Next Exit, Quarter Mile

by CW Browning

  Michael glanced at him in amusement.

  “Revolt? What will he do, throw a temper tantrum?”

  “Worse. He'll start peeing in the house,” Blake said glumly.

  Michael grimaced.

  “That's why I don't have pets. I like my house clean.”

  Blake peered through the sliding doors.

  “I can't see a damn thing,” he said. He reached out and tried the door. It didn't budge. “Could he have gone away?”

  “He didn't say anything to me about it,” Michael answered. “In fact, he made a point of saying that if I needed to get hold of him, work was the best place. He was always there.”

  “Then he wasn't planning a trip,” Blake decided, stepping back and glancing up at the second level of windows again. “There are definitely no lights on.”

  Michael scowled.

  “I don't like this at all,” he said, looking at Blake. “If someone sent a team all the way to West Virginia, they wouldn't hesitate to come to a house in the same city.”

  “You think someone in DC sent those people after Krupp?” Blake asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Michael paused, then shook his head.

  “I have no idea,” he admitted. “It just seems to make sense.”

  Blake stared at him thoughtfully.

  “If someone in DC is behind all this, we're screwed,” he said quietly, lowering his voice despite himself.

  Michael's lips twisted humorlessly.

  “It wouldn't be the first time,” he reminded him. “Viper seems to bring out the worst in this city of ours.”

  “Not hard to do,” Blake muttered, stepping forward to examine the sliding door. “I can force this lock,” he announced after a moment.

  “Wellness check?” Michael suggested, glancing at him.

  Blake grinned.

  “Works for me,” he agreed. “We're just checking to make sure he's not sick.”

  “Or injured,” Michael offered. “He could be lying somewhere with a broken leg, unable to get to a phone.”

  “Exactly.”

  Blake turned back to the handle of the sliding door and a minute later, the lock cracked and gave way. He slid the door open and looked at Michael.

  “After you,” he said, stepping aside and waving Michael forward with a flourish.

  Michael stepped into the dark living room and glanced around. The air was still and the house was silent. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then moved forward toward the wall, looking for a light switch. Blake followed him in and slid the door shut behind them.

  “Can we get some light?” he asked, looking around.

  “Working on it,” Michael retorted, reaching the far wall. His fingers found a light switch and he flipped it on.

  A lamp in the corner of the living room came on, along with a light fixture in the ceiling, and they looked around the small living room. A couch and two chairs were arranged around a coffee table, facing a flat screen TV mounted above a fireplace. The living room extended into a decent-sized kitchen with standard, Formica counters and a wooden island reminiscent of an old butcher block.

  Michael moved into the kitchen, glancing around. The sink was empty, but a coffee mug sat on the counter, half-filled with stone cold coffee. He looked at the coffee maker and noted the half empty pot still sitting in the machine.

  “Coffee is still here,” he told Blake, reaching out to touch to the pot. “It's cold.”

  “Car keys are here,” Blake answered, glancing up from the side table next to one of the recliners. “So is a cell phone.”

  Their eyes met across the room silently. Almost as one, they reached into their holsters and pulled out their side arms.

  “I hate it when I'm right,” Michael muttered, moving toward the hallway.

  “So do I,” Blake retorted, flanking him as they stepped into the hallway. It was short and led to the front door. On the left was a formal parlor, and on the right under the stairs was a door. Michael opened it to reveal a coat closet while Blake moved into the parlor. “Clear,” he called a moment later.

  Michael rounded the stairs. A door at the bottom was open, exposing a small and empty powder room. He glanced up the stairs.

  “Did you see the door to the garage?” he asked, glancing at Blake as he came out of the parlor.

  Blake frowned for a moment, then shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “It must be off the living room, but I didn't see it.”

  They turned to go down the hallway and into the back of the house once again. They both looked towards where the garage should be and saw a screen in the far corner of the living room. Michael raised an eyebrow.

  “That's why you didn't see it,” he said. “He's hidden it.”

  Blake strode toward the black modern screen painted with white abstract leaves.

  “Why hide a door?” he muttered. “Weird.”

  “Maybe there's a draft,” Michael suggested. “I know there is under mine.”

  Blake rounded the screen and reached for the handle of the door.

  “You coming?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  Michael had paused near the table with the keys and phone and was looking down, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Why would he leave his keys and phone here?” he asked, looking up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems like a strange place. The kitchen counter, OK. A hall stand, sure. But a side table in the middle of the living room, nowhere near the door?” Michael said. “It's weird.”

  Blake followed his gaze to the table, then looked around the living room.

  “You're right,” he agreed, stepping out from behind the screen. “It's not even in the path to any of the doors. It's out of the way.”

  “Exactly.” Michael looked around again, his frown deepening. “And this chair isn't even the one he sits in regularly. Look.”

  He pointed to the couch. One of the cushions was worn down and the remote for the TV sat on the arm next to the worn cushion. The coffee table had scuff marks directly in front of that seat, indicating that Patrick habitually put his feet up while he watched TV.

