Chimera: A Jim Chapel Mission

It was something the government had made. The government of the United States. The detainees-the psychopathic, violent, homicidal detainees weren't just dangerous criminals. They were guinea pigs. Specimens that the CIA or the DoD or maybe both had experimented on. And letting that fact out of this room was unthinkable to Banks.



He noticed one other thing, too, from what Banks had said.



When Banks talked about the public-meaning the American people, the citizens of the United States-he referred to them as an "it."



He was beginning to see why Hollingshead hated this man.



THE PENTAGON: APRIL 12, T+5:35



"You'll need to leave immediately," Banks told him. "You're going to have to work damned fast if you're going to catch them. We'll do everything in our power to help you-everything that doesn't damage national security."



"I know we're asking a very great deal of you, son," Hollingshead said. "I wish I could give you opportunity to volunteer for this mission. I wish I could let you turn it down. Tell me, Captain, what are your thoughts right now?"



"Permission to speak candidly, sir?"



Hollingshead came over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Permission to swear a blue streak if you like. Permission to call us every foul name you can think of. Just be honest and tell me what you're thinking."



"I think you called in the wrong man," Chapel told them.



Banks and Hollingshead both stared at Chapel in shock.



From behind him, he heard Laughing Boy let out a little chuckle, which was cut off quite abruptly as if he were trying to suppress it.



Chapel could hardly believe he'd said it himself. For ten years he'd been slowly dying in a desk job he hated. Doing basic police work when he'd been trained to be out in the field, making a real difference. How many times had he dreamed of a moment like this, of being called back to active duty? Because it would have meant he was whole again. Not just three-quarters of a human being, but a vital man of action.



But part of what made him want that, part of why he could even hope for it, was his desire to do the right thing. The thing that made sense not just for him but for the country he served. And there must have been a serious miscalculation somewhere here.



He shook his head. "This isn't a matter for Military Intelligence. You have four men out there, loose in America, who sound as much like serial killers as anything else. That's the jurisdiction of the FBI, the last time I checked. If they were detainees under extraordinary rendition-even then-at most you should be working with the U.S. Marshals Service. They're the ones who track down escaped fugitives."



"I don't have time for this shit," Banks said.



"Sir, with all due respect-I'm the one running out of time," Chapel told him. "There's one other thing I have to say, though. One thing I need to make clear. You have the wrong man because I am not a hit man. I don't kill people for money."



"You know how to use a gun, don't you?" Banks demanded.



"The army taught me that, yes," Chapel agreed. "But I know you're a civilian, sir, and you may be operating under a common misconception about soldiers. We aren't in the business of killing random people. The mission of the armed forces is to extend U.S. policy through force only when necessary, and to use other means whenever it is humanly possible."



Hollingshead nodded slowly. He was a military man, Chapel was sure of it, so he already knew this.



"So when I find these men, I'm going to do everything in my power to bring them in alive. Or at least capture them in the safest way possible."



"Then you're a fool," Banks told him.



Hollingshead clapped his hands together in obvious excitement. "Then you will do it? You'll get them back for us?"



"Sir," Chapel said, standing at attention, "I do not remember being asked for my acceptance of this mission, sir. I remember being asked for my opinion."



"What the fuck ever," Banks said, rising from his chair and frowning in anger. "I asked for a killer and you brought me a goddamned Eagle Scout."



It was, in its way, the nicest thing Banks had said about Chapel yet. He knew he wasn't going to get anything better.



THE PENTAGON: APRIL 12, T+5:42



"I know it seems like a hard task we've given you," Hollingshead said, shrugging in apology.



"I'm just not sure how I'd even begin," Chapel admitted.



"There, at least, we can help you." Hollingshead drew a folded-up sheet of paper from his pocket. As he unfolded it and smoothed it out he said, "Now, you can't ask us how we came by this, son, or what these people have in common. But we are-let's say eighty percent-sure that our detainees will attempt to make contact with the people named on this list."



