The Dragon Factory
Also by Jonathan Maberry
Fiction
Patient Zero
Ghost Road Blues
Dead Man’s Song
Bad Moon Rising
The Wolfman
Nonfiction
Vampire Universe
The Cryptopedia
Zombie CSU
They Bite!
Jonathan Maberry
The Dragon Factory
St. Martin’s Griffin
New York
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DRAGON FACTORY. Copyright © 2010 by Jonathan Maberry. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
ISBN 978-0-312-38249-0
First Edition: March 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Randy and Fran Kirsch,
Charlie and Gina Miller,
Frank and Mary Lou Sessa,
and my blood brother, Arthur Mensch,
and, as always, to my beloved Sara Jo
Acknowledgments
A bunch of good-hearted and very bright people helped with the research and creation of this book and they all deserve thanks: my agent, Sara Crowe of Harvey Klinger, Inc.; my editor and fellow pop-culture geek, Michael Homler; everyone at St. Martin’s Press; Julia Kats for Russian translation and Alois Lohn for German; the members of International Thriller Writers, the Horror Writers Association, and Mystery Writers of America for ongoing support and encouragement; Mike Witzgall, for devious info on weapons and tactics; my cronies in the Liars Club: Gregory Frost, Jon McGoran, Dennis Tafoya, Keith Strunk, Don Lafferty, Kelly Simmons, William Lashner, Merry Jones, Marie Lambra, Ed Pettit, Laura Schrock, and L. A. Banks; Michael Sicilia of Homeland Security; Tiff any Schmidt, Nancy Keim-Comley, and Rachael Lavin for editorial assistance; the Starbucks in Upper Southampton, PA, where I wrote most of this book; and Axel Alonso at Marvel Comics.
A number of world-class genetics experts provided crucial technical information for this book (any errors are entirely the fault of the author): Yanru Chen-Tsai, Ph.D., Director, Transgenic Research Facility, and Associate Director, Stanford Cancer Center; Ioannis Dragatsis, Ph.D., Assistant Professor, Department of Physiology, University of Tennessee; Dr. Laurence Bugeon, CMMI, Division of Cell & Molecular Biology, Faculty of Natural Sciences, Imperial College London; G. Thomas Caltagirone, Ph.D., President and CEO, Aptagen, LLC; Aurora Burds Connor, Ph.D., Director, Rippel Mouse ES Cells and Transgenic Facility, and Director, Preclinical Mouse Models Facility for the David H. Koch Institute for Integrative Cancer Research at MIT.
Prologue
(1)
One week ago
Otto Wirths was the second-worst mass murderer in the history of the world. Compared to him Hitler, Stalin, Attila the Hun, and even Alexander the Great were amateurs, poseurs who could not hold a candle to Otto and his body count.
Only one person was worse.
Cyrus Jakoby.
That wasn’t his real name, and in a way he had no real name. Like Otto, Cyrus was a freak. Like Otto, Cyrus was a monster.
A week ago I’d never even heard of them. Almost no one had. A week ago they were on no watch lists, they were not sought by any world governments, their names were not muttered in hateful curses or angry prayers by a single person on planet Earth.
Yet together they had done more harm than anyone. Together they had very quietly slaughtered tens of millions.
Tens of millions.
At night, when they sat down to their dinner they did not dwell on past accomplishments. A champion athlete doesn’t dwell on the preliminaries. To them it was always what was coming next. What was coming soon.
One week ago, seven days before I even heard of them, Otto Wirths placed a large digital clock on the wall above the elaborate workstation where he and Cyrus spent much of their waking hours. The clock was set to tick off seconds and minutes. Otto adjusted it to read: 10,080. Ten thousand and eighty minutes.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
Seven days.
One week.
After he pressed the start button, Otto and Cyrus clinked glasses of Perrier-Jouët, which—at over six thousand dollars a bottle—was the world’s most expensive champagne.
They sipped the bubbles and smiled and watched the first sixty seconds tick away, and then the next sixty.
The Extinction Clock had begun.
(2)
Now
I crouched in the dark. I was bleeding and something inside was broken. Maybe something inside my head, too.
The door was barred. I had three bullets left. Three bullets and a knife.
The pounding on the door was like thunder. I knew the door wouldn’t hold.
They would get in.
Somewhere the Extinction Clock was ticking down. If I was still in this room when it hit zero, more people would die than perished during the Black Death and all of the pandemics put together.
I thought I could stop them.
I had to stop them. It was down to me or no one.
It wasn’t my fault I came into this so late. They chased us and messed with our heads and ran us around, and by the time we knew what we were up against the clock had already nearly run its course.
We tried. Over the last week I’d left a trail of bodies behind me from Denver, to Costa Rica, to the Bahamas. Some of those bodies were human. Some . . . well, I don’t know what the hell you’d call them.
