Joe Ledger: Unstoppable

THE HONEY POT BY STEVE ALTEN

Shadows of movement swam through liquid daylight. Echoes whispered hollow in my brain.

“Where’s the car, Cowboy?”

Female… European accent. Hot breath in my ear. The stench of expensive vodka and tobacco.

“Come on, big guy. Don’t go limp on me now… on me now… me now…”

Ceiling spinning, my brain on fire—

Let me die!

Morning greeted me with the abruptness of a sledgehammer. My left temple was pressed flat against a warm ledge of porcelain, its pulse pounding. Pain fought with confusion for my attention — the combatants conceding the contest to my gut.

Straddling the tub—why was I straddling the tub? why was I naked, straddling the tub? — I leaned over the toilet and retched. Hot magma christened a bowl dubbed guest-ready by the chambermaid’s version of police tape, the damp remains now wrapped around my right wrist.

The minute of hell passed. Having evacuated a lung, I fumbled with my trembling left hand for the flusher, while my right fought to keep my aching skull balanced on the seat.

Throat… water—

Squinting, I located the sink and crawled on hands and knees across a thick throw rug. Lunging for the nearest ledge, I pulled myself up off the bathroom floor and fumbled with the faucet, scooping water onto my face and down my seared throat.

A pale, haggard stranger stared at me in the mirror, only I didn’t recognize the reflection.

Sledgehammer… ledge… Ledger. Joe Ledger.

Hey, Cowboy. Go fuck yourself and the horse that kicked you.

Standing on wobbly legs, I popped open the small bottle of hotel mouthwash and gargled — not entirely sure it wasn’t shampoo. Where am I? What the hell happened to me?

Leaning against the open door frame, I peered out at a hotel suite designed to accommodate a paycheck way beyond my means. High ceilings… giant flat-screen television, plush carpet. Through sheer curtains I stared out the private balcony at… the Eiffel Tower?

Paris? What the fuck am I doing in Paris?

As I staggered past the king-size trundle bed in my birthday suit, I saw the woman. She was lying on her belly beneath a cream-colored duvet — a mocha-skinned beauty with wavy, raven-colored hair.

I was about to wake her when the thought of being naked in a hotel suite with an exotic woman weighed in. Searching the room, I located a pair of men’s boxers, jeans, and a sweater, slightly surprised that everything fit.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Excuse me?”

I shook her and knew, but felt for a pulse anyway. “Shit.”

I pulled back the quilt.

She was model-thin, ravishing, and stark naked, save for the silk ties that bound her wrists and ankles to the four bedposts. Her legs were spread-eagle… a stream of blood running from the bullet hole in her left scapula where it pooled in the small of her back before seeping down the crack of her perfect derriere.

Before I could render a thought the door opened, revealing the chambermaid. “Excusez-moi, monsieur—”

Her hazel eyes darted from me to the dead woman.

The first scream caught in her throat. She managed the second as she fled down the hall, leaving the housekeeping cart wedged in the doorframe.

I dragged it inside and bolted the door.

You’ve got three minutes before she reaches the lobby, three more before security questions her, six to ten before the gendarmes arrive.

I searched the room and found the dead woman’s clothing… a skirt and blouse, silk purple thong and matching bra, along with spiked heels. If she was a hooker, she was an expensive one. Designer purse… a valet ticket… a wallet!

French driver’s license… Giselle Rousseau. A wad of euros—

Where was my wallet and passport?

I searched my pockets, locating the stub from an airline ticket dated two days earlier — Dulles into Heathrow. I looked around the room, then under the bed — my head pounding as I found a pair of tennis shoes… and a gun. It was a 9mm, a silencer still attached to the barrel.

What to do?

If you offed her, or even if you didn’t, you can bet that sweet ass of hers the gun will have your prints on it.

I grabbed the shoes and the weapon. Quickly laced up the sneakers and then checked the gun. No bullets in the chamber… one missing from the magazine.