He handed the paper to Chapel. There were eight names on it, each matched with a last known address. He didn't bother reading the names yet, instead looking up at the two men facing him. "Permission to guess something, sir?"



Hollingshead chuckled. "That, I think, we can allow."



"If I were an escapee from a . . . from a DoD facility, the first thing I'd want to do was to make contact with my family. Friends, professional contacts . . . anyone I could trust. I'm assuming that's where these names come from."



"Look, Banks. Look-he's already on the case," Hollingshead said, with a warm and generous smile. "I told you he was our man."



"He's already making mistakes is what he's doing," Banks countered.



Hollingshead's smile faded. "I'm afraid that's true, son." He looked Chapel straight in the eye. "Those aren't family members or friends," he said. "The word for them is-ah, there's no good word for it, let's say-let's call them-"



"Intended victims," Banks said.



Chapel frowned. He glanced down at the list again.



"It's a kill list," Banks went on.



Chapel nearly dropped the piece of paper.



Hollingshead waved his hands in the air as if he wanted to calm everyone down. "That sounds so very dramatic! It's not wholly inaccurate, though. The one thing we are certain of is that our detainees are going to go after these names and do everything they can to murder them. Keeping these people alive-"



"-is secondary," Banks butted in. "Taking out the targets is the only thing you need to worry about. But with this list at least you know where they're headed."



Chapel scanned the list quickly, not bothering to memorize the names. He was more interested in the addresses for the moment. In his head he put together a map of the locations. New York City, Atlanta, Vancouver in Canada-that was going to be a jurisdictional nightmare-Chicago, Denver, Seattle, Alaska. That was an awful lot of ground to cover. But it was better than just going door-to-door throughout the entire continental United States, asking if anyone had seen a shaggy-haired man with a murderous disposition.



When he had the map in his head, he glanced over the names. A couple of them were doctors, by the look of it-or Ph.D.s, at least. He only recognized one of the names. "Hayes. Franklin Hayes-he's a federal judge. He's been in the news recently."



"The president chose him to be the next justice on the Supreme Court," Hollingshead said. "He's just waiting for the Senate to confirm his appointment."



Chapel wondered if that made his job harder or easier. Harder because if someone was gunning for a high-ranking judge it would be tough to keep it out of the papers. Easier because a man like that would already have some security.



"He'll be the first one you make contact with, of course," Banks said. "He's the highest-value target."



Chapel shook his head. "With all due respect, sir, he won't." He tapped the list with his artificial index finger. "Judge Hayes is on-what? The Tenth Circuit Court? The address for him here is in Denver. If the detainees are limited to traveling by train or by bus-" He glanced up for confirmation.



"So far that's what we've seen, yes," Hollingshead confirmed. "They don't have driver's licenses or passports. They won't be able to board an airplane. And they don't know how to drive a car. That's a small bit of luck, eh?"



"-then it will still take two days for one of them to arrive in Colorado."



"That sounds right," Hollingshead confirmed.



Chapel nodded. "Meanwhile we've got two names here in New York City. An hour and a half from the Catskills by train. A detainee could already be there. Two people are already at risk. It has to be my first stop."



"Whatever!" Banks said, throwing his hands in the air. "Just do it. Hollingshead, I want constant reporting on this. Total accountability from your office."



"Of course," Hollingshead said. He was staring Chapel right in the eye while he spoke. "I'll make sure to keep you in the loop."



"As for you," Banks said, jabbing a finger in Chapel's direction, "you do what you're told, you keep your mouth shut, and you end this problem as fast you goddamned well can. You need something from CIA, we'll provide it, as long as you keep our name out of things. You have a sidearm? You're going to need one. And I want you in civvies while you're working on this. I don't want the public to see an army asshole running around in full dress uniform, shooting at our targets."



"I would need to go home and change."



"There's a rack of civilian clothing in the room back there," Hollingshead said, gesturing at a door at the back of the bar. "You can take your pick. As for a sidearm, I've already thought of that." He reached behind the bar and produced a black pistol with the squared-off lines of a SIG Sauer P228-a weapon Chapel had handled more than once, since it was common issue among the armed forces. The army, which had to have its own name for everything, called it the M11.



