Intimate Danger

by Amy J. Fetzer

  “Brought by who?”

  “That’s unimportant. What is, though, is that I recall you coming to the Joint Chiefs with this, and the Security Council. You got the funding, but testing was years off, and a majority of us thought it was a waste of taxpayers’ money.”

  “You included,” Carl said snidely.

  “Indeed, yet you convinced the committee. Commendable. They don’t usually go for the high price tag with such a low yield on the investment.”

  “It isn’t low.”

  “I’ll say, if this is real.” He gestured to the files.

  “We’re doing testing on orangutans. Several. Not men. Are you mad?”

  Hank stared at him, letting him stew, but he knew Cook had balls of steel and wouldn’t flinch. “I think you overstepped, Carl, again. You’re stuck here in the hospital for a reason, and we both know it.”

  Cook’s gaze narrowed and his pinched lips told Hank he’d hit a sore spot. Intentional. Cook was former Spec Ops, DIA division. Yet the man was suspected of waging his own little war with the wrong kind of human assets. There wasn’t anything concrete. He did have orders to clean up the area near Dafur. He did it too well. An entire town was wiped off the map. He’d been regulated to overseeing this hospital, though there was a civilian and military medical board that ran the show. He was a figurehead and nothing more.

  “You couldn’t just ride out your career till retirement, could you? You had to push the envelope. What bullshit story did you give my troops?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We have a military and a civilian contractor in charge of the facility and the program. I just sign the checks.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  Cook’s brows shot up and his hands lowered to his sides.

  “You’re lucky you’re not in Leavenworth.”

  “I have nothing to say, Colonel.”

  “Fine, keep those, I have the originals.” He closed his briefcase and dragged it off the desk. “I didn’t think you’d cooperate.”

  “Do you have a warrant or a summons, at least?” Carl said and knew Hank didn’t. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Nano in humans? It would be like a death sentence at this stage.”

  “You better hope not.” Hank met his gaze, his outrage scorching. “Fuck with my troops and I’ll have your ass on the wire, Carl.”

  Cook stared, unaffected. “Are you done?”

  Jansen stepped back, turned, and left.

  Carl sank into his chair. Jansen was the wrong man to anger, he thought, a fucking Boy Scout and wouldn’t let go of this bone. He picked up the phone, dialed, then put it to his ear. “It’s in the open.”

  “It was when she left.”

  “No, someone else knows.”

  “That’s your problem, not mine.”

  “We agreed—”

  She cut him off. “No, Carl, you did. I told you, you can’t stop her when she wants something. How do you think we got the project this far in so short a time? She obviously went for help. Deal with it or we’re both sunk.” Francine hung up.

  Carl reared back, stunned by her sharpness, then looked at the files. Just how did the Spec Ops commander get a hold of this information? His men were in the field, under a tenton chopper, last he heard.

  A damage to the project, of course, but they could simply start over. He was convincing enough, and funds for this kind of research were under the “save lives” category and Cook knew, he could get anyone to be a bleeding heart for the military right now.

  Hank didn’t leave and walked through the hospital, his Joint Chief’s badge getting him looks. He didn’t remove it, though normally he only wore it in the Pentagon. It was a piece of intimidation he needed right now. He found the wing he was looking for, yet there were security locks all over the place. To keep in or keep out?

  He strode to the desk. “I need to see Major Yates.”

  The sergeant jumped to his feet, saluted. “Yes sir, your clearance?”

  Hank lifted his badge, the shield of the Joint Chiefs. His ID was beneath it.

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir. Step this way.” The kid followed procedure and scanned him with a wand for weapons, then keyed him through.

  “Down the hall and to your right, sir. The wall color changes to light green.”

  Hank walked briskly, knowing Cook probably warned the major and they were fabricating a nice little story. Busting the man’s chops would make him feel a little better. Hank found another soldier standing post.

  “The major should be in the primate lab, fifth door down at the rear. It’s the biggest lab, sir.”

