Breathe

by Mike Brogan

  Doctor Nell Northam is abducted by jihadists to help them launch a weapon. The President asks his top security advisor, Donovan Rourke, to stop the attack. But when Donovan and Nell are finally ready to stop it, they realize they’ve been deceived – and that thousands of Americans are about to die.

  A suspense thriller.

  MIKE BROGAN

  Lighthouse

  Also by Mike Brogan

  Business to Kill For

  Dead Air

  Madison’s Avenue

  G8

  Kentucky Woman

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017

  By Mike Brogan

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 978-0-9980056-7-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017941349

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published in the United States by Lighthouse Publishing

  Cover design: Vong Lee

  First Edition

  This book is dedicated to the men and women of the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, Police, and US Military who risk their lives… to protect ours.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty Eight

  Forty Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty One

  Fifty Two

  Fifty Three

  Fifty Four

  Fifty Five

  Fifty Six

  Fifty Seven

  Fifty Eight

  Fifty Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty One

  Sixty Two

  Sixty Three

  Sixty Four

  Sixty Five

  Sixty Six

  Sixty Seven

  Sixty Eight

  Sixty Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy One

  Seventy Two

  Seventy Three

  Seventy Four

  Seventy Five

  Seventy Six

  Seventy Seven

  Seventy Eight

  Seventy Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty One

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Acknowledgments

  To Andrew Manning, former-FBI Special Agent, for his helpful suggestions and insights into the challenges facing FBI agents each day as they protect our citizens.

  To the experts at the US Military’s Aberdeen Proving Ground for their helpful counsel on weapons of mass destruction and related subjects.

  To my fellow novelists and writing colleagues for their suggestions that made this story better.

  To editor/translator, Brendan Brogan, for his insightful review and improvements to the rough draft of BREATHE.

  To author, Rebecca M. Lyles, for her comprehensive final edit and enhancements to the manuscript of BREATHE.

  And to my wife, Marcie, and the family for their endless patience with the distracted writer in residence.

  ONE

  MANHATTAN

  Nell Northam thought her sister, Lindee, looked good. Eight months ago Lindee looked dead.

  A man had attacked her in her apartment and left her to bleed out. Nell found Lindee with no pulse and did CPR until an ambulance rushed her to Mount Sinai where her heart stopped twice in the ER. But she was resuscitated.

  Days later, she emerged from a coma and began a slow recovery. Her doctor called her “The Miracle Girl.”

  Today, the Miracle Girl seemed almost back to normal, if you forgot about the three dead-bolt locks on her apartment door, two alarm systems, and her sweat-drenched nightmares.

  Nell had flown up from Virginia for their annual Sisters-ShopTill-We-Drop-Athon. She had her eye out for a few items, but really wanted to make sure her younger sister was recovering physically and psychologically. So far it appeared she was.

  Nell turned and looked in a shop window and couldn’t believe her eyes. “Found it!”

  “What?” Lindee said, two shops ahead.

  “That beautiful Michael Kors purse I’ve been lusting after.”

  “In brown?”

  “Brown and on sale!”

  “Look at what else is on sale!” Lindee said, pointing in her window.

  “What?”

  “Those Cole Haan shoes you’ve also been on the prowl for!”

  “No way!”

  “I’m looking at them!”

  Nell was amazed. They’d been shopping for only four hours and she’d already found the two items she wanted most just a few feet apart. On sale! What were the odds?

  She looked back at the attractive leather purse. Why 50%-off? She couldn’t see any flaws. Even if it had a flaw, it was good enough for her.

  She heard footsteps come close. Suddenly two men grabbed her from behind.

  She tried to scream, but a huge male hand clamped her mouth shut. She struggled against arms that felt like steel bands. The big man and a short man dragged her quickly toward an open van.

  This is not happening! Nell thought, as they lifted her into the van.

  Lindee turned, saw her, and shouted - “STOP! LET HER GO! HELP!”

  But a truck horn blasted, drowning out Lindee’s cries.

  The big man pushed Nell down on the van floor as the van sped away from the curb.

  * * *

  Lindee slumped against a parking meter, watching the van disappear into heavy traffic. I’m having another nightmare!

  But then she saw Nell’s earring near the curb.

  My God - Nell was taken! She grabbed the earring and called 911.

  “My sister was just taken by two men in a van!”

  “Where are you ma’am?”

  “On Broadway near 67th. Not far from Barneys.”

  “What kind of van?”

  “Long. White. Big windows along the side. It looked new.”

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  Lindee paused. “The last number was maybe a . . . nine.”

  “Which direction was the van driving on Broadway? North or south?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Away from Columbus Circle?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was your sister wearing?”

