by Julie Rowe
“I’m going to do that cyber snooping.” And put action to the words by waking up his laptop.
She smiled at him, a hugely relived expression, which pissed him off. Why was she so surprised he’d stay and help exactly like he promised? He thought back to the last few months, trying to remember a time when he’d ignored her orders, done his own thing, and fucked something up.
He couldn’t recall a single incident, but he’d seen that surprised look way too often.
His phone rang, then hers. He’d wait until he had the time and privacy to find out what the hell was going on inside her head.
“Dozer,” he said.
“You have ten seconds to explain to me why you’re working instead of healing up.”
His boss.
“I’m not working,” he replied in an even tone. “Rawley in your office?”
“Yes, and making frustrated noises.”
“I’m really not working. Dr. Rodrigues is handling an emerging outbreak in Orlando, Florida. She had to come into her office so she has access to all the information she needs to coordinate an appropriate response.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“She’s territorial about her people, and she considers me one of hers. She didn’t feel comfortable leaving me behind when CDC headquarters is a secure building full of doctors, nurses, and other medical personnel. I’m currently sitting on a chair in the corner of her office, surfing social media on my laptop. I’m not doing anything, questioning anyone, or going anywhere.”
“Are you going to get any rest there?”
“I can sleep anywhere I need to. You know that.”
The answering silence lasted for five seconds. “For now, Rawley is the liaison, not you.”
“Whatever you say, boss, but he hasn’t made any friends here. He yelled at me in front of Dr. Rodrigues and her drill sergeant. She wasn’t impressed.”
His boss sighed heavily.
“Why did you assign him the liaison position?”
“He asked for it.”
“Why? He didn’t seem all that interested in what the task force does and hadn’t even bothered to figure out who’s who in the department.”
“Aside from you, he’s the only one who expressed any interest in the position. You should know, he requested you take a fitness assessment.”
Well that was just fucking wonderful.
“I’m. Not. Working,” Dozer said, enunciating each word carefully.
“And you won’t be working until you’re cleared by medical, right?”
Just how many people thought he was an idiot? “You have met Dr. Rodrigues, haven’t you? She isn’t going to let me do anything more strenuous than surf my computer.”
“And stop being a smart-ass.” His boss hung up.
Dozer put down his phone and stared at it. Rawley’s request to work with the Task Force was odd. He hadn’t expressed any interest in the position before, so why did he suddenly want the job?
He glanced at Carmen. She was typing on her computer at a rapid pace, probably an email. She looked tired, but not as pale as she had before having the coffee and muffin.
Dozer tore his gaze away from her profile and focused on his social media feeds. There was plenty of chatter about the normal social and political issues, but what really surprised him was the number of health-related reports. Three cases of E. coli in lettuce in California. Hepatitis A was rising in the homeless population in several states—California, Kentucky, and Indiana. Salmonella typhi in frozen fruit in Los Angeles, and Salmonella enteritidis in eggs in several more states, were being reported. Two homeless people in Los Angeles had died of bubonic plague, thanks to a surge in the rat population, but no mention of measles or incidents of people with high fevers showing up at clinics and ERs.
A headache began to pound behind his eyes. He glanced at the time and discovered he’d spent a couple of hours with his eyes on a computer screen. No wonder his head hurt and his vision was blurry.
Carmen walked over to him, a frown on her pretty face. “John? Are you okay?”
“Just a headache,” he said with a wince. It was getting bad fast.
“Is coffee the only thing you’ve had to drink this morning?”
“Yeah.” Maybe that was why his tongue felt fuzzy.
“You’re probably dehydrated and could use several more hours of sleep. Go drink a bottle of Gatorade and have a nap. I’ll wake you in a few hours with a high-protein meal.”
That sounded really good. Why did that bother him?
“How come you’re being so nice?”
She stared at him like he’d said something ridiculous, then threw up her hands. “I can’t be nice to you? Really?” Before he could say anything else, she continued, “I don’t like that guy Rawley. You, as irritating as you can be, are much better to deal with than him.”
“As irritating as I can be, huh?”
She shot him a look. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I think I do, actually.” He smiled and stood. “I think I will do as the doctor orders and crash on one of those cots in Gunner’s office.”
8:32 a.m.
Someone kicked his boot.
They were still on his feet, despite being horizontal and in a bed. Dozer cracked open his eyes.
DS was standing at the foot of his cot. “Get up. The boss wants you to eat something and take your medication.” He glanced at Dozer’s feet and grinned his evil grin. “You always wear your boots to bed?”
“When I’m sleeping on a cot in an unfamiliar location I do.”
“That’s an Army habit, boy.” He said it like it was a compliment, and for DS, it probably was.
“Good to know I learned something useful when I was in.” He swung his feet to the floor as he sat up, then waited for his body to wake up a bit more. His chest ached, a dull throbbing pain that seemed to reverberate from his ribs straight through the path the bullet had taken. His headache radiated from all over.
DS crouched in front of him, studying his face. “Dizzy? Nauseous?”
“No, just sore. All fucking over.”
