by Ethan Cross
Above their heads, he heard an all-too-familiar sound. The roar of an attack chopper approaching low over the trees.
His mind instantly flashed back to his childhood and the raid on the compound by American commandos. He had heard the sound many times since then, and he had ridden within several of the flying metal beasts himself, but none of those memories were as vivid as the ones from the night when his friends had burned alive. Sometimes he wondered if his mother suffered a kinder fate. She no longer had painful memories. Several years from his early life would be better forgotten. Those spent on the streets of Bogota. Scrambling to survive. Starving. Selling his young body in exchange for food. But those years had hardened him and molded him into the young man of whom Ramon Castillo took notice and raised up out of the gutter to a position of power, influence, and privilege.
Years later, he tracked down his mother and his siblings and gave them the safe and comfortable life that his mother could never provide for him. He didn’t hate her for that. She had done the best she could with what she had been given. Although he had never known his real father, Castillo treated him like a son. And now, Vaquero had chosen him to lead them to their greatest victory, and to avenge the death of Ramon’s family at the hands of American tyrants. Unlike the jihadists, he had no interest in killing innocent civilians, instead he would strike at those truly responsible for the country’s actions.
“What now?” Miguel said, hefting a large metal container from a back storage room.
Almeida gave him a strange look and examined the large container. Chrome edging. Black aluminum surface. Recessed flip handle. Butterfly locks. It reminded him of an expensive weapons case, the type that would hold a shoulder mounted missile launcher.
“What is that?”
“Vaquero told me to retrieve this. I thought you knew.”
“Of course,” he said, although he had no idea what could possibly be in the container or why Vaquero would have told Miguel about it, but not him.
“Escape plan alpha?” Pike asked as he unplugged the hard drive and attached another circular device to the side of the server. He pressed a red button on top of the device, and it came alive with a mechanical whir.
“Yes, check the corridor and the back stairs. I’ll prepare the distraction for our guests.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
The pilot sat the transport helicopter down in a large clearing behind the facility, the intense rotor wash beating down the weeds and tall grass. The night was especially dark, and the lights of the brick building in the distance provided the only illumination.
Jonas Black dropped from the helicopter with the strike team, and they fell upon the compound with smooth, efficient movements. HRT impressed him with their professionalism. They fanned out through the tall grass in perfect formation and covered all the angles. Because he was a former Recon Marine turned make-shift DCIS agent and could identify Almeida and his men, it hadn’t been too difficult for Munroe to convince the team lead to allow Black to accompany them inside the compound. Each member of the team wore a black Nomex flight suit with FBI stenciled on their chest and back and brandished a Knight’s Armament PDW. The weapon fired a new intermediate caliber 6x35mm TSWG ammunition that boasted increased lethality over a 9mm round, improved controllability, reduction in size and weight, and a maximum effective range of three hundred meters. He had to admit that it felt good to be geared up and back in an actual combat situation with the best equipment and the best men. Like he was a real soldier again.
Over the headset, one of the team said, “The perimeter guards are down. Looks like .308s. Headshots.”
The team leader said, “You here that, people. Possible sniper. Eyes open. Red 4, 5, and 6 take EP-1. Red 2 and 3 with me on EP-2. Could be hostages. Check your fire.”
The team leader, Red 1, had told Black to stay on his six during the mission, and so that’s what he did. The team split into two with one group heading toward entry point one (the main door), and the other moving to entry point two (a door on the side of the building).
The nondescript brick structure looked generic in every way. The kind of place a casual observer wouldn’t give a second glance. The two groups breached the doors simultaneously and methodically checked the first floor. The interior seemed as generic as the building’s shell. Speckled laminate flooring. White walls. Reception desk. Cluttered cubicles.
“Clear,” different members of the team announced as they secured each room.
With the first floor checked, they accessed the stairwell that Corrigan had described to them and proceeded into the bowels of the facility. The next level down contained expensive-looking lab equipment, strange machinery, large vats, and administrative offices. Again, all clear.
Since they had yet to see any signs of life beyond the dead guards, Black guessed that Lennix had temporarily shut down the program after Randall stole the research files. He hoped that Lennix had also moved the weapon. Then again, Lennix likely planned to continue production once the situation was handled and the threat neutralized.
When they reached the second level down, a security desk and an airlock greeted them. A dead guard sat beyond the raised white security desk, his head slumped over in a pool of his own blood. As Black examined the airlock, a strange sense of dread crept over him. He supposed that it just reminded him too much of one of those disaster movies where a runaway virus kickstarts the apocalypse. He dismissed the idea. This facility dealt with chemical, not viral, weaponry. At least, he hoped so.
