Son of Cerberus (The Unusual Operations Division Book 2)

by Jacob Hammes

  Marcus complied and pulled the black, borrowed five-seat SUV into the parking lot. The short trip from the local airport had been uneventful. The helicopter ride was just over a half an hour long, so even with the small amount of traffic they encountered, they arrived on scene in a little more than an hour. The long SUV had a big enough cargo area to fit all of their substantial equipment.

  The team was collectively amused at how large the operation at the dock had become. A giant clear tent had been erected on one side of the yard and was labeled as a quarantine zone. Yellow hazard tape clearly marked a half-circle at least a hundred yards from the yacht itself. It glinted with moisture from the sea, stirred up by heavy winds.

  Here and there pieces of paper whipped around in the breeze. Marcus caught the glint of an old candy wrapper as it flittered by. Another piece of litter, a rubber glove, flopped lazily past a man in a half-worn hazmat suit.

  Marcus parked the SUV near a white pickup truck with a CDC logo emblazoned across the side. Beneath the perfect exterior there was a leaky engine part that was already forming a tiny puddle of oil on the ground beneath it. He gritted his teeth against the feeling building inside of him. It was an overwhelming urge to curse at every single person on the scene until they realized how poorly they were doing in terms of preserving evidence.

  The cold air smacked the team in the face as they opened the SUV’s doors. The overpowering scent of someone’s awful body spray came soon after as one of the FBI agents approached them from a nearby tent. He wore a polo shirt with golden FBI letters stitched above a breast pocket; the name Brian was also stitched on the shirt. His completely bald head formed straight into his bull neck and his facial features were serious and grim. Though he had one hand in a pocket, the other one swung lazily as he walked, brushing up against his holstered pistol.

  The man looked as if he belonged in a mixed martial arts cage, not a federal uniform. He couldn’t even walk like a normal man. His khakis ruffled over his heavy black boots with every step.

  “You must be the guys,” Brian said. What a normal name for such a monster. He eyed everyone as they exited the vehicle with contemplative frustration. Though he had been one of the first to the scene, he still couldn’t set foot past the yellow tape. Neither could anyone else for that matter. Why the UOD thought that they were any different was what made the man so grumpy.

  “And woman.” He made the adjustment to his statement when he set eyes on Brenda.

  “Yes.” Marcus smiled and extended his hand. The bullish man glared at it, then at Marcus, but kept his hand in his pocket.

  “We are the men and one woman,” Marcus said sarcastically in response to the man’s spurn. Two could play at the angry agent game.

  “Where can we set up, Brian?” Phillip didn’t care about what games the man was playing. He was anxious to start.

  “Looks like you picked a perfect spot,” the grumpy agent answered. “I’ll go get one of the CDC representatives so you can get started. Don’t get too comfortable though. If you can’t come up with some special magic potion that lets you get aboard that ship, it’s going to go bye bye.”

  “Thanks for the warning, big guy.” Brenda didn’t skip a beat as she started pulling boxes out of the trunk and setting them down forcefully near the agents feet. “Now run along, grumpy puss; we don’t have all day.”

  The woman who came to greet them was wrapped in white. Her hair was tied up in a tight bun and tucked beneath a net that reminded Marcus of a cook’s hairnet. She was mildly overweight with a ruddy face and big red nose, yet the fiery intensity that decorated her brown eyes was nothing to brush off. She walked with a determined manner toward the group, though admittedly a bit awkwardly because of the bulky hazmat suit. Within seconds, the gruff FBI agent was replaced by the stone-faced CDC agent.

  “Hi, kids,” she said, taking a tough stance with her arms crossed. Her voice belonged to someone who had smoked for thirty years. “My name is Patricia Banks. Just call me Trish, or lady, or agent, or hey-you.”

  “I think we can remember Trish.” Marcus tried humor as he extended his hand in greeting again. She stared at it for a moment before regarding him with her very serious demeanor. The same look crossed her eyes as had crossed the FBI agent’s.

