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

He blinked as he got out of the car and looked up at the bright blue morning sky.

I drove through the night, he realized. What’s happening to me? But as soon as he had the thought, it was gone. He looked to his right and then up. The building he’d parked in front of was constructed of stylized concrete, gray for four stories, then all glass, then classic red Boston brick to the top, nearly thirty stories higher. He felt drawn to this building. He didn’t know what this building was, but he recognized the monstrous structure rising from the opposite corner of the intersection as the John Hancock Tower, a wall of reflective glass that seemed to disappear into the sky it reflected.

He turned back to the much smaller building he’d been drawn to. What’s here? he wondered, looking at the sign above the entryway that read: One Back Bay – Rentals – Floors 3, 14, 25 & 26 and then listed a phone number.

It’s an apartment building, he thought, which means the question was not what was there, but who?

It didn’t matter, of course. He had no choice but to go inside and find out. He opened the back door, took out his backpack of C4, hand grenades and smaller weapons, and headed for the door.

When he got to the door, he found it locked. A doorman appeared and opened it. The doorman, who was elderly yet impeccably maintained like beloved china, looked Gordon up and down and said, “No solicitations.”

Gordon got his foot in the door before it could close and said, “I’m here to see a friend.”

The doorman grimaced down at the foot, but remained composed. “And who might you be here to see, at such an early hour?”

Gordon opened his mind, hoping a name would come to him.

None did, so he drew his sound suppressed weapon and shot the old man in the head. He tore the door open, stepped inside and caught the falling body before it hit the polished marble floor. Before he could be seen, he rushed the man to the service desk, threw him on the floor and pushed him under the counter.

Just then, the elevator pinged and the doors opened. Three men dressed for work in Boston’s financial district strolled out, their shiny shoes clacking against the floor. They joked with each other, their words muffled, but their tone condescending. One of them looked to Gordon, saying, “Hey Mitch—” His forehead scrunched when he saw Gordon. “Where’s Mitch?”

“Out sick,” Gordon said. “I’m a temp.”

The man paused and turned to Gordon, looking him over. “Well, temp, you look like shit. Maybe if you put in a little more effort you’d be retiring instead of temping.”

Gordon raised an eyebrow at the man.

“You think this is funny?” the man said. “When you stand behind that counter, you represent this building and everyone in it. If you look like shit, we look like shit, and I don’t spend thirty-five grand a month for a twentieth floor apartment in a tower…of…shit!”

Gordon raised his handgun beneath the countertop, aiming it at the man’s gut. He wanted to shoot the man. Few things would bring him greater pleasure. But he couldn’t pull the trigger.

For starters, the man’s two buddies were close to the front door. He wasn’t sure if he could shoot all three before one of them escaped. He had a higher purpose here, one that could not involve outside interference. He didn’t know what the purpose was, but he committed to it. He removed his finger from the trigger and said, “I’ll try to do better next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” the man said, thrusting a finger in Gordon’s face. “You can bet on that.”

You can kill him when you’re done, Gordon told himself, and remained silent as the man waggled his finger one more time and strode off to rejoin his cohorts, who burst out laughing. He watched them leave and then headed for the elevator. The doors slid open immediately and he stepped inside.

He turned around and faced the numbers. This is crazy, he thought, staring at an array of numbered white circles. When the doors shut, he closed and rubbed his eyes with his left hand. When he opened his eyes again, he found his right hand extended and his index finger pushing the button for the thirty-third floor.

“Penthouse it is,” he said.

As the elevator rose, his sense of a higher purpose increased with each floor. By the time he reached the thirty-third floor, he was jittery with nervous energy. The doors slid open and Gordon charged into the hallway, gun in hand, backpack over his shoulder.

He strode to the door at the end and kicked. The doorframe cracked like thunder and the deadbolt tore away. The apartment was a spacious den for Boston’s ultra-rich, with marble floors, sparse, but expensive looking décor and a view of the city that could make anyone feel important. He swung the weapon back and forth, looking for a target, but found none.