The Eighth Day

Chapter 20

Upon the tabletop display of his desk, Chad Dodd watched as years of careful planning turned to shit.

"Have we ever lived in New York City?"

Chad's mouth fell open. The video window showed a high-angle shot of Echo-7 and his wife, Victoria, played by Special Agent Emma Tyler, at the kitchen table.

Tyler dropped her fork and bent to get it. "Of course not." She laughed. "You know that."

"I think I was an investment broker."

"What the hell?" Chad gaped at the screen with wide eyes. "That's goddamn impossible!"

Yet there it was. Somehow, someone had given Echo-7 memories from the mission in New York, and when he found out which pencil-dicked lab monkey was responsible, he'd string the dipshit up by his balls.

"Wait here a second," Tyler said.

Chad leaned over the tabletop with wide, unblinking eyes. Tyler went to the cupboard, reached for a white plastic bottle, and shook a pill into her hand. Protocol for if shit hit the fan. If they managed to reset Echo-7 and figure out what went wrong, they might salvage the mission after all.

Tyler proffered it to Echo-7, and he looked from it to her. Chad tensed and pumped his fist as Echo-7 took the pill. It would be T minus lights-out in a matter of seconds. Time marched forward.

"What?" Echo-7 asked.

"Don't worry. It'll be over soon."

Echo-7 opened his hand and dropped the pill onto the table.

"Fuck," Chad said, his expletive echoing Tyler's.

"Abort," she said. "You hear me? Abort!"

Chad gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I hear you." He tapped at the tabletop's digital controls to switch comms to the relay for the agents in the barn and slammed his palm on the push-to-talk icon. "Jackson, you have a green light to take Echo-7 out."

"Roger," a tinny voice replied. "Understand green light."

On the screen, Emma Tyler went for her gun. As she swung it toward Echo-7, he blurred into action as if playing at fast-forward while the rest of the video continued at normal speed. The table toppled onto its side and hurled into Tyler, throwing her back against the refrigerator with bone-jarring force.

The kitchen window imploded as Jackson and Garcia opened fire, but Echo-7 hit the floor in nothing flat. He slid across the room with unnatural speed and exited the screen stage right. Chad swiped to the video for the living room—where Echo-7 flew up the stairs and tumbled into the hall—and then to the master bedroom. But when he crashed through the window, Chad lost visual, and he had to rely on Jackson to keep him apprised of their status as Echo-7 fled in his pickup and they gave chase and closed in.

"Approaching the target now."

"Stay behind him and disable the truck," Chad said. "Shoot the tires."

"Roger. Aiming for the tires. We've got a clear—oh, shit!" The crunch of steel followed by a scream, static, and silence.

"Jackson, do you read me?" No reply. "Jackson, acknowledge." Still nothing. "Garcia, what's your status?" Chad fell back in his chair, eyes wide and jaw unhinged.

But he had neither the time nor the disposition to debate his next move. The situation had to be contained. Jackson and Garcia either needed paramedics or body bags, and Echo-7 needed to be put down before Pandora's box blew wide-open.

Chad leaned forward and made the calls.