"Nice weapon," Chapel said. At least here he could impress his superiors with his knowledge. "9x19 mm ammunition-the favorite cartridge of police and military units everywhere. Good stopping power, but without the kick of heavier ammo so you don't have to refocus after each shot. A short slide and barrel so it's easily concealed. Normally it takes a thirteen-round magazine but you've put the fifteen-round magazine from a P226 in there-you can tell by the way the magazine sticks a little way out of the grip. Not the fanciest gun in the world but one of the most dependable."



Hollingshead glanced at Banks, looking impressed. Banks just shrugged.



Hollingshead set the pistol down on the bar and came over to shake Chapel's hand. When Chapel held out his right hand, Hollingshead grasped it-then grabbed Chapel's artificial left hand as well. He didn't flinch at all when he touched the silicone. "All right, son. Go get changed while I finish up here with our civilian friend."



"Sir," Chapel said. He headed through the indicated door and found a little room beyond, a cloakroom by the look of it. Two Z-racks of men's suits stood there, each suit wrapped in plastic like they'd just come back from the dry cleaner's. Along one wall was a dresser full of crisp white shirts still wrapped in cellophane.



He took off his cap and started to unbutton his jacket when he heard voices from the bar room beyond. He closed the door to the cloakroom but not all the way. He wanted to hear what they had to say.



"-goddamned cripple, at least tell me that robot arm of his isn't his shooting arm," Banks grumbled.



"I assure you, I didn't just pick Chapel's name out of a hat," Hollingshead replied. "He's the man we want-the man we need for this. Given some of your preconditions and your damnable sensitivity issues."



"You'd better be right. For all of our sakes." Banks grumbled something else Chapel couldn't make out. Then he raised his voice and spoke more clearly. "You've got just as much to lose here as I do, Rupert."



"A point I am firmly aware of. Now why don't you and your crop-headed monster get out of my office, so I can get back to controlling this situation?"



Chapel had to grin at that. Crop-headed monster. He could think of worse names for Laughing Boy-plenty of them-but that one fit just fine.



When he'd finished dressing, he stepped back out of the cloakroom to find Banks and Laughing Boy gone. They hadn't even bothered to wish him good luck. Not that he minded much.



"Look at you!" Hollingshead said. "I wouldn't recognize you. Which I suppose is the point."



Chapel ran a hand down the front of his new suit. "I haven't worn one of these in a while. I've got my dress uniforms for formal occasions, and when I'm off duty, I'm more of a polo shirt and jeans man."



"How's the fit? In the, ah, shoulders?"



Chapel had ended up taking the slacks from one suit and the jacket from a bigger one. He needed extra room in the shoulders for two reasons. One was to give the clamps that held his arm on more room. The other was to give him space to conceal his sidearm.



They taught you all kinds of fun stuff in spy school, including how to dress yourself. "It's good."



He pulled down on the cuffs of the suit jacket and stared at the dark fabric. It was the wrong color. It wasn't green or blue. It wasn't a uniform. "Sir," he said, in a small voice-because if the army had taught him one thing above all others, it was how to show respect to a superior officer. "Sir. Please. I hate to even say this out loud. But . . . I am a cripple. I am too old for this job, and too long out of active duty. If this mission is as important as you say-"



"Son, I'm going to mark this little moment of doubt down to pressure. The stress of a new and daunting assignment." Hollingshead stood up straight and Chapel couldn't resist coming to attention. "We're going to pretend you never said that. And if you ever call yourself that horrible name again-cripple-I'm going to start believing it, and I can't afford that. You are the right man for this job. The only man for this job. Now. I'd ask if you're ready, if you need more time," Hollingshead said, "but we don't have that luxury. I'll take you to the helipad now, and you can get started."



