Target Zero

by Jack Mars

  “Baraf!” Reid waved an arm to get the Interpol agent’s attention. They needed help finding the virus; the crew could see to the safe evacuation. “Baraf…”

  As the agent turned toward him, the man beside Baraf twisted his face into an ugly grimace. Before Reid could even wonder what was happening, the man retched and vomited onto the floor.

  The crowd immediately pushed backward, away from him, forming a small clearing around the sick man.

  Reid was pushed backward by the sudden retreat, his back smacking hard against the wall behind him. But he couldn’t take his eyes from the sick man.

  They were too late. The virus had already been released on the ship.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  Reid could do little but stare in shock. There was no way the terrorists hadn’t noticed the klaxon alarm blaring throughout the entire ship. They knew they’d been discovered. They released the virus.

  And if the mutated smallpox had been released, everyone on board—himself included—was already dead.

  While he stood rooted to the spot, Barnard sprang into action. He pushed through the crowd hurriedly and crouched beside the sick man. “Sir? Sir, look at me.” Barnard forced the man’s head slightly back. He felt his forehead, his throat, his lymph nodes. The doctor inspected each eye quickly and made the man open his mouth.

  By the time he’d finished the cursory examination, Reid had shaken off the bombshell of the moment and joined him. “Barnard? Is it…?”

  “No.” Dr. Barnard shook his head fervently. “No, it’s not. He has no fever. There’s no blood in his bile.”

  “Claustrophobic,” the man said weakly in accented English. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Barnard snapped his fingers toward the nearest crew member. “Get this man some water and somewhere to sit while the rest of the boats are loaded.”

  The crew member didn’t move. Reid glanced up, his eyes narrowed. The man was wearing pleated khakis and a blue polo emblazoned with the cruise line’s logo—the casual uniform of a crew member—but his dark eyes darted left and right. On his cheeks was a thin beard, and his skin was a few shades darker than Reid’s own.

  “Did you hear me?” Barnard said again. “Please, help this man!”

  “Help him.” This time Reid said it—but in Arabic.

  Recognition lit in the man’s expression at his native language. Immediately he understood he was discovered. One hand reached behind him, toward the small of his back.

  Reid had the Glock up in an instant. He did not hesitate. Two shots thundered in the cavernous corridor. The first struck center mass, just to the left of the Arabic man’s heart. The second found home in his forehead. His head snapped back as a cloud of blood misted behind him.

  The crowd instantly surged again with screams and frantic cries at the gunshots. Reid hurried forward and pulled a Sig Sauer from the man’s pants.

  Crew members. That’s how they were able to take over the console. They would have access to nearly any part of the ship they needed.

  “Khalil’s people are dressed as crew members.” He handed the gun over to Baraf, and then turned to the woman beside him who had been aiding in the evacuation. She was short and blonde, wearing the same khakis and polo as the Syrian, and was clearly petrified. Her mouth hung open and she couldn’t tear her gaze from the dead man on the floor. “Where are the crew quarters?” he asked her.

  “I… I…”

  “Look at me.” He stepped between her and the body, forcing her to avert her eyes. “The crew quarters. Where are they?”

  “D-deck two,” she stammered. Her accent sounded Icelandic. She gulped and then added, “I didn’t know him…”

  “I know. This man here is an agent of Interpol, and he needs help. You need to get these people off of this ship and those boats into the water in the next ten minutes, okay?”

  “There’s… there’s protocol,” she said, her senses starting to return. “There’s an order, by groupings…”

  “Forget the protocol,” Reid demanded. “Get these people off this boat or else more of that ”—he gestured to the body for emphasis—“is going to happen to the wrong people.”

  She nodded, rubbed her face with both hands, and then turned back to the crowd to usher more people out to the lifeboats.

  “I’m going to deck two,” Reid told Baraf. “I don’t think they would stow the virus anywhere that guests might find it.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said immediately.

  “No, you should stay here. There could be more gunmen. These people will need you.” As much as he could use the help, he didn’t want the ship turning into a hostage situation—or a slaughter.

