The Widow's Strike: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  Jennifer said, “You can go forward. We can help you. Please.”

  She began to fiddle with her sundress, just under her armpit. She said, “You’re kind. Not like the ones who hate my people. More like the man downstairs. Please, make sure he is okay after this. Make sure he stays in his room.”

  Jennifer said, “You can do that yourself. Come on. This is your choice. Don’t make me harm you.”

  The carrier smiled, a ravaged look that held no joy, a glimpse into a pit that conveyed nothing but pain. She said, “It is I who will give you the choice. Shoot me now and save yourself. I’ll give you that for your kindness.”

  “Elina, just get on your knees. There’s nowhere for you to go, and I will do it. I can’t let you infect the ship.”

  She reached her hand inside her dress, pulling something out.

  “You can’t stop me.”

  What she’d called herself earlier finally broke the surface of my memory like the fin of a shark, the intelligence reports springing forth. Black Widow.

  And what she intended became crystal clear.

  I snapped my weapon tight into my shoulder, centered the dot, and squeezed the trigger. A shape slammed into me, causing the round to burrow harmlessly into the wood deck. I whirled back, raising my weapon, only to see her lunch partner from downstairs in front of her, blocking my shot and screaming.

  “What the hell is going on? Put those guns down. Someone call the crew!”

  “Get out of the way! Jennifer, take the shot. She’s wearing a vest!”

  Jennifer whipped her weapon to her shoulder, and I heard a sharp crack, like a tree splitting in two. I flung myself backward, trying to escape the blast.

  I rolled over twice, losing my weapon. Sitting up, I heard screaming from the people around the pool and smelled the acrid burn of the explosives. In front of me the carrier had disintegrated, her body parts flung in all directions, her head lying intact on the ground.

  The walls were splattered in blood, like someone had sloshed a paint bucket. The two sunbathers were awake and screaming, both with parts of the carrier on them, grisly beige lumps mixed with red. One passed out at the sight. The other continued to wail, staring at her arms and stomach, once a healthy tan, now covered in offal. Two of the children looked like they’d been killed or knocked out in the blast. Two more were wailing, holding their arms out, also covered in the dripping, stringy remains of something once alive. One pointed at the head of the carrier, cocked sideways on the deck with her eyes open, and began to shriek as if he were looking into hell itself.

  I frantically scanned my body to see if I had any fluids on me, then shouted at Jennifer. She stood up in a daze, staring uncomprehendingly at the carnage.

  I heard a low groan that grew into a keening wail and saw the carrier’s lunch partner rise from the ground, holding his hands out in shock. The back of his head was singed and smoking; the rest of him was covered in what was left of her, bits and pieces of flesh clinging to him.

  He blocked the blast.

  He took a step forward, then another, then began running, his lonesome wail growing louder.

  Jesus Christ. He’s now a carrier.

  I scrambled to raise my weapon, and he was by me, staggering in a drunken jog straight at Jennifer, the panicking crowd next to the pool running amok in between him and me.

  “Jennifer! Stop him! He’s going to infect the ship!”

  She raised her weapon and said, “Stop! Get on your knees! Halt right there.”

  He kept coming, moaning, clearly not in his right mind, and she began backing up, reaching the edge of the crowd.

  “Shoot him!”

  And she did, splitting his head open.

  He fell to the deck, and the crowd began to go crazy, running in all directions. I saw a man dart out of the pack, moving toward the shrieking child, shouting a name. I yelled at him to stop, but he ignored me, scooping up the child and brushing the blood off of him. He turned to leave and I shouted, “Sit down. Right there. Help is on the way.”

  He stared at the charnel for a second, his eyes panicked, then said, “I’ve got to get him to a doctor.”

  He made like he was going to run, and I raised my weapon. “Stop. Right. There.”

  He looked over at the carrier’s lunch partner, the blood spilling onto the deck from his head wound, then sat heavily on a lounge chair, going into emotional shock, the child still screaming.

  I keyed my radio and said, “All elements get to the Lido deck ASAP. We need crowd control. And get the CDC crew on board. We have some cleanup.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  I saw Jennifer begin to stagger toward me, her eyes locked on the corpse of the man she’d just killed. I said, “Just get here. Trust me, it’s bad.”

  She reached my side and I saw absolute fear. A terror from deep inside.

  I looked her up and down, seeing no blood, and asked, “You get any on you?”

  Her arms were trembling, and I thought it was because of a dread of getting the virus. I was wrong.

  “What if she’s not really a carrier?”

  She dropped her weapon as if it, too, might be poison.

  “What if I just killed an innocent man?”

  75

  Malik had begun to feel like Elina, having spent the last two days sitting in his hotel room in Caracas doing nothing but watching the news. He knew that there more than likely wouldn’t be a story on her attack as soon as it happened, given the boat was still out at sea, but he watched anyway.

  Now he was intently studying the only English channel he could find in Venezuela, his watch telling him the boat should have docked. Sooner or later, there would be a story.

