Sleight of Hand (Outbreak Task Force)

by Julie Rowe

  “Just get better fast.”

  Joy and Gunner headed for the exit. He had an odd expression on his face, like he had something bitter in his mouth, but he couldn’t spit it out.

  After a moment, he said conversationally, “Dozer’s cognitive ability seemed as sharp as ever. He’s fine.”

  “I hope he stays fine,” Joy said. “Or Rodrigues will kill us.”

  “There isn’t anything going on between them,” Gunner said, sounding certain. “Rodrigues is too by the book.”

  “No,” Joy agreed. “Not yet, anyway. I have the feeling Dozer might want to change that.” She glanced at Gunner’s bandaged leg. “Speaking of staying fine”—she pointed at his wound—“what are we going to do about you?”

  Gunner crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve been examined and treated. Have you been checked out?”

  “One of the paramedics looked at me on our way here.” She scowled at him. “Nice try on the change of subject.” She looked at his leg.

  “The injury wasn’t as bad as it looked.”

  “That statement isn’t as reassuring as you think it is.”

  Her cell phone rang. Joy checked it. “It’s Rodrigues.” She answered. “Joy Ashiro.”

  “I want you both in my office in twenty minutes.” She hung up.

  Once inside their vehicle, Gunner turned to her and said much too carefully, “I want to understand something.”

  Her stomach dropped. Here it comes. “Okay.”

  “Why, when you realized that kid dropped a bomb, did you run toward it?” The words came out of his mouth faster and faster as the sentence went along. As if powered by some invisible accelerant.

  Fear.

  Fear had propelled every step she’d taken to get to Gunner before the bomb did.

  “I was trying to make sure you and Dozer got out before the bomb went off.”

  “You had to stop, turn around, and start running again,” he growled. “You put yourself in danger, for no reason.”

  “I had two reasons,” she argued. “You and Dozer.”

  “Dozer was chasing that little shit.”

  “Fine, just you then.”

  “No,” he said, cutting the air with one hand in a flat horizontal motion. “No one is dying for me again.”

  There was a long pause where the only sound was their ragged breathing.

  “Again?” Joy asked carefully.

  “My wife,” he managed to force out from between clenched teeth. “Died because she saw the shooter and got between me and him. The bullet that killed her should have hit me instead.”

  “Fuck,” Joy said softly, but with feeling a couple of moments later.

  “I can’t…if you…” His voice rose to a squeak, and his face got red. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. Finally, he sucked in a breath. “Don’t make me survive that again.” His voice sounded old, used up, broken. “Please.”

  “Fuck,” she repeated. Then gave herself time to think while he composed himself before realizing there was only one thing she could say. “Okay.”

  They made it back to CDC headquarters with no time to change or make themselves presentable.

  The look on Rodrigues’s face when they arrived at her office would have been funny if every muscle Joy had didn’t ache so much. Rodrigues stared at them like they’d just been caught cutting up bodies.

  Gunner cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but Rodrigues spoke first. “If you say, it’s not as bad as it looks, you’re both fired.”

  Gunner closed his mouth.

  Joy had to fight the hysterical laughter that bubbled up.

  Their boss got to her feet and came around her desk to examine them. She shook her head. “River said you two looked rough, but…why shouldn’t I take you off this case?”

  “Continuity,” Gunner said after a moment. “We know what’s happened, and we know when, where, and what to look for. Assigning anyone else would mean bringing them up to speed. Something you don’t believe you have time for, or you wouldn’t ask us to provide an excuse to keep us on the case.”

  “No one likes a smart-ass,” Rodrigues told him.

  He didn’t respond.

  Rodrigues looked at Joy. “What about you?”

  “Ma’am, I’m invested in this investigation. I want to see it through.”

  Rodrigues studied her for another moment then sighed. “Get cleaned up.” She returned to sit behind her desk. “You have fifteen minutes, then you’re going to the airport and getting on a plane to New Orleans.”

  “You found something?” Gunner asked.

  “Homeland’s tech guys reconstructed a text conversation between Mike Creek and a craft beer store in New Orleans. They brought in several kegs of the contaminated beer. We’ve asked them to stop selling them, but a few have already been sold.”

  “Do they have records?” Joy asked.

  “Only partial records. Some of the kegs were bought with cash. Some of those transactions were made with a fake ID and contact information.” Her face told Joy just how stupid she thought the people at the beer store were.

  “So whoever bought them might be planning to serve to minors, or keep the keg, or whatever stupid shit they’ve dreamed up,” Joy said more to herself than anyone else.

  “If we’ve got several kegs out in the wild,” Gunner asked, “why haven’t we had an outbreak in New Orleans?”

  “Spring break starts tomorrow,” Joy said slowly. “Whoever has them might be saving them for the big party.”

  “Local law enforcement in New Orleans is searching for the kegs, but with the influx of college-aged partiers, I don’t want to count on them to find the beer alone.” Rodrigues’s face fell, and she looked exhausted. “I wouldn’t send you two out, given your injury, Gunner, but I’ve had three outbreak calls for help in the last twenty-four hours. All of them out of the country.”

  “Outbreaks?” Joy asked.

