Codename: UnSub (The Last Survivors Book 2) Page 3

  “We knew they would, and eventually, they would try to take us out directly. So we moved the rarer items—museum pieces, our archives, and several irreplaceable buildings. But the whole time the Pope stayed in Rome. Because he is…was… the…Bishop of Rome. He would not allow himself to be chased out of the city. Finally, he stayed as bait, to make sure that we wouldn’t lose it all when they came for us. We were prepared, we were ready for it…and it still cost us more than we ever expected. We lost a lot of lives that day.”

  ***

  Walking to the church that evening—after Kyle had parted ways with them—Kevin said the magic words. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession.”

  Jack nodded, glancing around, making certain no one else was present. “Yes, my son?”

  “I have killed in anger, and I have killed unarmed men. I have killed people who were defenseless when I sacrificed them for my own personal gain. I have—”

  “Stop. When you were killing these ‘unarmed men,’ where any of them a potential future threat to innocent people?”

  “Yes, Monsignor, but—”

  Jack waved it away. “Listen, spare me the garbage. You want to confess to two things—one, to murdering the bastards who murdered your wife and comrades on that mission to France; two, the destruction of the Omega plane.”

  Kevin looked away a moment, his head hanging low. “I guess it doesn’t help if you’ve already made a public confession of your actions.”

  “Yeah, well, lighten up, Mister Anderson.”

  He looked back at the priest. “Excuse me? Don’t you remember who the Omega plane had on it? There were women and children on board whose only sin was to want to get out of San Francisco! And I killed them. All of them. I looked all of them in the face before they went down…”

  “And do you remember what was on that plane, Mister Anderson? As soon as it took off, a pathogen would have been released that would have killed every living thing in this city. There was only one way to stop that from happening, and to make sure that it would never happen—the people responsible had to die. The other people on board were an unintended side effect. Guess what, Kevin? You can’t save everybody—no one can. Omega had declared war on the city, and the first rule of war is that people die—the second is that the first cannot ever be changed.

  “You weren’t given a choice. It was a matter of double effect. You wanted to stop Omega, and that was your intent. You had limited options, and I can’t quite see you disabling their device, hoping really hard that someone on board wouldn’t discover you’d done it, turn the plane around, and kill the whole city anyway. No, my son, that’s a lot of b…bloody nonsense. Next.”

  Kevin smiled slightly. “You’re a strange priest, you know that?”

  “You’ve not seen anything yet, Mr. Anderson. Anything else? Lust? Avarice? Come on…”

  He had a far off look for a moment. “Wrath.”

  “That usually only counts when it’s unjustifiable and destructive.”

  Kevin smiled wryly. “Would you count wiping out a Senate intelligence committee?”

  Jack sighed. “Mr. Anderson, do you know how I wound up in my Chinese gulag? I was sent into China covertly, using outside Intelligence resources. Someone in the United States blew my cover…after you, we knew who was responsible. Whether you knew it or not, killing all of them saved more lives than you can imagine. I hope you don’t feel responsible for your team being killed, either. That is a cliché I will not tolerate.”

  Kevin chuckled this time. “Actually, that’s the last thing I feel responsible for…do you know why I’m still alive? Because I was my own pointman. I didn’t want to risk any of my people if I could do it myself, and sometimes, I could. I did at least half of the wetwork for my team—laser-paint a single target, kill one man at a time, that sort of thing.” He sighed. “While I was out jogging, our base was blown up. I got back in time to see…” He fell silent for a moment. “I held my wife in my arms as she died.”

  They walked quietly along for a few paces. “And you feel responsible for that?” the priest asked.

  Kevin shook his head. “No. Had we told my C.O., I would’ve been transferred out, and she would still have been sent, only difference is that we would have had even less time together. No, my sin of wrath was that I went from her deathbed directly into a killing spree. I didn’t even stop to tell my family I was alive. In the long run it was probably better for them, but, still… I can’t even imagine what it must be like for them.”

  Jack smiled. “Are your systems up on the latest technology?”

  “I suppose so…why?”

  The priest reached up and took off his collar, handing it to Kevin. Taped to the back was a microchip, no bigger than a grain of rice. “This has several terrs worth of pictures and vids from your family on it.”

  He took the collar and stared at it. “You’ve spoken to them?”

  “Truthfully, I’m not sure how they took it—they were happy you were alive, but the way your father looked, I half-expected another round of Senators to be killed off within the week. Merry Christmas, Mr. Anderson.”

  ***

  Two weeks of cleanup later, the church was set. Most of the materials in the church were variations of wood, with an altar of marble, but our men on the ground had enough squirreled away from the prying fingers of Scavengers and Forsaken to have a sufficient quantity of supplies to meet the needs of the church. They needed to bake their own wafers, and the triplets were willing to part with enough low-alcohol wine for the chalices.

  As it turns out, there were more priests in hiding in the city that anyone knew. There were thousands in the city five or six years ago, and now only hundreds. The schismatic tendencies within the San Francisco church had never been a secret, and always a millimeter below the surface. After Rome had been nuked, the differences in San Francisco sprang up like wildfire, after the April Fool’s War—or, as they called it in the city, “the Last Day”—there were more problems. This time, with no one to stop it, those priests who didn’t run and hide were either killed by one of the city’s other priests, or tortured to death by some of the locals.

