FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  Willy Williams, laptop lovingly tucked under his arm as if it were his girlfriend, edged close and gave Gerrit a worried look. “Any closer to that bomb, Mr. G, and you’d be blacker than I am.” He took a chair and began powering up, focusing on the screen as the others chatted.

  Behind Willy, FBI Special Agent Beck Malloy drew up a chair next to the hospital bed. Malloy, with his open dress shirt with a T-shirt underneath, khaki pants, and wavy raven-black hair, looked more like a college professor than a federal agent. Until you saw him in action. “We need to talk, Gerrit. We just—”

  “Shut up, Beck!” Willy glared at the agent, pressing his forefinger against his lips. Then he moved his finger to his ear, indicating that someone might be listening.

  Beck gave him a shocked look, and then turned to Gerrit. “Grab your pants. We need to talk…now.”

  “Got a little problem,” Gerrit said. “Nurse Ratched might come back at any time. Just grab my robe.”

  Alena helped him climb from the bed and slip into a white terrycloth robe. “By the way,” she whispered. “It was a nice view.” She waggled her eyebrows mischievously.

  Gerrit grinned. “Flo’s going to be ticked. I wish I could see her face when she finds I’ve flown the coop.”

  Willy chuckled. “I might be able to arrange that, Mr. G. I’ll explain later.”

  A few minutes later, Gerrit and the others slipped past the nurse’s station and made their way to an empty room. When Beck had arrived, the guard took a break. Gerrit perched himself on the bed, feeling woozy.

  Beck peered at him. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Now, what’s up?”

  Beck thrust his chin toward Willy. “Take it away, computer geek.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. B.” Willy reopened his computer. “When they dragged your sorry behind into this hospital, Mr. G., I made sure to set up a few monitors for your protection.”

  “Audio and visual surveillance?”

  “You got it. And I set it up so I could remotely keep an eye on the area through my own computer program. These monitors feed information back to a single source, and I can download the feed into whatever device I’m using.”

  “Get to the point, Williams,” Beck said. “Time’s running out.”

  Gerrit glanced at both men. “You two are a little testy. Want some of my meds?”

  Alena moved closer, taking his hand in hers as she sat next to him. “Let Willy finish, babe. This is serious.”

  “Remember the Daemon File program we dumped into their system back in Albuquerque?”

  Gerrit nodded. It was the first operation he led after joining Alena and the team. Fighting their way into a New Mexico computer lab, they tracked down what turned out to be the heart and soul of a program that promised to make privacy a thing of the past. Dubbed Project Megiddo, the program was built upon a network of proxy servers on steroids, using quantum-computer breakthroughs known only to a few in the scientific community.

  Richard Kane planned for his organization to use this system to break down computer firewalls and develop a massive intelligence base. Eventually, they planned on using this data to change the world’s balance of power: blackmail, extortion, access to intelligence data systems—whatever it took to gain the upper hand. Kane and the others perished several nights ago before they could act.

  “I’ve used my little daemons to track and target any information that group passed on about us and to snoop around to learn what other trouble they might be up to.”

  “Like access to nuclear weapons programs?”

  Willy nodded. “I have been focusing on any online communications with that source in D.C. who seemed to control Kane and the others. Can’t find who this guy might be, but the last communication I traced went to your old boss at Seattle PD.”

  “Lieutenant Cromwell?” Gerrit asked.

  The last thing they had discussed was about bombs. Gerrit’s familiarity with bombs went way back to his time in the military. One of his bomb instructors once remarked that Gerrit seemed to have a knack with things that went boom. That pyrotechnics must run in his veins. He never shared that compliment with anyone because they might think he was a little strange—okay, more than a little.

  “Yeah, that traitor.” A scowl crossed Willy’s dark features. “Anyway, my program tracked the source and I saw a communiqué that sent up red flags.” Willy glanced at his screen. “It reads: ‘Contract for problems in Seattle on track for extermination. GO and friends. Contract signed and delivered. Ready to initiate next step when problems eliminated.’”

