Containment

by Hank Parker

  Vector quickly considered his options. He could remain at his table, head down, ball cap pulled low over his eyes, and hope they didn’t notice or recognize him. He could create a distraction, yell “fire” maybe, and escape in the confusion. Or he could scoot out through the kitchen, with at least a head start. He had perhaps two seconds to make his decision.

  He chose option three.

  He swiveled in his booth, planted his feet, ducked low, and propelled himself through the swinging kitchen doors. The exit was to the left, just beyond the sinks. Dodging around a startled kitchen staffer, he raced to the door, threw himself against the crash bar, and rushed through the opening. He was in the alley. As he gasped for breath and tried to keep from coughing, he saw a large trash barrel and maneuvered it against the door, knowing it would only slow his pursuers momentarily, but, still, would give him more time to prepare.

  The brief burst of activity had sapped nearly all of Vector’s strength, and pain surged through his body like an electric current. He was under no illusions about being able to outrun the men. They’d catch him pretty quickly. If they were smart, like him, one would follow through the kitchen and the other would run around and block the alley exit, radioing ahead for backup. But he didn’t think they were that smart. They’d be on him like two dumb hounds after a fox, thinking they had him, visualizing the accolades and promotions that would follow after the capture.

  In his earlier inspection of the alley, Vector had seen a large Dumpster just outside the kitchen exit. Wheezing heavily, he quickly moved behind it, out of sight of anyone coming through the door. He crouched and waited in the shadows. He wasn’t armed because it would have been impossible to get a gun aboard the flight from Malaysia, let alone through Heathrow, but he had a weapon, which was more than enough for his purposes: a thin, metal ballpoint pen, picked up at duty free in Kuala Lumpur.

  He heard the sound of the door opening and the trash can scraping on the pavement. He positioned his feet, bent his head, and peered under the Dumpster. There were two pairs of legs on the other side of the trash bin, side by side, facing the far end of the alley, obviously looking for a fleeing man. It was a long alley, and when they didn’t see him they’d likely conclude he was still in here somewhere. Chances were they’d check the Dumpster first, then look for other doorways in the alley. He waited, clutching the pen in his right hand, balanced on the balls of his feet, listening for any conversation that would betray the hounds’ next move. He willed fresh energy into his body.

  Their legs were moving now, toward the Dumpster. They were coming around the side to his right, where there was only a narrow space between the Dumpster and adjacent wall, where they’d have to go through the opening one at a time. Slowly, very slowly, Vector raised his head and noiselessly pivoted his feet to the right, still crouched, leaning slightly forward, the pen gripped tightly in his hand and now positioned so that its tip pointed straight up. His next moves would take virtually all of his remaining strength. He steeled himself for what he knew he had to do, rehearsed in his mind the close-in, hand-to-hand combat training he’d had years before, training you never really forgot, though you could get rusty without practice.

  The thick-necked guy appeared first, head peering around the corner of the Dumpster, not seeing anything right away, then moving his whole body into the opening.

  Vector sprang forward and upward, the pen held in front of him, his elbow locked and pressed against his side to assure maximum thrust. By the time he reached the policeman, he’d gained enough momentum to knock over a man twice his size. Ideally he would have aimed for an eye, but the dim light would have made it too easy to miss the target. The neck would be better.

  He drove the pen into the policeman’s jugular and simultaneously brought a knee up, hard and fast, into the man’s groin. The man made a gurgling noise and toppled back into the man behind. Both went down. A jet of blood sprayed from the protruding pen. Vector raised his foot and brought a heavy boot down on the face of the second man, heard the sound of crunching bones. He balled his fist and delivered a powerful blow to the chest of the first man, right at the heart. The man wheezed and went silent. Vector turned back to the second man, wrapped his hands around his head, gripped hard, and gave the head a violent twist, first one way and then the other. He heard the sound of tearing cartilage, saw the man’s eyes bulge out, and felt the neck go loose in his hands.

