Pulse
PULSE
A Jack Sigler Thriller
By Jeremy Robinson
Description:
HOW MANY PEOPLE WOULD YOU KILL TO LIVE FOREVER?
Imagine a world where soldiers regenerate and continue fighting without pause, where suicide bombers live to strike again and again. This is the dream of Richard Ridley, founder of Manifold Genetics, and he has just discovered the key to eternal life: an ancient artifact buried beneath a Greek-inscribed stone in the Peruvian desert.
When Manifold steals the artifact and abducts archeologist Dr. George Pierce, United States Special Forces Delta operator Jack Sigler, callsign King, and his “Chess Team” give chase. Formed under special order from the president, they are the best of America’s Special Forces, tasked with antiterrorism missions against any threat—ancient, modern, and at times, inhuman. With cutting-edge weapons, tough-as-nails tactics, and keen intellects, they stand alone on the brink, facing the world’s most dangerous threats.
Ridley’s plan to create unstoppable soldiers has just made him threat number one. Tension soars along with the body count as the team faces high-tech security forces, hordes of “regens’, and a resurrected mythological predator complete with regenerative abilities, seven heads, and a savage appetite. The Chess Team races to save Pierce, and stop Manifold before they change the face of genetics—and human history—forever.
Heart-pounding action combines with adrenaline-charged suspense in the first of international bestselling author Jeremy Robinson’s smart, sharp series featuring the Chess Team.
PULSE
A Jack Sigler / Chess Team Thriller
Jeremy Robinson
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jeremy Robinson
For Hilaree, again, my best, still
If a man is offered a fact which goes against his instincts, he will scrutinize it closely, and unless the evidence is overwhelming, he will refuse to believe it. If, on the other hand, he is offered something which affords a reason for acting in accordance to his instincts, he will accept it even on the slightest evidence. The origin of myths is explained in this way.
—Bertrand Russell
Where does the violet tint end and the orange tint begin? Distinctly we see the difference of the colors, but where exactly does the one first blending enter into the other? So with sanity and insanity.
—Herman Melville
If all else fails, immortality can always be assured by spectacular error.
—John Kenneth Galbraith
PROLOGUE
Nazca, Peru, 454 B.C.
Hundreds of feet pounded the dry soil, filling the air with the ominous sound of soldiers on the march. But these were not soldiers. They were followers, worshippers of the man whose strange ship had landed on the lush Peruvian shore only a week before, the man who now led them on a trek away from their fertile homeland and across the arid, lifeless Nazca plains.
He marched without cease, without pause for food, water, or rest. With each merciless day their numbers dwindled. The women and children turned back first as hunger and responsibility to their kin overruled their desire to worship the visiting deity. The men who continued following the silent stranger fought against their parched throats and scorched feet, determined to see where the giant would lead. One by one, the weakest men fell to the hard-packed, roiling hot sand and died slowly under the blistering gaze of the sun.
When the man finally stopped in the shade of a tall hill he turned and cast a cool gaze at the remaining twenty-three men—all that remained of the one hundred thirty-seven who’d begun the journey alongside him. They were the strongest and bravest of the tribe, surely worthy of whatever honors the man-god would bestow.
Without a word the giant man removed the lion skin that covered his head and back, pulling the intact beast’s head up and away from his own. His sweat-dampened, curly black hair clung to his forehead, but the man paid it no heed. Nor did he wipe away the beads of sweat rolling into his dark brown eyes and into the heavily scabbed gashes running across his chest, back, and legs.
When the giant first arrived on the sandy shore of their village, his resistance to the deep wounds coupled with his tall, six-foot-five height—towering more than a foot above the tallest man in the tribe—had convinced the native Nazcans of his god-hood. The mysterious lion skin that covered his head and back told them he had journeyed from the land of the gods. The club he carried, stained dark with old blood, showed him to be a warrior worthy of respect and awe. But the blood-soaked, woven sack he carried, which wriggled and twisted in his hands and filled the air with a strong copper flavor, revealed he guarded the remains of some ancient evil. At first glance, the size of the object held within the sack made many think he had killed a large boar, but the copious amount of blood constantly dripping from the still-moving body within convinced them otherwise. Nothing mortal could survive so much blood loss.
The giant man knelt and plunged a finger into the hard earth. The small stones and sand that made up the surface of the plains slid away as he outlined a pattern with his finger. After finishing, the man stood again, met the eyes of the men still standing, and waved his hands out over the flat plain at the base of the hill. He then pointed to the central aspect of his drawing, then to a large stone, fifty feet away. The side facing away from the hill looked flat and stood more than ten feet tall and just as wide, but the back side curved out like a boulder. It stood on its edge where the flat side met the rounded, and balanced precariously. To the men it looked like a gnarled, giant melon that had been halved and discarded aeons ago by some ancient god.
