Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

A loud tinkling sound turns me around. Glimmering shards of glass descend from above. I look up and see the John Hancock Tower, one of Boston’s tallest buildings, shedding its all-glass exterior. As the reflective shards fall into the street at the corner of the Clarendon building, they form a hazy, moving mirror, through which I see Nemesis looming larger and larger.

Screams rise up from below. The panicked people who weren’t sure which way to go, now have a solid direction—away from Nemesis. But in their panic, they’re trampling each other, adding more numbers to the death toll. I want to shout at them to stop, but they wouldn’t hear me over their own screams, the thirty-four stories between us, and the Air Force, which has taken the destruction of the South End as permission to unleash hell on Earth.

Missiles rain down from the sky, striking Nemesis hard, knocking the monster around and tearing off heaps of dark flesh.

“Jon, look!” Collins shouts, stepping up next to me and pointing at Nemesis.

I’m not sure what she’s talking about at first. Nemesis is hard to miss. But then I see it. The orange membranes...are black. Whatever was in them got used up when downtown was incinerated.

My attitude toward the Air Force one-eighties and I grip the side of the building, saying, “C’mon... C’mon...”

Nemesis falls forward, landing on her forelimbs. But she’s not seriously hurt, just allowing her armor-plated back to take the hits. In fact, now on all fours, she’s moving faster, trampling through Beacon Hill and into Boston’s Back Bay area, where the John Hancock building and the few towers around it are the only skyscrapers around.

But the monster doesn’t appear to notice us. In fact, she seems to be wandering around aimlessly.

It’s Gordon, I think. Gordon was leading her to us. Without him, she’s confused, unsure of where to go, and she’s leveling the city as a result. This isn’t like Portland where she just wanted to get from one side of town to the other. Without Gordon guiding her, Nemesis is going to flatten every last bit of Boston looking for what? Some guy?

I look back at the underwear-clad man. He’s still hooded, but bound and struggling.

Could this really all be about him?

If so, we need to get him out of here, but I’m not sure if Nemesis will follow us without Gordon drawing her in, but maybe if she sees the man. Of course, if she sees the man, she’s likely to just smash the chopper out of the sky. Still, it has to be done.

“Get Woodstock here,” I say to Collins.

She pulls a radio from her belt and starts talking. I head for the fat man and am about to call out to Endo for help, when I remember his arm was dislocated. Not that it matters. He’s gone. The man is a killer and should be locked up, but he’s pretty close to the bottom of my list of concerns right now.

I turn back to Collins. “Knife!”

She takes a folding knife from her belt and tosses it to me. I catch it, pull the blade out and make short work of the man’s plastic bonds. He cowers and yelps as I free him. “You’re safe,” I tell him. “I’m with the DHS.”

“Thank God,” he says, his voice trembling. “Get me the hell out of here!”

“Gladly,” I say, and I yank off the hood.

The man blinks several times, eyes adjusting to the brightness of day. Then he sees the smoldering ruin that is Boston and the three-hundred-foot plus freakshow that is Nemesis slowly working her way toward us. He lets out a shrill scream that’s so loud I’m almost certain the monster will hear him. I slap the man hard across the face, point my finger at him and let my glaring eyes do the talking.

He clamps his mouth shut. Collins arrives and together, we help the man to his feet.

Just then, the heavy bass beat of a helicopter rises up next to the building. Woodstock brings the chopper over the roof, finds a clearing free of obstructions and lands. The side door slides open. Collins hops in first and turns around to help the stranger on board, but he’s dazed, terrified and looks weakened by his ordeal. It’s going to take both of us to get him in, and my phone has just started ringing.

I would normally ignore the phone, but something tells me this call is likely time-sensitive. I tear through the Velcro and zippers of my suit, pull out the phone and shout a, “hello!” over the chopping rotor blades.

“Hudson?” shouts Watson in reply. “I can barely hear you!”

“Just tell me what you have!” I yell.

“The condo,” he shouts. “One of the units was owned by someone who rents an apartment in the Clarendon building. The penthouse. His name is Alexander Tilly!”

Tilly?

Then it registers. Alexander Tilly was the father of Maigo Tilly, the girl who was murdered.

The girl whose DNA was used to grow organs.

The girl who became Nemesis.

I turn to the fat man. “Alexander Tilly?”

He looks at me. “Help me up!”

“Are you Alexander Tilly?”

“Yeah,” he shouts, “Which is why you better damn well—”

I take the man’s shoulder and yank him back away from the chopper.

“What are you doing?” Collins shouts.

“You wouldn’t like it if I told you,” I reply. “You’re going to have to trust me.” When she doesn’t move or reply, I add, “Partners have to do that sometimes.”