The King of Plagues jl-3

by Jonathan Maberry

  Tap-Tap!

  Squeeze the trigger in a natural and continuous way. Never jerk the trigger.

  Another target sprang up from behind a row of canned goods. An old man holding something. A bag of groceries. Both hands visible. No weapon. She spun as she caught sight of movement to her left. A man with an automatic weapon.

  Tap-Tap!

  Follow through. Apply the shooting fundamentals continuously. Sloppy is dead. Let the process keep you alive.

  She saw the shadow of another and was aiming as she turned, checking her target in a split part of a second.

  Tap-Tap!

  The afterimage of a hand grenade floated in her mind as she stepped and turned and covered high and low, tracking with her eyes. She shuffled sideways to put two rows between her and a grenade blast. There was a bang, and wet confetti filled the air. None of it landed on her.

  Then the lights went out and something brushed her. She whirled and faded left, looking for ambient light, seeing a glow splash across the face of a man with a smiling face, but the glow washed down across his chest. Shotgun.

  Tap-Tap!

  Two targets came up together. Another teenager and a housewife. The teenager wore a sweatshirt with the name of the store. The woman stood behind him, one hand out of sight. The kid’s eyes were scared and painted so that he looked nervously back at Circe. It was an almost impossible shot in the dark. She took it.

  Tap-Tap!

  Four hostiles down. Three rounds left. The lights came on—no, just the emergency lights. Weak and yellow. She turned at movement, saw a woman with a stroller. Lingered for a moment, looking for a trap. No gun, no bomb. Circe moved forward, turning left and right, checking her corners, checking behind her.

  There! A figure rose from behind the counter. Big fat guy holding another shotgun. Circe turned, aimed.

  Did not fire.

  The man looked like an older version of the kid in the sweatshirt. Father? Uncle. The owner, defending his store against the attack. Circe kept the pistol on him.

  “Drop your weapon! Do it now—now!”

  The shopkeeper silhouette dropped back.

  And the lights came on.

  “Clear and lock!”

  Circe stepped out of her shooter’s crouch, turning to keep the barrel clear of the entrance. She eased the hammer down, removed the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. She held up the locked and empty weapon.

  “Clear!”

  Muhammad hit the button for the exit door to open and she stepped out, placing her weapon on the courtesy bench. Her ears were ringing and her hand tingled from the heavy recoil.

  “Well, well, well,” said Muhammad, smiling around the wooden matchstick. “You’re not dead, Doc. Congratulations.”

  “I almost shot that last target.”

  He shook his head. “You didn’t. We don’t worry about ‘almost’ any more than we worry about any other distraction. Combat purifies thinking.”

  It was one of his most common aphorisms, and she nodded, repeating it softly.

  “Now,” he said, “it’s comforting to know that you can bring your game when you need to. Next time you’re on my range I want you to remember that. I don’t ever want to see bullshit scores like you took back there. You read me?”

  “Loud and clear, Chief.”

  Muhammad smiled and wiggled the matchstick up and down. “Okay, let’s agree that your ass has been kicked. Now, Doc … what the hell’s got you so bent out of shape?”

  “It’s complicated, but …” She hesitated, unsure how to begin.

  “With what you do? No kidding.” He wore a crooked smile as he shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I believe that it’s Miller time. Let’s go someplace and talk this out.”

  “You don’t drink.”

  “Bars serve coffee. I’ll watch you drink.”

  She still hedged. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “And that’ll change our relationship how?” He clapped her on the shoulder. “C’mon, Doc. Crazy one buys the first round.”

  They sat in the T-Town canteen, huddled together in a private corner. She drank white wine; he drank hot tea. She told him everything that she had found online, and she told him all of her speculations.

  Chief Petty Officer Abdul Muhammad did not think she was crazy. “I can see it,” he said after careful thought. “On both sides of this thing there are enough hotheads ready to pull a trigger or throw a firebomb, and that’s as true now as it was during the Crusades and maybe back to Moses and the Pharaoh.”

