Breathe

by Mike Brogan

  “Follow me!” he said.

  He led her down the hall toward the kennels where he’d shown her the beautiful Golden Labs.

  She didn’t want to watch this. “You don’t need to kill the dogs. I promise that the blended VX will work.”

  “I don’t accept promises from infidels.”

  “Please don’t do this!”

  “Okay . . . I won’t.”

  Did he mean it?

  He signaled for her follow him, a strange smile on his face.

  They walked past the door to the dog kennels.

  Where’s he going? she wondered. They continued walking around the corner and down a long hall with a door at the end.

  He unlocked the door and they entered what looked like a small windowless room. She saw a sink, mirror, toilet. A low-wattage bulb hung from the ceiling.

  She heard something. Wheezing . . .

  She turned and saw a withered, older man with a gray beard, lying on a cot, snoring. His scruffy soiled clothes and wrinkled face suggested he was a homeless man they’d grabbed off the street. Beside the cot lay several empty Four Roses bottles. The room smelled like whiskey and sweat.

  The old man’s eyes flickered open, then shut.

  “You’re not going to - ?

  “ – I am! A scientist always tests his product on the intended target.”

  “But this is murder!”

  “Au contraire. It’s mercy. Look at his pathetic condition.”

  “He’s alive!”

  “Not for long.”

  She hated what he was about to do.

  “Maybe test a cat or . . . dog.”

  “My dogs are far too important.”

  He’s going to kill this poor man. She felt dizzy.

  “Please don’t do this. I guarantee it will work. What would I gain by lying?“

  “I must see it work.”

  Wearing gloves, Hasham took the nose-dropper containing the liquid, unscrewed the top, and drew some VX up into the dropper. He opened a small box and took out something she couldn’t see.

  Nell refused to watch. She walked out of the room into the hall, placed her face against the wall, closed her eyes, and prayed for the poor man. She blocked her ears, but soon heard his breathing become labored, then heard gasping and groaning. She pushed harder on her ears, but still heard him wheezing, rasping to breathe. Seconds later, she heard silence.

  “Look! It works perfectly!”

  She knew the poor man was dead, knew his pain had been horrific, knew blood would soon spill from his body . . . knew that thousands of people would soon die the same way.

  Her eyes filled with tears. She looked at Hasham, hating the merciless bastard. If she had a gun, she’d have shot him between the eyes.

  “You’ve done your job,” Hasham said.

  “YOUR job!” she shouted back at him. My job, she thought, is stopping you!

  Hasham walked her back to the main lab. His phone rang and he answered it. He suddenly grew angry with the caller and started ranting and raving in loud Arabic, waving his arms. As he turned his back to her and continued his screaming tirade, she grabbed something from a nearby desk. He hung up two minutes later, still furious and mumbling in Arabic. Then he ushered her straight upstairs to the cabin.

  “Return to your room. I shall come for you shortly.”

  She headed to her room, but left the door ajar a bit to see Hasham and Aarif through the crack. Aarif began speaking in Arabic, but Hasham quickly reminded him, “English in America.”

  Aarif nodded.

  “Trucks on time?” Hasham said.

  “Arrive tonight.”

  “Good.”

  “What about . . . ?” Aarif nodded toward her room.

  Hasham glanced at her room and switched to whispered Arabic.

  Nell didn’t need a translator. They were discussing what they’d do with her now that Hasham had seen the blended weapon kill the old man. Two things were clear: First, he didn’t need her any more - and second, he wouldn’t risk her escaping.

  Nell realized her husband’s great fear had come true. Her job jeopardized her life. And Mia’s. She had long argued that there was no way terrorists could discover the weapons she worked with. But they had.

  As a result, I probably have minutes to live . . .

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Donovan, Jacob and Lindee sped away from the forest area where bullets ripped into their Suburban’s lower door panel and blew off the side mirror. Donovan watched for any sign the bullets damaged the engine, but so far no warning lights, no steering troubles, no one following them.