  Barnard stood and hefted the MPX on his shoulder. “I’m with you.”

  Reid nodded. “Follow close.” Again he pushed his way back through the crowd, shouting mostly unheard demands for a calm and orderly fashion. He was dismayed, though not entirely surprised, to glance through a window and see more people leaping from the decks to the water below. He hoped the lifeboats would get to them in time; otherwise they would undoubtedly drown.

  The stairs were much easier to navigate with most of the passengers on deck four waiting to evacuate. Still he and Barnard passed by lingering guests, people who had gone back for luggage or to find loved ones. He shouted at each person they passed, insisting they go straight to the evacuation point. He kept his eyes open for anyone suspicious and kept the Glock firmly gripped in both hands.

  Deck two was the second-lowest on the ship and the first one above water level. It was a far cry from the gilded banisters and carpeted stairs of the levels above them; this deck was white-walled, the floor beneath their feet tiled, with bare pipes running the length of the tight corridors. Doors on the left and right opened onto common crew areas—a small bar, a rec room with a pool table, storage rooms, a galley, and a cafeteria.

  “We need to check every room,” said Reid, “including the crew cabins.”

  “We should split up,” Barnard suggested. His voice sounded too loud in the otherwise silent hall. Reid’s own ears were still ringing from the gunshots and noise of the crowd. “I’ll check these areas if you start with the cabins.”

  He didn’t want to send the doctor off alone, but Barnard was right. “When the alarm went off the crew should have gone immediately to their assigned stations. There shouldn’t be anyone down here. If you see someone, assume the worst. Godspeed, Barnard.”

  The doctor nodded and doubled back, hurrying toward the open door of the rec room they had passed. Reid watched until he turned the corner and then he continued on his path. The tight corridor turned to the left and he balked. There were white doors spanned every six feet for the entire length of the hall. These must be the crew cabins , he thought.

  He noted with concern that he could feel the deep rumble of the ship’s engines beneath his feet on this deck. The boat hadn’t stopped yet. He hoped Maria and Watson were all right.

  Reid pushed open the first door and stepped inside, his gun raised. It was a closet of a room with two bunks, one atop another, and not even enough floor space for an adult to lie down. But the room was empty. He left the door open to show it had been checked, just in case he had to double back.

  The next door was already partially open, by just an inch. He took a deep breath and then kicked it fully open, the Glock level.

  A terrified young man stared back at him, lying on the bottom bunk. At the sight of the gun he slowly raised both hands. He was either very tan or dark-skinned, and looked like he was in his early twenties at best.

  “Khalil,” Reid said. He examined the boy’s face for any sign of recognition, a glimmer or even involuntary twitch, and saw none. “Get up,” he said in English. The boy did so hastily, scrambling from the bed with his hands still raised.

  Reid searched him quickly and found nothing. “What are you doing down here?” he demanded.

  “I heard gunshots,” the boy answered quickly. He didn�
��t take his eyes off of Reid’s weapon.

  “Go to deck four,” he ordered. “Hurry up. They need help.” The young man nodded frantically and scurried down the corridor the way Reid had come. He watched until the boy rounded the corner that led to the stairs.

  Then he continued on his way.

  The tile beneath his boots did little to muffle his steps. Anyone who was in hiding would likely hear him coming—but he would hear anyone who was on the move. He checked every room on both sides of the hall in the course of only a few minutes, each one devoid of life, before the corridor made a left turn and continued on with more cabins.

  Before he could kick open the next door, there was a chugging sound from below him as the engines slowed and died. Maria and Watson had stopped the boat. At least that was something in their favor; they couldn’t risk pulling into port, any port, with the active virus aboard.

  Reid tensed as he heard footfalls from somewhere nearby. Clack-clack-clack-clack —someone walking rapidly and getting closer. He crouched, gun at the ready, as a man turned the corner at the far end of the hall.

