Monster Hunter Nemesis (3 page)

Franks glanced over, curious.

“I’d better clarify. When I said be yourself, I mean tell them the unvarnished truth, not murder everything . . . Stricken is gaming the system, but I don’t think he’s willing to break it.
Yet.
I’d tell you to be careful, but I know you’ve got eyes in the back of your head.”

“Tried that once. Too disorienting.”

“You’re a very literal man, Franks. . . . The powers that be know Stricken. He’s their pet snake, but they still understand they’ve got a snake. On the other hand you have an exemplary service record for over two centuries. You’re a known quantity. Some of them might fear you, but they know you won’t blow smoke up their asses. I think it’ll work out . . . Hopefully we’re not too late.”

Myers wasn’t allowed to know, but if they couldn’t stop Project Nemesis then the destruction they saw here today would be
nothing
in comparison.

* * *

“Franks duty?” Grant Jefferson asked his partner as they approached waiting aircraft. “What did we do to deserve this?”

“Myers probably just wants us out of Vegas since we helped him screw over STFU,” Archer answered.

“Shhh.” Grant glanced around the runway. “Don’t say that out in the open. There could be bugs.”

Grant’s lack of technical surveillance knowledge was funny, but most MCB personnel didn’t have Archer’s technical know-how. He’d been in the Tech Branch of the Admin and Logistics division of the MCB. Grant was Media Control, and that assignment was more about smooth talking than smarts. “If Unicorn has directional mikes good enough to pick us up over those engines spinning up, he deserves to know about our great Waffle Hut conspiracy.”

Grant nodded. “I sure hope you’re right.”

“I sure hope Stricken hasn’t arranged for our flight to crash mysteriously.”

“That’s not going to happen.” But since both of them worked for a shadow government entity that specialized in fabricating conspiracy theories and falsifying evidence, Grant didn’t sound convinced. “Probably. Stricken might be willing to sit around and let extra innocents die, but he isn’t going to start murdering other Feds . . . But if the crew starts parachuting out, I’m going with them.”

“Like Stricken would tell the Air Force? Fat chance of that. If I was him, I’d just have one of our wings rigged to blow clean off.” Archer had been in the 82nd Airborne and had made a lot of jumps in his life, but they’d all been out of perfectly good aircraft. “You can’t exactly overcome centrifugal force and cleanly exit a plane that’s corkscrewing its way into the ground. Well, Franks maybe could, but I hear as long as there’s enough left of him to scrape into a Ziploc bag they can make a new body, so Franks doing something stupid doesn’t count. All those military training accidents you read about where some plane falls into the Med with no bodies recovered? That’s got monster cover-up written all over it. Just because we’re not briefed in doesn’t mean it wasn’t us. I knew this one dude—”

“Okay, enough. I already hate flying when I’m not the pilot.” Grant had to shout as they got closer to the plane. They both got their plugs out and stuck into their ears. C-17s were loud as hell on the ramp. Since the MCB was a rather special entity within the government, when they needed military resources they got them fast. “It’s not fair. I was doing a great job on PR. Getting stuck Franks-sitting . . . That’s the most boring job in the Bureau until the minute it turns into the most dangerous. What’s the fatality rate on Franks-sitting?”

“Last time we worked with Franks only half of us died. Plus that dick Torres even deserved it. Don’t be a wuss, Grant. We’re not going operational with Franks. We’re going to watch him fill out paperwork and maybe growl at a congressman. I’m probably just here because I type fast.”

“This is just a letdown. That was one of the biggest cover jobs in MCB history and I was doing a damn good job locking it down.”

To be fair, Grant really had. Some of them were just better natural born liars, and some, like Archer, were better at supporting the liars. “Your career will survive. Our last two directors partnered with Franks at some point. Supporting the big dog is a prestige assignment. Think of this as a resumé builder. Everybody knows you’re gunning for a SAC position eventually.”

Grant got a little red in the face. The MCB had a very hands-on warrior culture. No field agent wanted to get a rep as a political hack, especially now that the biggest political hack in the Bureau was their new director, and Stark wasn’t exactly a popular figure.

Archer didn’t bring it up, as Myers hadn’t had a chance yet to brief them on the details of their particular assignment, but with everything that was going on in Vegas right now, Myers could barely afford to spare anyone, let alone four agents. There was something going down, and since he and Grant were some of the few who knew about Stricken’s illegal activities, it had to be related.

