Impact Zone

by Cara Carnes

  “I agreed with you before this mission. Seeing her in the field, getting those animals ready. Edge was right. She needs to be there with us. There’s no telling what we’re up against. This isn’t simple wet work.” Fallon let the statement settle into the silence. “Until this is over, I want you three to bunk down on the compound. Between the training and dry runs and potential for immediate wheels up, we can’t waste the drive time between here and Nomad.”

  The three men nodded their assent. The apartment they shared in Nomad was a shithole they’d likely not miss, especially since being at the Arsenal compound meant they could eat in the mess hall regularly.

  “Anything y’all want to discuss?” Fallon asked. When no one commented, he nodded. “Dismissed. Team debrief 0500.”

  Sanchez, Spade, and Walker exited. Donovan sat on a bench and ran his hands through his hair. “Fuck, man. Gotta admit. Tucson was more intense than I expected. Any idea what that shit Doc rounded up was?”

  Doc. The nickname had stuck with his team—a fact Fallon wasn’t down with—but he kept quiet. He’d share that with the men who’d help keep her safe. “No. She’s working on it. We’ll debrief soon. Hopefully we’ll know more. I want you there.”

  “Not sure Edge and them’ll agree. That’s usually team leads only, right?”

  “You think different than me. I want you hearing shit firsthand. We’ll refresh your ordnance knowledge too.”

  “That works.” Donovan leaned forward. “You know Bree gave Spade a kit, right? Not sure what the fuck is in it, but he’s holding on to something she created. Another just in case she packed away for us.”

  “Fuck.” Fallon hoped to hell it wasn’t like the ones she’d packed for Rhea, but he’d have to find out. “Probably should’ve mentioned that before he left.”

  “He’s been served enough from us today.”

  “I should’ve done that months ago, back when we formed the team.” Fallon paused, looking the man in the eyes as he sat across from him. “I’m sorry, man. I should’ve listened.”

  “Is Doc the reason you’re doing the one-eighty? Gotta admit, I’m glad it’s happening. I’m just not sure why.”

  “Jesse had words with me when we were loading up. Didn’t say much, but he was right. We got lucky. These aren’t the type of missions we’ve been running, and we need to be ready to handle whatever happens.”

  “It ran smoother than any mission I ever ran outside spec ops, man. Cut yourself some slack.”

  “It ran that way because Edge and Z and everyone else made it possible. We held our own, but we could’ve done better.”

  “Then we will.” Donovan stood. “Text me when debrief is. I’ll be there.”

  Recent renovations had expanded the whiteboard room. Two unused rooms between it and the operations hub were used to create a nursery and enlarge the primary meeting space.

  The Masons spared no expense when it came to protecting Arsenal personnel. Quillery and Edge had been smart to situate themselves with the operations here. Fallon stood against the back wall and waited as everyone filed in. Dylan entered with baby Jessie in her appointed carrier. Mary and the proud dad alternated who carried their precious cargo whenever she wasn’t in the nursery area, but her presence within the operational meetings was an expected fact—one which often slowed the meetings down as the doting uncles and everyone else took turns holding the next generation of Arsenal brilliance.

  Jud stood near his wife, who was well on her way to delivering the next bundle of joy. The Arsenal was drowning in kids—a fact that Fallon couldn’t begrudge the proud parents and family. But seeing what he’d never had hurt.

  Family.

  He’d scraped off the scant few who cared about him long ago, back when he’d signed on to do O’Ryan’s bidding. The contracts had kept Bones, Digger, Reaper, and Church secure, even if they wouldn’t ever know where the money came from. A few hundred dollars every week had turned into fat envelopes within months.

  By the time his foster brothers had hit maturity, they’d stockpiled enough cash to see them through. Pride filled him whenever Fallon thought about what they’d achieved. Although he’d never attempted contact, it’d been easy enough to maintain a watchful eye on the four boys who’d become the rock sensation Graveyard Justice.

  Fallon wondered if Rhea’s extensive and eclectic musical collection included the band he could’ve been in if things had been different. If they’d all landed with a foster family long enough to stick.