  Lindee told her.

  “Remain there, ma’am. Keep your phone on. We’re sending a police car immediately.”

  “Please hurry!”

  Her mind spinning, Lindee stared at the spot w
here they grabbed Nell. She prayed it was just another one of her crazy nightmares.

  But she knew it wasn’t.

  Her sister was just abducted.

  TWO

  Donovan Rourke sat in his CIA office in Manhattan, one of the CIA offices scattered throughout Midtown, Lower Manhattan, and Brooklyn.

  He was relaxing between meetings and gazing out at the sun-drenched leaves in the nearby park. He liked how the leaves blended from lime green to emerald. The greens always calmed him until the next crisis, which looked like it might be walking into his office right now.

  Mamie, his smart, organized, fifty-something, Nigerian-born assistant, had that something’s-up look on her face. She pointed at his phone.

  “God’s on one!” she said.

  “Tell Him I’m busy.”

  “Everyone’s a comedian!”

  “What’s the Director want?”

  “No idea. Meanwhile, here’s more stuff for you.” She smiled as she dumped a stack of paperwork and folders in his inbox, and walked out.

  More stuff, how nice. He had enough. Nine months ago the Director of National Intelligence, Michael Madigan, and the President appointed Donovan as a Special Advisor on terrorism, and head of a new secret covert group affiliated with the CIA. Donovan had been honored by the appointment. He coordinated closely with the FBI and other Manhattan-based anti-terrorism groups because Manhattan was the golden magnet for terrorist groups.

  But each week he had to fly to Washington, sometimes twice or more, to huddle with various national security groups and DNI Madigan. The weekly travel was starting to wear thin with him and Maccabee, his wife. They’d been considering whether relocating to Washington would make things easier for their family.

  Line one buzzed.

  DNI Madigan, the most powerful man in the United States Intelligence community, was a long-time friend and a tough but fair taskmaster . . . who was about to task him again! And possibly screw up our wedding anniversary trip this weekend. Already postponed twice.

  Donovan picked up. “Director . . .”

  “Donovan, we have a situation.”

  “What’s up?”

  “A top government scientist was just grabbed off a Manhattan street.”

  “Where?”

  “A few blocks from you.”

  Donovan heard the soft drone of an engine and assumed Madigan was flying somewhere to check one of his many intelligence groups: the CIA, NSA, FBI, Homeland Security, and all sixteen US intelligence agencies, or whatever number the congressional idiots decided on this week. Madigan visited the agencies to insist they share information and to kick ass when they didn’t.

  “What happened?”

  “Pentagon says one of their chief scientists, a woman named Doctor Nell Northam, was abducted near Broadway and 67th. Two men dragged her into a white van and sped off. Her sister, Lindee, saw it happen. She gave NYPD a brief description.”

  “The FBI on this?”

  “Yeah. Special Agent Drew Manning’s heading it up for the FBI.”

  ”Manning’s excellent.”

  “Agreed. But we want you to work with Manning.”

  “Why me? Kidnappings and abductions are FBI stuff.”

  “Yeah, but we . . .”

  “The President and I.”

  “Ah, the Royal We.”

  “Yeah. The President wants you heading this up, Donovan.”

  Donovan paused. “Why?”

  “Because of Doctor Northam’s job. Which is highly critical to our national security. Like your job.”

  Donovan said nothing.

  “He also wants you because of who Nell Northam is.”

  “And who is she?”

  “The President’s first cousin.”

  “Ah, the Royal First Cousin . . .”

  “Yep. Check in with Drew Manning and call me when you guys know more. I got a real bad feeling about this because of what Doctor Northam does. And whoever took her, knows what she does.”

  Madigan gave him a brief overview of her work. As he did, Donovan’s stomach churned with the horrific implications of her skill in terrorist hands.

  They hung up.

  Donovan started to call FBI Special Agent Drew Manning when Donovan’s personal phone rang. Maccabee, his wife.

  A year ago, she’d transferred from the Princeton faculty to NYU as a full professor in the Foreign Languages, Translation, Interpreting Department. She enjoyed NYU’s academic-urban environment better than she’d originally thought she would.

  “I’m packing your white linen suit for St. Thomas,” she said.

  “I thought we were just going to loaf around on the beach. You know, make sand castles with Tish . . .”

  “We will. But one night we should get gussied up and dine in a fancy restaurant for - ”

  “- our first wedding anniversary dinner,” he said quickly.

  “Who’s a caring, thoughtful male?”

  “What can I say . . .”

  “You can say what sweet gift you’re getting me? Remember, the first year wedding anniversary gift is paper.”

