by Sam Masters
“Is that what I am—someone close?”
“I guess you can’t get much closer than we got last night.”
“I wasn’t talking about sex. I’ve had sex with people and been in a completely different world at the time.”
“Neither was I. I was talking about a closeness to the heart and soul, not just the genitals.”
“Genitals?” She laughs out loud. “What a crazy word. Who the hell decided that was a good name for such a great part of the body?”
They’re standing face-to-face. Inches apart. It’s killing Ghost not to kiss her, sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed. This time it would be fast and frantic. Last night’s need for tenderness has been supplanted by raw animal attraction.
Zoe reads his eyes and smiles. “I have the time if you do.”
He hesitates.
She doesn’t. She tilts her head and presses her lips against his. Lets her breath moan inside him, lets her body take control of his.
“I’ve got time,” he says, breathlessly. “Nothing is more important than this. Than you.”
81
The White House, Washington DC
Pat Cornwell and Jay Ashton flank Clint Molton as they sit in front of the flat screen and watch a recording of the early news.
Ashton hits pause as the item finishes. The press secretary is eager to exonerate himself from what looks like an early break in strategy. “I’d like to stress that this particularly wild and noisy horse bolted from the stable before Don Jackson and I held the multiagency briefing.” He points at the freeze frame of the pale-skinned, sunglass-wearing detective. “David Caruso there has really set the cat among the pigeons.”
Molton can’t help but smile. “Horses, cats, and pigeons—that’s a lot of mixed metaphors even for you, Jay.”
“Perhaps it is, Mr. President. My apologies. But believe me, the print media are already pumping police stations all over the country for comments about the dangers of dogs. This Walton guy is fanning the flames of speculation, he’s potentially our worst nightmare.”
Cornwell is staring at the head-and-shoulders shot of Ghost on the TV. “I sure hope his boss tears his smart-ass balls off.”
Molton looks surprised. “For what? For being right?” He points at the screen. “The guy is right; we should all be damned scared. And given how little this lieutenant knows about what really is going on, his comments are disturbingly smart. Instead of ripping his balls off for trying to save lives we should bring him into the fold and have him help us.”
Cornwell can’t believe what he’s heard. “You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking, Clint.”
“No, I’m not. Think about it for a minute.”
Ashton is already ahead of the VP. “There might be kudos in appointing a cop who’s been on the front line of these attacks to be part of a presidential task force. If this issue captures more of the public attention and our opponents start throwing criticism around, then having him inside the tent is better than having him outside.”
Cornwell’s not convinced. “I prefer we just have his captain rip his balls off and tell him to shut the fuck up.”
Molton turns to his old friend. “Pat, I never go to war with the good guys—you should know that by now. I like the task force idea, talk to Don and make it happen.” He eases himself out of his seat and stretches. All the traveling and sitting are screwing up his spine. His doctor says he should take more exercise, start doing yoga, but given his timetable the best he can manage is a few stretches and a walk around the desk. “And get this cop on board. He’s smart and very recognizable, we don’t want someone like that becoming the face of the opposition, the sound bite the media turn to every time they want to whip us.”
Cornwell throws up his hands in defeat. “Done. Now can we talk about the real reason we’re here?”
“Sure.” Molton settles behind his desk. The Resolute desk, named that because it was made from the planks of HMS Resolute and gifted to the U.S. by Queen Victoria. “You think we should call a Joint Chiefs of Staff and tell them of Xian’s threats.”
“I do. They’re being battered blind by the Middle East machinations, what with NATO, the UN, and public opinion swinging back and forth, we’ve got to keep them fully in the picture.”
Ashton looks horrified. “It will leak, Mr. President. Call a meeting like that and it’s like mailing copy to the news desks and saying, ‘Hey guys! Look, here’s something fresh for you to throw your shit at.’ ”
Molton looks toward the VP for an answer.
“You have a duty to inform them, Clint,” Cornwell says. “The Joint Chiefs and the National Security Council too—though I’m sure Don has already unofficially done that. You can’t hold back on a threat to the nation. If we really take this weaponized dog threat seriously—and we’re starting to behave like we do—then we have to tell our military commanders and our closest colleagues in government. We can’t just keep this between ourselves and the CIA.”
The President touches the rich old grain of the desk. Resolute. A word meaning “firm in purpose or belief; characterized by firmness and determination.”
He looks up. “Call it, Pat. Get them and the NSC together for a meeting in the Situation Room as soon as agendas allow. Have Don put together a briefing package to illustrate proof of threat. Jay, have a communications strategy in place before we sit down with them, I don’t want their heads of media in the loop, and let’s all pray that this is an enormous waste of everyone’s time.”
82
New York
Danny knows the score.
When serious shit happens you phone a friend. You grab what you can and you run.
Run fast.
He throws basic clothes in a gym bag plus the backup drives from his computers and puts the load in the panniers on his motorbike. He sends quick text messages to Jenny and his crew with excuses for quitting town, then ditches all his phones, even the one he uses for legitimate calls and family.
