by Bradley West
Jaime straightened up with his weapon leveled. “Stop right there. Move away and get back in your car.” The two tough guys backpedaled, eyes on the rifle. The policeman saw the long gun with military optics and said in his calmest voice, “Put down your weapon and remove the boxes.”
“Officer, you’d better realize I have PTSD and just got home from Syria. Don’t make me use my weapon.” The officer stayed rooted while Jaime got in Sal’s car and they surged away.
“They were down to six boxes and I took two,” Jaime said matter-of-factly. “Ever read Plato’s Republic, Sal? I had a lot of downtime in the Sandbox and used it to read the classics.”
“I doubt it. Maybe some excerpts in college.”
“ ‘Might makes right’ comes from that book. Thrasymachus and the other Sophists knew how the real-world works.”
* * * * *
Melvin parked the stolen Tahoe in the driveway, engine running. He was pleased as punch that he’d found a key hidden in a magnetic box under the rear bumper: no broken window and no dangling ignition wires. His lord and master, and the coke fiend femme fatale came outside with a cardboard box and sundries placed on the backseat.
“Fetch Burns and put him in the third row,” Muller said. “We leave in two minutes.”
Melvin thought about driving off with his asshole boss standing in the driveway. The problem was that he didn’t have a plan, didn’t have a way of contacting the Maggios to arrange a trade and, hell, didn’t even have a phone. He’d save the big exit for another day.
“Don’t touch Burns,” Katerina said as he headed toward the house. “Leave him if he can’t walk out on his own.”
Even this little bitch was bossing him around. He was the only one without a hazmat suit and yet ordered to bring the disease bag out. If that wasn’t racist bullshit, he didn’t know what was. Melvin detoured to the kitchen and grabbed a broom to prod the sick man awake. A groggy Burns understood that he had to get his ass up and out the front door.
Burns moved like an old man and leaned on the walls for support. Melvin stuck his head into the master bedroom. Where the hell was the baby? He caught up with Burns, who was down on all fours. He put his hands under the sick man’s armpits and yanked him to his feet. Fuck, he didn’t even have gloves on—who the hell knew what was on the outside of Burns’ hazmat suit? Baby forgotten, Melvin steered Burns to a kitchen chair and washed his hands so hard he thought the skin might come off. He suffered a fright when he turned around to see Burns without his headgear drinking from a bottle of water. The man looked dreadful: red-rimmed, bleary eyes, sweaty hair and blotchy skin. Melvin realized he didn’t know him at all, and he would soon be dead. Funny thing, life.
“You and me gotta look out for each other,” Melvin said. “Your lady friend and Muller told me to leave you if you can’t walk. You need something, ask me first. But if you ever take that hood off in front of me again, I will shoot you in the face. Got it?”
Burns put his headgear back on. “What happened to me?” he rasped. “Someone unzipped my suit when I was asleep.”
“They injected you with the baby’s blood. They hope it’s a cure. If it doesn’t work, they figure you’ll croak.”
Outside in the driveway, a horn blared. Burns stood up with a ragged groan and Melvin followed him to the SUV.
Muller had no sooner run the Tahoe over the first pothole when the riddle of Tyson’s location solved itself. Melvin looked in shock at the cardboard box on the seat next to him. What the fuck? He peeked inside and sure enough, there was the little fellow in his last clean onesie. Melvin picked the baby up, careful to support his head with his giant hand. Tyson quieted down and managed a smile.
Katerina twisted around in her seat. “Put it back in the box! If there are any police out, they’ll be looking for a newborn.”
“If I put him back in the box, he’ll start to cry again. How will that help?”
“Fuck,” Muller interjected. “Roadblock up ahead. Melvin, hand the baby up to Katerina. Be ready: any bullshit and you shoot.”
Katerina spurned Melvin’s half-hearted offer of the child. “Goddammit, I don’t want the baby. That’s why I put it in the box in the first place.”
“Leave the light off back here, and I’ll hold him close to my chest,” Melvin said. “Maybe he’ll stay quiet.”
“Everyone be cool. We’re taking our sick friend to the hospital. Fraser, if you can hear me, tell the cops you have Covid-20. They should wave us through.”
