Containment Failure (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #2)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He rounded the pump, aiming the weapon directly at her. She stood up, her hands shaking as she slowly raised them, now wishing she had made a pit stop before she had left the house.

  “Give me the keys.”

  She nodded, her head vibrating in fear as she searched her body for the keys, her mind a blank slate as to where they might be. The man extended his arm even farther, uselessly cocking the weapon, he having seen too many Hollywood movies.

  “Now!”

  “I-I’m trying,” cried Cheryl. “I-I can’t f-find them.”

  The man raised his arm and fired in the air. Cheryl screamed, her body tensing, her hand squeezing the trigger on the hose. Gasoline spurted from the nozzle, arcing through the air and splattering all over the crazed man.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing as he tried to wipe the toxic fluid off his face with his sleeves, the gun still waving dangerously around. Cheryl threw the hose on the ground then rounded the car, finally remembering where the keys were. She jumped inside, closed the door and turned the keys.

  Nothing.

  Shit!

  She pressed her foot on the brake and was about to try again when she saw something from the corner of her eye. It was the barrel of a gun, pointed at her window, her attacker still squinting in agony, but his eyes cleared enough for him to see her trying to make his escape.

  “I gave you a chance, lady!”

  She watched the trigger finger slowly begin to squeeze, and she said a silent prayer.

  Suddenly the man’s body jerked, the bullet fired, shattering the driver side window, as his body flew past the front of her car, followed by the SUV that had just mowed him down. She jerked forward, her head hitting the steering wheel as she tried to avoid a bullet that had long since hit its mark, only its mark had been lost due to the sudden impact of the SUV’s bumper.

  It had blown a hole in her headrest.

  She sat for a moment, her hands gripping the steering wheel, her entire body shaking as she cried, then she heard someone yelling through the fog as her left ear, numbed from the blast only two feet from her head, slowly recovered.

  “Mom!”

  Her head jerked toward the sound, then through the blur of tear filled eyes she saw her door open and a pair of hands reach in. She fought them off, screaming, “No! No! No!” as she did so, then finally she felt the arms envelope her, holding her tight.

  “Mom, it’s me, Charlie!”

  And she recognized the voice, her shoulders sagging in relief as she felt her adult son embrace her, his arms the very protection she needed from a world going mad.

  Mike Milner Residence, Gravier Street, New Orleans, Louisiana

  Special Agent Dylan Kane knocked on the door. He knew it was useless, but he took a chance. As expected, they were greeted by silence. At least silence from the apartment in question. Up and down the hallway of the shithole they stood in were screaming matches, crying, music pumping from under doors, and television sets all turned up, probably to drown out the misery escaping the other doors.

  He wondered if anyone in the building even knew what was going on outside, every television station he could make out playing some garbage reality show, a true sign of the decay of Western civilization if there ever was one.

  He hammered on the door again.

  “FBI! Open up! We have a warrant to search these premises!”

  He grinned at Detective Laprise’s questioning look and shrugged his shoulders.

  “He’s dead already, what’s he going to do? Sue me in the afterlife?”

  Isabelle shook her head, drawing her weapon and before he could stop her, had kicked open the door. He pushed her back and to the side of the door as he rolled his back against the wall.

  “Bombs people! Bombs!” he tutted. “Always be prepared for booby traps when dealing with people like this.”

  “People like what?”

  “International terrorists.”

  Isabelle didn’t seem convinced.

  “You’re not FBI are you?”

  Kane raised his eyebrows, then poked his head inside the apartment.

  “Did I ever say I was?”

  Isabelle seemed to be searching her memory, then glanced at the officers, who both shrugged.

  Kane stepped inside, checking the door to make sure there wasn’t a failed mechanism, then continued inside. The apartment was surprisingly clean. In fact, it was too clean. Either their suspect Milner was meticulous in keeping the place prepared for a quick exit that wouldn’t require much of a wiping down, or it had been wiped down by professionals after doing him in.

  Either way Kane was still convinced Milner was dead.

  But if he was, he wasn’t here. There was no hint of decay, nothing to suggest that a body had ever been here for a long time, rotting away as bodies do. He quickly cleared the open concept living area, then the bathroom including shower, then the one bedroom.

  Nothing.

  “Clear!” he called, the others doing the same.

  “Found something!”

  It was the young female officer Macleod.

  Kane stepped around Isabelle who had entered the bedroom, and looked to see Macleod staring at a chest freezer that was in the entry closet. She lifted the lid as Kane yelled, “No!”

  The eruption was enormous. Macleod was blasted backward, into her partner, who absorbed much of the initial impact, their two bodies then being shoved into the kitchen, the old sergeant slamming into the fridge. Kane whipped around and dove away from the doorway, clotheslining Isabelle, pulling her with him as they both hit the double bed. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and waist, spinning them both across the bed and down onto the floor, coming to rest with his back to the door, shielding the detective.

  All around them drywall dust and smoke filled the air, debris rained down on them, a blast of heat cascading over their bodies as Isabelle screamed into his shoulder. He continued to grip her tight, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth sealed as he held his breath.

