Finally, the last of the people moved past and Dorado brought his gun up again as the blood-spattered maniac spun closer for striking, hand raised above his head. Dorado pulled the trigger three times, aiming straight into the kid's face. The wirehead jerked as the back of his head exploded out, raining blood and gray matter all over the floor and the injured customers.
Help in the form of uniformed officers and emergency medical people arrived within five minutes of Dorado's calling in the incident. McAfee arrived thirty minutes after that, along with Internal Affairs to investigate the shooting.
Dorado sat out of the crime area, sipping coffee from a plastic cup when McAfee walked up. "Hey chief, are you okay?
He nodded and took another sip of coffee. "Hell of a way to start the day."
McAfee grinned, "Got to get rid of that nasty caffeine habit."
Dorado chuckled dryly.
McAfee pulled a chair over and sat down. He gestured over to the carnage. "What happened?" Aside from the wirehead, four other people lay unmoving.
Dorado went to wipe his face but then saw the speckles of blood on his hands and put them back down again. "A wirehead sat over there next to the power box when the brown-out rolled through today. He was pretty twitchy before but the power surge must have fried his motherboard. He went postal and started slicing folks up."
"EMT's told me that eight got wounded. Has IA talked to you yet?"
"Yeah, I've given a statement but they know the score. The bastard wouldn't stand down. Didn't even slow down when I shot him in the arm." He sighed. "This is going to be our problem on the Fourth, Bri. If one damn wirehead short-circuits in that crowd, they'll take out dozens of people and cause a riot that will kill even more. I'm going to talk to the other Task Forces about finding a way to ban wireheads from being inside the fenced perimeter."
"Not constitutional. ACLU will have a fit."
Dorado nodded. "Yeah probably, but we got to do something. This is the fifth incident in two weeks. The power fluxes are frying their brains."
"May not be your problem after today." McAfee leaned back in the chair.
Dorado shot him an irritated look. "Why's that?"
"Cardell heard about the shooting on the radio. He came into this morning's meeting announcing that since you'll be on suspension pending this investigation, he's now the OIC of the task force."
"Son of a bitch! IA says they'll probably clear me by this afternoon as soon as they watch the coffee shop's security tape."
"Yeah, but don't worry too much amigo." McAfee grinned. "The entire task force quit and walked out the door after his big announcement. Starker will still back you as OIC."
Dorado snorted. "Yeah, good deeds never go unpunished."
"Come on, just a few more steps." Arnie held the door to the cheap hotel room open. The girl stumbled across the threshold, wandered over to the bed and fell sprawling on it. He grinned and shut the door. The room was clean but run down with peeling, outdated wallpaper. The girl's so stoned, she'll think it's the Marriot, he mused.
Cecilia's long blond-streaked hair lay across her tan skin. At twenty-three, she started working in the tissue culture lab four doors down from his room at the medical school. She caught his eye immediately. Only five foot, three and petite in build; she attracted a lot of interest from the other male students and workers in the area. However, Arnie wanted more from her. After spending time chatting in her lab now and then, he got a good idea of the wealth of equipment and chemicals her boss stocked and he needed. He knew stealing from one lab too often would be noticed. He liked to distribute his treasure hunts among many of the labs in the four-story building through either bribery or extortion of the lab's workers or simply getting spare keys. Getting Cecilia high gave him the ability to use her as a supply route, bedding her was just a delicious bonus.
She stirred a little and giggled. "Wow, the room seems so fuzzy. Where are we?"
"My place," he replied. "We're going to have a party, remember?" He sat on the bed taking his shoes, socks and shirt off before lying down beside her.
"Where's everyone else?" she mumbled.
"They'll be here soon. Relax; just let the good feeling flow over you." He put his hand under her shirt and squeezed her breast as he kissed her.
She rolled towards him. He reached behind, unclasped the bra with one hand, and began kneading her rear with the other. She struggled to push him away. "Don't know you that well."
