Gavin looked at Anna, whose eyes kept darting to the closed cabin door.
“I don’t know. But I don’t have any other choice,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Anna met his gaze and swallowed hard.
“This is Anna Bricker. Jeffrey—my husband—somehow gained possession of a vial of the Doomsday virus. He’s planning to release it sometime after midnight at the big nativity display in downtown Pittsburgh.” She spoke in a stilted, formal voice.
“The crèche in Steel Plaza?” Sasha asked.
“I guess. He said some school group will be singing there in the morning,” Anna responded.
Gavin could hear murmured voices as Sasha consulted with Leo. Sasha’s was soft and urgent. Leo’s deeper voice rumbled calmly.
“Gavin,” Leo said louder, “are you and Ms. Bricker in a safe location?”
“Negative. We’re at the compound. I’m being held in a locked room against my will. Anna is one of the preppers tending to me medically, but if they find out she’s helping me—” Gavin answered.
Anna shook her head at him, rejecting what he’d left unsaid. But Gavin knew he was right. He’d seen his share of men like Bricker posture and rail in front of Judge Paulson. Strip away the delusions of grandeur and the ideological bullcrap, and Bricker was no different from the meth-heads who beat their wives because the kids were crying.
“Can you get out of there?” Sasha asked.
“Not without Anna’s help. I’ve turned a corner, but I’m still pretty weak,” Gavin admitted.
Anna kept her eyes fixed on the floor and said, “I can’t put my children in danger by trying to leave. Just … get someone up here, fast. Please.”
CHAPTER 40
The call came in to the Dogwood Station. But after the caller clarified the location, the operator determined the area in question was served by the Elk Run Station and transferred the call, where it was answered by Tanner Royerson. He was fresh out of the Marines and had returned home to Clear Brook County to get some civil law enforcement experience while he put in his applications with the various federal government agencies.
The caller gave her name as Sasha McCandless and reported a man being held against his will at the old Department of Natural Resources camp up by the state game lands. Tanner dropped his half-eaten energy bar on his desk and started pecking out notes on his ancient computer.
He made it a habit to surf the government websites for bulletins and alerts every day at the start of his shift. The veteran troopers got a big kick out of it because they claimed nothing that interesting ever happened way out where they were. But, Tanner was undeterred. He figured it was like the advice his girlfriend Melanie always followed: Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. If he kept acting like he was on the front lines of homeland security, maybe, eventually, he would be.
So the location at the campsite set off a bell for Tanner, and when the woman on the phone mentioned the Preppers PA group, the alarm in his head rang louder.
He listened intently to the information the caller imparted, even though it was hard to hear her over the drumbeat of his heart. She spoke in a measured voice, managing to convey urgency without resorting to hysteria. He figured her for a doctor or maybe an EMT, not because she said anything that led him to believe she had any medical training, but for the simple reason that she wasn’t freaking out.
She explained there was a sick man—possibly infected with a deadly, contagious virus—being quarantined by the preppers. She also said some of the other individuals at the site might not be there completely voluntarily.
He asked how many other individuals were on site, and she hesitated. She said she couldn’t estimate with any accuracy but there could be dozens, if not hundreds, of preppers, including women and children and that most of the adults of both sexes would likely be armed.
He typed quickly and inaccurately. His fingers shook from all the adrenaline coursing through his body. He thanked her, hung up the phone, and rocked his metal desk chair back on two legs.
He pulled up his browser history. There it was—an alert flashing across the top of the Department of Homeland Security’s page: Possible kidnapping/hostage situation at Pennsylvania campsite. Militia group involved. Contact Hank Richardson directly with information.
“Hot damn!” he said to no one in particular. Then he brought his chair back down on all four legs with a bang, and fumbled around with the phone until he managed to punch in the mobile number that appeared beside Hank Richardson’s name on the website.
CHAPTER 41
Sasha’s joy at seeing Connelly was severely dampened by the call with Gavin and Anna. A weight was settling between her shoulder blades.
