Gorgon

CHAPTER 14

Sam and Alex waited to climb into the chopper — they were the last. The huge propeller was already spinning overhead, invisible and almost soundless, its blue-edge rotor blades ending in a distinctive gull-wing double-sweep shape to reduce the noise. There was a downdraft, but little more. The entire stealth craft was coated in the new carbon-nano paint, designed by NASA for its space missions and the “blackest” material known. It absorbed ninety-nine percent of any light in various spectrums that struck its surface. The military had gotten interested when it was discovered the paint also absorbed radar waves, thereby making anything coated in it invisible.

Already inside the chopper, bathed in the red gloom of the blackout lighting, were three large men, fairly new to the HAWCs, and a single woman — Casey Franks. They were in two-by-two teams, coded Red and Blue. Even though Sam was taking lead on the mission, all of them turned toward Alex when he stepped inside. They stood as he passed, not saying a word but nodding to acknowledge his authority. It seemed the rumor mill had gotten ahead of them. Sam had no doubt all the HAWCs knew who the special advisor was accompanying them that night. He noted that Franks was the only one to watch Alex with the hint of suspicion on her face. He wondered what was going on there.

The chopper sped low and silently over the Italian countryside. They had little more than an hour to their destination, after flying nonstop from the United States to Aviano, one of the last American air bases in Italy. Now the stealth chopper was taking them the 120 miles to Gianfranco Monti’s compound on the shore of Lake Como.

Hammerson had charged Sam with assessing Alex during the mission. He noted Alex flexing his hands beneath the plated gloves, making iron-hard fists. Those hands had been broken many times, Sam knew, but they healed quickly, too quickly for a normal man. Alex’s body could produce coagulants and collagen deposition, form new tissue and calcium deposits, in minutes, not days, which meant any wounds closed over almost immediately. But sometimes the scars remained. Just like the damage to his mind.

Alex reached up and touched a small indentation over his left eye, before running his hand up through his dark cropped hair. Sam knew there was a small star-shaped scar there — an intended kill shot delivered by Borshov, the giant Russian assassin who had obliterated Alex’s HAWC team in Chechnya. It was a debt Alex had wanted to square for far too long.

The pilot’s voice came through on his comm set. ‘Cloudbank coming up — we’ll have moon-shade in ten minutes. Mission up.’

‘Mission up in ten,’ Sam relayed to his team.

The chopper slowed in the air, and a single small light came on overhead in the rear cabin. The HAWCs pulled their full-face masks down. The black lenses covering their eyes looked a little like rounded swimming goggles, but were high-technology lens that could be moved up and down the thermal, telescopic or infrared ranges. Only Alex’s mask had no lenses; science had already given him everything he needed within his own body. The HAWCs’ suits were compressed to their bodies, and dappled between black and gunmetal gray, taking on the colors and characteristics of their surroundings. The material was woven through with Kevlar fiber, and had integrated biological combat plating over the chest, shoulders and other vulnerable areas.

‘Let’s get it on,’ said Casey Franks. She made fists and growled, pumping herself up.

Sam held a small electronic tablet that showed a real-time VELA satellite feed of Monti’s property. He knew Jack Hammerson would be watching the same feed back home.

VELA was able to see through stone and steel, delivering the building’s secrets up to the incoming HAWCs. Multiple thermal images flared in and around the property — either two-by-two patrols, or guardian positions close to the walls, on terraces, and on rooftops. Inside, there were more, patrolling the hallways. In an upper room was a single figure, seated and alone — Monti.

Sam grunted, and pressed the stud in his ear to contact Hammerson back at base. ‘Multiple shields, all armed. Primary target in upper bedroom in eastern wing. Confirm green light on mission.’

Hammerson’s voice came back immediately. ‘Mission is green light — you are good to go.’

‘Mission is green, people,’ Sam said.

He thought of Jack Hammerson seated in his dark office, the large wall-screen the only illumination. He would seem emotionless as he watched the mission unfold, but Sam knew the older warrior would be churning inside as his team went out. Once he gave the green light, things were out of his hands.

