Down another corridor she stopped before a door with James Whelan, Rear Admiral stenciled in black letters on frosted glass. She smoothed her uniform blouse and went in. Beverly, the base commander’s secretary, was at her desk in the outer office.
“Good morning, Liz,” the woman said brightly. She was a few years younger than Liz, thicker and wearing a yellow dress, eyeglasses hung around her neck on a chain. “I see you brought a friend.”
Liz set the pet carrier down on a chair. “I’m going to leave Blackbeard with Dottie Carr over at the Base Exchange to watch him while I’m out. Is it okay if I leave him with you while I talk to the skipper?” She jerked a thumb at the door to the inner office.
The secretary smiled. “He’s no trouble at all,” she said, coming around the desk and crouching in front of the pet carrier. “Are you, Blackbeard?”
The cat began to purr and rub his head against the grille. He knew Beverly.
“They’re waiting for you,” Beverly said, rising.
Liz frowned. “Who is they? It’s not just Whelan?”
Beverly shook her head. “You didn’t know there was a meeting?” She seemed flustered. “I just assumed . . .”
Liz gave her a smile. “Not to worry, Bev.” She rapped hard on the door frame twice, then let herself in.
The office of Base Seattle’s ranking officer was carpeted and done in rich, dark wood paneling and bookcases. The admiral’s desk sat before blinds that were mostly closed and was flanked by the American flag on one side and the Coast Guard colors, known as the Service Mark, on the other. Photos, awards, and framed certificates covered the walls. A conference table lined with padded leather chairs dominated the room. Liz caught the scent of the admiral’s aftershave at once. Too much Old Spice. His grandchildren insisted on giving it to him every Christmas, he had once told her.
The admiral rose from his desk as she entered. He was thickening around the middle, wearing a light blue tropical uniform shirt, the breast heavy with ribbons, and he smiled when he saw her, but Liz noticed at once that it was forced. Standing near the conference table, a stack of manila file folders on the polished surface before them, were a male Coast Guard officer and a thirty-something woman in a tailored gray business suit.
Liz came to attention. “Captain Elizabeth Kidd, reporting as ordered.”
The admiral came from behind the desk and shook her hand. His grip and his eyes were warm, but he looked tired. “Good to see you, Liz.” He put a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face the two others, who had stopped talking and now stared at her.
“This is Lieutenant Commander Chamberlain of Coast Guard Investigation Services,” the admiral said, “and this is Special Agent Ramsey of the FBI’s Seattle field office.”
The visitors did not offer to shake hands.
Liz’s radar was up, and the lines around her mouth deepened. The two investigators appeared to be waiting for Liz to ask, What’s this all about? She hadn’t risen to command by being predictable, and remained quiet.
“Let’s take a seat.” Admiral Whelan took the chair at the head of the table and gestured for Liz to sit beside him. The two investigators sat down across from her.
Whelan cleared his throat. “Liz, Lieutenant Commander Chamberlain and Agent Ramsey are here because of a situation involving Charlie. This is going to be difficult, but I trust in your professionalism and will expect your cooperation.”
“Chick?” Liz said, looking at her superior officer. “What happened? Is he all right?”
Whelan nodded, and then the Coast Guard investigator started. “Captain Kidd . . .” He smiled and shook his head. “Captain, is it true you’re a blood descendant of the famous pirate?”
Elizabeth knew this was simply the young man’s attempt to break the ice and establish rapport. She had no shame about her ancestor, quite the opposite, actually, but it was the smirk she didn’t care for. It put an edge on her voice. “You didn’t really come here to discuss my lineage, did you, Mr. Chamberlain? Do you have some official business?”
The young man reddened.
Agent Ramsey took over, her voice clipped and businesslike. “Captain, I’m going to explain some details to you that might help move this conversation forward. At first, they will seem quite sensitive. The facts are not in dispute, however, and the case is bulletproof. We would not have come to you at this point were that not the case.” She folded her hands on the table. “I’m going to be candid with you out of respect for your service to this country, and in the hope you will in turn provide full disclosure.”
