The Medusa Game

by Cindy Dees

  The briefer shook her head. “Not exactly. This strand is Ahmed al Abhoud’s DNA on file at the FBI. You can see here and here how our sample is not quite an exact match. It’s only about a seventy-five percent match, in fact. Our sample DNA came from al Abhoud’s son, Abdul al Abhoud.”

  Isabella stared in shock. A son? And he bled in Emma Holt’s bedroom?

  The briefer continued. “Our spatter analysis of the photos provided says the blood samples came from a struggle. Mrs. Holt thrashed around after she developed a small, bleeding wound, possibly on her arm or hand. Mr. Abhoud bled from a more stationary position, again probably a small wound that dripped.”

  Dex asked, “So we’re not looking at a murder scene?”

  The briefer laughed. “Oh, no. The scene of a struggle, but no more. Much more in keeping with a domestic altercation, and assault, or, say, a kidnapping.”

  Isabella frowned. Had Emma Holt learned of her husband’s work with Agent Alpha? Had they fought about it and Holt had his wife kidnapped to keep her quiet? Was he taking care of her while he was hiding?

  It was a logical explanation, but something in it didn’t jive. She thought about the photo albums she’d gone through in the Holt home. Harlan and Emma Holt were crazy in love, or they were the best actors she’d seen in a while. Why would Emma squeal on her husband, and why would he attack her and help someone kidnap her? The only possible reason Emma would turn on him would have to be something terrible—like he was planning to use the nerve gas he’d synthesized. But on whom? Nerve gas was an agent of mass death. You didn’t target one person. You targeted a whole lot of people. An army or a city.

  Oh, she so didn’t like where that line of thinking was taking her. She glanced over at Dex, and from the rippling muscles in his clenched jaw, she’d lay odds his thoughts were running in the same direction.

  Into the heavy silence that had fallen over the room, Isabella said, “What can you tell us about Agent Bravo, or whatever the other half of this compound is called?”

  The briefer shuffled her notes and then said, “It’s an odorless liquid that’s faintly amber in color in large quantities but appears clear in aerosol form or in a small quantity. Agent Alpha, in powdered form, can be stirred directly into it to achieve the release of poisonous gas, or Agent Alpha can be mixed with any nonreactive liquid and added to the liquid Agent Bravo to achieve the same results. Generally, contact is sufficient to create the reaction. Neither agitation—as in shaking it—nor heating are necessary to promote the chemical reaction.”

  Dex asked grimly, “And exactly how nasty is the gas this stuff produces?”

  The briefer’s answer was succinct. “One lungful will kill you.”

  Isabella leaned forward. “What quantities of these agents are needed to knock off a large number of people?”

  “That’s the good news. Both of these are bulk chemicals. To take out a room this size, you’re looking at maybe an ounce of Agent Alpha and around two ounces of Agent Bravo. On a large scale, several hundred pounds of Agent Alpha—which is the catalyst by the way—would be required to activate anywhere from several hundred to several thousand gallons of Agent Bravo.”

  This stuff sounded like Agent Orange; something that would be sprayed out the back of an airplane to blanket a large area. “Is the gas lighter or heavier than air?”

  “It’s slightly heavier. But not by much. If there’s any significant air movement, it will circulate rapidly throughout a space.”

  “How does the United States deliver this stuff?” Manfred Schmidt asked.

  The briefer was terse. “The United States has not developed this weapon and does not maintain a stockpile of it. Therefore, we have no delivery method. It has simply been studied because of intelligence received that other nations might be considering developing it as a weapon.”

  Schmidt’s curled lip made it clear he didn’t buy the briefer’s answer. “Then how would this hypothetical other country deliver it?”

  “Probably by airplane. Something along the lines of a crop duster.”

  Schmidt nodded. “Well, there you have it. Let’s ban any sort of crop duster type aircraft over Lake Placid.”

