SINdrome Read online

  I hadn’t even had a chance to test fire this weapon, but I’d used similar ones. Assuming the zero was good, I was actually going to need to move my point of aim a little lower. It would be better if I didn’t have to take the shot at all. Once we dropped the first guard we started a clock that we couldn’t stop. But we couldn’t risk being found out, either. One radio call, one yell, and the entire operation was blown.

  “Hostile is almost lateral to your position, Team Two,” Thompson said. “Something’s caught his eye.”

  I could see it. My optic offered no magnification, but at fifty yards, I didn’t need it. I couldn’t make out details, couldn’t tell you what the guy looked like, but the track of his head was unmistakable.

  “Shit. He’s seen the trail. Repeat. He’s seen the trail. Take the shot.”

  I’d already started drawing in a steadying breath before Thompson began. As he said “Repeat” I was settling the reticule just below the center point of the target’s torso. I released the breath halfway, holding it for a split moment as I squeezed the trigger. One round. The target lurched, staggered a step. Fell as Thompson said, “Shot.” I kept the reticule trained on what I hoped was a corpse. If I saw movement, I’d have to shoot again, to make sure no alarm went out.

  “Who has eyes on hostile two?” Al’awwal was whispering into the radio.

  “Still by the corner of the house,” Tia said. “I don’t think he noticed.”

  “Confirm status of one,” I snapped.

  “Hostile down,” Thompson confirmed. “Wait one. Going thermal to scan the house.”

  While Thompson did that, I shimmied my way back into my pack. “We’ve got four more in the house,” he confirmed a moment later.

  “We’ve got to move,” I said. “The one outside is going to be getting antsy soon.”

  Hernandez’s voice came over the radio. “We’ll sweep around to the back. Once we’re in position, you take down the front door. We’ll crash from the back. Thompson, once we knock on the door, take whatever shot you can.”

  “Roger that, Detective.”

  We moved forward, a little faster now, staying low to the ground and curving slightly away from the house, trying to stay out of the direct line of sight of the guy on the front door as long as possible. “Talk to me, Tia,” I said, a little breathless from the adrenaline and effort. “What’s the hostile on the door doing?”

  “He’s just standing there,” she said. “Wait. He’s looking down the driveway. This spotting scope’s amazing. I can see his expression. He looks… I don’t know. Worried, maybe.”

  “Shit,” I muttered. “Guy’s starting to get antsy.” We’d closed the direct distance to the house to about thirty yards, but had swept far enough to the side that the distance was closer to forty.

  “Do you have the shot?” Al asked.

  I dropped to both knees, bringing the subgun back to my shoulder and aligning the sights.

  “Hold,” Thompson barked. “You’ve got a hostile at the window. Wait one.”

  “Fuck,” I muttered. I was kneeling in damn near zero cover in the middle of a fucking field. All the hostile had to do was glance in my direction and it was over. “What’s he doing, Tia?”

  “Still looking down the driveway.”

  “If he so much as glances in my direction or reaches for a radio, tell me. Roger that?” I asked. I could hear the clipped, urgent tone in my own voice. I breathed deep and slow, trying to calm my racing heartrate. Al’awwal had dropped prone at my side, and he had his own rifle pointed in the direction of the house. I could see him actively scanning the visible windows, trying to find the target that Thompson’s thermographic scope had picked out.

  “Roger that,” Tia replied, and though it was the correct response, it struck me as so out of place that I had to smile. I felt my breathing calm and my heart beat slow, just a little bit.

  “Window’s clear. Take him,” Thompson snapped. This time, I didn’t even register the mechanics of the shot. One second the target was up, the next he was down and Al’awwal and I were sprinting for the door. I stepped over the body and took up position on the right side of the door as Al’awwal mirrored me on the left.

  “We good?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Tia’s voice was shaking. “The…hostile…is down. I…saw it.”

  Damn. Hadn’t planned on that, but I had told her to watch the guy like a hawk. “House still seems quiet,” Thompson said.

