Breathe

by Mike Brogan

  “You believe him?”

  She paused and looked at him. “Unfortunately, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a brilliant, creative bio-chemical weapons scientist.”

  Donovan’s hope sank. “Tell us what you know.”

  “First off all, Hasham’s trucks picked up steel canisters containing VX from the underground lab at the forest cabin. The trucks delivered them to a nearby assembly plant.”

  “What did the plant assemble?”

  “ChocoYummy.”

  “Did you say . . . Choco . . . yummy?” Manning asked.

  “Yes.” Nell closed her eyes as though she didn’t want to continue.

  “What’s ChocoYummy?”

  Another pause.

  “A drink for children . . .”

  They let out a collective gasp.

  Donovan asked, “Are you saying this ChocoYummy . . . contains the VX?”

  “Yes.”

  Donovan felt blood drain from his face. He couldn’t speak.

  “I’ll kill the bastard!” Cage hissed, his face crimson.

  “I saw the bottling machines deposit the chocolate colored liquid into small Coca Cola sized bottles at the assembly plant. The bottle label had a smiling young boy and girl, about nine. It’s clearly aimed at children. They filled thousands and thousands of ChocoYummy bottles with the chocolate drink, then loaded the cases onto trucks that drove off and kept coming back for more. Again and again.”

  Donovan cringed as he imagined Tish drinking the poison.

  “The signage on the trucks says Ask Mummy for ChocoYummy.”

  Agent Cage, red-faced, cursed.

  “Did you see any other possible delivery system in the bottling plant or cabin?” Donovan asked.

  “No. And I looked.”

  “Any hint of air or water delivery?” Cage asked.

  “None.”

  No one spoke for seconds.

  “So any kid who drinks it - “ Donovan said.

  “ - will die in minutes. Painfully,” Nell said. “So will any adults.”

  “The weapon is probably already in stores,” Donovan said, his heart slamming against his chest. “Get the warning out now!”

  Several agents grabbed their phones and made calls.

  “So,” Manning said, “they set fire to the plant to eliminate evidence of their secret delivery system.”

  Nell nodded. “And me!”

  They stared at her.

  “I was locked in a janitor’s closet, but escaped through a small window minutes before the plant exploded.”

  Jacob reached over and held her hand.

  Nell said, “At the plant, have your people check ChocoYummy bottle fragments for VX. Make sure they wear HazMat suits! The air should test positive for VX. The explosion probably spread the VX. We need to clear a one-mile area around the plant. Keep people in homes. Shut windows tight. Turn off ventilations systems until we can give the all-clear announcement.”

  Agent Manning gave the order over his phone. “Our Homeland Security MobileLab trailer is three minutes from the plant. They’ll test ChocoYummy bottle fragments.”

  “Did Hasham mention target cities?” Donovan asked.

  “No. But I grabbed two flash drives that might tell us.” She took them from her pocket. “I took them from Hasham’s computer office. This blue one was taped to the printer. The red drive was hidden under the computer.”

  Manning handled the flash drives like they were ten-carat diamonds. He gave them to an assistant who ran them back to three IT specialists set up in the corner.

  “Anything else at the factory?” Donovan asked.

  “Just the bottling machines, his office computers, a large screen television, and some printers.”

  “What’d they print?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t see. I assumed sales materials for ChocoYummy. Coupons, posters, free offers. More incentives for kids to buy it.”

  “Who are the men who abducted you?” Donovan asked.

  “The boss is Hasham Habib. Short, thin, a highly skilled biochemist with extensive experience in bioweapons and chemical nerve agents. The other man, a big aggressive man, the muscle man, is Aarif . . . or rather was . . .”

  “Was?”

  Everyone stared at her.

  Nell paused. “After the VX weapon was made and tested, Hasham ordered Aarif to kill me. When Hasham left the cabin, Aarif tried to sexually assault me first!” She looked at Jacob and closed her eyes.