The sound of police sirens rent the late morning air.

Move, douche bag!

I grabbed the woman’s ID, cash, and valet ticket and shoved everything in my pants pocket. Using a damp washcloth, I wiped the 9mm free of prints and buried it in the container of soiled towels on the housekeeping cart. Then I opened the door and pushed the device down the hall to the next room… Suite 1107, and left it.

Moving on adrenaline and instinct, I headed for the stairwell and descended six flights before exiting on the fifth floor. Smiling, I joined a young couple waiting for the elevator.

“Bonjour.”

“Bonjour.”

Together we watched the numbers descend from eight to five, my right hand nonchalantly wiping sweat from my brow.

The doors opened, revealing the prototypical American family straight out of a Hollywood script — white-collar dad, homemaker mom, two boys, maybe thirteen and ten, and toddler Jane tucked in a pink stroller.

White-collar dad was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap.

“Mom, you said we were going to Disney!”

“Disney’s tomorrow. Today we’re going to tour Paris.”

“I don’t wanna tour Paris!”

“Paris sucks.”

“Easy, guys.” Dad shrugged at the French couple.

“My nephews are the same way,” I said, squeezing in beside the stroller. “Dan Miller, Brooklyn.”

“Herschel Evans, Chesapeake Beach, Maryland. My wife, Suzie.”

“Hi.”

“Big Yankees fan?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too. This is awkward, but would you consider selling me your hat? My one nephew, Gaston, is a huge fan. It’s his birthday today and dumb ol’ Uncle Dan forgot to buy him a present.”

Forty seconds later the elevator released us into the lobby of the prestigious St. James Hotel, the Yankees hat snug on my head, the cap kept low as I made my way across the marble floor with my new best friend.

“… we were able to get down on the field. I got a selfie with Derek Jeter, want to see it?”

“Absolutely.” The peripheral vision in my pounding left eye caught the distraught chambermaid speaking rapidly to hotel security.

We headed outside, the Evans family heading for a colorful lime-green-and-canary-yellow double-decker bus while I waved for the valet, handing him the dead woman’s ticket.

“Merci. Une minute, monsieur.”

The wail of sirens grew louder, the distraction making it impossible to think. I searched through the wad of euros. Pulled out two tens…

Three police cars raced around the private cul-de-sac and screeched to a halt in front of the hotel entrance. The gendarmes dashed inside as the valet pulled up in a candy-apple-red Lamborghini Murciélago.

Great. Why not the Goodyear Blimp.…

Every eye turned in my direction as the driver’s-side door flipped up. I tipped the valet and slid inside the bucket seat, wondering if I could handle the Italian sports car without looking as if I just got my license. Pulling the winglike door closed, I scanned the cockpit, then put her into gear and flew around the circular exit, hitting the av. Victor-Hugo doing eighty.

The Arc de Triomphe loomed ahead, the monument encircled by a perpetual onslaught of merging traffic. I did three laps on the roundabout before I managed to cut off a bus and exit down the av. de la Grande Armée.

Where was I going? Who could I trust? I was tempted to locate a phone and call Church. But there were questions I needed answered before I was ready to engage the Department of Military Sciences.

Why was I in Paris?

Who was the girl?

Had we been together? If yes… was it consensual?

My right hand trembled. I was certainly a man capable of violence, and God knew I had a temper, but rape? No… never, not in a million years or a million lifetimes. My high school sweetheart, Helen, had been raped; her suicide was the gasoline that fueled my anger.

No, I couldn’t have raped her, but I did wake up in a crime scene.

How did I get there?

Did I shoot the girl?

Would they find my semen in her?

I needed to think!

Grinding the gears, I turned down another major artery, pulled onto a side street, and squeezed the Lamborghini into an alley.

Identify the pieces of the puzzle. You have an airline ticket stub indicating you flew from D.C. into London two days ago. Did the girl pick you up?

