Only Wrong Once

by Jenifer Ruff

  “What? Seriously?” A smile spread across Ken’s face.

  Stephanie rushed across the room and leaned forward to get a look at Rashid’s monitor. “How did you do it?”

  “Facial recognition software on live videos feeds shared by the Gendarmerie Nationale. Found him walking into a pharmacy. There’s a ten second delay. I called American agents in Paris. They’re on their way there now.”

  “So awesome, Rashid,” Stephanie said, beaming.

  “Thanks. I got lucky.”

  “Excellent work, Rashid,” Quinn said.

  “And it happened when we were taking a break.” Stephanie nudged Quinn in the shoulder. “Maybe we should take breaks more often.”

  Rashid pointed to the scene on his monitor. “There they go. Those are our guys heading inside. There’s no way they don’t catch him.”

  “Who wants to bet me that Mr. Holy Wars isn’t picking up a prescription for a venereal disease?” Ken said.

  “I don’t care what he’s picking up, as long as we get him,” Quinn said, his hands curled into fists.

  After a flurry of video and phone conferences, Quinn spoke to his team in the briefing room. “Here’s the latest. Fayad’s interrogation is going well. We’ll have some solid intelligence soon. However, if the terrorists learn he’s been picked up, they’re likely to move their timeline forward—a better-now-than-never philosophy. They could strike immediately. The terror alert in Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago has been raised to red. They need our expertise on the ground.”

  “So, we keep the public safe without causing panic—not easy,” Stephanie said.

  “I know what’s coming. I’ll arrange for immediate flights, just let me know who is going where,” Jayla said, her fingers poised to type.

  Quinn lifted his gaze to the ceiling and paused before making eye contact with each of his agents. “Stephanie, head to Philadelphia. Ken, you’re going to Chicago. Rick, you’ll go with me to Boston. I’ll contact the other agencies and direct defense personnel to each mass transit stop. Local law enforcement will be expecting us.”

  Rashid leaned forward. “I can go to Philly too, or Chicago if you want me there instead.”

  “Thank you, Rashid, but you’ll be our point person here. Once Fayad gives up names, locate them before they can get to the subways.”

  Rashid sighed quietly and lowered his head.

  “No one is better than you at piecing together information from cyberspace,” Stephanie said before leaving.

  Carrying their laptops and the bags they each kept in the office stocked with necessities and a change of clothes, Quinn and Rick waited to board the red eye bound for Boston. Rick leaned forward in his seat, one hand on his knee, his toes tapping against the floor. “So, I know we’re trying to find them before they get to the subways, obviously, but in case that doesn’t happen, what’s in play to stop them?”

  “Every subway entrance is manned with officers checking bags. Same in Chicago and Philly.”

  “Lots of overtime pay these next few days,” Rick said.

  “Yes. They’ve got dogs trained to detect peroxide. Undercover agents and police will patrol for any unusual type of behavior—standing too long, moving against the crowd, wearing bulky clothes, looking uncomfortable, sweating, peroxide burns, lips moving silently, anyone with no body hair. Anyone suspicious will be pulled aside and questioned.”

  “No body hair? Never heard that,” Rick scratched his jaw.

  “Certain sects purify themselves before a suicide bombing by removing all their hair.”

  “Oh.”

  “And some don’t, because they know it might give them away.

  They boarded the plane, sat, and opened their laptops. Two hours into their flight, Quinn smiled and shook his head in disbelief. “Fayad has already given up names.”

  “Names?”

  “Names of the terrorists who planned to carry out the bombings.”

  “That was fast.”

  Quinn frowned and chewed on his bottom lip. “Yes, it was.”

  “What sort of techniques did they use?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t ask. The suspects are spread around the East Coast. I’m sending names and photos to Rashid now.”

  “Can I help find anyone?” Rick asked.

  “No, not yet. Once Rashid tracks these guys, we’ll direct teams to their locations. If we land before they’re apprehended, we’ll head out to the assigned station. Until the last terrorist is accounted for, there’s no guarantee the subways are safe.”

