Masked (2010) (41 page)

Bryerson, seated beside him in the driver’s seat of the double-parked SUV, assured him that what he was about to do was the best thing for all involved, especially Virtue. Rather than quell Marshall’s mounting anxiety, his words merely served to drive home the magnitude of his treachery.

“Relax,” said Bryerson, his fingers drumming out a silent piano concerto atop the steering wheel. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll be back home and this’ll all be over.”

“No,” said Marshall. “It’ll never be over. Not for me. This was a huge mistake.”

Bryerson’s voice was steady. “You’re helping us take down a murderer.”

“I’m betraying a friend—”

“A murderer—”

“—who always looked out for me—”

“—killed a fucking hero—”

“—even after all these years—”

“—poisoned him—”

“—and even though I turned my back on him—”

“—robbing not only this city, but this planet—”

“—he never stopped looking out for me.”

“—of one of its biggest defenders.”

“He did it for me! The Imperial—”

“The Imperial—”

“Deserved to die!”

There, he’d finally said it. And shut Byerson up in the process. The big man eyed him doubtfully and then, very calmly: “No. No, he didn’t. Just because he was an asshole doesn’t mean—”

“Let me tell you something, Agent Bryerson. I didn’t hate The Imperial because he was an asshole. I hated him because he ruined my life.”

Bryerson sighed. “You ruined your own life.”

Marshall responded with a derisive snort. “Yeah, I fucked up. I made some bad decisions. And I paid for them. I did my time. I had a right to a fresh start. But he wouldn’t let me.”

The fed threw him a quizzical look. “What do you mean he wouldn’t let you?”

“After all those times he’d kicked my ass, it was Nantech who brought me in for the last time. Fifty-something, alcoholic Nantech was the one who taught me my final lesson, and that pissed him off. Pissed him off so much that he wouldn’t let me go. Every time I moved to a new neighborhood, he’d track me down and make damn sure that everyone in town knew who I was; who I’d been. Every time I tried to start over, he’d show up and destroy everything I’d built. Town after town after fucking town. You can’t even begin to imagine what it was like.”

“No,” Bryerson coolly conceded. “No, I can’t.”

Marshall took a deep breath, released. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer: “Even though the law said I’d earned a clean slate, he wouldn’t let it go. And because he wouldn’t let it go, I had to suffer—along with everyone I cared about—on edge every second of every day, afraid to let my guard down, relax, make friends, get a fucking library card knowing I probably won’t be around to use it.”

“Did you report him?”

“Of course I reported him.” Marshall was spent, resigned. “But what the hell was anyone going to do about it? He was The fucking Imperial.” He shrugged. “Sure, they were sympathetic. They paid for my relocation. And the next one. And the one after that.”

“Hunh.” Bryerson shifted back in his seat and stared out at the darkening sky.

“It’s impossible to set down roots, start a family, knowing that sooner or later, that other shoe’s going to drop and it’ll all come undone.”

A solemn silence settled between them. Bryerson sucked his teeth, considered, then popped the glove compartment. He pulled
out the two bottles he’d taken from the hotel minibar, dangled them in front of Marshall’s face, Chivas and Tanqueray. Marshall took the Chivas.

“To the future,” said Bryerson.

They unscrewed the caps, toasted, and knocked back their contents. The whiskey was warm and comforting.

A sweep of headlights suddenly intruded on the moment. Bryerson uttered a breathless “Shit” at the sight of the three black town cars pulling up. Dark-suited men and women hopped out and were met by two of the plainclothed federal agents stationed outside the Science Center entrance.

“Go! Go! Go!” whispered Bryerson, then opened the door and stepped out to greet the new arrivals with a cordial “What’s the problem here?”

Marshall slipped out of the SUV and started toward the entrance. “NSA!” he heard someone bark. “We’re going to have to ask you to stand down.”

“You can even ask nicely, but that don’t mean we will,” countered Bryerson.

