Dead Promise
Page 1
DEAD
PROMISE
LINDA WELLS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, institutions, businesses, locales, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are entirely the work of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Linda Wells
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission of the author.
ISBN-10: 1537704885
ISBN-13: 9781537704883
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016915488
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
June 4, 12:05 a.m.
Dr. Suzy Chen left her condo at midnight and walked the five blocks, carrying only her purse and the package. The late-model silver Taurus was just where they had told her it would be. It took about three hours for her to get to the drop site. The city was dark, with few cars passing. Suzy saw the shadowed figure standing at the bus stop. She pulled alongside the curb, lowered the passenger window, and the unknown contact strode forward and reached into the window with a gloved hand, grabbing the bag from the seat. Suzy clutched the .38 S&W with her left hand, invisible to the hooded figure.
He leaned forward, and in the briefest instant, with a raspy, indistinguishable accent, he asked, “How do I start the discharge?”
Suzy said, “There’s a black lever, just under the lid of the canister. The lever beside the discharge valve…push it all the way to the right.” She added, “Remember, it cannot be reversed, and the delay is only two minutes. Don’t forget. Put the cap in this weighted bag and toss it in the river.”
The contact turned so fast, she couldn’t really see him, only his dark hooded sweatshirt, as he faded into the shadows. Dr. Chen drove off slowly, careful to avoid notice. When she made it back to Edgewood, she left the car where she found it and walked quickly back to her condo. Her heart was beating rapidly. She was relieved to have gotten rid of the canister.
Chen was a biochemist and assistant director at the Edgewood Laboratories, part of the Aberdeen Proving Ground, and she had to be at work by eight o’clock. The return drive had given her time to decompress. She had labored for months, following the precise instructions she’d received from the Organization. The plan had been carefully formulated. Only two more tasks, and her assignment would be complete.
The fear of discovery and the magnitude of the event overshadowed the exhilaration of what she’d done. But the Director had assured her that she would be protected, and the rewards, on many levels, would be beyond gratifying.
The Organization’s Director did not know that a broken heart drove her actions, which would directly repay the man who had made many promises to her but had kept none.
1
June 4, 10:45 a.m.
Epicenter
Regina was in elementary school in south Jersey when it happened. The principal came to the classroom door and motioned for her teacher to step into the hallway. After a few minutes, the teacher came back in the room and told the class that there was an emergency, but she didn’t know the details. School was dismissed early, and all the kids were excited to go home, but Regina was afraid. When her mom picked her up, Regina started asking lots of questions. All her mother would say was that an airplane had hit one of the tall buildings in Manhattan. Regina didn’t really understand, but later that evening, she’d been allowed to watch the news until her mom dragged her away from the set. When she saw the plane hit the tower, it was like a scary movie—people screaming, running from the burning and collapsing buildings. Regina couldn’t believe what her eyes were seeing, the nightmare images that played over and over in her mind, a memory she couldn’t erase.
Now, twelve years later, she felt a sense of déjà vu. The scary feelings were back, and this time, she felt as if she was in the middle of a real-life nightmare. Her dreams of becoming a journalist had come true. She’d wanted to be a reporter for as long as she could remember. But standing here on the perimeter of an event that no one yet understood, she realized her responsibility, reporting the story that could change people’s lives forever.
After getting the frantic call from her producer, Regina rushed to the scene and scrambled to talk to anyone who knew what was going on. She received updates from the newsroom and grabbed interviews from the few police officers who would stop and talk to her. The cameraman and crew were there—everything that was the routine part of the job. She’d done lots of live reporting. But nothing like this. She was a pro, but her heart was pounding with fear. Not the normal prebroadcast jitters, but actual fear. Everything felt surreal, and her gut was telling her that this was going to be the biggest story of her life.
Sweat was forming on her brow when she got the cue. Regina’s eyes must have changed, remembering, and she looked away.
Gus, the cameraman, saw it. “Come on, Reggie. Game face on.”
She looked at hi
m, smiled, and shook herself back to real time.
Raising the mike, Regina spoke in her practiced on-air voice above the noise, ignoring the sirens, the crowds gathering around her, and the police yelling for people to move back.
