The Fourth Law

by Paul Stein

  “Slide his card through the scanner,” he directed Weaver. “This’ll git us out o’ the bloomin’ hallway.”

  As soon as Weaver swiped the card, they heard a slight click as the magnetic bolt locking the door was deactivated. The security system had recognized the proper sequence to enter the office. They shuffled the unconscious scientist into the lab and placed him indelicately on the floor, glad to be free of his dead weight. The lab was partially illuminated but otherwise vacant—a relief to both men.

  “Good oh, check the other room. Ferret anythin’ we can use for seedin’ clues,” instructed Kilmer. “I’ll search in here.”

  “Got it,” Weaver responded, regaining his normally unflappable disposition. “I’m stoked we got through the hall without being seen. That felt like a minor miracle.”

  They had been in the lab only a few minutes when a sharp knock on the door startled Kilmer, freezing him in place.

  Who the hell could that be?

  THREE

  “DR. LEVASSUER, IT’S SECURTITY.” There was a pause, and then, “Are you okay?” barked a guard’s husky voice from the outside hallway.

  There was another firm rap on the door. “Dr. Levassuer…Sam, can you hear me? Is everything all right in there? Your scanner was just activated a few minutes ago. I need to know if everything’s all right.”

  Damnit! Kilmer moved quickly to the door and made an instantaneous decision. He cursed himself for failing to anticipate that his first botched attempt to enter the lab would have alerted security. A guard would normally be dispatched to investigate the matter. His error had uncharacteristically and fatally compromised the mission beyond recovery. Without further thought or hesitation, he reached into the small of his back and extracted his compact 380 Beretta automatic.

  In one swift move, he jerked the door open and fired one shot into the middle of the guard’s forehead. The burly man was momentarily stunned to see Kilmer pointing a gun at him, but he had no time to react. The hollow point that was shot through his head blew the entire back of his skull and most of his brains onto the wall directly behind him. He stood there for a fraction of a second with an incomprehensible look on his face then crashed to the floor. He lay there involuntarily twitching, his heart still beating, but pumping an expanding crimson pool over the beige tile of the hallway floor. The life force slowly ebbed from his body.

  “Let’s roll,” Kilmer yelled to Weaver, who raced from the back of the lab at the sound of the gunshot. The first thing Weaver saw was Kilmer standing over the guard. Kilmer hastily re-holstered his revolver and caught a look of disgust in his partner’s face as they rejoined in the hallway.

  “No choice, pally” Kilmer said, noticing that Weaver was about to vocalize shock and rebuke for what had just taken place.

  “Poor bloke was in the wrong place at the wrong time. My bad. Crikey, Holloway’s gonna be madder ’n a cut snake…should o’ guessed I tripped an alarm from the git go.”

  “Jeee-sus-key-rist,” Weaver slowly replied.

  “Let’s make tracks, mate,” Kilmer said, trying to regain his composure. “Cavalry’s on the way. Git to the rendezvous.”

  Weaver looked over the carnage in the hallway. “Damnation” was the only word that came to mind. He reached down to retrieve the guard’s radio. They could hear security trying to contact him every few seconds. Keeping the radio would apprise them of any new developments as they made their retreat.

  “I didn’t have time in the lab to get into the computer system, but I did mess up the work area to make it look like I was searching for a password. This will make for some initial confusion,” Weaver said, as both men ran to the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

  “Yer aces,” Kilmer replied. “We’ll have time later to pitch the cricket if we survive. Just now, we run the rest of the op as planned.”

  The men entered the stairwell in earnest, taking the stairs two at a time to the roof. They followed the chatter on the dead guard’s radio, hoping they didn’t meet anyone as they made their way up.

  As expected, the night-shift chief of security had been alerted when he heard what sounded like a gunshot from one of the upper floors. The chief had previously dispatched guard Frank Santos to investigate the silent alarm from the third-floor radiation lab, and was now frantically trying to raise a response from his trustworthy fellow guardsman.

  “Frank, this is central, come in,” repeated the guard’s radio at intervals of every five seconds. “Frank, if you’re okay, give me a signal,” the chief repeated.