  He bent low, checked for pulses. Nothing. Thirty seconds. That’s all it had taken. As he gasped for breath and began coughing again, Vector allowed himself a brief moment of self-satisfaction. Obviously these guys hadn’t known much about him, hadn’t known who he was, what he was capable of. He stood, wiped his hands on his pants, and began to plan his next moves.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SEPTEMBER 9

  Sally Parnell sat bolt upright in bed. She’d heard a noise, sounded like it was coming from downstairs. She remained motionless, slowed her breathing, listened. A gust of wind rattled the bedroom window and raindrops spattered the glass. Is that what she’d heard, what had awakened her? Just the storm?

  She pushed a small button on her wristwatch, illuminating the dial: 4:10 a.m. She glanced over at the cot next to her. She could hear Bobby’s soft snores. There was no noise from the adjacent bedroom, where Fredi was sleeping. She listened for a few more seconds. Wind and rain, Bobby’s peaceful snoring. That was it. Nothing more. She lay back in her bed, settled her head on the pillow, and closed her eyes.

  Heard the noise again.

  Saw light outside the bedroom window. But it was way too early for sunrise.

  She lay as still as possible. There was the sound again. Close. Not the wind or Bobby’s snores. It was definitely coming from downstairs somewhere. Clunking footsteps, muffled voices. On the porch?

  Then she heard the sound of breaking glass.

  Two days earlier, Sally had finally agreed to her sister’s plan, partly because Fredi had been so adamant, partly because she had a nagging feeling that Fredi might be right, but mostly because there really wasn’t anything to lose by doing what her sister had urged, and it wasn’t like Sally had anything else to do. So they’d prepared. Since she’d moved to the cabin, Fredi had become something of a survivalist and the place was already a minifortress, with battery-operated, motion-sensing outdoor spotlights, reinforced doors with triple-bolt locks, heavy wooden shutters on the inside of each downstairs window, even a safe room. Now they’d beefed up the defenses with various other protective measures—many of which Sally thought were over-the-top, but she didn’t argue—and weapons ready at strategic locations. No firearms; Fredi didn’t believe in guns. She said that if intruders found you with one, they’d be more likely to use their own. And no dog, which might have been the best defense of all. Too much trouble, her sister had said.

  Fredi had also worked up a step-by-step protocol for what to do if they had unwelcome visitors, and she’d insisted on rehearsing it. As Sally threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, she ran through the sequence in her mind. Step one was to make sure her sister was awake. She ducked low so that anyone looking up at the bedroom window wouldn’t see her shadowy form.

  Fredi was already up, fully dressed, clutching a canister of pepper spray. After a brief whispered conference, Sally returned to her room to focus on step two: her son. She moved to his bed and gently shook his shoulder. “Sweetheart. Wake up, Bobby,” she whispered. He moaned and rolled over. She shook him harder.

  “Wha . . . ” he said.

  Sally placed a gentle hand over his mouth, wanting to alarm him as little as possible. “Shhh,” she said. “Time to go to the playroom.” There was a secret place in the back of the bedroom closet, accessed through a heavy metal door hidden by hanging clothes.

  When they’d practiced this earlier, Sally had told Bobby it was like a game. She’d had to tell the boy that some bad people might be coming
to the house and that if they did, he was to hide in there until she told him it was safe to come out. The inside of the door was fitted with a heavy-duty dead bolt. There was a light in the room, some toys, bottled water, even a few snacks. There was a porta-potty and a comfortable foam mattress, blanket, and pillow. And there were books, lots of them, some of Bobby’s favorites. She knew he was apprehensive, even scared, but he was a brave boy, and when he saw the space, and especially the books, she could tell he felt more at ease.

  Crouching down, she led him into the closet and opened the inner door. She reviewed the secret knock with him, five rapid taps, a pause, then two more. Under no circumstances was he to open the door unless he heard that signal. She kissed him quickly on the cheek, not wanting to make it seem like more than a brief casual good-bye. “See you soon,” she whispered. “Don’t forget to lock the door when you get inside.” She waited until he’d entered the space, closed the door behind him, and slid the bolt into place.

