Mark was unable to help with that. He could have turned on lights, but less light gave him more control with AVP. Control meant the difference between victory and disaster.
Kitteridge’s rigid ass was taped to a folding stool that Mark had set right in front of the GodsEye Biometric vault door. The man’s own brain was the key to open it. Without the general’s cooperation, any attempt to open the vault would turn its precious contents into ash and cinders.
The GodsEye brainwave sensor helmet looked ridiculous on Kitteridge’s sweaty bald head. But the general couldn’t see himself and Mark didn’t care. So long as it worked.
“I can’t open it,” Kitteridge said.
Mark gave the man’s sig a quick surface reading and concluded that the general was lying. A strongly fortified lie that almost looked like a truth. But not quite.
The old man was tough. He’d die with honor. Screaming and writhing, of course. But never surrendering. He didn’t know that Mark was a genius at finding soft spots and brutally exploiting them.
“Your colleague Lydia Bachmann explained the principles of GodsEye Biometrics to me eight months ago,” Mark said. “Right before she died.”
The general’s sig flashed in startled agitation. “Lydia? You killed her?”
“Never mind Lydia right now. Open the fucking vault.”
Kitteridge closed his eyes, but his sig revealed that, far from doing as he was told, he was summoning the energy to fortify his defenses. He was a career soldier and an ex-POW, not a pampered asshole. He knew something about suffering.
Not as much as Mark did, though.
On to the next move. Mark opened the back of the large truck that he’d driven into the complex, and leaped inside. A teenaged boy lay in the cargo space.
“Joseph. You’re still breathing.” Mark grabbed him by the collar, and hauled out General Kitteridge’s grandson. He’d regained consciousness, and his eyes rolled in terror. He was hog-tied with dirty white ropes that showed blood where they’d rubbed his skin raw. Duct tape over his mouth, though. Easier than a gag. Harder to chew, what with the adhesive.
The boy was six feet and weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, but Mark hefted him as if he weighed nothing. Joseph twisted and fought as if dangling from a gallows, groaning as the shirt collar choked him.
“Joey!” Kitteridge’s sig turned inside out. Watery green alternated with pulsing yellow. Soul-chilling fear. Yes.
“I don’t need to describe what I could do to your grandson,” Mark said. “Your imagination might be even more creative than mine.”
“Don’t hurt Joey!” Kitteridge stared at Mark’s unflagging one-armed grip. “Who in the hell are you? Are you modified?”
“Me? I’m just a piece of garbage you threw away years ago. It’s payback time.”
“You’re an older gen—? What year? I thought I was familiar with all of the . . . oh. Oh, God. You helped torch Midlands.”
“Bingo. You’re the second one on my list. You should be honored.”
“Second?” Kitteridge’s eyes kept darting toward his grandson. “Lydia was the first? Please understand, we had no idea what the researchers were doing. We were horrified when we learned about you kids but there was—it was a breakdown in command—”
“Of course. These things happen.” Mark’s soothing tone made Joseph groan again.
“We were never able to find you kids after that! We never intended anything like that to—”
Mark gave the man a vicious crack across the mouth. “Shut up, General. The bill’s due. You Obsidian pricks are going to pay.”
Blood dribbled from Kitteridge’s mouth. “I will. Go ahead and hurt me. Not—not—my grandson.”
“Shhhh.” Mark placed his free hand over Joseph Kitteridge’s skull, winding his fingers into the boy’s hair. “How about if I collapse his skull and we watch his brain squeeze out? On second thought, that’s too quick. I want him conscious when I do this.” He reached down and grabbed Joseph’s balls.
Joseph screamed behind his duct tape and jackknifed frantically.
“Stop!” Kitteridge begged. “Stop! I’ll open the vault! Just put him down!”
“That’s the spirit.” Mark let go and Joseph thudded heavily down to the concrete floor with an agonized grunt.
Bonus. The kid was crying real tears. Mark almost wished he hadn’t let go so soon. He sighed and turned to the general. “Do it.”
The older man’s eyes darted to his grandson. “I will, but . . . but you can’t use it. No one could, not even me.”
“Explain, fuckhead. Or your grandson gets something worse.”
Kitteridge talked fast, spewing out the words. “The weapons are keyed to the mods of the ultimate generation of enhanced slave soldiers, and they respond only to their specific mental commands.”