Payback

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Like mine?” asked Niner, winking as he ran his hair through his long locks.

  Sarah smiled, shaking her head, then suddenly gasped. “Wait! That’s him, that’s Koroma!”

  Dawson slid the tablet back over and glared at the image, his eyes trying to bore through space and time, to strangle the life out of the bastard responsible for so much death. “Langley, it’s photo ID Charlie-one-seven-nine.”

  Leroux’s voice replied, slightly surprised. “According to the diplomatic passport he used, he’s Doctor Sahr Vandy, acting head of the Ebola Response Team, the previous head just died from Ebola.”

  “Yes, I’ve met Sahr. Very nice man, very committed to the cause, but that’s not him,” said Sarah.

  Dawson frowned. “I’m assuming that this is a stolen or faked ID? Do we know what the real Vandy looks like?”

  “Not yet”—fingers snapped in Langley—“but I’ve got someone looking into it as we speak.”

  Dawson looked up as the flight attendant began to walk toward them, the seatbelt light flashing. “We’re about to land. Try and track Koroma’s movements. We need to find him. Nine men are infected with the virus and they’re roaming free in New York City.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leroux & White Residence, Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia

  “You look exhausted!”

  “I am.” Leroux dropped onto the couch, laying his head back on the soft cushion, closing his eyes. He felt Sherrie pull his shoes off, but instead of a repeat of the other night, which he wasn’t sure he was up to, she sat beside him, snaking her hands behind his back and beginning to massage his shoulders.

  He groaned.

  “That feels so good.”

  “I take care of my baby.”

  “You definitely do.”

  “So what’s the latest? I saw on the news that Henderson’s daughter is back but not much more.”

  Leroux let his chin drop onto his chest, exposing the tired neck muscles to Sherrie’s strong fingers. “Once we knew who Koroma was we were able to trace back his ticket purchase and found the other eight, all made by the same agent around the same time. They all got in separate cabs and all were dropped off in the same area of New York City. But we hit the jackpot when one of the men actually put the real hotel he’d be staying at on his customs form. The others all put various other hotels, but none were anywhere near where they were dropped off. FBI raided the hotel room and get this, found eight hangers from a local tailor along with eight empty shoe boxes. And a lot of empty ammo boxes.”

  “Scoot.”

  Leroux shifted forward on the couch a bit, Sherrie wedging herself behind him, starting to massage all the way down his back as he leaned forward in bliss.

  “We’ve got BOLO’s out on all of them but there’ve been no sightings.”

  “Eight well-dressed men. Anything from the tailor?”

  “Just that the measurements had been emailed to him several weeks ago for eight tuxedos, all the fixings.”

  “Why eight? I thought there were nine?”

  Leroux moaned as Sherrie jammed her knuckles into the small of his back. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand dollar question right now. About the only thing that’s gone right so far is Ernest Buhari, the missing father of the little girl who led us to Bai Gondor, turned himself in. He’s cooperating but knows nothing, unfortunately. Seems to have just been a patsy errand boy.”

  “So we’ve got nine men in New York City, all infected with the Ebola virus, and we have no clue where they are.”

  “That’s right. They’ve only been here a few hours though, and judging by the Subway wrappers in their hotel room, they spent most of that time there. We’re not far behind them, but I just had to come home and get a few hours zees, I’m dead and of no use. I’ve got the night shift in to continue the work.”

  The mention of them suddenly reminded him of a promise he had made to himself earlier, one that had been forgotten with all the stress and excitement of the investigation. He turned his head, leaning to the side so he could look the love of his life in the eyes.

  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Sherrie looked at him with anticipation, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Yes?”

  “I deserve you.”

  She smiled, one of the most genuine, thrilled smiles he could ever recall seeing as her eyes filled with tears. She jumped at him, hugging him hard, her chin on his shoulder as he held her tight, his self-confidence growing with each moment.

