by Juno Rushdan
Masculine gazes zeroed in on her, licking the length of her body. She garnered smiles and winks, unsettling her stomach. Despite her low profile, she was attracting too much attention.
Cole followed the gaze of the gawkers and sidestepped in front of her, shielding her body without obstructing her line of sight. It worked. The guys seemed to cease noticing her.
“This is Delta. I found one of the maintenance mechanics,” Reece said over open comms. “Access to the ventilation system is restricted. We’re heading there now. I’ll stay posted, ensure no one gets through.”
“Copy that.”
The minutes ticked past, drawing closer to showtime, and the crowd thickened.
Maddox scrutinized the faces who passed, her palms growing clammy, stomach rolling with jitters.
The Ghost could transform himself into almost anyone. Safe to assume his son could as well. No one could be dismissed. But whatever they looked like, regardless of their disguises, they’d need to get the canister inside the building through security, clearing a bag check.
“Alpha here,” Maddox said. “Has anyone spotted a guy with a package or a bag, something that might take extra time clearing security?”
Everyone posted at an entrance checked in with a negative response.
Fifteen minutes to showtime. They were missing something. The Ghost was well prepared and wouldn’t risk waiting until the last minute to get in position.
A woman in a business suit accompanied by a man with a television camera got in line at a concession stand. They both had press badges hanging around their necks.
Novak and his son had landed at the WMN-TV news station and had been inside the building for several minutes. A TV camera was large enough to house the canister.
“Bravo,” she said to Castle, “is the security liaison still with you at the F Street entrance?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Are the media expected to be here tonight? If so, why haven’t we seen any reporters come in?”
The line fell quiet as she waited.
“Shit,” Castle said. “Reporters started arriving at seven thirty. They were invited by Dez Dax and he plans to give round-robin interviews after the show. There’s a separate entrance for the press. Head of security didn’t think to tell us, because the general public can’t get through it. All reporters have to show valid credentials.”
She gritted her teeth. “If they have a list of attendees, ask if WMN-TV is on it.”
Gut-wrenching silence. Anxiety pulsed through her in time with the seconds she waited.
“One reporter and a cameraman from WMN-TV.”
Maddox’s spine prickled. “Homebase,” she said, addressing Harper back at the Gray Box, who was tapped into the arena’s security. “Find the camera feed for the press entrance. Rewind. Novak and his son came through sometime within the last twenty minutes.”
“On it,” Harper said. It took less than three minutes for her to respond. “Two men from WMN-TV arrived ten minutes ago. Reporter with shaggy brown hair, beard, white shirt, black pants, glasses. Younger cameraman, blond hair, messy fringe haircut, blue shirt, black pants. Handheld TV camera. No bag. Over.”
Aleksander, the Ghost, was posing as a reporter. His son, Val, had the TV camera.
“Homebase, we need to find them. Now.” Her heartbeat quickened as she eased away from the display, sweeping the crowd.
Cole stiffened, shoulders straightening, every muscle poised for action.
“Doc, reposition inside the garage connected to the arena,” she said, praying it wouldn’t come to a quarantine. If it did, the facility would be sealed with twenty thousand of them inside.
“We’re moving now, prepared to initiate level-four biocontainment if necessary.”
Phantom fingers formed a fist and pressed into Maddox’s gut, stirring her to move. She strode through a throng of men flowing in from the street toward the stadium and concession stands, making her way to the stairs for a higher vantage point.
Cole entered the mass of people funneling deeper into the complex, toward the center of the arena by the elevators. He glanced back at her as if reluctant to put too much distance between them. She gave a hand signal for him to continue the sweep, hoping he understood that sometimes, having her six meant following orders.
This time, he didn’t hesitate. He gave a nod and pressed on.
She climbed the stairs, sticking close to the wall, scanning the crowd.
Cole did a pass of the elevators and met her gaze. He gave the negative sign. She held up her index and middle fingers and gestured to the level above. He acknowledged with a nod.