  “You really want to shake hands with someone in a hazmat suit from the Center for Disease Control?”

  “Guess not,” Marcus said sheepishly. “Do you really think there’s something biological out here?”

  “Maybe,” she answered honestly. “Maybe not. The symptoms go away after you cross that yellow tape out there which leads me to believe it’s not biological. We can’t rule it out, however, since we can’t get close enough. We also have to factor in the multiple dead bodies aboard the ship and how they got that way.”

  “Looked like murder to me.” David should have kept his mouth shut. “Because of all the blood, that is.”

  “Have you ever seen hemorrhagic fever?” she asked seriously.

  “What about the little girl?” Marcus asked.

  “She’s in infectious disease quarantine in Philly until we get this whole thing straightened out. She would be cleared if she hadn’t collapsed like that after coming off the yacht.”

  “Thanks for setting us up,” Brenda said, popping the top of one of the hefty laptops open. Beside the ten or fifteen different antennas sticking out of it, the machine seemed fairly basic. Brenda smirked at the slack-jawed bemusement of the CDC agent.

  “Thank you for being so thorough, too,” Brenda continued. “Until we get down to the source of all this madness, we can never be too careful.”

  “Okay,” Trish muttered. “What’s all this crap you have here?”

  “Spectrum analyzer, EMF detector, Geiger counter, and a few other monitoring devices.” Phillip spouted the terms off systematically. “We’re going to be checking for all different types of radiation. There’s a very strong possibility what we’re dealing with here doesn’t have anything to do with biology, virology, botany, or any of those subsets.”

  “That’s looking more obvious every second,” Trish said with just a hint of sarcasm. “No matter what type of suit we wear, we end up turning back. No one has been able to get close enough to that ship to figure anything out. Now you’re saying we might have all been exposed to some sort of radioactive substance?”

  Brenda and Phillip looked sideways at each other. David wasn’t paying any attention and more than likely would not have been able to comment on the matter anyway. He was rubbing his stomach like he was ready to eat—or vomit. Marcus took the opportunity to educate Trish on what they were looking for before either of the brain-children attacked her.

  “Radioactive infers that there is a material present that is unstable, thus releasing isotopes which may be entering people and not leaving. People might be exhibiting radiation poisoning in that case. No, we’re looking for a device that may be emitting radiation, like a microwave or a radio antenna. This would have immediate effects on the body within the effective area that would not linger once the person has left that area.”

  “I’m aware of what RF radiation does to people,” Trish responded grumpily. “Nausea, headaches, fatigue—nothing this particular case exhibits.”

  “Which is why it’s so interesting,” Marcus mused. He stood in speculative contemplation for a moment. The team had always theorized that some super-Relic might exist capable of affecting everyone, but none of them wanted to entertain the idea. It would mean bad news for the team and everyone involved.

  “I hate hospitals,” Cynthia said, subconsciously scratching the glove covering her maimed hand. “I remember the last time I had to spend time in one of these places. They kept telling me this wicked thing would heal. Guess they were wrong. Jerks don’t know what to tell a grieving woman.”

  “Grieving?” Henry questioned from the driver’s seat of the sedan in which they were currently seated. They had been granted permission to land at Philadelphia International A
irport which gave them access to the Delaware Expressway. The ride to the hospital was in the comfort of another government agency rental; an unmarked police vehicle loaned to the Division for the hour or two that they would need it. Though the backseats were plastic, it was better than renting something and wasting more time.

  The trip was a quick twenty minute jaunt down the expressway and into the inner city. They would only have to deal with a few crowded streets before they could find parking and finally find their patient in the biggest hospital in the city.

  “Yes, grieving,” Cynthia answered, holding up her gloved hand and flexing it dramatically in the light of the passenger seat. “I’m grieving for the beauty of my hand. This one was my favorite.”

  Henry chuckled. Stephen made a sour face that told Cynthia he thought she was serious.

