by Dom Testa
The guys on the 2nd floor at Q2 headquarters didn’t get everything right. But they nailed it with this stuff.
I glanced back at the security guard. He was stopped, and it looked like he was texting. Jason Deele would’ve been beside himself. I chuckled and slipped over to the door, which was embarrassingly easy to pick.
Inside, I found myself at the end of a short hall. The dim, almost sensual mood lighting, meant I wouldn’t need the night-vision glasses tucked into my pack. I crept to a branch in the hallway and peered around a corner. There was no one in sight, and, other than an electrical hum, the place was crypt-quiet.
The next step normally would be to make my way to whatever I was looking for. The problem here was that I had no clue what that was.
Which had never stopped me before.
Priority number one: To nose around and get away without being detected. This was pure reconnaissance, and it would help my case immensely if Deele never knew his playground had been compromised.
Any motion detectors that might exist were disabled, as were the building’s cameras. That still left the likelihood of some gun-toting clown walking around. I mean, other than me.
Staying low, I advanced to the first darkened room I saw with an open door. It held nothing of interest. In fact, at first glance nothing at this end of the building seemed important at all. But across the way a glass door beckoned, and by nature I’m a sucker for beckoning. I hurried over.
Pay dirt. Literally. Through the glass I saw row after row of raised planter beds, flush with thick growth. This was Jaclyn Stone’s playground and, if Sarah Eklund was right, Stone’s lab of horror, too. The room, a large, indoor greenhouse, stretched back through the gloom. There was a lot happening on the other side of the glass.
I looked down at the modern keypad lock, and figured one of my Q2 gadgets could handle it. But I froze when I heard a voice nearby.
It was a man, and he was singing. Not belting out anything, but the kind of singing you do almost under your breath, especially when you’re not completely sure of the words. The song was faintly familiar, but his rendition was horrid. He wasn’t in sight yet, but was definitely approaching from another hallway. I glanced around for cover, found little, and decided the best move was to get inside the greenhouse.
As the bad singer neared, I scrambled through my pack and pulled out an oddly-shaped tube that reminded me of an old-time car cigarette lighter. Placing it against the side of the keypad, I twisted the top. It began the laborious process of reading the guts of the lock and finding one of the codes that worked.
All the while, Adam Levine’s biggest fan got closer and closer. He’d be around the corner in seconds.
Finally the tube vibrated and displayed a five-digit code on its small LED screen. I punched in the numbers, whisked open the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind me. At the same time a dark figure came around the corner and I dove to the floor, turning my face away. I held my breath.
The room was dark, and I had to hope the security guard wouldn’t examine the floor through the glass. I heard his singing much more clearly now, and I’d been right: Maroon 5. At least it was one of the good songs from their early days.
I heard the door knob rattle as he checked it. Apparently content, he ambled away, still softly singing. I waited until his voice faded before getting to my knees.
A flashlight would come in handy, but with the mall cop on patrol I couldn’t risk it. I pulled out the night-vision glasses after all. With them securely in place, I discovered the room was even deeper than I’d thought. Overhead, running the length of the planter boxes, an array of irrigation tubes were braided amongst a complex scaffolding of lights, which for now were dark. After checking the glass door again, I hunched down and made my way along the center row of planters.
The smell was pungent. This was basically an entire farm packed into a relatively small space. The blended scent of organic growth and fertilizer was overpowering until my senses acclimated.
I didn’t recognize the first few species, but assumed they were derivatives of basic wheat. I fiddled with a section of tomato plants, tempted to sample one—until I remembered this wasn’t a farm, it was a laboratory. There was always a chance some of these innocent-looking vegetables could be toxic.
I still didn’t know exactly what I was searching for. Villains aren’t exactly helpful, and they never place a sign over their dirty work that reads, Hey, federal agent, it’s right here.
But on the next row over something caught my eye.
Two six-foot planter boxes were bunched alone, with empty space on each side. They both held what looked just like the soybean plants I’d seen in Iowa. You could tell from the gear around them they’d received extra love. I had a feeling these might be either the samples of the new miracle plant, or perhaps a spin-off.
I pulled off my glasses and stared at it, wondering what I could get away with. After lengthy consideration, I decided a cleanly-snipped stem would have to do. I found one on the backside of a growth. It held several leaves and pod clusters. With a knife I removed it and placed it in a baggie, which then went back into my pack.
Glancing around, I found what looked like an upright medical cooler. It, too, was locked. But peering through its glass doors, I knew I’d need another souvenir.
Picking this lock the old-fashioned way, I pulled one door open and took a chance with my phone’s flashlight. Rows of viles sat alongside other scientific gear. A box of microscope slides would be interesting, but I couldn’t chance taking something that was likely catalogued and would be missed.
Then, in a glass box, I spied a flask. The liquid inside was clear, but it didn’t take a genius to know it wasn’t water. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to keep it isolated: A locked building with heavy security, a locked room, a locked cabinet, and a separate box inside that. I glanced toward the door, then extracted more items from my pack.
