by Rebecca York
Bridgman had made a fool out of him in the eyes of the world, and the self-righteous bastard was finally due to pay the price. Not only was he going to provide a weaponsgrade supply of a deadly biological agent, he was going to get the credit as the man who’d developed it.
Jerome laughed softly to himself as he checked his Browning automatic. Poetic justice. Very poetic.
Sighting down the barrel, he squeezed off six shots in rapid succession, smiling as neat little holes appeared in the target’s chest.
BY THE TIME GLENN HAD strode a hundred yards across the grounds, he was feeling calmer. After opening the locked door to the level-four biohazards lab, he locked it behind him again and started down the stairs. Two flights below ground level, he stood in front of a massive door with Warning: Biological Hazards. Authorized Personnel Only emblazoned in eye-level, six-inch-high red letters.
This was where the real work of Castle Phoenix was carried out. Not in the greenhouses where he cultivated exotic plants for their medical value, but here, in his sealedoff multimillion-dollar underground laboratory where he worked under strict security procedures.
Only a few of the seventy-five men at the installation were cleared to come here. Usually Glenn called in one of them as a backup for safety precautions. Today he needed to be alone. And the lab was an excellent refuge.
He worked the keypad on the wall, punching in the access code, then pressing his palm to the scanner. When the lock disengaged, he stepped into the anteroom, then the dressing area, where he took off everything he was wearing, including his underwear, and stowed them in a locker before changing into cotton lab pants and a shirt. In the next room, he donned a one-piece positive-pressure suit ventilated by a life-support system, then mechanically went through the safety drill, checking the helmet, gloves and boots that would shield him from the lab’s immediate environment. When he’d finished, he could have been an astronaut preparing for a space walk, except that the gravity here was normal. And the enemy wasn’t the vacuum of space—it was the invisible virus particles that lurked beyond the final door.
After completing the procedure, he stepped into the air lock, and waited for the pressure to equalize before the system buzzed him through to the laboratory where he was growing one of the most dangerous viruses in the world. It didn’t kill quickly, like the Ebola. Instead, this nasty little bug, which he’d named K-007 after having been appalled by the body count in a James Bond movie, took its victims on a slow, inexorable downward course, attacking nerve cells and bodily organs in a random pattern that was all the worse for its unpredictability.
Really, the time frame meant it wasn’t even a good weapon. The army had snatched it when it was still in the development phase.
Yet, that didn’t make it less deadly in the long run. And maybe, just maybe, he had figured out a way to stop it, he thought, as he crossed to the cell cultures bathed in the artificial heat of warming lamps. He’d started a new series of experiments three weeks ago, and they were more promising than anything else he’d tried. This was the third trial, and so far everything looked—He wanted to say “perfect.” Instead, he stuck with cautious optimism.
Mentally crossing his fingers, he went over the notes Dylan had left on his last check of the cultures twelve hours earlier, feeling a surge of satisfaction as he compared the new data to previous results.
“Good,” he approved, his breath puffing against the flat surface of his face mask as he put away the notebook and turned to the electron microscope. He was adjusting the focus when the lights flickered and went out, plunging the underground room into absolute darkness.
Softly he cursed under his breath. Now what?
For half a minute, he waited patiently in the blackness, expecting the backup systems to kick in. They didn’t. After switching on his emergency oxygen supply, he moved cautiously in the darkness and found the wall phone. When he picked it up, he got only dead air.
MEG HAD DECIDED TO TAKE a long, luxurious bath. Why waste that wonderful Jacuzzi? Maybe the judicious application of hot water would even untie the knots in her shoulder and neck muscles. Returning to the bedroom, she kicked off her sandals and grabbed the robe she’d found in the closet.
After stepping out of her slacks, she tossed them toward the bed. She had just discarded her shirt and was about to unsnap her bra when the lights went out, and she was plunged into darkness.
For several seconds she stood stock-still, enveloped in silence. Then she heard someone shout and the sound of running feet.
It must be some kind of emergency. Hurrying toward the bed, she began to search for the clothing she’d carelessly discarded. Just her luck if a goon squad came charging through the door and found her like this.
TOO BAD HE HADN’T TOLD anyone he was coming down here, Glenn mused as he took stock of his options. Eventually, they’d find him. But by then he might well have run out of oxygen. The door lock was electrically controlled. And his only hope of escape was finding the emergency controls in the dark.
Allowing himself only shallow breaths, he stood in the absolute darkness, trying to get his bearings. From his present position, the door to the dressing area must be at six o’clock.
Hoping that he was correct, that he hadn’t gotten turned around in the blackness, he carefully retraced his steps. When he made it to the door, he sighed his thanks. Working by touch, he began to search along the wall for the access panel. After wasting precious seconds, he realized he had to be on the wrong side and tried the far wall.
The small metal door turned out to be only two feet above the floor. Who had designed it? A team of midgets?
With the lights on, he’d felt perfectly at ease in the pressure suit. Somehow the darkness made his gloved hands feel as if they were encased in layers of bandages as he worked to free the crank on the emergency lock.
