Stealth Retribution

by Vikki Kestell

  “I see.”

  I saw that it was hard on Dr. Bickel to admit that I was better equipped to manage the defense-in-depth system he’d designed but, truth be told, our positions had changed places. He had protected me when Cushing stormed his lab in the mountain; now I would protect him should she invade our safe house.

  I pressed on. “Where shall we meet should this happen?”

  “The parking garage seems the most likely spot.”

  “Okay. But hide and wait for me on the lower level. Don’t go to my car until I arrive and we are confident we haven’t been followed. If they have found this house, they likely have my identity and that means they will have a bead on the Escape, too.”

  I started gathering my things to take them upstairs, and my gaze fell on my most recent “bug-out bag,” the backpack containing Kathy Sawyer’s driver’s license, checks, and credit card.

  “Dr. Bickel, when and if you have to leave, be sure to grab both of my burner phones and this backpack. That will remove all Kathy Sawyer’s identifying information from the house. I can’t have my identity falling into Cushing’s hands if she doesn’t already have it.”

  He sat on the edge of the cot, put his hands on his knees, and murmured, “All right, Gemma.”

  I knew what he meant, what he was really saying: “You’re the boss now, Gemma. You’re in charge. I accept that.”

  The responsibility weighed on me, but it belonged there. On the other hand, I didn’t want my friend feeling like he’d left one prison for another.

  I piled all my stuff into a pillowcase, grabbed my laptop, and paused before I started up the ladder. “You don’t have to stay down here except at night, Dr. Bickel. Why don’t we figure out what to have for dinner? The fridge may be bare, but I have lots of things in the freezer. Steaks. Chicken. Salmon. And, if you’re up for it, we can go grocery shopping tonight. Stock up on greens and fruit.”

  I was careful how I threw out the line and hook. “You can buy whatever your heart desires to cook with.”

  He perked right up. “I can cook?”

  “Yup. In fact, I’m salivating already at the thought of your home-baked breads slathered in butter.”

  “Yes, yes. I’d be delighted to bake some bread. I should . . . I should take inventory and make that shopping list, shouldn’t I?”

  “Will you be making dessert tonight, too?”

  He was right behind me on the ladder. “Why, of course! Let me see what I have to work with . . .”

  I didn’t catch his mumbled words after that, but it didn’t matter.

  Dr. Bickel was enjoying his freedom, and I was happy for him.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 11

  Imogene Cushing was waiting, but she knew she wouldn’t wait long: The powerful individual she reported to would already have things moving. It was late afternoon when her FBI jailer unlocked the holding room.

  Cushing was ready.

  “General Cushing? Please follow me.”

  With her chin high and back ramrod straight, Cushing followed the agent through the hallway, down the elevator, and into the lobby. Most of the lobby’s furnishings had been cleared away, but the room was still a mess. The windows and doors were missing glass; telling points of impact dotted the walls.

  Impact from what? I thought no shots were fired.

  She scowled as she looked around. I can’t reconcile what happened here last night. I know the orders I gave, and yet my people allowed themselves to be “talked down”? By one FBI agent and the equivalent of a mall cop? Why did my people disobey my orders? And why did I surrender? Nothing adds up.

  More troubling was the cloudy uncertainty that swirled in her mind. It’s as though I can’t remember what happened.

  She didn’t recognize the man who came toward her, but he knew her by sight.

  “General Cushing. We’ve been sent to collect you. This way, please.”

  “Where is Bickel?”

  “We don’t have him, ma’am.”

  Cushing stopped, mid-stride. “What! Why not? He is essential to our mission; we must not leave without him.”

  The man leaned toward her so what he said would be heard by her alone. “The FBI says they didn’t hold him.”

  “He was here. Right in this lobby giving a press conference.”

  “I understand; however, the FBI had no reason to hold him.”

  Cushing set her jaw; her anger was palpable. “And my people?”

  “They have been released and are waiting in the vans outside.”

  Cushing ground her teeth and allowed him to usher her to the door. As they exited the building, four other men surrounded and escorted her to a waiting vehicle. When the doors closed on the two of them, the man who’d arranged for her release spoke.

  “Ma’am, my team and I are at your disposal. However, I’ve been instructed to have you call this number at your earliest convenience.” He handed her a cell phone with a number ready to be dialed.

  She said nothing, but took the phone and pressed “Send.” A moment later, the call connected and the familiar voice of her superior came on the line.

  “I trust you are no worse for wear following your night in custody, General?”

  Although his words were solicitous, Cushing knew better. She’d failed. Again.

  And I don’t know why or how—but it has to be connected to the nanomites.

  The nanomites. They were the only possible explanation for her incomplete recall of the events of the previous night. For her failure to capture Bickel and Gemma Keyes.

  When I had them right in front of me, in my sights!

  “Sir, I believe the subject has somehow recovered from the damage Colonel Greaves insists the Taser produced. What is more, I am convinced that the subject somehow manipulated last evening’s events.”