Putting on latex gloves, I removed the flask and inserted a syringe, capturing 3 cc’s of the liquid. I repeated that with a second syringe. Then I replaced the flask, carefully stoppered the syringes, and placed them into a secure kit. All of it went back into my pack, along with the used gloves.
There was probably much more I could do here, but I couldn’t push my luck, either. I’d gotten further than I had any right to expect. Time to slink away.
The singing guard was silent when I pulled open the lab door. That meant he was either in another part of the building, or quietly absorbed in something nearby. The hallway to my exit door was across open space. I’d have to be patient. So I peeked through a crack in the door another minute.
The patience paid off. To my left a light came on in an office and a guard—probably the same guy—walked in and disappeared. This was my chance.
Closing the greenhouse door behind me, I hustled over to the hallway. Just as I got there I heard the office light snap off. A voice called out. “Hello?”
I pushed myself flat against the wall, out of his line of sight. A moment later he said it again: “Hello?”
He was unsure. He’d spotted what he thought was motion in the darkness. If he’d actually identified me as a moving person he’d spring into action.
While he contemplated what he’d seen, I tiptoed down the hallway to the door. There was a guard outside as well, but I couldn’t risk staying inside any longer. I silently pushed the door open and stepped out.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
Moving to my right and dropping to my stomach, I searched the grounds. I couldn’t see the patrolling guard, which concerned me. I felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, and ate it up.
There. He came around the corner and walked past me, not fifty feet away. I stayed motionless in the shadow. When he got beyond me I saw him once again pull out his phone. Now he walked while looking at the screen.
The guy was a burglar’s dream. I got to my feet and moved to the junction box. Within 10 seconds the clips were off and
everything put back to its original state. One more glance toward the sentry confirmed he was still texting, so I picked my way across the open space to the fence. Once through the opening, I used a roll of 12-gauge wire to reconnect the chainlink fence to the post. Again, someone would have to look for the damage to ever know it had temporarily been a convenient doorway.
After packing up everything, I walked back to the Jag, smiling. Behind the wheel I broke into the Maroon 5 song.
What can I say? The damned thing was stuck in my head.
21
I awoke at ten with bright Texas sunshine sneaking through a tiny gap in the hotel room’s curtains. That sliver of light must always find your face. It’s a law.
There were two messages waiting. One from Fife, the other from Quanta.
I called the boss.
“I saw your message from early this morning,” she said. “You had a busy night.”
“And a busier day in store. But before we talk about that, when can you have the courier here?”
“She’s en route.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll be interested to see what the lab nerds discover in the samples I took away. Although I think we have a pretty good idea what they are.”
“I see you’ve also requested she bring your new identity, including passport.”
“Yeah. Deele’s trying very hard to crack the U.S. market, but he’s already established in Paraguay. I’d like to know if he’s killed anybody down there, and what else he’s up to.” I paused. “What I don’t have is a contact in that country. My last one was killed by a drug lord about a year ago.”
She considered this. “All right. I can set you up with someone. But I need you to hear what I’m saying right now.”
Quanta rarely lectured. She didn’t need to. She was a quiet leader, the only kind I respected. I’d served once under a ranting fool, early in my military career, and my reaction nearly landed me in the stockade. Only the benevolence of another superior officer saved my ass, probably because I’d saved his on a mission against some really bad men.
Not that I had a warm, loving relationship with the living enigma known as Quanta. But as much as she might piss me off occasionally, I still respected her leadership. So I quietly listened.
“There’s a reason we tend to keep you within our borders,” she said. “Q2 is a shadow organization within our own government; explaining it to a foreign power is not something we ever want to attempt.”
“So I shouldn’t blow up anything,” I said.
“I know that’s asking a lot. But it’s more than that. The person I’m putting you in touch with isn’t sanctioned by the government of Paraguay either.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Are you saying he’s a member of Paraguay’s version of Q2?”
“She. And, in simplified terms, yes. I can’t say more than that. If she wants to reveal anything else, well, I’ll leave it up to her. But check your ego at the border, Swan. Gamez is an accomplished agent, and she’ll be under no obligation to do anything for you that she’s unwilling to take on. If she agrees to help, it’ll only be as a favor to me. Are we clear?”
This gave me pause. Backstory on Quanta was like a precious gem: very rare and extremely difficult to dig up. If this agent owed her a favor, there was a personal connection from their past. It was a past I’d always been curious about.
But a question also came to mind. “How much does Agent Gamez know about Q2? Will she know . . . um, what I am?”
“No. She, nor anyone else down there, even knows the name of our organization. As far as she’ll be concerned you’re a special agent working for me, as part of a covert arm of the government. That’s all. And, knowing Gamez, she won’t ask for anything more.”
“Understood,” I said. “I’ll play nice.”
The call to Fife could wait until after my exchange with the courier. This time it was a man in his late twenties with a scraggly beard and filthy clothes. A great cover, if you ask me. Assuming it was a cover. We swapped code phrases in the doorway under the guise of delivering food. And the guy actually handed me coffee and a bag of donuts. If there was a Yelp page for Q2 couriers, I’d give the slob 5 stars.