The FBI agent rested her hand on a file as she spoke, not opening it. She knew the case well. “Your brother, Senior Chief Charles Kidd, is the suspect in a joint FBI, DEA, and Coast Guard investigation involving drug trafficking and multiple homicides. His ship just arrived at the base, and he is being taken into custody as we speak.”
Elizabeth stared at the female agent, stunned by the allegations and unable to speak. Admiral Whelan reached out and gripped her arm for reassurance.
“Our evidence,” the agent continued, “establishes that on June twenty-seventh of this year, Mr. Kidd was involved in a narcotics transaction just off the Washington coast, using his own boat. He murdered three foreign nationals during that transaction. A fourth survived, a witness to the homicides. As it turns out, that man was a DEA informant.”
Liz processed the words as the CGIS officer and her commander watched her. There was no notable change of expression on Liz’s face, but inside was a storm of scattered thoughts and emotions. Chick, a murderer? Drug deals? Yes, he had his own boat, and when he wasn’t at sea with the Coast Guard, he often went away for days at a time by himself to go fishing and camping. He had a temper, to which anyone who knew him could attest, and he wasn’t the most polished person in the world. He’d barely hung on to his Chief’s rate, drawing the occasional disciplinary action for conduct. There were other issues as well, troubles during his childhood, but these had never seemed to manifest as more serious issues in his adulthood. Not really. A murderer, though? Not a chance.
“Captain,” the FBI agent said, “Senior Chief Kidd resides with you in your home in Rainier Valley.” It was a statement, not a question.
Liz nodded. “He lives downstairs.”
Now the agent did open her file, and read off the address. “We’ll be executing a search warrant there this morning. For both residences.”
Both residences, Liz thought. She pictured men in black tactical gear and others in Windbreakers with yellow FBI and DEA letters on the back, storming her home as if Osama bin Laden himself might be inside. It would be a circus, the media would show up, and Elizabeth Kidd’s name—and profession—would be spoken on the air in the same sentences as drug trafficking and murder.
Oh, Chick, what have you done to me? Whether it was true or not, regardless of the fact that she had known nothing about it, Liz had no illusions about what this would mean for her career, her command. The look on both investigators’ faces said they believed she was in this thing up to her eyes. And what if they found something in Chick’s apartment? Upstairs or downstairs, it would remove any doubts about her complicity.
There was a long silence then, except for a ringing phone in the outer office.
“James,” Liz said, turning to her commanding officer, “I can’t believe this about Charlie, and you can’t believe I had anything to do with murder, or anything illegal.”
The admiral’s eyes were guarded. “Elizabeth, I don’t know what to believe.”
Her heart broke as he said the words.
“The best thing for everyone is for you to cooperate and tell the truth,” the admiral said.
The officer from Investigation Services slid a legal pad and pen toward her across the desk. “Ma’am, we’ll require a detailed statement from you, to get your initial position on record.”
Her initial position on record so they could pick it apart for comparison once the real questioning began. She wondered if she should ask for a lawyer. Probably. But then what could possibly make her look more guilty than asking for one and staying quiet?
The phone kept ringing outside, followed by a thump against the wall. No one seemed to notice. All eyes were on Liz.
The female agent pulled a phone from a jacket pocket, looking at a text. “The senior chief has been taken into custody without incident,” she said without looking up. “They have him at the dock right now.” Then she rose, already dialing and moving toward the office door. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping out.
The secretary’s phone was still ringing. Answer the damn thing already, Beverly, Liz thought. She looked at the pad and pen before her, at the impassive face of the Coast Guard investigator, then at her commander.
“Admiral, what is this going to mean for me?” She already knew the answer but needed to hear the man say it.
Whelan frowned. “Captain, you’ll be beached and placed on administrative duty until this matter is resolved.”
Liz’s heart fell even further at the man’s official tone. “My ship . . .”
“Your XO will take command for now.” The admiral looked away.