  “It’s alarmed.” LaSorte, chiming in on the radio for the first time. “We’ve isolated the signal. We’re working on trapping it.”

  “Work fast,” Hernandez replied. “We’re almost in position.”

  “And we’re holding,” I whispered into the mic.

  The seconds ticked by and I felt a tightness in my shoulders that started to slowly spread to my back and neck. Maybe three minutes had passed since I’d fired the first shot, but it felt like hours. “We’re in position at the back door,” Hernandez checked in. “Status?”

  “Almost there,” LaSorte said. “One minute.”

  Fortier snapped, “Hurry the fuck up. We might not have a minute.” I wondered how long it had been since the fat detective had been on a case where he might get shot at.

  “One minute,” LaSorte said again. I could hear the tapping in the background and, faintly, the sound of Silas coughing. The albino synthetic hadn’t said anything over the radio. I had a brief moment of worry that it was because he couldn’t.

  “Any time now,” Hernandez said.

  “Got it,” LaSorte replied triumphantly. “Alarm’s down.”

  “Thompson?”

  “You’ve got three on the ground floor and one upstairs,” the sniper replied.

  “Roger that,” Hernandez said. “On my go.” Time for one more deep breath, and then Hernandez shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

  Like we’d practiced it a thousand times, Al’awwal stepped into the doorway, raised his leg and slammed the flat of his boot into the door. It exploded inward, the dead bolt no match for the synthetic’s strength. I heard the rear door smash open even as I swept past Al’awwal, subgun up and at the ready. Then the thunderous report of the thirty-ought-six sounded, almost simultaneous with the shattering of glass somewhere overhead. Thompson taking down the bad guy on the second floor.

  A form came darting from somewhere to the right, and Al’awwal opened up, his bullpup barking once, twice, three times. The body dropped. Two down. From deeper in the house came the roar of Hernandez’s twelve gauge. Then the house fell into silence.

  “One down,” Thompson said.

  “One here.” Al’awwal.

  “And two makes four,” Hernandez finished.

  “Thermal’s clear,” Thompson said.

  Al and I were still moving through the first floor, clearing room by room. Thermal imaging wasn’t perfect and there were plenty of natural and man-made features that might mask a heat signature. “Wait one,” I replied as we continued our sweep. We met up with Fortier and Hernandez, and they fell into the stack with practiced ease. I might not have liked Fortier, and he might have looked like someone who sat on their ass professionally, but he moved well and did his job.

  “Upstairs,” I said, and the others nodded.

  It took maybe ten minutes to clear the place to everyone’s satisfaction. Every closet, every bathroom, every nook or cranny where a person could conceivably stuff themselves needed to be checked. When we were done, I keyed my mic again. “Clear. Come forward.”

  “Roger. On the move,” Thompson replied.

  It was warm in the house, warm enough that between the surge of action, the stress, and the thirty pounds of gear, I was starting to sweat pretty good. Fortier looked like he’d taken a swim in a particularly polluted pond, and ever Hernandez’s face showed a light sheen. Only Al’awwal appeared impervious to the rigors of the
last few minutes. The synthetic had ejected the magazine from his bullpup and was casually topping it off with a few loose rounds from a pocket. Which reminded me we were sharing the farm with a half-dozen corpses.

  “Let’s check these guys,” I said, earning a combination of groans and nods from the others.

  A cursory search revealed that the security we’d taken down were human, not synthetic. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. They were all armed, and they all had radios. “We should probably grab one,” Fortier said, gesturing at a radio. “Maybe we can listen in on the others.”

  I grunted. “Don’t bother. Leave it to Silas and LaSorte. They’ll be able to rig something up.”

