The Genesis Code (23 page)

Subbasement, Level C
Millennium Tower
Manhattan, New York

“I was approached by an agent of this splinter faction of the Order. He warned me that my death had been ordered by the Council, the governing body of the Order,” said Ambergris.

“And Dr. Ambergris came to me for help,” said Giovanni.

“There was only one solution,” said Ambergris. “The Order is incredibly powerful. I couldn’t fight them. So I had to make them believe that they had succeeded in murdering me. If the Order thought I had been killed, I could continue on, in hiding, living under an assumed identity.”

“So you staged your own death,” said Madison.

“Yes, with the help of an assassin in the Order also allied with the splinter faction. He agreed to assist in staging my death.”

“But why did the finger get pointed at me? I was framed for your murder,” said Grace.

“We were unaware of that part of the Order’s plan. It was kept from those who warned me of the assassination. The Order took steps to frame you for the murder to divert the suspicions of any law enforcement agencies who might investigate my death.”

“But that means the Order had another agent inside Triad Genomics,” said Madison. “Someone with the access to plant the false evidence.”

“Yes. We already suspected that the Order had infiltrated Triad Genomics. It could have been anyone. But it had to be someone close to me. Someone with access to my work. It could have been you, Christian. Or you, Grace. We couldn’t be sure.”

Grace interrupted. “And that’s the reason for the clues you sent to Christian by e-mail.”

“Yes,” said Ambergris. “If you or Christian were working for the Order, you certainly wouldn’t need to try and solve the mystery I left behind. You would already know why I had been murdered.”

He turned to Madison. “It was too late to stop them from framing Grace for my murder. This was the only way we could be sure that you weren’t acting as an agent of the Order. If you tried to solve the puzzle I left behind, then we knew that you could be trusted.”

Madison nodded, his mind digesting what Ambergris had told them.

“We don’t have long before the Order carries through on their plan to blow up the Millennium Tower. I gave the police enough time to evacuate the building and search for the bomb,” said Madison.

“I’m not inclined to rely on the Order’s timetable,” said Giovanni. “We need to get out of here.”

Suddenly a shot rang out.

63rd Floor, Petronas Towers
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Tanaka stretched his arms over his head to relieve the tension in his shoulders and neck. He rubbed his eyes, tired from staring at the computer screen. Behind him, he could hear the pop of a cork as his valet opened a bottle of his favorite wine.

Perhaps I won’t stay late tonight.

His thoughts turned to a young call girl he had visited twice in the last week. A fine end to a long day.

Tanaka turned his attention back to the reports he was reading on the computer monitor. He tuned out the sounds of the valet decanting the bottle of cabernet sauvignon.

The Order’s geneticists were simply moving too slowly. He would have to devise a way to motivate them. Perhaps a “visit” to some of their family members?

A shadow crossed the computer screen.

The valet bumped the back of his chair.

“Dammit! How many times have I told you—”

Tanaka’s mind exploded in a burst of fiery pain. The valet twisted his wrist violently as he drove the corkscrew into the base of Tanaka’s skull.

He tried to scream, but the only noise that escaped his lips was a small gurgling sound.

Then everything went black.

“Get down!” yelled Madison, shoving Ambergris to the floor.

Madison turned to see Crowe walking toward them from across the room, his 9mm raised.

“He shot Giovanni!” screamed Quiz.

Dante Giovanni toppled over backward, falling to the floor. A bullet wound perforated his forehead.

As Crowe readjusted his aim, sighting down the barrel of the 9mm at Dr. Ambergris, his torn shirtsleeve fell away from his wrist. Madison could barely make out the faint image of a tattoo of two intertwined serpents on the inside of Crowe’s wrist.

Subbasement, Level C
Millennium Tower
Manhattan, New York

“No!” yelled Madison.
Not again! I will not allow it!

He reacted instantly, running across the room and leaping at Crowe. For an instant, Madison thought he might reach Crowe before he could pull the trigger.

Then he heard the crack of a gunshot.

The slug from the 9mm caught Madison in the flesh of his right biceps, passing through the muscle and leaving a ragged exit wound in the back of his arm.

Madison crashed into Crowe, screaming in pain. Crowe’s knees buckled, and he fell to the floor from the impact.

Across the room, Quiz jammed the heel of his hand against a metal button in a panel on the wall. The lights were instantly snuffed out, plunging the server farm into darkness, illuminated only by the revolving red emergency lights from the alarm system.

Subbasement, Level C
Millennium Tower
Manhattan, New York

“Run!” shouted Madison, stumbling across the room, grabbing Grace by the arm, and propelling her forward toward an open door.

“Quiz, get Ambergris out of here!”

Quiz sprang into action and yanked Dr. Ambergris by the arm toward a narrow corridor, away from Crowe and his 9mm.

Crowe slowly rose to his feet.

Madison turned to face Crowe, planting his feet shoulder-width apart and bending slightly at the knees, lowering his center of gravity.

You’re not killing anyone else. I won’t allow it.

Madison took a quick glance toward Grace.

“Go! Get out of here!” he yelled.

