The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (18 page)

O
ne gunshot rang out. Eytan
fell back as the bullet perforated his right thigh. Flat on his back, he tried to push himself up with his left arm. Muscles straining, he made it halfway, but the pain was too intense.

He slumped back down.

Elena Kourilyenko walked over languidly, savoring the grimace disfiguring the giant’s face. “I have dreamed of killing you for so long, brother. You can’t imagine the honor you do me. Eytan Morg is a legend in our organization. Our messiah has a name: Subject 302. Your exceptional talents have made our greatest projects possible. They made me possible, too. I see surprise in your eyes. Don’t you understand? You showed the way, but somebody had to follow.”

She raised her sleeve, revealing a blue-ink tattoo on her forearm: 985. “They modified you?” Eytan mumbled between gasps for breath.

The young woman stood over him, gun aimed between his eyes. “Modified, no. Perfected! I volunteered, brother. I knew the risks and rewards of the experiment. And I had faith.”

“You’re mad.” Eytan’s eyes were filled with profound and genuine distress.

“No. Far from it. You and I represent the greatest leap forward in the evolution of our species. We guide humanity toward the next stage of its existence. I would have liked walking alongside you, but you are so weak. I cannot establish a new order by glorifying weakness. You understand, I hope.”

“I understand that it’s crucial to stop you and destroy all traces of the Bleiberg Project.”

Elena hunkered down, pressing her knee on his wounded thigh. Eytan screamed as his blood began to pump out.

“The only trace that will be destroyed is your colossally failed existence. We could have achieved so much if you hadn’t turned against your masters.”

She pressed the muzzle of her gun against his sweating brow. Eytan’s features relaxed. A smile spread across his face. He burst out laughing. His demented cackle echoed around the laboratory, surprising and irritating his assassin. She pressed harder on his thigh.

A slender finger pulled the trigger. The fatal shot was fired…

Jackie and I
sprint breathlessly down the deserted hallways. We could have escaped—anybody with any sense would have gotten the hell out of there. But without a word or a moment’s hesitation, we head straight for the laboratory. These sickos may have killed Eytan already, but if we have even the slightest chance of rescuing him, we have to give it a try.

We reach the final intersection, turn right and nearly collide with two guards standing outside the double doors. Before anybody can draw a gun, a knock-’em-down, drag-’em-out battle ensues.

I’m no fighter, but I don’t like taking shit without giving any back. The guy’s well trained. I dodge or parry his kicks with my forearms. Each block hurts more than the last. He forces me back step by step, with no chance to counter. Given our size difference, I must have twenty-five pounds on him. If I can just connect, I’ll send him flying. But he keeps coming relentlessly. I’m dripping in sweat. It trickles down my face. My shirt sticks to my skin. With my luck, I’m going to die of dehydration.

I won’t give up. I won’t give in. I thought the fight went out of me months ago, after I killed that infant. I abandoned my mother and disappointed Bernard. But I won’t let Eytan down. C’mon, you bastard, give me all you got. I deserve it.

My back hits the wall. A flurry of punches rains down on me. I protect myself as best I can. A jab to the ribs drops me to my knees. I gasp for breath. The guy steps in to finish it off. He grabs me. I see his feet in front of me, wide apart, and seize my opportunity. I lunge forward and grasp and twist his balls. He screams and lets go of me. I squeeze as hard as I can, with every ounce of my anger. His mouth is wide open, no sound coming out and no air going in. I’m enjoying this. I give him an extra twist and watch his reaction.

His expression is pathetic, ridiculous, lips puckered, eyes bulging. I push with my legs as hard as I can. He topples backward, but I go with him, refusing to let go. I crawl over his body and smash my fists into him. All I can hear are my grunts and his groans. I would have liked hearing him scream, begging me to spare his life, but he’s in no state to give me that gratification. I batter him until my fists are numb. All I can feel is indescribable pleasure. In the depths of my brain, I hear a sound repeating itself over and over, getting louder. My name. Jackie…

I spin round. Buffy’s in trouble. I don’t know how it happened, but the guy’s behind her, clutching her neck with his left hand. The douchebag’s ramming her head against the wall. Her face is covered in blood, her legs are wilting. He’s gonna kill her. I jump up as fast as I can.

