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  “Colonel Slattery, stay calm, sir. Lie still.”

  He recognised the voice of Doctor Lawrence Jenkins, the chief medic on site. The man was approaching middle age, but ruggedly handsome. He came forward with caring brown eyes, and rested a hand quickly on Slattery’s shoulder, calming him.

  “What…what happened?” Slattery coughed, voice hoarse.

  He didn’t really need to ask. He was fairly sure he already knew.

  “You had a heart attack,” said Doctor Jenkins, half consoling, but half rebuking in tone. “You pushed yourself too hard, and this is the result. Jeremiah, a man of your age and stress levels cannot afford to keep on going like you do. I’ve been told you were up for two days and nights in a row, drinking whisky, smoking cigars, trying to do everything yourself.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

  Slattery grimaced. He didn’t need this right now.

  “How am I, Lawrence?” he asked. Was that fear in his voice? Jeremiah Slattery didn’t know fear. He’d never heeded his own mortality.

  “You had a heart attack, Jeremiah,” said Doctor Jenkins, deadpan. “How do you think you are?”

  Slattery shifted his position again with some difficulty, and Jenkins stepped in to help him into more of a sitting position. Posture was important to a military man like Colonel Slattery. Lying down, so feeble, so…vulnerable. He hated it.

  Jenkins took a breath, plumping a pillow behind Slattery’s head and neck.

  “You should be fine, Jeremiah,” he said. “You got lucky this time, but we’re going to have to make some changes to your lifestyle if you want to live to see old age.”

  “Old age,” grunted Slattery. “I’m old enough.”

  “Not old enough to die,” countered Jenkins. “You’ve got plenty of years in the tank yet if you’re sensible and don’t run yourself into the ground.”

  Slattery met Jenkins’ eyes with a flat, unimpressed look.

  “Lawrence, you know what we do here. You know how important the work is. And you know how critical recent events have been. I had no choice but to ‘run myself into the ground’.”

  Jenkins shook his head lightly and sighed.

  “Spoken like a true military commander,” he said. “And a man with a great weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Responsibility, I might add, Jeremiah, that you refuse to share. I know what you’re like - heaven knows I’ve known plenty of men like you - but you don’t need to run this entire show on your own.”

  “With all due respect, Lawrence,” said Slattery through gritted teeth, “you don’t have the insight to comment on my operations, or manner of running things. I respect your opinion on medical matters, but that’s where I draw the line. Now when can I get out of this bed and get back to work?”

  Doctor Jenkins didn’t react to the curt words. He wasn’t in the chain of command like others were, and down here in sickbay, he was the lead authority.

  “I wouldn’t advise it for a good few days at least,” he said, turning more formal.

  “That won’t do. I need to get back to work.” Slattery then seemed to realise that he had no idea just what day it was, or what he’d missed. He narrowed his eyes, ignoring the striking pain in his chest, and centred his eyes on Jenkins again.

  “What’s been happening?” he asked forcefully. “I…” He looked up to the door. “Get Jason in here immediately.” Jenkins didn’t react straight away. It was a mistake. “I said now!” bellowed Slattery, almost enough to induce a second heart attack. He took a few deep breaths, grimacing. “Please, Lawrence. Go fetch him,” he wheezed.

  Doctor Jenkins studied Slattery for a moment, as if willing to deny the request. Then he nodded and moved off, disappearing quickly from the room.

  Alone, Slattery shifted his position higher, again with much effort. He grabbed a glass of water from the little side table next to his bed and gulped it down. His mind swirled with its most recent memories before he’d collapsed - the chase with the falcon, Quinn being outmanoeuvred by Tanner, the red dot that indicated the falcon’s position suddenly disappearing.

  They got away, he thought, his mind catching up. They found the damn tracker, and they got away…

  And then, unable to cope with the stress and relentless fatigue, he’d collapsed. At least his timing was good, he mused, almost with a flutter of humour. It was as though his body had taken him as far as it could, and only gave up once the chase was over.