  She let go and looked him in the eyes, holding his face in her hands.

  “You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me.”

  Leroux wasn’t sure what to say, self-confidence not erasing awkwardness and inexperience.

  He just smiled.

  “Speechless, huh? Well how about I show you?”

  His few hours of sleep were delayed.

  Significantly.

  Howard University Hospital, Washington, D.C.

  Dawson was numb, there was no other way to describe it. His mind simply couldn’t focus. He felt a hand squeezing his shoulder and turned to see Spock beside him looking just as shocked as him. They all were. They had just received the news that the blood tests had come back positive leaving Shirley a wreck, sitting in a chair by the window to Red’s room, hugging her son, both crying, the little guy though not sure why.

  “Is Daddy going to die?”

  Maybe he did know.

  Shirley tried to get control of herself, to be strong for her son, but she was losing the battle. Dawson stepped over and knelt down beside them. “No, little man, your father is a fighter, and the doctors here are the smartest in the world. They’re going to save your daddy, understood?”

  Bryson nodded, reaching out and wrapping his hands around Dawson’s neck. Dawson took him, giving Shirley a chance to wipe her tears away and blow her nose.

  Dawson heard a bit of a commotion down the hall and several men in suits strode around the corner. His team immediately created a wall, blocking them from proceeding as Dawson handed Bryson back to Shirley.

  “Step aside,” said one of the men, flashing what looked like a Secret Service badge.

  “Explain yourself,” replied Dawson, stepping forward as his men parted to let him through.

  “The cheery one is Savalas, Secret Service,” said Spock. “He’s the jackhole who wouldn’t listen to our intel and got Red infected.”

  Savalas frowned, stepping toward Dawson. “Listen, I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, looking past the Bravo Team wall and at the isolation chamber. “I tried to tell the boss but he wouldn’t listen. You’ve provided security, you know how it is.”

  Dawson did know how it was, but it was hard not to blame this man. With a threat like Ebola, you made your charge listen. And because Savalas hadn’t, Red was dying. “If he dies, you and I will have a discussion about how you deliver important intel to your boss.”

  Savalas seemed to pale a few shades, the muscles in his face slackening slightly.

  Good, he knows I’m not joking.

  “I-I understand. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Savalas sucked in a quick breath. “Vice President Henderson is here with his wife and daughter. They’d like to see him, to say thanks.”

  “If he agrees.”

  “It’s okay, BD.”

  Dawson looked over his shoulder to see Red awake, the button to raise the head of the bed in his hand. He stepped over to the glass. “Sorry to wake you, old buddy.”

  “Hey, don’t be calling me old. I’m two years younger than you.”

  “Just a baby,” said Niner, leaning against the glass as Savalas left, Dawson assumed to get the Hendersons.

  “Christ, looks who’s talking. You’ve still got pimples on your ass.”

  Laughter filled the room, little Bryson joining in, enjoying the fact someone had said ‘ass’.

  Jimmy smacked Niner on the butt. “What are you doing looking at his ass?”


  “Hard to avoid. Every time he gets drunk he’s dropping his pants asking people to kiss it.”

  “Not on zis side, not on zat side, but right in zee meedle!” shouted the team, the quote from the classically bad movie Hot Dog all too familiar to them, 80’s Comedy Night at The Unit a favorite activity. Laughter filled the room and everyone could be forgiven for forgetting their troubles, even if just for a moment.

  “I hope the joke wasn’t at my expense.”

  Dawson turned to see Vice President Henderson round the corner, his wife and daughter just behind him. Sarah smiled at him, rushing forward, her hand extended. “Agent White! So good to see you again,” she said, shaking his hand. “May I present my mother, Carla Henderson, and my father, Philip Henderson.”

  Dawson shook both their hands, bowing slightly. “Ma’am, sir.”

  “I understand we have you to thank for saving our daughter.”

  Dawson nodded toward his men. “It was a team effort, sir, and besides, we were never there.”

