Dead Texas_Day Zero

by Derek Slaton

  DEAD TEXAS: DAY ZERO

  BOOK ONE

  BY DEREK SLATON

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tuesday, 9:47 A.M.

  On a normal weekday morning, the newly renovated Austin police station would have been a bustle of officers and personnel. But on that day, it was sparsely populated, and half of the people who had managed to show up to their post were coughing up a storm.

  Homeland Security Agent Harris was no exception.

  “What do you mean you aren’t coming in today? Do you...” he coughed into the phone, lungs rasping like hell. “You hear how I sound? And I’m here! I expect more out of my team. You can expect a reprimand in your file.” He slammed the phone down in frustration before giving in to another coughing fit.

  Captain Schultz stopped short as he walked by the office, taking in the sight of the middle aged agent trying to steady himself on his desk. He’d never seen the fit and sharp man look so sickly and broken.

  “Are… are you okay, Sir?” the Captain asked, raising an eyebrow. “I can hear you from my office next door.” He rested a hand on his considerable belly, figuring that if everyone was home sick there’d be lots of extra donuts in the break room.

  “Yeah, I’ll live,” Harris replied once he caught his breath. “It’s my fucking team. They’re dropping like flies to whatever plague is going around this office.”

  “Is there anything I can get you?” Schultz scratched the back of his head at the sound of his coworker’s hoarse voice. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “I need warm bodies, preferably from your SWAT team,” Harris replied, sitting up straight. He abhorred looking weak and the way that Schultz was looking at him made him want to mop the floor with the doughy Captain. “Short-handed or not, we have to act on this intelligence.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but SWAT left twenty minutes ago,” Schultz swallowed hard. “Apparently there is some major disturbance going on at the UT Campus.”

  “I don’t care where you find them… just…” Harris wheezed and hacked, desperately trying to catch his breath and his words. “Goddammit. Our mission takes priority. I don’t care where you pull them from, just find me some people capable of participating in a raid. Bring them to the briefing room in ten minutes.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll see who I can round up.” Schultz nodded and left.

  Harris leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples in firm circles. Congestion in his chest, pressure in his head—regardless of being angry at his team this sickness was definitely unpleasant, to say the least.

  His cell phone vibrated on the table and he picked it up without even looking at the caller ID. “This is Harris.”

  “We need a status update,” an aged male voice demanded through the line. “Is your team ready to go?”

  “Most of us,” the Agent replied. “There is a nasty flu running through the PD here and nearly half my guys are down and out. I have the locals digging up people to fill out our ranks.”

  “I’m disappointed in the way you are managing your team, Special Agent Harris,” the man on the other end said with a click of his tongue. “Don’t make us regret giving you the promotion.”

  “We’ll get the job done,” Harris replied, injecting as much authority into his voice as possible. “I’ll give you a status update after the raid.”

  “Very well then,” the voice conceded. “Go get it done.”

  Harris ended the call and threw his phone on the desk in frustration, scrubbing his hands down his face. “I swear I’m making these assholes walk back to DC after this is over.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday, 10:02 A.M.

  Agent Harris made his way to the briefing room, the lurch of his equilibrium reminding him with every step that he was unwell. It was getting worse; he felt like he was being eaten alive from the lungs out.

  “Agent Harris!” Schultz called from down the hall, and the Special Agent turned towards the Captain with two people in tow. “Here are the officers you requested.”

  Harris set his tired gaze on the thirtysomething Latino man with the hard eyes and the young looking redheaded woman with the small but athletic frame.

  “Two people?” He squeezed the bridge of his nose momentarily, scrunching his eyes shut. When he released them, he ignored the officers, leveling his attention on Schultz. “That’s all you could find me was two people?”

  “I’m sorry Agent,” Schultz said quickly, holding up a hand, “but the situation at UT still isn’t under control, and half my officers are out sick today. So unless you want old overweight slowpokes like myself, this is what you’re going to have to work with. I honestly wish I could do more.” The determination in his face made Harris sigh.