  Then the wind rushed back over them as air rushed in to fill the void left behind by the explosion chewing through the oxygen. Kane opened his eyes slightly, revealing smoldering wreckage all around them, but no fire. He eased his grip on the detective then lay her gently on her back as she gasped for breath. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over her mouth, he covering his with his shirt sleeve.

  “Breathe through this until the dust settles.” He stood up and examined himself quickly for any injuries. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, holding up a hand which he took and pulled her to her feet.

  “Thanks to you.” She shook herself off, as did he as he threw open the windows in the bedroom. The wall between the living area and the bedroom was all but gone, only studwork remaining, even some of those blasted apart. The living area was unrecognizable as Kane led the way from the bedroom. The freezer that had been booby-trapped was blown open from within, and judging by the gooey mass inside, it had contained a body.

  Isabelle groaned when she saw it, even Kane having a hard time taking it all in. A grunt from behind had both of them spinning around. Against the fridge were the bodies of the two officers. Young Officer Macleod was obviously dead, her body scorched and impaled with a piece of the freezer.

  “Help.”

  It was faint and they both rushed forward, pulling the body of Macleod free. Behind her was the sergeant, pressed against the dented fridge door. His hands were burnt, his scalp and forehead singed, but the bulk of his body had been protected by his young partner.

  Kane immediately dropped beside him and began to check him over as Isabelle called for an ambulance and backup. Sergeant Michael was breathing, wincing with each breath, but seemed to be alive, saved by his partner who was most likely dead the instant of the blast.

  “How do you feel?” asked Isabelle as she took a knee.

  “Like a freight train hit me.”

  “You’re not that far off,” smiled Kane, trying to dis
tract the man from the pain.

  “Macleod?”

  Isabelle shook her head.

  “She didn’t make it.”

  “Shit.”

  “It wasn’t her fault. These were pros,” said Kane. “Anybody could have opened something, touched something.”

  Michael reached up and grabbed Kane by the shoulder, his dark black hands belching an eye watering stench.

  “If I don’t make it, don’t tell her parents she screwed up. Tell them she was following orders.”

  Kane nodded, patting the man on the shoulder.

  “She died a hero, doing her job, and saved your life in doing it. That’s the story they’ll hear. From you.”

  Michael’s hand dropped to the floor, and his eyes closed. Kane reached forward, feeling the man’s neck.

  “Is he—?”

  “No. He’s just passed out from the pain.”

  Kane stood up and surveyed the damage. If there was any evidence in here, they weren’t going to find it now, at least not in time. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial for the FBI Command Center.

  “Special Agent Hewlett here.”

  “This is Special Agent Black. There’s been an explosion at the apartment. Some sort of booby trap set up on a freezer. Looks like there was a body inside. Not much left now. Get a team down here to see if they can identify the body, and find out what they can about the device. It might lead us somewhere. Also, start running all the faces you can find through our databases of known bomb makers, mercenaries, the usual non-Islamists. This has nothing to do with religion.”

  “Will do. Are you okay?”

  “We’ve got one officer dead, one severely wounded. Paramedics are on the way along with local LEO’s. Get your team out here ASAP.”

  “Will do.”

  Kane ended the call as the local Law Enforcement Officers began to respond, their sirens heard through the open window. Sergeant Michael continued to slip in and out of consciousness as Isabelle comforted him. Kane grabbed a knife from the counter and a set of tongs from the drawer, then stepped over to the freezer. An arm was still obvious from the mess, and he used the tongs to lift it apart from the rest of the body, revealing a hand.

  The fingers were still intact, as was a large ring on the pinky, and a watch, nothing special, on the wrist. He took photos of each, then emailed them to Hewlett along with a text message.

  See if these match the video.

  Kane began to scan the apartment to see if he could find anything of use, but his hopes were low. He turned as several officers rushed into the apartment, followed by an EMT crew. He and Isabelle showed their ID as Isabelle got out of the way, taking command of the situation.

  “Two men on the door, the rest I want canvassing the adjoining apartments, plus two floors up and down, check for other casualties.”

  The officers ran off to their assignments as the paramedics worked. Kane stepped into the bathroom and found it in shambles, the tile work all shattered, the mirror sitting in the sink, broken into several large pieces, leaving a large white square on the wall where the bathroom had once been painted around it.

  And a small hole, about the size of several bricks, cut into the drywall.

  With a small box sitting inside.

  He examined the box and alcove before touching it, then gently extracted it, all the while watching for any type of pressure switch or wire. He was pretty certain it wouldn’t be wired, the previous explosive obviously set up by Milner’s killer, not Milner himself. This box was clearly Milner’s, the hiding place having fooled anyone who may have searched the apartment prior to the explosion.

  Kane opened the small box. Inside was a large stack of cash. Very large. Some false IDs, a passport, plane ticket, and a set of numbers that he recognized as a bank account, the letterhead it was written on from a bank in the Caymans.

