Revolution (12 page)

However, the change wasn’t of prime
importance now. Istvan’s mood was, and he shook so violently that
he seemed ready to crack apart. “I knew nothing,” he sobbed out. “I
was university student. I had normal life. I was small, but I
accepted that. My parents always say to me, it is not size of
person’s body but their brain and their heart. I always have
confidence in me and think that some girl will like me someday for
who I am.”

He glanced at his hands and his voice came
out in a tormented wail. “I am not a person any longer. Who will
like me now?”

Unsure of what to say at first, Harry thought
back to his former life. A quiet, shy and sort of nerdy kid, he’d
been in more or less the same position once. That hadn’t been so
long ago, either. Being nerdy was bad enough, but he’d also been
small and weak as a kid and he’d been picked on, big-time. “Listen,
I also got smacked around for being a punk,” he said, trying to
phrase things simply. “I know what it’s like not to be accepted. It
wasn’t fun.”

Istvan turned to him with a tear-stained
face. “But you are not that way now,” he said. “You are
special.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think I’m special.
I’m just me. This,” he pointed at his body and extended his claws,
“this happened only recently.”

Istvan stared at the claws. “Before you
change, did your mother and father care for you?”

Harry fell silent then, thinking about how
much had changed in such a short time. Before his transformation,
he’d been nobody. He had only his mind to rely on, that and his
parents. They had died when he was eighteen, almost a year ago now.
He remembered going to the funerals—he hadn’t cried at first. Only
later on had the tears come. Loneliness was a terrible thing, but
his plight couldn’t be compared to Istvan’s. A wave of pity went
through him and he vowed to help Istvan if he could.

“Yeah, they cared for me. I was lucky.” He
searched for the proper words. “Listen,” he finally said and
retracted his claws. “We’re going to find out where Szabo is. If
he’s not the one running the show, then we’ll find this Kulakov guy
or whoever’s in charge. They have a chamber, a transformation
chamber. I may be able to change you back.”

It sounded great on the surface, but it all
depended on the program he had running back in the States. It might
work on Istvan, but it also might kill him. It had worked with
Anastasia, but she’d been in cat form at the time. He hadn’t
succeeded in bringing her back to fully human form. As it turned
out, he was now like her and was still on the shelf about his
transformation.

He snapped back to reality. Istvan’s sobs had
stopped and he was staring at the wall. “You will do that for me?”
he asked.

“I’ll try.”

A tremendous crash sounded from the other
room. It sounded like the entire wall had been caved in. Bartok
came out holding his pistol, joined by Farrell. “Come on,” the
latter man cried. “We have a visitor.”

Together they rushed into the holding room.
Harry’s guess was correct. The wall had been obliterated and
Martuska was gone. The only evidence of her former presence was the
leather straps on the bed. They’d been torn clean through. A
message in Hungarian had been slashed into the wall above the bed.
“He was here,” Istvan whispered.

“What does the message say?” Farrell wanted
to know.

Bartok’s face wore a troubled look. “It says
that the hunter has come back to claim his prize and that he will
not forget this.”

“His prize,” Anastasia echoed. “What does
that mean?” She turned around. “Well, is anyone going to answer
me?”

Istvan swallowed and he stumbled out a reply
in a hoarse whisper. “It is the name. Martuska means mistress in
Hungarian. Szabo and Martuska are together, like you and Harry are
together. He will continue to hunt for us.”

They spent a sleepless night at the morgue.
Although Farrell and Bartok still had to be in a lot of pain,
neither of them took any painkillers. “I have to stay sharp,”
Farrell said and he went off to stand guard along with his
counterpart.

The sound of their shoes clicking on the
tiled floor became regular. Both men walked, stopped and retraced
their steps in almost military-like precision. Harry fought to shut
out the sound of clicking shoes and kept listening for anything
unusual.

Finally, Anastasia suggested in a drowsy
voice, “Let’s get some sleep. You need it and I do, too.” In a
graceful, feline movement, she tucked her legs underneath her body
as she curled up. Soon, she fell asleep and Harry heard her quiet
breathing.