Moving through the airlock in groups of two, the entry team discovered the main lab. Bright white walls and floors. Futuristic-looking equipment. It was colder inside and carried a distinct chemical smell that he couldn’t identify. Several workstations lined the room, topped with computers and microscopes and a multitude of other devices that Black would never try to identify. Sealed offices sat along a raised platform along one wall, and other corridors led off to additional rooms. He looked down one of the corridors and saw what appeared to be a storage area filled with black metal cases.
The team fanned out and searched the lab and storage rooms. Black’s heart pounded, and his body pulsed with adrenaline. Not because of the fear that they would be attacked, but out of the worry that they wouldn’t be, that they were too late.
Each announcement of “Clear” felt like a physical blow. Almeida had escaped with the weapon. A lot of people were going to die, including his nephew and Munroe’s daughters.
“We’ve missed them,” one of the team said.
“Stay frosty,” the leader replied. “There are still a lot of places to hide.”
What would Munroe do? Black asked himself.
Look for clues. Find something they left behind. Find out what they took. Find something out of…
As he scanned the room, something on one of the desks in the room’s center caught his eye. He walked over and examined the small box. Red and white letters adorned its surface, and a surgeon general’s warning ran along its spine. A pack of cigarettes. Why would someone have a pack of cigarettes in a laboratory? Had it belonged to one of the scientists? He looked around the room again and noticed more cigarette packs scattered amongst the equipment and tools on the workstations.
“Agent Black,” the team leader said. “Don’t wander off. We’re going to do another sweep and check the server.”
“Okay,” Black said, distracted by his strange discovery. Something about this made him very uneasy, but he couldn’t identify exactly what it was. Thinking back, he remembered seeing another pack on the security desk.
“Black!” the team leader shouted. “Don’t touch anything! I swear if you screw something up…” The man’s voice trailed off in a huff, and he stormed down one of the other corridors.
Black couldn’t understand what that guy’s problem was, but if he didn’t ease up, then Jonas would cave his skull in. As he thought of kill
ing the FBI agent, he tugged at the collar of his Nomex flight suit. It was incredibly hot in the lab. But hadn’t he felt cold when he entered the room? That didn’t make sense.
Another table held a can of air freshener.
On another sat a dismantled cell phone.
He picked up the cell phone and examined it. Someone had rewired the electronic guts to a small silver tube that resembled a CO2 cartridge. He twisted it in his hands and saw two extra holes had been drilled in the side.
What were these things?
He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t find the answers. It made him so angry.
He wiped a sleeve across his forehead where sweat had began to pour down.
Then it came to him. The innocuous devices were actually dispersal units for the weapon that could be hidden in plain sight. He grabbed one of the cigarette packs and pulled it apart. Tiny electronic components scattered across the desk.
Radio controlled? No, he realized suddenly…motion detectors.
The dispersal units could be placed on a table or in a bathroom or hallway where people would walk by. The motion detector would sense the movement and release the chemical weapon as a clear gas. The person affected wouldn’t even realize that they had been dosed.
His heart wanted to pound out of his chest. He felt dizzy. He braced himself against the table and tried to shake the disorientation from his brain.
What was happening?
In a sudden burst of clarity, he realized that things were about to go very wrong.
“Everyone get out of the lab! We’ve been exposed!”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
As the all clear signs continued from inside the complex, Munroe instructed Katherine to lead him closer to the building. He wanted to be ready when and if they received the final confirmation from the team leader that they could enter. If they had missed Almeida, maybe they could at least find some clue to his next move.
He wondered if Annabelle was faring any better. In her last update, he learned that she had checked off several sites from Joey’s list without detecting any suspicious activity. Now, darkness had fallen, and most workers from the sites had retired with the sun. She was going to continue to check the sites through the night, even if she had to break in to do it, but Munroe knew that was a long shot.
He fought for a method to narrow the search, but anger and fear kept clouding his mind.
His emotions kept getting in the way. He needed to stop thinking about the girls and start thinking about the evidence. He needed to look at it clearly and objectively like any other case. Maybe there was something he had missed. Some small puzzle piece that would make all the rest fit together.
The evidence. Facts.
As Jonas Black and the others had watched Almeida’s video of the kids’ burial for any visual clue to where the children were being held, Deacon Munroe had done the only thing he could. He listened. As the video had played, he focused on the sounds. The background noises that most people ignored. Those tiny nuances were his world, and he had memorized every one contained in that video. Unfortunately, he hadn’t identified any distinct noise that could pinpoint a location from a wide geographic scale.
The two most distinctive sounds were an irregular and metallic banging, like that of sheet metal, and a rhythmic tut-tut-tut. But he had also heard the buzz and chirp of insects and birds.
In his mind, he pictured a blank chalkboard. On it, he wrote each piece of hard evidence from the crime scenes and the details he remembered from the video of his daughters being buried. He studied each line.
A banging noise. Sheet metal?
A rhythmic tut-tut-tut sound.
Prominent insect and bird sounds. Wooded area? Rural? Trees nearby, at the least.