  Blake's eyes met Michael's and they both pressed their lips together grimly.

  “Garage?” Blake asked.

  Michael nodded and they approached the door behind the screen. Blake opened it, then stepped into the garage, feeling for a light switch on the wall. He found it and flooded the garage with light. It was a small, one car garage and a royal blue Smart car took up half of the space. The other half housed an extra refrigerator and chest freezer.

  “Why do people drive Smart cars?” Blake demanded. “They're ridiculous.”

  “They're fuel-efficient,” Michael replied, turning away from the door.

  “So are a lot of cars,” Blake retorted, switching off the light and following him out of the garage. “Cars that don't look like a roller skate.”

  Michael shot him an amused look over his shoulder.

  “Not everyone is partial to Dodge Challengers.”

  Blake shrugged and followed Michael back to the hallway.

  “At least mine has power.”

  Michael went back down the hallway to the stairs and put a foot on the bottom step. He paused and glanced at Blake. Their eyes met and Blake nodded. Michael nodded back and flipped the light switch on the wall at the bottom of the steps. Light flooded the stairs and hallway above. Michael started up the steps, his back to the wall and his 9mm near his shoulder. Blake followed silently, his eyes focused on the floor above. The house was silent, the only sound an occasional creak from a step under their feet. As they neared the top of the stairs, Michael's frown grew and he tightened his grip on his pistol.

  “What is it?” Blake whispered.

  “I don't know,” he answered quietly. “I thought I heard something.”

  Blake scowled and flipped the safety off his weapon. Michael paused at the top of the stairs, then stepped into the upst
airs hallway. Blake almost ran into the back of him when he suddenly pulled up short.

  “What the...” Blake began, but his voice trailed off as he joined Michael. He lowered his weapon slowly, staring at the end of the hallway.

  Hanging from the door frame of the master bedroom was a very dead Patrick Traeborne.

  Alina dropped her keys on the bar and reached behind her to pull out her .45 tiredly. She laid it next to her keys and went into the kitchen, heading for the fridge. It was the early hours of the morning and the night was still and dark around the house. Raven was nowhere in sight, indicating that he was either asleep upstairs on his perch or still out hunting. The only sound was the steady hum of the refrigerator in the silence.

  She opened the fridge and reached in to pull out a bottle of water. Dr. Krupp wasn't happy about being passed on to strangers on a remote runway at night, but he did it grudgingly after she explained it would be safer where he was going. She didn't tell him who was taking over his protection. As far as Viper was concerned, that was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that Dr. Krupp was safe for the time being.

  Alina opened the water and took a long, thankful drink. She was thirsty, tired and hungry. Another look in the fridge revealed nothing ready to eat without cooking, and she was too exhausted for that. Alina let the door to the fridge swing closed and turned to leave the kitchen. Food could wait until morning.

  She switched out the lights, grabbing her gun as she passed the bar, and headed down the hallway to the stairs. Patrick Traeborne was dead. Michael called to tell her as she was landing in Philadelphia. She shook her head and started up the stairs. By all indications, the doctor hanged himself, but Michael and Blake weren't convinced. After he told her about the keys and the phone in the strange spot in the living room, and the half-finished cold coffee, she was inclined to agree. Admittedly, Alina didn't know very much about suicidal mentality, but somehow she didn't think Dr. Traeborne would make coffee and start drinking it if he was just going to go upstairs and hang himself before he’d finished it.

  Reaching the second floor, she yawned widely and went down the hall to her bedroom. A black shadow stirred on the perch in the corner and she flipped on the light to see Raven lift his head and blink sleepily at the sudden brightness. She smiled and strode over to set her pistol down on the bedside table, switching on the lamp there. The light from the lamp was softer and she turned to go into the bathroom, switching off the overhead as she went. Raven watched her go, then settled down again, burying his beak back in his shoulder and closing his eyes. He was used to his mistress's frequent nocturnal comings and goings.

  Alina went through the motions of brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed, almost numb with all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. She started to think about the letters on John's laptop, but pushed the thoughts aside as soon as they began to form. She didn't have time to think about her brother right now. There would be time enough later to focus on that. Right now, Viper had to find Asad and those bombs before thousands of people were exposed to an airborne Ebola virus.

  Viper sighed tiredly and switched off the bedside lamp, picking up her .45 and slipping it under the pillow. She sank down onto the edge of the bed and frowned. Stephanie hadn't called, she realized suddenly. With everything happening earlier, she didn't even notice that the only people calling were Michael and Charlie. Had John pulled through after all? Did the lucky bastard thwart death a second time? Even as the thought presented itself, Viper remembered the cold, clinical face of the stranger in the hospital and the flicker of hope disappeared. Assassins rarely failed.

  The anger that had been simmering deep inside all day began to bubble up to the surface as she sat there, tired and alone. Her hands clenched in her lap and she stared blindly across the bedroom. John had known, all these years, that everything she knew about her brother's death was a lie. He knew Dave was murdered for what he discovered in the desert twelve years ago. Now, a nameless assassin had taken away Viper's only hope to find out who was behind Dave's death. Why hadn't John told her?