Until you find a new captain to replace me permanently. Her Coast Guard career was finished. A loud bang from the secretary’s office made Whelan look up in annoyance. “Mr. Chamberlain, go see what that’s about.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” The investigator crossed the room and opened the door.
Special Agent Ramsey was waiting on the other side.
Her charcoal suit was darkened and wet, both hands were bloody, and her once-neat hair looked pulled and disheveled. Red smears covered her mouth and cheeks, and her head hung low and forward. The FBI agent’s eyes were a milky yellow.
With a snarl, she caught the Coast Guard investigator by the shoulders and sank her teeth into his Adam’s apple, ripping it out in a red spray. Chamberlain let out a gurgling cry and went down with the agent on top of him. The woman held the man’s head in both hands as she tore back into his neck.
Liz bolted to her feet, knocking over her chair, but the admiral just sat there, hands splayed across the table’s polished surface. His mouth was working, but no sound was coming out. In the distance, beyond the frosted-glass door that led from Beverly’s office to the corridor, came a high-pitched screaming.
The admiral stood abruptly then, and Agent Ramsey’s head snapped up at the sudden movement. She let out a low growl and bared her teeth, rising in a crouch over the dead Coast Guard investigator. Blood was soaking into the carpet around his body. The admiral seemed to be trying to anticipate which way the woman would go around the table, left or right, so he could move in the opposite direction and keep the barrier between them. By now, Elizabeth had backed into the room near her commander’s desk, ripping aside the blinds to get at the catches that secured the tip-out windows.
The creature that had been Agent Ramsey didn’t go left or right. Instead, she scrambled right up onto the conference table and scuttled forward on hands and knees, making a throaty, croaking sound. Admiral Whelan wasn’t quick enough, and was standing there with his hands raised when the dead FBI agent lunged off the table and took the older man to the floor.
Still tugging on a window latch that would not give, Liz heard the attack behind her, heard James Whelan choking on his own blood. She turned to see Agent Ramsey straddling a man who had been not only her commanding officer, but her friend for more than a decade. Even as the woman savaged him, those dead, yellow eyes stared up and locked on the only remaining living thing in the room.
The creature—Liz could think of no other word for it—was between her and the door. She would never get by it. She also sensed that should she try to get out in the other direction, the thing would pull her down before she got halfway out the window. If she could open it at all.
Liz clenched her teeth. It was time to take the battle to the enemy.
On the wall among the admiral’s many commendations and framed certificates was a chrome-plated anchor about the size of a hammer, affixed to a polished walnut plaque. Liz snatched it off the wall and put all her lean muscle into prying the object off the wood. It came away with a ripping sound, just as Agent Ramsey scrambled to her feet and attacked.
Liz had no thoughts of how what she was seeing could even be possible; she only saw a combat problem that needed resolution, something that required the cool precision that had put her in command of the USCG’s finest boat, and she moved on instinct.
In the span of a second she judged the distance and swung, the chrome anchor heavy in her hand, arcing overhead in a flash. One bladed end hit the woman’s head right at the crown and sank up to the anchor’s central shaft with a crunch of bone and a burst of red. The thing that had been Ramsey shuddered and dropped immediately to the carpeted floor, Liz ripping the hammer-sized anchor free as the woman fell.
She looked down at James Whelan and saw that he was beyond help, just as another croak came from across the room. It sounded almost as if there were a question mark at the end of the sound. Lieutenant Commander Chamberlain was sitting up, legs stretched out before him, his uniform soaked red. He was facing away from her and croaked again, turning his head right and left.
Back from the dead? This went beyond bio attacks and into the realm of horror movies. Without hesitation, Liz strode to the sitting officer and buried the anchor in the top of his head. He sagged and was still, and as Liz wrenched her weapon free, she realized she had found the enemy’s vulnerability. She would be sure to exploit it.
Special Agent Ramsey was carrying a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer in a hip holster under her jacket, with two full magazines in leather pouches beside it. Liz took it all, shoving the spare mags in her pants pocket.
