The Seraphs Call - Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Aberdeen Proving Grounds

A myriad of monitoring equipment filled the east wall, stretching from floor to ceiling.  The indicators on the glistening black metal surfaces flickered in tempo with hum of machinery in various parts of the room.  A one-way observation mirror hung between the outer and inner chambers, opening to a series of pods lined up and down the central cell.  Each pod contained the epitome of a scientific nightmare, barely recognizable as the humans they once were. 

“Volunteers my a*s,” Shelby Holiday muttered thumbing the dial on the systolic calibration gauge.  He worked alone in the room, the systems automated, and it suited his disposition well.  Always a night-dweller, the solitude soothed his nerves and helped him cope with the duties he performed. 

Tubes and wiring webbed around the specimens, digging like pulsing worms into the flesh of each.  He found it inconceivable that something so tortured, so embedded with technological instruments, could be alive.  Silvered lettering on the plaque on the north wall, proclaimed into tech stylized “Aberdeen Proving Grounds, Genetics Testing Division, Section 7.”

This contrasted Shelby’s assignment at St. Francois Hospital in New Orleans.  Despite the true chaos of the ER, he found himself missing what he called “real medicine.”  Here, they wanted him to do what no one, let alone a doctor, should do.   He had ended up her because of his interference with the boy.  In dark contrast to the Hippocratic Oath, it was more like murder, slow and lingering, but murder all the same. 

“If you knew the truth about this, would you still volunteer?”  Shelby whispered to the men chambered in the other room “Would I?”  He smoothed his blue-black hair back into the ponytail and bent to his work with a resignation.  If only I had known.  What good would it do questioning it now, yet the smoldering hatred still lingered, anger at what the government mired him into.  You’ve got me for now, …but someday.

 Shelby thumbed the scar that lined the back of his neck.  The scar itched, the sign of tissue healing.  They had their hooks in him now, the small antiseptic device buried beneath that scar.  If he tried to leave against their wishes, they would use the electronic signal it emitted to track him by satellite, anywhere on the planet. 

They said it was for his own good, should foreign parties interested in the project kidnap him.  He felt shamed knowing that whatever he did until the day he died, he would be theirs.  But fine, time to throw a little wrench in the gear.  I’ll teach Janus to underestimate me. 

Shelby pulled the handheld computer from his vest-pocket.  Used to diagnose equipment in the lab, Shelby made some secretive adjustments to sneak a little extra power past security.  Now the little unit held more power then most advanced computers n the market.  This was true advanced technology, boosting the processor instruction cycle capacities to over 30 Gigahertz.  He jacked in his data plug, feeling the grating cold metal slide into the back of his neck.  He hummed proudly as he tapped into the room’s data uplink.

He vision dissolved into static as the link took over his optic nerve and resolved on the brilliant threads of the data streams that flowed into Roger Janus’ office.  Shelby wasn’t sure what he would find here.  If anything, the Project director was a secured poster child for the paranoid.  The black programs set to guard the secure pathways were ill designed to prevent his interfaced hacking.  He knew of this personally, as he helped the former project director Gregory Kovax set up the network for the Army Medical Labs needs.  Yet on the outside chance that Janus improved them since taking command, Shelby took all the necessary precautions to cover his tracks and keep any of the roving demon subroutines from picking up his trail.

Shelby’s own paranoia paid off.

The hellhound routine traced through the circuit above his head but failed to detect his presence.  One nasty surprise that Shelby thought was still in development.  It was among the other assorted nastiness that Janus pushed for, like the poor b******s suspended in the fluid tubes where Shelby’s body crouched in a cyber trance.  Of course, it was easier for the Director to create death in the net.  Destroy the electromagnetic field of the human brain with a strong enough surge and it was all over.  He waited until the hellhound bleeped off his monitoring routine scope and continued down the stream. 

The entrance to the Director’s data vault looked like a tomb.  Shelby became queasy from staring at the colors that glowed on its surface and morphed at thousands of times per second at a dizzying rate.  This was another of the security protocols.  Holding his mouth in disgust, he pulled his program bag up and dumped the nastiest counter program he had on it.  He grinned as his hive worms crawled down his arms, little glowing maggots that burrowed into Janus’ computer.

