Hawk, page 25
part #6 of Will Slater Series
He coughed, and braced himself against the icy wind howling in through the shattered rear window, and tightened his grip on the wheel, and let the adrenalin subside.
Chaos.
Utter chaos.
Somehow he’d come out of it unscathed.
As always seemed to be the case.
He knew what it was. The reaction speed. The uncanny reflexes. To an innocent bystander, his actions in the heat of combat would seem like a blur. Frenetic movement after frenetic movement. Blood, death, bodies, violence. And then calm.
To an innocent bystander, it all unfolded in seconds.
To King, that sort of chaos felt like years.
Because he processed information at an obscene rate.
He recalled what the man in the gravel lot had said before he died.
He went inside my head and fixed me right up, man.
King shivered.
Maybe that was what Hawk wanted.
His reaction speed. His hardwired genetic predisposition. If Hawk could change the rest of him, he could take advantage of both King and Slater’s reflexes and use them for his own benefit. He could make human slaves. That was worth luring them both to New Zealand. That was worth trying to take them alive, despite their unofficial status as two of the world’s most dangerous combatants.
That was worth the risk.
Dreading the consequences of failure, he floored it toward Fox Glacier. Gunshots flared in the rear mirror — but they weren’t directed at him.
King knew the worst had unfolded.
The police were dead.
He concentrated on the rear view mirror, and he thought he could make out the sight of faceless silhouettes slipping into empty cop cars.
Tyres spun.
Engines roared.
The pursuit continued.
59
Slater didn’t sleep well.
He stayed wide awake, dwelling on how fast things had gone south. Finally alone with his thoughts, he alternated between beating himself up over his carelessness and worrying over his fate.
He’d always thrown caution to the wind in combat situations precisely because of his nonchalance toward death. He’d never talked to anyone about it, but he figured King felt the same. He figured, if he had to die, best it be quick. Best he be in the heat of the fight, waging war against his enemies, and catch a stray bullet square through the temple. He wouldn’t even be able to comprehend the fact that he’d died. There would be no delay, no sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stressed over the potential outcomes.
Just bang-snap-gone.
This, instead, was torture. This was the realm of the unknown — and there’s nothing more terrifying than the unknown.
Slater sat on his metal bed and felt the pain in his wrists and the stiffness in his ankles. He hadn’t even thought about the fact that if he got out of his restraints, he’d be mostly useless for the better part of ten minutes. He hadn’t moved in hours, and it would get progressively worse with time. His joints would ache as he got stiffer and stiffer, his muscles locking tighter and tighter. Then, even if through some miracle he peeled himself out of the handcuffs and the shackles, he’d have to stretch out and get blood flowing back into his limbs if he had any hope of winning a fight.
So he sat, and stewed, and as the darkness closed around him his mental health steadily declined.
It began in his chest. He experienced a sensation he wasn’t familiar with. His heart felt fit to burst out of his chest, and for a moment he thought he might have a heart attack and succumb to massive organ failure before Ali Hawk got his hands on his brain. But the initial panic subsided, replaced by a consistent tightness in his chest.
He controlled his breathing, and felt sweat appear at the sides of his forehead, and fought for control.
This wasn’t his specialty.
He was a hard charger. He went directly toward the fight, and he stayed there until either he or his enemies wilted. So did Jason King. It was how they’d both been doing it for a decade, and neither were about to change. He didn’t play the psychological game. But now he was deep in his own head, wondering exactly what Hawk would do to him.
Wondering whether he’d still be able to conceptualise reality after Hawk physically destroyed parts of his brain.
Wondering if he’d just be an automaton, coasting through a meaningless existence.
Doing whatever the hell his master told him to.
This is sick. This is fucking sick.
Get me out of here.
Just get me out of these—
He pulled both wrists up instinctively, jerking them toward the ceiling. They caught on the handcuffs and the metal bit into raw skin. He yelled into the darkness, letting out all the discomfort in his chest, and it whisked out through the open doorway and echoed down the tunnel.
All went silent.
He sat still, heaving for breath, crippled by anxiety. Something about physically changing his own mind sent a terror through him he couldn’t describe. It was unparalleled. It was mental torture. It was—
A voice floated out of the darkness. It said, ‘Not taking it well?’
Slater thought he could make out a figure leaning in through the doorway, scrutinising him in the lowlight.
He said, ‘Am I supposed to be?’
A light came on in the corner of the room. Dull. Muted. Barely providing any illumination at all.
But it gave enough.
It was one of the scientists.
The woman.
She sauntered into the room, backlit by the weak light, her features indiscernible.
She looked like something out of a horror film, with her hair down and her face masked by shadow.
But Slater remembered her from the live demonstration with Ray.
He recalled her features.
