Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  Fitch’s mouth slowly broke into a grim smile. “No one?”

  “Nathan, Robert Sand once observed that you only see what you choose to see. Prove him right. Beeman will be permanently retired.”

  “No due process of law?”

  “Nope.” Brecht shook his head. “No process. Just due.”

  Chapter 57

  Beeman gestured to the cab driver. “Pull into the parking lot of that motel. I’ll be going across the street. I need you to wait for me right here. I won’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

  The driver nodded, and Beeman stepped from the cab. He’d promised a $300 tip on top of the fare for a round trip from the airport to his uncle’s gas station and back. As he strolled across the two-lane highway, he spotted a sign hanging in the window: OPEN.

  Though he’d never said it to the man, Beeman detested his uncle. Calvin Dougherty was his late mother’s brother—a pompous Baptist zealot from Oklahoma City. After Beeman’s mother was gone, Calvin had paid off Beeman’s student loans and offered him affection, but affection meant nothing to Beeman. Calvin had also tried to control Beeman’s career choices and infect him with the mental madness he’d called “Salvation by the Grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Disgusting.

  But Beeman had acted the role of the doting nephew for a time, as he knew Calvin had wanted, to perpetuate the façade. After all, he’d needed the money, and in those days direct confrontation hadn’t been Beeman’s style. He’d always preferred to do things in more indirect ways, setting forces in motion to bring about the results he desired.

  A bell jingled over the door as Beeman pushed it open and stepped inside, expecting to find his uncle at the counter behind the cash register.

  “Hello?” Beeman called out. “Anybody here? Calvin?”

  Silence.

  Beeman stepped outside and strolled around behind the station to find the garage door closed with no one there.

  He went back inside and stepped behind the counter. The door to Calvin’s office was open, but the room was deserted. Beeman looked through the papers on his desk, finding nothing but receipts and bills and a copy of an old magazine called Your Daily Guide to Miracles, published by the Oral Roberts Ministries. The magazine was open to a page with a Bible passage circled many times in red pen. Smirking, Beeman read the verse:

  And in those days men will seek death and will not find it; they will long to die, and death shall fly from them.

  —Revelation 9:6

  Beeman stared at the words for a long time. It seemed prophetic that this passage should appear before him now, as if Calvin knew of his frustration in the wake of recent failures. But of course, it was mere coincidence. His failure tainted his perception of everything.

  His dummy smoke detector had failed to release the virus; Kim must have revealed the existence of the device before he died.

  Antonio was dead; the girls were safe. He was a wanted man, dogged by the full force and might of the federal government and cooperating state agencies. He would lose his home, his work and the life he’d lived. All he had left was a bit of money, his encyclopedic scientific knowledge and—in a matter of a few more minutes—one vial of the deadliest biological weapon the world had ever known.

  He pushed the desk forward several feet, moving it away from the hidden trapdoor that concealed a floor safe Calvin didn’t even know was there. He dialed the combination from memory. The tumblers clicked, and he turned the handle, opening the door upward, expecting to see the sealed polymer case containing his last vial of Black Sunrise and an envelope containing several thousand dollars in cash along with a fresh credit card.

  When he bent over and looked into the safe, his blood ran cold.

  The safe was empty.

  Had Calvin found it and removed the contents? Not possible. Calvin could never open this safe without damaging it. Beeman tipped the door back to look carefully at the outer surface. There were no scratches or evidence of an attempt to force the safe door open.

  He searched the office, looking in the drawers of Calvin’s desk, on shelves, in a metal file cabinet, and in the medicine cabinet of Calvin’s private bathroom. He found nothing of value.

  Where was Calvin?

  The front door had been unlocked. No one had turned the sign on the door to show the station was closed. Yet the garage door had remained closed; it was Calvin’s habit to keep it up whenever the station was open for business.

  Something was definitely very wrong.

  Beeman knew he had to get out—immediately.

  He stepped quickly out of the office and around the counter toward the door, stopping in his tracks when he gazed out through the glass window toward the motel across the street.

  His taxi was gone. He hadn’t paid the driver.

  He thought of calling for another, but his instincts told him to get away on foot and out of sight as quickly as possible.

  On the other hand, the sooner he had transportation, the faster he could put distance between himself and this place. Willing himself to be calm, he went back into Calvin’s office and picked up the telephone.

  It did not surprise him that the line was dead.

  There was nothing left for him to do now but run—on foot.

  He had the sudden, powerful sense that someone was watching him. He set the receiver on the desk and turned slowly to face the doorway. No one was there. He called out, yet no one replied.

  He decided to walk back to town. If he were lucky, someone would give him a ride. After all, he didn’t look dangerous—more like the professor he was.

  He bent down to close the safe door.

  As he did so, he felt something hard pressing into the back of his head.

  He knew it was a pistol.

  Beeman waited for his life to end, but it did not. Without turning, he asked his unseen assailant, “What do you want?” The steadiness of his own voice pleased him.

