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

Endo looked back from the front seat of the black BMW. “We’re five minutes out.”


They’d been driving for most of the day, taking a maze of Maine back roads until they reached Route 95 and sped south through Maine, New Hampshire and Massachusetts, where they connected with Route 1 to finish the journey to Boston. They’d just crossed the utilitarian looking, pale green Tobin Memorial Bridge, and were headed downtown to the Prudential Tower where Zoomb had offices and the resources Gordon needed—computers, Internet connection, a secure location and a private locker to which only Gordon had access.

He didn’t exactly know why he needed those things yet, it was just a gut feeling, a burning desire to find out...something...and then what? He wasn’t sure. He just knew he had to look.

In Boston.

He could feel her still. Maigo. But distant, like an old memory. At first he thought it might have something to do with the girl. She was from Boston and he felt drawn here, but he suspected it had more to do with her other half—the portion of her unearthed from the Alaskan mountainside after his “retirement.” They’d given him everything he wanted—a staggering finder’s fee and control of BioLance—after verifying the find, purchasing the land and extracting the body, in pieces, to a location that even he didn’t know.

Finding out where that was and what Zoomb knew about the creature were his next steps. After that—his gut would guide him. And Endo, ever faithful, would follow. Or drive.

Despite the lack of mid-day traffic, Endo slowed the car far short of the Prudential Tower parking garage. Gordon knew the man well enough to intuit something was amiss. “What is it?”

“Black suburban,” Endo said. “One o’clock.”

Gordon easily spotted the big black SUV parked a block ahead, just across the street from the parking garage.

“Looks like FBI,” Endo added.

Gordon nodded. “You think they’d switch to pink hybrids eventually. Might as well have a bright yellow FBI stenciled on the sides.”

“Think they’re here for us?” Endo asked.

“Only one way to find out,” the general replied.

Endo gave a nod and pulled back out into the street. Gordon rolled down his tinted window and looked out, pretending to gaze at the tall buildings. They rolled past the Suburban slowly, long enough for everyone inside to get a good long look at his face. After they passed, he sat back and rolled up the window.

“Here they come,” Endo said, looking in the rearview mirror. “What’s our engagement protocol?”

The engagement protocol was typically put in place by Zoomb’s head of covert security. Every site operated under different protocols, numbered one through ten. Level one was cheery and friendly—wide open to the public. The BioLance facility was rated an eight, which meant they could engage with deadly force if the facility was in danger of being revealed to the public. Had the facility been rated a seven, the Sheriff and the DHS agent would have simply been monitored until a solid threat was confirmed. Had it been set to nine, they would have been shot long before ever reaching the perimeter fence.

“Ten,” Gordon answered.

Endo nodded and pulled into the garage, slowing to take a ticket and then driving casually inside and taking the ramp up. They rounded the corner and drove up again, reaching a section of the garage with numbered, reserved spaces. Gordon’s space was number 576. It was a normal parking space, half way up the long ramp, no different than all the rest with one exception—it was dead center in a thirty-foot-long security camera blind spot.

Before the SUV made it around the first turn, Endo exited the car and dashed to the far side of the garage. While he did, Gordon stood and got into the driver’s seat. As he closed the door, the Suburban roared up the ramp and screeched to a halt behind the BMW, blocking it in.

Four agents poured out of the big vehicle. Two took up defensive positions behind the hood of the SUV, aiming their handguns at random spots on the car. Two others quickly approached the BMW, weapons drawn. One man aimed at Gordon’s head, the other at the empty back seat.

Gordon knew the drill and kept his hands on the steering wheel.

“General Lance Gordon!” the nearest man shouted. “FBI! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

Gordon turned slowly, facing the man with a smirk.

“I thought you said he was in the rear passenger’s seat?” the man said to no one in particular.

“He was,” one of the men back by the SUV shouted back.