Fracture Event: An Espionage Disaster Thriller

by W. Michael Gear

  Facing his situation, staring at his hands where they hung from his limp wrists, knowing the bedding was filthy, and not caring, was easier in the hot white glare than it would have been in utter darkness.

  Twice a day, a burly man brought a tray of food and an empty bucket. On the way out, he took the old tray and removed the bucket they used for a toilet.

  “I hate you,” Denise whispered after seeing the boys were asleep. Sleeping was easier for all of them. Once the brain had drifted off, the nightmares were only electrochemical phantasms spun by firing neurons or so he told himself.

  “I hate myself,” replied woodenly. It twisted his guts to know that her perfectly toned body might be the only thing standing between her and a bullet.

  He couldn’t bear to think about the boys…

  Denise hung her head and filthy hair fell around her pretty face. “Was what we had in Laramie so bad? Was I so bad?”

  “It wasn’t you.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It was me.”

  She lowered her chin, staring vacantly at her feet where she’d pulled them up on the stained blankets. “Is anyone looking for us? Does anyone even give a shit?”

  He took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  “So what’s going to happen? You’re going to make this model for them?”

  “I said I’d teach them how the model works.”

  She gave him that dead stare. “Then what? They’ll just let us go? Knowing what we could tell the world?”

  He hung his head in defeat. “I’m so sorry, Denise. I wish—”

  “Fuck you, Mark.”

  The faint sound of steps could be heard. Mark nerved himself, standing. He swallowed hard as the hasp rattled and the door clicked open. The burly man was accompanied by three hard-looking companions.

  The boys started awake, sitting up with fear-bright eyes.

  “Time to go,” one said in a thick Asian accent. “One at a time, we’re going to tie your hands. Walk straight to the van. If you shout or make trouble, you will be hurt.”

  Mark stepped forward, offering his hands as zip ties were produced. “Just don’t hurt my family.”

  The man shrugged. “They be good, they don’t hurt.”

  “Where are we going?” Mark asked as his hands were bound behind him.

  “Maybe someplace different?” The man, day-old beard on his cheeks grinned. “Now I do your wife.”

  Mark caught the leer, saw the look in his dark eyes as he turned to Denise. His urge to kick the man squarely in the nuts was immediately dampened when one of the others stepped forward with a wooden club in his hand. Mark’s bowels turned runny.

  They did more than just bind Denise’s hands behind her. She endured their groping fingers, eyes deadpan, as if her soul were absent. Will looked faint and Jake had tears running down his face.

  The man with the club pointed at the door. “Go.”

  Mark turned, forcing himself to march forward.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  From here, you must go on alone,” Helmut said, opening the Audi’s door for her. “It’s the building at the top with the big sign on the roof.”

  Maureen climbed into the vehicle and drove up the winding road. The alps were stunning this morning. The high peaks—coated with snow—stood against the blue sky. Lush green pastures, and the darker green of conifers, added to the contrast. Spring flowers in yellow, white, and blue accented the whole.

  Skip, dressed in black tactical gear, stepped out the motorcycle shop’s door just as she pulled up and turned off the engine. He paused long enough to pull a folded white plastic bag from under a rock. Then, grinning, he walked forward. “Good morning.”

  “Is it?” she said.

  As he came forward to hug her, he whispered, “You’re a DOD mathematician delivering French’s program. Got it?”

  “I didn’t bring a program—”

  “I’ve placed the flash drive with the program on the computer in the shop. There’s a cubby hole right at your feet. If bullets start flying, you get your ass in that hole. The way the toolboxes are arranged, you should be safe.”

  “Where’s Anika?”

  “Safe and out of the action.” Skip checked his watch. “Sorry I had to involve you in this but it had to appear that DC sent someone with the program.”

  “Credibility. I’m an emissary of Defense. I get it.”

  Maureen followed his gaze out over the town of Oberau, where red roofs gleamed with morning dew.

  “Pretty spot.”

  “Yeah,” Skip agreed. “Let’s hope it stays that way.” He pointed. “Here they come.”

