“Ziggy? Can you hear me?” Bert looked around for the hidden camera. “Let them go. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

  “I know you will, Albert.”

  Ziggy’s voice didn’t come from the intercom. He’d entered the room, with Tork.

  Weejy visibly flinched when seeing Tork. Bert noticed that the inquisitor held some sort of rod. Like a cattle prod.

  “One doesn’t have to have the greatest grasp of psychology the world has ever known to see that you have feelings for Sacagawea, Albert.” Ziggy turned to Weejy. “Judging by her reaction, the feeling is mutual. That should make this lesson quite powerful.”

  Bert drilled his eyes into Ziggy. “If you hurt her, I swear I won’t help you.”

  Ziggy tsked. “Albert, Albert, Albert… we both know that’s nonsense. Once I begin hurting her, there is nothing you won’t do to make me stop. But to truly understand what is in store for Sacagawea, you need a more intimate understanding of what the pain wand does. If you’ve never studied anatomy, allow me to elucidate. Your nervous system is composed of special cells called neurons, which communicate via electrical impulses. The pain wand excites every neuron in a specific location, making them all fire at once. I haven’t tried it on myself, but the results seem to be excruciating. Tork, show Albert what I mean.”

  Bert tried to squirm away as Tork brought the pain wand toward his face.

  “Leave him alone!” Weejy cried.

  “Wait your turn, dear. Right now we’re giving your boyfriend a taste. Tork, please touch the wand to Albert’s neck.”

  Bert ground his molars together, stock-still and defiant.

  Tork, sweaty and grinning, poked Bert hard.

  Excruciating wasn’t a strong enough word.

  The agony was otherworldly.

  Bert recalled the worst pains he’d ever experienced. A broken leg as a teenager. Toothaches. Kidney stones. An ear infection that leaked pus. Accidentally putting his hand on a stove burner.

  All of that, combined, didn’t come close to the torture of the pain wand. When that touched his neck, and all of his neurons fired, Bert simultaneously wanted to die and would have done anything to make it stop.

  Bert heard someone screaming, thought it was Weejy, and realized it was coming from his own mouth.

  When Tork finally took the wand away, Bert’s entire body went lax, the guards having to hold him up to keep him from collapsing to the floor.

  “That only lasted two seconds, Albert. Imagine enduring that for minutes. Hours. Days. That is what Tork is going to do to Sacagawea if you don’t get my death ray built by the end of the day.”

  “A death ray?” SoJo sneered. “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

  Bert managed to lift his head up. “I’ll build whatever you want. Don’t hurt her.”

  “Don’t do it, Bert.” Weejy twisted and fought against her bonds. “Don’t do a single thing to help them.”

  Bert stared at Weejy, and realized he might not have another chance to say what he needed to tell her.

  His eyes teared up. But it wasn’t from pain. Or fear. Or regret.

  It was the good kind of tears.

  The kind of tears that make it all worthwhile.

  I’m not nervous. I’m not unsure.

  I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

  So he said the words. The most powerful words he’s ever said. The most powerful words any human being could say.

  “I love you, Weejy.”

  Weejy’s eyes got as glassy as his. Bert continued.

  “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You give me strength I never thought possible. If we get out of this…” Bert blinked, then wiped his cheek. “No. When we get out of this, I’m going to spend every waking minute of every day of the rest of my life doing everything I can to make you happy. If you’ll have me.”

  Weejy’s smile made Bert feel invincible.

  “I love you, Bert. We’re going to live happily ever after together. I promise.”

  I want to believe her.

  I so want to believe her.

  But I don’t see how this can possibly work out.

  Ziggy clapped his hands together. “Alright, important lessons learned, and endearing expressions of love exchanged. Motivation therapy over. Now let’s return to work, or we all know what will happen. Bring him back to the lab.”

  The guards dragged Bert away from the woman he loved, and the brief joy he’d experienced moments earlier morphed into crippling despair.