  “Your vote of confidence is appreciated, Jason,” Silas said as he entered the room. Well, staggered into it would be more appropriate. Apart from the one bad fit on the way to the farm, Silas had seemed not fine, but operational. Now, he looked like two hundred pounds of hammered shit. His skin was pallid with a thin sheen of sweat that had nothing to do with exertion. He stood with one arm thrown over LaSorte’s shoulder and while the gas mask he wore blocked most of his face, I could tell from the set of his shoulder and the look in his eyes that he was in physical pain. Thompson and Tia had entered the house as well, and Tia’s eyes locked onto Silas. The look on her face, part horror, part compassion, showed that she, too, was shocked by his rapid deterioration.

  “Fuck’s sake, Silas. Are you okay?” I asked. It was a stupid question.

  “The gas mask has put an unexpected strain on my breathing,” he admitted. Now that the shock of his appearance had worn off, I could hear the strain in his words. I silently cursed myself. Of course he’d have a harder time breathing. The masks forced you to draw air in through a filter. It was about twice as much work as normal breathing.

  “Lose the mask,” Al’awwal said with a shrug.

  “Agreed,” LaSorte said.

  “I will not expose either of you to…” Silas began, but LaSorte cut him off.

  “Oh, screw that, Silas. We’ve all been exposed already and we know it’s just a matter of time. Maybe we couldn’t risk it on the drive, but we’re at the end, now. And if we don’t win here…” He trailed off. Shrugged. Left the obvious unspoken.

  “And you feel this way as well, Al’awwal? You who are the First among us?”

  “We need you functional, Silas,” Al replied. “If LaSorte has to literally carry you everywhere, I’m not sure you qualify. Plus, your hands are shaking. Could you even work a screen right now?”

  “No,” Silas acknowledged. “But—”

  “Enough,” I cut in. “We don’t have time for this. They’re right. Ditch the mask. We need to hurry the fuck up.”

  While we were talking, Tia had been looking through a messenger bag she had packed herself. She pulled out a syringe and grabbed Silas by the arm. “Hold still,” she said, squirting a little bit of the liquid out of the needle. “I’m going to give you something for the pain.”

  “I’m not sure that’s—”

  “Shut up. Take the mask off. And hold still. Doctor’s orders.” Tia softened her words with a smile.

  “Of course, doctor,” Silas replied, pulling the mask from over his head. His breathing eased a bit as soon as the seal of the mask was broken and a little bit of the color returned to his face.

  “Small pinch,” Tia said as she jabbed the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger. Silas drew another shuddering breath and actually sighed. “Better?” Tia asked.

  “Much better, Ms. Morita,” he responded. “Now, I believe, as may have been pointed out, we are in a bit of a hurry.” He straightened, standing on his own. He didn’t look super steady, but at least he didn’t need to rely on LaSorte for balance. “If someone will help me sit, I’ll see what I can do about getting up on this radio. While I do that, LaSorte can accompany you to the bolt hole and deal with any electronic security there.”

  * * * *

  The bolt hole doors—which on the surface looked like simple storm doors to an underground cellar—proved to be something else entirely. It had taken Silas and LaSorte a solid fifteen minutes, while the rest of us stood shivering in the cold, to hack their way through them. When they opened, the doors dropped down about six inches and then slid into recesses along either side of what proved to be a stairway leading down. The doors themselves were damn near as thick as the recesses into which they slid and appeared to be made of solid steel.

  “Definitely not a root cellar,” I quipped, taking point.

  “You think?” Hernandez said. She’d given the shotgun to Tia in favor of her nine-millimeter. She had, at some point, secured an under barrel tactical flashlight, which she flicked on. I did the same with my own tac light, and the high-lumen beams sent shafts of light piercing the darkness. Fortier slotted into position behind Hernandez, followed by Thompson, Silas, LaSorte, and Tia. Al took the rear, securing our six.

  “We’ve got about a two-mile hike to get to the facility,” I noted. “We’re going to move quick.” I gave Silas a hard stare. “If we move too quick, say something. We need you on the other end. Understood?”