My eyes danced across the Lamborghini’s cockpit to the GPS. Check the history.

After snatching the device off its base, I tracked backward through the programmed stops.

Paris… before that London. Shards of memory pierced the brain fog. I remembered landing in Heathrow, exiting baggage claim to find the gorgeous French swimsuit model leaning against her red sports car — a classic honey pot. And now I was covered in it.

It took me nearly an hour to piece together a backstory.…

At the age of seventeen, Giselle Rousseau had parlayed a stymied career as a swimsuit model into an all-pass ticket to the inner sanctum of the rich and famous. Sex and drugs, yachts and mansions — the seductive teen was passed around like a joint at a biker rally. By the time she was twenty-seven she had traded in sex and paid companionship from A-list actors and members of their entourage for access into the billionaire boys club — Saudi sheiks who paid lavishly to get their freak on. In the bedroom they preferred young boys; in public — exotic women — eye candy to protect their criminal fetish. Giselle was repulsed by her new Middle Eastern employers, but as long as the mortgage on her condo in the Mediterranean was paid for, she could live with that.

Giselle had met Abdul Hamid bin Rashidi eight months ago at a party in Cannes. The Saudi oil baron had made his billions playing both sides of the Middle East equation, buying Syrian oil at a substantial discount from ISIS, reselling it at submarket prices to oil companies in Turkey and the United States. At one point, he was even selling Assad back his own oil.

As long as everyone was making money, no one seemed to care.

Of course, ISIS was making the biggest share, using the profits to fund their regime. Bin Rashidi knew the men whose faces were cloaked in black scarves; the leaders of Islamic State were all former members of Saddam’s Ba’athist army. Back in 2003, Paul Bremer had fired these four hundred thousand trained soldiers from their jobs while signing a decree that prevented the men from being involved in their nation’s future.

Four hundred thousand men who could have kept the peace.…

Four hundred thousand trained soldiers with access to large caches of weapons.

No potential for chaos there.

With Iraq bogged down in a Sunni-Shiite conflict and Syria’s president Assad waging war on his own people, the Ba’athist commandos saw ISIS as the perfect vehicle from which they could retake Iraq and rule the region. As trained soldiers they had no difficulty overrunning Syria’s military bases and taking the country’s supply of Russian-made tanks and weapons. Within weeks they controlled Assad’s oil wells and refineries and were paying workers higher salaries to run things for ISIL. Having organized smuggling networks under Saddam back in the 1990s to avoid UN sanctions, the Ba’athists knew exactly whom to approach to broker the Syrian crude, raking in hundreds of millions of dollars to support their terrorist regime.

Rather than operate in the shadows, bin Rashidi preferred to flaunt his wealth, his stunning Nubian beauty, Giselle, making up for his lack of social graces. By hiding out in the open while extolling Western values, he attracted like-minded Americans and Europeans, creating an ISIL/ISIS pipeline from Syria, profiting on everything from stolen museum artifacts to human slaves.

Giselle was living the good life, and with her Arabian sugar daddy preferring young boys in the bedroom, she had more time to feed her own habit — heroin. When bin Rashidi began using her as a mule on his private jets, she had ample opportunity to siphon off some of the product for her own personal use and sale.

She was caught with two ounces entering New York City, a problem that cost bin Rashidi a nine-thousand-year-old Babylonian statue to resolve behind closed doors. When she was caught in her hotel room in Los Angeles with twice that amount, the district attorney wanted cash.

Bin Rashidi warned Giselle that a third arrest would end their relationship. Knowing the Arab would not allow her to become a loose end, she entered a methadone clinic. She stayed clean for six weeks until she attended a Hollywood Oscar party and was arrested at Heathrow Airport.

What Giselle never knew was that the FBI and MI6’s antiterrorist division had targeted bin Rashidi and wanted to use the girl to penetrate his organization. They had heard rumors about a major deal set to take place at Le Baron, a private nightclub and discotheque in Paris. The nature of the meeting was unknown, but the involvement of the Russian mafia concerned authorities, who feared it was only a matter of time before Islamic State acquired enough uranium to fashion a nuclear suitcase bomb.