He should have enough reserve oxygen to get out of here, he told himself. Yet he could feel the air inside the suit thicken and his lungs begin to labor painfully.
His hands itched to reach up and open his faceplate. The rational part of his brain knew it would be a fatal mistake. He’d expose himself to K-007—and die along with the poor bastards he had sent off to Operation Clean Sweep.
That might satisfy the gods of cosmic justice. But it wouldn’t do the men any good. They needed him working on the cure.
So he kept up his attack on the panel, his eyes closed as he tried to accomplish what should be a simple task.
It was getting hard to concentrate. Then in the dark, it seemed that someone was beside him—a woman—her fingers digging into his shoulder, focusing his scattered attention.
“Meg?” he whispered.
“Right here,” she answered, her breath soft and cool against his hot skin.
But she couldn’t be here now. Not in the lab. His mind was playing tricks. Yet, illusion was far more comforting than reality.
“Did you mean it about wanting a relationship with me?” he asked, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.
“You’ll never find out unless you get out of here,” she replied sweetly, with a teasing edge in her voice.
“If I take off the faceplate, I could kiss you,” he said as he slowly cranked the lever.
“No! Later!” she warned, her voice high and sharp like a siren going off in his head.
“Okay.”
He left the heavy, protective plastic in place, while his sausage-like fingers twisted the lever. It seemed as if he’d been doing it for centuries with no results.
He leaned his head against the wall, resting for a moment. Just a moment. Then he’d start working again. He promised.
“Hurry!” Meg urged, and it seemed that he could sense the light pressure of her lips against his.
“How much time do I have left?” he asked in a shaky voice as he lifted his head.
“Don’t talk. Save your breath,” she warned. “Do that for me, Glenn. I’ll be waiting for you when you get out of here.”
He
didn’t know how she could be in here with him and waiting on the outside, too. But he did as he was told, drawing comfort from the feel of her breast pressed against his shoulder.
Finally the lever wouldn’t turn any further. Bracing his hands against the wall, he pulled himself up and fumbled with the lock, falling through the door as it opened.
Somehow he remembered to seal it again behind him. Then he crawled toward the chemical shower and pulled the emergency chain, sending a decontaminating spray over the suit.
Meg was still with him. “Good. Good,” she whispered.
He didn’t have the breath to speak. Only when he’d stepped from the chamber and reached the changing room did he rip off the faceplate and gasp in air.
As his head cleared, he knew he was alone in the dark. Meg’s comforting presence had been only a product of oxygen starvation. She wasn’t here to help him—and he still wasn’t out of the woods. He still had to open the outer door before he used up all the air in the sealed room.
MEG HAD EXPECTED Claymore to send in troops. So it wasn’t exactly a surprise when she heard the sitting-room lock click softly open. She’d found her slacks. The knit top had eluded her frantically searching fingers. So she was barefoot, half dressed and cursing the timing of the blackout when she turned to face the bedroom door.
She almost called out to say she’d be with them as soon as she found her shirt. But the manner of the invasion stopped her.
No uniformed men charged through the entrance as if they owned the place. Instead, she heard the door ease open—quietly, stealthily, as if a burglary was in progress. Then the door closed again, and the lock turned, the small sound raising goose bumps along her arms as she realized that whoever had entered the suite had shut her in with him.
Was it one of the security men who’d looked at her with such malice? Or someone else?
Instinctively, she shrank back against the wall as she watched the beam of a flashlight play rapidly across the rug. Behind it, she could make out the vague shape of a man who moved quietly across the chamber, inspecting every corner, bending to check under and behind the sofa. When he knocked a vase off a table onto the rug, he cursed softly and kicked it out of the way before moving down the hall.
“Ms. Wexler?” he called.
The voice was familiar and brought a twinge of remembered fear. She’d heard that voice before. Been afraid of this man before. But where? And when?
“Don’t hide from me. I’m here to help you,” he said.
Somehow, she didn’t believe him.
Shoulders glued to the wall, she considered possible hiding places. He’d find her under the bed or behind the drapes. That left the closet. It was long, taking up one whole wall of the room. From the outside, it looked like two closets—with two separate entrances. If she slipped inside, she could get closer to the bedroom door, get past him.
But then what? He’d locked the front door of the suite, which blocked that means of escape.
Cursing the bars on the windows, she moved along the wall, found the closet door and slipped inside. She had only a fifty-fifty chance of pulling this off, she knew as she moved quietly toward the far door. If he opened it first, he’d be on top of her.
Through the slit in the door, she saw him swing his light in an arc, then turn toward the closet door where she’d originally entered. When she saw the long-barreled gun in his hand, her heart leaped into her throat. For a moment she was paralyzed. Then she ordered her legs to take her through the door behind him and into the hall.
Sliding into the bathroom, she closed the door and turned the lock. There was barely enough light coming through the window for her to spot the vanity chair. Pulling it out, she tipped it backward against the knob, wedging the door closed.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, then the door rattled on its hinges.
“Come out of there!” a low voice growled. Apparently he’d given up any pretense of being friendly.
She didn’t answer, and the next thing she heard was a spitting sound as something small and deadly slammed into the door. A bullet! From a gun with a silencer. With a little gasp, she shrank back around the corner to where the toilet was shielded by a tiled wall.
