A traffic light ahead was red. One car was stopped, blocking her lane.
“Traffic check at next light. Am I clear to go through?”
“One vehicle approaching from your right, none from your left. Vehicle appears to be slowing down for approaching police vehicles. You have approximately ten seconds before police vehicles reach the intersection.”
Sherrie pushed the accelerator even harder into the floor, it already at its design limit. As the intersection rapidly approached, a quick look to her right showed a stream of police cars racing toward her, and one in her rearview mirror still some distance back.
“Report!”
“Still clear.”
Here goes nothing!
She was tempted to close her eyes, but instead moved over into the opposing lane, honking her horn just in case her eyes in the sky were wrong, or had missed pedestrians. The SUV blasted past the stopped car and into the intersection just as the Sûreté du Québec police cars were slowing to block the intersection. She whipped through, narrowly missing the first cop car, and continued on, the units now turning to follow her.
“Report!”
“Less than three miles to the border. Turn left at the stop sign coming up in a quarter mile, then go straight all the way to the border, two miles. A chopper is waiting for you.”
She spotted the octagonal stop sign ahead, but with the tall crops it was hard to see if there was any traffic.
“Report on approaching traffic.”
“You’ve got a rig coming from your right, slowing for a stop, nothing else. Note behind you, you’ve got a cruiser approaching rapidly.”
Sherrie checked her rearview mirror, then positioned herself in the center of the two lanes. There was nothing she could do about them now. She had to brake to make the turn, and she could only hope her pursuer would be hesitant to smash his cruiser into her. The stop sign was rapidly approaching and at one hundred feet she locked her brakes up, the ABS kicking in to allow her to control the skid, then just as she was nearing the stop sign, she cranked the wheel hard to the left, the eighteen wheeler to her right laying on its horn as she blasted past the stop sign and into the intersection, the SUV skidding at a ninety degree angle.
She felt a jolt as the closest cruiser following her slammed into her driver’s side rear end, but she was already accelerating away from the intersection, her heart hammering in her chest as adrenaline fueled her escape. She was flying past houses now, in a residential area of the tiny town that straddled the border.
“Report on border.”
“It’s unguarded with a gate blocking the street. We will transmit a signal to open the gate on your mark.”
“Roger that, go ahead and open the gate.”
As her SUV raced toward the metal barrier a vehicle crested the hill, heading toward the gate, lights on top marking it as some sort of official vehicle. As the gate finished opening she blasted past, leaving a line of Canadian police vehicles screeching to a halt in puffs of smoke as the SUV in front of her turned its lights on and blocked the road.
“Somebody didn’t get the memo!” yelled Sherrie as she continued toward the vehicle now blocking her way without slowing down. There was no room to go around him. She cranked the wheel to the right, hammering on her brakes, rushing onto the grass, taking out several street signs and sideswiping a dark green building as she sailed past the US border patrol unit.
As she struggled to regain control of the vehicle, she blew through a stop sign and checked her rearview mirror to see the border patrol turning to pursue.
“Where’s that chopper?”
“Field on your left,” replied her eye in the sky as she hammered on the brakes, the field with the chopper idling suddenly appearing. With her speed killed, she turned off the road and gunned it through the field toward the chopper, then skidded to a halt.
Jumping out, two personnel rushed toward her as she opened the rear doors. Her imposter was grabbed by the two men and carried toward the chopper as the border patrol vehicle jumped the road and entered the field, closing the distance rapidly. Sherrie pulled herself up and onto the chopper as the skids lifted off the ground, the border agent jumping from his SUV, his weapon aimed at them, but holding his fire as he apparently saw the US government markings on the tail.
She put a headset on and adjusted the mike. “Tell Langley we have the package, and it’s not Dr. Urban’s wife, it’s an imposter.”
“Roger that.”
“Also, tell them to notify the Canadian authorities that there are two children alone at the Urban residence that need to be picked up.”
She listened as the pilot relayed the information and her eyes closed, her tactical breathing taking over to lower her heart rate and reduce the impact of all the adrenaline running through her veins. It had been terrifying, and had certainly not gone to plan, but no one had suspected that it wouldn’t be Urban’s wife.
It was the unplanned for things that caused missions to go awry.
But it was the unplanned for things that also made them exciting.
And she wouldn’t change a thing.
Superdome, New Orleans, Louisiana
Special Agent Dylan Kane opened the side door of the massive FBI mobile command unit, holding it aside for Detective Isabelle Laprise. She put one foot up on the step then turned toward the two officers she had been with.
“You two stick around, we may need some extra hands.”
The sergeant nodded, the young officer flashed an excited smile, apparently not realizing what the sergeant did: by sticking with the detective, they’d most likely be traveling into the belly of the beast, with a more likely chance of catching whatever it was they were trying to contain.
But that was their job.
Public safety.
Isabelle stepped inside, Kane following, shutting the door behind them. Only one of the half dozen inside bothered to even look at the new arrivals. The agent stepped forward, her eyes elevatoring him then her competition. Her frown suggested she found herself beaten by Isabelle who though may be around forty appeared quite fit and attractive.