Muller rolled forward and stopped alongside a masked officer. “Yes, officer. I know we shouldn’t be on the road, but my friend in the back has the coronavirus. We’re en route to a hospital with an ICU. I think the nearest one is Healdsburg.”
“Either Healdsburg District or the Adventist in Ukiah. Both are about thirty-five miles away. If you come back this way after he’s admitted, I’ll need an address and phone numbers for contact tracing.”
“No, sir. We’ll stay with my wife’s relatives until we see how our neighbor is.”
“Hmm. He’s lucky to have people like you around.” The officer danced a penlight around the Tahoe's front seat, illuminating Muller’s dour face masked mug and blond hair, and then Katerina’s smiling visage hidden behind her surgical mask. Muller had his automatic in his lap, under the cop’s sightlines. As soon as that light hit Melvin and Tyson, the game would be up. By accident or in response, Burns picked that instant to moan with the anguish of an Edgar Allan Poe character.
The officer snapped off his light and waved them on. These were not normal times, and he had no interest in the infected passengers of plague vehicles. Then Tyson let out a loud coo and everyone froze. The officer switched his light back on and shone it into the backseat, landing on a large black man with a baby. “Who are you, sir?” he asked.
Muller had his hand on the grip, safety off. Katerina sat rigid.
“That’s my child,” Burns rasped through his facemask. He coughed from the effort to make himself heard from the back seat. “Our child. My husband Melvin and I adopted Michael just two weeks ago.”
The cop looked at Melvin, who returned his stare with forlorn eyes. “We’re so worried Little Mike’s going to lose his father. Can you call an ambulance for us, officer?”
The policeman took a step back. “Afraid not, sir,” he said as he extinguished his light. “All our ambulances are busy. Best you folks move along.” He waved them off as the next vehicle approached.
The Tahoe pulled away and the window came up. Muller’s grip strangled the steering wheel. “What in the fuck was going through your head, asking for an ambulance?”
“They both did great,” Katerina said. “That pig obviously believed them.”
“Yeah, a great move until he agrees to call the EMTs.”
“You’d a shot him dead before he touched his radio,” Melvin said. He stole a glance down at Tyson, who had fallen back asleep.
“Oh, everyone’s a fucking mind reader, are they?” Muller groused. “If that cop put it together that he just saw an infant that’s on an APB, he’ll be on his radio setting up an ambush. We need to find another route to Oakland. Katerina, any ideas?” He pulled over and killed the lights once they were out of sight of the checkpoint.
“Without a phone, I haven’t a fucking clue,” Katerina said. “Let me check the glove compartment.” She rummaged through the miscellaneous maps, paperwork, used masks and packets of dried-out wipes. “Aha, a Rand McNally Road Atlas of Northern California, 2002 edition.”
“Close enough. Find us a new way to Oakland. If it takes longer, so be it. Better than ending up like Bonnie and Clyde.”
Katerina held in a snort. Bonnie and Clyde? Muller was no Warren Beatty, even if he did suffer from the same narcissism. Her amusement faded when she envisioned Faye Dunaway’s grisly end, and she drew on years of therapy in search of happier associations. Fuck it, she thought, and settled for imagining two lines of Peruvian flake on a mirror.
* * * * *
<
br /> Fillmore knew when he was beaten, and that last coughing fit had emptied the tank. He’d just slept two hours, and after his phone alarm awakened him, he felt worse than ever with a high fever and an inability to concentrate. He had to call an ambulance and find a hospital that still admitted patients. He’d already emailed his subordinates to tell them to stay away. Too late he realized that his misguided office detour had shut down the FBI in northern California outside of Sacramento.
A new email from Sheriff Fabian appeared in his inbox: 21:07 July 11, Mendocino Deputy reported a routine stop of a Chevy Tahoe CA plates at junction of Seaside School Rd and Coast Highway, two miles north of Gualala. Occupants included a white couple, one black male, one infant and one Covid-19/20 infected male (race unknown: in a hazmat suit). Declared destination was Healdsburg District Hospital. SUV was subsequently reported stolen from a house three miles from scene of car wrecks. Believe kidnappers took vehicle and headed out of area. Fillmore forwarded the email and license plate number to Travis and Sal with the notation that he was sick and off the case, and copied the Ferguson task force.