  “You make two assertions, General. First you say the subject has recovered from what Greaves described as calamitous damage to the nanomites. That is interesting, is it not? It suggests that the nanomites have recuperative powers beyond our best hopes. It certainly makes them even more desirable, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir. I do agree.” Cushing didn’t ask about the second of her assertions. She knew her handler would get to it.

  “And you seem convinced that the subject manipulated the situation last evening. Pray tell, in what way?”

  “Sir, I have been giving last evening’s events considerable thought and have arrived at two conclusions. First, the FBI insists that a single agent and one security guard ‘talked down’ my team. I watched the local news in the holding area last night, and the media reports echo the FBI’s assertion—although such a scenario flies in the face of my objectives, my orders, and the number of armed men I commanded last night.

  “Secondly, when your people arrived this morning, they learned that the FBI offices were closed today. Why were they closed if our armed strike was resolved without firing a shot? What, then, caused the damage to the lobby? Glass blasted from the windows and doors, holes punched in the walls, furnishings overturned?

  “Even as we were leaving the FBI facility just now, workers were still scurrying about, clearing up the damage, but the media reports mentioned no damage. That’s odd, don’t you think? Because, when your people arrived to get me early this morning, they observed shattered windows and scorched and pockmarked walls—not pockmarked by a firefight, not by rounds, but by something else entirely. What might that have been if not some weapon wielded by Miss Keyes?

  “What is most personally disconcerting, is that I cannot recall with any confidence what actually happened after we breached the building. Rather than clear, detailed memories, I have vague impressions that seem more like suggestions than actual recall.”

  “What are you getting at, General?”

  “Sir, I think the subject ordered the nanomites to wipe our collective memories—mine, my men, the reporters, even FBI personnel. In short, I believe the subject had the nanomites remove the memories of a
nyone within the vicinity and replace them with the absurd suggestion that two men managed to convince my armed tactical team to surrender without a fight.”

  “You realize how fantastical—how fictional—this sounds.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cushing knew when to shut up and let her handler draw his own conclusions.

  His muttered reply was not long in coming. “But if any of what you suggest is true, the national security implications—the PSYOPS connotations—are staggering.”

  “Yes, and I intend to obtain the proof we need, sir. I will personally compare the accounts of my men and the reporters who were present at Dr. Bickel’s press conference. If my hypothesis is correct, they will parrot the same suggestions I was fed—and express the same vague disquiet I experienced. In addition, I should uncover a time lapse, a small window of time unaccounted for that would further my theory.”

  Cushing added, “However, more than proof, sir, we need that girl.”

  Cushing typically referred to Gemma Keyes as “the subject,” but as Cushing’s frustration grew, so flourished her personal animus toward Gemma. Nothing short of Cushing’s death or complete incapacitation would pull her off her mission at this stage.

  You have thwarted me at every turn, my dear Gemma, but I have the experience and tenacity to win in the end.

  Ever vigilant of the big picture, Cushing ended the phone call with, “We should sanitize the White Sands site, sir.”

  “I have taken care of it, General. I arranged for a message to be delivered from you to your Agent Trujillo late last night. She proceeded immediately and will brief you on the outcome. Quite a capable woman, I must say. I must keep my eye on talent of her caliber.”

  Not the individual I would have selected, Cushing thought. I prefer to use more . . . specialized personnel for questionable tasks.

  Cushing didn’t voice her reservations; she only answered, “Thank you, sir.”

  ***

  Gamble made his team selections before noon and assembled the members in a briefing room. His first remarks put them on high alert.

  “I cannot stress enough the importance of your assignments: It is imperative that both teams complete their missions with all possible speed and meticulous attention to detail.

  “Agent Larken, I am dispatching your four-person team to Georgia. Your orders are to exhume Dr. Bickel’s grave no later than tomorrow morning and escort the remains to the Atlanta forensics lab under heavy security. You are to provide eyes-on vigilance over the remains until the pathologists determine to whom they belong—or until the pathologists disprove that they are those of Dr. Bickel.”

  Gamble fixed Larken with an inscrutable look. “I repeat: The remains are not to be left unattended and unsupervised by your team at any time, even once they arrive at the lab.”

  Gamble handed two folders to the team leader. The first folder contained official correspondence from the Albuquerque SAC to the Atlanta SAC requesting the Atlanta field office’s assistance; the second contained multiple permissions for the exhumation, all signed by Dr. Bickel.

  Then he handed over a sealed package. “This package contains a sample of Dr. Bickel’s DNA to be compared to the remains you exhume. The chain of custody is not to leave your team’s direct oversight. Arrange shifts as needed until the examination is complete.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you. Wheels up in twenty minutes.”

  After the Atlanta team departed, Gamble briefed the second team on Dr. Bickel’s incarceration. He left out all mention of Gemma’s participation in his escape.

  “What you need to know is that the scene where Dr. Bickel was held is at risk. Your task is to gather and preserve evidence that he was held there—specifically, hair samples and other DNA from his toiletries and the room he was kept in. Furthermore, I want Colonel Greaves, his aide, and all guards secured and interviewed.

