Maybe
Page 1
(a Donovan Creed Novel – Volume 9)
by
John Locke
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
MAYBE
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Copyright © 2011 John Locke. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Visit the author website:
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ISBN: 978-1-937698-82-9
Version 2011.12.15
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Donovan Creed Series:
Lethal People
Lethal Experiment
Saving Rachel
Now & Then
Wish List
A Girl Like You
Vegas Moon
The Love You Crave
Maybe
Emmett Love Series:
Follow the Stone
Don’t Poke the Bear
Emmett & Gentry
Dani Ripper Series:
Call Me!
Non-Fiction:
How I Sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months!
Table of Contents
Introduction
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Miles Gundy.
PEOPLE ARE SCREAMING.
Sunday, last week of May, Derby City Fair, Louisville, Kentucky. Food and people everywhere. Rock bands. Tents. Roaring rides, rumbling roller coasters.
…People are screaming.
Not from rock bands or rides.
People are screaming!
Women’s hands. Babies’ faces and children’s hands are suddenly…melting.
The Derby City Fair is under attack.
But from whom?
And how can the attack be isolated to babies’ faces and women and children’s hands?
Within minutes, hundreds of cell phones call 911. Hundreds more record the victims and post the videos on YouTube.
The system designed to work swiftly does so. 911 operators contact police, police call the FBI, the Feds call Homeland Security, and by the time Miles “Mayhem” Gundy pulls his late model Honda Accord onto 1-65 South, Homeland Security has Lou Kelly on the phone. Homeland patches the president into the call, along with several members of the Pentagon, who have assembled in the War Room at the White House.
“Where’s Darwin?” the president asks.
“We couldn’t find him,” a man says.
“Who’s Lou Kelly?”
“Associate Director, Sensory Resources.”
“Mr. Kelly,” the president says, “What’s happened to Darwin?”
“I have no idea, sir,” Lou says. “But I stand ready to help.”
“Good man. Mr. Kelly, you’re on the phone with Sherm Phillips, Secretary of Defense. Sherm, tell Mr. Kelly what you told me. We need to know what we’re up against.”
Sherm Phillips does, and Lou tells the president of the United States to hold while he calls Donovan Creed.
Donovan Creed.
My daughter, Kimberly Creed, and I are visiting Callie Carpenter at her Las Vegas penthouse. I just told Callie that Kimberly’s on the team.
Callie looks amused.
“That seems funny to you?”
She looks at Kimberly. “Mildly so.”
I run a group of assassins for a branch of Homeland Security called Sensory Resources. Darwin’s my boss. Callie’s my top operative. We also do freelance hits for the mob.
Callie says, “When you called from the airport you said Lou Kelly killed Darwin.”
“That’s Lou’s story.”
“Seems unlikely,” Callie says.
“I agree. But why would he lie?”
“Well, he did try to kill you recently.”
“True,” I say.
Kimberly’s eyes grow wide. “I don’t understand. Why would Uncle Lou try to kill you or your boss?”
Lou isn’t related to us, but Kimberly’s term of endearment shows how close he’s become to our family. I don’t mind her calling him uncle, though like Callie said, he tried to kill me last year. That incident set our relationship back somewhat, but Lou’s a valuable asset, best in the world at what he does, and he’s gotten me out of some tight spots over the years. What I’m saying, when he’s not trying to kill me, I trust him with my life.
Sounds crazy, right? But that’s the type of business I’m in.
I give Kimberly the short answer. “Last year we conducted a sting operation. Large sums of money were involved, and Lou saw a chance to make billions if he could kill me. He couldn’t, but I gave him a second chance. To prove his loyalty, Uncle Lou killed Doc Howard, who he claims was my bos
s, Darwin. He said Darwin was trying to kill me.”
Callie says, “What part will Kimberly play on the team?”
“Believe it or not, she’s an accomplished assassin.”
Callie looks dubious.
“Remember Jimmy T?” I say.
“The one who guarded Kimberly last year?”
I nod. “He quit the business and became a professor at Viceroy College. His real name was Jonah Toth. Kimberly put him down in the men’s room.”
Callie arches an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”
Most people would ask why Kimberly killed Toth. Not Callie. She could care less why. That’s what makes her the world’s best assassin, aside from me.
“Including Toth, she’s got nine notches on her belt,” I say.
“You must be so proud,” Callie says, with more than a little sarcasm.
“From now on, we’ll call her Maybe. Maybe Taylor.”
“I like it,” Callie says.
Maybe says, “And I should call you Creed, like everyone else.”
“Good point. No sense in broadcasting the fact you’re my daughter.”
From the kitchen Gwen Peters yells, “You’re ignoring me again!”
Gwen is Callie’s current love interest. I dated her first, but Callie stole her from me. Kimberly—I mean, Maybe—has met Callie before, but this is her first exposure to Gwen.
“Every time that man enters our house you completely ignore me,” Gwen pouts.
Callie smiles and says, “That man.”
I smile and say, “Our house.”
Callie says, “That man is worse than our house.”
I agree.
“Hard to imagine how quickly I’ve sunk so far,” I say. “What’s she doing in there, anyway?”
“Burning cupcakes.”
“Seriously?”
“She’s the world’s worst cook.”
“Maybe I should tell her you said that.”
“Maybe I should tell her about Rachel.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the screen.
“It’s Lou,” I say.
Callie turns to Maybe and says, “Let’s go salvage the cupcakes.”
As they walk from den to kitchen, I say, “What’s up, Lou?”