“This is Regina Merritt of CNYC News reporting live from the West Side with breaking news. A possible terrorist attack has shut down the entire New York City public transit system, according to the Metropolitan Transit Authority. All we’ve been told is that the FBI received an anonymous call this morning at nine a.m., warning of a terrorist attack on the New York City subway system. They sent an alert out to the local authorities, and a ‘suspicious object’ was discovered on the platform of the station behind me by a transit worker, who remains unidentified. The object in question is on its way to Quantico for analysis by the FBI. The entrance to this station has been sealed off, and no workers, or those who were on the platform at the time of the discovery, have been allowed to leave. We’ve seen SWAT, Homeland Security, police, and emergency vehicles arrive at the scene. One city worker, whose identity and condition are unknown, was transported by a medevac helicopter to an unnamed hospital. So far, the NYPD says there are no suspects.
“As you can see behind me, the police have barricaded the area surrounding the entrance to the express subway station. The press and the public are being kept away from what the authorities are calling a ‘fluid situation.’ Mayor Donnelly and MTA director Hutchinson have suspended all public transportation services as a precaution. They have informed us that the transit system will reopen as soon as possible. The public is being asked not to leave home unless absolutely necessary.”
Regina paused and put her finger on the almost-invisible earpiece, listening to the feed. She tried to hide her nervousness and shock as she continued, staring into the camera.
“Also, we’ve just learned that Century Air Flight 227 to Miami, Florida, out of LaGuardia, made an unscheduled emergency landing in Baltimore, Maryland. One of the crew members became severely ill during the flight and was taken to Johns Hopkins Hospital for treatment. It was also reported that, earlier this morning, the crew member in question was on the express subway platform where the suspicious object was found. We have no word on the identity or condition of the crew member. Century Air will not comment on the condition of the other crew members or passengers at this time.
“Again, the New York City Metropolitan Transit System is shut down due to a possible terrorist attack. Mayor Donnelly will be addressing the city, and we’ll bring that to you along with any further updates on this breaking story as we receive them. Reporting live from Manhattan, this is Regina Merritt, CNYC News.”
The red light went out, and Regina lowered the mike, her hand shaking.
“Good job, Reggie,” said Gus, giving her a thumbs-up.
At that moment, an ambulance, lights flashing and siren blaring, sped from the scene.
“Why won’t they tell us anything?” Gus said under his breath, looking at Regina.
“That’s a good question, Gus. And have you noticed something else strange?” she asked, looking toward the subway.
“What?” He tried to look over the throngs gathering at the entrance to the platform.
“Look at what the rescuers are wearing, going in and out of the subway entrance. Looks like some kind of hazmat suit, maybe with an oxygen supply,” she said, staring.
“God,” said Gus. “What the hell’s going on?”
Regina’s stomach was doing flip-flops. She looked toward the chaotic scene; the mass of emergency vehicles, uniforms, first responders, and plainclothes gathered near the entrance to the express subway station; and the tightening security. The crowds pressing forward, everyone staring toward the subway entrance.
“I don’t know, Gus. But it’s not good,” she said, her gaze on the barricades and the area beyond, wondering what was on the other side.
2
Greg drove his gray sedan down the narrow street in Georgetown. He found a parking space and walked the short distance to the colonial brick town house. He rang the doorbell but no answer. The house was dark, as if no one was home. He’d tried to reach Max all evening and only gotten voice mail. When he’d called the Pentagon earlier, he was patched through to Max’s commanding officer, who told him that Colonel Graham had requested three days’ emergency leave. So where was he?
Greg Hammond and Maxwell Graham graduated from West Point in the same class, and after they served together in Desert Storm, their tight bond of friendship became even tighter. But they’d chosen different paths after coming home. Max was career military all the way, and he’d advanced to the rank of lieutenant colonel, special service chief to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Greg had landed a high-level position with the NCS, the National Clandestine Service, a secret investigative arm of the CIA. Even though their careers had taken them in separate directions, they’d always stayed in close touch with each other.
Greg tried the doorbell again. Still no answer. He twisted the knob, but no luck.
“Shit.” He was starting to worry.
He had reason to worry about his friend. Max was known for being a hard-ass, but he’d been cut down at the knees when the FBI told him earlier that evening that his lover, Dr. Suzy Chen, had been murdered in her garage, one shot to the head. A professional hit.