She changed out of her sheath and jacket and rolled her shoulders while she surveyed the contents of her closet. Jeans and a sweater seemed like the logical choice for the post-sledding get-together at her parents’ place. Instead, she reached for black wool running tights, a dark gray shirt, and a black fleece jacket.
She walked into her bedroom to see that Connelly had traded his suit and tie for black athletic pants and a black hooded sweatshirt.
It was almost as if they had chosen clothes suitable for skulking around in the woods in the dead of winter rather than a family dinner. They exchanged knowing looks, but Connelly didn’t mention the cat burglar attire, so neither did she.
Connelly’s phone rang and vibrated on the window sill. He palmed it and checked the display.
“It’s Hank.”
He answered the call and activated the speakerphone.
“Leo, I got your message. I also had a call with a Trooper Royerson, who tells me your girlfriend called to report a hostage situation at that prepper camp,” Hank said, skipping the small talk.
“That’s right, Hank. I’m in Pittsburgh with Sasha now. You’re on the speakerphone,” Connelly told him.
Sasha heard an irritated cluck and pictured Hank sucking air in between his teeth on the other end of the phone, not sure whether to be candid now that he knew she was listening.
“Hank, let me just put your mind at ease—in light of Leo’s recent detention, he’s asked me to advise him as to his legal rights and obligations. So, I’m present in my capacity as his counsel and am bound by attorney-client privilege not to divulge the substance of any conversation the three of us may have,” she said.
Connelly shot her a curious look, which she interpreted as asking whether any of what she had just said was even remotely true.
She raised both hands and shrugged. She didn’t have the faintest idea. People seemed to keep forgetting she was a civil litigator who specialized in complex commercial disputes.
“Hmm. It’s not like I’m calling in my official capacity, anyway,” Hank reasoned.
“You’re not?” Connelly asked.
“No. This conversation isn’t happening.”
Connelly gave her a puzzled look that she suspected mirrored her own and said, “Understood. You said Trooper Royerson called you? Now, why would he do that? Sasha reported a hostage situation. That doesn’t fall under your purview.”
“Ordinarily it wouldn’t, but the rookie who caught Sasha’s call is one Trooper Tanner Royerson, recently honorably discharged from the Marine Corps, home in Clear Brook County, and dreaming of bigger things. He has enough ambition to troll the alerts on the website and he saw my alert regarding Ms. Gerig.”
Gerig? Sasha mouthed.
“Did you say Gerig?” Connelly asked.
“Sure, your missing employee. After you and Sasha met with the task force and shared what you knew, I did some digging. We’d been looking at ViraGene very closely for the theft of the Doomsday virus, and Celia Gerig’s name hadn’t popped. So, I was pretty sure you were barking up the wrong tree with the theory that ViraGene was behind the stolen vaccines.”
“Gee, thanks for letting me know,” Connelly deadpanned.
“Now you know that’s not how things work. I couldn’t tell you without compro
mising an existing bioterrorism investigation. Frankly, I’m surprised you two didn’t put it together when that Judge Minella deep-sixed your temporary restraining order. We think ViraGene’s good for the stolen virus, not the stolen vaccines. In fact, that was the mission I wanted you to help out with—we’re sitting on ViraGene’s CEO, but you decided to run off to Pittsburgh instead.”
Connelly opened his mouth, but Sasha spoke over him.
“So, your alert is for Celia, not Gavin Russell?” she asked.
“We learned that Gerig had last been seen on Saturday, in the company of two known preppers, buying gasoline at a station en route to that campground they maintain. It seemed prudent to treat her as a victim until we found her. Most people who disappear voluntarily tell someone they’re leaving. Who in blue blazes is Russell?” Hank said.