"It's okay. I told you that Moonies were great. They're even better during sex." He rolled on top of her, pinning her down. His hardness pressed into her crotch as she tried to wiggle away.
"No." She shook her head and blinked. "Not right..." but he pulled her shirt over her head and began to roughly fondle her naked breasts. “Stop, Arnie."
He slapped her lightly. "You came here with me. You said you wanted to have some fun. You wanted to get high but you couldn't pay.” He leaned down and gently bit one nipple then kissed her roughly. "Well baby, now, it's time to pay."
Cecilia's eyes widen and she began hitting him with balled fist. "No!"
He slapped her again, harder then held her arms above her head with one hand. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. He smiled. "Come on, baby. It doesn't have to be that way." He pulled a small baggie out of his jean pocket and removed two small blue pills. "Have more." He placed them between her lips and then pushed them further into her throat. She gagged and then swallowed. He ground himself harder into her. "Just relax. You're going to love this."
After a few moments, he felt her muscles relax underneath him. Her breathing was shallow and she twitched as he tweaked her breast again. He climbed off quickly and stripped her, posing the arms and legs into more provocative angles. Using his cell phone, he took several pictures from multiple angles and different poses each one more suggestive than the last. He grinned. Once she woke up again, she'd do what he wanted or the pictures went on the Internet. The bitch would never live down the shame. He finished undressing before moving on to her unresisting form. He turned her over, spreading her legs wide before plunging himself inside.
Arnie woke up and glanced at his watch. He'd been asleep for an hour. Sighing, he turned over towards Cecilia. He yelped and scrambled out of bed. The girl laid on her side, jaw lack and eyes glassy and unfocused. He reached over and touched her neck. The skin was cool. He swore and then ran to the bathroom and vomited.
After cleaning up, he dressed quickly and then sat in a chair opposite the bed, staring at the naked body. He tried to slow his breathing down as his mind sped along panicked thoughts, trying hard to remember what he knew about her. She lived alone and had no local family. She'd worked only for three months in Dr. Fender's lab. No one would miss her for a few days.
Finally, he left the hotel room and returned a half hour later with a plastic sack. He took out a towel and poured bleach onto the cloth. After rubbing down the doorknobs, chair and bathroom, he tossed the cloth onto the bed.
All of the girl's clothes went into the plastic bag. Arnie emptied the contents of her purse on to the bed. He took the money from her wallet and pocketed it, then put all the identity cards into the bag. Finally, he picked up her keys and looked at them thoughtfully. He could turn this around. The girl was about to go missing but not until Monday. Meanwhile, he'd have the weekend to empty her lab of everything he needed. The disaster could be turned into a fortune. He pocketed the keys as well.
Finally, he pulled out a large metal can of lighter fluid. He soaked the body and the bed. Fire, he thought, removed DNA and fingerprints. Fire would save his ass. In the meantime, her burnt body would be considered just another prostitute that frequented the hotel. After dousing the bed, he sprayed the walls with the leftover fluid. The fumes were building and choking him. He opened the door and stepped as far away as he dared before he threw in the lighter. The air exploded with a whoosh that knocked out the one window and blew Arnie off his feet.
He rolled away and looked up. The room bur
ned out of control and the hotel fire system was shrieking. He jumped up, bag still in hand, and ran for his car. As he pulled out of the potholed parking lot, he saw the fire engines in the rearview mirror speeding towards the little hotel.
Chapter 7
June 12, 2026
Mitchell watched the expensive, historic townhouse for two hours before the small electric car finally pulled into the Alexandria brownstone’s driveway. Macon located all the needed facts about Ashton Forester, Colonel, U. S. Army, in a little over an hour. Although military records remained sealed, voting records, mail zones and credit card addresses became available in open domain sources. Even the military records cracked eventually rather than stand up against Macon’s computerized onslaught. Once Mitchell had the information, he moved into action.