  One of the other men at the table leaned forward. “It’s not that simple. Many planes can be retrofitted with sprayers. We’ll need to put flight restrictions on all small aircraft, not only over the town of Lake Placid but all the outdoor venues, as well. We probably ought to put a no-fly zone over this part of the state and let in and out only aircraft on IFR—instrument flight rules—flight plans to the Lake Placid International Airport.”

  The meeting devolved into a technical discussion about how to define the no-fly zone and Isabella let her thoughts wander. Why would Harlan Holt want to gas the Olympics? He’d never shown any signs of political extremism nor of mental instability. It didn’t add up.

  Eventually, the meeting moved on. The next briefer to stand up was a grim-looking guy in a black suit. If he put on dark sunglasses, he’d look like he’d stepped off of a movie set. No real person dressed like that! The guy in black cued up a video. Then, he began to speak in a predictably deadpan voice. “We interrogated Reda Aziz earlier this evening. The gentleman seated to the prisoner’s right is his attorney, and the man to the left is the interpreter. My associate who conducted the interview and I are fluent in Arabic, but we elected to conduct the interview in English.”

  Standard procedure for interrogators to understand more than they let on.

  The guy continued, “As you know, Mr. Aziz has steadfastly refused to answer any questions. He continued to refuse tonight. However, that does not mean we learned nothing from him. I want to play you a short video clip and let you draw your own conclusions.”

  Isabella went into visual analysis mode as the lights dimmed and the still image on the screen jerked into motion. A voice off camera said, “Mr. Aziz, have you ever heard of a group called the Red Jihad?”

  The translator repeated the question in Arabic, and the young man jerked like he’d just touched a live wire. His eyes darted around the room, and his skin went visibly pale.

  The voice off camera again. “Repeat the question, please.”

  The translator complied, and the kid shook his head back and forth in quick, tiny negative movements. That was panic if she’d ever seen it. The kid looked about ready to pee his pants. He was definitely considering fleeing the scene, even if that meant jumping through the wall.

  The briefer in black stood as the clip ended and the lights came up. “We infer from this young man’s reaction that he has, indeed, heard of the Red Jihad.”

  Duh. Anybody could tell that.

  “At Major Thorpe’s request, some of our overseas operatives have contacted their informants to inquire about this group. Our only hit was in the Middle East. I cannot reveal the exact location or source, but the Red Jihad was described as a small, relatively wealthy group of highly educated persons with very high-level political and possibly religious connections and activist goals.”

  Isabella spoke up. “So, in other words, they’re a terrorist group?”

  The man turned his withering gaze on her. “I am not in the business of speculating. I am merely stating the facts, ma’am.”

  She’d laugh at the guy if this weren’t such a serious matter. “We first heard the name in connection with Chechnya. Is this an international group, then?”

  The guy answered dismissively, “Our Chechnyan operative found no evidence of the Red Jihad in that country.”

  She retorted, “That doesn’t mean the Red Jihad isn’t there. It only means your guy didn’t know about it.”

  The suit shrugged.

  She pressed him again. “Did your Middle Eastern contacts have any names of possible members? Any specifics?”

  Black Suit replied, “Negative. Just what I told you already.”

  Well, it wasn’t a lot, but it was better than nothing. So. A kid from Bhoukar was scared silly when Red Jihad was mentioned. Informants in the
Middle East called it a small, rich, smart “activist” group. And an old cell of Chechnyan Muslim terrorists was talking about it. Clearly, it was time to find out more about what those Chechnyans were up to and see if Reda Aziz’s buddies could be located and brought in, too. She could only pray that Harlan Holt had nothing to do with this Red Jihad that seemed to have converged upon Lake Placid.

  The meeting dragged on for a while, but eventually came to an end. Dex gave her a ride home. He stopped the car in front of the sidewalk leading to her place.

  “Let me park and I’ll walk you up to your apartment,” he said.

  She met his gaze across the dim interior and said candidly, “I think maybe you’d better not, tonight. I’d be too tempted to invite you in.”

  It was too dark to see the expression in his eyes, but a long silence followed. His jaw clenched. Unclenched. Finally, he replied, “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’d be tempted to accept the invitation.” He added, “Another time, though.”