  The failure to get a response from Santos after the first few tries prompted the chief to call the Palo Alto police department for backup. He held his position in the front lobby while monitoring the cameras that were his eyes to different points throughout the building. Because there was radioactive material used for research projects in the building, most of the video surveillance was oriented toward the outside—watching for anyone trying to break in. Once inside the building, however, there was a dearth of video surveillance, a condition that security had often said was a glaring deficiency.

  “Frank, PAPD is on its way. Hang in there, buddy. If you can hear me, give me a signal,” the chief persisted, in frustrating but determined attempts to raise his partner.

  “Marlon, ya copy?” Kilmer keyed into his mic. “PAPD’s on the way. We need an evac. Git down here, now.”

  Both men were back on the roof and moving directly toward the center of the Quantum Building. They could hear the faraway wail of a police siren and knew there were only moments to evacuate. In no time, the entire block would be surrounded by SWAT and other tactical members from the Palo Alto Police Department.

  “Ten-four, team leader. I’ve been monitoring radio traffic; confirming PAPD’s been dispatched to your location. Security reported a possible B&E with a non-responsive guard. They’re rolling two units, expected to approach from opposite sides of the building. Relax, team leader…I’ve got you in sight. It’s a walk in the park from here,” Travis Marlon radioed, much to Kilmer’s relief as he and Weaver both looked skyward for the helicopter that would bear them safely away.

  The two men stood patiently as the Huey slowly descended toward the rooftop. Even over the roar of the rotor wash, the police sirens were growing appreciably louder now, signaling they would soon arrive at the Quantum Building.

  A ladder made from high-tension cable was suspended beneath the helicopter. As it moved steadily closer to the center of the roof, Kilmer was careful to let the metal rope ladder touch the top of the building before grabbing hold. This allowed the static electricity generated from the rotating blades to discharge. Failing to do so would result in a seriously painful shock as the discharge went through his hand rather than into the building.

  Without speaking, both Kilmer and Weaver hastily grabbed hold of the dangling ladder as the helicopter hovered some twenty feet overhead. Each held fast to a rung of the ladder and were flown through the air in a fixed-line fly-away—a term coined by the Army Rangers. This method of evacuation was quicker and actually safer than trying to land the helicopter on the roof of the building.

  “Heave ho, evac,” Richard Kilmer yelled into his mic.

  Weaver circled his finger overhead to indicate they were ready for the brief flight that would whisk them away from the Quantum Building. The two commandos held fast as the overhead rotor slowly lifted them up. They felt the full force of the wind blast from the rotating blades as the aircraft snatched them quickly off the roof. They could see the streetlights and traffic below and knew it was just a brief ride to Bowling Green Park, where Colt would be waiting with the van.

  To divert attention from FAA and air traffic control, Holloway had Marlon submit a nighttime training flight plan. The Quantum Building and Bowling Green Park just happened to lie along the route to be flown. In this manner, Marlon could quickly do the evacuation from the roof, drop his payload, and continue along his pre-authorized flight path. This would also provide a plausibl
e explanation about why he was flying near Stanford University and the Quantum Building at the time of the break-in. The evacuation from the roof and the subsequent flight to Bowling Green Park would only take about two minutes, allaying suspicion from FAA.

  As the helicopter approached the drop-zone, the two commandos unclipped from the ladder and dropped to the ground from about five feet. This allowed Marlon to maintain his power and depart the area before anyone with radar noticed his aircraft hovering over the park.

  “Good luck, team leader,” Marlon said, as he bid farewell to his teammates. “See you in San Jose.”

  “Ten-four, evac,” replied Kilmer. “Ya saved our arses, mate.”

  Both Kilmer and Weaver made a hasty retreat to the north end of Bowling Green, where the cargo van was awaiting their arrival. Colt Hamil sat behind the wheel with the motor running and immediately pulled away from the curb as they jumped in.

  “The op was jigged; had to clip a guard who rolled us leavin’ another office,” Kilmer said, buckling his seatbelt.

