Redline: The Reacher Experiment Book 6 (The Jack Reacher Experiment) Read online

  “Sir?”

  “Let’s get on with it, Private. We don’t have all day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dorland followed Watley into the transport module. The interior of the space was unfinished. Bare studs, plywood flooring. It looked like a good place to store your rakes and shovels and hedge trimmers. But Dorland knew better. He’d been briefed on these types of modules. He’d read the manuals and watched the videos. He knew what to expect. He knew what was coming next.

  There was a fingerprint scanner and a keypad mounted to one of the studs. Watley punched some numbers into the keypad, and then he pressed his right forefinger against the scanner. A section of the floor opened up and a transparent capsule appeared, a sealed chamber about as wide as a porch swing and about as tall as a kitchen countertop. There were two bucket seats inside the oblong bubble, each equipped with a hinged shoulder harness and a head and neck stabilizer cushion. Kind of like the seats you see on some of the more elaborate rollercoasters at some of the more elaborate amusement parks. The seat to Dorland’s right was marked OPERATOR, and the seat to his left was marked PASSENGER. Above the headrests there was a sign that said WEIGHT LIMIT 500 POUNDS.

  “This is my first time in one of these things,” Dorland said. “I understand it can get kind of rough.”

  “It’s not too bad, once you get used to it,” Watley said. “Have you eaten anything this morning?”

  “I had a couple of energy drinks in the car.”

  “Do you ever experience motion sickness?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Are you claustrophobic?”

  Dorland hesitated for a second.

  “No,” he said.

  “Great. You should be fine.”

  Watley opened the capsule and motioned for Colonel Dorland to climb in.

  “Has anyone ever died doing this?” Dorland said.

  “No. It’s actually much safer than the old setups they used in installations like this. Catwalks and ladders and whatnot. The capsule is unbreakable. You could drop it from an airplane and it wouldn’t crack.”

  “What if it did crack?”

  “You mean while we’re riding in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Our heads would explode,” Watley said. “That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. From the sudden change in pressure. I don’t know if it’s true or not.”

  Colonel Dorland took a deep breath, and then he climbed down into the passenger seat.

  14

  Wahlman woke up strapped to a gurney. A blue towel had been draped over his groin area. Otherwise, he was naked. There was a big round reflective light shining down on him, the kind they use in operating rooms. To his right there was a wall of shelves, the syringes and cotton balls and tongue depressors and other medical supplies visible through a series of heavy glass doors. To his left there was rolling bedside table with a plastic pitcher and a plastic drinking cup on it. Next to the table there was a guard with a machinegun.

  Wahlman tested the leather cuffs and tethers securing his wrists and ankles, decided right away that there was no way for him to break free.

  “Where am I?” he said.

  The guard didn’t say anything. He just stood there gazing expressionlessly into the glass cabinets, the barrel of his rifle pointed directly at Wahlman’s core.

  Wahlman was having trouble remembering what had happened to him. Then it all came flooding back.

  He’d been shot.

  In the neck.

  A double set of doors swung inward and a woman walked into the room. A military woman. Army. Late thirties or early forties. Dress blues, hair pinned back tightly. She was slender and prim and the expression on her face was one of fierce determination, like a thoroughbred running a close second heading into the stretch. There was a semi-automatic pistol holstered above her right hip. The soles and heels of her patent leather shoes clicked pertly on the hard rubber floor tiles as she stepped up to the gurney.

  “I’m Major Combs,” she said. “I have some questions for you.”

  “I have some questions for you, too,” Wahlman said.

  Major Combs laced her fingers together and rested them at the front of her midsection.

  “Okay,” she said. “You go first.”

  “It’s cold in here,” Wahlman said. “Could I have a blanket or something?”

  “Maybe. In a little while. If you cooperate.”

  “Where am I?”

  “The infirmary.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “No.”

  Wahlman glanced over at the guard. He hadn’t moved. He was still staring across the room. Toward the shelves. Toward a stack of plastic wash basins.