The vault shuddered as the glowing worms ate into it.  Shelby opaqued his vision as the worms broke through the data wall. There was a bright flash as it dissolved into data fragments.  He stepped into the core area and a warning light blared on his detection subroutines.  His scanners detected the tripwire program that his worms punched right through in chewing through the data-wall too late.  He hurried through to the core as it began to pulse, and launched a count algorithm.  Twenty seconds remained before all hell broke loose and all the black security protocols in the system swarmed his location.

“My my, you are a clever b*****d these days Janus,” Shelby muttered as he bent to work. “But it won’t help you today.”  The program probe snaked out from his data pack and burrowed into the pulsing core.

It took him ten seconds to core dump the Director’s computer into his system.  He glanced at his detection routine; the faux screen was growing dark red with warning lights--nine seconds to go.  He could almost see the snarling face and phosphorescent eyes of the pack of hellhounds that converged on the core, when he zapped his data jack, electronically severing his digital umbilical to the network.  The silvered slipstream of the computer core dissolved around him and the glowing teeth passed through his derezzing data image.  His world become indescribable formless pain as his mind yanked back to his physical body in a forced neural snapback.  He almost blacked out and nearly fell to the floor of the containment chamber, but his clutched the blinking computer and its precious cargo and staggered towards the exit.  It was vital that he got this information off the property before lockdown began.  He fell as he reached his office door.  Was that footsteps he heard?  The rhythmic clanking of boots on metal sounded down the hall.  He forced himself up, to go on, his head still exploding from the pain.

The great dark shadow appeared out of the corner of his eye.  He tried to flail away but strong hands grabbed him by the arms.  “Calm yourself doctor, I’m a friend here to collect your information for Mr. Demoir.”

Shelby blinked as his eyes tried to focus on the enormous black man shadow that loomed in front of him.  The man spoke with a thick Cajun accent but that was not enough to convince him.  “Who the hell are you?”

“Shhh” Shelby could almost see a thick black finger pressed tightly against smiling lips, before the hands dragged him into the room opposite the containment unit.  The door was closed and everything went dark.  Shelby waited for an eternity of minutes before the man spoke again.  “Delta Force Blue berets, whatever you’ve got must be hot man.  Give me your handheld, Doctor.”

Shelby was not given a choice in the matter as the large man jerked the small device from his nerveless grasp.  “Hey--!” 

His exclamation was cut off in midburst by a large hand over his mouth.  “I told you to be quiet Doctor.  If I wanted to harm you, you would have been dead the moment I ran into you. Now Silence!”  The man’s voice was barely above a hissing whisper.

Shelby heard clattering keys as the man hooked his data jack to the handheld.  He saw the screen glow on his computer, and then the man grunted.

“Who would have f****n guessed?”  He turned and sat the palm computer on the table still glowing in the darkness.  “This is too hot to be able to take you with me Doc.” 

Shelby saw him take a long black object from his coat pocket too late to avoid it.  The man shoved the stun gun into Shelby’s neck.  The doctor started to black out before he hit ground as fifty thousand volts surged through his body. 

The last Shelby heard was the crunch of broken glass and grinded metal as the man smashed his palm computer.  “Don’t worry Doc they’ll never be able to prove anything against you now, all you have to do is hold up when they question you.”

Then the sound of the door closing and darkness again.

 

TRIBIDEAU’S BAYOU, 20 MAY 2034, 1000 hrs TANGO

Preacher found comfort in the cheap rum swilling at the bottom of his glass.  He blended in with the other less than savory characters in the broken down tavern at the edge of the swamp.  All the denizen’s of Teget’s Bar looked for one of two things, either to forget or be forgotten.  Preacher wanted both.

Funny how it doesn’t work out that way--ever. 

Preacher smirked when he heard the familiar voice calling his name.  “Preacher, Boss sent me to come get you.”