In Kane’s initial assessment of Isabelle, which he did to everyone, he noted no wedding ring, in fact no rings of any kind, and no telltale marks or tan lines to suggest she just removed them for the job.
And the dossier he had read on her when he was in the air confirmed it.
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Hewett. Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand,” she added with a deepening frown when Isabelle reached out.
“Of course,” mumbled Isabelle, apparently slightly embarrassed. But she didn’t have the benefit of the sign hanging behind the two new arrivals that Kane had noticed when he first stepped inside.
Shaking hands spreads germs!
Hewett pointed at the screens.
“We’ve been tracking your boy.”
Isabelle looked at the screen. “How far did you get? We lost him within five minutes of leaving, and could only trace him three minutes prior to his arrival.”
Hewett smiled, pleased apparently that they had done better.
“We’ve identified him—”
“You identified him!”
Hewett’s smile broadened even more at her rival’s shock.
“His name is Mike Milner.” She pointed at one of the screens displaying a summary of his FBI record. “Thirty-eight years old, five foot eleven, hundred seventy five pounds, has a string of arrests around the country, mostly B and E. A few years ago we lost track of him. He was suspected in a few more major heists, one where a security guard was shot. He was good and getting better.”
Isabelle leaned in, staring at the monitor with her killer’s picture.
“How do you know it’s him? We couldn’t get any photos of his face.”
“We were able to piece together partials, then found a great shot from an ATM camera as he was driving by near his apartment.”
“Where’s that?”
“Gravier Street.�
��
“That’s fantastic!” smiled Isabelle, turning to Kane. “You weren’t kidding about the toys!” She turned back to Hewett. “Do we have any idea if he’s still there?”
Hewett shook her head.
“Lobby camera footage we’ve managed to access shows him entering, but not leaving. Unfortunately there are other exits that aren’t monitored, so we don’t know. We’ll leave that to local PD.” Hewett turned to Kane. “We’re backtracking his movements. We have him meeting with someone at Saint Louis Cemetery.” She motioned for some footage to be brought up and one of those manning the stations complied. “It’s fuzzy because of the distance,” explained Hewett, pointing at the pixelated image. “But we’re almost certain this is Milner meeting with someone. There’s an exchange here”—she pointed at what appeared to be something being handed from one man to the other—“and then they go their separate ways.” In the image Milner walked toward the camera, still too fuzzy for Kane to be certain it was him, then climbed into a car and drove off. The other man went deeper into the cemetery and out of sight.
“Any luck picking the other subject up?”
“Negative,” said Hewett, shaking her head. “We’re still searching though. We just found this meeting about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Excellent work,” said Kane, his head bobbing his pleasure. “By the way, how’d you know what apartment was Milner’s? Surely he didn’t use his real name.”
“He checked his mail on the way in so we got his unit number off the box. He’s renting under Mike Smith.”
“And you’ve pulled all bookings?”
“Of course. He was booked for one week ago on a Delta flight to the Dominican Republic.”
“And let me guess, he missed his flight.”
“How’d you guess?”
“This thing is too big to leave loose ends.”
“You’re expecting a corpse?”
Kane frowned, nodding his head.
“Dead men tell no tales.” He sucked in a breath. “Anything else?”
“Not yet,” replied Hewett.
“Okay, you’ve got my number and the Detective’s?”
“Yes.”
“Then send everything you’ve got as it comes in to both of us. Send us his photo and particulars now, along with the address. We’re going over there now, see if we get lucky. Focus on the meeting at the cemetery. We need to know who hired him. Back track Milner’s financials as well. We need to know where he shopped, who he ate with, anything. He may have had an accomplice, or he may have mentioned something to a friend. Does he have family?”
“Oklahoma.”
“Send agents there now, interrogate them. If they won’t cooperate, arrest them as suspected terrorists—”
“Are you kidding?”
Kane shook his head.
“This is end of the world shit, the President has essentially suspended the constitution.”
“Can he do that?”
“I don’t think he cares right now. If this thing gets away from us, there’ll be nobody left to impeach him. If he prevents Armageddon, he’ll be a hero.”
Hewett paled slightly. “I knew it was bad, but hearing someone actually put it that way…” Her voice drifted as her eyes glassed over. “I have a son.” Isabelle reached out and squeezed her arm. Hewett eyed the hand, but instead of shaking it away, put her own hand on top and squeezed for a moment, giving Isabelle a smile.
“Let’s focus on the job, and catch these people. CDC is working on a cure, I’m sure, and we still don’t know how infectious it is, everyone is just playing it safe.” Kane pointed at Hewett. “I’ll contact you when we check out Milner’s apartment.”
Hewett nodded, blinking her eyes clear.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Isabelle as they exited the command center. Kane motioned to the two cops. “We’re heading to Gravier Street. Know where it is?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, get your cruiser, we’ll follow. Lights and sirens all the way, we don’t have any time to waste.”