Sam checked his watch; once they hit the dirt, they had thirty minutes to get in, punch a hole through to Monti, and be gone before anyone outside of the compound even knew they were there. Bottom line was, they needed unimpeded time to question Monti and retrieve whatever information he had on what Caresche had been searching for deep in those Istanbul catacombs. Time was not a negotiable commodity.

The plan was for Alex to take the guards out of action first — non-lethal means if possible. But as the private security force were ex elite soldiers, they’d hardly drop their weapons when requested. They were on allied soil, but Sam had to hope, for their sake, the paid soldiers would choose life over gold. Because if it came to a fight to the death, it would be theirs.

Sam put a large hand on Alex’s shoulder. ‘Okay?’

‘I’m good.’ Alex spoke without turning.

Sam saw that his eyes shone silver in the dark, like some sort of nocturnal animal. He just hoped the animal inside him stayed sleeping.

‘Just remember, we need Monti, not a massacre,’ he said.

Alex smiled and nudged Sam’s ribs. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

Sam grinned. ‘I’m not worried about you — I’m worried for anyone in front of you.’

Sam pulled his own visor down. A second light went on — two minutes. He saw Alex began flexing his hands again, then he sucked in a huge breath and quickly checked his equipment, expert hands running automatically over weaponry, communications and extraneous kit, all packed down tight over his body.

Sam leaned in close, showing him the tablet. ‘You’re up first — you’ll go in the front, take out any wandering sentinels on the perimeter.’ He pointed to the small screen. ‘There are three teams two-by-two patrolling, and one larger unit of six stationed on the front landing. Soft takedowns if possible. Red and Blue will position themselves at the west and east walls. I’m going to drop onto the roof, where I’ll immediately deploy a white-noise net to fry their comms. That’ll be the signal for you to make some noise — draw interest from inside the house.’

Alex stared at the small screen, his eyes moving over the figures, the building, the geography. He nodded once; Sam knew he would have missed nothing.

‘With no comms, Monti’s men will need line of sight — they’ll come to you.’ Sam switched off the screen and slid it away, then gave Alex a grim smile. ‘We’re going to need to punch it. Once the fireworks start, we’ll have less than a minute to get to Monti before he tries to seal himself inside his secure panic room. We do not have the time to dig him out.’

The final light came on, and the cabin light changed from amber to hellish red again.

Sam lifted his voice: ‘Game time.’

‘HUA!’ The HAWCs punched knuckles and rolled their shoulders, then formed up. HUA stood for Heard, Understood and Acknowledged. Nothing else needed to be said.

Sam nudged Alex again. ‘How do you feel, Arcadian?’

The chopper door whined open, the ground close and shooting past at a seeming impossible speed.

Alex turned, smiling, his fists balled. ‘Dangerous.’ He dived out.

Sam shook his head. ‘Dangerous, but in control, I hope.’

Casey Franks muscled up to the door. ‘Me next.’

Sam sighed. ‘What a surprise.’

Alex hit the ground, rolled, and came up running, fast. He was a black blur as he moved among the overhanging trees, his suit immediately taking on the hues and shades of the huge willows and ivy-covered oaks. He stayed in tight at the edge of tree line, already hearing the tread of the first patrol. As expected, the two men were professionals, no flashlights and walking softly and carefully in the dark. Without night vision, they would have been near invisible. Alex saw them as clearly as if they were in an open field.

He felt the adrenaline surge into his system, and increased his pace as he came up on the men. By the time they knew he was there, they lay unconscious at his feet. He kneeled, checking them over; not out of any concern for their wellbeing, more as a lightning-quick assessment of their weapons and capabilities.

He grunted. As he had assumed, both had night vision and also infrared scopes on top of their Beretta SCP 70/90 assault carbines. The skeletal black guns had the barrel adaptor attached so they could launch rifle grenades — not good news if the HAWCS were caught in the open.

