The Cyclops Initiative (21 page)

He pushed the door open a few more inches. A pair of women's shoes appeared just at the edge of his view. He leaned out a little more and saw Julia down on the ground, her face covered by red hair. Her cell phone lay on the pavement a few feet away.

Somebody had stomped on it. Its case was cracked until bits of green circuit board poked out.

Chapel fought to control his emotions. Julia might be dead out there, or just unconscious. Either way, whoever had attacked her was still—­

The door jumped out of his hands as someone yanked it away from him. Chapel reacted without thinking, ducking low in a crouch and exploding outward, right into the legs of his opponent. He didn't care who it was—­a cop, a Chinese assassin, whatever, he had to take them down fast so he could go check on Julia.

But whoever it was, they were ready for him. They stepped aside like a matador evading a charging bull.

Chapel knew right away that he'd misjudged his charge, that he was going to end up sprawled on the ground—­momentum alone would carry him there. So instead of trying to get back to his feet he swiveled at the waist and reached out to grab at his attacker's legs. The attacker was too fast and he only managed to get a handful of pant leg, but it was enough to pull the attacker off balance.

Even before Chapel hit the ground he brought his knees up, protecting his chest. As the attacker reached down for him, Chapel felt his shoulder hit the pavement. With his free hand he reached up and grabbed, not even caring what he got, just knowing he needed, desperately, to get his attacker down on the ground with him.

It almost worked. The other man should have taken a step forward as he reached for Chapel and that should have let Chapel flip him.

Instead the attacker took a step back, steadying himself.

Which left Chapel lying on the ground, looking up at the man who towered over him.

“Wilkes?” he said, completely taken by surprise. “You're dead.”

The marine gave him a quick shrug. “Shit, somebody coulda told me.”

Chapel shifted his weight, getting both his arms free. If he could distract Wilkes even for a split second, he could kick the man's legs out from under him. He could—­

Wilkes took another step back. Then he pulled a handgun from his belt. A compact SIG Sauer 9 mm with a silencer screwed onto the barrel. “Just cool down, Jimmy. Okay?” he said, as he leveled the gun and pointed it at Chapel's face. “We're going to do this by the numbers. You keep your hands visible. I know there's no point tying you up, 'cause you'd just slip your plastic arm off or pull some kind of magic trick like that. I've read some of your after-­action reports.”

Chapel knew when he was beat. If he was standing, if Wilkes weren't so well trained, maybe he could have wrestled with the marine and gotten the gun away from him. But that wasn't going to happen now. “What did you do to Julia?” he asked.

“Just knocked her out. She'll wake up with a nasty headache in a while, but if she's lucky I won't be here by then. She didn't even see me coming.”

Chapel blinked. “So she didn't see your face.”

“Yep. Which means she comes out of this okay. Now, get up. Slowly, buddy. We both know the rules.”

Chapel did as he was told. He got his knees under him, then put one foot down on the pavement, keeping his hands in the air. He turned around and let Wilkes pat him down.

“Not even a derringer in your boot, huh?” Wilkes said when he'd finished his search. “Figured you would have found a weapon by now. Never know who's going to sneak up on you in the dark. Okay, Jimmy. Let's go inside. I'll be right behind you, but not close enough to touch. Understand? Say yes if you think you got this one figured out.”

“Yes,” Chapel said. “Listen, Wilkes—­did Hollingshead send you to bring me in? Because there are some things he needs to know.”

“Open the door for me,” Wilkes said.

Chapel opened the door and held it while Wilkes braced it with his foot. Then the two of them stepped into the stockroom. Chapel's eyes had adjusted to the darkness outside and now he could barely see in the dazzling light. Wilkes would probably be in the same boat, but Chapel knew that wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to get out of this without getting himself shot.

“No, it wasn't Hollingshead,” Wilkes said. “The old man's been relieved of duty. Probably going to catch an espionage charge off this, if not full-­on treason.”

“What? He had nothing to do with this!”

Wilkes didn't respond to that. “Keep moving. Straight ahead. I'm thinking you have Angel in here, and I need her, too.”