  She quickly rejoined Fredi. “Got your cell phone?” her sister asked. “I can’t get a signal on mine.”

  The cabin didn’t have a landline and Sally had already learned that cell service here was spotty and affected by weather. She turned on her phone and waited. One bar. She pulled up her husband’s number and touched the screen. She and her sister had previously agreed that they’d first call Tony if anything went wrong. As a reporter, he always kept his phone charged and handy and he’d ask the right questions, know who to call in an emergency, even 911, though first responders would take at least an hour to get to the cabin. It would be a six-hour drive for Tony.

  Tony answered right away. “Someone’s trying to break in,” said Sally. There was silence on the other end. “Tony?” she said. “Can you hear me?” No answer. She looked at the phone, saw the word in the upper left where the bars should be: Searching . . . Damn. Sally knew she could get a steady signal outside, in a clearing up on the hill. But that wasn’t an option now.

  She heard the sound of crashing downstairs, and then splintering wood. She exchanged glances with Fredi, and together they ducked back into Fredi’s room. They grabbed weapons there—an old wooden baseball bat for Sally and a fireplace poker for Fredi—and then began to creep down the stairs.

  * * *

  The fight in the alley had sapped nearly all of Doctor Vector’s strength, strength that he desperately needed to recover before the big event, the day after tomorrow. After confirming that the two policemen were dead, he’d left the alley as quickly as possible and ducked into a stall in a public restroom at Waterloo Station. There he’d taken several minutes to collect himself, consult a large folding map of the city, and plan his next moves. He’d then made a few purchases from a shop on a nearby side street.

  He was now back in a small flat on the third floor of a walk-up apartment building. Shortly after arriving in London, he’d rented the room from a stringy-haired, matronly woman who’d been content to simply take his cash and not ask questions.

  Vector dumped his purchases out on the bed and sorted through them. Scissors, sunglasses, ball cap, small backpack, paperback novel, and a supply of energy bars. On his way to the pub earlier in the day, he’d seen that his likeness had been plastered all along the route. He had no time to effect a truly professional disguise; these items would have to do.

  Thirty minutes later, he scrutinized his appearance in a small mirror. Not bad, he told himself. The cap and sunglasses were a big help. He checked his ribavirin supply. Enough for three more days, a day more than he needed. He shook a couple out, filled a water glass from the communal bathroom down the hall, and popped the pills into his mouth.

  Just two more days, he told himself. Two more days before he would set off a spectacular series of events. Then he could join Karen, his devoted wife, the love of his life, secure in the knowledge that he’d avenged her awful death. He stretched out on the lumpy mattress, flicked on the bedside lamp, and reached for the paperback.

  * * *

  Sally and Fredi reached the bottom step and paused. The splintering noise was coming from the front living room window. Remembering the earlier breaking glass, Sally figured the intruders were trying to breach the shutters that were not really shutters at all, but strong barriers, solid oak affairs with a row of heavy dead bolts to hold them shut. They’d need an ax to break through those things, and that’s what it sounded like they were using. How long before they were successful? Twenty, thirty minutes? But she and Fredi had another defense that would buy more time.

  Without conversing, Sally and her sister crept to the large stone fireplace and removed a flat, thick steel plate that was covering the opening. They muscled the plate up against the wooden shutter, and secured it with prepositioned iron brackets that swiveled into place, firmly fastening it to the window frame.

  Sally checked the time: 4:45. Still almost two hours before sunrise. Would the intruders leave when the sun came up? Could she and Fredi hold out until then?