The authorities would drop the drug charges and wipe her slate clean if Giselle wore a wire. She agreed, but only if she had backup. The agent could not be from either British or American intelligence, the girl convinced both sides had been compromised long ago. The FBI and MI6 each submitted facial shots of three members of black ops antiterrorist organizations that serviced North America.

Guess who she selected.

The event had been held last night. Giselle was dead, the French police and, no doubt, MI6 were after me, and I couldn’t remember a goddamn thing.

The Lamborghini and its GPS continued to provide clues. After picking me up at Heathrow and entering France via the Chunnel, Giselle had driven us to the town of Annecy, located in the Rhône-Alpes. The car was not hers; it was registered to an American named Robert Gibbons.

So now I had a name, an address, a full tank of gas, five hundred euros, and a hangover that made me the odds-on favorite to win a pickup game of Russian roulette. Powering up the Lamborghini, I set the GPS and made my way toward the entrance of the A6 highway.

I was two hours into a five-hour journey when nature called. Feeling famished, I turned off the next exit for gas, food, and a bathroom break.

That’s when I noticed the fuel gauge was still on full.

Cheap $300,000 sports car… the damn float valve must be broken. That’s all I need is to run out of gas in a stolen car in the middle of nowhere.

After pulling into an ELF: Les Prix Bas petrol station, I popped the lever to open the tank lid, rolled down the window, and handed the attendant fifty euros. “Le plein, s’ilvousplaît.”

From the side-view mirror, I watched him shove the nozzle in and start the pump. Within seconds gasoline began pouring over the side.

“Le reservoir est plein, l’idiot!” He tossed my money back at me and left to service another customer.

How could I have driven almost two hundred miles without using any gas? Could the engine be a hybrid?

Beyond curious, I parked the car away from nosy civilians and popped the hood.

The device was the size of a hockey puck. It was mounted directly beneath the Lamborghini hood emblem, which had been fashioned with air vents.

I reached for the object, expecting it to be red-hot, yet it was quite cool. It was also vibrating, its internal workings spinning at an incredible velocity.

Leaving the sports car running, I walked to the back of the vehicle and bent down to examine the dual exhausts. No heat… and no carbon dioxide!

What the hell had I gotten myself involved in?

With my bladder ready to burst, I shut off the car and headed inside the facility to use the bathroom, grab some food, and call in to one of my guys at DMS. I’d try Rudy first, then Bunny… anyone who could report my field status to Church without divulging my whereabouts.

The female former Navy SEAL answered on the third ring. “This is the international operator. I have a collect call from a Mr. Cowboy, will you accept the charges?”

“Yes! Where are you? What’s your status?”

“Mobile. Safe at the moment.”

“We don’t have much time, all our phones are tapped.”

My heart raced. “Lydia, I didn’t kill her.”

“I know that. But they have video of you two leaving the nightclub together before it blew up.”

“What?”

“Seventeen dead, including bin Rashidi… twenty seconds. Cowboy?”

I hung up the phone as a second police car parked behind the Lamborghini.

I grabbed a container of orange juice from the refrigerator and a pack of cigarettes and handed them to the cashier. “Avez-vous matches?”

She handed me a book of matches.

I lit the cancer stick, tossed her ten euros, and exited.

The gendarmes were running the Lamborghini’s license plate. Heading straight for the pumps, I casually dropped the lit cigarette onto the pool of gasoline that had spilled out of my tank. Circling behind a truck, I waited.

Seeing the flames, the attendant chased off two cars and ran toward the police.

The first explosion sent the gasoline pump rocketing into the petrol station’s roof.

By the time the second pump ignited, I was back inside the car, accelerating onto the A6.