“We’re going to sweep inside the stadium.” She went higher.
“I found them,” Harper cut in. “They just exited the elevator, making their way into the stadium. Section 101.”
The knot behind Maddox’s solar plexus tightened. Her pulse was pounding now, strong and steady, driving her to move faster. “Delta, find someone from security to ensure that maintenance stays locked down, and get inside the stadium.”
“Copy,” Reece said.
“Everyone else, hold positions at the exits. Have security lock down the press entrance. The Novaks don’t get out.” Maddox elbowed her way through the sluggish mass up to the landing, gritting her teeth from the pain of her sore feet.
Cole bolted past her into the crowd, knocking guys out of his path.
“Homebase,” she said to Harper, “keep eyes on them. Make sure they don’t double-back and slip by us.”
“Okay.”
Maddox squeezed through the crowd filtering into the stadium. “Out of the way. Coming through. Make a hole!”
Men staggered to the side, allowing her to pass. She dashed into section 101.
The arena lights dimmed. A bright spotlight bathed the stage. The high-voltage crowd buzzed with excitement as the opening act came out to warm up the audience.
Cole stalked left, sweeping section 100 straight down the middle, right to 101, and left to 121 along the center.
Maddox moved counterclockwise to the right, scanning up over the club sections and down the main concourse. Men making their way to their seats obstructed her line of sight. Grabbing hold of the railing, she climbed up to the club level for a higher vantage point.
She spied a man with blond hair and blue shirt standing with his back to her down the walkway on the lower level. A gaggle of men streamed across the main aisle, blocking her view, but Cole was closer with a better angle.
“Romeo,” she said to Cole, “at your eight o’clock, between the main concourse section 119 and club section 226. Near the stage.”
She clenched her tingling fingers into sweaty fists and backtracked clockwise along the upper level where the aisle was less crowded. She kept a fix on blondie with the blue shirt.
The horde thinned, peeling off to their seats, and a clear view opened. He had a professional television camera set on a tripod. It was Val. But where was Aleksander?
“Romeo, Tango has a camera.” Maddox shoved through the crowd, weaving around people. Staying on the second concourse, she maneuvered closer to the stage.
Cole charged across the lower-level walkway, ducking past men.
“Homebase, do you have eyes on the main Tango? Where is the Ghost?”
“He disappeared,” Harper said.
Shit.
Val opened the camera, pulled a metal container about sixteen inches in length from the side. Then he bent, dropping out of sight.
“Check,” she said, indicating a positive ID on the bioweapon. “I repeat, Check. Delta, get to the stadium ASAP.”
Cole elbowed someone hard to the side, nearly knocking a young guy over the railing.
Val homed in on the commotion in Cole’s direction. He spun on his heel and rabbited from the stadium into the arena’s lobby.
Cole tore past stragglers taking seats, dashing in pursuit of Val, leaving the stadium.
“Make some noise,” the guy who was the opening act said, “and let me hear how excited you are to see Dez Dax tonight.”
The crowd went wild. “Dr. Sex! Dr. Sex!”
Maddox raced to the nearest stairwell, flying down the steps between sections 227 and 226. At the bottom on the main concourse walkway, she hesitated. A man appeared out of the shadows and stepped into the dim light of the aisle up to the mounted camera. Shaggy brown hair, white shirt.
Novak. It was Aleksander Novak. Her insides knotted.
He tipped the canister with his toe, sending the bioweapon rolling off the main walkway under the seats. Then he looked around as if checking the area.
Their eyes met for an instant.
Maddox bolted toward him.
He smiled, that crazy-evil grin, and scrammed.
“Main Tango confirmed.” She sprinted to the television camera and dropped to the ground. Without thinking about what filth she was lying on, she reached down and felt around. Her fingertips stroked smooth, cold metal. She pressed up against the back of the seat and stretched. Curling her fingers around the canister, she pulled it up.
