Project Maigo(24)

That’s where my mind is as I come to grips with what I suspect will be my last few seconds on the planet.

She’s behind me, isn’t she?

But it’s not a grumpy boss or an over-emotional wife.

It’s Nemesis.

And this time, it’s for real.

Woodstock must be having the same realization I am, because he acts without being told what to do. Our slow spin becomes rapid as we snap around.

Fifty feet from Betty’s windshield are Nemesis’s brown eyes. Like with Scrion, her massive brown eyes seem to be locked on me. It’s the helicopter, I think. She must remember the helicopter. We should have painted Betty blue instead of matching her truck’s namesake.

But I see no anger in those eyes. Instead, I see...

“Maigo.”

The name comes from my lips as a whisper, though Woodstock can hear me.

Water pours from her head as she rises from the ocean. Her jaws open wide, revealing sharp white teeth bigger than me. Her skin, gleaming white the last time I saw her, is thick and gray once more. She’s whole again.

She rises in time with the chopper, her head—her jaws—remaining level with us as we ascend. She’s taller, I think, glancing at our altimeter as we pass three hundred feet. While we haven’t flown above her yet, we are moving back. As the distance increases, more of her massive body comes into view. The orange membranes lining the sides of her neck glow bright orange, reminding us of her deadly potential. The thick folds of skin on her neck shift and stretch, as she lifts her gaze away from the helicopter.

“What the hell is she doin’?” Woodstock asks.

I’m pretty sure he wasn’t expecting an answer, but I have one. “Playing fetch.” I toggle Devine. “All units, hold your fire. I repeat, hold your fire!” I ignore the litany of doubt-filled complaints that enter my ears, but when no missiles streak past, I know my orders have been followed. They’ll understand it in 3...

Nemesis’s height tops out at three-hundred-fifty feet. Her giant arms rise up, trailing waterfalls. A shredded fishing net clings to the sharp spikes on her left elbow. Clumps of seaweed slip from her chest and fall away. The pulse of her orange membranes is bright. The explosive liquid within swirls, as though eager to get out.

2...

Her long tail snaps up, twisting back and forth like an agitated cat—if cat’s tails had a trident of spikes the size of 747 wings. I note that the color of her claws and spikes has changed from black to beige. The armor plating on her shoulders looks thicker. She’s ready for battle, radiating power. I catch just a glimpse of her back as we twist away. The massive spikes have moved back to the middle, the thick armored carapace once again protecting delicate reflective wings capable of great destruction.

And then it happens.

1...





13



Former small-town sheriff turned FC-P special agent, Ashley Collins struggled against her fight-or-flight instinct, which was cheering wholeheartedly for her to make like a freshly baked gingerbread man and run. But she couldn’t. Not while Cooper and Watson were still in harm’s way.

“Get out of here,” she told them, but the pair stood their ground.

“We’re not leaving you, Ash,” Watson said, his voice quivering. The man was fighting his fear, just like Collins. She appreciated his loyalty, but if they all stayed, they all died. If they ran, she might be able to slow him down long enough for them to get away. This was a fight they couldn’t win, so a strategic retreat was not only their best option, it was also their only option.

Gordon, still smoldering, grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming white. A low, rumbling chuckle rolled from deep inside him. He was enjoying this little drama, taking pleasure in it. He knew the eventual outcome as well as Collins did.

“Leave, dammit!” she shouted, trying to reload her revolver. She used speed-loaders, which allowed her to reload all six rounds at once, but it was still hard to do with shaking hands. “Now!”

When they still didn’t budge, she tried logic. “You’re not field agents. This isn’t your job.”

Before they could respond, Gordon started toward them, hands open, ready to grab and crush.

As the trio backed away, Collins said, “How about we at least don’t make it easy on him then. Scatter!” As she shouted, Collins twisted the back of the speed-loader off, snapped the cylinder back in place, took aim and squeezed off a single shot.

Gordon’s head jolted back, halting his approach, only for a moment, but long enough for Watson and Cooper to head in opposite directions. Watson disappeared around the side of the large brick house. Cooper ran back inside.

Now facing Gordon on her own, Collins didn’t like her plan.