Viral Siege

by Don Pendleton

  There was a bed with restraining straps. Devon was on the bed. She was struggling against the restraints as the door opened. She was ready to keep fighting until she recognized Bolan. The first thing he saw was the discolored bruise across her right cheek and the bloody cut in her lower lip.

  “Matt?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Apart from being knocked about by that ape Cody, I’m pretty well okay.”

  Bolan unfastened the wrist restraints, then the broader straps around her chest and waist. Devon sat up, shaking her head.

  “What?” he asked.

  “This is the second time you’ve had to spring me from this place, Matt.”

  “What can I say. Let’s go.”

  “Promise I don’t have to ever come back here.”

  “Okay.”

  Devon followed him out the door and along the passage. When they reached the spot where Cody lay, Devon stepped around him.

  “Now, there was a guy who had no idea how to treat a lady.”

  Bolan handed her the pistol from his belt. “Am I safe to put this in your hands? Or are you still mad at me?”

  “Never mad, Matt. Just a tad upset.” She spotted the blood soaking through from his hip. “How did that happen?” She saw Bolan glance down at Cody. “Oh. In that case...”

  “We tangled a little.”

  The distant rattle of autofire reached them. It came from farther in the building, and Bolan figured Riba had to be involved.

  “Stay behind me.”

  “You don’t want me to take point?” Devon asked. She sounded disappointed.

  Bolan led the way and they skirted the entrance door, turning onto the corridor on the far side. They soon reached a heavy steel door with a view port set at head height. There was a hazardous-materials sign on the door. Bolan could see the door was open.

  The echo of more autofire crackled from beyond the door. A man called out. Through the view port Bolan caught sight of an armed figure moving into view from a side corridor. He was firing back at unseen gunners, then crouching as his shots were returned. He backed away, starting along the corridor in the direction of the steel door.

  “Stay back,” Bolan warned Devon as he gripped the edge of the door and dragged it fully open. Despite its bulk and weight, the door moved smoothly and easily on balanced hinges.

  The retreating guy became aware of the opening door and turned to face it. His expression turned from relief to hostility when he realized Bolan wasn’t one of his buddies.

  “...the hell are you?” he yelled, then simply turned his SMG in Bolan’s direction and fired in reaction.

  Bolan had already turned his body aside, flattening against the thick doorframe. He felt the vibration as slugs struck the frame inches from his head. The soldier leveled the P90, tracked the moving gunner and eased the trigger back. The SMG flamed a burst of slugs that caught the guy in midstride. The target’s midsection was punctured in a half-dozen places. He stumbled, then dropped to his knees, triggering his own weapon in a reflex action that drilled a burst into the ceiling. Bolan triggered a second volley, 5.7 mm slugs opening the gunner’s throat in a burst of lacerated flesh. The guy arced backward, slamming to the floor, jerking for long seconds before his system shut down.

  Bolan waved Devon in behind him as he went through the door and advanced along the corridor. Like the area where he had been held, the corridor was lined with doors; the difference here was that each door had a thick view port set in it, and bore the hazard-materials warning.

  “What the hell is this place?” Devon asked as she shadowed Bolan along the corridor.

  “You might regret asking that question,” Bolan said. “Especially if you learn the answer.”

  The side corridor angled off to the right. A sprawled and motionless body lay on the floor. There were more doors. The passage ran for around twenty feet before it terminated in yet another heavy door. This one was wide-open, with a second door no more than ten feet beyond.

  “That one looks suspiciously like an airlock setup,” Devon said. “Let’s hope whatever they have in there is secure.”

  Bolan saw blood smears on the smooth, unbroken floor on the far side of the inner door. There was a bloody handprint on the gleaming metal of the door’s edge. And a few more feet inside lay another body, a weapon close by.

  There was movement farther along the corridor. Someone was flitting past a mass of wheeled cabinets. The movement caught Bolan’s attention. He was certain he had recognized a black leather jacket and white shirt.

  “Joshua? Is that you?”

  The welcome response reached him from the depths of the gleaming white room.

  “Cooper? ’Bout time you showed.” Riba’s tall shape eased into view. “You’re covered. The place is clear.”

  Bolan moved to meet the P.I. Riba nodded, glancing beyond Bolan at Devon as she stepped forward.

  “You’re Laura? Are you okay?” he asked her.

  Devon nodded, her cheeks flushing at his solicitous concern. “Yes. Confused, but fine.”

  “Always gets confusing when Cooper is involved.”

  “I’ve found that out the hard way.”

  “This is Joshua Riba,” Bolan said.

  “Met your friends at the diner,” Riba said. “They’ve been worried about you.

  “I got a wounded guy along here,” Riba added.

  He led the way back to where a man lay against the wall, clutching at a bloodied shoulder. The guy was in obvious pain. Devon knelt by him and eased his hand away from the wound, speaking to him in low tones.

  “Shoulder bone is shattered,” she said after a brief inspection.

  Riba glanced at Bolan.

  “Afghanistan,” the Executioner explained. “She was a medic.”

  “Yes, I remember Jarvis mentioning that to me. Handy to have around.”

