Trust no one. Fly to Chicago immediately. Find Nick Stryker, homicide detective. Tell him “Cody”.
Chris read the message twice and copied it down in his own unique shorthand. He felt his heart begin to race as he slipped the note into his breast pocket. Trust no one. That wouldn’t be hard; he didn’t know anybody. He had spent six years eight thousand feet below the Earth’s surface. He forced his breathing to slow; he had to appear normal to the guards. There was no secret exit from the lab. It was going to look suspicious to leave so soon after arriving. Chris took a deep breath and signed out of the computer.
He drove the transport cart back to the elevators and noticed the questioning glances exchanged by the guards. Chris told them he had only come there to retrieve his favorite pen. He retraced his steps out of the lab, took the shuttle back to the diner, and drove his car from the parking lot toward the Rapid City Regional Airport, 58 miles away.
Chris was terrified of flying; an ironic quirk for an astrophysicist. Elliott knew that Chris hated to fly. Whatever was wrong was very serious and urgent. He wiped his palms against his shirt and thought about calling Angel. Instead, he called ahead to secure his flight to Chicago. His stomach twisted and he stuck his head outside of the window to vomit. The physicist in him couldn’t help but calculate the splatter patterns on the windshield of the car behind him. His head began to pound with anxiety. What was happening? Who was Nick Stryker?
Elliott’s words haunted his every thought.
Trust no one.
*****
Dr. Gustoff Kyser knew the CIA would find and detain him at any moment. He had noticed the abrupt shift in the CIA agent’s treatment of him yesterday during the meeting. He was sure they had intercepted his conversation with the Geneva team. It was sloppy for him to have called Geneva during the lunch break, but he had been angry and had lost focus. This wasn’t the way he had planned to leave the U.S. team but it was done.
He would use Elliott’s declaration of discovering a flaw as an excuse to retire from the U.S. mirror team. Elliott’s science was flawed; he was sure of it. Or perhaps the mirror team was being prepared to be dumped for some other reason. The most likely explanation was that the U.S. had simply made the decision to move forward on the project from U.S. soil. It was entirely feasible that Elliott’s flaw was simply a ruse.
This was precisely why no one trusted the United States. He had anticipated this eventuality and had very carefully hidden his affiliation with the Geneva team for several years. He had not devoted the last six years of his life to become an insignificant footnote on some scientific article written by the infamous Dr. Elliott Nobel. Besides, unlike the United States, his new investor had bestowed him unlimited resources and full credit for the science.
Gustoff called his investor contact in New York City to notify him that he was officially leaving the U.S. team immediately. Gustoff then called his scientific team leader and gave his authorization to proceed on their project as planned.
He looked up at the sky; the last frontier, very much like America’s Wild West. No laws, no sheriff, only the survival of the most daring. In a very real way, he was a pioneer. History would recognize his genius and reward him in legacy. Yes, the worse the CIA could do was to detain him for a short while. A shudder of excitement ran up his spine. Soon, the future would belong to him.
*****
It was announced that they would be landing at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport in 15 minutes. Chris was grateful that he had made it this far without getting sick or killing the screaming child two rows back. He looked up at the air ventilator and imagined the number of toxins he had inhaled in the last two hours. The rusted wing rivets he saw out of his window looked inferior to those on Sally’s bus cart at the diner.
He rubbed his shirt pocket concealing the note and wondered again who Nick Stryker was to Elliott. It was a name Elliott had never mentioned; Chris would have remembered. Chicago Homicide? For a brief moment Chris wondered if Elliott might have killed someone. The kid two rows back screamed again sending ear piercing shrills through the cabin. Chris wondered if the kid’s parents were deaf. It suddenly struck him that he basically didn’t like most people; especially little, half-baked, noisy people. They made him feel nervous.
Chris moaned when he realized that regardless of how long he would be in Chicago, eventually he had to fly back to Rapid City. The pilot instructed them to raise their trays and make sure their seat belts were fastened for landing. Chris rested his head against the window and pressed his eyes closed. His only comfort was that if they all died, that screaming kid was going, too.
