The Cyclops Initiative (34 page)

Chapel watched her in his mirror. Angel's face was frozen into the expression of someone who is trying very hard not to think about what was happening to her.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” she replied, in a clipped tone he didn't like.

He decided he would pull over at the next chance he got. Let Julia drive, and put Angel up in the front seat. Maybe the marine just stank—­Chapel remembered spending months in a motel room with Wilkes, and that the man didn't have the best hygiene practices. But maybe it was something else. Angel looked a lot like she had when they'd forced her to get out of the car up on the ridge in Kentucky. Like she was being tortured.

He glanced over at Julia and saw a look on her face that was not entirely dissimilar.

“What about you?” he asked.

She took a long, deep breath. When she answered, she looked straight ahead through the windshield. As if she didn't want him to see what was in her eyes. “I think that I saw Wilkes kill a man last night. Just . . . just shoot him in the brain. I think that ten minutes before that I was certain he was going to kill me. I think that I remember the way he tied us up, which was not exactly gentle.”

“He's a bit rough-and-tumble,” Chapel admitted.

“He's a monster,” Julia said. She glanced back over her shoulder, as if to make sure he was really sleeping. “He was acting a role, he says. Pretending to stalk us. Shooting you just to make it look like you were dead.” She shook her head and red hair bounced around her shoulders. “He's crazy, Jim. I don't know how you can even think about trusting him.”

“Because the alternative is letting Hollingshead die,” he told her.

There was nothing else, really, to say. Chapel needed allies desperately, and Wilkes had offered himself up for the job. Now that he'd killed Moulton, he said it was only a matter of hours—­a day at the most—­before his cover was blown. Before Charlotte Holman sent somebody else to track
him
down.

But in the meantime, Wilkes could be a powerful weapon. They knew where Holman would strike next, and a general idea of how she would do it. She, on the other hand, had no idea that she couldn't trust Wilkes.

The plan had come together in Chapel's mind almost instantly. It was simple, like any good plan. It was also incredibly dangerous. But that had never stopped him before.

First things first, though. They were going to need some equipment. It was Wilkes who pointed out where they could get it.

Chapel knew that Angel and Julia were terrified of their new teammate—­and that they would never trust him. Chapel didn't know if he could trust Wilkes, either. But he did know that with the marine's help, there might just be a chance to come out of this alive.

So he headed east, driving as fast as he dared, straight through the night.

TOWSON, MD: MARCH 25, 11:14

Wilkes had a smartphone that he could still use. It made life a lot easier for them. He found a motel in a quiet part of town, a nice enough place that was clean and where the staff were happy to take cash. “Gotta love Yelp reviews,” he said.

Angel seemed happy enough just to get out of the sunlight and into a dark room where she could lie down for a while. Julia, on the other hand, asked far too many questions. “Where are you going?” was the hardest one to answer.

“We need to acquire some supplies. Some stuff that's hard to get,” Chapel told her.

“Like what?”

Chapel glanced over at the car. Wilkes was in the driver's seat, his hands on the wheel. As still and quiet as a robot waiting for instructions.

“Like guns,” he told her. It had been way too long since Chapel had access to a firearm. He'd managed to survive so far without one, but they were headed to some dangerous places now, and a gun at his side would make him feel a lot better.

Julia scowled, though. “And why exactly can't you take me with you?”

He knew she wasn't philosophically opposed to the idea of firearms, though she didn't particularly like them, either. He had a good reason for leaving her behind on this mission, though. “For one thing, somebody needs to be here with Angel.”

“She can take care of herself.”

Chapel shrugged. “Maybe. But remember the buddy system? Didn't they ever teach you that in school?”

“I remember the last time you called me your buddy,” she said.

He smiled, remembering that too.

“Yeah, I get it,” she said. “None of us should be alone at any time. If government thugs show up and try to drag her away, at least I'll be able to call them names. But I don't like the idea of you running off with Wilkes like you're long-­lost friends. I don't trust that guy.”

