Viable Threat

by Julie Rowe

  How the hell had he gotten past the police? No one should be anywhere near this place without wearing a hazmat suit. It was extremely unsafe.

  She walked toward the counter, her mouth open to demand he leave at once, but the dazed, blank look on his face stopped her from saying anything. That, and the beads of sweat clinging to his forehead.

  Shit. Could he be another ambulatory victim of the pathogen?

  “Are you all right?” she asked him very carefully instead.

  He blinked, then finally seemed to focus on her as a trickle of perspiration ran down the side of his face.

  The temperature was moderate, certainly not high enough to make anyone sweat.

  Oh yeah, he had whatever was killing people. Where the heck had he come from? Had he passed out in some corner or closet and just woken up?

  “I’m here to deliver a message to the United States government and its citizens,” he intoned, as if he were the voice of doom. He lifted his hand into the air, showing off the cell phone in his hand as if it were a detonator.

  Maybe it was. The air in her chest froze solid, then broke up into ragged shards, piercing her insides with every breath.

  “Something tells me,” Ava said quietly, “his backpack isn’t full of textbooks.”

  “Shit.” Dr. Rodrigues’s horrified voice whispered into her ear.

  “Not helpful,” she whispered back.

  “Our leaders are corrupt,” he continued, weaving on his feet, turning in a circle as if expecting a crowd of people was surrounding him. “Responsible for the deaths of thousands of women and ch…children.”

  Only the crowd was too far away for making the kind of statement terrorists seemed to want these days. The kind that turned crowds into panicked mobs.

  Now what was she supposed to do? Continue taking samples? Something told her he probably wouldn’t like it. Terrorists weren’t supposed to look like an average American college student.

  “No one is here,” Ava said as gently as she could, as she dared, “but me.”

  The young man frowned, glanced around, then asked, “Where did they go?”

  She had to work to keep her tone even, when everything inside her wanted to run away screaming. “They, um…left.”

  “Left?” The young man looked around again. “But I was supposed to deliver a message to the American p…public. Force the military to withdraw troops from…” His voice trailed off.

  “Some of them got sick,” Ava offered tentatively.

  “Oh,” the terrorist said, looking at her with a fuzzy sort of pleased expression. “Good. That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

  Good?

  Was he the delivery system? Patient zero? Had someone gotten him sick, then sent him to a popular coffee shop to infect as many people as he could?

  It wasn’t something he could have done on his own, could he?

  “So far, sweetheart,” an unfamiliar masculine voice said into her ear, startling her, “you’re doing just fine.”

  Where had Dr. Rodrigues gone?

  “Who is this?” she asked, lowering her voice as quietly as possible so the terrorist-in-training wouldn’t overhear.

  “He’s a security specialist,” Dr. Rodrigues said, her voice high with stress. “He’s working with us. I’ve got a situation here at the hospital I have to deal with. Take good care of Dr. Lloyd, Sergeant River.”

  “I will,” he said. There was a click, and then he spoke again. “I’m one of the guys who gets brought into this kind of situation when the shit hits the fan.”

  There was a lot of background noise, rapid footsteps, people talking. Whoever this Sergeant River was, he was on the move.

  A police negotiator, maybe. Whatever his job, his voice was smooth, dark, and deep.

  The sort of voice capable of giving you a thrill, even if you never saw its owner. If she had to take orders from someone she didn’t know, at least she could enjoy it.

  “Keep your volume low and don’t get excited,” he continued. “Dr. Rodrigues figures your boy has whatever bug all the rest at the hospital have.” His tone implied this was a positive thing. She wasn’t so sure.

  “Is that good news?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the terrorist.

  Oops, she’d spoken a little too loud.

  “He might pass out,” Mr. Smooth said. “Which would be the best-case scenario.”

  The terrorist didn’t look any closer to unconsciousness than he had a couple of minutes ago. “So, we wait?” she asked.

