Tom remembered bringing Kyle here years ago. A nostalgic pang pierced his heart as he recalled how much the boy had enjoyed exploring the old fort. Together, they had manned the ancient guns and pretended to fire upon imaginary battleships. Life had seemed much simpler then. Now Kyle was a grown man, caught up in Jordan Collier’s dangerous ambitions, and the real invaders came from across time, not from the sea. Fort Casey was more obsolete than ever.
A grassy field separated the parking lot from the batteries. On sunnier days, the field often attracted kite enthusiasts who filled the sky above the fort with elaborate airborne constructions, but the dismal winter weather had kept visitors away today. A clammy mist hung over the grounds. A steady drizzle fell from an overcast gray sky. There was only one other car parked nearby: a black Lincoln Town Car with Washington plates.
Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves, Tom thought. Probably just as well; whatever today’s covert meeting was about, it surely wasn’t for public consumption. Why else choose such an unorthodox rendezvous point?
Curiosity, as well as the incessant rain, drove him across the field. He grimaced as icy water trickled down the back of his neck; like most native Seattlites, he wouldn’t be caught dead carrying an umbrella. A quick dash brought him to an arched concrete doorway at the base of the nearest battery. A riveted iron door flanked the open threshold. He darted into the murky confines of an abandoned shot and powder room. The unlit chamber was as stark and barren as a prison cell. Greenish algae streaked the rough concrete walls. An empty elevator shaft connected the powder room with the guns mounted on upper levels. Rainwater sluiced past the doorway, pooling on the hard stone floor.
Tom shook the rain from his hair and glanced around the shadowy bunker. At first he didn’t see anyone and wondered if maybe he had ducked into the wrong storeroom. The old fort was full of secluded nooks and crannies, which no doubt contributed to the location being chosen for this rendezvous. The dense concrete walls discouraged electronic surveillance.
Not taking any chances, I see.
He was about to venture out into the rain again when he heard a rustle of motion behind him. His hand went instinctively to his sidearm as he turned around to see a pair of figures emerge from one of the adjoining storerooms. One was male, the other female. The former was nobody he’d been in any hurry to see again.
“About time you got here,” Dennis Ryland said. “You’re late.”
TWO
TOM’S FORMER BOSS was a lean, dark-haired man about two decades older than Tom. A gray wool overcoat was draped over his gaunt frame. Shrewd brown eyes peered from his vulpine countenance. After being forced out of NTAC in the wake of a major scandal three years ago, Ryland had ended up at the Haspel Corporation, a private security firm that often worked hand in hand with the Feds when it came to cracking down on the 4400 and the other p-positives. If anything, Ryland had even more power now than before—and considerably less oversight. That made him a dangerous man. Too dangerous, as far as Tom was concerned.
“Hello, Dennis,” he said coldly. His hand came away from his gun.
Ryland glanced at an expensive Rolex wristwatch. Life in the private sector clearly had its perks. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”
“I thought about it,” Tom confessed. He and Dennis had once been friends, but there was little love lost between them these days. Tom still regarded p-positives as people; Ryland saw them only as threats to be neutralized, and preferably eliminated. Their friendship had not survived that clash of viewpoints. “This had better be worth the trip.”
A smirk greeted Tom’s hostile tone. “Sorry to drag you all the way out here today,” Ryland said, “but, as you know, I’m not exactly welcome in Seattle anymore.”
“Imagine that,” Tom said. Among other things, Ryland had been behind a plot to poison the original 4400 with an experimental drug that had nearly killed all of the returnees, including Tom’s own nephew. Although Ryland had received only a slap on the wrist for his role in the infamous Inhibitor Scandal, Collier and his followers still regarded him as a “war criminal.” Banishing Haspelcorp from Seattle had been one of the first items on Collier’s agenda. Last Tom had heard, the company was based out of Tacoma now, which was still too close for comfort.
Ryland overlooked Tom’s sarcastic tone. He gestured toward his companion: a young Asian woman wearing a belted white trenchcoat. A pixie cut flattered her lustrous black hair. Despite the gloom, a stylish pair of dark glasses concealed her eyes. “You may remember my associate, Ms. Simone Tanaka.”