  No.

  Then he wouldn’t have met Bones, Digger, Reaper, and Church. Until they’d come into his life, he’d had no one.

  Walking away from them and entering the contract-for-hire world where he’d established himself had been the hardest decision he’d ever made. And the smartest. He’d had zero regrets until the day O’Ryan betrayed him.

  Then he’d been rotting in a prison waiting to die.

  After, Edge had appeared and changed his life.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Vi said as she leaned back in her chair. “Have we had any luck with Seventy-Two yet?”

  “Preliminary results indicate an agent similar to compound fourteen in its efficacy, but far swifter and more lethal than any of the variations I’ve created from what we uncovered in Cuba.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Nolan commented. “Dumb that down for me?”

  “It’s highly effective no matter how it’s dispersed—gas, liquid, or otherwise—and kills faster than any of the known chemical agents,” Rhea said.

  “Faster than the shit in the drones?” Gage asked.

  “It has a similar speed and acts much in the same manner. The attack on the central nervous system is immediate and irreversible.”

  “Wait. So this isn’t biological?” Marshall leaned forward. “I was under the impression we expected biological weapons.”

  “There’s a difference?” Dylan asked.

  “Biological weapons use pathogens or organisms. Think viruses and poisons produced from plants or animals,” Bree said. “Chemical weapons utilize chemicals. So, nerve agents like VX or vesicants like mustard gas.”

  “Are Mark 1 or ATNAA kits effective in combatting its effects?” Vi asked.

  “No,” Rhea said, her voice low. “The initial compound this was derived from was created to intentionally bypass known antidotes. It was a worst-case scenario creation.”

  “You created the original. So you can create an antidote,” Dallas said.

  “An antidote might be feasible, but useless if the agent kills as fast as what’s in the drones,” Fallon said. “You all haven’t used them nearly as much as my team and I have. Trust me, there wouldn’t be time for an antidote.”

  He locked gazes with Rhea. Exhaustion darkened the area beneath her eyes—eyes filled with guilt. Damn. She still blamed herself for this.

  “She created this as part of her thesis on the dangers of technological advances in chemical warfare,” Bree said, her voice high. Lips thinned, she slid her gaze over everyone. “It wasn’t ever supposed to be used, not like this.”

  “We know,” Mary said. She reached over and took Rhea’s hand. “None of this is your fault. None of us thinks it is, Rhea. We just need to understand what we’re combatting.”

  “I’ll know more after HERA finishes the final scans. This is all based on Seventy-Two. HERA’s still processing the data we obtained in Tucson. So far, there’s nothing to confirm this specific agent was what was in the missiles in Cuba.”

  “Shortly after Cuba, we’d thought it was a genetically-based weapon. Is that still possible? That it’s a genetically-programmed chemical agent? Is that a thing?” Cord asked.

  “Yes. Again, we’ll know more once HERA finalizes the rest of the tests Bree and I ran on Seventy-Two. Genetically programmed would be more self-contained in theory. It depends on what the purpose of the weapon was. Intended targets.”

  “You don’t load a genetically modified chemical agent into a missile big enough
to blow up several city blocks,” Fallon commented. “I’d anticipate it’s chemical with the widest dispersion possible. Fire a missile with that shit loaded into it directly into an aquifer. You’d poison millions without anyone knowing, if it’s done correctly.”

  Several people cursed as they glanced at one another. No one wanted to consider worst-case scenarios, but that was what was needed. Everyone in the room recognized what needed to happen next. If Carlisle was selling this shit to the highest bidder, there was no way to identify potential targets—which meant chasing down every last missile and weapon, no matter how long it took.

  “The compounds this is based off of are different than the ones in the drones,” Rhea said.

  “How so?” Vi asked.

  “The initial designs, these specifically, had shelf lives I couldn’t ever negate. Dispersion had to be within less than month, up to forty-six days if I remember correctly.”

  “So that’s a good thing,” Dallas said.