  “I don’t want anything.”

  Beeman recognized the voice. It was the long-haired man who had taken him from his home. The man who called himself Tomahawk.

  “I honored our agreement,” Beeman said. “You rescued the women.”

  “I know.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “There is no problem.”

  The deadly calm in the man’s voice caused Beeman’s pulse to escalate once again. He should have listened to his instincts and run. If he’d sprinted suddenly from the building, he might have had a chance to get away.

  “Do you intend to shoot me?” Beeman realized that if they found his body over an open safe door, they would likely write off the circumstances of his murder as an everyday armed robbery.

  Would he enter eternal oblivion as nothing more than a crime statistic? How tawdry.

  “Do you want to die?”

  Beeman grunted. “No one will ever erase my existence.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “My work will continue.”

  “You mean your virus?”

  “Yes. My virus will continue. It is a new life-form. I created it. And I will create others.”

  “I have some bad news for you.”

  Beeman sighed. He turned around to face Kenehan and took two steps backward.

  “Yesterday the president signed an executive order directing the destruction of all existing specimens of the Black Sunrise virus, obliterating it from the face of the earth along with all records of its genetic structure and how to produce it.”

  Beeman shook his head slowly. “Did it occur to you that perhaps there are samples of live virus unaccounted for?”

  “The smoke detector.”

  “You found that too, didn’t you?”

  The man gazed at him with those beautiful shark-death eyes.

  “Kim told you where it was?” Beeman probed.

  Kenehan chuckled. “Christie Jensen figured it out while reading a newspaper.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s a very unusual s
pecimen.”

  “That she is,” Kenehan said. “We found it about two minutes before it released your stuff.”

  “How were you able to contain it?”

  Kenehan smiled. “Contrary to environmentalist claims, mankind’s destiny was to find salvation in plastic garbage bags.”

  Beeman settled into the chair at Calvin’s desk and then rocked back and put his feet up. The barrel of Kenehan’s automatic tracked his movements.

  Beeman closed his eyes. “Life is death is life,” he intoned.

  “Dr. Beeman, you’ve got the equation wrong,” Kenehan corrected him. “Life is life. And death is death.”

  Those were the last words Beeman would ever hear.

  He didn’t even hear the sound of the pistol’s sharp report; the portion of his brain responsible for processing sound sprayed across the wall behind him just as the sound waves reached his eardrums.

  Kenehan pulled out of the parking lot of the gas station with the cell phone at his ear. “Have Jennifer call the sheriff now.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket and checked his watch.

  With any luck, he could reach Eloy before sunset.

  Epilogue

  So light was her grandfather, it barely took any effort for Christie to push his wheelchair. The old man sat up a little straighter as she rounded her way through the open doorway and onto the veranda of the nursing home. A canopy of palms overhead provided shade, and the afternoon was growing pleasantly cooler.

  Albert Brecht sat at a wooden picnic table, dressed as always in a dark suit and striped tie.

  The two old men gazed at each other in silence. Christie straightened the blanket on her grandfather’s lap. “I tried to tell him what happened. I think he understands, but he comes and goes. If you need me, I’ll be inside.”

  She left them alone.

  “Conrad?” Brecht said tenderly, leaning forward on the bench. “Do you recognize me?”

  The old man gave no reply but simply stared at him. Brecht wasn’t sure his old friend could even see him, let alone recognize him. Too many years had passed.

  The soft breeze played havoc with the unruly clouds of each man’s fine white hair.

  Brecht sighed. “They told me you might not remember, old friend.”

  Still the old man in the wheelchair said nothing.

  Brecht sat quietly for a long while, feeling the weight of all of his years. At least he’d paid the debt—but it would have been sublime for Conrad to share the victory with Albert.

  After a long while, Christie stepped back onto the veranda.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  Brecht shook his head slowly.

  “I’m so sorry,” Christie said sadly. “You never know. Sometimes he comes out of it. I have my own car, so I’ll head home now. Stay as long as you want. Let the nurse know when you’re ready to leave, and she’ll take Granddad back to his room.” Christie kissed her grandfather on the forehead and then gave Brecht a quick hug and left.

  Brecht reached into his pocket and withdrew a small object. It was heavy in his twisted, age-spotted hand.

  He gazed into the infinity of time; his mind lost in the past.

  His life had been a good one.

  He looked at the small piece of lead and sighed.

  “Oh, well,” he said, starting to rise.

  The man in the wheelchair stirred.

  “Is that what I think it is, Albert?” Dr. Conrad Jensen asked, his voice barely audible. “Is that the bullet from your brain? You kept it all this time?”

  Brecht settled back onto the bench. Conrad was making eye contact now, and Brecht was gratified to see a flash of humor in his eyes. “Yes, Conrad. The bullet.”

  The ancient physician nodded, closing his parchment eyelids for a few seconds. “That was quite a night,” he murmured. “Sometimes I remember it more clearly than what happened an hour ago. I’m getting old, you see.” He opened his eyes and gazed at Brecht. “But then, you’re no kid yourself.”