  Rashid suddenly stopped typing and linking data on three different keyboards. He jumped up from his chair and pounded the desk. “We got them! The information was good! We got them!” He turned to share the exciting moment with his colleagues before remembering he and Jayla were the only ones in the work room. He high-fived Jayla, sat back down, and smiled up at the ceiling.

  “All of them?” Jayla said.

  “In Philly. Two men and two women. Both married couples. They had explosives and a document outlining the plans in each city. Names, locations, everything. Agents are scanning the documents right now. It’s only a matter of time before we catch the other suspects.”

  Jayla’s expression reflected her exhaustion from long, stressful hours. She smiled and adjusted the dark-rimmed glasses that had replaced her contacts sometime during the night. “I’ll contact Quinn and make sure he knows. Sometimes they don’t have the best reception in flight.”

  “We got them in Boston!” Rashid shouted ten minutes later. He gestured excitedly with his hands and Jayla laughed at his excitement. “Three people. All in one house. Every name on the list. And duffel bags and briefcases with the bombs. They didn’t know Fassad or the Philly terrorists had been arrested.”

  “I guess they didn’t have time to warn the other groups before they were cuffed,” said Jayla.

  Rashid tugged at his ear and narrowed his eyes. “Apparently, they didn’t have a contingency plan in place. Usually, with groups spread out like this, they communicate at arranged times. Failure to check in means something is off.”

  “Maybe it’s a two or three-hour window and none of the ones who were caught missed it yet.”

  Rashid offered a slight nod. “Yeah, maybe. But, it’s strange.”

  “Arrested in Chicago,” he said shortly after. A prickling sensation crossed his scalp. He should have been more elated than when the first and second groups were arrested. But instead, he remained seated, his voice subdued when he said, “I can hardly believe our luck.”

  Quinn communicated the good news to Rick, Ken and Stephanie. “Local law enforcement will stay in place to check bags and monitor everyone who gets on the subway for the rest of the day. But it’s over. Head back. We’ll be of more use following up on the incoming intelligence. Much shorter trip than planned, but it’s good our efforts weren’t required after all.” Quinn allowed himself to smile, even though his body was tight and tense with need for sleep. The U.S. had successfully prevented terrorists from striking without a single government agent or civilian getting hurt.

  “Now what?” Rick asked.

  “Work with the intelligence and information coming out of the interrogations. See which of the terrorists might be willing to work out a deal in exchange for information that could nab us a bigwig.”

  “Find a hotel?” Rick raised his shoulders.

  “Probably not worth the trouble for only a few hours of sleep. We can grab something to eat when we land and then find a conference room. Get some work done until the first flight out.”

  Quinn ignored his growling stomach. He would be boarding a plane for Spain in the next few days. He’d soon have plenty of opportunities to eat some decent meals and catch up on his sleep. The mass transit attacks, for those who knew about them, would be remembered as a botched plot. The line “No one from those countries has ever attacked us,” spoken many times by the public after the President’s refugee ban, rang in his head. Thank God, those words were
still true. He dropped his head back against the seat and tried to shake the unnerving sense that something was wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  San Fernando Valley

  November 4th

  Frank Hayes knew a thing or two about sick people. His father died of lung cancer years ago, but he remembered well. At the bitter end, his father’s skin turned ashen. His emaciated body grew too weak to stand. It took all his father’s energy to sit in his leather recliner hacking up bloodied globs of clotted tissue into a never-ending procession of Kleenex. So, when Frank returned to his modest valley ranch house from walking his dog and spotted his neighbor outside, he knew right away something was wrong. His neighbor leaned heavily against the top of his stair rail, barely able to hold himself upright. From afar, the man reminded him of his ailing father just before his bed-ridden days, bent over, wracked with pain. But his father had been eighty. His neighbor couldn’t be older than mid-twenties. Frank watched with suspicion as the man took a few precarious steps toward his house and collapsed, half-in and half-out of the front door. One hand slid down uselessly against the doorframe. Eyeglasses hung from one ear, threatening to fall.