“Saul, you piece of Euro-s**t, sit down and have a drink with me.”

“You know I do not drink that American sewer water.”  Saul’s high boned, thin features twisted into a humorless smile.

“Now, that’s Un-American, Saul.”  Preacher took a swig and the muscles tightened in his throat as it burned all the way down to his stomach and sat like a flaming coal.  “Some great Jamaican brown sugar.”

“Let us get to the point.  Mr. Demoir would like—“

“That’s what I never did like about you and Damien, all business all the time.”  Preacher poured himself another shot and bolted it.  “I also don’t like faulty Intel that gets civilians killed.  I take great offense with something that leaves a little boy without a Mother and Father.”

“Then your self-righteousness should be vindicated.”  Saul took the bottle of rum and took a long pull; though the high proof colored his cheeks, he did not flinch as he swallowed.  “Mr. Demoir has taken a special interest in the boy.”

“It’s only right he should.…”

Saul’s face reddened from more then just the rum.  “You have no idea--”

“And I’m not sure I want to either.  But since you’re going to tell me anyway…”

“The boy is his grandson.”  Saul’s frost blue eyes bore into Preacher’s.  “And Mr. Demoir needs your help.”

“And why would the Devil of Orleans, high Lord B*****d of the French Syndicate need my help in looking after his kin?”  Preacher’s anger began to fade but he fought to keep it.  “Seems a little far-fetched to me, Saul.  Damien doesn’t care about anyone or anything unless it benefits him in some way.”

Saul went white from the effort to contain himself.  “Mr. Demoir thought you might have a special interest in this one…”

“Now it’s your turn to stop being cryptic and get to the point.” 

“…Because Sephiroth has a special interest in the boy.”

Preacher sat silent, his expression a torment of the emotions that came to the surface with that name.  He snatched the half-empty bottle of rum from Saul’s grasp, chugged three large swallows and hurled it against the wall with such speed that Saul jerked in his seat.

The big Creole bartender shook his fist but started to clean up the glass and booze without a word.  In a place like this, worse happened.

Preacher, his face stone-cold sober, turned to Saul.  “I’ll get my gear.  Tell Mr. Demoir I’ll be at his place in a few hours.  I have some business to take care of first.”  He turned to the big Creole man and dropped a fifty-note on the bar.  The man muttered something in French of thanks as Preacher walked out the door, the force of vengeance in his stride.

 

***

R&D Petrochem World Headquarter New Orleans LA

 

The room was dark when Preacher was ushered into Damien DeMoir’s office.  The procession of blinking monitors lit the far side of the room.  Mr. Demoir always did like to stay connected to everything.  Glowing LCD displays labeled them as being from offices around the globe.  One Preacher noticed made him grimace from the painful memory--Havana Cuba, Caribbean Regional Headquarters.

“Why the f**k you still deal with the Cubans after they keeled into the demands of the United States to become a territory, I have no clue.”  Preacher grunted, his face contorting and paling ever so slightly as he said each word.

The high back leather chair turned around behind the desk, revealing a slender dark haired man.  “Ah, but being a territory doesn’t mean the Cubans have dismantled their intelligence agency, and I have been buying parts of the network to wire into all the Caribbean, Central and South America.  I can’t overlook a valuable information source to salve your wounded ego, now can I, Brother.”  Demoir smiled, his teeth reflecting the light like a shark’s in the duskiness of the office.

“I hear you have something on Sephiroth for me.”  Preacher ignored DeMoir’s jibe.  His skin had grown thick from dealing with the Cajun for the last few months since the incident in the Gulf.

“Always so routine and to the point, Preacher,” Demoir pointed towards a metal security case box sitting by his desk.  “Saul’s already prepared all the information we have on the contract.  Shouldn’t take you too long to breeze through that.”

Preacher heaved the fifty-pound box up with one hand and turned to leave. 

“Please set up surveillance on the boy as soon as possible.  I don’t want anything happening to him.”  There was almost a hint of uncharacteristic desperation in DeMoir’s voice. 