  “Conrad. You gave me a life, at the risk of your own.”

  “And it’s weighed on you since that night. I’ve always known. But it shouldn’t have, Albert. It was my privilege to serve. I was just a doctor. It was an adventure.”

  Brecht said nothing. The silence hung between the two old men the way a comfortable old robe hangs on its owner.

  “Albert,” Conrad Jensen said at last. “I know what you did.”

  “You do?”

  “My son told me.”

  Brecht’s steel eyes misted over.

  “That bullet is your debt, Albert.”

  The breeze caressed both men lovingly.

  “Give it back to me now.”

  Brecht placed the deformed slug into Conrad’s palm, closing his equally deformed fingers around it.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Conrad whispered. “Go with God.”

  They found Brecht the next morning, slumped over the wheel of his car in the parking lot outside Conrad Jensen’s nursing home.

  His aging heart had finally given out.

  They flew his body to Arlington National Cemetery. The president gave his eulogy. Two past presidents attended, as did the prime minister of Israel, the king of Jordan, the British prime minister and the past or present leaders of eleven other countries.

  A few members of the FBI domestic counterterror operations unit known as the Skunk Team were also present.

  Nathan Fitch sat without expression as the guns went off and the bugle played.

  The Jensen family cried—even Mark.

  Kenehan put his arm around Christie and pulled her close as she wept, glad that she could not see his own tears.

  Jackie stared at the ground.

  Robert Sand bowed his head and whispered, “Say hello to the Baron for me, old warrior. And keep a place for me.”

  When Brecht had climbed into his car, he’d been consciously aware of the moment his heart stopped beating. In his last seconds, knowing that the end had finally arrived, he’d given silent thanks. This was how he’d always wanted to go—with dignity, in triumph, his debt repaid.

  The final sounds to echo through his mind were, strangely enough, those of Mark Jensen as he’d recited Christie’s favorite poem. As a bright light and a feeling of great serenity forced the blackness aside, he heard the words.

  They seemed so appropriate.

  One grand, sweet song.

  Author’s Note

  Black Sunrise is a work of entertainment. It should be read as nothing more. All names, characters, places and events portrayed in the story are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, incidents, or locations is purely coincidental. The ideas expressed in the story and in the commentary below are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of the distributors or sellers of this book.

  The Brecht Group does exist—but only in the imaginations of the author and the reader! You will learn more about the Brecht Group in Convergence of Demons, the upcoming second book in the Brecht Group series. Christie and Roady have great adventures in store!

  Elite private security agencies do exist, and some of them have resources, networks and political connections that come close to those possessed by the Brecht Group. The author has had the privilege of working with some of them.

  It is also true, in the author’s opinion, that the leader of North Korea has found himself in an unsolvable quandary. His nation simply cannot continue to sustain itself indefinitely without the infusion of massive resources; he and his paternal ancestors have dreamed of solving that problem by taking back the Republic of Korea—also known as South Korea—by force. The “Democratic Republic” of North Korea has no defensive justification for the size of its military or the obsessive zeal with which it chases the dream of nuclear parity. No one would invade North Korea for any reason other than the defense of the rest of the world from the whimsical impulses of a madman with an atom bomb. Some talk of the “reunificat
ion” of the Korean nations, but to the man who owns North Korea, invasion is the object of his longing and his perceived destiny. His recent actions and his professed desire to begin to re-enter the international community of civilized nations fits the pattern of similar false posturing by his father and his grandfather over a period of decades—none of which turned out to be sincere.

  History teaches us to be suspicious on that front.

  We live in an age of technology that is growing at an exponential rate. As with all of man’s great discoveries, we will discover the full benefits—and dangers—of the scientific breakthroughs sitting just beyond the horizon through hard experience.

  Most genies can’t be put back in the bottle.

  There are four new technologies that have long been the subject of science fiction which are on the verge of becoming real—nanotechnology, quantum computing, artificial intelligence and genetic engineering—which will inevitably combine to change the world in ways no living person can accurately predict. When they do emerge, they will converge, and produce a new era for mankind, for better or for worse.

  Biological warfare is an even greater threat to mankind than nuclear weaponry. While the proliferation of nuclear weapons represents a grave threat, biological weapon research carries a deadlier potential, for nuclear inventions do not have the ability to reproduce and spread on their own, silently and without detection. Nuclear bombs are not contagious, they are much more difficult to transport, and emit radioactive signatures that can often be detected from space. There is no record kept each time viral particles reproduce to create more of themselves, which can happen in minutes, whereas a single nuclear warhead requires years to manufacture.

  It is a cold, hard fact that, in this day and age, a single missing test-tube could end human life on this planet. Our ability to create designer superbugs grows with each passing month. In the author’s opinion, the “genius” minds advancing biological weaponry are largely devoid of conscience and may be as motivated by death as Arthur Beeman.