Joe Ledger: Code Zero Part 7

And the skin ... it was the color of a mushroom. Pale and blotchy. Sickly in appearance and sickening to look at, as if it were in itself a creature composed entirely of disease. No longer human, but rather defined by the pestilential bacteria and viruses that permeated the air.

The faceless, diseased thing stood for a moment in the doorway, its head raised and c.o.c.ked as if trying to find her through some sense other than smell or sight. It swayed a little as if it might fall down at any moment.

Noor wanted to scream, but instead she balled her fist and crammed it into her mouth, dreading what would happen if this faceless thing heard her.

Then ...

The thing took a single awkward step forward.

Into the room.

Toward her.

It raised pale hands and pawed at the air, trying to find something to touch.

To grab.

Other figures crowded behind it, their ma.s.s and weight pushing the first creature farther into the room so they could enter, too. Each of them-scientist, research a.s.sistant, technician, security guard, maintenance man-was faceless.

Noor backed away as they filled the room, squeezing into it the way a liquid expands to fill a vacuum. First three of them, then eight. A dozen. Twenty.

Noor scuttled backward into the corner, her legs banged against the chair and sent it rolling toward them. As it b.u.mped up against the first one, the whole ma.s.s of them stopped, just for a moment, as if one of them feeling something allowed them all to feel it. A sympathetic reaction. A hive reaction.

Then they began moving again. Faster, with greater purpose.

Toward her.

Noor screamed.

That was when the dream had ended.

That had been a dream.

Now she was awake. Totally awake.

Now Noor stood in her office, crammed into the corner, sweat and tears running down her face.

And her office was crowded by pale, shuffling figures. Dozens of them. As many as could squeeze through the door. They closed on her.

They closed around her.

Exactly like in her dream.

Except for one thing.

In the dream these creatures were all faceless and featureless.

In the dream they had no mouths.

No teeth.

This, however, was not a dream.

Noor Jehan screamed and screamed for as long as she could.

Until there was not enough of her left for screaming.

Chapter Twelve.

Residence of the Vice President of the United States One Observatory Circle Washington, D.C.

Sunday, August 31, 5:37 a.m.

Vice President William Collins woke with a smile on his face.

The big windows were open to the dawn breeze and the scent of roses and honeysuckle. The trees outside were filled with birdsong.

Collins got out of bed and padded barefoot across to the chair where he'd left his bathrobe, shrugged it on, and stood by the window to watch the rim of the sun peer over the line of trees. He took a deep breath and let it out as a long and contented sigh.

Behind him he heard her stir.

A soft sound, warm and vulnerable. A rustle of sheets as she turned over, then the deep, slow sound of a sleeper far below the surface.

He didn't look at her, preferring instead to remember the way she looked last night. She'd flown into town on a private jet from Atlanta and showed up in a black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. The delight in peeling that faux skin from her, revealing an electric blue push-up bra and matching thong. Those were probably downstairs with the rest of their clothes. They'd been naked when they made love on the stairs, and in the hallway, and here in the bedroom.

G.o.d, he'd been a lion last night. A tiger.

A beast.

He made her scream when she came, and when he came inside her the first time he roared like the beast he was.

That's how it always was with her.

It was never that way with his wife.

She was a cold fish who had be stoned or smashed before she spread her legs. And the world would have to be burning down to its last hour before she'd open those thin and prissy lips to give him a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

He wondered if he she knew he was cheating on her.

Probably. Probably felt relieved, too. The more a.s.s he got elsewhere, the less often she had to act like a s.e.xual being.

Anger began to creep into his mood and he forced it down, letting memories of last night wash it out of him. He turned and leaned on the window frame to watch the woman sleep. Silky black hair spilled around her like fine lace. The curve of one shoulder and one breast, a nipple that was surprisingly dark against the soft golden tone of her skin. He was glad she didn't dye her nipples like many Asian women did in the belief that it would be more appealing to white men. Collins thought she was perfect the way G.o.d made her. Appealing to each one of his five senses.

Not bad for the ego, either.

Though he had to wonder if he was a bigger ego hit for her than she was for him. Vice president of the United States. Even if she couldn't tell anyone, she knew she was banging the guy who was one heartbeat away from being the most powerful man in the world. A man who had, in fact, been the president twice. Once when the president had bypa.s.s surgery, and then last year, during the abduction thing.

Collins had tasted that power. He had become addicted to it, and he did not apologize to himself for that addiction. It would have been a greater lie to tell himself that he didn't need or want that power again.

G.o.dd.a.m.n right he did.

Wanted it, and would have it.

The anger crept back into his veins, and this time it took hold. It changed the color of the sunshine to an ugly brightness, and transformed the birdsong to irritating noise.

Collins felt his mouth curl into a snarl.

