Bourne sat down behind his desk. “Shut the door. Sit down. Shut up.”
Okay then.
It didn’t sound like he was up for any awards.
Bourne pressed some buttons on his laptop and a screen on the wall sprang to life. On it, a guy in a dark suit, hands in his pockets, lounged in front of an array of monitors showing various maps behind him. He straightened when the feed went live, eyes careful and shrewd.
“Agent Hunt Kincaid meet ASAC Steve McKenzie from SIOC.”
Pronounced “sigh-och,” SIOC was the Strategic Information and Operations Center based at headquarters in DC.
What the hell was going on here?
A small smile quirked ASAC McKenzie’s face. “Sorry to drag you away from your other duties. It looks like you were about to have some fun.”
Agents didn’t usually sport Kevlar and thigh holsters in the office. Hunt nodded, not bothering to hide his frustration. The video link split in two and Hunt recognized the legend that was Lincoln Frazer appear on the right-hand side of the monitor.
Frazer was a big deal in the FBI. He’d taught their classes on serial killers during New Agent Training five years ago. Hunt got a tickly feeling between his shoulder blades that usually meant something major was about to take place. Whatever this was, it was serious.
A gorgeous, dark-haired Asian woman in jeans and t-shirt climbed up from beneath Frazer’s desk.
“That should work now,” she told Frazer. “Don’t fiddle with anything.”
Fraser cleared his throat a little self-consciously as he became aware of his audience. “Thank you, Agent Chen. Tell everyone the team meeting is delayed until noon.”
The woman raised an eyebrow in what Hunt interpreted as a “do I look like your secretary” face, but diplomacy won the day, “Yes, boss.”
Hunt was obviously working in the wrong office.
Bourne formally introduced them, then said, “Gentleman, Agent Kincaid is Atlanta’s WMD coordinator, as requested.”
Hunt cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. Every office had a WMD coordinator. Weapons of Mass Destruction—because people needed bigger and better ways of killing other people. Hunt had taken over the WMD coordinator role a month ago when one of his colleagues had gone on maternity leave. Rose Geddy had told him not to get comfortable and he’d replied he had no desire to sit in endless Public Health planning meetings, especially after this stint in white-collar crime. He’d rather bathe his eyes in acid.
McKenzie, McKenzie…
The name clicked into place and Hunt sat up straighter. McKenzie and Frazer had both been involved in foiling the attempt to bomb FBI HQ back in February. That tickly feeling turned to a full-on itch that he couldn’t scratch through the impeding layers of nylon, cotton and Kevlar.
“What do you know about anthrax?” McKenzie asked abruptly.
Hunt snapped to attention. “It’s a Category A biological agent, sir.”
Category A signified the most potent bioweapons—terrible, insidious, death machines. Other Category A agents included such dainties as smallpox and Marburg virus. Nasty shit.
“The anthrax sent through the US Postal System in 2001 caused eleven people to develop the inhalation form of the disease.” McKenzie’s tone suggested this information was going to be relevant to the rest of Hunt’s day and a chill stole over him. “Five of those people died.”
Hunt nodded. The AMERITHRAX case had been studied in detail at the academy. The investigation had lasted more than eight years and the FBI were convinced the bioterrorism was the work of an Army scientist out of Fort Detrick.
Not everyone concurred. The scientist had killed himself before he’d gone to trial.
Hunt wasn’t about to mention the merit of that case as career suicide wasn’t on today’s to-do list. Then again, neither was a lecture on anthrax.
“What you’re about to hear is strictly confidential and on a need-to-know basis. You’re getting read into this case as is every other WMD coordinator in the country,” McKenzie told him.
So, it wasn’t just him, though Hunt had a feeling he was amongst the first to be briefed. His location probably had a lot to do with that. At least two maximum biosafety level containment laboratories (BSL-4) were within a short drive of where he sat, one of which was at the CDC, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the other, Georgia State.