  “He forced me to drink wine . . . then . . . he tried to attack me. I told him I was feeling sick and needed the bathroom. In the bathroom, I removed a small bottle of VX I’d hidden in the toilet tank. I spread some VX liquid on an Arab magazine. I came back out and asked him to translate something in the magazine. He grabbed the magazine pages where I’d placed the VX and began translating the article. He read for about thirty seconds then tried to attack me again, ripped my blouse. But by then the VX had entered his blood stream. He suddenly clutched his chest, and collapsed. Thirty seconds later he was dead.”

  “From touching the magazine?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes ... touching the VX on the magazine.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “Self defense,” Manning said.

  “Agreed,” Donovan said.

  Agent Cage hung up his phone. “We’ve collected several pieces of ChocoYummy bottles at the plant. The MobileLab should have test results in minutes.”

  Donovan needed them in seconds!

  “We’re also warning beverage distributors and identifying any retailers who might stock ChocoYummy.”

  “The FDA will issue a ChocoYummy warning to retailers nationally,” Drew Manning said.

  “Let’s pray ChocoYummy isn’t already on store shelves,” Donovan said, fearing it probably was.

  His phone rang. He answered, listened and felt his heart pound like a jackhammer. He hung up. ”A large fleet of Ask Mummy for ChocoYummy trucks drove over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan.”

  “When?” Manning asked.

  “Yesterday morning about ten.”

  FIFTY ONE

  Near the Westchester Wastewater Treatment plant in Yonkers, Hasham strolled through his sprawling garage, admiring his fleet of immaculate delivery trucks. His Swords of Allah . . . his Avenging Angels . . . smiting the enemy at this very moment.

  Even after several ChocoYummy deliveries, the trucks glimmered like precious gems beneath the LED lights.

  Hasham walked over to a driver standing at a truck’s rear door.

  “Unlock it.”

  The skinny, bearded driver unlocked it and rolled up the truck’s door.

  Hasham reached inside and examined a sample. Perfect. Irresistible. Desirable.

  He nodded to the driver who rolled the door back down and locked it, then got in and drove off with the other trucks to make more deliveries.

  Hasham returned to his office, sat at his desktop computer and opened a file. He scrolled through the pages, double-checking documents he’d checked many times. Everything was accurate, right on schedule, unstoppable. His burner phone rang in the desk drawer.

  Bassam Maahdi calling from Yemen.

  Why call me now? We agreed no calls until after the attack.

  Hasham picked up. “Mr. Jones. Your call surprises me.”

  “I imagine so, Mr. Smith. But you see, I’m also surprised.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I hear that our talented lady doctor has left us,” Maahdi whispered.

  Who told Maahdi she escaped? Only four people knew and none would dare speak directly to Maahdi. Perhaps my police informant has loose lips. If so, I’ll close them.

  “It’s not a problem, Mr. Jones.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. You see, the good doctor has already served our purposes quite well.”

  “But still . . . perhaps we should consider postponing.”

  “Au contraire! Postpon
ing gives our competition more time to discover our plan.”

  “Yes, but. . .”

  “No need to postpone, Mr. Jones. Trust me on this. Everything is ready to go. We will deliver our medicine on time. Nothing can stop us.”

  “But the doctor knows so much. She may reveal our secret formula to our . . . competitors!”

  “She can’t.” Hasham said.

  ”Why not?”

  “She doesn’t know our secret formula.” Hasham grew concerned that even though they spoke on safe phones, the NSA might somehow be listening.

  “And more importantly, she does not know our secret distribution strategy.”

  “Distribution strategy . . .?” Maahdi sounded confused as usual.

  “How we’ll deliver our . . . medicine.”

  “But she might guess how.”

  “Never.”

  “Or our competitors might help her figure it out!”

  “Not in a hundred years.”

  He heard Bassam breathing hard, probably squeezing his fat knuckles white on the phone.

  “You seem so sure.”

  “I am absolutely sure.” Hasham had explained this to Maahdi several times before. “Our product’s delivery is simply too unique, too far-fetched, and too improbable for them to ever consider.”

