chapter 9 and 10

Chapter 9

The encrypted line rang several times before it picked up without a word.

The caller spoke into the silence. “The transformation ran its course, but

hospital staff revived him at the end.”

A digitally altered voice replied, “Then he’s still alive?”

“Yes. He’s been positively identified as you. They’re transferring him into

police custody to face charges.”

After several moments, “The change agent was supposed to kill him after it

completed.”

“It stopped his heart, but apparently the doctors at Mount Elizabeth have

talent.”

Several more moments of silence, filled with encryption static.

“Finish it. Make it look like an escape attempt.”

“I’ll take care of it personally.”

“No. I don’t want you under scrutiny. Let other police do our work for us—

preferably in public.”

“I understand.”

“And, Detective . . .”

“Yes?”

“Make his escape violent. There must not be a shred of doubt who this man

is.”

The line held for a moment in silence.

“Consider it done.”

The line disconnected.

Chapter 10

Durand lay disconsolate, strapped to his hospital bed. It occurred to him he

might have suffered neurological damage from the biotoxin—that he might

not be perceiving reality.

He looked at his arms, strapped down at the wrists. No tattoos in sight on his

bruised forearms.

Hallucinations. If he was honest with himself, brain damage seemed

increasingly likely. He knew it could manifest strange symptoms. Men and

women who were convinced their spouse was an imposter—identical but not

genuine. Or people who could no longer recognize facial features for even the

most significant people in their lives—fathers, sons, wives. What if he was

unable to recognize himself?

But that didn’t explain his colleagues. Why didn’t his colleagues recognize

him? Was he misperceiving that, too?

And would it be any better to be insane? After a moment’s thought, he

decided insanity would be preferable to what he’d seen in that mirror. What had

he seen in that mirror?

Heavy footsteps approached in the corridor outside. The hospital room door

opened. Half a dozen uniformed Singapore police officers entered, hands resting

on the butts of their holstered pistols as they checked out the room.

Strapped down and helpless, Durand looked up at them.

The officers acted as though he wasn’t there. Instead, one of the policemen

called out in Malay, “Memberselikhan!”

A pair of uniformed constables wheeled a gurney into the room and

alongside Durand’s bed. More officers and a dour-looking detective with facial

moles and designer LFP glasses crowded around the doorway. Durand could

hear police radios squawk in the corridor beyond as well.

The detective spoke in British-accented English. “Marcus Demang Wyckes,

you are under arrest on multiple counts of murder, racketeering, extortion,

human trafficking, tax evasion, unlawful genetic editing, and kidnapping. You

are to be remanded to a prison infirmary to await arraignment.”

are to be remanded to a prison infirmary to await arraignment.”

Durand closed his eyes and shouted, “I’m not Marcus Wyckes! I’m Kenneth

Durand!”

“Do not test me, Mr. Wyckes.”

“I’m Kenneth Durand! There must be a way to—”

“You will be silent or you will be silenced.”

Four officers grabbed Durand’s arms and legs, while another two officers

unfastened the bed’s restraining straps.

Durand did not struggle, but he looked up at the detective again. “Please. I’m

not who you think I am. I’m—”

“Silence this man.”

“Wait! Please—”

An officer fitted a seizure muzzle over Durand’s lower face. It had a plastic

mouthpiece apparently designed to prevent a patient from swallowing or biting

his tongue—which effectively made it impossible to speak as well. The officer

tightened the Velcro straps. Moments later Durand could only emit muffled

noise.

The police lifted him from the bed, transferring him to the waiting gurney,

where they cuffed both hands and both feet to the railings. They then wheeled

Durand out the door and down the corridor—past lines of uniformed police amid

the crackling of radios.

Durand saw Michael Yi and Claire Belanger standing among them, looking

down at him as he rolled past. Durand struggled to speak through the muzzle. Yi

watched Durand go with what looked to be an odd mixture of animosity and

concern. Belanger was stone-faced.

The gurney rolled noisily into a hospital elevator, attended by two uniformed

officers. Durand’s prolonged stare at Sergeant Yi ended only when the elevator

doors closed. He then slumped back onto the gurney, without hope.

One of the officers turned a key in the panel and the elevator descended. The

radio on one officer’s belt squawked, “Transport five ready in loading dock.

Area secure for transfer.”

The officer responded in English. “Descending elevator four. Prisoner

secured.”

