Total Mayhem

by John Gilstrap

  The stench of gasoline filled his sinuses as the fuel spilled everywhere. Taking care to keep himself dry, Kellner stood and headed for the kitchen and the garage beyond. He paused in the kitchen archway to lift a dish towel from the counter, which he wrapped around the top handle of an open-coiled portable electric space heater. He cranked the setting up as far as it would go, and then set the heater itself on the carpet of the living room, out to the extent of its power cord.

  Sooner than later, the gasoline vapors would find the coils, and when they did, there’d be a hell of a fire. And the cute little bungalow would burn to the ground because the fire department would be way too busy to fight it.

  At 16:43, Kellner lifted the garage door by hand, bypassing the automatic opener. He climbed behind the wheel of his late model Ford Taurus and pulled down the driveway. As he reached the end of the apron, he was startled to see Grant Duncan standing in the street, off to the side of the dented aluminum mailbox. He projected no threat, but exuded fear and confusion. There might have been tears in his eyes.

  Kellner opened his window.

  Duncan spoke quickly. “I know you told me not to follow, but—”

  Kellner cut him off. “I don’t care about that,” he said. “Keep going. You’re still too close. Good luck.” He left the window down as he cranked the wheel and headed down the street. He’d barely made it to the end of the block before a fireball blew out the front windows of the bungalow. A glance back showed Grant Duncan little progressed from before, but squatted over, with his arms shielding his head. Kellner had no idea why he cared about a stranger’s safety, or even if he really did. He drove on.

  Four blocks later, a giant flash and burst of smoke erupted in his rearview mirror. Three seconds after that, the Taurus’s steering wheel jerked in his hand as the shock wave rippled beneath him.

  Chapter Ten

  Site J was one of many unpretentious estates that were nestled in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Jonathan knew the place as Juliet—the verbalization of its designation in the international phonetic alphabet. He’d been here only once before, and he had no idea what the origins of the place were, or even how it was organized. He’d always assumed that its funding came through a CIA cost center, but for all he knew, the place could be part of the South Dakota National Guard.

  But probably not.

  The medevac turned out to be an old-school Bell Jet Ranger that had been spiffed up with modern aeronautics and night vision capabilities. Jonathan didn’t ask questions, but he figured that the owners didn’t want to fly anything fancy when they landed in a wheat field to pick up passengers. You know how neighbors talked.

  The secondary LZ was only a fifteen-minute drive from the carnage house, and from the LZ, the flight to Juliet was another forty-five minutes. Because of the small size of the aircraft the team had split up. Jonathan and Gail joined Masterson in the chopper, and Boxers took Ray in the truck. They’d drive to Juliet, where they’d all reunite.

  From the exterior, Juliet looked like a rich man’s estate. It covered what Jonathan estimated to be at least a hundred acres, maybe two hundred, and the visible part of the structure looked like a Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired mansion. Built with a low profile and constructed of mostly natural materials like stone and timber, the structure had so many windows that it appeared to be constructed of equal parts glass and wood. But Jonathan knew from previous experience that the cosmetics of the estate were largely an effort to disguise itself from airborne snoopers.

  Upon closer examination, the windows revealed themselves to be glass panels that had been installed in front of reinforced concrete walls. Lights came on as the sun set, and then went off again around midnight to simulate occupancy, but the panels were tinted darkly enough that any effort to spy through the windows would be thwarted.

  The Jet Ranger flew past the private landing strip and flared a landing on the trimmed grass helipad near the pool in the backyard. As the rotors powered down, staffers dressed in casual civilian clothes swarmed the aircraft and took charge of Masterson. A not-unattractive woman in her forties led the phalanx of attendants, and Jonathan noted that she wore a stethoscope slung haphazardly around the back of her neck. As far as Jonathan was concerned, that made her a physician.

