Chapter 82
“Kid, I don’t know what you are doing here, but this isn’t your lucky day.”
It was the same high school kid Priest had seen on the street when he was following Janet. The lad was tall for his age, about six feet, with a quintessential high school athletic body: muscular and wiry. Too bad for him. That athletic career was about to come to a very abrupt end.
Priest moved forward, and surprisingly the kid moved to meet him, gliding along in a rudimentary aikido style. Priest's smile grew wider. The kid thought he was trained. It was always nice when you didn’t have to chase them.
As he approached the optimum range, Priest feinted with his left hand, then darted in low, the SAF survival knife coming in flat to facilitate its passage between the ribs and into the vital organs beyond.
The kid moved to counter the feint, leaving himself wide open for the knife attack. What shocked Priest was the speed with which the kid moved, his motions a blur, even to Priest's trained eye. Unbelievably, the knife missed its target as the kid's fist rocketed into Priest's midsection.
The impact of the blow was extraordinary. It felt more like the kick of a mule than a blow from a human fist. Priest felt himself slammed back into the wall with sufficient force to break three ribs and dislodge the knife from his hand, sending it sliding down the hall toward the stairs.
In full reaction mode now, Priest reached for his shoulder holster, only to have the young whirlwind close with him, the open palm of his left hand slamming into the underside of Priest's chin, sending him sliding down the hallway floor toward his knife.
As Priest reached for it, an athletic shoe caught him full in the midsection, the kick launching him up over the railing to land headfirst on the floor of the den, twelve feet below the top of the stairs. The shock of sensations that accompanied the loud crack from his neck gave ample evidence that it had broken, severing the spinal column high enough to block his lungs. Just before Priest allowed his eyes to slip closed, he had the oddest thought. He had never seen the middle of his own back before.
Priest stilled himself, not that it was difficult, since he was disconnected from control of the vast majority of his body. Still, it was important that the kid, or whatever he was, thought he was dead. Priest had no doubt that the regenerative powers of his own body could heal this set of injuries as thoroughly as they had healed the brain and eye injuries inflicted by Janet. But it wouldn’t do to give the kid reason to hang around and watch the process.
Within seconds, he heard the footsteps on the upstairs landing move down the hallway to the room where he had left Janet drugged, bound, and gagged.
Good.
He could already feel the restorative process at work, rebuilding connections in his severed spinal cord and allowing sensations to flood in from his lower body. A red storm of pain clouded his vision as nerves, sinews, and bone were knitted back together. The muscles in his neck pulled his head back into the proper position, allowing the spinal column to be re-connected. Although Priest couldn’t be sure, it seemed that his body was healing itself better each time.
As often as Priest had cursed Dr. Stephenson, he had to give the man credit. The gray goo that he and Dr. Rodriguez had pumped into Priest in the basement laboratory below the Rodriguez guesthouse was good stuff. Not that he had appreciated the act at the time.
Stephenson had contacted him through surreptitious channels and had set up a meeting to discuss the acquisition of Priest's special services. But Priest had screwed up, never suspecting that the famous deputy director of the Los Alamos National laboratory would slip a Mickey into his drink.
The next thing he knew, he was strapped to a hospital bed as Drs. Stephenson and Rodriguez fed the gray goo through an IV into his veins. They had been quite excited about it, their first human trial of the formulation.
The pain flooding through him now was nothing compared to the liquid fire that had coursed through his veins that day. As Priest rose slowly to his feet and loaded a new dart into his tranquilizer gun, he smiled. Indeed, he had been to hell and back, and he had to admit, the trip was worth the price of admission.
Priest had intended to take only Janet back alive to his special place, but this kid moved like no human could move. And Priest wanted to find out where that difference came from. Besides, nobody gave him an ass whipping like that and failed to pay the price, a price extracted in pain. With careful packing, the compartment below the truck bed should be able to hold two.
The dart, fired from a semi-prone position as he peered around the banister at the top of the stairs, struck squarely between the kid's shoulder blades as he bent over Janet, removing the last of the tape from her ankles. But instead of slumping forward as Priest expected, the kid spun to his feet, reaching back over his shoulder to pull the dart free.
Too late. It had deposited its full load into the kid's bloodstream upon impact. The kid staggered, then righted himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. Unbelievably, he began advancing down the hallway toward Priest, and Priest rose to meet him, pulling his other gun from its shoulder holster, just in case.
Once again the kid staggered, this time dropping to his hands and knees, although he continued to crawl forward. Priest moved in rapidly, swinging a beefy right hand that connected with the side of the kid's head, sending him sprawling against the hallway wall. With one last effort to rise, the kid's eyes lost all focus, his limp body slumping to the floor.
Priest moved forward to gaze down at him, the Beretta aimed directly at the young fellow's head.
“Kid, you’re one hell of a specimen. I think Doctor Stephenson is going to want to find out just what makes you tick.”
Grabbing a foot, Priest dragged the kid down the hall, back to the room where Janet’s prone form lay. Within moments he had both bodies bound and gagged with duct tape. Then, moving back downstairs, he took out his Beretta once more and moved to a spot beside the front door to wait.
“Come on, Jacky boy. Time for confession. You wouldn’t want to keep the Priest waiting, now would you?”