  “Why am I still alive?” Wahlman said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The sign in the woods said—”

  “It says that trespassers will be shot on sight,” Major Combs said. “It doesn’t say that they will be killed on sight.”

  “So what are we talking about? Rubber bullets?”

  “Micro-darts. Loaded with a certain type of medication.”

  “Like a tranquilizer? Like the kind of shit they—”

  “More sophisticated than an ordinary tranquilizer. But yes, the effects are similar.”

  “I tasted blood,” Wahlman said.

  “You tasted the medication as it entered your bloodstream. Like an IV bolus from a syringe.”

  “So I didn’t need surgery?”

  “No. You needed a square of gauze and a strip of tape. Which you got. Now it’s my turn to ask some questions, and your turn to provide some answers. Why were you trying to infiltrate our facility?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wahlman said.

  “Don’t lie to me. Who are you working for?”

  “I’m not working for anyone.”

  “Why were you trying to infiltrate our facility?”

  “You already asked me that.”

  Major Combs was only a foot or so away from the table. Wahlman could smell the soap she’d used to wash herself with that morning. There was a very plain wristwatch on her left wrist. Black leather band, stainless steel housing. There were no rings on her fingers.

  “Our infrared surveillance cameras recorded everything you did,” she said. “You covered your car with vines and branches, and then you walked along the edge of the woods until you came to our entryway, and then you—”

  “The most you can charge me with is trespassing,” Wahlman said. “And I really don’t see that going anywhere. In fact, I think I could make a pretty good case that my rights were violated.”

  “You ignored our sign.”

  “I was traveling alone on a dark and unfamiliar highway. I had car trouble. I hid my vehicle because it’s all I have and I was worried that someone might try to steal it. I started walking toward town, but it was a long way back. Ten miles or more. I was tired and thirsty and I didn’t think I was going to make it. I desperately needed some help, and when I ran across a place where I thought there might be some people, I naturally gravitated toward that place. I could barely stand up, so I got down on my belly and crawled. I was too weak to look up and read a sign. I didn’t even see it. I crawled right past it. I got a little scared when I saw the guys with guns, so I decided to stop and wait and think it over for a while. Next thing I know, someone has taken all my clothes and strapped me to a—”

  “You need to answer my questions,” Major Combs said. “I’m trying to be reasonable, but my patience is wearing thin. If I can’t get any answers from you, I’ll send someone in who can.”

  “I’m not in the military,” Wahlman said. “You don’t have any authority over me. If you want to bring one of the local police agencies in, you can tell them your version of what happened, and I’ll tell them mine. I’ll be sure to tell them that I was injected with some kind of drug that knocked me out for a few hours.”

  Major Combs didn’t say anything. She turned and
exited the room. She didn’t order the armed guard to follow her, but he did anyway. As if it was expected. Prearranged. As if something very discreet was about to happen. Something the guard wasn’t supposed to see.

  Wahlman tested the leather restraints again. There was a little bit of play in the ones binding his wrists. He could lift his arms a few inches off the table, but he couldn’t pull his hands through the cuffs, no matter how hard he tried. They were buckled too tightly.

  Wahlman tried to relax. Tried to think. The bright overhead light and the aftereffects of the drug he’d been injected with made it difficult to concentrate. Not to mention the monotonous electrical hum coming from one of the glass cabinets. The one in the corner. The one furthest from the door. Wahlman wondered if that section of the unit was refrigerated. He figured it was. Dozens of plastic containers were stacked up in there. The containers were not marked. Wahlman had no idea what was inside them. Some sort of medication, he guessed. His mind kept wandering. He couldn’t seem to stay focused on one thing for more than a few seconds at a time. He thought about Highway 30. About how dark it was. About how he’d traveled back and forth and hadn’t seen any businesses or any other vehicles. He thought about Kasey, about how much he still missed her.

