Extinction Machine

Chapter One Hundred Four

On the road, Western Pennsylvania

Monday, October 21, 4:03 a.m.

We left my uncle’s farm at four in the morning. I was in the Explorer with Ghost and Junie. Top and Bunny were in the backseat.

The rest of Echo Team was in Black Bess. I left Church in the care of Brick and Birddog.

“Whoa, whoa now,” said Brick. “How is it that the young miss gets to go on this raid and we have to sit here and play with our dicks?”

“That’s not how it is, Gunny. Junie volunteered to go. She knows Tull, she understands the science, and she has to be close for us to use the team channel because the other stuff is tapped. She has to come. You don’t.”

“Listen, boss,” protested Brick, “maybe I don’t have a left foot but I can pull a trigger and fire an RPG.”

“What he said, Cap,” agreed Birddog. “They were my friends at the Warehouse, too.”

“Look,” I told them, “I appreciate the offers, but this isn’t a frontal assault. We don’t even know if Shelton is our bad guy. I need you guys to make sure Mr. Church gets to the Hangar safely. The DMS is on the run and we can’t trust our radios. You need to get him to Aunt Sallie and then go to ground. We don’t know what else Tull and these Closers have planned, but hear me on this: If anyone takes a run at Church I want you to give them the worst day of their lives. Understood?”

“Hooah,” they growled.

Church walked us out. “Good hunting,” he said.

He had created the DMS and over the years he’d seen hundreds of his people fall defending the country and the world. Now a fool of a president and a group of maniacs were trying to tear it all down. Even battered and pushed to the edge, I did not believe for one second that Church was going to accept defeat. Not him. Not after everything that had happened. As I climbed into my Explorer I met his eye.

“Good hunting to you, too,” I said to him. He measured out a frozen millimeter of a smile.

The drive to Pittsburgh took a little over three hours. I dented a few traffic laws. Sue me. World in the balance, yada yada yada.

It was also one of the most awkward drives.

We talked about friends who had died in Baltimore.

We talked about Shelton, building our case against him.

We talked about aliens and UFOs, and the fact that we were having the conversation at all. When Junie reminded us that she had alien DNA it shut us up for almost twenty miles. I mean, really, go ahead and story-top that.

When the conversational button reset, we talked about all the things we each wanted to do to Erasmus Tull. I doubt Junie enjoyed that part of the trip. I did, but I was of two minds. Half of me wanted to take about forty minutes and use every second beating the son of a bitch to a finely textured pulp. The Warrior inside my head cheered that decision.

The rest of me wanted to give him the Indiana Jones treatment the second I saw him. If you ever saw Raiders of the Lost Ark you’ll know the scene. Indy is suddenly confronted by this Arab warrior who’s like seven feet tall, packed with muscles and swinging a scimitar. The crowd clears out, leaving a market square empty for what will be the fight scene of the century. But Indiana Jones just pulls his pistol and shoots the guy in the world’s best “oh, f*ck you” moment. Turns out, the actor, Harrison Ford, had dysentery and really wasn’t up to filming the elaborate fight scene that had been choreographed. Spielberg loved it so much he kept that version of the scene in the movie. Every soldier I’ve ever met agrees that it’s the smartest fight scene in the history of film.

Tull was a hybrid who was supposed to be faster, stronger, and more ruthless than anyone. Thing is, I’ve both been there and done that. Genetically enhanced mercenaries amped up with ape DNA. People infected with a prion disease that turned them into zombies. Soldiers who had undergone gene therapy with insect DNA. And last year … the Upierczi. Actual vampires. Okay, they weren’t supernatural or anything like that, but they were easily twice as strong and three times as fast as me. So … I’ve done the whole fight the impossible fight thing and it’s getting old. I’m only in my early thirties and my body is crisscrossed with scar tissue. I’ve had more broken bones than I can remember. There was a time in my life when I thought I needed to prove to myself that I couldn’t be defeated, that I was strong, that the bad guys could never hurt another innocent because I wasn’t tough enough to stop them. But, you know, me and the guys have saved the world. The actual world. A couple of times now. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, and Rudy has been trying to tell me for fifteen years that I never had to prove anything.

So, my game plan, should I see Erasmus Tull, was to put him down like a dog and call it a day.

I liked that plan.

We drove on toward the dawn.

And the one thing we did not talk about—Junie and me, that is—was what happened last night. That was the thing I wanted most to talk about. Something that wasn’t tainted by madness and murder, by terrorist agendas and political corruption. By blood and death.

But as we drove, Junie Flynn took my hand and held it. She didn’t care if the two hulking thugs in the back saw it. Neither did I.