Authors: Patrick Lee
The Breach (4 page)
VERSE I
AN OCTOBER NIGHT IN 1992
His footsteps are the only sound in the night, and they don’t carry far.
For this time of year in Minneapolis, the day has been warm and wet, but in the past hour—the hour before midnight—a chill has moved in on the city, stirring wraiths of fog into the graveyard quiet of Cedar Street.
This deep in the neighborhood, there are no streetlights. Some of those who carve out their lives here prefer it that way. Tonight, so does Travis Chase. It is dark enough that he presents neither shadow nor silhouette, and his shoes make only faint ticks on the broken pavement. The only things in the night sharp enough to sense his presence are those things wilder than himself—even as he thinks this, a dog chain rattles softly on a porch, somewhere in the fog to his left—but his business on Cedar Street at this hour doesn’t concern such things. His approach will not be detected by anyone that matters.
The .32 is in his pocket, loaded with hollowpoints.
Ahead of him the fog thins, and he sees the house. Emily Price’s house. The only light comes from the big living-room window, casting its shape out into the mist. He can picture the two of them inside, maybe sitting on the couch, holding each other close and saying little or nothing. When he thinks of that, Travis’s shame burns.
He has no idea what will happen when he knocks on the door.
Travis saw within minutes what it would take. A lot could go wrong, but he thought the advantage was his, even against these numbers.
On the far side of the encampment, fifty feet beyond, the pines were dense. More than heavy enough to conceal him. He could reach that spot undetected if he traveled far enough along the valley on this side, low among the rocks, before crossing over and coming back.
Fifty feet was close, and with surprise on his side he might do well to just start shooting. The first shot would be a free kill, maybe even the second. Then it’d be him against five, and confusion on their part might give him the edge for another kill or two, if he was fast enough.
But the ifs would stack up quickly then. Those left standing would reach cover. If even two of them found safe positions from which to return fire, he’d be in trouble. Most likely he’d be dead.
Surprise wouldn’t be enough. He needed misdirection. He needed them looking exactly away from where he’d be firing from. He needed them looking at the place where he lay right now.
The idea came to him quickly, probably because he had so little material to work with.
He leaned one of the M16s against a waist-high fallen rock, and took from his backpack one of the nylon bags that held a single change of his clothes. He dumped the clothes back into the pack, and hung the empty bag—nearly weightless now—by its drawstrings from the M16’s trigger.
Then he set a full water pouch atop the rock, and made a pinprick hole in it with his knife. What came out wasn’t even a fine stream, but just a ceaseless drip, which he positioned to fall directly into the nylon bag. Designed to keep water out, the bag would keep it in just as well. When it held enough, and weighed enough, this gun would fire its entire clip into the sky.
Peter Campbell was going to break.
He kept his eyes locked on Paige’s as she cried, while the stringy little shit with the whiskers continued probing inside her arm with the nerve actuator. From time to time she would narrow her eyes and manage the slightest shake of her head within the strap, her message unmistakable: don’t.
But he would. Had to. He’d been in denial about it for hours, though he’d only just now begun to recognize it.
These people had simply won. Help was not coming—would not be coming for days and days, if even then. Drummond had seen to that.
Drummond. He’d broken, hadn’t he? And under what pressure? Nothing like what these past three days had been. As Peter understood it, the man had gotten a call from his wife, crying somewhere with a gun to her head. Almost anyone in the world would have caved to that, but Tangent operators were supposed to be stronger. That was one of the key attributes they were selected for, and Peter would have bet his life on Stuart Drummond’s integrity. In fact, he had. And he’d lost.
It was little solace that everyone else had trusted Drummond too—trusted him supremely. Who else would have been tapped to fly a plane carrying some of Tangent’s highest-ranking people, along with the most dangerous object ever to come out of the Breach? But the flight—coming from Tokyo and bound for Wind Creek, in Wyoming, where the object would have been secured forever—had made an unscheduled course change somewhere over the Aleutians. Drummond had murdered the rest of the flight crew, then depressurized the plane without releasing the oxygen masks. Finally he’d taken the jumbo jet down to pelican height—somewhere in there, overriding the damn safeties to keep the interior pressure equivalent to high altitude—and gone north into Alaska below radar.