  The hall was long, several doors on either side, and Hank realized this was part of the hospital that from the outside looked like a warehouse. People assumed it was the massive supply and repair area, the industrial operation to keep the hospital online and running. Clever, he thought.

  He stopped at the door, peering in through the glass. He could see Dr. Yates at a computer. Hank raised his hand to knock, then saw the name right below Dr. Yates, MAJOR U.S. ARMY.

  Clancy M. McRae, Chief AI engineer.

  Gannon’s jailbird.

  Mike taught her how to hide their trail. “Peru has some of the best trackers in the world, and I’m betting one is behind us somewhere.”

  “There you go with the pessimism again.”

  “A caution,” he corrected.

  “And debatable. Think positive, or it screws with your karma.”

  Mike shook his head, his smile rueful. “I make my karma,” he said in almost a snarl. “New Age shit.”

  Clancy smiled at his back and expected that kind of answer from him.

  They’d gone a half mile when Clancy excused herself, not saying anything, but just pointing. He got the message. Head call, the Marine slang for using the bathroom. She moved into the forest and with the machete cut herself a private spot. She was in the middle of relieving herself when she thought, This is why I hate camping. She wondered how long the stack of facial tissues was going to do the trick when she struggled not to pee on her boots.

  She fastened her clothes and grabbed her pack, walking as she swung it onto her back. It unbalanced her and she fell before she could stop herself. She’d need a chiropractor before she left this country, she thought, pushing to her elbows. For a moment, she stared, and then her skin pulled tight when she realized what she was seeing.

  A gray decaying hand sticking out of the ground as if reaching for God.

  “Mike. Quickly.” Then the foul odor hit her. She lurched back, her wrist under her nose.

  “Christ.”

  She turned her face away. The hand was charcoal gray and curled, horrible not for the decaying sight but because a human being was left like this. Clancy climbed to her feet as Mike knelt.

  “Who would do such a thing? Never mind,” she added when he looked at her. “I’ve seen the dead, just not the…old dead.”

  Mike brushed at the ground and leaves, sweeping debris off the body, and Clancy was sadistically entranced. But as he exposed the face, her stomach rolled and she turned away. “Oh God.”

  He reached back for her. “Sit down, head down.”

  As she did, he uncovered the body, searched the pockets. “He’s a Peruvian soldier.”

  “The ones that had all the memorials? A local said they never came back.”

  “They won’t talk about it. But they found two, and looking worse than this.” He met her gaze. “They didn’t have their eyes.”

  Gross. “It’s a warning not to come looking for them, you think?”

  Mike instantly thought of Renoux’s comments about strange occurrences, and Denner’s disappearance added to his confusion. Yet this body looked as if it were tattooed without ink, too bloody to define a shape.

  “That’s the consensus, and remember the sniper? We’re on the river.” He gestured off handily to the tributary yards below their position. “From the other side of the valley, a sniper could pick off anyon
e along the bank. And he did.” The three with the crates were a threat. To territory or an operation?

  Mike looked at her and used his body to block the view. “His weapon is still in his hand, but his throat is cut and he’s too white.” There was little blood on the body, but he tipped the head, seeing only a small amount settling in his neck. Did he bleed out from a back wound? he wondered and pushed the corpse over. “Son of a bitch, they’re here, under each other!”

  Clancy saw a mass grave and felt ill. “How many were in the company?”

  He looked at her, bleak. “Thirty troops. Only two returned, dead when people found them.”

  She looked into the jungle to the top of the trees. “What did they see?” She met his gaze. “Like Richora, what did I see?”

  “Wish the hell I knew.”

  “Good God, Mike, look at the body. He’s decayed a lot more than he should be for a couple days.”

  Mike frowned. She was right. “Ya know, he looks almost mummified.” Mummification took years, yet the soldier’s skin was already papery and he seemed—dried up. Mike reburied the bodies and with his GPS marked the location.

  Clancy had already turned away. Mike didn’t blame her.