  “Draw your evidence-gathering kits and hit the road in two vehicles; push the speed limit and stop for nothing. I’ll call you with further instructions after I’ve spoken with the range’s commanding officer.”

  When the team left the briefing room, Gamble returned to his office and called the commandant of the White Sands Missile Range. After thirty minutes of runaround, Gamble was connected, and he explained the situation and his request.

  The commanding officer, a decorated Army Brigadier General, was incredulous of Gamble’s assertion that anyone had been incarcerated on his base without his knowledge or authority. That notwithstanding, the officer gave the FBI team permission to gather evidence from the house, but only if they were accompanied by a member of his staff and a four-man security squad.

  Gamble agreed to the commandant’s conditions. He hung up, called Agent Rains, his White Sands team leader, and told her where to rendezvous with their White Sands’ guide.

  “I don’t care how late or dark it is; I want the scene secured tonight, and I expect your report by noon tomorrow.”

  “I understand, Special Agent Gamble.”

  ~~**~~

  Part 2:

  Stealth Retribution

  Chapter 12

  Dr. Bickel and I had eaten and eaten well. We’d dined on broiled salmon and seasoned rice, followed by cherry pie. Dr. Bickel had found the fixings in either the pantry or the freezer.

  He’d fussed because he didn’t have the ingredients to make a lemon tarragon sauce for the salmon. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. And I think he was skeptical when I advised him to make twice as much as two people should eat, but after he’d watched me pack away a third slice of pie, his eyes had widened and he’d laughed.

  It did my heart good to see my old friend laughing. The deep lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there on that last September day in the cavern relaxed. I relaxed a little, too.

  “Why don’t you finish up that grocery list?” I suggested as we lingered over coffee. “We can go shopping after we clean up. If the nanomites are able to hide both of us at the same time, I would think they can also hide you while they are disguising me.”

  It would be a variation, but when I put the notion to them, they assured me they could handle the task.

  We can accomplish what you ask, Gemma Keyes; however, please do not sneeze while we are disguising you.

  *Face Palm*

  Oh, man! I snickered and grinned to myself, but I was a little uncertain if the nanomites had made a joke or if it was only funny on my side—and it was. It was very funny.

  While Dr. Bickel explored the kitchen cupboards and jotted a list, I turned further inward.

  “Hey, Nano. What about Emilio? What have you uncovered?”

  Gemma Keyes, we have made several important discoveries.

  “All right.” But I thought it odd that I hadn’t spontaneously known their “discoveries” since we now shared information without conscious effort.

  The mites flipped images in front of my inner eyes, including close-ups of the SUV and its license plate. Gemma Keyes, we captured the vehicle’s plate number and looked up the registered owner. We found that the owner reported the car stolen just hours before Emilio was taken.

  I blew out a breath. “Okay. How long did Soto keep the car after he took Emilio?”

  We estimate thirty-three minutes. Once we had the plate number, we also had the VIN and were able to access the automobile’s navigation system.

  “Thirty-three minutes? He kept the car for only half an hour?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. Via the navigation system, we located the automobile parked alongside a city park in yet another residential area.

  “He switched vehicles.”

  We agree. The switch was pre-planned, coordinated with his associates.

  “Yeah . . .” I remembered then that Gamble had said four APD gang unit officers had sprung Soto from FBI custody—a big black eye for APD and a loss of face for the FBI. With most of Soto’s upper tier management swept up on the raid on his house, the four APD turncoats had likely received “battlefield�
� promotions.

  I wondered, though, how badly the traitors wanted to leave New Mexico and flee to safer space south of the U.S./Mexico border. If it weren’t for Soto’s need for payback, I assumed all of them would have fled south days ago.

  An overhead image of the park appeared before me. It was an older park, with a playground and lots of mature trees. A number of trees lined one of the streets bounding the park. The trees’ branches overspread the curb and, even in December, the branches held leaves.

  “Are they parked under the trees? I can’t see a thing.”

  That was, undoubtedly, their intention; however, the navigation system indicates that the vehicle is parked alongside the curb under the trees—just there.

  The nanomites illuminated a tiny spot on the image.

  “Then we’ve lost them? We can’t track them?”

  Gemma Keyes, all these details are moot.

  Moot? Undoubtedly? What was with the nanomites’ growing vocabulary anyway?

  “What do you mean?”

  These details are unnecessary because we have found the public communiqué from Soto.

  “You found—”

  I’d had enough. Something was very “off” between the nanomites and me, and I needed to get to the bottom of it. Yes, I was glad to hear they’d found Soto’s message, but I also wanted to know why they’d hidden it from me—because they had. I should have known what they knew as soon as they’d discovered it. The fact that I hadn’t known told me they had kept it from me.

  “Nano, I need to ask you something, first.”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  “Nano, why didn’t you tell me you’d found a message from Soto as soon as you’d uncovered it? You’ve been keeping data from me. Why?”

  Gemma Keyes, we observed that you and Dr. Bickel were having important time together. We realized that this important time would improve the emotional wellbeing of you both. We did not want to interrupt this important time.