“How could I forget?” Tom said wryly. He and his partner had personally arrested Tanaka over a year and a half ago, after exposing her as part of a now defunct 4400 terrorist cell known as “The Nova Group.” He had lost track of her after the NSA took her into custody, and was a bit surprised to find her working with Ryland. Philosophically, the Nova Group and Haspelcorp were on opposite sides of the fence; the Nova Group had even tried to assassinate Ryland a while back. “Keeping kind of odd company, aren’t you. For a former radical, I mean.”
She shrugged. “Times change. Given the choice between spending the rest of my life locked up in solitary, doped to the gills on the inhibitor, or lending my special talents to the authorities in exchange for certain privileges … well, you’d be surprised how flexible one’s convictions can turn out to be.”
Maybe for some people, Tom thought. Still, he was reluctant to judge Tanaka too harshly. Who knew what sort of pressures Ryland and his cronies had exerted to secure her cooperation? Not to mention the fact that the lines between the good guys and bad guys were getting extremely blurry nowadays. Tanaka wasn’t the only person whose alliances had shifted over time. Sometimes not even Tom knew whose side he was on.
“So much for the pleasantries,” Ryland said. “Shall we get down to the business?”
Tom shook his head. “Not yet.” He eyed the pair suspiciously. “Let me check behind your ears.”
“You think I’m Marked?” Ryland snorted at the idea. “You’re getting paranoid, Tom.”
“I have reason to be.” Tom wasn’t surprised that Ryland knew about the Marked; no doubt his contacts in the intelligence community had briefed him on the bodysnatching conspirators. He circled behind Ryland and Tanaka. “If you don’t mind.”
Ryland sighed wearily. “If it will put your mind at rest.” He let Tom peek behind the ear. To the agent’s relief, the skin under the lobe did not bear an X-shaped mole. “You do realize that this is a waste of time, don’t you?” Ryland objected. “I hardly need to be possessed by a sinister entity from the future to want to save this country from the 4400 and Collier’s seditious Movement.”
He’s got a point there, Tom conceded. Marking Ryland would be redundant; the man was already obsessed with destroying the 4400. “I guess you and the Marked are on the same page.”
“You know what they say,” Ryland answered. “The enemy of my enemy, et cetera.”
Tom didn’t like the sound of that. Was Ryland just pulling his chain, or was he actually in cahoots with the Marked? Lord knows they had similar agendas, and swam in the same lofty military-industrial circles. That could be serious trouble.
Convinced that Ryland’s prejudices were his own, and not something imposed on him by the Marked, Tom moved on to Tanaka. Was there more to her defection to Ryland’s camp than simple expedience? “Excuse me,” he said as he came up behind her. “Your glasses.”
“Go ahead,” Ryland instructed her.
Her back to Tom, she removed her glasses. Slender fingers brushed her hair away from her ear. A whiff of perfume tickled Tom’s nostrils. “You do this with every girl you meet?”
I would if I was single, Tom thought. He had been involved with his boss, Meghan Doyle, for months now. And, truth be told, he sometimes checked behind her ear when they were making love or in the shower. He tried to be subtle about it, but he suspected that Meghan knew what he was up to, even if she never said anything. Me
ghan understood what the Marked had done to him. She had been one of the first people to see through the false Tom’s deceptions.
“That’s none of your business,” he replied. The woman’s skin proved equally unblemished and he stepped away from her. She replaced her glasses.
“Satisfied?” Ryland asked him.
“On that score.” Tom circled back to face the pair. “Although part of me kind of wishes I had found a Mark on you. It would have explained what happened to the man I used to know.”
“I never changed,” Ryland insisted. “You’re the one who let your sentimental attachment to these menaces blind you to what needs to be done. Speaking of which, I hear that you and Regional Director Doyle are enjoying an unusually close working relationship.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “First the Mareva woman, now another p-positive freak?”