The men understood. The strange stone would be the central head of the unearthly creature the man-god had drawn. As the sun set, the men worked in the cooling air. As night came, they labored under torch and moonlight and fought against the frigid, desert air, desperate for food and water, but craving to please the man-god.
By morning the oversized reproduction of the giant’s drawing was complete. From top to bottom it measured five hundred feet; from side to side, three hundred feet. The light brown lines of the drawing stood in stark contrast to the dark pebbly skin of the plains, making the massive illustration truly magnificent.
The men staggered under the fresh blazing sun as it sapped the rest of their strength and sucked the remaining moisture from their bodies. With each drop of blood from their raw hands, their lives ebbed farther away. Each man knew his life would end in the desert, but they fought the urge to flee, believing that the man-god would reward them for their faithful service. They staggered as a group, dazed and bewildered, toward the head of their drawing, where the giant waited.
He stood next to a deep pit he had dug in front of the large stone, where the two lines from either side of the drawing converged. The men stopped on the opposite side of the pit and waited. The giant raised the sack over the pit, allowing the still oozing blood to drip down into the sand below, where it dried instantly and turned to ash. The men murmured about the strange magic that turned blood to ash, but all remained rooted in place, as much from exhaustion as from a desire to see what might happen next. As the man freed the sack from his grasp, it fell into the pit, landing atop the ashen drop of blood.
Upon striking the hot, dry earth, the sack began to writhe, violently at first, but then more slowly. As the wet blood on the outside of the sack turned white and dry, it stopped moving altogether.
The men waited breathlessly for what might happen next. When the man-god raised his hand and pointed, fear and horror gripped their exhausted bodies. Had they known their fate, not a single one of them would have followed the giant or helped carve his design. Their eyes filled with fear and desperation, but as the giant’s grip tightened on his club, they knew flight would serve no purpose. Not one of them would make it outside the borders of their drawing without meeting a blunt end.
The man pointed again, stabbing his finger into the pit. This time the men obeyed, crawling down into the pit. With quivering legs and shaking hands, the men waited to see what would happen next.
The man drank from a wineskin that hung at his hip. The last few drops of the black liquid within dribbled onto his tongue. He swallowed and turned to them again, his body appearing stronger than ever, but his face revealing something more—remorse. The look of regret lasted only an instant as resolve returned to the man-god’s eyes.
For the first time since arriving, the giant spoke. His voice shook the sand at the edge of the pit. They didn’t understand a word of the man’s speech, but found the tone of his voice, the strength of his frame, and the energy of his gesticulations to be inspiring. Confidence returned to the men and several even smiled, as the man-god raised his club to the sky and shouted. They cheered with him, raising their bloodied fists and shouting at the sun.
But their shouts of victory turned to screams as a large object suddenly blotted out the sun above them. Before their tired minds could make sense of the massive object, it descended and crashed with a thunderous boom, after which only the sound of a single pair of sandaled feet could be heard, crunching across the plains, headed east, toward the coast.
1
Peru, 2006
Todd Maddox stepped out of the Eurocopter EC 155 and ducked instinctively as the rotor blades continued chopping the air above him. The flight from LAX in Los Angeles to Captain Rolden International Airport in Peru had been uneventful, and the copter ride from the airport to this unknown destination blessedly smooth. But discomfort struck him hard as he exited the copter’s air-conditioned interior and entered the humid jungle air of eastern Peru’s Amazon rain forest.
His sunflower yellow shirt became like sticky, wet papier-mâché, gluing itself to his body. His styled hair, held in place by a thick film of pricey Elnett hairspray, dissolved into a heavy goo that oozed over his forehead. Out of his dry, Los Angeles element, Maddox grunted and cursed under his breath as he held tight to his briefcase and jogged toward the glass double doors that seemed so out of place in the thick green jungle.
Doubt filled his mind as he neared the doors. Was this worth it? Could he stand all this heat and humidity? The pay would no doubt be amazing and the company, Manifold, was renowned in the world of genetics. But the job description, well, there hadn’t been one. Simply a five-year contract and ten thousand dollars for an interview, take it or leave it. He hoped to learn more during this one and only interview, but if the work they wanted him for was anything less than groundbreaking, he’d be on the next flight back to sunny, dry Los Angeles. His job there with CreGen paid well and made headlines occasionally, but the chance to work for Manifold was too good to not, at least, consider. Of course, when he agreed to an interview he had no idea it would take place in the Peruvian rain forest.