“A few grams of normal Bacillus anthracis dispersed in a certain way have the potential to kill up to a hundred thousand people.” McKenzie looked grim.
Normal Bacillus anthracis?
Frazer took over. “Less than a week ago, an illegal arms broker named Ahmed Masook tried to sell what he claimed was weaponized anthrax on the black market.”
“Weaponized?” asked Hunt.
“Heated up in the lab.” Frazer pressed his lips together as if containing his anger. “They claimed it was faster acting and more virulent than natural strains. Disperses more easily on the wind. And is resistant to current vaccines.”
Unease scratched deeper down Hunt’s spine.
“Last week we got lucky. We intercepted the transaction and prevented the sale of the bioweapon. Unfortunately, the arms dealers didn’t survive the experience so we couldn’t question him about the supplier.” Frazer’s smile grew razor sharp.
But if that was the end of the story Hunt wouldn’t be here while the rest of his squad conducted the most important arrests of the year.
“One of the conversations we overheard suggested this new strain came from a US source. We found some online correspondence but the supplier made a big effort to cover their tracks.” Frazer was being frustratingly frugal with specific details.
Hunt sat forward. “If you prevented the arms deal I assume you have whatever it was they were trying to sell?”
Frazer nodded cautiously.
“And you’ve had it since last week. So, I presume you had it tested?” Hunt wasn’t sure of his position in this room. Didn’t even know if he should be opening his mouth or just nodding and doffing his cap. But the FBI hadn’t hired him for his looks.
“Not yet.” Frazer’s cool blue gaze frosted over. “The bioweapon and the vaccine that accompanied it were…appropriated…by an agent from a foreign nation. We exerted considerable pressure and they finally sent us samples to analyze.”
“Can you trust them to send the real thing?”
Frazer nodded. “I believe so. Our interests align and we have considerable leverage. We’re waiting on special transportation permits from CDC and USDA. As soon as they are approved, samples should be hand-couriered and in-country by tomorrow morning.”
Frazer continued. “One sample is going to USAMRIID.” The United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. “Another to the CDC. CDC will organize a subsample for DNA sequencing, see if we can track the genetic fingerprint of the anthrax in question.”
It made sense to take precautions and also not to send the samples to just one lab. Last time the FBI had run this sort of investigation some initial help had come from the man who’d ultimately become their prime suspect. FBI expertise and preparedness regarding bioterrorism had increased dramatically since that time, but no one wanted to leave anything to chance.
Technology had been radically refined and accelerated because of the AMERITHRAX case.
“Do you believe this supplier has sold previous batches of weaponized anthrax to terrorists?” Which might explain the sudden urgency. Not that the idea of someone heating up anthrax to sell to terrorists wasn’t horrifying enough.
“We don’t believe so.” McKenzie twisted his lips to one side. “The sort of money being discussed during this exchange suggested a high value was being put on the product and part of that value would come from exclusivity—presumably of both the bacterial strain and the vaccine. We’d have heard about a cluster of victims if the material had been released. The intelligence community is pursuing the possibility though. We are digging deeper into communications and
bank records of all the people we know are involved, searching for a link.”
Okay. “So how did the anthrax supplier contact the arms broker?” It wasn’t like these people hung a shingle over the door.
“Dark web. We have leads we’re tracking there,” McKenzie told him. “We’re obviously coordinating with the WMD Directorate, but POTUS ordered a Joint Terrorist Task Force to be set up for this investigation and I’m in charge. Initial signs are pointing to the Southern US.”
Hunt’s eyes widened. POTUS? The President of the United States, Joshua Hague, was involved? This was a real and ongoing threat.
“What do you need from us?” Bourne interrupted. Technically he was senior to the two men on the screen, but it was obvious he wasn’t calling the shots.
“We want FBI WMD coordinators from around the country to reach out to everyone whose work involves or has involved Bacillus anthracis. The CDC maintains a current list.”
“Won’t that send the bad guy to ground?” Hunt tapped his index finger on his boss’s desk. “They might get rid of evidence.”
