Nikola Tesla never died. From the moment he stepped through the Breach, he began to change into something evil. Now, his son Petar has escaped the nightmare world of Volos to warn Earth of Tesla's imminent attack. The only problem is, nobody believe...
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Present Day
"EVERYTHING ON THIS PLANET is going to die."
"Look, son," Special Agent Bill Brodham's patience was wearing thin. "I don't think you realize how serious your situation is. Now I'm going to ask you one more time, and I need you be transpicuously clear: How did you get in here, and what were you trying to do?"
As the young man launched into his tale for the third time, Special Agent Brodham rubbed his forehead wearily and wished someone would bring him another coffee.
What had begun as a long day had quickly turned into a bizarre nightmare. Brodham had been woken up at 3 A.M. by the relentlessly cheerful chirp of his cellphone. Security breach. Level 9. Get here immediately. A groan from his wife, then soft snoring. Brodham had slid gently out of the covers, winced at the cold tile on his bare feet, and kissed his slumbering wife on the forehead before jumping in the shower. Calls like this weren't unusual, but if he'd known the whole story, he would have skipped the shower. And maybe given Clarice another kiss.
Forty-five minutes later, Brodham's black Impala pulled to a stop at the outer security gate of the detention center in upper New York. Totally black book. The public didn't know this place existed. Most of the CIA didn't even know it existed, or at least where it was. With a flick of his M4, the guard in the gatehouse waved Brodham past. Brodham knew that the guard would now radio through to the second checkpoint to announce his arrival.
Redundant security measures. Not so redundant when you were guarding the world's most dangerous men.
At the second stop, Brodham was asked to step out of the car so that it could be searched. Brodham creased his brow. This was unusual. As a man led a harnessed German shepherd around the car, Brodham turned to the checkpoint guard. Double white halogen spotlights burned the strip of asphalt into nuclear daylight.
"What's the word?" Brodham asked.
"Beats me," the guard replied. "Tighten the fences. Nobody in or out. I ask what's up, I get a stone wall. These dang spooks are jumping at crickets. No offense, sir," the guard added, eyes on the sniffing K-9 circling the car. Brodham, one of the so-called spooks, ignored the remark. The guard was rubbing a finger along the stock of his M4. He was nervous. Jumpy. All the guards were.
The German shepherd reached the trunk of Brodham's Impala and barked once, sharply. The guard beside Brodham jerked at the sudden sound. Definitely nervous, Brodham thought. What was he walking into?
The K-9 handler called to get the trunk open, and Brodham thumbed the latch release on the key fob in his hand. With a hydraulic whump, the trunk lid raised an inch. The handler lifted it and let the dog bury his nose in the interior. After a few cursory sniffs, the German shepherd wagged his approval and settled on his haunches at the handler's feet.