Peter and the others had revived to the metal screams of the aircraft coming to rest God knew where, rejuvenating air at last flooding the plane through the broken fuselage.
Even as they’d heard the ATV engines closing in from outside, Drummond’s voice had come over the comm, so hysterical he could barely speak. Peter had made out fragments of the apology and the story of Drummond’s abducted wife, and then he’d caught one final phrase before the man killed himself.
The final phrase—
Ink Burst
—had unnerved him more than the gunshot that ended the transmission.
Just like that, he’d understood that hope was lost. Ink Burst—a technology derived from another Breach object, albeit a relatively benign and manageable one—was a defensive measure designed to hide a crashed aircraft from satellites. Even visual satellites. It pulled a variety of clever tricks to fool them; one involved broadcasting an omnidirectional signal that caused spy birds to ignore the live crash site and substitute their own archived shots. The effective radius was something like five miles from the crash site, to cover any possible debris field. Currently every satellite platform in the world was vulnerable to it, though DARPA had a system ready to launch in November that was immune—after all, you never knew when your own toys would be used against you.
That precaution would come a few months late, as it turned out.
The whiskered man made a sudden adjustment to the nerve actuator’s power, and Paige’s body convulsed, a new flood of tears brimming in her eyes. He did that every few minutes to break up the pattern, keep her from getting used to any one strain of agony. This round would go on for another hour and a half, and then they’d crank the table flat again and let her rest an hour, as the drug lost its edge. The resting hour had nothing to do with kindness; it was simply the whiskered man’s understanding of how far he could push her and still keep her alive. The drug must be one of a dozen shock-inhibiting agents Peter knew of.
It was time to break.
He no longer cared what consequences would befall the world as a result. His world had shrunk until it no longer contained even himself. There was only Paige.
He could end her pain right now; in twenty words he could tell them where the Whisper’s key was hidden on the plane. An inch-long strip of something like clear cellophane, the key was the easiest thing in the world to hide, and among all the components of a 747, even a team of Boeing engineers could spend months searching for it, if they didn’t know where to look. Peter could give these people its location, and once they’d found it and verified that it was valid, they’d put a bullet in Paige’s temple, and his own.
Chirping laughter broke from the group encircling the campfire. That the arrogant fuckers had built a fire at all had made it abundantly clear to him, three days earlier, that this place would not be found in time. For the first twelve hours he’d clung to the hope that Ellen had survived. He and the others in the equipment room had forced her to hide in a mainframe cabinet; she’d protested, unwilling to be spared the others’ fate, and had given in only as the ATVs had stopped outside the plane. If she’d lived, she could have waited until the attackers left and then called for help.
But the hostiles, after executing everyone but Paige and him, had fired magazine after magazine into the equipment room, shredding every piece of machinery. He’d watched four shots pierce the compartment where Ellen lay hidden. There was close to zero chance she’d survived.
By the end of the first day, when Paige had already endured eight cycles of the torture, Peter’s resolve had withered to a thread, and all that had kept it from breaking had been the angry insistence in his daughter’s eyes, promising to hate him if he gave in.
All these impossible hours later, her strength was still intact.
But his was dead and gone.
It was time.
In the pines at the edge of the campsite, Travis set two of the spare M16s on the ground. Another he kept slung on his shoulder, and the last he held in his hands.
Fifty feet away, String Mustache was still about his business. From this angle Travis could see the face of the other captive, an older man tied to a tree near the young woman. Travis wondered if a look of greater anguish had ever existed in the world.
Ten feet from String Mustache, four of the other men were gathered around a fire, carefully tended to burn clean without visible smoke. It was more or less a bed of embers that they continually fed sticks to. One of the men was cooking a lump of meat over it. These four seemed intent on keeping their attention off of the torture, their conversation—Travis couldn’t pin down the language—serving as their own white noise to mask the woman’s muffled screams.
The remaining two hostiles were seated facing the torture table as if it were a matinee screen.
Travis crouched, tensed to move. It would happen any time now. He’d made the trip from the overlook in twenty minutes, hoping like hell with every step that he hadn’t misjudged the speed of the water drip, or the resistance force of the rifle’s trigger.
Now it didn’t matter. He was ready.