  “I’m supposed to wait for further instructions,” the terrorist answered with a wobbly nod.

  “I’m moving into position to help you,” Mr. Smooth said. “But, it’s going to take a few minutes.”

  “What does that mean?” She really had to stop thinking of him as Mr. Smooth. She might use the moniker out loud. His name was River, Sergeant River.

  Please be police and not military. In her experience, military meant a combative attitude with little regard to safety. Just what she didn’t need.

  What she did need was a man who lived up to his centered, calm, seductive voice.

  “Just keep him busy. Offer him a seat,” River suggested. “He sounds confused, so make him feel comfortable. In control.”

  Well, finally something she knew how to do with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked the terrorist.

  “Small nonfat latte with caramel drizzle.” He said it absently, by rote. He’d probably ordered the same drink hundreds of times.

  “Coming right up,” Ava said, trying to ignore her shaking hands as she revved up the espresso machine.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “On the house,” she told him as she worked, only slightly slower thanks to the hazmat suit. “You’ve ah…earned it today.”

  “Excellent,” River said to her. “Smart girl.”

  “I’m not a girl,” she muttered as she made the drink and passed it across the counter to the terrorist-in-training. She was an experienced doctor, goddamn it.

  “What are you wearing?” the young man asked her, his expression clearing. “Are you with the police?”

  She froze, her mind unable to come up with a single reasonable thing to say.

  “Tell him it’s get-your-geek-on day,” River suggested.

  “It’s a costume.” Ava pasted a smile onto her face. “Pajama day is next week.”

  The terrorist frowned, but relaxed a fraction. “Oh.” He took a sip of his coffee, and his face lit up. “Good coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See if you can get him to sit down,” River advised. “Keep him talking.”

  Maintaining the smile on her face was starting to hurt. “Please, take any seat in the house,” she said to the young man. “I’ll bring you a…snack.”

  The terrorist obediently sat on the closest chair.

  That was way too easy. She’d met a lot of sick people. Most of them got suspicious and argumentative when faced with a stranger in a hazmat suit, not acquiescent.

  “Have you got a plan?” Ava asked the man on the phone as she grabbed a pastry from the display case and walked around the counter to give it to a man who looked like he was still in his teens.

  “In motion, sweetheart,” River said. “All you need to do is keep that loony tune distracted.”

  “Here you are.” She handed the terrorist a piece of banana bread. “Oh, would you like butter for that?”

  “Yes, please,” he answered, his voice so low in volume she almost didn’t hear him.

  He was starting to sway in his seat.

  Come on, dude. Pass out, pass out.

  His cell phone rang, startling both of them.

  It was the Darth Vader ringtone.

  “Seriously?” River said in her ear. “Does he think he’s feeling the Force or some shit like that?”

  Ava had to bite her lip to keep from snorting. Humor was completely uncalled for
, the situation dangerous in a way she’d never experienced before. So, why did she want to laugh so much?

  The terrorist answered the phone. “Hi.”

  He listened for a moment, then nodded, ended the call, and looked into her eyes, regret turning the corners of his lips down.

  Nausea doused the urge to laugh and twisted her stomach painfully as he said the last thing she wanted to hear.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Two

  6:21 p.m.

  Whoever had designed the hazmat suit either had a hell of a sense of humor, or they hated all their coworkers.

  River hit the mute button on his ECC device. As far as he knew, Dr. Rodrigues and Lloyd were the only two people besides him with communication units, but he wasn’t 100 percent sure about that, and he didn’t want just anyone listening in as he prepared to kill another human being.

  He sighted down his scope, settling the crosshairs on the back of the head of the idiot wearing the backpack. The full-body condom wasn’t making it easy.

  The damn thing was bulky, in the way, and he hated how it dulled his senses, making even simple things like detecting outside vibration or feeling the direction of the wind impossible. Both those things were very necessary to making the shot for a man trying to hit a nut job and missing the woman he had hostage.