  “Understood, Jason,” Silas replied. He still looked like shit, but he was moving under his own power and he’d managed to hack into the enemy radio frequency. It was just dead air, which meant that there was a good chance it was just the team frequency for the guards at the house, but if it did come into use, we’d have a window into the enemy’s operations. Always useful.

  “Let’s move out.”

  The bolt hole didn’t have much to offer. Once we got past the initial stairway and the landing at the bottom, it quickly became clear that the tunnel was little more than a massive culvert, roughly eight feet in diameter. The sloping walls made it difficult to do anything other than walk single file down the middle. A string of lights hung overhead, but they weren’t lit, and I took that as a positive sign. At least we didn’t seem to be expected. The whole setup made me itch. We were lined up like ducks in a row in the proverbial shooting gallery. A blind geriatric could take us all down with a little bit of luck and maybe a mag change.

  We made the journey in silence, since we couldn’t risk sound carrying. Every twenty minutes or so, Tia, who had more of a knack for this than I’d have thought, made us stop while she sprayed some sort of numbing agent down Silas’s throat, taking advantage of the fact that he wasn’t wearing the mask. From the expression on his face, it tasted terrible and, in general, wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences. But it effectively killed his cough. Kind of hard to sneak down a giant concrete tube if someone is busy hacking up a lung.

  After the first mile, we killed the lights, switching to the night vision goggles that Hernandez had been able to secure. There weren’t enough sets for everyone—again, only so much equipment could walk away from the precinct without someone noticing, but Hernandez, me, Fortier, and Thompson had the gear. We strung a line between us so the others could hold on. It slowed us down, and the snail’s pace was another niggling itch against my tactical sensibilities, but it couldn’t be helped. Better to move slow than let the enemy know you were coming.

  All told, it took us just over an hour to cross the distance. As we neared the end, we could see a single red-tinged light burning above another set of stairs. There didn’t seem to be any guards, and I couldn’t make out any obvious electronic surveillance devices. Not that I’d be able to see the high-end stuff with the naked eye, but that was why we had LaSorte and Silas. The light was enough to see by, so I slid the night vision goggles off.

  Silas had his hands full trying to stay upright, though he didn’t seem to mind the tunnel or the darkness in the slightest. I remembered that he was a Tunnel Rat, grown for exactly this kind of environment. But LaSorte had been moving with his screen out, with some sort of odd, cobbled together antenna sticking out of it. As we got closer to the light he stop
ped, giving the rope a light tug. We all immediately paused. I sank to one knee, bringing the subgun up, and I could feel Hernandez taking a firing position over my shoulder. I hoped to God we didn’t have to shoot anyone like this. In a concrete tube, with her so close, the gunfire might well rupture my eardrums.

  My eyes were glued to the light ahead, straining for any kind of motion, but I could hear LaSorte tapping away at his screen. There was a long moment and then a very faint beep. “There were motion sensors ahead,” he warned in a barely audible whisper. “And cameras. I’ve deactivated the motion sensors. I can flip the cameras off whenever, but I can’t spoof them.”

  “Damn,” I muttered. I doubted that panic would ensue the moment the screens went blank, but someone, somewhere would be sent to check and see why they malfunctioned. Which meant that the clock would start ticking a hell of a lot faster. But there was no helping it.

  I stepped to the side and edged back, Hernandez moving up automatically to take point. I turned so that I was facing the wall, but so that I could keep my companions and the entry to the facility in my peripheral vision. “We’re going to do this fast,” I said. “When LaSorte kills the cameras, we run the rest of the distance. LaSorte, Silas, when we get there, you’re going to have to hack the door fast. We can’t afford a fifteen-minute wait.”

  “It should be quicker this time, Campbell,” LaSorte said. “Assuming it’s set up like the other end, anyway.”

  “Good. Once the door’s open, all bets are off. We know the layout, but we don’t necessarily know what’s where. Tia’s the only one of us who has any real idea what we’re looking for. She’s priority one. We have to keep her alive.”