THE PENTAGON: APRIL 12, T+6:21



As Hollingshead led Chapel up through various layers and corridors of the Pentagon, every soldier they passed stood to attention and saluted. Clearly they knew the man-and respected him. Chapel found himself grinning, despite the screwed-up situation he'd landed in. This was a whole other world from the cubicle farm at Fort Belvoir. This was the game-the Great Game, they used to call it.



As they made their way through the lobby toward the helipad deck, a squad of soldiers at the security checkpoint stopped in the middle of searching visitors and lined up by the door like they were competing for who got to hold it open. They watched Hollingshead like he was about to perform some kind of magic trick. Hollingshead might look like a stuffy old professor from Yale or Harvard, but these men knew better.



"I have a question, sir," Chapel said.



"You're free to ask, of course." Hollingshead's mouth curled in a funny kind of smile. "I'll tell you anything I can."



"I just wanted to know-how should I be addressing you? If I'm working for you now, I'd like to know whether I should call you Colonel . . . or General."



"Are those my only options? They used to call me Commodore. Then it was Rear Admiral."



"Sir," Chapel said, his spine stiffening. "Beg your pardon. I didn't realize you were in the navy."



"Try not to hold it against me," Hollingshead said. He waved the guards away and pushed the doors open himself, letting a gust of fresh air come blasting into the security lobby.



A helicopter-a Bell 407, painted in civilian colors and with no DoD markings at all-was waiting on the Pentagon's helipad. Its rotor was already spun up by the time Chapel and Hollingshead arrived.



The noise of the chopper was enough to make it difficult for Chapel to hear what Hollingshead was saying. He'd been rambling on about what kind of support Chapel would have in his mission-an unlimited budget, the ability to requisition police and National Guard units as required-but Chapel hadn't been listening with more than half an ear. He was too busy trying to remember what he knew about New York City, a place he'd only been a handful of times in his life.



"Captain," Hollingshead said, nearly shouting over the roar of the helicopter's engine.



"Hmm?"



"Captain! I'm about to commit an act of treason! I'd appreciate it if I could have some of your attention."



That made Chapel focus, and quickly. "Admiral," he said.



"You have a number of questions, I'm sure, which haven't been answered yet. I can't tell you everything, but I can give you a little more than you've heard so far."



Chapel could barely hear Hollingshead's voice over the roar of the rotor blades, but he leaned close to catch every word. He understood how serious this was.



"What happened this morning, at the camp, was a disaster. It was supposed to be impossible. It was also, in a way, the luckiest break we're likely to get."



"Admiral?"



"The CIA-Banks, specifically-was supposed to be in charge of any escapes from that camp. He had someone in our ranks there-a mole-who was supposed to call him if such a thing happened. For reasons no one knows, the mole failed to make that telephone call. Because it is a top secret DoD facility, it was put on my desk instead. My office was given oversight on this. I mobilized the capture teams immediately. You've guessed by now what happened to them. I was quite prepared to send more men, as many as it took-this is that big a threat. But by that time, Banks had finally heard what was going on. He went straight to the president and demanded he be given this operation.



"Because time was of the essence and I was already working on this, the commander in chief decided I should remain in charge. But Banks was given veto power over every move I made. He has not been shy about using that power. It was his decision to send a single man rather than multiple teams. He is far more concerned about maintaining secrecy in this matter than in actually capturing the fugitives."



"But if they're that dangerous-"



"He feels that allowing the public to know what's going on would be an even greater threat to national security," Hollingshead said. He shook his head sadly. "He's a smart man, but I can't say I approve of his priorities. He insisted that it had to be one man for this job. He wanted to send that goon of his, but I insisted I choose the man. Any number of twenty-five-year-old Navy SEALs came to mind, but no. I wanted someone who could be discreet, somebody with some experience-no cowboys. This isn't a job for a hit man; this is far more surgical. I picked you."



"I appreciate your faith in me, sir," Chapel said. Even though he couldn't claim to understand it.