  “Stan could’ve corrected the initial flaw. I’ll test them, but one of the ingredients can be neutralized.” Rhea looked at Bree. “Right? That’s what you concluded too?”

  “Yes.” The blonde nodded. “If the initial tests are right, then we should be able to create a weapon to offset the agent.”

  “You should’ve maybe mentioned that at the start,” Marshall said with a relieved sigh. “How long?”

  “So this wouldn’t help anyone infected since they’d already be dead, right? So what would the neutralization be good for?” Donovan asked. “To take out the stockpiles we find?”

  “Right.” Bree glanced down at her paper and scrawled a few moments. “How long do you need to create the neutralizing agent?”

  “A couple days at most, once we have the supplies I need.”

  “Which leaves the dispersion methods. We’d need easily managed vials for up close work. Those are simple. Long-range distribution on a mass scale will mean something like an RPG. Still portable, but with enough boom to get the job done if we’re looking at stopping large missiles. Right, Fallon?”

  “Sounds about right. RPGs would be portable enough, but not volatile. Timed release grenades and the like would work as well,” he suggested.

  “Okay. We’re looking at another several days after Rhea’s done for the RPGs, assuming I get the equipment and supplies I need.” Bree looked at the two women at the head of the table. “We wouldn’t be able to test them easily.”

  “There’s no way we can do this here, not on a large scale. We need a facility.” Rhea shook her head. “I can create the agent, but RPGs and other dispersion weapons are another matter. There’s only so much Bree can do here.”

  “There’s an entirely unused floor beneath the gym in the secondary building,” Jesse said. “That’d provide more room. We’ll have to make do with this compound.”

  “That would work,” Bree said. “We’d need a more secure storage if we’re looking at long-term retention.”

  “This won’t be long-term,” Dylan said. “No way in hell we should have those types of weapons on-hand at all times.”

  “I’ll make some calls and find an alternative location if long-term retention is necessary. Let’s hope to hell we can take Carlisle down without dragging this out,” Marshall said.

  “Agreed. Once we’ve created what we need to neutralize the threats, we move into phase two,” Mary said.

  “We take the Cuba facility,” Jesse said. He looked at Marshall. “We’ve got two makeshift teams of five each on overwatch. Assuming we use them, I’d recommend three teams to ensure no complications.”

  “Agreed,” Mary replied. “Then we strike the known recipients. We’ll table that discussion until we have the recently obtained intel fully analyzed.”

  “What will you need to handle Seventy-Two and Seventy-Three when you’re done?” Vi asked.

  “Seventy-Two only has a few more hours. His vitals aren’t good,” Rhea said. “I’ll forward the contact I’ve used in the past so he can be vetted.”

  “Good. I’ll get on that,” Cord said.

  Rhea looked around. “Where’s Zoey?”

  “She’s on the phone with some FBI agent,” Gage muttered. “They’re crawling down our throats about the kids.”

  The kids. Jesse Mason and his team had kidnapped Sonja and her sister from an FBI safe house when they discovered the feds intended to return them to the father who’d sold them into sexual slavery. Thanks to Zoey, Jesse, and his team, the two girls were happily living with new identities and surrounded by people who’d keep them safe.

  Fallon was half-tempted to take personal time and kill the asshole who’d owned Sonja himself. The rich bastard was so politically connected he’d drowned the entire investigation in red tape.

  “Logan offered to help us,” Rhea said. “I may pull him into this when we begin creating the compound.”

  “Of course. Anyone else you need, let us know,” Jesse said. “Get the supplies you need ASAP.”

  “Already working on it,” Bree said.

  Baby Jessie wailed from her mom’s arms. Mary lifted the girl up. “I’m thinking someone’s hungry. We’ll reconvene when we have more.”

  Fallon hung back as everyone filed out. Rhea and Bree were the last to rise. They spoke in hushed whispers as he approached.

  “Did you need something?” Rhea asked.

  Fallon needed a lot of things right about now, mainly several hours of sleep, but that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Neither of the women would rest until they’d gotten everything they could done before the chimpanzee passed.

  “Beer.” The idea blurted from him.