“Not giving yourself a chance to heal is just going to keep you in pain for longer.”
Dozer looked at him. “Would you sit in some dark apartment, knowing your”—shit, he’d almost said woman out loud—“boss was in this busy building, working her ass off without protection?”
DS grinned his evil grin.
Yeah, he’d caught Dozer’s almost verbal slipup.
“Can’t say as I would,” the old fart admitted, his grin still in full force. “But are you healthy enough to stop a bad guy from hurting her, assuming they got this far into the building?”
“My father always said I made a pretty good door, rather than a window.”
That made DS laugh out loud.
“How did those guys find me under an assumed name and medical history? How did two guys know when Dr. Rodrigues’s plane was landing? Someone is sharing inside information with the wrong people,” Dozer said softly, so it wouldn’t carry past the open doorway to the hallway outside. “Someone with access to this building. I’m willing to be a speed bump if that’s all I can do.” Then he raised his voice back to a normal conversational level. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt her.”
“Fair enough,” DS said with a respectful nod. “I suppose even someone as banged up as you can still shoot straight.”
Dozer grimaced. “Thanks for that vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome. I don’t give it lightly.” He moved to the doorway. “Come on, dragline, I’ve got a hot meal for you and the boss in the break room.”
Jesus, the old man was going to go through the entire list of every piece of heavy equipment ever made. It was on the tip of his tongue to give DS a nifty new nickname, but he hesitated. Any man who retired from the Army as a drill sergeant probably knew every trick and smart remark in existence.
He kept his mouth shut and followed down the hall t
o the break room. A couple of other people were already there, sitting at the large oval table to one side. It could seat twelve easily with room for a couple more if everyone got cozy.
“This is damn good chili, DS,” Henry said. The same Henry who lived across the hall from the apartment Dozer and Carmen had slept in the night before.
“Delicious,” the woman next to him said. She was a new employee and always seemed to be where Henry was. It took Dozer a moment to remember her name—Ruby. “Can I get the recipe?”
“Don’t use one,” DS answered. “I just throw in whatever I feel like.”
On the counter was a large slow cooker, and the smell of chili made Dozer’s stomach rumble in sharp interest.
DS turned to him. “Dig in.”
“Where’s Car—Dr. Rodrigues?”
DS grinned. “Still in her office, but she needs to eat.”
“I’ll get her,” Dozer said, turning to do just that.
Behind him, someone said, “I can do—ouch,”
He glanced behind to see Ruby rubbing what looked like her knee and glaring at Henry.
“Finish your lunch,” Henry said in a tone that had cowed many a new employee.
“Do you ever say anything nice to anyone?” Ruby demanded.
Dozer paused in the doorway. That was the most confrontational thing he’d ever heard her say. It seemed to surprise DS and Henry, too, because they looked at her with similar expressions of surprise to the one he probably wore on his face.
She got up and washed her dirty bowl in the sink, then left without meeting the gaze of any of the men in the room.
“You’re in the doghouse,” DS said to Henry.
“I only work with her,” Henry said, rising to go to the sink with his dishes.
“Work, live,” Dozer said with a shrug. “Doesn’t really matter. Trust me, I know.”
Henry grunted but didn’t give any other indication that he was willing to admit Ruby’s mood might matter to him. Because she did matter to him. That was clear enough, too.
Worry about your own prickly female, he chided himself and walked the relatively short distance down the hall to Carmen’s office.
She was on the phone when he walked in but looked up as he came into the room. She frowned, looked at her watch, and sighed. When she shook her head at him, he took a couple of steps closer and crossed his arms over his chest.
She raised her eyebrows.
He smiled at her.
She glared.
He kept smiling. That’s right, sweetheart. I’m not going away.
She rolled her eyes and finally said, “That’s fine. I’ll get back to you. Thanks.” She ended the call. “Did you eat?”
“Not yet. Waiting for you.”
She glanced at him sharply, like he’d said something contentious.
“DS made chili,” Dozer said, making an effort to lighten his tone. “His own recipe.”
“I see.” She passed him as she left the room. He followed her, a few steps behind, enjoying the view.
She got to the break room several steps ahead of him, and he heard her say hello to whoever was inside.
The only other person left in the room besides Carmen was DS, who was filling a bowl with chili. He handed it to her, then served Dozer.
“Here you go, skid-steer. Feel free to have seconds.”
Carmen, who’d been about to swallow a mouthful of chili, choked before getting it down. “Skid-steer?” she asked.
“Dozer is a little too pedestrian a name for our hero here,” DS said.
“Dozer is actually my name,” Dozer said drily.
“Don’t blame me if your great-great-grandparents weren’t imaginative.”
“There’s something to be said for simplifying things,” Dozer said after a couple of bites of the hot food. It was good. The old geezer could cook. “My great-greats were from Ukraine.”
“I guess you’re lucky they didn’t name your great-grandfather after the cow.”
“How do you know they didn’t?” Dozer asked, eating another bite of the excellent food.
DS laughed like he meant it. “How am I supposed to be mean to you now?”
“Who says you can’t?”