  “Okay, I appreciate it Captain,” he said, and turned to the two officers. “You two, sit in the back, pay attention, and see me as soon as the briefing is over for your orders, you got it?”

  “Yes, Sir,” they both answered in unison.

  “Alright, let’s go,” Harris entered the room and immediately the six strike team members dissolved their milling about and took their seats. The two officers took the available back seats, feeling tiny in comparison to the burly strike team members.

  Harris stepped up to the podium and picked up a remote control, dimming the lights and starting a slide presentation on the overhead projector.

  “Okay men.” He stifled a cough. “Here is what we have.” He clicked to the first slide, which showed a middle aged white man in a lab coat. “This is Dr. Alexi Sokolov, AKA the Russian Plague. Russian national, worked in bio-research for the government since his recruitment right out of college, and an all around despicable human being. In 2012 he-” Harris broke off into a coughing fit, and one of the strike team members leaned forward with a bottle of water outstretched.

  The Agent took it and nodded gratefully, taking a deep draught and setting it down on the podium. “Thank you,” he replied gruffly. “Goddamn. Sorry, as I was saying. In 2012 he was assigned to the Assad regime to help them with their chemical weapons program. We were unsure of his specific task, but we heard varying stories about compact bio-weapons that individuals could release while on the ground. Kind of like a plague suicide bomber.

  “It’s unknown exactly how successful he was since in 2014 his lab was struck in an airstrike, killing his wife and lab partner Irina. It was assumed that Dr. Sokolov was also killed in the blast, but his body was never recovered. It wasn’t until 2015 tht one of our sister agencies picked up his trail in some of the less desirable parts of Africa.” He clicked to the next slide, showing the same man with severe burns to the side of his face.

  The look in Sokolov’s eyes was haunted and severe, as if he’d come out of the picture and tear them all apart with his bare hands. He had clearly been unstable, especially after all he’d been through.

  “As you can see, the good doctor here was alive, but did come away from the airstrike with a souvenir,” Harris continued, pausing on a wheeze and taking another quick sip of water. “Over the next eighteen months he was tied to half a dozen chemical based attacks around the globe. These rarely got news coverage in this country because they were in places very few people here give a shit about. But those of us paying attention were growing more concerned as his attacks were becoming more sophisticated.

  “Then, in the spring of 2017, he vanished. We didn’t know if some third world dictator killed him, imprisoned him, or if he was one his own cooking up something large scale. We knew he was upset over the death of his wife, so we couldn’t cule out a strike on our homeland. Which is why we were activated.” He clicked through to the next slide.

  The image showed a crowd of people in the stands of a football game, everyone wearing Texas Longhorn
gear. In the center of the photo was a man in jeans and a plaid shirt with a severely burned face.

  “Is that here?” the red haired officer blurted, startling most of the room. A blush crept up her cheeks as the strike team turned to look at her, more than one gaze of annoyance at her outburst.

  “Anyway…” Harris cleared his throat, sounding like someone was juggling wet marbles in his chest. “Three days ago at the University of Texas Longhorns football game, an eagle eyes security guard spotted him walking around the crowd. The cameras outside of the stadium found him buying a ticket from a scalper and then walking the outer rim for the entire first half.

  “About halfway through the second quarter a security guard noticed he had passed his post five times already, always walking in the same direction, so he called it in. Cameras picked him up and followed him from there. At halftime he stood in line for a giant pretzel and walked around the crowded concourse one more time before exiting the building a couple of minutes after the third quarter started.

  “The security team captured him getting into an Uber and driving off. Thankfully someone had the good sense to run his face through the system. Three hours later we were notified and dispatched-” Harris doubled over this time with his coughing, taking a few minutes to catch his breath and stand back up. “Again, my apologies,” he wheezed, taking a drink and waving off the concerned faces of his team. “This shit is the worst.

