Dead Water

by Russ Snyder

  33

  "Very slowly get off him," Styles directed the young woman straddled across Rijah Ellhad.

  "Do as he says," snarled Ellhad.

  With great deliberation, the woman moved into the left back corner of the bed, tucked her knees to her chest with her arms folded, and buried her head in an attempt to cover herself.

  "Who the fuck are you?" growled Ellhad.

  Styles merely put his finger to his lips, motioning for Ellhad to be silent, rage pouring from Ellhad's eyes.

  Moments later, the door opened, and Starr and Phillips entered, joining Styles in the bedroom.

  "Did you bring your little satchel?" Styles asked Phillips.

  "Yes."

  Right then, Ellhad tried to leap from the bed, but Styles cracked him across his forehead with the butt of his pistol, sending Ellhad backward against the headboard.

  "Do that again, and I shoot you in both shoulders," Styles said quite calmly, his voice chilling the room. The girl hadn't stirred. "Secure his hands to the bed frame," Styles instructed Starr while aiming the gun barrel directly at Ellhad's forehead.

  Starr pulled two large plastic wire ties, and in seconds, the man was bound securely.

  Styles nodded at Phillips, who inserted a needle into the man's neck and pushed the plunger on the syringe. Within half a minute, his eyes started to glaze slightly.

  "Everything outside is clear. What about her?" Starr queried as he'd gone back on watch detail.

  "This is war," Phillips asserted. In one motion, she retrieved her own silenced pistol she'd had in the middle of her back, aimed, and fired a single round down through the woman's head. The hollow-point bullet had more than done its job, blowing a large hole out of the base of the woman's neck. Her body slammed against the wall and then crumpled to the floor. Ellhad didn't even take notice. "He's ready; try questioning him," Phillips stated.

  Styles nodded at Starr, who turned and without a word went back to the living area to keep watch from there.

  Phillips looked at Styles. "You said yourself this is war. You are the one who made the decision to expand my role by placing me in the field. That trust brings responsibility, and I need you to know that I can handle that. I also know that although you would have done that without hesitation, you wouldn't have liked shooting an unarmed woman. I just did what we both knew had to be done. I didn't like or not like doing it. It's just part of the job."

  Styles just nodded.

  "Marv, might want to check this out!" hollered Starr from the living area.

  "Watch him," Styles instructed Phillips, and then he looked in the direction Starr was pointing. Under the built-in table, strapped to its framework, was a wooden crate.

  "I'd say that is what we are looking for!" exclaimed Starr. "Should we open it?"

  "Not yet," determined Styles. "Let's question Ellhad first."

  Returning to the bedroom, Styles leaned over him. He could see that Ellhad was having difficulty focusing on him.

  "Let's start with an easy question. Is that wooden crate under the table the synthetic agent you were planning on releasing?"

  Ellhad just mumbled in return.

  Styles gave him a firm slap across his cheek. "Listen. Is that the agent?"

  Still mumbling, he managed a slight nod, indicating yes.

  "Is it safe to open?"

  "Doo ... Doon't ... near water. Di ... soves."

  "Is this all there is?"

  Ellhad mumbled, "Ye ... yessss ..."

  "Do you know anything about the death of the president?"

  Ellhad attempted to struggle against the chemicals but lost. "Na, no."

  Styles straightened up. "We're finished here. Go join Starr."

  "I'd just as soon stay if that's all right with you."

  "Suit yourself." He took out his silenced Beretta and shot Ellhad twice in the heart. He proceeded to remove a Benchmade Infidel, a razor-edged switchblade, from his pocket and thumbed the button upward, allowing the blade to spring straight out from its handle. He carved terrorist deeply into Ellhad's forehead, with little blood flowing due to his heart not beating. "Starr, grab that crate. Let's go."

  "We've got company," alerted Starr as a dark blue BMW came pulling up quickly.

  Styles thought quickly. "Phillips, grab that crate and climb into the bathtub. Keep low." He knew that the RV would not stop bullets very well. "Anybody but us comes through the door, shoot."