  After they transferred Masterson from the chopper stretcher to a gurney, Jonathan approached the woman and extended his hand. “Hi, Doc, I’m Neil Bonner. I was—”

  She didn’t even make eye contact. “I’ll find you and let you know when you can squeeze him for information.” And she was gone.

  “Friendly sort,” Gail quipped.

  “Sites like these are always packed with twitchy people,” Jonathan said. “Nobody is here because it was their first choice.” He started strolling across the grass, away from the building. He didn’t have a place in mind to go, but walking was always easier on his back than standing still.

  Gail fell into step with him. “I thought you said you didn’t even know who ran things here,” she said.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t guess,” Jonathan said. “This is a spooky place run by spooky people. Pretty short list of choices.”

  “What is a place like this all about?” Gail asked. A tableau of rolling hills and clusters of trees played out in front of them. It was gorgeous.

  “A little bit of everything,” Jonathan said. “Not everything can be trained in Quantico, you know? Ditto Camp Peary. Defectors need places to stay while they’re being squeezed and before they move into their permanent digs. Covert operators or witnesses sometimes turn up injured or wounded, and they have to be treated somewhere. Community hospitals are simply out of play for people like that.”

  “So, they bring them here.”

  “Or, a place much like it.”

  “It’s really all a hospital, then?” Gail asked.

  “Part of it is,” Jonathan. “But nothing Uncle does is all anything. Yes, there’s medical here, but there are also training facilities. I bet if we look hard enough we could find a shooting range.”

  “And a golf course?” Gail asked with a smile.

  Jonathan laughed. “Maybe, but not necessarily. It’s not an Air Force base.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Once,” Jonathan said. “And you should remember the occasion.”

  His comment drew the confused look he’d been going for.

  “We’d just met,” he said. “Up in Pennsylvania, when I got shot.”

  Recognition came instantly. “They took you all the way out here?”

  “Not initially,” Jonathan clarified. “At least, I don’t think so. Some of the details are a little fuzzy.”

  “You were kind of bleeding out,” Gail reminded.

  “Yeah, there’s that. As I recall, my first stop was someplace local. The pain was pretty intense by then, so they gave me a shot, and yada yada, I woke up here with a bowel that was about two feet shorter than it was when I arrived.”

  “How am I just now hearing about this?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Never asked?”

  “And how come when I got hurt I got sent to that nasty place in Texas to recover?”

  “You were at Foxtrot, and I don’t know for sure why they sent you there,” Jonathan confessed. “I imagine it had something to do with the fact your issues were largely neurological and mine was gut-related. And the place wasn’t that nasty.”

  “It wasn’t anywhere near as posh as this.”

  Gail’s secret hospital was a quarter of the size of Juliet, and it sat about five miles outside of Port Arthur. There really was no way to spin that into a nice place. “You’re right,” he said. “Next time you get wounded, take it in the belly.”

  Even as he joked, he wished he could take his words back. Jonathan wasn’t superstitious about many things, but he believed that success often hinged on a refusal to recognize the possibility of failure. It was bad juju to speak of sustaining wounds, even in the abstract.

  They wandered togeth
er in silence for a minute or two, then Gail asked, “Have you got any theories on what just went down at the black site?”

  “You mean along the lines of who and why?” Jonathan walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets. The suit-and-tie FBI disguise felt strange. He missed all the pockets and the roomier leg space of his usual 5.11 pants.

  “That would be a great start,” Gail said. “I’ll prime the pump with a question. Do you think the shooters who showed up were actually FBI?”

  Jonathan took his time answering. That very question had been gnawing at him since before the smoke had cleared. “We’ll know after Mother Hen processes the fingerprints, but I don’t think so,” he said. “Maybe in the sense that we are FBI agents—part of the lend-lease agent program—but I’d be surprised if they were sworn agents. In fact, I’d be horrified if they were sworn agents.”

  “Because we killed them?”