  Bolan stood over the ashen-faced man. “We’ll get you help as soon as you give me what I need to know,” he said. “Where’s Rackham?”

  “I’d tell him,” Devon said. “He won’t quit asking if you don’t.”

  “He took off once he figured things were getting out of control,” the man said.

  “He have the virus?”

  The guy nodded, grimacing as Devon maneuvered his arm into a secure position.

  “It’s on the way to him. One of the lab techs got the call to deliver it to him before they took off. Rackham’s got the Koreans flying in from over the border.”

  “One more question and I’ll call for medical help,” Bolan said.

  But the guy passed out before the question could be asked.

  Devon checked him out and shook her head. “He’s just lost too much blood,” she said. “Shock from the pain isn’t helping.”

  She made her way to the row of medical cabinets.

  “Damn,” Bolan said. “We need to get a line on where Rackham went.”

  Bolan followed Riba to the airlock doors and stared through the view window.

  “This is the worst part,” Riba said. “I took a look before you showed up. It isn’t pretty.”

  Bolan examined the half-dozen cubicles. Even from where he stood he could see that each cubicle held a hospital-type bed and five of the beds held an occupant. A cursory glance showed him the cubicles were sealed, with overhead air and filtration units fitted. The cubicles held monitoring equipment and were brightly lit. Bolan could hear the hum of electronic machinery.

  “Those cubicles must be isolated so the lab techs could work safely,” he said.

  All of the patients were restrained with wrist and ankle straps. Monitoring leads and plastic tubes led from each figure back to machines and fluid bottles. Flickering lines danced back and forth across readout panels.

  Bolan
checked the clipboards that hung outside the cubicles. He knew two out of the five people in the beds.

  The third one along was Dr. Lawrence Pembury.

  The one at the far end read Bremner. The man Bolan had been searching for.

  Bolan wouldn’t have been able to identify the man by his features. His face was disfigured by a mass of raw pustules covering his flesh. The pustules also covered his exposed arms and hands. Bremner’s lips were swollen and bloated, his tongue, too. Many of the pustules had burst, allowing trails of thick pus to leak out. There had been hemorrhaging of blood from the man’s eyes, nose and ears. Bolan could see that Bremner’s chest was barely moving and the readouts on the monitoring equipment were close to being flatlined.

  “What have they done to these people?” Devon whispered.

  She had come up behind them to stare through the view window.

  “They used them as guinea pigs. Test subjects for the damned virus they developed,” Bolan said. The rage building up inside him threatened to explode. He felt Devon’s hand grip one of his own.

  As he moved along the line of cubicles, Bolan noted that the three other patients were dead. Their deformed bodies were massively infected, the burst pustules completely covering them. Rigid hands clutched at the empty air, the finger joints grotesquely swollen.

  Gazing closer at Pembury’s cubicle, Bolan saw that the doctor’s symptoms were less advanced than any of the others. His glistening flesh showed pustules that were smaller in size, and only a few had burst. His face was turned toward the glass front of the cubicle and he caught Bolan’s gaze, recognizing him. His swollen lips moved silently, one clawing hand raised in Bolan’s direction. His eyes, weeping red, pleaded for some kind of relief.

  The man’s suffering tore at Bolan. For one of the few times in his life, he was unable to relieve the suffering of a victim. His hand closed even tighter around Devon’s hand and she became aware of his feelings. Her free hand reached up to grip his arm.

  “God help them,” Bolan whispered because he couldn’t. “I’ll find Rackham. I don’t care where he goes. I’ll find him and make him pay for what he’s done to these poor bastards.”

  He got Brognola’s number from Riba and placed a call.

  Chapter 15

  Bolan had spoken to Hal Brognola, Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman. His memory loss denied him full recognition, though there were flickers of memory. The fact he had a sometimes-intimate relationship with Price failed to rekindle a spark at the time; in truth it impacted more on the feisty young woman than she herself offered to show. Brognola understood her feelings when she realized Bolan didn’t know who she was.

  “We checked out the facility and it’s been shut down,” Bolan said. “Rackham left behind a defensive team and infected patients.”

  “He sounds like a nice guy.”

  “Riba and I need to go talk to Callum,” Bolan said. “I’m sure he’ll know where Rackham is. We need to track down Rackham ASAP, before he hands over that virus to the Koreans.”

  “You guys need to be checked before you leave,” Brognola said. “And I’ll get Bear to run a trace on this Greg Rackham, Striker.”

  “This place is near enough deserted except for the patients and a few of Rackham’s crew. The lab technicians have gone, as well. Hell, they just left their victims strapped in those damned cubicles. Rackham is running a business. Dirty it may be, but he needs to keep his clients happy if that’s the right way of describing it,” Bolan said. “And what’s this Striker about?”

  “One of your code names,” Brognola said. “And it’s what you do.”

  “Do I have many code names?”

  “How long have you got?”

  “And we’re friends?”

  “Hell, yes. From way back. You don’t recall that?”

  “There’s a snatch of memory about you chasing me and wanting to put me in jail. Is that accurate?”

  “Yeah. Back in our early days. But things have changed since then.”