  "You think---" Star interjected.

  "Yeah, backup. We're going out the windshield." Moving quickly to the front, Styles kicked the large section of glass out, hearing it shatter against the pavement. "You go out, and get under the RV. Try to get to the back dual wheels. Shoot at whatever you can. I'm going up on top."

  Both men climbed out of the opening, Styles high, Starr low. They heard two doors open and close and then footsteps advancing carefully.

  While Starr was belly-crawling under the RV, Styles had jumped up on the roof and was crawling down the middle, staying as low as possible. He heard one of the men shout out, "Rijah!" and then Arabic jabbering. Styles could tell both men were advancing on the door side of the RV. He had made it halfway between the entrance door and the rear of the recreational vehicle. He could hear the men approaching his position and then slowly moving past him, toward the door. He crawled over to the side and looked over, making the decision to try to take them alive. He holstered his Beretta behind his back, snapping it in place. In one motion, he pivoted on the roof and then launched himself at the two men, both of whom brandished silenced handguns. He landed one foot on each man's shoulder and then rolled when he hit the pavement. The impact knocked both adversaries to the ground, and their pistols went skittering across the pavement. Styles jumped to his feet and kicked the closest one in the side of his head. This man was the smaller of the two. The larger man had managed to get to his feet, a look of pure rage on his face. He advanced toward Styles and tried to kick him in the balls. Styles moved aside, and the large man's foot swept past him. Styles circled the big man. Again, the man tried to kick him, this time catching a fist in the side of his knee for his trouble. He grunted but kept coming, drawing a knife in the process.

  Republican Guard. Styles changed his stance, a bit more angled.

  The man's hand thrust straight out with Styles first catching the man's wrist and pulling him forward while stepping into him, catching him with his hip. In a nonstop move, Styles flipped the man onto the pavement, never letting go of the wrist. Now he turned it completely over in one quick jerk, snapping it, sending the knife to the ground. The man gave a large grunt and flailed at Styles with his other hand. Styles raised his leg and brought it down square in the man's chest, knocking all the breath out of him. The man was done.

  Styles turned at the sound of scuffling on the pavement. The second man had been able to regain his feet, only to find himself facing Starr. The man tried to gouge at Starr's eyes, only to receive two straight left jabs that backed him up and a solid right cross that connected perfectly with the man's liver. As he doubled over, Starr grabbed him by his long hair and brought his knee up into the man's face three times. He then threw the man to the ground. While the man was not out cold, Starr had driven the fight from him.

  "Get them inside," Styles directed. He opened the door, grabbed the big man by his feet, and unceremoniously dragged him into the RV. Starr grabbed the second man under his arms and followed.

  Styles yelled, "Phillips, come on out!" Looking at Starr, he said, "Nice job."

  Starr nodded.

  "Phillips, juice these guys."

  Retrieving her small leather satchel, Phillips injected both men with her special sauce. Within minutes, both men sat tied on the couch, eyes glazed.

  Styles walked over and slapped the smaller man across the face. The man barely stirred. He slapped him three more time, hard. Thi
s brought a reaction, slurred words of protest.

  "What are you doing here?" demanded Styles.

  Gibberish.

  Styles slapped him twice more.

  "Hold up a second," said Phillips. She gave him a second injection---Adrenalin. "That should help."

  "What are you doing here?" demanded Styles.

  "Pro ... Protct, Ellhad."

  "Protect Ellhad from what?"

  "Amerkans."

  "Are there any other attacks planned?"

  "Nooo."

  "Who is the man with you?"

  "Bu ... Butchr ..."

  Styles turned and looked at Starr and Phillips. "I don't think Ellhad even knew these two were following him."

  "How do you figure that?" Starr asked.

  "If he'd known he had backup, he'd never have stopped in here just to get laid. I mean, think about it. You're on your way to perform one horrific terrorist act, and you stop to get laid? How stupid is that?"

