by Sawyer, JT
Gerald had made his way across the room while the chief continued doling out orders to the others. He came over to Carlie and leaned over her shoulder. “Time to go get princess un-charming from her university castle?”
“If she’s still there when we arrive—she’ll probably be in the courtyard signing off on another Save the Sonoran Desert petition,” she said before turning away. She walked back to her office to grab her shoulder bag and headed downstairs to the armory. Carlie glanced over her shoulder and saw Phillip hastily packing up his briefcase in the conference room.
Back to some honest-to-God work with real warriors, she thought as she strode down the hallway to the stairs.
Chapter 6
Gerald and Carlie’s teams quickly moved to the tac-ops center one floor below. This was the heart of their facility that not only contained sophisticated satellite imagery and computer databases for providing real-world intel to agents in the field but also housed their considerable armory.
The room was located in the rear corner and was designed like a bank vault with a two-foot-thick steel door. A small war could be waged with the sub-machine guns, tear gas, sniper rifles, LAAWs rockets, and ballistic shields that were neatly arranged on either side of the aisle. Crates of ammunition and magazines were laid out alongside each firearm along with night-vision goggles, gas masks, two-way radios, and trauma kits.
Once inside, Carlie flung open the metal security grate over the rifle armory to her right and extracted two HK MP7 fully-automatic submachine guns with 30-round magazines and accompanying leather shoulder holsters. The MP7 was utilized by all Secret Service agents on protective details and used a 4.6 x 30mm armor-piercing round.
Placing the rifles on the table beside her, she strapped on the holsters and then pulled out eight loaded magazines from the rack. The other agents were alongside her performing the same motions as the sound of magazines being loaded and chambers being racked echoed off the steel walls.
Gerald was loading his tactical vest with canisters of tear gas and magazines, continuing to work without moving his eyes. “You need a painkiller for the splinter in your ass from that D.C. suit upstairs?” he said to Carlie.
“And why weren’t you in there? I could’ve used some back-up,” she said, slinging the rifles in the holsters. “You should see the guy I’m dealing with—he claims he was one of us a long time ago though he doesn’t strike me as someone with any stones to even be able to handle a weapon.” She tucked a mic into her ear and then the radio unit onto her vest.
“The section chief had already called me over to discuss this event that was unfolding or I would’ve joined your little party. Besides, you’ll have no trouble handling him—that putrescent turd was in the Secret Service about sixteen years ago and got shifted to Department of Justice.”
“He mentioned that. Why the transfer?”
“He wounded another agent in a live-fire drill at the shoot-house in Virginia. Because his father was politically connected, rather than boot his sorry ass, he was given a cushy job working investigations with DOJ. Otherwise known in government circles as discipline through promotion. Now he’s one of the stooges responsible for deciphering the chaos of what unfolds during and after a shootout, if you can believe that.”
“This job is full of never-ending irony, it seems,” she said, placing six pistol magazines into her tactical vest.
Chapter 7
On her jog down the stairs to the subterranean parking facility, Carlie double-checked the Velcro on her body-armor vest while the other two teams of four agents were quickly tossing their gear in the heavily armored black Suburbans. She opened the rear hatch on her vehicle and tapped in the code on a secure weapons locker that was integrated into the rear structural layout of the cargo area. Though each agent was supposed to inspect the vehicle’s tactical kit after each workday, she never cared to rely on chance.
The spring-assisted lid popped open, revealing an additional array of weapons similar to what they already carried on them, along with a satellite phone, pistol suppressors, night-vision goggles, and two canisters of smoke grenades. She slammed the lid down and walked around front to climb into the driver’s seat, where she noticed Phillip getting in from the opposite side.
“This is a security detail. You’re not authorized to…” Before she could finish she heard the bureau chief’s voice in her earpiece.
“Carlie, be informed that Phillip Alderman will be accompanying you and your team as an observer for the campus link-up with Gemini’s team.”