  A gleaming Mercedes van began its climb up the winding drive.

  “So, what do I do?”

  “They’re bringing a statistics expert. Just insert the flash drive into his computer and make him understand that this is the real thing.”

  “What if he’s not as good a statistician as Anika? Skip, you’ve got to understand, Anika’s program is very advanced.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “I know.”

  Maureen turned to watch the white Mercedes van pull into the lot and Skip pointed to where he wanted it parked. An attractive woman was driving. When she stopped, two burly men dressed in dark t-shirts and clad in nylon tactical pants got out. They looked around, buzz-cut heads swiveling as they inspected the surroundings. Then a young man in a brown blazer opened the rear door. Blond, maybe thirty, he glanced around like a frightened owl, before he walked over to Maureen. “I’m Dr. Bier Fryung. You are the American mathematician, yes?”

  “Yes. Dr. Maureen Cole.”

  The two guards told him to wait, then they both stalked like hunting lions into the shop. Through the door, Maureen could see them searching, opening doors, inspecting the office. When they finally emerged, they nodded, removed a laptop from the leather seat of the car and handed it to Fryung.

  “Come on,” Maureen said. “I have the program inside.”

  He followed Maureen into the shop and to the bench Skip had cleared. Setting the computer on the bench, Fryung clicked the power button and glanced nervously at Maureen. “I do not like this.”

  “Me, either. How did you get involved?” she asked as she reached for the flash drive where Skip had left it and handed it to him, watching as he inserted it in the slot and downloaded the program.

  Fryung cautiously glanced around and whispered, “They kidnapped me from my office at gunpoint.”

  “Just do as they ask,” she confided as the machine booted up. “I hope your machine has the capacity.”

  “It does.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “You’re a statistician?”

  “Economist.”

  Maureen sighed. “Well, I’m about to take you on beyond zebra.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. This model has been refined by the finest statisticians in the world. I hope you’re of their caliber.”

  While Fryung pulled a calculator from his pocket, a gray-haired man, late fifties, eased out the passenger door.

  Yang. She’d seen his photo in DC Maureen tensed as he approached and his predatory eyes met hers.

  A faint smile curled his thin lips. “You are from DOD, yes?”

  “Yes. Dr. Maureen Cole.”

  “I would not be happy if this is not the model.” In German, he asked, “Fryung? Does the program look authentic?”

  “I need more time. Economists use many of these same mathematics but in a different manner.”

  Yang gave Maureen a cold look and inspected her body as if it were a piece of meat. “Get busy explaining how this works, Dr. Cole.”

  Maureen—skin crawling from the look in his eyes—crossed her arms. To buy time, she said, “Let me get this straight. I bring you one of the most advanced statistical models on earth and you bring a novice statistician to evaluate it?”

  Fryung looked insulted. “I am not a novice, Dr. Cole. I simply need clarification
on a few points.” He tapped the screen. “Here and here.”

  Yang withdrew a small Beretta automatic and aimed at Maureen’s head.

  Maureen experienced that uncomfortable tingle in her guts— the one that anticipates the impact of a bullet. She turned, bending down beside the now-pale Fryung. “All right, let’s start at the beginning.” She tapped the screen to return to the initial formula. “These are the high-value and high-priority nation-state targets that will engage with the pharmaceutical manufacturers using the frozen vaccine contaminated with the new virus.”

  Fryung licked his lips, watching her with sweat beginning to bead across his forehead. “This is a model for distributing a new virus?”

  Maureen fought a shiver as Yang leaned close, following the pointer on the screen. “It’s just theoretical, Dr. Fryung,” she lied.

  He looked up like he didn’t believe her, then glanced at Yang’s gun. “I understand.”

  Something creaked in the office. Maureen ignored it as she continued her explanation of one of the primary distribution statistics.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Skip took one last look around, satisfied that no one was sneaking across the fields, that no aircraft were approaching, and walked over to the driver’s side of the van.