  Christmas went well. Kaye Wellering even showed up, though she was on her palmtop half the time. Kevin, Leo, and the triplets took up half a row. Father Jack explained who they were, why they came, and even offered training to anyone who wanted to join—with a special St. Michael’s Guild for any unmarried ex-cops who wanted to join.

  It all built up in one crescendo to his grand finale:

  “Jesus came to Earth complete with the knowledge that He would be nailed to a set of 2x4s—crucified, rejected, tortured and killed. That wasn’t the point of His tenure on Earth, and that wasn’t even the point—He came to lead, to be a shepherd to those who were lost, the unloved, and the unwanted. Before the Last Day, the people who were most likely to be criminals were those without families—not because they were more evil, but because those without love are most easily led astray.” He looked straight at Mickie. “They are the most vulnerable.

  “In San Francisco, you have a group called the Forsaken, who like to believe they are forsaken by every other living thing, even by God. What I’ve heard from a lot of people in this city is a similar belief, even though they aren’t part of the Forsaken. We’re here to prove that that isn’t true.

  “You are the only survivors of the West Coast, and you are all skilled at surviving. My only question for you is simple—what are you living for? Some of you, the leaders among you, are here for revenge, or for power, because you have that luxury. I’d like you to…”

  And then, as planned, they arrived—the Burners. There were twenty of them, at least. They burst through the front door, past the lobby, and into the church, guns drawn in one hand, unlit Molotov cocktails in the other.

  The leader declared, in a loud voice, “Time for you all to burn!”

  Before the leader could even march past the opening pews in
the center aisle, Father Jack drew a little .45-caliber Semmerling from under the pulpit and fired into his chest. The rubber bullet sent him so far off his feet that he crashed into two of his men behind him.

  Two of the ushers—Father Kameron and Father Gray—came at the men from their pews, tactical batons drawn and swinging. Within three seconds, seven of the Burners were on the ground, hurting. One set a Molotov cocktail and flung it at Father Gray. He missed, of course. Gray had always been quick. The gas ignited, the flame spread, and several other Burners thoughtlessly tossed their cocktails at the burning pool as well, hoping to use it as a distraction.

  And then they realized that—pews aside—the entire church was glass, metal, and marble. The thugs pulled back, hands dropping to gun holsters when they had an unnerving realization—half of the audience had guns drawn and trained on them.

  I must say that it is remarkable how many of the ex-cops present had held onto their official sidearms. “Please don’t make my parishioners kill you. That would be bad. Besides that, you can’t get blood out of marble, and the stain in the stone would be very hard to cover up.”

  The prisoners were roughed up a little and shown the door to a holding room. Half went back to the Burners. The other half stayed because they seemed either interested or extremely confused.

  At the end of the day, after everything was cleaned up, and after the light snowfall had already melted away, Jack wandered through the church and took a moment to appreciate what they had done. Another month, they would be ready to go out into the great unknown as missionaries.

  Then Father Jack discovered Kyle Elsen, Master Assassin, standing outside his confessional.

  Chapter 2: Tooth or Dare

  -An Assassin shall always remember that he or she is a Professional, and behave in a fashion showing professionalism and detachment from their work.

  Code of Professional Ethics (Assassins’ Guild)

  January 30, 2094

  “My name is Kevin Anderson, serial number 1597. I am a spy and the perfect example of what happens when you can’t keep your mouth shut. Once I worked for the United States Government on the East Coast, in the Central Intelligence Division. Unfortunately, circumstances led to my own form of staff cutbacks, and I am no longer in their employ.

  “As penance for my sins, I have been exiled to the city of San Francisco. For anyone intercepting this transmission, you may have problems believing that there is a city of San Francisco. I know that I had trouble believing there was a city of San Francisco left, but it is still here, despite the nuclear holocaust of 2090, on what the locals here call ’The Last Day’.

  “On my coast, we knew it as the April Fool’s War. Take, if you will, the arrogance of a group of psychologists testing military men running a nuclear missile silo. Add the arrogance of computer programmers who thought that security during the tests was foolproof. Stir, and then add the evolution of a more perfect fool who circumvented the security measures and pushed the button. Mix well, and let sit for several hours. Do not touch.

  “Due to certain political ramifications that I will not go into here, the missile shield stations in Alaska and spread throughout the states caught most of the missiles falling east of the Rocky Mountains, saving the Midwest and the East Coast. The West Coast wasn’t that lucky.

  “San Francisco survived only because of the irrelevance of the city to our attackers, not to mention pure luck. Perhaps some providence...

  “San Fran has also become a dumping ground for some national governments to disappear malcontents, mainly because the rest of the planet thinks the entire city is already gone. According to Official Reports, the entire population of California is dead. The US of A itself usually doesn’t drop people here, unless the Lib-Progs are in charge, and only then they only dare to disappear guys like me—the Inconvenient. Yes, I’ve adopted my own title. Everyone else here has one, why not an exile like me?

  “That is what we’re called. People like me. The Exiled. Consider it copyrighted.