The pounding was louder. The door was buckling, the crossbar bending. It was only seconds before the lock or the hinges gave out, and then they’d come howling in here. Then it would be them against me.
I was hurt. I was bleeding.
I had three bullets and a knife.
I got to my feet and faced the door, my gun in my left hand, the knife in my right.
I smiled.
Let them come.
Part One
Hunters
There is no hunting like the hunting of man,
and those who have hunted armed men long enough
and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
—ERNEST HEMINGWAY
“On the Blue Water,” Esquire, April 1936
Chapter One
Holy Redeemer Cemetery, Baltimore, Maryland
Saturday, August 28, 8:04 A.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 56 minutes
“Detective Ledger?” he said, and held out an ID case. “NSA.”
“How do you spell that?”
Not a flicker of a smile touched the concrete slab of his face. He was as big as me, and the three goons with him were even bigger. All of them in sunglasses with American flags pinned on their chests. Why does this stuff always seem to happen to me?
“We’d like you to come with us,” said the guy with the flat face.
“Why?” We were in the parking lot of Holy Redeemer Cemetery in Baltimore. I had a bunch of bright yellow daffodils in one hand and a bottle of spring water in the other. I had a pistol tucked into the back of my jeans under an Orioles away-game shirt. I never used to bring a piece to Helen’s grave, but over the last few months things have changed. Life’s become more complicated, and the gun was a habit 24/7. Even here.
The Goon Squad was definitely packing. Three right-handers and one lefty. I could see the faint bulges even under the tailored suits. The lefty was the biggest of the bunch, a moose with steroid shoulders and a nose that looked like it had been punched at least once from every
possible angle. If things got weird, he’d be the grabby type. The guys on either side of him were pretty boys; they’d keep their distance and draw on me. Right now they were about fourteen feet out and their sports coats were unbuttoned. Smooth.
“We’d like you to come with us,” Slab-face said again.
“I heard you. I asked, ‘Why?’ ”
“Please, Detective—”
“It’s Captain Ledger, actually.” I put a bit of frost in it even though I kept a smile on my face.
He said nothing.
“Have a nice day,” I said, and started to turn. The guy next to Slab-face—the one with the crooked nose—put his hand on my shoulder.
I stopped and looked down at his big hand and then up at his face. I didn’t say a word and he didn’t move his hand. There were four of them and one of me. The Nose probably thought that gave them a clean edge, and since NSA guys are pretty tough he was probably right. On the other hand, these guys tend to believe their own hype, and that can come back to bite you. I don’t know how much they knew about me, but if this clown had his hand on me then they didn’t know enough.
I tapped his wrist with the bunch of daffodils. “You mind?”
He removed his hand, but he stepped closer. “Don’t make this complicated.”
“ ‘Why?’ ” I said, “is not a complicated question.”
He gave me a millimeter of a smile. “National security.”
“Bullshit. I’m in national security. Go through channels.”
Slab-face touched the Nose’s shoulder and moved him aside so he could look me in the eyes. “We were told to bring you in.”
“Who signed the order?”
“Detective . . .”
“There you go again.”
Slab-face took a breath through his nose. “Captain Ledger.” He poured enough acid in it to melt through battleship armor.
“What’s your name?” I asked. He hadn’t held the ID up long enough for me to read it.
He paused. “Special Agent John Andrews.”
“Tell you what, Andrews, this is how we’re going to play it. I’m going to go over there and put flowers on the grave of my oldest and dearest friend—a woman who suffered horribly and died badly. I plan to sit with her for a while and I hope you have enough class and manners to allow me my privacy. Watch if you want to, but don’t get in my face. If you’re still here when I’m done, then we can take another swing at the ‘why’ question and I’ll decide whether I go with you.”
“What’s this bullshit?” snapped the Nose.
Andrews just looked at me.
“That’s the agenda, Andrews,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”
Despite his orders and his professional cool, he was a little off-balance. The very fact that he was hesitating meant that there was something hinky about this, and my guess was that he didn’t know what it was—so he wasn’t ready to try to strong-arm me. I was a federal agent tied to Homeland—or close enough for his purposes—and I held military rank on top of it. He couldn’t be sure that a misstep here wouldn’t do him some career harm. I watched his eyes as he sorted through his playbook.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
I should have just nodded and gone to visit Helen’s grave, but the fact that they were accosting me here of all places really pissed me off. “Tell you what,” I said, stepping back but still smiling. “When it gets to ten minutes start holding your breath.”
I gave him a cheery wink and used the index finger of the hand holding the bottle to point at the Nose. Then I turned and headed through the tombstones, feeling the heat of their stares on my back like laser sights.