A red timer counted down.
“Checkmate,” she said, indicating they had an active bioweapon. “Delta, we have six minutes, thirty seconds. Do you read me?”
Not enough time to evacuate. It’d only start a panicked stampede. And the garage was a good mile away. Even if her feet were in tip-top condition, she wouldn’t reach the biocontainment receptacle in time, and she couldn’t let the Ghost slip away.
“Roger,” Reece said in her ear. “I’m in the stadium. Section 115.”
“Get to 119.” Maddox spotted Joe Miller, the head of arena security she’d coordinated with upon arrival, entering the area and thrust the weaponized smallpox into his hands. “We have a situation,” she said, ensuring the team heard over the open channel. “That’s a weapon of mass destruction. Don’t let it out of your sight. Only give it to Special Agent Delta.”
She pointed out Reece, who was within sight and closing in.
The guard’s brows shot up and his eyes widened with alarm. “What? Why is this thing counting down?”
She took off after the Ghost, down the stairs closest to the stage.
Two more guards were unconscious at the foot of the steps. Several onlookers in the crowd nearby had their cell phones out, lights illuminated, as if they’d taken video or photos of what’d happened.
She leapt onto the corner of the stage. A thousand tiny fires sparked in her feet. She ducked backstage and collided with a security guard speaking into a walkie talkie.
“Did you see a man run by?” she asked. “Dark hair. White shirt. Press credentials.”
“Yeah. East hall.”
Maddox raced down the backstage steps, drawing her Maxim 9. “Doc, initiate containment protocol and ensure the biocontainment box is ready.”
“Okay,” Doc said.
“Delta here,” Reece said in her ear. “Checkmate secured. No time to attempt disarmament. Headed to Doc.”
Leading with her gun, Maddox tracked the trail of stunned gazes down the east hall.
* * *
Cole chased Novak’s son past concessions. Their feet pounded across the smooth tile floor with Cole gaining ground.
Val ducked into an open elevator, and the doors started to close.
Cole powered through his stride and shoved a boot through the gap in the safety retractors. The elevator jolted and opened. Cole jumped into the cab, taking a defensive stance. He was keyed to the max.
The doors slid shut, sealing them in the metal box. Val charged in a fury, swinging a right hook. Cole swatted the punch and blocked an incoming thrust of a raised knee, then threw a fist that glanced off Val’s jaw without doing damage.
Val power-drove a forearm into Cole’s throat. Sinewy muscle jammed into his Adam’s apple, and his skull smashed against the metal wall. His ears rang, air wheezing through his constricted windpipe. A dark heat rose in his chest, fueling his rage.
This man had helped kidnap Maddox. Helped hurt her.
Cole dug both thumbs into Val’s eye sockets.
With a startled hiss, Val staggered back. Cole slapped the alarm button, jerking the elevator to a halt. He pressed in, drove an uppercut to the man’s chin, knocking him on his heels.
Val’s head snapped back, and Cole pushed on. Not slowing. Not hesitating. He had the Ghost’s son, wanted to smash in his face, hungered to give him a beatdown.
Machine-gun-fire momentum lit through Cole. He drove his knee up into Val’s body as he grabbed the man’s shoulders, hauling him into the sharp thrust. Without giving an inch, Cole smashed the heels of his palms against the man’s ears. Val reared back and slumped to the floor.
Cole’s pulse jackhammered in a haze and his breath came hard. Hellfire pumped in his system. He slammed his boot into Val’s face and body. Once, twice, and kept raining on him.
Bones cracked. Flesh bruised. Blood splattered across the floor, turning it red and slick.
“Mercy!” Val could barely raise a pleading hand. A battered heap of a man, cowering, covered in blood. “My father spared your woman. Showed her mercy.”
Cole kicked him one last time, and Val slumped in the corner, knocked unconscious, before the word penetrated.
Mercy.
Mercy cut through the fog of violence and revenge, bringing Cole back to himself. What was he doing?
