by David Spell
"He's as tough as they come and usually leads from the front," Marshall agreed. "Terry, thanks for the heads up on BMW's GPS system. Since you've probably dealt with them before, would you mind calling and giving them the VIN and see if they'll track it for us?"
Eddie handed him the copy of the stolen vehicle report and Hunt stepped to the side to make the call.
"While we're waiting to hear something, I still think we need to go eat," Marshall said to Walker.
"Sounds good. Looks like it's going to be a late night. Ok, ladies, let's saddle up," Jay said to the all the CDC officers.
Marshall was an expert at tracking people. He had done it during his time with the Chicago Police Department and then with the Federal Marshals. Most fugitives were not that difficult to track. They almost always returned to the familiar. A list of family, friends, and acquaintances was the first thing Eddie pulled when he was looking for someone.
Terrell Hill was not going to be that easy. All his known friends and family were in Georgia or South Carolina but he had just been in southern Virginia. Now where was he going? Who did he know up this way? Or, instead of running away, was he on another terror assignment?
Their only other lead was the Imam Ruhollah Ali Bukhari in Alexandria. Maybe the other DC team could go do a surveillance on him and see if Hill showed up. Eddie had a feeling that it would not be that easy.
#
Petersburg, Virginia, Thursday, 1830 hours
The CDC officers went to the McDonald's across the street from the Planet Fitness and stuffed themselves with hamburgers and French fries. Terry had gotten nowhere with BMW Assist. They politely but firmly told him that they would not release any information to him without a warrant. Now, all they could do is wait to see if Chuck had had better success with the 'other government agency.'
Eddie and Jay listened to their men swapping war stories from the different zombie terror attacks they had all been involved in.
"Jay, I'm sorry you and your men got dragged into this."
"Don't worry about it, Eddie. We need to find this guy, Hill. I'm kind of worried we might already be too late to stop another attack. He has such a big jump on us and we have no idea where he's gone."
Marshall's phone vibrated with an incoming call. He punched the speaker button and answered.
"Hi, Chuck. I've got you on speaker with Jay Walker and his team from Washington."
"Ok, Eddie. No problem," said McCain. "DHS was able to pull some strings and get things cracking at that other government agency. They found the BMW. It's parked at the Springfield Town Center Mall, in Springfield, Virginia. How far away is that, Jay?"
Eddie made a circling motion with his hand to let the men know they needed to move.
"Wow, that's at least two to two and a half hours away from us. Have there been any reported attacks or infections there?" Walker asked.
"No, nothing at all. Maybe he just dumped the car there. Maybe he's waiting. Jay, can you call your OIC and ask him to send your other team over there? I've left him a voice mail, sent him a text, and an email but he hasn't responded."
Walker sighed. "Sorry about that. I'll make it happen and we'll be on the road in just a couple of minutes."
CHAPTER FIVE
Good versus Evil
Annandale, Virginia, Thursday, 1845 hours
Bob Murray, the Supervisory Agent of the Washington, D.C., office for the CDC Enforcement Unit, had been home from work for less than an hour and was already well on the way to drunk. His third tumbler of Maker's Mark bourbon was almost empty. SportsCenter was playing on the television. Bob had five hundred dollars riding on the NFL game that night between Dallas and Green Bay. He had been losing a lot lately. He had that feeling, though, that tonight was the beginning of a new winning streak.
Murray had worked for the Central Intelligence Agency for twenty-eight years. His last foreign field assignment was in Afghanistan. Oh, how he had hated that place. He hated the locals. He hated the weather. He hated most of the people he had worked with. But what he hated the most was how hard it was to get a drink.
He had always been a heavy drinker and prided himself on how well he handled the booze. Bob had gotten some of his best intelligence gems from contacts who did not handle the drink as well as Bob Murray. Afghanistan, however, was rough for a guy who liked to take a sip every day.
When he finally transferred home, Bob's boozing had gotten progressively worse. His new supervisor at the Agency was a young guy who just didn't understand the intelligence game. Having a few drinks at lunch had never interfered with how he did his job, but Jason, the new boss, did not agree and after smelling alcohol on his breath had written him up for drinking on duty.
Bob didn't even bother appealing the letter of reprimand that went into his file. He could retire soon and leave all this foolishness behind. A month later, though, Jason smelled alcohol on Bob's breath again and required him to submit to an immediate breath test. When it registered .09 grams, Murray knew he was in trouble. That was over the legal limit and he had just driven his issued CIA vehicle to and from his lunch meeting.
Jason wrote him up again, this time recommending termination. Bob felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He was only two years away from retiring and drawing his pension. There had to be something that he could do. Two days later, Murray was summoned to the office of the Assistant Director of Operations, Admiral Williams.
The door was ajar and Bob was about to knock but he heard a female voice speaking. "I don't think he can handle it, Admiral. He was undependable in Afghanistan and I think this position is too critical to give to someone with a drinking problem."
Someone was coming down the hall and Bob did not want to appear to be eavesdropping. He knocked on the door.
"Come in."