“I know.” But Chapel kind of did. Sure, the guy had killed Moulton instead of keeping him alive to get information out of him. Sure, Wilkes had shot Chapel. But that kind of thing made sense, in the world the two of them inhabited.

Chapel had relied on Angel and Julia so far because he'd had no choice. They were civilians, though, and neither of them had Special Forces training. Wilkes was the kind of partner Chapel was supposed to work with.

“It's going to be fine,” Chapel told her.

“Promise me he won't kill any more ­people just because it's convenient.”

“I can't make a promise for anybody else. I'll promise to ask him to promise.”

Julia growled in frustration. Then she grabbed Chapel around the neck and pulled him into a deep, long kiss.

“I'm not going to lose you again,” she told him.

“You couldn't if you tried,” he told her.

Then he headed over to the car. Before he even got to the passenger-­side door, Wilkes had the engine running.

TOWSON, MD: MARCH 25, 12:07

“I count three guys. Two out front by the door, each of them with a suspicious bulge in their coat pockets. One over at the loading dock, and he's got a shotgun right out in the open, not even caring who sees it.”

“Four,” Wilkes said.

“What?” Chapel asked.

The two of them were lying prone on the tar-paper roof of an old abandoned building in a largely abandoned part of town. Across the street from them lay a two-­story warehouse that was still in operating condition: its rolling metal doors were intact and not too rusty, and though its windows were bricked over, there wasn't much graffiti on the walls.

Back before the first drone hijacking, back in what felt now like a previous lifetime, Chapel had found this place by following Harris Contorni around. He had been convinced it was where Contorni kept his stock in trade, namely a bunch of military hardware he'd stolen from the nearby Aberdeen Proving Ground. Chapel and Wilkes both had staked out the warehouse, as well as Contorni's motel room, for months without finding any real evidence that would stand up in court. But there had been enough circumstantial details to make Chapel certain he was right about Contorni.

Now they were banking everything on that certainty. And on their ability to take Contorni down without the both of them getting killed in the process.

“You're sure? Where's this fourth guy at?”

Wilkes handed Chapel a pair of tiny binoculars. “Down the street, in a window over that restaurant supply shop.”

Chapel peered through the binoculars. Damn it. Wilkes was right. The restaurant supply shop was closed and no lights showed inside the second floor of the building. But just visible through one open window was a man smoking a cigarette. Chapel could see the barrel of a high-­powered sniper rifle hanging over the windowsill.

Shit,
Chapel thought. If he'd gone running in there thinking it was just the three guards he'd seen, the sniper would have picked him off before he even reached the front door.

Chapel had worried he was getting too old for all this. That Hollings­head had brought Wilkes in to serve as his replacement. Well, maybe there was a point to that worry. Maybe it
was
time for him to retire.

But not today.

“You can take the sniper, right?” Chapel asked.

When Wilkes's face was perfectly at rest, it already looked like he was sneering. Now he positively leered. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

Chapel nodded. “When you're done, give me some kind of signal. Then move down here fast. I'll take the guy with the shotgun, then we handle the two at the front door together.”

“Got it,” Wilkes said.

Chapel looked at the shotgun guy through the binoculars. “Just remember not to kill anyone if you don't have to,” he said. But when he lowered the binoculars, Wilkes was already gone.

Damn. The guy was good.

TOWSON, MD: MARCH 25, 12:31

The signal was pretty obvious when it came. The sniper disappeared from the window across the street. His lit cigarette flew out the window to fall into the street, and his rifle was pulled back inside. Then Wilkes leaned one arm out of the window and gave Chapel a thumbs-­up.

Chapel was already behind the warehouse, close to the loading dock where the man with the shotgun stood guard. Now it was his turn.

There are only so many ways to disarm an alert guard who is carrying a shotgun. None of them are particularly safe. Chapel decided to go with the most direct method. Moving fast but very quietly, leading with his artificial arm as a kind of shield, he ran across the loading dock and just barreled into the guard as hard as he could.