Along with several other NTAC staffers, Meghan had been involuntarily infected with promicin during fifty/fifty. And like the other survivors, she had developed a 4400 ability. This had posed a dilemma for NTAC, which was still tasked with carrying out the war on promicin. As a result, the agency had adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding all the NTAC employees who had gained abilities against their will. Everyone knew what had happened to them, but they were expected to be discreet about it … or face immediate termination.
“Watch it,” Tom warned him. He was tempted to pop Ryland in the nose, but chose not to take the bait. After all, he still didn’t know why the other man had requested this meeting. “What do you want, Dennis?”
“The same thing as always,” Ryland declared, getting down to business. “To stop the 4400 and the other positives from wrecking our way of life and endangering our national security. Today, that means bringing down Collier and his Movement.”
He extracted a plastic vial and shook a couple of circular brown tablets into his palm before popping the pills into his mouth. Tom recognized the tablets as ubiquinone, a common nutritional supplement that, in sufficient doses, could provide temporary immunity to promicin. The Feds had been madly stockpiling “U-Pills” for months now, despite Collier’s frequent efforts to sabotage the initiative via suspiciously surgical earthquakes and tornadoes. All p-negative NTAC agents now routinely carried emergency doses when in the field. Tom’s own supply was tucked in his back pocket.
“Unfortunately,” Ryland continued, “as I mentioned before, my people are persona non grata in Seattle, which means it’s up to you and your colleagues to dethrone Collier, even if it means taking advantage of your son’s connection to Collier.”
“Kyle?” Tom bristled at the suggestion. “You want me to exploit my own son?”
Ryland didn’t deny it. “As Collier’s confidant and righthand man, he’s a unique asset which we’d be fools not to utilize. I realize this puts you in an awkward position, but your duty to this country trumps your familial obligations.” His stern tone reminded Tom of how Ryland had once run NTAC’s northwest office. “You’re still a federal agent, Tom. Don’t tell me you approve of Collier turning Seattle into his own private fiefdom?”
“Of course not.” Tom didn’t trust Collier one bit, even though they had been forced to work together on occasion. In fact, NTAC was already doing its best to keep a close eye on Collier and his organization, given the constraints of the current situation. But he didn’t like getting bossed around by the likes of Ryland. “Leave Kyle out of this.”
“I wish I could,” Ryland said. “I used to attend his birthday parties, remember? As I recall, he really liked that chemistry set I got him when he was eleven.” His voice took on a rueful tone. “But Kyle made himself fair game when he hitched his star to Jordan Collier’s wagon.” He couldn’t resist twisting the knife a bit. “You ever think you set a bad example by literally sleeping with the enemy?”
Tom’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re not exactly winning me over here, Dennis. Why should I help you?”
“The names Curtis Peck and Warren Trask ring a bell?” Ryland’s lean face hardened. Tom flinched at the mention of the men he had murdered while Marked. “I’d hate to see you charged with crimes you committed while not in your right mind, but I can’t help thinking that your recent extracurricular activities give me a degree of leverage.”
Simone Tanaka cracked a bitter smile. “Gee, this sounds familiar.”
“Don’t try playing hardball with me.” Tom wasn’t sure if the other man was bluffing or not, but, once he got over the initial jolt, he gave as good as he got. “I’m not the only one with dirty laundry. You want the world to know that the promicin Collier used to launch his Movement was created by Haspelcorp at your direction? The way I see it, that makes you indirectly responsible for everything that’s happened since. Including fifty/fifty.”
Ryland scowled, unable to refute Tom’s charges. Collier had hijacked Haspelcorp’s homemade promicin right under Ryland’s nose two years ago. The drug had been intended to create an army of enhanced soldiers to combat the 4400, but Collier had found another use for it, namely offering the drug to the entire world.
“Touché,” Ryland said, backing off. He tried another tack. “Suppose I told you that Collier is trying to weaponize promicin? To re-create the airborne version Danny Farrell unleashed on Seattle a few months ago?”