  Maahdi breathed out. “I trust you are correct in all this, Mr. Smith.”

  “I am absolutely correct, Mr. Jones!”

  Maahdi cleared his throat, sounding like he had chunks of lamb stew stuck in it. Maybe he’ll choke to death.

  “As you know,” Maahdi said, “our friends have invested enormous amounts of money in the laboratory and the . . . medicine itself. They expect excellent results!”

  “They will get them.”

  “But if they don’t, well, you know how they react when they are dissatisfied.”

  Hasham knew a death threat when he heard one. “Everything will be a huge success, Mr. Jones. You have my word!”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  They hung up.

  Hasham felt a tightening in his chest. If Maahdi called back and ordered him to cancel his attack, Hasham would attack anyway. He’d invested too much of himself, too much personal passion into this attack.

  The door opened, and Faisal, Hasham’s assistant, nodded to him.

  Hasham walked outside and ran his hand over the logo - Ask Mummy for ChocoYummy - on the side of one of the large trucks.

  Such a tempting phrase.

  He nodded at the drivers.

  They started their trucks and drove off, delivering more jihad to Manhattan.

  FIFTY TWO

  Donovan hurried into the small conference room where everyone stared at phones . . . waiting for the test results on the ChocoYummy bottle fragments.

  Waiting . . . while Hasham attacked.

  Donovan’s phone rang: Mamie, his assistant, calling from his Manhattan office. She only called if it was urgent.

  “Donovan, a man on my line says he knows how the attack will happen.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He won’t say. But he’ll only talk to you. He says it’s very important!”

  “You believe him?”

  “He has an accent. And he mentioned Doctor Nell Northam’s name.”

  “Put him on.”

  The phone connection clicked on, then he heard silence for several seconds, then . . .

  “Is this Agent Donovan Rourke?” Strong accent.

  “Yes.”

  The caller whispered, “There’s a new children’s drink . . . ChocoYummy. If kids drink it, they will die.”

  “Who is this?”

  The line went dead.

  “Trace this call!”

  Manning nodded to his tech guy. A minute later, the tech guy shook his head. “Throwaway phone routed from Paris to Brussels to your office.”

  “But it confirms ChocoYummy, Agent Cage said. “Someone’s betraying Hasham.”

  “But it may be too late,” Manning said, reading a text message.

  “ChocoYummy delivery trucks were seen in several more New York City neighborhoods yesterday and again today.”

  “Assume bottles are on store shelves now,” Donovan said. “Keep warning retailers to remove them.”

  “We are,” Cage said. “But some retailers may have missed the warnings. Bottles may have been bought.”

  Manning lowered his head. “Kids will see the bright Day-Glo yellow ChocoYummy labels. They’ll grab the coupons, buy bottles, twist the top and drink it . . .”

  “SHIT!” Agent Cage said, reading a text message on his phone.

  “What?” Donovan asked.

  “ChocoYummy TV commercials. They’ve been running on kids programs and the Disney Channel for the last four days.”

  “Yank them!” Donovan said.

  “We’re trying. But there are 326 kids’ shows on cable TV. We’re trying to identify which are running ChocoYummy ads.”

  “What about media warnings?”

  Manning nodded. “ChocoYummy warnings should be going out in minutes.”

  Agent Cage closed his phone. “We have confirmation that thousands of bottles of ChocoYummy were stocked on store shelves yesterday afternoon and today.”

  “Which stores?” Donovan asked.

  “Mostly small mom and pop stores in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Hoboken, East Elizabeth, Bayonne . . . maybe upstate New York and Connecticut,“ Manning said.

  “What about the big chain stores - Target and Kmart, Kroger, Safeway?” Donovan asked.

  “Not on shelves yet. Their central office committees require several weeks to assess, evaluate and approve new product placement in stores,” Manning said.

  “What about school cafeterias?” Donovan asked.

  “We’re warning schools. No ChocoYummy deliveries so far,” Cage said.