  Bingo!

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Chris Leroux heard the coded chime as the priority message arrived. Only specially encoded messages had this sound, regular emails an entirely different one, indicating he could ignore them if needed. He Alt-Tabbed to his email and saw the message among dozens of others unread. He double-clicked, entered his password, and a message from Dylan Kane was displayed.

  He hadn’t seen Kane since the night Sherrie moved in, and had only received one message in the entire time since, and it was just a ‘Happy Birthday’ message he wasn’t able to reply to.

  It had been delivered under his door by someone other than Kane, he was sure. And whoever they were had skills, as they had managed to do it despite a team of agents assigned to protect him 24/7. Then again, knowing Kane, he might have used an operative with clearance to do it.

  He didn’t care. It was just a thrill to hear from him when he did, but today it was all business. A quick greeting then a bank name and account number.

  I’ve sent it through channels, but thought you might want it a little quicker. Good hunting. DK.

  Leroux had dozens of searches running through their databases, and as results came in, they would appear in his Inbox and he’d review them, launching more searches, dismissing some tangents, and generally drilling down as far as he could, looking for some connection somewhere that would lead to Dr. Urban.

  And he had had limited success. The imposter that Sherrie had captured had come onto the scene eighteen months ago when she up and moved to Sherbrooke, Québec to be a teacher. The “real” Melissa Urban was originally from Québec and had met her future husband in Florida on vacation. They had kept in touch, eventually marrying two years later. She moved to Florida where his job was, became a housewife once the first child was born, and led a quiet life raising them.

  Agents canvassing the old neighborhood reported most people could barely even describe her, she and her husband leading quiet lives, not socializing much. There were no reports of domestic problems, no money problems, no health problems. The neighbors hadn’t even noticed that the husband had disappeared.

  Financial records showed the company continued to pay the man’s salary for a few months, then stopped, then started again after the first attack. Dr. Kapp from BioDyne had said it was in hopes of placating Urban, the thinking that if the man knew his family was being taken care of, he might be less hostile toward humanity in general.

  If it worked, all it did was delay things, as the attacks continued.

  After the paychecks had stopped, their spending pattern changed almost immediately, according to bank records. This made sense to Leroux, and he didn’t pay it much mind. It was the change in the locations of the essentials that triggered alarm bells. On Friday they were getting their gas at Texaco, on Monday Shell, their groceries at Ralph’s, then at Wal-Mart. Hair at Louise’s then at the Mod Shoppe. Then less than a month later they were in Québec, and with checks from her teaching job, then from BioDyne being deposited, their spending patterns had changed even more dramatically.

  While the real Melissa Urban was an avid and apparently talented cook, the “new” Mrs. Urban ordered out and ate out frequently, whereas this pattern of spending was almost nonexistent in Florida. As well, her hair appointments increased in cost and frequency, which suggested to Leroux dye jobs, as the real Mrs. Urban was a natural blonde.

  Leroux was convinced the weekend the spending patterns changed was when the switch was made. He had already passed the information along and agents were looking into it now to see if they could find anything on camera footage but it was a long shot, most footage backups long since destroyed and overwritten.

  He had searches running for any reports of a woman with two children missing. It was assumed these were the Urban children, but they couldn’t be sure. The Urban children were young enough that they now could conceivably believe that this woman was their mother and not say anything to anyone. Leroux secretly hoped that they were the Urban children, at least that way they knew they were alive, and now safely in the hands of Canadian authorities. Blood typing and DNA tes
ting being performed now would give them more information shortly.

  The Canadians were pissed at the abduction, and apparently an apology had been issued claiming an operative had overstepped her bounds, and that the subject would be released back to the Canadians shortly. That was just a BS cover story of course. She’d be handed back when they were finished with her. And if that took days or weeks, then so be it. By then the secret would be out, and the Canadians would be too busy closing their borders and would be happy to have one less person to worry about.

  Leroux launched another search, supplying the bank account information. Shortly he would have a transaction report on the account, then would begin to backtrack any and all deposits and withdrawals done electronically. That would be the challenge. Each search of a non-US bank required hacks, and his requests would go out to their teams around the world, with a priority tag, to do their magic and gain entry into some of the most secure servers in the world.

  It could be done, but it could be time consuming. Quite a few of the mob type banks had been infiltrated with software installed on the machines to allow them backdoor access, but most banks hadn’t received that treatment, and those that had quite often found the illicit software and removed it.

  Leroux mentally crossed his fingers as he hoped for the best.

  His query running, he took a moment to flip over to CNN to see the latest public perception of the problems, and gasped at a live report leading the page.

  This isn’t right!

  North of New Orleans, 1.2 miles outside the quarantine zone

  Colonel Jeremiah Jackson, J.J. to his friends and family, pointed to a hedge a quarter of a mile to their right. The Black Hawk helicopter banked, closing the distance in seconds, then hovered in front of the bushes, the group of escapees huddling behind the eight foot high row of cedars now obvious. He activated the external speaker.