Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(39)

He had to move. He could not be taken into custody. His programming would not allow it. His own special series pod had undergone an experimental preventative imperative programming sequence. In a scenario like a police interrogation, he would die of convulsions in less than a minute, his body ripped apart from within.

King had deleted that element from the programming schedule with the subsequent pods, judging it too dangerous, and possibly wasteful. But for Reggie’s pod, the deed was done. There was no undoing DeepWeave once it took.

He watched the idiots on the scene, wishing he could kill them just for the looks on their faces. Fear and shock foremost, but beneath it, excitement, unholy glee. An older woman indulged in an attack of hysterics. A younger woman tried to calm her. Attention-mongering bitches. Like they cared about his brothers. The hag was emotionally masturbating in public, for the fun of it. Normal people disgusted him. Their lack of discipline. Untrained animals, pissing on the floor. No idea what it meant to be born to serve, dedicated to the highest principle. A honed, deadly instrument in the hands of his god.

Of course, it was not their fault. They didn’t have the benefit of meticulous selection and decades of DeepWeave programming to unlock their potential. idn’t have the grooming of a great genius. All they had was what grew wild in the weedchoked gardens of their stunted brains. The mental equivalent of dandelions, thistles, and ragweed.

Kill them all, the little voice whispered. Just kill all the witnesses. Kill, kill, kill. Keep killing as they come. It was the only thing that would give him relief. He’d give that squawking old bitch something real to squeal about, and then make squealing turn into sweet, sweet silence.

But it was too bright. Too late. There were too many people present. And the sirens were getting louder. Move.

Still couldn’t. Some glitch in the way DeepWeave interacted with his emotions. Not the fault of King’s programming, of course. Never that. The intrinsic imperfection of human beings was the problem. That was why so few of them survived the culling process. And even the chosen few who did were never perfect. One of King’s great sorrows.

Shame galvanized him, enough to make his hand move. He stuck it, stiff and shaking, into his pocket. Pulled out a sheet of transdermal emergency patches. Calitran-R35, specifically calibrated for his body to damp down any faulty processing of excess emotions. He peeled one off, stuck it on the inside of his wrist, where the skin was thinnest.

The relief was immediate. In seconds, the rictus softened. He backed up, gaining coordination with each step. Turned, and took off at a lope back toward the car he’d left parked on the next block.

Reggie started the car, drove to the house he’d been instructed to use, which was only ten minutes away. He parked the car on a side street, not bothering to lock it. In fact, he left the keys in the ignition. He would not be using the car again. It would not be recovered. It was untraceable, as was the vehicle the team at the diner had used. He should probably call Nadia, he thought, vaguely.

But why? It was over. Too late to try to take control. He was over the cliff. Falling straight down. He caught a glimpse of himself in the beveled glass panes in the door, surprised to see that he looked much as he always did. Swarthy, good-looking. Curly dark hair, chiseled features, dark eyes, dimples even when not smiling.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see. A naked skull. A rotting corpse. Nothing at all. Yes, that was it. He was nothing. All his identities forged, all his passports false. Only for King did he exist. Only the name King had given him defined him. And now he was nothing. No one at all.

Grief gripped him. Cramps were beginning. He rummaged for more Calitran, stuck another patch next to the first. It summed up to a dangerously large dose, but it hardly mattered now.

He went up to the master bedroom, and slowly, methodically began to take off his clothes. He pulled off garments and folded them with meticulous care until he was entirely naked.

He folded back the coverlet and sat upon the smooth white sheet, placing his smartphone on one side, his Sig 229 on the other. A small, faraway part of his mind scuttled like a rat in a maze, making and discarding far-fetched plans. Running away, buying a new identity. He spoke fifteen languages fluently. He could go anywhere and sell his abilities to the highest bidder. Live as free as a bird, as rich as a king—

The King. Everything led back to King. His idol. His god.

Cramps jerked his abdomen. Tears poured down his face. He couldn’t live without King’s approval. The part of him that hungered for freedom wasn’t strong enough to send an electric impulse to his muscles. It was just a ofy, idle thought. Blasphemous flickers on the edge of his consciousness that made him feel guilty and unclean.

He tried to clear his mind. To wait, with dignity and serenity, as befitted one of King’s elite operatives. But the grief was agonizing. He doubled over, began to rock. His throat tightened until the moaning coming out of him became a breathless, keening wheeze.

It felt like hours, but it wasn’t more than four minutes before the phone buzzed, spinning on the sheet next to his thigh. There was no question of not picking it up. Just the mere flash of such a heretical thought through his head sent splinters of agony through his skull.

Reggie flipped open the delicate, flexible fold-screen, quadrupling the viewing field. King’s benevolent face filled the screen. The sight of him triggered a longing that made Reggie cry out loud.

Shame followed the outburst. King was displeased by uncontrolled emotion, even devotion. They all struggled to control it.