  “This is where I found the piece.” Armed, Clancy moved back to the path. “Up this way. I remember this,” she said, slapping a tree broken off at least five feet above her head, then walked around it.

  Mike came to her, dusting off his gloves as she led him up an incline. He paused long enough to make certain they were parallel to the river.

  “Mike,” she said, trying not to shout. She pointed at the ground. “I found it here. See, this is where I knelt to tie my boot.” She squatted, her knee impression in the ground still.

  “Excellent.” Mike switched the screen, showing her Gantz’s trajectory points. “Stay here, be my point of reference.”

  “Roger that.”

  The comment, one he heard from his Marines often, struck him odd coming from her, and Mike turned back as she sat on the ground. She wasn’t a Marine, he reminded himself, she was a scientist. A damn smart one, and while she’d proven herself more than resourceful, she was still untrained.

  Clancy gathered her hair off her neck and fanned herself, then twisted, frowning at him. “What are you waiting for?”

  “You have ammo?” It was lame, but he wanted to be certain of something.

  Clancy didn’t have to check. “Three bullets. Got any more?”

  He shook his head. “That’s my toss-away gun.” Cheap and not sighted in.

  “Then if I see anyone, I’ll just scream really loud.”

  His smile was crooked. “Girls. Just fire off a round. Preferably into the bad guy.”

  “God,” she said in a falsetto whine. “You ask so much of me.”

  Mike chuckled. “You crack me up, Irish.”

  She blinked. “Clearly your life is not as exciting as I imagined.”

  He arched a brow. “Ditto.”

  “As soon as this is over I’m going back to boring as hell. You just watch me.”

  But she couldn’t. If Cook had his way, she’d be in jail the minute she stepped on U.S. soil. Handcuffs and prison food didn’t stack up against lives. Valnik, Krane, Palmer, and DiFazio, she repeated in her mind. Men she’d studied so much she’d recognize them on the spot. Inside her boots, her toes curled over the plastic that held their files. She didn’t need them anymore, but it was like keeping them close. Her gaze moved over the land, the ancient ruins behind her, the river streaming on the edge of the valley below.

  Where are you guys?

  Mike started to leave, then noticed her rocking, her arms wrapped around her knees. He knelt. “What’s the matter, Irish?”

  She lifted her gaze. “We have to find them, and soon.” The glossy sheen in her eyes left Mike feeling cut open and bleeding.

  “We will.” He stroked his hand over her hair.

  She gripped his hand. “No, you don’t understand. Your men—” She drew a breath and blurted, “It could send DiFazio over the edge and do nothing to Valnik except what it should, increasing his present capabilities.”

  His brows drew down. “Over the edge as in insane?”

  “As in murderous.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Mike rubbed his mouth. “How long do they have?”

  “I don’t know, the pods were inserted weeks ago. Without data, I can’t tell.” Damn Francine for doing this, she thought and hoped the woman was suffering with her overblown ego.

  “Clancy, we’re hunted: Guess.”

  Mentally, she calculated from the date of implantation and admitted, “Four days, a week at the most.” If she could observe Boris, she might be able to predict, and then she’d know what the men would experience soon.

  They’d already been here for two days, Mike thought, shooting to his feet, and with the GPS, started to walk. “I’m not leaving this country till I can bring them home.”

  Alive or in a body bag. He didn’t have to say it. She understood. Clancy followed him.

  When he heard her, Mike turned and scowled. “No.”

  “Find something else for your point of reference, I’m searching. I need to.”

  He held her gaze, understanding more than he thought. She created it, she had to end it. He nodded.

  “And I wasn’t asking for your permission,” she muttered as she moved past him and gave him a light shove.

  Mike just smiled, and watched her six.

  Thirteen

  If Antone Choufani hadn’t been chasing after his money taken away on the wind, he wouldn’t have seen him. He caught the bill, crushing it in his fist, when his gaze landed on a small man walking happily toward a coffee shop. Despite the shaved head, he’d recognize him anywhere.

  Rashid ibn al-Dehnwar.

  He should be dead.