  “Well,” Henry continued, “at least you didn’t lose it altogether. Besides, hospitals aren’t that bad. It’s where people come to get better. You just happen to be an exception to the rule, dear. In any case, it’s a shame I can’t come inside and help you interrogate our young witness, but I’ll be looking for a lead-lined box to transport this mysterious machine. I still want to figure out what’s going on at that dock. It seems like someone may have inadvertently created a weapon and killed themselves in the process. I’m looking forward to getting out there.”

  “Same here,” Stephen agreed. “It seems much more interesting dealing with a loony box than a loony woman.”

  The day outside had turned out to be beautiful. The clear blue skies held hardly more than a hint of the cold front that had moved through the area. It was a warm day and all of them were thankful the long winter seemed to have finally lost its grip on spring. Henry even had a window down and a hand glided alongside the vehicle as they drove. Humming along, he reminded Cynthia and Stephen of some young man who had recently found love.

  Though he had been catching more and more flack for being as old as he was, he was still an irreplaceable asset to the team and the Division. He may not be as quick on his feet as he once was, but he could still shoot the eye out of a gnat at 50 meters. His knowledge, especially when it came to setting up communications for the often-deployed team, was priceless. Marcus regularly commented on the fact that Henry could set up an entire network in the amount of time it took a team of electricians to replace one circuit breaker.

  Henry exited the expressway and jogged this way and that before getting on the correct road. It ran along the shore of the Delaware River. In the distance he could see battleships from the World War II era, moored as exhibits for tourists to ogle. They were relics of the past, wrought in times of war and made for destruction, yet no one had ever gone crazy around them. It made him think of the Relic that had given them so much trouble just a few months ago.

  Women and men, some with dogs and some without ran down the paths along the river. There was even a family here and there enjoying the warm sun with Frisbees or soft squishy footballs. He couldn’t help wanting to get out and join them along the banks of the slowly moving waterway. His only stipulation was that he needed a beer and a cigar in order to have his own fun.

  Within minutes they were parked and headed up the long hallway toward the infectious disease corridor in the hospital. The brown tile walls made Henry feel uneasy—he had seen his fair share of men and women pass away in the drably colored hospitals of old. He wondered for a brief moment if they were ever going to get around to updating the place.

  “We’re here to see a young girl.” Stephen flashed his federal identification to the man behind the reception desk. Henry had already headed down to the basement to meet with a man who might have a lead-lined box. “She was brought in from a yacht in Jersey this morning. We’re pretty sure she’s being held in the—”

  “Yeah, I know the one,” the fairly large man said, cutting Stephen off. What little remained of his red hair was in the shape of a horseshoe around the top of his balding head. His red nose and greasy complexion told Henry that he most likely had a problem with alcohol. “Brought her in this morning off that crazy ship in Jersey and now she’s in the I.D.W.”

  Stephen looked sideways at Cynthia.

  “Infectious Disease Ward; I.D.W.,” the fat man clarified. Stephen noticed his nametag said ‘Ashley’.

  “It’s a family name,” Ashley said, noting how long Stephen had taken to look at the tag. “I go by Ash though; makes me sound badass. Anyway, you guys have been cleared to see her, apparently. You’re going to need some masks though, and you can’t touch her.”

  “Sounds good,” Stephen answered. “Where do we sign in?”

  “Us, too.” Stephen and Cynthia had been oblivious to the fact that two sinister looking individuals had snuck up behind them. One was a rather ugly woman with huge pouty lips. Her stringy hair was black and thin and she hid her wrinkles with a pound of makeup. Stephen could feel the cigarette smell burning his nostrils as she approached. She wore large dark sunglasses which hid most of her age, but Stephen could tell that she had to have lived a hard fifty years, at least.

  The man, on the other hand, seemed very young to be hanging out with such a woman in any capacity. He had blond hair and blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a cleft chin. His swagger told Stephen he was a hefty man built from solid muscle, but he could still grow with age. They both wore black collared shirts and slacks.

  Cynthia spied the outline of a pistol beneath the man’s arm, despite his obvious effort to conceal it.

  “And who are you?” Ashley, the man, asked the two newcomers.

