by Rita Herron
But in her sleep, the voices returned, taunting her that tomorrow might never come….
CRAIG’S CELL PHONE RANG an hour later. Not wanting to wake Olivia, he grabbed it, strode into the den and closed the bedroom door. “Special Agent Horn.”
“Detective Black. The fire at CIRP was definitely not accidental. There was evidence that someone tampered with the wiring.”
“I figured as much.”
“We think we’ve located a vacant warehouse where Milaski is holed up,” Black continued. “I’ve got a team ready to go.”
“I’ll meet you there. What’s the location?”
“River Street.” Bla recited the address.
“Get a car over to watch the house. Olivia’s asleep. I don’t want her tagging along on this. It might get too dangerous.”
“I’ll send one right over.”
Craig hung up, tiptoed into the bedroom, grabbed a pair of slacks and a shirt and rushed into the bathroom. Assuming Olivia would sleep for hours, he kissed her on the cheek, scribbled her a note, then grabbed his gun and hurried out the door. A uniformed officer pulled up in a patrol car, Craig waved, then hopped into his car and sped toward River Street. Finding Milaski might just be the break they needed to solve this case.
And to save Olivia’s life.
SHE STOOD ON A grassy hill overlooking the Savannah River, a long white dress swirled around her ankles, the scent of roses wafting around her as a guitar strummed the Wedding March. Sunlight glimmered off the rows of white chairs and the gazebo where she would be married. The minister waited, Bible open in his hand, while Craig, dressed in a black tux, turned to face her. He was holding out his hand….
A dark cloud rolled across the sky, obliterating the sun. Shadows rose like dragons breathing fire. Sinister voices reverberated through the fog. “They’re going to get you. You’re going to die.” The shrill ringing grew louder, more incessant as pain sliced through her temple.
She covered her ears with her hands and cried out, then jerked awake, trembling and drenched in sweat. It took a second for her to orient herself. She was in Craig’s bed. Sunlight streamed through the windows.
But Craig was gone. And the telephone was ringing.
Wondering where Craig was and if the call might be important, she dragged on her shirt and padded to the den. The phone trilled again, then the answering machine clicked on.
“Craig, this is your father. Why the hell aren’t you answering your mobile?” Senator Horn snapped. “We have to have a conference call with the head of the DPS today. Oberman wants to know what you’re doing to keep that Thornbird woman quiet. We both agree that you might be right, that Dr. Thornbird might be a traitor. I hope to God that you’ve found the source of the virus by now and can make this thing go away before the people ever have to find out. Call my cell as soon as you get this message.”
Olivia gasped and stumbled against the sofa as the phone clicked into silence. What did Craig’s father mean—what was Craig doing to keep her quiet? And when had Craig decided her father was a traitor?
She glanced down at her near naked body, remembering their heated lovemaking, and a sense of betrayal knifed through her.
No. Craig wouldn’t have slept with her just to sway her to keep quiet or keep her from writing the article, would he?
AS A POLICE CAR PARKED in front of Craig Horn’s cabin, he gripped the can of gasoline from the floor of the truck, his temper surfacing in spite of his razor-sharp control. An image of the beautiful fire lighting up the predawn s the flames licking and sucking the life from Olivia Thornbird and that federal agent, would have been such a satisfying sight. He could see the pictures in the paper. Photographs of ash and debris. Of their bodies charred beyond recognition. Black soot falling like rain.
The headlines glorifying him for getting away.
They’d never know his name. His face. His identity. Because he could change it all in a second.
And now Horn had left and she was all alone.
A smile tipped his mouth. Hell, maybe this would be more fun. He could watch the torture on Horn’s face when he discovered the fire that had destroyed his house.
And the woman who’d been sleeping in his bed, how her creamy lithe body had been turned into brittle black ashes.
Agents weren’t supposed to get involved with reporters or suspects or informants. But Horn had no restraint.
Not as he did. Because he had been taught by the master.
Nothing could deter him from his job. His chosen profession. Or the publicity he would get when it was all finished.
So far, Miss Thornbird had been a disappointment. His boss had banked on the fact that she would go public with her father’s suicide. That she’d spread the word about the virus and create mass hysteria. He wanted that as well.
He would have reveled in watching the people wonder where and when the next strike would come and who the next victim would be.
But the woman had failed to do her part. Now she was completely expendable.
He turned his attention back to the more immediate problem, the chunky cop eating a bear claw at the wheel of the police car.
Adrenaline surged through him as he spat onto the ground, the gloves on his hands crinkling in the heat. Hmph. The cop. A minor complication. He set the gasoline can on the floor of his truck, climbed out and stalked toward the police car.
The stupid lard-ass would never suspect a thing.
Just another life for the cause.
One more, then Olivia Thornbird…
Chapter Sixteen
Had Craig been using her all along?
He never loved you, Olivia. And his work is more important to him than you or else he wouldn’t have left you alone, knowing you might be dying.
He’d probably thought by cozying up to her she’d confide something about her father, something that would incriminate him.