"You're going to curse my name before this over, I don't doubt it. But I need you in this role. You are the last chance to keep this thing in Military Intelligence hands. If you fail, I fail as well. Banks will gain total control over this operation. He'll send his goon in and I think you can guess what would happen then. The cretin will kill every shaggy-haired man in a five-hundred-mile radius. The collateral damage will be astonishing, and terrible. You and I both swore an oath to protect the American people. It's you who's going to have to uphold that oath, because there can be no one else, now."



"I'll-I won't let you down," Chapel promised.



"I know what we've handed you, Captain. I know how I would feel about being given a mission like this and then being told I couldn't know any of the details. We're playing a rotten joke on you, frankly, and I'm sorry. It was Banks who insisted we send you out into this with an incomplete briefing, as well."



"I understand the need for secrecy, sir," Chapel said.



"I daresay you do. What neither you nor I understand-at least not completely, not yet-is just how much is going on behind the scenes. Banks is playing a very deep strategy here. He's keeping me from telling you everything I know. But he can't keep you from finding things out on your own."



"Sir?"



"Keep your eyes open, out there. Put the clues together. If you're going to actually pull this off, that's the only way. Figure out what we're not telling you-and why we can't tell you. Banks won't like you peeling back the lid of his box of secrets, but he can't stop you, not if you're smart about it."



Chapel nodded in understanding.



"Whatever you do," Hollingshead said, "keep yourself alive. It's imperative to me that you don't get killed out there."



"I-sir, that's-"



"Because, Captain, I don't have time to find a replacement. Now get going! I've got a little surprise for you en route. You'll get to meet your new partner."



He shook Chapel's hand and headed back into the Pentagon.



Leaving Chapel all alone-with a job to do.



BROOKLYN, NEW YORK: APRIL 12, T+6:29



In Brooklyn an old woman was just being roused from sleep. The bedside light came on with a click, and Dr. Helen Bryant's eyes flickered open. She had been in the middle of her midday nap and felt somewhat annoyed at being awoken. Then she looked up and saw a face looming over hers and fear caught flame inside her chest.



"Please," she said, clutching the sheets in her fists. "Don't hurt me. I don't keep any drugs here. They're at my clinic."



The face hovering over her was broad and cruel. Male, perhaps twenty-five years old. His hair and beard were hacked short, as if he'd cut them himself, and his eyes were hidden by large sunglasses. If she'd been a little more awake, she might have known what that meant.



"Relax," he told her, his voice a low growl that held a purr of violence ticking over like an idling engine. She tried to sit up, but a thick hand pressed down between her breasts and pushed her back. She couldn't fight that hand-it was like struggling against an industrial press. She could feel the bones of her rib cage flex as he pushed down harder. "I said relax. My name is Brody. You know what I am."



"You're not here for drugs," she said, because she was beginning to understand who Brody was. What he was.



"I said you know what I am," Brody said. "Don't mess with me." He leaned down over her, close enough she could smell the dirt on his skin. "I came a long way to find you. I had to know."



He reached up and took off his sunglasses. She had known already what she would see underneath, but still she gasped. His eyes were black from side to side. There were no irises, no whites, just featureless shiny black. Looking into them she felt like she was looking into a darkened room-anything at all could be in there. There would be no predicting Brody's behavior, she knew. He seemed calm enough now, but he could erupt in violence at the slightest provocation. He was strong enough that if that happened, one little old lady was not going to survive his wrath.



"You shouldn't be here," she said. "How did you get out?"



"I'll ask the fucking questions!" Brody shouted. He grabbed the metal bed frame underneath her and yanked hard, throwing the mattress, the box spring, and Dr. Bryant to the floor. She struggled with the sheets wrapped around her neck and arms and tried to scuttle away as he reached down with inhuman speed and grabbed her by the shoulder.



"No," she screamed, as his fingers closed around her clavicle and crushed it into powder. Pain ran screaming up and down her body as her arm twitched wildly against the floorboards. "Please-please just-tell me what you want to know! I'll tell you anything!"