He pushed himself away from the windowsill and crossed to the bed, caught the edge of the sheet and whipped it away. The noise and the sudden air shift snapped the woman out of her sleep, and for a moment she recoiled, cringing, her hands instinctively moving to cover her cupcake b.r.e.a.s.t.s and smudge of ink-black pubic hair. Then she saw him and her sleepy confusion changed into something different. A smile that was as sly and old as all the corruption in the world ignited fires in those eyes.

"Well," she said slyly, moving her hands and rolling onto her back, "good morning to you, too. You look like you're ready to take a bite out of the day."

He grinned down at her, leered at her. Wanted her. "So do you. And it's a big d.a.m.n day for you, sweetie."

"I know. I have to get back to Atlanta," she said. A shadow pa.s.sed through her eyes when she said that.

"You okay?" asked Collins. "Having second thoughts?"

The woman took a half beat before answering. "No. It's just that once this match is lit, this is it. There's no turning back."

"I know."

"And we might not see each other again."

He gave her his best smile. "Sure we will."

"When?"

"When the game is reset."

She shook her head. "It's not a reset. You never get the terminology right."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Whatever you gamers call this stuff."

"It's a new game. Brand new."

"Yes, it is," he said. "And everything will be different afterward. A new America ... a new world."

"But we won't share it," she said.

"We will."

"No-"

"We will," he insisted. "It'll just take some time. You're going to be busy getting the h.e.l.l out of Dodge and I'll be busy remaking this country into what it should have been if we'd stayed the course. So, call it a new game, call it what you like, honey. When all the fires are out, we'll find a way to get together. Maybe even out in public."

"You're a very charming liar."

"I mean it."

"What, you'll dump your wife and trot me out on your arm? The world's most hunted terrorist, and you think that'll make for good arm candy?"

"You're not the world's most hunted terrorist yet."

"Day's young."

He laughed. "You're an evil b.i.t.c.h, you know that?"

The woman reached up and caught the end of his bathrobe belt, gave it a sharp pull, and licked her lips as the robe parted.

She reached between the flaps of the robe and wrapped her fingers around his hardness, and with that as a handle, drew him toward her. She was not gentle about it. It hurt. But that was okay. Pain was another kind of drug. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and thighs and b.u.t.tocks were still red and bruised from last night's slaps and bites. Collins shoved her back against the mattress, used his knee to roughly part her legs, and with a low feral growl thrust into her with only a little guidance from her strong hands.

He did not take her. They took each other, both of them thrusting against the other with brutality and need and a shared viciousness that was an incredible aphrodisiac for each of them.

Outside, the sun set fire to the morning and the sound of the birds in the trees changed in Collins's ears to the shrill screams of fear.

And that, too, was a turn-on.

Chapter Thirteen.

Surf Shop 24-Hour Cyber Cafe Corner of Fifth Avenue and Garfield Street Park Slope, Brooklyn Sunday, August 31, 6:03 a.m.

The girl who came into the Surf Shop was one of those twenty-somethings who could actually have been anywhere from seventeen to thirty. She had a porcelain complexion and gleaming black hair in a Betty Page cut. She wore red sneakers, black leggings, and a baggy black T-shirt that had a picture of an androgynous Asian with a shock of white hair and hugely oversized sword. The words DEVIL MAY CRY were hand-painted below the image. A loose leather belt was clasped around the shirt, hanging low on one hip. The girl wore oversized sungla.s.ses and never took them off the entire time she was in the cafe.

She stood in line with the other early birds, earphones in, texting on an Android, talking to no one and acknowledging no one.

The sleepy counter man, Caleb Sykes, had seen her or a thousand girls like her every day. Most of them were underpaid secretaries who still couldn't afford a smartphone or their own laptop and who wanted to check their e-mail before heading into the city to start their day. It wasn't as common to see them this early on a Sunday, but really Caleb didn't give much of a s.h.i.t.

When it was her turn to pay, Caleb took money for a Red Bull and handed over a log-in card for one of the computers bolted to tables scattered around the room. The girl paid cash, didn't tip, didn't say anything else except when she'd ordered the drink. Caleb's only thought when he saw her was that her hair looked like a wig. Just that. When she left the counter, Caleb forgot her completely. Fifteen minutes later, when the counter rush slowed and Caleb looked around the room, the girl was gone. He was not consciously aware of her not being there. She would have slipped entirely from his mind had it been an ordinary day.

However, the day was not ordinary and, as it turned out, Caleb would come to remember that young woman for the rest of his life. She would visit him in his dreams, though when that happened there were no eyes behind the dark lenses of the shades, but actual fire. The heat of that fire became so intense that it would chase him from sleep into a trembling wakefulness, and he would sit up in bed, drenched with sweat, listening to the desperate pounding of his heart.

At the moment, as he looked around the cyber cafe, he did not see her and did not think about her.

Until he had no choice.

At precisely 6:30 that morning her face appeared on every screen in the cafe. Even on the personal laptops of customers who came in for the wi-fi access. Caleb was bent over the counter running a debit card, heard the chorus of grunts and questions.