“So who are you working for?” Chapel asked. He needed to know if he was about to be arrested—­or killed.

“Charlotte Holman,” Wilkes told him.

“The NSA?”

“We're going to wrap up this conversation now, Jimmy,” Wilkes said. “You go ahead and keep moving.”

Chapel did what he was told.

This was bad. This was very, very bad. The jig was up, and he would spend the rest of his life in jail. There was no way he could fight Wilkes, nor was there any way he could run, not without being shot.

There was only one bright spot in the whole thing.

As Wilkes marched him into the middle of the stockroom, into the circle of video-­game consoles arrayed on the floor, there was no sign of Angel.

She'd been smart enough to get away.

At least one of them had.

PITTSBURGH, PA: MARCH 23, 01:39

“You go stand over there, against those shelves,” Wilkes said. Then he stepped over the ring of video-­game consoles and prodded the laptop with his shoe. “Interesting setup here. You organizing another drone attack?”

“Angel had nothing to do with those,” Chapel said. “She was framed. The thing in California, with the power station—­she couldn't have done that.”

“She could have programmed the drone to do it in advance, put it on a timer,” Wilkes said. He shrugged. “Honestly, I don't give a crap. I'm not here to solve a big mystery, Jimmy. I'm not a detective.”

“Then why are you here?”

Wilkes gave him a big shit-­eating grin. Then he squatted down next to the laptop, the gun still trained on Chapel. He picked up the hard drive attached to the laptop. Standing up, he lifted the hard drive until the laptop dangled in the air by the cord that connected them. He gave the hard drive a good swift yank and it came free, the laptop crashing to the floor.

“This is it, huh? What you stole from that trailer. The last part of Angel.”

Chapel said nothing.

Wilkes dropped the hard drive. It hit the concrete floor with a bang. He lifted one booted foot and stamped down hard on the metal box. Something inside it cracked. Then, perhaps for good measure, he lowered his pistol and put two bullets into the casing.

Even with the silencer the gunshots were loud enough to make Chapel's ears ring. The noise echoed and reverberated around the stockroom.

It was almost enough to mask the sound of someone grunting in frustration behind Wilkes.

Almost. Chapel forced himself not to look over there. If Wilkes hadn't heard it, he didn't want to draw the marine's attention to the fact that Angel was still in the stockroom, hidden behind a shelving unit.

It turned out not to matter. Almost before the echoes had finished bouncing around the room, she gave another grunt, loud enough that anyone could have heard it.

Wilkes didn't waste time speaking. He brought the pistol back up to point at Chapel, but turned his head to look behind him.

Just in time to see the entire shelving unit, ten feet high and packed with boxes of electronics, come crashing down on him.

Boxes and video-­game consoles went everywhere, sliding across the floor. Wilkes let out a sound that was half gasp and half cry of rage as he disappeared from view.

Where the shelving unit had been, Angel was revealed, standing there breathing hard and looking terrified.

“Go,” Chapel shouted at her. “Get Julia—­get out of here!”

He could hear Wilkes moving around under the pile of debris. A pile of blister-­packed toner cartridges slid off the heap like an avalanche down the side of a cardboard mountain. There wasn't much time.

Angel still stood there, looking like she had no idea what she'd just done.

“Go!” Chapel shouted again.

This time she took the hint, sprinting toward the fire door.

Chapel approached the debris pile carefully, not knowing where exactly Wilkes might be under all the boxes and broken electronics. He could hear the man moving, trying to escape. He might be badly injured down there. Or merely incapacitated for a second.

Boxes shifted and heaved, and for a second Chapel expected Wilkes to come rearing up out of the mess, howling like a wounded bear. That didn't happen, though. The boxes settled, finding their own level. Chapel couldn't hear Wilkes anymore. Had the marine passed out in there? Was he dead?

Chapel reached down carefully and pulled a box off the top of the pile.

The 9 mm appeared in the gap. Chapel could see one of Wilkes's eyes under the debris.

