The Omicron Legion (3 page)

“Please, Blainey. Do not look for that which is too far out of your line of sight. I am a warrior. In my veins flows the blood of others who shed it fighting for who they were. The spirits counsel that we only die when we fail to live true to the legacy of that life force. After the hellfire, I died and the blood ran cold in me. But then you breathed new life into me that winter night and reminded me of my true heritage. There was so much I had to make up for. Years, Blainey. Years where I forsook the very creed that made me. This is my chance to atone, to push the blood of my ancestors through veins that beg for it. For them. For me.”

“You’re speaking about now, Indian?”

“My work is not nearly finished.”

“Not a lot you can get done behind bars.”

“I will find my way out in time.”

“Not without help, you won’t.”

“This is not your fight, Blainey.”

“Sure, and the dozen or so I’ve involved you in weren’t yours, either. Look, Johnny. I might not be able to hear those spirits of yours yet, but I’ve got a pretty good sense of how they talk. If you’re down here for a reason, then I must be, too.”

Wareagle could do nothing but shrug.

“Look, Indian. All the pull in the world’s not gonna get you out of here anytime soon. So first off we’ve got to come up with our own version of early release. Then we head up the Amazon to find whatever the hell it is that’s killing these Tupis. See, I’m signing on, Johnny. For once, your war becomes mine.”

The Indian smiled faintly. “Blainey, our fates are connected at the level where only the spirits roam. I knew it from the first time we met in the hellfire, where we fought the Black Hearts. But the enemy we face this time has no heart at all.”

“Monsters, Indian?”

“As close as can be, Blainey.”

Chapter 3

JERRY DEAN TAYLOR
left the homeless shelter just after midnight. The unseasonably cold temperatures had brought more people in off the streets than the staff was prepared for, and the result was a frantic rush to create enough bed space and come up with sufficient hot food. Volunteers didn’t show up in volume until the real Philadelphia cold kicked in, so Jerry Dean found himself dishing out soup for the better part of the evening.

The funds that allowed for the center’s existence and upkeep came from his foundation, but Jerry Dean was not—had never been—the hands-off type. He threw himself headlong into a problem he saw as the scourge of America. What kind of country was it that couldn’t ensure adequate homes for all its people? Obviously the public sector was failing, leaving it up to the private sector to pick up the slack. The program Jerry Dean was piping millions into was being used as a pilot all across the country.

Jerry Dean had parked his car two blocks from the shelter, but it might have been miles, his knees making him pay for every step. Seven years of high school and college football had ruined both of them, and spending the night on his feet wasn’t exactly aspirin. They’d been better since he’d lost the thirty pounds to get back to his college weight of two-fifty, but there weren’t enough working parts left in either of them to make any weight loss vanquish the pain.

No jogging tomorrow, coach….

Jerry Dean’s car was in sight when he realized he was being followed. The steps were just muted enough to tell him the walker was trying to disguise them. He tensed. People knew him around here, knew what he was about. And he knew the gangs and the junkies, some on a first-name basis. Most people left him alone, and those that didn’t know him should have been warned off by a frame that was still six-four off the ground, though a bit softer around the edges.

Jerry Dean spun as the muted footsteps continued to clack on the concrete behind him. Nothing was there. Just the night and the splotchy glares of shattered streetlights. But there
had
been someone.

Jerry Dean turned his attention to his car. Twenty feet away was all. Couldn’t run, though. Worst thing he could do under the circumstances was show his fear.

But there’s no one here.

Jerry Dean was scared, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him scared stiff as a frozen cheesesteak. He reached the car, relaxing a bit since the steps had not returned. His hand probed a key forward toward the lock, was just inserting it when the flash came. He flinched reflexively, but his hand stayed where it was. He heard the crackling thud just before the pain exploded in his wrist. Then he saw the glinting steel.

