NO SAFE PLACE

by Steven M. Roth

  CHAPTER 84

  Quarantine

  Day 29

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Derek Peterson here for CNN.”

  He paused and looked at four soldiers — each dressed in MOP gear — who had stopped their patrol of the street to watch him broadcast.

  “We have a follow-up to the report we brought you earlier this week concerning the apparent leveling off in the number of new cases of people infected with Melioidosis. The CDC has now advised us that the earlier report is no longer considered accurate.

  “Further investigation by the CDC has disclosed that the number of new cases is still increasing. The good news, however, is that the rate of increase seems to be slowing.”

  He glanced over at the soldiers watching him.

  “The CDC states that its prior report, in which it indicated that the number of new cases had leveled off, likely resulted not from fewer new cases, but from the existence of fewer reports of new cases as people stopped taking the newly-ill to doctors, hospitals and clinics because medicine is no longer available at these sources. As a result, healthcare workers are not seeing new cases to report to the CDC.”

  I need to wrap this up without putting my viewers into a state of panic.

  “The CDC will continue to monitor the situation by going house-to-house in the Quarantine Zone and removing people for testing and possible isolation who might be carrying the infection. It’s important that you cooperate with the authorities when they visit you.

  “We will bring you the results of this continuing assessment as we learn more.”

  CHAPTER 85

  Quarantine

  Day 29

  Viktor plotted his newly conceived mission as carefully as if he still was on active duty in Chechnya. His Fort Lauderdale undertaking consisted of four phases.

  Phase One involved meticulously planning, mapping and practicing getting to and escaping from areas of the Quarantine Zone where he would target and randomly kill adults who happen to wander into his cross-hairs. Viktor’s goal in Phase One was to strike terror in the civilian population and thereby frustrate and punish the authorities who were operating this Fort Lauderdale internment camp. Randomly and frequently killing civilians, he believed, would achieve that result.

  Phase Two would ratchet up the stakes by having him randomly shoot children to generate fear in parents in the Quarantine Zone, showing the authorities how helpless they were to protect those among them most needing protection.

  Phrase Three would involve the periodic shooting of police and soldiers at night during the curfew to show the authorities that not even the nighttime restriction could impair the will of a dedicated, trained, disciplined professional shooter.

  And Phase Four, the most interesting step, would involve the recruiting of other shooters from among the disaffected in the Quarantine Zone, briefly training them, and sending them out to find and eliminate wide-spread targets of every type, thereby virally spreading his reign of fear.

  Just thinking about this plan caused Viktor to feel better about his unexpected confinement in the American gulag.

  Viktor’s first day of shooting went well. His first victim was an elderly man who was in an empty parking lot counting used aluminum soda cans he’d extracted from a garbage bag he carried with him.

  Viktor used the Dragunov for this kill from an easy distance of two hundred-fifty meters. It’s probably overkill for that mere distance, Viktor thought, as he laughed at his wordplay in his adopted language.

  He also used the Dragunov for his second and third kills, which occurred one hour and three hours, respectively, after the first one — the hit of a young woman who had been walking through a park, and the shooting of a middle-aged man who had been up on a ladder repairing a rain spout on the side of a house. In each instance Viktor escaped without any problems along his predetermined escape routes.

  For variety, one day later Viktor took the thread cutter with him. He used it first to shoot and kill a young man who rode his mountain bike across Viktor’s cross-hairs, and next to kill a 20s-something pregnant woman as she left a house and stepped out onto the sidewalk along 67th Street.

  CHAPTER 86

  Quarantine

  Day 29

  Alex placed his hand on Trace’s shoulder.

  Trace bolted awake, confused at first, but then memory seeped back in. “What’s wrong?” he said, rubbing his eyes and looking around, finally settling his gaze on Alex. “Is Isabella here?”

  “No,” Alex said, “they didn’t show. I assume Jenna will try again tonight. We have to leave now. The sun will be up soon.”

  “Why didn’t they show up?”

  “We’ll stay at the Atlantic Beach Hotel today. Let’s get going.” He paused, then added, “I don’t know why they’re not here. Ask your wife or Jenna when you see them tonight.”

  That night, shortly after the start of curfew, after spending the day in the lobby of the Atlantic Beach Hotel, Trace, Alex and Ibrahim left the hotel for that night’s rendezvous with other members of Friday’s Progeny.

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the outskirts of Port Everglades, Fort Lauderdale’s deep water port. Everyone who received Alex’s coded text message showed up by 10:00 p.m. Everyone except Jenna and Isabella.

  Trace, Alex and Ibrahim sat on the grass under a palm tree. Several other members of the cell sat close by. Others took their turns at sentry duty.

  The night was very dark with thick, low cloud cover.

  “We’ll meet with a small group of farmers tonight,” Alex said, “in three groups, then all come back here.”

  “Did you send tonight’s rendezvous location to Jenna?” Trace asked.

