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    The Doomsday Bunker
    The Doomsday Bunker
    The Doomsday Bunker
    Ebook401 pages7 hours

    The Doomsday Bunker

    By William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone

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    About this ebook

    From the bestselling authors of Black Friday, Tyranny, and Stand Your Ground comes a shattering novel of the last days of civilization—and the final battle for humanity . . .
     
    DON’T OPEN TILL DOOMSDAY
     
    Six weeks ago, former US Marine Patrick Larkin purchased shares in a massive high-tech, state-of-the-art underground missile silo for his family. It was a decision based on easing his wildest, most unimaginable nuclear fears. But then reality strikes with devastating suddenness, razing cities in a searing flash across the nation, all of it witnessed by terrified Americans on TV and the Internet. No one knows who pulled the trigger. No one knows if the last day on Earth will ever end. But Larkin and his family are the lucky ones—or so they think . . .
     
    Holed up in their fortified sanctuary, with a maximum capacity of four hundred people, the bunker is pushed to its limits—and so are the people locked inside. Tensions rise. Panic erupts. Outside, armed marauders surround the bunker—and they want in. Larkin has to convince the others they must work together as a team to survive. And they must kill without mercy to stay alive . . .
     
    MAYBE THE DEAD ARE REALLY THE LUCKY ONES . . . .
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPinnacle Books
    Release dateSep 26, 2017
    ISBN9780786036066
    The Doomsday Bunker
    Author

    William W. Johnstone

    William W. Johnstone is the #1 bestselling Western writer in America and the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of hundreds of books, with over 50 million copies sold. Born in southern Missouri, he was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. He left school at fifteen to work in a carnival and then as a deputy sheriff before becoming a full-time writer. 

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      Book preview

      The Doomsday Bunker - William W. Johnstone

      Look for these heart pounding thrillers by William W. Johnstone, writing with J. A. Johnstone, available whenever books are sold

      BLACK FRIDAY

      TYRANNY

      STAND YOUR GROUND

      SUICIDE MISSION

      THE BLEEDING EDGE

      THE BLOOD OF PATRIOTS

      HOME INVASION

      JACKKNIFE

      REMEMBER THE ALAMO

      INVASION USA

      INVASION USA: BDRDER WAR

      VENGEANCE IS MINE

      PHOENIX RISING

      PHOENIX RISING: FIREBASE FREEDOM

      PHOENIX RISING: DAY OF JUDGMENT

      THE DOOMSDAY BUNKER

      W

      ILLIAM

      W. J

      OHNSTONE

      with J. A. Johnstone

      PINNACLE BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

      Table of Contents

      Look for these heart pounding thrillers by William W. Johnstone, writing with J. A. Johnstone, available whenever books are sold

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      Epigraph

      BOOK ONE

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      BOOK TWO

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Chapter 44

      Chapter 45

      Chapter 46

      Chapter 47

      Chapter 48

      PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 J. A. Johnstone

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      PUBLISHER’S NOTE

      Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.

      If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      ISBN: 978-0-7860-3605-9

      First electronic edition: October 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3606-6

      ISBN-10: 0-7860-3606-0

      America was not built on fear. America was built on courage, on imagination, and an unbeatable determination to do the job at hand.

      —H

      ARRY

      S. T

      RUMAN

      Americans never quit.

      —D

      OUGLAS

      M

      ACARTHUR

      BOOK ONE

      Chapter 1

      May 24

      "In other news, there are unconfirmed reports that North Korea conducted further missile tests today. The missiles involved in these tests are said to have the potential to reach the continental United States. With the recent increase in North Korea’s nuclear development, these reports have caused grave concern in some circles in Washington, but the President, in a statement today, referred to that concern as ‘fear-mongering’ and said that there is no reason to believe North Korea may be considering aggressive action, despite heightened tensions with South Korea and the U.S."

      As a commercial came on for the season finale of Singing for Dollars, Patrick Larkin picked up the remote and pushed the mute button.

      See? he said to his wife Susan.

      You’re just fear-mongering, she said.

      Larkin rolled his eyes.

      And don’t roll your eyes at me, Susan added. You’re talking about a lot of money, Patrick. A hell of a lot of money.

