Dead World 2, page 5
The man reminded him a little of himself twenty years ago. Same ambition, same skill as a tactical team member. The only difference was Roark had always thought for himself, which was something he couldn't say about this man. Pity.
By now the gas would be permeating their skin, filling their pores, landing on their tongues if they spoke. In a few more minutes, they'd grow sluggish and forget why they were here. Eventually they'd pass out and then he'd start the subliminal messages.
It was important that his voice be the first thing they heard. Any interruptions could ruin all his hard work and shatter the connection he planned to forge with these two people. That's why Roark had sent Michael out. He couldn't afford to screw this up.
Roark stared at the screen. The woman had started to perspire. The man wouldn't be far behind. He had to time things right. Roark needed to make sure that Lieutenant Bannon Richards and Private Catherine Meyers were under completely or the subliminal implantation wouldn't be successful.
As it was, his suggestions would only last a month or two. The influ-gas wasn't made for long-term use. It had a tendency to kill the subjects if they were dosed too often.
Not that Roark was worried about killing either of these International Police Tactical Team members. By the time they finished carrying out his plans, the tactical team would do that for him.
Roark grinned. There would be no more mistakes. He was done trusting outside help. From now on, he'd force cooperation through any means necessary. Catherine's lips moved. Roark turned up the volume so he could hear what she had to say.
"Why do you think he called us here?" she asked. "I mean I've heard of the guy. Who hasn't? He's practically a hero. But it's not like our paths have ever crossed. There's no way he could've known about me. I'm nobody at headquarters."
Bannon looked at her. The vein in his neck bulged and his blue eyes narrowed to icy slits. "Beat me what he wants with a nobody like you." His gaze raked her, confirming his words. "It’s probably a clerical error. You haven’t even finished training yet." He shrugged. "As for what I'm doing here, I suspect he contacted me for a job. Roark and I have an understanding."
Catherine’s brow arched. "What kind of job?" she asked, perking up. "I didn’t know that you knew the politician personally."
His lip curled into a sneer. "Yeah, we go way back," Bannon said. The lie slipped easily from his mouth.
Roark laughed, the sound rusty from disuse. Bannon really was a man after his own heart. He shook his head. No wonder he liked him. Maybe if Bannon handled the job he wanted him to do, he'd save him from IPTT's wrath and find him a permanent position within his office.
Catherine fidgeted and pulled at the collar of her black tactical team uniform. "Is it hot in here to you?" she asked, fanning herself with a scrap of synth-paper that had been left on the metal table by her seat.
Bannon ran a beefy hand over his forehead and came away with wetness. "Now that you mention it." He glared at her. "What's the matter, can't take the heat?"
Catherine snorted. "Just trying to make small talk to pass the time while we wait."
"Don't bother." Bannon shook his head and swayed, grabbing the arm of his chair. "I'm not interested in hearing your thoughts, Private. In fact, I'm not interested in hearing you at all, so button it up."
She crossed her arms over her ample chest. "Is that an order?"
"Yes," he snapped.
Sweat glistened like dew drops on the big man's skin. His short haircut was no defense against the oven-like heat of the small room. Roark had made sure it was hotter in the room than it was outside. Heat intensified the gas's potency and now it was starting to take effect. Soon he could begin to re-program them.
"I don't feel so well." Catherine clutched her stomach and groaned loudly. "Maybe I should ask Roark's assistant if I can reschedule. I don't want to walk into his office and toss my lunch on his shoes."
"Women," Bannon said in disgust. "You're all the same. I still don't understand why they allow you on the tactical team."
Catherine glowered. "With all due respect, sir. I don’t have to take this kind of crap from you." She turned her back on him, her crossed leg bobbing angrily.
“That'll go in your personnel fi—" Bannon slumped forward, his large body folding in on itself until his knuckles dragged the floor.
Roark frowned as he watched the man's lips puff out like a fish. He glanced back at the woman. Normally the gas affected smaller individuals first. Other than the sweat on her brow and the dampness at her temples, Catherine seemed strangely alert.
She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes widened. "Hey! Are you okay?" she asked.
Bannon's only answer was a loud snore.
“Terrific," she muttered. "We come all the way down here from headquarters and you decide to take a nap. Lieutenant, wake up." Catherine stood to go check on him and collapsed to her knees. "What the heck?" She swayed, then tumbled onto the floor.
"That's better," Roark said. For a moment he'd been worried she wasn't going to go under. She must have a high tolerance for drugs. Roark made a mental note for next time. He shook his head and laughed. There wouldn't be—couldn't be—a next time.
If all went as planned, Lieutenant Bannon Richards and Private Catherine Meyers would be dead within a month, and all trace of his interference would die with them.
He'd considered asking for Bannon Richards's assistance, but in the end decided he couldn't trust him to not tell the tactical team commander his plans. Bannon was rigid when it came to the rules, which was one of the reasons Roark had chosen him.
Unfortunately, his need to follow the letter of the law was also the reason he needed to be drugged. Roark had called in Catherine Meyers at the last second, not for her skill or experience, but because her inexperience made her the perfect fall guy and she’d be none the wiser.