“We’d rather them destroy any stocks of anthrax than produce more of it.” Frazer’s tone was grim.
“Unless the suspects are computer hackers, it’s only a matter of time before we figure out who is involved,” said McKenzie.
Lincoln Frazer eyed Hunt critically. “We want you to check onsite records to see who is spending a lot of time in labs working on anthrax and to make sure they know you noticed. Look for any potential red flags in their behavior.”
“We’ve got numerous high-level government facilities, universities and private biotech companies within a stone’s throw of this office,” Bourne pointed out.
McKenzie nodded. “And you don’t even need a level four lab to work with anthrax. Level two labs can work with inactive strains.”
“Inactive strains aren’t worth millions on the black market,” Frazer argued.
Bourne ran his hand over his short hair. “Do you have any idea how many highly trained microbiologists reside in our jurisdiction with the knowledge and capability to produce large batches of this microbe?”
“Hundreds,” said Frazer.
“If not thousands,” Hunt said helpfully.
“We need more people,” Bourne suggested.
McKenzie shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t want to start a mass panic so we need all the WMD coordinators to reach out to researchers as part of their normal duties. We’re prioritizing coordinators who live in areas with BSL-4 labs and working our way down the list. That means you’re first. Agent Kincaid is new. He can go introduce himself and suggest the FBI is thinking of overhauling the rules of who will be allowed to work on these substances in the future. That normally gets people extolling the virtues of their research. As soon as you leave they’ll be on the phone or email to their cronies asking what the hell is going on and how to stop it. Word will spread. The bad guys might panic, in fact we’re counting on it. We’ve got a room full of analysts at SIOC poring over data and monitoring activities. We’ll track your contacts with the scientists and examine the ripple effect.”
“Track?” Hunt said, startled. “You’re monitoring my work cell?”
“Not hot-mic-ing,” Frazer assured him. “But logging GPS, call times and emails so we can map your movements and communications in relation to the activity of the scientists. It’s more efficient. We will monitor the activities of all our WMDs with a little help from a supercomputer and our friends at the NSA. Any objections?” Frazer raised an imperious eyebrow.
“No, sir.” Even though it was gonna be a little weird to be tracked.
McKenzie checked the time. “You have a meeting with a unit chief at the CDC in thirty minutes to triage which individuals to talk to first and then begin your enquiries. A Dr. Jez Place. I’ve sent the details to your cell. Contact me directly if anyone raises your suspicions. The WMD coordinator in San Antonio is up next on our list. Stay vigilant.”
Hunt relaxed a little. Georgia wasn’t the only state to be saturated with mad scientists, although they had more than their fair share.
Anthrax was an invisible, indiscriminate killer. How could someone create something that could potentially kill thousands of innocents, for cash? The thought was an anathema to decent human beings and made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t pin down.
He waited to be dismissed, then changed out of tactical gear and back into one of his many business suits, adjusting his tie in the eerie quiet of the building.
It looked like he was back behind a desk or in the field, talking to scientists. Hell, he might not survive the excitement. The sooner HRT selection began the better.
That tingling feeling was back between his shoulder blades, though, and he scratched the hell out of it. It didn’t disappear and he finally figured out what it was.
Dread.
Chapter Two
It was only April, but in rural Georgia at nine o’clock in the morning it was already hot enough to fry eggs on the hood of Pip West’s aging Honda. Sweat trickled down her back and she pushed her hair from her damp brow. The car bottomed out on a rut. She winced.
Her anxious gaze swung to the angry red light of the engine and the steadily rising temperature gauge. Dammit. Less than quarter of a mile to go. If she stopped now her car might never start again. She gritted her teeth and put her foot on the accelerator.
It didn’t help the sedan was jam-packed with all Pip’s belongings. At twenty-eight years old her entire life’s possessions could be condensed into an eighteen-year-old Civic. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.