He thought he’d take the four at the campfire first. He might get them in one burst, depending on how much they separated when they turned away. After that he’d switch from full-auto to single shot—his thumb already rested on the selector—and be more precise with the other three, who were closer to the captives. By that time his rush would put him inside the camp, firing almost point-blank.
Breathing steady. Hands dry. Any second now.
And then the older man tied to the tree said, “Stop.”
String Mustache switched off the thing in his hand, though he kept it inside the woman’s arm. With the buzzing stopped, the only sound in the clearing was her soft crying, and the occasional pop of something in the fire.
Travis couldn’t see her eyes, but the man facing her—it had to be her father—looked more wretched than ever. He whispered what looked like, “I’m sorry,” and then, “I love you,” repeating the latter at least three times as his eyes ran over.
Finally he turned to her tormentor.
“Tell,” String Mustache said.
The bound man spoke, his voice wasted and all but dead. “The forward-most lavatory—bathroom—right behind the cockpit. Remove the fan cover in the ceiling, reach above and to the right. It’s there.”
String Mustache had his back to Travis, but Travis could picture the man’s eyes narrowing, calculating. Then he turned and spoke in his own language to two of the men at the fire. They got to their feet and went quickly to the ATVs that were parked at the edge of the encampment. Their own rifles slung on their shoulders, they mounted two of the four machines and raced away along the valley floor, in the direction of the crash site.
String Mustache watched them go, then turned to the father, who was still whispering something to the young woman on the table.
“Hope what you told me is true,” String Mustache said in his rough English. “I keep going until I know.”
Then he switched the handheld device back on, and the woman and her father screamed at the same time.
The two remaining at the fire averted their eyes. The two that comprised the peanut gallery smiled. Travis was just processing his own reaction—rage, beyond what he’d already felt—when automatic rifle fire shredded the air above the camp.
String Mustache dropped his device and threw himself flat—no rifle anywhere near his reach. The other four did as Travis had hoped: they took cover, and they got it exactly backward. He broke from the pines as the masking roar of the staged M16 continued. Fifty feet from the encampment, now forty, thirty. The four armed hostiles crouched behind their trees, looking the other way, backs exposed to him like hay bale targets.
String Mustache was still on the ground, with neither cover nor weapon in hand—his hands, in fact, were covering his ears.
Twenty feet. Travis arrested his forward speed, his feet sliding on the loose soil, and shouldered his rifle. He thumbed the selector switch to single shot—the targets were too widely spaced for a sweep—and brought it up to sight on the leftmost of the armed men.
In that moment the staged gun on the ledge ran dry, the instant silence far more jarring than the gunfire itself had been.
Travis pulled the trigger. His shot took the first hostile dead center in the back, and though he couldn’t see the exit wound in the man’s chest, the eruption of blood onto the tree was almost absurd. Like the guy had swallowed a grenade.
The others were already turning. Fast. Travis swung the barrel toward the second man and squeezed, the shot catching him through the side of the rib cage and propelling most of its contents out the far side. Following through on the gun’s sideways momentum, Travis fired again a quarter second later, the shot going wide of the third man and only slicing open his shoulder.
By now the last two armed hostiles were fully facing him, their weapons coming up smoothly.
What came next, Travis could only think of as autopilot. He’d felt it before, at times when his survival had balanced on a pivot-point made of seconds, or half seconds. His body just seemed to make its own call.
His knees bent. He dropped fast, just as both of the weapons facing him roared. In the same instant that he felt the baked-air trails of bullets passing his face, his thumb flicked the selector switch back to full auto, and then he was firing.
The autofire didn’t exactly knock the two men backward—that only seemed to happen in movies—but instead knocked the life from their bodies. Punctured across their upper torsos, they simply dropped, the left of the two crumpling so tidily in place that he cracked his head on his own knee before flopping sideways.
Travis felt the weapon fire empty even as he remembered String Mustache. Turning now, already letting go of the rifle and shrugging the second one from his shoulder, he saw him.
The man was no longer cowering. He was standing. Still not holding a rifle, but drawing a 9mm from inside his coat. He wasn’t even looking at Travis. His eyes were on the man tied to the tree, and his pistol was coming up.
The young woman screamed, so much louder than before that the sound baffle strapped to her face seemed not to affect it.