  Rhea blinked. Bree’s gaze widened.

  “When you two are done, text me. We’ll go somewhere and unwind. Beer. Barbecue. Something away from the compound.” Fallon waited as the two women peered at one another.

  “Is that like a Rhea-only date kind of invite or an anyone-who-needs-a-break kind of invite? To be clear, I’m cool with either cause my girl here needs to get out and let her hair down more than anyone, you know?” Bree wrapped her arm around Rhea. “But I really, really want a drink.”

  “Text me. We’ll head over to the Sip and Spin.”

  “Okay.” Bree’s acceptance was swift. She offered a nuclear-wide smile as she glanced between Rhea and Fallon. “This’ll be fun.”

  “Oh. Yeah. So. Much. Fun.” Rhea enunciated each word as though she were being stabbed in the throat.

  Fallon chuckled and took a step forward so he loomed within her personal space. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

  7

  Seventy-Two passed shortly before sunset. By the time Rhea made the necessary calls and handled everything, exhaustion plagued her. An organization based out of San Antonio would dispose of Seventy-Two’s remains properly and find a suitable home for Seventy-Three, whose exposure to Stan’s compounds had proven minimal. Bree had left half an hour before to “get ready.” Right. They were having beers with Fallon.

  Why the hell had Rhea agreed?

  Oh, yeah. She hadn’t. She’d been waylaid by her best friend.

  Even though Rhea wanted nothing more than to crawl into her bed, hide under the covers, and pretend the past couple of days hadn’t happened, she recognized the need for a mental escape. So, despite the weariness assailing her as bone-deep aches along her back and down her legs, she headed to the lobby and wandered outside.

  “No,” Bree declared as she suddenly appeared. “Come on. We’re gonna get you showered and semi-decent before your man realizes you’re done.”

  “He’s not my man.” Rhea repeated what she’d said since the offer for beers had somehow shifted her best friend’s mental focus. Yep, Bree was in full-on manhunting mode.

  For Rhea.

  Great.

  “We’ll see,” Bree said as she tugged Rhea down the sidewalk edging the parking lot area.

  Their cottage was a good half mile away. Showering meant drying her hair,
which meant Bree would insist on styling it or doing something else that’d suck the marrow out of a solid hour of her life. And, honestly, who was she trying to impress?

  Fallon saw her with pencils in her hair every single day. He’d seen her in her jammies for cripe’s sake. There was no reason for her trudging behind her well-meaning BFF to get dolled up for a trip to a Marville bar that also served as the small town’s only laundromat.

  “I should take my laundry with us.”

  Bree froze. Whirled. “You didn’t just say that.”

  “It’s a bar with a laundromat. Why wouldn’t I take it with us? I could wait to do my laundry, but I’m all about multi-tasking.”

  “Do you really think you’re at a point in your relationship with Fallon Graves for him to see your dirty underwear?”

  “There is no relationship.” Rhea supplied the response despite the fact her friend’s tug toward the impending dolling up increased to a brisk pace.

  “This is sad. First man in years asks you out, and you want to take your dirty clothes with you. I don’t even know how to combat that.”

  “This isn’t a date. It’s a beer at a bar to chill out.”

  “Yeah, and he could’ve done that hours ago with his team or anyone else here. But he waited.” Bree whirled again, eyes wide. “For you.”

  “If it was a date, he wouldn’t have let you come along.”

  “Like he could stop me. You need my intervention, girlfriend. You’re so trapped inside your head you have zero clue what’s going on around you.”

  “I know.” She knew exactly what was going on around her. She’d held Seventy-Two’s hand the final moments of his life. It was a paltry offering for the suffering he’d endured because of her crazy ex-boyfriend.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. It’s Stan Carlisle’s, and for tonight, he doesn’t exist. The Arsenal doesn’t exist. Nothing exists except you and a sexy man with wicked intent.”

  Her pulse quickened. Wicked intent? Rhea couldn’t recall what that’d feel like with a man. Maybe Bree was right. It’d been way too long since she relaxed and ignored everything around her.