  But now what? Was it still over? Had Quinn managed to continue the hunt?

  As he pondered the questions - a futile exercise in speculation - the door opened up once more. Doctor Jenkins came in, followed quickly by Jason. Jenkins nodded to the younger man and said pointedly, “Don’t get him too overexcited,” before withdrawing to leave the two military men alone.

  Slattery studied Jason as he entered. He was wearing a small smile, his eyes relieved. He hurried forwards a few steps, though stopped short of being overly dramatic and gushing at seeing his boss awake. Jason wasn’t the type, and he’d know full well that Slattery wanted to get right down to business.

  “Colonel Slattery, sir, it’s good to see you awake,” he said, nodding respectfully. That was the extent of his sentimentality. Good, thought Slattery.

  “Yes, Jason, thank you,” said Slattery. “A little too much pressure on the heart. Apparently I work too hard.” He managed a wry smile.

  “You’re a fine commander, sir,” said Jason. “And passionate about your work.”

  “Quite,” said Slattery. “Now tell me, son. How is everything? When did I collapse?”

  “Yesterday morning, sir, about twenty four hours ago, just after the falcon went missing on our maps.”

  “Twenty four hours,” mused Slattery, thinking. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. He feared he’d been in a coma or something, unconscious for days or even weeks. A day he could work with. He looked directly at Jason. “Fill me in, son.”

  “Of course, sir,” Jason said. “Um, things have been going…well, they’ve stalled, sir. After losing sight of the falcon, Captain Quinn returned to base. He’s been in the command centre, sir, coordinating the hunt.” Slattery’s countenance darkened. He hated the idea of anyone but him running the show up here. “However, sir, we’ve just come across something that might be interesting.”

  “Hunt,” said Slattery immediately. “You’ve found him?”

  “No, sir. Not as yet. However, we’ve just received intelligence that Mikel is in Cincinnati.”

  Slattery frowned.

  “Cincinnati is a war zone,” he said. “Why is Mikel there?”

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  “And what’s the source of this intelligence?”

  “Chatter from soldiers on the ground in Cincinnati, sir, about a nano-vamp being spotted in the area. Mikel’s name has been flagging across several security networks, given his notoriety. The NDSA are particularly keen on finding him, for obvious reasons.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Slattery was thinking. It remained a bit of a struggle after what he’d been through. Clearly, he’d been drugged to help with the stress and pain. It wasn’t making it easy to work through everything that was going on.

  “Sir,” prompted Jason. “Captain Quinn is preparing the eagle right now. He’s planning on heading to Cincinnati and getting to Mikel before anyone else does. He may have answers that could help us unravel just what’s been going on. As of right now, we’re still not entirely sure who has the data, or where it’s been taken. Mikel may yet be able to untangle this mess, sir.”

  He stopped, and watched his commander for a reaction.

  Slattery nodded. Slowly. His eyes were staring right at his sheets, his ageing frame beneath. He felt weak, tired. Still…so damn tired.

  “Shall I tell Captain Quinn you OK the mission, sir?” asked Jason again. His prodding was growing increasingly forceful. “We can’t delay on this.”

  A horrible realisation came to Slattery at that moment.
He was weary, bed-ridden, slow to make decisions and direct matters. He had his pride, yes, and his passion to lead, but he also knew he was man enough to admit it when he’d lost his touch. The Crimson Corps needed swift, direct action right now. They couldn’t afford for him to slow them. It was time to hand over the reins. Temporarily, Slattery promised himself. Just until I recover.

  Eventually, he spoke.

  “Captain Quinn doesn’t need my approval, Lieutenant,” he said. “He’s running this mission now.”

  “Sir…”

  “Tell him to assume control until I’m recovered, soldier. I trust him to make the right judgement. Quinn is more than capable.”

  Jason hesitated.

  “Yes…sir,” he said. “Of course.”

  He began moving towards the door.

  “Oh, and Jason.”

  Jason turned.