  “Once we had a positive ID we had the locals monitor the address where the Uber driver dropped him off. It’s an old warehouse about ten miles outside of town. The building has been under constant watch since Saturday afternoon, and according to the records half a dozen men have entered in that time, with nobody leaving.”

  One of the strike team members raised his hand, the deep scar running down the back of his hand to his elbow glaring in the white glow of the projector.

  “Yes, Jackson,” Harris wheezed, motioning to the Agent.

  “How confident are we that Dr. Sokolov is in there?” he asked, lowering his hand and sitting up straight. “And more importantly, why haven’t we already gone in?”

  “The Uber driver said he didn’t see any vehicles when he dropped him off, and the stakeout team got there within a few hours to keep watch,” Harris explained. “We are confident that he’s still in there. As for the second part, after reviewing the footage it didn’t appear as though anything was planted or released, so the working theory was that it was a dry run.

  “Homecoming is next weekend, so it’s going to be the largest crowd of the year. With that in mind we wanted to hold off for as long as possible to get as much of this cell as we could. Any other questions?” He brought a fist to his mouth to stifle another cough.

  The redhead raised her hand in the back. “Yes, I have one,” she piped up.

  “Okay,” Harris said, surprised that she had the courage to speak after her last embarrassing outburst. “Everyone say hello to the two locals that will be helping out with the raid,” he encouraged, but the strike team ignored her, looking unimpressed. “What is your question, ma’am?”

  “Why is he here in Austin?” she inquired, voice level and firm. “And how did he even get into the country if he’s on the most wanted list?”

  “Good questions,” Harris replied with a nod and a cough. “Our best guess is that he snuck into the country with the help of a coyote, and this is pretty much the largest congregation of people that is close to the border. I don’t think he has any personal vendetta against the city of Austin, but this may be the only large target he can risk getting to.” He looked around the room as he attempted to clear his throat again. “Okay, anything else?”

  The redhead raised her hand again, prompting a glare from her partner. She shrugged her shoulders at him flippantly. “What? He asked.”

  “Okay mystery local officer, I’ll give you one more,” Harris motioned to her.

  “If this really was a dry run, then why take an Uber back to the hideout?” she asked. “He’s avoided capture for so many years, snuck into this country without detection, and he gets sloppy now? Just before an attack? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Jackson spun around in his chair with a sneer. “Listen sweetheart.” His voice dripped with condescension and she narrowed her eyes. “We know you’re excited to be up here with the big boys, but you need to learn your place. And right now that’s for you to shut the fuck up and let the grownups talk.”

  “That’s enough, Jackson!” Harris barked, and then immediately regretted the strain on his throat. He hacked and then took another drink of water as the scarred man faced front again. “Officer, it’s a great question but ultimately a moot point, because we are going in now. I want everyone geared up and ready to go in fifteen. Let’s get it done.”

  He turned off the projector and the lights came back up. The strike team stood and bustled out of the room, the two officers standing off to the side and out of the way to await Harris ambling over to them. He leaned on the backs of one of the chairs, taking a deep shaky breath.

  “What’s your name, Officer?” Harris addressed the man, who stood at attention.

  “Officer Antonio Cruz, Sir.”

  “Cruz, fantastic, what’s your story?” Harris asked.

  “Ex-marine, two years in Iraq, spent the last five years on Dallas SWAT before coming here,” Cruz listed off his history.

  “Why aren’t you on the SWAT team here, Cruz?” Harris raised an eyebrow.

  “I transferred in about three weeks ago and they felt I needed to go through some exercises with the team before being put into the field,” he replied stiffly. “Supposed to be wrapped up next week.”

  “So you are highly trained and professional,” Harris mused and cleared his throat, taking a sip of his water, emptying the bottle. “I like it. Report to Agent Jackson, he’s the big asshole who doesn’t take kindly to questions from rookies.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Cruz nodded in approval and turned on his heel, leaving the room like a bird taking flight.

