“Did you push him hard, like I told you to?”
“We scared the living shit out of him. He would have handed over his own grandma and given us all blowjobs by the end. But he was still fucked if he knew, and the building has sixty goddamn units. But we just got lucky. She came out the front door of the building, alone, just as we were getting out of the car. So we just got back into the car and followed her to the bus stop. She’s heading downtown now. How do you want us to wrap this up?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Being forced to micromanage was annoying, and he could see his target already, barely visible through the trees.
“I don’t wanna screw up. Tell me what your comfort level is when it comes to making noise,” Carrerra said. “It’s business hours downtown, so we’ll have to—”
“Be discreet,” he snapped. “Be creative. Don’t get caught, don’t be seen, and stay away from surveillance cameras. Most of all, do not make me wait one second longer than I have already. When I get to Seattle, I want her waiting for me. I don’t want problems. That’s why I pay so well. Do we understand each other?”
“OK, boss. Got it.”
Mark cut the connection, enjoying the hot buzz of pleased anticipation as his target approached. His first prototype slave soldier, and he could finally activate him now that he’d retrieved the freq wand from Kitteridge’s vault. R-Gen, serial number 57-878, who went by the name Brenner Jameson to the outside world. Once entirely human and now . . . not. Six foot four, two hundred forty pounds of enhanced muscle and super-dense bone, sprinting through the morning drizzle with the speed of a pro athlete.
When Brenner was done with his workout, which he was programmed never to miss, he showered, ate a huge high-protein meal, and went to his job in a local big box appliance store, humping stoves and refrigerators. Working super hard. Lacking the slightest idea of the specialized knowledge and training hidden inside his highly compartmentalized brain.
In his research, Mark had noticed that Brenner had bucked his programming in the past two years, to the extent of getting romantically involved with a woman in the town where he lived. He’d even had a child with her. The woman had since died, but the liaison should never have happened. Probably a programming design issue.
He was ten yards away when Mark stepped out of the trees. “Brenner Jameson?”
The young man turned to look at him as he ran. “Yes?”
Mark pushed the button on the small freq wand he had taken from Kitteridge’s safe, activating the silent shriek, a coded pulsation of an ultrasound frequency, designed to tear down firewalls inside Brenner’s barricaded brain.
The younger man stopped, staggering. His momentum drove him to his knees in the mud with a grunt. His energy sig exploded in a chaotic burst of wheeling color as energy was released, suppressed memories liberated. What an incredible sensation it must be for him. And painful, perhaps. Always entertaining to watch.
“Your real work just began,” Mark told him. “I’m your controller now, Brenner. You have to do anything I tell you.”
Brenner stared up at him, his hand at his throat. Struggling to speak.
“I heard you got involved with a local girl,” Mark said. “Started a family.”
Brenner staggered to his feet, swaying. “Callie,” he said thickly.
Callie. That had been the name of the child. He wondered if he should eliminate her, just to simplify things. Might attract too much attention, though.
“That’s all finished for you now,” Mark said. “You’ll never see Callie again. Forget her and everyone else. Starting right now. Never think about her again.”
Brenner’s eyes narrowed. “Callie,” he blurted out, more fiercely this time.
“Forget her,” Mark snarled. “You’re mine, now.”
Brenner just stared at him. His breath was sharp and panting, his face shiny with sweat. His hands kept clenching into fists. He looked like he wanted to kill Mark.
Mark was pissed. The guy didn’t even look happy to be activated. He should be thrilled, to finally be able to use the power inside him. It was a gift that Mark had given him. He should be fucking grateful.
Brenner’s brow furrowed. He was trying to resist the programming.
Eight more iterations of brain stim research after Mark’s time at Midlands, and subjects were still rebellious? Was that the best the researchers could do?
It took ruthlessness to get results. He had no problems being ruthless. He adjusted the wand, pointed it at Brenner’s head and activated a suitable punishment.
The effect was instant. Brenner screamed, arching back and writhing in the mud. Mark watched the spectacle for a few minutes with enjoyment.
“Get up,” he ordered Brenner. “Come back to the truck with me.”
Brenner obeyed, haltingly. He was a sorry sight, all soaked in mud.