The pistol fired. The noise and the muzzle flash blinded and deafened him and he could only stagger backwards, away from the attack.

It took Chapel a second to realize he'd been shot.

PITTSBURGH, PA: MARCH 23, 01:43

It wasn't the first time Chapel had caught a bullet.

In fact, he knew the feeling all too well. Shock would keep most of the pain away until he ran out of adrenaline and his body had to accept what had happened to it. Shock couldn't spare him the wave of nausea and weakness that spread through his guts, though.

He put pressure on the wound with his artificial hand and tried to breathe. He needed to think, he needed to plan—­

He needed to run.

The pile of boxes was already moving, shifting, as Wilkes struggled to get free. Wilkes was still alive and conscious and armed down there, and any second now he would jump up and finish what he'd started. Chapel ducked around the side of the debris pile, desperately hoping Wilkes didn't just shoot him again as he passed by. He headed through the stockroom, not looking back, and crashed into the push bar of the fire door with his good arm. Hitting the door sent a wave of pain through his chest, but he ignored it and kept moving.

Outside, on the dark loading dock, he saw nothing that could help him. Julia was gone—­Angel must have woken her up and gotten her out of there. The two of them could be sitting in the car just a hundred yards away, waiting for him. He hoped not. For one thing, he wanted them gone so they would be safe, so that they would be far away from Wilkes. For another thing, getting to them would mean climbing over the chain-­link fence again.

Wounded as he was, that wasn't going to happen.

Behind him, inside the store, he heard something heavy crash and fall. That would be Wilkes working himself free.

Chapel studied the terrain around him. Behind the electronics store lay a long stretch of undeveloped woodland, a dark forest that would offer some cover. He started running for those trees, knowing they were his only chance.

Halfway there the pain showed up to the party. It was like his nervous system had just realized he'd been shot and was replaying the experience to see what it had missed. Lancing pain shot through his side. Muscles from his groin up to what remained of his left shoulder twisted into knots, and red spots flashed before his eyes. He doubled over, wondering if he was going to throw up, wondering if he was just going to collapse in a heap right there, right then.

No. He refused to just stop now. Chapel gritted his teeth and forced his legs to get moving. They weren't injured, after all.

Bent nearly double, he half walked, half ran into the trees. Darkness flooded over him, but he told himself that was just because the branches of the trees were blocking out the moonlight. It had nothing to do with his brain desperately wanting to pass out and sleep through the pain that only kept getting worse.

Behind him he heard the fire door slam open. Chapel ducked low to try to avoid being seen.

A bullet smashed through a thin tree branch just over his head, showering him in chips of wood and bark. Apparently Wilkes could see him just fine.

That was the impetus he needed.

Chapel ran.

PITTSBURGH, PA: MARCH 23, 01:46

Keeping one hand on his wound, Chapel waved the other in front of him, fending off low branches and preventing himself from running headlong into a tree trunk. He could see almost nothing at all, just the occasional flash of dark sky or the silhouette of a tree limb like a talon grasping at his face.

The ground behind the electronics store sloped gradually downward, and up ahead Chapel could hear running water—­a creek or a stream or something. He had no idea how far these woods extended, or what might lie on the other side. If he lived long enough to get there, he would worry about it then.

Behind him he heard Wilkes's heavy boots crunching through drifts of fallen leaves left over from the previous autumn. Chapel probably made as much noise himself, but it was lost under the constant roar of blood in his ears and the sound of his own breathing as it howled in and out of his chest.

He had no idea how far behind Wilkes might be, or how long it would take the marine to catch up to him. He had no real idea, even, of how much ground he was covering, or whether he was just crawling along at a snail's pace. He kept moving forward because stopping or slowing down meant his death, that was all. It was the only thought in his head.

Behind him—­right behind him—­Wilkes stepped on a branch and it exploded under his boot with a noise very much like a gunshot. Chapel rolled to the side in case the killer was about to pounce, thinking he would head sideways and maybe lose Wilkes that way. Instead, he slipped in the mud and went sprawling forward. His good right hand swung out before him, looking for anything to grab.