She clenched her teeth and shot a piercing gaze upward at the ceiling. “Copy that, sir.” Then she swiftly slid inside and fired up the engine. She clamped her hands on the steering wheel and forced herself to exhale without cussing.
Gerald was pulling on his vest while sliding into an identical Suburban beside her. Carlie began backing out while Gerald motioned with a whirl of his index finger to do the same.
As they raced along the confines of the garage and through the retracted security gate, she tried to channel her frustration to the white lines on the pavement ahead. Upon entering the intense desert sunlight outside of the parking garage, everyone slid on their sunglasses.
Besides Phillip next to her, there were three other agents in the back. One was in his early thirties and had a trim black mustache, while the other was slightly older and had a neatly shaved head and massive neck. The third man was the smallest, with a barrel chest and a boxer’s flattened nose.
The bureau chief’s voice, back at the command center, came over their mics. “I just got word that the first lady is secure in Virginia but the VP is missing. His protection detail was savagely mauled outside of Dallas and he is presumed dead. I know you’ve all been through countless extraction drills before but exercise extreme caution with the attackers and don’t hesitate for a minute to drop them, regardless of whether they look like deranged university students. The CDC is saying this is an epidemic sweeping across the country right now.”
“Copy that,” said Carlie. Jesus—we’re really going to be dispatching college kids? What the hell is going on? She thrust her mind back to the present. “Any further communication with Gemini’s PPD at the university?”
“They are at the same location as before—on the fourth floor of the Keating bioresearch building where she normally does lab work in room 48 from 1445 to 1620. They’ve been instructed to head to the roof for helo extract on my command.”
As the two vehicles sped along Highland Avenue towards the university, Carlie saw dozens of people frantically running two blocks to the east.
Chapter 8
Jared was adjusting his cuffed hands behind his back as he shimmied around on the back seat of the prisoner containment area in the U.S. Marshal’s four-door Crown Victoria.
The thickset, muscular driver was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he listened to an Elvis tune on the radio. “This is gonna be a good week if it starts out with us bagging our first shitrag on Monday,” Mr. Rock-and-Roll said.
The marshal in the passenger’s seat had a coarse crop of short, poorly cut blond hair that caused his head to resemble an old paintbrush. Jared still felt the sore spot in his spine where Q-Tip had pinned him down. Mr. Rock-and-Roll had just finished radioing in their position and turned to peer through the bars at Jared, who was sitting in the right rear seat. “So, why Tucson, hillbilly? That’s what I want to know. Your MO has you hitting homes along the Midwest and East Coast for years. Now you wanna crap in our backyard—what gives, tough guy?”
Jared studied the man’s rugged features—his square jaw and the squint lines around the eyes. He had seen dozens of guys like this one before when he had been called into lineups at police stations, and even in younger days while in juvey. He knew the type well—self-righteous Bible-quoters who sat at their computers poring over America’s Most Wanted photos while dreaming of the big fish and that magical call to come in so they could rush out the door in their shiny tactical vest ca
rrying the assault rifle with the big banana clip on it.
Jared stared back at the man. “I heard the dry air here was supposed to be good for my allergies—same reason as Doc Holliday going to Tombstone, you know, for his bronchial issues.”
“Holliday had TB,” said Q-Tip.
“Yeah, that’s just one of many bronchial afflictions that you can get, professor,” said Jared, glancing out the window at several students sprinting across the sidewalks on either side.
The man grabbed the bars and slightly bared his teeth. “It’s Agent Raines, you shit-nugget. You should mind your manners—we’re not some beer-swigging country cops like you’re used to dealing with, you fucking mongrel.”
“Man, I bet the federal government must have passed up a lot of good applicants to get to you two.”
“Shut your piehole, hillbilly. If you’re not a good boy, you might accidentally slip going up the stairs to our processing center,” said Rock-and-Roll.
