by Cindy Dees
“To keep us out of the way while the PHP’s attack goes down?” she asked in dismay.
“Or while they finish preparing for it,” Mike added.
“So we’re talking hours or days and not weeks until the PHP strikes?”
“Yes, that would be my guess,” he answered grimly.
Piper flinched involuntarily but had to agree with him. She picked up Mike’s train of thought. “There’s a built-in delay to the biological attack while the virus incubates and spreads. Could El Noor be planning another attack, one launched by the PHP to coincide with when the virus starts to go active?”
Mike grimaced. “It’s diabolical.”
“It would maximize the effectiveness of the biological attack,” she replied. Both of them glanced at the still image of the Caucasian street thug frozen on the computer screen.
“El Noor’s men seem to prize efficiency. It’s probably safe to extrapolate that their boss is the same,” Mike said grimly.
They stared at one another in shared dismay. This was not good. Not good at all.
“I gotta call this in,” he announced.
While he made the call, her mind raced. Now what? Where was El Noor pointing his two-pronged attack? What American city was in the crosshairs?
Partway through his report, Mike stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. She winced. Reporting on her connection to the PHP, no doubt. Oh, well. It had been a great career while it lasted.
He stepped back into the room, pocketing his phone.
“Am I officially fired, yet?” she asked in resignation.
“Not that I’m aware of. Why would you ask that?”
She blinked up at Mike. “You told them about my connection to the PHP, didn’t you?”
“Nah,” he shrugged. “It’ll work its way through channels quickly enough. Your boss will tell my boss when the time is right. And at the moment, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
She stared at him hard, trying to suss out if he was telling her the truth or not. Or was he just smoothing things over for now so she would spill her guts to him? His expression didn’t give away a thing.
She asked in resignation, “Did HQ have any information for us?”
“Did you know your old man has a private pilot’s license?” Mike asked abruptly.
“What? No way.”
“Got it a few months ago.”
“You’re kidding,” she blurted.
“And the new guy. The one with the beard. Name’s Matt Bradley. Turns out he’s ex-Army. Chopper pilot.”
“The helicopter the PHP bought,” she exclaimed.
“Why do they need both a fixed-wing plane and a helicopter?” Mike mused.
“More to the point, what kind of terrorist attacks can be launched from airborne platforms?” she added. “Do you suppose the virus hasn’t been released yet, and they’re planning to use the aircraft to, I don’t know, spray it over a city?”
“Possible. But why would Abahdi go to all the trouble of developing a virus with a lot of spread vectors if all they had to do was spray it on folks? And furthermore, I didn’t see crop dusting gear in the shop or in the plane.”
She frowned. “Look. I know you don’t want to believe me. But I can’t accept that my father and brother would knowingly release a lethal virus on thousands of fellow Americans. They may dislike the government and modern technology, but they consider themselves to be patriots.”
Mike scowled at her but his expression was far away. Eventually, he muttered, “We can’t exactly go back into the PHP compound and search for coolers of killer virus.”
“As far as I know, there’s no refrigeration of any kind in the compound.”
“As far as you knew, there weren’t airplanes and electronic surveillance systems, either,” Mike snapped.
She subsided with a sigh. She wasn’t going to win any argument in which she tried to convince him her family wasn’t a bunch of radical terrorists. “You’re right about one thing. We can’t go back there. They’ll be bristling like a hornet’s nest after we snuck out like that. My dad’s suspicious by nature and no dummy. He knows I’ve been opposed to his views for years, and now he knows I’ve been watching him.”
“I doubt he bought the newlywed story, then. Which means he’ll also suspect that I’m government or law enforcement. Will that provoke him to some even more extreme action?”
She considered his question. “It might move up his timetable, but he’s not prone to knee-jerk reactions. He’s intelligent, organized, and rational.”
“To the extent that driving the United States back into the nineteenth century is rational,” Mike added dryly.
She shrugged. “He won’t panic.”
Mike commented, “For now, let’s operate on the assumption that the worst-case scenario has happened. Let’s assume the virus has already been released. The Centers for Disease Control are on alert and will notify HQ if and when reports of an infection cluster come in to them.”
Silence fell between them, deepened by the soundproof walls.
She asked suddenly, “Mike, did you see any sign of a runway near the PHP compound on the satellite surveillance pictures back in Washington?”
“No!” He grasped her logic instantly. “The plane. How will they get it out of there?”
“It could be put on a truck easily enough and hauled out to an airport. But why go to all that trouble?”
Mike nodded slowly. “They wouldn’t want anyone to see the payload by accident. They build the bomb in their shop and only take the plane out to use it at the last minute.”
“There’s a bomb in that plane?” she exclaimed.
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly, then?”
He shook his head at her, and she all but ground her teeth together in frustration. Why wouldn’t he believe that they were on the same side, here? Business. She had to focus on business.
“What about that helicopter?” she asked. “Where is it, now? Should we take a look at it? If an El Noor shell corporation bought it for the PHP, we have to assume it’s part of the larger attack, right?”
“Especially given that the PHP has a guy who can fly it.”
