The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (9 page)

“What? Why?” She sat up straight. “We’d be starting human trials in just a couple of months anyway.”

“I know.” Steve sounded pained. “But the subjects assigned for human trials are all soldiers at the peak of their physical abilities. In Mr. Engel’s opinion, using one of the prototypes on a terminally ill person could compromise the odds of survival rates and therefore the subsequent approval process.”

Steve was saying something else, but Jason was no longer listening. He got up and started walking toward the door. He carefully closed it, ignoring Max and Rachel, who were trying to tell him something, then he took the elevator to the ground floor. As the doors opened, he broke into a run. As he stormed through the front doors of the hospital he almost tackled an overweight man and had to slow down for a second.

“Easy there, pal,” said the man, catching him in a surprisingly strong grip. “Might hurt someone running like that.”

Another man with a two-day stubble and a black eye walked up to them, looking Jason up and down suspiciously.

“Any problems here?”

“Sorry,” Jason said, untangling himself from the chubby man’s clutches. “No problem, just in a rush.” He broke into a run once more.

He ran south a block and a half, then turned west on East 97
th
Street heading toward 5
th
Avenue. Once on Fifth, he almost got run over by a yellow cab, trying to stop it.

“Are you crazy?” the cabbie yelled at him, once he got into the car.

“Get me to the corner of East 59
th
and Fifth under ten minutes and I’ll pay you ten times as much as the meter says,” said Jason, trying to get his breathing under control, and the taxi took off, tires screeching.

It took them twelve minutes, but Jason threw a few hundred dollar bills at the driver and got out. The gray rectangle of the 50-story building of the Guardian Manufacturing headquarters loomed over him like some prehistoric monster, glistening in the winter sun. Jason stood there for a few seconds, composing himself. Despite the great rush, he needed a cool head and inner balance to accomplish what he had come here to do.

“I’m here to see Alexander Engel,” he said to the lady behind the counter at the visitor’s desk.

“Do you have an appointment?” She smiled at him.

“No, but please tell him that the son of Andrew Hunt is here to see him.” Jason smiled back politely and put his driver’s license on top of the desk, struggling to stay calm. He waited, as she made few phone calls, wondering if this little scheme of his would actually work. Finally the lady put down her phone and looked up.

“Mr. Engel will see you now. Please proceed to the top floor. Susan, his personal assistant, will guide you from there.”

He took the elevator to the upper floor and was greeted by a young, beautiful woman. She gave him a genuine smile.

“Follow me, please, Mr. Hunt. Mr. Engel will see you right away.”

They walked through a massive open floor with men and women hard at work at their cubicles with low walls. Jason wondered for a second if any of them knew the man they worked for. At last, they came to the thick mahogany door, and Susan held it for him, letting him go first. He tensed for a second, expecting to see Engel, but it was just a reception room with another set of immense doors on the other side of the room.

“Mr. Engel is waiting for you,” she said, motioning to the big doors.

Jason took a deep breath and started walking toward the doors. By the time his hand touched the bronze of the door knob shaped as a head of a wolf, he felt calm and ready. The man behind the massive desk looked as if he stepped out of some fashion show. His gray three-piece suit was immaculately pressed, and his hair looked as if it was just styled by a skilled barber.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jason,” said the man and stood, resting the tips of his sleek fingers on top of the lacquered wood. “What can I do for you?”

Jason’s nails dug deep into his palms, trying to stay calm.

“I wanted to ask you to reconsider your decision about allowing Rachel to use the lung implant.”

“I’m afraid it’s not possible,” said Alexander. “Mr. Poznyak has already told you that, and I’m not sure you understand the amount of latitude I’ve given you considering the circumstances. I could have had you arrested instead of giving you this meeting.”

“You have some balls,” Jason said, “and under different circumstances.” He cut himself off.

“I didn’t come here to fight. I’m here to trade.”

“To trade?” Engel’s lips curled into a thin smile. “What do you want to trade?”