      He grimaced and said, Yeah, I know. We’ve got it, but it would sure take a big chunk out of our bank accounts.

      It would wipe out a couple of them.

      Larkin nodded. The remote was in his right hand. He slid his left arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her closer against him.

      You’re not getting ideas, are you? she asked.

      Not the kind you’re thinking about, he said with a sigh.

      He was in his late forties, but the only signs of his age were a few streaks of gray in his thick dark hair and a slight weathering of his features. Also, he wasn’t in quite as good a shape as he had been when he retired from the Marine Corps a few years earlier, but he liked to think he hadn’t lost too much of that conditioning.

      Susan, with her honey-blond hair and classic good looks, didn’t show her age, either. Even after all the years of marriage, it didn’t take much encouragement for him to think about turning off the TV and taking her to bed. Unfortunately, watching the news was as much of an antidote for that as a bucket full of ice water dumped over his head would have been.

      Too late now, he thought as she said, It’s back on.

      West Nile, Zika, and now Hydra. No, we’re not talking about comic book villains. The Centers for Disease Control has confirmed three more cases of the Hydra virus, so named because of the way it reproduces. This brings the number of confirmed cases in the United States to seventeen. The latest victims of the disease have been identified as refugees from the Middle East who were resettled in Houston, Texas.

      Good Lord, Larkin said. It’s in Texas now, not just Florida and the East Coast.

      Shh, Susan said.

      These patients are being held in strict quarantine, and Houston’s mayor stated today that the situation is under control and there is no danger of the virus spreading. The patients are listed as being in critical condition, and the prognosis for their recovery is uncertain.

      Uncertain, my ass, Larkin said. "Hydra’s killed everybody else who came down with it. And how can that windbag politician say there’s no danger of it spreading? The doctors and scientists don’t know how it spreads. And now it’s in Texas. You think it’s not coming up I-45 toward us right now?"

      They’ll get it under control. They did with all the other new viruses, didn’t they?

      Well, there hasn’t been another plague that wiped out half the country yet, but give it time.

      I swear, Patrick, you sound almost like you wish that would happen.

      No, he said, "I just wish people would wake up to the fact that it could."

      "Widespread demonstrations prompted by last week’s incident in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, erupted in violence today as police and peaceful protestors clashed. Riots broke out in Des Moines, as well as in other cities in Illinois, Ohio, California, and New York. The Cedar Rapids incident, in which two alleged armed robbers were gunned down by police, is under investigation by the Justice Department, and the officers involved in the shooting have been placed in protective custody after their homes were destroyed by firebombs. No arrests have been made in those bombings.

      We’ll have news of the latest celebrity breakup right after—Wait. What? Where . . . Breaking news. There has been an explosion in downtown Chattanooga, Tennessee. Reports are coming in of serious destruction and numerous injuries, although there are no confirmed fatalities at this time . . . We’ll try to find out more—

      That’s enough, Larkin said as he pushed the power button on the remote this time.

      I might have wanted to see that, you know, Susan said.

      "Why? You know what’s going to happen. All the talking heads will speculate about who’s responsible for that explosion, and they’ll mention everybody except who it turns out to be."

      You don’t know who’s responsible.

      Larkin just gave her a look.

      Well, you don’t.

      Maybe I’ll be proven wrong. The history of the last thirty years says I won’t be, though. Larkin shook his head. "Let’s face it, you could write the script for the news every night before it comes on. Some dictator on the other side of the world rattles a sword, and our guy waves it off and accuses his political opponents of fear-mongering. So-called peaceful protestors start burning and looting because they can get away with it, while cops trying to do their jobs have to worry not only about being shot but about their families being threatened as well. Some athlete spits on the country that made him a millionaire. We’ve conquered all the diseases except the ones that have mutated to the point that we can’t do anything to control them. And people can’t go about their business without having to wonder if there’s some suicidal nutcase with a bomb standing next to them in a crowd. Isn’t that what we see, night after night?"

      Maybe, but what good is ranting going to do about it?

      "Ranting? This is not ranting. I haven’t even come close to working up to a good rant—"

      Susan stood up. Good night, Patrick.

      That’s it? Good night?

