by Kristen Judd
Riggs left the control room and headed down the hall. His heels clicked as he walked with a brisk pace. He glanced down at his wristband. It would be any moment now. He scanned his wristband and waited for the elevator shaft to return to Level 53-H. Four minutes later, the door swung open. He stepped in and closed the iron gate. He scanned his wrist again and said, "Top Level." The elevator shot up to the Dome.
Riggs exited the elevator shaft. The elevator would return to the lower level. A guard opened the front door for him. He didn't bother with the coat. His suit jacket flapped as he went, revealing the pistol strapped to his waist. The helicopter was waiting for him when he reached the bottom of the mountain. He climbed into the co-pilot seat, slammed the door shut, and placed his headpiece on.
"Where to?" the pilot asked.
Riggs sent a 9mm hollow point round between his eyes. He opened the helicopter's side door and kicked the dead pilot out onto the damp moss. The local wildlife would find him before anyone else, not that Riggs was the least bit concerned. Riggs pulled the door shut and activated the controls. The helicopter rose, kicking dirt and water over the body below. The Dome was perfectly hidden behind a recess in the mountain's side and blocked on all sides by thick trees. Even though Riggs couldn't see the secret facility, he knew it was there. He pulled out his portable transmitter and used the voice activation to dial the number.
A familiar voice came on.
"I'm on my way."
Riggs clicked the phone off and replaced it inside his jacket. He leaned the joystick to the right and turned the helicopter east. Two and a half hours later, he lowered into Halifax Stanfield International Airport, Nova Scotia. He left the engine running for one of the crewmen in a jumper suit and dark aviators. The man hopped into the chopper and flew it to its hangar. Riggs held his suit jacket tight to his chest as he skirted a hundred meters across the wet tarmac to the AIR Titan 3.0, designed after the 2017 Gulfstream G650 with a larger holding capacity, total flight duration and distance, and upgraded amenities with the latest technological advancements for comfort and speed. He climbed up the stairs and into the warmth of the jet's interior. The flight attendant greeted him and asked if he'd like something to drink.
"Scotch," he said.
Some things never aged with time. Special Agent Riggs enjoyed the classics. In a world with so much technology and talk about space travel, going back to something his great-grandfather would enjoy on a rainy day, smoking a cigar reminded him that nothing had changed with the human race. Yeah, they had more advanced transportation and technology, but they were still the same now as they were thirty years or even a thousand years ago.
A second flight attendant pulled the airstairs up and latched the door. She informed the pilots that they were ready for takeoff. The blonde flight attendant with her skirt hiked up to her mid-thigh leaned over with a wicked grin on her face. Riggs allowed his eyes to drift to the top of her blouse.
"Thank you," he said.
"Is there anything else I could do for you?" she asked with a mischievous wink. Riggs swallowed the glass of scotch in one gulp. He placed the glass on the railing to his right. He reached out and caressed her hand. Her skin was soft and warm.
"Actually, there is something you could do for me," he said.
Her left shoulder raised, she tilted her head sideways, and bit her lower lip. The hunger in Special Agent Riggs sparked to life. He seized her by the waist and yanked her on top of him.
The AIR Titan 3.0's quad-ion thrusters roared to life as the pilots escorted her to the runway and waited for the go ahead. As the jet raced down the runaway and lifted off into the air, Riggs already had the flight attendant pinned against the seat that reclined into a bed and was removing his shirt.
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CHAPTER
- TEN -
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Special Agent Riggs was greeted by the Prime Minister of England, along with ten other black SUVs of Royalty and Specialist Protection (RaSP) and Special Escort Group (SEG) operatives when the AIR Titan 3.0 landed at Heathrow. The RaSP was England's version of America's Secret Service. The RaSP had shut down the north end of the airport. The SUVs were all slouched to the ground with the extra weight the armor plating and bulletproof windows provided. Riggs descended the airstairs and was patted down by two RaSP soldiers before he was allowed to proceed to the Prime Minister's SUV. Another soldier opened the door for him and he got in. A black privacy mirror separated the front passenger seats and driver from the rear just like a limo. The entire back of the SUV had been gutted and two adjacent couches added, along with a built-in mini fridge and bar. The Prime Minister was sipping on a martini when Riggs joined him.
The Prime Minister placed the news report he was reading on the seat next to him and greeted Special Agent Riggs.
"Has our man broken the code?" the Prime Minister asked.
Riggs adjusted his coat and poured himself a glass of whiskey from the counter to his left. He took a sip and allowed the hard liquor to burn his throat and waken up his body.
"He's close," Riggs lied. Well, partially. Doctor Adam Richards and his team were getting close to developing a cure for the synthetically altered plague virus, but the clock was ticking. He was down to his last ten pods of scientists to crack the code and create a cure. He had already lost more than he'd like to admit, but if they managed to succeed in this, the world would produce more brilliant men and women to replace the ones they had lost. In truth, Special Agent Riggs didn't much care. All he wanted was to complete his mission. If that meant a thousand of the world's best scientists sacrificing their lives for science… well, he saw it as him doing them a favor. A warrior would rather die in battle doing what he's best at. Riggs told himself scientists were the same.