“One favor for another,” said Jason. “You let my wife use the lung transplant, and I don’t tell every newspaper in this country that you had my parents killed.”

Jason watched as Alexander walked around the desk and stood right in front of him, indulgent smile never leaving his face.

“This is the most amusing thing I’ve heard all day. And you have proof of this crazy conspiracy?” Alexander looked up at Jason and his smile widened.

“Just what I thought.”

“I don’t need proof, you murderous bastard. The story itself will sink you and your company that you’ve built on other people’s blood.”

“You’re so naïve, Jason, and this is disappointing. You think people like you actually matter. I’ve never been fond of your father, but he was a man of action, a true warrior. This is the only reason why you even got this audience.

“People like you.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Are pathetic lambs, sucking on the tit of their trust funds, thinking that their opinions count for something.”

“Listen,” Jason tried to interrupt, but Engel cut him off.

“No, you listen.” Alexander took another step closer, all humor gone from his face and voice. “Open your eyes. The world has changed while you were hibernating. The world is changing right this second, and if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d know it already. When was the last time you saw the president on the television? When was the last time you read about international politics in the paper?”

Engel tapped Jason’s chest with his index finger.

“There’s a war coming, Jason. A war that will reshape this world in ways most people can’t even imagine. It’s been twelve years in the making, but now the new age is almost here, and once it’s done, there are going to be only two classes of people. Those who rule, and those who submit, Jason. And by the looks of it, you aren’t cut to rule. So, if you think for a second that you can come here and try to blackmail me with something that you don’t even possess, think again. Please see yourself out.”

As Alexander turned around and started walking back to his chair, Jason finally lost control. He grabbed the collar of the man, pulled him back and around, and swung a fist into that smug face.

Alexander easily caught his fist with his palm and pulled it down at an awkward angle, forcing Jason to his knees, then, releasing his hand, he kicked Jason in the chest, sending him tumbling back, wriggling in pain.

Jason heard Engel calling for security as he tried to get up, fighting the pain, madness gripping his mind.

“Please, I’m begging you, let her use it,” he heard himself saying, “please.”

“Throw him out,” said Engel, returning to his chair.

As the guards were dragging him through the main floor, the eyes of dozens of workers followed him, some with pity, and some with fascination. He finally relaxed, going limp in the hands of the guards, letting the events unfold. Accepting the fate and submitting himself to it.

They threw him onto the sidewalk like a disposed garbage bag, adding few kicks just for fun. When they left, Jason slowly propped himself up, leaned against the building, and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

There has to be another way,
he thought.
There has to be another way.

Jason opened his eyes and gingerly touched his ribs. It hurt, but nothing seemed to be broken. Hunt started walking back to the hospital, slowly first, then faster. His wife was waiting, and there wasn’t much time left. There wasn’t much time at all.

Mike Connelly took the stairs to his small Brooklyn apartment on the sixth floor of the building. The lights were out again in the hallway, and the apartment complex looked gloomier and dirtier than it really was. The well-oiled door made no sound as he entered the apartment, and he closed it behind him, locking the deadbolt first, then the massive brass chain lock.

The place was small and scarcely furnished, but impeccably clean, and the little living room had a large window that offered a spectacular unobstructed view of downtown Manhattan. Mike took off his shoes, poured himself a glass of water, and sat on a worn-out sofa, facing the window. He took a few sips of water, picked up a small picture frame, and leaned back, looking at the faded photograph.

A group of four men in military fatigues were sitting in a shade under a tent, automatic rifles resting in their laps. The four looked sweaty, dirty, and banged up, but every one of them had a smile from ear to ear.
They made it back.
A tall man in clean civilian clothes could be seen at the very corner of the photograph. He looked as if he were turning to walk away, but the picture was taken before he turned around.

Mike put the picture back onto the table along with an empty glass. His thoughts went back to the car chase that took place on Williamsburg Bridge. The scene where he unloaded his passengers at their SoHo location kept playing in his head.

That’s quite a coincidence,
he thought.