“Okay, then. Where exactly in Nevada did Alex say it was purchased?”
“Lemme call him back.”
In a few seconds, Mike’s future brother-in-law was on the line. “Glad you called, Mike. I’ve got some information for you.”
“Lay it on us.”
“Joseph Brothers, PHP’s founder, got a pilot’s license a few months back.”
“HQ beat you to that punch, buddy,” Mike replied.
“Did they know it was paid for in cash? Or that PHP’s newest member is a guy named Matt Bradley, who left the Army under a Section Eight discharge?”
Piper looked up at Mike sharply. Wasn’t a Section Eight a psychological discharge? Mike must have seen the question in her eyes because he nodded and twirled his finger by the side of his head to indicate ‘crazy’.
“Where’s the helicopter the PHP bought, right now, Alex?” Mike asked.
“It was delivered to Overton, Nevada. To a regional airport. Perkins Field. That’s about sixty miles northeast of Las Vegas. Last time I checked, it hadn’t been moved.”
“Could that be the target? Las Vegas?” she asked sharply.
“We’re not sure the helicopter has anything to do with that attack,” Mike cautioned her. “For all we know, the helicopter is a preparation for another attack at a later time. Or part of an escape plan.”
Piper frowned. “I think the PHP has one grand gesture in it. They don’t strike me as the types to engage in a prolonged terrorist campaign. They’ll do one thing and then want to retreat to their compound and resume their regularly scheduled reclusive lives.”
“I concur with that,” Alex added. “They don’t have the resources to sustain an ongoing terror network.”
“Not unless El Noor plans to bankroll them for the foreseeable futu
re,” Mike commented.
Alex replied, “If I were building an effective terror network, I would pick people more suited to the task. These PHP guys are amateurs. Honestly, as a group, they’re little more than subsistence farmers. There are a few men with educations of note among them—Joseph Brothers has an electrical engineering degree, for example. But most of them are pretty average.”
“Okay. So they’re one-shot wonders. If that’s the case, the helicopter must play into their one big plan.”
“Along with the Cessna in their shop,” Piper added.
“You could ram each of them into a structure 9/11-fashion,” Mike suggested.
She shook her head. “The damage two small aircraft could inflict on a big building would be minimal. If we’re talking about Las Vegas, the casinos are sprawling places with low concentrations of people at any one spot within their structures. Given all the elaborate planning and coordination that seems to have gone into this attack, aiming for such a small end result seems unlikely.”
“I agree, Piper,” Alex said. “I’ll think about what I’d do with two small aircraft if I were El Noor. Meanwhile, you two be careful. This EL Noor persona is rich, smart, and dangerous.”
“Kinda like you, huh?” Mike quipped.
Alex hung up without deigning to respond to the jab.
She felt like they had all the pieces but hadn’t yet discovered the shape of the puzzle. If only they had some idea of the big picture, she felt like all the little pieces would fall into place quickly.
Mike looked over at her and smiled wryly. “Hey, baby. Wanna go to Vegas?”
Fifteen
Piper stepped through the glass door Mike held for her and into the lobby of the regional CDC office in a Las Vegas hospital. She told a receptionist their names and that they had an appointment with the office’s medical director.
She and Mike cooled their jets for about ten minutes before being shown back into a typical doctor’s examining room.
“You did tell this guy we’re working on a possible viral outbreak, right?” Mike muttered.
“Maybe he thought it was us infected,” she muttered back.
The door opened and a bespectacled doctor in a white lab coat stepped into the room. “Hello. I’m Doctor Vargas. How can I help you?”
“You’ve gotten the alerts from the FBI to be on the lookout for unusual viral infections? Particularly of a hemorrhagic nature?” Piper asked.
“Yes, yes. We have a protocol for such things with the local emergency rooms and urgent care clinics. Everyone’s on high alert.”
Jeez. The guy sounded bored out of his mind.
“This is a credible and real threat, Doctor Vargas,” she responded sharply.
“Do you have any idea how often a high visibility city like Las Vegas is the possible target of a terrorist attack? We go through this routine at least three times a year. And those are just the credible threats. We know how to respond, young lady.”
“So there are currently no flu-like symptom outbreaks being reported locally?”
“No. I’d hear about them if there were.” The man shook his head. “All this fuss about Ebola. Yes, we had a few cases of it get loose in the U.S. But we contained it successfully. While its symptoms can be spectacular, it’s just not that contagious a disease. I do wish all you conspiracy theorists would get over your fixation on it.”
Piper opened her mouth to tell the guy that a genetically engineered form of the virus damned well was worth fixating on, but Mike surreptitiously took her hand and squeezed it painfully tight. She got the message. Reluctantly, she snapped her jaw shut.
“Okay, Doctor. Thank you for your help,” Mike said pleasantly. “For the record, the FBI is taking this particular threat seriously. We do have direct intelligence that an attack may have already happened and be in an incubation phase.”
The guy’s eyebrows raised skeptically. Vargas didn’t exactly laugh them out of his office, but he wasn’t far from it. She and Mike paused on the sidewalk in front of the hospital to stare at each other.