  “Vending machines?”

  Cage shook his head. “No vending companies stock it!”

  Nell Northam said, “Are hospitals reporting cases of suddenonset respiratory failure that led to immediate death?”

  “Not yet,” Cage said. ”But we’re canvassing hospitals every ten minutes.”

  Donovan knew it was just a matter of time. His worst-case scenario was steamrolling ahead right in front of his eyes. Nell Northam said ChocoYummy would kill. The mysterious phone informant confirmed ChocoYummy would kill. ChocoYummy was in stores. Bottles had been bought. Kids would drink it. Kids would die. Some kids may have already died. Families would be devastated. It was only a matter of time. Hasham was winning.

  Manning answered his phone, listened to the caller, hung up, then stared at the floor.

  “An eight year old girl in Brooklyn just died. Medical Examiner hasn’t ruled cause of death yet. But . . .”

  Donovan felt his heart stop.

  “ . . . fifteen minutes ago, she drank ChocoYummy.”

  FIFTY THREE

  Donovan heard Nell Northam talking on Skype to her daughter Mia in Washington Airport. Nell looked relieved as she told Mia that a CIA aircraft would soon fly her to New York. Mia was safe. His daughter Tish was safe.

  But Donovan knew that thousands of young daughters and sons were about to die.

  Agent Manning said, “We’ve alerted all schools in New Jersey, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Delaware, Connecticut, and Massachusetts. Teachers will warn students. But many kids saw the ChocoYummy TV commercials. Many planned to buy it!”

  Donovan feared many had bought it. Now everything depended on warning kids and parents fast enough.

  Agent Cage slammed his phone on the table and stared ahead, his face like a death mask.

  “A ten year old girl in Queens drank ChocoYummy. She just died.”

  The air went out of the room.

  “Also,” Cage continued, looking at the floor, “two nine year old twin boys in Hoboken drank ChocoYummy and died minutes later.”

  Manning’s assistant handed him a note. He read it, “A forty-twoyear-old man drank
ChocoYummy and died in three minutes.”

  It’s fucking happening, Donovan thought. He tried to catch his breath. Sweat beaded his forehead. His heart pounded. Hasham was killing kids and adults. And if I get the chance, I’ll force-feed him ChocoYummy!

  Manning hung up his phone. “A seven-year-old girl drank ChocoYummy. Her mom just rushed her to Mount Sinai Emergency.”

  “When did she drink it?” Nell asked.

  Manning asked, then faced Nell with a puzzled look. “Four hours ago.”

  Nell’s eyes shot open. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much did she drink?”

  Manning asked.

  They waited in silence.

  “She drank the whole bottle, plus most of another one.”

  Nell’s eyes shot open. “That’s not possible! Something’s not right. She should have died within minutes.”

  “Well, she’s alive.”

  “Did she vomit immediately after drinking it?”

  “No.”

  Nell closed her eyes. “What are her symptoms?”

  “None.”

  “How’s her breathing?”

  “Normal.”

  “Fever?”

  “None.”

  “She does not have VX poisoning.”

  Manning shook his head, struggling to make sense of it.

  Donovan turned to the large screen television as it flashed a Special News Bulletin. CNN’s Wolf Blitzer broke into political news . . .

  “We have Breaking News . . . The FDA and

  Homeland Security have issued an urgent

  emergency medical alert regarding a chocolate

  drink for children called ChocoYummy.

  The CDC verifies that ChocoYummy contains

  a deadly nerve agent that causes immediate

  death to anyone who drinks it, both

  children and adults. If you’ve purchased

  ChocoYummy, do not open or drink the

  liquid. Call 911. The police will pick up the

  bottles. If you’ve bought ChocoYummy, call

  911. And above all . . . do not drink Choco-Yummy!

  Donovan’s assistant walked in and handed him a note. His gut twisted. Despite his trembling hand, he read it aloud.

  “A seven year old boy in Brooklyn sipped some ChocoYummy. Two minutes later he was dead.”