Tom winced at the mention of his nephew’s name. Danny hadn’t meant to hurt anyone when he’d injected himself with promicin. He had only wanted to gain an ability like his older brother, Shawn, one of the original 4400. But, to his infinite horror, and the world’s lasting regret, he’d acquired the ghastly ability to infect everyone around him with a highly contagious form of promicin. Like a modern-day Typhoid Mary, he had spread the plague throughout Seattle before he even realized what was happening. Danny’s own mother—Tom’s sister—had been the first to die …
“I’ve seen those reports,” Tom said skeptically. “Lots of doctored evidence cooked up by the Marked and their friends in high places. They’re just trying to provoke the Feds into launching a preemptive strike against Collier.”
“Are you willing to take that chance?” Ryland challenged him. “Besides, I have my own sources of information.”
“Such as?”
Ryland glanced at Tanaka. The woman removed her glasses to reveal a pair of striking brown eyes. Her dark bronze irises had a thin golden halo around them, giving the eyes an eerie preternatural quality. Tom recalled that Tanaka was capable of seeing vast distances, and through solid objects, with her so-called “spy-eyes.” The Nova Group had used her to spy on NTAC during the “Vesuvius Affair.” Ryland and his buddies had surely put her ocular gifts to use as well.
“I can also read lips,” she reminded him.
Am I buying this? Tom thought. Tanaka’s ability was a matter of record, but he wasn’t about to take her or Ryland at their word. She had a vested interest in telling Tom whatever her new bosses wanted her to, and Ryland had lied to Tom before.
“If you don’t believe me,” Ryland said, “check it out for yourself.”
Tom broke down and extracted a notepad from his pocket. “How?”
Ryland smiled slyly. “Here’s a question for you. Whatever happened to Danny Farrell’s remains?”
THREE
THE PRISONER GROANS upon the floor of the cell. Blood drips from a swollen lip. He clutches the side of his head. A hefty guard stands over the prisoner. He sneers at the man on the floor, then kicks him savagely in the ribs. “You like that, you stupid freak?” he roars. Another guard cackles from outside the cell. No one notices the pale-faced young girl watching from the corner. Her eyes widen in horror.
The prisoner, a tall black man in an orange jumpsuit, tries to climb to his feet, but the beefy guard punches him in the face. He clubs him in the back with a metal truncheon, knocking him facedown onto the rough concrete floor.
“Wait!” the girl screams, but no one hears her. She’s only an observer here. Like a ghost.
The guard draws a gun from
a holster. He aims it at the helpless prisoner.
“Time to say good-bye, Tyler.”
“Stop it!” the girl screams. “You’re going to kill him!”
Maia Skouris awoke with a start. Disoriented by the nightmare, it took the teenager a moment to realize that she was safe in her own bed. Her wide brown eyes absorbed the familiar setting. Her straight blond hair was parted down the middle. A poster of Frank Sinatra was pinned to one wall. Dirty laundry littered the floor. Textbooks and homework were piled atop a desk, beside a globe of the world. Her journal rested on an end table next to her bed. Moonlight filtered through the window curtains. A digital alarm clock informed her that it was 3:20 in the morning.
Oh my God, she thought. That felt so real.
“Maia? Are you all right?” The bedroom door swung open and her mother rushed into the room. Diana Skouris flicked on the lights as she entered. Her auburn hair was mussed from the bed. A blue cotton nightgown clung to her trim, athletic figure. “I heard you cry out.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Maia replied, embarrassed by the fuss. “Just a bad dream.”
Diana sat down at the edge of the bed. Concerned brown eyes examined her daughter’s face. “Just an ordinary dream—or a vision?”
Maia knew what her mother meant. Ever since Maia had returned with the rest of the 4400 five years ago, she had been blessed—or cursed—with occasional glimpses of the future. Sometimes these visions struck her when she was wide awake; other times they came to her in the form of astonishingly vivid dreams. But they always came true.
“It’s Richard,” she blurted. “Richard Tyler.” Like her, Tyler was one of the original 4400. Last she’d heard, he had been arrested by the government. “I saw him in prison. One of the guards was trying to kill him!”
“Oh no,” Diana murmured. She didn’t question Maia’s vision. Past experience had taught them both to take the girl’s predictions very seriously. “Could you tell when this was happening?”