The double doors swung open and Maddox ran through like he was escaping a torrential downpour; given the amount of moisture clinging to his dress shirt, beige slacks, and now slick hair, it wasn’t much of a stretch.
Inside the hallway, cool, dry air blasted from air-conditioning vents along the ceiling. Maddox’s forehead stiffened as the hairspray dried again, several inches lower than when it had first been applied.
“Humidity does a job on each and every one of you metrosexuals the boss brings down here,” said a deep voice.
He looked at the man who had opened the door. He hadn’t been spoken to with such disrespect since high school. He glared at the man through his Oakley black-rimmed eyeglasses. The man was tall, and given the bulges beneath his form-fitting black shirt, not a scientist. He filled his voice with as much disgust as he could muster and said, “Excuse me?”
“I’m just screwing with you, man.” The stranger slapped him on the shoulder—which hurt—and laughed. He extended his hand. “Oliver Reinhart. Head of Gen-Y security here at Manifold Gamma.”
“You’re in charge of this facility?” he asked, wondering if he’d have to put up with this goon long term if he took the job.
Reinhart rubbed a hand over the back of his buzz-cut skull, letting the short hairs tickle his hand. “I oversee security at all the facilities, Alpha through Epsilon. I go where the boss goes.”
“Ridley?”
“That’s the guy.”
Maddox blinked. Richard Ridley reached legendary status when he formed Manifold ten years previous using a three-billion-dollar inheritance. At first no one took his company seriously, but then he began acquiring the best minds in the field, some straight out of MIT, Harvard, and Berkeley. The company soon flourished, making rapid advancements in the fields of genetics and biopharmaceuticals. “Richard Ridley is here?”
“You’re a quick one,” he said with a smirk. “I can see why he hired you.”
“He hasn’t hired me.”
Reinhart stepped past him and started down the stark white hallway. “He has. You just don’t know it yet. C’mon, follow me.”
Maddox looked at the burly man’s face. A scar ran down his cheek, but other than that, the cleanly shaven face looked, more than anything, young. No more than thirty. Figuring the young Reinhart got his kicks by pretending to be head of security and jerking recruits around by dangling Ridley in front of them, he said, “You look a little young to be head of security. What are you, thirty?”
Reinhart answered the questions quickly. “Twenty-five. We’re called Gen-Y for a reason. You won’t find anyone over twenty-eight in my crew.”
“Doesn’t the lack of experience—”
Reinhart paused. He fixed his eyes on Maddox’s. “Killers are born, not made.”
As though on cue, two more security guards rounded the corner and walked past them, eyeing him and nodding their heads at Reinhart, like friends in a club. Both looked barely old enough to shave, though their bulk and cold eyes confirmed Reinhart’s statement. He’d entered a den of vipers.
Still, it seemed irresponsible to hire such young people for security. Then again, eighteen-year-olds were c
ommon on any battlefield. Given Reinhart’s buzz cut and military posture, he’d probably seen some time in Iraq or Afghanistan before landing the job here. There weren’t many military people his age who hadn’t. He decided to drop the subject and fell in step behind Reinhart, following him through a maze of hallways.
Reinhart stopped next to a door and opened it. He motioned to the door and grinned. “After you.”
Maddox sighed and walked through. The room on the other side stopped him in his tracks. The white marble floor reflected the numerous shades of blue and green from the jungle canopy and sky, which glowed bright above the fifty-foot-long, arched all-glass ceiling. Incan statues lined the ruby red walls and a long oriental rug ran down the center of the room. The rug led to an enormous reception desk that looked more appropriate for a high-profile Hollywood literary agency than a genetics company. The serious-looking redhead behind the desk looked over her glasses at him and smiled briefly.
“Tell her who you are and she’ll take it from there,” Reinhart said.
Unable to take his eyes off the expansive reception hall, Maddox heard the door whisper shut. Reinhart had left. Though young, the man’s presence concerned him. What would happen if he turned Ridley down? He pushed the question from his mind and focused on Reinhart’s explanation of his job. If he really was Ridley’s personal guard, he wouldn’t be here all the time...or would he? No one really knew where Ridley spent his time. Reinhart said “Manifold Alpha through Epsilon,” which meant there were at least five Manifold locations. Maybe more.
His approach to the reception desk was watched by the blood-red eyes of the twelve Incan statues that lined either side of the room. Their twisted and angry expressions did little to calm his nerves. He paused in front of the desk as the redhead held an open palm up to him. She held a phone against her ear, listening. “You can go in,” she said, after putting the phone down. She reached under the desktop and pushed a button. A door to the right of the reception desk slid open silently. He tightened his grip on the briefcase and headed for the door, unsure of what to expect on the other side.