Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

Dr. Morris looked at the case, then her eyes darted between the two men. “How did you do that?” she asked George.

“How did I pick it up? With my arms.”

“No, seriously. How did you lift it?”

The thin man took a slow breath. “Well,” he said to Freedom, “I can tell you how you did it.”

“Adrenaline,” said Freedom. “I’ve seen men do amazing things in combat.” It was true. He’d seen soldiers kick down doors with no effort and hurl opponents across rooms. One man had bent the door of a burning Hummer when he pulled it open to rescue a squadmate. The human body was an amazing machine, powerful and durable all on its own without any help from …

Where had he heard that phrase? He’d heard it from an Army physician. A doctor.

“You were part of a special project,” said George. “They were trying to create super-soldiers. Well, not just trying. They made super-soldiers.”

Freedom felt his eyes start to roll and managed to keep his gaze locked on the smaller man. Dr. Morris made no such attempt. “Seriously?” she muttered. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“You were stationed at the Yuma Proving Ground,” said the supermodel, “on a subbase designated Project Krypton. The man in charge of the program was Dr. Emil Sorensen, considered one of the world’s experts in neurology and biochemistry, among other fields.”

Krypton. Sorensen. The names sparked a headache right behind Freedom’s eyes, like nails going through his temples. He turned his head away to focus and found himself staring at the portrait of the President. John Smith stared down at Freedom and smiled. It looked like a fake smile.

“This is nonsense,” he said.

“It’s not,” said George. “It’s real.”

The pain in his head got worse. It was like someone tapping on his skull. The old Chinese water torture, obsolete now that more ruthless ways had been found to torture people with water.

“I’d like you to leave, sir,” he said. “And you, too, ma’am.”

“Sorry, Captain,” said George. “Not without you.”

He turned around. “I’m not a captain anymore.”

“You are,” George said, “someone just told you to forget.”

He looked over at Dr. Morris. She was wiping her hand across her nose. There was blood on her lip and on her fingers. “You want to hear something funny?” she asked the room. “I kind of dated the President for a while. Back before he got married.”

“We know,” said the dark woman.

“I hadn’t thought about that in … in ages, I guess.”

Freedom took a step toward George. “Get out now,” he said. The clicking pen was playing hell with his headache. He set a hand down that covered the smaller man’s shoulder. “Please don’t make me use force.”

George shot a glance at the dark woman. She bowed her head once and he looked back up at Freedom. “If it helps,” he said, “just remember this is the rematch you always wanted.”

“Sorry, sir?”

George pushed out his hand to shove Freedom in the chest. It wasn’t a particularly fast or skilled move. It made Freedom think of Combatives training. His own arm dropped down for an easy block, and he started thinking of ways to politely throw the couple back out on the street.

George’s hand pushed past the block. It was like trying to stop a moving truck. Or a tank. Freedom had just enough time to remember how the man had held the steel-lined case up over his head and then George’s palm connected with his sternum.

The front door flew away, the office blurred, and something slammed into Freedom’s back just before he heard wood crack and splinter behind him. He found his footing and glanced over his shoulder. His desk had been crushed between his back and the far wall of the office.

George stood a dozen feet away with his hand out. Dr. Morris’s mouth hung open. The supermodel had the faintest hint of a smile on her face.

Freedom stood up and brushed himself off. Then he took three running steps forward and slammed his fist straight into George’s stomach. It was like hitting a tree trunk, but he’d already committed to his follow-through punch. His knuckles cracked against George’s jaw, but the smaller man’s head barely moved.

He hadn’t even raised his hands to defend himself.

Dr. Morris swore. Then swore again.

Freedom stepped away from George and glanced over. Dr. Morris was standing in the center of the room. She looked angry and confused. Her arms were pulling in toward her body, being forced back out, and pulling in again. “Where is it?” she snapped. “Where’d it go?”

It took him a moment to figure out what she was talking about. Nothing looked out of place. He was too used to seeing the middle of the office empty.

The cases for the Cerberus Battle Armor System had all vanished.

Freedom felt a surge of suspicion again, but he knew it was foolish. It would be impossible to move all the crates in the few seconds he’d been fighting with George, let alone to do it without anyone noticing.

“What did you do with it?” Dr. Morris glared at the supermodel.

The woman and George ignored her. They were both looking around the recruiting office. “Our perceptions have switched back again,” said the supermodel.

“Yeah.”

Then Freedom noticed the office itself. The floor wasn’t carpet, it was a dark, industrial-looking tile. It was covered with faded takeout menus and drifts of broken glass.

One of the picture windows had a pile of tables in front of it, a makeshift barricade. The other one was cracked. A huge spiderweb spread across the glass. The threads at the center were blurred with dark brown smears he recognized as dried blood. The wooden walls were just a cheap laminate. It was peeling off in places. The recruitment posters were gone. A bland painting of yellow and blue flowers sat on the floor. Its frame was cracked.

His desk had vanished. In its place were a counter and the remains of a large glass case. A cash register sat on its side on the floor. The presidential portrait was