by Tom Abrahams
“Roger that, sir.”
Richter sprinted toward the roof access door. There’d been an armed threat only once in the five years the commander had been assigned to the CDC. It was random. Somebody lost their mind and haphazardly opened fire on everything he saw. This didn’t feel like that. He knew, without having to see their bodies, that two of his men were dead. This was a deliberate attack. It was systematic and executed with precision. He inhaled a deep breath of the moist February air, the icy chill filling his lungs. The smell of tar lingered in his nostrils after he blew it out. He backed away from the ledge, treading as softly as he could on the gravel.
* * *
Richter keyed the coded elevator and pressed his eye to the retinal scanner. A red light turned green and he pressed the car button. Seconds later he was whooshing downward, the numeric display above the stainless doors descending rapidly until he reached SUBFLOOR 2.
The elevator jerked to a stop and the doors slid apart. Not waiting for them to fully open, he slid sideways between them and hustled along the hallway to the next set of coded doors. He repeated the identification procedures and hurried through to a series of rooms where he knew he’d find Dr. Sharp.
He slid on the floor as he tried to stop his momentum at the last set of secured doors. Once inside, he breathlessly told a man he recognized, but whose name he didn’t know, he urgently needed to speak with Dr. Sharp.
The man tapped on a tablet, asked, “Is something wrong?”
“I can’t discuss that with you, sir,” said Richter, gulping air between words. “I have orders to speak with Dr. Sharp.”
“How do you have clearance to be in here?” asked the man. He was tapping on the tablet hastily now. “Who gave you permission?”
Richter puffed his chest and raised his chin. “I’m with the security detail,” he said. “I’m an assistant to the commander. I’ve got the highest level clearance, sir.”
“She’ll be here in a moment,” the man said. “She’s changing clothes.”
Richter stood with his hands behind his back and, for the first time, took notice of his surroundings. He was in a laboratory, but on one wall was a bank of large flat-screen monitors. A couple of them displayed the images from exterior surveillance cameras. Others were trained on empty rooms. Some of the monitors were dark.
There was the click and hum of the door behind Richter. He caught a whiff of perfume and a woman brushed past him and then stopped to face him.
“Who is this, Dr. Morel?” she asked of the lab-coated man behind her. “Why is he here?”
Richter started to speak, but Dr. Sharp stopped him. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard. “I asked Dr. Morel,” she said, her eyes fixed on Richter’s.
“He’s security,” said Dr. Morel. “Works for the commander. Says there’s something urgent. He wouldn’t tell me—”
“I only asked who he is, Charles,” Sharp said. “I didn’t ask for your doctoral dissertation.”
Dr. Morel rolled his eyes behind her back.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“We have a potential security breach,” Richter said. “There’s an issue with the perimeter. The commander asked I inform you immediately.”
Sharp scowled. “What is a potential security breach?”
“We have two positions not reporting, ma’am.”
Sharp tilted her head to one side, her tight bun threatening to topple from her crown. “What am I supposed to do with this information?”
Richter flinched. “I’m not sure what—”
“What would you have me do? You’ve given me information. How does it affect me? Where should I go? Do I worry? Do I grab a gun? Do I run for my life?”
Richter’s eyes flittered. “I can’t answer that, ma’am. I’m a messenger.”
Sharp rolled her eyes. “Then I’ll do nothing. Go tell your commander you’ve delivered the message and I’ve heard you.”
Richter nodded, backed away from Sharp, and hustled toward the door.
* * *
“Do nothing?” asked Morel. “I don’t understand. He just said somebody’s coming for us.”
Sharp weaved her way through the desks toward Morel. She adjusted her bun, touching the array of bobby pins with her index finger.
She took the tablet from Morel. “He didn’t say that. He said there was a potential breach. I’m not worried about it.”
She tapped the tablet’s icons, working through a series of command pages.