Something humbling that Preacher found that he liked.  He turned and gave the Cajun an appraising look before he replied.  “I didn’t save the kid just so those a******s could get their hands on him.”

The heavy twin oak doors shuddered as they slammed behind Preacher, leaving Damien to alone to sit in the darkness and ponder all the information he was powerless to employ.  Some power, when you can’t send anyone but single person in to guard the one you care most about.  Yet if any one person could  keep Gabriel safe, it was Preacher.

 

 

 

NEW YORK, GRAND HILTON, 1130 HRS TANGO

 

The short sandy-haired man sat reading his newspaper, oblivious, by all outward appearances to the events occurring around him.  Every few minutes he would glance from his reading and scan the lobby of the hotel, his hollowed hazel eyes tracing a path from the concierge desk to the door.  He was careful to peer over the top of the newspaper, but his impatience betrayed him as he checked his watch and tapped the face as if it might change the time.

Dr. Roger Janus watched his contact for ten minutes performing this impatient ritual.  Former spies amused him, especially ones that got lax but still kept the paranoia.  Janus found it impossible to believe this man as one of the top people in the Red Mafia.  Then again, from Janus’ experience, Russians failed miserably with subtlety, brutality and inventiveness being their greatest strengths.

Janus approached the Russian during one of the interludes in which the man pretended to read the newspaper.  He stopped in front of the man and stared straight at him.  When the man peered over the newspaper again, he reached for his pistol hidden in the shoulder holster under his trench coat.

“You would be Mr. Kreschenko.”  Janus chuckled.

“Who would be asking?”  The man kept his grip

“Dr. Roger Janus.  I am here to contract your services.”

“You are late--”

“I always inspect before I buy.” Janus spoke the pre-agreed phrase.

It is not wise to sneak up on people, Dr. Janus.  It is unhealthy,” the Russian mobster’s withdrew his hand enough to allow Janus to glimpse the blackness of gunmetal.

 “Coming from former KGB, I’ll take that for what it’s worth?”  Janus arched his eyebrow.  “Let us not quibble, Mr. Kreschenko.  I am looking for an independent contractor to take care of some Foundation business.”

“And what may those be?”

“One of our agents died in an accident.  Nasty business,” Janus sat down next to the Russian and pulled a magazine from his pocket thumbing through it as he continued.  “That agent had a package with him that belongs to the Foundation.  Because of the circumstances surrounding his death, the package is no longer secure.”

“So it is retrieval?”  Kreschenko snorted.  “Mr. Director, you must have people who can handle this?”

“I want to keep this as far away from the Foundation as possible.  Inquiries by the other agencies could be tricky in this circumstance.”

“Just what is package?”

“A boy.  His name is Gabriel.”

“I do believe foundation fears government interference.  There must be something more to this child.”

“One, you ask too many questions.  Two, there is money to be made?”  Janus grew impatient with the Russian fishing for more information, “two million U.S. for a speedy recovery and no questions, unless the Thieves World has gone soft.”

“And who do I kill for this money, Dr. Janus.”

“Anyone that gets in the way of recovery.”

“It is bargain Dr. Janus.”  The Russian offered his hand to seal the agreement.  “Two million in numbered bank account.”

Janus ignored the handshake and backed away, stashing the magazine back in his pocket.  He slipped Kreschenko an envelope.  “Here are the details.  Half tomorrow, the other half on completion.”

“What is matter Doctor?  You do not trust me?”

“No I don’t.” Janus replied as he turned and walked away, melding into the traffic of the crowd.

Kreschenko watched him leave and muttered to himself.  “That makes two of us my American Friend.  That makes two of us.”

 

The months whirled by, as if caught in a maelstrom, the pages of the Seraph diary filling as Gabriel continued his relentless pursuits, the gold leafed pages a repository for his innermost thoughts, a silent emotional warehouse.  The many hours he spent in the library, a tome of intellectual awakening, a place more familiar than his own bed.

Gabriel snorted in disgust.  He could not find the answer to the equation.  The material on computer “fuzzy” logic was incomplete. 