  Alex glared at Trace, said nothing, then turned back to the group. “We need to convince the farmers to withhold their crops from the authorities, to give them to us to distribute free.”

  “What about my wife?” Trace said. “Is she on her way here?”

  Alex again looked at Trace, but held up his finger to signal, Just a minute.

  Trace said, “No, Alex, you wait a minute. Answer me. What about my wife and Jenna? Are they on their way here? Stop avoiding my question.”

  “No, they’re not here,” Alex said. “They’ll be here later tonight when we get back,” he said.

  Well, maybe they’ll be here, he thought.

  CHAPTER 87

  Quarantine

  Day 30

  By 2:00 a.m., Trace, Alex and Ibrahim had finished their meetings with the farmers and had returned to Port Everglades. They were exhausted, mentally and physically, but elated because they had convinced the farmers to hide their meager harvests from the authorities and to donate the crops to Friday’s Progeny.

  Trace walked from one end of the camp site to the other looking for Isabella or Jenna. He didn’t see them.

  He went looking for Alex.

  “Isabella’s not here,” Trace said. “Where are they?”

  “I know they’re not,” Alex said.

  “What do you mean, you know? What’s going on, Alex? Where’s my wife?”

  “I know because I looked around the camp when we returned here and didn’t see your wife or Jenna. I don’t know why they’re not here.”

  “Send another message. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Trace,” Alex said, “I sent another message as soon as I realized they weren’t here. I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  “I’m going to the hotel to find them,” Trace said.

  “That would be stupid. We don’t know why they’re not here. Maybe they never left the hotel, but maybe they did leave and something happened to them on the way. All you’ll do by going to the hotel is put all of us at risk. That won’t help your wife.”

  Trace knew Alex was right. “I need to think about this,” he said. “I’m going to take a walk around the encampment and think. I’ll be back.”

  Trace walked to the far end of the encampment, spotted a large tree, and
sat down at its base. He took out a cigarette and his lighter.

  As he put the flame to the cigarette, he saw a male emerge from behind a nearby tree and sit down at its base, facing him. The man nodded at Trace.

  “Evening,” the man said.

  “Evening,” Trace responded.

  “Can you spare cigarette,” the man asked in a Slavic accent. “My pack is empty.”

  Trace stood up, walked over to the man, and offered him his softpack. He held his lighter, waiting for the man to lip the smoke and lean forward to catch the flame.

  “Thank you. My name is Viktor,” the man said, as he nodded.

  “You’re welcome. I’m Trace.” They shook hands.

  Trace returned to the base of his tree, sat, and resumed working on his cigarette.

  “You have the bearing of military man,” Viktor said. “Are you soldier?”

  Trace shook his head. “No, I’m not. I’m former military, but retired now for many years. And you?”

  “No more. Was in Soviet, then Russian, military many years ago. Am private citizen now, am citizen of America now, just like you.”

  “You’re part of Friday’s Progeny?” Trace said.

  Viktor shrugged. “Not really. I don’t want to insult you, but these people are like children playing war games. I don’t take these juveniles seriously. I come sometimes to eat. These people provide food to its members.”

  Trace said, “I agree with your assessment of them based on what I’ve seen so far, but I might need these people to help me rescue my wife from the authorities, so I’m here for now.”

  “Why do the authorities hold your wife?” Viktor said. “Is she terrorist?”

  “To use her as bait to lure me in so they can arrest me.”

  “Are you terrorist or criminal?”

  Trace shook his head. “No, not by my standards, but yes, based on their rules, I guess you could say that.”

  “You don’t look like terrorist or criminal to me. Should I be afraid of you?”

  Trace chuckled and shook his head. “Not so far. We’re doing fine.”

  CHAPTER 88

  Quarantine

  Day 30

  When Trace left Viktor and returned to the center of the encampment, he sought out Alex.

  Alex looked hard at Trace, wondering if he still intended to go to Jenna’s and Isabella’s hotel to retrieve the women.

  “I’m out of here,” Trace said. “Don’t worry, I won’t give you away if I’m picked up.”

  He waited for a response. None came.

  “I plan to be back with my wife before sunrise. With Jenna, too, if she’s with Isabella.”

  Alex held up his palm.

  “First, Trace, we need to find out if this still is necessary. I’ll send Jenna another text message. We’ll see if she answers. Sit tight and wait for now. Another half hour or so won’t make any difference.”

  Trace wanted to say they were wasting time, that another text message probably wouldn’t be answered, but he didn’t say anything. He knew from his stint in the SEALs that careful preparation and proper timing usually meant the difference between a successful mission and disaster.

  He nodded at Alex, and sat down.

  Ibrahim walked over.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’m going to look for Isabella.”

  “What about Jenna?”

  “I assume they’re together.” Trace said.

  “What if they’re not?”

  “Then I’ll figure out what to do about that. For now, I’m assuming they’re together.”

  Twenty minutes later, with no text message back from Jenna, Trace decided it was time to go. But first, he had one more thing he needed to do.