  “Where?” Gunner asked at the same time.

  “Cholera on a couple of the Caribbean islands that got hit with hurricanes last year, tuberculosis in Tibet, and a new Ebola outbreak in Sierra Leone.”

  “With Dozer out of action for the moment, who will we be working with from Homeland?” Gunner asked.

  “Agents from their local office in New Orleans and the FBI.” Rodrigues fixed Gunner with a hard stare. “I expect you to be polite with everyone.”

  He smiled, showing his teeth.

  Rodrigues sighed then looked at Joy. “Do your best to keep him contained.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s not as fast as usual, so maybe I’ll have more luck with that.”

  She gave Joy a flat stare that didn’t bother her in the slightest. “Go.”

  They grabbed another set of go-bags, cleaned up, which meant a shower for Joy, and met at their office before leaving the building. She wasn’t sure if Gunner showered or gave himself a sponge bath, but his hair was wet, and he looked as normal as a man could get after getting blown up.

  Who was she to complain? She was covered in bruises and scrapes, and her entire body felt like King Kong had thrown her around like a baseball.

  He was still limping, but no worse than before. She grabbed additional first aid supplies and shoved some in both their bags. She was probably going to be the one who changed his dressings anyway.

  As they waited for a taxi to pick them up, he studied her. “You look terrible.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she said sweetly. “You look worse than terrible. Actually, you look like two tigers played tug of war with your leg.”

  “I didn’t mean…” He blew out a breath and muttered, “So much for being polite. Idiot.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Pain makes me short-tempered.”

  “So does dealing with morons, assholes, and terrorists.”

  “That pretty much covers everyone, doesn’t it?” He paused. “No,” he said like he was really thinking about it. “Not everyone.” His gaze slid over to rest on her.
>
  Part of her ate that warm gaze up like candy. He was a man with more than a few bruises on his heart, but he was good. He might be grumpy, but it hid a man who would—had—give everything to save the innocent.

  Another part wanted to run like hell. She’d cared for people before then lost them—some to a sniper’s bullet or an IED, others to addictions or suicide. She hadn’t cared for any of them half as much as she felt for Gunner. If she lost him, for any reason, the damage would be equivalent to a gunshot to the heart. No chance of survival.

  Just the possibility etched acid-laced wounds onto her soul. It burned, and froze, and hurt. And hurt.

  She pulled out her phone and began going through news reports on the outbreak and providing Gunner with a synopsis of each one until they boarded the plane.

  Their flight wasn’t a long one, but they both slept.

  As soon as they landed and took their phones off airplane mode, texts from Rodrigues rolled in. The death toll had risen, as had the number of people in the hospital with worsening symptoms. She would send help, just as soon as it became available.

  Their task had gone from urgent to critical.

  “No pressure,” she said to Gunner after she finished reading the messages. “None at all.”

  “You wanted a challenge, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but one of this magnitude wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  There was a uniformed police officer and two men in suits waiting for them as they entered the airport.

  She and Gunner approached them.

  “CDC?” the cop asked.

  “Dr. Gunner Anderson and Joy Ashiro,” Gunner said, holding out his hand to the officer.

  “MacDougall,” the cop, said shaking his hand.

  “I’m Agent Scott Rawley from Homeland Security,” the taller of the two men in suits said.

  “I’m from the FBI,” the other man said. “Agent Bill Ketner.”

  Everyone shook hands.

  Gunner looked around the busy terminal. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Yes, sir,” MacDougall said. “This way.” He led them to an unmarked door. Inside was a small conference-style room with a table and six chairs, but little else.

  “Tell us what you know,” Gunner said to the three men. “We don’t want to repeat information if we don’t have to.”

  MacDougall went first. He mentioned the recall, but aside from the brand of beer, didn’t know any more than that. The two agents knew more but seemed uncertain what their roles were supposed to be. Were they supposed to help track down the sick and get them into isolation? Was it all of Frank Creek’s beer that was contaminated and had to be confiscated? Or was the recall on a specific product?

  Joy winced at how poor the lines of communication were between agencies.

  Gunner explained that it was only one of the Creeks’ brand of beers and that they were hoping an in-person visit might facilitate the gain of more information.

  Both the Homeland and the FBI agents wore sour expressions when he was done.

  “That’s what all this is about? A few kegs of bad beer you need found?” Rawley asked.

  Ketner leaned forward. “I was told this was a high-priority case, with the potential for hundreds of victims. I’m not seeing the emergency here.”

  “All it takes is one glass of beer,” Joy said, looking from one to the other. Why did they look so…irritated? “And with the number of young people coming into the city, the infection rate could be quite high.”

  “So what if they get the runs,” Ketner said with a condescending smile on his face. “Isn’t this E. coli something everyone has in their gut?”

  “Our little problem bacteria isn’t good enough for you?” Gunner asked pleasantly. “A dozen people dead not a high enough body count? Perhaps you believe there are more important threats in need of your attention?” He dropped the nice voice. “Perhaps you need to pull your head out of your ass.”

  Ketner’s expression didn’t change much, but something around his eyes said he was dangerously angry.

  Joy glanced at Rawley and found the man wearing a slightly confused expression.

