“Find that fuck,” Archie said to his guys over the radio. “He doesn’t get out of here alive.”
Seconds later, the radio crackled to life. “Shots fired in Surgery.”
The three of them exchanged a look before bolting for the stairwell, Archie in the lead. When they arrived, they found two of the guys from one of the other SOTIF units were already in the surgical scrub area, standing over a dead body who, from the amount of blood, looked like he’d been shot a lot before the final kill-shot took out the back of his head.
Archie reached out with the toe of his boot and not-so-gently nudged the body on the floor. “Good job. That should be the last one.”
“We didn’t take him down,” one of the guys said. “Found him like this.” He nodded toward the door. “Door’s locked and looks like they’re operating, so we didn’t go in. I think one of them shot him.”
Zed and Uncle stepped over the body and stared through the window.
There stood Clara and Leta, working on one of Archie’s guys.
“Cancel the code indigo,” Archie said over the radio, “and page me a full trauma surgical team to OR4, stat. Leave code lima delta in place for right now until we finish the mop up. I want full sit reps and damage reports from every floor immediately.”
“Roger roger.”
The three of them stood there, watching.
“Does it make me a sick fuck that I’m hard as a rock watching her work right now?” Zed asked.
“That makes two of us,” Uncle said.
Leta looked confident, focused, intent. This was her bailiwick, her shooting range. She wasn’t a soldier and didn’t need to be, because she had invaluable skills and knowledge their team needed.
A few minutes later, a surgical team started assembling, scrubbing in and getting into the room, taking over from Clara, and then from Leta.
The two women stripped off their gloves and backed off, but didn’t leave the room. It wasn’t until the surgeon removed the round from the man and turned to say something to Leta that she and Clara finally headed toward the door.
Then Clara stopped, turned, and retrieved a carbine from a cart.
Zed and Uncle grabbed Leta and crushed her between them as soon as she emerged.
“I want to fucking spank your ass right now,” Zed said.
“Told you,” Clara said, wearing a smirk.
“He would have died if I hadn’t stayed,” Leta insisted. “Would have bled out before they lifted the lockdown. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
Clara tapped Zed on the shoulder and held a gun out to him, nodding her head toward the body on the floor. “She emptied her mag into the guy. She needs a reload.”
“You shot him?” Zed asked Leta.
“I only rendered the assist. I’m pretty sure Clara killed him, too.”
“Too?” both men asked before looking at Clara.
“She killed a guy upstairs,” Leta said.
Clara shrugged. “Do no harm, but take no shit. Not just a slogan for witches.”
* * * *
With the threat neutralized, after cleaning up, and retrieving her jacket, Leta, Clara, Zed, and Uncle left in the SUV and headed for the safe house. All the others had been ordered back to the safe house once the scientists and samples were in the air to protect them.
When they pulled in, Yankee and Oscar were already waiting outside. They yanked open the back door and practically dragged Clara out, crushing her between them much the way Zed and Uncle had crushed Leta.
Leta didn’t open her door at first, Uncle opening it for her. “You all right?”
It had finally smacked her in the face during the drive back to the safe house, the severity of the situation she’d just survived.
She slowly shook her head. “We got any booze in this place?”
“I’m sure I can come up with something. Why?”
“I think I need a really stiff belt of something.”
He offered her a hand and she finally took it, letting him help her out. Zed joined them. “Are you rethinking staying with us?” he asked.
She knew her laugh came out sounding harsher than she intended. “Uh, a little late for that. I rethought it a bunch of times while operating on that guy today.” She stared up at them. “But you’re stuck with me.”
They grabbed her and hugged her. “Quit fucking scaring us like that,” Uncle said.
“I think I need more time to work on my shooting.”
Omega had walked up, looking grim. “No time for that. Or drinking, although I’ll make sure to get you something for the trip.”
“What trip?”
“Orders. We’re leaving tomorrow night. They’re going to break camp down south, pick us up, and we’ll all head out together from here.”
“Head out where?” she asked.
“Let’s just say you’ll need more warmer clothes.”
They returned to the building and were heading to their room when a loud, long scream reverberated through the structure.
Sounding like it was coming from the lab area.
“What the fucking hell now?” Uncle muttered as he and Zed turned and headed that way at a run, weapons drawn and Leta on their heels.
By the time they got there, Leta spotted Mama, Q, and Waldo, dressed in full bunny suits, jumping up and down together in a three-way hug.
Mama had been the source of the scream, apparently, since she was still doing it.
“What the hell?” Leta yelled out of frustration and stress more than anything.
They stopped jumping up and down and turned to the rest of them. Mama walked up to the plastic sheeting forming the temporary lab’s walls. Now Leta could see the smile on her face, the tears streaming down her cheeks behind her protective gear.
“We just checked the last batch we were working on. The samples you and Clara grabbed. It works. We have the vaccine.” She collapsed to her knees, Waldo racing over to her side. “We finally did it. We can stop this madness!”