  The screen flashed a stock photo of a cruise ship, and he turned the sound up. The announcer switched to footage of a helicopter circling a ship, and he recognized Elina’s cruise, still out at sea, the coast of Florida barely in the camera’s range. The announcer said reports were sketchy, but the cruise ship apparently had a rare disease on board and was being quarantined before being allowed to dock. The rest of the story discussed the rights of the passengers, along with the ubiquitous lawyer discussing lawsuits against the cruise line. There was no mention of a suicide bomber.

  Quarantined?

  So she’d failed. Someone must have gotten the virus early, before she could execute her mission, making her sacrifice worthless. He supposed he should have been curious as to what had occurred, but he wasn’t. It didn’t really matter. Her failure was his failure. He wondered if she was still alive and thought about sending her a message through their Yahoo! account.

  Maybe later.

  He was tired. More than he could ever remember. The mission, dealing with the cowards of the ruling theocracy while working with Elina’s pure sacrifice, had taxed his beliefs to the limit. He realized he’d lost faith. He no longer believed in the same thing that the republic believed. He still held the revolution as pure. They had evolved into something resembling the Great Satan itself. Worried more about their own survival than the very precepts they claimed to hold dear.

  He was done. He considered flying home to Tehran but decided not to. He knew they’d kill him for his failure, but that wasn’t driving him. It wasn’t death. He had no fear of that. It was the fact that they weren’t worthy of killing him.

  He had many ways to disappear, and maybe, after a few years, he could connect with others who understood. He packed up his small suitcase, went online, and checked for flights out. Finding one, he made a reservation, then took one last look around the room. In the corner was the small Chechen flag he’d used to signal Elina at the marina. He smiled and picked it up, thinking again of her. Of her willingness to sacrifice.

  Others could learn from her. She should have songs made about her, just as the revolutionaries before her.

  He left the room, walking slowly to the elevator. The doors opened on the ground floor, and he saw the cleric sitting in a lobby chair. Flanked by two men he rec
ognized as Quds enforcers.

  The cleric said, “Hello, General. I’m here to take you home. To answer for your crimes.”

  76

  Chip Dekkard waited patiently outside the Oval Office, ready to present his report to President Warren. It was very thorough—damning in its evidence against Cailleach Laboratories. He was up front with his connection to the firm, knowing that was the best way to defuse any implication of guilt. He’d made sure to get a little egg on his face as someone who should have known but just didn’t. Dispelling any accusation that he was conducting a cover-up. He’d already rehearsed his lines. “Sir, I know I screwed up, but I can’t possibly be aware of everything that goes on in my conglomerate. It’s just impossible.”

  He’d show suitable remorse, offer to resign or take whatever punishment the president felt prudent, all the while subtly reminding him of the work he had done, both to get him elected and to stop this current threat.

  The one fly in the ointment was the board of directors of the laboratory. Of course, eventually they had discovered they were being hung out to dry as scapegoats and had immediately begun threatening to tell all they knew, using e-mails and reports he’d signed to prove their case. Careful of his words, knowing they were probably recording the discussion, he’d stated he had no idea what they were talking about and that they’d be well-advised to get criminal defense attorneys.

  He smiled at the thought of their attempting to build their case, only to find the e-mails and reports inexplicably gone. Nothing but his word against theirs, and his word was gold when it came to the president of the United States.

  The door opened, and Alexander Palmer waved him in. He entered, seeing two men with military haircuts and business suits sitting on the far couch. In front of the president’s desk was a distinguished-looking man he recognized.

  President Warren said, “Come on in, Chip. This is Andy Barksdale. I’m not sure you’ve ever met before.”

  Internally taken aback, Chip said, “Yes, of course, the attorney general. No, we’ve never met, unless you count watching testimony in front of Congress.”

  He drew polite laughter and wondered what the AG was doing here. He wasn’t read on to Taskforce activities, and that fact gave him a little alarm.

  Then again, he was about to report criminal malfeasance, so maybe the AG was simply here to take his report and do whatever they needed to bring the laboratory to justice.

  They had to come into play sooner or later.

  President Warren said, “Well, what do you have?”

  Chip laid out his case, presenting the doctored e-mails, forged reports, and other damning evidence, concluding that the laboratory had willfully risked great harm in order to make profits. All in all, the briefing took thirty minutes, with the president asking no questions.

  Chip ended with his own culpability and delivered his rehearsed lines about accepting responsibility. The president’s answer was not what he had expected.

  “I’m glad you’re willing to accept responsibility. Do you know how many people are going to die on the cruise ship?”

  “Uhh . . . no, sir.”

  “Well, it’s day three, and we have twenty-three cases. So far. With a seventy percent mortality rate, sixteen are going to die. That’s on top of the six who died in New York. You state you should have known, and I agree. If you’d had that knowledge, we would have known immediately what this was about the minute the doctor’s son from Cailleach Laboratories was kidnapped. We could have stopped this before it even began.”

  Where is this going? “Yes, and as I said, I regret that immensely, but I can’t possibly know every single thing that goes on in every firm in my portfolio.”

  President Warren said, “The Cailleach people reached out to Justice today. They claim you did know.”