      Yeah, I think so. I’m tired. I still have a job, you know, and it was a long shift in the ER today.

      He made a face again and said, Sorry. I guess I do get a little wound up sometimes.

      She went behind the sofa, leaned over, and kissed his ear. You’re passionate about things, she told him. I can’t complain too much about that. She straightened, started to walk toward the bedroom, and then paused to add, I just hate to see you get so worked up over things you can’t do anything about. Really, Patrick, this is just . . . the new normal.

      The new normal, he thought as she left the room. He supposed she was right about that.

      God help us all.

      Chapter 2

      Two weeks earlier

      "It’s out in the country west of here, Adam Threadgill said. You know, so it would be handy to the Air Force base. He shrugged. Back when there was still an Air Force base."

      There’s still a base there, Larkin said. It’s just a reserve base now.

      Yeah. So they don’t have any need for nuclear bombs, do they?

      I thought you said this place you’re talking about was where they kept missiles.

      "They had missiles to protect the bombs."

      I get it, Larkin said, although he wasn’t sure he did. But now the installation is empty?

      Yep, Adam said. For now. But not for long, if this guy I’m telling you about has his way.

      Okay, run it past me again, Larkin said as he reached for his glass of iced tea. The plate in front of him was empty except for a couple of tiny smears of barbecue sauce, all that was left of his weekly lunch with his fellow retired Marine.

      The two men were in what looked like a hole-in-the-wall dump of a restaurant, but actually it had some of the best barbecue to be found in Fort Worth. Located near the big aircraft plant, the place was usually packed with guys Larkin could tell were engineers just by looking at them. It was popular with retired military, too, and there were a lot of them in this area.

      Okay, Threadgill said. He had let himself go more than Larkin had, but you could still kind of see the tough, squatty noncom he had been. "The Air Force had this secret underground base out in the hills west of town where they stored all the nuclear bombs they’d stockpiled for the B-52s and B-58s that flew out of the regular base. This was in the early Sixties, you know, when the Cold War was at its height. Everybody was afraid the Russians were going to try to bomb the hell out of us at a moment’s notice. Considering there was a stockpile of nuclear weapons here, this whole area was considered a prime target for the Russkies. So they put in Nike Hercules missiles to guard the place. In fact, there were missile bases all around the Dallas/Fort Worth area, but the one I’m talking about was secret. You can’t find out anything about it even on Wikipedia."

      Then how do you know about it?

      You forget, I grew up around here. My dad worked at General Dynamics, right across the runways from the Air Force base. All the kids whose dads worked at GD knew about the missile base. And it scared the shit out of us thinking that the Russians had painted a big bull’s-eye on the whole area.

      So your dads who worked on the flight line knew about it. Wow, that’s some really top-notch military security there.

      What can I say? Threadgill shrugged. The Russians never bombed us. Maybe they didn’t know about it, after all.

      They should have put a few sleeper agents into the elementary schools around here.

      Anyway, the empty silos are still there, and so are the bunkers where the warheads were stored, along with all the fire control and administrative areas. It’s almost like an underground mall, but there’s nothing in it. It’s been sitting there like that for all those years, just waiting for somebody to come along and put it to good use.

      Like this guy Moultrie you were telling me about.

      "Yeah. Graham’s got vision."

      Larkin was pretty sure Threadgill was quoting something Graham Moultrie had said. In his experience, he was a little suspicious of anybody who claimed to have vision. All too often, a businessman who said that was just after a buck. A politician who started spouting about it was after power . . . and a buck. None of it ended well.

      Moultrie bought the property?

      Yeah. From the way he talks, the government was glad to get rid of it. It’s kind of a white elephant. It’s never been sold to a real-estate developer because then they’d have to disclose the fact that nuclear material used to be stored there. Otherwise, if somebody bought the property and covered it with McMansions, they’d be opening themselves up to lawsuits for not revealing that. But in Graham’s case, he knew what had been down there and bought it as is.

      Complete with radiation contamination.

      Threadgill shook his head. No, the place is clean. He’s had it checked up one way and down the other. It’s perfectly safe.

      A dubious frown creased Larkin’s forehead. Yeah, but if he’s trying to sell shares in the place, he’s not going to admit that it might give you radiation poisoning, is he?