  She got out and headed for her place as Dex drove toward the other end of the complex. Yeah, another time. Not only was it about meeting the right guy, but it was about doing it at the right time and place, too. She and Dex had a spark, but now was neither the right time nor the right place. She had a sinking feeling that their window of opportunity was going to pass them by. They’d go home after these Olympics, get tied up in their respective jobs, get sent in opposite directions halfway around the world, and a few years from now look back and wonder why they’d never hooked up.

  It was the bane of dating military men. Syncing up two busy, travel-filled careers never worked. It had been a nice idea, though. She unlocked her door, dropped the keys in her pocket, and stepped into her dark apartment.

  Something big and dark came flying at her. It slammed into her and knocked her to the ground.

  Intruder!

  She flung up her arms to ward off the fists that flew at her face. A few of the thick, bony blows got through her defenses, though. She tasted blood and registered impacts to her face and head. The guy was sitting on her chest and she could barely breathe.

  She was in trouble. A combination of fear, fury and raw adrenaline kicked in as the realization hit her that she could die. She might never get to kiss Dex, to see where their relationship went, to know if he was The One or just the one for now. Desperate to live, she kicked at the back of the guy’s head and he swore. But then something heavy grabbed her legs and jumped on top of them.

  Another assailant.

  Crap. She threw a flurry of elbows and fists, and bucked and squirmed as best she could under the crushing weight of two big, burly men. She’d scream, except she had no freaking air. The guy on top of her must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds or more. Spots were starting to dance in front of her eyes.

  The guy on her chest grabbed her left wrist. If he got both of her hands, she’d be defenseless! Desperately, she jabbed up with her right hand, her fingers extended and stiff. She stabbed him in both eyes and he cried out. He let go of her wrist and clutched at his face.

  She followed with a punch to his nose. She threw everything she had into it. He howled like she’d broken it as she pulled her fist back and slammed it squarely into the guy’s solar plexus. He was heavy enough that his breastbone was padded with fat and muscle, but he still made the horrible gasping sound that went with having his breath knocked violently out of him. Whoever was on her legs must have figured out his buddy was in trouble. He jumped up and moved around the gasping guy to take over pounding on her.

  He knelt beside her, his face out of reach. But his crotch wasn’t. She faked a swing at his face and got him to lean back away from the wild roundhouse. Then, as fast as she could, she yanked the fist down and jabbed forward, slamming it into his groin with everything she could muster. The guy yelled in pain and fury, swearing in some language she didn’t recognize.

  She heaved with her body. The guy on top of her lost his balance and she managed to turn on her side. She slipped slightly out from between his legs. He sat down on her again, but he was on her left hip this time. She drew in great gasps of air and twisted back and forth, flailing her fists and screaming at the top of her lungs.

  The guy on top of her half fell off of her and rolled away. He panted something to his buddy, who was still on the floor, curled up around his cupped hands. The first thug reached down and dragged the second man to his feet. Still holding his crotch, the second guy half limped, half ran to the door. The two men fled into the night.

  Isabella rolled to her hands and knees. Tried to push to her feet. Discovered she couldn’t do it. A wave of dizziness and nausea slammed into her. She panted like a dog, her head hanging low between her shoulders. The threat of barfing passed, and she managed to push unsteadily to her feet. She staggered to her door and out into the parking lot. It wasn’t like she could take them on again, but maybe she could catch a glimpse of a car or something. An engine revved and she ran clumsily into the parking lot to get a look at it.

  She couldn’t make out much. It was too far away. Dark, two door sedan. Vague, generic outline. She turned to head back to her place, and the shivering set in. Her whole body shook, not fine ripples of cold across her skin, but an intense trembling that made walking hard. Nope, definitely not cold. Shock.

  She pulled out her cell phone. Its face didn’t light up when she flipped it open. Must’ve been busted in the ruckus. She cursed under her breath and turned toward the far end of the parking lot. Besides the fact that the idea of stepping into her dark apartment alone right now gave her the heebie-jeebies, she needed to report the attack. Could probably use some medical attention, too. She wasn’t tasting blood anymore, but there was a ragged spot on the inside of her left cheek that hurt when she probed it with her tongue.

