6

 

 

MILLER BOUNDED UP the cove’s stairwell, his lungs once again protesting the effort. Blood from his grazed arm seeped into the fabric of his uniform, staining the cloth a deeper shade of black and warming his skin as his blood pressure rose. With every step the pain pulsed down to his fingertips.

It may be more than a graze, but it was nothing compared to the ache that throbbed in his head the moment he’d left Gray’s office.

The realization of what he was about to do had settled into his bones, weighing his feet. His legs slowed; flashes of light forced his eyes closed.

Good God, how had it come to this?

He knew what he had to do. It was planned. Everything they had worked for in the last several weeks led to this moment. He couldn’t afford to have his body give out just when he was nearly there.

Miller pushed his palm against the wall of the stairwell, his knees shaking. His backpack felt a thousand pounds, pulling him into the hollows of the earth and threatening to blow his psyche to pieces.

All the mistakes that Gray had made, and Miller could very well be making the biggest misstep in all of history.

He was a nobody—a burnt-out bodyguard who’d gotten caught up in the most horrendous fight of human history; how could he, of all people, make a decision that would affect the lives of everyone on the planet?

Miller opened his eyes and forced one foot in front of the other. Up the stairs he continued, his body protesting with each move.

There was no time for regret now. The path had been laid.

When he reached the sixth floor, Miller entered the hallway and chanced a look out the windows, his mind whirling.

Below, in the pandemonium of the compound, the Northwind and Cobalt troops—and strangely enough, some of Harris’s troops, too—were leading a small pack of survivors from a warehouse and hacking through the Exiles and Infected toward the docks, where the Tevatnoa sat, waiting.

The massive ship looked rusted and decrepit at the docks, but there was a flurry of activity on deck. Half the crew pulled up the cables mooring the ship, while the other half detached the power lines connecting it to the power station farther down the dock.

Satisfied, Miller continued down the hall toward the master suite. He rounded the bend and spotted two guards at the door. They glared at him in shock, looking anxious and sweaty.

His hesitation only lasted a second. Raising his rifle, Miller opened fire, hitting both stunned men in the face. The rounds cut clean through them, throwing them against the wall with a splatter of blood that sprayed across the cracked paint.

Bile burned the back of Miller’s throat, but he swallowed it down, adjusted the pack on his back, and stepped over the bodies toward the door. Inside the office he heard shouting.

“Who authorized you to start the chopper’s launch sequence? We are not evacuating. Not after all we’ve done to secure this compound!”

“Sir, you must go—we’re under siege!”

“Seal off the gates. No one gets in or out.”

“Sir…!”

“Don’t give me excuses!”

Miller had heard enough. Pushing through the door, he immediately cut to one side and squeezed off several rounds, hitting one unsuspecting soldier in the back and the other in the side.

There were at least three more guards. Miller dodged a shot by diving into a side roll, his heavy backpack off-setting his balance. He landed with a flop, then scrambled up, coming up behind a padded chair and unconsciously grabbing at his throbbing arm. The pain blinded him for only a moment, but it was enough time for the guards to shoot off several more rounds. One of the bullets pierced the stuffed chair and hit the wall behind him. Miller shook off the discomfort, raised his M27 and blindly shot a few more rounds, taking down another guard.

Two left.

Bob Harris stood behind his desk, looking clean, well-fed, and aghast that anyone would have the gall to enter his office and shoot at him. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he bellowed. “Take him out!”

The remaining guards opened up, ripping the area around Miller to shreds with a dozen rounds each. Stuffing from the chair exploded out the back a few more times. Miller felt a round hit the ground at his feet and tucked his leg in. When there was a break in the bullets, he came around to survey the scene.

The two guards stood on either side of Harris’s desk, the man himself between them.

“Ha!” Harris burst. “Not so tough now, are you Miller?”

Shaking his head, Miller grabbed at his vest, pulling out a hand grenade. Biting the pin from the top, he rolled it across the floor, between one of the guard’s feet.

“Grenade!”

As the guard bent over, using his body as a shield, Harris and the other soldier dove for cover.

The explosion was loud, making Miller’s ears ring, but it was mostly contained by the guard’s sacrifice. Using the distraction, Miller stood from behind the shredded chair and took out the other guard before he could regain his footing.

Harris made a mad dash for the door; Miller took aim and shot out his kneecaps.

The old security head bellowed in agony as he hit the floor, his chin striking hard against the ground. He rolled onto his back, gripping his smashed knees with shaking, stubby fingers. “Miller—you son of a bitch.”

“Sticks and stones, Bob,” Miller said.

“What the hell have you done? You’ve ruined everything—condemned us all, all of humanity.”

“I’ve condemned us?” Miller wrenched Harris to his feet, then propped up the battered office chair and sat Harris down in it. “I’m only here to finish what you started.” Pulling a length of rope from his vest pocket, Miller tied Harris to the chair, binding him around his arms, across the chest and ankles. “If anyone threw our humanity away, it was you.”

“Miller, please. You have to listen to me. Don’t do this.”

Miller tightened the last of the rope, then bent to remove his backpack. “This is your mission, Bob. It’s Operation Atlas Lion—just like you wanted.” He pulled open the pack’s zipper and spoke through clenched teeth. “Right outside your window, the compound is swarming with every parasite-ridden creature within a ten mile radius.” Opening the pack, Miller pulled the surface-to-air nuke from the bag, and with both hands level, brought it over to Harris.

The man’s eyes widened in horror. Miller felt sick at the satisfaction that expression brought him.

“We’re going to cleanse New York City of the Exiles,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind, but I improvised a little.”

Gingerly, Miller slid the nuke between Harris’s knees and used the rope to anchor it to his thighs. Harris struggled, twisting his hips in an attempt to escape, but between his shattered knees and the ropes binding him to the chair, there was no place for him to go.

Bending down, Miller activated the control panel on the side of the missile, set the timer for a half hour, then bent upright.

Harris’s eyes had filled with tears. “You don’t have to do this,” he blubbered. “Just give the wasps time to spread NAPA-33. If we can maintain control of the compound, I know we can beat this.”

Miller shook his head, not bothering to reply. He dug into his vest and tossed a handful of pheromone tea bags into Harris’s lap.

“What would be worse, do you think? The terror-jaws finding you first, or the timer running out? Good-bye, Harris.” Turning on his heel, Miller slung the strap of his M27 on his good arm, and crossed the office.

“Miller! You can’t leave me here like this. Miller! This won’t solve anything. We can still save New York. You just have to listen to me. Miller! Miller, get back here!”

But he was already out the door.