Danny thrashes the Kawasaki all the way downtown to the loft.
Moving quicker than a burglar, he disconnects the cables to the backup computers he and the other hackers had been using and stuffs them in a rucksack, along with a couple of bottles of water and some cereal bars on his desk.
Within half an hour he’s crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, watching harbor lights disappear in his wing mirrors as he nervously checks to see if he’s being followed.
Danny parks up on wasteland off Furman Street, the bridge to the right of him and lower Manhattan gleaming straight ahead.
Ten minutes later a black Lincoln rolls to a stop and the trunk pops open. Danny puts his rucksack and gym bag in the cavernous space, closes the trunk and gets in the passenger seat.
Brad Stevens shakes his head with exaggerated disapproval. “I’m not your housekeeper, Danny boy. God did not put me on this earth to run around cleaning up your almighty messes.”
“Who would you have had me call?”
“You did right to call, it’s just the middle of the night is my time for sleeping. Funny that, eh?”
“Ha ha.”
“There’s a new phone and number for you in the glove box. We’ll put a trace on your old cell and restore the number when we know it’s safe. Until then don’t call anyone you don’t want to end up dead.”
Danny pulls a white iPhone out of the glove box. “White? You think I’m the kind of guy who uses white phones?”
“You are today.” Stevens glides the Lincoln off the dirt and heads south down Montague and out on to Columbia. “No sign of the bleeder you mentioned. He must have got away. I had his friend Mr. Stiff moved, though. And your place is being stripped and cleaned. How many bullets did you fire?”
“Just the two.”
“Not too much paint and plaster needed, then. Did you collect the shells?”
<
br /> “You think I’m stupid?”
“Just ’cause you’re a cracker doesn’t mean you’re smart.”
“Hacker not cracker. There’s a difference.”
“Being?”
“Crackers are assholes, evil cyber vandals that screw things up for no reason. Hackers have reasons, you know—like the common good.”
“Yeah, sure. Your common good being personal profit.”
Danny’s not in the mood for a wind-up. “Fuck you, man. You pay the bills, you get the company benefits. I’m just the skateboarder hanging on to the back of your big old bus.”
“Glad you know your place. Any more shit like this and the bus won’t be stopping for you anymore. Did you get everything you needed out of that flea pit?”
“Pretty much. Won’t be sad to see the back of it.”
“What are you going to tell the rest of the crew?”
“Texted them already. Said our IP masks were compromised and the Wall Street loft isn’t safe. They’ll know we need to stay low and relocate. They’ll be cool.” Danny looks out the windshield as the Lincoln filters onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. “Where we going?”
Stevens smiles broadly. “You’re in luck. We’ve got a vacation home for you out at Breezy Point.”
“Breezy? You’re freakin’ kidding me. I hate the ocean. I can’t even swim. Man, I’m gonna die of boredom out there.”
“Is that a promise?”
PART FOUR
I do not know with what weapons
World War III will be fought, but World War IV
will be fought with sticks and stones.
ALBERT EINSTEIN
83
Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea
The high-pitched whine of an electric motor and the deep rumble of rubber wheels echo through the tunnels of the underground bunker as Hao Weiwei and his son Jihai wheel three heavily sedated pit bull terriers in a caged motorized cart to the testing zone.
Hao is ready to try again.
A new serum, split into three separate and slightly different doses.
A new hope.
As usual, Tāo and Péng help maneuver the dogs through the airlock of the central cell and into three separately petitioned areas. The PBT is a breed banned in many U.S. states and countries worldwide. It’s universally recognized for being astonishingly strong and devastatingly aggressive.
This is the ultimate test.
The microchips of all three animals have been successfully triggered, and prior to being heavily sedated, they were showing advanced signs of intense aggression.
Starved and taken away from their recognized environment, they should, when they wake, become even more hostile.
Hao is confident his newly adjusted serum will be able to calm and control them.
He knows General Zhang is hoping that too. It is what the military leader needs in his fight against American aggression. So much so that the general has told him that his patience is being tested and if he doesn’t produce success in the next few days he will be “replaced.”
Hao also fully understands the endless meanings of the word “replaced.”
Quickly but meticulously, the scientists go about their final chores, electronically measuring, weighing, and photographing the sleeping animals before drawing blood for testing and taking final pulses.
Once the sedated dogs are left in their isolated spaces, Jihai removes the motorized cart, locks all the doors, and gives Tāo the instruction to check the controls on the remote video cameras mounted inside the glass cell.
Recording machines clink and whir into action as time-coded footage begins to be gathered on all three fawn and white dogs. Seeing them asleep, it’s easy to imagine them as pets, and even an untrained eye would spot striking similarities between the cute trio and at least assume they’re from the same litter.
But few would guess that they are clones. Bred to the point of deadly aggression.