“He said there were two men who weren’t responding,” Morel said. “That’s not potential, it’s actual. The commander wouldn’t have sent him down here otherwise.”
Sharp’s eyes moved between the tablet and a pair of monitors on the wall. The displays flipped from ground-level surveillance to roof-mounted security cameras. The first revealed nothing. The second, an image of the northwest corner of the building, was different. On the side of the screen was what appeared to be the bottom of a boot and part of a leg.
Sharp stepped closer to the monitor. “Is that…?”
“A body,” said Morel.
“It’s not moving, is it?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
Sharp blinked and looked away from the display. She shook her head. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she said, trying to convince herself.
“Check the AI,” suggested Morel. “Don’t all of the guards have tracker implants?”
“Some of them,” she said, “not all.”
“Still…”
Sharp pressed an icon on the tablet. “Okay.”
“Good evening, Dr. Morel,” said the AI voice through an overhead speaker mounted above the monitor wall. “How might I assist you?”
“It’s Dr. Sharp.”
“Please accept my apologies, Dr. Sharp. You are utilizing Dr. Morel’s access tablet. I’ll refresh the system with your settings. How might I assist you?”
“Please locate all security trackers at 33.7993 degrees north, 84.3280 degrees west.”
“I’m locating all security trackers at 33.7993 degrees north, 84.3280 degrees west,” replied the AI. “While I analyze the data for the requested subset, I can tell you there are seven registered security trackers in the system.”
“Thank you,” said Sharp.
“I can also tell you there are fifteen registered security personnel. Eight of those registered personnel do not have positional biometric trackers.”
“Thanks for the simple math,” said Sharp. “Do you have the data?”
“You’re welcome,” said the AI without a hint of sarcasm. “I’m compiling the information now. Would you like an update on your biometric data, Dr. Sharp?”
Sharp bristled, and her grip on the tablet tightened. “What data?”
“From your tracker, Dr. Sharp,” said the AI. “I’m happy to report to you that your oxygen levels are normal despite an elevated heart rate. More exercise could—”
“I don’t have a tracker,” she snapped.
“I have the data you requested on the security trackers, Dr. Sharp,” said the AI. “I have located all seven security staff. Three, however, are reporting no data. It’s possible their life functions have ceased.”
“Wait,” said Sharp. “I don’t have a tracker.”
“Is that a question requiring an affirmative response?”
“Yes,” said Sharp.
“Very well, Dr. Sharp,” said the AI. “You do have a tracker. It’s located between the hypodermis and the gluteus medius. Your tracker became active seven months, three days, fourteen hours, thirty-two seconds ago.”
Sharp’s eyes danced around the room as she searched her memory. Seven months ago. What was seven months ago? Then it hit her. She raised her head and anger surged through her body from her gut to her legs and arms. She felt it rising in her throat like bile. Through her clenched teeth, she calmly addressed Morel.
“You did it,” she said. “You injected me with the tracker during our annual vaccination
s, didn’t you?”
Morel didn’t respond.
“Answer me,” she snarled.
No answer.
Sharp spun around to face her subordinate. He wasn’t there. She balled her fists, digging her nails into her palms as she marched from the lab and out into the hall. She’d been preoccupied with the AI such that she hadn’t heard the security door click and buzz open. She was so incensed by her perceived betrayal, she didn’t recognize the AI had told her three security guards were dead.
* * *
Marcus took out the commander with a shot at the neck above his nano-fabric vest. He was positioned on the second floor of a four-story parking garage across from the CDC plaza.
“There should be another one,” said Taskar. “I remember there being two of them.”
“I don’t see a second man up there,” said Marcus. “I do see two men inside the front doors. Both are armed.”
“I can take them out,” said Taskar. “I’ve got a clear shot through the glass.”
Marcus shook his head. “If they’ve got this much external security, that glass is probably bulletproof. You’d be wasting ammunition.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Taskar. “How do we get inside?”
Marcus rubbed the scruff on his chin and neck. It itched. He needed to shave.
