The Siren Project (14 page)

Another one!
She thought guiltily.
Our fault.

Unseen beneath the table, Christa squeezed
Mitch’s thigh firmly. Mitch glanced at her, surprised by the sudden physical
contact. She indicated Prescott with her eyes, then slowly shook her head,
once. Mitch gave her a confused look.

“Mat,” Christa said slowly. “How long have
you had that headache?”

Prescott was looking through papers in his
briefcase, apparently searching for something. “I don’t remember. Damnedest
thing, I can’t shake it.”

Mitch noticed the tremor in Prescott’s left
hand continued as he held the briefcase open. Prescott looked up to see Mitch
watching his hand, then self consciously placed it out of sight under the
table.

“When I had a broken leg,” Christa said,
her eyes on Mitch. “The
splints
on my leg caused
headaches. It was the rigid pressure that caused the pain.”

Mitch’s expression hardened as he realized
what she meant.

Prescott looked puzzled. “Is that so?”

Mitch crossed his arms on the table and
leaned towards Prescott, sliding his right hand under his coat as he did. “Mat,
have you seen any of those ex-NSA goons since I saw you this morning?”

“No. I told you, I’ve had no trouble.” He
stopped rummaging about in his briefcase and started to withdraw his hand.

Mitch slammed his left hand on Prescott’s
arm, driving it back into his briefcase as he drew his gun out and aimed it
under the table at his old friend. “Don’t do it, Mat.” He eased his gun
sideways, so Prescott could see he was covered. “Now, let’s see your hand, nice
and easy.”

Prescott’s jaw clenched. He winced as a
sharp pain wracked his brain. “I can’t . . . do that . . . Mitch.”

“We’ve been friends a long time, Mat. Killing
you isn’t something I want to do. Let’s see both hands on the table.”

Prescott shuddered, his private torment
raging within. He brought his empty left hand to his head, as sharp pain pulsed
within.

Christa composed herself to sense the
fabric of Prescott’s mind. She found a complex weave of feelings and thoughts,
partly restrained by rigid strictures and driven by streaks of blind pain. Yet
other parts of his mind had escaped the conditioning process, and functioned
normally. Those splinters of free will fought in vain against the conditioning.
It was a struggle she'd seen before, and knew he couldn't win.

“He’s a partial,” she whispered.

“A what?”

“They’ve got him, but not completely. He’s
fighting it.”

Prescott tried to draw his hand out of the
briefcase, but Mitch had a firm grip on his forearm. Mitch caught a glimpse of
a gun in the briefcase.

“Let it go, Mat. We’ll help you.”

Prescott shook his head, sweat beading
across his tortured forehead. “I can’t . . . I . . . I . . .” He looked at
Mitch, his face contorted with confusion. “I’m . . . sorry.” He jerked his arm
away from Mitch’s grip, breaking free and pulling the gun out of the briefcase.
For a moment he spun and aimed at Mitch, a clean shot, but he didn't fire. The
tremor in his hand grew into uncontrollable shaking, the gun wobbling in mid
air. He drew in a deep breath, then pulled the gun toward his own forehead.

“No!” Mitch yelled, slamming his own gun on
the table and throwing himself at Prescott.

He caught Prescott’s gun hand, pushing it
high as he fired. The bullet grazed Prescott’s skull, opening a gash that
immediately became awash with blood. Prescott’s chair fell backwards as Mitch’s
body hit him, then they both crashed onto the floor. Mitch landed on top as customers
in the restaurant screamed and ducked for cover. He slammed Prescott’s hand
against the floor, jarring the gun free. Prescott threw a wild punch, glancing
off Mitch's chin harmlessly, then Mitch drove his fist into Prescott’s face, rebounding
the other man's head into the floor. The impact left Prescott dazed, but
conscious.

Christa scooped up Mitch’s gun from the
table and slid it into her hand bag, as Mitch hauled Prescott groggily to his
feet.

“What are you doing?” Christa demanded.