Leta turned to Omega and poked him in the chest despite him standing quite a few inches taller than her. “I’m technically the acting medical officer here, right?”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”
“I’m ordering booze for everyone. If this ain’t an occasion worth toasting, I don’t know what the unholy fuck is.”
He chuckled and tipped her a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I think under the circumstances I can arrange that for you.”
* * * *
Stunned, Jerald stood in front of his office TV, the remote controller in his hand.
The events in Atlanta played on all the networks.
All of them.
Except for the church’s network, which was still blithely broadcasting an impromptu, bullshit aquaculture 101 with kids, starring the Reverend Clueless McFucksterhead.
Jerald closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache threatening to wash over him. What had already started out as a bad day with a new video clip being posted by whoever was helping Mary Silo had just completely blown the bell curve into horrendous.
This had been what Silo had been up to by leaving St. Louis. Probably so he could make contact with whoever had arranged this goddamned clusterfuck in the first place, and to give himself an airtight alibi.
Fuck.
The different networks all showed the CDC building in Atlanta was surrounded by hundreds of first responders—federal, state, county, and city law enforcement, fire trucks, news crews, thousands of spectators now being kept back behind barricades and police tape—the whole goddamned world.
Hannibal, you’re a fucking asshole.
The guy was as opaque as a glass of spring water. Worse than a damn toddler. Jerald, at least, could read the man, knowing the darker side of Hannibal as intimately as he did.
Now everything made sense, including why Silo had wanted Jerald to remain behind.
Hannibal had likely thought there’d be a secret delivery to t
heir lab that night.
A delivery of personnel and samples.
Fuck.
And he’d need Jerald there to make sure the arrangements were made and secrecy was preserved.
Also leaving him open to scrutiny and suspicion while Hannibal’s hands stayed squeaky clean, as always.
“Why, I was out of town at our Vermont compound. Did something happen?”
Jerald could practically hear it now, including Hannibal’s annoyingly “innocent” tone.
He perched on the edge of his desk and flipped through various channels. Even networks that never showed news were airing simulcasts of sister networks’ feeds about the attack.
Should I call General Arliss right now and defect to the other team?
It was an option he hadn’t considered before. If Hannibal wanted to toss the playbook out the window, so could he. Maybe going to Arliss would be the only way to save his own skin.
It was also a nuclear option he’d hold back until the last possible second. There was always a chance Arliss wouldn’t believe him and think he was still working for Hannibal.
No, better to see what he could do from this end of things. Definitely more money in it for him in the long run if he could stay and tough it out. Speaking of money…
Where’d Hannibal get the fucking money to pay them?
That was the literal million-dollar question. Jerald hadn’t noticed any unusual activity with the accounts he knew Hannibal had access to.
He walked around his desk and sat at his computer, pulling up all the accounts, including the secret ones.
Nope, nothing that he could find.
There has to be something.
But damned if he could find it.
That worried the crap out of him. He thought he’d done a pretty damn good job scouring and following Hannibal’s electronic trails over the years with keylogger software on all of the man’s devices.
Unless he’s used a burner cell or something.
He’d have to wait until Hannibal logged into the system there at the St. Louis compound to pull the records from the tablet he knew Hannibal had with him. He didn’t have anyone on staff in IT at the Vermont compound whom he could trust to run the deets without it getting back to Hannibal.
I need to work on the narrative, now, develop the story while I have time.
Because come the new year, one way or another, Hannibal Silo would be out of Jerald’s life for good.
Jerald didn’t even bother trying to call the man, although it would be no small measure of satisfaction to see a look of shock, live, on Hannibal’s mug when he broke the news to him.
If someone there didn’t break the news to the man, Jerald would wait until Hannibal’s call, which Jerald knew Hannibal would then invariably turn whiny and sulky about it.
That call came a little after five o’clock that afternoon, and there was no pleasant greeting when Hannibal started talking.
Jerald was already in his condo, having left his office early with a “fuck-it” attitude after having made a couple of calls and finally reaching the only Washington contact he apparently had left in the city.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me and tell me what was going on in Atlanta?”
Jerald, who was already on beer number two, snorted. “Seriously? You planned a poorly conceived and executed operation without my input and are going to bitch at me about it?”
Hannibal went silent for a long moment. “How’d you know?”
“I didn’t know for sure until you just opened your damn mouth. But I had a strong suspicion.”
Hannibal went silent.
“You done trying to play these petty games?” Jerald finally asked. “Because Arliss has proven he’s two steps ahead of us, and pulling farther ahead with each victory. You’re the boss and you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t want my help, so why should I help you?”
More silence. Finally, “He was a trusted contact.”
“Who’s probably dead now.”
More silence.
Jerald drained the rest of the bottle. “There were at least three SOTIF teams at that hospital, Hannibal. Three. Thirty men, and probably more than that, especially if you add in the Drunk Monkeys. I know, because I made some calls this afternoon after the news broke. Whoever was sent in there was sent on a suicide mission.”
More silence.
“Hey, look on the bright side, Hannibal. At least the news in Atlanta eclipsed the new sex-tape video clip that your hacker admirer posted on his blog earlier today. So there is that, at least.”