More paranoid than ever, she reread the note Craig had left her. He thought they’d found Milaski. Yet, even though he’d agreed to share information with her, to give her the story, he’d left her behind with the scent of their lovemaking still lingering on her skin.
She spotted Craig’s briefcase, snapped it open and shuffled through the papers inside. A folder on her father dreher eye, and then another—a file marked with her name.
She sank back on the sofa, horrified as she skimmed the contents—the file included background information on her and her dad, as well as speculation about her father’s possible involvement in creating the virus.
Craig actually thought her father had sold it to the terrorist faction. That this virus might be a mutant strain developed from the one that had killed her mother.
Which meant he also suspected that her father was involved in her mother’s death. But he hadn’t shared that theory, either. Not even when she’d given him the disk.
Instead of being honest, he’d urged her to trust him, had seduced her until she was mindless to do anything but be putty in his hands.
Shock, pain, hurt slammed into her, knocking the wind from her lungs.
Sure, she might have had a few fleeting moments where she’d doubted her father, but she’d dismissed the doubts quickly.
She swallowed hard, then glanced at the file on her. Information on her friends was listed. Past lovers, too, though there had been very few. And there was the incident where she’d been arrested for underage drinking and vandalism. Then there were photos of her in various protest marches. Pro animal rights, save the environment…
What had Craig been looking for? Something to incriminate her? An angle so he could blackmail her into cooperating in case she decided to print the story without his consent? Or had he thought she’d known about the virus?
A sense of betrayal shot through her again. She had trusted him more than any man she’d known. Had given him her body and her heart. Had promised to hold off on the story until he approved it.
But he didn’t intend to release news about the virus at all. He
’d planned to make love to her, then use her feelings to convince her to bury the story.
But what about the citizens’ rights? She’d made a vow to herself years ago, to her mother and then her father when he died, that she’d protect the people from cover-ups. And if she didn’t, more people would die.
Again the images surfaced—the people dying by the dozens. The suicide pills being dispensed…
She didn’t have a choice anymore. If Craig wasn’t going to tell them the truth, then she had to. Besides, maybe by airing it, they’d get a lead and stop this killer before he struck again.
She rubbed her arms, a clammy feeling overwhelming her. The room was closing around her again, trapping her. A rash was spreading on her lower arms. Her breath rasped out as she pulled the top of her shirt apart. Small red splotches dotted her upper chest.
The symptoms of the virus were growing more prominent. She was getting sicker by the minute.
A sob built in her throat as she ran to the bedroom, threw on some clothes and headed to the door. She’d ask the policeman to drive her to the newspaper, then tell her story. No, she’d go to the TV station. Warn the public. They couldn’t let this virus spread any further.
She made it to the door, but a wave of panic seized her. Sweat broke ou on her face and body, and she trembled, the room spinning. She grabbed the door to steady herself and clung to it, willing herself to go outside. But outside someone waited to finish her off. She could feel him hiding in the shadows. His breath on the fine hairs at her nape.
Her fingers shook, her chest constricting. She couldn’t make herself open the door.
Now she understood how trapped her father had felt, how the paralyzing fear had consumed him.
She slithered to the floor in a pool of nervous sweat, bowed her head and covered herself with her arms. She knew the paranoia was affecting her judgment. And she didn’t want to give in to the illness.
But she didn’t want to drag it out, either, or die alone.
CRAIG JOINED Detective Black and Fox, along with the SWAT team Black had commandeered, outside the empty warehouse on River Street. The place was nearly deserted, the building on the verge of dilapidation, the stench of wine and urine strong in the air.
“You’re sure he’s in there?” Craig asked as he scanned the cobblestoned street and riverbank nearby.
“An informant phoned, said a big deal was supposed to go down today between two foreigners. This was the address he gave us.”
“Could be drugs or guns,” Craig suggested.
“He heard Milaski’s name in conjunction with the deal,” Detective Fox said. “Word on the streets is that even the people who know him are terrified of him and what he might do. And there’s word of a hired killer, too, someone trained by a man they called the master. No name for him though.”
Black motioned for the team to prepare for attack, then Craig led the way as they surrounded the building. He ducked low and half crawled to the side, peering in through the dirt-coated window. “I see three men, no four. The big, tall one in back, that’s Milaski?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a black duffel bag on the floor.”
“Let’s move.” Black gave the count and Craig plunged through the window. Three SWAT officers stormed the door, a small team remained outside to circle the building, and Black and Fox covered the back.
“This is the FBI, the building is surrounded,” Craig shouted. “Put your hands up and drop your weapons.”
But no one surrendered. Gunfire broke out, the bullets flying. Craig dove behind a stack of crates, barely avoiding a hit in the chest while two SWAT team members burst through.
Seconds later, it was all over. Three men lay dead, their bloody bodies strewn across the concrete like wounded enemy soldiers. Craig and the detectives picked their way across the shattered glass and bodies. Then an engine roared outside, and Craig raced to the back door.
“Milaski’s getting away!” Craig shouted. “Black sedan. I can’t get a license plate.”