“We’re not crazy,” she declared.
“We may be. We have no actual proof that Las Vegas is the target except a helicopter sixty miles away. It’s pretty thin evidence.”
She huffed and mopped her brow. It had to be 110 degrees in the shade. The bottoms of her feet were actually getting hot just standing on the concrete pavement. “Now what?”
“Now we wait for further developments. Either the FBI will make Abahdi talk, or Alex will come up with something, or people will start dying.”
“And in the meantime?” she demanded.
He grinned at her. “We’re in Vegas. Do you need to ask?”
“You want to gamble while this attack unfolds? Isn’t that rather like Nero fiddling while Rome burned?”
“The big dogs are on this case. The investigation is out of our hands for the time being.”
They checked into an off-strip hotel and spent the remainder of the afternoon sleeping in the loud hum of an air conditioner that couldn’t quite keep up with the sweltering August heat outside. It was dark when Piper woke up to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.
Had things been better between her and Mike, she would have joined him. But as it was, she pulled on clothes and tuned the television to a news channel to see if the world had come to an end yet or not. So far, no one was reporting any alarming viral outbreaks or bombs anywhere in the country.
Mike emerged from the bathroom a little later, looking better than any one man had a right to. He wore a black t-shirt that was just tight enough to outline his seriously hot physique. It stretched tight across his biceps and advertised that he was not a guy to mess with.
“Going out?” she asked in surprise.
“There’s a place in town I usually check out when I’m here.”
“Vegas regular, are you?”
“My unit trains in the area every year or two.”
Probably some sort of desert combat or survival training if she had to guess.
“You wanna come along?” he asked.
“And be your wingman?” she asked wryly.
He grinned reluctantly. “You’re not exactly prime wingman material. You’ll attract too much attention to yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail and skipped all make-up, opting only to splash a little cold water on her face and brush her teeth before they headed out. She wore jeans and a plain, white t-shirt considerably looser than his.
The place he took her to—way, way off the Strip—was a dive. It had low-ceilings and cracked linoleum floors, and it was dark and smoky and stunk of vomit and stale beer. The men in the place were mostly the silent, dangerous type, and the women utterly predictable.
Piper groaned. “You did not bring me to a Special Forces groupie bar.”
“Nah. It’s not that exclusive a place.”
She looked around in disgust. “I know Special Forces guys when I see them, and these women are all but lying down on the pool table and spreading their legs.”
“It’s not that bad,” Mike replied, grinning.
“I hear panting. And that, right there,” she pointed at a wet spot on the floor, “is a puddle of drool.”
Mike bellied up to the bar and ordered a pair of beers on tap. He shoved a foamy glass at her and turned to survey the room. “Some decent action, tonight,” he commented over his brewsky.
Eyes narrowed, she scanned the room. She knew the female types. Bleached blondes. Busty. Tight jeans over juicy, wagging asses. High-heels to make them look that last ten pounds thinner. “There’s not an IQ in the lot that breaks triple digits,” she reported sourly.
“Guys don’t come here for the intellectual stimulation.” He was laughing outright at her, now.
She turned back to face the bar. “You’re an asshole,” she muttered.
“Jealous?” he inquired.
“Hardly.”
“Hey, look. Piper. Someone’s coming over to talk to you, in spite of your man clothes, general scrawniness, and obvious brainiac tendencies.”
She glanced up at a giant slab of a man. He was at the top end of the age range in the place, but she would bet he could take out half the male talent in this joint. His graying hair was buzzed in a Marine cut.
“This guy bothering you?” the slab rumbled, lifting his chin at Mike.
“Nah. He’s okay,” she mumbled.
“Sure you don’t want me to take his sorry ass out back and teach him some manners?”
Alarmed, she looked up at the man. “No, really. He’s fine.”
“I dunno…”
Mike reached over and slugged the guy’s shoulder. “Hey, T-Bone. Long time no see. How’s the other side of the fence?”
“Lucrative, man. You need to hop ship and come to the private security side of the house. Where’ve you been M&M?”
Piper looked back and forth between the two men. Of course. The Special Forces community was tiny. She would bet Mike knew a number of the yahoos in here. Scowling, she listened to the ritual trading of war stories between Mike and the mountain of a former Marine. Her guess based on the hair had been spot-on, as it turned out.
Once they’d traded evasive pleasantries about their most recent assignments, she was startled to hear T-Bone murmur, “Who’s the arm candy, Mikey?”
“My partner. Piper, meet Cooper Bosworth.”
“Can I buy you a drink, darlin’?” Bosworth rumbled.
She smiled regretfully. “I’m designated wingman, tonight. And at the rate Mike’s going, he’s going to need some serious help finding a willing female and figuring out what to do with her. I’d better stay sober enough to help him find his dick—”
“Hey now!” Mike interrupted as T-Bone roared with laughter.
She shrugged, eyes glinting with irritation. “I dare you. What’s the Top Gun bet? Find a bimbo in here and have sex on the premises before we leave.”