Earthcore

Epilogue

Patrick O'Doyle knew leadership when he saw it.

The woman sitting behind the desk in front of him was old, out of shape, and without her glasses could probably see all of three feet. The eyes behind those glasses looked red and swollen, puffy bags beneath them hanging darkly. She wouldn't last five minutes in the field. She wouldn't have lasted three minutes in the tunnels.

But she didn't have to last five minutes. She could sit in her chair, smoking her cigar, and call the shots from a thousand miles away. This woman had money, which meant she had power — the kind of power that would let her send a killer halfway around the world to exact revenge.

A killer named Patrick O'Doyle.

Before today, he had never heard Barbara Yakely speak. Her voice sounded like gravel sprinkled with heartbreak.

"So these… these, things… they killed my Connell?"

"Yes ma'am."

"You're sure he's dead?"

"Yes ma'am, there's no way he could have survived that volcano. I'm sorry, but Mr. Kirkland is gone."

She looked down at her desk, her body seemed to deflate. O'Doyle had seen this reaction before, he'd been there when people simply lost the will to live. It hurt to even look at her like this, this woman he barely knew, because she felt the loss of Connell Kirkland even deeper than he did. But he wasn't there for a pity party. He wasn't there to cry, and he wasn't there to give comfort.

He had a budget.

He had a timeline.

He had a race to exterminate.

"This plan of yours, this Argentina thing,” Barbara said. “Is it going to be dangerous?"

"Yes ma'am, very dangerous."

"And more lives will be at risk?"

"Yes ma'am."

"So why do you want to go? What macho bullshit is this that you want to risk your life? I mean look at you, O'Doyle — you're not exactly a spring chicken. Maybe you and I should be playing a couple of games of Euchre at the VFW instead of you doing this Billy Bad-Ass thing."

"What's Euchre?"

"Card game. You must not be from Michigan."

"No ma'am. Kansas."

"It doesn't matter, honey. Look, I read your file. You did your job for our country, you did your job for EarthCore. Now fucking retire already."

"I know what I'm doing, ma'am."

Barbara pointed to Betha Lybrand, who sat in the chair next to O'Doyle.

"And are you taking this nice woman with you?"

"Yes ma'am. We're in this together."

Barbara sighed and looked at Bertha. “Let me see your hand again, honey."

Bertha held up her left hand. She still had a thumb, but her index and middle fingers were gone, reduced to stitch-covered stumps still stained with disinfectant from the surgery she'd had only two days before. A shining, platinum band sat on her ring finger. Neat stitches lined her left temple, a running black line that ran straight through where the top of her ear used to be.

"How long have you two been married?"

"About 48 hours, ma'am,” Bertha said. “We were married in the hospital."

"And this is what you two idiots want to do with your honeymoon? Get a group of mercenaries together, fly to Argentina, and take on some ancient ship full of aliens buried under a mountain? What, you never heard of Disneyland?"

"Like my husband said, ma'am, we're in this together."

Barbara stared. First at Bertha. Then at O'Doyle. Their faces didn't flinch. O'Doyle was going to Mt. Fitzroy whether Barbara Yakely footed the bill or not. She could make it easier, get them better equipped, but he wasn't here to get her permission.

"Why?” Barbra finally said. “Why would you do this? It's not going to bring my Connell back."

"Because…” O'Doyle started to speak, then closed his mouth as a wave of emotion crashed over him. The words he was about to say, he hadn't said them in over a decade. His throat felt suddenly parched, and his eyes seemed to water up. He blinked twice, took a deep breath, and controlled himself. This was no time for grief. For Patrick O'Doyle, grief wasn't expressed while sitting in a comfortable office — it was expressed while killing whatever caused that grief.

"Because Connell Kirkland was my friend, Ma'am."

Barbara stared at him again, long and hard this time, with the look that said ‘I can spot a peanut-sized spec of bullshit from 1,000 feet away.’ But there was no bullshit to be found in Patrick O'Doyle.

"Give me your budget,” she said, and Patrick handed over the ten-page document. She flipped through it slowly, reading every word. She didn't rush it. Patrick and Bertha waited patiently for her to finish.

"This is a lot of firepower, Mr. O'Doyle."

"I like to be prepared, ma'am."

"And what makes you think the Argentinean authorities are going to allow this to happen."

O'Doyle unconsciously rubbed his right biceps, massaging the rectangle of skin tattooed a light blue crossed by a horizontal white stripe, with a radiating sun in the middle.

"I've done some business there before,” O'Doyle said. “I know exactly what I'm doing."

"A half-million isn't chump-change, O'Doyle. What makes you think I want to part with it?"

"Because you don't give a rat's ass about the money, ma'am, if I may be so frank, and neither do I."

Barbara looked back down at the budget, but it was obvious she wasn't reading it this time. She just wanted to hide her eyes, hide the tears forming there.

"I lost thirty-seven people on that dig,” she said softly. “Thirty-seven people in my employ. I knew those people. I had to call their families and tell them. Do you know what that's like?"

O'Doyle nodded. “Yes ma'am. I know exactly what that's like."

Barbara nodded slowly. “Yes, I bet you do. I don't want to see anyone else die."

Bertha sat forward, reached out her stumpy hand, and gently grabbed Barbara's hand. To her credit, the old woman didn't even flinch.

"Patrick and I are going with or without EarthCore's backing,” Bertha said softly. “People will be at risk no matter what you do. He just thought you'd like to be a part of it. To get your own payback, so to speak."

"I'll pay you not to go,” Barbara said. “I'll give you a million dollars if you leave this madness behind and start your new life together."

O'Doyle shook his head. “No thank you, ma'am. Like my wife said, we're going."

Barbara sighed, wiped a lone tear from her eye and nodded.

"I knew you'd say that. I can see it in you, O'Doyle. Allright, I'll fund your stupid, pointless mission of revenge."

She wrote a number on a business card and handed it to him.

"Call this number in the morning. My man Harvey will set up everything for you. It can't be traceable to EarthCore, you understand."

"Of course, ma'am,” O'Doyle said.

She swiveled in her chair, turning her back to them, looking out her Renaissance Center window that gave a sprawling view of the Detroit River. O'Doyle stood, knowing he's been dismissed. Bertha followed him to the door.

"O'Doyle,” Barbara said without turning, stopping them just before they left. Her voice was thick with tears now, tears the old woman could no longer hide.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Kill them all,” she said through chocked sobs. “Kill every last one of those motherfuckers."

O'Doyle nodded. “Don't worry ma'am. I'll handle everything.

Patrick and Bertha O'Doyle walked out of the office, both of them still limping a little bit, and headed for home.

There was much to do before their mission to Mt. Fitzroy.