A moan came from the outer office, followed by a metallic rattle and the terrified hissing and screeching of a cat. Liz ran out to see Beverly, her yellow dress torn and bloody, down on all fours shaking the pet carrier and trying to pry open the grilled door.
“Leave him alone!” Liz snarled, pressing Agent Ramsey’s Sig against the back of Beverly’s head and blowing brains and skull fragments across the office wall. She picked up the carrier, holding it so Blackbeard could see her face. “Mommy’s here, handsome.”
Blackbeard made an unhappy wail but pressed his head against the grille. She gave him a scratch.
“Time to go,” she whispered.
A groan came from behind her, and as she spun she saw James Whelan standing, his throat torn out, his face and uniform red. The man’s once-warm, brown eyes were glazed and malignant, and he reached for her.
Liz put a bullet between his eyes.
Then she cracked open the outer door, checked the hallway, and ran. The blood-sprayed cat carrier was in one hand, the Sig in the other, and the chrome anchor was tucked into her back waistband. Screaming echoed in the hallways, and thrashing shapes could be glimpsed beyond open office doors, but her only objective was the building’s front doors and the parking lot beyond. As she burst into the morning sunlight, a single word repeated silently in her head.
Charlie.
TWO
Elizabeth Kidd’s gray Camry raced through the streets of Base Seattle, hitting speed bumps too fast and jarring both woman and cat. Blackbeard’s carrier sat on the passenger seat again, this time sharing it with a bloody chrome anchor that was staining the upholstery. Liz wanted to turn on the news, gather information, but she would soon be at her destination and needed her full attention on the road.
A Humvee with a flashing light bar on its roof blasted across an intersection ahead of her, quickly disappearing up a street to her left, its siren rebounding off warehouses. As she passed another admin building on her right, she saw a pair of bloody guardsmen lurching across a lawn toward the entrance, while in a
second-floor window above them a woman in civilian clothes leaned out, screaming for help. The beat of helicopter rotors came from somewhere above, and the base siren was going off.
Liz had to slam on the brakes as a civilian worker in gray coveralls, hair matted to his head by blood, staggered into the road in front of the Camry. The man slapped wet, red palms onto the hood and glared at her through the windshield. Then he began pawing his way up the side of the car toward the driver’s door. Liz didn’t wait for him. She accelerated and left the thing behind.
A turn took her between a large machine shop and a yard of storage containers, and she swerved to avoid two men in camouflage running with rifles. At the next intersection she hauled the Camry right, then tensed and cried out as the front bumper smacked into a woman crouching on all fours in the road. The impact sent the woman’s body into a chain-link fence, limp as a rag doll, and the Camry bounced over the shape she had been feeding on with a sickening crunch.
There were masts ahead, black antennae and radar panels rising behind the roofline of a building. The docks were close, and she gunned the engine.
As the Camry burst from between two buildings and raced onto an open expanse of concrete, Liz saw a pillar of smoke rising over the base to her right, followed by the sight of an orange flash screaming low over the rooftops, a Coast Guard Dolphin helicopter. Ahead, Joshua James stood tied to the docks, several figures running on deck. Berthed just beyond it was another cutter, older and much smaller than her own, the Klondike.
Charlie’s ship.
Midway between the vessels, parked on the concrete that led to the dock, another Humvee sat with its light bar flashing on the roof. The Coast Guard emblem was on the driver’s door, and at the back, black lettering read PORT SECURITY and K9. A pair of uniformed bodies were facedown on the pavement near the hood, and two others, men in green camouflage wearing pistol belts, were hammering at the Humvee’s side windows, leaving bloody smears.
Liz drove right at the Humvee and slid to a stop only yards away. The two law enforcement guardsmen turned at the sound of screeching tires and limped toward the new arrival as Liz jumped out with the FBI agent’s handgun. Liz could see at once that their faces were slack and dead, horrific wounds visible through torn uniforms.
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