Change Agent

  The new chopper raced low across the rice paddies, heading north, and away from Pattaya City.

  Chapter 29

  Word came down, and Aiyana Marcotte followed a second wave of Thai police into the now secured Luk Krung clinic facility. She wore a tactical vest with the word “Interpol” stamped across the front and back in large white letters. Her group included evidence technicians, uniformed Royal Thai Police officers, a couple of media camera teams, and a high-ranking Thai police official in formal attire. They entered through the parking garage, where the glass doors of the clinic led into a tastefully decorated lobby.

  Marcotte spoke to Sergeant Michael Yi Ji-chang through her LFP phone link. “They’re finally letting us in with the evidence teams. Any word on Wyckes?”

  “Hang on . . . Something’s up, Inspector. The commanders are shouting at each other in Thai now . . .” The sound of men shouting at one another was audible in the background. “There’s been some sort of problem. A big one from the sound of it.”

  A shout went up near Marcotte. She walked forward to see a police official shouting at camera crews, who were filming dozens of human bodies splayed across the corridor—some of them handcuffed European and Chinese civilians and others black-clad Thai tactical police. Their dead eyes stared. More shouting as the officials pushed the camera crews back.

  “Holy hell . . .”

  There were at least three dozen bodies in the main corridor, but none of them had visible injuries. There was no blood.

  “What the . . . ?”

  “What are you seeing?”

  “Sergeant, there are dead people everywhere in the corridors—civilians and police. What the hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but I think the command center just discovered it.”

  “Just discovered it? How the hell did they not notice? This place isn’t secured.”

  Police teams moved forward with handguns raised, and as soon as they came around the corner, they moved back, alarmed. “More dead! Dead everywhere!”

  “I need information, Sergeant.”

  There was more shouting in the background of Yi’s phone.

  Close to Marcotte a police official lifted his head from a radio and shouted, “Poison gas! It’s poison gas!”

  The politicians, media, and police panicked equally, stampeding back toward the exit.

  Marcotte followed. “Someone’s saying there’s poison gas in the lab. Is that true?”

  “I just got the word. This is bad.”

  Marcotte moved out through the parking garage. “Information, Sergeant. Now.”

  “They’re reviewing CICADA footage. They’ve got people down all over, Inspector. It’s looking like someone released poison gas inside the lab. There are civilians dead. Maybe a lot of them.”

  She walked up the concrete ramp with dozens of other police—most of whom were pushing away media cameras in a very threatening way. Others clutched handkerchiefs to their faces in the vain hope this would somehow stop nerve gas.

  “From what I saw in there, it would have to be a nerve toxin.”

  “I’m looking over their shoulders at surveillance video right now. There’s a guy walking around with no gas mask or anything. People are just dropping dead as he passes by them. He’s dressed like the game show host from hell.”

  “He’s not spraying anything on them?”

  “No. He just walks within a few meters, and they drop.”

  “That sort of toxicity level—just a breath or two—how could he be immune? That’s impossible.”

  “Well, I’m looking right at it.”

  “Where is this guy now?”

  “They’re reviewing footage.” A pause. “Oh my god. Inspector, it looks like we’ve got mass casualties on our hands.”

  Marcotte felt like punching a wall. Wyckes.

  Someone else was shouting in the background of Yi’s phone now. “The political shit has really hit the fan here. I’m being shoved out of the command truck.” Yi shouted to someone, “We weren’t the ones who planned this!”

  “Goddamnit. Yi. Yi!”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the status of the breaching teams? What about the civilians?”

  “They’re bringing hazmat teams in. Robots. But they’re pulling everyone out for now. Distributing MOPP gear.”

  “There are scores of civilians in that lab. Children. The Luk Krung could be using this opportunity to incinerate evidence. And what about Wyckes? Has anyone seen Wyckes? He’s the one behind all this.”

  “An autonomous chopper took off from one of the nearby buildings a couple minutes ago. Looks like it’s been modded. It’s flying below radar—literally at treetop level all over the city.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. “How the hell did the recon teams miss a helicopter on the roof? That’s the first thing they should have secured.”

  “Apparently it came out of some hidden hangar. They have no idea who was in it. Police drones are in pursuit.”

  “Goddamnit! Find out if anyone has Wyckes. And get me the status of that chopper pursuit.”

  “Will do.”

  Marcotte moved out of the parking garage and into the open air. Reporters were swarming the police now, with additional police coming in to push the reporters back. Police sedans whooping their sirens came up to collect the officials. More police formed a blockade at the mouth of the parking garage, shouting for reporters to stay back.

  A police officer walked past distributing black S10 gas masks. He pushed one into Marcotte’s hands, shouting, “Must wear. Orders.”

  Marcotte grabbed the mask and looked at the gathering media circus. As soon as they saw the gas masks, they all dove for them, trying to be the first to do a live remote masked up.

  The media. Dozens of dead civilians and police was an unmitigated disaster to the task force. Not even she would have guessed that Wyckes would be evil enough to release poison gas just to cover his escape.

  Marcotte felt a sinking feeling. Had she caused this? Were people dead because of her?

