by Jack Mars
Reid cleared his throat. “So. Looks like it’s you and me.”
“Mm-hmm.” Watson stared straight ahead, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Have, uh, you and I ever done an op together?”
Watson shook his head slowly. “Not directly.”
Reid frowned; that wasn’t really much of an answer. The elevator dinged and the doors open onto a hall with cinderblock walls painted gray, windowless and lit with fluorescent lights. Definitely subterranean. Watson led the way.
“Hey,” said Reid, “I don’t think I got the chance to properly thank you, in person, for what you did for my girls.”
“Just doing the job.” Watson smiled, but somehow he managed to make it seem flat and empty; not sarcastic, but not exactly pleasant either.
Reid was puzzled. Had he done something to wrong Agent Watson in the past? Something he couldn’t remember, perhaps? The man wasn’t being outwardly hostile, but at the same time he was making no effort to be friendly.
Reid could hear machinery whirring from somewhere nearby as the two agents strode quickly down the corridor. Pneumatic drill , his brain told him. You know that sound. It means someone is tinkering.
Watson paused at a steel door and again slid his keycard badge to gain access. The door opened inward, and he gestured for Reid to enter first. “As far as most are concerned, this is Research and Development,” Watson told him as the door closed behind them. “But around here we just call it ‘the lab.’”
Reid blew out a breath as he entered “the lab,” feeling very much as if he had just stepped onto a movie set. The walls and floor were stark white, shining as if recently polished. Overhead, powerful halogen bulbs burned bright as daylight. Arrays of machinery were arranged symmetrically in the long, almost warehouse-sized room in the pattern of an enormous H. Reid admitted that he wasn’t the most tech-savvy, but he had no doubt that whatever he was looking at was not for public eyes, machines the likes of which he had never seen: sleek black stealth drones, AI-powered robotic arms welding parts onto targeting computers, and, in the far corner, two white-coated engineers worked on what appeared to be an advanced bomb-defusing robot.
As Reid glanced around, taking it all in, he got the same familiar sensation that he had felt when walking into CIA headquarters—he had been here before, plenty of times. The sights and scents were like returning to an elementary school classroom; he could barely remember it, but somehow he knew it, and even felt at ease there.
“Bixby?” Watson called out. “You down here?”
“Welcome, Agents!” called a cheerful male voice. “Cartwright called down just a couple of minutes ago, said it was urgent, and there’d be two suiting up, equipment for three, and, uh…”
The man trailed off as he came around the corner from a branching room, drying his hands on a microfiber cloth. He was older, pushing sixty, but he looked healthy for his age. His gray hair was parted neatly and he wore black horn-rimmed glasses. He was well dressed in a white shirt, gray vest, and a red tie knotted at his throat. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and his forearms were dotted in grease marks.
“Well.” His face broke out into a wide grin as his gaze locked on Reid. “I’ll be damned. I heard the rumors, but…” He strode up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s really good to see you, Zero.”
A brief memory flashed across Reid’s mind.
This man, Bixby, stands beside you as you prep for an op. An array of equipment lies out on the table before you. He tells you a joke as you check the magazine on a pistol.
“A guy walks into a gas station covered in blood. He pays for his fuel and starts to leave. The bewildered attendant calls out, ‘Hey man, are you okay?’ The guy smiles. ‘Oh yeah, I’m fine. It’s not my blood.’”
Bixby told me that joke , Reid thought. He knew this man; he was a CIA tech, one of the best and brightest. You two used to exchange jokes.
“It’s… good to see you,” Reid said. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember everything…”
“Right. Yeah, of course.” Bixby smiled pleasantly. “The memory suppressor.”
Reid was surprised to hear the tech speak so cavalierly about it. “How do you know about that?”
“Oh. Well. I, uh, helped create it.” Bixby fidgeted with his tie.
Reid blinked in astonishment. “You did?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, it was a team effort. We never got the go-ahead from upstairs to go to human trials, but then I heard what happened to you and, I gotta say…” Bixby chuckled. “It’s pretty exciting.”
