Free Endangered Species: PART 1 by John Wayne Falbey Page B

a
new environment; no painful memories around every
corner.”
    Tom was getting impatient. “So what does
your family history have to do with this Maksym?”
    Whelan lowered his gaze to the floor briefly
then raised his head and said, “My brother isn’t dead. Maksym is my
brother.”
    The other three sat in stunned silence.
Finally, Caitlin said, “If he’s your brother, why is trying to kill
you?”
    “ I can think of a couple of
reasons. He must feel that he failed Laski in some fashion, and he
blames me. Killing me will even the score in his mind. Plus I
suspect he believes our family didn’t do enough to find him after
he was abducted. Growing up on the mean streets of Kiev must have
been a nasty experience; the opposite of my own childhood in the
States.”
    Tom sat forward in his chair and turned a
little to his right to face Whelan squarely. “This has to be a
death wish on his part. He’s no match for a man with your unique
abilities.”
    Whelan just stared at Tom.
    “ Holy Jesus and Mary!” Tom
said, as realization dawned. “He’s like you, gifted with a very
rare genetic combination that makes him so much stronger, quicker
and physically superior to other human beings.”
    Whelan nodded. “Now you know the
problem.”

 
     
    Chapter 8—Albuquerque,
NM
    It was a little past six in
the morning, Albuquerque time. Dawn was just breaking on a
mid-April day, slowly brightening the arid landscape that
paralleled both sides of I-25 north of the city. A first quarter
moon hung low on the western horizon like a large half pie
descending. The barren satellite was at a 90-degree angle with respect to the earth and
sun. Exactly half of it was illuminated; the other half in
shadow.
    The digital thermometer on the dashboard of
Mitch Christie’s Ford Crown Vic four-door sedan showed forty-three
degrees. It was a 2010 model; the next to the last year the car was
produced at the St. Thomas assembly plant in Talbotville, Ontario.
This one had a blue exterior and interior with the police
interceptor and street appearance packages. It also had over
100,000 miles on the odometer and rode like it. The cushioning in
the seats was worn out. The springs dug into Christie’s butt. The
shocks had worn out long ago. That made handling difficult and
added to the discomfort of riding in the car. A myriad of
unpleasant aromas filled the vehicle. The smell of stale coffee,
old food and body odors clung to the headliner and other
upholstery. There were food stains and cigarette burns in the seat
covers, or what was left of them after 100,000-plus miles of butts
sliding across them. Assorted scratches and gouges marred the
dashboard, armrests and center console. There were footprints on
the dash on the passenger side where agents had rested their feet.
Christie recognized all of them as vestiges of long ago
stakeouts.
    All of the other Bureau agents in the field
office drove newer model vehicles, mostly Impalas. Wojakowski drove
a very well equipped Suburban. Christie’s Crown Vic had been
destined for the junkyard when Wojakowski learned he was being
assigned to her office. She rerouted the paperwork and saw to it
that the car was assigned to him. He chalked it up to one more
strike in favor of the Polish Viper.
    He didn’t usually go to work this early, but
Christie was running away from a situation, and he knew it. It was
ironic, he thought, that he was choosing to go to the office over
something else. He was opting for something he hated over something
that scared him. He saw the sign for Exit 233, Alameda Boulevard
NE, and glanced to his right. A short distance to the west was
Balloon Fiesta Park, site of the city’s renowned annual
International Balloon Fiesta. He had been in Albuquerque for almost
six months, yet had never visited the popular site. The truth was,
he knew, hot air balloons terrified him. It seemed there always
were news articles about them crashing and burning and killing the
occupants.
    Airplanes were a