Crooked River(107)
“What makes you think that?”
“The expression of zeal on the good doctor’s face. And, of course, the simple fact that you cannot let me out of here alive.”
“Your latter statement is, I’m afraid, true. As for the doctor, the eagerness you note is an eagerness to get back to his second round of experiments—which your arrival has interrupted. However, I’m sure he won’t protest this further delay when I explain to him that a man like you will prove the ultimate test. I’ve read your jacket, you see—and I’m aware of what you did while in the military. Administering the drug to a person who truly possesses a will of iron and, aware of what is to come, knows what he must prepare for—will you be able to resist? If not, we can be confident the drug has been perfected.” The general turned to the soldiers. “Take him into the lab.”
One soldier grasped the wheelchair while another stood behind and wheeled him out the door, down the hall, and into the lab. A moment later Pendergast was parked in the center of the room, over the drain. The doctor was holding a phone connected to a wall, no doubt an inside line to the general in the observation room. Finally, the doctor hung up, brought over a pair of scissors, and cut the sleeve away from Pendergast’s right forearm. He didn’t bother to swab, but inserted the IV needle, got blood, and taped it down.
“A vial of H12K, please,” he said to an orderly.
“Doctor,” the orderly said, “just so you know: that’s the last of the initial new batch.”
“So?”
“Well, it was earmarked for subject 714, who’s next on the list and has been waiting in the prep room.”
“This one is more important,” the doctor snapped. “Get me the vial and send 714 back to his cell.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The orderly opened a tabletop refrigerator, took out a vial, and handed it to the doctor, along with a freshly unsealed syringe.
The doctor inserted the needle through the cap of the vial, drew out a precisely measured amount, then held the needle up and depressed the plunger until a clear drop appeared, quivering at the hollow tip. He looked up at the one-way mirror with an anticipatory expression.
“Pendergast?” came the general’s voice over the intercom. “Last chance to speak.”
There was a long silence. Then the general’s voice sounded again. “Inject him.”
66
OVER AN HOUR ago they’d brought Coldmoon up from the cell, blindfolded, cuffed to one of the two guards, and wearing the filthy hospital gown belonging to Luís, stenciled over the chest with the number 714. After a circuitous journey, they took off the blindfold and he found himself in a small room—a sort of annex, it seemed—in beige cinder block, with two benches screwed to the floor, along with a locked medical cabinet. He had been seated on a bench, the guard he was cuffed to beside him. The other guard took the seat opposite, his M16 laid across his lap. Both guards were bored, clearly used to this routine. Coldmoon was careful to maintain a defeated attitude, adopting a listless shuffle that had annoyed the guards into prodding him forward more than once.
As the minutes had passed, Coldmoon had marveled at how silent the room was. There was a large, stout door in the opposite wall that, he figured, led to the laboratory where the inmates were experimented on. He had no idea what those experiments might be, although he assumed they involved the horror of self-amputation. If this was the waiting room, then soundproofing made sense—he imagined what came next would be a pretty noisy ordeal.
As the minutes passed, Coldmoon considered his next step. On the one hand, he could continue to wait until he was called. The imprisoned man had told him there were ninety minutes between appointments—for want of a better word—and as far as he could tell, his own ninety were nearly up. A better course of action would be to take charge now and force the action himself, when he knew the lay of the land and his adversaries were least prepared. The guard sitting next to him was half-asleep, and the other beginning to nod off as well.
He’d never get a better—or even another—opportunity.
Pretending to be weary himself, Coldmoon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head nodding, arms drooping down. He yawned quietly, resignedly. Slowly, he reached one arm under the hospital gown he was wearing and grasped the butt of the Browning he’d strapped to his upper calf. He freed it from its holster, careful to make no noise. And then, with a smooth, unhurried motion, he brought it up and fired point-blank at the guard next to him, the sound of the shot deafeningly loud in the confined space, spraying the cinder-block wall with gore. The other guard jerked his head up just in time to receive a bullet in the face. He slammed backward against the wall, then rolled onto the floor.
Soundproofing or not, Coldmoon knew the tremendous loudness of the shots would probably generate a response. His own ears were ringing. Laying the Browning aside, he grabbed the guard’s M16 with his free arm and crouched, aiming at the stout door.
A second or two later, the door slammed open and Coldmoon let loose a burst, taking down a uniformed guard who had come to investigate. With the weapon clutched under his right arm, still aimed at the door, he knelt down, plucked the handcuff key from the dead guard on the bench, and unlocked the cuffs. Then he moved forward toward the door, waited a moment, and kicked it wide.
He found himself in a large, dazzlingly lit laboratory. There, to his astonishment, was Pendergast, strapped and tied to a wheelchair, an IV rack beside him. Two orderlies and a doctor fell back in confusion and horror, the doctor dropping a syringe. Two soldiers who were overseeing the proceedings began to turn toward Coldmoon. He dropped them both with one long burst.