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “Keep me appraised, son. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

  Jason smiled, saluted, and marched through the door.

  18

  Ragan moved off into the rocky ground, eyes keen, scanning. The morning had crept along quietly, annoyingly so. Why was it that time seemed to go so slow when you were so desperate for it to speed up? It had a real cruel side, time. Lazily strolling along when you needed it to make haste, and galloping gleefully forward when all you wanted was for it to slow down and relax.

  Ragan had never been a particularly patient man, but this was pushing it. As a child, he’d been eager to reach adulthood. When he joined the NDSA military, he set his mind on joining the Panthers and didn’t let up. When he got involved in the chase for Chloe, it consumed him. That wait was particularly difficult, of course, but well worth waiting for…

  He marched on, speeding over jagged earth, until he’d put about fifty metres between himself and the falcon. It waited behind him, hidden as best as it could be within an old crumbled town, recharging. It had enough power now to be effective again should they need to make a speedy getaway.

  Now it was time to see if Commander Wexley would bite.

  He drew the earpiece from his pocket, going over what he was planning to say a final time. He had it all figured out; as he’d said to the others, the logical thing for the CID to do right now would be to work with Ragan and his team. To his advantage, Richard Wexley was a rational man, as all high ranking soldiers tended to be. The problems might begin to arise when trying to get permission to act from President Rashmore. Yes, Wexley might see it Ragan’s way, but even if he did, he wasn’t about to subvert his own President and act without his authorisation, particularly when they were discussing the destruction of Remus Phantom’s research to stop it being used by a nation as ‘weak’ as the MSA. Convincing Rashmore of that threat…well, that might not be so easy, seeing as it was Rashmore himself who’d long commissioned Professor Phantom to develop the science.

  Still, he couldn’t delay any longer. Taking another calming breath, he began pressing the earpiece to his ear, eyes glancing around once more at the desolate town behind him, and the war-torn, pockmarked landscape that surrounded it.

  As he did so, however, he felt, and heard, a faint buzz in another pocket. He shuddered a second, so sudden was the sound, and turned his eyes down to the source. Curiously, he reached in and picked out a second earpiece; the one given to him by Dax. It was flashing red.

  Brows furrowing, and interest spiking, he placed the earpiece to his ear and activated it.

  “Yes, Dax,” he said, voice curious. “Have you discovered something?”

  His hope bloomed momentarily. Could Dax have found out something about this supposed secret facility?

  “Just something I think you should know,” said Dax in a businesslike manner that Ragan had quickly come to expect from the man. “I’ve been monitoring chatter across security networks. Seems that your old friend Mikel has been spotted.”

  Ragan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Where?” he growled.

  “Cincinnati,” said Dax, without delay.

  “Cincinnati,” repeated Ragan, fingers stroking his stubbly chin. “It’s a war zone there. One of the worst on the continent.”

  “The worst, I’d say, and probably why he was spotted,” said Dax. “Lots of eyes. Lots of drones and surveillance from both the NDSA and WSA militaries. Any idea why he might be there?”

  Ragan thought about it a moment. It wasn’t actually that surprising, given Mikel’s proclivities.

  “He’s drawn to conflict like a moth to flame,” Ragan grunted. “War zones are like playpens to nano-vamps. I’d imagine there are plenty of Panthers there. He has a particular fondness for them, does Mikel. After his time with us, I suspect he’s desperate for a bit of a feeding. It’s actually perfectly logical for him to go there.”

  “Well, just thought I’d pass on the information. Thought it might be of interest to you.”

  “And you were right,” said Ragan. “I’m hoping you’ve got a more specific location than just ‘Cincinnati’? North, south of the river? Eastside, westside?”

  “The situation is…fluid,” said Dax. “He was last spotted southeast from what I’ve managed to discover. As you say, he’s more interested in Panthers than any other nano-enhanced, and the eastern side of the city is where the NDSA forces are. He won’t be moving from there, least not until he’s satisfied his needs. I can keep an eye on things, update you if anything else is heard. I imagine the CID will be fully aware of his presence there, and will be making finding him a priority. Mikel is right at the top of their most wanted list. You remain a hot topic too, of course.”