Within six months, Gabriel had read all the old books in Joshua’s library, and the new ones he bought since Gabriel arrived.  One morning after finding Gabriel still in the library at two a.m., the answer came.

“Gabriel, what are you still doing up, son?  Don’t you know it’s way past your bedtime?”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize what time it was.  I was reading, but reading is getting boring.  When can I go to school and be like the other kids?”

“I can’t do anything about it.”  Joshua could think of no comfort to give the child so he told him the blunt truth.  “You’re too advanced for schools here to handle.”

Gabriel pulled out his laptop from underneath the stack of books, and flipped a switch on it bringing the computer out of hibernation.  “There is one place, Grandpa…” 

Joshua hunched over Gabriel’s shoulder, as the boy clicked on the wireless wideband and launched the system’s V.R. decoder browser.  The warm coziness of the farm’s home link dissolved into raining bits of datastream in the frame of the browser as the boy pulled up his list of favorites.

A 3-D image of a sprawling Tudor mansion rezzed on the plasma screen, its stately air captured in haunting detail.  Huge letters, set in gold relief, hung on a sign that swung with a digital wind on the iron gates to the grounds.  The sign read, The Academy, 100 Central Tech Parkway, Des Moines, Iowa.

“That’s it Grandpa.”

 

THE ACADEMY, DES MOINES IOWA

 

The Iowa State board of education had not dealt with anyone of Gabriel’s caliber, his scores higher than they had ever seen.  Gabriel ranked college level in literature, history, science, and mathematics, but had the same problems of any five- year-old - his emotional development.  Joshua tried to nurture that emotional development while the school board sought to give Gabriel the intellectual freedom of someone five times his age.  The will of the old man and want of the institution clashed when they wanted Gabriel to attend “The Academy,” the school for the gifted in Des Moines”

“Mr. Scott, you don’t understand your grandson’s ability to learn.  He’s nothing like we’ve ever seen!”

Joshua peered over his horn-rimmed half glasses at the small man seated across from him, “That may be true Mr. Lansing, but you don’t understand what my grandson’s been through either.  I’m not going to let you turn him into some kinda freak show!”

“Mr. Scott,” the director of the academy raised his voice in indignation, “I understand your concerns and I assure you we are willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that Gabriel is well cared for, both emotionally and educationally.  The Academy ranks best in Iowa and in the top twenty schools of its kind in the United States.  We pride ourselves on providing for all of our students’ needs.  Whatever they may be.” 

Even though the director seemed sincere enough, Joshua was still unsure, not wanting to put Gabriel in unfamiliar territory too soon.  Even though, he thought, that Gabriel was smart enough to handle the challenge, he was still protective over him, maybe overly so.  He was afraid for Gabriel.  “Mr. Lansing, what happens when that little boy wakes up in middle of the night screaming?  Are you going to be there?”

“Mr. Scott, here at ‘The Academy’, we have a full-time medical staff and counselors to handle those situations,” 

“But do they know Gabriel?”  Joshua questioned

“No but they are paid to help him and will get to know him.  That is their primary job.” 

“That’s what I thought.  I’m sorry, but I don’t think this place is a good fit for Gabriel now.  He’s still too emotionally fragile, “Joshua said, as he pushed away from the table and turned. 

The door to the director’s study flew open, a tall, unkempt man staggered through, breathing hard from overexertion, and spoke in Russian accented English.  “I’m so sorry to burst in like dis, but Illyana has disappeared again.”

The director of the academy paled and tried too hastily to explain the intrusion, “Mr. Scott, I am sorry for this disruption.  This is Dr. Petri Andropov, our Dean of Sciences.  Dr. Andropov, this is Mr. Scott.  The gentleman we discussed earlier.”

