Hulk by Peter David (e reader manga TXT) 📕

The janitor smiled as he slid the all-purpose skeleton key into the lock, and turned it with a satisfying click. As he did so, he imagined the key being a knife, and the lock being the bosom of one Dr. Betty Ross.

He could have strangled her. He had planned it so carefully, so very carefully. Benny the janitor had hardly been a twin for him, but there had been a casual enough resemblance that the janitor had been able to exploit it. A dyeing of his hair, some artful makeup had been sufficient. A casual glance between his face and his photo ID—the ID of the late Benny Goodman—would attract no attention.

Thus far it had worked. The guard at the front hadn’t given him a second glance as the ID with the magnetic strip had gotten him into the facility. Once inside, he’d gone straight to the custodial closet, gotten the equipment, and proceeded to do his job. Again he had done so and garnered no notice. Why should he? He was just a janitor, a lowly worker, whose face didn’t register on anyone.

And then there had been that damned Ross woman.

Bitch.

He should have snapped her neck when he’d had the chance.

Expect her to know the name of the custodian. Expect her to be paying attention. His presence was due entirely to the fact that no one knew Benny was dead. If Ross started poking around, asking questions, things could get ugly. He hoped it didn’t come to that. If it did come to that, he hoped he’d have the opportunity to make her pay for inconveniencing him.

Perhaps a knife right into her, as he was imagining now. Or . . . something more creative. That was also an option. And the thing to remember was that she obviously cared about people; if she hadn’t, she’d never have noticed that Benny wasn’t pushing a mop around. She hadn’t spotted it the first time around, but the second time . . .

Well. Just a matter of trying to put the right spin on the situation. Rather than concerning himself with being discovered, the janitor instead decided to file away his knowledge of Ross’s obvious concern for people in general and, obviously, for Bruce Krenzler in particular. That could be of great use later on, if it came down to it.

And speaking of things of use . . .

Like a passing shade, the janitor entered Bruce’s office. At first he was going to leave it dark, but then he realized there was no point in doing so. He was, after all, supposed to be there. If he was cleaning up in blackness that was illuminated only by moonlight, that might attract attention. He reached over and flicked on the light, squinting slightly against the brightness.

He looked around quickly, not wasting any time. He picked up the wastebasket, examined it, grunted in annoyance, and emptied it into his cart. Then he continued to survey the office, his eyes narrowing, as direct and piercing as a laser. It didn’t take him long at all to spot what he was looking for. Carefully, delicately, he ran his hand along the office chair, found a hair, and picked it up, holding it up to the light.

He smiled. He didn’t do it often, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Bruce wasn’t around to see the janitor and assess his smile one way or the other. Instead he was speeding along on his bicycle, zipping down one of the Berkeley hills, a brisk breeze blowing in his face and whipping his hair back. He completed the angle down the hill and rode the momentum, going up as much as he could before he started putting muscle into it. It wasn’t long before the strain started taking a toll on him, however. As he huffed and puffed his way up the hill toward his home, he started to wonder whether his hope for building up muscle and endurance was a pipe dream. Perhaps he was just one of those people who, no matter what they did, were never able to build themselves up. He might just be genetically doomed to a life of being puny Krenzler.

said of old soldiers

Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross was starting to feel his age.

It annoyed the hell out of him. No one had a more demanding, more rigorous schedule of physical fitness than he. Jogging, weights, martial arts. He did so much to maintain his condition that he’d almost come to believe that he was entitled to some sort of immunity against the stresses of age, out of sheer consideration for his efforts.

God in heaven, however, didn’t seem to agree.

That was doubtless the reason why he felt his eyes starting to ache as he worked into the early evening. Not only that, but he had to stand every so often and stretch his legs, because he could feel them cramping up on him. Leg cramps, aching eyes. He was starting to get genuinely angry with his body, feeling it was betraying him and not working in his best interests. He sat back in his chair, stretched his legs again, and wondered if he could have his body court-martialed for dereliction of duty.

One of his aides, Lieber, entered with a folder. Lieber had on a grim expression, which instantly caught Ross’s attention, because Lieber had a fairly good sense of what was and wasn’t going to irritate Ross on any given day. He definitely had his “Ross is going to be pissed off” face on.

Ross promptly leaned back in his chair, his face a question mark. “General,” said the aide, “Talbot wanted you to see this. It’s about a lab Atheon is targeting for acquisition and removal to Desert Base.”

“Why isn’t he going through NSC?” asked Ross.

Lieber cleared his throat. “It, uh, concerns your daughter, sir.”

“My daughter?” That response wasn’t remotely what Ross had expected. He took the folder and started to flip through it cautiously, as