  He retraced his steps to the tree he’d sat under, hoping to find Viktor still nearby. He was in luck.

  Viktor looked up as Trace approached him.

  “You’re back. Did you forget something over there?” he said, as he canted his head toward the tree Trace had sat under.

  “I’ve come to ask you a favor,” Trace said.

  He explained the situation to Viktor, telling him that he wanted to go to a hotel to retrieve Bella.

  “And what do you want from me?” Viktor said.

  “I want you to act as my spotter while I check out the building, cover my back,” Trace said.

  “No problem,” Viktor said. “I can do that. It would relieve my boredom for a while.”

  Trace and Viktor walked away from the encampment. They moved out under a commercial wharf, then walked along a narrow street lined with warehouses on both sides. They stayed close to the aging structures as they made their way toward the Hotel Carlota, blending into the dark irregular shapes and shadows cast by buildings, dumpsters, crates, rusted-out steel barrels, and scattered stacks of wood pallets.

  Behind them, silently keeping a vigil over the idle port, four praying-mantis-like cranes, each silhouetted against the dark sky, brooded above the horizon, their metal sentinel necks and heads extended high into the night.

  Trace and Viktor threaded their way through streets and alleys until they arrived across the street from the Hotel Carlota.

  Neither Viktor nor Trace spoke as they settled into prone positions behind a thick Rosemary Scrub hedge and watched the hotel’s entrance.

  The street and sidewalks — now well into the evening’s curfew — were generally empty. There were no civilians they could see. They only occasionally saw or heard soldiers.

  Nothing about the silent street suggested to Viktor or Trace that anything was amiss, that their presence was known or anticipated.

  CHAPTER 89

  Quarantine Day 30

  Anthony Vista was furious. He grabbed the chain-link collar around his boxer’s neck and yanked him away from the foot of the desk chair. Vista sat down.

  Not only did he have to contend with vigilante groups and the likes of Trace Austin and his wife, but now he also had a sniper on his hands who was terrorizing Fort Lauderdale’s civilian population.

  And as if that wasn’t enough to contend with, this morning he received strange instructions from the Pentagon ordering him not to pursue the sniper too vigorously.

  What the hell does that mean and why would some moron in Washington give him that order? he wondered.

  “What do you have on the sniper, Major,” Vista said.

  “He killed two more civilians this morning. Both under fifteen years old. A boy and a young woman. That makes six kills in the past two days.”

  “I asked what you have on him,” Vista said, “not his scorecard.”

  “Yes, Sir. Ballistics says there were two weapons used. Both Russian manufactured rifles.”

  This was Vista’s worst nightmare. “One more time, Major. What do we know about the shooter?”

  “We don’t have enough evidence yet to put together a portrait of the shooter or shooters. He, or perhaps, they, are very careful. We haven’t even been able to establish a pattern of targets they seek or to pin down their shooting nests or find any spent cartridges anywhere,” the major said. “We’re dealing with a pro — or pros — who, I would suggest, have been trained by the military.”

  Vista stood up from his desk, then immediately sat again. “What are you doing about grabbing him or them?” he said.

  “We’ve stepped up patrols all over the Quarantine Zone and have warned people to be on the lookout for anyone or anything suspicious. We’ve set up a hotline for people to call.

  “We’ve also increased the number of drone flights so we have more eyes in the sky looking for him or them,” the major said.

  Vista looked at the blotter on his desk and said nothing.

  Should I follow my orders and relax my search? No, that would be stupid. Instead, I will find the sniper and eliminate him. I’ll worry about my orders after I’ve extinguished the problem. It will be easier for me to obtain forgiveness if I succeed than to obtain permission up front.

  The major remained at
attention, not relieved and put at ease by the general, as he would have expected before the start of a discussion such as this one.

  Vista had an idea. He could follow the Pentagon’s order to the letter and ease up on his search for the sniper, but still make it hard for the sniper to succeed.

  “When you leave here, Major, tell Sergeant McElroy I am revising Field Order No. 2 to reduce the number of people who can lawfully congregate in public places from two to one. We will reduce the number of targets available to the shooter.

  “Tell McElroy to distribute the revised Field Order among the troops and throughout the city, and to be sure that the CNN news broadcaster — Peterson’s his name — discusses this change on his show for a few days, starting today. Then we’ll see how much terror this shooter, without targets, can stir up before we catch him.”

  CHAPTER 90

  Quarantine Day 30

  Trace and Viktor stayed out-of-sight behind the hedge for another twenty minutes watching the hotel. Nothing significant changed during that time. The night remained quiet under its curfew.

  Trace lifted himself onto one elbow and wiped sweat from his forehead and eyes with the back of his other hand. He climbed up onto one knee and looked up and down the street.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “The street’s clear. There’ll never be a better time.” He nodded at Viktor. “You go first. When you get to the bushes in front of the patio,” he said, pointing, “I’ll follow.”

  Viktor took off running across the street, crouching low. He slowed as he bulled his way behind the Saw Palmetto bush.