  “Yeah, that, too,” Jonathan said. “More because the thought of federal agents committing cold-blooded murder is damned disturbing. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m with you,” Gail said. “I know for a fact that their assault tactics were not by any book I’m aware of. If they really thought we were a threat and they were making a SWAT-type assault, there’d have been backup. Even more than that, there’d have been patience. Whoever they were and whatever they were doing, it was all about making sure that people went home dead.”

  Jonathan stopped walking and turned back to face the mansion. They’d wandered a good half mile. He pointed to the building with his forehead and started strolling back. “The question for us, then, is why.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Jonathan stopped abruptly. “Are you serious?”

  She explained, “I don’t see how knowing the reasons behind their assault is going to change much of what we have to do.”

  Jonathan was shocked that they were having this conversation. “It affects everything we have to do,” he said. “If those assholes back at the prison were, in fact, sworn FBI agents, that means Wolverine has a shit storm on her hands. She’s got rogue operations going on among the people we’re supposed to interact with. It means we can’t trust anyone.”

  Gail chuckled. “You don’t trust anyone, anyway.”

  Jonathan chuckled, too. “Fair point,” he said. “But it’s a whole different world of mistrust if you suspect that your coworkers are trying to kill you.”

  Her chuckle became a laugh. “With the exception of the coworkers in Fisherman’s Cove, name one person that you don’t suspect might try to kill you. It’s part of your charm, Dig. You don’t like anybody.”

  Again, a fair point. He was not the right guy to surprise with a hug.

  His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. “Maybe this is Wolfie now,” he said as he fished for it. He was surprised to see a number that rarely reached out to him. He connected the call and said, “Scorpion.”

  Dom D’Angelo’s voice said, “You know who this is, right?”

  “I do,” Jonathan replied. “We really need to get you a radio handle. What’s up?”

  “More tragedy, I’m afraid. Are you near the news?”

  “Don’t tease me,” Jonathan said. “Tell me what you’ve got to tell me.”

  “They hit again,” Dom said. “Bombs this time. All in Midwestern small towns, and all huge.”

  “Ah, shit,” Jonathan said.

  Gail dialed in on his tone. “What’s wrong?”

  He held up a finger. “What’s the death toll?” He saw Gail tense at the question.

  “Too early to tell yet, but probably hundreds. Appears that the attacks were simultaneous. Whoever you’re chasing, the guys are sick bastards.”

  At one level, God help him, Jonathan admired the terrorists’ methods. They knew how to maximize the psychological damage wrought by their attacks. “Okay,” he said. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “I think you have work to do,” Dom said. “I’ll let you get to it.”

  As Jonathan disconnected, he looked to Gail. “I think it’s safe to say that Wolfie’s not going to be much help in the near future.”

  * * *

  Once inside Juliet’s front doors, the faux mansion looked like any other government building constructed by the lowest bidder. A twelve-by-fifteen-foot security vestibule blocked entry into the rest of the facility. Molded plastic chairs in alternating orange and yellow lined the beige concrete block walls, giving the area a 1970s throwback vibe. The overhead fluorescents were a tad too bright, and the wire-reinforced glass that covered them was spotless. In fact, the entire area was uncharacteristically clean for a remote government facility. The security station lay to the right, at the far end of the vestibule, manned by a high-and-tight soldierly young man dressed in a white shirt, blue sport coat, and a red, white, and blue Republican tie. But for the heavy bulletproof glass and two gun ports, it could have been a receptionist station at a dentist’s office. The guard greeted Jonathan and Gail with a look that was neither friendly nor un-.

  Jonathan badged the guy from five feet away as he approached. “Special Agent Bonner,” he said. “I’m here to speak with Logan Masterson. He was brought in about an hour ago.”

  The guard was either disinterested or expecting them, because he didn’t say a word before reaching under his desk and causing the heavy door on Jonathan’s right to buzz. Jonathan pulled it open to reveal a corridor of closed steel doors that stretched fifty feet in both directions. A massive sign on the wall opposite the door announced that the hospital wing was on the right and downstairs.