Petri Andropov regained his composure, tucking in his wrinkled shirt, straightening his wrinkled pants and extended his hand to Joshua, “Mr. Scott, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.  Pardon the intrusion, but I am looking for my little sister, Illyana.  She has disappeared again and …”

The director cut off the Dean’s speech mid-sentence, “Mr. Scott, Dr. Andropov’s sister is a child prodigy, much like your grandson.  She is eleven and has completed all the schooling we can give her.  The problem we face is no university will admit her without constant supervision, which Dr. Andropov is unable to provide.  This creates sometimes a problem as she is no longer in class and roams the campus, creating more problems then five children combined.”

Joshua stood eyeing the two men, a look of amusement passing his face as he realized their description of the little girl fit his own of Gabriel.  “And just where is this girl.  I think I’d like to meet her.”

The high-pitched voice from behind the lanky doctor pierced through the room, “I’m right here, Mr. Scott.” 

The three men turned to the sound of the voice and saw Illyana and Gabriel standing hand in hand, each beaming with a smile.

Petri fumed, spitting his words in Russian, “Where have you been, young lady?” 

The small girl answered in soft measured Russian, “playing with Gabriel.  I have shown him all over the campus and he wants to come live here.  Can he?” 

Before her brother could answer, she spoke in English to Joshua and the director.  “Please forgive my brother, sirs.  He sometimes forgets he is in the United States and must speak English.”

Joshua could barely hold back his laughter, and as it was, he gave an abrupt snort, a smile playing across his lips.  “That’s all right Illyana, my accent if not my language comes out too when I’m angry.”

A bright shade of red crept across Petri’s face.

Joshua held out his hand to Petri.  “Calm down my Russian friend, no hard feelings.”

Petri accepted his handshake, enveloping Joshua’s large hand in thick fingers twice as large, “Is nothing.”   

Even in the brief grasp, Joshua felt the power in the man, a simple handshake causing him to wince.  “We both have the same problem, how to handle two kids that are too bright for their own good sometimes.”

At this Petri broke into a deep rumbling chuckle.  “You not know half of it.”

“Oh but I think I will, when Gabriel reaches her age.”  Joshua ran his hands through his graying red hair.  “Maybe we could help each other.”

“How?”  Petri’s shaggy eyebrows rose, furrowing his broad forehead.

“Well you need someone to keep track of Illyana, and I need someone to help with Gabriel,” Joshua glanced over at the silent Administrator.  “And it appears this facility fits neither of our needs.  How about I Board Illyana and help you, and Illyana can help me educate Gabriel?”

Illyana’s eyes brightened.  “Oh please brother, Gabriel says they have a big farm, and it would be wonderful to stay there until Johns Hopkins accepts me.”

“I do not know.  You get in enough trouble around here.”  Petri responded gruffly.

“You’ve never lived on a farm Mr. Andropov.”  Joshua grinned.  “There are plenty of things to do to keep children out of trouble.”

“No I never lived on farm.” Petri grunted.  “Very well, Illyana, we try it out for the summer, but first we must speak to Papa.  He has final say in this”

Illyana leaped up and gave her brother a quick hug.  “Oh, Thank you.  Thank you. Thank you.  Papa will say yes.  He cannot say no to his little Illyana.”

“Let’s go talk to Papa, then you pack.”  Petri turned to Joshua, “We need to make all arrangements in case of emergency.”

“Come on Gabriel, help me with my stuff.”  The gold haired Russian girl and the little red headed farm boy trotted out of the room among squeals of laughter.

 

INTERSTATE 80 20 MILES WEST FROM DES MOINES 20:00 HOURS TANGO

 

The large black Lincoln Town Car weaved through traffic.  The man driving wiped the sweat from the nape of his shaved head. He missed the colder climes of Moscow as the sweat beaded the stubble of his blue-black hair.  He had one target to recover though and he could leave this sun blasted flat grassland.  He flipped down his sun visor to shield his eyes from the evening sun and to look at the picture of the package.  He pulled the photo from the visor.  Why was this red-haired green-eyed five-year-old boy so important that the United States government would pay outside contractors to procure him?  Gelesky Melinkov didn’t like the likelihood that Alexi hadn’t told him all the danger going into this operation.  There had to be something more then meets the eye to this kid and his guardian.

