The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (28 page)

“You should hang out with Helen,” said Max, smiling, “and start a socialist chapter.”

“I’m not a socialist,” said Jason seriously. “Far from it. All I’m saying is that a successful culture needs checks and balances. And our checks and balances are no longer working. The government is paranoid and weak, and corporations rule this world.”

“So what’s the solution?”

“A new power.” Jason looked Max squarely in the eye. “One that would counter the current corrupt system and help restore the government the way it should be. Alex said to me something once, and it didn’t make sense at the time, but now it does. A war is coming.”

“It’s almost poetic,” Max said. “To bring down the empire, you want to build an empire of your own.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“But enough serious crap,” Jason finally said. “I’ve noticed that Helen is staying over?”

“It’s been happening on and off,” said Max, trying to sound nonchalant. “We were trying to find you, so staying in one place saved time.”

“Maximilian Schlager,” said Jason, “are you really blushing?”

“Shut up, dude.” His friend smiled the impish smile. “I think my days of freedom are over. I mean, how do you hide from a girlfriend who can hack into the New York Stock Exchange?”

“You don’t,” said Jason, smiling back. He downed his drink, and got up to leave. “I’m happy for you, pal. And also exhausted. I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Do you have a name?” asked Max without moving, “for that new company we’ll be building?”

“Yes, I might have an idea. Good night.”

“Good night, brother,” said Max. “It’s good to have you back.”

Jason went straight to bed, his shoulder aching, but his head as clear as ever despite the scotch. As he lay in bed, his thoughts went back to a camping trip with his dad one late summer. They were lying on top of a hill in their sleeping bags next to the tent, waiting for dawn and watching Sirius shining in all its glory.

You see those?
His father pointed at a constellation just above the blinking star.
Three stars in a straight line.

I see them,
said Jason.

That’s the great hunter
, his father said,
just like our name
.
He battles the venomous evil of this world. His arrows are straight, and his aim is true.
”

Does he have a name? h
e asked, looking at the splendid cluster of stars.

Orion,
his father said. H
is name is Orion.

The place stunk of misery. The wretched cocktail of piss, vomit, and fear was making him gag. Latham had been lying in the dark for a few hours now. His arms and legs were excruciatingly spread, his wrists and ankles tightly bound to a rough wooden table, all his clothing removed. He felt painfully exposed.

As the hours faded away his fear subsided a little. The conversation between him and Victor, as they drove to what undoubtedly was going to be his final destination, kept playing in his head.

The revelations were huge. The conspiracy, the structure of the Organization. The fall of governmental power. The creation of the Unit. The assassination of a top-ranking CIA employee. The fact that even the mighty Alexander Engel was a puppet in Victor’s hands, and that the war between General Armaments and Guardian was just a rouse to keep the watchers at bay.

Too bad he’d never be able to tell anyone.

The minutes ticked by, one by one, but nothing happened. Logically he knew it was a good thing, considering what Victor had told him was going to happen to him, but there was no place for logic in this room.

Latham tried to think about his life. Here, at the precipice, he tried to understand if he was a bad man. If he deserved what was about to come. He didn’t know the answer.

I’ve never killed anyone,
he said out loud. The sound of his own voice startled him. Latham thought back about his work. Most of the time he was just the messenger passing the information he wasn’t even privy to. Yes, he’d hurt many people, too, but it was just a part of the job. Getting bad people to do things they wouldn’t do otherwise. He never liked doing what he did, and until the coup he honestly thought he was working for the good guys. Of course, Alex always told him there was the big picture. That some bad things had to be done just to keep the cover.

He believed Engel. Believed him for a long time.

“Lily,”
he said his daughter’s name out loud. Tears started to run down his cheeks. He married young, way too young. High school sweethearts. As time went by, the fire died out, but they stayed together. Mostly out of habit, comfortable with each other, living separate lives, seeing different people, but always coming home, then one Christmas both had their plans canceled. There was too much champagne and too cold outside to go out and buy condoms.

