomez come with me.”

  Wu said to Michelle, “You stay in the house in case he shows up.” From his pocket, he pulled out an object about the size of a Bic lighter with a short wire attached. “Since all of our cameras and microphones in there are fried, you’ll need this microphone so we can monitor you.” He peeled off something from what was probably an adhesive backing and handed the thing to her.

  Michelle took it and snaked it down the collar of her sweater, then briefly pressed her fingers over where she had placed it.

  Wu ran toward the back of the house. He turned briefly and instructed Michelle further. “But don’t let him get too close, and under no circumstances confront him. Leave that to me.”

  My house had been bugged. And now Mike Wu gave Michelle a wire to keep tabs on her.

  Most of the officers were converging on the backyard of my home. Two EMTs came sprinting toward the front of the ambulance from where they’d been leaning on another patrol car down the street, so I edged around to the back. Dailey and his two officers were in his squad car. He turned on the lights and siren and sped away.

  From the rear of the vehicle, I felt the ambulance rock as the EMTs got in, and it soon followed the cops. I made no attempt to hide after it took off. Michelle and I were the only ones left. It was like I didn’t care anymore if I got caught, didn’t care if they looked in their rearview mirrors as they drove away and saw me.

  Harvey said, Don’t do it!

  I smiled, a little apprehensively now, still not listening to Harvey, and held out my hands as I hustled to where Michelle was standing on the sidewalk. Her back was to me. She watched the ambulance as it too switched on its lights and siren.

  She’s going to kill you!

  I paid no attention. When I stepped onto the sidewalk, Michelle turned to me.

  Run! I’m tellin’ you, the bitch is going to shoot you!

  “Shut up, stupid!” I said, my voice rising at the irritant inside my psyche.

  Michelle appeared startled, her eyes nearly bugging out of her small round face.

  “Michelle?” I said. “No, baby. Not you. I was talking to . . .” How could I explain it to her?

  She backed away, screaming, “He’s here! Come back, he’s right here!”

  What did I tell ya? So, now who’s a dumb bunny?

  Now, I’d done it. I’d frightened her. With everything that’d been going on this evening, how could I blame her for being scared with me yelling out like that. Jeez—telling myself to shut up.

  Then it happened quickly—so very quickly, it left me standing in a stupor. She reached under her sweater and pulled out a nine-millimeter Makarov pistol.

  A flash of pain shot from the back of my head to my temple, and Michelle collapsed onto the front lawn like a lifeless China doll.

  Chapter 19

  “Sunny,” Major Jackson yelled as he pulled her from the ground.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she staggered.

  Jax yelled into her ear, “Snap to, Sunny. You’ve got to be one hundred percent now.” He flung her toward the DPV. “Get back to the choppers. We’ll try to hold them off. Fill Gunny Sampson in on what we know, and tell him if he hasn’t heard from us in the next twenty minutes, it’s his baby.”

  Sunny climbed into the DPV still stammering as if not yet in complete charge of her faculties. She fired up the vehicle as bullets sang through the smoke-filled air around her. One projectile hit the exhaust pipe, and the muffler fell to the ground. It hung on by only a thin piece of the pipe. The DPV’s small but high-horsepower engine suddenly became loud and complaining.

  The airman on the back, who’d been manning the machine gun, jumped to the ground and took loose an equipment bag strapped to the side. “Go!” he said as he st
epped back.

  Sunny spun out in the DPV, and the German shepherd leapt into the passenger’s side as she drove past. They headed down a small trail, having to avoid burning debris from the helicopter the airman had shot down with the fifty-caliber machinegun.

  “The smoke pots are about out,” Lieutenant Carpenter said as Jax took the bulky equipment bag from the soldier. “They’ll be all over us any second.”

  Jax flopped the large bag onto the ground, and the three men gathered around it. As he yanked down the zipper, he told them, “Remember, some of these people we’re up against might be our own. Nonlethal weapons only, unless I direct you otherwise.” He pulled out two satchel charges and passed them to his men. After taking one for himself, he zipped the still cumbersome bag up, swung it to his back and put his arms through the shoulder straps.