  For the briefest of moments they both froze in their positions. The crewman had dark, curly hair, a thick beard, and wore blue coveralls, suggesting he was a sanitation worker.

  But most importantly, he had a box cradled in his arms, the hint of a bright green biohazard sign emblazoned on the side.

  It was an exact replica of the box that Claudette Minot was carrying.

  The virus. The man was carrying it in his hands right before Reid’s eyes.

  The shocked crewman blinked once at Reid before noticing the gun in his hands. Then the man turned and sprinted back the way he had come.

  “Stop!” Reid cried, barely realizing he had shouted it in Arabic. He leapt to his feet and gave chase. As he reached the corner, he caught another glimpse of the blue coveralls rounding yet another corner. This place is a goddamn maze! he thought in frustration. Worse still was that even if he caught up to the terrorist, he couldn’t dare take the shot; he had no idea what would happen if the box fell to the hard floor. If any of the vials broke, or if the man acted brashly, it could doom them all.

  Reid spun around the next corner and stopped suddenly. The man was nowhere to be seen. The corridor split off in two directions, left and right, and straight ahead was a steel staircase leading up to the guest decks.

  Instead of choosing randomly, he paused for a moment and listened intently for the sound of footfalls. He heard nothing. His brow pricked; he was starting to sweat. With the engine’s cut, the ship’s lower decks were heating up quickly. He tightened his moist palms around the gun and pressed on, listening for any sounds other than his own footsteps and breathing.

  He hid . To his right was a cabin, the door open just a few inches and the lights off inside. Reid took a breath and shoved into the room, the gun raised. He couldn’t see a thing.

  His free hand groped for the light switch. His fingers found it, a thin lever that toggled parallel to the wall. He pulled it.

  The lights flickered to life just in time to see the knife coming down in an overhand stab. He had no time to react as the blade struck home in his chest, just above his right pectoral. He cried out as he felt the sharp pressure of it jam into his muscle.

  His assailant’s face was a mask of rage, a twisted, wild snarl. “Glory to the Imam Mahdi,” the man growled in Arabic.

  Then he looked down, and his expression contorted into confusion.

  The blade had struck Reid’s chest—but it didn’t penetrate. The graphene in his jacket and shirt had stopped it.

  Reid bent at the waist, putting his entire upper body into a vicious head-butt to the man’s mouth. Lips split and teeth broke as the Arabic terrorist stumbled backward. Reid flipped the Glock around in his hand and whipped the pistol across his temple. The man struck the wall behind him and slumped to the ground.

  But it wasn’t the man in the blue coveralls, and the box containing the virus was nowhere to be seen.

  Reid left the unconscious man there. He pulled the door closed behind him and swung the Glock down by the barrel, breaking off the steel level of the doorknob.

  His chest hurt as if he had been struck with a dull projectile, but he would live. He wished he still had his phone and the radio, so that he could contact Barnard and those above deck, to see what was going on elsewhere on the ship…

  A short blast of automatic gunfire echoed through the deck. Reid crouched instinctively as he tried to trace the source of the sound. Barnard. That was the MPX. He was certain of it.

  He ran down the hall as fast as he could, back the way he had come. At the mouth of the cabin-lined corridor he nearly stumbled over a pair of dirty white sneakers. The man in the coveralls had come this way—he had pulled off his shoes to muffle his footfalls. Reid stood there for a moment, listening, waiting for another sound, anything that might tell him which way to go.

  His patience wore thin quickly. “Barnard!” he shouted. In response, he heard another rapid tear of the submachine gun, only four or five shots. He cursed and sprinted down the hall toward the rec room, the last place he had seen Barnard go.

  But before he reached it he saw the gun, the MPX, laid on the floor outside a doorway.

  Reid hurried over to it as his chest grew tight. Someone had gotten the drop on Barnard. He peered into the doorway. It was the cafeteria, a wide austere room with tables, chairs, and a buffet-style layout of steel trays behind sneeze guards.