I took the next exit into someplace called Macon and diverted to the A40, heading east toward Annecy. In the distance were picturesque snow-covered Alps, the Geneva border less than fifty miles away.

It was risky hanging onto the Lamborghini, but driving at speeds in excess of 140 miles an hour quickly put a critical distance between myself and the cops, adding far too many route options to organize a roadblock.

It was dusk by the time I arrived at my destination.

The city known as “Little Venice” was built on the northern tip of Lake Annecy. Its streets were picturesque freshwater canals, their presence creating islands that harbored Swiss-style row homes, bed-and-breakfasts, inns, hotels, and shops, all of which serviced a healthy tourist trade.

The address on the GPS turned out to be the Hôtel du Château Annecy — a quaint two-story stone bed-and-breakfast located a block from Annecy Castle.

I took a circuitous route, searching for a place to leave the car. Locating a self-park parking lot, I drove up to the third floor and backed into a narrow space on a crowded row.

Not much of a hiding place for something so valuable.…

A minute later, I found myself descending the concrete steps of an empty stairwell. After exiting to the street, I had to cross two pedestrian bridges to get back to the B&B.

Exhausted and hungry, I entered the lobby, registering a strange sensation of déjà vu.

The first floor held an open dining room. The scent of food caused my stomach to growl as I approached the front desk, the diners serenaded by a pianist playing Sinatra on the baby grand.

The owner was gray-haired and in her sixties. She welcomed me like an old friend. “Ah, Monsieur Ledger, we’ve been expecting you.”

“Have you now?”

“We have you staying tonight in your usual room.” She handed me the key to Room 4. “Your charges were taken care of this afternoon.”

“And which one of my many friends should I thank?”

“I would assume it was your sponsor, Monsieur Clemenza. Your invitation to tonight’s big event arrived by messenger. I placed it in your room, along with your luggage.”

I stole a quick glance at her nametag. “How thoughtful, Maria.”

I headed for the staircase, wondering if I was living a double life.

Room 4 was at the end of an L-shaped hall, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight. Wishing I had kept the 9mm, I pressed my ear to the door and knocked.

Nothing.

I keyed in and entered, greeted by sunshine-orange wallpaper and a queen-size bed with heart-shaped throw pillows decorating a worn white bedspread. Wicker chairs, a small wood desk… and an envelope leaning against the single-bulb lamp.

The bathroom looked as if it had last been grouted back in World War II.

It wasn’t the St. James, but there wasn’t a dead girl in the bed, either.

The musk of age greeted me as I pried open the closet door from its warped frame. Hanging from a horizontal pole was a suit bag. I laid it on the bed, then examined the envelope.

It was an engraved invitation, raised white letters on shiny black paper:

I unzippered the suit bag. Inside was a black tux, white shirt, belt, shoes, socks, bowtie… even a new pair of briefs.

Apparently the honey pot was formal.

I glanced at the alarm clock on the night table: 8:12. “Not much time. I need to shower and shave—”

What the hell was I saying? I needed to think!

From the moment I awoke to worship the porcelain gods, I had been running on a proverbial treadmill, always behind two steps, forced into reaction mode without knowing the rules of the game.

If I had traveled from the United States, then surely I had brought luggage… a standard-issue DMS carry-on, the aluminum casing configured to disguise concealed weapons compartments from airport security.

I had a vague recollection of stowing the suitcase in the Lamborghini behind the driver’s seat… but it wasn’t there this morning. And it wasn’t in the room.

“The woman downstairs insists I was here. Where would I have hidden my gun?”

I searched every drawer, under and inside the mattress, checked for loose floorboards—

Wait! Who did the woman say had paid for my room?

“Mr. Clemenza.”

Clemenza was a character in The Godfather, one of my favorite movies. As a prelude to one of the film’s major scenes, the fat capo Clemenza had hidden a gun in the men’s room of a restaurant where Michael Corleone could later find it and kill the bad guys who were after his father.