He stumbled away, sore fists shaking at his sides.
Alive. She wanted them alive.
What would Maddox think of him?
An out of control monster, thirsting for revenge. No better than the Ghost or his son.
Val looked like a deflated balloon, head to his chest, face bloodied, out cold.
Cole had to be better. For himself. For Maddox. She deserved better.
He turned to the control panel of the elevator and rested his aching forehead on the cool steel. The salty bite of his own blood filled his mouth. He released the alarm button. The metal box jerked into motion, and he lifted his head.
A gray flash of wire swept past his eyes and nose. His mind registered what was happening and he thrust his left hand up, but not fast enough. The garrote wrapped around Cole’s throat. The vicious bite of the cord against his trachea pinched his airway closed immediately.
Val tightened the strangulation device, hauling Cole back onto his heels.
The fiber wire cut into his skin. He struggled, clawing at the thin cord, unable to get a purchase. Frantic, on pure instinct, he threw his skull backward, aiming for Val’s face. Again and again—no contact. Val kept his head out of range.
Gasping, Cole kicked at the elevator panel to open the doors. The alarm shrieked, and the elevator jerked to a stop.
Cole pounded with his foot and scratched at the wire. Pushing off the door in a hard shove, he used the leverage to propel them in a surge of force. They crashed into the wall. Air left Val’s mouth in a harsh rush, but his hold around Cole’s throat didn’t slacken.
It tightened. Too tight. A guttural roar blasted in Cole’s ear.
He thrust his free elbow into the man’s gut and side. Val kept his grip.
Panic swelled along with the trapped air burning Cole’s lungs. The garrote stayed taut, digging into his throat. Moisture on his neck. The metallic scent of his own blood hit him.
Desperation was a hot whip lashing him. His heart a painful never-ending throb. He had to get this man off.
Now!
Or he was going to die.
Cole reached behind his back, shoving his hand in the paper-thin space between their bodies, and pulled his Browning blade. He twisted his hand, rotating his shoulder, and plunged the knife into
flesh. And he didn’t stop stabbing until the garrote loosened and slipped free.
* * *
Three distraught service workers hovered around the entrance to the Washington Wizards locker room. One had a broken nose. He cupped his bleeding nostrils, his head tilted forward.
“Did a man run in there? Glasses? Dark hair?” Maddox asked through ragged breaths.
The three nodded. “Some crazy guy. He hit Mike when we told him the locker room was off-limits.”
“Is there another way out of there?”
“No.”
“This is Bravo,” Castle said over the comms. “Exits are locked down. We’re headed into the stadium.”
“Find Romeo. I’m at the locker room.” Maddox threw open one of the heavy double doors.
The short hallway was clear.
She crept down the corridor, past the Wizards’ silver emblem on the wall and framed pictures of players in action. Pivoting left, she swept into the brightly lit, empty locker room.
Wooden cubbies lined two walls. Plasma screens hung from another and a whiteboard on the fourth. Corners were clear. No doors on the hardwood cabinetry. Nowhere to hide.
Adrenaline mainlined in her veins. She prowled around the corner to the threshold of an adjoining room. The lights were off, but she made out stacks of towels and massage tables in the darkness.
All her senses were heightened and alert. She paused and listened, straining to pick up the slightest movement, her breath controlled. There was only the sound of her blood thundering in her ears.
She eased into the shadows. Spine to the doorjamb, she fumbled along the wall for a light switch. The room was large, too dark, too silent, with plenty of objects to hide behind.
Stomach acid surged into her chest. Her grip on the gun was steady, heart rapping hard against her rib cage as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. She found the switch and flipped it.
Fluorescent tubes flickered on and buzzed. Harsh white light bathed the room.
Novak charged her with a trash can. Slamming the hard plastic bin into her, he knocked the gun from her hands, sending her into a spin deeper into the therapy room.
Her 9mm clattered to the floor, steel skidding across the tile.