He had to call an ambulance, but first what he needed was to lie down. There was a sofa in reception. If he could just make his way there, he’d feel better once the smooth leather soothed his skin and he shut his eyes for a little while.
* * * * *
“We should have siphoned the gas from the Jag to the Tahoe,” Muller fretted. “This damn thing drinks fuel.” They hadn’t passed a single open gas station, and given the ubiquity of security cameras, they didn’t want to stop at one anyway.
It was almost two a.m., yet there were manned barricades up at the first three campus entrances they drove past. There were also ambulances and fire trucks scattered about, with the police out in force.
“Is your building the only place we can source the equipment?” Muller asked. “Because it will take a platoon to break in there and load a vehicle.”
“I didn’t say that,” Katerina said. “I said it was the only place on campus that I had the key for. Other labs will have most of what I need, if you can break us in. Off campus, lots of the professors have side gigs with biotech firms where they consult for big bucks. Or maybe medical supply distributors. If I can get online, I’ll find something.”
“Let’s head for the safe house in Oakland. We’ll have all day to find a place to break-in. Then Melvin and I will grab the baby’s mother.”
“What’ll we do with Fraser? He hasn’t made a peep in hours. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
“Leave him in the Tahoe overnight. If he’s doesn’t kick it by sunrise, we’ll figure something out. If he’s dead, we have to switch rigs anyway.”
Melvin pretended to be asleep throughout this exchange, but these were two callous motherfuckers to be sure. He held the quiet baby extra tight.
To supplement his Black Ice salary, Muller used his arms dealer contacts to provide military weapons and ammo to a white supremacist biker gang. That in turn meant he had a key to a warehouse owned by the Bay Area chapter of the Twisted Souls MC. Given that Oakland was the West Coast epicenter of Covid-20, Muller was willing to gamble that the Souls would be elsewhere. After a predawn drive through downtown Oakland past burned-out cars, smoldering storefronts and the odd unclaimed body that reminded him of the last days of ISIS’s capital of Raqqa, that assumption proved to be correct.
As Melvin rolled the articulated garage door down behind the Tahoe, a motion detector turned the lights on. There were maybe three thousand square feet of storage space with metal racks along the walls, a single forklift and a few unopened crates. Strewn about were discarded boxes—some with military markings—cut metal bands and miscellaneous packing materials scattered among dismembered motorcycles, parts and beer cans. Melvin retrieved a whimpering Tyson from the backseat and followed the boss and the evil bitch through giant overlapping tarps hung ceiling-to-floor. A new set of overhead lights buzzed to life and he saw the shittiest accommodations since Afghanistan: half a dozen folding chairs around a rectangular metal table covered in dirty dishes, a full-sized fridge next to a filthy industrial sink, a hotplate and a microwave with a cracked front window. The dirty dishes were so old that the crud on them didn’t smell—even the roaches seemed to have abandoned the place. On the floor were five stained mattresses with twisted bedclothes with a stack of porn mags in the middle.
A reasonably tidy rec space was delineated by a fifteen-by-fifteen square of indoor-outdoor carpet, an old cathode-ray TV perched on top of two crates, a three-seater plaid fabric couch, four beanbag chairs held together with duct tape, and a cable box and router. A kid’s desk featured a laptop and the remains of a balky printer subjected to a fatal beating. Scattered across the floor were empty beer cans, cigarette butts and other trash.
“The baby has to be changed and fed,” Melvin said. “Someone needs to bring in the food and diapers from the SUV.”
Muller ignored him and recoiled at the olfactory and visual affronts of the fridge’s interior. “There’s beer, moldy bologna, a jar of mustard and pepperoni sticks. Anyone want a beer?”
Katerina made a beeline for the laptop. “I’ll take a beer if there’s not any bottled water.”