I entered the bathroom. Lifted up the lid that covered the tank—

The gun was sealed in a freezer storage bag, held in place at the bottom of the tank by a brick so that it wouldn’t interfere with the flush valve.

“Thank you, Mario Puzo.”

An hour later I exited the hotel, dressed in a tux that couldn’t have fit better if it was custom-made. Looming before me was Annecy Castle, the streets bumper-to-bumper with limousines.

Annecy Castle dates back to the eighth century, when the fortress was erected to guard the roadway linking Geneva to Italy. The structure had been destroyed by fire in 1340 and had been rebuilt several times, eventually becoming the medieval residence of the Dukes of Genevois-Nemours. War surrendered the castle to French garrisons and eventually to the governor of Annecy. The city took charge of the property in 1953, converting it into a museum, observatory, and rental for private galas.

I followed guests along a red carpet to a grand entrance guarded by MPs carrying M16s. Invitations were collected and exchanged for nametags. Female servers dressed in alluring red satin see-through negligees circulated with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

Famished, I filled a plate and ate as I took in the guests, startled to recognize many of their faces.

There were foreign diplomats and heads of state… a former CIA director, at least four retired congressmen, three senators, and two members of the Joint Chiefs who were now heavily involved in the military-industrial complex. There were CEOs galore, representing major banks and tech companies, oil oligarchs, and Saudi princes… and there was a colonel. White-haired and in his seventies, the scary-looking bastard was staring at me from across the room.

I took three strides in his direction and was intercepted by an American in his sixties, his head cleanly shaven, his gray goatee specked with crumbs.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I glanced at his nametag: R. Gibbons. “I came to find you.”

“Bastard. How much?”

“How much what?”

“Giselle and I trusted you and you sold me out… you sold out the planet!”

I grabbed him by the arm and led him down an empty corridor that harbored the restrooms. “Listen, pal, I can’t remember anything that happened last night. I woke up in the St. James Hotel in my birthday suit, sporting a typhoon of a headache.”

“You can’t remember anything?”

“Bits and pieces, but nothing from last night or from two days ago when apparently I was here and we met.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a small light attached. Aiming it at my left eye, he turned it on and off, checking my pupil’s response. “Fucking bastard; he used it on you.”

“Who used what on me?”

“Colonel Alexander… Dr. Death. I told you they possess electronic warfare systems, psychotronic devices that can cause you to submit to any command. You didn’t believe me.”

“Who is they, and what is this all about?”

“They is PI-40, formerly SECOR, formerly MAJESTIC-12. I’m a physicist, Dr. Robert Gibbons. Two months ago I completed a zero-point energy prototype.”

“Let me guess… it’s something that can power a car without gasoline.”

“Not just a car, Captain. We’re talking about a technology that essentially replaces jet engines, steamships, internal-combustion engines, gas, oil, public utilities, rockets, and paved roads — abundant, clean energy that never, ever runs out. In the aggregate, you’re talking about replacing several hundred trillion dollars of world activity; by comparison the entire U.S. budget is a mere three to four trillion dollars.”

“And you invented the device?”

“Yes and no. I invented the device, but we’ve had the technology since the mid-1950s. We could have wiped out poverty, hunger, disease, and prevented climate change, only a bunch of rich oil oligarchs, bankers, and warmongers refused to allow us to implement the technology. Giselle provided one of the prototypes to the Jordanian energy minister, Mr. bin Rashidi—”

“Whoa, hold on. I thought bin Rashidi was a Saudi? He was buying Syrian oil from ISIS and selling it to the West.”

“That is what you were programmed to think. Giselle works for Mossad, the Israelis and Jordanians were working together to—”

He was cut off by a loud gong, the castle tower clock striking the hour, unleashing the first of nine bells.

Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls… it tolls for humanity.

A set of massive ancient doors opened, releasing the tide of guests into the courtyard.

“We have to go!” Before I could stop him he darted back to the main room and was swallowed by the crowd.