  “Count down from six, pull the pins, and toss the Bucha charges. These are a helluva lot more powerful than the grenades you’ve trained with, so, for God’s sake, make sure everyone has goggles on, eyes shielded and are down and clear.”

  Jax looked toward the fence, now in easy view as the smoke pots died out and their smoke screen dissipated. Muzzle flashes came from within thirty yards on the other side. They ducked as several rounds zipped over their heads. The optical Bucha charges would fix this group of adversaries. The strobing lights the charges produced flashed at human brainwave frequency, causing serious vertigo, disorientation and nausea.

  Jax continued, “Rally two hundred feet to the west and go under the wire. We won’t have to worry about this bunch, but there’re surely more on the way.” He made direct eye contact with both men. “Start now!”

  The three soldiers split up and ran for cover near the other two men who were firing their M-16s well above their adversaries’ heads. All pulled down their goggles.

  In unison, they counted down to one, pulled the pins and tossed their satchels over the concertina wire edging the top of the fence and in the direction of the muzzle flashes. As they flattened to the ground, three loud pops came from the other side of the chain link and lightning-like bolts of electricity shot out, crackled down the fence line, into the trees and along the wet ground.

  Even in the heavy snowfall, the smoky woods illuminated for a quarter-mile radius in a tremendous and eerie, strobing glow like the cosmic birthing of a galaxy.

  * * *

  I had just killed my wife.

  She lay on her side on the snow-covered sidewalk before me, like a road-killed deer. I saw no sign of life. She did not breathe. I hoped I was wrong as I bent down to look over her precious body, and the world around me became fragile, brittle, as did my mind. I felt the delicateness of it inside my head as I scanned the houses lining the street, the cars in the driveways, the few streetlights haloed in a mist of crystalline snow so light it was hardly perceptible on my skin. If I breathed, I was sure my world would break. Already fractured, its paper-thin shell was about to collapse from its own weight.

  However, I did breathe, ever so lightly. I touched Michelle’s hand. It was soft and as delicate as skinned-over pudding, and at first, I was careful of bruising it.

  The emotions struck me suddenly, pouring into my brain like scalding water. My eyes burned. Even in this crisp night, my temples and forehead began to sweat from the rush.

  Going to her was the dumbest mistake I could have made. So careless, so terribly costly. Worried for my own survival, I had risked her life without carefully considering the consequences. I had to undo the harm.

  As the woods behind the houses glowed from the fight taking place at the foot of the hill, I gathered Michelle up and hugged her. She did not respond. She was limp, her arms dangling. However, I felt her warmth and realized it was not too late. I was wasting time, her precious time, grieving prematurely.

  Cradling her slight body in my arms, I rose and nearly tumbled in my haste. But I overcame my awkwardness enough to trot, guarded yet briskly on the snow-slickened walk, to the front door of our house.

  I opened the door clumsily and laid Michelle’s body on the living room floor. When I knelt over her, I found no pulse in her throat, no sign of respiration in her chest. Nor, did I feel her breath on my cheek as I put my face close and listened for it.

  I couldn’t break down now. I had to bring her back to life, this special woman with whom I’d shared my life and dreams for the past seven years. She was the mother of my son, which placed her in an even more exalted position in my life. As I thought of this, I remembered Will, that he might also be in danger, and it reinforced my resolve. With the hint of hope, the cracked shell of my life healed over slightly for now, but it was still dreadfully flimsy. I had to revive my dear Michelle, find Will, and protect him from whatever was happening even if it meant protecting him against me—my disease, my deadly infectious being.

  “Come on, Mish girl,” I whispered urgently as I lifted her chin and opened her mouth. I held her nose closed as I blew into her airway. “Wake up,” I said, and I repeated my attempt to resuscitate her. “Come on, baby.” I moved to her midsection, my eyes becoming bleary.

  I fished out the small microphone she’d placed under her sweater and tossed it to the side. At the end of her breastbone, I placed the heels of my hands on top of one another. “Please, Michelle,” I said while pushing firmly upon her chest. I thrust every second four times, then went back to her mouth. I pressed my lips to hers, praying for a response.