Harry couldn’t sleep, though. His mind
wouldn’t let him. The sounds of the night—the crickets and the
night animals foraging for food—should have given him some comfort,
but he found none. Finally, exhausted from the stress, he passed
out beside his girlfriend.

Waking up early the next morning, he found
Anastasia still asleep. He tiptoed out of the room and found both
older men still on guard, bleary-eyed and unshaven. Bartok had an
overflowing ashtray perched on the windowsill and reeked of
tobacco, but nodded a friendly greeting when Harry approached.

“Nothing of note,” Farrell said as if
anticipating the question. “Excuse me. I have to make a call.”

Striding down the hallway, he spoke into his
cellphone. Enhanced hearing notwithstanding, Harry couldn’t catch
any of the conversation. Two minutes later, the agent came back and
tapped Bartok on the shoulder. “We’re ready to go.”

Before they left, Harry took the storage unit
with Istvan’s blood with him. He’d keep it on ice back in the
States. Bartok drove them to the airport. Once again, the hangar
was empty save for the private jet and FBI pilot. “I am sorry that
I could not be of more help,” he said as they waited in front of
the plane. “This is something that we are not prepared to fight. We
cannot protect Istvan here. If it is in your power to do so, we
will be grateful.”

He spoke to the little man privately, placing
both arms on his shoulders and speaking in a quiet voice. Istvan
nodded, and once the conversation was over, he hustled inside the
airplane. Bartok and Farrell shook hands. “We will continue to
coordinate our efforts from here,” Bartok said.

“Talk to you soon, Anton,” Farrell said.

Goodbyes over, they took off and onboard, the
pilot said that they’d making a stopover in Iceland before going
onto New York. He went forward and the three of them discussed what
to do. Istvan curled up on a seat ahead of them and promptly fell
asleep.

Looking at the sleeping pig-man, Harry
wondered if anyone would really be able to protect him. He’d seen
how Szabo worked, and a shaft of fear went through him. He’d faced
monsters before. He’d taken them on and beaten them... but
now...

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Anastasia asked,
touching his shoulder and breaking his spell.

Embarrassed, he shook his head. “It’s
nothing.”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured and leaned against
him. “I was scared, too. Don’t think I wasn’t.”

It was too difficult to tell her, but she
already knew. He didn’t want anyone to think him a coward, but he’d
frozen twice, and that could have cost someone their life. “You
have to do what you want in order to protect what’s yours,” she
said, not looking at him. “You can’t afford to be afraid.
We
can’t, okay?”

Her manner of speaking, short and direct, hit
home. “Yeah, I got it.” Thinking about it, though, he realized that
he was in way over his head. If he couldn’t stop Szabo and if
others were out there with powers beyond what the FBI had...

He didn’t want to think about it. “So what do
we do?” he finally asked.

Anastasia pulled away from him. “I know what
you’ll have to do. You do, too. As for Martuska, if I see her
again, she’s going to get some payback. I owe her for trying to
claw my face off.”

“Let’s table that for another day,” said
Farrell in a raw and angry voice. He shifted his body to a more
comfortable position. “Our main priority is to protect our porcine
friend and both of you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“We’re already hurt,” Anastasia pointed out.
“At least, I am, and so are you.” She suddenly smiled. “Are you
that concerned about us, Agent Farrell?”

His face turned a violent red. “I’m, uh, just
protecting our national interests and that of American citizens,”
he said stiffly in an attempt to regain his composure. “Once we’re
home, we’ll see what your computer whiz-kid friends have come up
with. If we can, we’re going to put Szabo and his killer buddy out
of business.”

Battle plan on the table, he slumped back in
his seat and closed his eyes. Anastasia whispered that she was
going to take a nap as well. Soon the sounds of snoring filled the
cabin.

However, Harry couldn’t sleep. He was too
busy thinking about what the endgame in all of this was. While he
felt some reassurance after checking that Istvan’s blood sample was
safe, it was a short-lived feeling. Szabo and the others were still
out there. It seemed as though they knew every place that the FBI
knew about and they would find them. They knew where they lived,
where they worked, and there didn’t seem any way that they could
avoid a confrontation. In this case, it would be a fatal one.