Jerry Dean howled in pain as a dark shape whirled in a blur beside him. The steel flashed briefly again, and he felt the side of his head give under the force of another impact. Jerry Dean felt himself reeling. He was dizzy and nauseated, but something kept him on his feet. The shape swirled at him again, and this time he managed to raise an arm into the flash’s path. He felt his forearm give, and again pain flooded his insides.

But somehow he didn’t feel scared anymore. He didn’t even hurt.

All he felt was rage.

“Come on, you fucker!” he challenged, swinging alternately with both of his damaged limbs.

The blows, though, landed only on air. The shape was there, always ahead of him, dancing at the outskirts of his range. Jerry Dean had hauled back for a roundhouse punch when the worst of his two knees, the right one, got slammed and forced him hard to the pavement.

He screamed in agony as the shape loomed over him. In that moment, frozen in the landscape of pain, he thought quite rationally that his attacker was at least as big as he. The man was Oriental, cloaked in black, only a thick, round face exposed. Jerry Dean tried to block the attacker’s downward blow with upraised arms. But the glinting steel split the distance between them and smashed his face.

For Jerry Dean the pain stopped there, but he was somehow still aware of the trio of blows that followed before life and consciousness were stripped from him at the same time.

Not even breathing hard, Khan stood over the pulp that had been a man. The screams he’d evoked caused lights to snap on and faces to peer out from behind the safety of windows. But before the first eyes looked down, Khan had melted into the night once more, his blessed steel killing sticks back in their sheaths.

The yacht fought its way through the sea, pounded at every turn by the crushing swells. The storm had ended hours before, but its residue was a harsh wind that kept the waves mean. Water splashed freely across the big boat’s decks, lashing her windows like an unwanted guest determined to gain entry.

It was only a short distance from the radio room to the library, but Tiguro Nagami struggled for every step, forced to grasp the rail firmly to pull himself along.

“Come in.” The voice came from inside before Nagami could knock. He entered.

Oddly, the yacht’s sprawling library seemed to be spared the sea’s vicious onslaught. Its semidarkness revealed a safe and steady setting, undaunted by the sway.

“Khan has reported in,
Kami-san,
” Nagami reported to the figure huddled behind the huge desk. “Taylor has been eliminated. That brings Khan’s list to three.”

The figure behind the desk switched on his computer and pressed the latest data into the keyboard. The dim glow from the monitor caught the ghastly whiteness of his skin and hair and shimmered off his pinkish eyes. Any more light would have hurt those eyes. They had been the scourge of Takedo Takahashi’s life since the very beginning, and the affliction was growing worse. It was now impossible for him to tolerate the sun. He spent each day behind drawn blinds, venturing out only at night.

“That makes twelve so far in all,” Takahashi announced. “Exactly one-eighth of our list has been dispatched in barely six days. That’s ahead of schedule, isn’t it?”

“Slightly,
Kami-san,
” replied Nagami.

Kami-san,
translated as
Ghost man,
was the label Takahashi had been branded with for the better part of his life. He did not run from this reality; in fact, he mocked his own disfigurement by only wearing suits that matched his skin’s pallor.

“And thus far no complications have arisen,” said Takahashi. “We chose our people well, Tiguro, exceptionally well.”

Exactly ten days had passed now since the meeting that had taken place in this very room. The lights had been turned up that night, but Takahashi still declined the sunglasses he normally would have worn, because he wanted the group of six assembled before him to see his resolve clearly at all times. They did not know his real name, nor did they want to.

But Takedo Takahashi knew them; if there were any more proficient killers in the world they would have been in the room instead. Six assassins of unparalleled prowess, chosen after months of scrutiny. Assassins who had not a single failure to their names. The room had quivered with the coldness they brought to it. Takahashi inspected each of the killers closely, focusing on features or mannerisms. The Mongol had the largest hands he had ever seen, yet was making a quarter dance nimbly from finger to finger. The bald-headed black wouldn’t let go of a smile that flashed whiter than Takahashi’s suit. The woman’s beauty attracted even his stare. The Israeli and the Arab were seated next to each other as if to affirm their lack of political opposition. The American assassin had moved his chair back a bit from the circle.

