Chapter 3: The Nest

Seattle, airport. 7:55 AM.

There was a gap in the chain-link fence—cut fifteen minutes ago. Kyle slipped through and headed toward Hangar 17.

The door was open. Inside sat a Bell-429 helicopter. Next to it stood a middle-aged man in a flight suit, holding a tablet.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah."

"What you asked for." He handed over the tablet.

Kyle took it and swiped: floor plans of the Nest, security deployment, shift schedules, Marcus's photo. Fifty-two, gray hair, glasses, standing in front of an academic conference backdrop.

"He still inside?"

"No one's seen him alive in three months. Ms. Sterling thinks he's still breathing."

Kyle handed back the tablet. "Equipment?"

The pilot pointed to a gray case in the corner. Kyle opened it: a Glock 19, two magazines, a tactical knife, night vision goggles, lock picks, encrypted satellite phone, first aid kit.

He pulled a knife from his waist. At the base of the handle was a carved rune, mostly worn away but still readable: Demonbane. Irene had given it to him two years ago.

He tossed the tactical knife aside, re-secured Demonbane at the small of his back, and closed the case.

3 PM, private plane took off from Seattle.

Kyle sat in the last row, floor plans spread before him. Eyes closed, he walked the route in his head: east side forest, blind spot in fence surveillance, side door to kitchen, kitchen stairs down to basement.

When he opened his eyes again, Maine's endless forests stretched below.

The plane began its descent.

10 PM.

Kyle parked on the roadside, killed the lights. The woods were pitch black.

He shouldered his pack and entered the forest.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the fence. Eight feet high, chain-link, barbed wire on top. Every fifty yards a post with an infrared camera, rotating once every thirty seconds, three-second blind spot.

He waited through one rotation, then moved.

After clearing the fence, he landed facing thirty yards of open ground. The camera swept toward him, he dropped flat; lens turned away, he got up and moved again.

East wall, stone chimney blocking the camera. Next to it, a small iron door with an electronic lock, six-digit code. First try wrong, second try wrong, third time, door opened. He slipped inside and closed it gently.

The hallway was dark, emergency lights casting a faint green glow. The air smelled of disinfectant mixed with something sickly sweet, like something rotting covered up by chemicals.

He moved forward. Past the kitchen—unwashed pots still on the stove. Past the storage room, door open, stacked with canned goods and medical supplies.

Stairs, leading down.

He stood at the top listening. No sound below. Down he went, each step colder, that sweet smell growing stronger.

At the bottom, a door, unlocked. He pushed it open to a narrower hallway, dimmer lights. Rooms on both sides, A1 to A12. At the end, a door marked: Laboratory—Authorized Personnel Only.

A1 window dark, A2 window dark.

He stopped at A3.

Faint light through the observation window. He leaned in to look. Small room, a bed, a chair, a table. Laptop glowing on the table. Someone sitting on the bed.

Gray hair, glasses, white hospital gown. Staring at a point on the wall, motionless.

Marcus.

Electronic lock on the door. He cracked it in ten seconds.

He pushed the door open.

Marcus didn't turn.

"Marcus."

Marcus slowly turned around. His eyes were empty.

"Who sent you?"

"Your sister."

Marcus's eyes lit up for an instant, then dimmed.

"She wants me to get you out."

"Out?" He smiled bitterly. Raised his wrist—a thin metal band against his skin, indicator light flashing red.

"This isn't a regular monitoring bracelet. Inside is a magic solution. Leave this room for more than thirty seconds, the solution goes straight into my blood. Same kind I leaked back then, higher concentration. It'll trigger a magic resonance in my body. Within thirty seconds, everyone with magic sensitivity within three miles will be alerted."

Kyle stared at the band.

"Thirty seconds isn't enough for us to get out of here."

"No. So you should leave now."

Footsteps in the hallway.

Kyle closed the door, pressed against the wall. Footsteps approaching, one person. Passed A3, then stopped outside.

Knock. "Marcus? You okay?"

Marcus didn't respond.

The doorknob turned slightly, stopped.

"Marcus?"

Silence.

The person outside waited three seconds, released the handle, footsteps faded.

Kyle released his grip on the knife.

From his pack he pulled out the first aid kit, took out tweezers and a short piece of insulated wire.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking it off."

"You're crazy. This is a magic device."

Kyle didn't stop. Used the tweezers to pry open the side panel, exposing a fingernail-sized circuit board inside. Among the dense wiring, a pea-sized glass vial containing pale yellow liquid.

Magic solution.