  Henderson laughed, tossing back his head, the move practiced so well Dawson almost believed he actually did appreciate the joke as much as his political training suggested. His face became serious as he stepped toward the glass, looking at Red.

  “Can you hear me, son?”

  Red nodded. “Yes, Mr. Vice President.”

  “I wanted to personally thank you for saving my life. What you did was the most incredible act of heroism and self-sacrifice I have ever seen. You are a credit to your family, your unit and your country.”

  “Just doing my job, sir.”

  Henderson smiled. “True, son, but your job, unlike most, demands the best from the best. I know your country asks much of you and your colleagues, and the very nature of what we ask of you necessitates little to no recognition. I’ve never served in the military myself, but I have tremendous respect for those who do. I know acts of bravery and selflessness happen every day in your line of work, but this was the first time I had ever seen it for myself.” He paused, his voice more subdued. “Son, I’ve spoken to your doctor and I’m aware of your situation. Anything that can be done, will be done, of that I guarantee you. If you or your family need anything, you just let me know.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “My family will be praying for your speedy recovery.” He looked at Shirley then back at Red with a slight grin. “Now I’ll take my leave of you so you can spend time with people you’d actually enjoy talking to.”

  Red chuckled, giving a slight flick of his hand. “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Vice President. I’m happy your family is safe.”

  Henderson bowed slightly. “Thanks to you.” He turned and started to leave the area when Sarah Henderson cried out.

  “Oh my God, that’s Dr. Vandy!”

  Dawson spun toward her, his eyes scanning for Koroma or another hostile, when she pointed at a corner-mounted television silently showing CNN. He looked at the screen then motioned to Spock who grabbed a chair, kicking it over to the television. Niner stepped up on it and flicked down the front panel, cranking up the volume.

  “—hundreds of dignitaries and glitterati from Hollywood and around the world are gathered for the Ebola telecast. There will be several performances and addresses before the keynote speaker, Dr. Vandy, the current head of the effort to battle the outbreak in Sierra Leone will address those gathered. Dr. Vandy—”

  Dawson signaled for the volume to be cut as file footage of the doctor appeared. He turned to Sarah. “That’s the real Dr. Vandy, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “But didn’t Koroma use Dr. Vandy’s passport to get into the country?”

  Dawson nodded. “That’s too much of a coincidence. We need to find out if Dr. Vandy is actually in the country or not.”

  Sarah pulled out her cellphone, quickly dialing a number from her contacts list. “Hi, Terry, it’s Sarah Henderson…I’m fine, thank you, listen, quick question. I need to know if Dr. Vandy is in Sierra Leone or the United States.” Sarah listened for a moment then frowned. “Are you sure?” She looked at Dawson and he could tell he wasn’t going to like the answer. “Okay, thanks Terry. We’ll get together soon.” She hung up, her head shaking slightly. “I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “He’s here.” She nodded toward the screen. “For that fundraiser. It’s going to be broadcast all over the world. Some sort of telethon.”

  Dawson looked back at the screen then at Red. “Eight tuxedos and a black-tie gala fundraiser featuring the man whose identity was used to get into the country. I think we know where our missing terrorists are.” He turned to Vice President Henderson. “Is Posse Comitatus still suspended?”

  He nodded. “Go get the bastards.”

  Gotham Hall, New York City, New York

  Doctor Sahr Vandy looked in the mirror, straightening his bowtie. He felt old. His hair was now a short curly gray, it once proudly black as night, luxurious to the touch. But now it just seemed dull, not the shiny healthy light gray his grandfather proudly sported until his death from the insidious disease a month ago.

  It was draining them all.

  Day in and day out he worked the phones, sent emails and faxes, attended meetings and even put hours in at the clinics when he could. It was a battle that they were slowly beginning to win, thanks in large part to the efforts of the new Vice President, Ibrahim Kargbo.