Detective Black called in an APB, while Detective Fox raced to the side to get
Black searched the duffel bag. “It’s empty. If he had the virus, he took it with him.”
“I’ll stay here till CSI arrives,” Black said. “Go ahead with Fox.”
Craig ran to join Fox in the car chase. They tore through the streets of Savannah, racing to keep up with the black sedan. The siren wailed, and Fox honked at tourists crowding the street, jaywalking and blocking their way. The sedan spun through an alley; the driver gunned it and whipped onto a side street. Fox hit the gas, veered around a garbage truck and nearly smashed into an oncoming car.
Tires squealed and the car slid, but Fox righted it and barreled on, yelling at the driver who hadn’t given him the right of way. They combed the streets, circling around the squares, then headed toward the interstate, but they lost their suspect in the traffic.
Unwilling to give up, they cruised up and down the Savannah streets again, scanning the intersections and turnoffs. A group of kids from a summer camp crossed the road and a group of sailors followed, slowing traffic.
“There he is!” Craig shouted.
Fox punched the brakes, backed up and swung through the intersection, but couldn’t turn because there was a one-way street. He had to go down another block and circle back.
“He’s headed toward the drawbridge.”
Craig gripped the dash. “We have to catch him.”
Fox sped through a caution light, turned the corner and raced toward the drawbridge, but just as he drove onto the bridge, the siren boomed through the air, and the crossbars swung down, cutting him off. The sedan flew across the bridge and disappeared down the road leading to Catcall Island. “I’ll call Black, tell him to get a chopper to search the area.”
Craig nodded, but failure twisted at his gut. All this, and they’d come away without Milaski or the virus.
When he returned to Olivia, he’d hoped to tell her that they’d cracked the case, that they had the virus and an antidote.
But now he had nothing to offer, not even hope.
OLIVIA ROCKED HERSELF back and forth, fighting the shadows and voices, struggling not to let the paranoia rule her. She was stronger than it. She could survive. She would not let the virus take her life. She would hold on, and they would find a cure.
But the others had to know so they could save themselves. It was her job to inform them…Craig would have to understand.
Craig—where was he now?
She was so confused. Her mind was losing bits and pieces of conversations, of reality. She couldn’t remember where he’d gone. Had he even told her?
Dragging her hands down from her head, she inhaled several calming breaths, then forced herself to crawl to the door. One inch. Two. She could make it.
Perspiration trickled down her neck and arms, and her hands trembled as she grabbed her purse, then turned the
Panic clogged her throat, and she fell back against the wall, fear immobilizing her. Even as a little girl, Olivia had not been afraid of anything. Not the bullies in school. Not the athletes who laughed when she’d failed to make the basketball team. Not the dark, when her mother and father had left her alone to go to work.
She couldn’t let fear possess her now.
Inhaling again, she clutched the doorknob, bit down on her lip and surged to her feet, then threw herself out into the sunlight. The bright rays nearly blinded her, but she ordered herself to move her legs, her feet, one step at a time.
Suddenly a hand gripped her elbow. “Miss Thornbird, are you all right?”
She made a pitiful sound, then nodded. “I need a ride to the television station.”
“Are you sure? You look ill.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She suddenly pulled back and stared at him. His voice sounded oddly familiar. Made a chill run up her spine. “Who are you?”
“Officer Batterson, ma’am. Agent Horn phoned me to watch the house while he took care of b
usiness.”
She squinted to discern his features, but the image of the man who’d attacked her in the hospital bled through the hazy fog enveloping her, one man’s face shifting sideways to replace the other. This man had a beard, though; he wasn’t the attacker. And he was holding up his badge.
“All right. Then you can drive me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He ushered her toward the squad car, and she climbed inside, grateful to escape the heat and bright lights as he shifted gears and veered onto the street.
She was safe now. Officer Batterson would protect her. He would drive her to the television station and she would tell her story.
The scenery passed in a blur as he drove. Olivia twined her hands together, trying to focus on what she would say on camera. The police car pulled up to the TV station, and Officer Batterson helped her out, then escorted her inside.
A receptionist greeted them. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Olivia Thornbird, Savannah Sentinel. I need to speak to one of your news correspondents immediately.”
The woman tugged at the collar of her silk blouse, looking nervous. “Wasn’t your father that doctor who killed himself a few days ago?”
“Yes, and I have important news about the Savannah Suicides.”
The woman jumped up and jogged toward a back office. Seconds later, Paul Fleshman, a slim blond man in his mid-thirties and one of the lead news reporters for the station, appeared. “What can I do for you, Miss Thornbird?”
She swayed slightly as she stepped forward. “You can put me on TV, Mr. Fleshman. I have an urgent story that everyone needs to hear.”
Officer Batterson faded into the woodwork as Fleshman guided her to the cameras. A fleeting moment of regret and worry nagged at her as she lifted the microphone. But she couldn’t die without warning others that the Savannah Suicides weren’t suicides at all, but a terrorist group spreading a deadly virus.