“I’ll get it!” The sergeant tossed the keys to the young officer who sprinted toward a dwindling gaggle of vehicles as the police assigned to the search were reassigned.
Kane turned to Isabelle.
“I guess we’ll use your car since I dropped in without one.”
She gave him a bit of a grin, shaking her head.
“We need to work on your sense of humor.”
Kane placed his hand over his heart.
“Hey, easy. I could be dying.”
Isabelle dropped her chin toward her chest, looking up at him with a cocked eyebrow.
“Gallows humor now?”
“Not funny?”
“Not funny.”
“Let’s get your car. I’ll think of better jokes on the way.”
“I hope you’re a better agent than comedian.”
Kane laughed as he followed her to an unmarked vehicle parked nearby.
“Don’t worry. Even if I’m no good, my team is.”
His mind flashed to Leroux, wondering what he was doing during this crisis. If he knew the Director, he probably had him on something critical.
You don’t waste talent like that tracking down quarantine escapees.
Patrick Residence, New Orleans, Louisiana
The Patrick family sat glued to the television, the radio also set to a news channel, and Kyle with his iPad on his lap as he pulled up feeds from the Internet. Each thing he read had him shaking his head. Finally he had enough.
“They’re not giving us the full story!”
His mom turned to him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the mainstream media is just spewing the government propaganda. The web is telling a different story. They’re saying that the virus is pretty much contained to one hospital, and it’s only affecting women who have a history of breast cancer in their family.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense at all,” said his father, skepticism dripping from his tongue. “I’ve never heard of a virus that only targets women let alone those with breast cancer.”
“But what if it’s true? They’re saying the real risk is if this thing mutates beyond the initial group. They’re shutting down the city. We’ll be trapped here with a virus that is out of control.”
“We’ll just sit here and mind our own business. We’ve got plenty of food and water. We’ll just ride it out like we did Katrina.”
“Dad, we got so damned lucky with that hurricane, we shouldn’t tempt fate twice. We need to get out of here now while we still have the chance.”
His father watched footage of helicopters flying overhead, troops in hazmat suits being deployed, blocking roads and the port, his hands gripping the arms of his chair tighter and tighter, his knuckles white.
“Kyle’s right. We have to get out of here now. I’ll call my brother, he’ll pick us up outside of the city.”
Kyle jumped up, thanking God they had seen the light.
“I’ll go pack a couple of bags with food and water,” he said, heading for the kitchen.
“I’m not going.”
He spun around to look at his mother, firmly planted in her chair, her shoulders sagging. He was about to say something when a chopper thundered overhead, vibrating the entire house.
He pointed to his dad. “You convince her. I’m packing.”
And with that he headed into the kitchen and began loading the table with things for their journey as his father began to calmly reason with his wife.
I hope he’s quick about it. In another hour it will be too late.
Stanardsville, Virginia
Cheryl Morrison eyed her gas tank. The needle had just crossed a quarter tank, and she hated ever driving with it under half. The radio had made it obvious why her husband had told her to go to the cottage. The virus hitting New Orleans must not only be dangerous, but must have escaped the quarantine zone.
But it could
n’t have made it this far yet. Could it?
A gas station, the last one before the cottage, came into sight.
We need gas.
She pulled in, thanking God that the pumps had been upgraded to self-serve with a pay-at-the-pump service. She grabbed some wipes from the glove compartment and climbed out. Inserting her card, she wrapped a wipe around her hand, entered her PIN then selected regular, her daughter explaining to her one day how premium was a scam since almost all cars today were designed to work anywhere in the world, and 87 octane in some countries was premium. At worst you lost a few horsepower, and the way she drove, she’d never notice as she saved hundreds of dollars a year.
With the fuel pumping, she turned to survey the scene. The small corner store attached to the garage seemed to be busier than usual, the parking lot fuller than she had ever seen it on their weekend jaunts to the country. Some shouting from inside had her gripping the handle on the hose even harder, willing the fuel to pump faster. She watched the counter spinning higher and higher, but it seemed impossibly slow as a scream broke out, then a gunshot.
She ducked, but kept her grip on the hose as she peeked around the fuel pump. People were running from the store and scattering in every direction, screams of terror erupting from their lips. Another shot then the jerking of the hose as the tank was finally full nearly had her peeing her pants. She released the trigger and slowly pulled the nozzle from the tank. She reached up blindly, screwing the cap in place and flipping the cover closed, trying not to make any noise.
She nearly yelped when a man burst from the store, pushing a small cart loaded with supplies, one hand on the cart, the other brandishing a handgun. His wild eyed expression was one of panic and fear, a man out of touch with reality, and a man representative of what was to come as the panic of New Orleans spread.
Soon it would be every man for himself.
“Goddammit!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he stared at a car that she assumed was his. A car that was blocked in by a late arrival who had simply parked perpendicular to three cars, blocking them all. His head spun around, then his eyes came to rest on her. He began to push the cart toward her, his gun extended in front of him, aimed at her. She ducked behind the pump, slowly rising in case she had to run, still gripping the hose.
Containment Failure (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #2) Page 10
