Project Maigo(69)

Skin...

His eyes moved higher, drawn by a luminous orange beacon high above. The color swirled, fluid, like a brilliant lava lamp. Recognition took root in his chest, just as Deb let out a scream.

At first, the news had simply called the giant ‘one of several Kaiju,’ but had recently referred to it by a name designated by the FC-P: Typhon. The monster’s human-like physique was what bothered most people, but it was the malicious, glowing eyes that caused Michael to vomit into the foot of sea water sloshing around him. It wasn’t just that they were pure evil, it was that they were staring down. Straight at him.

“Oh shit,” Deb yelled, and he caught a glimpse of her jumping overboard.

Michael’s numb mind had trouble coming up with a reason why she would jump from the boat in the middle of the bay. Unluckily, the answer was supplied for him. The ship lurched upward, the deck shoving into his backside. Giant fingers reached around both sides of the ship, claws digging into the deck below him.

He screamed louder than Deb had and ran for the stern, hoping to leap into the water. Instead, he fell into the rail and peered over the edge. He was already a hundred feet up and rising quickly. Before he could second-guess and jump, he was two hundred feet up. Three hundred. Even higher! The boat tilted back, but he clung to the rail, locking his arms around the metal.

Looking around, he could no longer see Typhon staring down at him. I’m above it, he realized, and then he looked to the side and down. The nausea he felt from the extreme height was dwarfed by the fright generated by two more Kaiju: Karkinos and Scylla, who had last been seen devastating Rio. They were rising out of the bay. The monsters were roaring and angry. Their glowing membranes lit up the darkness like the orange sun had returned for an encore.

Before Michael could scream again, the yacht accelerated. His arms screamed in pain as he held on tightly. The claws clinging to the deck tore away.

He was free!

Released from doom and sent...

Michael pulled himself up and found the wind in his face. At first, the view made no sense, but understanding arrived quickly. The yacht had been picked up and thrown, like it was nothing more than a kid’s toy in a tub. The dark waters of the bay were invisible below, but he could see the lights of civilization growing closer.

As Michael finally screamed again, he saw a window ahead. There was a shape in the window. A man. He was looking out, to see. Then he turned his eyes up, saw the yacht and met Michael’s eyes. Both men screamed right up until the end, when the 40-foot yacht plowed through the brick face of an apartment building, and in the distance, sirens began to wail.





36



“Betty, this is Bob,” I say, for the benefit of anyone who might be monitoring cell phone usage in and around the White House. It would be easier to use Devine, but activating the system in D.C. would put up a red flag that would let everyone know exactly where I was. “How’s that pie cooking?”

“About to put it in the oven,” Woodstock replies, his deep voice now thoroughly confusing any listeners, which makes me cringe, but he turns things around by adding, “S’pose you called to talk to the missus.”

“If you don’t mind,” I say.

“Hey, hun,” Collins says, as she comes on the line. “You get in touch with your friends?”

I glance at President Beck. He’s seated across from me at the dining room table, just two rooms away from the Oval Office. I just had some of the best lobster of my life, courtesy of my presidential host. So far, everyone, including the Secret Service, has given Beck the distance he requested, but I’m not sure how long that will last.

“We just finished a nice sit-down meal,” I say.

Collins must be wondering if a ‘sit down meal’ is code for something, because she says, “For real?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Lobster and all the fixings.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize that if anyone is listening and knows the President’s menu choice for the evening, there could be problems. I force a laugh and add, “I’m just messing with you. We had dogs and hot wings. Waiting for the game to start.”

“How’re you holding up?” she asks.

Something about the way her voice sounds makes me wish that it were me waiting in the chopper. They’re parked somewhere, just outside the no-fly zone, waiting for things to go sour. I haven’t seen Collins much in the last few weeks. I’ve spent most of my time with Endo, which sucks more balls than the last hole at a mini-golf course. “Impatient. Looking forward to the game’s end for a change.”

“I hear you, babe. You have any idea when it might start?”