“Sir, I have the utmost respect for your work. I have read every one of your papers on psychological warfare including fear control. But I’m especially interested in your work with the CIA.” Kenneth Williams hesitated—completely aware he was walking at the edge of a very dangerous abyss. His thirst for knowledge overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation and he pressed on. “Specifically, I am interested in Monarch Programming.”
There, he’d said it. No backing out now. He knew he could be killed for even asking this powerful man about his work in the mind-control program, but he was willing to risk it for the chance of collaboration on the most sadistic levels.
Professor Donovan Arkdone narrowed his eyes at the young doctor seated across from him. He leaned back in his black leather seat and tapped his diamond ring on the exquisite crystal tumbler. “Now why would a simple medical doctor ask about such a topic?”
Realizing he was playing a deadly game of chess with a brilliant mind, Williams took a deep swallow of his own drink before continuing. Liquid courage.
“Sir, my work focuses on biogenetics. I’m currently testing a serum I’ve developed that significantly increases the subject’s strength and intelligence.”
“Fascinating,” the professor drawled, gazing out the window at the fat snowflakes drifting down.
“It is fascinating, sir,” Williams scooted his moderately attractive, albeit slender frame to the front edge of his own leather chair. It squeaked under his movements. “I have even begun human trials.”
“Oh,” the professor’s brows lifted in mock surprise, “You got the FDA to approve human trials?”
“Well, no, sir. I’m working under the table.”
The professor smirked before making a series of tsking sounds with his handsomely formed mouth. “Now why would you admit that to me, Kenneth?”
“I’m hoping if I trust you with the details of my work, you’ll trust me with yours.”
And there it was, he thought. I’ve just nailed my own coffin.
He reached back into the deep pocket of his coat and felt a sense of peace at the cool touch of the pieces of flesh rolling in his hand.
“Tell me more about your work,” the professor prompted, taking another swig of his Scotch, nearly emptying the glass.
Chapter 1 Hell Hath No Fury
Margo’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel of her rental was nothing compared with the white knuckled terror gripping her heart. Beside her, Maze yawned nervously, whimpering and whining at the tension he felt vibrating off the usually mild-mannered human. The thick, silver fur on the back of the coyote’s neck stood on end making him look even more intimidating than his fifty-five pounds of pure muscle usually did. Prancing in the passenger seat, he alternately licked Margo’s tear-drenched face and scratched at the car door, begging to be let out.
Margo pressed the tiny glow light on her digital watch for the umpteenth time. She had given her children twenty minutes. Twenty minutes was plenty of time to break into the hospital and get back to her.
But no one had come.
Every rustle of breeze through the thick oak leaves all around had Margo’s anxiety shooting through the roof of the car. She was sitting on needles, desperate for any sign of her children in every shadow for the last several minutes.
She couldn’t bear it anymore.
Even Maze knew something was horribly wrong. He started yipping and howling in his panic. Margo peeled one hand off the wheel and absently reached out to rub the devoted coyote’s ears. He whimpered under her hand, refusing to stay silent.
Margo’s eyes never left the abandoned front gate of the Facility’s compound. Her mind was racing.
The children were in there.
Her babies.
Her reasons for living were captured and back in the evil hands of the monster she’d run from for what felt like forever.
Her precious soulful baby girl Meg, and her strong and gentle-hearted son, Alik, were already captured.
Margo’s brain just couldn’t wrap itself around what was happening. And when she heard her youngest, her Evan, so scientific and logical, tell her he loved her and asked for prayers….
Margo swallowed hard the tears slipping down her throat.
No.
NO!
Reaching to the floorboard, she retrieved her satchel full of weapons. She ripped off her long-sleeved shirt, ignoring the buttons as they popped and flew through the cab. Beneath was her bulletproof black armor. Over the armor she yanked the black straps of her tactical cross-draw shoulder holster and secured the clips around her slender waist.
The more she forced her body into action, the clearer her thoughts became. Margo was slipping into soldier-mode.
From the satchel, she pulled out one Para 9 and one Ruger LCP Pistol. Her deft movements quickly checked that they were both loaded and ready. She shoved them into the holsters on either side of her waist. Next she pulled out a Glock, which she first checked, then shoved into her black boot before reaching back into the bag for more clips. With her pockets full of ammo the bag was almost empty, but not quiet. Two things remained. One was an eight-inch blade she added to her waistband and the other was her Micro Uzi, fully loaded.
Margo murmured a prayer, as her eyes scanned the scene before her.