From just beyond the open doorway, Grace hesitated for a moment. Then she saw the determination and resolve in Madison’s eyes. She held his gaze for another moment, nodded once, then turned and ran.

Crowe balled his hands into fists, narrowed his eyes, and charged toward Madison. The flashing security beacon sprayed the room with waves of red light, casting long distorted shadows across the bundles of wires and metal conduits running along the narrow ceiling.

As Madison focused on Crowe’s massive form hurtling toward him, he spotted something in his peripheral vision. Leaning against the wall in a shallow recess, just out of reach, was a four-foot length of metal conduit about two inches in diameter.

Madison lunged for the metal pipe, but Crowe was remarkably fast.

Just as Madison’s hand closed around the cool metal conduit, Crowe plowed into him at full speed, knocking him back against the wall. Crowe’s crushing weight forced the air from Madison’s lungs as he smashed against the wall. His head smacked into the concrete with a loud crack as Madison struggled to draw breath. But with iron will, he refused to loosen his grip on the metal pipe.

With all the strength he could muster, Madison slammed his right knee upward into Crowe’s groin.

Crowe’s knees buckled, but he didn’t go down.

Grimacing in pain, he cursed Madison through clenched teeth. Slamming his shoulder into Crowe’s chest, he shoved Crowe backward away from the wall.

Caught off guard, Crowe stumbled backward several steps, flailing his arms to regain balance. Like a home-run hitter at bat, Madison cocked his elbow, drew back his arms, and stepped forward toward Crowe as he swung the metal pipe.

Crowe’s reflexes were still unbelievably fast.

As the pipe arced toward him, Crowe locked his arms in a tae-kwon-do-style block to protect his face and neck, twisting his arms to catch the blow against the meaty muscle of his forearms.

But as Crowe moved to protect his upper body, Madison changed the arc of his swing, drawing the pipe downward toward Crowe’s legs. Unable to move quickly enough to ward off the blow, Crowe howled in pain and anger as the metal conduit slammed into his left knee, pivoting on the balls of his feet to avoid taking a hit directly on his kneecap.

The pipe connected with the muscle and ligament just below and to the side of the kneecap. His leg gave out, buckling beneath his weight, and Crowe started to fall.

Madison’s hands and wrists ached from the force of the impact. A sharp pain lanced through the bones of his left wrist. Madison drew back for a second swing, intent on finishing Crowe with a blow to his head as he fell.

But Crowe did not make the same mistake twice. Even as he fell toward the floor, Crowe locked his focus on the pipe as Madison swung again.

Crowe’s hands darted out, seizing the end of the conduit and deflecting Madison’s swing. Crowe held tightly to the end of the conduit and yanked hard in the direction of Madison’s swing, yanking the pipe from his hands.

As Crowe slammed into the floor, taking the brunt of the fall on his left shoulder, the metal conduit flew from his hands and spun across the room, clattering across concrete. Crowe rolled with the impact, avoiding serious injury as he minimized the force of the impact.

I’m outmatched,
Madison realized.
Going head to head with this monster is suicide.

Madison turned and ran.

Subbasement, Level C
Millennium Tower
Manhattan, New York

Grace ran down the narrow hallway, taking one turn after another, searching for an exit sign or a window. Almost every door she encountered was locked. Slowing to a jog to catch her breath, she realized that she was utterly lost, with no idea of how to escape from the subbasement of the Millennium Tower.

Fighting rising panic, she closed her mind to the images of explosions and collapsing buildings that tried to worm their way into her conscious thought.

Grace turned another corner and came to a dead stop.

Crap.

The hallway ended abruptly twenty feet ahead. A single door at the end of the hall was the only means of egress.

Grace sprinted up to the door and grasped the doorknob. She could hear the whining hum of some sort of machinery beyond the door. She closed her eyes and turned the knob.

Unlocked!

Grace pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The cavernous room extended well beyond her range of vision in the dim light. A narrow corridor ran down the center of the room between tall rows of industrial machinery that hummed and buzzed. Dull silver ductwork snaked from large air handlers and ran across the ceiling. Air compressors and exhaust fans populated the room with a chorus of metallic noises.

Water condensate on overhead pipes dripped an intermittent rain on the metal grating that covered the floor. Steam hissed from pipes overhead, belching plumes of white fog into the moist, musty air.

Grace advanced down the corridor, through the forest of machinery, pipes, and electrical equipment. Beneath her feet, gaps in the thick metal grate revealed a yawning chasm below.

Ahead and to the right, she saw a phone mounted to a steel column. Tacked above the phone was a yellowed paper listing last names and phone extensions.

She removed the handset and placed it to her ear. There was only silence. She clicked the receiver several times in rapid sequence.

Still no dial tone.

Frustrated, she slammed the handset against the wall.

Goddammit!

Her muscles ached with fatigue, and pain lanced through her head. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

High overhead, a burst of steam jetted upward into the darkness. At the end of the room behind her, the door through which Grace had recently passed swung open with a groan. Faint fluorescent lighting backlit the figure that stepped through the doorway.

Grace froze.

Not big enough to be Crowe.