      He’s going to live there himself, if that day ever comes, God forbid. He wouldn’t move into a place he knew would kill him, would he?

      I suppose not, Larkin admitted. It wouldn’t be much of a survival bunker if it was going to kill you.

      Survival bunker . . . It said something about the state of the world that such a term had even come into being. Of course, back when he was a kid, Larkin had heard people talking about fallout shelters, even though the craze where everybody wanted one in their backyard had passed more than a decade earlier. Even most of those had been nothing more than glorified storm cellars, a place where you could go to hunker down safely until a tornado blew over. You couldn’t wait out a nuclear war in one of them, though.

      A survival bunker was different. He had read up on them, even before Adam Threadgill got interested. Most of them were set up in abandoned military installations like the one Threadgill was talking about, underground bases hardened against not only nuclear blasts but also electromagnetic pulses, chemical and biological warfare, and any other hideous threat the modern world could dish up. They were big enough to hold more than just a family; most could house hundreds of people in relative comfort and were self-sustaining with generators to provide power, plenty of room for stored rations, equipment to supply clean water, and even gardens to grow food hydroponically in case the rations ever ran low. Theoretically, people could live safely under the ground for years no matter what went on above them on the surface.

      What would they find when they came up, though?

      Larkin pushed that thought out of his head. Always a practical man, he said, What’s it going to cost to buy some space in there?

      Threadgill’s beefy shoulders rose and fell. I don’t know exactly. I’m not sure Graham’s figured out the price yet. He said he’s putting at least twenty million into developing it, though. So that’s fifty K per person just to recoup his investment. I figure he’s going to be asking somewhere in the neighborhood of $75,000 each to cover contingencies and allow him to make a little profit.

      Twenty million? Larkin let out a low whistle. If he’s got that kind of money, what’s he doing getting mixed up in a thing like this? Why doesn’t he just build himself a bug-out space and call it good?

      Because like I told you, he’s a visionary. He wants to help people. Besides, we’re talking worst-case scenario here, right? The end of the world as we know it. What’s the point of escaping that if you’re the only one left? Well, I mean, he’s got a wife, but you know what I mean. They don’t want to open a hatch and find the world devastated with no way to start over. So he needs enough people to have a real community. That way the human race has still got a fighting chance.

      I guess that makes sense. Still, seventy-five K . . .

      To ensure that you and Susan survive. Doesn’t sound like much then, does it?

      Larkin squinted at his friend and said, You’re not gettin’ a kickback on this, are you?

      Me? No, I— Threadgill stopped, frowned at Larkin for a second, and then laughed. You’re kidding me, aren’t you?

      Mostly.

      No, I don’t have a piece of the deal. There’s no discount for drumming up new customers, either. I’m trying to scrape up enough for me and Luisa and the kids.

      That’s a lot of money.

      I’m thinking my daughter Sophie and her husband can kick in some. I know they’re not rich and haven’t been married long, but they’re both working.

      Kids aren’t known for worrying much about the future.

      Well, they’d better start, Threadgill said. The way things are going . . .

      Yeah, Larkin said with a sigh. There’s that. He had a daughter, son-in-law, and grandkids of his own, and that was a real concern.

      Anyway, you want to go out and take a look at the place? Threadgill slid a business card across the table. There’s Graham’s number. He’s got a website, too, so you can look it up and check it all out before you call him to set up an appointment. Just don’t wait too long.

      At those prices, I don’t think the place is going to fill up in a hurry.

      Threadgill glanced at the TV mounted on the wall of the barbecue joint. Set to one of the cable news stations, at the moment it was showing live footage of flashing lights and cops in riot gear and smoke billowing from a building, with a graphic across the bottom that read NEW TERRORIST ATTACKS IN LONDON.

      The bunker filling up isn’t what I’m worried about, he said.

      Chapter 3

      Larkin hadn’t had a job lined up when he retired from the Marine Corps. He had a dream instead.

      He was going to be a writer.

      Such a crazy idea had never occurred to him when he was growing up, or during his first few years in the Corps. He enjoyed reading but never gave much thought to the people who actually produced the books.