  And no follow-up sniper shots.

  “Could those bullets have been from hunters?” Lindee said.

  “Those bullets were hunting us!” Jacob said.

  “Agreed. Hunting season starts next month,” Donovan said.

  Donovan phoned Agent Drew Manning.

  “What’s up?” Manning asked.

  “A sniper shot a couple rounds into our Suburban.”

  “Everyone okay?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “So you’re getting close to the white van.”

  “Yep.”

  “We’ll head over your way any minute,” Manning said.

  They hung up.

  “The shooter could be close behind us,” Jacob said. “But too many tight curves keep blocking my view.”

  “Keep checking,” Donovan said. All he saw was the thick, endless wall of evergreens, a few narrow pathways, and two-rut lanes. The higher they climbed, the thicker the forest. The sniper could be twenty feet away and they wouldn’t see him . . . nor would they see a white van.

  “Look - the Jackson Summit Reservoir’s on the right,” Jacob said.

  Donovan looked and saw flashes of pristine blue water between the towering evergreens. A postcard-perfect view. It reminded him how stunningly beautiful and serene upstate New York was . . . just hours from stunningly noisy Manhattan, but also beautiful.

  Ahead, Donovan saw a young redheaded boy pumping an old fat-tire Schwinn loaded with a fishing pole and a wicker basket. The boy looked like he had just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Donovan signaled him and the skinny teenager rolled to a stop. Donovan flashed his CIA badge and the kid grew anxious. His light blue eyes, surrounded by sunburned cheeks and freckles, stared hard at the badge. Donovan explained about the white van.

  “Well, last evening I saw a white van when I was froggin’ over at the reservoir. Three guys inside. Mighta been a woman in back.”

  “Were they dark-skinned?”

  “Mighta been. Couldn’t see ’em good.”

  “Where’d the van go?”

  “Past the reservoir and then, well, who knows. Mighta stayed on Tolmantown. Mighta turned up one of the side roads.”

  Donovan nodded. “Have you seen anything else around here that seemed kinda strange? You know, out of place?”

  The boy licked his lower lip. “I saw a couple gray mid-sized delivery trucks heading up a narrow dirt road off Tolmantown. That was kinda strange.”

  “Why?”

  “Ain’t but one cabin to deliver stuff at. It’s way back at the end. Never seen anyone back there. I kinda wondered about those two trucks.”

  “Moonshiner’s trucks maybe?”

  “Nope.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Daddy shut down the last still in these parts four years ago.”

  “Remember anything else about the delivery trucks?”

  “Nope. But I remember something about that white van . . . cuz it’s got something I’d like.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A NASCAR sticker on the back bumper.”

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Nell heard tires crunching over gravel. She walked to her small window, looked out, and saw four gray medium-sized delivery trucks pulling up to the cabin. She heard more trucks behind them.

  The drivers got out, embraced Hasham and Aarif, then unlocked the trucks. T
he drivers entered the cabin and began carrying out the large stainless steel canisters from the laboratory - the canisters containing the blended VX. The drivers secured the canisters onto metal racks inside the trucks.

  Several minutes later, with all canisters loaded and locked in, the drivers walked over to Hasham.

  Hasham handed the drivers some documents and showed them a map. He pointed to a location and said something to them.

  Nell cupped her ear to the window to hear better.

  “You know this route?” Hasham asked one of the drivers.

  “Na-am, na-am,” the man said in Arabic.

  “English only!” Hasham said.

  “Yes, yes, we know route good. Four times we drive. No police. No problem.”

  “You know where to go?”

  “Yes. We know where. No problem.” The other drivers nodded.

  “Then it is time.” Hasham said.

  He embraced each man, watched them get in their trucks and drive off.

  “Allah Akbar!” he shouted after them.