“Gavin Russell is a private investigator in Springport and a former sheriff’s deputy. Sasha and I know him—knew him—from that whole fracking scandal. It turns out he also went to high school with Celia Gerig. He agreed to try to locate her. And, he did. He found her at the compound, alone, and apparently very sick. Now, she’s dead, and he’s sick, being held in what the preppers are calling quarantine.”
“Gerig’s dead?”
“Yes. We believe from natural causes,” Leo confirmed.
“I told Royerson to drive out to the compound and watch it from the road. He’s to sit there until we get a team up there. It’s going to take a while. The campsite is about four hours north of the closest trained SWAT unit. If we get lucky, we should be able to extract your friend.”
“You’re going to want to have that team on the ground here,” Sasha said.
“There? You mean, in Pittsburgh?”
“Right. A man by the name of Jeffrey Bricker is the head of the prepper organization. According to Bricker’s wife and Gavin, Bricker obtained a vial of the virus and plans to release it sometime between midnight and tomorrow morning at a Christmas display in Downtown Pittsburgh,” Connelly said in a low, serious voice.
“It’s called the Pittsburgh Crèche. It’s a big display at Steel Plaza in front of the USX Tower,” Sasha added.
Hank was silent.
“Hank?” Connelly prompted after a moment. He dragged his hand through his hair.
“I’m here. I’m trying to figure out how to deploy my resources. The SWAT unit assigned to the Pittsburgh field office is already mobilizing—I was planning to send them to the compound. But if there’s an imminent attack planned for their backyard, I can’t send them four hours away. I’ll need them at that crèche. How far away is Philly? Or Baltimore? Buffalo? I could activate one of those teams. I can’t send the Washington team, they have to protect high-value targets located there.”
“Too far, Hank. There’s no time. You’ll have to loop in the State Police,” Connelly told him.
“I don’t think Dogwood Station has the specialized tactical response team I’m going to want up there, son. And, more to the point, I need to keep this situation out of the media for as long as possible. I can’t risk adding law enforcement officers outside my control if it means I’m going to see the governor on television reassuring his constituents that he’s got the planned terrorist attack under control,” Hank said.
“You have Royerson up there,” Connelly reminded him.
“Royerson falls to sleep every night fantasizing about working for someone like me, Leo. I told him to keep it quiet; there’s no way that kid’s breathing a word to anyone and messing up his big break. His job is to sit. Nothing else.”
Sasha watched the muscles twitch in Connelly’s right cheek as he tried to decide what to say.
But she already knew what they would do—it was what they’d both secretly known they would do all along. She started down the stairs to the kitchen.
From above, she heard Connelly say, “You should ask a freelancer to check out the camp.”
She tossed a handful of energy bars and apples into a sack. She added two sports bottles filled with water and eyed the coffee maker. Once Connelly hung up, she’d grind beans to make half a pot for the road.
“You know anybody?” Hank asked, as Sasha returned to the loft bedroom.
“As it happens, Sasha and I were planning to take a drive through the countryside tonight. I guess we could stop and check it out,” Connelly answered.
“That’d be a help,” Hank said, his casual tone matching Connelly’s.
Sasha tilted her head and tried to make sense of the words she was hearing. The government didn’t work this way. It had branches, and agencies, and departments, and divisions, and task forces. There was a chain of command for everything. Every project has its own little organizational chart of boxes and lines leading to more boxes. There were no freelancers.
“We’re leaving now,” Connelly said.
“I’ll call Royerson and let him know you’ll be in the area, but you’re not to approach the preppers, understand? Just keep an eye. Maybe relieve Royerson so he can take a whiz and get some food. As soon as we’ve secured the target area and apprehended Bricker, I’ll send a team up to handle the scene. You do not engage. Are we clear?” Hank said.
“Crystal,” Connelly answered.
Connelly ended the call and zippered his black, down-filled vest.
“You ready?” he asked as he started down the stairs and toward the front door.