“Is that where you guys stroke your shiny rifles while drooling over centerfold pinups, wondering if your neglected wives back home are doin’ the deed with the neighbor across the street?” said Jared as he watched two black SUVs race through a red light in the opposite direction.
“Gimme the two-block warning before we get to headquarters,” said Q-Tip to the other marshal, “so I can Taser his ass. We’ll just say he had a seizure from the intense heat.” The marshal unbuckled and pulled out the Taser from his belt.
“Whoa, there—take it easy…you know, you guys should really get into an anger-management program. I mean, don’t they have therapists on staff to help wring out those Neanderthal brains of yours so you don’t blow a gasket?”
“The only thing I’m gonna blow is…” The man’s head slammed against the metal bars separating the seats as a pickup truck crashed into the passenger’s side of the Crown-Vic. The vehicle spun sideways, reeling into a mailbox and a row of bicycles outside a coffee shop. Jared looked up and saw the streets filled with panicked people fleeing in every direction while yellow-faced attackers pursued them.
“Good Lord, what the hell are those things?” yelped Jared, who sat frozen in his handcuffs.
The marshal in the driver’s seat slowly lifted his head from the front airbag and checked on his partner, whose neck was contorted and his face ashen. “Son of a bitch, he ain’t got no pulse.” As he frantically unbuckled himself, a pock-marked man in his thirties with a jaundiced face smashed his fists against the driver’s window. The man was gnashing his jaws wildly as a trickle of fresh blood ran down his lips He kept squeegeeing his wrinkled face against the window, trying to get inside.
“These goddamned meth-heads think they can take over my city—not a chance,” yelled the marshal. He slammed the unlock control, accidentally hitting all the buttons, which caused the rear-door security latch to open. Jared half-smiled, manipulating his cuffed hands behind him and around his legs until they were before his chest, then he unbuckled his seatbelt. As he readied his escape, he saw the marshal forcefully swing open the driver’s doors, sending the attacker into a serving cart full of coffee carafes. When the man rose, the marshal removed his pistol and shot the crazed person in the head. Jared recoiled back into his seat at the sound and then he saw two people fling themselves over the hood of the mangled Crown-Vic and savagely maul the marshal. The large figure collapsed with an ughh sound to the pavement, dropping the Glock next to the rear door. A pool of ruby-red blood swirled along the pavement, mixing with the pitchers of fresh cappuccino from the tipped-over cart on the sidewalk.
Jared gasped and lowered himself below the tinted windows as he heard the ghastly sound of crunching bone outside the vehicle. He felt his heart racing like he had just stolen his first car, and glanced down at the unusual sight of his trembling hands as a continual wave of screaming from the unfortunate victims outside rang through his foggy brain.
Chapter 9
“Did anyone else see that?” Carlie said to her team. “A bunch of people sprinting in different directions a few streets over by that pizza place back there.”
“Looked like they were spooked by something,” said the bald man in back. “I only caught a glimpse of them.” The other agents began scanning the city around them. The street they were on bore the familiar air of another hot day in the desert, with people holed up in the A/C of shops and bookstores.
Gerald’s adrenaline-soaked voice came over their ear-mics. Carlie listened intently, glancing over at Phillip, who had a frostbitten look on his face as he peered around the chaos unfolding on the streets.
“What do you mean we lost contact with the PPD?” barked Carlie into the suburban’s encrypted telecom system as she drove through a red light two blocks from the university.
“The team leader indicated they were headed to the top floor of the bioresearch building, followed by the sound of gunfire, and then the mic went dead,” said Gerald, followed by a long pause. “Shit—there’s a group of people that just attacked a couple of college kids over by the bookstore. What the hell is happening?” he said in a gravelly voice.
Carlie followed the front vehicle with a fast right turn, speeding down Vine Street, which ran directly towards the center of the university. As they swerved to avoid several dozen students running across the street, Carlie glanced in her rearview mirror. About fifty yards behind her vehicle, she saw an elderly man with a cane being assaulted by a throng of disheveled people who were viciously biting him, like fire ants swarming over an intruder.