“You made me laugh, steamroller. The unwritten rules of engagement for drill sergeants state that if you make the DS laugh, no retaliation can be made.”
Dozer cocked his head to one side, considering the comment. “Do you always follow the rules?”
“Rules are the bedrock of a society,” DS said with no trace of humor. “Without them, there’s no safety, no cooperation, and no advancement.”
No one said anything.
Carmen stared off into space as she said softly, “That’s why terrorism is difficult to comprehend or predict. It doesn’t follow the rules of our society or, sometimes, any society. It creates the opposite: disorder, decline, and death.”
Chapter Eleven
9:01 a.m.
Carmen finished washing her bowl and spoon in the sink, then dried and put them back in the cabinet so someone else could use them.
She nodded at DS and John and returned to her office. She had a dozen messages waiting for her. Some were lab results, some were requests for supplies and people, and one was a complaint thinly clothed in a suggestion from her new Homeland liaison that she take the time to sit down with him to discuss how to improve communication between her people and his.
Agent Rawley had all too quickly become a large pain in her ass, one she’d like to surgically remove.
She sent him a briefly worded message in return, asking if he could meet her at her office in a couple of hours to have his discussion.
He agreed. Good. Maybe now she could get some work done and begin responding to email messages.
She’d answered a half dozen when John set a cup of coffee in front of her.
“I hear you’re meeting with Rawley soon. He told me to keep my nose out of his business with you.”
Carmen sighed. She didn’t have time for juvenile stupidity, but perhaps she was going to have to make time to explain to Agent Rawley just what his job as her liaison was. “I suppose you’re going to insist on staying in the room, right?”
“Insist? No. But the guy is wound a little too tight. I’d like to find out why.”
She turned away from her computer to give John her undivided attention. He sounded sincere, his body language was relaxed, and his expression neutral, but his eyes told a different story. Cold, hard, and sharp enough to cut through to bone before you felt a thing.
“Maybe he’s worried he’ll miss something. Besides, I can take care of myself,” she said. “I’ve got a flyswatter in my desk.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
Her phone rang.
The emergency ringtone.
“I’m sorry,” she said to him. “I need to take this.” The voice on the other end stuttered before becoming clear enough for her to make out words. “…CDC?”
“Yes, I’m with the CDC.” Sirens and screaming filled the background. She put the phone on speaker and set it on the desk so she could grab a pen and paper to take notes. “What’s happened?”
John shifted his weight, as if anticipating the command to run. Or attack.
The voice was muffled, then it became clear, and what she heard made her stomach clench. His voice was high and fast, and vibrated with tension. “…an ex-explosion. Wit- witnesses report a man walked into the ER and detonated some kind of explosive vest he was wearing.”
“A bomb?” A fresh bolus of adrenaline shot through her system, turning fatigue into battle readiness. Good God. “How many injured? Fatalities?”
John swore and ran out of the room.
Carmen blocked everything out but the shaking, shrill voice coming out of her cell phone. “I don’t know, ma’am. The hospital people told me to call you with this information.”
“Who is this?”
“Parker, hospital secu
rity. I have to go now, ma’am.”
“Wait! Which hospital?”
He’d already ended the call.
“Damn it,” she growled. She had teams at two different hospitals in Florida. She stabbed the screen of her phone, inputting the number for Dr. Stevenson, who was at Orlando General.
No answer.
She tried his partner, lab tech, and nurse, Jean Applewood.
“Hello?” Jean’s voice was weak and wobbly.
If she could have reached out to hold the other woman through her cell phone, she would have. “Jean, it’s Dr. Rodrigues. Are you okay?”
“Not really. I mean, I’m up and walking around, and a lot of other people aren’t, but I think I’m going to need some stitches. I got pretty cut up, and there’s a lot of blood…” Her voice trailed off, like she’d forgotten the question she was answering.
Several sets of feet pounded in the hallway. A moment later, the space in front of her desk was full of men. John, DS, Gunner, and Henry, all of them breathing fast but silent, listening to her conversation with Jean.
“Is Dr. Stevenson okay?” Carmen asked.
“No,” Jean said, her voice cracking. “He’s dead. A lot of people are dead.” She sniffed. “The extra people you sent us had just arrived, and we were briefing them. We were standing at the back of the ER, where there was enough space for everyone to gather around. The bomb destroyed that whole area.” A sob broke her voice, and she had to struggle to regain it. “We’re going to need a lot of help here.”
“Did you see the bomber?” John asked, slower than he usually talked.
“Um…just for a second.”
“What did he look like? Was the explosive attached to his body or in a bag or backpack?”
“He wasn’t very old, maybe early twenties, and I couldn’t see any bomb or anything like that. He had a jacket on. It looked wrong…bulky. Maybe it was…underrrneath.” The pace of her speech slowed, and her last few words came off her tongue like she’d just had a root canal. Thick and stretched out like someone had put her in slow motion.
A crash and several thumps came through the connection.
“Jean?” Carmen said loudly into the phone. “Jean?”
No answer.
No one in her office said anything or moved, just waited.