Marine clay, most prominent between Interstates 95 and 395.
Brick dust.
Plaster.
Insulation.
Glass particles.
Chlorpyrifos, the pesticide. Used on golf courses.
He hadn’t focused on the chemical initially because it didn’t relate to the others in any obvious way and wasn’t found at both crime scenes, but there was something about it that gnawed at him. Some possible connection between all of the pieces of evidence. Some shadow of memory dancing at the edge of his consciousness but refusing to take shape.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Annabelle. She answered and explained that they hadn’t made any further progress. The desperation was evident in her voice, and it echoed his own feelings, but he had one more lead for her to pursue. He said, “I want you to check out every golf course close to our target area.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
After Pike had initially shot the perimeter guards, Miguel had driven the vehicle down the road and parked it just within the edge of the woods. Almeida had instructed him to do so for this very contingency. After studying the blueprints contained on the flash drive, he knew that a maintenance hatch led up from the lab to the rear of the aboveground facility. This made it easy for them to slip past the incoming assault team and escape into the trees with their prize.
As they moved quickly through the darkness toward the vehicle, Almeida thought again of the strange container. Vaquero had told him that, since the death of his son, he wanted Almeida to take over the business when he died. If he could trust him with the empire, why not tell him about a simple container?
He tried to put such thoughts away. Anything was mere speculation at that point. Instead, he thought of the assault team and wondered if they had discovered the surprise he had prepared for them. He hated that such an action was necessary to cover their escape.
Thinking of those poor men, he said a quick prayer and asked the Lord to watch over them during the coming storm. He hoped that at least some of them would survive.
CHAPTER NINETY
The team leader screamed for everyone to get out, but it was too late. Black dropped to the floor as another member of the squad opened fire into the ceiling. Like a spark igniting a powder keg, the sound of gunfire triggered the instincts of every member of the team. The room exploded with bullets as six highly trained men armed with machine guns blasted imaginary enemies in a wild frenzy.
Black fought to keep his sanity, but with every passing second, his thoughts grew cloudier, and the rage boiled up.
The workstations blew apart under the barrage. Computer monitors, microscopes, papers, glass, plastic, metal—the debris erupted from the tables. Someone targeted the overhead lights, plunging half the room into darkness. The air smelled like it was on fire.
Black heard screaming over the ringing in his ears, but then he realized that the scream emanated from deep in his own throat. Now, he was up and running. For a moment, he felt disconnected from his body. Instead of occupying his own shell, he floated weightless apart from it.
One by one, the team members ran out of ammo and lacked the knowledge of how to reload. He heard more yelling and felt something wet and warm.
He pulled back as he realized that he had just knocked one of the other men unconscious, and blood covered his fists.
Something struck him from behind. He fell to the floor and looked back to see the team leader using his gun as a club. The pain shot through his back as the man pummeled him over and over.
Black’s arms and legs flailed in uncontrolled fury directed at nothing in particular. But then finally he connected with a knee, and the team leader toppled over one of the workstations and fell to the floor.
He had to get out. He couldn’t think of anything beyond that. But he knew that to stay in this room was to die.
The airlock rested ahead, and he sprinted toward it. Fighting off insanity, he managed to get through the airlock and pounded up the stairs. One foot in front of the other. Run. Run as fast as you can. Something behind him. Chasing him.
Anger and fear were everywhe
re. All around him. The world was red with pain and terror.
Suddenly, the cool night air stung his skin. It gave him a brief second of clarity. He felt grass and dirt between his fingers. His whole body trembled. His skin burned. He was on fire. Then he screamed in a primal rage that couldn’t be defined by words.
A voice called out to him. Through the haze of red, he recognized it. Someone spoke to him again. Katherine? Where was she? He needed to tell her to get away from him, but he couldn’t form words.
With all his remaining strength and sanity, he yelled, “RUN!”
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Katherine watched in horror as Black burst from the front door of the research facility and fell to the ground, shaking and screaming. She rushed forward to help him, thinking that he had been shot or injured. “Jonas! What happened?”
Black reared back and bellowed out something unintelligible. Then he swiped at the air and pounded the ground as if fighting some imaginary enemy that only he could see.
From behind her, Munroe said, “Katherine, step away from him slowly.”
She realized then that she was witnessing what had happened to John Corrigan when he killed his family and General Easton when he murdered his wife. The weapon had been released inside the building somehow, and Black had been exposed.
Out of instinct, she reached for her gun and cursed when she remembered that Almeida had taken it and she had yet to obtain a permanent replacement.
Jonas continued to pound his fists against the dirt and hadn’t seemed to recognize her presence. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Munroe stood near a hard-topped brown jeep labeled with some generic green and white logo. It was probably something used by the security staff. If she and Munroe could get inside the jeep, they could drive away and let the effects of the drug wear off. Or at the very least, they could lock the doors and hide.