  Alina's lips tightened and her eyes narrowed, her last conversation with John coming vividly to mind. He had been trying to apologize, but she wouldn't listen. She thought he was referring to their break-up again. Alina caught her breath and her eyes widened in sudden understanding. John hadn't been trying to apologize for cheating on her eleven years ago.

  He had been trying to apologize for not telling her about the letters!

  Viper made a strangled noise in the back of her throat and got up impatiently, striding to the window and pushing the curtain aside. She pushed up the window and felt the cold, chilly bite of night air hit her suddenly hot skin. How could she be so stupid?! As soon as the thought came, though, Viper shook her head. There was no way she could have known John was talking about something else. There was no way she could have suspected Dave sent emails to John all those years ago.

  Alina leaned her head against the window frame and stared out into the night, allowing the cold air to soothe her anger and frustration. John tried to tell her the other day about the emails. If she had listened, he might have told her where the missing attachments were, or even what was in them. Instead, she hadn't listened. Now, his home was destroyed, and anywhere that the attachments might have been saved or hidden had gone with it. Her chances of finding the person or persons behind her brother's death were slim. Her lips tightened grimly.

  Slim, but not impossible.

  Viper turned away from the window a few minutes later, the burning anger once again under control. The nameless assassin could wait. John's death would be avenged, and so would Dave's, but Asad came first. That was the more pressing threat.

  She got into bed tiredly. After she finished with Asad, she would turn her attention to the nameless assassin. There was nowhere he could hide. She would start with him. He was the first link. If she had to burn Washington to the ground, Viper would find the person responsible for Dave's death.

  And there would be no hope for their soul by the time she finished.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The sound of a phone ringing dragged Alina from the depths of sleep and she came awake with a start. She sat up, disoriented by the light pouring through the open window. Her eyes went to the empty perch in the corner, then to the cell phone ringing on the bedside table. Rubbing her face with one hand, she reached for the phone with the other, grimacing as pain shot down her arm.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning,” Damon's voice greeted her.

  “Is it?” Alina asked, switching the phone to her right hand and stretching her wounded arm gingerly.

  “Did I wake you up?” he asked, amused.

  “Yes,” she admitted, her eyes going again to the window and the bright, mid-morning sun. “I had a late night.”

  “How late?” The amusement was gone from his voice now. “What happened?”

  “It's a long story,” Alina muttered, wincing as pain shot down her arm again. “How's it going over there?”

  “I'm in Ankara,” he said shortly. “I'm making progress. Give me a shortened version.”

  Alina chuckled despite herself.

  “There's really isn't one,” she told him. “You wouldn't believe everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours. I'm starting to wonder why everything always happens after you leave.”

  “I told you I wasn't happy about going,” Damon said. “What's going on?”

  Alina ran a hand through her hair, trying to decide what to tell him. There was no point in telling him about John right now, he'd find out soon enough when he came back. Ditto the emails from Dave.

  “For starters, Michael was right not to want to talk over the phone,” she said after a moment. “He dove in over his head and now he's got someone following him and listening to his phones.”

  “You told him to find Asad, right?” Hawk asked. “Did he find him?”

  “Not yet. He went poking around, tryin
g to find out what kind of weapon the drivers were transporting,” she replied, stifling a yawn, “and he struck gold.”

  “What is it?”

  “A biological weapon. We believe it's a mutated form of Ebola. I took a trip out to Morganville to see a scientist who was already testing some samples Michael sent him.”

  “Wait a minute,” Hawk interrupted. “You mean to tell me the gunny not only found out what the weapon was, but got samples?”

  “I told you he struck gold,” Alina reminded him, her lips twitching. “He knows some very useful people,” she added thoughtfully. “Really, he's quite surprising.”

  “Clearly,” Hawk muttered. “The scientist you saw works for the CDC, I'm assuming?”

  “Yes. He's pretty confident they've found a way to make Ebola airborne.”

  Dead silence followed that statement and Viper leaned her head back against the headboard, waiting for the news to sink in.

  “Please tell me you're joking,” Hawk finally said.

  “Unfortunately, no,” she replied. “However, there is a bright side.”

  “Oh really? I'm all ears,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

  “It still has to be injected initially,” she told him. “It's been distributed as an antidote to all the area hospitals. Once injected, it takes twelve hours for the virus to mutate and become airborne.”

  “I'm not seeing how this is a bright side.”

  “All we have to do is pull the antidote from the hospitals.”

  “Why do I get the feeling it won't be that simple?” Hawk asked. “What's it supposedly an antidote for?”

  Alina grinned. He didn't miss much.

  “Anthrax.”

  “Oh great!” he exclaimed, the sarcasm back. “Good luck convincing hospitals not to administer an antidote if the bombs release an Anthrax-like substance.”

  “Well, that's why we need to find the bombs,” Viper admitted.

  Hawk was silent for a moment, then she heard a very faint sigh.

  “I know there's more. What else?”