turned onto a narrow street, Rainee realized they were in Barrio Logan. Below San Diego’s downtown buildings and the Coronado Bridge lay directly in front of them. And the I-5 freeway.
“How long did you work with Doctor Raab?” he asked as he turned onto 28th Street, heading down to I-5.
She thought that was an odd question given the circumstances, so matter-of-fact, like they were heading to a picnic at the park. “About three years, right up until the investigations and hearings started to get serious.”
“The congressional investigations where you turned on Doctor Raab?”
“Yes. I did. He was a problem. But before they could bring him in to testify, his yacht was found empty floating twenty miles out to sea. He was presumed dead. That metabolic-enhancement program was shut down.”
“Well, he’s alive and well,” Lima Nine Four said as he eased slowly to the alley, “and so is the program.”
“Where?”
“The Facility, as we call it. It’s in Baja a few miles south of Tijuana.”
For all that he was a product of science, the military, that he’d kidnapped her and killed his assets, there was an appreciation, given where he’d been after the disaster that nearly killed him, for how functional the guy was. How enhanced. He was like the poster boy for the entire advanced-warfighter program.
He held up his hand and said, “Keep an eye on the intersecting roads. It’ll be a black Charger.”
A car shot out of a side street and turned toward them, a black Dodge Charger. It attempted to block the street, but her kidnapper swerved up on the sidewalk, knocked aside a shopping cart with someone’s belongings, and swerved back out onto the street and raced down the hill toward I-5.
She looked back in the side-view mirror. They had gotten a few blocks’ separation, but a van had no chance against a Charger.
Rainee held on as they barreled down the street, weaving around traffic, blowing through an intersection toward the on-ramp.
Rainee caught a last glimpse of the Coronado Bridge, which curved high across the bay to one of the most important bases in America’s arsenal: the Naval Amphibious Base, home of multiple Seal teams, Special Boat Team 12, and the Naval Special Warfare group. A place that was close to her in so many ways because it was where many of her patients had been trained. And where many of her military and intel contacts were. What would they think of this?
Johnny Cash took the van down the on-ramp to the freeway like coming off a sled run and then merged and slowed. Then he took another device from his pocket and did a bit of what appeared to be some sort of messaging.
All the while he was holding the wheel with his left hand, passing cars, changing lanes in the treacherous curves past the downtown and Little Italy turnoffs as he worked the instrument in his right hand.
The road straightened now as they passed the airport and headed north towards L.A.
They passed the La Jolla exits. Traffic was heavy but moving at a good pace going north. Her driver was tracing the mirrors and speeding up, passing, getting some offended horns. Then he suddenly slowed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Highway patrol,” he said.
She looked everywhere ahead and behind and saw nothing until they passed an off-ramp and then an on-ramp and, sure enough, a motorcycle cop shot down and headed up the freeway ahead of him, the chip sitting ramrod straight, as all highway motorcycle patrolmen did.
The reality that everything that had plagued her over the past years about missing patients, men with severe TBI, now had an answer that meant she was going to stay with this enhanced soldier regardless of the risks. It was her program that had started the Z series. She had a responsibility to see where it went, even if she’d opposed the overreach.
“There’s a weapon under the seat,” Johnny Cash said. “In case we get into a bad situation.”
She looked over at him. Was he for real, or was this
“How long did you work with Doctor Raab?” he asked as he turned onto 28th Street, heading down to I-5.
She thought that was an odd question given the circumstances, so matter-of-fact, like they were heading to a picnic at the park. “About three years, right up until the investigations and hearings started to get serious.”
“The congressional investigations where you turned on Doctor Raab?”
“Yes. I did. He was a problem. But before they could bring him in to testify, his yacht was found empty floating twenty miles out to sea. He was presumed dead. That metabolic-enhancement program was shut down.”
“Well, he’s alive and well,” Lima Nine Four said as he eased slowly to the alley, “and so is the program.”
“Where?”
“The Facility, as we call it. It’s in Baja a few miles south of Tijuana.”
For all that he was a product of science, the military, that he’d kidnapped her and killed his assets, there was an appreciation, given where he’d been after the disaster that nearly killed him, for how functional the guy was. How enhanced. He was like the poster boy for the entire advanced-warfighter program.
He held up his hand and said, “Keep an eye on the intersecting roads. It’ll be a black Charger.”
A car shot out of a side street and turned toward them, a black Dodge Charger. It attempted to block the street, but her kidnapper swerved up on the sidewalk, knocked aside a shopping cart with someone’s belongings, and swerved back out onto the street and raced down the hill toward I-5.
She looked back in the side-view mirror. They had gotten a few blocks’ separation, but a van had no chance against a Charger.
Rainee held on as they barreled down the street, weaving around traffic, blowing through an intersection toward the on-ramp.
Rainee caught a last glimpse of the Coronado Bridge, which curved high across the bay to one of the most important bases in America’s arsenal: the Naval Amphibious Base, home of multiple Seal teams, Special Boat Team 12, and the Naval Special Warfare group. A place that was close to her in so many ways because it was where many of her patients had been trained. And where many of her military and intel contacts were. What would they think of this?
Johnny Cash took the van down the on-ramp to the freeway like coming off a sled run and then merged and slowed. Then he took another device from his pocket and did a bit of what appeared to be some sort of messaging.
All the while he was holding the wheel with his left hand, passing cars, changing lanes in the treacherous curves past the downtown and Little Italy turnoffs as he worked the instrument in his right hand.
The road straightened now as they passed the airport and headed north towards L.A.
They passed the La Jolla exits. Traffic was heavy but moving at a good pace going north. Her driver was tracing the mirrors and speeding up, passing, getting some offended horns. Then he suddenly slowed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Highway patrol,” he said.
She looked everywhere ahead and behind and saw nothing until they passed an off-ramp and then an on-ramp and, sure enough, a motorcycle cop shot down and headed up the freeway ahead of him, the chip sitting ramrod straight, as all highway motorcycle patrolmen did.
The reality that everything that had plagued her over the past years about missing patients, men with severe TBI, now had an answer that meant she was going to stay with this enhanced soldier regardless of the risks. It was her program that had started the Z series. She had a responsibility to see where it went, even if she’d opposed the overreach.
“There’s a weapon under the seat,” Johnny Cash said. “In case we get into a bad situation.”
She looked over at him. Was he for real, or was this
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