  “What do you think about the Protocols and all that?”

  He sipped his tea. “What, do I think that there are radical Jews out there planning the downfall of the free world?” He shrugged. “Yeah, probably. Just like there are radical Muslims, Buddhists, Lutherans, and Hindus. There’s radical everything. That’s why there’s always a war somewhere. But if you’re asking if I think that these Web posts are being made by a vast secret society of Jews, then no. I don’t buy that for a moment.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Interstate Route 95 South

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  December 18, 5:37 A.M. EST

  Dr. Rudy Sanchez hurried through the terminal, collected his suitcase, and picked up the late-model Ford. His annoyance at having been sent back to the States before even setting foot in England had long since passed, replaced by a growing sense of unease about the man named Nicodemus.

  Once he was on the road in Pennsylvania, Rudy called Mr. Church.

  “Bug called me a few minutes ago,” Rudy explained. “We had another call from the psychiatrist at Graterford. Have you read the transcript?”

  “No, and I can’t read it now. Give me the highlights.”

  Rudy did. When he was finished, Church said, “He actually mentioned the Kings?”

  “His exact words, as Dr. Stankeviius recited them to me, were: ‘Lo! And behold the rise of the Seven Kings. All shall fall before them!’”

  “Interesting,” murmured Church. “I’ll see that and raise you one.” He told Rudy about the Kings symbol on Plympton’s door and the reference in the note the man had left in his murdered wife’s hand.

  “What does it all mean?”

  “I would give a lot to be able to answer that question, Doctor. Maybe you can coax some answers out of Nicodemus.”

  “I hope so, but I’m not optimistic. Nicodemus is supposed to be in isolation, without TV or newspaper privileges, and yet he’s making references to the London Hospital and the Seven Kings. He shouldn’t be able to get outside information.”

  “You question the likelihood of an information leak in a prison?” Church said. “That’s almost funny.”

  “Almost,” Rudy agreed sourly. He absently wondered what Mr. Church would look like laughing. Rudy had never seen the man do anything more than smile, and even then the emotion looked unwelcome and unwanted on his features. “Someone at the prison must be feeding him information, and I doubt they’re doing it just so he can stick pins in the prison therapist.”

  “While you’re there, don’t assume trust in anyone, and that includes the prison doctor and the warden.”

  Rudy sighed. “It’s sad that paranoia has become an indispensable quality of good job performance here in the DMS. I’m finding it very hard to trust anyone.”

  “It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you,” said Church.

  Rudy thought, Why is it you only have a sense of humor when things are really bad? But he didn’t say it.

  “I’d like your full read on Nicodemus,” said Church, “as well as any observations you care to share about the staff.”

  “What do you want me to look for?”

  “I’ll leave you to determine that, Doctor. I don’t want to pollute your perceptions by sharing my speculations. We can compare notes later.”

  “Okay.”

  “One more thing, Doctor. I’m bringing in a consultant. Dr. Circe O’Tree. Are you familia
r with her?”

  “Not personally, but I know her work. I’ve seen her on TV, read her books. The new one, The Terrorist Sophist, should be required reading by everyone in the DMS. She makes some very important points on how terrorists rationalize what they do. She’s rather brilliant.”

  “Yes. She’s also being largely wasted working as Hugo Vox’s assistant. I think she has more potential than Hugo gives her credit for. Do you have a problem with her consulting on this?”

  “God, no. In fact, I welcome her insight.”

  “Good. She’s already agreed and it’s our good fortune that she is currently in London working on another matter.”

  He disconnected.