Jerald hung up on him and left the phone on the coffee table as he got up to get another beer from the kitchen. When the phone rang again, Jerald ignored it.
He’d been saving that last nugget, sure that Hannibal had been too busy with his schmoozing of the sheeple in Vermont to go online and see the latest.
Fuck it.
He’d talk to Hannibal when he wasn’t so angry. Maybe then the man would actually pay attention to him.
Not that it would matter much longer.
Maybe I shouldn’t even wait until New Year’s to get him out of my hair.
Dr. Isley’s unintended legacy had been a nice stockpile of various medications in Jerald’s possession. Having full access to Hannibal’s office and condo, it wouldn’t be difficult at all to swap out the man’s medications without notice.
Whoopsies.
Of course he’d had ulterior motives for portraying Hannibal as frail and in failing health following Mary’s vanishing act. Because it’d make it hella easier to make him go away when the time came. Not like a man in the prime of life keeling over suspiciously. A grieving old man?
Phhpt.
Time to formulate a new master plan, to rid himself of Hannibal for good before the idiot irretrievably fucked up the whole world in the process.
Chapter Twenty
Omega and Echo made a quick run to the grocery store for steaks and champagne. It was a night to hold at the very least a modest celebration, for sure. They’d already told Arliss about the latest development and he’d agreed that keeping it under their hats until they were out of Atlanta would be safest.
Tonight, under the cover of darkness, the team would return to the CDC, pack up, and bug out. They’d leave the announcement about the vaccine for next week, once the team was safely away.
Only the government “status updates” would state that the team was still there in Atlanta, working their brave little hearts out despite the failed “terrorist disruption.”
Already several pictures had been posted, supplied by Bubba, of long-dead domestic militant terrorists whose deaths had gone unreported due to the black-ops nature of the missions.
The real mercenaries’ IDs were being processed, their bodies having been incinerated there at the CDC facility. Their hands had been fingerprinted, DNA tested, and put on ice for future reference, just in case.
Three of them had already been ID’d as former CIA operatives, and traceable back to Goldfinch in some way, who Bubba had told them was tied to Silo.
Leta busied herself by helping pack everything up and getting laundry done. When Omega and Echo returned with the food, they got the steaks grilling and each had a mug of champagne to celebrate the win.
“Does this mean we’re close to this whole mess being over?” Leta asked.
“Maybe,” Uncle said. “I refuse to jinx us, though.”
“Ditto,” Zed echoed. “Let’s call this a win once the vaccine is in production and Silo is out of commission.”
Everyone held up their mugs. “Hear, hear.”
Leta, Chief, and Echo stayed behind at the safe house, packing one of the large box trucks with equipment and supplies while everyone else headed to the CDC lab to pitch in there. Some of the unit would be driving up to Georgia from Florida.
The rest, including the other scientists from The List, were already in the air, flying in the large cargo plane Panda captained to their next destination to await
the rest of them. They had a rendezvous scheduled for late Monday, but Leta didn’t know where yet.
“But what about the samples for the vaccine?” Leta asked Chief. “Isn’t that valuable cargo?”
“We’re borrowing Archie’s pilot. Unlike our one-trick pony, Victor, he can also fly a fixed wing.” The smile on her face told Leta she was just teasing about Victor’s skills. “He’ll fly Mama, Waldo, and Q, along with the vaccine samples, to our next point.”
Echo snorted. “I won’t tell him you called him that, babe.”
“Back to using the RV as a lab again, for now,” Chief said. “Just when I was really getting used to Atlanta, too.”
Echo grabbed her and pulled her in for a kiss. “Told you, babe, you get your pick of destinations when we’re through with this.”
Leta watched their interaction, the way Chief smiled up at Echo. It was obvious the three were in love. Considering they had a similar head-first start to their relationship like Leta had with Uncle and Zed…it gave her a silly kind of hope that maybe whatever this was between them would last.
Hell, hadn’t even been a full week yet.
“And I told you I’d think about it,” Chief said, a playful smile curving her lips. “Depends on the state of the world, doesn’t it?”
“I can’t imagine what you all have been through,” Leta said. “I don’t even know what to say except thanks for not giving up.”
“Giving up isn’t in any of our DNA,” Echo said. “If it was, we’d never made the SOTIF cut in the first place.”
“I do know one thing I’d like to do,” Chief said.
“What?” Echo asked.
“Meet General Arliss. That man has been controlling our lives.”
“He didn’t cause Barstow,” Echo said. “You can’t slap him for that.”
“I know. I don’t want to slap him. Anymore,” Chief added. “And Bubba. I’d like to meet him. Shake his hand.”
Echo grew somber. “We do owe our lives to him. Weren’t for him, this mission could have been FUBAR’d a number of ways by now. Lucky break, there.”
“It’s hard to remember the world before Kite and TMFU,” Leta said. “I had this plan for myself, and I remember watching the news that day when it happened and thinking, fuck. There goes my life.”
Monkey See, Monkey Do [Drunk Monkeys 9] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 16