  “Thanks for the reminder, Dax,” said Ragan sarcastically. “Keep us posted if you can.”

  He shut off the line, placing the comms device back into his pocket. His eyes turned once more towards the barren, scarred landscape, mental cogs cranking.

  This was a new development that he didn’t see coming. In Ragan’s experience, that could be both good and bad. An opportunity, perhaps, but also a significant risk. So much of what they knew right now - or thought they knew - was speculative, based off of limited evidence and conjecture. Would Mikel be able to help clear things up?

  Ragan paced, and found himself scoffing at the idea. No, Mikel wouldn’t help them, whether he knew anything or not. The group had decided, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Mikel had now passed the data onto Martha, who was most likely working with the MSA government given what they’d discovered. If there was a secret facility, then it was highly unlikely that Mikel would be aware of it. After all, he hadn’t even known that Martha was his employer until Ragan worked it out for himself, nor did he know what the contents of the disc were until Chloe told him. The idea of a wildcard like Mikel being given the location of a secret facility was fanciful at best.

  No, going after Mikel would not be in their best interests now. Cincinnati was far too dangerous, a bloody war zone currently seeing the fiercest fighting on the entire continent. Were the group to go there, they’d be at risk of getting caught or worse, and that wasn’t going to serve anyone.

  He shook his head of the idea, and then considered his next move, and the original reason for him wandering out here to seek some privacy - call Commander Wexley or not.

  He thought about it for a few moments, wondering if anything had changed. For some reason, the update from Dax had thrown him. Actually, no, Ragan knew the reason full well; any time Mikel was mentioned, it got right into his head and under his skin. There was something about a man - a creature - who’d murdered your best friend, who’d stabbed you in the heart, who’d stolen the data disc from right under your nose, not once but twice, and who’d almost killed the girl you loved…

  He stopped short at the thought. Loved.

  Did I just think that? he wondered. Do I really feel that way?

  The idea drew a thoughtful smile, such a strange expression to adopt out there on those desolate plains. It was enough, too, to dampen his ire and thoughts of revenge agai
nst Mikel, replacing them with something else entirely; something quite the opposite.

  He indulged the feeling for a second, and then turned away from it. His feelings for Chloe were, perhaps, stronger than he even imagined. Only through his subconscious mental ramblings did he suddenly realise just how strong they were.

  But that wasn’t the point right now. He shook away all such thoughts - thoughts of Mikel, and the hatred that came with them; thoughts of Chloe, and the affection that they drew - and turned his mind back to logic and reason alone.

  And in doing so, he realised that nothing had changed by what Dax told him. They had decided, as a group, that Ragan should contact the CID. Knowing that Mikel was in Cincinnati - which wasn’t far from where they were now - wasn’t going to alter that course.

  He sucked in another breath, calming his nerves, and then thrust the earpiece into place, activating it without hesitation for fear of further delay. He heard the dialling tone sound, a low-pitched, slow beep. One after another the droning beeps came, before suddenly shutting off, replaced by the faint sound of activity, of a busy environment, a constant din in the background. Ragan knew instinctively what it was - the main command centre at the CID.

  “Commander Wexley,” he said, maintaining a neutral tone. “Are you on the line, sir?”

  Ragan heard a breath, short and raspy. There was no mistaking it - it was a grunt of utter displeasure.

  “Sir,” came a voice; simmering, but maintaining a required level of calm. “You’ve got a nerve calling me that, Hunt.”

  “You…you remain my superior officer, sir,” said Ragan. “Whatever’s gone on, I observe proper protocol.”

  Ragan knew, before he’d even completed the sentence, that his choice of wording was poor.

  “Proper protocol, you say,” murmured Wexley. “You fail to observe protocol at every goddamn turn, Hunt. Don’t speak to me about protocol…”