“I guess so,” Sasha said, casting a yearning backward glance at the coffee maker.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When they were about a hundred miles north of the city, the looming oil derricks and scarred patches of earth began to rise from the snowy hillsides along the highway. The fracking industry’s relentless march through Pennsylvania had continued unabated. Just six months earlier, they’d have had to have driven another forty-five to fifty minutes before seeing the first signs of gas fracking.
Sasha checked the time and dialed Anna Bricker’s number for their pre-arranged status call.
“Hello,” the woman answered in a whisper that echoed through the Bluetooth connected to the SUV’s radio.
“Anna? Are you with Gavin?” Sasha asked.
“Yes, but I can’t stay long. It’s Lydia’s turn to check on him, she’ll be here soon.”
“Has there been any change?” Connelly said without looking away from the road.
Gavin answered.
“No, Anna says they’re sticking to their plan to leave after midnight. But …” he trailed off.
“What?” Sasha demanded. Her stomach clenched and she prepared herself to receive news of another setback.
Beside her Connelly urged the SUV forward. The constant thrum of roadway passing under the tires grew faster.
“We need to get her kids out of here,” Gavin said. “The littlest one is only three. If something goes down—”
He didn’t finish the thought; he didn’t need to.
Sasha’s pulse exploded in her ear. Beside her, Connelly made a fist with his right hand and pounded the steering wheel softly.
“Do you have a plan?” she asked.
“Sort of. A half-baked plan, you might say,” Gavin laughed.
“Care to share it?” Connelly asked.
“My oldest son has his learner’s permit, and I know where Jeffrey’s keeping the keys to Gavin’s car. It’s dinner time now, there’s a lot of people coming and going. I think they can slip away. I’m not sure how far they’ll get, especially if the roads are icy, but they can’t stay here,” Anna said in a voice that quavered with unshed tears.
“Why can’t you go with them? Just leave,” Connelly said.
“I’ve tried to convince her. But she’s part of their screwy command structure—her absence will be noticed right away. Without her, the kids have a shot at getting a decent head start before anyone realizes they’re gone,” Gavin said.
“Can’t you all get out of there?” Sasha said. “If you’re together, you stand a chance, even if Bricker sends someone after you.”
“Gavin’s too weak. And, to be honest, I think if Jeffrey notices the kids are gone, he won’t say anything. He is still their father. But, if he learned I’ve betrayed him …” Anna left the rest unsaid.
“Are there other kids there?” Sasha asked.
“A few. Three or four—no six, the twins arrived late last night,” Anna said.
Sasha closed her eyes at that piece of information and tried to ward off the image of children caught in cross-fire.
“Anna, listen, there’s a state trooper watching the entrance. He shouldn’t be too far down the road. Tell the boy to drive straight for him. We’ll try to get a message to him so he knows what’s going on. He can get the kids to safety. Meanwhile, we’re on our way. You two hang tight,” Connelly said.
He checked his mirrors and accelerated. The speedometer hovered between eighty-five and ninety.
Sasha was grateful that PennDOT’s road crews had been working around the clock since before the first flakes had hit the ground, keeping the major arteries salted and cleared.
“Understood. Hey, Sasha?” Gavin said.
“Yes?”
“I’d love an Americano. With an extra shot. The coffee here is total crap.”
Despite herself, Sasha smiled.
“You got it.”
CHAPTER 42
Tanner hunched over the steering wheel and stared unblinkingly down the road at the access drive leading to the camp. A car was parked in the grass about one-third of the way up the drive, but he hadn’t seen anyone approach the vehicle. He hadn’t seen anyone, period.
If he was being honest with himself, he’d admit he was relieved. He’d left the station riding a wave of adrenaline that had somehow transformed, first, into nervous excitement and, finally, a sense of dread that nibbled at his stomach.
As he sat, his patrol unit angled across the road, and waited, he decided the best outcome would be if he secured the scene, ensured that no one fled, and handed over control to the feds when they showed up. Then he could bow out gracefully and return to the safety of the station having at least gotten his name in front of some federal agents. That could prove helpful down the line.
Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) Page 23