Pushing my way after him, I followed the throng outside.

The courtyard stage resembled something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Towering over a wooded clearing was a forty-five-foot-tall statue of an owl. As the ninth gong tolled, a dozen men cloaked in dark brown robes gathered around an unlit ten-foot-tall tepee configuration of sticks, branches, and logs.

For several minutes they pretended to struggle to ignite the bonfire while a voice addressed the crowd over a sound system, alternating every few lines in English, French, and German.

“The opening ceremony begins with the sacrifice of the human symbol known as ‘Dull Care,’ which represents the burdens and responsibilities of you, our world leaders. Help us to ignite the bonfire by praying to Moloch. Join us now, brothers and sisters!”

“Moloch… Moloch… Moloch… Moloch…”

The chanting grew louder as a human effigy was lowered from above.

I glanced over the shoulder of a woman standing in front of me as she Googled Moloch.

Sweet Jesus… I’m surrounded by a bunch of Satan worshippers.…

Wild applause broke out as an aura of light appeared around the pagan statue’s head. With a metallic screech an electrical charge shot out of the giant owl’s mouth and down an unseen wire to the gasoline-soaked pile of wood.

With a whoosh the pyre ignited, accompanied by the haunting sound of human cries blasting over the PA as the human effigy burned and the sick bastards cheered—

Only it wasn’t an effigy… it was Robert Gibbons.

“Where’s the car, Cowboy?”

Female… European accent. Hot breath in my ear. The stench of expensive vodka and tobacco.

“Come on, big guy. Don’t go limp on me now… on me now… me now…”

The ceiling spun, my brain on fire as I attempted to keep the psychotronic wave of energy from dragging my soul out of my body.

Let me die!

“Shut that damn thing off; it’s like an oven in here.”

The wave disappeared, my soul easing back into my physicality.

I opened my eyes. I was bare-chested and drenched in sweat, seated on one of the wicker chairs in Room 4 of the bed-and-breakfast. I was neither bound nor gagged — my arms hanging limp by my side. Try as I might, I couldn’t move or speak.

The device was situated in a metal attaché on the desk to my left, its disk-shaped antenna aimed at my eye. Even powered down, it was giving off tremendous amounts of heat, turning the bedroom into a sauna.

The white-haired colonel was seated behind me, attaching electrodes to my chest.

Giselle appeared on my right. Her red satin bra and matching thong were moist with sweat. “The colonel is attaching a lie detector. Your voice box should reengage any minute.” She moved closer, licking the sweat off my neck. “You wanted me last night… I know you did… just like you want me now.”

Her hand slid up my inner thigh, initiating a primal reflex that caused the tuxedo’s pants to rise. “Funny how the first nerve endings to regain their impulses are the sex organs.” After reaching into her purse, Giselle removed another 9mm Glock, this one with a silencer attached. She chambered a round and placed the gun on the desktop to my left.

Then she removed her thong and bra and straddled me.

“I’ll make you a deal, Cowboy. Tell us where the car is… and I’ll unzip your pants and fuck you silly before I put a bullet in your brain.”

My erection had a will of its own, fighting to free itself while my arms hung limp by my sides. Giselle was intoxicating and I absorbed her with all of my senses, inhaling her pheromones, staring at her womanhood — the sight and scent and touch of the high-priced whore doubling my heart rate, quickening my recovery.

“Agreed,” I said, clearing my throat, my mind racing to keep the conversation going, fighting to buy time. “First tell me… why? Why keep this energy system from the rest of the world?”

“Why? Because free, clean energy would completely even the global playing field. Big Oil would go belly-up, wiping out the banks. The stock market would collapse… there’d be chaos. And for what? So a bunch of Third World countries can have sewage plants? A society where everyone is rich doesn’t work, Cowboy. Equality and peace undermine evolution; we are who we are because of the law of the jungle. If you make everyone a predator, society would stagnate.”

