Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

Bryan turned to Aggie. “I’m sorry about this, Mister James, but I need to know what you know. If you run, I’ll find you. Oh, and something else you should know. That” — he pointed to Alder’s cane — “is a gun that will blow your head clean off. Understand?”

A wide-eyed Aggie stared at the cane, then at Alder, then at Bryan. He nodded.

Bryan clapped Aggie on the shoulder, then turned to the younger Jessup. “Adam, a shit-storm is coming our way fast.”

“Then let’s gear up.” Adam reached into a metal drawer, then handed over a black coat. “Take off your hoodie and put this on before you start babbling questions.”

Bryan shrugged out of his sweatshirt and slid into the stiff coat. He gave it a quick look in the Magnum’s curved, tinted window. He also saw the reflection of Alder behind his left shoulder, his face deeply wrinkled in an old-man frown.

“That looks ridiculous,” Alder said.

The reflection of Adam’s face appeared behind Bryan’s right shoulder. “Gramps, that shit looks tight. Real tight. I been waiting to try this shit out forever.”

Bryan stepped back, looked himself up and down.

Long sleeves, black. Two rows of flat-black buttons down the chest. The wide collar lay flat against the coat, but flipped up it would wrap around Bryan’s head from temple to temple. The fabric felt heavy. He could see why Adam had chosen this design — navy peacoats looked stiff and heavy to start with. Bryan could walk down the busiest street in San Francisco wearing this, and no one would give him a second glance.

Alder used the silver wolf’s head of his cane to point at Bryan. “ This is better than the tradition of the cloak?”

“Hey, cop,” Adam said. “How did you know Savior when you saw him?”

“Because people don’t wear cloaks,” Bryan said. “I mean outside of science fiction conventions or a gay pride parade, that is.”

Alder angrily shook the cane at his grandson. “You could have at least given him a trench coat! Like Humphrey Bogart.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Hey, cop, tell my grampa what you pigs do when they see a guy wearing a trench coat.”

“We watch him,” Bryan said. “A guy in a trench coat could be a perv, a gangster wannabe or a psycho hiding weapons on his person. Usually it’s just a businessman, but a trench coat always gets our attention.” He smoothed his hands down the rough fabric. “This is supposed to be body armor?”

“The best you can get,” Adam said. “You think I fuck around, ese?”

Bryan turned on him. “Look, lives are on the line here. I don’t have time for your attitude. This is cloth , okay? Tell me you have a bulletproof vest in one of those drawers.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted to the right. “Hey, cop. Remember when you gave me that bloody nose?”

Adam snapped his arm forward. A long-barreled pistol slid into his hand. Before Bryan could even move, three silenced puffs coincided with three hard hammer-hits against his chest.

Bryan took a step back, blinking in surprise, then his hands felt up and down his chest, feeling for blood. There was none. There wasn’t even a hole in the jacket.

Adam smiled, lifted the gun and blew smoke from the barrel. “Field testing. Good thing that armor worked, huh?”

“Asshole!” Bryan said. “What the fuck, man? What if you hit me in the face?”

“Sorry about that,” Adam said. “I, uh, I guess I got a little mad.”

The same words Bryan had used after hitting Adam. This guy didn’t forget a thing, it seemed. Bryan’s hands kept feeling up and down the coat, hands searching for any sign of the bullet impact, but the fabric felt normal. “What the hell is this made out of?”

“The core is a layer of shear-thickening fluid,” Adam said. “It’s sandwiched on either side by nanocomposite and fronted by spider-silk protein fiber-matrix.”

Nanocomposite? Spider-silk? “What are you, a mad doctor or something?”

“He’s not mad,” Alder said. “But he is a doctor. Thrice over. My grandson holds doctorate degrees in physics, metallurgy and medieval history.”

Adam pushed his pistol back into its hidden sleeve holster. “That’s okay, pig. I’m sure your community college associate’s degree stacks up quite well. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about the jacket’s material, ’cause it gets the job done. There’s hidden slits in the lower back so you can get at your guns.”

Bryan reached to the small of his back. His hands naturally slid into the slots. He felt the cool handles of the FNs. He pulled the guns out, smooth as silk, then slid them back in — they clicked home into the hidden holster.

Bryan realized he might have to reconsider his opinion of Adam. This stuff was amazing.

“There’s more,” Adam said. “Check out the similar slit just in front of your elbow.”

Bryan slid his hand into the slit and felt a handle. He pulled and found himself holding a knife with a narrow, six-inch blade. “That’s amazing. I didn’t even know that was there. Other arm too?”

“Of course.”

“Remind me not to wear this coat in a metal detector.”

“You can,” Adam said. “The knives are ceramic. The sheaths are loaded with the silver paste. Every time you put the blade back in, they get a fresh dose.”

Bryan slid the knife back into the elbow slot, where it clicked home. “Nice. Any other toys in here?”

Adam pointed to the front pockets. “Hat and gloves of the same material. Check out the hat, it has an extra feature.”

Bryan found a black skull cap in the pocket. He put it on.

“Now feel for a snap in the back,” Adam said. “Unclip it and pull it forward.”

Bryan did. A flap of the thick material came off the top. He pulled it forward. It hung down in front of his face, but he could still see thanks to eye slits. He looked at himself in the Dodge’s tinted window. The heavy black fabric reached down below his Adam’s apple. Not a single identifying feature showed — he could be anyone.

“Don’t get cocky with that,” Adam said. “The mask will stop knife cuts, maybe even a small-caliber bullet, but kinetic energy still gets transferred to your head. Someone shoots you point-blank in the head with a Magnum, your brains are going to be bouncing all around the inside of your skull.”

“I’ll make a note.” Bryan pulled the fabric off his face and rolled it back behind his head. It snapped into place. Once again, it looked like he was wearing nothing but a skullcap. “Give me a gun for Pookie.”

Adam reached into the back of the Magnum, opened up a case and handed over a five-seven and three magazines. Bryan wondered what other goodies the Jessup boys had in the back of that car, but that was for another time. Bryan put the gun and magazines in his coat pockets.

“You guys be ready to haul ass when I get back,” he said. “Make room in that car for Erickson.”

Adam reached into another drawer and handed over a small black box with a red button.

“If you get in trouble, hit that,” he said. “Gramps and I don’t want to go near your mutie littermates, but if you need us, we’ll come.”

Bryan nodded. Maybe he had underestimated the Jessups. He slid the box into the pocket of his new coat, then turned and jogged toward the hospital. He pulled out his cell phone as he ran.

Bee-boop: “Pookie, you there?”

Bryan waited. Pookie didn’t answer.

Bee-boop: “Pookie, you okay?”

Still no answer.

Bryan ran faster.

Into the Breach

The north wall of San Francisco General Hospital’s mental health wing faces a small, wooded area. That wooded area slopes down on the east side, leading to the eight lanes of Highway 101. The trees on that slope are surprisingly thick. In those trees, hidden in the blackness of night, stood three still figures draped in dull blankets.