  “But lucky on us, we ripped-off Conrad and that scientist we clocked won’t r’member much. This gig started out aces…but went all to hell. Ya okay?” he asked, turning to look at Weaver.

  Weaver nodded, but seemed preoccupied with watching Colt negotiate the traffic in his methodical and professional manner. “Jesus, what a fucked-up mess,” he uttered, finally comfortable that the worst was over. It didn’t appear that the police or anyone had witnessed them enter the van or leave the scene.

  “I won’t second-guess your decision, Boss, but did you really have to blow away the guard?” he asked, irritated they had added murder to their list of crimes for the evening.

  “Hey, thanks to you guys,” Colt interrupted, “I just added a second-degree murder to my rap sheet if we’re busted. What the hell happened up there? Did I hear you right? You broke into two offices?” he asked glancing sideways at Kilmer with his eyebrows askance.

  “Ease down, mates,” Kilmer replied. “Ya heard right…I had no choice. I don’t like this any more than ya’ll. Suffice it to say, Holloway’ll be pissin’ ‘imself the op was successful. The Feds’ll finger Marshall in the breach of ‘is cousin’s office and that scientist’ll think he saw two commandos liftin’ nuke fuel. The guard got in the way is all. He’s collateral damage. Now quit bitchin’ and let’s git home. I could use a grog. Anyone else?” he asked, sounding nonchalant, hoping to cut the tension he could feel from Colt and Weaver.

  Kilmer knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. He still had to explain to Alastair Holloway how terribly wrong everything went down this evening. He knew he would have to suffer the wrath of this egomaniac, but also knew with equal measure that Holloway’s facile imagination would surely create some rational explanation to turn the events to his advantage. Kilmer decided to have a couple beers to decompress before placing the call to Holloway.

  Upon reflection, Kilmer wondered if the dead security guard had a family. Unfortunate, he thought. Richard Kilmer knew that the mark of a good warrior lay in the ability to resist the regrets of battle, regardless how cruel or odious the outcome. He had never harbored personal regrets from any of the dozens of deaths he had executed through his years of service as a military officer, but civilians were different, and he considered the security guard a civilian. He was an unintended casualty of an operation gone wrong. Richard Kilmer knew that at some point he would be held accountable for the man’s untimely demise. Karma aside, Kilmer believed that changing the life path of another individual was not without meaning.

  “We got the info ya ordered,” Kilmer said nonchalantly to the man paying for his services.

  “Outstanding. When can you provide the data?” replied the terse but urgent voice on the other end of the scrambled personal PDA phone.

  “T’morrow,” Kilmer replied. “Weaver’ll hand the disc off to Aldin Mills at his lab in Redwood Shores. No clue how much time he’ll need to program the equations…maybe a couple of days. But that’s out o’ my hands.”

  “Confirm that we now have everything to make this thing work— you’ve retrieved Conrad’s formulas. I expect a fully functional machine this time,” demanded the surly voice on the phone.

  “Aldin’ll get everythin’ we lifted from Conrad’s computer. And Weaver planted all the info for the Feds…as specified. This’ll finger Marshall. That part of the op was good as gold,” he concluded, hinting that everything hadn’t gone flawlessly.

  “Elaborate,” said Holloway, the irritation in his voice almost palpable through the phone line.

  “I had to off a guard,” Kilmer replied apologetically. He told Holloway the remainder of the story surrounding their bungled evacuation from the Quantum Building.

  “I guess I didn’t make myself perfectly clear when I told you not to mess this up!” Holloway angrily replied, making no pretense at disguising his rage. “So…let me get this straight. We have a dead guard and an eyewitness that can put you and Weaver at the scene of a double theft and homicide at the Quantum Building. And after breaking into a second lab, you hung around long enough to kill some fat bastard that fancies himself a guard. Are you out of your goddamned mind?” he yelled into the phone.

  “You assured me this would be done exactly as planned,” Holloway continued, the vitriol oozing from his voice. “I supplied the reconnaissance detail you requested; procured the password to get past the firewall; established the timeline for conducting the operation; even arranged the air evacuation…” he seethed, lacking any modicum of restraint in excoriating Richard Kilmer. “Next time I want a cluster fuck, I’ll be sure to call a goddamned Australian commando.”

