Wired

by Douglas E. Richards

  As he cut the distance between them, she shot onto the onramp to highway 52, heading east. The Lexus was like a wounded animal and he caught up to her struggling vehicle only minutes after she had entered the highway. She was in the far left lane. He brought his car parallel to hers, one lane over, close enough that they could see each other’s dark silhouette by the glow of their dashboard lights, and gestured her over menacingly with his gun.

  She ignored him.

  Callan wasn’t sure what to do next. Shooting a tire or trying to force her off the road could cause her to lose control of the car, and he couldn’t have that. He needed to deliver her alive and well, and he could tell from her determined face, unconcerned by his presence beside her, that she knew full well the advantage this gave her.

  As they approached the eastbound bridge that crossed Tecolade Canyon, the girl slammed on her breaks and skidded noisily, her squealing tires leaving a trail of rubber behind her. As her speed plummeted below thirty, she veered sharply to the left, leaving the highway and entering a twenty-yard wide strip of grass that separated the eastbound and westbound lanes of the 52. The car bouncing jarringly, its shocks no match for the unpaved terrain. She came to a stop just ten yards short of a concrete barrier that had been erected in the median to prevent cars from inadvertently plummeting into the canyon, and then calmly completed her turn. With her car now pointing to the west, she picked up speed and carefully entered the westbound lanes of the 52.

  Callan slammed on his brakes to follow, but was too late. Her timing had been perfect. As she had no doubt planned, in the few seconds it had taken him to react, he had continued onto the eastbound bridge over Tecolade Canyon. The westbound bridge was only twenty yards away, but instead of a grassy median separating them, there was now nothing but air, leaving him no way to mimic her maneuver short of flying.

  He screeched to a halt in the middle of an active lane and several cars behind him were just able to swerve in time to avoid hitting him. Additional cars shot past him, leaning on their horns angrily. He briefly considered backing up against the oncoming traffic, but realized it would be suicide.

  Furious, he picked up speed and continued to cross the long bridge, stopping the Mercedes on the shoulder when he had done so. He exited the car and surveyed the westbound lanes. As he expected, the girl’s battered Lexus was nowhere in sight.

  He slammed both hands against the top of the car in rage. “Shit!” he thundered angrily.

  As he stood there, fuming, he could just make out three helicopters in the distance, their powerful searchlights probing the darkness in an ever-widening pattern whose epicenter was over the exact part of town at which the hand-off was supposed to have taken place. They were looking for Kira Miller. Somehow he was sure of it.

  But he was beginning to doubt they would catch her.

  Who in the hell was she! he thought in frustration.

  And what could she possibly have done to warrant this kind of attention?

  PART ONE

  Pursuit

  1

  Ten Months Later

  David Desh stopped at the gatehouse and lowered the window of his green Chevrolet Suburban as a uniformed guard approached him. “David Desh to see Colonel Jim Connelly,” he said, handing the guard his driver’s license.

  The guard consulted his clipboard for several long seconds, examined the license, and then handed it back. “Go right in, sir, he’s expecting you. Welcome to Fort Bragg. Do you need directions?”

  Desh smiled wistfully and shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve been here before.” He rolled past the guard station, halfway expecting to be saluted as he passed.

  The leaves of several of the trees peppered throughout the sprawling North Carolina base had transformed into a pageant of striking colors in the cool autumn air. It was the most picturesque season to return to Fort Bragg, home of a number of military units, among them USASOC; the US Army Special Operations Command. It was also home to the unit in which Desh had served; Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, tasked with counterterrorist operations outside the United States.

  As Desh passed many familiar buildings and landmarks, including a three-story climbing wall, eighty-foot rappel tower, and Olympic-sized training pool, he fought to suppress a number of conflicting emotions that welled up inside him. This was his first time back to Bragg since he had left the military and his return was bittersweet.