“Ideas?” Taskar prompted.
“I’m thinking,” said Marcus. He sighed. “Okay, here’s the plan. We draw them outside. Once they’re exposed, we have access into the building.”
“Not necessarily,” said Taskar.
“What do you mean?”
“The doors are coded. I think they use fingerprints or eyes to open them.”
Marcus shrugged. “Not an issue. Take my rifle and my Glock.”
“What?”
Marcus stood up and handed Taskar the Springfield. Then he drew the handgun from his hip and placed it on the concrete pony wall that surrounded the garage on each level. “Spot me,” he said. “If it looks like I’ve got trouble, fire away.”
Taskar nodded. “Then what?”
“When it’s time, you’re gonna bring my guns and join me in the lobby.”
“How will I know when that is?”
“You’ll know,” said Marcus. He shrugged his pack from his back and dropped it to the floor. “Bring this too.”
He untucked his shirt, adjusted his pants, and descended the nearby staircase to the street level. He limped across the plaza toward the front door with his hands above his head. In his mind, he pictured Penny’s dead body. He imagined Sawyer falling from the treehouse. He envisioned himself on his knees at the graves in his backyard.
He felt Sylvia’s hand lose its grip on his and her fingers go limp as she took her last breath. He smelled Lola’s sweet scent as he held her on the floor of the garage, strands of her red hair finding their way between his lips as he whispered into her ear how much he loved her.
Tears welled in his eyes. He blinked to loosen them, making them drip onto his cheeks. By the time he reached the doors, he looked like the wounded, frightened man he wanted them to think he was.
Before he could knock on the glass, both of the guards were on him. They ordered him to step back as they exited the building. The stocky one had his pistol trained on Marcus. The other, with a well-trimmed mustache, had his hand on his unsnapped holster, ready to draw.
“Who are you?” snapped the stocky one. “Identify yourself.”
“I-I-I…” Marcus sobbed.
“Spit it out,” said the stocky one, jabbing his weapon toward Marcus’s chest. “This is a secure facility.”
“My name is Junior Barbas,” he said, whimpering through a Southern-stained accent. “My wife is starving. She’s sick. I can’t work on account of my leg. I just need some help for her.”
“We can’t do that sir,” said the mustached one. “This isn’t a public building.”
The stocky one pressed a button at his neck. “This is Position Five,” he said. “We have a visitor in the plaza. Over.”
Marcus dropped to his knees, pain exploding in both of his legs, and clasped his hands together in prayer. “Please,” he begged through real tears, “I just need some medicine. Some pills to help her sleep. To help with the headaches.”
The radio squawked. “We have three nonresponsive positions. There is an active threat. Repeat. Active threat. Search the visitor. Over.”
The one with the handgun stepped forward. “I need to see your hands. I’m going to search you.”
Marcus did as he was told. He kept his eyes on the hands of the guard with the mustache. They weren’t anywhere near his holstered weapon.
“Do you have any identification?” asked the guard. “Any proof of who you are?”
Marcus shook his head. He was gasping for air as the stocky guard cautiously stepped behind him. He noticed neither guard was wearing a protective vest.
“Stand up,” the stocky guard ordered. “Keep your hands away from your body.”
Marcus struggled to his feet and held his arms outstretched. He kept them there as the guard used one hand to grope him. They were idiots, Marcus thought. Neither of them was in a position to use their weapons.
The stocky guard reached around Marcus, and at the moment he touched his back, Marcus tensed. He gripped the guard’s weapon with one hand, twisting it away from his body, as he pulled the man’s girth into him and used the other hand to draw Lou’s blade from his waistband.
He swung the blade in an uppercut, jamming it into the guard’s neck and up through his jaw, thrusting it as hard as he could. The guard’s face contorted unnaturally and his eyes snapped wide with surprise, freezing with the shock and pain of his final moment alive.
