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

  Wahlman reached in and grabbed one of the containers. It wasn’t filled with medication. It was filled with plastic IV bags, and the plastic IV bags were filled with blood. For transfusions. Fat paper labels had been glued onto the bags, indicating the blood type and the Rh factor. Below the stack of plastic bins there was a drawer marked PATIENT BELONGINGS. Wahlman opened the drawer and reached in and ferreted through the pile, found his wallet and his keys. He figured the drawer was located in that particular cabinet in case patients brought medications from home that needed to be refrigerated. He set his things on the bedside table and grabbed the scissors. Someone had taken the time and energy to donate the unit of blood he was holding. Someone had endured the pain of the needle. Someone had risked the potential side effects. It was a generous thing to do. A caring thing. It was a dirty rotten shame to waste even one drop, but Wahlman didn’t feel as though he had any choice. He cut one of the corners off the bag and walked over to the double set of doors and squirted the entire unit on the floor. He retreated back to the bedside table and quickly fashioned a shank using some gauze and some tape and a shard of glass from the broken cabinet. A few seconds later the doors swung open and Major Combs and a short skinny guy carrying a red toolbox walked in and promptly proceeded to slip and fall on their asses. Wahlman darted over there and crouched down and held the shank to Major Combs’s throat and unsnapped her holster and pulled out the pistol.

  “Be careful with that,” Major Combs said. “It’s loaded with real bullets.”

  “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do,” Wahlman said. “Or two of those real bullets are going to come out real fast.”

  Wahlman held the gun on Major Combs and the guy who’d walked in with her and tossed them the scissors and the blue towel and the roll of surgical tape and gave them specific instructions on how to gag each other and tie each other up. Once most of the work was done, Wahlman finished it off by taping Major Combs’s wrists together behind her back.

  The nurse was still on the floor, over by the gurney. His breathing sounded a little better than it had earlier. Still pretty ragged, but better. Wahlman pulled the guy’s shoes off and his scrub pants and his lab coat and slid into everything as quickly as he could. There was a phone and an ID card in the left front pants pocket. The guy’s name was Sebley. He was a second lieutenant. The shoes were a little tight and the sleeves on the lab coat were a little short, but Wahlman wasn’t complaining. It could have been worse. They could have sent a female nurse, and the female nurse could have been wearing a dress. Then Wahlman would have been forced to try to escape naked. So he wasn’t complaining, and he wasn’t nearly as curious about what was going on at the facility as he had been last night. Getting out of there in one piece was the only thing on his mind at the moment. Then maybe he could investigate from a distance. Maybe get some interest from the media. There was definitely a story here. Wahlman still had no idea what it was, but he knew it was something big. Something that the Army was devoting a great amount of time and effort and money to conceal.

  The lab coat had some fairly large patch pockets sewn onto the front, just below the waistline, one on each side of the snaps. Sebley had been carrying his supplies in them. They were empty now. Wahlman dropped his wallet and his keys into the pocket on the left side. He kept a grip on the pistol and slid his right hand into the pocket on the right side and stepped over the slippery puddle of blood he’d created and exited the room.

  The hallway appeared to be about fifty feet long. It was covered with some sort of industrial-grade vinyl. Green. Pale and dull. The kind of stuff that would probably last a thousand years. There were wooden doors on both sides of it, marked with numbers. Wahlman could see the end of it. He could see that it doglegged to the right. He strolled along at a steady pace. Not too fast, not too slow. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He was just a nurse, a staff member, heading from one area to another. No big deal. Eyes forward, one foot in front of the other. He was hoping that there was an exit right around the corner. Or an elevator. Or a stairway. He was hoping that he wouldn’t run into anyone on the way out.

  But he did run into someone.

  Literally.

  As soon as he turned the corner.

  17

  The guy Wahlman bumped into was less than six feet tall. Five-eight, five-nine maybe. He was a colonel. Full-bird. Blue eyes, bald on top, gray around the temples. Dress blues, lots of ribbons. There was a lanyard around his neck. Attached to the lanyard there was a transparent plastic sleeve, and inside the sleeve there was an identification card.

  VIP

  TEMPORARY

  DORLAND, J.L.

  UNITED STATES ARMY

  Wahlman’s heart did a flip flop. He stared down at the card and read it again, just to make sure.

  It was him.

  It was Colonel Dorland.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he said.

  He made an attempt to step to the side and continue down the hallway, toward the infirmary. Wahlman pulled out the pistol and pointed it at his face.

  “I already know where I’m going,” Wahlman said. “Same place you’re going.”

  Dorland stared into the barrel of the gun.

  “Are you insane?” he said. “You see this bird on my collar? You better put that weapon away before I stick it up your—”

  “Look at me,” Wahlman said.

  Dorland snarled. The muscles in his jaw were as tight as banjo strings. He looked up and stared into Wahlman’s eyes. It took him a few seconds, but then he knew.

  His expression relaxed into one of stunned resignation.

  “We can work this out,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” Wahlman said.