“Donovan, I’ve got Homeland Security on the phone, several members of the Pentagon, and the president.”
“Hello, Mr. President,” I say.
A voice says, “This is Sherm Phillips, Secretary of Defense. The President’s monitoring the call, so I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve got word of a bio-terrorist attack at the Derby City Fair in Louisville, Kentucky.”
“How can I help?”
“Lou Kelly says you understand terrorists better than anyone in the country.”
“I won’t argue the point.”
“He says you understand how they think. We’re blind on this one, and need to know what’s happened.”
I get a whiff of burnt cupcakes from the kitchen, put my hand over the phone, and yell, “Are you frosting them?”
“We are,” Maybe says. “You want one?”
“Chocolate, if you have it,” I say.
Back on the phone I ask Sherm, “What do you know for certain about the attack?”
“No bombs detonated, but people’s hands and faces have been affected.”
“Affected how?”
“The flesh is falling off their bones.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“People’s hands, babies’ faces—appear to be melting.”
“How many victims?”
“Somewhere around twenty.”
My mind starts racing.
“Babies?”
“That’s right.”
“Their entire face or just the lips and cheeks?”
There’s a pause. “Lips and cheeks. How’d you know?”
“You said people’s hands. Is it mostly women and children?”
“Yes.”
“When you say their flesh is falling off the bone. Which side of their hands is worse, the palms or the back of the hands?”
“Does it matter?”
“What do you think?”
“Hold on.”
Sherm clicks back on and says, “It’s worse on the palms.”
“Hand sanitizer,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Ask if they have plastic hand sanitizing stations at the fair.”
“Why?”
“My first guess? This is an urban terrorist, acting alone. He’s putting a chemical agent in the public hand sanitizers. Some type of acid. Mom pushes the plunger, foam comes out, she rubs her palms together, then the top of her hands, then pumps some more and rubs it on her baby’s hands and cheeks. She can’t leave the toddlers out, so she pumps again and wipes their hands. For some reason the acid effect is delayed. But after a time, it starts burning holes in their hands and cheeks.”
I hear Sherm in the background. He’s on another line, asking if they have hand sanitizing stations at the fair.
Callie, Maybe, and Gwen enter the room. Gwen places a tray of cupcakes on the coffee table. Each lady has her own unique style of attack, but when Gwen licks her frosting the temperature in the room goes up five degrees.
A new voice comes on the line.
“Mr. Creed.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
Callie arches her eyebrows.
“You asked if they had plastic hand sanitizing stations at the fair. Why plastic?”
“Plastic resists acid erosion.”
There’s another pause. Then the president says, “There are two stations on the midway, two in the exhibit buildings. All four have plastic reservoirs. I think you’ve done us a great service.”
“Thank you sir.”
He says, “It terrifies me to know there are people like you in the world.”
“Rest easy, Mr. President. I’m on your team.”
“That’s what frightens me.”
I say, “You understand this is just the beginning?”
“What do you mean?”
“You need to get the word out to all airports, public buildings, private businesses, anyone who uses plastic dispensers in bathrooms or work spaces. Especially Louisville, and the surrounding cities and towns.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not remotely.”
“You said it’s one man, acting alone.”
“That’s what makes him so dangerous.”
“We need to catch him.”
“Good luck with that.”
He pauses. “Could you catch such a man?”
“If he continues attacking? Yes. But it’ll take time.”
“How much time?”
“If he stays busy? Days or weeks.”
“Then catch him.”
“I’ll need the full cooperation and resources of government and law enforcement.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll need the highest possible clearance.”
“You’re joking.”
“Total access, Mr. President. Nothing less.”
He says, “I wouldn’t give a man like you access to a dog turd.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
The line goes dead.
Maybe says, “You were talking to the president just now?”
“Yes.”
“Of the United States?”
Gwen makes a face and says, “Bullshit. He was just trying to impress me. He’ll say or do anything to get in my pants.”
She looks at me and says, “It won’t work.”
Her tongue flicks at the frosting again and again, and I see she’s making little sculptures on her cupcake. Callie catches me staring.
“Down boy,” she says.
LOU CALLS ME back.
“Good call on the hand sanitizer,” he says.
“Any deaths yet?”
“No. But they’re going to be permanently disfigured.”
“That bothers me.”
“Me too. Wait. Which part?”
“The acid should start burning mom’s hands immediately. But there’s a delayed reaction of what, ten, maybe fifteen minutes? Possibly longer?”
“You’re trying to guess how long it would take him to put acid in all four sanitizing stations?”
“I am. Ask the Louisville PD how far apart the stations are, from first to fourth.”
“Will do.”
“And ask the geeks how he managed to delay the effect.”
Lou’s geek squad possesses the finest computer minds and researchers on the planet. It’s one of the reasons I keep him on my personal payroll.
“I’ll run it by them,” he says. “Anything else?”
“I want to know every victim’s name. I want to see their before and after photos.”
“Even the babies?”
“Especially the babies.”
“This will help you find him, somehow?”
“No. But it’ll help me want to. And Lou?”
“Yeah?”
“When the scientists isolate the chemical agent, we need to learn who manufactures it, who distributes it, and how our urban terrorist got hold of it.”
“What type of person are we looking for?”
“A chemist.”
“Corporate?”
“Yes. Or a high school chemistry teacher, college professor, or grad student with a chemistry major.”
“That’s a pretty wide range.”
“First cut.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone with a chemistry background has survived the first cut. As Felix continues terrorizing people, we’ll narrow the possibilities accordingly.”