In seconds he had lashed their hands behind their backs, then to their ankles, and was sprinting away, homing in on the next patrol on the opposite tree line. He skirted some ornamental shrubs, still staying low, then burst forth to cover the last hundred feet of open ground like an express train. He dived the last ten when one of the men suddenly turned, perhaps sensing movement or seeing a flash of red on his scope. The Beretta was coming up just as Alex struck, so hard it sounded like tree branches snapping as the men’s bones and flesh were crushed by the impact.

Shit — no deaths if possible, he recalled. He crouched over the fallen men, noting that one’s head had been turned completely around on a now very loose neck. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to feel remorse. Were humans that fragile? Only they are.

He checked his watch and saw that he was on schedule. However, the easy part was over. Now he needed to disable the remaining six men at the front of the villa.

When the lights of the compound showed through the trees, Alex got down on his belly and crawled. Pausing at the tree line, he saw ahead a few hundred feet of manicured grass, an open walkway, and a huge stone verandah that could probably fit hundreds of well-heeled guests at a Monti party. Unfortunately, the massive open space afforded the guards at the front of the house an unimpeded view of anyone approaching. For Alex, it meant a direct assault was impossible — unless he wanted six professionals shooting at him with scoped Berettas.

He crawled closer, burrowing into the cool earth to dampen his thermal silhouette. Finally he came to a seven-foot marble statue of a discus thrower. He took cover behind it, and looked at the verandah and the men patrolling it from end to end. There were two permanently stationed at each side of the door — vigilant, armed, and professional-looking. Monti had chosen his security force well.

No matter how fast he was, Alex knew it would be impossible to get to the building without being shot. But maybe something else could manage it. He looked up at the statue and then back to the guards, calculating. He smiled; Sam wanted some noise …

He checked his watch, counting down the seconds until Sam and the Red and Blue teams were in place. His body was humming with energy, and he felt good, alive; he had a purpose again. He wasn’t the disembodied spirit wandering from town to town, waiting for random acts of violence to be rained down on him so he could exercise his fury. He flexed his hands in their gloves. What would I have become, he wondered, if Hammerson hadn’t brought me in? He already knew the answer. He would have eventually turned into the Other One that struggled within him — the pure violence and hate that he only ever just managed to keep caged. He would have ended up a rabid dog that needed to be put down — just another monster in the darkness. He crushed his eyes shut for a moment, saying a small prayer, finishing with a request to bring a little luck to Alan Marshal’s work in the lab.

The communication pellet pinged twice in his ear — the signal that Sam had cast the white-noise net. Now all non-HAWC communications would be useless — and they were ready to go.

Alex peered around the statue base at the men on the verandah, then looked up again at the discus thrower. He eased himself to his feet.

The 200-pound marble arm holding the enormous disc landed at one end of the balcony, and exploded like a bomb, obliterating a good six feet of expensive flagstones and carved balustrade, and raining dust and debris down on the guards.

The men flattened themselves to the ground in the confusion, but it was only a second or two before their experience and professionalism kicked in. Several rolled and crouched with weapons up and pointing to the impact site; the two guards at the door got down on one knee, guns pointed in opposite directions, ready for any threat. However, by the time the dust cloud cleared and one of them sighted the figure speeding across the lawn, Alex was already two-thirds of the way there. In one hand he held his HK pistol, which he fired with precision into the shoulders of the two men either side of the doorway. Bullets zipped toward him in return.

The other men had scattered so he reholstered the weapon, and concentrated on speed … and his next throw. In his other hand he had a chunk of statue the size of a melon, which he launched at one of the shooters. It flew faster than any eyes could follow, struck the six-foot guard in the gut, and punched him backward over the side of the verandah.

More bullets flew past him or thwacked into the soft ground as Alex zigzagged the last few dozen feet, leaping up the steps to crash into another of the guards. He was among them now, their advantage of distance gone. Bullets still flew, but their fear of hitting each other slowed their firing, and their reaction times were inconsequential compared to his own. He ducked and weaved, disappearing from in front of one to appear beside another, landing blows, or sliding low to smash a fist into a knee, then another into an exposed temple. Another guard went down.

The last two proved the most difficult. They had chosen their combat positions wisely and it became obvious they knew how to work in tandem. One finally came in close to engage, but it was only a feint. As he pulled back, the other caught Alex’s neck with his gun butt.