Late thirties. Sharp colourful eyes. Smooth skin. Hair pulled back tight. A severe expression. But something there apart from cruelty. Something else. An actual personality. Not an automaton.
Could there be a chance? he thought.
He opened his mouth to speak, and he could almost see her smile gleefully in the lowlight.
He cut off what he was about to say, and instead said, ‘What?’
She said, ‘You were about to try and convince me to cut you loose.’
‘I—’
‘Did you miss the part where Hawk told you I’m a neuroscientist?’
Slater simply shrugged — as best he could in the restraints.
She said, ‘I’d bet I know what you’re going to say before you say it.’
‘And what am I thinking right now?’ Slater said.
‘You’re scared, but at the same time you’re reserving some hope, because you don’t really know what you got yourself into. It all probably feels like a bad dream. You’re wondering when you’re going to wake up, but that’s starting to slowly decline as this keeps playing out. So now you’re probably thinking — are they crazy, or are they right? Can they actually do it? And then you’ll start going down all sorts of dark mental pathways as soon as I leave this room. Because surgery is tomorrow, and then you get to find out whether we’re all full of shit or not.’
‘I guess I’ll never know,’ Slater said. ‘You might kill me on the operating table if you’re incompetent.’
‘We’re not incompetent.’
‘I figured.’
‘You’re starting to believe all this, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t find myself with many other options.’
‘How does it feel?’
Slater stared at her. ‘You’re the neuroscientist. You tell me.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘Shouldn’t you know?’
‘I can physically control parts of the mind, sure. But the brain is still a mystery to even the most qualified of us. It’s staggeringly complicated. So emotions always interest me. I want to know how all this really makes you feel. Can you tell me?’
‘Fuck off,’ Slater said.
She stood there, silent, observing him. Which almost made it worse. He wanted her to lash out, to lose control, to do anything besides stand and watch.
She said, ‘This is overwhelming to you, isn’t it?’
‘I said, fuck off.’
‘But why are you saying that? I’m your last hope, aren’t I? Shouldn’t you somehow try to convince me that I’m crazy?’
‘You want the truth?’ Slater said.
‘Obviously.’
‘You’re not crazy. I’m a soldier, but I’m not stupid. I can see that this is the natural progression of things. As we get more and more advanced, this was bound to happen. Sucks that I’m the guinea pig, but I guess considering how insane my life was before this, I had it coming.’
‘You were only chosen because of your physical gifts,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing personal.’
‘What’s your name?’
She smirked, and a flicker of emotion crossed her face. ‘That would make it personal.’
‘I’m Will.’
‘I know.’
‘Give me something. Please. I’m going insane here, and the thing that scares me the most is that you’re not insane. Because that would be easy, wouldn’t it? To attribute all of this to some lunatic. But you and the others and Ali Hawk — you’re not insane. Which makes it a little easier to accept, I guess.’
‘You’re rambling,’ she said.
‘Tell me your name.’
‘Why is it so important to you?’
‘Might be the last chance I have to ask for something with my own mind. When you change it, it won’t be me.’
‘You’ll still be in there.’
‘Not the same.’
‘You’re right. Technically.’
‘So?’
She looked at him. ‘I admire it. I’m Renae.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘That’s all you get.’
‘Do you care about what happens to me?’
She looked at him with a strange fascination. Then she said, ‘No. Not really.’
‘Why not?’
She paused for a long time, as if trying to put a concept into words — something that she’d always thought, but never vocalised.
Slater waited.
Then she said, ‘To you, you’re everything. When your life ends, the whole world ends. That’s the same with everyone, isn’t it? Individually, I mean. But to me, it doesn’t matter. When your life ends, mine goes on. Which makes you a test subject. So I guess I look at you as an opportunity to advance civilisation. If we nail it with you, you become totally compliant. You do whatever we say. And on top of that, you’re one of the most dangerous and feared men on the planet. So we can use you for whatever we need.’
‘Is that really advancing civilisation?’
‘It’s the next step in decoding the mind.’
‘So that’s where we differ, then,’ Slater said. ‘I’m not ruthless enough to look at things from the top down.’
‘I am.’
‘I can see that.’
Then he chuckled. Only for a moment. But Renae noticed.
She said, ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I just had this same conversation with an old acquaintance. His name was Russell Williams. He looked at the world very similarly to you.’
‘And what did that involve?’
‘Looking at things from the top down. Looking at the big picture.’
‘And you don’t agree?’
‘I’m not a philosopher. I fight.’
‘So primitive,’ she said, and floated back to the doorway. ‘And that’s why you’re strapped to that bed. That’s why we’re free. That’s why our way is right.’
‘I don’t care about who’s right,’ Slater said. ‘I just want out of here.’