  TOM

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  Normally, looking into a person’s eyes revealed something. Maybe it wasn’t their soul, or their heart, or any greeting card bullshit like that. But it was something. A mutual awareness of being? A recognition of another apathetic creature? An appreciation of sentience?

  It was like that with most humans. It was like that with Tom’s dog, Stallone.

  A connection. When you lock eyes, you make a connection that conveys we’re both fellow travelers on this planet, and we acknowledge one another.

  But there had been a few times in Tom’s life where he stared into a pair of eyes and saw darkness. Something almost alien. Something without any deep, emotional connection. Seeing a crocodile in the zoo. A spider, sitting in its web. A mannequin in a storefront.

  On a few really rare times, Tom saw that same emptiness in people. Mostly, in murderers. Not all of them. But a select few.

  It’s like staring into a void that wants to devour you.

  And this is one of those times.

  As a cop, Tom would sometimes get melancholy and try to suss out the reason for evil. Human beings were selfish. Some were selfish to such a degree that they had no feelings for others. But even that psychopathy couldn’t quite explain it.

  Staring at Augustus Torble was like staring at a praying mantis. He may have looked human, but his eyes told another story.

  This isn’t a man. It’s a predator, eager to prey on man.

  He has absolutely no humanity in him.

  And now he’s got a gun in my face.

  This is every nightmare I’ve ever had, come to life.

  This is all of my fears, standing before me.

  I am staring death in the face.

  What’s my move?

  Tom didn’t know if he could be brave enough to speak, but he gave it his best shot.

  “Hey, Gus. I thought I killed you.”

  “You tried. Hurt me bad, for damn sure. I barely dragged myself out of there before the whole place burned down. But I had all that shit in my system, keeping my heart pumping. Plus I’ve got a powerful will to live. Do you, Tom?”

  A snippet from earlier flashed in Tom’s mind, jumping off the SkyTower.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we’re going to see about that. Let me see that scar I gave you. Open up your shirt.”

  Hands trembling, Tom undid several shirt buttons and bared his chest like Superman, but without the same confidence.

  “That’s a nice one.” Torble’s mouth twisted in a warped imitation of a grin. “My mark. Like an autograph in a book. Or an artist’s signature on a painting. I bet you look at that every single day and think of me.”

  “I don’t even notice it,” Tom lied.

  “Well, don’t worry. We’re going to give that little baby scar a lot of big brothers and sisters. I’ve got the cooking oil already heating up. Remember what I told you? How delicious it smells, when flesh cooks? I’ll be honest; I may not be able to resist it, and might peel off a few strips of you to snack on.” Torble licked his thin lips. “Okay, that’s a lie. I know I won’t be able to resist it. But I’m generous. I’ll share some of your crispy skin with you.”

  Keeping the gun steady, Torble reached out with his free hand and went to touch the pink, gnarled scar tissue on Tom’s chest.

  I want to live.

  But not in fear.

  I’ve wasted weeks of my life, hiding. Trying to blot out the pain.

  I’ve damaged my relationship with the best thing to ever happen to me.

  Because I was afraid.

  And I’m still afraid.

  I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been.

  So what’s my move?

  Do I let fear define me?

  Tom’s lips pressed together in a thin line.

  Fear will not define me.

  I refuse to let it control me.

  I’m going to see my wife again, and tell her how much I love her.

  We’re going to raise a child together, and be fantastic parents, and grow old together and someday invite grandchildren over for Thanksgiving dinner.

  And I’ll be damned if I allow this sick son of a bitch to lay a finger on me.

  Tom’s hand shot out, shoving Torble’s gun away, and then he punted the creepy old psycho between the legs.

  The shot deafened, the bullet blasting into the ceiling, and then Tom tackled Torble, ramming him into the wall, both hands locked on the old man’s wrist.

  Tom was strong, with the added adrenaline of fighting for his life.

  Torble was stronger.

  Tom managed to get a leg behind Torble’s heel, pushing the man down, but got pulled to the floor with him. They wrestled, Tom keeping his grip on the weapon, straining to take it for himself, and heard a staccato, clicking sound.