  “And we still like each other?”

  The incongruity of the remark drew a genuine bellow of laughter from Brognola. When he regained control he said, “It goes deeper than just liking each other, my friend. A whole lot deeper.”

  “And I work for you?”

  “Uh-huh. You work with me. Sometimes you work solo. And when the hammer comes down you even work for the President.”

  Bolan was silent for a heartbeat. “Do I get downtime?”

  “What do you think?”

  “We’ll stay here until the cavalry arrives and see that the survivors are taken good care of. Then Riba and I are out of here. I might not have everything back in place, but I know when a piece of scum like Greg Rackham needs putting down.”

  “Now, that sounds like the guy I know,” Brognola said. “I’ll brief the incoming teams to clear you ASAP. There won’t be any delays.”

  “With the threat Rackham is likely to be carrying with him in those vials, we can’t afford any delays. Hal, ask the FBI to bring along a cell phone I can use.”

  “Will do. Do you need weapons?”

  “We have ordnance. A ride back to where Riba left his truck would be handy.”

  “Are you sure you want to stay with this, Striker?”

  “Damn sure. I don’t want to think of the damage Rackham’s virus could do. I just want to stop him passing it on to his customer. There’s no way of knowing what they want to do with it.”

  “Understood. We’re here 24/7. Anything you need, just call.”

  * * *

  THE CDC ARRIVED FIRST, in a helicopter that disgorged hazard-suited technicians who quickly assessed the situation and took command of the lab facility. Along with Riba and Devon, Bolan was checked over thoroughly. They were all passed as hazard free. The lab was 100 percent functional, and no traces of the virus had escaped the secure section.

  “We need to neutralize this area,” the field supervisor told Bolan.

  The doctor was a woman, dark-haired and striking. Her name tag identified her as Dr. Helen Tasker.

  “How about the patients?” Bolan asked.

  Med teams were inside the secure cubicles.

  “The man named Bremner isn’t going to make it,” Tasker said. “Sorry. He’s too far gone. The exterior symptoms are the least of his worries. From what my people have deduced, the virus has already started to destroy his system. Even if we counteracted it, the damage to his organs will be irreversible. I wish I could give you better news. We’ll try, but I’m not happy.”

  “Pembury?”

  “He hasn’t been given such a lengthy exposure, so we might pull him through.”

  “No guarantees?”

  “These virus permutations present us with obstacles. It’s difficult to know how to treat it because we don’t have the genetic blueprint to work from. When a virus is altered, it doesn’t follow the normal pathways. Until we pin it down it’s difficult to establish what we are working against. We’ll do what we can for him.”

  “And this is what Rackham is hoping to sell to his client?” Riba said. “This man is sick.”

  “Let me see,” Tasker said. “The man set this place up, developed the virus and has taken off with it in order to sell it? He doesn’t seem to have any problem when it comes to out-and-out violence, and he kills if it suits his purpose. Did I miss anything? In that case, I diagnose Mr. Rackham as one really sick, amoral man.”

  A tight group of men pushed its way into the area. Bolan counted six of them. All were smartly dressed in suits and neat ties, wearing similar haircuts and intense expressions on their faces.

  “Spooks,” Tasker whispered after a cursory glance at them.

  Enter the FBI, Bolan thought.

  The leader of the group of agents strode up to them. />
  “I’m Special Agent in Charge Drake Duncan.”

  “In charge of what?” Tasker asked.

  “This whole mess,” Duncan snapped. “As of now.”

  Tasker turned to face him, her hands on her hips, fire in her eyes. “Fine,” she said. “Shall I withdraw my team and let you boys take over? Just say so and we’ll leave. The section through that door contains a lethal virus we’re trying to contain, but if you want, we can pack up and go home. Just one word of caution. Lethal viruses don’t respond to being ordered around, and your big guns won’t scare them.”

  Duncan’s face reddened. It was plain he didn’t like to be talked down to and especially by a woman.

  “My job is to control this situation...” he stated.

  “Considering this situation was created in the first place suggests to me somewhere along the line you people weren’t as on the ball as you like to make out,” Tasker replied. “How the hell does someone set up an illegal facility like this anyhow?”

  “By the time we got a line on it, the operation was well established.”

  “Oh? Agent Duncan, why doesn’t that surprise me? Just stay out of my way while my people and I try to contain this mess.”

  She turned to Bolan. “You go and find Rackham before he sells his virus to the highest bidder.” Then she turned and strode toward her team.

  Duncan glanced at his own team and gave them a nod. They moved off to assess what needed to be done, leaving Bolan, Riba and Devon with the FBI SAC.

  “Glad she’s not mad at me,” Riba murmured.

  “She certainly speaks her mind,” Duncan said. “Hell, she wasn’t far wrong. We missed this, and it got away from us.”

  “I don’t suppose Rackham did a deal to advertise what he was doing,” Bolan said.

  Duncan rubbed his hand across his face and took a breath.

  “You’re Cooper?”

  Bolan nodded and held out a hand. The FBI agent took it.

  “Bremner—I’m sorry for what’s happened to him,” Bolan stated.