The figure walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind it.

Definitely a man.

“Christian?” she called out tentatively.

The figure paused.

“No,” he replied. “Not Christian.”

Subbasement, Level C
Millennium Tower
Manhattan, New York

Crowe rose slowly to his feet, careful to avoid placing any weight on his right knee. He tried to raise his right arm. Coupled with the sharp pain radiating down his arm, his right shoulder’s refusal to move indicated to Crowe that it was dislocated.

Crowe tested his injured knee.

Remarkably, it held his weight, but spikes of pain lanced through his right leg.

Time for the Queen’s cocktail.

He reached into a pocket inside his blazer and withdrew a syringe packaged in plastic. Crowe tore off the plastic wrapper and jabbed the needle into a vein on the underside of his wrist. He depressed the syringe’s plunger, draining its contents into his bloodstream.

Crowe recalled the first time he felt the euphoria of the Queen’s cocktail, an injectable mixture of painkillers and stimulants used in combat to fight injury and fatigue.

God save the Queen.

Crowe palpated his dislocated shoulder with two fingers. He gingerly rotated the ball-and-socket joint, lining up the bones on either side of his torn rotator cuff. Then he unbuckled his belt, pulled it through the belt loops of his trousers, and folded it in half.

The aroma of leather filled his nose as Crowe stuck the belt in his mouth and clamped his jaw down against the soft leather. He made one final adjustment to his dislocated shoulder and turned to face the wall.

With a grunt, Crowe threw the weight of his body against the wall, driving the bones of his shoulder joint back into place with an audible pop.

Feeling the effects of the Queen’s cocktail flowing through his veins, Crowe rotated his injured shoulder.

Much better.

Crowe retrieved his 9mm from where it lay on the concrete floor. Squeezing the grip, he tested the laser sight. A thin beam of red instantly shot across the room.

As the stimulants kicked in and the painkillers flooded his body with synthetic endorphins, Crowe felt euphoric.

Powerful.

Acutely aware of his heightened senses.

He took a moment to deliberate and consider his options.

Observe. Orient. Decide. Act.

Coming quickly to a decision, Crowe sprinted toward an open doorway. As he stalked his prey in the bowels of the Millennium Tower, his thoughts surged in random directions, drifting undercurrents of thoughts and memories colliding in the hyperstimulated synapses of his brain. His mind drifted back in time. He could almost smell the hot desert wind as his mind’s eye recalled the Iraqi city where Crowe had lost his humanity.

After Saddam Hussein’s military had collapsed under the onslaught of the American and British invasion in the Second Persian Gulf War, Omar Crowe’s SAS unit roamed the streets of Basra, rooting out insurgents and remnants of the Iraqi Republican Guard hiding among the civilian population.

One moonless night during the first week of Ramadan, his six-man squad was searching a dilapidated apartment building for Iraqi insurgents when Crowe walked through a thin trip wire hidden in a dark narrow stairwell, detonating a pipe bomb affixed beneath the rickety steps. Three of Crowe’s men were cut down instantly in the storm of shrapnel that exploded in the confined space. The remaining two were gunned down by insurgents who rushed into the stairwell after the detonation. Only Crowe, who had himself triggered the explosion that caused the violent deaths of his men, remained uninjured.

Their dying screams filled his ears as Crowe killed the two insurgents, emptying his assault rifle into the bodies of the young Hussein loyalists. One of Crowe’s men screamed for help, lying in a twisted heap on the stairs, his body shredded by the violent blast. The dark red blood of his brother-in-arms soaked through Crowe’s desert fatigues as he cradled the young man, whose last breath bubbled on his lips.

It seemed to Crowe that a demon had possessed him that day in the silence that followed those horrific moments. With the terrible rage of an avenging angel, he stalked the apartment building, indiscriminately slaying the Iraqi men, women, and children who huddled together in desperate fear in their tiny apartments. When a second SAS unit finally found Crowe, he had run out of ammunition and was frantically beating the mutilated corpse of an elderly man with the butt of his rifle.

The British government quietly discharged Omar Crowe from military service. The incident was never disclosed to the public. Crowe returned to England, drifting from town to town, shunned by his former comrades. The demon inside him remained.

Two weeks later, in a seedy bar in London’s East End, a beefy sailor from the British Merchant Marine accidentally bumped into Crowe, spilling his pint across the bar. Crowe snapped, his fiery rage consuming all reason, and savagely beat the man to death with a barstool.

The next morning, Crowe awoke in shackles, charged with homicide. The trial that followed was swift and just. A jury of his peers and countrymen gave Crowe a life sentence in London’s infamous Wormwood Scrubs Prison.

Just when it seemed his life was over, salvation came to Crowe in the form of a bespectacled prison warden with a tattoo of two intertwined serpents on the inside of his wrist. He offered a simple choice: die in prison or serve a new master. For Crowe, the decision was easy. He was spirited out of Wormwood Scrubs Prison in the dead of night. The Order gave Crowe a new identity and a new sense of purpose. He was reborn. Now Crowe served a new master. And so did the demon inside him.