Péng raises his chunky arms, slips the canisters of serum into the overhead atomizers, and gives his colleagues a knowing nod.
Hao presses a button on his master control terminal and a clock on the outside of the glass cell resets to zero.
As soon as the dogs wake, the experiment may begin, and one way or another he knows it may well be the last time he is in charge.
84
Coral Way, Miami
Reluctantly, Ghost leaves Zoe in bed and goes into work. He’s shocked how quickly the heavenly postcoital endorphins fade and the tension of the dog investigations once more creeps into his bones, muscles, and mind.
“Captain is after you,” says Annie Swanson as he enters the office. “Didn’t look like he wanted to give you good news either.”
“Cummings is allergic to good news, he’s never allowed it anywhere near him.”
She looks him up and down. “You’re dressed like you were yesterday.”
He tries to ignore her observation. “Did he say what he wanted?”
Annie frowns as she puts together the floating pieces of what she can remember about last night. “Did you go home with that photographer woman?”
His eyes widen behind his shades. “That’s none of your business.”
“Oh wow.”
Ghost drifts away. He hadn’t expected to be quizzed on his private life. Hadn’t left time to go home and get changed after he and Zoe returned to bed. He curses himself all the way to his captain’s office. Normally, he keeps his private life far removed from work. This time he’s slipped up.
Up on the top corridor he walks past the captain’s open door to talk to the boss’s secretary when Cummings catches his eye.
“Ghost! Get your freaky ass in here.”
He doubles back and sticks his head around the door. “You bawled for me, Captain?”
“Yeah, I did. I bawled.” He points to a chair. “Sit while I bawl some more.”
Ghost takes a perch.
“Late last night I get a call from Graham Gate—you know who that is?”
The name is familiar but Ghost can’t place it. “Governor’s office?”
“No. You’re miles off. Gate is the President’s chief of staff. They saw you on CBS, mouthing off about these flaming dogs—”
“Captain, I had a camera pushed in my face, I thought it better—”
“Think of shutting up while I finish what I got to say.”
The two men stare at each other until Ghost manages a suitably submissive look.
“Anyways—despite the whole police world getting briefed yesterday not to say shit that might scare the public about dogs, you do. You go tell the world that Fido the family pooch is really a freakin’ monster who’s gonna bite them to death while they sleep in their beds.”
“I’m sorry, but what I said was—”
“For Christ’s sake, listen and don’t talk!”
Ghost raises his palms in defeat.
“Seems you touched a nerve. God knows how.” Cummings searches his table for a scrap of paper. “You’re to ring this guy on this number in Washington. Apparently the President wants to put together a task force to address the canine challenge, and they want you on it.”
Ghost takes the scribbled note and stands up with a smile on his face.
“Do not smile. Do not fucking even think of smiling in my office.” He eyeballs the lieutenant like only captains can. “And most of all, do not screw this up, Ghost. The chief of police has made it clear to me that my ass is your ass. If there’s cause to rip you a new one, then I get one as well—a two-for-one offer that I do not want to take up—you follow me?”
“Like a puppy, Captain.”
“Bad analogy.” He throws a thumb at the door. “Now get the fuck outta here—and remember what I said, no screw-ups.”
85
Weaponization Bunkers, North Korea
A hundred ten minutes click by on the laboratory clock.
All three pit bulls are twitching, waking, moving.
Wobbly and groggy, they haul themselves upright.
Two head instinctively and unsteadily to the water bowls in the corners of their cubicles. The third stands its ground close to the glass and adopts an aggressive stance. Its lips curl back and intense black eyes fix on the watching scientists.
Hao checks his computer monitors and sees the dogs’ heart rates rise as they become more and more alert. The trigger drug is still strong, riding buoyantly through their bloodstreams, touching nerves and piquing anxiety levels. That part of Nian has always been good, but today he needs to be able to reverse it. The serum he’s been working on must neutralize the aggression and kill it permanently, not just for minutes like the sedatives have done.
All three dogs start barking.
They lunge at the glass and snap their teeth. They’re ready to fight for any scraps of food, more than ready to kill if necessary.
Hao types in the computer keystrokes that activate the canisters of atomized serum. Each has a slightly different chemical modifier and all have been constructed to be absolutely harmless to humans.
Within ten seconds Dog One becomes tired. He stops jumping and barking, flops on his side and licks comfortingly at his short coat. The response is good and all the scientists feel encouraged.
Dog Two, the one held in the middle section, remains highly alert but no longer aggressive. His ears are bent upward like bat wings and he paces territorially and quickly. He’s no longer snapping or biting but still looks like he might go for anyone who invaded his personal space.
The third dog is motionless but still upright. It is as still as a statue, like it’s been sprayed with quick-drying cement. Its head is cocked toward the other two terriers, its dark eyes glassy and fixed.
Hao is pleased. To lesser and greater degrees all three are responding. And the deviances in behavior seem to correspond to what he’d expected from the different doses of administered serum.
There is hope.