  He arrived at his destination and parked. A few minutes later he entered Jim Connelly’s office, shook hands firmly with the uniformed man behind the desk, and took a seat facing the colonel, lowering his briefcase to the floor beside him as he did so. Desh had been in this office many times before, but never as a civilian. Books on military history and strategy were organized in perfect precision on a bookshelf. The colonel was an accomplished fencer, and a large, framed photograph of two fencers locked in battle, shot in vibrant clarity by a professional photographer, was centered behind his desk.

  The colonel had angular features, light-brown hair of military length, and a matching, neatly trimmed mustache. At forty-eight, he was seventeen years Desh’s senior, but despite their different ages each man had an aura of fitness, competence, and easy self-assurance that was typical of those who had undergone the rigorous training demanded of the Special Forces.

  “Thanks for coming, Captain,” said Connelly. He raised his eyebrows. “I guess I should be calling you David nowadays.”

  Desh sighed. “Disappointed?”

  “What, that you left the service?”

  Desh nodded.

  “After what happened in Iran, who could possibly blame you?”

  Desh had been found nine months earlier in a bloody heap just on the Iraq side of the Iraq/Iran border, the only surviving member of his team after an operation in Iran had gone terribly wrong. He had lost three men who had each been like a brother to him. Desh found himself revisiting the horrific mission often, cursing himself for not being smarter, or faster, or more careful. He blamed himself for the deaths of his men and was consumed by guilt for being alive when they were not. The psychiatrist the military had provided insisted this was a natural reaction, but this knowledge brought him little comfort.

  “I’m not sure you answered the question,” persisted Desh.

  “Okay then,” said Connelly. “As a Special Forces colonel, I am disappointed. You’re as good as it gets, David. Bright, decisive, innovative. I hate to lose a man like you.” He opened his mouth to continue but thought better of it.

  “Go on,” prompted Desh.

  Connelly stared at his visitor for a long while and then sighed. “As a friend, on the other hand,” he said earnestly, “while I’m sorry the decision was brought on by tragedy, I think you did the right thing. And I’m happy for you.” He paused. “As good as you are,” he continued, choosing his words with great care, “you didn’t belong in the service. Not because you’re irreverent and don’t suffer fools gladly—which is true—but because you think too deeply. And you’ve never gotten numb to the necessity of taking lives. You may be unmatched as a warrior, but nothing will ever change the fact that you have the soul of a scholar.” Connelly shook his head. “The military was sapping your natural optimism and sense of humor. Even before Iran.”

  Desh’s eyes narrowed as he considered Connelly’s words. He had always had a knack for seeing the humor in anything and everything. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized the colonel was right; this key facet of his personality had been steadily eroding for years.

  After leaving the service he had joined Fleming Executive Protection, the largest bodyguarding service in Washington outside of the Secret Service. But while the protection business was thriving and the pay was good, Desh knew his heart wasn’t into this type of work anymore. He was in the process of deciding what would come next in his life, and while he wasn’t sure what this might be, he knew it wouldn’t involve guns or adrenaline or life and death challenges.

  In the final
analysis, the colonel was right. Just because you were good at something didn’t mean it was a match with your personality or psyche.

  “Thanks Colonel,” said Desh earnestly. “I appreciate your honesty.” He waited a few seconds and then added, “But how are things with you?” signaling he no longer wanted to be the subject of conversation.

  Connelly shrugged. “Nothing much has changed since you left. We’re still winning the war on terror hundreds of times each day.” He frowned and added, “The only problem, of course, is that we have to win every round and they only have to win once. Which means I don’t have the luxury of ever making a mistake.” There was a long pause. “But I didn’t ask you here to burden you with all of my troubles,” he finished.

  Desh raised his eyebrows. “Only one of them, right?”

  Connelly laughed. “True enough,” he said.

  There was an awkward silence in the room for several seconds. Finally the colonel lowered his eyes and let out a regretful sigh. “David, as good as it is to see you,” he began, “I wish it were under different circumstances. But you know I wouldn’t have asked you here if this wasn’t of the utmost importance.”

  “I know that, Colonel,” said Desh. He forced a smile. “That’s what worries me.”