Three cars ahead of him in the traffic lane to the left, was a beat-up primered Chevy big block.  Glancing at a paper on his passenger side seat, the man compared it to his target.  Yes, Iowa registered, Joshua Scott, Independence Iowa.  He shook his head again at the idea of sending a professional to kidnap a lone boy.  As he pulled closer to the truck, he reached over into his glove compartment and pulled out the 9mm Federated arms automatic pistol from its resting place.  A silencer was already screwed onto the barrel, and made a large bulge in his hip pocket as he shoved it in.   

Melinkov gunned the engine and pulled up alongside the truck.  He couldn’t see the boy in the truck, but could glimpse flashes of red hair past the head of a honey haired girl who was seated in the passenger seat.  For the first time he noticed the size of Joshua Scott and almost wondered if the US operatives had been too chicken to take this case because of that.  The man must be a good two and a half meters or so and 100 kilograms of muscle.  They grew their farmers bigger here then they did anywhere back home in Russia, Melinkov grinned.  Then again, his weapon would be the great equalizer.

Melinkov studied his choices.  He could shoot the old man over the heads of the two children in the front seat, but then that could cause the death of the package as well when the vehicle lost control.  He could blow out one or more of the tires, but at these speeds, that was equally an uncontrollable solution.  Guess it would have to be the stranded motorist setup, assuming the farmer would stop.  Then again, why wouldn’t he?  This was the heartland of America and nothing sinister ever happened here.  Melinkov gave a malicious smile and darted around the truck.  He was twenty miles ahead of his target when he pulled into the center median, just ahead of a large black humvee that blared its horn as it passed him.  He stopped the car, popped the hood and thumbed one of the hoses lose, until one radiator fluid scalded him and a cloud of steam rose from his hot engine block.  With a quick flick of his wrist, he snapped the antenna off the rental car and tied his handkerchief to the end to fashion a crude signal flag.  When he was done with his preparations, he glanced at his watch.  With the speed the old man was going in the truck, he should be here in about ten minutes.  He walked to the side of the road and waited.

The horn startled Melinkov and he nearly jumped into the path of oncoming traffic.  If he had, his fate would have been kinder.  He turned to see the same black humvee that had passed him earlier barreling down the center of the median towards him.  He tried to leap aside but the huge reinforced front of the military grade vehicle slammed into his torso, sending him flying into the traffic lane, straight into the grill of an oncoming Tractor Trailer. 

Melinkov was dead in a flash of blinding pain, his brain splattered bright pink and red across the engraved silver Peterbilt letters.

 

Preacher barely paused his vehicle to make sure his target was dead before he sped of east down 80.  He turned on the front halogens as the inky dusk gave way to night, and flipped on his police scanner.  The trucker reported it already and the chatter was coming over the radio box already as highway patrol units preceded, on route to the fatality.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  All had gone off without a hitch and the trucker hadn’t seen the other vehicle that hit the man smeared all over his grill.  All Preacher needed to do now was go find someplace to clean the blood off his Hummer, then follow Joshua Scott and the kids to the farm.

 

Joshua nearly cursed aloud when the traffic began to slow, but held his tongue when he glanced over at Gabriel curled up in Illyana’s lap, both had dozed off from the monotony of the scenery ten minutes before.  There were so many Old barns and cornfields the kids could get excited about that broke up the landscape.  They had left the Academy an hour ago after Illyana packed and gave her older brother Petri a patient but fond hug.  Even after all the assurances that Illyana was in excellent care, the big Russian had seemed lost at the prospect of her leaving his sight. Joshua felt sympathetic to the other man because he had not liked the prospect of Gabriel being fifty miles away from the farm, even in the most capable of hands.  Petri stood on the driveway up to the school Admin building and waved until they were out of the school gates.

He was thirty miles from home, and hoped whatever accident blocked his way, wouldn’t take too long to clear up.  The held his breath when he recognized the black Lincoln with its hood up in the middle of the median, a Peterbilt tractor-trailer stopped caddie corner beside it.  Highway Patrol Units already blocked of most of the eastbound and they were letting cars one at a time around the accident scene on the shoulder of the road.