Marshall risked a glance back, saw the NSA talker speed-dial his cell phone and hold it out to Bryerson. “Well, how about if your boss asks nicely?” Bryerson hesitated, then took the phone. “Hey, you!” called Mr. NSA, spotting Marshall as he reached the doors. “Stop right there!” Marshall ignored him and kept right on going, through the entrance and into the building. “Hey!”

Once inside, he picked up the pace, hopping the turnstile and crossing the main hall where the last of the Science Center staff were being corralled and ushered toward the back exit. He was met by McNeil, who wanted to know: “What the hell is going on out there?”

“They said they were NSA.”

McNeil reacted, snapping his fingers and motioning a couple of his men over to the entrance, presumably to run interference. Then, quickly over to Marshall: “Let’s go!”

The door marked employees only was locked. McNeil shouldered it open and, guns drawn, they swept in and down the narrow,
carpeted hallway to the second door with the keycode. McNeil pulled Marshall aside, allowing one of his men to step up and deliver a flurry of well-placed kicks to the frame. On the fifth blow, the door splintered and gave. And then they were flying down the stairs to the bleak, gray, wide concrete corridor. They hurried up to the steel-reinforced door with the biometric lock. Again, Marshall was motioned away. He backed off, halfway between the door and the stairwell, and watched as one of the agents pressed a brick of plastique up against the lock. McNeil waved the remote. “Clear the area.”

“Hold it right there!”

They froze. A half-dozen NSA agents charged down the stairs. Mr. Cellphone waved his identification. “Agent Rose, NSA. We’re ordering you to stand down.” The NSA agents muscled their way in to take up position directly in front of the door, forcing McNeil and his men farther back down the opposite end of the corridor. “We’re taking over this investigation.”

“The hell you are.” McNeil was livid.

“Feel free to check in with Agent Bryerson upstairs. You’re in no position to argue.”

A tense standoff. “What the hell is going on?” McNeil demanded to know.

“We’re here to deal with a threat to national security.”

Marshall stood by, helpless, a mere spectator to the proceedings. He threw a glance up the stairs, briefly considered heading back up and slipping away, then decided against it. He needed to see how things played out, had to ensure Virtue’s peaceful surrender. And as he considered the many ways it could go sideways, his gaze trailed back down and fell on a lone shoe, a black pump, peeking out from beneath the stairwell behind him.

“Bullshit,” he heard McNeil say. And then, a dawning realization. “No. You’re here to protect your asset.”

Marshall ignored them and slowly drew near the stairwell, glimpsed a pool of blood, then a stockinged foot.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” he heard McNeil say. “He’s still your guy.”

“You’re done here.”

But McNeil wasn’t quite done. “Virtue was too valuable, so rather than cut him loose, your people just looked the other way. You didn’t give a damn what he did on his off-hours so long as he played ball with you. And now you’re here to rein him in before this turns into a public clusterfuck.”

Around the corner, tucked beneath the stairwell, lay the body of Muriel Henry. Her eyes were wide, her neck angled awkwardly. Her right hand was a gory mess. The thumb was missing. The thumb! Marshall heard Rose say, “Good night, Agent McNeil.”

“Wait!” shouted Marshall, spinning around and starting toward them. “Wait!”

They all turned, their looks a mixture of annoyance and confusion. Rose opened his mouth to say something—

At which point the door they were standing in front of blew out with such force it took out the surrounding concrete frame, pulping Rose and three of his associates against the far wall, knocking everyone else off their feet, and bringing sections of the structure down on top of them.

Marshall blinked, found himself flat on his back, ears ringing, eyes stinging from the smoke and drifting particulates. Disoriented by the concussive burst, he could barely make out the figure calmly striding down the corridor toward him. The ringing in his ears faded to an utter silence that, had he been thinking straight, would have positively terrified him. Pushing himself up with one arm, he used the back of the other hand to wipe away the tears. The scene snapped into focus and he watched the new Downfall suit, in all its glossy jet glory, stride past. It moved deliberately up the stairs and was gone. At which point the silence suddenly gave way to an onrush of sounds: the spit and sizzle of damaged circuitry, distant alarms, his own labored breathing.