*****
Elliott Nobel’s eyelids were so heavy he had to force his mind to concentrate on opening them. Through a small slit he saw a white curtain surrounding him. He heard the faint beeping of monitors behind him and realized he was in a hospital bed. He let his eyes close again as he listened to the sounds around him.
His last memory had been checking his laptop for confirmation that someone would be meeting him at the Rapid City airport. Had the jet crashed? Was his team okay? A sudden wave of fear washed over him as he forced his eyes fully open and scanned his body. He tossed the light blanket from the bed and saw he was wearing a hospital gown. He didn’t see any injuries and raised himself to his elbows.
Beyond the curtain he heard whispers. He had been drugged. He moved his legs to stand just as a man pulled the curtain open. Elliott studied the man’s unfamiliar face. He was American, official looking. Elliott could see two more men on the other side of the curtain, but facing away. He assumed they were CIA.
The American pulled a chair to the side of the bed. “Dr. Nobel, there has been an incident. You and your team are being detained for questioning by the International Council.”
Elliott’s mind raced. Their work was top secret and protected by the best intelligence teams of the CIA. The International Council was used to determine the extent of security risks. Were they being assessed as a security risk?
Elliott asked, “Who are you? Where is my team?”
The American simply stated, “CIA. Your team is fine. Please get dressed.”
Elliott sat on the edge of the bed and tried to sound as authoritative as he could in a hospital gown. “I demand that you explain what is happening. Where am I? Why am I being detained by the International Council?”
The agent answered, “Your questions will be answered shortly, Dr. Nobel. Please get dressed.”
Elliott remembered sending Chris his message as the driver took him to the airport this morning. All day yesterday the CIA asked him foolish questions about Gustoff and the mirror team. One agent even questioned Elliott’s findings report, suggesting that there was no new data, that perhaps he had just wanted to speak to Gustoff in person. A CIA agent had stood outside of his room all night.
Elliott suspected that someone had been in his hotel room and had gone through his luggage. This morning he had tried to reach Gustoff only to find he was gone and Gustoff’s phone wasn’t working. Something was terribly wrong.
Chapter Two
10:00 a.m., Chicago
Outside of the diner, Travis Cummings stretched his arms and took a deep breath. The air was heavy with humidity and the stench of exhaust filled his lungs. It was going to be a scorcher. To Travis it smelled like heaven. He had been in FBI protective custody on an 80 acre ranch for over eight months. It was finally over. All of his testimony had been given and 16 indictments had been served on Chicago Outfit mobsters and associates. The main trial of Dominick Guioni, Westside crew leader, was over. Dominick was out on bond and awaiting his sentencing hearing.
The FBI had negotiated Travis’ freedom and assets in exchange for his testimony. As the former accountant for the Chicago Outfit, Travis had amassed volumes of damning evidence. His testimony had provided the FBI the ammunition to deliver the largest legal blow to the mob in Chicago’s history. Against the advice of the FBI, TrCavis left the witness protection program last night. His
flight to New York would leave O’Hare at 1:00 p.m., then on to Paris.
Travis leaned against the brick wall of the diner, retrieved his burner phone from his breast pocket and punched in the number for Detective Nick Stryker. The call went directly to voice mail. “Stryker? Travis Cummings. I wanted to thank you for saving my ass more than once. I’m leaving the country, but I’ll stay in touch. If you ever need anything, let me know. God, it feels great to be free!”
Travis scanned the street for an available cab. A man in a dark sedan sat staring at him and then smiled. An icy chill ran up Travis’ spine. A glint of sunlight bounced from a gun as the man took aim. A gunshot cracked through the air. Travis threw himself on the sidewalk. Another shot. He felt the shattering glass of the diner’s front window rain down on him. A zing sound passed near his head and something hit the cement parking meter base to his left. A car screeched away. Travis slowly raised his head and saw that the dark sedan was gone.
