Mark Stone - The Judas Line

With no time to waste, I entered his office, logged onto the lab computer and began erasing all traces of the molecular knife. Something like the knife was far too valuable to let Julian get his hands on and there was no way I would let Burke have a shot at it, considering his capabilities. No, this would be mine and mine alone. Within a matter of minutes all hard drives were wiped.

“Here you go, sir,” Gillan puffed as he entered, a small black rectangle the size of a domino in his hand. “There is no other computer out there but the one we have here that can utilize this device.” He handed the drive over and once again I was surprised at how heavy it was, not to mention slick from his sweaty palms.

“How about our other projects, Gillan?” I asked, not looking at him.

“Nothing has borne fruit, Mr. Deschamps, only the molecular knife. Why?”

“Where are the disks you mentioned?”

The fat scientist wordlessly opened the top right desk drawer, revealing a plastic bag containing a dozen three and a half inch floppies. I scooped the bag up and added the Crystal Drive to the small plastic squares.

“Thank you Dr. Gillan.” I met the man’s shifty eyes. “And the specs on the Crystal Drive?”

“On the drive itself. May I ask, sir, what is going on?”

“Only two projects have paid off, the molecular knife and the Crystal Drive-which we have successfully reverse-engineered-and there is only one other computer, my personal machine, that can accommodate the Drive. Everything else looks to be a wash-out, so I think it’s time to close up shop.”

“But, sir, why? We have the potential to do so much more!” Spit was collecting at the corners of his thick lips. He definitely did not want to give up his hot and cold running party girls. “Will you please give us some more time?”

Ignoring his question, I continued. “Do you realize, Gillan, that the girl delivered two weeks ago died of her injuries? Did you know that?”

His shiny forehead began to sweat even more. “Uh, n-no, s-sir,” he stammered.

“I know she was an underage prostitute, Doctor, but, really, did you have to harm her so?”

He licked his lips. “You know how it is sometimes, sir, I get carried away. Really, sir … I’m so sorry.” Fear spiced his speech like cayenne.

My eyes engaged his and I let my anger show through … just a little bit. He tried to back away, but my hand was quicker, stiffened fingers finding his throat. Cartilage gave way beneath my fingertips and he collapsed, choking. Once again I checked my watch and stepped over his thrashing body.

“The only consolation I’ve had these past months, Doctor,” I uttered contemptuously as I exited the office, “was the prospect of killing you myself.”

Gillan deserved much, much worse, having murdered several young girls over the years in his lustful frenzy. Add to that his obnoxious American attitude, and my self-restraint at not killing him earlier seemed heroic.

On the other end of the complex, nearly polar opposite to Dr. Gillan’s office, was an unused hallway hidden behind a locked door that read ELECTRICAL. This hall (about two hundred yards long, made of plain concrete and illuminated by only a few bare bulbs) led to large steel door like a bank vault, complete with spoked wheel in the center and an electronic ten-digit keypad. After punching in the code on the pad, I spun the wheel and opened the door, revealing a shorter hallway that ended in an elevator door. Next to that door was a plain white button and another ten-digit keypad. I pushed the plain button to summon the elevator and then punched in a sequence of fifteen digits on the pad. A red light came to life behind the 0 and I knew everything was primed for action. Three minutes and counting.

Ding! The elevator doors opened and I plunged into a space barely wide enough to accommodate my shoulders, as long as I didn’t take a deep breath. The doors closed and I pushed the only button available. Less than a minute later the doors slid open and I squeezed myself out into the middle of what looked to be a gardener’s shed; meanwhile the elevator vanished soundlessly, lowering a two-foot diameter plug of cement that fit seamlessly into the grimy floor.

I checked my watch. Less than two minutes left, plenty of time to catch the show. Pushing aside a riding lawn mower, I avoided the sliding, garage-type door, opting instead for a side door. Warm evening air caressed my face as my Barker Black shoes hit well-tended grass.

The long hallway and elevator had deposited me just north of the reservoir on the dam end next to Baker Road, smack dab in the middle of a grove of tall maples. I had a perfect view of the lake as the clock counted down to zero.

And … now .

Not a ripple on the water, not a tremor to be felt, at least not yet. Not surprising because at that moment a few thousand magnesium strips were burning their way toward hundreds of tons of thermite built into the walls and floors of the complex. At the same time the ventilation system, housing hundreds of two-foot oxygen tanks, were unloading its gaseous burden. If the self-destruct procedure worked correctly, the thermite would burn at temperatures reaching 4500 degrees Fahrenheit, causing concrete and steel to melt like wax. When the oxygen reached the burning thermite, what I called Stage Two, things would become somewhat more… energized. The very air inside the complex would burn, tearing through all the corridors and through the ventilation system, exploding the remaining oxygen bottles that hadn’t emptied their payload. Steel supports, three feet thick, would become taffy-soft and the whole shebang would collapse into Floor Three, which at that point would be hip deep in molten metal and lava. Dr. Gillan, by that time already transformed into charcoal briquettes, would disappear completely, becoming so much ionized gas.

Once Floors One and Two became vertically challenged and merged with Three, the topmost supports would give way, letting in millions of tons of reservoir. After that the fun would begin.

Leaning over, I dug my fingers through the grass and into the soil, rumbling the Language of Earth. The odor of cut grass slid into my nose as easily as my fingers slipped into the ground. Rumble, rumble the words burst forth, demanding, cajoling.

Under my feet, under my fingers, the elemental answered and did what I asked, humping and bumping the earth beneath me into a hill that grew and grew and grew. Soon I stood twenty feet atop an impressive berm that allowed me a clear view of the reservoir. The best seat in the house.

WHUMP!

Okay, I felt that right down to the roots of my teeth. The surface of the reservoir seemed to slump inwards before bulging up and rippling outwards from the middle in a shockwave that carried to the top of the berm and beyond, nearly hurling me off my feet.

Seconds later an explosion of water and steam erupted from the epicenter of the disturbance, shooting straight up, over a hundred feet into the evening air, carrying with it the faint tang of hot metal. The reaction was far greater than I had thought.

Quickly I whistled the Language of Air, bringing a bevy of sprites to my aid. “Please, brothers!” I implored. “Let me join you in the sky!”

“You are funny, Magus, wanting to join Air!” they laughed in return. “Why should we not drop you?”

Droplets began to fall and I could see an enormous swell surge out from the reservoir’s center. It would be on me in moments. “By the true name of Air, which is (unpronounceable) , take me into your realm!” I commanded. “Now!”

With a breathy shriek the sprites lifted me none too gently into the sky, nearly dislocating my shoulders in the process; however, I just set my mouth in a snarl and braced myself as best I could.