For the last ten years, gas leaks and exploding manhole covers plagued the aging and overwhelmed metropolitan gas and sewer system. Alexandria was an older, well-established suburb oddly divided between million dollar town houses, historic colonial homes, and grimier neighborhoods with row after row of trashed government apartment buildings. A few shopping streets still contained upscale bars, fine restaurants, and chic shops but they too showed their age in peeling paint and sagging supports when compared to the glass and metal modern neighborhoods more south.
Older houses had the highest risk of breaking weakened gas lines. Each summer came and went with at least three and sometimes up to ten older homes blasting or burning out of control. Tonians, in true DC fanaticism, developed an obsessive preoccupation with the sickly stench of natural gas in their homes. As Mitchell predicted, a call to his office from a “concerned neighbor” quickly caught Forester’s attention.
As Forester’s black sport electronic car turned the corner, Mitchell turned his head downward and moved closer to the bus stop booth along with a haggard looking housewife, a corporate clone and a vid-head kid so pierced and tattooed with the latest gothic-fashionable gear that he barely looked human. Car ownership made Forester stand out. Soaring gas prices over eight dollars a gallon made personal ownership of combustion cars impossible for many people. Hybrid and pure electric cars proved too expensive for most in the beleaguered economy. Most inner city residents adopted mass transit.
As Forester left the car and bounded up the five steps to his home, Mitchell quickly crossed the street, walked up the steps and opened the darkened glass storm door. In his haste, Forester left the inner dark oak door open, presumably for a rapid retreat. Mitchell quietly closed it, clicking the brass lock in place. His hand slipped into his suit pocket and wrapped around the small berretta nine millimeter, old but still effective.
Mitchell moved silently to the living area just to the right and in complete view of the foyer. After a few moments, Forester emerged from the back. Formidable in his six-foot frame decked out in Army green, Forester paused only for a moment when seeing him. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled. Touches of gray infected his wavy brown hair, making him older than Mitchell remembered. Mitchell removed the antique pistol from his jacket and stood staring at the focal point of all his pain.
Silence filled the space between them. Forester watched him, wary at first then folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe. Mitchell watched the relaxing of the man’s shoulders, guessing at the thoughts in his head. If the burglar didn’t shoot you immediately, he probably wouldn’t. Forester tried to handle the situation. The cool gray eyes showed no fear and no recognition.
“Are you going to rob me or just shoot me in cold blood?”
Mitchell stared at the man. His pistol hand dropped to the floor. It seemed inconceivable. The man he called boss for three years, the one that ordered the death of his wife, child and literally everyone that mattered in his life did not recognize him. Forester stepped forward, a move that woke Mitchell back into animation. The pistol rose to chest height.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“My wife and daughter, alive.” He replied quietly.
Confusion crept over Forester’s tan, lean face. Mitchell continued, “They died along with 437 other men, women, and children, three caterers, ten MPs and eight waiters that simply had the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then, you killed the platoon of men you brought through the gates to clean up your mess.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Forester stood rigid. His eyes took on a guarded look.
“Wrong answer, of course. You might wonder how I know that number so exactly. I counted them. I watched the people die for two weeks while we waited for someone to turn back on the phone lines, the electricity, and, oh yes, unlock the damn gates that kept us from getting medical help.”
The tan face went pale, “Who are you?”
“Just a geneticist and vaccine expert in your employment for over twenty-three years. I spent the time on a little base thirty miles from nowhere in North Dakota. I’m also a living, breathing contaminant, a biological leak from your nightmare lab. I’m your creation.”
“I think you have the wrong house. I don’t work with geneticists. I’m a guy in an office…”
Forester flinched as the wall behind him blew out in a hail of plaster. Mitchell waved the gun towards the living room. Forester moved first as both men entered, with Mitchell careful to keep his distance. Two brown leather Queen Ann chairs faced the oak and brick antique fireplace with a small round wooden table between them. At Mitchell’s instruction, Forester turned the chairs to face each other, keeping the table between them. The men sat down simultaneously. Forester took the chair that faced the dark oak room and the mirror and glass bar area. Mitchell took the second one five feet away with his back to the foyer.