  She made the long, cold walk to Dex’s apartment. Climbing the stairs to the second floor was a painful exercise she was only able to do one step at a time. Those guys must’ve gotten in more licks than she’d realized. She knocked on Dex’s door.

  After a short pause, the lock rattled and the door opened. Dex took one look at her and threw the door wide open. She couldn’t help it. She stepped forward, straight into his arms. He didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped tightly around her. God, that felt good. Safe.

  “What happened?”

  She exhaled slowly, the sound of his heart thumping steadily in her ear. “Two guys were waiting in my apartment. They jumped me just as I entered and knocked me down. I fought them off eventually. They ran and I followed them out into the parking lot. I didn’t get a good look at them or their car. They were big. Beefy builds. Strong. Seemed to know their way around a fight.”

  He let go of her and headed for the phone in the kitchen.

  “Facial features?” he asked, his voice strangely tight as he dialed.

  “Ski masks,” she replied. “They also had on black jackets and black leather gloves. Thin ones. I felt knuckles when they hit me.”

  He spoke quickly into the phone. “Detective Picconi. I’m glad it’s you. Isabella Torres was just attacked in her apartment. The intruders got away and she’s okay. If you could send a couple guys over to check out her place, that’d be great. She’s pretty rattled. Can she file a report in the morning?” A short pause. “Thanks. Eight o’clock would be great. She’ll be there. Oh, and Picconi, she’s got permits for any weapons your men find.”

  He hung up. “Is your door unlocked?”

  She smiled crookedly. “I think it’s standing wide open.”

  “Don’t worry about it. The cops will button it up when they’re done. Now, let’s have a look at that bruise on your jaw.”

  He led her into his bedroom and gestured for her to sit while he rummaged in his field pack for a first aid kit. “You gotta stop taking on gangs by yourself, Torres,” he called from inside his closet.

  “Hey, they’re the ones coming after me,” she called back.

  He stepped back into the room. Man, he filled the place with
his presence. “Any guesses as to who it was this time?”

  She sucked in her breath as he pressed an alcohol soaked gauze pad against her scraped jaw. From between clenched teeth, she said, “It wasn’t Reda Aziz’s buddies, that’s for sure. These guys were huge. More like—” she paused as it hit her “—more like Gorabchek and his men.”

  Dex nodded as he smeared some white cream on her cheek. It numbed the sting of the wound. “We’ve got a connection between the two, so it would make sense.”

  “Why does Red Jihad want to beat me up? What have I done to piss them off?”

  He knelt in front of her and reached out for her ribs. She jerked back, surprised. He studied her closely. “All they did was hit you? Nothing else?”

  He thought they might have sexually assaulted her. She quickly disabused him of that notion. “That’s all. You just surprised me. And,” she confessed reluctantly, “I’m ticklish.”

  “For crying out loud, woman. Don’t scare me like that.” He reached out again and laid his hands on her ribs. “Let me know if anything hurts when I push on it.”

  “I know the drill. And I’ve seen guys with busted ribs. You’ll know if it hurts.”

  He grinned. “I’ve cracked a few myself over the years. They’re a bitch. Every time you inhale it’s like a knife in your lung. You end up holding your breath a lot.”

  His hands crept underneath her breasts and she tried really, really hard not to think about it. But when he pressed his palms against her and then swore quietly, it was pretty damned hard to ignore.

  “Okay, so I’m attracted to you,” he said abruptly. “This is incredibly uncomfortable for me to do, but it has to be done. Better me than some stranger in an emergency room.”

  She wasn’t so sure about that. Suddenly she was having more than a little trouble breathing herself. She was sure he checked her ribs as fast as he could, but it was an eternity until his warm, strong, gentle hands lifted away from her. He rocked back on his heels and stood up. “You’ll live,” he announced.

  She looked up at him and said soberly, “I’m not so sure about that.”