Nine months later he held a small squealing creature in his hands, and he instantly knew that his life would never be the same. He became close with Debra again. Not close enough to call it a real marriage, but Lily was too important for either of them to care about anything else. The work became a burden, as he could never tell either his wife or his daughter what he really did for a living, but there was no other choice. Jobs were scarce, and his paid well.

The assignments changed, too. It wasn’t corporate espionage anymore. The people he had to ‘persuade’ now were politicians rather than executives, then there was the mysterious circle of people giving each other alphanumeric codes and playing global conspiracy.

I should have seen it coming,
he whispered, but he didn’t. He’d grown suspicious over Alex’s motives, but the coup still came as a shock.

“The world is changing, Latham,” he recalled Alex saying. “What we’re doing isn’t more wrong than when our forefathers took arms against the Brits.”

He wasn’t convinced.

I should have seen it coming,
he said again.

A loud creaking noise startled him, roughly shaking him out of his thoughts. The lights switched on, blinding him. The fear hit him like a savage punch to the gut making him almost choke on his own vomit.

A hand appeared in his blurred vision and whipped his mouth with a wet cloth. The touch wasn’t harsh, almost tender. Was he being released?

He opened his eyes just in time to see two short Asian men setting up a small aluminum table next to his. They both were topless, wearing plastic aprons covering them all the way to their knees. A row of gleaming sharp objects were laying on a white piece of cloth on top of the table.

“No, you motherfucking pigs,” he yelled, thrashing about, but the bonds held him tight. “Stop it, stop it.”

His screams were abruptly shut as one man pried his mouth wide open and another with a practiced move shoved a tennis ball in, then, with a swift motion, he put a belt around Latham’s face and buckled it tight, keeping the ball in place.

Watkins started to gag violently, the rough ball mercilessly pressing down on his tongue.

One of the men slapped his face hard. It stung, but he stopped gagging.

“I don’t like to talk,” one of the men said, “but Mr. Ye instructed me to explain what will be done to you and why, so you have to listen.”

Latham tried to beg, but only an incoherent howling came out of his tortured mouth. The man slapped him again, and Latham stopped.

“Mr. Ye wants to punish you for trying to hurt him,” said the man patiently, “and to send a message to your master, Mr. Engel.

“First, I’ll remove your nails and skin from your body,” he said after a pause, “then cut off your legs just below your knees and arms below your elbows. Then you’ll be delivered to Mr. Engel.”

Blackness started to envelop Latham. He threw up again, the gooey liquid bubbling through his nose. He
wanted
to faint.

“I’ll have to work slowly to keep you alive,” continued the man and nodded at his partner, “and the doctor here will make sure you stay alert.”

He looked Latham up and down as if measuring him.

“I would say it should take three to four weeks to finish.” He pointed at Latham. “As a courtesy I’ll ask if you have a preference which hand you want me to do first. Just show with your head. I hear that it’s easier to cope with the pain if you were allowed even a small choice.”

Latham growled and waved his head to the right.

“Very well then,” the man said, picking up a small knife with a curved edge. “Let’s start with your nails.”

The man pressed Latham’s right hand into the table and got a firm hold of his index finger. As he aimed the edge of the blade under the nail, Latham bent his thumb and pressed it firmly into the torturer’s palm. A tiny patch of needles pricked the man’s skin, delivering a nerve agent.

The man stiffened for a moment, the involuntary spasm sending the knife deep under Latham’s nail.

Screaming from pain, Watkins reached with his fingers and grabbed the knife out of the other man’s hand. He twisted his hand and sliced the restraint holding his right hand to the table, taking a large piece of flesh from his own hand. The doctor leaped forward trying to wrestle the knife out of his hands, and Latham’s arm shot out. The curved blade hit the doctor in the eye, and he collapsed onto the floor crying out in pain.

Latham cut the bonds on his left hand and ankles, removed the belt, and pulled the tennis ball out of his mouth, then he rolled himself off the table.