  Kilmer tried like hell to maintain his composure. “It was a command decision,” Kilmer replied steadily, refusing to be unnerved. “My only choice was to save the lab rat. Yer dodgy recon should o’ clued us there might be someone cruisin’ the halls that late. Killin’ ‘im would’ve implicated Ryan Marshall in a murder. Is that what ya wanted? Ya weren’t there, Mr. Holloway.”

  Kilmer fully understood that this was Alastair Holloway’s modus operandi: a gifted individual always in control and without peer, invariably the smartest one in the room, bitingly caustic, belittling anyone who made even the smallest of errors. His behavior was irritating under the best of circumstances, but he tolerated it for the money Holloway provided for his singular services. But when he felt the sting of his whip, there was only so much Kilmer would stomach.

  “None of this is what I wanted, you arrogant ass,” Holloway replied. “Make sure you get my data to Mills tomorrow…without any further complications,” he shouted.

  The phone went dead in Kilmer’s ear.

  AUGUST FOURTH

  FOUR

  STANFORD UNIVERSITY

  01:30 HOURS

  THE QUANTUM BUILDING was swarming with activity. Crimson flashing lights rhythmically flooded the structure’s exterior. Response vehicles from every emergency service agency—from sheriff to coroner—had all responded to the 911 call from the chief security guard. Palo Alto police surrounded Quantum and completed a thorough search of each quarter of the building. The Santa Clara Sheriff’s SWAT unit coordinated a search along the streets leading from the murder scene; several more SWAT members took positions atop adjacent buildings. The crackle of sporadic radio transmissions permeated the surrounding area from the multiple jurisdictions responding to the incident.

  The county EMS coordinating team was activated and quickly established a command center on the first floor. A single radio frequency was assigned to the multi-agency coordinating team so that each member could communicate directly with the incident command center. The MAC streamlined emergency response protocols that would be in conflict were it not for prior training amongst the members. The years of training paid handsome dividends at an incident like Quantum, and Captain Clay Hawkley swelled with pride at how well the MAC was functioning.

  Captain Hawkley established the incident command shortly after hi
s arrival on scene. He was well versed in the role, having been the chief architect who created the MAC in Santa Clara County. The IC was kept insulated from interference, but in direct contact with every ranking officer in the unit. In this way, information coming from the field was filtered, processed, and analyzed, making command decisions responsive to only the most current information.

  Captain Hawkley awaited breaking information from his field commanders: Lieutenant Morris from division headquarters was investigating the crime scene; Sergeant Cristobel from SWAT was covering the perimeter of the building; Lieutenant Pomeroy from homicide was interviewing the surviving guard. Captain Hawkley patiently anticipated reports from these three seasoned professionals.

  On the third floor, Lieutenant David Morris was busily taking notes from his first impression of the crime scene. The county coroner pronounced the victim dead at the scene and took possession of the remains. The scene of the crime was a gruesome affair, but not unlike most homicides that involved a shooting. The victim lay on his back in the middle of the corridor, immediately in front of lab 313. There was a large pool of blood surrounding the victim, which had discharged from a massive head wound. Looking down at the corpse, Lieutenant Morris recognized the amazed look on his face; the expression and open eyes conveyed surprise. He marveled at the surfeit of forensic evidence available from the initial examination of a murder victim. A trained eye could usually detect the circumstances immediately preceding the crime—whether an argument or struggle precipitated the murder, or as in this case, it was completely unexpected.

  A small hole directly in the center of the victim’s forehead proved that the shooter was an expert marksman. Even though this was a close-range shooting, it was rare to see a murder committed in passion where a bullet hole was so perfectly centered. Morris concluded that the shooter was a professional, and while he had been clearly caught off-guard, he made an instant decision that killing the intruder was the most expedient course of action. Cold, calculating, and remorseless. All trademarks of a trained professional assassin, Morris thought.