      Then he met an older Marine who edited and wrote for the base newspaper and who had been a journalist before enlisting. The guy had invited Larkin to submit something to the paper, and that had been the start of it. Larkin had discovered right away that he enjoyed putting words together and had even sold a few short stories and articles, mostly about military history, to paying markets. That had planted enough of a seed to make the dream grow.

      Along the way, he had also met and married a beautiful blond emergency-room nurse. They’d had a daughter, Jill, now married with kids of her own. Larkin and Susan were soul mates and best friends, and when he’d retired from the Corps they moved back to her hometown of Fort Worth, Texas, where their daughter and her family lived. Susan’s salary, along with his retirement pension, had supported him while he took a crack at writing books.

      Five years into that effort, he had done fairly well: six books sold, thriller novels under a pseudonym that had done decent numbers without being big bestsellers. Maybe he would break through to that higher level someday, maybe he wouldn’t, but either way he was having fun and doing what he wanted to do. It would be nice to make enough money so that in a few years Susan could retire, too, but they’d have to just wait and see about that.

      Problem was, all those plans were moot if the world went to hell . . . as it was looking more and more like it was going to, with each passing day.

      That was why he found himself getting out of his SUV in front of a large steel gate attached to a massive stone and concrete pillar on each end. A brass plate was mounted on one of the pillars, and on it were etched the words T

      HE

      H

      ERCULES

      P

      ROJECT

      . That was all it said.

      A Jeep was parked on the other side of the gate. Behind it, a paved road ran up into gently rolling hills dotted here and there with live oaks and post oaks and cottonwoods. At this time of year, the scenery was green and beautiful, almost like a pastoral English countryside except for the occasional clump of cactus that made it unmistakably Texas. A few low structures were visible among the hills, mostly screened from the road by trees.

      A man got out of the Jeep and lifted a hand in greeting. Patrick? he called through the bars of the gate.

      That’s right, Larkin replied. You’re Graham Moultrie? I talked to you on the phone.

      You bet, Moultrie said with a smile. He was a wiry, medium-size man with close-cropped silvery hair and a little goatee. He wore a khaki shirt and jeans and looked more like somebody who would run a lawn-care service instead of an entrepreneur with the ability to sink twenty million dollars into something like the Hercules Project.

      He took a small, square remote from his shirt pocket and pressed a button on it. Almost noiselessly, the gate began to roll back.

      Drive on in, Moultrie invited when the gate was open. You can park your SUV here and we’ll take the Jeep up to the office.

      Larkin did what Moultrie said. As he got out of the SUV after parking it at the side of the road, the gate began to close again.

      Feels a little like a prison, he commented.

      Moultrie laughed. Just the opposite. We want to keep people out, not in.

      Will that gate do it?

      You could ram through it with a tank, if you’ve got a spare one in your garage, I guess, Moultrie said with a shrug. Anything short of that and it ought to hold up.

      Larkin pointed at the high chain-link fence that ran along the front of the property. Wouldn’t take a tank to go through that.

      No, but we’ll have some extra defenses put in place soon. Moultrie didn’t explain what those defenses were, but he added, For now, it can be electrified with a flip of a switch in the office or the push of a button on this remote. That’s enough to keep most intruders out.

      Larkin nodded. It still felt a little like a prison to him, but at least the fence wasn’t topped with coils of razor wire. Yet.

      Moultrie waved him into the Jeep. They started along the road, weaving easily through the hills.

      You know the history of this place, I guess? Moultrie asked.

      Yeah, mostly. My buddy told me about it.

      Adam Threadgill. Moultrie nodded. Seems like a good guy. I hope he’s able to join us.

      Us meaning you and the people who have already signed up with you?

      That’s right. We’d all like for you and your family to be part of the Hercules Project, too. You said you were married?

      That’s right.

      Any kids?

      A grown daughter. She’s married and has a little boy and girl.

      Grandkids, Moultrie said. That’s great. I don’t have any children myself, and I wish I did. There’s something about being able to see the continuity of the family. Kids and grandkids are like . . . a physical manifestation of the future.

      Assuming we make it to the future.

      Well, yes, Moultrie said, there’s that. While he drove, he moved his head to indicate their surroundings. That’s why we have the Hercules Project.