The trigger finger of my right hand twitched. “Point taken. Who the hell wants peace when we can spend eternity fighting the War on Terror.”

“War is profitable, which is why we encourage it.”

“Enough!” the colonel barked. “Gibbons is dead; all we need is the car.”

I felt pins and needles as sensation slowly returned to my body. “You’re right about one thing, Giselle, I do want you. Send grandpa on his way and let’s do this.”

“First the car.”

“Parking lot… two canals to the south. Third floor… near the east stairwell.”

Giselle turned to the colonel. “Well?”

“He’s telling the truth.” Quickly and methodically, the white-haired sociopath detached the lie detector, then packed it in the metal attaché along with the psychotronic device. “Are you coming?”

“You go. The captain and I have unfinished business.”

“You searched him for weapons?”

“The nine-millimeter was found in the laundry cart, along with a clip of blanks. But if it comforts you—” She ran her hands across my bare, sweaty chest, wiping them along the inside of both pant legs. “You may be right; he’s definitely packing something.”

The old man rolled his eyes and left.

Giselle kissed me on the lips, her flitting tongue tasting of booze and tobacco. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? I know you’re stalling, attempting to regain control of your muscles before I kill you. So we’ll have a contest — I won’t shoot you until you come inside me.” She reached between her legs, unzipping my pants. “First one to shoot… loses. How long do you think you can hold out, Cowboy?”

I moaned as she reached inside my open fly and beneath my boxer shorts, her left hand working to free me—

— as the fingers of my right hand walked down my right calf muscle to the elastic holster holding the gun strapped around my ankle.

“You ready, Cowboy?” She rose up to guide my traitorous genitals inside her — suddenly noticing the gun quivering in my right hand.

“Shit.” She lunged for the 9mm as I blindly squeezed off three shots, the handgun barely a foot off the floor.

The first bullet struck the ceiling, blasting a six-inch divot in the ancient plaster.

The second whizzed past my head.

The third spun her around as it punched a hole in her right scapula.

She looked at me and laughed, the 9mm clutched in her right hand, her arm no longer able to lift it. “You shot first.”

“Guess I lose.”

She coughed up a wad of blood as we both struggled to raise our weapons, Giselle reaching around with her left hand as I rolled forward off the chair and onto the floor, gaining the critical leverage I needed to get off one quick shot—

It was high and wide, but she spun into its path, the lead missile splattering bone as it jerked her head backward, her shattered skull spitting out gray matter. The Glock flailed wildly in her lifeless left hand, its bullets tearing into the sunshine-orange wall behind the bed.

For several minutes I remained on my back, gathering strength. Finally I crawled to the bathroom on my hands and knees, the effort gradually reducing the molten-lead feeling in my bloodstream. Pulling myself using the sink, I ran the cold water and rinsed Giselle’s taste from my mouth. When I was through I staggered to the toilet, lifted the lid off the tank, and flushed, draining the water so I could remove the brick, exposing the plastic freezer bag.

“Assholes… you can keep the damn car.”

I dressed as quickly as my muscles would allow, making sure I wiped my prints from the revolver before leaving it behind — a lesson Clemenza had taught Michael Corleone on the eve of his battle.

For a long moment, I stared at the zero-point energy device — a precious seed that could alter humanity… if it could be nurtured and protected. Until then it was simply a honey pot, its enemies legion, its possession placing a target on my back.

Shoving it in my pants pocket, I gathered my belongings and left.

Steve Alten is a New York Times and international bestselling author of sixteen thrillers, including the MEG series, which was green-lit by Warner Bros. (March 2018 release) starring Jason Statham and Ruby Rose. He is also the founder and director of Adopt-an-Author, a free nationwide reading program for high school teachers. Steve can be reached through his website at www.stevealten.com.

EDITORS’ NOTE: This story takes place after the events of Patient Zero. It is a sequel to the short story “Deep Dark,” and as such contains some spoilers for that story, but otherwise it can be enjoyed as an independent adventure.