Roark pressed a button on his desk. The influ-gas turned off and fresh air began to pump into the room. He flicked a switch that allowed him to speak over the intercom. "Wake up, children." Now that he'd spoken, they'd listen to whatever he had to say.
The scientist who'd invented influ-gas had called it auditory synaptic bonding. Roark called it brilliant. To the outside observer, they'd be functioning normally. Only he would know the truth. One word from him and they'd do exactly what he wanted. No questions asked.
Bannon and Catherine stirred, their eyes glassy and unfocused. "Listen carefully. I have a job for you to do. I know you've heard about the new tactical team being put together in Nuria. We can't allow that to happen. If they succeed, the first thing they’ll do is eliminate the IPTT. Do you understand?"
They nodded and their expressions changed to anger.
"I want you to stop the formation of that team by any means necessary. I will notify you when to begin. You must not act until you hear the word..." Roark thought for a minute. The word "scarlet" popped into his head. He smiled at the irony. "The code word is scarlet. Understood?"
They swayed, then acknowledged him.
"Now I want you to stand and walk to the door."
Both soldiers hobbled to their feet. Roark rose from behind his desk and hit a button near his compunit. The door to his office opened. He walked to a nearby mirror to take in his appearance one last time before greeting his guests. His blue suit looked good against his dark hair. Only the gray at his temples hinted at his true age.
Roark straightened his striped silk tie, catching a glimpse of his mutilated hand. A hand missing three fingers courtesy of that bitch, Gina Santiago. He'd purposely avoided regeneration in order to have a reminder of her treachery.
She was about to learn the hard way that you don't mess with Roark Stonewall Montgomery. If she wanted a war, he'd give her one. He took a deep breath then walked into the hall. It was now or never.
A panel to his right was hidden from the casual observer. Roark laid his hand on the spot above it. The panel slid open, exposing antique guns resting silently on a rack.
The International Police Tactical Team had disposed of most weapons after the war. What they didn't destroy, they kept for themselves. It was rare for anyone outside of law enforcement to have a decent weapon, much less the collection he housed here.
Roark ran his hands reverently over the guns, their smooth wooden stocks satin-soft under his callused fingertips. They didn't make them like they used to.
Roark pulled out a tan custom-made, laser-sighted sniper rifle before sealing the door once more. He tucked the gun in the crook of his arm and carried the weapon down the hall. He pressed his hand to a panel outside the room.
A scanner read his fingerprints and the grooves in his palm. The door unlocked a second later, freeing his invited guests. The tactical team members stood in front of him staring in confusion.
Roark focused on the team member nearest him. "I need you to take this." He shoved the gun into their hands.
The soldier reached for the rifle. The weight dipped to the right and they nearly dropped the gun.
"Be careful."
"Sorry, sir. It's just heavier than I expected. Nothing like the IPTT-issued laser rifles."
"It's a custom made antique. I expect it back in the same condition." Roark went immediately into giving instructions. "You don’t have to wait for it to charge. Look through the sight, find your target, and squeeze the trigger. Once that's done, approach the target and slash its throat to be sure it’s dead. Do you think you can handle that?"
He received a curt nod.
"Good," Roark said. "Shoot anyone you find lurking around the perimeter of Nuria. They should be considered suspect and in collusion with the enemy. They must be eliminated. That includes any new trainees on the Nurian Tactical Team. Your first target will be waiting north of Nuria in the valley in two days' time. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Roark glanced at the second soldier. "I'd like you to gather intel on their numbers. We cannot allow Gina Santiago and Morgan Hunter to succeed in forming a new tactical team. It would be a threat to the security of all the republics if the Others were allowed to survive. Feel free to dispose of them if you get the opportunity. That's an order."
"Understood, sir," the soldier said.
"Remember the code word?" Roark asked.
They both murmured, "Scarlet."
Catherine swayed.
The drug was beginning to wear off on her. That was fast, Roark thought She must have an unusually high metabolism.
He smiled and reached for her hand to shake it. The movement woke her out of the trance. Roark immediately did the same to Bannon. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to see you. I had trouble with a package that needed to be sent out. Please come with me and we'll discuss why I called."
Both frowned and looked around in confusion.
"Is there something wrong?" Roark asked.
"No, sir," they said in unison.
"We just—" Catherine stopped. "Sorry, I guess I fell asleep."
Roark hid his smile. "I'm not surprised. I kept you waiting for a while. Sorry about the heat. I'll have Travers fix that air unit the second he returns."
Catherine ran a hand through her wet hair, sending red strands every direction. "Thank you, sir."
"Is that all?" Roark asked.
"Yes, sir," Catherine said.
"Splendid. Please follow me." Roark headed down the hall without looking to see if they'd follow. A moment later they stepped into his office, none the wiser.
The space was far bigger than the one they'd just left and the light pouring in through the windows caused both team members to blink rapidly.
The air in here was fresh and lightly scented with lemon. Roark inhaled deeply and watched the two team members follow suit. "Glorious day, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," they said.
Catherine and Bannon glanced out the window. Roark looked, too. He gazed at the Republic of Missouri's vast fields and dried-up riverbeds. He looked beyond the biodome at the dead forests and gnarled bushes.