Flashes of light and pain exploded in Alex’s head, momentarily stunning him. He dropped and turned, blocking another of the steel-weighted punches. Behind him, a gun went off, and the bullet kicked him flat to the ground. The suit armor held, but excruciating pain flared and he knew there would be cracked ribs in his back.

The two men were big and fearless, and using everything they had. Alex rolled and came up fast, his resolve to pull his punches slipping away. Another two shots — Alex moved out of the way in a blur, and one whizzed past his cheek. The second caught him dead center in the chest. He absorbed it, his teeth clenched and eyes furious.

He flew at the gunman and punched him, an uppercut delivered with enough ferocity to lift the man off his feet and throw him back into the huge wooden doors. Alex knew it was unlikely he would ever rise. He stared at the body. No deaths if possible. It took a microsecond for the thought to enter his mind … and be answered. Kill or be killed. Alex knew the voice. It was the Other One, straining against his bonds.

The thought was a distraction — enough to allow a blade, gleaming blue in the moonlight, to flash into his back. Such was the force of the delivery and the sharpness of the weapon, it managed to find its way between two of the armor plates and into his shoulder. The flash of pain was like an electric shock, kicking open a door in his mind, ripping him in two, letting the Other One free.

Alex felt as if he had been thrown outside of his mind and body. He felt powerless as another Alex spun at the man to grab the hand holding the blade — the Italian Special Ops Titan, seven inches of carbon fiber wrapped around an inner core of titanium, and one of the deadliest knives in the world. The guard pushed down hard, using both hands to try to force the blade back into his opponent’s face. Alex held on, turning the blade, and easing it up under the man’s chin. The man’s expression moved from determination to exertion and then fear as the blade touched his skin.

Time seemed to freeze as the other Alex and the guard locked eyes. In both stares there was recognition of impending death, but for only one of them. Alex gave the weapon another push, continuing until only the hilt stopped it going any further. The man’s body danced and juddered momentarily as the nerves short-circuited.

The other Alex reached up to tear the mask from his head. If he could have seen himself, his expression would have appeared emotionless — the guard’s life was nothing to him. With one hand, he held the body up off the ground, impaled on the blade, then pulled it close and looked into the slack face.

He lifted his own head toward the roofline, anger pulling his features into a mask of fury. ‘You wanted some noise?’ He dragged the body down the steps to the front of the huge building, and held it up with one arm, shaking it. ‘This is all you’ve got?’

His lips pulled back in a snarl and his eyes were round with fury, shining silver in the darkness. He threw his head back and roared up to the windows, no words, just a primal sound of anger and challenge.

Figures appeared in windows, and gave their answer quickly — heavy-caliber machine-gun fire raked toward him, blowing fist-sized clods of earth into the air.

Alex grabbed the body in both hands, lifted it, and threw it toward the gunner, forcing him to take shelter behind the window frame. By the time the gunfire resumed, Alex had vanished, but not back to the tree line. He threw himself against the heavy door, exploding it inwards. He was in.

Gunfire sounded from inside several areas of the huge building — the HAWC Red and Blue teams had joined the party.

Jack Hammerson grimaced as he watched the action at Monti’s villa unfold. He would send the recording down to Alan Marshal — the man had his work cut out for him. Hammerson could pinpoint almost to the second when Alex Hunter had changed. The knife coming down into his shoulder — deep but not lethal. The Arcadian should have shaken it off, and he did, physically. But from that moment, he seemed to stop being himself. The new Alex was faster, stronger, more savage and totally without mercy. He had brutalized the guard, even after he was dead, parading the body; and then seemed to call for his own death — standing arms wide in the open, spotlit and tormenting the guards.

Hammerson exhaled long and slow. Did I send him out too soon?

He watched Alex explode through the front door, a blur of fury. ‘Pull it back, son,’ he whispered. A phrase came to mind from a book he’d read many decades before: You must suffer me to go my own dark way. The book was The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde — a tale about a man’s struggle between his good self and the monster that also lived within him.