  Relentlessly I worked, giving chest compressions and rescue breathing on her small body. The minutes passed like hours. I became exhausted. Her skin and lips had cooled.

  Finally, I gave up, wrenching my eyes to the ceiling as the tears flooded through. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “My, God, Michelle, I’m so sorry!”

  I released her and tried to stand with no idea where I was going. Stumbling after only two steps, I collapsed into the nearest corner of the dark house, worn out and grief stricken. How could I have been so stupid?

  I tried to remember how special Michelle had been to me. This morning we’d had our last invaluable moment together, and I was glad we had vowed our mutual love. That memory was the only clear and distinct vision of her I could conjure. The rest were like when I’d thought of her and my paralyzed son, earlier—like watching a home movie in a dark room, a white screen in front of me. Strange, the way memories come to a mind.

  I recalled her on that screen laughing and dancing, and in a wedding gown, and cooking and doing laundry, and going on walks with me, and taking care of our son. Nevertheless, I didn’t have enough memories for our seven years of life together, and I felt cheated, staring at her frail body ten feet away in the darkness. I was convinced the disease had a hold of me, this thing inside of my body that caused people to die. I shook my head trying to remember how we met, but couldn’t. I couldn’t remember her favorite food, color, or even her preferred sexual position. I couldn’t remember her favorite author, movie or drink.

  Outside, a car approached, its headlights shining through the curtains as it turned the corner and drove slowly by. I rose and glimpsed through the narrow parting in the drapes. It was another patrol car. It pulled up past my yard and parked. As I watched, I realized the Makarov pistol Michelle had pulled on me was still lying near the front walk, its small black frame clearly visible in the snow. I didn’t know where she’d gotten it. I should’ve known if she’d owned a firearm. Regardless of whose it was, if the cop found it, he would surely come to the door looking for Michelle and probably call for backup.

  I remembered the wire I’d taken from Michelle. The small microphone lay a few feet from me, appearing in the dim light only as a small dark lump on the carpet. Mike Wu had told Michelle they would monitor her. My house had been bugged, but somehow, those devices had been fried, he’d said. I recalled the power surge that blew out the TV and the light above the kitchen sink. But had I been too loud while near the microphone Michelle had been wearing, praying for her to come back to life? Had I made enough noise as I worke
d on her lifeless body for them to hear me? That was likely, if they had been listening—unless the skirmish they were currently involved in was keeping them too busy to notice.

  I glanced around the dark living room. The clock on the stereo was blinking. At least power had been returned, but Michelle hadn’t bothered to reset the time. I moved quietly to the CD case next to the entertainment center and searched through the albums in the light from the flashing LED. They were all best-of-type records of the sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties—country and rock, a little jazz and some easy-listening stuff. I found one I remembered faintly, Eagles Live. After turning on the CD player, sliding the disk in, and pushing Random on the control panel, I turned the volume low and placed Michelle’s microphone next to the speaker. Desperado played softly. I hoped they’d think Michelle was listening peacefully to some oldies, and the melodic voices of Don Henley, Glenn Frey and the rest of the band would mask any noise I might make.

  I needed to get my thoughts together and figure this all out. Why did Michelle attempt to call back the very people who were trying to kill me? Because she was afraid for her own life and the others, of course. But her voice had seemed void of emotion when she spoke of me. I was more of a problem to her. The emotionless solution to her problem and to the others’ was to kill me. Somehow, it was reasonable. However, selfishly, I wished she would’ve shed at least a couple of tears.

  What happened to start my deadly spree? The answer was in when it started. This morning, the lady who bumped into me. Had she started it in motion? Or was it the bee sting? Sunny? When she slapped the “bee” this morning had she somehow caused the mess? And what about the bugs? Why had I been monitored, and what exactly did the little disks do? Were they some sort of tiny transmitters, listening or homing devices? Or did they do something more? And where did they come from? Dr. Xiang must have implanted the one on my neck. After all, he was the one who told me it was a bump from the fall I’d taken and instructed me not to mess with it. But when did he do it? When I was taken to the hospital after falling in the shower, of course. The only remembrance that came to mind was in one of those home-movie-like memories when the doctor had told me not to disturb the lump or there might be complications.