  "Pretty stupid," agreed Phillips.

  "Stupidity caused by arrogance. I told you about these Republican Guard assholes. They think they're invincible. Starr, take the crate and put it in the backseat. See if you can secure it with the seat belt somehow. Phillips, check to see if the keys are in their car. If they are, go park it. When you get out, assume there are cameras watching; try to hide your face, and don't leave prints. I'll be right out."

  Starr and Phillips left.

  Styles took out his Beretta and shot both men right at the bridge of the nose. Then he took out his knife and carved up their foreheads. Then he was out the door.

  Back on the road in their own sedan, Styles directed Starr to drive to Vegas. "Phillips, get hold of J. C., and tell him to pick us up in Vegas."

  "Got it."

  Styles, who was looking out the window at the passing landscape and seeing little, was deep in thought trying to plan their next move.

  Myra Banks sat at her desk, her brain trying to comprehend what her eyes were reading. You should have known better! was the simple message she was staring at. At first, the scripture was large and bold, and then gradually it began to shrink and slowly disappeared altogether. The page was blank and after about three seconds went totally dark. Suddenly, a new page came up, which read: Next time, I take out everything outside the country, as well. Consider yourself lucky. Then that page followed the action of the preceding page. She frantically clicked her mouse and ran her fingers all over the keyboard. Her entire computer was down. She rolled her desk chair across to another desk and looked at another screen. Nothing. Her phone started ringing. Picking it up, she yelled, "I know!" and slammed the receiver down. For a minute, she put her head in her hands. I knew it. You wouldn't let me leave her alone. Possibly madder than she had ever been in her life, she stormed toward her director's office. She blew past his secretary and entered his office in a fury.

  "Damn you, Bernie. I tried to tell you to stay away from Phillips, but no, you wouldn't listen. I all but begged you to leave her alone, but your damned arrogance just wouldn't let you. Now we're fucked."

  Bernard Backersley was furious. "What's wrong with the computers? What do you mean we're fucked, and what's Phillips have to do with it?"

  Myra Banks wouldn't even sit down. Standing across from him, she yelled, "What do you think I mean? She's hacked our system and wiped out everything. Hard drives, mainframes, I mean everything. It's gone. The only backup we have is what wasn't connected. Otherwise, it's all gone. Everything."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Myra Banks rolled her eyes as she sat. "Okay, I'll use little words to try to make you understand," she said, purposely chastising her boss. "Against my better judgment, which I made perfectly clear to you, I continued investigating Darlene Phillips. She found out and set a trap, which I walked right into. She baited me into hacking into one of her e-mail accounts, and I fell for it. I opened up an e-mail that I shouldn't have. When I did, somehow something got into our system. A Trojan horse containing a virus like nothing I've ever seen infiltrated our entire computer network. Don't ask me how because I don't know. What I do know is this: right now, the CIA does not have one damned computer in this entire country that is up and running, at least not one that is hooked into our mainframe. She left me a message that said the next time she'd take out everything outside our borders too."

  "Message? What are you talking about?"

  "Christ, Bernie, are you that fucking dense? I can't show it to you because it's gone. Right now, I can't use one of our computers to log on to Facebook. We are going to have to rebuild our entire system. Everything. We're going to have to depend on backups that were not wired in, what we have in our foreign systems, and our own memory. She has virtually left us blind."

  "How in the hell could she have done that? Myra, that's impossible. You have to be mistaken."

  The anger had subsided, taken over by sheer resignation. "Bernie, you don't know how much I wish you were right. I don't know how she did it; it doesn't matter. I warned you about this woman, and you chose to ignore me. Now we have paid the piper, and there's not one damn thing we can do about it. We can't even prove she's the one who did it."

  Bernard Backersley was refusing to accept this information. "Myra, no one could have done that kind of damage."

  "Bernie, is your computer working?"

  "No!"