He left with the stuff I’d pulled out of Deele’s lab. After closing the door and taking a bite of a chocolate donut, I skimmed through the packet at the bottom of the bag. Some guaraní, the local currency in Paraguay, plus two credit cards and a passport issued to one James Frank. I grimaced. Another phony cover with two first names. I tossed it all on the bed and called my favorite FBI agent.
“You think the juice is maybe the same toxin used in Iowa?” he asked after I caught him up on my late-night theatrics.
“We’ll know by tonight. By that time I’ll be catching a plane for South America.”
“No shit,” he said. “Sorry I can’t go with you this time. I love it down there.”
“I’ll bring you a refrigerator magnet,” I said. “What about updates for me? Any more squawking from the deputy secretary?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
I sighed. “Now what?”
“She says you obstructed her step-daughter from making any progress in Houston.”
“She actually used the word obstructed?”
“More than once. The word is big with politicians, you know. Also said you’ve still provided no data or analysis of any substance. And who can argue with her? We all know you really do suck at analysis. Oh, and she added that you’re vile and uncouth.”
“She did not.”
“Okay,” Fife said, “I made the last part up. But it sounds like something she’d say.”
“That just cost you the fridge magnet. Anything new on Culbertson, or on Deele’s muscle, that guy Wood?”
“Swan, we got nothing. It’s frustrating as hell. We know Wood did it, we know Deele ordered it, and we can’t prove a damned thing. You’re gonna have to come up with something pretty soon to tie it all together.”
“Think the toxin from his lab will be enough?”
Fife let out a long breath. “Honestly? I doubt it. I think you’re going to have to catch him in the act.”
“Great.”
He laughed. “The nation is counting on you, Eric Swan. Don’t let us—”
I hung up on him.
James Frank checked in at Terminal E 90 minutes before the flight departed Houston. Bless Poole’s heart, she’d snuck me into first class. That was worth way more than a fridge magnet. It would be at least a shot glass or an airport hoodie for her.
I found a quiet little alcove at the far end of the concourse with a row of empty, uncomfortable seats. From there I made a call to Christina.
“Sounds like you’re at an airport,” she said. “Should I guess where you’re going?”
“You wouldn’t get it with 100 guesses. But I’m curious where you’d start.”
“Mmm. How about Mobile, Alabama?”
I laughed. “The last time I was in Mobile was in the service. My buddy Drew and I got our asses thoroughly kicked by some guys at a biker bar.”
“I’m sure you had it coming.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I think I bad-mouthed Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
“So where are you going?”
“Babe, in one hour I leave for Paraguay.”
“No shit.”
“Funny, that’s been everyone’s response. How’s your belly? And what’s that you’re eating?”
“You heard that? It’s crackers with some brie. And the belly is fine. My back’s starting to hurt, though. Which is weird. I’m not even that big yet. How’s the assignment coming?”
“Oh, you know, same ol’. Chase bad guys, save the world.” I paused. “I miss you a lot on this trip. Keep wondering what you’re up to.”
“You’re sweet. I miss you, too. And we have some shows to catch up on. If you don’t get back soon I can’t promise I won’t watch without you. Speaking of which, when will you be able to get home?”
“Depend
s. If I bite it in South America you’ll see me this weekend. If all goes well, maybe another ten days? We’ll see how active this particular bad guy is.”
Ours wasn’t your traditional marriage. I mean, how many people casually discussed their itinerary with a spouse based on whether or not they got murdered? For us it was just a semi-normal component of everyday life. And death, for that matter. In a way, our laissez-faire attitude toward it all is what kept us sane through the whole insane arrangement.
“I’d offer to bring you something,” I said, “but I don’t think I can bring back food. Want me to ship anything to you? Any special culinary delights I should look for?”
She thought about it for a moment. I heard the crunch of another cracker. “I’m interested in some of their soups, but I don’t think they’d pack well.”
“All right. How ‘bout I just give you an epic back rub and foot rub when I get home?”
“Hey, don’t make me cheer for you to get killed right away.”
Like I said, not your traditional marriage.
First class air travel is one of the most awkward delights you’ll ever encounter. You’re spoiled beyond belief, with steaming hot towels to cleanse your hands before a luxurious meal is placed before you, complete with a linen napkin. Not to mention the endless flow of booze, should that be your choice. The seats are wide and comfortable, nobody reclines a chair into your nose, and the flight attendants refer to you by name. Mr. Frank, in this case.
I’m surprised they don’t have an attendant in the bathroom to assist with personal hygiene needs.
But I said an awkward delight. Because even though it’s plush and extravagant, you never quite feel you’ve earned any of it. Every time I experience first class I want to apologize to the flight attendants and tell them not to fawn over me; I ain’t worth it.
Then there are the steely looks given to you by the other passengers passing through first class on their way back to steerage, where they’ll be packed in tighter than a mosh pit at Lollapalooza. Unable to officially abuse you with their words, their eyes say it all: I hope you choke on your steak, asshole.