As quickly as he’d driven the blade to the hilt, he withdrew it and, amidst the violent spray of blood, cast the man aside with a shove. While the other guard struggled for his gun, Marcus threw the knife at his chest.
Marcus, however, was not the skilled thrower that Lou was, and the handle hit the guard instead of the blade. It bounced harmlessly to the ground. When the guard looked at his chest, surprised he was unhurt, Marcus leapt forward and tackled the guard to the ground.
The guard’s head snapped backward as they fell, slapping off the concrete plaza and dizzying the man. He groaned. His eyes open and closed with confusion. Marcus pulled the man’s gun from his holster and pressed it to his forehead.
“What’s the code?” he asked.
The guard mumbled gibberish and drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. Marcus grabbed his jaw with both hands and drew the man’s attention to his eyes.
“What. Is. The. Code?”
The guard mumbled again then spat out the numeric sequence for the electronically coded doors.
Marcus thanked him and pulled the trigger, then rolled off the mustached man and onto his back to catch his breath. Looking up at the black Georgia night, he waved his hand in the air to signal Taskar it was safe to join him.
* * *
Sharp burst into Bolnoy’s office. Morel was standing in front of Bolnoy’s desk. The Russian was sitting in his high-back leather chair. Both men ignored her when she demanded an answer.
“Did you hear me?” she snapped. “Why did you inject me with a tracker?”
Bolnoy’s eyes looked into hers as he spoke. “It’s always good to know where the rats have been,” he said. “That way you know what is spoiled and what is not.”
Sharp seethed. Her face reddened with the heat of unreasonable anger and she marched across the sparsely decorated room to Morel. She balled her hands into fists and punched him in the shoulder, leading with the knuckle of her middle finger.
Morel cried out in pain and grabbed his arm. “Are you kidding me?” he asked, turning to face her as she swung again.
The second punch landed on Morel’s jaw and knocked him off balance. A third grazed his chin.
Bolnoy stood from behind his desk, shouting at Sharp to stop. She ignored him and swung agai
n. Morel blocked the throw and backed away.
“What is your problem?” he asked, rubbing his reddened face with his hand.
Sharp stomped her feet as if the floor were Morel’s face. A long vein bulged from her slick hairline down the length of her brow. “You violated my privacy!” she said, shaking her fists. “You had no right.”
Bolnoy chuckled. “Do you think the irony of this is lost on her?”
Sharp scowled at the Russian. “You’re no better. You knew about this?”
“Everybody knew about this,” said Bolnoy. “The information about who is tracked and who is not is in the system. It’s a couple of taps. It’s not his fault you never looked.”
“I never gave my permission!”
Morel held his hands in front of his face. “Actually, you did,” he said apprehensively. “It’s in the vaccination documents you signed.”
Sharp’s face twitched. Her eyes searched for a reason she wouldn’t have known that. “Still,” she spat, “you didn’t tell me. You didn’t want me to know, did you? That’s why you ran from the lab.”
“That’s not why—”
“Whatever,” she hissed. “You’re done. After these three test subjects are in the wild, I’m replacing you. You and your codependent wife and your sickly little brats can fend for yourselves.”
Morel lowered his hands. His eyes focused over her shoulder on the wall behind her. Bolnoy’s narrow gaze was also fixed on the wall.
Sharp cursed. “What?”
Morel motioned to the wall with his chin. “I think we have more pressing concerns than whether or not you knew you were being tracked.”
Sharp turned around and saw a quad-display monitor mounted flush to the wall. It displayed security camera video at the entrance to the facility.
“Is that live?” she asked.
“Yes,” Bolnoy replied.
Sharp cursed again and drew her hands to her mouth. “Mother of—”
“I know,” said Morel. “I know.”
On the monitor were four different angles of the same macabre scene. A broad-shouldered man wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants was holding a severed hand to the biometric finger scanner. A companion was holding something in between his fingers up to the retinal scanner.