Three extremely thin metal wires connected to the vial, each wrapped with barely visible runes.

Kyle switched the tweezers to his left hand, drew the knife from his back with his right. The rune on the handle grew slightly warm.

He rolled up his left sleeve, revealing that patch of text: Irene, Irene, Irene.

Knife tip against the first wire. The old scars on his left arm started burning—not his imagination. Those burn marks pulsed under his skin—Irene, Irene, Irene—like something responding.

First wire, cut.

Marcus tensed all over but didn't move.

Second wire, cut.

The indicator light changed from red to yellow. The liquid in the vial began vibrating. Kyle's left arm burned worse, like fresh cigarette burns.

"One more." Kyle said quietly.

"You know what you're doing? Resonance has started, fifteen seconds left."

Third wire.

Knife tip dropped, wire severed. Indicator light went out. The liquid in the vial stopped vibrating, quickly changed from pale yellow to clear.

Kyle's fingers gripped the band's edge and yanked. The needle pulled from the vein, bringing a trace of blood. Marcus bit down, made no sound.

The band fell on the bed, glass vial shattered, liquid soaking into the sheets.

The pulsing in his left arm gradually subsided, those points of light going dark one by one, like lights going out.

"Move."

Marcus got off the bed, legs buckled, caught himself on the wall.

"How long since you stood up?"

"They let me walk half an hour a day."

"Now you're free."

They left A3. Empty hallway, heading back. At the stairs, Kyle raised his hand to stop.

Voices above, footsteps, at least two people.

"Done with B section? A3's alarm flashed earlier."

"Marcus's room?"

"Yeah."

Footsteps toward the stairs.

Kyle pulled his gun, checked the suppressor, glanced at Marcus.

"Wait here. Thirty seconds, then up the stairs, turn left, out through the kitchen door, run east into the woods. Car's at the end of the logging road, keys under the driver's seat."

"What about you?"

"I'll cover the rear."

Marcus looked into his eyes. "What's your name?"

Kyle didn't answer, turned and went up the stairs.

In the kitchen, two men checking the back door. Tall guy with a crew cut wearing a tactical vest; shorter guy examining the electronic lock panel.

"Door's closed, probably a false alarm."

Kyle emerged from the hallway, suppressor against the shorter man's neck. One shot. He dropped.

The tall guy turned, flashlight beam sweeping the hallway—empty. "Tom?"

Kyle flipped down from above the corner, landed behind him, knife handle slammed into his skull.

He dragged both men into the storage room, closed the door.

Fifteen seconds later, back at the stairs. Marcus still there.

"Move."

They crossed the kitchen, out the back door. Night wind biting, smell of pine needles from the woods.

Marcus took a deep breath. "Two years."

"Move."

They ran across the clearing to the fence. Kyle climbed over first, then pulled Marcus up. During the climb, Marcus's arm caught on the barbed wire, opening a gash. Blood seeped out.

Shouts behind them, a flashlight beam swept across the sky.

"They found out."

"I know."

Into the woods, Kyle activated night vision, grabbed Marcus's sleeve and navigated through. Ten minutes later they reached the logging road. Car still there.

Kyle started the engine. Marcus sat in the passenger seat gasping, wrist wound still bleeding.

The car pulled onto the logging road, bouncing toward the highway. In the rearview mirror, the Nest's lights grew more distant.

Marcus leaned back in his seat, eyes closed.

"On that list, there's an abbreviation: V.S."

Kyle's hands tightened on the wheel.

"Vera Sterling?"

"It's an abbreviation, but not her. My father."

The car drove along the highway, streetlights flashing across the windows in succession.

"Your father founded the Sterling Group?"

"Yes. That experiment—he approved it. Military wanted live testing of magic weapons, he signed the contract. Seventeen people, just pay compensation if they died."

"Your father died in 2008."

"Yes."

"Vera doesn't know?"

"She doesn't know. She thinks I signed it, thinks I'm the killer. She kept me locked up those two years, not to protect me—she thought I deserved it."

The car was quiet for a long time.

"Vera's looking for the list, thinking your name is on it?"

"Yes."

Marcus closed his eyes. "She doesn't know."

Kyle said nothing, kept driving.

"That child." Marcus suddenly spoke.

"What child?"

"Amy."

Kyle's fingers clenched the steering wheel.

"Vera wants her." Marcus said.

Then he closed his eyes again, said nothing more.

Kyle pushed the speed up. Dashboard read: 2:17 AM.

The highway stretched ahead, no end in sight.

In the rearview mirror, Maine's forests kept receding into the night.

Ahead lay Portland.