  The news of his involvement in the kidnapping of Vice President Henderson’s daughter and the attempt on the man’s life was simply too impossible to believe. There had to be some misunderstanding, some mistake. He knew the man, worked with the man, liked the man. Both of them had been spearheading the battle against Ebola for a year now and they were finally starting to make some progress.

  Why would he jeopardize that now?

  No, it made no sense. There was no way Kargbo was involved. He ran a finger over his eyebrows. It wouldn’t be the first time the news had got things wrong, it far too common in the Freetown papers—he would have expected more of American journalists, but then in watching their newscasts while visiting this great nation, he was often shocked at how the reporters were also too often the commentators.

  Reporting and editorializing should be separate, like church and state.

  Which made him take anything he heard with a grain of salt. Something as large as the conspiracy suggested would have taken months to plan and it was Kargbo himself who had organized a meeting between him and Vice President Okeke to coordinate a two-pronged attack on the wallets of America. Okeke would meet with government officials to try and pry open their budgets more, and he would attend this fundraiser to get into the deep pockets of celebrity America, the event to be televised across the nation and around the world, billed as a gala event to raise awareness and funds.

  He was looking forward to the outcome, but not the event, his heart pounding as he glanced at the clock on the wall. The dinner before the televised portion had just finished and he was escorted to a private room backstage so he could prepare himself for his keynote address. He had spoken to gatherings of all types before, but never to something so large. He knew he could handle it, but he needed to deliver a message to the viewers that would compel them to pick up their phones and pledge.

  If he failed, it would be a massive opportunity lost for all those battling the worst outbreak ever recorded.

  Kargbo!

  He shook his head. Never. It was impossible.

  But the timing?

  It was Kargbo who had helped organize this event, Kargbo who had helped organize Okeke’s meeting that had resulted in his death, and according to all the news reports and his own briefings, he had been murdered by former citizens of his own country.

  Could it be possible? He was now Vice President, a post everyone knew he coveted.

  He frowned, looking at himself in the mirror.

  Just the musings of a tired old fool.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Come in!”

>   Vandy looked in the mirror to see a man he recognized enter the room along with two others. He knew the man from somewhere, it taking him a moment to remember.

  Kargbo’s niece’s husband!

  “Major Koroma!” he said, smiling as he turned toward the man. “I haven’t seen you in some time.” He extended his hand then jumped back as a weapon was raised to his chest. “Wh-what are you doing? What’s the meaning of this?”

  “I’m afraid, Dr. Vandy, you won’t be giving your speech tonight.”

  “I don’t understand!”

  Koroma motioned to the other men who quickly set upon him, forcing him into a chair and binding his arms and legs with zip ties.

  “I have a message of my own to deliver tonight to the newly infected.”

  Vandy’s eyes narrowed. Newly infected? “What do you mean?”

  Koroma tapped his forearm. “I’ve been infected with the virus, all of my men have.”

  Vandy tried to push himself away but couldn’t, his restraints constricting his movements completely. “You’re infected?” He looked at the man, his forehead glistening slightly. “You have a fever, don’t you?”

  “Yes, it started a few hours ago.”

  “Why do you assume you’re infected?”

  “Because I had myself and my men injected with the virus.”

  “Why! Why would you do such a thing?”

  “So we could transport the virus here, undetected.”

  Vandy’s heart was pounding in his chest as he contemplated the implications. “Wait, you said ‘newly infected’. What did you mean?”

  “That dinner you all enjoyed? Two of my men worked the kitchen and infected the sauces after they were prepared. Every single person who ate their entrée has been exposed to the virus. Even as we speak the virus is working its way into their systems, through their mucus membranes and into their blood streams. Days and weeks from now they will begin to show symptoms, and the entire Western world will be glued to their televisions as they gleefully watch those they envy today suffer tomorrow, secretly enjoying their plights for it’s in their very nature to hate what they love, to secretly thrill in the misery of others.”