Bravo laughed and gestured around them. “Nothing is impregnable, gentlemen. Nowhere is completely safe. It’s best we keep that in mind.”
Nexus interrupted. “The wraith we’ll consider soon, but we must deal with the pair. Even at this juncture, they have begun to destabilize things beyond acceptability. We thought to use them to solve our problems, but they have created new ones. Their raid on CIA, their cracking of the code is beginning to set in motion our worst nightmares.”
“Not our worst,” interrupted Zulu.
Bravo spoke. “The release of the document to the hacker community is an embarrassment to the CIA and will further isolate us in their panic to prevent discovery of this program. However, in and of itself, the document is benign.”
“That document, yes,” finished Nexus. “But there are more, and our assets have intercepted several of their communications, as mentioned. There is no doubt that they have discovered the truth. If they have all the documents on the missions — and we must assume that they do, or will soon — it is only a matter of time before they have the proof in hand.”
“And the connection to us?” asked Zulu.
“There for all to see,” spat out Nexus.
Bravo leaned forward, his thick brow prominent in the ghostly light. “The black-ops snatches are damaging enough and with the connection to our names, will mean we will be wanted men. But they are bright. They will dig deeper. They will connect the other names.”
Nexus nodded. “It is inevitable.”
Zulu looked panicked. “If they see how we used the program, who we targeted, even a few — it will be ruin!”
“It will destabilize the entire political structure,” said Bravo.
A red light flashed on a conference call system in the middle of the table. All eyes settled uncomfortably on the blinking LCD, and Bravo’s words hung in the air. Nexus sighed and reached over to the device.
“He’s been listening in, of course.” Nexus pressed a button. “Lophius?”
“You fools have nearly brought everything down on us.” The voice was imperial. Several around the table sat up in their chairs instinctively. “Bravo is correct. Everything we have done is at risk now. The future of our cause is at risk! Extreme measures are required.”
“Your plan?” asked Nexus.
The voice spoke harshly over the speakers. “When your quarry attempts to go to ground, render the ground inhospitable. I promise you, gentlemen, we will have them between a hammer and an anvil. There will be no escape.”
34
The old soldier had left for the US-Mexico border. He would be gone for several weeks, his mission to acquire the illegal items bought and paid for, shipped and delivered through networks of international arms dealers and smugglers. It was a task not without its own danger, but the wraith knew criminals would sense their peril in dealing with the former special forces officer. Thirty seconds in his presence was enough to sense the possibility of death.
The mad program of rehabilitation was nearly complete. His training approached the minimum goals required to continue his mission. The time had come for the external guise to be fine-tuned.
The creams brought back painful memories. Perhaps it was the high mercury content in the whiteners. Neurotoxins that shook loose the thoughts. Perhaps it was simply the process of camouflage, the psychological discipline and pain it required that stimulated recall.
First to return and torment him were the surgeries. Most were for injuries sustained in his often violent quest: bullet wounds, knife damage, shrapnel. But the worst were the cosmetic surgeries. At least battle wounds made sense. Erasing his natural appearance bordered on mutilation.
As he applied the cream to his face, part of his mind was transported to an operating room table, his head locked in a metallic cage. His eyes were held open by hard rings. He saw the nurse on the left, her gown filthy in this makeshift ward in forgotten alleyways. The doctor was a disbarred and disgraced plastic surgeon, whose crimes were matched only by his skills. The underground said he was the best, if you had the money. If you would brave the risk.
He had found the money. He had hacked his way into the Dubai banking computers and created a well-filled coffer of an account. He had found the black market arms dealers, passport distributors, and medical practitioners. He had paid them all well for their services, always promising a large cash reward as a bonus for a job well done.
Murder. Now he remembered. The surgeon had a propensity for killing certain patients after torturing them on the operating table. The cutter was on death row when given a new lease on life from a riot and prison break. He rarely indulged in such behavior now, however, knowing that the death of some of the criminal elements he saw might bring a hellish retribution from organizations who were as depraved as he was.
In the present, high in the Tennessee mountains, the splotched-skinned man continued to apply a white cream to his body, rubbing it in circular patterns over every square inch of skin. It burned like an acid. Trapped in the visions from the past, his mind flinched at the operating room light, the knife blade that descended, the fire of the blade ripping into his face.
The old monster rarely indulged. But sometimes, it was too hard to restrain his impulses. Sometimes, when the patient seemed less connected to an organized outfit, there was the hope of escaping retribution. Sometimes, he would only torture and not kill. Perform the job yet extract his pleasure from the pain of another. All it took was an operation on an immobilized patient without anesthetic. He could then disappear for a time, hide from immediate revenge, and then resurface in another location. It would not be the first time.
In the present, the man in front of the mirror suddenly screamed. The birds outside were silent in confusion. After his cry, he grasped the sink, his arms shaking, his breath in wheezes.
I must control my emotions. He was angry with himself. Such losses of control would doom his efforts. He brought his heart rate down and slowed his breathing. He reached back in his mind and confronted the horror.
There was the surgeon, helpless on the floor. Bullet wounds in his legs and shoulder. His death near. The surgeon had made two mistakes. The first was believing that the boy’s isolation reduced any threat. The second, that he had not killed the boy on the table. The price was his life.
That death had been a detour, the killing of this doctor, but his quest was nothing less than to erase monsters such as this. He finished applying the last of the cream, the enormous surface area of skin covering him like a raw wound. He would take all the pain. More monsters awaited his judgment. There would be no failure.
35
They were exhausted from the last few days of travel. It had taken them nearly three times any reasonable travel time by car. But they had not traveled reasonably.
Houston had discovered that their hotel room was bugged, and as if this were not shocking enough for Lopez, she had immediately concluded that the CIA was not involved.
“If not the CIA, then who?” he had asked. “It has to be the CIA! What are you talking about, Sara?”
“Francisco, we’re targeted fugitives at the CIA. The Agency has me especially marked for extreme containment. If they knew we were here, if they had bugged our room, they would be on us already. Whoever did this has been following us for days, perhaps weeks. We have moved constantly. We have been careful. They would have known our whereabouts and behaviors so well — which only comes from extended observation — that they could get in under our noses and wire this place up.”