  Is this it? Nell wondered. Are they attacking now? Are the trucks themselves Hasham’s secret delivery system? It was possible. The drivers could simply connect the VX canisters to the trucks’ exhaust systems and disperse the deadly gas into the city streets of Manhattan . . . into the lungs of people walking past . . . into the ventilation systems of passing cars . . . into the air vents of office buildings and homes.

  Or they could be suicide drivers - simply drive onto crowded city streets and detonate their VX-loaded trucks, dispersing VX throughout the city.

  Or they might deliver the VX canisters to a new location . . . where the VX will be incorporated into the unique delivery system that Hasham bragged about.

  Moments later, Hasham walked into her room. “You’ve completed my assignment. If my weapon works successfully in the . . . marketplace, Mr. Brown here will set you free.”

  She said nothing.

  “If you try to inform the police, or have compromised the weapon, or rendered it less lethal, then, as I mentioned . . . very bad things will happen to pretty little Mia. Oh, by the way, here’s her latest photo. It’s my favorite!”

  He held up an iPhone photo. She saw Mia in a different room. Behind her was a black wall banner with gold Arabic script. Mia wore a young girl’s hijab gown. Over it she wore a vest. The vest was stuffed with explosives. Mia also wore the same frightened expression as before.

  “But you promised you’d do nothing to her if I cooperated.”

  “Right.”

  “And I cooperated.”

  “True.”

  “And your test with the old homeless man proves the VX kills!”

  “Yes. But the real proof will be our final delivery. If it goes well, we will release her.”

  “How will I know if your delivery goes well?”

  “You will know.”

  “When? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?” She wanted to know when the attack would come.

  Hasham paused as though deciding whether to tell her. “Listen to the radio in the next twenty-four hours.”

  She stared at him long and hard. “Will I live that long?”

  Hasham blinked, then slowly smiled. “Of course.”

  His eyes shifted right, suggesting he’d lied.

  “You’ve earned the honor to witness the fruit of your righteous work,” he said.

  “It’s your work!”

  “In the meantime, Doctor, you are cut off from the outside world. We’ve terminated Internet access here. We’ve removed all phones. We’ve surrounded you with a forest that has deadly timber rattlers. Ask the snake-bitten hunter who stumbled in here.”

  “I can’t. Aarif murdered him.”

  Hasham shrugged. “Collateral damage. The man saw our illegal weapons. He would have told authorities.”

  She said nothing.

  “I must leave for a bit, but don’t worry. Aarif will guard you, right Aarif?”

  Aarif paused, then nodded.

  “Together you will celebrate our glorious victory on the radio.”

  Hasham and Aarif walked back out into the other room and sat down. Hasham whispered something to him. Aarif’s small black eyes slowly shifted toward her room. So did Hasham’s. They were talking about her.

  Hasham said something in Arabic. Aarif nodded and repeated the words slowly, Dafnuha fi ghaba?”

  Hasham nodded. “Dafnuha fi ghaba!”

  Nell wrote down phonetically what they’d said, then walked over to the bookshelf in her room. She reached up and took down the small electronic Ectaco Translator she’d found yesterday. She turned the device on, repeated the words Hasham spoke - Dafnuha fi ghaba – and seconds later, the devise displayed the English translation:

  Bury her in the forest.

  TWENTY NINE

  Donovan zigzagged along dirt ruts, following car and truck tracks and dodging chuckholes and fallen branches every few feet. A brisk wind filled the Suburban with the scent of fresh pine.

  Beside him, Jacob searched the right side of the forest for the van. Lindee the left side. But spotting a white van or a gray truck was very difficult thanks to the thick wall of dense evergreens.

  And spotting a sniper was impossible.

  Donovan worried about Jacob and Lindee. Their hope seemed to fade a bit more with each minute. Their bloodshot eyes and thousand-yard stares suggested they were preparing themselves for the worst.

  Donovan was too. The worst was very likely.

  Still, he had to keep their hope alive. “How’s Nell’s general health?” he asked.

  “Excellent,” Jacob said. “She jogs, eats healthy.”