Inside the dome everything was green and wondrous, much like the planet used to be before the last war. Only a portion of what they were viewing was real. The rest was artificial.
Outside was a different story. Sand took the place of fertile fields. Dust storms were as common as the radioactive sunshine. Nothing lived for long on the outside without a steady stream of supplies and immunization against radioactive poisons. Not even the Others, and they'd been engineered to survive.
Bannon rolled his thick neck, popping the joints. The noise brought Roark out of his musings. He glanced at the two soldiers covertly, then moved behind his large desk and sat. There were two metal seats opposite him, but he didn't ask either of them to sit. He thought it best they stand until their haziness passed.
Roark pressed a black button to his right and the door to his office closed with an audible hiss. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Anytime, sir." Bannon stepped away from the window to stand at attention in front of him.
Catherine shook her head and pressed a hand to her temple. Her movements were sluggish.
"Am I keeping you awake, Private Meyers?" Roark asked.
"No, sir. Sorry, sir. I have a bit of a headache."
Roark ignored her statement. By the time they left, they'd both have migraines. "I called you here to see if you'd be available for security duties. I'm thinking about doing a tour of the republics and could use a couple of experienced team members to guard my back."
"Yes, sir. Anytime you want," Bannon said. "I have to clear it first, but I don't think that would be a problem. I have a lot of off duty time saved up."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
"I'm sorry, sir." Catherine interrupted the men. "I'll check with the commander, but I doubt he'll grant me the time off. I only have seven days saved."
"I understand, Private Meyers. I wouldn't need much of your time. A few days at most. Your job with the tactical team would obviously be your first priority. You know how much I respect the team and what they stand for."
"Yes, sir. I've read about your service record. It's impressive." Catherine squeezed her neck and winced. "Which makes me wonder why you’d want me to work security for you."
"Are you not good at your job, Private?" he asked.
“I am good,” she said. "No disrespect intended, sir. It just seems odd that you would pick someone who isn’t a senior officer. I've only been on the team for a few months. How did you even hear about me? I haven't exactly made a name for myself."
"Don't question the politician," Bannon hissed, shifting the bundle in his arms. "He's going to be our next great leader."
Roark smiled. “It's okay, Lieutenant. Private Meyers has every right to ask. To answer your question, I think it's best to have an experienced officer along with a new recruit. Shows the people that I can relate to all walks of life, not just the ones influential enough to contribute to my campaign. Not to mention you're one of the few women on the tactical team now that Gina Santiago no longer works for IPTT."
Bannon tensed.
Roark noted it, but didn't say anything. He'd obviously hit a nerve. He was convinced more than ever he'd made the right decision when he chose to gas them.
Catherine was too smart for her own good and Bannon obviously had some emotional connection to the target. Whether it was positive or negative remained to be seen. Either way it might work out to Roark's advantage later.
"Do you really think you can unite the republics and convince them to allow you to lead?" Catherine asked. "They seem pretty happy as self-governing entities. I've never known anyone who'd willingly give up power. What you're talking about could start a war." She tilted her chin to look him in the eye. The slight movement caused her to rock forward. She quickly stepped back into place.
"Sometimes it takes conflict to bring about change."
He pictured the new world order. All the republics united under one pureblood banner with him at the top, running the show.
"But hopefully it won't come to that. I have no doubt that the republics will see reason. I can be very convincing, if I do say so myself." And if that failed, he had no problem resorting to violence. Roark leveled his gaze on her. "If I didn't believe I could unite the republics, then you wouldn't be here."
6
Red stared at the compunit screen, unable to focus. Her stomach twisted into angry knots. It didn't help that everyone in town was giving her dirty looks as if she was somehow responsible for Morgan leaving. He had been gone for a week—a week that felt more like an eternity—and she hadn't heard a word from him.
Leaving her in charge had been a mistake. She'd known it when he told her his plans. She didn't know a thing about the day-to-day operations of a town.
Give her a tactical team and she knew what to do, but running a town required diplomacy and tact. Those were two traits she severely lacked. Worst of all, the sudden appointment had caused trouble in the sheriff's station.
The animosity was like a living entity, pressing in from all around, waiting to devour her. Red didn't have to look up to confirm her suspicions. She could feel the eyes of the deputies upon her. They were mad that one of them hadn't been appointed to lead. Even Maggie seemed resentful to have been relegated to second in command. It was the same when she walked around town.
No matter where she went, Nurians watched, waiting for her to slip up. It had been like that for a week and wasn't showing signs of stopping. She'd done her best to ease the tension by assuring them that Morgan would return shortly. They hadn't bought it.
Truth was, Red had no idea when he'd return, but it couldn't be soon enough.
Just the thought of Morgan brought fresh pain flooding in. She knew he'd made it to the Santa Fe Cloning Laboratory because they'd sent notice of his application to the sheriff's station. That had started tongues wagging and they hadn't stopped since.
Someone cleared his throat.
Red glanced at the interviewee, startled that she'd forgotten all about him, and wishing she was anywhere else but here working. His soft brown eyes stared back at her with compassion. "I'm sorry. Name?" she asked.