  "Now do you get it? And it's not going to work until I've rebuilt our entire network, and until I get that done, we are completely out of the game. We can't send an e-mail from here. We're going to have to rely on our personal laptops or whatever to contact anyone electronically. We have a backup mainframe that, thank the good Lord, was not wired into the system, so I'll have to go down and supervise the swapping out of the systems. That is only the beginning. It'll take at least twenty-four hours before we are operational, and that will only be limited. It'll take the better part of a week to get everything back. The important thing for you is to figure out how to keep this from getting out. Good luck with that. If it does, we're going to have our asses hauled up to the Hill answering some extremely difficult questions by the Senate that we do not want asked."

  Backersley slammed both fists down on the top of his desk. "How could you let this happen?"

  "Don't you dare try to put this on me! How many times did I tell you not to go nosing around Darlene Phillips? How many? This whole mess is square on you and you alone. And if I get hauled up in front of some subcommittee, you can bet your ass that's what I'm going to say. I'm not going to jail over your damned ego. You'll have to excuse me; I have to go try to clean up your clusterfuck." She stood up, grabbed Backersley's favorite coffee mug, and threw it across the room, shattering it against the wall. "Damn you, Bernie. Damn you. I suggest you'd better start making some phone calls to let our people know what the hell is going on. Don't call me; I'll call you. I have a shitload of work to do. Thanks." She thundered out of his office, slamming the door so hard two framed photographs fell off the wall. She could hear telephones ringing off their hooks.

  By the time she returned to her office, several members of her team were waiting for her. Approaching them, she merely held up her hand to stop any questions. "Everybody downstairs, and someone call maintenance; we're going to need some help. We have to swap out the mainframes. We've got a shitload of work to do and no time to do it, so everybody let's get going."

  Hidden inside a hangar at the McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, Phillips was tapping a pencil at the conference table while Styles, Starr, and Christman were seated around opposing sofas.

  "Well, the obvious question is what the hell do we do with this?" Starr asked, referencing the wooden crate strapped in place to the floor.

  Phillips asked, "How much do we want to deal with this? Do we risk traveling with it? What if the plane crashes into a lake or river? Guys, I don't mind saying t
his thing scares the hell out of me."

  "Good point," agreed Starr. "Marv, what are your thoughts?"

  "I think I'll defer to J. C. for that. J. C.?"

  Christman was quiet before he answered. "Well, obviously, we take it to somebody, or somebody comes to us. Who is that going to be? The chances of us crashing are extremely negligible, but there is always the possibility. Weigh that against what could happen to it if someone else becomes responsible for transporting it. How are they going to do that? My gut says it'll be flown; might end up having a military escort of some kind. I'm not sure. I think it would be as safe with us as anyone. To me, the bigger question is who do we give it to? FBI? CDC? NSA?"

  "Good question," Styles agreed.

  Phillips spoke up. "I've worked previously with Olivia Watson; she's the assistant director of the CDC in Atlanta. I think I could hand it off to her without a lot of questions."

  "How would she explain how she got it?" Starr wanted to know.

  "I'm not really sure. I'll just vaguely explain the circumstances and see what she comes up with. She's pretty sharp. Like I said, I've worked with her before."

  "Darlene, if you trust her, that's good enough for me," Styles asserted, with everyone noticing that Styles was calling her by her first name more and more.

  "Yes, I do. A couple of years ago, the CIA had a, uh, let's just say a delicate problem, and she proved herself. She's not afraid to act on her own. If we all agree, I'll give her a call."

  "Well?" Styles asked, looking at Starr and Christman.

  "Fine by me," agreed Starr with Christman nodding his agreement.

  "Make the call."

  Phillips retreated to the workstation she'd set up on the jet and opened up one of her laptops, retrieving a phone number. Using a secure line, she placed the call. After three rings, the call was picked up.

  "Olivia Watson," announced the voice over the phone.

  "Olivia, Darlene Phillips here. I'm going to give you a number. I want you to get a burn phone and call me back on it ASAP. It is critically important, and keep this between us. Here's the number," she continued, reciting it to her.