Marshall pulled himself up and stumbled down the corridor, over the broken bodies and severed limbs to where McNeill lay, staring up at the ceiling, wild-eyed, swallowing quick shallow breaths. Marshall hunkered down beside him. “Hey.” His voice broke.
“Hey.” Steadier this time. McNeil met his gaze, looked through him and away. He was bleeding profusely from a leg wound. As Marshall tore off his shirtsleeve and applied a tourniquet, sounds carried down to them from the cavernous main hall. Shouts and gunfire, followed by staccato barrage of heavy ordnance. More shouts raised, less authoritative, frightened. Another barrage and then a sickening hush. “You’re going to be okay,” Marshall tried to reassure him. But McNeil was barely there.

Marshall rose, a mounting fury fueling his determination to finally step up and sever the links to his former life once and for all. He stumbled over the rubble and into the lounge, intent on finding something, anything, he could use from among the storehouse of weapons.

What he found, instead, was Adam Virtue lying facedown on the floor of his own lab.

Marshall went to him, gently turned him over. His mentor looked shockingly old, tired. His face and neck were bruised, his eyes unfocused at first. Then, a dawning recognition alighted. “Marshall.”

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Adam—”

“I was selfish. A coward.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t there for you, and I’ve spent so long trying to make up for that mistake. I’m sorry I let you down.”

“Adam, you’ve never let me down. You were like a father to me.”

The old man’s whispered response gave way to a convulsion, and then he was still. The life had finally left those bright blue eyes. And as Marshall sat there, cradling Adam’s head in his lap, those last words hung in the air: “I am.”

The mezzanine level was a ruin of blood-spattered debris and littered corpses, the plaintive cries of the injured and dying punctuated
by the sounds emanating from the robot zoo exhibit. A blackbird’s whistle. The call of a stag. A hole had been blasted through the ceiling, a still-smoking crater that peered out into open night. And, accompanying the view, the staccato beat of a helicopter, the rattle and boom of heavy ordnance. Marshall hefted up the weapon he was holding, right hand gripping the stock, left hand supporting the weighty pulse barrel, and made for the stairwell that would take him up.

He kicked open the door and stepped out onto the roof. Overhead, the Apache circled a hovering Downfall and loosened a brain-shaking fifty-round burst from its 30-millimeter M230 chain gun. The high-energy penetrators tut-tut-tutted against the impenetrable suit, barely forcing it back a foot or two from its wavering mark. Marshall leapt back under protective cover as the rain of red-hot shell casings clattered down around him. Then, another fifty-round burst, again barely fazing its intended target. The Apache swung round and wide. Downfall rotated effortlessly in place, tracking the copter as it pulled back, hung in the air, then fired off one of its Hydras. Marshall ducked away from the open doorway. The 70- millimeter rocket impacted with an explosive force that shook the building, followed by the whistle and tag of high-velocity fragments.

He hazarded a peek. Downfall, who had apparently shrugged off the rocket attack with no ill effects, raised his arm. A multibarreled bracelet shifted and formed, solidifying as wrist-mounted persuaders. Marshall jumped back out onto the roof, swung his weapon high and fired. The bolt of blue energy erupted with a punch and sizzle, sailing wide. Downfall fired off his persuader, but the copter was already on the move, banking and sweeping as the ordnance missed its mark. Downfall revolved in midair, tracking his target as it came round.

Marshall steadied himself, took careful aim, and fired. The punch, sizzle, and this time, a direct hit. Downfall hung in the air, back arched in a tortured pose as the blue energy played over him, then plummeted and struck the roof with a sickening thud.

Past experience told Marshall to leave nothing to chance. He
closed the distance between them quickly, cranking the charge on the weapon and leveling it at his target. Downfall was struggling to rise, the ebb and flow of the suit’s suddenly unstable molecular structure shifting liquid-like across his exposed chest and back, revealing islands of vulnerable flesh. Marshall pulled the trigger. The weapon clicked and died with a protesting whine.
Shit.