  “Kinda creepy,” Gail observed.

  The stairway lay next to the elevator, about halfway down the hallway on the right. Jonathan avoided elevators in spooky places run by the government. An elevator car could be turned into anything the designers wanted it to be, from a jail cell to a gas chamber. Stairwells could be scary, too, but the extra space allowed for maneuverability, and maneuverability gave you options.

  As he opened the stairwell door, Jonathan paused a moment to take in the surroundings. Surveillance cameras along the ceiling provided full coverage of the concrete chute to the basement.

  “Why are we waiting?” Gail asked.

  “Not waiting,” Jonathan said. “Observing. I don’t like how easy it was for us to get this far.”

  “You expect some kind of trap?”

  “Why not?”

  “And if that’s what this is, what’s your plan?”

  Jonathan smiled. She’d got him. They were already in the monster’s maw, if that’s what this was. “In for a dime, right?” he said, and he led the way down the stairs.

  This was no ordinary basement, he realized, after they’d gotten to the bottom of the fourth flight of stairs with another four flights yet to descend.

  “Is this what bomb-proofing looks like?” Gail asked.

  “Either that, or they have very high ceilings in the basement,” Jonathan said.

  When they finally bottomed out, they were met with massive steel double doors. To Jonathan’s eye, they looked like blast doors, nowhere near as large or effective as the famous blast doors at Cheyenne Mountain, but on the same spectrum. Bigger than any bank vault doors that he’d ever seen.

  “Are we supposed to knock?” Gail asked. The smile in her voice made it hard to tell if she was kidding.

  And he had no idea. “Manual methods first,” he said. He wrapped his fist around the massive steel handle and pulled. The door opened with almost no effort. “Wow. This thing’s really well balanced.”

  On the other side of the threshold, the world transformed into a hospital. About the dimensions of a medium-sized city emergency department, the medical wing was built as a square surrounding a central nurses’ station.

  “Bring back memories?” Gail asked.

  “Too many.” In the initial days after his surgery, he must have logged fifty miles around this nurses’ station, rolling an IV stand in his wake. “I hate these places.”

>   It was time to go to work. As they approached the nurses, the pinchy-faced doctor from the helipad exited one of the operatories and walked toward them. Her features had not softened. “I told you I’d call when he’s ready to talk.”

  “I don’t have that luxury,” Jonathan said. “His friends just blew up half of the Midwest, and I need information now.”

  The cranky little doctor didn’t move. She stood with her feet planted and her arms folded across her chest. Jonathan admired the feisty pose, but it was wasted.

  “Look,” Gail said. “What’s your name?”

  “Doctor Jones.”

  Gail rolled her eyes. “Of course it is. Doctor, we have authorization from the highest authority to interview Mr. Masterson.”

  “I am the highest authority in this facility,” Jones said.

  Jonathan leaned in closer and lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “You can’t win this.”

  Jones looked at once angry and defeated. It clearly pained her when she said, “All right, you can speak to him. He’s over there.” She pointed to the operatory from which she’d just exited.

  As Jonathan and Gail headed that way, Doctor Jones followed. Jonathan stopped short. “Alone,” he said.

  “Absolutely not. He’s my—”

  Jonathan hardened his expression. She’d just stomped on his last nerve. He leaned in closer than last time and bored his gaze into her eyes. “Alone,” he said.

  That time it seemed to do the trick.

  Without another word, they entered Logan Masterson’s cubicle and closed the curtain behind them.

  Chapter Eleven

  Masterson looked a hell of a lot better than the last time Jonathan had seen him. Improved lighting helped, he supposed, and he was easier to look at while wearing a hospital gown. But the kid’s features had improved, too.

  He was sleeping—or pretending to—when they entered. Jonathan cleared his throat, and the patient’s eyes snapped open. He adjusted his position and in the process revealed the shackle that bound his wrist to his bed.