  “Detectives from the local department,” the man answered. “My name is Detective Barnes, and this is my partner Detective Federeau. We were told that you would be expecting us.”

  Stephen felt awkward for a moment, wondering whether or not the man and woman would ask about the two fakers. Though he and Cynthia were federal agents, it was strictly forbidden for them to use UOD identifiers. The team worked on real-life issues, but the government was none too fond of letting the public know that they were in constant danger.

  It would take a few phone calls to ensure the two UOD agents were real federal agents.

  “You guys don’t know each other?” Ashley eyed each of the groups suspiciously. It made Stephen’s heart raise up into his stomach.

  “Nope,” the male detective said, looking down his nose at Cynthia. “Looks like these guys are feds, though. We check down, not up.”

  Something inside Stephen felt suddenly strange.

  The man behind the counter rifled through a few pages of legal documentation and punched some keys on his keyboard before eying their badges again. He obviously felt uncomfortable with their arrival. To Stephen, it was just another annoyance.

  “You guys sure want to figure this case out, huh?” he said, trying his hardest to stack some stapled papers nervously. It didn’t seem as if he was satisfied, yet he looked up with a smile. “You’re not on the list, but your badges look real enough to me. Let’s head down the hall and I’ll show you where Amy is.”

  “Amy is it?” one of the detectives asked. “I wasn’t aware that she had a name yet.”

  “That’s what the doctors have taken to calling her,” Ashley responded. “No, she hasn’t been formally identified yet, but it’s better than calling her girl.”

  The newly formed group of five people walked down the hallway toward a man at another desk. He handed them all breathing masks in order to keep them ‘safe’. By now, many tests had been performed on Amy and all of them had come up clear. Still, the precaution was a necessary one, seeing as how this unidentified woman showed up without any memory at all of where she had been or what she had gone through.

  The man behind the second desk let the visitors sign in before they headed down the last bit of hallway in order to see Amy. It was much brighter here, with white walls and white floors. The place seemed much more like a hospital than the entryway.

  “Oops,” the male detective said. “Forgot something in th
e car. We’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

  The man who had been escorting the group looked annoyed, but he told them to hurry up and kept walking. They disappeared around the corner, but something made Cynthia jumpy. They had shown up unannounced and now they were disappearing without ever seeing the patient in the first place.

  As the group walked on, the uncontrollable urge to look back took over Cynthia. She couldn’t place the feeling, but suspicion was driving into the back of her neck like a steel spike.

  Her suspicion proved correct. The woman who had been playing at being detective had a garrote tight around the guard’s neck. It wasn’t until the woman put her weight into the thing that it cut through his neck like a cheese slicer through warm butter. She yanked on it with as much effort as possible, feeling muscle and veins, arteries and cartilage part around the filament.

  There would be no hope for that man. Even in this hospital, they would not be able to save him.

  The male faux detective had a silenced pistol out before the job with the garrote had been finished. He gave Cynthia a wicked smile and pointed his pistol down the hallway before she could react. Something inside her gave out and she knew they had been duped. She could feel a tingling in her wounded arm as something more important came over her.

  “Hey.” A man in a doctor’s outfit had come around the corner behind them. Everyone stopped to turn around as he sounded distressed, to say the least. “Police! Someone call the police! Get help up here immediately!”

  It was just the distraction Cynthia needed. As Stephen was still processing what was happening, Cynthia used the tingling sensation in her wounded arm to guide her toward a nearby wheelchair. In one great heave, she threw the thing like a ragdoll down the narrow corridor at the distracted gunman. If she could have been faster, it would have saved the doctor’s life. Instead, the wheelchair slammed into the back of the shooter at the exact same time he pulled the trigger.

  A silenced clack echoed through the hall followed by the clattering of an empty shell and the banging of the wheelchair as it came down. The man the chair struck fell forward in a heap, covering his head as he did. Meanwhile, the bullet he had unleashed flew over the head of his accomplice and met with the head of the doctor, taking a large portion of it off and splattering it against the wall.