Once they got back to LaGuardia Airport, Farrell
walked over to a small, nondescript brown car that sat in the
private hangar. A man in black, wearing the usual dark glasses, sat
at the wheel. When he spotted Farrell, he started the engine. “It’s
an agency car,” Farrell said. “Get in.”

“It’s a heap, but maybe that’s a step up from
the car you usually drive,” Anastasia observed with a wry grin.

With tightened lips, Farrell explained the
need for privacy. “The fewer people who know about this, the
better,” he said. “I’m trying to keep the circle as small as
possible.”

His response earned him a sniff from
Anastasia. Clearly, she didn’t approve. Privately, Harry didn’t
either, but shutting down his misgivings, he got in along with his
two companions and they drove off. “Are we going back to
Manhattan?” Harry asked.

“No, we’re going somewhere else,” the answer
came from the front seat. No further details came, so the trip
passed in silence. There were times to ask and times to wait. This
was a case of the latter.

Harry peeked at the clock on the dashboard.
It read almost six at night, and dusk was falling fast. A
pleasantly warm wind drifted in through the open window, but
Farrell ordered it shut. “We don’t need anyone to see this,” he
said.

Once again, his reply earned him a heavy
snort of displeasure from Anastasia, but she kept her mouth closed.
Istvan remained silent, and with no one to back him up, Harry
reluctantly shut the window. They interrupted their journey only
once to stop for gas at a roadside stand. “Stay here,” Farrell
ordered. He went inside and brought back sandwiches for
everyone.

After eating, the driver set off again down
the highway. Night continued to fall and the city gradually gave
way to country. Harry figured that they were still in the state of
New York, but had absolutely no idea of where they were going.

The journey continued and roughly an hour
later, the driver took an off-ramp. Fifteen minutes later, he
turned down a bumpy road and pulled up in front of a plain-looking
white farmhouse. Killing the engine, he announced, “This is
it.”

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

Farrell turned around in his seat. “Welcome
to Herkimer, New York,” he said. “We’re south of Utica. It’s a
small farming community. This property went into receivership a
while back, and the FBI bought it. It serves as a safe house. Get
out and I’ll show you around.”

They exited the car and surveyed the
surroundings. It was dark, perhaps eight-thirty at night, but
lights had been strung up at strategic points around the grounds in
order to provide maximum lighting and security. In front of them
was a forest that surrounded the area. That was it. There was
nothing else.

“It’s pretty quiet up here,” opined Anastasia
as she tested the air with her nose. “You get many visitors?”

Farrell offered a short laugh. “This is
around thirty-two square miles of farming community,” he explained.
“The place is pretty far away from everything. Mirror Lake is about
five miles north of here.” He pointed with his index finger and
then jerked his thumb to the right. “The Mohawk River is that way.
If any civilians want to drive up here, they have to take an
alternate route. We’ve got it cordoned off.”

The cordoning off idea hadn’t worked very
well in the Catskills. Sniffing the air along with his girlfriend,
Harry got no bad vibes. He turned to Anastasia. “My nose isn’t as
sharp as yours is. You smell anything bad?”

She shook her head. “Besides some of the
pollen in the air, I smell a few rabbits, some mice and a skunk.
That’s about it.”

Istvan gazed around the area with wonder.
“This is where we stay?”

“For now it is,” Farrell affirmed, squinting
in the dark and checking the surroundings. “Let’s go inside. I’ve
got six men on patrol. Your friends are waiting.”

Inside the farmhouse, Harry expected to see
bunk beds and not much else. He was surprised to find it similar in
accoutrements to the cabin where he and Anastasia had been staying.
Two large desktops sat on an enormous table in the center of the
downstairs. Off to his right, he spotted a kitchen. To his left sat
a few couches grouped around a television set. Next to the lounge
area was a set of stairs.

Taking the sample of blood, he carefully
placed it in the fridge. Farrell came over to check on it. “You’ll
need this,” Harry said. “Keep it safe.”

Farrell nodded. “Thanks. Your rooms are
upstairs,” he said, pointing the way. “Let’s see if our experts
found anything. Guys,” he yelled out, “come on down!”