  The conversation not going the way he thought, Chip became slightly belligerent, puffing up his anger at the slander. “Of course they’re saying that. They’re doing whatever they can to spare themselves. They know we’re friends and are hoping a political taint from dragging me into this will cause you to sweep it under the rug.”

  “Are you hoping for the same thing? That our friendship will cause me to sweep this under the rug?”

  “No! I told you I accept limited responsibility already.”

  “Chip, what would we have done if the carrier’s plan had worked? If the boat had reached American shores and released the passengers? It would have been the end of our way of life, all over a little greed. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. Of course I agree. I’m not sure why you’re asking. It’s horrible, and I’m glad we stopped it in time.”

  “‘In time.’ Funny choice of words.”

  President Warren leaned forward and pressed a button on a laptop. Chip heard his own voice and felt his world dissolve.

  “What the hell do you mean a lab tech died? You guys assured me you could get this done in accordance with all applicable regulations.”

  The tape droned on, Chip hearing the lab tech describing again the initial death at the makeshift biosafety facility in Singapore and his rejoinder to shut the entire project down.

  President Warren said, “That was recorded before we knew about Cailleach Laboratories. Before we learned of the doctor’s son.”

  Chip switched gears. “Yes, yes, now I remember. You heard me tell them to shut it down. That’s why I didn’t bring it up when I found out about Cailleach’s involvement. I ordered them to quit the project. They’re the ones who kept the virus. Against my orders. I was going—”

  The attorney general held up a hand, cutting him off. “Stop. These two men are special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and you have the right to remain silent.”

  They both stood, flanking him, and Chip played the only card he had left. “Sir, you don’t want to do this. I know how the virus was stopped. I know about who did it.”

  He saw the attorney general get a curious look on his face and hoped it would be enough.

  It wasn’t.

  President Warren turned red, but it was Alexander Palmer who spoke first. “Remember what Kurt told you about Pike? About what would happen if you went after him? Well, so far he doesn’t know who caused that pain. But I do. Remember that, because if it were to leak, the only place you’d be safe is a federal prison.”

  Chip assimilated the words and began to tremble. He’d seen enough Taskforce activities to know Palmer was telling the truth. Losing his strength, he sank to his knees, placing his head in his hands on the floor of the most powerful man on earth.

  77

  Day four of the quarantine, and I was going a little stir-crazy. The room I was in was the size of a closet, and I hadn’t been allowed to leave for a single moment. I was visited twice a day by some CDC turd in a moon suit who’d take a vial of blood and leave me some food. None of which was cooked. I’d been living on peanuts, beef jerky, and bottled water, staring at the mirror every five minutes to see if I was going bloodshot.

  The anxiety was incredible, wondering if the next knock on the door would be the one where I transferred rooms to what they called the “hot zone.” They’d moved at least five people on my floor so far, some going kicking and screaming, knowing it meant they were infected. I hadn’t been moved, which led me to believe the vaccine had utterly failed because I hadn’t come up hot immediately on an antibodies test. Well, failed in the men. A small comfort now, although I was glad I didn’t know it when we hit the deck of the ship.

  It was made worse because I had no idea of the status of my team, especially Jennifer. All of us had been locked up, but she had been the closest to the carrier. The most likely to be sick. I couldn’t imagine what some mother or father was feeling right now, separated from their loved ones, not knowing if they were alive or dead. Especially since I knew for a fact at least four children wouldn’t be going home. Four sets of parents who would get the news.

  I heard a knock on my door, and my apprehension skyrocketed. It
wasn’t blood-vial feeding time.

  I opened it to see another moon suit. “Yes?”

  “Jesus, this place stinks.”

  Huh? He can’t smell anything in that suit. I peered closer to the flow hood and saw Kurt inside, smiling.

  “You ready to leave?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  “Come on. You’re clear, and we want to get you guys off before anyone asks any questions. Put this on. You’ll go out as CDC personnel.”

  He handed me my own moon suit, and soon enough we were out of the confines of the ship and on the basketball court. I counted four other moon suits. Which meant someone was missing.

  “Who’s not here?”

  Kurt said, “Jennifer.”

  That one word was a hammer blow, almost bringing me to my knees. Kurt quickly put his hand on my arm.

  “She hasn’t come up hot. Not yet anyway, but they can’t trust the vaccine. They just want to make sure she’s not a carrier.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Another day. Maybe two.”

  I saw a Dolphin helicopter in the distance and knew I wouldn’t have much more time to talk before we were in its rotor wash.

  “What’s the fallout?”

  “There’s thirty confirmed on the boat. In the running around after the body bomb, somebody spread the virus, but they think it’s contained at this point. They’ll dock the boat today or tomorrow and let everyone off. Everyone except the ones infected.”

  “What about them? Any hope?”

  “Not really. They’re getting the best treatment available. Shit, better than what they’d get at a hospital. The top doctors in the country are on this boat, and they’ve turned the hot zone into a floating hospital. Even with all that, most will die.”

  “What about Iran? Did we nuke them or something?”

  Kurt laughed, the sound muffled by the flow-hood speaker. “No. They claimed it was a rogue Quds general and that they’ve inflicted the appropriate punishment.”