“…The time has come to explain why I have summoned all of you here this evening, to make clear what it is you are being hired to do. There are ninety-six Americans who must die within the next six weeks. Two of these are United States senators. Three more are congressmen. Four hold Cabinet-level positions. Five are associated in varying respects with the military. The remainder are business people: industrialists, financiers, manufacturers. In short, all individuals who have reached significant levels of power and influence.”

Takahashi paused to let his words sink in. He closed his pink, crystalline eyes briefly to rest them. They watered when he opened them again to view the response of the group gathered in chairs about him. The killers seemed flabbergasted. The huge Mongol had stopped twirling his quarter. The bald black was no longer smiling. Takahashi had continued speaking before any of them could interrupt.

“The ninety-six targets have been divided into approximately equal portions each of you will be allotted. Complete dossiers on all have been prepared and will be distributed to you in packets as soon as our business tonight is concluded. As indicated, you will receive one hundred thousand per killing, with the balance of the agreed upon twenty million paid on completion of the entire contract….

“It will, of course, be necessary to take measures to avoid any connection being uncovered until it is too late. You are all professionals, so I need not offer counsel on how to go about this. Accidents, disappearances, a variety of means are at your disposal. You should not consider the targets’ families to be sacrosanct if it aids you in your work. They are expendable. You need make no accounts or explanations for your actions. Travel arrangements and contact procedures are outlined in your dossier packets, along with the means through which you will obtain compensation. Reports following each of your successful eliminations are, of course, mandated, so I can stay updated on your progress. Now, if there are no questions…”

There hadn’t been, and the six assassins were sent on their way. Now, ten days later, Takahashi reflected on the success encountered already. Twelve kills, imagine it! His plan had dared to account for an acceptable margin of error, but as of this point there had been no margin at all. Even he could barely believe it.

Takahashi gazed up from his desk, a rare smile etched across his face.

“You will keep me informed, Tiguro.”

“Of course,
Kami-san.
”

Takahashi’s eyes had already returned to his computer, the milk-white glow off the monitor seeming one with his flesh. “Eighty-four more, Tiguro. Eight-four more.”

“Then you’re suggesting our competitors knew what to bid because they knew what our bid was.”

“More than suggesting, Miss Eisely.”

Patrick O’Malley was sole proprietor of the Devlin Group, one of the largest consulting firms in the world. Loyal to his Irish roots, O’Malley had given his business his mother’s maiden name. The Devlin Group had created blueprints for hundreds of successful businesses spanning the globe. These blueprints were often imitated but never equaled, making Devlin the most sought-after firm of its kind anywhere. But in the last several months, other firms were coming up with virtually identical proposals for significantly less money. It wasn’t the money that bothered O’Malley so much as the violation. Security was everything to him, and had been for years. Seeing it breached made his flesh crawl.

His offices and home were guarded twenty-four hours a day by trained bodyguards. They ran advance for him for all in and out of the country business trips. O’Malley never entered a restaurant until they had checked it. He never left one until the outside had been cleared. All guests entering the Devlin Building passed unknowingly through a metal detector. No bells chimed if a register was made. Instead, two of the guards would be waiting for the visitor when he or she stepped out of the elevator.

“Now then,” Patrick O’Malley continued, reaching for his glass of Perrier, which he always drank with plenty of ice and a twist of lime, “if you’d be so kind as to turn to page five of the report, we can begin discussing the new security measures I trust all of you will enact and cooperate with.”

The sounds of pages ruffling filled the conference room. O’Malley took a hefty sip from his Perrier and felt the ice cubes brush against his lips. “First off,” he began in the instant before his eyes went glassy. “First off…”

Patrick O’Malley tried to grab the conference table for support; when that failed, he groped for the arms of the chair behind him. He managed to find them, but crumpled before his purchase was firm. He hit the floor, kicking and twitching, before the horrified eyes of his executive staff.

“Call 911!”

“He’s having a heart attack!”

“CPR! Now! Fast!”