The scene was like a movie playing in slow motion. A car horn was blaring, the driver hunched over the steering wheel, blood splatter covering the dash and windshield. Some woman was screaming.
Travis rose to a standing position and saw that a man’s bloody face was resting on his stack of pancakes, his wife covered in her husband’s brains. People were running toward the diner, screaming for the police. Travis walked quickly toward the end of the block, all the while scrutinizing each passing car. Those bullets had been meant for him. He cautiously turned the corner at the end of the block and hailed a passing cab. How did they find him so fast?
The cabby looked to the back seat and asked, “Where to, buddy?”
Travis slouched down in the backseat and answered, “Anywhere but here.”
The cabby pulled from the curb and chuckled, “That’s the number one destination.”
*****
Agent Steven Phillips of the FBI tossed a set of keys across Nick’s desk. “Tell your Dad the Bureau really appreciates what he did.”
Nick smiled and took the keys. “You’re done with the cabin? Dad says you’ve been paying him a grand a week. He’s not going to be happy.”
Agent Phillips grinned, “Cummings has been paying, not us. He left our protection last night, he didn’t want to stay in the program or change his identity.”
“I know. He left me a message about an hour ago.” Nick’s phone buzzed and he held up his index finger. “Speak of the devil...”
Travis Cummings voice yelled, “Stryker? You’ve got to save me! Somebody is trying to kill me!”
Nick passed his phone to Phillips. “He’s back.”
Phillips rubbed his temple as he listened to Travis. “Where are you now?” Phillips shook his head as he listened to Travis and looked at Nick. “What time is your flight?” Phillips began clicking Nick’s pen. “So you only want protection until you board your jet? Fine. Have the cab deliver you to the 107th Precinct; I’m here with Stryker now.” Phillips handed Nick’s phone back to him. “Two civilians are collateral damage. Lucky for you it’s not your precinct. I’m going to give this to Special Cases.”
Nick watched as Phillips walked to the other side of the room. Jen Taylor, Nick’s partner, walked in and smiled. She glanced over and saw Agent Phillips. “Is everything okay?”
Nick smiled, “Not for Travis Cummings. Seems someone just tried to kill him. He’s only been off the reservation a few hours.”
“He’s not at your Dad’s cabin anymore?” Jen sat at her desk and booted up her computer while she waited for Nick to respond.
“Nope, he’s leaving the country today. Can’t say that I blame him.”
Phillips walked back over to Nick’s desk. “Our informant says there’s a million-dollar bounty on Travis’ head. Literally, they want his head. The entire Chicago Outfit.”
Nick whistled and then winked at Jen, “And I’ve got his phone number.”
Jen shook her head. Agent Phillips announced he was going to wait downstairs for Travis to arrive. Nick’s phone rang and Jen heard him ask the caller to repeat what he had said. Nick told his caller to meet him at Cubby’s at 11:00.
Nick was silent for a moment and then turned to Jen. “Can you do without me for a few hours?”
*****
All Nick knew about Chris was that he was an astrophysicist who worked with Elliott Nobel. Chris had called Nick at homicide, stated he had just landed at O’Hare and insisted Nick meet him immediately. Chris relayed a one-word message from Elliott: Cody. Elliott and Nick had established the code six years ago in Afghanistan. Elliott was in trouble.
Nick suggested Chris meet him at Cubby’s Bar. Chris’ cab driver would know the location and at 11:00 a.m. the bar would be virtually empty. It was in a decent neighborhood, had good food, and most importantly was close to the precinct.
Nick arrived first and seated himself in the last booth facing the door. A few minutes later a man about Nick’s age walked through the door, glanced around the room, and walked straight towards Nick.
The man held out his hand to shake, “Nick Stryker?”
Nick nodded. “Chris Larson?” Nick thought Chris looked more like a beach bum than an astrophysicist: wrinkled khaki pants, a stubble of beard, and a weak, damp handshake.
Chris lowered himself into the booth across from Nick, leaned forward and whispered, “Tell me what’s going on.”