“Christ, did you see that?” she said to her teammates in back, who were opening their suit coats to offer better access to the two MP-7 automatic sub-machineguns. Phillip was still craning his head to take in the carnage in the streets to the rear.
As the vehicles closed the distance to the main campus, people were streaming out of buildings and running between cars in the two-lane street. They were screaming and sprinting in every direction like water droplets flung on a hot grill. In pursuit were gray-faced humans chasing them, jumping on some or dragging others down to the ground in a mad frenzy.
Gerald’s shaky voice came over the telecom speaker again. “We are going in hot. I repeat, this will be a hot extract. We are going right up Mabel Street to the research building where Gemini is located, do you copy?”
“Roger that,” she said, gripping the steering wheel and trying to pace her breathing. Months of training in vehicle evasion and high-speed maneuvering while under fire came to the forefront as she focused her vision on the vehicle in front of her while intermittently letting her peripheral vision extend out for any approaching threats. Tunnel vision was critical at times in shooting and precision work, but she had been trained to also account for the big picture around her.
“Approaching the four-story building, eighty meters to the northeast,” Gerald said. Carlie saw his vehicle slam over the street curb as both Suburbans flew onto the spacious sidewalk that intersected the nursing and toxicology buildings, near their intended location.
While the Suburbans beelined for the building, a crowd of a few hundred students was scattering around the courtyard, heading in their direction. Behind the bewildered group were yellow-faced attackers whose cheeks were deeply furrowed. They moved like they were jolted by electricity, their speed and agitated movement cascading over those who were fleeing.
Carlie saw Gerald’s SUV zig-zag in the narrow confines beside the buildings while dodging people. Then she saw the lead vehicle slam into a cement pylon as she veered to the right, just missing the bumper and crashing through a plate-glass window of the chemistry building. She slammed the brakes, coming to a halt before the front desk.
Carlie took a deep breath and quickly performed a mental scan of her body for any injuries. With the thick metal-reinforced sidewalls and bulletproof glass, the Suburban had absorbed a considerable amount of punishment but was still intact.
Carlie unslung her weapons and shoved open the door, jumping out and sweeping the lobby. She could h
ear the hissing of the front tire, which was nearly flat, and then caught the hum of automatic weapons fire to her rear as agents from Gerald’s vehicle sent rounds into swarms of maniacal attackers coming their way.
She leaned across the black hood and began delivering short, controlled bursts of gunfire into the oncoming attackers to her left. What had started out as a few crazed people had now turned into dozens as the assaulters ran directly into the hail of bullets.
The lifeless eyes of the attackers were fixated on Gerald’s crew regardless of the bullet-riddled bodies stacking up before them.
Within seconds several of her colleagues near the lead vehicle had been savagely mauled, and then she saw Gerald get seized by three attackers and go down in a twisted mess of biting jowls and clawing hands. Dropping in her third magazine, Carlie began moving towards Gerald’s location, and looked on in horror as she saw his head severed and arterial spray throbbing from his corpse. She felt a wave of nausea spout up insider her and her vision start to grow hazy, but she instinctively lifted her weapon and began shooting at the incoming horde of attackers, whose faces were the color of old cheese. Carlie, Phillip, and another agent began bounding backwards towards the staircase in the lobby.
“Come with me to extract Gemini,” snapped Carlie, forcing the words out. She bolted for the stairs with the bald-headed man from her team and Phillip on her heels. Terrified students were pushing past her in their frenzy to escape the building.
As they ascended, she briefly glanced back at the other SUV outside and could see the last two men firing their weapons into enraged creatures heading for them. Carlie stopped and aimed her rifle at the incoming rabid attackers heading into the lobby, who moved like a school of barracudas, hurtling themselves at any students in their way.