"They've managed to replicate the virus," Riggs added.
"Oh, that's good. What about the cure? We're running out of time here, Special Agent Riggs. We need that cure."
"Doctor Richards is the best. If he can't do it, I'm afraid no one can. However, they've already replicated the virus as I said, something none of the other scientists that you provided were able to do within the allotted time." Riggs' words hit home, and the Prime Minister flinched at the jab and took another sip of his martini.
"So," Riggs continued, "I fully expect we will have our cure within the next forty-eight hours."
"What makes you so confident that Doctor Richards will succeed where no other scientist has? What makes him so special?"
Riggs thought about it. He had known Doctor Richards for a long time. He had watched him and analyzed his progress and growth over the years. He was definitely brilliant, but his intelligence was not what made him succeed at any challenge that he faced, or why he was considered the top microbiologist in his field when he was only thirty. No, that was not it at all. Doctor Richards was hungry. He welcomed adversity. He loved the challenge. He needed it. It was an addiction. Special Agent Riggs knew the feeling all too well. He, too, had risen in the intelligence ranks over the years, quicker than anyone of his age had. At the time, he was the world's most deadly assassin and the Central Intelligence Agency's most valuable asset. After only five years into his tenure there, he had annihilated every cell of Al-Qaeda and ISIS from the map, something no one thought was even possible. Now, he used his skills that he learned in counterespionage and counterterrorism to his own personal benefit, not that he didn't enjoy killing those bastards.
Instead of bullets, he used tact. He weighed the different responses he could give before answering.
"There's a village deep in the Congo, only accessible by foot. They have some of the fiercest hunters in all of Africa. Before boys can become men and are welcomed into the tribe, they must face the jungle alone for seventy-two hours. They are given a small knife and water skin, hiked four days into the deepest, most remote part of the jungle, and then left there. Any boy who runs is banished
from the tribe. Not having the protection of the tribe meant certain death. If you weren't killed by a warring tribe, the jungle would."
"I don't see how this has anything to do with what we're discussing," the Prime Minister said.
Special Agent Riggs held up his hand. "Boys are sent out in groups of threes. There is only one knife and one water skin per trio. The boys must not only survive the jungle, but each other. If they hope to make it out alive and be reunited with their clan as men, they must work together. After twenty-four hours, the jungle begins to play tricks on you. Thirty hours go by, forty, then fifty. By now, you're weak, dehydrated, and malnourished. You begin to have hallucinations. The other two boys soon become your adversaries and you start planning how you can kill them. On the third day, you're awoken by a screech. You think a cougar has come into your camp. But as you come around the base of the tree that has been your shelter for the last sixty hours, you come upon the act. The victor stands over his dead victim. The one boy had killed the other in his sleep. His body is covered in blood, dirt, and sweat. Your eyes meet, and an understanding is exchanged. You're no longer allies but mortal enemies. The jungle has done what no one else could. Turned you against yourself. The boy had killed the other boy first because he deemed him the strongest, so he killed him in his sleep to give him the advantage. You know this, yet it doesn't scare you. It just is. The murderer stalks toward you, the bloody knife in his hand. There's hunger in his eyes as he approaches you. This is the moment. You could flee and save yourself, but your life would only be temporary, as now you're seen as a deserter to the tribe. You have three options.
"Option One: You stay and fight. Your honor trumps the risk of death. Maybe you'll manage to take the stronger, bigger boy down before he makes a killing blow, or maybe not. Option Two: You run. The boy is taller and has a longer reach than you. He outweighs you by twenty pounds if not more. And he has the only weapon. If you run, you survive but also will be seen as a deserter to your people. If you choose this option, you sacrifice your pride to live. Or you could go with Option Three."
Special Agent Riggs narrowed his eyes and creased his lips into a grin.
"What's option three?" the Prime Minister asked. He was fully engaged in the story.
"You kill him."
"But he's stronger and bigger than you. He just killed a boy, and he has the knife. You don't stand a chance," the Prime Minister said.