      Named after the missiles that used to be here, I suppose?

      That and because Hercules is a symbol of strength. That’s what we’re doing here. We’re making a stronghold to ensure the future of humanity.

      You really think that’s necessary? Larkin asked.

      I hope every day that it’s not . . . but I’m a practical man. Practical enough to recognize that the possibility exists, and it’s not going to go away, no matter how much most people want to ignore it.

      Larkin nodded. Moultrie was a salesman, all right . . . but that didn’t mean he was wrong.

      Moultrie drove around a clump of trees and pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of one of the squat, tan brick structures Larkin had caught a glimpse of from the gate.

      This is the office, Moultrie went on. We’ll stop in here for a minute and then walk on up to the bunker’s main entrance.

      Inside looked like hundreds of other offices Larkin had seen in his life, with a couple of desks, computers on each one, filing cabinets, and a water cooler. Two things were different: an oil painting of a big missile with flame blasting from its tail hung on one wall, presumably one of the Nike Hercules missiles that had been kept here . . . and behind one of the desks was a drop-dead gorgeous redhead who looked more like a fashion model than a secretary.

      Turned out she wasn’t a secretary, or not just a secretary, anyway. Moultrie smiled and said, This is my wife Deb. Deb, this is Pat Larkin. I told you about talking to him. He and his family are considering joining us.

      In some circumstances, Larkin would have corrected Moultrie. He would answer to Pat if he had to, but he had always gone by Patrick. Right now. it didn’t seem worth bothering with. Deb Moultrie stood up, extended her hand across the desk, and said, It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Larkin.

      Larkin was just old enough and just enough of a reactionary that he had never been completely comfortable about shaking hands with women, although for the most part he had gotten used to it in the service. He took Deb’s hand and had to admit she had a good grip. Looked a guy in the eye, too, which he liked.

      Anything going on since I left earlier? Moultrie asked his wife. Deb was a good twenty years younger than him, so Larkin had to wonder if she was a second or third wife, or a trophy wife. Not that it was any of his business or really mattered.

      Some emails for you to answer when you get a chance, that’s all.

      Moultrie nodded. I’ll do it later. I’m gonna show Pat around the place. You want to come along?

      No, I’m still making some calls. You go ahead. She smiled at Larkin. You wouldn’t believe how many contractors and sub-contractors and sub-sub-contractors you have to deal with in order to get a place like this in shape.

      I’ll bet, Larkin said.

      Moultrie gestured at a rear door and said, We can go out here.

      The door opened onto an asphalt walk that led slightly uphill for about a hundred yards to a cinder-block building that looked like a garage. It had a garage door built into it, in fact, along with a smaller steel door.

      Moultrie unlocked the smaller door with his remote before they got there. Larkin said, You seem to depend a lot on that thing. What happens if the battery goes dead?

      There are redundancies built into everything, Moultrie said. In this case, you can use a key card to get in, or if it comes to that, there’s a manual override operated with a regular key.

      You think of everything.

      We try. Moultrie opened the door and motioned for Larkin to go ahead. He stepped into a room the size of a foyer. On the other side of it was a steel wall painted battleship gray. Set into the wall was a heavy steel door with a simple handle.

      It’s not locked . . . now, Moultrie said as he stepped around Larkin and grasped the handle. He pulled the door out, and a light set into a recessed fixture in the ceiling beyond came on, evidently activated by the door opening. Sharp LED illumination washed down over a wide set of concrete stairs with steel rails on both walls. At a landing one floor down, the stairs turned back and continued to descend. Moultrie held on to the door with one hand and extended the other toward the stairs like a tour guide as he said, Welcome to the Hercules Project.

      Chapter 4

      Larkin hesitated slightly. There was something about descending into the bowels of the earth with someone he didn’t really know that made the skin on the back of his neck crawl. But he was four inches taller and probably fifty pounds heavier than Graham Moultrie, plus he had all that training from his career as a Marine and had seen combat in the Middle East.

      Besides, Moultrie wanted at least 150 grand from him. The guy wasn’t likely to try to kill a potential customer unless he was crazy.

      Of course, in this day and age, anybody could turn out to be crazy . . .

      Larkin didn’t pause more than a heartbeat. He started down

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