  They inspected the other windows on the first floor. All secure. No way of knowing how many intruders were out there or whether they would try multiple possible entry points. The ground floor had three rooms: large open living room, kitchen, and bath. All the rooms had windows with the heavy oak shutters. There was only one metal plate, but Sally hoped that if it successfully blocked the first window, the invaders would logically assume that all the windows were similarly reinforced. She and Fredi positioned themselves on chairs so that they had a view of the entire ground floor. Outside, the crashing, splintering noises continued, seemingly louder than ever.

  Minutes later, Sally heard the dull clang of metal on metal. They’re through the shutter now, she thought. Would they give up when they realized that the ax wouldn’t work on the metal plate? She sat quietly, waiting, hearing loud voices, curses, the clanging sounds of the ax striking the metal plate. Then it grew quiet. She waited several minutes, hearing nothing more. She looked over at Fredi, caught her eye, communicated an unspoken question. She saw her sister shake her head and point to her wrist, then hold up her hands and flash her ten fingers twice. Twenty minutes.

  They both sat as motionless as possible, heard no more noise from outside. Twenty minutes passed. Fredi was making no effort to move. Sally couldn’t stop thinking about Bobby. He must be going crazy up there, she thought. Finally, after thirty minutes had passed, she stood and crept over to her sister. “I’m going to check on Bobby,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” said Fredi. “Just be sure to look outside from the second-floor windows first. Make sure they’ve gone.”

  Sally nodded and ascended the stairs, two quiet steps at a time. Before entering her bedroom, she looked out the window on the opposite side of the house and was momentarily jarred by the darkness she saw outside. Earlier, the outside lights had been on. But they were motion-activated, she remembered now. If it had been still enough outside for the lights to go out, the intruders must have left.

  She entered the bedroom, flipped the light switch, and glanced toward the window.

  A face was staring back at her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SEPTEMBER 11

  At midmorning, an excited throng of tourists filed into a passenger capsule of the London Eye. Doctor Vector was the last person to board. He wore a loose-fitting green parka. Long, blond hair curled from beneath his ball cap, which bore the logo of the Toronto Blue Jays. He had sunglasses on to hide his bloodshot eyes. Since the incident behind the restaurant, posters had been plastered all over the city, broadcasting his description but accompanied by a sketch that, to his relief, looked almost nothing like his current appearance.

  After Vector had stepped through the capsule opening, the doors began to automatically slide shut. Just before they closed completely, he surreptitiously placed a short, hard plastic tube in the gap. When the doors were secure, the rubber gasketing on their edges held the tube in place. He then focused
on controlling his breathing to avoid breaking into a cough. In addition to taking ribavirin that morning, he’d swallowed a large dose of cough suppressant.

  He turned to look at the other passengers, who were pressed against the railing on the other side of the capsule, eagerly pointing out London landmarks. Typical tourists, he told himself. Expensive digital cameras and iPhones. Pressed up against the capsule windows, pointing and jabbering. Totally oblivious to the danger that would soon engulf them.

  It took fifteen minutes for the capsule to reach its highest point. A perfect day for the task, thought Vector. Light breeze blowing from the east toward Buckingham Palace, which was a little over a mile away. And closer, in the same direction, were 10 Downing Street, Westminster Abbey, and historic St. James’s Park, which would be clogged with visitors in the late summer. It was a cloudy day. He knew that would reduce ultraviolet radiation and increase the effectiveness of the agent. He looked around the capsule. The passengers had crowded together in one area to snap pictures of the palace.

  Vector reached into a pocket in his parka and pulled out a twenty-ounce water bottle sealed inside a ziplock bag, which, if asked, he’d explain away by saying he’d had too many bad experiences with leaky water containers. From inside the parka he retrieved a plastic spray nozzle with a long, thin tube. He checked the other passengers again. They were all intent on the view below. From the bottom of the backpack he removed the plastic pillbox that he’d brought with him, all the way from Philadelphia, through Southeast Asia, and now to London. He’d checked on its contents earlier—the level below the ­ribavirin. His soldiers were holding up well, even though they’d gone several days without feeding. This was a female army, all gravid females, in desperate need of a blood meal. Well, they’d soon have one.