  “He’s referring to us,” Gerrit said, suddenly feeling stupid for stating the obvious. His medication must be fogging his brain more than he thought.

  Willy nodded. “That’s how I read it.” He looked around the room. “All of us.”

  Beck moved forward. “I think he’s right, Gerrit. We’ve got to move you out of here. Now.”

  Alena gave him a bag of clothing, price tags still attached. “I hope you like my choice of’ styles. Didn’t have much time to shop.”

  “Whatever you selected will work for me.” He removed his robe, then started to remove his hospital gown.

  Alena looked away. “Whoa, cowboy.” To the others, she said, “I’ll keep an eye on the hallway until Gerrit’s dressed. Then you two help him get out of here while I keep the nurse distracted.”

  As Gerrit slipped into his trousers, he glanced over at Beck. “Where’s Joe?”

  Gerrit’s uncle was the informal leader of the group. As cyber-security specialists, Joe and Willy worked to keep the group’s movements hidden from those who might try to track them down. Joe narrowly escaped the same bombing that killed Gerrit’s parents.

  “He’ll catch up with you later. Willy gave him an update, and he flew out a few hours ago to start setting up new aliases for everyone. Whoever tried to blow you up must have tracked everything you owned or used by now. We all have to start over. Here, I pulled this from your property in case we had to move fast.” Beck handed Gerrit a black semiauto Smith & Wesson M&P40 along with several loaded magazines.

  “Thanks.” Gerrit laid the weapon on the bed. He slipped his belt through the holster, then picked up the gun and inserted the magazine, chambering a round before slipping the weapon into his holster. “Now I don’t feel so naked.”

  Willy coughed. “Hey, Mr. G., one more piece of bad news. Project Megiddo is still on. All we did—by destroying the last two labs—only postponed their plans.”

  “Does it say what that next phase might be?” Gerrit buttoned up his shirt. “Or where they might be headed?” He glanced at the sleeves and saw they were a perfect fit, just like the trousers.

  “No. They don’t give a hint. But I will monitor this guy’s e-mails to see if they screw up.”

  Gerrit turned to the FBI agent. “Beck, where are we supposed to catch up with Joe?”

  Willy tapped his shoulder. “Mr. G. I can answer that—”

  The door flew open as Alena rushed in. “We got trouble. Those hitters might already be here. I asked the nurse to walk with me to the front lobby downstairs to check on your hospital fees to distract her for a few minutes. Two men came through together. They have the look I’ve seen before—hired guns.”

  Beck grabbed the door and peered around the corner. “Nothing here. You guys get to the exit. I’ll cover the hallway and slow them down if I can. Just make it to the garage. Willy has a van waiting there.”

  Gerrit nodded and grasped Beck’s hand. “Thanks for everything.”

  The FBI agent gave him a quick nod. “Stay safe.”

  Gerrit, Alena, and Willy started to make their way to a stairwell at the end of the hall. They were a few yards from the exit when the elevator door rang.

  Gerrit opened the stairwell door and motioned for Alena and Willy to go on ahead. Glancing back, he saw two men emerge. One of them spotted Gerrit and reached for something under his black leather jacket.

  Gun.

  “FB
I. Raise your hands!” Beck emerged from the unoccupied hospital room, weapon raised.

  Gerrit reached for his weapon as he turned to face the gunmen. They were approximately forty yards away and seemed confused by Beck’s command. They hesitated for a moment. Beck stood about twenty yards away, with an angled shot at the gunmen. Gerrit’s shot would travel twice that distance, and at this angle his rounds might endanger innocent civilians. Beck’s angle offered a thick concrete wall directly behind the shooters if he missed. The first wave of gunfire erupted down the hall as the gunmen turned their attention toward Beck. Frustrated, Gerrit lowered his weapon as Alena gripped his shoulder.

  “Keep going! We have to make it to the car. Beck has backup en route.”

  Gerrit shot her a skeptical look.

  She tugged harder. “He had two agents stationed down below. Let them handle this. Please.”