  A guy wearing white scrubs and a white lab coat walked in. Early twenties, average height. Broad shoulders and a thick middle and a double chin. He had dark hair and an immature mustache, everything trimmed to military specs, but just barely. He could have used a trip to the barber shop and about a hundred trips to the gym. He covered Wahlman’s legs and torso with a wool blanket, and then he wheeled the bedside table closer to the gurney.

  “I’m going to be your nurse today,” the guy said. “I need to insert an INT, and I need to change your dressing, and I need to draw some blood.”

  “What’s an INT?” Wahlman said.

  “An IV site. Peripheral. You know, in one of your arms.”

  “I don’t want that,” Wahlman said. “You need to let me go.”

  “Sorry. Doctor’s orders.”

  The guy started pulling some things out of his pockets. He had a packet of gauze and a roll of surgical tape and a pair of bandage scissors. He had a rubber tourniquet and some individual alcohol wipes that were sealed in little foil packets. He had a pair of surgical gloves and some glass vials for the blood specimens and a plastic and cardboard blister pack with a sterile eighteen-gauge IV needle in it and a syringe that had been filled with some sort of clear liquid. He grabbed the gloves and stretched one over each hand and started lining everything up in neat little rows on the bedside table. It took him a couple of minutes to get everything just right. Just the way he wanted it.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Wahlman said.

  “Don’t worry,” the guy said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  He picked up the roll of surgical tape and tore off a piece that was about four inches long. He ripped the piece in half, lengthwise, creating two narrower strips that were identical in length. He stuck the ends of the two narrow strips to the edge of the table, allowing them to dangle there like a couple of translucent streamers. He tied the tourniquet around the upper part of Wahlman’s right arm, and then he tore open one of the foil packets and pulled out the alcohol wipe that was inside it and leaned in to find a vein.

  He leaned in a little too far.

  In one swift and violent motion, Wahlman arched his back and neck and head-butted the guy just above his left ear. It was a brutal bone-to-bone blow. It sounded like a bat hitting a ball. The impact gave Wahlman an immediate headache. It gave the guy in white scrubs an immediate skull fracture. The guy slumped over Wahlman’s abdomen, and then he slid to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  Wahlman reached for the bedside table, but the tether that connected the cuff on his right wrist to the frame of the gurney wasn’t quite long enough. He could brush the edge of the table with the tip of his middle finger, but that was as close as he could get. He strained and pulled and jerked and stretched, but it was no use. He wanted the bandage scissors. He wanted them as much as he’d ever wanted anything. They were as crucial to him as the air he was breathing. They were his ticket to freedom. They were his only chance.

  He wasn’t cold anymore. Sweat was dripping down his face. His head was throbbing and he was starting to feel some numbness in his right arm. Pins and needles. Because of the tourniquet. He thought he might be able to stretch down and untie it with his teeth, but his range of motion was limited by the restraints, and by the bulk of the muscles in his chest and shoulders. He took a deep breath. He was trying not to panic. Trying to think of a way out of this. He wasn’t ready to give up. He would never do that. But he wasn’t delusional either. The odds were against him. A million to one, maybe. If he could get to the scissors. Which he couldn’t. He stretched again. Strained again. Brushed the tip of his finger against the edge of the bedside table again.

  Then something wonderful happened.

  The guy on the floor grunted, and then he must have rolled over or shifted his position in some other manner. Wahlman couldn’t see the guy, but he could hear him. There was a rattle in his throat every time he took a breath. Maybe he was dying. Maybe his damaged brain had sent out some emergency signals to the muscles in his arms and legs in a last ditch effort to survive. To run away. Like the jerky spasms you have sometimes when you’re dreaming. Whatever the case, the movement he’d made had caused the table to roll a little closer to the gurney. Now Wahlman could reach it. Easily. He gripped the edge with his thumb and forefinger and pulled it in closer.

  There were three rows of supplies. The items the guy had planned to use to start the INT were in the front row, and the items he’d planned to use for the blood draw were in the middle.