Chapter Two
Holy Redeemer Cemetery, Baltimore, Maryland
Saturday, August 28, 8:06 A.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 54 minutes
Helen’s grave was on the far side of the cemetery in one of the newer sections. The whole place was flat as a pancake, but there were enough crypts and monuments to provide nominal cover. My watchdogs could see me, but I had a little bit of freedom of movement if I kept it subtle. Out of my peripheral vision I saw the Nose and one of the other guys—a blond surfer-looking dude—circling the access road in order to flank me.
I smiled. Together the four of them may have had a shot. Separated the only advantage they were leaving themselves was observation. At the current distances I could force a two-on-one situation with either Slab-face and his backup or the Nose and the Surfer. I was comfortable with those odds.
Autopilot took me to the grave. I’d switched the flowers and water bottle to my left hand so I could stick my right in my pocket. I’ve become adept at surreptitious speed-dialing and used my thumbnail to tap a number and a three-digit situation status code.
It always hurt to come here, but it hurt worse to miss a week. In the two years since Helen’s suicide I’d missed maybe four weekly visits. Last week was one because I was busting up a lab in Virginia where a couple of absolute fruitball scientists were trying to create a weaponized airborne strain of SARS to sell to terrorists. We had to dissuade them. I figured Helen would forgive me.
As I laid the flowers on the bright green grass on her grave my cell vibrated in my pocket.
“Excuse me, honey,” I murmured, placing my palm briefly on the cold headstone, “but I have to take this.”
I pulled the cell out and knelt down as if praying, so that my body hid the phone as I flipped it open. There was no name on the display, but I knew it was my boss. “I’m having an interesting morning,” I said. The alert word was “interesting.”
“This line is secure. Sit rep?” asked Mr. Church. I’ve worked for him for almost two months now and I still didn’t know his real name. I’ve heard people refer to him as the Deacon, Colonel Eldritch, the Sexton, and a few other names, but when I’d met him he introduced himself as Mr. Church, so I used that. He was somewhere north of sixty but not where it showed. My boys had a pool going as to whether he was an ex–Delta gunslinger or a CIA spook who’d moved up to management.
“Have we pissed off anybody in Washington lately?”
“Not so far this morning,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m at the cemetery. Couple of NSA stiffs have asked me to accompany them saying it was a national security issue, but they dodged my questions when I tried to find out what the deal was.”
“Do you have names?”
“Just one. John Andrews.” I described him and the others. “They’re not waving warrants around, but it’s pretty clear this isn’t a request.”
“Let me make some calls. Do nothing until I call you back.”
“These goons are waiting on me.”
“Do you care?”
“Not much.”
“Nor do I.”
He hung up. I smiled at the dragonflies that were hovering over Helen’s tombstone and let a few minutes pass. Inside I was churning. What the hell was this all about? Even though I knew I hadn’t done anything bad enough to warrant this kind of thing, I still had that guilty feeling inside. It was weird, because I didn’t think cops got that from other cops.
So far this made no sense. The book was closed on my last mission and I had nothing new on the griddle, and the last time I’d even had a brush with the NSA was last month, but that had been on a job that had ended satisfactorily for everyone involved. No stubbed toes or hurt feelings. So why did they want to pick me up?
My worry meter jumped a few points when I saw two government Crown Vics roll in through the gate and park on either side of my Explorer. Four more NSA agents climbed out and moved quickly to take up positions on logical exit routes. Four exits, four two-man teams. Slab-face was by the cars; the Nose and one other agent were between my car and the exit.
“Aw, crap.”
My cell vibrated and I answered it.
“Listen to me,” said Church. “Apparently we have rattled someone’s cage in D.C. and the situation has some wrinkles. As you know, th
e President is undergoing bypass surgery, and while he’s out that officially puts the VP in charge. The VP has never liked the DMS and has been very vocal about it. It looks like he’s making a run at dismantling it.”
“On what grounds?”
“He’s somehow convinced the Attorney General that I’ve been blackmailing the President to give the DMS an unusual amount of power and freedom of movement.”
“That’s kind of true, though, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t as simple as that, but for legal purposes the NSA have permission to arrest and detain all DMS staff, seize all of our facilities, et cetera.”
“Can he do that?”
“Yes. He’s the de facto Commander in Chief. Though once the President wakes up and resumes command the VP’s probably going to face some heat, but that will be in a few hours and the VP can do a lot of damage in that time. Aunt Sallie says that the NSA has landed two choppers at Floyd Bennett Field and is deploying a team. They do have warrants.”
Aunt Sallie was Church’s second in command and the Chief of Operations for the Hangar, the main DMS headquarters in Brooklyn. I’d never met her, but the rumors about her among the DMS staff were pretty wild.
Church said, “The Veep is operating in a narrow window here. We need to stall him until the President regains power. I can stall the Attorney General.”
I almost laughed. “This is really about MindReader, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”