Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

Conaty’s helicopter are front and center, though. The twins. It’s a repeat of when they cornered me in the garage, standing in front of that fountain. They exchange an amused glance, perhaps recognizing the replay of that earlier encounter. As before, each have AR-15 rifles pointed at me. Well, at Doc, but I’ve no doubt a round fired at this range would pass right through Doc and into me. Everything depends on whether Doc matters to them as much as I’ve guessed he does.

From the looks on their faces, I might have misjudged that.

One of the men lifts a finger to his ear. Listens. His eyes narrow, fixed on me.

I press the knife a little harder into Doc’s neck, hoping against hope the fake blood won’t seep out.

“Get out of the way,” I say to the gunmen. “We’re leaving.”

“You shut the hell up,” the mercenary barks in his southern drawl. He tilts his head slightly down and to the left, replying to the voice in his ear. “She’s got the doctor. Can we shoot?”

Captain Tweaker comes to stand beside him, licking his lips. Greg Gorman, my boss, appears next to the other thug.

Tweaker and Greg look almost calm. Both have their earpieces in, perhaps receiving a constant barrage from Conaty to keep their minds from overriding their instinct-driven behavior. Other members of the Broken Nose Gang file in behind them, and the new recruits from Kyle’s bar all loom on the periphery, some behind me, blocking that exit. They’re all waiting, Doc’s command holding them back for the moment.

The two professional killers, though, simply watch me. Cool as cucumbers, but with postures that hint at their readiness to strike. These men haven’t taken the drug, I realize. They’re doing this because it’s their job, fully aware of their actions. That makes them infinitely more dangerous. And right now, all they’re waiting for is a voice in their ear to tell them if Doc is expendable or not.

Doc, perhaps finally sensing this, too, makes a low whimper sound.

“How the hell did you get caught up in this, Doc?” I ask him.

His body is trembling. He’s leaning back on me, too, and getting hard to hold up. The gentle giant must weigh three hundred pounds. “A dumb mistake. Years ago. Then Ang… he showed me—”

“Shut up, moron,” the thug says.

He dips his chin again, listening to his earpiece, nodding. He says, “Yup, just a knife. Can we shoot, or…?” More waiting, listening. Finally, he glances up at me, and smiles.

I’ve miscalculated. They don’t need Doc, and they certainly don’t need me. It’s over, I realize. I brace myself for the bullet.

Instead of shooting, he steps aside. The other thug moves, too, and behind them, sauntering into the police station, is Mrs. Conaty. Behind her are the two guests she was entertaining at the mansion. The one referred to as Mr. Secretary, and the flashy bastard who reeks of money. The senator, owner of that mansion, is with them as well.

“Officer Whittaker,” Sandra Conaty says, “you’ve made this whole business quite complicated, haven’t you?”

I hold her gaze, defiant but not sure what to say. Not sure where this is going yet.

Nowhere good, that much is obvious.

From outside, very faint, comes the sound of small squeaky wheels. The noise reminds me of a medical gurney. No one else seems to notice, or care.

“On the plus side,” Mrs. Conaty adds, “you’ve given me a wonderful opportunity to demonstrate the product.” She smiles, a glint of evil in her dark eyes.

“Why…” I start, then let it go. “Forget it.”

“No, no. Go ahead. Ask your question.”

“I was going to ask ‘why here?’ Why Silvertown? But the answer’s obvious. Petty revenge. Still butt-hurt that your corrupt company was exposed for the failure it is.”

I hate to admit it, but her smile catches me off guard. She shakes her head, just a little, as if amazed how stupid I am. It’s infuriating. I guess that’s the point.

“Mary, you should understand something: I don’t give one shit about this awful little place, much less two.”

“Then why?”

“Familiarity, mainly. I grew up here, after all. Then there’s the isolation. One cell phone tower. One power line. One road in and out. Put some cones across the bridge, snip a few cables, and voilà; the mountain is ours.” Then she takes a small step forward, and her voice lowers a little. “The absolute best part, though, is using Silvertown’s own reputation against itself. You morons are so steeped in conspiracy nonsense that by the time anyone figures out something is actually happening, it’s too late.”

“I figured it out,” I say.

“And you’re too late. See what I mean?” Her self-satisfied smile conjures the most punchable face I think I’ve ever seen or ever will see.

Eyes never leaving me, Conaty addresses her VIP guests. “Gentlemen, this woman is Mary Whittaker, a police officer here in good old Silvertown. And over there, under the control of our newly perfected product, is her boss. Chief of Police Gregory Gorman. Greg, say hello.”

“Hello,” he says without the slightest hesitation.

“Good, now be quiet again.”

Greg nods, mouth clapping shut.

“Imagine this,” Conaty says for the benefit of the two men standing beside her. “You have a budget committee, or a board of directors, who go about their work, their lives, without any hint of what’s happened inside their heads. But one command from you, and they obey without question. Vote your way. Sign off on your next scheme. Whatever.”

Mr. Secretary’s only reaction is a single, impressed grunt. But the wealthy sleazebag shifts on his feet.

“The board already does what I tell them to,” he says.

“Sure they do,” Conaty replies. “Because you tell them to do things they’ll agree with. You’ve already anticipated their objections and factored them into your proposals. You water it down. Imagine no longer needing to do that. Imagine a rubber stamp on your vision for the company. And anything else you like. Your wife. Your family. Your competitors. Or,” she adds dramatically, “anyone… and I mean anyone…