"I'm Bob Murray, Admiral. You requested to see me?" The admiral was seated behind his desk. Rebecca Johnson was sitting in one of the leather chairs in front of it. Johnson. I should have known, he thought. She had turned down his romantic advances in Afghanistan and had made all of the male agents look bad when she had discovered that the zombie virus was for real. And now, she's in here talking smack about me to the admiral.
"Please come in, Agent Murray. Agent Johnson was just leaving."
Rebecca got to her feet. "Hello, Bob," she said, without making eye contact with him. The woman nodded at the admiral and then left the room.
"Rebecca," he said, nodding back to her. She was still hot, he thought. It's too bad she turned me down every time I asked her out. She didn't know what she was missing.
"Have a seat, Agent Murray," the admiral said. "We have a lot to discuss."
Admiral Williams had Murray's file in front of him. He got right to the point and said that he was signing off on Jason's investigation and Bob's termination. Bob's felt his heart almost stop beating. His throat constricted. He realized he was holding his breath.
The admiral was still talking but Murray was having trouble hearing and understanding what he was saying.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't hear the last thing you said."
"I said, Agent Murray," the admiral's voice stern, "that there might be a way for us to resolve this without terminating you."
For the next half hour, Williams explained the idea behind creating the Centers for Disease Control Enforcement Unit. Experienced CIA agents were being installed as the officer-in-charge of each office. The sworn federal police officers working for them would not know that they were actually working for the CIA.
After reviewing the intelligence that the CIA had given him about the zombie bio-terror virus, the President signed an Executive Order calling for the CDC to have an enforcement branch. This would allow the Agency to covertly continue battling this new terror threat.
Bob might have some personal issues but he was a seasoned field agent with years of experience. He would be put in charge of the Washington D.C., CDC teams. Williams made it clear that there were no second chances. If Murray
screwed up one time, he would be gone and he would lose his pension.
"If you have a drinking problem, get some help, Agent Murray. I need you to support the federal officers that are going to be working for you. Make sure they have everything they need and take care of them."
That had been almost two years earlier. Now, he had less than six months to go and he could retire. And, he'd outlived that woman who thought she was better than him. The details around her death had been a little sketchy. She and one of her officers had gotten into a shootout with one of the Iranian terrorists who had infected so many people at the University of Georgia. That was all he knew.
Bob held up his glass in a mock toast. "Rebecca Johnson. Too bad you're dead." He drained the last of the bourbon.
His two team leaders, Jay Walker and Tu Trang Donaldson, despised him. He could see it in their eyes. He had never been out on an operation with them. When they were all in the office, he preferred to stay locked in his, unless he needed to pass information to them. Murray forwarded every piece of intelligence that came in to Walker and Trang and he handled all the administrative duties. If Williams wanted him to be a manager, he would be a manager, for just a few more months. Plus, staying in his office allowed him to monitor his favorite gambling website open all day on his computer.
Bob had stopped drinking during the day. He could not afford to lose his pension. The gambling, though, had become his newest obsession. He needed to pad his retirement account and what better way than making a little money on sports? When he got home, though, Murray would always have a few drinks as he relaxed in front of the television.
Murray stumbled into the kitchen to refill his glass. His phone, keys, and wallet were all laying on the counter where he had dropped them. The smart phone vibrated. Bob picked it up and saw that he had missed several text messages and voice mails.
He put the glass down and sat in a chair at his kitchen table so he could focus, slipping on his reading glasses. The first text was from a number he didn't recognize. Someone saying he was the OIC at the Atlanta office and something about a possible terror attack at the Springfield Town Center Mall in Northern Virginia.
The next text message was from Jay Walker. He repeated what the first message said but told Murray that he had taken it upon himself to activate Trang and his men to start for the mall. Walker was only a team leader and did not have the authority to do that but those Navy SEALs thought they were God's gift to the world. And Trang wasn't much better. At least the Green Berets tended to be a little more tactful in how they dealt with problems.
The voice mails from Chuck McCain and Walker reiterated what was in the texts. The voice mail from Shaun Taylor, Admiral Williams' aide, was more problematic. It had come in forty-five minutes earlier and was asking for an update. An update on what? Had there been an actual attack? Bob needed to clear his head. He pulled up Walker's phone number and tapped the screen to dial.
"Hey, boss," Jay answered. "Did you get my text and voice mail?"
"Yeah, Walker. I got them. What's really going on? Is this an active incident at the mall or are we just chasing our tails?"
"It doesn't appear to be an active incident yet but the guy who was behind that big attack at the University of Georgia parked his stolen car at Springfield Mall. We don't know how long it's been there and since I couldn't reach you, I asked Tu and his guys to roll that way. They should be there within the hour. Me and my guys, and the team from Atlanta, are still about two hours away."
Something clicked in Murray's head. Springfield? That was only ten minutes from his apartment. He could be there long before his teams. This might be the chance to get back in the good graces of the brass over at Langley.
"Which mall was that, Walker?"
"The Springfield Town Center Mall. Do you know it?"