  He tiptoed into the cafeteria with his gun raised, but there was no sign of Barnard. No sounds. Reid ducked behind the cafeteria line and entered the crew kitchen, a narrow space that looked tighter than a fry cook’s station.

  “Agent Steele.” He heard Barnard’s voice and looked up sharply to see the doctor just inside another doorway—a food storage room, it appeared to be, like a walk-in pantry of nondescript sacks and boxes.

  But Barnard wasn’t looking at Reid. The doctor’s face was white as a sheet as he stared unblinking at something else, obscured by the partially open door.

  “Please move away, Agent,” the doctor said slowly.

  Reid did not heed the advice. Instead he took a step inside the pantry.

  Behind the door was the terrorist in the blue coveralls. His eyes were wild and his hair was slicked back with sweat. Clenched in his teeth was a single glass vial of the deadly smallpox.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  Reid’s first instinct was to raise the Glock and shoot, but he fought it down. Any sudden violent action could make the man bite down, and the smallpox would be released on the cruise ship, endangering not only anyone who was still on board, but also everyone Reid now counted amongst friends.

  Instead, he slowly holstered his Glock and showed the terrorist his hands.

  “I told you to move away,” Barnard said. He did not take his gaze off the man, or perhaps the vial in his teeth. The doctor stood rooted to the spot with his hands up, palms facing outward.

  The biohazard box was open at the man’s socked feet. Inside was a tube rack holding four rows of six vials each, save for the fourth row, which held only five, since the sixth was firmly gripped in the man’s jaw.

  Reid ignored Barnard. Instead he spoke in Arabic to the man in the blue coveralls. “There’s no reason to do this,” he said slowly. “Khalil has been caught. He lied to you, his followers. There is no holy war, no jihad.”

  The Lebanese man repositioned the vial to his molars so he could speak. “You would say anything to keep me from doing what I must.”

  “He’s going to bite down,” Barnard said. He had no idea what Reid was saying in Arabic, but he could read the tension on the man’s face.

  “You might be right,” Reid told the man. “Maybe I would say anything, but I will say this. He told you that you are the Imam Mahdi, didn’t he? The Redeemer, the one that will save the world from its sins?”

  The man said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeply.

  “Please don’t
goad him,” Barnard said tightly.

  Reid pressed on. “I know that because he told others the same thing. He told them that they were the Mahdi too. He told a Syrian boy who brought the virus into Barcelona. He told a French woman who thought she was carrying the virus. He told a virologist, who created what you have there in front of you—”

  “You lie!” the man snarled. His teeth scraped against the glass vial. Barnard flinched.

  “Smallpox is an airborne disease,” the doctor said quickly. “Transmitted via droplets in the air onto the nasal, oral, or mucosal membranes… usually through close contact… sometimes in enclosed settings, such as the underbelly of a cruise ship…”

  Reid knew that Barnard was panicked, rambling, but he maintained his composure as best he could. “I’m not lying,” he told the man holding the deadly virus in his teeth. “I was the one who found Khalil. He admitted all this himself. I’m sorry, but you have been a pawn in his game. But you don’t have to be. All you have to do is put that down, and close the box.”

  The man’s gaze flitted from Reid to Barnard and back again.

  Barnard bristled as the terrorist’s fingers moved.

  Slowly the man reached up, and he plucked the vial from his teeth with two fingers.

  Barnard let out an audible sigh of relief. Reid lowered his hands to waist level. “Now please, put it back in the box, and step away.”

  The man looked down at the vial in his fingertips for a moment. Then he brought it to his lips and, without hesitation, snapped down on it. Splinters of glass rained down from his mouth as the tube shattered.

  “Glory to Allah!” The man threw back his head and shouted, spittle and blood spraying from his lips. “Praise be unto Him!”

  Reid stopped breathing. The virus was released—and not eight feet from him.

  In that moment, he knew he was likely going to die. But it wasn’t his life that flashed before his eyes; it was his daughters, their faces, their smiles. Every impetuous, difficult moment and every blissful, joyous one.