Nick didn’t expect that question. “You called me.”
Nick raised his index finger to silence Chris as the bartender walked toward them. Nick and Chris each ordered an iced tea.
Chris added, “I need food.”
He and Nick each ordered food and once the bartender left their drinks, Chris started drumming his fingers on the table and squirming in his seat.
Chris suddenly stopped fidgeting and asked, “Elliott didn’t contact you? What does ‘Cody’ mean?”
Nick was surprised at the intensity of Chris’ stare. Chris kept hooking the edge of his polo shirt collar with his index finger, pulling it forward, then snapping it back in place. His other hand moved across the table top, his fingers seemingly drumming out some silent piano music. Nick wondered if Chris might be high on something.
“How about I ask the questions for a while? Let’s see some identification.” Nick studied the government issued identification cards Chris emptied from a thin flip wallet. Chris had more initials after his name than Nick had ever seen before. A Sanford Underground Research Facility ID card listed Chris as security level four.
Nick returned the cards to Chris and asked, “What’s security four?”
“The CIA secures our facility. There are five security levels. Access is granted to certain areas of the lab based on security number. A security five is the highest level issued.” Chris took a long draw of his iced tea. “I’ve never seen a level five.”
“What’s your relationship to Elliott?”
“He’s my boss.” Chris leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We’ve been working on a special project for six years now; 14 hour days, six days a week. Six days ago we discovered a fatal flaw in the analysis.” Nick didn’t say anything, so Chris kept talking. “We have a ‘mirror team’ located outside of the U.S. in Malaysia, working with us on the project. They are funded privately.”
Nick interrupted, “Meaning they don’t have to answer to the U.S. Congress or beg for money.”
“Precisely. Elliott called an emergency meeting for late yesterday in Malaysia. He took a few of our core team members and met with our mirror team to explain the fatal flaw.”
“Why didn’t you go?” Nick guessed the answer before Chris spoke.
“Security protocol doesn’t allow for Elliott and I both to leave the country at the same time.” Chris stopped his fingers from drumming and now chased the ice in his drink with his straw.
Nick concluded that Chris was just very nervous. “Tell me again about the message Elliott gave you.”
Chris exhaled and looked slightly annoyed at being asked to repeat himse
lf. “Elliott and I crafted a communication portal in our program code to exchange ideas in private.” Chris noticed Nick’s brow furrow. “I know… I know it doesn’t sound very professional. We don’t need the CIA knowing every thought we have. This morning my code sensor notified me of a message. Only Elliott could have sent it. It said, “Trust no one. Fly to Chicago immediately, find Nick Stryker in homicide and tell him ‘Cody’.” Chris leaned back against the booth and raised his hands. “That’s what I know. That and Elliott has not answered any of the messages I’ve sent back.”
The bartender delivered their food. Nick watched as Chris consumed a third of the burger with his first bite. Chris shook his head slowly and moaned. He swallowed and wiped the corners of his mouth with the napkins Nick passed over to him.
Chris said, “We don’t have much time. They’ll be coming for me.”
Nick swallowed, “Who’ll be coming for you?”
“CIA. I forgot to sign out a vacation day to come here.” Chris held up his wrist. “Implant locators. I have four scattered throughout my body in case I’m tortured or dismembered.” He took another big bite of his hamburger.
Nick suddenly realized that if he was going to find out what was wrong with Elliott, he was going to have to hurry. “Can you explain the project that you and Elliott were working on?”
Chris swallowed and pushed his plate away. “I’m not supposed to; it’s top secret. Then again, Elliott must trust you. How do you know Elliott?”
Nick lowered his voice, “Did Elliott ever tell you about being held captive in Afghanistan and being rescued by a Navy SEAL team?”
Chris’ eyes got big, “He told me! There were three other scientists captured with him and held for three months. He never talked about that to anyone. How do you know?”
Zero Margin: Nick Stryker, Book Three The Shallow End Gals (Nick Stryker Series 3) Page 2