  “What are you going to do? Shoot me? Here?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You’re going to lead me out of here,” Wahlman said. “Then we’re going to talk.”

  “There’s too much security. There’s no way I can—”

  “You have that bird on your collar. And a VIP designation on your ID. You can go anywhere you want to.”

  “And where exactly is it that I want to go?”

  “To your car.”

  “What makes you think I have a car?”

  Wahlman shrugged. “Helicopters flying in and out of here would attract too much attention,” he said. “I’m guessing you took the ferry from Myrtle Beach and then drove in on Highway Thirty, just like I did. I’m guessing Highway Thirty is the only way in and out of here by land vehicle. And I’m guessing it’s not even a real highway. It’s open to the public, but nobody uses it. Because it doesn’t go anywhere. It’s a dead end. Future toll road. Currently under construction. Right. The dozers and dump trucks are parked out there for looks. Just in case someone—”

  “You’re pretty smart,” Dorland said.

  “I’m going to put this pistol back into my pocket, and then I’m going to follow you to the exit. I’ll have my hand on the gun the entire time, so don’t do anything stupid.”

  “What if someone tries to stop us?”

  “Nobody’s going to try to stop us. You’re a colonel. I’m a nurse. It’s all good.”

  “We’ll have to take one of the capsules,” Dorland said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The pneumatic transport system. It’s the only way out of the building. I should make it clear right now that I’ve never actually operated one of those things. I’ve read the manuals, but I haven’t been signed off on—”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Wahlman said. “Move.”

  Dorland turned around and headed back in the direction he’d come from. Wahlman followed, staying three or four steps behind.

  Twenty feet or so from the corner where Wahlman and Dorland had bumped into each other, there was a set of stainless steel doors. Like elevator doors, but wider. Dorland pushed a button and the doors parted, revealing a clear plastic carriage with tw
o bucket seats in it.

  “Have you ever ridden in one of these?” Dorland said.

  “I’m here, so I must have,” Wahlman said. “I guess I was unconscious at the time.”

  “Climb in, and I’ll secure your harness for you.”

  Wahlman laughed. “You think I’m stupid?” he said. “You climb in first. You’re going to be the passenger, and I’m going to be the operator.”

  “This is not a pony ride at the state fair. These things can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Get in. You can tell me what to do. If you touch any of the controls, I will shoot you.”

  Dorland climbed into the carriage. Wahlman secured the padded harness on that side, instructed him to keep his hands in his pockets.

  “Be careful with that gun,” Dorland said. “Once we get going, there’s going to be an enormous difference in pressure between the inside of the capsule and the outside of the capsule. If you accidentally discharge the weapon—”

  “I’m not going to accidentally do anything,” Wahlman said. “If I pull the trigger, it’s going to be deliberate.”

  He climbed into the operator’s seat and closed the hatch.

  “My car’s parked in the lot at the rear of the facility,” Dorland said. “See the dial that says exterior rear module?”

  “Yes.”

  “Set the dial to seven. Then you’ll need to scan my ID and punch today’s code into the keypad.”

  “What if I set the dial to eight? Or nine? Or ten?”

  “The higher the number, the faster we’ll get there. Seven is standard. The higher numbers are generally only used for extreme emergencies. Believe me, seven is fast enough.”

  An alarm sounded in the distance. An angry pulsating buzz.

  Someone must have alerted the security office. Wahlman figured the hallway outside the carriage would be flooded with soldiers in a matter of seconds. He set the dial to twenty. The max. He reached over and pulled Dorland’s ID card out of the plastic sleeve.

  “What’s the code?” Wahlman said.

  Dorland told him the numbers.

  Wahlman punched in the code and pressed ENTER and off they went, whistling through the darkness. The gravitational pull pinned Wahlman to his seat. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t have fired the weapon he was holding, even if he’d wanted to. He could barely breathe. It was as if he’d suddenly gained a thousand pounds.

  Then it was over. The carriage slowed down for a very brief period, and then it came to an abrupt stop. Wahlman figured the ride had lasted about ten seconds from start to finish. He released his harness and opened the hatch and climbed out.

  He stepped over to the passenger side and reached down to help Dorland.

  “I thought I was going to pass out,” Dorland said.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Give me a minute. I don’t think I can—”

  Wahlman yanked Dorland out of the seat, forced him to stay in front as they exited the wooden shack and stepped out onto a concrete apron.

  “Where’s your car?” Wahlman said.

  “Over there. The blue one.”

  “Give me the keys.”

  Dorland reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He handed them to Wahlman.

  “They probably have the exit blocked by now,” Dorland said. “They’re not going to let you leave the facility alive. You know that, right?”

  Wahlman pressed the barrel of the pistol against the back of Dorland’s neck and pulled the hammer back. If he wasn’t going to be able to leave the facility alive, then Dorland wasn’t going to be able to either.

  “Walk,” Wahlman said.