The female Air Force loadmaster led them up the ramp and showed them where to stash their gear bags. She couldn’t help but give Grant a flirty little look. The dude was just so annoyingly classically handsome that he had that effect on nearly every woman they met. Half the time Grant could simply charm their witnesses into silence. They were still in their issued black MCB armor, though both of them had managed to avoid being set on fire or covered in ectoplasm, so all things considered they appeared rather respectable. Only Archer was skinny and goofy-looking. She gave Grant a long once-over, barely noticed that Archer was alive, then went back down the ramp as they continued going forward. Grant inspected her backside through her flight suit and turned back grinning. “Thank you, stewardess . . . What?”

“That’s why you’re assigned to Franks. Myers figured you had charm enough for both of you.”

“Hey, I’d seduce a congresswoman if it furthered the mission. Don’t ever say that I’m not willing to take one for the team.”

The interior bay was large enough to carry a tank and had seats down the sides. There were two other armored MCB agents already strapped in and waiting. Of course there were no nameplates on a mission like this, but Archer knew one of them. The muscular guy was Radabaugh. Like many members of the MCB recruited from the military, he was a former spec ops badass. Radabaugh was a long time member of the Strike Team and had even been in Natchy Bottom. That was the sort of thing that earned an agent some street cred. Archer shook his hand. “Good to see you here.”

“Hey, Henry,” he shouted back. “Grant. You guys Franks-sitting too?”

“Afraid so,” Grant answered before turning to the last agent, who was a rather average-looking young man with thinning blond hair. He wasn’t very tall, and a little overweight for an agent, which meant he probably wasn’t from the Strike Team. “I don’t know you. What department are you in?”

“Thomas Strayhorn.” The young agent stuck out his hand to shake. “I was transferred over from the Marshal’s Service. I’m still unassigned.”

“Nice to meet you, Agent Strayhorn.”

“
Probationary
agent. He got out of the academy a week ago,” Radabaugh said. “I’m his TO.”

“Still in training and you’re on Franks’ detail?” That was surprising. Archer shared a nervous glance with Grant. From the look on his face they were thinking the same thing. The last time Franks had been put with new agents it had been to smoke out a mole. That op had exposed the traitor Torres, but it had gotten Herzog killed in the process.

“A week, huh?” Grant asked suspiciously. “Isn’t that something? Is he cleared on Franks?”

“He’s cleared, but he’s not had the
full
briefing yet, just the sanitized version from the academy. I just got the word from Myers half an hour ago to be here.”

“You must have either impressed the hell out of him, or really pissed Myers off somehow. Welcome to Franks duty, Strayhorn. It’s a real joy to work with him. Most bosses you have to guess if they really like you or not, but with Franks that’s never in question. He hates everyone. Our job is to run interference, be the public face—”

“Fetch him snacks. Rub his feet,” Radabaugh said. “Basically we do whatever he says all while trying to keep stupid people out of his way.”

“Franks especially hates stupid people, and he thinks everybody is stupid.” Archer sat next to the new guy. He’d ridden in plenty of C-17s, and compared to some of the other military aircraft the MCB routinely commandeered it was a pleasant ride in comparison. Conversation was even possible if you didn’t mind yelling. “A rookie, huh?”

“I spent three years in federal law enforcement—”

“The sooner you get through your head that means jack shit when dealing with monsters, the better,” Radabaugh corrected him. “That’s Henry Archer you’re talking to. Don’t let the flattop fool you. He may look like Vanilla Ice but he’s the real deal. Archer here took point on the New Zealand op. You heard of the Arbmunep?”

“Oh.” That got his attention. “They talked about that in training. Impressive.”

“That tree was a mean son of a bitch, but it was a team effort.” Monster Hunter International had done a lot of the heavy lifting on that one, but since MCB agents’ opinions on that company ranged from MHI being cowboys deserving a little grudging respect all the way over to them being a bunch of money-grubbing, borderline criminal cutthroats, Archer didn’t want to open that particular can of contractor worms.

But Radabaugh did anyway. “And Grant here is former MHI. He dealt with more oddities in a couple of years than most of us will over a career.”

Strayhorn seemed intrigued. “That’s weird. I’ve heard some MCB retire and then go private, but I don’t know too many private Hunters that go government. Kind of backwards, isn’t it? I hear they get paid tons, but we just start out as GS-12s. I’ve heard about MHI. They’re supposed to be kind of shifty.”

