However, under the newly imposed Patriot Act, Homeland Security was able to acquire several of these labs for their own use. In order to provide secure transport of these items to the ARC, Homeland had separated the files and shipped them via six separate armored car companies. There were two main reasons for this: One, without knowing exactly how much of the pathogen these terrorist cells had procured, there was a slim chance that what they had intercepted was the group’s only viable sample, and they couldn’t risk those materials falling back into the wrong hands. Hammond had his doubts about this scenario, but he felt compelled to agree that it was indeed a possibility.
The second reason simply had to do with secrecy. The last thing the public needed to know was just how close they had come to losing their newly acquired president. This was something Hammond, the President, and his constituents agreed should be kept under wraps until they had more information—not wanting to cause any unnecessary panic. Using the armored cars for this task seemed like a good way to handle both issues; it also had the added benefit of not being tied directly to his department. The fact of the matter was the United States had received information about this particular bug some time ago. Homeland was unaware of that fact until just recently however, when the threat had become an actuality, and they had made some inquires. Problem was, if the public knew they had been sitting on this info . . . Hammond furrowed his brow in thought. Well, that meant heads were going to roll, and being this information now resided with his department, that meant his head. Hammond had no illusions that the current President would let this stick on him, no; the President would undoubtedly throw him under the bus.
Hammond frowned and scratched at his balding noggin, feeling nervous tension building within his temples. Earlier this morning, when he and Bishop had discussed the traffic problem on the highway, Agent Bishop and the director both agreed that the accident could have possibly been a decoy. A way for the terrorist cells that were still active to hijack one of the armored cars and their materials, as it stood, the five other transport vehicles had not made their scheduled deliveries to the research facility either. Hammond shook his head. They needed to get those materials to that lab. If another terrorist cell contained more of this pseudo-virus and hit a populated area, there was going to be a hell of a lot of blame flying around. The director wanted to come out smelling like roses or at least have some sort of preliminary action plan in play, instead of saying, Oh yes, we had the virus sample, however, we fucked up and lost it. Old Joe public would crucify them. No, Bishop would obtain the samples and documentation. Hammond had been abundantly clear of the outcome if he and his teams failed in their mission. Hammond sat down in his burgundy leather office chair, with a thud. Staring at the phone once more, he picked up the receiver. He was tired of waiting; he had to know what was going on.
“Tracy, get Agent Bishop on the line . . . I don’t care that he is in the middle of an OP, just get him on the phone.” Hammond slammed the phone down and impatiently drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting.
Chapter 6
Agent Bishop watched the carnage unfold in his wet, black and gray BDUs; he had changed out of his normal day-to-day attire and dressed in his standard-issue field gear in order to join his men. He stood next to his white government SUV, a pair of thermal binoculars pressed to his face. Black-clad operatives stood less than twenty yards from him, firing incisively at anything that moved. The scene he observed was chaotic. The screams and moans added together with the reports of gunfire were almost deafening in his ears. It reminded him of his days overseas. Days spent entrenched in the sand, pumped with adrenaline and fear, days he honestly wanted to forget. Agent Bishop could see the infected’s fevered bodies clearly through the binocs. Their bodies seemed to glow a brilliant red in the Flir’s optics, a sign that their temperature was far higher than that of any normal man on the field.
Bishop watched in horror as his men were systematically brutalized and devoured right in front of him. At this point he didn’t know what to do. His first instinct was to call his men in, but those cases they were ordered to retrieve contained information, information they could use to possibly combat this disease. He wasn’t sure how the outbreak had occurred, but here it was, there was no mistaking that now. His only guess was that another terrorist cell had been dispatched when he and his operatives had foiled their last attempt to release the germ. How could this happen right under our noses? Bishop thought, and scowled. He had read a bit about this disease and knew it was dangerous; however, had not expected this. This was just pure madness.
A flash at the corner of his eyesight caught his attention; and without so much as a blink, the agent released the binocs and drew the pistol holstered against his thigh. He brought the muzzle to bear and squarely pointed it at the forehead of one of his men. The man skittered to a stop and threw his hands in the air.
“D-d-don’t shoot,” the man stammered, holding something in his upturned hands.
Agent Bishop held his position for a moment then gingerly holstered his Glock. “What is it, Private?” Bishop uttered in his gruff, slightly annoyed, monotone voice. Private Simmons, a young man in his twenties dressed in the same black uniform as his compatriots, exhaled slowly. The private held out his hand.
“Call for you, sir. It’s the director. He wants a status update.” Simmons handed Agent Bishop the comms device and stepped back.
Bishop eyed the bulky olive-drab sat phone dubiously. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he whispered under his breath and watched droplets of water fall and splash off its flat surface. Bishop rolled his eyes and held the phone to his ear. “Sir?” Bishop questioned, trying his best to disguise his annoyance.
“Agent, report,” Director Hammond spat out impatiently.