  The colonel opened his desk drawer, withdrew a brown accordion folder, and slid it across the desk to Desh, who dutifully picked it up. At Connelly’s request he pulled out a separate file from within the folder, which contained a series of 8-by-10 photographs, and examined the one on top. It was of a woman who looked to be about twenty-five, wearing well-worn jeans and a simple V-neck sweater. Cute. Desh’s physical taste exactly. Fresh-faced. Girl next door. He glanced at Connelly and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Kira Miller,” began Connelly. “Twenty-eight years old. Five foot seven. Weight: 122 pounds.”

  Desh glanced back at the photo. The girl’s blue eyes sparkled almost playfully and she wore an unselfconscious, relaxed smile that conveyed a down-to-earth, friendly personality—although Desh knew better than to judge someone’s personality based on a single photograph.

  “Born in Cincinnati Ohio, attended Middlebrook High School,” continued Connelly mechanically. “Parents deceased. One older brother, Alan; also deceased. Valedictorian of Middlebrook High at age sixteen. Graduated from the University of Chicago, summa cum laude, with a BS in molecular biology—at nineteen. Obtained a Ph.D. from Stanford in molecular neurobiology at twenty-three.”

  “When do most people get their doctorates?”

  “Twenty-seven or Twenty-eight,” replied Connelly.

  Desh nodded. “Cute and geeky-brilliant. Just my type.”

  “I forgot to mention, star of her high school track team as well.”

  “Maybe not so geeky at that,” allowed Desh. He turned to the photo once again and found himself hoping that this Kira Miller turned out to be the damsel in distress in Connelly’s unfolding story rather than the villain.

  Desh was almost six feet tall, with green eyes and short brown hair. And while he had never thought of himself as particularly handsome, the open, friendly nature of his face seemed to appeal to women far out of proportion to his looks. But while the most beautiful of women were often attracted to him, a woman’s intelligence, confidence, and sense of humor had come to matter to him far more than her appearance. He couldn’t stand to be around an empty-headed woman, no matter how beautiful, or one who didn’t have a down-to-earth personality. He wondered what Kira Miller might be like.

  A part of him realized that this primitive, lizard brained interest in a girl who was nothing but a picture and a profile was foolish—but perhaps it was also a sign of returning health. He had felt numb inside since Iran, during which time he had lost all interest in starting any type of relationship. On the other hand, perhaps nothing had really changed. Perhaps he allowed himself a glimmer of interest in this woman because she was just an inaccessible two-dimensional profile, and one sure to have some unusual baggage at that, rather than a relatively safe, flesh-and-blood women whose picture wasn’t inside a top-secret military folder.

  Despite this, Desh found himself hoping that this newfound spark, tiny and foolish though it was, would not be extinguished immediately. It was time to find out. “She sounds too good to be true,” he said pointedly.

  The corners of Connelly’s mouth turned up in a slight, humorless smile. “Well, you know what they say about things that sound too good to be true.”

  Desh frowned. “They usually are,” he finished.

  Connelly nodded.

  Desh had his answer. Too bad, he thought.

  Not the damsel after all.

  2

  Jim Connelly reached into a small white refrigerator that was tucked away against the wall of his office, pulled out two chilled plastic bottles of spring water, and handed one to Desh. Desh nodded his thanks, unscrewed the cap, and took an appreciative sip, while Connelly slid a wooden coaster across to him.

  The colonel took a drink from his own bottle. “From what we understand, Kira Miller is even more of a genius than her record would suggest,” he said. “Especially when it comes to gene therapy. In this field, scientists who have worked with her think she might just be the most brilliant, intuitive scientist alive today.”

  “Gene therapy?”

  “It’s just like the name suggests,” explained Connelly. “It’s a therapy to cure disease, or even birth defects, by correcting faulty genes. Or by inserting totally new ones,” he added.

  “That’s possible?”

  “For quite a while now. I wasn’t aware of it either. I guess those involved in this field haven’t done a good job of spreading the word.”

  “Or you and I have had our heads in the sand.”