  She glanced up as she heard a shout behind her. Three Thai motorcycle police officers manning the roadblock at the end of the street aimed their pistols at a well-dressed man who had just emerged from a stairwell door to the parking garage. Marcotte perked up since the man had to have come from the Luk Krung clinic. There had been tactical units guarding the stairwell—but no longer, apparently.

  She moved toward the scene as the motorcycle cops shouted in Thai.

  The man looked to be an Asian businessman—Mongolian perhaps. He wore a tailored pin-striped suit, his jacket splayed open as he raised his hands. He calmly obeyed orders to kneel, then put his hands on his head as the officers moved in for the arrest.

  Suddenly the lead officer collapsed facedown onto the pavement, alongside the suspect. The other two staggered. One dropped his gun. And then they both collapsed as well.

  The man looked over to Marcotte as he calmly got to his feet.

  A wave of adrenaline spread through Marcotte. She barked into her LFP link, “Sergeant! He’s here!”

  “Who is? Wyckes?”

  She turned to the cluster of reporters and shouted, “Gas masks on!” Reporters already puzzling over their masks ran screaming. Cops who hadn’t gotten them yet fled as well.

  Marcotte watched the suited man climb onto a parked electric motorcycle. He calmly pulled a civilian helmet on.

  She ran toward him, reaching by reflex for the small of her back and the gun that wasn’t there. Damnit.

  Instead, she removed her LFP glasses in order to slip on the S10 gas mask and immediately lost her link to Yi. She stuffed the LFP glasses into a pocket in her tactical vest and cinched the gas mask straps. By the time she reached the scene of the dead officers, the suspect was racing away down the stree
t.

  Marcotte could clearly see one officer’s dead eyes staring skyward. She ran for one of the three nearby police motorcycles. It, too, was an electric bike—which was good. They’d retired gasoline bikes before she did her two years in the LAPD. This one looked somewhat similar to her old patrol unit. It had an old HK416 assault rifle locked into a rack on the rear strut.

  She raised her LFP glasses to her mask and shouted muffled words to Yi. “Call General Prem! Get him to follow me! Tell him I’m in pursuit of the poison gas suspect!”

  “What? I didn’t copy that, Inspector. Please—”

  She stowed the LFP glasses again and thumbed the bike’s safety and power. With that Marcotte screeched forward, rapidly accelerating after the suited man.

  She weaved through traffic and turned on her lights and siren. Marcotte looked for the police radio link, but then realized it was in the officers’ helmets—back where they had fallen. Their pistols were back there, too.

  Stop screwing up, baby.

  Her foster mother’s voice came to her at times like these. The woman was a tough cop, and she didn’t care for excuses.

  Keep your shit together.

  Marcotte tried to take deep breaths to calm herself and focus her vision inside the suffocating mask. She was a skilled rider, but she’d never performed a high-speed pursuit in MOPP gear. Her lenses were partly clouding up in the stifling humidity.

  Marcotte hugged the electric bike close and accelerated past confused scooter drivers and tourists stuck in dense traffic caused by the police blockade. They craned their necks to look after the black-skinned woman in an Interpol flak jacket and gas mask racing between cars on a Thai police motorcycle, its sirens whooping and warbling.

  Focusing through the cloudy lenses of the mask, Marcotte could see the man’s bike a couple hundred meters ahead. He glanced back and clearly saw her. He slipped between cars, but she was gaining. Nobody was dropping dead around him as he passed by. Maybe his poison had been used up. Or perhaps it was because he was traveling fast.

  You can’t stop him here, baby.

  Marcotte nodded. And her foster mother would have been right. She had to get the suspect away from these crowded streets. If she collared him in the middle of all these people, he could unleash a toxin. A crowd would gather. She had to hang back.

  Did she risk taking off the mask? Asking for backup? If so, now was the time to risk exposure.

  Marcotte pulled the mask up and grabbed for her LFP glasses and slipped them on momentarily. Their lenses immediately started translating Thai road signs for her, but she shouted into her open link to Yi. “Sergeant!”

  “Inspector, what the hell’s going on? Why are you moving away from the lab?”

  “I’m pursuing the suspect in the gas attack.”

  “How do you know what he looks like?”

  “Because I just saw him kill three motorcycle cops in the street. He must have some sort of airborne nerve agent. He’s racing through the city on a motorcycle. I’m following.”

  “For god’s sake, don’t catch him.”

  “I’ve got a gas mask. I have to put it back on. And soon.”

  “Inspector, just hang back. Hold on . . .” She heard Yi shouting to someone.

  Marcotte was gaining on the man. He glanced back at her again, then ducked along gutters and sidewalks as necessary to maintain speed.

  But she was still gaining.

  “Inspector, police command says only to follow him. Right now all their drones are pursuing the escaped chopper. But if this guy’s got a nerve agent on him, they need him out of populated areas above all else.”

  “Right.”

  “Just hang back and follow. Stay away from him.”

  “Call you when I can.” Marcotte hung up. She pulled down the gas mask and cinched the straps as best she could with one hand.

  The suspect glanced back at her again, then suddenly turned right down a soi, one of the narrow side streets common throughout the city.