“Sir, frankly, we’re in the middle of a shit-storm, and this is hardly the time to—”
“What do you mean hardly the time? Is the armored crew offering resistance? I find that hard to believe,” Hammond questioned sardonically, wondering just what kind of a shit-storm they were in. Two or three people, even people armed with an armored car, couldn’t possibly be causing that much trouble. There seemed to be a long pause on the phone before there was any kind of response. Static and noise hung there for agonizing moments.
“No, sir, they’re the least of our worries.” Bishop gazed around the area from behind the cover of his SUV. “The contagion has been released, sir. We’re in the process of trying to contain the situation now,” Bishop stated flatly.
“Released? What do you mean released?” Hammond said with alarm rising in his voice.
“The disease has been released sir—on the public. It’s spreading much quicker than we had anticipated.” Hammond began to cut in, but Bishop silenced his words. “Sir, there is more. From what we’re seeing on the ground, those whom have been infected are the ones attacking us. I don’t know what those fuckers in the science division told you, but it’s much worse than what was in the report.” Bishop paused for a moment composing himself. “Sir, at the moment, I’m not totally certain that my men are being effective. We keep firing on them, and they simply just keep coming. They’re feeding on my men, sir,” Bishop added trying to stifle his anger.
“That’s unfortunate, Agent. I understand how you feel, however, the mission, remains the same, except now it’s of even more importance. Now we’re dealing with and actual outbreak and not just a threat of one. Retrieve the case at all costs, Bishop. Once you have it, evacuate your men, and we’ll pacify the area,” Hammond said coldly.
“What about the armored truck’s guards, sir? Bishop asked.
“I don’t care, Agent. Take ’em out if you need to. Just get that damn case.” —There was a pause on the line— “On second thought, it would probably be best if there were no survivors, if you catch my drift. After all, they could be infected, and we just can’t take that chance.” The director finished, and before Bishop could protest, the Director abruptly hung up the phone.
; Bishop scowled inwardly at the order. Fucking asshole, he thought. Sure, he had killed before, but that was usually some homegrown nutcase with a bomb packed inside of a van parked outside of an elementary school. These guys were lawful citizens, just grunts doing their jobs. Sighing, Bishop acquiesced. An order was an order, and who knows, perhaps it wouldn’t come to that. More gunfire erupted close by causing Bishop to jump slightly. Wet thuds resounded as the infected dropped to the ground off to his left.
The infected were advancing, and he needed to act quickly. Hammond’s use of the word pacify meant that more than likely, a flight crew had been given the green light to drop a small yield, fuel air bomb. Basically, incinerating anything that lived within this small corridor of I-95, knowing that one of the cars contained the case that housed a small sample of the pathogen they had dubbed K-5 Variant, they had prepared for the slim chance that the virus could be released unintentionally. At present time, Bishop did not believe the infection had stemmed from the armored car, for the simple fact that the guards were still operational. Agent Bishop looked over at the expecting private, who was obviously waiting for the agent to return the sat phone.
“Simmons, was it?” Agent Bishop stated more than asking.
The private nodded.
“I need you to relay an order. Director Hammond has authorized us to take that armored car and its contents by force if necessary. Understood? Tell the men to bring them in for questioning if possible,” Bishop gave the man a look that practically dared him to question his orders.
Private Simmons simply nodded, feeling the tension that radiated off of the man, pressed a button on the side of his headgear, and began to relay the order.
Chapter 7
I caught up to the black-clad agent who stood still in the middle of the smoke and rain-soaked field. His black gloved hand was pressed against his ear as if trying to hear something. I skidded to a stop just behind the man to avoid slamming into him. The agent glanced at me from the corner of his eyes, his brow furrowing, barely visible underneath his balaclava. I scanned the area for threats and noticed a trio of crazed people stumbling around to our far left. They saw us standing stock still and began heading in our general direction
“Um,” I started, and the agent held up a finger in front of my face as if to say shush. I waited mouth agape and glanced over at Richard. He cocked a crooked smile and shrugged. The insane ones were moving in. “I think we should get moving,” I said in a loud whisper.
The agent turned around, annoyed, and shouldered his MP5. “Stop right there!” he shouted.
The three figures paused for a brief moment, as if studying the agent. One of them, a man dressed in a rumpled business suit, let out a deep moan. Another, a woman in a torn muddy red dress, with long flowing tangled brown hair, screamed a shrill and piercing wail, and then took off running straight for us. Her compatriots followed suit.
The agent took a step back and repeated his order, his voice beginning to quiver ever so slightly.
“Shit,” I said. I nudged him aside and pulled out my revolver, taking aim, and letting the Mossberg drop to my side where it dangled from a nylon strap. They were less than thirty feet away when I took my first shot. The .357 round struck home boring a vicious wound through the once-beautiful woman’s face.
Her head snapped backward with a crack, obliterating the attractiveness that had once been. The back of her head exploded into the face of a guy who looked as if he just stepped out of the gym. He then tripped over her crumpling form and sprawled to the ground, with a grotesque slap.