“Exciting.” Reid scoffed. I barely know who I am half the time.
The older man pulled an LED penlight from his vest pocket and clicked it on. “You know, speaking of, I’d really love to get a look at the exit wound, if you don’t mind…” He leaned in, shining the white light on the jagged scar at Reid’s neck.
Reid’s reaction was instinctive. He stepped back with his left foot as his hand came up and, in a single swift motion, snapped the penlight from Bixby’s hand.
“I do mind,” Reid told him.
“Whoa, hey. Sorry.” Bixby put up both hands defensively.
Agent Watson took the opportunity to step in. “We’re on a tight schedule here.”
“Of course,” Bixby piped up again. “I’m getting some gear together for you. I’ll just be a moment. Why don’t you two suit up, pack a bag.”
Watson nodded and gestured for Reid to follow him. “He can be a bit eccentric,” Watson said once they were out of earshot. “But he’s the best engineer the agency has ever seen.”
“Sure.” Reid hadn’t meant to come off as confrontational; it had been entirely instinct, but he didn’t like the way that Bixby, one of the suppressor’s creators, spoke about it as if it were “exciting.” “What did he mean, pack a bag?”
“I’ll show you.” Watson quickly led him across the lab—This must be what the inside of a space station looks like , Reid thought—and through a doorway that opened into another chamber. The halogen bulbs overhead buzzed to life as soon as they entered. Inside was the size of Reid’s living room, but it looked more like a giant walk-in closet.
“Wow.” Reid was impressed. The walls were lined with rack upon rack of clothing items, from civilian wear to military uniforms from every country, cold-weather gear and scuba suits, jackets and boots and hats, both men’s and women’s wear in a variety of sizes. “This is… thorough.”
“You’ll want this side over here.” Watson motioned to the eastern wall. “Civilian clothing, all reinforced. I’m guessing you’re a medium? Thirty-four waist?”
“Thirty-two.” Reid plucked a shirt from the rack, plaid with a collar, and rubbed the material between his fingers. It felt like an ordinary shirt. “Reinforced with what? Kevlar?”
Watson smirked. “We haven’t used Kevlar in years. No, this is all graphene.”
“Graphene,” Reid repeated. Composite carbon fiber mesh, the width of a hundred atoms. Imperceptible, but stronger than steel. Could stop a point-blank shot from a nine mil, so long as it’s not hollow point. The impact will hurt like hell—maybe even crack a rib or two—but it won’t penetrate. As soon as he said the word aloud, the information was suddenly there, as if it had been waiting behind a door that had just been opened.
The two changed quickly and quietly. Watson chose a black T-shirt, a dark brown leather jacket, and jeans, while Reid opted for a gray polo and a light suede jacket. Then they each stuffed a black duffel bag with a couple changes of clothes. It was a silent process, and Reid took the time to digest everything that had happened in just the last fifteen minutes. He was leaving again, this time to hunt down a terrorist who might be the bearer of an impossibly deadly virus. It had all happened so quickly that it seemed surreal. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was what his life was like before; getting a call, leaving at a moment’s notice to track down and apprehend some threat to the nation or even the world.
It definitely
felt familiar, however odd it might seem when he stopped to consider it.
One thing was certain. He didn’t care much for the way that Cartwright and this new woman, Riker, had been so self-assured he would come back. They knew Kent Steele well, or at least his mindset; they didn’t seem to have any doubt that they could get him on this op.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt like property.
Once they had packed their bags, they returned to the lab’s floor where Bixby had laid out an array of implements for them.
“All right, gentlemen,” he said, clapping his hands together once. “I understand there’s a time crunch, so let’s see what we got here. First up: cell phones.” He handed them each what looked like an ordinary rectangular smartphone. “These are off-network; instead of relaying by cell tower, they’re linked directly to US satellites. You can make a call or get a call anywhere, anytime, to anyone.”
At the mention of a call, Reid thought of his girls at home, and how he needed to call them before he left. He hoped Thompson hadn’t yet been alerted and gone to his house. He wanted them to hear it from him.