He needed to move, but nausea overcame him, and he doubled over as he vomited again. Finally, his stiff knees buckling under his weight, he managed to get up and walk to the two bodies on the floor. The torturer lay still, paralyzed by the toxin, but the doctor was wriggling on the floor, his hands covering a bloody ruin of his eye. With strange calmness Latham kneeled next to the doctor and, putting a knee to his chest to prevent him from moving, cut his throat. When the body stopped struggling he went back to the torturer and drove the knife through his throat as well.

Latham stood and looked around. He was suddenly aware that he was standing naked in the middle of the room looking at the two dead men, his own blood dripping off his hands and adding to the crimson pool on the floor. He threw the knife away.

I’ll hunt you all down,
he said to the bodies. He needed to escape this place and find the people who fought these monsters. He had a name to go on, Andrew Hunt, and Latham Watkins was good at finding people.

“Who is this guy, again?” his aide asked as their Humvee rolled deeper into the fields.

“He’s the only son of a good friend of mine,” said James Rovinsky, not picking up his head from his tablet.

“Jim, I’m sorry. I’ve been working for you for now, what, sixteen years, and we’ve never done anything like that. When was the last time you scheduled something without my help?” his aide insisted.

“Peter, I’m warning you.”

“I’m serious. There are proper channels,” the man continued, “the protocol. We can’t just pull four fully automated M2 Abrams tanks into the fields on a whim of a dinky company we’ve never heard of.”

“We can and we did.”

“They’re twelve million dollars each.” His aide didn’t give up. “And if something goes wrong you’ll be standing in the office of Mr. Secretary and it won’t be pretty.”

“Pete.” He finally put the tablet away, and met his aide’s stare. “This is above your paygrade, but like you said, you’ve been working for me for a long time. He’s Andrew’s son.”

“Andrew’s son? Who’s Andrew? Oh.
Oh
,
shit
,” Peter said. “So what’s now?”

“Nothing,” he said. “He submitted the bid and we’re giving him a chance.”

“It’s a ten billion dollar contract,” Peter said finally. “Their market cap is, what? Twelve million? What’s their chance of getting it?”

“Zero,” he admitted, “but I owe him this much.
We
owe him this much.”

They sat quiet for some time, the only sound filling the cabin the powerful hum of the turbo diesel.

“Alright,” Peter said, “we have to do it by the book. What scenario are we playing?”

“Perimeter breach, frontal attack,” he said, “and flag capture. The cavalry will be guarding at the bottom of the hill.”

“The flag?”

“Reinforced bunker at the top with a heavy machine gun.”

“Damn,” Peter said. “That’s going to be tough.”

“Like I said. Zero chance.” He picked up the tablet again. “And Peter?”

“Yes?”

“I would appreciate discretion.”

“After sixteen years,” his aide protested.

“It’s been fourteen years,” he said and smiled. ”I know how to count.”

They parked near the helicopter on the hilltop overseeing the exercise field. A small group of people were standing by the cliff looking at the fields below. Gusts of cold wind were blowing occasional snowflakes.

A tall skinny man with spiky blond hair approached him as he climbed out of the Humvee.

“You must be James,” the blond man said.

“It’s great to meet you, Jason,” he said stretching his hand out. “Your father was a good friend.”

The man awkwardly gave him a left hand for a handshake. Only now James realized that the right sleeve of the young man’s coat was empty.

“This is Mike Connelly.” Jason nodded to another man in his group. “He’s the head of my security. And this is Max Schlager, my cyber specialist.”

“Nice to meet you gentlemen.” He nodded to the men. “How is it going to happen?”

“Well.” Jason walked to the edge of the cliff, beckoning him to follow. “As you can see, your guys are already positioned on the left, right at the bottom of the hill.”

Jim squinted against the wind. He could clearly see the four long-barreled tanks sitting about one hundred yards from one another.

“Yes, I can see them.”

“Great. We’ll come from the west.” Jason vaguely nodded to the right. “Overcome your defenses first at the bottom of the hill, climb the hill while suppressing the fire from the bunker, and capture the flag. At least that’s the plan.”

“I see.”

“Just to double check,” Jason continued, “there are no human operators neither in tanks nor on the hill, correct?”