“Getting him out of here!” He said as he
dragged Prescott toward the restaurant's rear exit, through the kitchen.

“He’s one of theirs now. We can’t take him
with us,” she whispered as she hurried after him.

“You said he was a partial. I don’t know
what that means, but I know he could have killed me, and he didn’t. He needs
help.”

“It means he’s unstable and dangerous. There’s
nothing we can do for him.”

Mitch dragged Prescott past several cooks
in the small steaming kitchen, then yelled at a surprised chef who blocked the
back door. “Out of the way!” He kicked the back door open and hauled Prescott
outside.

Christa followed close behind, pulling her
gun from her hand bag. “Mitch, let him go! He’s a danger to both of us!” She
raised her gun, looking for a clean shot.

“I’m not leaving him!” Mitch said, glancing
back, seeing the gun. “Put that away before you shoot me.”

Her aim was unwavering. “I’ve seen this
before, Mitch. If he’s programmed to kill us, he won’t stop until he succeeds,
or he’s dead.” She drew in a breath as she released the safety. “Now get out of
the way.”

“No! Don’t shoot him.”

Christa took several steps to the side to
get a clean shot at Prescott’s head.

Mitch dropped Prescott onto the narrow
pathway at the back of the restaurant, and stepped in front of Christa,
blocking the shot. “Put the gun away.”

“Whatever he was before, however good your
friendship was, he’s gone. The Mathew Prescott you knew doesn’t exist anymore. Do
you understand? He’s dead! That man there is an assassin, whether he wants to
be or not. He won’t rest until both of us are dead.”

Mitch looked at her with a mixture of anger
and uncertainty. “Give me my gun.”

She pulled his gun from her hand bag and passed
it to him. Prescott got to his knees, seemingly ready to charge at Mitch, but
the sight of the gun in Mitch’s hand made him hesitate.

“This is going to hurt.” He said, then
slammed the butt of the gun into Prescott’s head, sending him crumpling
unconscious to the ground. “Now you’re really going to have a headache, big
guy.” He pocketed his gun, and tore open Prescott’s shirt. A small microphone
was taped to his chest. Mitch leaned down to the microphone and spoke clearly. “Now
listen up. All you ex-NSA pussies out there can kiss my ex-Secret Service butt!”
Then he tore the microphone off Prescott’s chest and threw it away.

Christa looked at him perplexed. “Was that
necessary?”

“Hell yeah!”

Mitch hoisted Prescott onto his shoulder
and headed off down the alley towards their hotel, with Christa close on heels.
The alley ended in a side street, which they crossed with barely a moment’s
hesitation. In the opposite alley, they hid in the deep night shadows of a
building, giving Mitch a chance to catch his breath and ensure they weren't
being followed.

A car turned slowly into the side street,
and cruised toward the alley. It stopped, letting two men in dark suits out, one
holding a radio. Mitch recognized him as the man Prescott had identified as
Bradick, the former navy SEAL. He inched deeper into the shadows as the two men
started up the alley on foot, towards the restaurant. The car turned around,
its headlights momentarily flashing down the alley, but not revealing their
hiding spot. It drove towards the intersection, then took a right back toward
the restaurant.

Once Bradick was out of sight, Mitch hefted
Prescott onto his shoulder again and started towards their hotel. He knew they
were taking a risk holing up just a few blocks from the restaurant, but there
was no reason why their pursuers would know their hotel’s location, unless EB
had betrayed them.

The back entrance to the hotel was a small
glass door, well lit but unattended. They hurried inside to the hall that led
to reception and the elevators.

He nodded for her to go ahead. “Make sure
there’s no one near the elevators. We couldn’t explain all this blood.” He nodded
at the red stain that covered one side of Prescott’s head, and smeared his
jacket.

Christa stepped forward. Finding it clear,
she waved for Mitch to follow. In a few seconds, the elevator was on its way up
to their floor. When it opened, he carried Prescott into his room, then began
stripping him of his clothes.