Melvin looked in vain for a place to put down his charge. Baby in one arm, he made three trips to the Tahoe to fetch the essentials. Muller made just the one to grab Lindy’s money bag, the burner and several weapons. Melvin’s own weapon was on his hip, and not for the first time he contemplated ventilating his supposed business partner. Instead he juggled the child in one arm while he used sanitary wipes to swipe the tabletop. He lowered the cardboard box onto the least-filthy mattress, and in it went Tyson. A few hours ago, he’d viewed that carton as unfit for a dog, but for now it served as a sanctuary.
Meanwhile, Katerina had found the password 14/88 taped to the modem and booted up the antique computer. Muller munched on a meat stick and walked a second beer across. “We’ll have a problem with the nanny the next time you draw blood.”
“You said you could dump G. I. Joe, so do it. And while you’re at it, it’s four a.m., and I could use a toot.” Katerina fixed him with a flirty smile as she accepted the proffered beer.
“You’re shitting me, right? You chewed me out for not being prepared while you sat on your ass and did crossword puzzles instead of finding another source for lab equipment. And now that there’s work to do, you want to snort coke? Not on your life.” Muller’s reaction surprised himself: As a self-described sociopath, he rarely felt strong emotions about people other than himself.
“Let me share the news with you, tough guy. If the baby’s blood works on Burns, I can separate antibodies from whole blood and enrich the plasma to create a concentrated, stable compound. But milking the baby will take too long: It’s too tiny to give us the volume we need. We’ll need all its blood at once or we’ll die of the plague in the next few days. But if I can synthesize a cure, we can use the baby’s mother for feedstock.”
“We kill the baby and drain his blood for the test cure and if it works, we kidnap his mother and do it again?”
“Not exactly. We drain the blood while the baby’s heart still beats. That way, I collect every drop and preserve the body because the bone marrow may be valuable. We keep Mommy alive and take her blood as often as necessary.”
Katerina took a long drink of her beer. “You look like shit. You may want to sleep as it’s going to be a big day.” She pulled out a pill bottle and took one. “On the other hand, if you want to power through, here’s an Adderall,” she said, hand extended.
chapter nineteen
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Sunday, July 12: Livermore, Oakland and Kentfield, California, after midnight into morning
Dr. Carla Maggio was out on her feet as she stepped from the shower in the basement of the bioweapons lab after a night of ceaseless toil. Her diligent staff had assembled lab equipment and taken QA samples to synthesize 896MX from scratch. They’d begged her to ge
t some food and sleep before the trial run at noon. She’d feigned reluctance but was secretly thrilled by the suggestion. She needed to touch base with Travis before it was too late.
* * * * *
Muller found a mattress that smelled only of body odor and dragged it away from the others. The sheets he’d skip altogether since they were foul, and the warehouse wasn’t too cool. Previously he’d harbored thoughts of rough sex with Dr. Kiel, but her gruesome plan for Tyson had dampened his enthusiasm. He’d never been much frightened by anyone before, much less a ninety-five-pound woman. He lay on the rank mattress, facemask shifted up to shield his eyes from the overhead lights.
The feds and police were out of the picture for the next week or month, however long it would take the plague to run its course. They’d already frozen his funds, so if he walked out on this, he’d be down to the thirty grand-plus in Burns’ dead wife’s bag, plus a couple hundred thousand in Bitcoin. But without immunity to the bug or at least an Idaho bunker to hide in, he didn’t feel like he held the best hand.
What did he want? Respect. It always came down to respect. After Ambassador Stevens and three others were killed in Benghazi, Langley had inserted him to assess the local militias and sort out friend from foe. It was an impossible task: Arabs, Berbers, Turks, al Qaeda scum, ISIS deadenders and sundry other dusky breeds all vying to extort or kill for personal gain while wrapping themselves in tribal, religious and/or political pieties.
His own team called him “Mr. Joshua Tree” behind his back. He couldn’t help it if he looked like Gary Busey, and he resented the ridicule in that handle. He knew they thought he was full of shit because he didn’t have an official military record. Those so-called Black Ops bad-asses in JSOC had no idea of what he’d accomplished. Even if he could tell them, he wouldn’t: They didn’t deserve to know.