"True, he may be bigger and stronger and have a weapon. But you also have a weapon. Over the last three days you've been conserving your energy, scavenging from the edible plants and roots, eating bugs and finding water on plants or in moss. The other boy has been out hunting, exhausting energy and he hasn't eaten any form of nourishment. He's weak, he's clumsy, and he's not thinking clearly. You use this to your advantage and slowly back away. You try to convince him that you both can survive, that he doesn't need to do this. But it's a ruse. You want him to believe you're scared, weak, and prey. He follows you through the jungle, his rage and confidence rising. He's oblivious to his surroundings. But you, you know it well. The last few days have not destroyed your mind. You've mapped out the entire jungle within a mile radius. You know its dangers and you know its weaknesses. You've guided him to the perfect spot to give you the upper hand. To seal his fate, you fall to your knees and beg for your life. He laughs at you, mocks you, and draws closer. The knife spins in his hand; his fingers flex on its edge. He's close now. You can smell the sweat on his chest and hear the pounding of his chest. For a brief moment, there's stillness and neither moves. Your eyes are locked in neutral understanding, then he lunges at you, jabbing at your gut with the knife. You manage to roll away, but the knife cuts a deep gash into your ribs. The stronger boy smiles even more, seeing the blood dripping from your side. He doesn't hesitate and lunges at you again. You manage to dodge again with only a slash on your arm this time. But all the other boy can see is blood. You've now managed to get him into position without him realizing. You've allowed him to wound you and even now you feign weakness and surrender. You hold up your free hand, the other across the gash in your side, and beg him to spare your life. You lower your head in mock surrender as he rushes you a third time. He slips on the wet stone of the stream and loses balance. This time you don't dodge but stand and meet him head on. You thrust the branch forward like a spear, piercing his chest. His eyes go wide, and he drops the blade. It clatters in the shallow water by your feet. He grasps you with both hands, but it's out of desperation. You watch the fear grow in his eyes. You don't hesitate and scoop up the knife from the water and end it quick. A courtesy he most likely would not have afforded you. You release him, and he falls into the rock bed. His blood coats the thin pool in red. You leave him and head back to the tribe. Your seventy-two hours is up: you've survived the jungle. But as you head back to your people, you go back a different person. You're no longer a boy, nor a man, but something else, something more. You're aware."
Riggs ended his story. The Prime Minister stared at him for a long moment. Riggs filled his glass again and one for the Prime Minister. Before he handed it to the distracted Prime Minister, he slipped in the tiny tablet. It dissolved in the whiskey instantly. Riggs gave the Prime Minister the glass and raised his own in toast.
"To the weak," Riggs toasted.
The Prime Minister raised his glass and drank. "I still don't understand the story. What's the point? The weaker boy overcame all odds? He faced his fear?"
Riggs finished his drink and placed it in the cup holder. He unbuttoned his shirt and revealed his side. There was a large scar that ran from his third rib to his fifth. He buttoned his shirt.
"You're the boy in the Congo?" the Prime Minister asked. He chuckled and clapped his hands.
"When we release the virus, it will attack everyone, the weak and the strong alike—the perfect justice. Those who run will die. Those who stay will die. The infection will spread quickly, reaching every country around the world. People will be desperate for a cure, and they will do anything to get it."
Riggs tapped on the window and the soldier outside opened the door. Riggs stepped out and adjusted his jacket.
"Special Agent Riggs, I hope our agreement is still in place?"
Riggs turned to face the Prime Minister. "I have it under control. Your estate will be secure just as we agreed. When the virus is released, you will be well on your way to your high kingdom."
The Prime Minister grinned wickedly, his fat puffy cheeks pinching together as he smiled. "Have a safe trip home," the Prime Minister said.
"Good doing business with you, sir," Riggs said and walked away. The same two RaSP soldiers escorted him back to the plane. The soldier by the airstairs handed him a silver briefcase with $10,000,000 as he ascended into the AIR Titan 3.0. Death was a lucrative career, and Special Agent Riggs was a master at it.
The AIR Titan 3.0 shot off the runaway shortly after and made its return flight back to Halifax International Airport, Nova Scotia. Riggs opened the silver case when they had reached their maximum altitude of 51,000 feet and swept his fingers over the crisp bills. Yes, death was certainly lucrative. Forty-eight hours from now, the pill capsule he had dropped into the Prime Minister's drink containing the synthetic virus would make him the first victim of the Red Cell plague. Riggs snapped the case shut and reclined his seat. He glanced at his wristwatch. Twelve hours from now, Phase Two would begin.
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CHAPTER
- ELEVEN -
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Kondo and Sally wasted no time.
They wheeled Adam to the quarantine chamber. Each of them placed protective garb on: gloves, facemask with a built-in respirator, and full body covering. They then wrapped leather harnesses around each of Adam's wrists and ankles. He knew it was only a precaution. They couldn't risk him falling off the table. Here he would stay for however much longer he had on this earth. He accepted
his fate with peace, knowing that at least his death wouldn't go to waste.
Kondo was prepping the equipment and computers while Sally took a moment to hold Adam's hand. Even plastic couldn't keep her love from reaching him.
"It'll be okay," he said. His body felt weaker by the minute.
"We're only going to take some blood and tissue samples, then you can help us," she encouraged.
He nodded. Lying on the operating table wasn't the most comfortable, but at least it was better than face down on the hard tile.
"We're ready," Kondo said, stepping near the table. He placed his latex glove on Adam's shoulder.
"I'll give you a sedative, so you can relax. We should have everything we need after a few hours. Then, we won't stop until we find a cure."
Adam appreciated the sentiment but not the optimism. Cures could take months, if not years, to develop, and even then, you had several phases of trials before it ever went public. They had that going for them; they could bypass the World Health Organization's (WHO) regulations and restrictions and just go straight to human trials. If it didn't work, well, at this point, it didn't matter. Adam needed it to work.
He locked his eyes onto Sally's until his body lost feeling. She faded away into blackness a few seconds later when Kondo inserted anesthesia into his IV drip. With Adam out, Kondo and Sally got to work. They took several blood samples, including marrow and plasma, as well as multiple tissue samples.