Travis got his left hand on the spare M16’s barrel guard. Twisting his body, swinging up the stock, his right hand finding the grip and the trigger well—
String Mustache put his pistol to the bound man’s head and fired. The woman’s scream doubled.
A half second later, as the man pivoted to execute the young woman as well, Travis’s M16 barked, already set to full auto. Three shots caught String Mustache across the face before the recoil pushed the weapon off target. Travis stopped firing, watched the torturer fall, his 9mm tumbling away over the dirt and pine needles.
Travis swept his gaze across the bodies of the first four hostiles to be sure they were dead. They were dead.
He slung the rifle and went to the woman on the table, taking his knife from his pocket as he went. She startled when she saw him, and he realized she had witnessed almost none of what had just happened—just her father’s death and then String Mustache’s.
The mechanics of the crank table were obvious enough. Travis took hold of the metal handle and turned it until the surface lay flat. He carefully lifted the strap of the sound baffle, cut it, and pulled the thing away.
She wasn’t screaming anymore. She lay there hyperventilating instead.
The straps holding her body were sturdy, but his knife got through them without any trouble. Her hands went to her face; her legs folded up to her chest as she rolled on her side. She felt for something inside her mouth and pulled it out. A rubber clamp of some kind.
Her upper right arm looked as bad as anything Travis had ever seen, but she paid no attention to it now.
Thinking to give her some privacy, Travis turned and walked to the edge of the camp, cocking an ear to listen for the ATVs. He could hear the engines, very distant now and still receding; no way could the riders have heard the gunfire over the roar of those machines up close. They’d left maybe ninety seconds ago. They were probably halfway to the crash now.
“Who are you?” The young woman’s voice was broken and faint.
Travis turned, and was surprised to find her sitting up on the table. Her body still shuddered with sobs, but she showed remarkable control, all things considered. She looked to be in her late twenties. Dark hair. Large, dark eyes. He found himself thinking she must be beautiful on anything but the worst day of her life.
“Travis,” he said, suddenly lacking a better answer. She seemed to be waiting for more. “I’m just a guy. I found the plane, found Mrs. Garner.”
“She lived?”
“Long enough to leave instructions.”
Before she could ask about that, movement between them drew their attention sharply.
String Mustache was alive, trying to turn himself over in the dirt. Though a good chunk of the man’s face had been cleaved away by one of the bullets, Travis now saw that the other two had glanced on the hard cheekbones and skull. He unslung the M16 and was an instant from finishing him when the woman spoke.
“No.” The word came out rough, halfway between whisper and growl.
Then she surprised Travis by pivoting and putting her feet on the ground, and standing—shaky for a moment, but standing all the same.
With her undamaged left arm she took Travis’s knife from where he’d set it on the table, and dropped hard with one knee onto String Mustache’s back, pressing him flat to the ground. She put the blade, edge-up, under his armpit and pulled savagely. Travis heard a sound like heavy elastic parting, and the man screamed. The arm quivered, uncontrolled. She did the same to the other arm, then turned a hundred eighty degrees and slit both of his hamstrings behind the knees. His screams ebbed to a low moan, gurgling blood in his throat.
The woman stood, put the knife aside, then stooped and gathered a fistful of String Mustache’s back collar.
Had Travis actually wanted to stop her, he wasn’t sure he’d have had time. She lifted String Mustache’s upper body, dragged him ten feet across the needles and loose soil, and dropped him facedown into the white-hot embers of the campfire. He screamed and thrashed, but could only command his limbs to jerk about; all control had literally been severed. He managed to contract his back muscles and raise his face for a few seconds, but then the young woman put her foot on the back of his head and pressed him deep into the coals again. She kept the foot there until his hair caught fire. By that time he’d stopped moving and screaming. She watched him for another ten seconds; then she picked up a rifle dropped by one of the hostiles, thumbed it to auto without even looking at it, and fired a burst into the back of String Mustache’s head.
She dropped the gun and turned back to Travis, and for a moment he wasn’t sure her eyes were even human. Then they fixed on her father, dead against the base of the tree, and all doubt about her humanity evaporated.
She crossed to the pine and sank beside his bound corpse, pulling herself against him, her face pressed to his despite the blood. She cried again, silently.
Travis went back to the edge of the camp and listened to the distant ATV engines. Thirty seconds later they stopped.