  The scissors were in back.

  Way in back.

  They must have slid when the table moved. They weren’t in line with the packet of gauze anymore. They were closer to the edge.

  Wahlman grabbed the blister pack and used it to extend his reach. He thought it was going to work. He thought he had this now. But he didn’t. He couldn’t pull the scissors closer to his fingers. The blades were pointed toward him, and he couldn’t get any traction against the slick stainless steel. He set the blister pack down and grabbed one of the strips of tape dangling from the front of the table. His fingers were numb. He could barely feel what he was doing. He managed to crumple the strip of tape into a sticky little ball, and then he managed to press the sticky little ball onto the edge of the blister pack.

  He reached for the scissors again, using the contraption he’d assembled. It worked. The sticky little ball stuck to the shiny steel blades, allowing him to guide the cutting tool toward the gurney. A sense of elation washed over him. He felt like celebrating. He felt like whooping and hollering. He fumbled around for a few seconds and finally managed to get his fingers through the handles of the scissors and he curled his right wrist as far as it would curl and he snipped the tether and proceeded to snip the others until all four of his limbs were free. He untied the tourniquet and sat up, fighting off a wave of vertigo as he pivoted and planted his bare feet on the cold rubber tiles.

  Then he heard footsteps in the distance, clicking pertly.

  15

  The chow hall was packed, but nobody was saying much.

  Colonel Dorland stared down at his breakfast plate. Scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, hash browns. There were several doctors and scientists sitting at the table with him, including the geneticist who’d developed the formula for the growth medium and the surgeon who’d perfected the actual procedure. There were colorful plastic balloons taped to the walls and colorful paper streamers tacked to the ceiling. Over in the far right corner of the room, there was a guy sitting at a grand piano, but he wasn’t playing anything.

  Because the party hadn’t officially started yet.

  Because the guest of honor hadn’t arrived yet.

  Dorland took a sip of coffee from the ceramic
mug next to his plate. He looked at his watch, and then he turned and locked eyes with PFC Watley, who was sitting at the next table over.

  “It’s eight-thirty already,” Dorland said. “How long are we supposed to wait?”

  “I’ll call the security office again,” Watley said. “Maybe he’s down there checking in right now.”

  “Why wasn’t someone assigned to escort him from his home to the facility? That’s what I don’t understand. Seems like a no-brainer, for something this important.”

  “Sir, I don’t—”

  “What was the name of the officer I met with earlier? The one in charge of security?”

  “That was Major Combs, sir.”

  “Get her on the phone. Tell her I want to talk to her. ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Watley pulled out a cell phone and punched in some numbers. He had a brief conversation with someone on the other end, and then he clicked off.

  “Well?” Colonel Dorland said.

  “She’s not in the office right now,” Watley said. “She’s on her way to the infirmary.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s okay. There’s a—”

  “How do I get to the infirmary?”

  “I can go with you if you want me to, sir. Or I can try to reach Major Combs on her cell phone.”

  Colonel Dorland considered those options, decided against them. Major Combs needed to be counselled, but there was no point in making a public display of it. There was no point in embarrassing her in front of her subordinates.

  “The things I need to say to her need to be said in person,” Dorland said. “And in private. I can manage on my own. Just tell me how to get there.”

  16

  Wahlman needed a weapon.

  Fast.

  He tied the blanket around his waist and stepped over to the glassed-in storage area, to the unit in the corner that seemed to be refrigerated. He was hoping that the plastic bins stacked up in there were full of micro-darts and that the micro-darts had been loaded with the same medication that had been used to knock him out. He pulled on the door, but it didn’t open. It was locked. There was a keypad and a card scanner mounted to the side of the unit. Wahlman figured you had to scan your ID and punch in a code to get the door to open. Alternatively, you could walk back over to the gurney and grab the blue towel and wrap it around your fist and break the glass. Probably not the recommended method, but effective nonetheless.