  “I hope to fuck someone is tracing that phone call,” he said to the general population of law-enforcement types milling around him.

  “We are,” one of the FBI guys answered. “But it’s not as easy to do as the cop shows make it look on TV.”

  “Don’t kill him,” the Homeland agent in charge, John Dozer, ordered. “We need to question him.”

  “You think there’s going to be anything left of his brain after the fever he’s got?” River asked conversationally. “That’s if I manage to give him a John Wayne shot?” He shifted his target a little, trying to find a spot on the kid’s shoulder or arm that wasn’t near any major arteries or veins, but the angle was bad. It didn’t matter where he hit the guy. He was probably going to bleed like a stuck pig.

  Then River caught a glimpse of Dr. Lloyd’s face in his scope.

  Her expression morphed in that second from a polite mask to full on horrified.

  No soldier ever ignored his gut instinct when it told him to shoot. River didn’t intend to start now.

  He breathed out and squeezed the trigger.

  The terrorist jerked and slumped forward, the cell phone falling out of his hand to clatter on the concrete beneath him.

  Dr. Lloyd ducked, but when nothing more happened, she straightened to look around before staring at backpack dude.

  “We need to send in medical,” Dozer said. He sounded bored.

  “I am medical,” River told him, pulling himself out of his shooting position.

  Cell phones and radios on the various officers and agents around him began to squawk.

  “There’s been an explosion at Cielo Vista Mall,” one of the cops called out to the group.

  Before anyone could move, an FBI agent shouted, “A suicide bomber just hit the main gate at Fort Bliss. At least six dead.”

  “Fuck,” Dozer said, not looking a bit bored now.

  “I’ve got this,” River told him. “You’re going to have your hands full with two secondary locations going up in smoke.”

  “I’m setting up a command post right here,” Dozer said through clenched teeth.

  “This area is too exposed and too close to that backpack I’m assuming is full of explosives.” River nodded at the man he’d just shot. “Speaking of which, I’m going to need a bomb disposal unit and an ambulance.”

  Dozer was already on his phone barking orders, but he nodded at River before turning to direct law-enforcement traffic.

  River secured his weapon, grabbed the pack next to him, and strode off toward Dr. Lloyd, who looked much too young to be the kind of experienced specialist Dr. Rodrigues had described—a doctor who was trying to stop the terrorist from bleeding to death with nothing more than her hands.

  He should be so lucky. If Homeland had its way with the kid, he’d disappear into a very dark, painful hole and never find his way out.

  River turned the mute button off on the ECC. “I’m inbound to your location,” he told the doctor, then reengaged the mute.

  She glanced up and saw him coming. Her gaze took in his hazmat suit, the first-aid kit, and his sniper rifle. It stayed on the rifle. “Did you shoot this man?” she asked. The appalled expression on her face had only gotten more pronounced.

  “It was that or let him blow you up, along with this place,” River said as he came to a stop next to her. She was small, young, and brown-haired. Reminded him of a sleek little mouse. “I’ve got pressure bandages for that wound.” He stripped the backpack off the guy, picked up the cell phone slash detonator, and deposited both of them cautiously on the concrete in the center of the open-air space. That put it about twenty feet away from Dr. Lloyd and the man she was trying to keep alive. Not nearly far enough away, but better than having it sit right next to them.

  River opened his first-aid kit then shifted backpack dude onto the cement. It took a moment to get the pressure bandages secured in place on the terrorist’s chest and back, thanks to the hole the bullet drilled through him.

  River took out a small portable heart monitor, connected the three leads to the guy’s chest, and turned the machine on.

  Dr. Lloyd grabbed the stethoscope out of River’s pack and listened to the bomber’s chest. “You missed his lung,” she said, relief clear in her voice. She might look like a mouse, but she sounded like one of those women on a phone sex line. Furry, soft, and sexy.

  “Can’t get answers from a dead man,” River replied.