“Lithium-ion batteries are fully charged, so you shouldn’t have to worry unless you’re gone for more than a week,” Bixby continued. “These are both preprogrammed with numbers to Langley, Zurich, and your fellow field agents, and outfitted with just the necessities—calling, texting, camera, GPS, and internet. There is a secure cloud-storage drive that is being uploaded with all intel on the case as we speak. Oh, and radio. Speaking of which, here.” He held up something tiny, pinched between his index finger and thumb. It was nearly transparent and about the size of a kidney bean. “Earpieces,” he explained. “Entirely plastic and almost invisible. These link to the phones—frequency is already dialed in, you just have to switch it on. You’ll get a two-mile radius out of these, so the three of you can communicate freely.” He frowned. “As long as there’s not a mountain in the way or something.”
Reid took one of the earpieces in the palm of his hand and gently pushed it into his ear. It was a bit uncomfortable at first, but once again he had the sensation that it wasn’t his first time with a piece of plastic in his ear.
“Now these,” said Bixby, “are really cool.” He opened a black oblong case and took out a pair of black-framed sunglasses. “Remember a few years ago, the tech companies were pushing those ‘smart glasses’? Never really caught on with the public, but we’ve kept at them. These link to the phone via Bluetooth, so as long as you’re within twenty feet of your cell you can use these to take video, photos, and even send messages, all hands-free.” He cleared his throat and added, “They’re also sunglasses. If it’s bright out.”
Reid tucked the glasses case in his inside jacket pocket. It was beyond strange, being outfitted like this in a CIA basement by an eccentric older man who knew him better than he knew himself. He wondered how many times he had done this before.
“Now let’s talk serious hardware,” said Bixby. “Zero, I know you’re partial to the LC9, complete with ankle holster.” He handed Reid the Ruger, a small black snub-nosed pistol in a nylon holster with an elastic strap. The weight of it felt good in his hand.
“That one’s got the nine-round box magazine, fully loaded, and an extra clip on the side.”
Kate’s words from his newfound memory rushed through his head suddenly: “Why do you have this, Reid? What if one of the girls had found it? ” Suddenly he realized this was the gun that Kate had found behind the air vent, a Ruger LC9.
Did I tell her? Did she know about me?
He shook the memory from his head as Watson strapped a holster to his own ankle. “We have to get moving,” he told Bixby.
“Yes, of course.” Reid had the distinct impression that Bixby was not privy to the details of their op; he doubted the engineer would be quite so casual and pleasant if he had any idea what they were heading toward. “This is the pièce de résistance , as it were.” Bixby held up a digital tablet and presented it to Reid. “Would you press your right thumb in the center there?”
Reid raised an eyebrow, but he did as Bixby asked, pressing the pad of his thumb against the tablet screen. When he lifted it, his thumbprint remained, glowing blue.
“Great. And your left, just in case. Wonderful. Just a moment…” Bixby’s fingers flew across the tablet. “Et voilà. Perfect. Here you go.” He handed Reid a second pistol—a black Glock with a silver slide. “I know you’re used to the Glock 22, but we’re transitioning to the 19. Larger magazine, seventeen with one in the chamber, and a bit more durable. It’s the new sidearm of choice for Navy SEALs, if you didn’t know. Plus, it’s got this nifty feature.” He pointed out a small, smooth rectangular pad on each side of the pistol, just behind the trigger guard. “Biometric fingerprint recognition. There is no safety on this gun; the trigger is locked unless one of your thumbs is on a pad. Don’t worry too much about positioning. It’ll pick up a partial print.”
Reid was impressed. “I didn’t even know this kind of thing existed.”
“Oh, it’s been around for a couple years,” Bixby said. “I can’t take credit for it. A nineteen-year-old from Detroit invented it. Just another one of those things that never caught on with the public. Shame, too; just think what it could do for gun safety—”
“Bixby,” prodded Watson. “Let’s wrap this up.”
“Right, right. Sorry. My point is that with this gun, if you lose it, they can’t use it.” He grinned.