  Frank tied his dog’s leash to the mailbox. “Stay.” He turned and walked slowly toward the house, almost on tiptoe. “Raj?”

  Two days ago, Frank couldn’t have said for sure that his neighbor’s name was Raj. He was quiet for such a young man. The ideal neighbor. They only exchanged waves when Raj, in his Honda and presumably on his way to work, drove past Frank and his schnauzer during their morning walks. Frank knew most of his other neighbors, especially those who walked their dogs every day. He even knew the well-dressed “lady’s man” down the road who had men and women going in and out of his rental home all day buying fancy beauty products, lotions and exfoliating creams, someone had told him—of all things. How weird was that? But he didn’t know much about Raj. According to another neighbor, Matilde, who seemed to know everything about everyone, Raj was a radiation engineer who worked at the nuclear facility. But come to think of it, Frank had seen more of Raj in the past few days than he had since the guy moved in six years ago. More than once, he happened to spot Raj walking to or from his mailbox. Two days ago, they had a brief conversation. Frank couldn’t remember exactly what was said, aside from their names. Something about the weather? Raj seemed reluctant to make eye contact so Frank ended up looking down at the letters in his neighbor’s hand. He wasn’t being nosy, and he didn’t mean to see the words Paris, France in large print on the top envelope, but he did. Raj impressed him as a serious man, certainly polite, but a little odd and a little lonely. He hardly seemed like a savvy world traveler. Frank couldn’t help but wonder what sort of friend or business dealing Raj had in Paris.

  “Raj?”

  Frank approached the open front door. Raj didn’t respond. He crept forward until he stood a few yards away. Raj lay unmoving in a fetal position on the porch floor. Streaks of dark fluid trickled from his eyes and nose and down his cheeks. Frank inched nearer, close enough to confirm his suspicion. The streaks were blood.

  “Oh, no. Oh, God!”

  He jerked backward, away from the house, aware of an acrid smell. Down by his foot, a large puddle of bloody vomitus was slowly being absorbed into the earth. Frank’s face twisted in horror. Images from a scary movie flashed before his eyes. The characters had died of radiation poisoning, blood streaming from their eyes and noses. Their bodies were toxic to everyone who went near them. Raj looked exactly like those doomed movie characters. Was Raj emanating toxic waves right at that very moment? And was Frank absorbing them?

  “Raj! Can you hear me?” Frank yelled. Again, no response.

  Frank wasn’t going to risk contaminating himself. He returned to the mailbox to untie his dog’s leash and ran back to his house to call an ambulance.

  “My neighbor is unconscious inside his front door. He may be dead.” His breath coming fast, Frank gave the dispatcher the information necessary to reach the correct address.

  “I’m sending help,” the dispatcher said. “Can you check if he’s breathing while you wait for the ambulance, sir?”

  “No. I’m calling from my house.” Frank stared out the window, his eyes darting to his neighbor’s house. “I don’t want to get too close to him. He’s bleeding from his eyes and nose. He vomited blood. I have good reason to believe he has radiation poisoning. He works at the nuclear power plant. The people you send out need to be wear hazmat suits or they could be contaminated. Please. Don’t put anyone’s life in danger.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll alert the medical team to the information you’ve provided. What nuclear power plant does he work at?”

  “The nearest one, I guess. San Louis Obispo.”

  “Thank you. I’ll make a note of that.”

  “Contact them and find out if he was exposed to radiation. They may have a leak.”

  “I’m sure someone will do that, sir.”

  Frank hung up and hurried to his sink. He pushed up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands and arms with soap under hot water.

  Minutes later, a siren signaled the arrival of a fire truck. His dog barked sharply. Frank rushed back outside to meet the firemen at the curb.

  Two men, one bald and one with a full head of light colored hair stepped out of the fire truck wearing protective suits.

  “I think he’s already dead. I think he has advanced radiation poisoning.” Frank clasped his hands and squeezed them tight. “He works at the nuclear facility.”

  A third man, younger than the others, studied Frank. “Who are you?”