Durand lay staring up at the harsh ceiling lights. Secured. Yes, he was

definitely secured—hand and foot. Gagged. Trapped in an alien body. Clearly

this was not happening—some fever dream. It had all the surreality of a dream.

They traveled for perhaps thirty seconds in silence until one of the officers

muttered as he worked the elevator key.

muttered as he worked the elevator key.

The other snorted. “You missed.”

“Fuck off.”

The elevator doors opened to reveal a subbasement corridor. A tactical

police officer in body armor, helmet, and balaclava looked up at them. He

approached, submachine slung across his chest. The word “Police” was printed

in bold white letters on his black vest. He pointed upward. “You’re supposed to

be on one, lah.”

The officer sighed and looked closer at the markings on the elevator panel.

“This damned thing . . .”

The tactical officer chuckled and leaned in. “If it’s in fire mode, it’ll go to

the basement. Here . . .”

His gloved hand moved forward, but instead of operating the panel, it held a

disposable polymer revolver—which he fired from the waist upward into the

throat of the nearest officer. The shot hammered Durand’s eardrums in the

closed space.

The other officer scrambled for his holster, but two more deafening shots

caught the man in the eye and the jaw—splattering blood over the back wall and

onto Durand’s feet. The officer’s hat fell off as his body collapsed onto Durand.

Durand struggled, screaming into his muzzle.

The tactical officer placed the printed gun alongside Durand’s bandaged

hand—and fired one more shot into the second officer’s scalp.

Durand let out another muffled shout as blood streamed onto him from the

bullet hole.

The tactical officer then pivoted the gun and fired two more shots into the

first officer on the floor nearby. After which he stowed the revolver in his

weapon harness.

Durand’s ears rang.

He felt the gurney pulled out of the elevator and into the corridor. The

tactical cop aimed his MP6 from its strap and stared menacingly at Durand as he

worked a key to unlock all four handcuffs.

Durand’s eyes darted in confusion. Finished, the cop tossed the key into the

elevator, then put his booted foot to the gurney and kicked it over—rolling

Durand onto the concrete floor. Every bruise and ache flared up anew as he tried

to raise himself up.

The tactical officer grabbed him by the hospital gown, dragging him

forward. Durand felt a gun barrel shoved into his ribs. “On your feet!”

Durand stumbled, at first barely able to walk after weeks on his back. But

adrenaline flowed through his system. He found reserves of strength he didn’t

adrenaline flowed through his system. He found reserves of strength he didn’t

think he had as he glanced back to see blood spreading across the floor of the

open elevator. He limped forward.

“Move!” The tactical officer practically dragged him up a short flight of

concrete steps. At the top, he kicked open a fire door.

Fire alarms immediately squealed. Strobe lights flashed.

The tactical officer shoved Durand out into the darkness beyond. Durand

tumbled onto pavement, pain blinding him for several moments.

But then Durand rolled over to see the metal fire door swing slowly closed

as the tactical officer spoke into his shoulder radio. “Officers down! Officers

down! The prisoner escaped—he has a weapon!”

The steel door slammed shut, muffling the fire alarm and leaving Durand on

a concrete sidewalk behind the hospital amid the humidity of a tropical night.

There was no door handle on this side.

Durand got shakily to his bare feet and tore at the Velcro fasteners of the

muzzle—finally pulling it off.

“Fuck!”

What the hell is happening?

This nightmare refused to end. His mind raced as he tried to understand. But

then he heard police sirens over the muted fire alarm. Lots of sirens.

If this was real, then two police officers had just been murdered. In a city

that often went years without a single officer fatality, that was going to result in

a massive manhunt. And he was clearly supposed to take the blame.

But why? Wasn’t he already headed to prison as Wyckes? It dawned on

Durand that now he wasn’t likely to survive long enough to reach prison.

Durand gazed out at the skyline of downtown Singapore towering around

him, at autonomous vehicle traffic, bright street lights. The navigation strobes of

drones flitting about on delivery runs. He tried to get his bearings, but without

LFP glasses, he realized, he wasn’t as familiar with the Central Business District

as he had believed. Hell, he didn’t even have shoes. All he was wearing was a

blood-spattered hospital gown with his ass hanging out—blood spattered his

bare arms and legs, too.

The sirens drew closer.

Durand chose a random direction and fled into the evening streets. It hardly

mattered which way he went since there were cameras everywhere.