  Rudy made the turn from I-95 to 476 West. He turned on the news and listened to the latest rehash of the London disaster. Nothing new, so he dialed through Sirius until he found a Mexican ska band, cranked the sound way up, and put the pedal down. As a driver, Rudy was usually careful to the point where Joe called him Tia when he was behind the wheel. He wasn’t feeling like an old aunt right now. As Joe was so fond of saying, the clock was ticking.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Whitechapel

  London, England

  December 18, 11:21 A.M. GMT

  When Ghost and I came out of the apartment complex the street was crowded with police vehicles, ambulances, and a variety of nondescript government cars that were probably licensed to the various counterterrorism teams I’d met yesterday. Lots of stone-faced guys with wires behind their ears were watching up and down the street while local cops struggled to keep the crowd well back. Everyone looked scraped raw by the unrelenting winds.

  I saw a limo idling down the street, well out of the press and angled for a quick departure. The driver gave the headlights a quick flash, so I headed that way, at times having to be ungentle with the rubberneckers who thronged the bystreet. By the time I reached it the driver—in the form of the squat and muscular Sgt. Gus Dietrich—had gotten out and stood by the rear passenger door. Not sure what Dietrich’s job description was with the DMS. He was gruff, tough, honest, and as dependable as the bulldog that he closely resembled.

  “Good to see you, Captain.” He offered me a rock-hard hand.

  “Skip the ‘Captain’ crap, Gus. Good to see you, too. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Ha! Let me know when those ‘better circumstances’ roll around, Joe. I’ll take the day off and go get a massage. In the meantime … good luck with this one. It’s going to be a real nut buster.”

  He opened the door and we climbed inside, happy to be out of the vicious cold. I slid onto the bench seat and Dietrich closed the door and ran around to climb behind the wheel. There were two men on the opposite seat. One big, one small, neither smiling fuzzy-bunny warmth at me.

  Guy on the left was Mr. Church. He was north of sixty, but he made it look like a fit forty. Blocky, hard, with big hands and a face you wouldn’t want to see across a poker table from you. Tinted sunglasses even in the backseat of the limo. He gave me a fraction of a nod and there was no expression at all on his face.

  The other guy was a gangly, gawky collection of awkward limbs and comprehensive disapproval. Dr. William Hu, chief of scientific research for the DMS. He had a Mongol face, an Einstein brain, the pop-culture sensibilities of Joss Whedon, but the compassion of a ghoul. When I’d first joined the Department of Military Sciences I tried real hard to like him, but that got to be an expensive hobby. He didn’t burn up any calories trying to warm up to me, either.

  “Captain Ledger,” Hu said in exactly the same way you might say “painful rectal itch.”

  “Dr. Hu,” I said, meeting him on the same ground.

  We didn’t shake hands.

  Ghost sniffed the hand Church extended, gave the fingertips a tiny lick, and then sat back. Then Ghost turned and eyed Hu like he was a steak dinner. Hu never attempted to touch Ghost. Hu was an asshole, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Gus Dietrich put it in gear and the limo pulled away from the curb like we were fleeing the scene of a crime. I grabbed an armrest to keep from falling out of my seat. “Where are we going?”

  “Scotland,” said Church. “Specifically Fair Isle. Shetland Islands, in the North Sea, very remote, ultrahigh security. A chopper’s waiting.”

  “Why? Has there been another attack?”

  “More complicated than that. Short answer is that there is a situation at a viral research station there. A staff member is holding the rest of the employees hostage.”

  “Why?”

  “Unknown.”

  “He connected to the Kings?”

  “To be determined.”

  “Working alone?”

  “Possibly. It’s the impression he’s conveyed so far. Uses ‘I’ and ‘me’ rather than ‘we.’”

  “Demands?”

  “Aside from the usual precautionary requirements—keep our distance, don’t try anything, et cetera—he’s asked to speak to a representative of Homeland Security.”

  “Homeland? Does this guy know he’s in Scotland?”

  “He’s American,” said Hu. “Baker and Schloss lease half of the island from the Brits.”

  “Baker and Schloss? The male enhancement company?”