  “How you doing, Li?” From here, he could see Maureen, the stat guy, and Yang bent over the computer monitor.

  “Okay. So far.”

  For the morning’s activities, she’d chosen an athletic black spandex that conformed to every curve of her tall body. Skip did his best to keep from staring.

  “We’re keeping our end of the bargain.” She got out of the van, grabbed the handle, and swung the side door open.

  Skip stepped up and saw Mark Schott’s bound body seated on the bare floor next to a woman and two boys. They had hoods over their heads, their clothing filthy, a definite odor wafting out the door.

  “Not my idea,” Li told him firmly. “But I’m not calling the shots.”

  “You really have to get better jobs.”

  “Soon, Murphy. Very soon.”

  Skip jerked a tight nod toward the shop. “Be out of Yang’s employ before I catch up with him.”

  “Is that a warning?”

  “It is.”

  Thoughts churned behind her half-lidded eyes. Then, she walked to one of the security guys, asking, “All’s well?”

  “Yes. Nothing moving. It’s just like they said.”

  Li nodded and walked back to Skip, her eyes on the distant compound. “Nothing cooking over there?”

  “Zoakalski has had the place locked up like a vault.” Skip rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not his style. Usually, cars and trucks come and go constantly.”

  “You think he’s watching us?”

  “Count on it. Hopefully this looks like a shop doing business. Just for appearance sake, your two guys might want to look more like customers instead of sentries.”

  Li motioned to the men. “Feel free to look at the motorcycles. I know you love bikes.”

  They took the hint, nodded, and began ambling around.

  Skip turned back to the van. “Mark? It’s Skip Murphy. Can you hear me?”

  The hooded head bobbed, Schott making muffled sounds through a gag. “Just hang in there. Another fifteen minutes and this will be over.”

  The children started crying and Skip jerked his chin at Maureen where she bent over the bench with Fryung. “Hope your guy in there can understand that program.”

  “Me, too. Otherwise, this is going to get very messy.”

  Chapter Ninety

  This is crazy!” Fryung cried, throwing his hands up, “I do not understand how these variables work.”

  Maureen, heart pounding, gave him a disgusted look. “It’s just systems theory, right? All you have to—”

  “Dr. Cole?” Yang asked ominously. “Your time is running out.”

  She barely heard a shoe grate on the floor behind Yang, and figured Skip was finally coming to her rescue, when a soft female voice asked, “Can I help?”

  Yang turned and stiffened. Maureen saw a smiling blonde woman, tall, wearing a dark, form-fitting top, and smudged black slacks. A long suppressor gave her pistol an unbalanced look. The thing made a pffft sound, followed by the snapping of the slide and the melodic tinkle of empty brass on the floor.

  Yang’s knees buckled. The woman leaped forward and competently twisted the pistol from his hand and leaped back.

  “It was a pleasure to see you again, Yang,” the woman said curtly, then she turned both her attention and the suppressed pistol Maureen’s way. “Not a sound, Dr. Cole.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Trap door in the floor. It was a miserable cramped and cold night, and I’m in a really foul mood. Now, not another word.”

  Two men in black emerged from the office and slipped along the benches, ducking behind motorcycles, black submachine guns held at the ready.

  Maureen started to yell, but the blonde pointed the pistol at Maureen’s chest, and hissed, “We already have the model. I really don’t need you alive.”

  In the parking lot, Skip stood talking to the black-clad Asian woman while they looked at something in the van.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  The sound Skip heard was like a combined coughing-and-popping accompanied by shik-shicking. He threw himself to the ground and madly crawled for cover.

  A voice called, “Freeze! Now!”

  Skip shot a look over his shoulder to see Stephanie Huntz— flanked by two men—emerging from the shop door. The subguns—they held were at the combat-ready, stocks centered in the shooter’s chests. Skip froze.

  Li was in a crouch, hands extended, a look of disbelief on her face. Both of her men were on the ground, one gasping, blowing foamy blood from his mouth. The other stared sightlessly up at the sky as blood pooled around him.