“Uh huh . . .” Grant said as he took his phone out and pretended to check his email. “Before you read too much into their character, our
boss
, MCB
legend
Dwayne Myers once worked for MHI too. He was even best friends with Earl Harbinger.”

“I knew that.” It still shut the rookie up. Archer was a little envious of how easily Grant could manipulate a social situation. Most experienced agents would have just browbeat the new guy, but Grant put him in his place and still came out looking like a nice guy.

“Myers has enough problems right now without any of us bringing up his past,” Archer said. “In case you’re wondering, he’s a good boss. He knows monsters better than anybody.”
And if he wants us here, there’s got to be a damned good reason.
Myers was a hard-ass, but he was competent, and most of all, Archer’s gut instinct told him that Myers was basically an honorable man. He cared about the safety of his country above all, which was more than Archer could say for his replacement. Stark was a doofus.

Immediately after the Copper Lake incident, Archer, like most of the MCB, had thought that Doug Stark was a hero. Archer had grown up only a few miles from Copper Lake. The whole Upper Peninsula would have been awash in zombie werewolves if it hadn’t been for Stark’s quick thinking. It wasn’t until later, when he’d been assigned to the cover-up and was interviewing locals, that he had learned that contrary to the official record, Stark’s real actions had consisted mostly of cowardice and stupidity. Harbinger, some rival Hunters, and a bunch of locals had been the real heroes. That had been a letdown. Then while picking through the aftermath, Archer had discovered the originator of the
vulkodlak
plague that had endangered his home town had been one of Stricken’s pet monsters from STFU.

Between those two facts, it was no surprise that he’d sided with Myers in the MCB’s internal power struggle.

“I’d never bad-mouth Myers. I’ve only heard positive things about him.” Strayhorn left that hanging, waiting to see if any of the more experienced men would correct him. He seemed satisfied when they didn’t.

“Don’t worry about it, Rookie . . .” Grant said. “But yes, MHI are shifty. They only care about themselves. They’re a bunch of glory hounds and hotdogs, but they’re not all bad.”

“Projection much?” Archer muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Thank goodness for the engine noise. Archer actually liked the MHI people he’d worked with, but then again, he wasn’t the one whose fiancée had dumped him to marry a magic accountant.

Grant put his phone back in his pocket. “Well, anyway, I’m sure this assignment will either be boring as hell, or we’ll all die on an op and Franks will harvest our corpses for spare parts. . . . Come to think of it, I sure hope you’re right, Archer, and I’m here because I’m good with people and not because Franks picked us out because he needs some new parts.” Grant made an exaggerated motion around his face. “Who wouldn’t want this?”

“Makes sense,” Archer responded. “Holly Newcastle did just tell me I’ve got nice eyes.” And since he was thinking of MHI people he didn’t mind working with . . .
Wow.
That was one enemy he wouldn’t mind fraternizing with.

“Franks goes through eyes like crazy. I hear he keeps a jar full of them in his fridge,” Radabaugh said as he looked over at Strayhorn. “That’s right. The rumors are true. Franks is built out of body parts.”

Archer was still thinking of his last oddly staffed op, so he watched the rookie carefully. He wasn’t about to get bit in the ass again.

The rookie was pretty darn good at keeping his emotions hidden. “There was some talk about him at the academy.” Strayhorn said cautiously. “Some of the guys said that he’s really Frankenstein.” Archer liked how he added the
some said
. The rookie wasn’t giving away whether he believed them or not, just in case the senior agents were pulling his leg.

“You mean Frankenstein’s monster, but yeah.” Radabaugh grinned. “Welcome to the big time, Rook. Dr. Frankenstein was a myth. The real mad scientist was named Dippel. The book came out way later. Franks isn’t a code name either. He named himself that because he was
built
in the real Castle Frankenstein.”

“I see . . .”

“I doubt that!” Radabaugh insisted. “Franks is a three-hundred-year-old, one-man wrecking ball. Anything the MCB really needs to shut down, they drop Franks on it. Boom. Done. He’s way faster, stronger, and tougher than any of us. I’ve got the top hand-to-hand combatives score in the Bureau three years running and I wouldn’t last thirty seconds against Franks. He gets blown up, we bag the parts, and the egg-heads stitch him back together . . . Few days later he’s back in the fight, mean as ever. And don’t go thinking that because he’s an antique he can’t be that badass; they’ve been making improvements on him the whole time. He can shrug off things that would kill any regular man, and when he’s moving, just keep out of his way. If we get called up for something and it turns into combat, stay behind Franks.”