Here we go again, Janson thought, gritting her teeth.
The hammer fell, sending a .38 caliber copper-jacketed round screaming across the room. It impacted low on her abdomen, to the left of her navel, and it felt like someone had struck her with a two-pound hammer. But it could have been worse; he could have hit her in the face. She absorbed the blow and juked to the right before Bradley’s brain finished registering the noise of the gunshot. She crossed the distance between them in less than a second and ripped the revolver out of Bradley’s hands, breaking bones in his wrists in the process.
Bradley let out a cry of pain, confusion, and terror as Janson gripped his shoulder and kicked the backs of his legs, forcing him onto his knees.
“This is how it feels, Bradley,” Janson said, whispering in his ear, “to be at the mercy of someone physically stronger than you. And this is how it feels to finally get what you deserve.” She pressed the barrel of the revolver against his temple, digging it into his skin.
“Oh please, no!” Bradley whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again, I swear!”
Martha joined her husband in pleading for his life. She landed on her knees beside him and held out a hand toward Janson. “He won’t do it again! He can change!”
Janson eased off Bradley’s temple, holding the revolver inches away from his face. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “Do you promise?”
Bradley’s eyes widened. He looked up at her, and tears rolled down his face. “Yes. I’ll change—I swear it.”
Janson fixed her black, artificial eyes on him. She let five seconds pass before giving her reply.
“I don’t believe you.”
The barrel of the revolver broke through Bradley’s front teeth at an angle and punctured the soft palate at the roof of his mouth. She pulled the trigger five times, emptying the revolver into his brain.
4
Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center
Baltimore, Maryland
It had been ten days since the attack at the United Nations Headquarters in New York, ten days since Borya Tabanov had revealed that he had risen from the grave. And in that brief time, the entire world had changed. But 99.99% of the global population barely noticed. Even in the United States, people had decided that it was better to bury their heads in the sand than to acknowledge the threat that had arrived on their shores.
Eugene Carver stared at the concrete ceiling in his dormitory, reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort his wife provided. But it was time to return to the fight. Whether he liked it or not, the refugees inside Hillcrest were completely alone, and they wouldn’t survive without his help.
Eugene pushed the covers back and slid away from Susana, trying not to wake her. She let out a soft, irritated moan and wrinkled her nose, but she didn’t open her eyes. Eugene stood at the bedside for a long moment, letting his eyes linger on her soft features, listening to the sound of her breathing.
She was his only respite in a world that had given him nothing but conflict and pain for over a year. Their time together rejuvenated him in a way that nothing else could because she gave him hope for a better tomorrow. His gaze shifted to her abdomen, where his unborn child was growing bigger every day. And he knew he would do anything to protect them.
He hoisted a tactical load-bearing vest onto his shoulders, draping it over his gray urban-camouflage uniform. Beneath his uniform, he wore a skintight suit of metamaterial armor which, by itself, left little to the imagination. But it was as lightweight and breathable as nylon and as tough as diamonds. He hadn’t taken off the metamaterial bodysuit in nearly three days; there simply hadn’t been time to relax or let his guard down. The streets of Baltimore, one hundred and thirty feet above his head, had become a war zone.
After securing the load-bearing vest in place, Eugene ran his fingers over the various pouches. The vest held seven spare magazines for his BN-36 rifle and three spare magazines for his FNS-9 Longslide pistol. His radio, first-aid kit, strobe light, night-vision goggles, chem lights, smoke grenades, gas mask, fixed-blade knife, and other battlefield necessities were stored in pouches that covered his chest and hips. The entire ensemble weighed more than thirty pounds, but it was nothing compared to the loadout he had carried in the Marine Corps. Which was a good thing, because his physical capabilities had taken a dive since then. He’d sustained more battlefield injuries in the past six months than he cared to count, and the constant stress had taken its toll.
He frowned as a twinge of pain started at his right ankle and worked its way up his right leg. Digging his thumb into the muscles above his right knee, he tried to massage the pain away. It helped a little, though he knew the effect would be temporary. When he stood up, he saw a reflection of his face in the mirror on the adjacent wall. He’d often been told that he looked young for his age, but not anymore. His handsome features were more deeply-lined every day, and his short black hair was beginning to thin above the temples.
A smirk crept across his face. Though his body was in sharp decline, he could still handle himself in combat. At nearly forty years of age, he was still a force to be reckoned with. And right now, combat effectiveness was the only thing that mattered.
Taking one last look at Susana, he left the room and strode down the hallway. He entered the elevator, told the computer to bring him to ground level, and felt the shift in inertia as the elevator launched upward.
As he anticipated the violence that might be waiting for him above ground, a stream of grotesque images began flashing through his mind like a slideshow from hell. Twisted and mangled faces stared back at him—the faces of men he had killed in the past. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Gradually, he forced the images aside. He despised killing, and though he knew the ghosts of his enemies would haunt him for the rest of his life, right now he needed to focus on the present. The Afflicted—men who had been infected with Borya’s mind-altering nanobot poison—wouldn’t hesitate to cut the throats of every man, woman, and child in Hillcrest. These monsters deserved no mercy, no negotiation, no hesitation. It was Eugene’s job to kill as many of them as possible and ensure that his teammates stayed in the fight.
The elevator doors slid open, and Eugene stepped out. He paused, tilting his head to listen. For the first time in days, there were no sounds of gunfire in the clinic. Moving forward on the edges of his feet, he crossed the secure room and opened the adjacent door. A man in his mid-thirties with deep, pitted scars covering his face looked up at Eugene from his position behind a chest-high barricade.
“SITREP?” Eugene said as he joined Kacen Brown behind the steel barricade.
Kacen shook his head. “The shooting stopped nearly an hour ago. And it’s been quiet ever since.”
“Are the Charlies in play?” Eugene was referring to a group of combat-ready androids that had been developed at Hillcrest. Over the past few weeks, the androids had saved hundreds of lives and proved to be irreplaceable on the battlefield.
“They’re up here,” Kacen said. “We have them guarding the bay doors.”
“Good.” Eugene patted Kacen on the shoulder. “You stay here. I’m going to link up with them and perform a quick sweep around the perimeter of the compound.”