Last night, Cindy had texted that she’d finished her thesis. The joy of Cindy’s momentous achievement had been overshadowed by their recent argument and Pip was ashamed that she hadn’t been the first one to reach out.
Saying sorry had never been easy for Pip, but she and Cindy had always been honest with one another. Twelve days ago, they’d been a little too honest.
But Cindy had been right.
Pip had quit her job and packed up her life in Tallahassee. Now homeless and jobless, the only reason she wasn’t destitute was because she had a best friend who was compassionate, understanding and forgiving.
Pip needed to figure out how to say the words, “I’m sorry” and stop holding onto old hurts. It wasn’t a pattern she needed to live by any more.
“Come on. We’ve got this.” Pip patted the steering wheel in desperate encouragement. If she could make it to the turn-off, she could coast down the dirt road to the cottage and collapse in a heap.
Pip took a corner and shrieked in surprise, jerking the wheel hard right as a black SUV screamed around the bend, half on her side of the road. Grit showered her windscreen like dirty rain. Her pulse hammered and her heart gave a nasty squeeze as she struggled to keep her vehicle on the gravel.
“Asshole!” Pip didn’t let up on the gas. She eyed the temperature gauge as steam started to curl from the grill. The driveway appeared up ahead on the left, dust rising along its length, suggesting another car had recently traveled the quiet track.
Pip frowned. She’d tried to call Cindy before making that final decision to move to Atlanta, the way Cindy had been urging her to do for years, but her friend hadn’t answered. Pip assumed she’d turned off her phone and gone to bed. Hopefully she hadn’t already left for the city.
Pip’s fingers clenched the wheel and she barely slowed as she took the turn. She rumbled crazily along the overgrown driveway toward the cottage, teeth-clattering, bones rattling. Killing the engine to save it, she coasted down the rutted path. The building came into view, set back from the lake on a short, steep rise. The car traveled hard over the uneven ground, going way too fast. She stomped repeatedly on the brakes and finally came to a shuddering halt beside the cherry-red SUV Pip had helped Cindy pick out at Christmas.
Intense relief washed through her and she sat, breathing hard, though she’d done nothing more strenuous than drive all night.
She gently honked her horn to let her friend know someone was here.
Pip wanted to fall apart. She wanted to walk into Cindy’s embrace and sob and curse and rage and celebrate and apologize and promise never to say anything judgmental ever again. To never make another mistake.
The engine hissed. Steam wafted from beneath the hood in great Apocalyptic white clouds. The death of her car seemed like a fitting metaphor for the current state of her life.
Popping the door, she climbed out, waving away the steam and stretching out the kinks of an all-nighter behind the wheel. She needed to check the radiator and call a mechanic, but the engine had to cool down regardless and the car could wait. She wasn’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon.
Grabbing her purse and cell phone from the passenger seat, she climbed the steps at the side of the cottage and knocked on the main door. She listened attentively. Nothing. She walked around the wraparound porch to the front of the cottage where huge picture windows opened up onto the quiet peaceful lake.
“Cindy?” She tapped on the glass of the sliding door that led from the deck into the living room.
No answer.
She tried the handle and was surprised when it moved. Cindy was a stickler for home security. Pip opened it an inch and called inside. “Cind? Are you home? It’s Pip.”
Still no answer. Pip pushed the door farther open. Cindy would forgive her, but hopefully she didn’t scare her friend half to death first. And hopefully Cindy wouldn’t shoot Pip with the gun she’d bought for self-defense last summer.
“Cindy?” she called.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Pip took out her cell and dialed the number to the landline of the cottage—she really didn’t want to get shot—and heard the incessant ringing of the phone in the kitchen. It was one of those old-fashioned numbers with a stretchy cord that must be fifteen feet long. She could see it from where she stood.
No groggy, grumpy Cindy came stumbling out of the bedroom and down the stairs. No one stirred from the office. Pip tried Cindy’s cell again. Tilted her head to one side and listened for the gentle chiming. Nothing.
Cold Blooded Page 2