There was another spit. Another bullet
In the dark she looked around for something heavy. There was nothing in the immediate area. Heart in her throat, she risked a dash for the dressing table, where she picked up a foot-high statue of a Greek girl with a water jug. Holding it by the feet, she flung it at the window. The glass shattered, and she jumped back around the barrier as more bullets hit the door. God, how many shots did he have?
What did it matter? He probably had a spare magazine. At this rate, the door was going to be Swiss cheese soon.
Cupping her hands, she turned toward the broken window. “Help me! Somebody help me! There’s a man with a gun!” she shouted through the window.
No one answered, although in the distant darkness, she imagined she saw men running across the grass.
“Help!” she called again, pulling at the bars. They were cold and unyielding in her clenched fists. “Fire!”
There was no response.
Her eyes darted around the room, probing every shadowy corner—and spotted what looked like an access panel above the toilet. If she could get to it, maybe she’d have a chance to escape.
Sparing a few more precious seconds, she flicked the cold-water knob on the tub, then pulled the flexible shower spray so that it was dribbling a small stream of water onto the floor.
Another shot had her scrambling onto the toilet lid and then the tank. Barefoot on the cold porcelain, she stood on tiptoe and raised her hands toward the panel. It was too far above her head to reach, and she heard a small sob well in her throat.
Gritting her teeth, she jumped. Her outstretched hands hit the light plywood, which flew upward before crashing back into place. Again she jumped, trying to nudge the panel to one side.
This time it came down at an angle, giving her enough space to jump again and catch the molding around the edge.
Maybe she was really a circus performer who had come to Castle Phoenix to arrange a private show, she thought, verging on hysteria as she swung her legs, gathering enough momentum to propel her body upward. She pulled her feet through the opening, twisted to the side, and flopped onto a ceiling joist just as she heard the door splinter and crash open.
From her perch, she saw the assailant barrel into the bathroom like a freight train that had lost its brakes. When he hit the water spreading across the tile floor, he went flying, screaming as he crashed onto the slippery surface.
Meg slid the panel into place, leaving a tiny crack where blackness shaded into gray. Every ounce of concentration focused on escape, she began to crawl across the rafters, moving by feel, the rough wood beams her only guide.
It was darker than the inside of an elephant’s belly and as hot as an oven. She had no idea where she was going. Dust filled her lungs, and splinters dug into her hands and through the fabric of her slacks, but she figured the pain was better than getting shot.
She had managed to put several feet between herself and her point of entry when she heard a voice call her name.
This time it was Glenn.
“Meg? Are you all right, Meg?” he called frantically, and she knew he was on the level below—in the suite. Or outside in the hall.
Her heart stopped. Oh, God. He had no idea of the danger.
“Glenn!” she shouted. “Get out of there! He’s got a gun!”
“Meg! Who? What are you talking about? Where are you?”
She might have answered, but a bullet crashed through the ceiling only a few feet from where she crouched. The warning shout had given her away.
Quickly she shifted her position, almost losing her balance on the rafter.
“Meg!” Glenn’s voice was strained. “Meg!”
Risking an answer was risking her life. But she took the chance—because she had to. “Glenn! Get away!�
�� she screamed, then moved, estimating the distance between rafters, and hopped gracelessly to her right. She landed on the next beam with a jarring impact that sent her sprawling on her bruised knees.
Stifling a moan, she braced for another bullet. But it didn’t come in her direction. It was fired below—aimed at Glenn.
Somehow she kept from screaming out his name. An awful silence stretched. Finally, to her relief, she heard him give an angry snarl—anger not pain, she told herself. The impact of one body colliding with another made her suck in a sharp breath. Then a piece of furniture thumped, followed by a grunt and a curse.
They were fighting—Glenn and the intruder. Somewhere below her. At least that was the way it sounded from her hiding place.
Going very still, she listened, trying to judge the direction and the distance of the noise.
To her left. And several feet ahead. As fast as she could, she crawled toward the sound of men engaged in hand-tohand combat
Carefully reversing her position, she braced her hands against the rafters. With as much force as she could muster, she slammed her heels against the ceiling of the room below her. Her feet punched through, sending up a cloud of dust. When the debris settled, she found herself looking down into a large area—the sitting room, she realized as she made out the shapes of the furniture in the beam of a flashlight. Rolling in and out of the shaft of light were two male figures locked in mortal combat.
Chapter Nine
Tearing frantically at the edges of the hole, pulling with her hands and kicking with her feet, she enlarged the opening, ripping off chunks of gypsum board and scattering them on the carpet. Some hit the shoulders of one man or the other, but neither seemed to notice.
Dust rose in little puffs, making her choke. Her eyes watered, but she kept them fixed on the combatants, trying to determine which one was winning.
Glenn crashed heavily against a sideboard, his assailant gave a grunt of triumph and leaped forward, pulling back his fist for another blow. Before he could follow through, Meg jumped and landed on his back. Surprised, he exhaled sharply, and she clawed at his face, digging her fingernails into his flesh.