  “So, San Fran is still here, only now it’s a town run by giant corporations, not by a government. There are no policemen anymore, at least no effective ones. The city can’t pay them enough, if anything at all, so they are susceptible to bribes, and if there had been any left willing to uphold their duty to the law, they have been so crippled in resources that many have given up in despair.

  “Much of security is local. Neighborhoods enforce their own law, like Chinatown and Japantown. Many of the police officers went to join the Corporate Raiders—and I mean raiders whose idea of a hostile takeover involves an assault rifle.

  “There are also some sociological aspects to the city that are strange. Many of them I will endeavor to explain to the fullest of my ability. There are days I feel like an anthropologist living among a tribe of cannibals—watching, probing, studying, but always eyed like I might be next on the dinner menu. The Thanatosians, the Hackers, the Searchers, the Scavengers, the Forsaken, the Forbidden or whoever else is out there. Every group has a name, and it’s like being trapped in the middle of a gigantic, constant, gang war.

  “There is an old saying: The inmates are running the asylum.

  “In this case, the inmates from the violent ward are running the asylum, the grounds, and most of the surrounding regions of the city.

  “I—”

  There was a tap at the window. He stopped recording, and knew what that meant.

  Something had happened.

  ***

  Kevin crouched over the body in the middle of the alley. Its face had literally been torn off the bone. It was probably the last thing that had ever happened to the poor bastard, and the chances were that he had still been alive at the time.

  He looked over the spatter patterns and the man’s other wounds, and decided that the victim would have thought his face ripped off was a mercy unto itself. Whoever had killed this man had taken their time about it.

  Kevin pushed back his brown hair and sighed. Right now, he didn’t even have the first clue what he was looking at. Scavengers had already taken the victim’s clothing, or at least the useful parts. Someone had even gone to work on the man’s teeth, and it looked like they had been working with real dental equipment. Several of his teeth, as well as all of his fillings, were missing.

  “Ouch, that had to hurt,” Kevin muttered to himself. Murders were very rare in Chinatown, and most of the time, the entire area knew who was responsible. However, based on the brutality of the crime, and the fact that he had been called in, Kevin knew this was something else.

  Unfortunately, he knew he’d have to talk with two groups of people. First, he’d need to see the Children. The Children on patrol would have noted any strangers coming into Chinatown. Even if they didn’t know who the murderer was, they would have noted the Scavenger. With any luck, the Scavenger would lead him to bigger and better evidence.

  The other group …

  “Who killed my mark?” came a voice as cold as death.

  Kevin smiled. “Hello, Kyle. I was wondering where you were.”

  The spy looked at the Assassin and tried once more to memorize him. Kyle Elsen was as plain as was humanly possible without his face becoming featureless. He stood at the end of the alley, his arms folded, wearing a simple black outfit. The infinite shadow around him obscured his features further, if that were possible, making them almost as unmemorable as a single blade of grass.

  Then again, it wasn’t like it was very bright at one in the morning. Most of the streetlights didn’t work, and Kevin himself was working with lamps on loan from people within the community.

  “Why are you always smiling, Mr. Anderson?” Kyle’s voice was confused.

  “Because I’m learning to loosen up, before I turn into you, Kyle.” He nodded at the body. “This was supposed to be yours, then?”

  Kyle nodded. “He was going to die in three hours. Someone took my kill.”

  “You sure someone didn’t do the work for you just to be nice?” />
  Kyle’s eyes narrowed, his voice turning colder than normal, almost as if he were offended by the suggestion. “I only take money for the jobs I complete, Mr. Anderson. I still follow the Code as my Instructors wrote it. Besides that, I will not take jobs in Chinatown. The Tongs get irritated easily.”

  Kevin sighed and stood. “Did this guy have any other people pissed off at him aside from the one who hired you?”

  “I’ll find out. Do you know who did this?” Kyle glanced past Kevin.

  The spy stepped back. “Take a look.”

  Kyle stepped past the spy, examining the body. The joints were clearly shattered, there were no puncture wounds—no shell casings, and no sign a knife had been used. This had been done with a blunt object—some kind of club. That, and, as he noticed a moment later, the man’s shoulders and hips were out of joint. The dislocation had been deliberate.

  Kyle frowned, taking a long breath. There were similarities between the injuries, indicating a pattern. The kill had lived at least thirty minutes past the initiation of the attack… all of the joints were swollen. The rate of swelling made it clear the order in which the joints had been destroyed, and exactly how much force had been used to complete the task.

  He exhaled, finally, turning to look over his shoulder at Kevin. “This…” he motioned toward the corpse “…was a black belt in Aikido, Mr. Anderson.” His frown grew, eyes darkening with annoyance. “He knew how to defend himself. I didn’t want to waste time or energy trying a close-quarters kill, so I was going to deal with him using an XD rifle and ceramic shatter-tip bullets.”

  He turned back to the corpse, tearing its shirt off. There were marks on the torso… impact points. “The technique that brought him down in the first place was Penjakt Silat. It is an Indonesian martial style. I’m certain you’ve heard of it, if you’ve never seen it used before.” His tone was professional and clinical.