After Watson went through the same fingerprinting process, they loaded their equipment and took up their bags.
“Ah, just one more thing!” Bixby called after them.
Watson groaned. Reid had the feeling that this was a usual routine with the eccentric tech.
“Take this.” Bixby handed Reid a small, thin black object, about the size of an AA battery. “I call it a sonic grenade. It’s not quite field-tested yet, so I’m eager to see how it does.”
Reid turned it over in his hands. “What does it do?”
“Keep it in your pocket, and if you find yourself in a jam, depress the buttons on each end of the cylinder,” Bixby explained. “Squeeze hard; they don’t depress easy. It emits a combination of high frequencies that cause immediate nausea and loss of equilibrium for anyone inside a twenty-five-foot radius—except you, as long as it’s close. Keep it on your person.”
“Impressive.” If it works , Reid thought. Reid examined the tiny black cylinder. “How is that possible?”
“Oh, we’ve been doing a ton of research with sound waves, Doppler effect, pressure cones… I mean, I could explain it, but I doubt it’ll do much good to—”
“Bixby ,” Watson said sharply. “We’re going.”
“Right. Of course.” Bixby smiled as they headed out of the lab. “Break a leg, fellas.”
The two of them walked briskly down the corridor toward the elevators again. Watson was silent and strode a pace ahead. Reid couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Agent Watson was all the time, or if there had been some sort of history between them. It certainly felt as if there was a tension, but it might have just been him creating it in his head.
Halfway to the elevator, Bixby called out to them.
“Hey, Zero, sorry, real quick before you go.” Reid paused as the man jogged up to him. “Listen, when you get back, uh, I’d really like to run a couple of tests.”
“Tests?”
“You know, head MRIs, maybe some gadolinium contrast retention… all noninvasive, I promise,” Bixby assured him. “But I think with some analysis that maybe, best-case scenario, I could help to restore some of your memory.”
“We have to go, Zero,” Watson murmured.
“I know. Just one sec.” Reid fully understood the gravity of their situation, but if he had the opportunity to learn more about what was going on in his head, he was interested. “You really think you might be able to recover anything?” he asked Bixby.
“Possibly. I mean, it would help a great dea
l if I could talk to the person who actually implanted it.” Bixby raised an eyebrow hopefully.
Reid shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t know that.” He wasn’t about to incriminate the Swiss doctor, Guyer; for one, he didn’t know anything about the man other than his name, and besides that, Bixby couldn’t make any promises. Guyer could still end up being Reid’s only hope of ever getting his full memory back.
“Well… give it some thought, okay? Come see me again when you’re back.”
“I will.” Reid nodded. He got into the elevator, where Watson was already waiting, and the two of them silently headed up to ground level. They had to meet Barnard at the airstrip, and then pursue the harbingers of the deadly smallpox mutation.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was half past midnight before Adrian returned to the flat. He had been working tirelessly the entire day on completing the RNA restructuring to prepare the rest of the variola major samples, and now he shuffled through the door, his feet dragging. The batch was nearly ready, but exhaustion and hunger had set in. He assured himself he would finish tomorrow.
Claudette was not yet home; she worked at a local bar, often late into the night. Adrian casually flicked on the television and then went into the kitchen to pour a glass of wine.
He heard the news report before he saw it. The mere mention of a deadly outbreak sent him dashing back into the living room, nearly stumbling, and skidding to a halt on the carpet in his socks.
He held his breath as he watched the Spanish broadcast, dubbed in French for the network. On the screen, a reporter in a respirator mask stood outside an enormous yellow tent as WHO workers behind him, each looking identical in yellow decontamination suits, wheeled patients in on gurneys.
A viral outbreak in Barcelona had claimed more than fifty-five lives in the course of a single day. One hundred ninety-five more were in critical condition.
The Imam had released the sample of the virus publicly.
As he watched, the reporter crept closer to the tent, the camera aimed into the makeshift hospital. Rows upon rows of bodies were lying upon cots, some spasming, coughing, bleeding from their lips. Others were not moving at all.