Brody let her go. "That's better." He walked over to the door and shut it carefully. For a while he didn't look at her. He stared down at his hands, at the floor. "That's . . . better. Just everybody relax." Was he talking to himself, as much as to her?



He sat down in the chair by her dressing table. He dropped into it hard enough to make it creak, as if he wasn't used to fragile furniture. She supposed he wouldn't be. "You left us there. You just left us."



Dr. Bryant was in horrible pain, but she knew she had to do something. The telephone on the bedside table was useless. There was no way help could reach her in time. There was a pen, there, however, perched on top of the crossword puzzle she'd been working on before she fell asleep. She grasped it with her weak left hand and fumbled the cap off.



"You-you didn't want us anymore," Brody said, his anger back to a low simmer. Dr. Bryant knew that the comparative calm wouldn't last. He rubbed at his hair and face with both hands. "I guess we didn't work out, huh?" A nasty grin crossed his face. "I guess we just weren't good enough."



Dr. Bryant dropped the pen. She'd managed to scrawl a message on the wall next to the bed frame. Nothing complex, but enough that the right people would understand what it meant. Assuming the right people ever saw it.



"Brody," she said, "It wasn't like that. It wasn't-"



"You said you were our mother! You stood up on the platform, and you shouted it through a loudspeaker. You were our mother, and you were going to take care of us! Make sure we were okay!"



"We did what we could," she pleaded. "It wasn't safe to-to get any closer. We sent you food, and clothes. Toys-"



"You're pretty stupid for a doctor, huh?" Brody asked. He dropped to his knees next to her and smashed her across the face with a hand like a lion's paw. "Stupid! Stupid! I know how to read, you stupid bitch! You gave us books. You gave us books so we could read. Did you think we wouldn't figure out what a mother was supposed to be?" He struck her again and again. "In the books, the mothers hugged their children. They loved them! You never loved us," he said, and his voice was a roar.



"It wasn't safe," she begged, in between blows. "It wasn't safe-we couldn't-we couldn't-please stop! Please!"



Brody stopped hitting her across the face. For a moment he glared at her, his nostrils flaring. "This isn't going right."



She could only stare up at him. Blood ran down her face in streams.



"This isn't what I expected. I thought I was going to come and talk to you, just talk. That I could learn something here. But I just keep getting frustrated." He shook his head from side to side.



"Brody," she managed to squeak out, "Brody, I'm hurt. I'll . . . I'll tell you anything. I'll . . . I'll be your mother if you want, just-"



"You know what I am. You know we don't do well with frustration," he said. Then he grabbed her by her hurt arm and threw her across the room to smash against the vanity table on the far wall. She just had time to see her own screaming face in the mirror before she crashed into the glass with a shattering, tooth-rattling noise.



Brody hurt her more after that but thankfully she felt very little of it. She was dead long before he was finished.



IN TRANSIT: APRIL 12, T+6:46



Partner?



Chapel thought maybe Hollingshead had meant the helicopter pilot. When he climbed on board, though, he saw that the pilot was an air force kid who couldn't be more than twenty-five-and who had no idea who Chapel was, where he was going, or what his mission was.



Chapel pulled on a crash helmet and moved the integrated microphone around so the pilot could hear him. "New York City-as fast as we can get there."



The pilot confirmed, and in a moment they were airborne. The chopper cut a wide arc around the Pentagon then slewed northeast, headed straight over Washington.



Chapel sat back in his seat and let his gaze wander over the landscape. He considered taking a nap. It was going to be a long flight and there wasn't much he could do until they arrived. He was too keyed up, though. Too excited-and scared-and worried-to even think about closing his eyes.



Instead he could only let his mind race, thinking over everything he needed to accomplish, everything he could reasonably do to catch the detainees before they killed again. And about how it might already be too late for the first name on the kill list.



He was lost in his own thoughts when a voice spoke in his ear.



"Good morning, Captain," a woman said.



It was the smokiest, most sultry voice Chapel had ever heard. It was like someone was stroking his ear with a velvet glove.