The man went sprawling—­he hadn't seen Chapel coming. The two of them rolled onto the concrete of the loading dock, grappling and trying to get to their feet. The guard never quite managed to get up, but he didn't let go of the shotgun, either. Chapel got one hand on the barrels, but the guard knocked his other hand away. He brought the weapon around, trying to cram it into the space between the two of them.

The guard was young and strong, and though Chapel was on top of him and knew a dozen ways to render the man unconscious, the shotgun was a major advantage on the guard's side. Before Chapel could stop him, the guard had both barrels jammed up under Chapel's chin.

There was something to be said for experience and training, though. Before the guard could pull his triggers and blow Chapel's head off, Chapel reached down and slipped the catch of the break action. The barrels swung away from the firing pins, just as if the weapon were in the middle of being reloaded. The guard tried to pull the triggers but nothing happened.

He seemed surprised by this. Surprised enough that Chapel was able to grab the shotgun away from him and smack him across the head with it. The guard rolled away, his hands going to his head. Chapel got an arm around the man's neck in a sleeper hold and squeezed until the guard fell unconscious.

He would have liked to have tied the man up, just to be sure he was out of action, but there was no time for that. Chapel grabbed the shotgun, locking its barrels in place and cocking its hammers, then raced around to the front of the building.

Just in time. Wilkes was walking across the street, his silenced pistol held out in front of him, while the two guards at the door were already reaching for their own weapons. Chapel leveled the shotgun at them. “Hands down,” he said.

The guards were smart enough to comply without making much noise. Wilkes came forward and disarmed both of them. He shoved one pistol in his pocket, then tossed the other one to Chapel. He didn't bother looking down at it—­he could tell from the way it felt in his hand that it was a Glock 9 mm. He shoved it into his pocket, never letting the barrels of the shotgun move away from the two guards.

“How many ­people inside?” he asked.

“Why the fuck should we tell you anything?” one of the guards asked. “You know what's going to happen to you? You know you're already dead, right? We work for—­”

Wilkes kicked the man in the stomach, hard. He went down.

Chapel turned to the second guard. “How many ­people inside?” he asked.

“Our boss and one guy,” the second guard said, lifting his hands to show he was cooperating.

Chapel nodded. To Wilkes, he said, “Did you frisk these two for backup pieces?”

“Doesn't look like they've got any,” Wilkes pointed out.

“Check for ankle holsters,” Chapel told him.

As it turned out, neither of the guards had a second gun. But the one Wilkes had kicked did have a knife tucked into his shoe.

“Okay,” Chapel said. “The two of you are going to walk ahead of us. You
know what human shields are, right? I'm guessing you can figure it out.
You walk inside there with us right behind you. The best way for the two of you not to get shot is for you to keep very, very quiet. We all clear on this?”

The guards just nodded.

The door was locked, but one of the guards had the key. He opened the door and stepped inside. The warehouse was well lit and full of metal shelves, all of which were full of long, flat cardboard boxes.

Two men were standing in the middle of the maze of shelves, checking things on clipboards. Neither of them had weapons in their hands. One of them was Harris Contorni, whom Chapel recognized instantly.

Unfortunately, Contorni recognized him as well. Before Chapel could even shout for the black marketeer to drop to the floor, Contorni broke and ran around a line of shelves, out of view.

“Damn,” Chapel said. He shoved one of the guards aside and started racing after Contorni.

“We don't need him,” Wilkes called out, but it was too late.

Chapel had already come around the end of a line of shelves and was staring down an aisle at a Gatling gun.

TOWSON, MD: MARCH 25, 12:39

“I just want to talk to—­” Chapel said, but before he could even finish his sentence, Contorni opened fire.

Technically, to be accurate, it was not a Gatling gun, since those hadn't seen ser­vice since the Spanish-­American War. Instead it was a much newer, much more deadly weapon, an M130 self-­powered Vulcan rotary cannon, with six long air-­cooled, gas-­fired barrels capable of pumping out six thousand 20×202 mm rounds per minute. It was capable of tearing a jeep to pieces, shooting down enemy bombers, or turning human beings into red jelly. It was designed to be mounted on a fighter jet.