“I’ll start the bath,” Christa said,
guessing his intention.

Once water was streaming into the bathtub,
she came back and pulled Prescott’s shoes off, while Mitch finished removing his
clothes. When Prescott lay completely naked on the floor, Christa scooped up
the pile of clothes, carried them into the bathroom, and pushed them under the
water.

“He’s probably got more bugs on him than
fleas on a dog,” Mitch said as he followed her in with Prescott’s watch and
shoes. He smashed the watch with the heel of one of the shoes, then pushed the shoes
and the remains of the watch under water as well.

“If this doesn’t work, they’re going to be
all over us in a few minutes,” Christa said.

“Bugs and trackers small enough to be sewn
into clothes are rarely water proof,” Mitch said with more confidence than he
felt.

Christa opened the cabinet drawer, took out
the hair dryer and plugged it into the wall. She turned it on full power then
dropped it into the water. There was a flash as electricity blasted through the
water, then a spark as the hair dryer shorted out.

She sighed. “Oh well, now I can’t dry my
hair in the morning.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Mitch said
approvingly, secretly wondering why he hadn’t thought of using the hair dryer
to blow any hidden circuits.

Christa switched off the ruined hair dryer
at the mains, and retrieved it from the bath. She made sure all of the clothes had
sunk to the bottom of the bath, then they went back out to Prescott. Mitch forced
opened his mouth and studied his teeth. Most had fillings, but none looked
recently done. Even so, he pressed and pulled everyone of Prescott’s teeth,
looking for a loose or unusual tooth.

“I doubt there was time for dental work,”
Christa said. “Especially when you consider it would have taken them a while to
condition him.”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

When he was satisfied Prescott’s teeth were
his own, he wrapped him in a blanket, then tied the power cord from the coffee
pot around the blanket, creating a makeshift full body straight jacket. “Sorry
to do this to you buddy,” he said, patting Prescott’s unconscious shoulder.

“Not half as sorry as you’ll be if he gets
out of that blanket.”

Mitch went back into the bathroom and
collected several white towels. He used one to clean Prescott’s head wound,
satisfying himself it was only a graze, then wrapped the other towel into a
pressure bandage over the wound.

“This'll have to do. We can’t risk taking
him to a hospital.” Mitch stood. “We’re going to have to take turns watching
him. I’ll take first shift. You take the bed.”

“I’d feel safer if we could handcuff him,”
she said, then went next door to her room and collected her newly bought
clothes.

Mitch settled into a chair and stared
thoughtfully at his friend. The awful reality of Siren finally struck him for
the first time. It was Prescott’s naked, unconscious body, lying wrapped in a
blanket on the floor that drove home that reality.

He’s programmed to kill
me!

* * * *

Mitch watched with a heavy heart as
Prescott struggled in vain against his bindings.

“I tell you, Mitch, I’m okay. Let me out of
here!”

Mitch sat on a chair a few feet from where
Prescott lay. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll have to gag you.”

“But I tell you, I’m all right.”

“Have you still got your headache?”

Prescott hesitated. “Yeah, someone shot me
in the head, and then you pistol whipped me. Why wouldn’t I have a headache?”

Mitch looked at Christa questioningly. “Do
you think those bumps to the head would fix him?”

She shook her head slowly. “He’ll shoot us
both, the first chance he gets.”

“What are you talking about?” Prescott
demanded. “I’m not going to shoot anybody.”

“What do you remember about that wound on
your head?” Mitch asked. “How did you get it?”

“Someone shot me . . . I . . .” He
stammered, confused. “It happened so fast, I don’t remember much.”

“Whose gun was it?”

Prescott hesitated, trying to remember. “I
. . . I don't know.”

“It was your gun. You were going to shoot
me, then you tried to shoot yourself. I stopped you.”

“You’re crazy!”

“He genuinely doesn’t remember trying to
kill you,” Christa said. “The programming is deep, and completely invisible to
him.”