First there were some weird reports that he had stumbled upon almost by accident, describing re-shuffling at General Armament’s security division. They were far from complete, and that added an extra degree of mystery. There was definitely some new player at the GA. Or possibly multiple players.

There was also an organized crime connection to Guardian that he discovered. The fact that Engel was working with the Chinese gang didn’t surprise Mike initially. The black market had grown by leaps in bounds in the last decades and profit margins were much greater than on anything that Guardian could sell over the counter. What didn’t make much sense was that some of Engel’s contacts were connected to GA, his archrival.

Unless,
he thought,
the puppeteers are the puppets themselves, b
ut that was too improbable of a theory.

His thoughts went back to his passengers again. There was the missing link somewhere, he was sure of it, but he was struggling to find a plausible explanation for it. Despite their self-control, under the circumstances they genuinely seemed surprised and confused on why they were ambushed on the bridge.

Mike thought about reaching out to his European contacts. He hadn’t had an exchange with them for almost six months, and the information he’d acquired was reaching the critical mass.

Yet he hesitated. Every time he pulled on one thread, it led him to places that it shouldn’t have. He started to get suspicious bordering on paranoid, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Paranoia saved his life more times than he could count.

I need an outsider,
he thought,
someone who has the resources to help, but has no reason to be playing for both sides.

That was, of course, easier said than done.

Mike started to get sleepy. Adrenalin was wearing off, and the post-action fatigue started to set in.

The gun in his shoulder holster was poking his ribs, so he took it out and put it next to him on the sofa. For a moment he considered taking a shower first, but he was too comfortable to move and decided against it. Before he knew it, Mike was fast asleep.

When he woke up, it was getting dark. He looked around, trying to blink away the last remnants of sleep, and when he was about to get up, he heard a quiet clanking noise coming from the apartment’s door. Before he knew what was happening, the door exploded inward, sending shards of wood and pieces of metal flying, then two stun grenades rolled into his living room.

Mike dove on the floor, putting a sofa between himself and the grenades, and covering his ears. Even then, the bang was overwhelming, threatening to split his head right open and partially blinding him. He felt for his gun on the cushions, but his hand only clutched the warm leather.

A soldier rushed in, lifting his automatic weapon, and Connelly rolled into his attacker’s feet before he could open fire. The automatic rifle came to life a split second too late, spraying bullets above Mike’s head. He threw a quick right hook into the soldier’s knee dislocating the man’s meniscus, and followed it up with an uppercut to the groin. The man doubled over, and Connelly grabbed him by the vest and pulled the soldier over his head, covering himself with the man’s body.

It was right in time as the second assailant made it past the sofa cover and opened fire. A few thuds shook the body in Mike’s hands as the bullets dug into his live shield, but one of them hit him in his left shoulder.

As he fell back from the impact, he groped for balance, and his right hand came on top of the butt of his pistol.

“Frag out,” he heard somebody shouting from the door as he put two bullets into the shooter’s face.

Grunting from the pain in his wounded arm, he heaved the sofa up, covering himself from the grenade. The blast threw the couch back, sending him crashing straight through the drywall of the bathroom and collapsing into the tub. The following torrent of bullets bit into the remainder of the wall and, before Mike was able to pull himself into the tub, one found its way into his right thigh and another into his side.

As shooting stopped for a few seconds, trying with all his might not to moan, he crawled over the side of the tub and positioned himself by the door. He closed his eyes trying to control his ragged breathing. His right leg felt hot and wet, and Connelly immediately knew that if he couldn’t bandage his wounds in the next couple of minutes he would bleed to death.

Mike risked a peek through the crack of the door and saw two figures crouching through his open kitchen and two more in the doorway. Ignoring the pain, he kicked himself off the bathtub and slid into the corridor on his right side, giving himself an open shot. He shot the two men in the kitchen in one fluid motion, one in the neck and another in the face, as the men by the door opened fire. Mike started crawling backward as fast as he could, pulling the trigger two more times as another slug hit him in the left arm, breaking the bone.