  The colonel chuckled. “I wouldn’t rule that out either,” he said, amused.

  “How is it done?”

  “The most popular way is to use viruses, which insert genes into host cells naturally. These viral genes commandeer our cellular machinery to make endless copies of themselves. Some types, like herpes viruses and retroviruses, actually insert their genes right into human chromosomes.”

  Desh’s face showed a hint of disgust. Even though it occurred at the submicroscopic level, the thought of a virus inserting its genetic material into a human chromosome was disturbing. “Retroviruses,” said Desh. “You mean HIV?”

  “The AIDS virus is in the retrovirus family, yes. But regardless of the virus type, the idea of gene therapy is to use modified versions of these viruses as delivery vehicles, forcing them to insert human genes into our cells rather than their own. If you cut out all the nasty parts of a retrovirus and add back in a human gene—say, insulin—the virus will insert perfect, working copies of insulin genes into your chromosomes. Presto—no more diabetes. Simple as that.”

  “So the AIDS virus could actually be used to save lives?”

  “Properly hollowed out and genetically engineered, yes. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” said Desh. He was intrigued. Rather than treating the symptoms of a disease, gene therapy offered an outright cure: virus-aided microsurgery on the genes themselves. “It sounds ideal,” offered Desh.

  “In many ways it is,” responded Connelly thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, the field hasn’t progressed as quickly as scientists had hoped. It might sound simple on paper, but I’m told it’s treacherously complicated.”

  “It doesn’t even sound simple on paper,” noted Desh wryly.

  The corners of Connelly’s mouth turned up into a slight smile. “Apparently she had quite a knack for it,” he said. He lifted the water bottle to his lips and gestured at the photographs lying on the desk in front of Desh.

  Desh flipped the picture of Kira Miller on its back and revealed the second photo in the stack. It was a two-story yellow brick building, not particularly attractive, with a large placard over the door that read, NeuroCure Pharmaceuticals.

  “She joined NeuroCure, a publicly traded bi
otech company in San Diego, right out of Stanford,” continued Connelly. “She was well liked, and by all accounts performed as brilliantly there as expected.”

  He gestured again and Desh dutifully flipped to the next photo, a small, nondescript building in the middle of an industrial strip. The building had an address affixed to it but no name.

  “NeuroCure’s animal research facility,” explained the colonel. “The building that Kira Miller worked out of, and for which she was responsible. Notice there’s no way to tell it’s at all associated with NeuroCure, or that there are animals inside. Biotechs don’t like to advertise these facilities. Not with all the PETA types running around.”

  Connelly stroked his mustache absently with the tips of two fingers, something he had had a tendency to do ever since Desh had known him. “Kira was a model employee her first two years at NeuroCure, performing with the level of brilliance expected of her. During this time she was promoted twice, which is fairly unprecedented.” He raised his eyebrows. “Then again, so is graduating Stanford with a Ph.D. at twenty-three.” Connelly leaned forward in his chair. “Which brings us to about a year ago,” he said meaningfully, a hint of weariness in his voice.

  “Let me guess,” said Desh dryly. “That’s when all hell starts to break loose.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Interesting,” noted Desh. “Up until now, at least, you’ve painted Kira Miller as a model citizen. It must have been some year.”

  “You have no idea,” said Connelly ominously.

  3

  The colonel motioned for Desh to flip to the next photograph in his thin stack. It showed a short, slightly pudgy man with a hard look, holding a cigarette loosely.

  “Larry Lusetti,” said Connelly. “Private Investigator; ex-cop. One morning about eleven months ago he’s found dead in Kira Miller’s condo in La Jolla, his skull bashed in with a heavy marble bookend and his body severely lacerated. After he was bludgeoned, he fell through a picture window in the front of the condo, which explains the lacerations.” He paused. “Kira must have managed to pull him back inside and close the shutters, but a neighbor heard the glass shattering and went to investigate. When no one answered the neighbor’s knock—and then Kira sped out of her garage and raced right past him—he called the police.