  She tensed up a little, but didn’t look away from her patient. “Are you a sniper? With the police?”

  “I’m Army Special Forces, which means I can do a lot of things most people don’t want the details of.” They didn’t, not your ordinary civilians, anyway. They’d shit their pants if they knew how many ways he could kill someone.

  “Yeah,” she muttered in a disapproving tone. “I know all about that.”

  He snorted. Right.

  “I investigate infectious diseases,” she explained, pinching her lips together. “My mother washes her hands before, during, and after I visit.”

  The ECC thing in River’s ear beeped. He unmuted it, then answered the second call. “River.”

  “This is Dr. Rodrigues. What’s the status of the man you shot?”

  “He’s unconscious, but alive. He’s going to need surgery and a blood transfusion soon, though. And when I say soon, I mean right now.”

  “Arrangements are being made to get an ambulance to you to transfer him to a secure isolation room at the William Beaumont Army Medical Center, but with multiple explosions causing so many injuries and deaths, it’s going to take a while.”

  “He hasn’t got a while. If you don’t get someone here within the next ten minutes, he’s going to bleed to death.”

  “I can get the transfusion running if they have blood handy,” Dr. Lloyd offered tentatively. “It’s been a year or two, but I haven’t forgotten which end of a needle is sharp and which isn’t.”

  He could, too, but he’d take anything that might create a team vibe between them. “Fucking-A,” he said with a grin. “Dr. Rodrigues, can you get someone to deliver a couple of IV sets and three or four units of O negative blood? Dr. Lloyd says she’ll push packed cells while we wait for transport.”

  “Good idea. I’ll have someone do that.” The call ended.

  “I think your boss just hung up on me,” River complained.

  “Yeah, she does that when things are a little crazy.” Dr. Lloyd shrugged. “I’m Ava, by the way. Just Ava.”

  “Not Dr. Lloyd?” he asked. “Most doctors seem hung up on people calling them doctor.”

  She looked at him as if he were something on a petri dish. “I spend most o
f my time inside a lab or dressed like this in some kind of disgusting environment collecting samples. The only time I insist on being called doctor is at a staff meeting.”

  Usually he was pretty good at charming the ladies, but his little mouse wasn’t impressed with him one bit. New tactic: find common ground. “How does this rate on your disgusting scale?”

  “It doesn’t.” She rolled her eyes. “I worked for three months in Sierra Leone during the Ebola outbreak. People were dying, lying in pools of their own blood, feces, and urine. That was if they were in a bed. Lots of them were just left in the street, in the mud, to die.”

  “That’s pretty bad.” He had to admit, it was. “The worst thing I’ve ever seen was in Afghanistan, the aftermath of a family setting off an IED with their ancient truck. All we found were pieces…of them.”

  “That’s…rough,” she agreed hesitantly. “I think you win.”

  “Nah, it’s a draw. Invisible things that can kill you are scarier than any gun, knife, or artillery ever invented. Those things are limited by the skill of the person wielding them. Bacteria and viruses, well, no one is in charge of them, and that makes them far more dangerous.”

  She glanced at him, startled. “Huh, I never thought of it that way.”

  “Soldiers have a vested interest in anticipating all the ways a body can die. Especially if you want to be alive at the end of your deployment.”

  She stared at him as if he’d suddenly spoken to her in an unknown language, but quickly turned her attention to the idiot they were trying to save. “Is that what you do? Security and risk assessment?”

  “That’s part of it. We do a lot of different jobs when we work with other countries and organizations.” River paused to do a reading on their terrorist’s heart rate.

  Way too high. And jumpy.

  His ear beeped, and Dr. Rodrigues’s voice spoke to him again. “The equipment and units of blood are on their way.”

  “Understood,” River said. “ETA?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “I’m not sure this guy has got that long.”

  Rodrigues’s voice sharpened. “What’s changed?”

  “His heart rate is becoming erratic. He’s bleeding out fast.”