Hammond had become involved several months ago when Max called him, wanting to meet for lunch. Greg had been glad to hear from his old friend. The lunch started out great, with Max telling him about his girlfriend. She was more than a casual fling. He had fallen hard for Suzy Chen, a biochemist at the Edgewood Laboratories.
After a while, the conversation turned serious. Max asked Greg to look into something he’d accidentally come across in Suzy’s desk. After investigating, Greg uncovered information that created more than a shit storm. Now his ass was on the line with this whole mess.
Max had done the right thing coming to Greg, but finding out what Suzy was involved in had been tough for Max to take. He couldn’t deal with it at first, but he agreed to watch Suzy, if only to protect her. The NCS had placed her on their watch list. But neither Greg nor Max had anticipated the depth of her involvement. Details were unfolding, and it was bad. Worse than bad. And they still weren’t sure what Suzy had known. All they knew for sure was that she was dead. The Organization, which appeared to be pulling Chen’s strings, must have suspected a tip-off. Fucking bastards. It made sense. Suzy was involved with a high-ranking US Army intelligence officer. They couldn’t take any chances that this thing wasn’t going to be pulled off. Or that she would talk. Now she was dead.
And Greg had to find Max.
After ringing one more time, he decided to try the back door. The kitchen light was bright over the sink, and through the window, he saw a liquor bottle on the countertop. Greg turned the knob, and the door opened.
“Not cool,” he thought.
Careless of Max to leave the back door unsecured. Greg looked around the kitchen—pristine except for the open bottle of bourbon sitting on the countertop. He checked it out. Half-empty. Looked like Max had been hitting it pretty hard. He headed toward the front of the house.
“Max, it’s Greg. Hey, man, where are you?” he called out.
The house felt too still. Greg pulled the Glock out of its holster and held it at low ready. He walked through the dim hallway, reaching the hardwood staircase. He flipped on the chandelier in the foyer and called for Max again.
“Max, I’m coming up,” he yelled, not wanting to come face-to-face with the muzzle of a .45.
Max’s room was to the right of the stairs. The glare from the muted TV provided enough light for Greg to see Max sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, dressed in cargo shorts and a gray US Army T-shirt, a half-full glass of an amber liquid in his hand. A Kimber .45 lay on the nightstand. Max had obviously been thinking what Greg was thinking: Max was a big-time target. Greg checked Max’s breathing and was relieved to find that he’d probably passed out from bourbon over
dose.
Greg checked out the room, turning on the brass lamp on the dresser. The light reflected off a small silver box. He opened it and saw the sparkling solitaire diamond ring. Diana’s face flashed through his memory, along with a ring he’d managed to sell to a buddy at the NCS. He’d thought she wanted him—marriage, kids, the whole deal. Turned out she did, but not with him. He closed the ring box and placed it back on the dresser.
“Fuck.”
He shoved the Glock back in his holster and headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. But he knew his friend would need more than caffeine to get his life back. Greg was going to help him in whatever way he could, including finding the mysterious Director responsible for the deadly attack that had caused the loss of many lives, and God knew how many more were going to die. He would learn the full extent of Suzy Chen’s involvement and identify the bastards behind the whole thing.
“Damn,” thought Greg, “I could have stopped her. I knew it was coming. Shit. She was one smart bitch. They were watching her. And Max was watching her. How did she evade them?”
He grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and poured some bourbon in one. He took a hard swallow, grimaced from the burn, and leaned back against the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to brew. Greg felt the impact, like a hammer hitting him in the back of the head. As the bullet shattered the window, glass shards scattered all over the kitchen, but Greg didn’t feel them. Or anything else.
3
Dr. Ambrose sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen. The red areas on the map were spreading. He was tracking the pandemic, the result of a terrorist’s release of a weaponized virus at a New York City subway station. The FBI had received the called-in threat of the attack, but it had been too late. The deadly viral agent had been released from a canister that spewed the droplets into the air, infecting those who came in contact with the spray. The setting was perfect: rush hour on a crowded subway platform on a busy Monday morning. The unknowing passengers would pass the virus on to others, ensuring mass exposure. The H5N1 avian flu virus was mutated to transfer from human to human, with an abbreviated incubation period of only four to six hours. Ambrose feared that the virus would continue to mutate. No one could be sure if there were more attacks ahead. Ambrose couldn’t comprehend the devastation and chaos facing the country, and possibly the world. But it had already started.