  “And that brings us to you, my inquisitive officer,” Harris continued, turning to the redhead, who was standing casually with her arms crossed. “What’s your name?”

  “Lacy Sparks, Sir,” she replied.

  “Nice to meet you, Sparks,” he said with a nod. “So tell me, what’s your story? Why out of everyone in the building were you brought to me?”

  “I spend three years on the prison Use of Force team,” she began, but Harris put a hand up, clearing his throat.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but Use of Force team?” he asked.

  “Yeah, whenever an inmate was being a pouty little bitch and didn’t want to come out of his cell for an inspection, I was on the team that would go in and remove him.” Sparks shrugged as if it wasn’t any big deal, but Harris raised an eyebrow.

  “Impressive,” he mused, and crossed over to the water cooler in the corner. “I can’t imagine too many women have that job.”

  “I was the third woman in the history of the prison to have it,” Sparks replied.

  “Very good,” Harris said as he refilled his water bottle. “Please continue.”

  “I decided I wanted more than the prison life, so I went to the academy, graduated third in my class before I became a hand to hand combat instructor there,” she said. “Been at this precinct for a year and a half trying to get on the SWAT team, but it’s a good ole boys club and breaking trough is tough to do. So to take out my frustrations I’m a wrestler and current middleweight title holder with the South Texas Wrestling promotion.”

  “Wrestler, huh?” Harris wheezed but smiled. “Okay, pop quiz. Who is the greatest of all time?”

  “The correct answer is Ric Flair,” Sparks replied without hesitation. “Unless of course you find yourself in the company of some old timers in Dallas, in which case the correct answer better include a Von Erich.”

  “That…” Harris stowed the bottle in his armpit and politely clapped his hands. “Tha
t is the correct answer. Intelligence plus self preservation. I think you are going to do well on my team I mean how can I go wrong with the women’s champion of South Texas Wrestling?”

  Sparks straightened a little bit and quietly added, “just champion, Sir.”

  He blinked at her in confusion.

  “I won a three way Texas Death Match against the Dudek Brothers,” she explained, and pulled up her sleeve to reveal a three inch scar on her upper arm. “It’s how I got this.”

  “Ouch.” Harris winced.

  “Yeah, that cowbell is a bitch,” she agreed. “But I won the match and claimed the belt for the third time.”

  “My apologies, Sparks.” He put up his hands in surrender. “You are way more hardcore than I initially gave you credit for. Welcome to the team.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday, 11:02 A.M.

  The strike team assembled a few hundred yards away from the warehouse, taking cover behind a line of trees to remain out of sight. Harris crouched and waved everyone around him, so they were in a loose squatting circle.

  He wavered for a moment, face flushed with probable fever, but his gaze was still stern. “Okay,” he began, “here’s what we got. Two entrances, one at the north end and the other south. Jackson, your team is going to circle around and take the south entrance.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Jackson cocked his assault rifle with a firm nod. “I’ll make sure we clear them out.”

  “Calm down, cowboy,” Harris said quickly, putting up a hand. “WE need intel, because if Sparks was right and Saturday wasn’t a dry run, then we need to know what we’re up against. Shoot only if necessary, and aim to wound. I know you got thrust into this position because Murdoch is MIA today, but I need to know you can be level headed and do what needs to be done.”

  Jackson scowled, but reluctantly nodded his acceptance.

  “Good.” Harris coughed. “Okay, let’s saddle up and get this done. Jackson, signal when you are in position.” He waved the strike leader off, and Jackson moved with haste around the building, four of the other team members in tow, Cruz included. “Okay, I’m leading this charge. Harper, you are behind me, Taylor is up next and Sparks is covering our six.” Nods all around, and Harris turned to the redhead. “I know this is your first raid, but we’re going to make it was easy on you as possible. Leave it to us to take the terrorists down. As we move forward it will be on you to secure them, provided they are alive. Can you handle that?”