  “Frank Hayes. I’m a neighbor. I’m the one who called 911. I told them I’m sure he’s been exposed to radiation. They told you that, right?”

  “Yes, they told us. Thank you for your concern, sir,” the bald fireman said as he put on gloves. “We’re a hazardous materials response team. We’ve already heard from the nuclear facility. They have sensors that alert to radiation leaks, and they insist they don’t have one. But we’re going to check here anyway. We’ve got a Geiger counter, it detects radiation.”

  “I know what it does,” said Frank.

  “How about you stand over there beside the fire truck until we get back?” said the bald man just before securing his helmet.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Frank walked backwards the short distance he had moved from the firetruck. “Not gonna argue ‘bout that. Glad you’re here.” He paced around for several minutes while the firemen assessed the situation.

  “The victim is deceased. Radiation levels are at zero,” said one of the firemen. “We need to set up the decon tent and put biohazard tape around the area, but first, call the CDC.”

  Twenty minutes later, a Taurus sedan raced to an abrupt stop in front of Pivani’s house. The driver’s side door swung open before the motor cut off. A slender and attractive woman in her mid-thirties exited the car. Her smooth brown hair touched her shoulders and her perfect nose was just shy of being sharp. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. She didn’t waste a second before addressing the paramedics at the curb. “Hi. I’m Dr. Madeline Hamilton with the CDC.”

  “You sure got here fast,” the youngest paramedic said.

  A slight smile crossed her face, friendly and professional. “As fast as I could. I’m with the CDC’s Outbreak Response Team and I’m actually out here in LA for a conference. Just good timing. Otherwise there wouldn’t be anyone here until tonight.”

  She tossed her sunglasses onto the seat of her car before walking around to the trunk. She removed a large bag and put it on the sidewalk. Quickly, before the young paramedic even realized what he was seeing, she removed her blouse, revealing her toned and shapely back in a camisole, and climbed into her own plastic protective suit. She bent over to tuck the feet of her suit into plastic boots. Her graceful movements concealed under the spacesuit-like gear, she walked toward the porch, studied her surroundings at every step as she slowly eliminated the distance betwee
n herself and the body.

  When she reached Pivani, she continued her investigation for a few moments without touching anything. Eventually she lifted Pivani’s eyelids, pressed her gloved fingers against his cheeks, turned his hands, and peeled his shirt up to examine his torso. A rash covered most of his chest and abdomen. She used a metal tool from her bag to scrape a drop of blood from his cheek and placed it on the hand-held DxH device.

  Carrying the DxH device in front of her, Dr. Hamilton moved away from the house, halfway back toward the fire trucks. She removed her helmet and placed it on the ground. Her forehead shone with sweat and her hair was no longer smooth. She carefully removed her gloves and tossed them into a bucket of chlorine and bleach the paramedics had set out for her. She scrubbed her hands with sanitizer. She returned to the body and took pictures without touching anything.

  “What’s that machine?” the bald paramedic asked when she moved away from the body again.

  “It’s a diagnostic tool developed after the West African Ebola outbreak. It can diagnose any hemorrhagic fever in one minute, once symptoms present,” said Dr. Hamilton.

  The DxH emitted a faint beep. Behind her face screen, Dr. Hamilton’s brow furrowed.

  “What did the machine tell you?” the bald paramedic asked, a nervous edge to his voice.

  “The results are inconclusive. It’s not a known hemorrhagic fever, but it’s something similar.”

  The medics nodded and paced as if they were suddenly full of nervous energy. The youngest reached for the dispatcher radio.

  “Wait,” Dr. Hamilton held up her hand. “Put that down.” She turned her head and looked at each of the paramedics. “Don’t say anything about this yet, to anyone. Clear?” Again, she waited until each of them nodded. “Okay, then. I’m just going to call my boss. Toss me my phone, please. It’s on the front seat of my car.”

  When her boss answered the phone in Atlanta, Dr. Hamilton said, “It looks bad. I’m going to need an epidemiological investigative team, body removal, a decon tent, and a quarantine order for the house, no, not just the house, the whole street.”