"I live less then fifteen minutes from there. Where's the car parked? I'll leave right now," Bob said, rising unsteadily to his feet.
There was a pause on the other end. "Are you sure you're ok, boss?" Jay asked.
Murray knew what he was really asking. 'How drunk are you tonight, boss?'
"I'm fine, Agent Walker. Send me all the information and I'll go get eyes on the suspect vehicle."
Bob was actually excited and felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline. This was the real deal. He had a chance to prevent a terrorist attack. He might be able to stop something bad from happening and go out on top. This would be the way to retire. It was much better to go out as a hero than with the stigma of being a drunk.
Murray refused to wear a uniform like his officers did, preferring the suit and tie, cloak and dagger look. He left his tie off and slid the holster onto his belt. He checked the 9mm Glock 19 and made sure there was a round in the chamber, dropped it into the holster, and slipped on his jacket.
The gray Chevrolet Impala jumped out of the parking space as Bob pressed down the accelerator, almost running over his neighbor walking across the parking lot, carrying a bag of groceries in each hand. He slammed on the brakes, mouthed that he was sorry and then lurched out of the parking lot.
It was a straight shot to Springfield. Virginia Highway 617 or Backlick Road, as it was commonly known, would take him right to the mall. Traffic was still heavy but Murray knew he would be there in ten minutes. His phone beeped, letting him know he had a text. It was from Walker and gave him the description of the stolen BMW, the tag number, and said it was parked near the main entrance.
The big Ford F-350 pickup in front of him stopped for the traffic light. Murray was busy reading the text and slammed into the back of the truck at forty-five miles an hour. The airbags deployed and the cell phone was knocked into the floorboard. Bob was stunned and disoriented. He looked around, trying to figure out what had happened.
Someone was tapping on his window. An angry looking Hispanic man was pointing at him and cursing him in Spanish. Why is he mad at me? Murray wondered. Bob waved at the guy and tried to steer around the big truck parked in front of him. Then he realized that his Impala was dead and steam was rising from the front of the car. He turned the key to restart it but nothing happened.
The man at Bob's window tried to open the driver's door but it was jammed. Blue lights appeared in Murray's rear view mirror. I need to get out of here, he thought. They're going to think I was driving and that I was at fault.
He laid over in the passenger seat and used his legs to force open the driver's door. The angry guy was back yelling at him some more. Bob saw that the man was bleeding from several cuts on the face. I wonder how he got hurt?
One police officer gently pulled the injured man away and a second officer approached Bob, carefully watching him exit the wrecked vehicle.
"Thank God, you're here officer," Murray slurred, putting his hand on the side of the Impala to keep from falling over. "I have a situation involving national security and I need a ride to the Springfield Mall." He held out his ID packet for the cop to examine. He felt himself sway as he extended his arm.
After looking at Bob's ID, the officer said, "Agent Murray, how much have you had to drink tonight?"
"You don't understand, officer," Bob stammered. "This is a national emergency."
"I don't think you getting to the mall tonight qualifies as an emergency. I'm going to need you to take a test so we can see what the alcohol content is in your system. You're under arrest for Driving Under the Influence and Following too Closely. Please, turn around and put your hands behind your back."
No, I can't do that, Bob thought. I can't get arrested but I could borrow your police car. Murray acted like he was going to comply with the officer's commands and then tried to sprint around the uniformed policeman to his cruiser.
As the intoxicated CIA agent went around him, the police officer calmly drew his taser and shot him in the back. Murray felt a pain like he had never felt before go through his body and he heard himself squealing. He landed hard, face first on the asphalt. The second police officer moved in, quickly handcuffing and se
arching him, removing Bob's pistol from the holster.
As the two officers lifted Agent Murray to his feet, they discovered that he had urinated and defecated on himself when the taser hit him. He had broken his nose and chipped two teeth when his face impacted with the roadway. The breath test would later show Bob's blood alcohol content to be .16 grams, twice the legal limit. Fortunately, the other driver's injuries were minor, but both vehicles and Murray's career were totaled.
#
The Springfield Town Center Mall, Springfield, Virginia, Thursday, 1930 hours
Tu Trang Donaldson had just gotten home from work when Jay Walker called him. He was looking forward to a relaxing evening with his wife, Gi, and their one-year old son, Robert. When Jay told him what was going on, though, Tu never hesitated. He kissed Gi and Robert and rushed back out to his vehicle.
His first call was to his assistant team leader, Jason Lewis, to notify the other two team members. Tu lived the closest to the mall and he instructed Lewis to have everyone meet there. Trang slipped his body armor on over his shirt, attached his web gear, and put his M4 rifle in the passenger seat, with the muzzle pointing towards the floor of his Suburban.
Tu's second phone call was to the Fairfax County Police Department. They handled the police services for the area and he requested two marked units and a sergeant meet him at the mall until they could determine the scope of the incident. He was making good time down Virginia Highway 617 until he saw blue lights ahead, indicating a traffic accident. Tu made a quick left turn onto Commerce Street and took it down to the Springfield Mall.