  Torble. Snapping his jaw open and closed. Trying to bite.

  He wants to eat me and I’m not even cooked yet.

  This surreal dose of insanity-driven terror made Tom take one of his hands off the gun and grab Torble’s neck, keeping that horrible mouth away from his unbitten body—

  —and Torble tore the firearm away and jammed the barrel right between Tom’s eyes, pinning his head down.

  Tom went completely slack, except for the tremors of fear shaking his core.

  Getting bitten is horrifying. Getting a bullet in the brain is worse.

  “You want to shoot me in the head, Gus?” Tom’s breaths came in ragged gasps, but he kept his voice clear and steady. “Won’t that ruin your fun?”

  “Yes. Yes it would. And the fun is just beginning.” Torble licked his lips again, some spit dribbling out of his mouth and stretching lazily until it pooled on Tom’s cheek. “I’ve been following your life, Tom Mankowski. Ziggy isn’t the only one who can use the Internet to find someone. You’ve run into some scary people, Tom Mankowski. I haven’t been the only one to leave a mark. What happened to you in that small Wisconsin town? Spoonward, I think it was called. You were shot in the legs, weren’t you?”

  Yet another psychopath-induced injury. It took months to recover from the physical damage.

  Mentally, I still haven’t recovered.

  “I heard rehab is torture.” Torble grinned with an open mouth, and Tom stared into a bottomless black hole. “Not as much torture as actual torture. But you can tell me which is worse.”

  Then Torble pulled up the gun—

  —and turned around, firing six shots into Tom’s legs.

  FABLER

  Twenty-Three Hundred Meters Northwest of Area 57 – New Mexico

  Freshman year of high school, Fabler had a bully.

  Two years older. Four inches taller. Fifty pounds heavier.

  This zit on the face of humanity had the name of Ned.

  In a fair world, where karma ruled and justice was universal, Fabler would have had an after-school fight with Ned and knocked the bigger boy out. Fabler’s abuse would have ceased, his confidence restored, and Ned would have reformed his dysfunctional ways, making the world a little better.

  Instead, Fabler got his ass beat. A lot.

  And it wasn’t just getting crammed into a gym locker, or towel thwacked in the shower, or wedgies in the hall. Fabler got two black eyes, countless bruises, at least a dozen bloody noses, and a scar on his cheek he still had.

  Plus there had been the constant taunting. The name-calling. The put-downs in class. In some ways, having someone always belittling you was worse than getting hit.

  The abuse didn’t end with a showdown. It didn’t end when Fabler faced Ned, which is something he did on multiple occasions.

  It ended when Ned graduated.

  Grim, Fabler’s best friend in school, had stood up for Fabler many times… and got his ass beat as well. Ned knew karate. Ned could handle two smaller boys at once.

  Fabler had been a tough kid. But he hadn’t been tough enough.

  So it was with an acute sense of déjà vu that Fabler watched Bloody Mary Tudor kick the living hell out of Joan. It was less of a fighting match and more of a flat-out beatdown. A ref would have thrown in the towel three punches ago.

  Joan had skills. But Mary’s skills were better. Mary also had height, weight, reach, and strength on Joan.

  It hurt to watch. And it brought up all the feelings of learned helplessness that Fabler had left behind in high school.

  Joan can’t win this.

  And she knows it.

  Fabler took a shot. “Does this get you off, Leo? Watching women hit each other?”

  “I was aroused until the bleeding began,” Abe admitted. “Now, not so much. Can’t you ladies settle this like adults, like they do in the Olympics, with nude oil wrestling?”

  Leo ignored them, keeping his eyes on the fight.

  Fabler pressed. “Your girlfriend is kicking Joan’s ass. You think it would be that easy with me? It wouldn’t be. I’d make you my bitch, Leo.”