Joe Blow Forbes in the business suit growled and ran past the duo, closing in on our position fast. Next to me, the MP5 roared to life, unleashing a three-round burst that struck the man in the chest, the rounds seeming to have no effect as he moved forward.
“What the fuck?” the agent exclaimed as the snarling figure headed toward us. I kicked out with my right leg and struck the man in his ruined chest, feeling it give way under the pressure of my attack. Ribs cracked and blood pooled out from around my boots. I could feel the soft tissue of organs underneath, and I had a fleeting thought that my heel just touched his still heart.
“Shit!” I yelled as I realized my foot was lodged in this man-thing’s chest. He clawed at my leg and craned his neck down, trying unsuccessfully to bite me. I tried desperately to pull my leg away. I brought my gun hand up and tried in vain to get a shot, but no joy. The violent motion of the man’s movements kept throwing my aim off, and I was more likely to shoot myself in the leg. “Help!” I screamed as thoughts of my wife and children came rushing into my mind.
We toppled to the ground hard. My shotgun tore away from the nylon strap that had secured it and it bounced off out of sight, landing somewhere in the mud. At that moment, the businessman’s head violently jerked sideways, a neat hole appearing in his temple.
The man slumped to the ground, his head striking the wet asphalt. Blood and brain matter oozed out of the wound, mixed with rain water, and washed away into the smoke.
I gasped for breath and positioned my other foot over the man’s stomach. I kicked hard and pulled my right leg with a jerk. It came free of the man’s rib cage prison. My boot was covered in gore. Red and orange goo dripped from the soles to the wet ground below. “Fuck me.” I gasped as I started to get myself to my feet. Richard stood facing me, arm still held out clutching his Glock.
“You okay, brother?” he said, holding his hand out to help me up.
My eyes went wide. I slapped his hand out of my way and aimed my weapon at his legs. Richard looked at me with fear and shock.
“Move, dumbass!” I shouted. Richard dove to his left, and I fired. The barrel of my Smith & Wesson exploded, sending fiery hot lead into the brain of the muscle-bound freak that had tripped only moments ago. “Christ!” I exclaimed as I scanned the area for more dangers. It was then I noticed the Homeland Security agent standing several feet away. His weapon trained on us. I raised my brow in shock and rose slowly to my feet. I holstered my sidearm and raised my hands up in a placating fashion.
Richard stood there, still aiming his weapon.
“Lower your weapon, sir. I don’t want to kill you,” the Homeland agent said smoothly.
“What the hell is going on here? Did we not just save your ass?” Richard yelled.
“Sir, I have full body armor, and your little pea shooters are not going to do anything more than piss me off, so I suggest you stow it,” the agent said through gritted teeth.
“I think he’s serious, champ.” I shot a look over at the cop.
“Fine!” he snarled, and in one swift and fluid motion, he slid his weapon into his hip holster. “Now what’s this about? If it’s about those people we just took out there was no—”
“No,” the agent said, cutting him off. “Thank you for your assistance, Officer. You are free to go. This man, however”—he pointed the muzzle of his weapon at me—“is wanted by the department of Homeland for questioning,” he finished.
“Questioning? What the hell for?” I said, furrowing my brow.
“My orders are to bring you in, sir. You and your partner, it’s a matter of national security,” he said flatly.
“What? I . . . No . . . wait a minute, my truck. You assholes want the truck. Why?” I asked.
“Sir, I don’t know anything about that. Now let’s get moving,” the agent said.
“Don’t sweat it, Kyle. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stick around until we clear up this misunderstanding,” the cop said, surprising me a little.
As we walked down the road, the sounds of gunfire and screams reverberated out in the distance. We remained quiet as we walked, doing our best not to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves. My brain tried its best to understand what the hell the Department of Homeland frigging Security wanted with me. Or was it me? Was this a robbery? I thought, and shook that notion from my mind. I was fairly certain with all their appropriations and black budgets that they weren’t hurting for m
oney, so that couldn’t be the reason, unless of course this particular bunch had grown tired of playing the lottery pool in the office. With everything that was going on I seriously doubted that there was any kind of sideways agenda, but what was it then?
I searched the day’s and week’s happenings to try and recall some sort of link to this unexpected turn of events and was coming up empty. The morning had started out pretty much like clockwork. I went to the shop, picked up our shit, and hit the road. Next thing I know we’re stuck in traffic and all hell broke loose. No, it had to be something in the truck, I just didn’t know what. All I knew based upon what I had read about was, once Homeland got their claws in you, you were pretty much screwed. No trial and indefinite imprisonment based on nothing more other than being labeled a person of interest. I had to figure out what the hell was going on.
My thoughts went to my driver, Marvin. He was currently sealed up tight in one of the most formidable vehicles cruising around the roads of the United States. He was under orders to keep it sealed up tight in case of an emergency and to relocate to a safe location if it came under attack. Pretty much he was not allowed to open the vehicle for anyone other than me. If anything, it would seem that gave me a little leverage.
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