  He turned, gritting his teeth. As he moved down the stairs, his legs and stomach felt shaky. Just as they emerged in the garage parking lot, sirens wailed in the distance. Cops would be on the scene any minute. Backup on the way. Beck and his men could hold off the gunmen until then. Still, Gerrit hated to leave anyone behind.

  He turned and followed Alena down the stairs.

  Chapter 3

  February 20

  Devon, still fighting jet lag, sat in a black Porsche 911 Carrera tucked away in the hospital parking garage. Flicking his spent cigarette outside, he reached for another and found the pack empty. He wadded it up and tossed it out the window. Nasty habit. Suddenly, his tired eyes snapped opened as frantic voices erupted from his radio.

  “Incoming on the twelfth floor. FBI.” One of the men Devon sent into the hospital for reconnaissance yelled over the portable. He slammed his fist on the dash. They were just supposed to look around. Not take on the feds.

  “Pull back. Disengage,” he yelled into the radio.

  “Roger that. On our way down. The targets GOA.”

  Gone On Arrival. More bad news. “Get out and meet at our secondary location.”

  Several clicks let him know his men understood.

  Just as he fired up the engine, three people rushed into the garage—a woman and two men. He recognized all three from surveillance photos. Gerrit O’Rourke seemed wobbly as he ran, the others helping him toward the car. At the same time, Devon heard sirens wailing as cops drew closer.

  He flung open the car door and stood, yanking out his weapon.

  “Alena. Watch out!” Gerrit pointed across the garage at a man standing next to a black Porsche. “Gun!”

  The first shot took a chunk of concrete from the wall near Gerrit’s head as he dove behind a parked car, weapon in hand. The others crouched near him. Alena pulled out her semiauto .40mm Sig from her purse.

  The woman knows how to pack.

  Gerrit rose up over the hood of the car and fired three quick rounds, then dropped back behind the car. Waiting for a moment, he decided to take a chance and peer through the driver’s window toward where he last saw the gunman. As he raised his head, Gerrit saw the armed stranger hesitate, then jump into the sports car and peel out of the parking space, tires screaming for traction. He watched the taillights disappear as the driver squealed onto the city street.

  Breathing slower, he turned to Alena. “We can’t let the cops catch us here. Still too many unanswered questions. I don’t know if all those BOLOs with my name have been recalled.”

  Kane’s people planted evidence after Gerrit’s home blew up that suggested he was responsible for the murders of his partner and girlfriend. Alerts went out that claimed he was a person of interest. Cop-speak for we think he’s guilty as all get-out. Richard Kane hoped this misinformation campaign would result in Gerrit’s capture or death. So far, he stayed one step ahead of the law while Beck Malloy and others tried to clear the system.

  She nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They made it to the van parked a few spaces away. Alena took the driver’s seat and Gerrit climbed in next to her. Willy positioned himself behind them, looking over their shoulder. “Joe has a plane standing by at Sea-Tac. We can be there in just a bit.”

  “Where are we headed?” Gerrit glanced back toward the hospital, watching patrol cars choking the entrance.

  A knowing smile gleamed on Willy’s face. “Wait and see, Mr. G. I think you’ll love it.”

  Gerrit looked for anyone who might be tailing them. He could not pick up any surveillance. Either they lost the gunmen, or the bad guys were so good he couldn’t see them. A feeling of uneasiness remained; that and something else.

  The shakiness he felt earlier hung on like a bad cold, centered in the pit of his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he watched Alena. Suddenly, he knew that weakness inside was not brought on by his physical condition. Something seemed to snap back there in the garage when he realized Alena stood in the line of fire.

  He flashed back to their gunfight at the lab in Albuquerque just a few weeks ago when Redneck—one of their own, turned traitor—held a gun to Alena’s head. Back there in the garage, Gerrit let his feelings get in the way as his subconscious brought back that image in New Mexico, making him freeze for just a moment.

  He glanced down at his hands, spreading the fingers out to see how steady they might be. He detected a slight tremor and squeezed his fingers into a tight fist. Get a grip. He had to shake this off, or the next time he might freeze a moment too long and someone he cared about might die.