Joshua bent his head around to survey the accident scene when his term came to go around on the shoulder.  Under the bright lights of the trooper and ambulance sirens, he saw the former occupant of the Town Car, just before they put the tarp over him to prepare to lift him into the back of the emergency unit.  For a second his recognized the close shaved black haired man and wondered were he had seen him.  Then it came to him in an instant, the hallways of the Academy.  He would never have thought of it again if he wasn’t seeing the corpse right now.  The man hadn’t said anything to him, or even looked his direction, but he had glanced momentarily at Gabriel.  Joshua’s mind reeled with horror as he remembered the warning that Damien gave to him on Christmas Eve, the late night of his clandestine visit with Gabriel.  They’re going to try to take Gabriel away from me.  Either chance or something Damien had arranged had foiled this one within minutes of too late.

As soon as Joshua got around the accident scene he sped up, not caring if any troopers noticed him.  He took the last ten miles to the farm in less then ten minutes.  Still tensed as they pulled up to the farmhouse Joshua did not relax as he bundled both the kids out of the truck, inside the house and had them in bed.  He did not fail to tense at every noise until all the doors and windows in the old farmhouse double secured.  Then he sat in his den for an hour, cleaning, oiling and loading his double-barrel shotgun, before he returned it to its cabinet and fell asleep in the chair right next to his guns.

 

***

Gabriel absorbed all Illyana could teach him.  With the aid of her empathy, equal love for knowledge and intensive props from the VR-Net Link, he was able to pass the high school equivalency exams and college placement tests for the State of Iowa in a little under four years.  Something akin to a family developed between the two men and children, two parts of what they lost coming together in unexpected whole.  Petri became like a second father to Gabriel, and Illyana had a second father in Joshua.

During those years, Preacher watched like a dark guardian over the family and dispatched several more tries at kidnapping Gabriel and on Joshua’s life, from the contractors from Alexi Kreschenko, and agents from Sephiroth.  He could never get closer to Sephiroth then the agents though, as Janus grew more paranoid about covering his tracks. 

It seemed too short a time before that Illyana left for school at Johns Hopkins University, a journey that that would lead to a professorship at the bordering School of Medicine.  Yet, in the short time that she was with Gabriel, she inspired him, helped craft the drive of his intellect, and spanned a bridge of independence that would serve him well in his survival of the world that awaited.

It was September and the trees blanketed the grounds of the farm with bright gold, red, and orange leaves.  Preacher watched from afar as Petri and Joshua helped bundle Illyana’s possessions into the back of the Russian’s big van.  Seeing this sometimes almost made him miss his own family, and he turned away from the blissful domestic scene, feeling his eyes begin to water.  They’d be all right for now. Nobody was going to bother them at nine o’clock in the morning in broad daylight--time to go back to his campsite deep in the woods behind the Scott’s barn and report to Mr. Demoir.  He launched himself from the tree he perched in and hit the ground rolled once and hit his feet at a slow run back into the woods.

His transmitter was already beeping when he got back to his camouflaged tent.  He glanced at his silver chronometer. About ten minutes late in checking in, Preacher, you’re getting all soft and old choking up and getting preoccupied with family bliss.  He picked up the secure satellite transmitter, and keyed in his encryption code.  A familiar voice came over the comm.

“Preacher, where have you been?”  Saul’s sharp all too crisp northern European accent was tinged with a hint of anger.  “We have another lead on Sephiroth that we need you to follow up on now.  We’re going to have to pull you in from watching Gabriel.”

This was the brightest news Preacher heard in over a month.  “Really what is it?” 

“Not so much what, as whom.” Saul replied.  “We need you to find somebody.  Dr. Holiday, our inside informer in Sephiroth has disappeared.”

 

Reviews

[Hans von Lieven]

That section with Illyana needs a little work I think. Things happen too quickly and too conveniently to be credible. The "accident" is a bit too slick. Otherwise still good writing, still the same fast pace.

I am enjoying it.

Hans von Lieven