  “What isn’t adding up, Homeland?” she asked.

  “Twelve dead.”

  “Yes, and another forty in the hospital.”

  “I was told two.” He looked at Ketner. “What was in your brief?”

  “Two.” The rage had ebbed, but it wasn’t all gone. “When did the number go up?”

  “Our boss sent us those numbers while we were in the air. It’s probably higher than twelve by now,” Joy said. “Unfortunately.”

  “What happened to you?” Rawley asked, for the first time looking completely engaged in the conversation and looking Gunner over with a critical eye. “Why are you limping?”

  “You weren’t told about what happened during the investigation of a storage unit?” Joy asked. “One of Homeland Security’s agents was injured trying to stop the detonation of a bomb.”

  “Somehow,” Ketner said between his teeth, “we seem to have missed out on a great deal of information.”

  “You weren’t told about the bombing?”

  “I should have been,” Rawley said with a determined expression that didn’t bode well for anyone who might have left him out of the loop.

  “What about you?” Gunner asked the FBI agent. “Where are you getting your information from?”

  “Some from official channels, some from multiple confidential informants.”

  “What does that mean? Confidential informants?” Gunner asked.

  “Outside opinions with no stake in the problem…” He hesitated, then finished his sentence. “Trusted, objective opinions.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday 12:18 p.m.

  “And what are these sources saying?” Gunner asked, managing to keep his tone level only with great effort.

  “The CDC hasn’t responded well to this outbreak. Too slowly and with not enough information provided to its law enforcement partners.” Ketner’s grim smile made it clear he considered himself one of those partners. “There are a lot of theories being circulated on social media, along with graphic pictures and stories of dead college students with their pants down.”

  Rawley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m afraid I’ve seen some of those pictures.” He shook his head. “It isn’t helping this situation any.”

  “The fact that the CDC sent only two investigators…” Ketner let his sentence dangle.

  Gunner opened his mouth to tell Ketner and Rawley exactly what he thought of them and their opinions regarding the CDC, but Joy bumped his shoulder with hers.

  Right, keep it polite. Gunner closed his mouth without making a sound.

  Joy said, “The problem with your sources and the information they’re providing you is that it’s not accurate. If they’re getting it anywhere but the CDC directly, it’s nothing more than hearsay or conjecture. You might only see two of us at a location, but we’re connected to the entire CDC infrastructure with access to real time results, reports, and communication with other investigators.”

  She explained the two strains of E. coli they’d discovered, along with the dangers they faced, because the only cure was experimental, at best. Both men seemed to struggle with what she told them, their expressions unhappy, disgusted, and reluctant.

  “We need you,” Joy told them. “The risk to public health is high.”

  “We’ve got to get the beer kegs off shelves and out of the hands of the public before every hospital in New Orleans is overrun by sick college students,” Gunner added. “We need to track down one purchaser who seems to have a less than accurate inventory. They don’t seem to know where all the kegs they sold have gone.”

  “Got a name?” MacDougall asked.

  “Bitters Sweet.” Gunner gave him the address.

  “It’s just outside of the French Quarter. Lots of bars and restaurants in the area.”

  “Ca
n you take us there?”

  MacDougall smiled at them. “My car is this way.” He gestured at the door.

  Rawley and Ketner were looking at their phones. Checking for updates?

  “Are you coming?” Joy asked them.

  Gunner would have been fine with leaving them behind, despite what Rodrigues said about them being useful.

  Rawley looked up, met their gazes, and said, “The death count is up to fifteen now.”

  Ketner’s head jerked up. He stared at Rawley. “What? When?”

  “Just now. It’s not public yet, but you”—Rawley put his phone away and regarded Gunner with a sardonic twist of his lips—“you’re priority number one.”

  “Fuck,” Ketner said under his breath. He stared at nothing for a long moment before giving both Gunner and Joy a long look that promised and threatened at the same time. “I’m in. Let’s get this done.”

  Gunner didn’t move, except to point at each of the three men. “You don’t go anywhere without wearing a mask, or touch anything without gloves on. Joy and I will provide you with both, understood?”

  All three men nodded.

  They left the terminal. He and Joy were given their choice of escort, but Gunner wanted to ride with MacDougall. He was the local, a cop who’d spent time on the streets, who would most likely know the back alleys, back doors, and back lots in the city. He’d recognize normal from abnormal.

  “Sir, I hope you don’t mind me saying,” MacDougall began as he drove. “But, you don’t look like you should be on that leg.”

  Gunner glanced down, expecting to see blood on his pant leg. Nothing. “I don’t need to sprint to do my job.”

  “Did that happen in the explosion you mentioned earlier?” The young officer sounded worried.

  “Thank you for your concern,” Gunner said in an even tone. “But I’ve had worse and kept operating for hours.”

  MacDougall nodded jerkily. “Yes, sir.” He swallowed and darted a nervous look at Gunner’s face. “Sorry, sir. Were you in the military?”

  Another person calling him “sir.” What had he done to deserve this? “No.”

  MacDougall’s hands clutched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white. What had him so nervous? Gunner reviewed what he’d said and realized what had made the officer edgy.