  This time Leo glanced at Fabler. He seemed irritated.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Fabler continued. “You don’t have a mind of your own. You don’t do anything unless Mommy says it’s okay.” Fabler knew the taunting was a stretch, but he didn’t have much else to try. He also knew, from experience, how much teasing could hurt. “Does Little Leo need to ask Mommy to come out and play? Or is it easier to run away from a challenge? That’s what you said Leonidas needed to do, right? The real Leonidas, not your fake-ass clone bullshit. No offense, Abe.”

  “I would normally be highly offended. But I am sitting in my own excrement. So I’m not feeling much pride in myself at the moment.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Abe. Maybe there’s something wrong with the cloning process. Or maybe cloning is just an abomination. Real men are born, not made. A copy is never as good as the real thing.”

  Mary kicked Joan to the ground for the umpteenth time, then glanced at Leo. “Go ahead and have some fun, baby.”

  Leo didn’t need to be told twice. He was on Fabler in six big strides, scooping up his legs by the plastic tie around his crossed ankles, lifting him upside down until only Fabler’s head and shoulders touched the ground. A fixed-blade KA-BAR knife appeared in Leo’s hand, and he cut off Fabler’s wrist band, then the one binding his feet.

  After being tossed to the ground like a discarded soda can, Fabler eased up onto his feet and faced Leo.

  His knife is gone. He must have a concealed sheath.

  He also looks completely at ease. No fighting stance. Just standing there, like an impartial observer.

  Fabler glanced over Leo’s shoulder, at the SUV.

  He put the guns in there.

  That’s my goal. Getting to the weapons.

  Leo noticed Fabler’s gaze. “You won’t get past me. You won’t even land a punch.”

  “How do you know I’m not better than you?”

  “No one is better than me.”

  We’ll see. Pride cometh before the fall.

  Hopefully.

  Fabler raised his fists.

  Joan grunted, down on all fours, chest heaving. She spat blood between her hands, then exchanged a look with Fabler.

  “I’ll finish up here and come help you,” Joan said.

  Tough lady.

 

  Fabler flinched at the voice in his head.

  Still some N-Som or Psytox in my bloodstream?

  Then Leo did an impossibly fast spin kick and caught Fabler on the right side, sending him to the ground.

  Holy shit.

  Fabler drew a breath, a sharp pain knifing up to his armpit.

  “I just broke three of your ribs,” Leo told him. “You have twenty-one more. I’m going to break those, too.”

  “Want to have a contest, lover?” Mary asked. “I bet I can break all of Joan’s ribs before you break his. Loser sets up the weenie roast.”

  Fabler managed to get up, the pain making him hunch over.

  “Deal.”

  Leo came in fast, raising his foot, and Fabler put up both hands to block another kick, but Leo pulled it and threw a rabbit punch, catching Fabler in the side.

 

  It does.

  “Nineteen to go. Tell me again how real men are born, not made.”

  Fabler tried to respond. But filling his lungs with air hurt too much.

  At this rate, it’ll take five minutes, tops, for Leo to break all of my ribs.

  Then I won’t be able to lift my fists and fight back.

  If I’m going to survive this, now is the time to make my move.

  But Fabler didn’t have the slightest idea what move to make.

  VAN

  Twenty-Two Hundred Meters Southeast of Area 57 – New Mexico

  First, I need to make sure there are no nasty surprises.

  Other than my nasty surprises.

  Van gathered up all the guns, and all cell phones—which was easier to do than stick his fingers in their nasty ears to find their nasty ear radios—and hauled them off into the desert a hundred steps away, dropping everything behind a mound of sand. He made sure the phones were all turned off, then used some wet wipes to clean his fingerprints off of everything. Then he kicked sand over it all so there would be no last-minute surprise reacquisitions.

  Next, Van decided to make sure Sara was properly restrained before he began his throat-slitting montage. He crept up with a roll of duct tape, but paused when standing over her, unable to summon the nerve to crouch next to Sara’s prone body.

  What if she’s faking being unconscious?

  If she suddenly springs up, I swear I’ll freak out.