  We thought he was dead. Antone felt that glorious moment when they believed they’d killed a commander of the Hezbollah dry up and blow away. Choufani was positive his eyes weren’t deceiving him. He’d tracked the man for a year, had seen him go into the warehouse in Tunisia, then watched it blow up. Interpol had identified his brother, in pieces. It could only mean that Dehnwar had known Interpol was coming and allowed his kin to die in his place. The will of Allah was first, he thought, remembering Dehnwar’s preaching. Like you know what God says and thinks, Choufani thought bitterly, moving swiftly to catch up. When Dehnwar climbed into a sedan and drove north, Antone glanced around for a cab and saw only a motorcycle tour rental. He tossed money at the cashier and hopped on the small dirt bike.

  He didn’t wonder what Dehnwar was doing here. The lavender paper was the key, and while he’d like to draw his weapon and end his life now, that wouldn’t stop whatever cell was operating here. He kept his distance, even stopping the bike to light a cigarette, and he let Dehnwar get farther down the highway.

  Traffic passed in front of him, the heat of the morning already pressing on the small town. People walked with dainty umbrellas, most with hats against the blistering sun. The sweet smell of flowers filled the air, and a breeze blew loose blossoms like the rain of pink snow as the sedan turned. Antone drove the bike toward the cross street, weaving in and out of the traffic that inched along like ants in a farm. He swept the turn and picked him up quickly, then made a left and rode parallel to him to get just a little ahead.

  Dehnwar was overconfident, living another life. He’d lead Antone to his people and perhaps he could kill them all. Again.

  Francine felt a sting of panic when she walked into the hold. It was a roomful of cages, each occupied by various animals. Several were primates, a few chimps. But her interest was the orangutans. Six had been injected, and the veterinarians overseeing this section called her in.

  “I don’t see what’s wrong. You say they tried to escape?”

  “They bent the cages.” He tossed back a pale blue sheet that covered all the ape cages. The bars looked slightly damaged, but nothing too substantial. She leaned in to study
the animals.

  The vet pulled her back. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, grabbing his fingers. He winced, and she let go. He backed up, giving her a dirty look. Through the bars, she examined the animal. “He’s drugged, what’s the problem?” The ape was useless in this condition.

  “No, he’s not drugged.”

  She looked at him sharply.

  “That’s what happened to that one too. They go wild, then this. Almost catatonic. If you want to see it in action, be my guest, I can give him something to wake him up.”

  “Do it.” She watched him inject. Minutes later the ape was awake and moving.

  The orangutan saw her as he climbed to his feet, and Francine had to look up at the large animal. His fingers swept the floor of the cage, and he started sniffing and coming closer to the bars. Then he gripped them and rocked the cage, but it was harnessed to the wall with straps. When it wouldn’t move, the ape pulled.

  Francine’s eyes widened when the metal bent, the rivets pulling out. “Dope him up!” The vet was already coming forward with a needle. Suddenly, the ape reached between the bent bars and latched on to her lab coat. He yanked her close, his hot breath in her face.

  “Quickly!”

  His grip trapped her inside the coat and she pried at the ape’s hands, but like her, he was stronger than normal, and until the drugs kicked in, she couldn’t get free. He roared loudly in her face, and afraid he’d try to bite her, she looked away. He kept screaming. He’s trying to scare me, or warn me that he could kill me? Orangutans weren’t aggressive except toward other males in their territorial home range.

  “He should start to fade,” the vet said, drawing back with the syringe. There were two guards with weapons flanking them.

  “You idiot, get the stick! Now!” she ordered and the vet stuck the electrical rod on the red ape’s arm. The charge bolted briefly, yet his fingers only loosened.

  Francine pried them off, then back-stepped.

  Good God. She’d stopped wearing perfume; it had enraged them. But then, why was he so angry? Could the pod actually give off a pheromone or something? But the others weren’t aggressive. When they were wild, they drugged them and then suddenly they were catatonic? It didn’t make sense. The nanopod was keeping her awake. Why not them?