  Hu grinned. “Yeah, the pecker pill people. They’re a medium-sized pharmaceutical company with a board made up of American, British, German, and French members. Majority stockholders are the Baker family of Martha’s Vineyard. Old money. The male enhancement drug put them on the public radar, but they make their real money from government contracts.”

  “For what? Enhanced soldiers?”

  “Viral research,” said Church.

  “What kind? Germ warfare?”

  “Nobody uses that term anymore,” Hu said haughtily. “Baker and Schloss has government contracts for tactical-response bio-agents. TRBs.”

  “Which means what?” I asked.

  “Germ warfare,” said Church. “The point is that the situation is politically complicated. The title to the land is actually held by the U.S. Government. Baker and Schloss has access to it as part of their research contract.”

  “Why is it in Scotland?”

  Church said nothing.

  “What?” I prompted.

  Hu snorted. “It’s here because it’s not allowed to be in the U.S.”

  I studied their faces. Church was a stone, but Hu was smiling, and he never smiled unless something unpleasant was happening. “I’m going out on a limb here and guess that it’s not allowed in the U.K., either.”

  “No, it’s allowed,” said Church, “but only under the most exacting circumstances, which translates as ‘difficult and expensive.’ Those responsible for establishing this facility found it less expensive and more productive to simply move it outside of the scope of domestic regulars and congressional oversight. That itself is problematic in a variety of ugly ways. The nature of the work being done at Fair Isle contravenes half a dozen international agreements.”

  “Why is it even in operation?” I demanded.

  “It’s a holdover from a previous administration. And it’s one of those things that the layers of government power players fail to tell a new president.”

  “How—,” I began, but he cut me off.

  “There are too many secrets to tell any sitting president. At best the President can be briefed in general about the areas of research and given more complete information when the situation requires it. But the career politicians within the infrastructure have a skewed view of both ‘need to know’ and ‘plausible deniability.’ They believe they have the right to decide what the President is allowed to know, or not allowed to know.”

  I knew what he was saying. As much as we don’t want to accept the truth, there were layers of government that remained in place no matter which party held power in the White House. Shadow governments, cells and cabals, some of which believed that what they were doing was in the best interest of the American people, though in those rare cases whe
n someone was able to shine a light on them it became pretty clear that money and the power it purchased was the only enduring motive.

  “If this got out,” Church said, “it could cripple the current administration and it would almost certainly result in some kind of criminal charges for key members of the previous administration.”

  I started to say something smart-ass, but he headed me off at the pass.

  “This isn’t a time to collect scalps, Captain. Playing politics has hurt our country too many times. And while I agree that those responsible should be held accountable, that’s something best done quietly on our own turf. Spilling this in public would do greater harm than good. The stock market is already taking very bad hits because of the Hospital bombing; this could crash it into a depression. It would also strip the power of the United States in critical negotiations with North Korea, China, and Iran.”

  “Yeah, stones and glass houses.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “Tell you, though … if someone wanted to do just that, this would be a good way to go about it. We have to consider that this might be a Seven Kings operation.”

  “No! Really?” said Hu dryly.

  Church adjusted his glasses. “We face three separate problems.”

  “Let me see if I can guess,” I said, and ticked them off on my fingers. “First, we need to contain the situation and prevent any bugs from getting loose. Second, we need to make sure this doesn’t embarrass the ol’ U.S. of A.”

  “Right. And the third?”

  “We have to find out why this guy is doing this. You said he wants to talk to someone from Homeland? Not the Brits? Not the press? That’s interesting.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” said Church. “He said one thing that I find particularly intriguing. He said that there’s still time to stop this.’”

  “That doesn’t sound like a threat,” I said. “Maybe he’s not a bad guy. Maybe he’s just a scared guy.”

  “Scared of what?” Hu asked.

  “Don’t know yet. But you don’t take people hostage if you’re not scared of something. Not unless you’re in it for the money, and this doesn’t have that kind of feel.”