  In war, he only had to worry about himself and his fellow Marines. Sure, he cared about his teammates, but this was different. Feelings for Alena seemed to be getting in the way of the job. He had to focus on the target next time.

  Gerrit glanced up to see Alena watching him with a look of concern.

  “Everything okay?”

  He shrugged and turned to stare out the window. No, everything was not all right, but he had to keep it to himself. She and the others must have confidence in his ability to get the job done. This was not a time to confess his weakness. It was time to take those feelings and bury them deep inside. In the same place he put his feelings of loss, guilt, and remorse. This was not a time to dwell on the past. It was a time to pull out everything he’d learned in war and take the battle to the enemy. Without remorse. Without fear.

  Chapter 4

  February 20

  Venice, Italy

  Bells from a cathedral chimed their resonating music across the city. Cup in hand, Richard Dunsmuir stepped out onto a narrow balcony. Below, a motorboat purred along the Grand Canal as the hum of pedestrians and beating wings of pigeons stirred the morning air with expectancy.

  He savored the richness of his cappuccino, gently placing the white porcelain cup back on its matching saucer. The strong aroma of coffee, heated until the foamed milk vanished, carried him back to more pleasant times. And this city—with its secrets and passionate beauty—gave him a feeling of peacefulness for the moment.

  He reached into his inside pocket and extracted two passports, one bearing the name of Richard Dunsmuir. Several other passports, hidden in a wall safe in his bedroom, could make him very vulnerable if they fell into the wrong hands.

  The other passport in his hand linked him to his Bulgarian past that few people knew about. His parents died in the Russian juggernaut in the midst of WWII. From that rubble, he grew and survived on his own, becoming a political chameleon, creating a power base across all ideologies that made him a formidable friend—or foe. His life would be in jeopardy if his next visitor learned of his hatred for Russians.

  Enough of the past. He lived in one of the most beautiful and exotic cities in Europe. Venice was only one of many places around the world in which he chose to live. Since the Cold War, he’d learned to be able to slip from country to country, taking on identities as easily as a man puts on a new coat.

  A doorbell jarred him back into the present. He set down the cup and saucer, strode across the room, and opened the door.

  Ivan Yegorov.


  The Russian—brutishly handsome, cold blue eyes, close-cropped hair that once was dark—entered without a word, giving Richard a tight-lipped nod. He watched Yegorov pace the room as if he could not decide whether to stay or go. He finally settled into an armchair facing the balcony.

  Richard took the chair opposite Yegorov. “Thanks for coming all this way, my friend. It is important we discuss these matters face-to-face.” He studied the other man. Not a blink or twitch hinted as to what the Russian might be contemplating. He continued. “As mentioned in our last communiqué, I am proposing a mutually beneficial operation that will interest your government as well as certain political interests I represent.”

  Yegorov impassively stared back.

  “This is the first—and last—time we’ll meet. For security, you understand.” Richard waited for a response. Faced with more silence, he went on. “We both share contacts within many intelligence communities. Based upon our prior transaction, I felt your country might like to see it put to good use—without endangering your country.”

  “I know who you work for in past.” Yegorov leaned forward, staring into Richard’s eyes like a world-class poker player. “Who pays you now? And why should we trust you?”

  “Fair questions, Ivan. You know I carry out my promises—”

  “Like the labs you just lost? Who lost on that deal? We watch.”

  Feeling his stomach tighten, Richard tried to control himself. His left eye started to twitch. How did the Russian know about that fiasco? Did he make a link between Richard Dunsmuir and the Washington lobbyist Stuart Martin? He would try another approach. “I proved myself in the last deal I made with you. That went well, did it not? You acquired very important technology that gave you credibility in Mother Russia. No?”

  Ivan nodded.

  “And you learned I carry through on my word. Now, I’m proposing an operation—a very big operation—that will allow the balance of power to shift in your favor. Russia and other interests I represent will greatly benefit. And the United States and her lapdog, Israel, will suffer. A good thing, right?”