‘Shame.’
‘You still haven’t caught my friend.’
She said, ‘I don’t think that matters. He’s got enough problems of his own. He’ll be dead in minutes.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘Because, as far as I can tell from the radio chatter, there’s all sorts of hell going on around Fox Glacier. He won’t last long.’
And then she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
He sunk deep into them, and didn’t notice the slightest tremor in the earth beneath him a few moments later.
A foreshock.
If he had noticed, he might have expected what followed.
60
With the lights still flashing atop the sedan, King twisted through staggering mountains.
He wiped sweat off his brow, keeping a close eye on the rear view mirror.
He fought back the sensation of treading water in an ocean trying to suck him endlessly down.
There were three cop cars on his tail.
Each commandeered by unknown forces.
Just ghastly silhouettes in the night.
He knew nothing. He didn’t know if Slater was alive. He didn’t know if there was any point in continuing.
He imagined fighting his way through an endless army and finally collapsing at the front door of his destination, only to find Will Slater’s body hanging from the rafters.
He figured that would probably break him for good.
But he tuned those thoughts out and pushed the sedan to its mechanical limits. He barrelled into the lee of Fox Glacier only five minutes after traversing the roadblock. He was covering ground at a lightning pace, and he didn’t quite know why. In the back of his mind, he understood that sooner or later he would have to face the hostiles on his heels.
But there was something symbolic about it — if he stopped to fight, he didn’t know if he would have the capacity to get back on his feet.
Not if they sent ten, twenty, thirty men to delay him.
For all he knew, that was their only objective.
Maybe they knew they likely wouldn’t kill him, but they were doing anything to slow him down.
Slater needs me.
So he didn’t address the pursuing vehicles. He tried to put more distance between them, overtaking civilian traffic at a hundred miles an hour.
The scenery out the windows — foreboding and dark — flashed past.
Then he entered the outskirts of Fox Glacier, and all went mad.
He slowed as he noticed buildings rise up on either side of the highway, piercing the gloom. There were a couple of porch lights glowing softly, and the road constricted as it passed through the small alpine town.
King brought the sedan down to sixty miles an hour, favouring control over speed. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally obliterate a civilian crossing the road late at night. He searched the dashboard for any kind of additional controls, and found the switch to turn the police lights off.
The red and blue died out, and the night wrapped around the car.
Still travelling fast, he passed a couple of motels, a cafe, a dormant petrol station, a general store, and a lodge. He glanced over the tops of the buildings and saw the glacier itself on the right, stretching away in a long pale dagger underneath the night sky. The moonlight gave just enough illumination to see the massive natural wonder.
When he brought his eyes back to the road, they sprung the ambush.
Three sets of headlights flared bright in his rear view mirror, and King noticed the hijacked police cars rising up out of the blackness. Their flashing lights were off, but their headlights burned. King quickened his pace instinctively, keen to flee the town’s limits and minimise the potential for civilians to be caught in the crossfire.
As soon as he sped up, the waiting vehicles roared out of a side street onto the main road.
There were three, four, five of them.
King could barely count.
It was chaos.
They sped into view, passing underneath a sign from the street they came from. King thought he made out the words Cook Flat Road before the vehicles were on him.
They weren’t the armoured Brabus tanks from earlier that day. Hawk must not have been able to bring them over from the east coast in time.
They were a mixture of ordinary civilian vehicles, but the armed gunmen in the back seats were far from ordinary.
They opened fire on his sedan, and in that moment King knew for sure.
They don’t care if they take me alive anymore.
They just want me out of the equation.
Which means they’ve got Slater exactly where they want him.
And that lit a fire underneath him.
Because if Slater was dead, Hawk would stop at nothing to secure King. The plot to lure them both to New Zealand had been staggeringly complex, made up of a number of moving parts that had no guarantee of paying off. Ali Hawk had risked everything to do it. But it seemed he’d determined it wasn’t worth the trouble of trying to take Jason King alive. And that meant Slater was unharmed, still alive, and there was potential for King to do something about it.
So, in that moment, the cloud of indecision lifted. All this time he’d been considering whether it was worth it to stay in the fight. And the clarity came to him in a sudden rush of understanding — like a calculator producing an answer at an incredible speed.
Slater is out there somewhere.
He needs you.
King ducked low and memorised the exact position of each of the speeding vehicles spreading out across the road in front of him. When his head dropped below the line of sight, a cluster of bullets smashed the windshield and hit the polyester seat behind him with meaty thwacks. King ignored all of it — he’d been shot at before.
This was just another day.
He used all the instinct he could muster and aimed the steering wheel at where he figured the leftmost car would end up in exactly three seconds.
Then he crushed the accelerator into the footwell and counted.