  Dorland stepped down onto the asphalt and started walking toward his car. Wahlman kept the barrel of the pistol pressed against the back of his neck, hyper-focused on moving forward one step at a time. He didn’t look to see, but he figured that there were guards up on the roof by now, and he doubted that their rifles were loaded with micro-darts. He figured that their rifles were loaded with high-velocity full-metal-jacket rounds, the kind that would bore a hole the size of a quarter all the way through you faster than you could blink. He figured the back of his skull was in the crosshairs, but he figured he had some leverage. This was a hostage situation now. Nobody was going to take a shot from the roof. Not when it meant risking a senior officer’s life. Dorland was a colonel in the United States Army. He was an asset. Heads would roll if anything happened to him. Nobody was going to take a shot. Wahlman was counting on it.

  And nobody did.

  Wahlman used the transmitter on the key ring to unlock the car doors and start the engine. He opened the driver side door and forced Dorland to climb over the center console to the front passenger seat, and then he slid into the driver seat and jerked the shifter into gear and pulled out of the parking space. He steered around to the outer edge of the lot, out to the front of the building, out to the front guard shack, which he now realized housed another portal for the pneumatic transport system. There were eight soldiers dressed in full combat gear blocking the traffic lanes on both sides of the shack, four on the entrance side and four on the exit side, all of them facing the little blue electric car Wahlman was driving, all of them aiming their rifles directly at the driver side of the windshield.

  Wahlman stepped on the accelerator. He continued forward, toward the right side of the shack. He was relatively certain that the guys standing there wouldn’t take any shots, for the same reasons he’d been relatively certain that the supposed rooftop guys wouldn’t take any.

  But this time he was wrong.

  The guards opened up like a firing squad.

  18

  It was like driving through a sudden hailstorm. Alarming, noisy, damaging to the car’s paint and glass.

  But ultimately not life-threatening.

  “Your car’s bulletproof?” Wahlman said.

  “Of course,” Dorland said, almost cheerfully. “Standard issue for senior officers in the intelligence community. Windows, tires, everything. They would need a tank to stop this vehicle.”

  Dozens of rounds pinged off the windshield as Wahlman sped forward. The guards on the exit side of the shack jumped out of the way a split second before they became human bowling pins. Wahlman barreled toward the rat-hole-shaped opening at the edge of the woods, navigated the narrow tunnel of foliage, and fishtailed out onto the highway. He headed west, toward town. He’d noticed a couple of good hiding places last night while he was driving around lost. He kept his right hand on the wheel, and he kept his left hand wrapped around the grips of the semi-automatic pistol he’d taken from Major Combs. Finger on the trigger, barrel aimed at Colonel Dorland’s core.

  “Is there any way to make this thing go faster?” Wahlman said, glancing down at the speedometer, which seemed to be maxing out at eighty miles per hour.

  “This thing, as you so eloquently referred to it, is equipped with all sorts of surprises,” Dorland said. “One of them is an onboard voice-activated computer that will pretty much do whatever I tell it to do.”

  “Tell me how to activate it.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Tell me, or I’m going to shoot your ass right now.”

  “You don’t understand. I mean that I literally cannot tell you how to activate the computer. It’s programmed to respond to my voice and my voice only.”

  “Tell it to make the car go faster.”

  “Eighty is fast enough.”

  Wahlman raised the pistol and pointed it at Dorland’s head.

  “Tell it to make the car go faster.”

  Dorland’s jaw muscles tightened again. Wahlman wasn’t sure if he was going to comply, or if he was bracing himself to take a bullet in the brain. He was silent for thirty seconds or so, and then he took a deep breath and spoke to the computer.

  “Gertrude, please change the maximum cruising speed from eighty miles per hour to one hundred and fifty miles per hour,” he said.

&
nbsp; “Changing the maximum cruising speed now,” a pleasant female voice said.

  The increased acceleration was immediate and impressive. Speedometer pegged, tachometer jittering nervously along the border where caution met redline.

  “What else can your computer do?” Wahlman said. “Is it possible to—”

  “Gertrude, please lock all of the doors and windows.”

  “Locking all doors and windows now.”

  “Gertrude, please disable the braking system while maintaining the current cruising speed.”

  “Cruise control set at one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Braking system disabled.”

  “What are you doing?” Wahlman said.

  “Gertrude, please cause this vehicle to self-destruct in exactly five minutes, and remind me how much time is left every minute.”

  “Self-destruct timer set for five minutes.”

  Dorland stretched his legs and crossed his ankles and relaxed against the back of his seat.

  “Okay, Mr. Wahlman,” he said. “If there’s something you want to talk to me about, now would be the time.”

  19

  Wahlman shifted his right foot from the accelerator to the brake. Nothing happened. The car continued moving forward at exactly one hundred and fifty miles per hour.

  “You have four minutes left on the timer.”

  Wahlman kept the pistol trained on the left side of Colonel Dorland’s head.

  “You need to cancel that shit,” Wahlman said. “You need to cancel it right now, or I’m going to blow your brains all over the interior of this car.”

  “Go ahead and shoot me,” Dorland said, maintaining his relaxed posture. “Go ahead and throw away your only chance of making it out of this alive.”