No time to think. I sprint and dive at him from behind. Years of college gridiron come flooding back as I hit him with a perfect tackle, crunching into his kidneys. Caught by surprise, he smashes headfirst into the wall. The sound of bones snapping leaves no doubt about it—nose and jaw are broken outright. I find myself slumped over the unconscious scumbag. Jackie collapses next to me. She has a cut over her eye and bruised cheeks and lips. She’s spent. With one trembling hand, she passes me the swipe card, stammering, “I’m fine. Go! He needs you!” Eytan…

I draw my gun, but it’s purely psychological—I’ve never used one in my life. I swipe the scanner by the door and enter. Bleiberg’s body lies in a pool of blood. Elena isn’t far away, squatting over my buddy, a gun pointed at his head. He lets out a bloodcurdling scream. The redhead hasn’t noticed my entrance. I creep forward. Payback time.

Eytan felt the
bullet graze his temple. The gun dropped to the floor, and Elena’s mouth pressed against his ear as her full weight crashed down on him. She let out little high-pitched squeals, then straightened up abruptly.

Her hands scrabbled at Jeremy’s forearm as he gripped her neck in a viselike stranglehold, pulling back with all his strength, cursing and spitting out his hatred of the woman. The force of his hold bruised her flesh, which went from pink to crimson to purple. One more tiny effort and her spine would snap in two.

The bitch hasn’t
heard me approaching. Tough shit. I get a good firm grip, strangling her with my one arm and ramming a knee into her back. As I pull back with all my might, she has no chance of escape. And I’m savoring her groans. Despite the effort, I grin maniacally. You killed my mother and Bernard, and I bet you took care of my father. Three excellent reasons to snuff you out, like Eytan would, without a hint of remorse.

I feel her resistance weakening. All I have to do is keep pressing with all my strength to snap her in two in cold blood. And become like them, like her. But I’ve already killed. By my own stupid recklessness. By killing her, I will take another irrevocable step and abandon all hope of ever finding peace one day. The infant girl would become merely the first victim in the process of my degeneration. So, no, I won’t kill Elena.

I’ll let others dispense justice or play God.

Jeremy released his
hold and backed up. Gasping for breath and coughing, Elena fell to the floor, her hands clasping her inflamed neck. Eytan grabbed her gun and the hand Jeremy held out to pull him up. Trying to find the least painful position, the giant leaned heavily on the young guy’s muscular shoulder.

Jeremy’s expression was serene. Eytan saw a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes.

“You did right. She’s not worth dirtying your hands. Killing her wouldn’t relieve your pain, but it would take away any chance of getting a normal life back. You’re not a killer, Jeremy.”

The trader’s eyes flitted from Eytan to Elena. “I know that now.”

The redhead spoke up. “You are a killer, Morg. We made you. Your fine words won’t change that. You are Subject 30…”

Before she could finish, a kick in the face from Eytan knocked her out cold. “I am not the product of an experiment. I belong to nobody but myself. Bleiberg could change people’s bodies, not their minds. Nobody dictates what I do. I am the captain of my soul.”

He turned to Jeremy. They gazed at the professor and the hit woman, stretched out side by side. “Do you understand now why I do this job? I give the victims the justice they deserve.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to protect them before they become victims?

Eytan looked down and took a deep breath. “For that to happen, man would have to stop being a wolf. Meantime, I decimate the pack.”

The giant glanced toward Jackie, who was propped against the lab’s double doors. Her face bore the scars of combat, but the spectacular wounds would heal without a trace. The petite blonde observed the scene in silence. She stared at Eytan and hobbled toward them. When she reached Jeremy, who couldn’t take his eyes off Elena Kourilyenko, she murmured, “Jeremy, it’s time to go.”

The trader glanced at his companions. Smiled. “Too right. I’ve had more than enough of this. For a ragtag bunch, we didn’t do too bad. What happens next?” His wry grin faded when he saw their serious expressions. “What’s wrong?”

Looking him straight in the eye, Eytan replied, “The Bleiberg Project must end here and now. This facility must disappear.”

“Of course!”

“Along with everything that has anything to do with that psychopath.” Eytan nodded toward Elena, still out cold on the floor.

Jeremy was about to nod but stopped as he realized the true meaning of Eytan’s words. Blind panic washed over his face. “No, Eytan! You don’t have to do that. Let’s blow up the lab and the whole complex, then we can go home. Please, quit fooling around.”

Morg grasped Jeremy’s shoulders. “As long as I’m alive, they will hunt me down. If they capture me, the research will start again. My body would be their holy grail. It’s true what Bleiberg and Elena said. I am Subject 302. For the Consortium, I always will be.”

Jeremy shrugged off Eytan’s hands. The giant’s wounds and precarious balance prevented him from resisting. Seething with anger, the trader moved toward Jackie, who still hadn’t spoken. “Make him see sense. It doesn’t have to end this way. It can’t end this way.” The CIA agent held Jeremy’s gaze but didn’t utter a word.