Mitchell spoke first, forcing himself to keep his anger out of his tone. “I knew about the four labs like us. Each dealt in their specialized areas, BL-4 being the human pathology center. We knew you shut down over the last five years. We were the last one. Did you kill the people in the other three as well? Was there mad cow disease in BL-2’s meat? Wheat blight in the bread at BL-1? Did you shoot them as they went insane on the hallucinogenic chemicals? There must be something ironic or at least poetic in killing people with the very diseases they developed over their careers. Did someone watch us die from a distance? Were we one of the experiments or just in the way?”
“You’re crazy. The Army only operates the Institute. The labs you’re referring to would be illegal.”
Mitchell knew about the Institute but had never interacted with it. USAMRIID or the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases was the only legal research center for the military. Known as the Institute, it acted as the legal face of military biological research. The bio-labs were kept completely separated so no one would connect the two research units.
Mitchell smiled, “Yes our work broke...” He paused, shrugging, “I don’t know, about five international treaties. Didn’t stop our government though.”
“If you worked for any kind of lab like that, then you know that your superior can't talk about it. You’d be in a great deal of trouble for even mentioning it now.” Forester sat stiffly.
“Hey Colonel, relax. It’s just you and me here and we both know these secrets. No one will know we've talked. You think your house is bugged? No one’s listening to us.” Mitchell paused and crossed his legs. “I’m not surprised that you don’t recognize me. We only met face-to-face maybe a dozen times over the last five years. I was the second man in my division. You dealt more with Ray Geller. You remember Ray, short but smart guy with a paranoid outlook.”
Forester frowned at him.
“Yep,” Mitchell nodded, “I remember the security levels. We couldn’t mention anything in town or on vacation or whatever. A very few might have let something slip here or there but then they disappeared within a week. ‘Relocated to a less secure site’ was the official term. It only took a few sudden relocations of people to teach the rest of us to fall in line. We stuck to t
he story of being just another military base, monitoring satellite communication. If you talked to any outside person, you were gone. We never knew how you monitored us but we saw enough lab technicians rotate through to keep our mouths shut. Well Colonel, I don’t think we have to worry about it now. Who would believe me? After all, no evidence exists anymore to back me up, no people to hunt down. There's just me, the one mistake of your past.” Mitchell sighed and rubbed his hands together. “You thirsty? You look pale. Probably could use a stiff drink right about now and it sounds good to me. Why don’t I make one for both of us?”
Forester stayed silent as Mitchell rose and walked over to the wet bar. Mitchell kept frequent eye contact through the mirrored backing of the bar. Wooden shelves and crystal glasses decorated the tops and sides giving the bar an early twentieth-century look. He pocketed the gun before reaching for two cut crystal tumblers. Forester sat perched on the edge of the chair, a coiled spring waiting for flight.
Mitchell spoke easily as he assembled the drinks. “Tell me honestly, you’re curious right now. You’re wondering if I am who I say I am, then how did I escape. If I’m not a member of BL-4, then how do I know about it?” He turned, drinks in both hands. “Or are you thinking that you can outrun me? Ask yourself if you can outrun me shooting you.” He smiled easily, “Don’t you want to know how I wound up on your doorstep, knowing what I know?”
Forester slowly leaned back into the chair, face creased in a determined frown. “So, does the ghost from the past have a name?”
Mitchell nodded, “James Mitchell.”
Forester’s eyes widened in recognition. “That’s not possible.”
Mitchell walked over and set the glasses down on the little ornate wooden table set between them. “We’ll discuss that in a minute.” He picked one glass up and looked through the clear fluid. “Did you know gin was invented in Holland as a cure for stomach disease and gallstones? It didn’t really work of course.” He handed Forester one of the glasses and then slumped back into his seat. Once comfortable, he pulled the gun out again and held it easy on his lap.
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