  Stephanie took a step to one side, glanced down at the dying guard, and coolly shot him in the head.

  Skip swallowed hard. What the hell were his options? He glanced up at the band of firs up slope, then shook his head vigorously.

  “On your knees, both of you,” Stephanie ordered.

  Skip carefully rose to his knees, aware that Li had dropped to hers. She gave him a measuring glance.

  Stephanie stepped right up to Skip, placed the pistol to his head and ordered, “Where’s Anika French? Call her out or Maureen Cole and the Schotts die.”

  Skip took a deep breath, then shouted, “Anika? Come on down! No choice here.”

  A disappointed expression came to Li’s face when the young redhead rose from the ground beneath the firs and started down the hill with her hands locked behind her head.

  “My insurance,” Skip growled. “In case things went wrong.”

  “As a bargaining chip? Did you a lot of good,” Stephanie said. As she stepped back, she kept her pistol steady as she shot a quick glance to the gold sedan that had just pulled out of the ECSITE compound gates.

  “Who’s that?” Skip asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  The two shooters started forward, subguns trained on French as she walked slowly down the hill. Anika was wearing oversized mechanics overalls, the dirty sleeves bagging where she had her hands clasped behind her head.

  “So, Stephanie,” Skip said conversationally, “How’d you figure this out?”

  “When I was fixing my tire that day in Schongau, I heard the motorcycle leaving.” She turned, looking down the drive. Skip could see the sleek gold sedan climbing the curves. “I just couldn’t get it out of my head. Why a motorcycle?” She shrugged. “But then you’ve got a motorcycle shop full of them with a giant sign we can read from clear across the valley. Right where you could watch every move we made.”

  Anika, her face expressionless, jaw locked, stopped just short of the van. Her face was pale, contrasting with dirty red hair. She kept her hands clasped tightly at the back of her neck. The green stare she fixed on Stephani
e was filled with loathing.

  Stephanie laughed out loud at the dirt and oil covering Anika’s clumsy overalls. “Look at you. You’re a sight to see.”

  The gold sedan pulled to a stop, and when the door opened, a pale Mikael Zoakalski stepped out. The driver followed behind him, a Beretta Model 92 in his hand.

  Zoakalski braced a hand on the car door and weakly pushed to his feet with sunlight gleaming in his shock of white hair. “Nice work,” he said to Stephanie. “This day, you are back in my good graces. As we said in the Great Patriotic war, atoned for in blood.” He arched an eyebrow. “Yang?”

  “A simple shot to the heart,” Stephanie said with a shrug. “Wish I could have made it last a little longer.”

  Zoakalski nodded and his gaze went straight at Anika. He slowly walked forward. “Dr. French, may I have a word with you in private?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Follow me over to the trees, please.” He led the way toward the grove of pine trees. She followed, her hands still clasped behind her neck.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Anika got a good look at Zoakalski’s flushed face as he stopped and turned. His skin was sweat-slick. Fevered? She studied his glassy eyes, the trembling in his limbs, his shallow breathing.

  Zoakalski’s knees shook as he stopped beneath the swaying boughs and spread his feet to brace his legs. The scent of pines perfumed the air. Across the valley, his compound gleamed in the sunlight, falling through clouds that leisurely drifted eastward.

  After inhaling a shallow breath, he asked, “I suppose you think I’m careless.”

  Anika tried to gauge the man’s temperature. One hundred and four? “No, but given your heritage, there was a high probability you’d be targeted—”

  “We discovered that it was introduced on the same food contaminated with the enterotoxin.” He fixed her with glazed eyes. “We were surprised that our vaccine did not work against it. Your idea?”

  By now, she was dead anyway. What did it matter if he knew that she’d worked this out in DC when she’d decided to bring him down? “Vaccine makers can’t account for all the mutations, especially rare ones. Your grandfather’s heritage gave you a very unique genetic marker—the M204 mutation. It evolved in the Middle East and Caucasus. If I hadn’t done it, someone else would have. You have many enemies, sir.”