  “That will help her. So will her professional expertise. Her abductors need it. Maybe she can use it to negotiate with them, stall a bit. Slow them down long enough for us to find her.”

  Jacob and Lindee nodded, but looked less than convinced.

  Ahead, Donovan saw a skinny old man in his eighties walking slow-mo, like a praying mantis. He wore a navy blue and gray New York Yankees tracksuit. Donovan drove along beside him and explained what they were looking for.

  “Ain’t seen no white van.”

  “Any strangers? Men with black hair and dark complexions?”

  “Saw couple of dark-skinned strangers in a gray delivery truck. Next dirt road up.”

  “Maybe the same truck the redheaded boy saw,” Lindee said.

  Donovan nodded. “When did you see it?”

  “Five-six hours ago. Turn left next trail up.”

  “Thanks,” Donovan said as he drove ahead.

  Minutes later, as Donovan turned left on the trail, his personal phone vibrated against his thigh. He saw Caller ID. Maccabee.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Some progress.”

  “Good. Where are you now?”

  “In the Adirondacks. How’s it going down there?”

  “Just heard back from Doctor Dubin.”

  “And . . .?”

  Her long pause said bad news. Something was wrong. Donovan squeezed the steering wheel.

  “Turns out the lab sent him the wrong test results for me. They switched my tests with some woman in Brooklyn. Mine come in later today. I’m visiting Doctor Dubin in a few hours.”

  “So your results may be better.”

  “Maybe . . . or maybe not.” She sounded worried.

  He paused. “Do you want me to come back?”

  “Absolutely not! The president gave you this assignment. Don’t worry. Really, I’m fine, Donovan.”

  “Whatever Dubin says, please call me. One way or another, Mac, we’ll have a baby.”

  “God willing,” she said.

  Donovan hoped God was willing . . .

  THIRTY

  Kadar Khoury drove the white Chevy van on Highway 29 near Johnstown, heading back to forest cabin. Beside him, sat Hasham’s weapons and munitions expert, Waazi the Whiner.

  In the last five minutes, Waazi moaned that his hashish was too
weak, his baba ganoush too mushy, and his three wives too fat.

  Khoury only had one moan – Waazi smelled like roadkill.

  Waazi let out a long sigh.

  “Now what’s your problem?” Khoury asked him.

  “Hasham!”

  “Why?”

  “He wants to blow cabin up?”

  “It’s his cabin!”

  “Why blow up?”

  “I told you why. To destroy all evidence.”

  “I can destroy all evidence. No blow up. No fingerprints. Save cabin.”

  “Why save it?”

  “So I can hunt and fish here.”

  “Waazi - you don’t get it! Hasham wants the cabin and everything in it completely destroyed.”

  Waazi cursed and huffed like a kid denied candy.

  Khoury said, “We do what Hasham said. First we set fire. Then explosives go off. You placed the explosives exactly in the cabin where Hasham said, right?”

  “Right. Cabin go boom!” Waazi said.

  “You’re absolutely positive?”

  “Yes! Yes! Remember - I am the explosive expert!” Waazi shouted, even though his glass eye and two-fingered right hand suggested otherwise.

  “What about the woman scientist?” Waazi said.

  “By now, Aarif has killed her. Hasham wants us to help Aarif bury her in forest several hundred yards from cabin.”

  “I have better idea.”

  “What?”

  “Destroy body in explosion and fire.”

  Khoury shook his head. “Hasham wants no trace of her DNA in the cabin. No trace! Must bury her deep.”

  Waazi moaned, knowing he and Aarif would have to dig the woman’s grave. Waazi clearly considered physical labor beneath his exalted status as a bomb maker.

  “But my bad hand!” Waazi whined. He held up his two-finger hand and squeezed it like a lobster claw, suggesting it was a serious handicap for digging graves, even though Waazi could easily bench press two hundred thirty pounds.

  Khoury said nothing.

  “And Hasham won’t know she blow up in cabin if we don’t tell him.”

  “He would know.”