  “Our boarding passes are paper.”

  “So are 5,000 certificates of Apple stock.”

  “Hey - I’m a lowly government employee.”

  “Gotta go - Tish just spilled her mac and cheese! See you later.”

  As Donovan hung up, he hoped he did see her later. He also hoped this new assignment would be resolved before their flight to St. Thomas. They’d both been working too many hours. Maccabee needed time away from students as much as he needed time away from tracking jihadists and ISIS sympathizers.

  He pictured their family strolling along sunny Megan’s Bay, admiring the Caribbean’s serene blue water.

  But something told him the only water he’d see for a while was the East River, gray as a slab of lead.

  THREE

  Nell felt the muscular, bull-necked man push her down hard against the van’s cold steel floor. Each pothole banged her head and brought a grin to his face.

  Bull Neck reeked of garlic and sweat. His bulging brow, puffy face, and his skin-tight suit suggested steroid abuse. His thick black eyebrows had grown together over small olive-pit eyes. His left ear was mostly gone - replaced by a thick gray scar that squiggled down his neck like a worm and disappeared into a beard as black as the gun he pointed at her face.

  Beside him sat a small, thin man. Black hair, pencil mustache, narrow face with dark, deep-set eyes. He looked intelligent and intense. His thick, wire-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly appearance. He dabbed his left nostril with a clean white handkerchief.

  The small man looked down at her. “Do what we say and you will not be hurt.”

  Nell didn’t believe him.

  “Take my money. And credit cards.”

  “No thanks. But I will take your phone!”

  She handed it to him. He smashed it with a hammer and dropped the pieces out the window.

  “Please, I have a young daughter and a husband . . .”

  “I know.”

  How could he know?

  “You will see them again if you do as I say.”

  Again, something told her not to believe him.

  The van hit a deep pothole and Bull Neck’s gun bounced hard against her temple. He smiled, revealing a green substance between his teeth.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Obedience,” the small man said.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He said nothing.

  She glanced out the windshield. The sun’s position told her they were driving north, parallel with the Hudson River.

  What’s Lindee doing? She saw them grab me. She shouted for help - but a truck horn blasted over her cries. But by now she would have called the police. And maybe the young saleswoman inside the purse store saw the men grab me.

  “We don’t have much money.”

  “We don’t want money. We want something else,” the small man said, dabbing his nose a
gain.

  Please God, not sexual predators . . .

  “Relax. We don’t want what’s between your legs either.”

  Bull Neck’s expression suggested he didn’t agree with that.

  “We want what’s between your ears, Doctor.”

  Now she got it.

  They knew who she was. What she could do. And they wanted that. But how could they possibly have learned what she did? Very few people knew – and they held the highest security clearances in the US government. She trusted them all. But then, the US government trusted Robert Hansen and Edward Snowden and two million other people with high security clearances.

  The small man nodded to Bull Neck. Before she realized it, Bull Neck grabbed her right arm with both hands and held it flush against the van floor. The thin man swabbed her arm with something that smelled antiseptic. Then he removed a long wand like device, which she recognized as an ultra-sound wand.

  The small man placed a damp cloth over her nose. She smelled kerosene scent and realized it was ether. Her vision faded, but she saw the thin man move a surgical scalpel along her forearm. She felt a sharp pain.

  Then everything went black . . .

  FOUR

  Donovan stared out the narrow office window at a guy on the street below. The guy was aiming something long and black up toward him. A telescopic camera? A scoped rifle? Donovan moved to the side. The rifle followed him.

  As Donovan grew more concerned, the guy turned, revealing his long black selfie stick.

  Paranoia. Perk of the job, he reminded himself.

  He was in the FBI Manhattan headquarters located in 26 Federal Plaza, the massive, charcoal-gray, forty-one story fortress at Broadway and Worth. He wondered if the windows were narrow so employees wouldn’t waste time gazing outside like he was – or so snipers couldn’t easily shoot someone inside?

  FBI Special Agent Drew Manning walked in with Lindee Langstrom, the sister of Dr. Nell Northam.

  Dr. Northam had been abducted an hour ago, but Lindee’s red, mascara-smudged eyes looked like it just happened. She sat down and stared at the floor.

  Manning handed her a bottle of Evian.

  Donovan liked Drew Manning. They’d worked together to help prevent several terrorist threats in the city. The six-four, thirty-five-year old ex-University of Dayton Flyer basketball star was intelligent, compassionate, and professional. Even more important, he liked Jameson whiskey, which Donovan suspected would be their medication of choice after this crisis, and maybe during. Manning wore his usual: blue blazer, tan slacks, aqua shirt, and a disarming smile.