“You’re both absolutely crazy, goddammit! Do you have to be stupid to be a secret agent or what?” He glanced at Jackie. “Isn’t there a witness protection program that gives you a new identity and everything?”

“Can you see me living in a sleepy suburb, working nine to five as a pen pusher at city hall or in a government office?” asked Eytan. “I’m a hit man, Jeremy. I never learned to do anything else. I’m tired. My job is done. Others can take over. Now help Jacqueline, and get out of here as fast as you can, both of you.”

“No way!”

Jeremy didn’t see it coming. Eytan winced as his fist crunched into Jeremy’s jaw, but the punch had enough power to deck him.

“Jackie, looks like it’s up to you to haul him out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I think you have a vague idea.”

Rising onto her tiptoes, Jackie gave the giant a kiss on the cheek.

I come around
in the car with Jackie leaning over me. Her slender fingers caress my face. I sit up. He certainly gave me one hell of a punch. I can hardly move. The car starts up. As we drive away, I stare at the ruins of the racecourse buildings in the side mirror. A first explosion sends heaps of earth flying. A series of blasts, each more powerful than the last, engulfs everything in flames. Eytan always did things thoroughly.

Hands clenching the wheel, Jackie stares at the road ahead. We drive in silence. I’m going to miss the bastard.

S
now piles up in the
driveway. I’m going to have to get the shovel out if I want to make it to work tomorrow morning. The kids, at least, will have some fun, because it looks like there won’t be any school. Cup of coffee in hand, I gaze across the road. Colorful Christmas decorations light up every house. I’d better not forget. My wife’s aunt and uncle fly into Newark tomorrow evening. I have to pick them up at seven.

I’m pleased to be out of Manhattan. Smalltown, New Jersey, suits me much better. The air is pure; the people are friendly. I’ve made more friends in five months than in five years in NYC. I don’t miss the world of finance. Running a bookstore is more fun. I’ve named it Morg’s World. I sell crime fiction, thrillers, espionage novels and some role-playing games. Who cares if it doesn’t make a cent. We have enough money not to worry about that. The store has a few aficionados already. Some stop by every day. We chat over a pot of coffee. We fight. We make up. Life is back to normal. I no longer see the world through columns of numbers.

I quit drinking. When we got back from Belgium, I had a short stay at a rehab center. Ever since, the mere sight of a glass of wine turns my stomach. I still smoke, but less than before. I can’t quit completely.

I still have trouble sleeping, but it’s gradually getting better. I make the most of it to catch up on my reading and fill the gaps in my general knowledge. That’ll take some doing. Often, at night, I wonder what Eytan’s life was like after he escaped the concentration camp. How did he dodge the Nazis and survive? Who supplied him with antidote? A whole host of questions, to which I’ll never have an answer. I can’t help thinking of the guy, an extraordinary eyewitness to history in the making, and all he went through.

Once a week, I visit my mother’s grave. Before she resigned from the Agency, Jackie arranged for a reburial in the local cemetery.

She thought it wiser not to inform her bosses of the Consortium’s existence. I wanted to expose the whole thing, but she pointed out that the evidence went up in the explosions at the BCI facility in Belgium. According to Jackie, the shady organization wouldn’t hurt us, because we are no longer a threat. As she said, “Who’d believe us anyway?”

I can’t deny she’s right. Nobody has come to assassinate us. As for the influenza epidemic, it was successfully brought under control within a few weeks of our return home.

A quick glance at my emails before bed. The desk is piled high with books. I’ll never be able to read all of them, but trying won’t hurt. Three new messages. Two online orders—more parcels to gift wrap—and one whose subject line reads
Merry Christmas, Novacek
. A chill runs down my spine. I never use that name. It can’t be spam. If it’s a virus, Greg, the fat geek who virtually lives in the store and on Facebook, will take the machine apart and put it back together.

I click, and it launches an animation that starts with a photo of the store. I can see myself through the window, chatting with a bearded guy, Phil. It was yesterday afternoon. The image fades and is replaced by a message:
Merry Christmas to both of you!

Another image comes up. Two fists close-up. Letters on the knuckles: Y-O-U-R M-A-T-E.

The bastard! A hand lands on my shoulder. I’m not startled. I’d recognize her touch anywhere.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I get the feeling Eytan Morg has a new target. Life’s going to get tricky for the Consortium.”

She nuzzles my neck and whispers in my ear.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”