  She approached the turn and leaned into it, heading down a lane lined with parked cars, hanging laundry, and garbage bins. The suspect was rocketing down the soi far ahead—quickly disappearing around a bend. Marcotte accelerated as people poked their heads out of windows and over balconies to see her race past, sirens blaring. Her powerful electric bike whined down the lane.

  She curved right, crossing a short bridge over a brown-water canal, and suddenly saw the suspect coming straight at her.

  Marcotte slammed on her brakes, skidding to a stop. The man skidded to a stop a few meters away and stepped off the bike, letting it drop.

  Marcotte did likewise, slipping off it as it slowed.

  They stood in the lane, now just a few meters apart.

  Her foster mother’s voice in her mind. You call that hanging back?

  Pigeons clustered on a power line nearby began to drop off the wire en masse, dead before they hit the pavement, or rolled off the railing into the canal below.

  The nerve agent was clearly still potent.

  The man removed his motorcycle helmet and tossed it aside as he walked slowly toward her. His suit was impressively tailored. He had a silk handkerchief tastefully folded in the breast pocket. His confidence unnerved her. He seemed unhurried.

  Marcotte’s rapid breathing was deafening inside the gas mask. She pointed and shouted in a muffled voice, “Down on the ground! Now!”

  He did not comply.

  His face was broad, skin pale, eyes narrow. His hair slicked back. He looked like a young Central Asian bureaucrat. This was the first high-level member of the Huli jing she’d ever seen alive.

  But there was more to it than that.

  The wrongness hit her like a riptide, rolling around her and nearly knocking her off her feet. Was it the nerve agent acting on her? She pulled at the gas mask straps, yanking them tighter.

  The feeling didn’t go away. There was something unnatural about the man standing before her. She’d never believed anything more strongly in her life.

  “What the hell are you?”

  He stared with unliving eyes. “I am the future.”

  He moved toward her.

  She backed up. “Get down on the ground! You’re under arrest!”

  “Inspector Marcotte. I recognized you. You stand out here in Thailand.”

  She halted. He knew her name. This unnatural creature knew who she was.

  Civilians peered from windows and doorways. Locals approached on the sidewalk.

  Marcotte shouted through her gas mask. “Get back! Danger! Get back!” She waved like a lunatic.

  The people ducked back into their flats or edged away, but stayed watching.

  The man laughed. “You’re on my list. You’ve saved me a trip.” He extended his hand. “I’ll have that gas mask.”

  Karate had long been Marcotte’s passion—something her foster mother had introduced to her. A means of personal self-defense in a world where, at times, no help was coming. One thing she learned in childhood was to never be helpless again.

  He moved in. She stepped aside and grabbed his wrist—delivering a series of rapid kicks to vulnerability points in his abdomen, side, and groin, grunting defiance with each hit.

  But his touch sent a jolt of revulsion through her body. She felt her bladder release. The wetness spreading.

  She ducked below another grab for her mask, then leaped up and gave a roundhouse kick to the side of his head that sent him reeling.

  He slammed into the side railing of the bridge. Then quickly righted himself. Shaking his head and wiping away blood from his rapidly swelling lip.

  “Get on the ground!” She felt urine running down her legs. Her heart hammering in her ears in terror. Her hands shaking.

  You can take him. I know you can, baby.

  He moved toward her. ??
?You can hit me. But all I need is to lift your mask just once . . .”

  She weaved around him.

  “Look at you . . .” He pointed at her hands.

  She could clearly see that her own hands were now glistening with poison.

  “It only requires a few molecules in your olfactory channel.”

  Fear flowed through and around her.

  “You are dead, Inspector Marcotte.”

  You can beat this son of a bitch, baby.

  “And you are death to all those who come near you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You got that right, motherfucker . . .”

  She lunged toward him, then ducked under his grasp, clearing his legs out from under him, and hammered the side of his head with her elbow as he tried to get up.

  He rolled clear while she pursued him, kicking his ribs.

  “I don’t care if you are Satan himself—I will kick your goddamned ass!”

  He rolled back to his feet, blood flowing down his nose. His right eye reddening.

  He took a moment to assess her. Then he glanced aside. “Do you hear that?” He moved away from her.

  She followed. She could hear children laughing. Lots of them.

  “Do you hear them?”

  A bolt of fear ran through Marcotte. She lowered her hands.

  He ran now, down the lane, and she ran after him, struggling for breath in the gas mask after all the exertion. Running was suffocating her. She came around a house to see a schoolyard thirty or forty meters away. Dozens of Thai elementary school children in neat uniforms played in a fenced yard there.

  The suited man wiped away blood from his nose and pointed. “Follow me, and I will run toward them. And through crowded places. I will slay hundreds.”

  She sucked for air. Taking off the mask meant instant death. She could see the toxin glistening on her hands. She looked up into the unnatural man’s dead eyes and took a measure of pride that one of them was swelling. “Crawl back into hell—but I will find you one day.”

  The man laughed, then backed away from her, while she moved between him and the distant children. The thing righted his motorcycle, gathered his helmet, and with one last look at her accelerated away.