The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1)

by Glenn Shepard

  My knees nearly collapsed at the news of Harris being decapitated.

  Farok’s assassins must have got him.

  I looked at Keyes. Tears were in her eyes. She knew how savage they were.

  I took a deep breath and said to Waters, “Before you can sell the hospital, you’ll have to expose the changes that transferred hospital ownership to you.”

  “Why? There’s no grand announcement to be made, Scott. Some minor alterations appeared in the charter over a ten-year period, nothing all at once. It’s all legal and will endure court scrutiny.”

  Waters put the gun to my temple. I quickly made a statement I couldn’t substantiate but tested on a hunch. “Herb, I know you ordered the killing of Cabot Barnes and Quinton Jolly to shut them up. I know you had Dr. Carey killed—and that young cop at my office, too—in order to frame me. I’m the only one who’ll stand up to you. You’re so damned insecure. You always were. I also know that you’re helping Al Qaeda launder money, and now maybe ISIS, too. You’re playing both sides to build your little empire. You’re going to be exposed as a traitor.”

  Waters’ face turned red. He shook the gun in my face. “You’re lying! You don’t know any of that shit!”

  “Who injected Valium into Dr. Carey’s neck? Was it Brightman? That’s my guess.”

  “Right man, Dr. James, wrong drug. He hit him with succinyl-choline, a drug that can’t be discovered and is deadly. But I knew about your stash of Valium. Brightman even carried a bag of hospital Valium that he poured in the cabinet with your stock. And you acted guilty by trying to hide it all. You spilled a little, but Brightman threw a couple handfuls more on the floor after you left.”

  He motioned to Jefferson, who held me upright. Waters smashed me with his fist, punching my face, abdomen, and groin. I absorbed the blows and spat blood on Waters. Waters picked up a three-foot section of a broken, half-inch water pipe, and approached to beat me further. Using Jefferson behind me for support, I arched my back and kicked with both feet. Waters went sprawling against the wall. He lay there, stunned.

  Keyes kept looking at her phone.

  Waters shook his head, calmed himself, then stood. All the stalling had given me just enough time to work through the plastic bands on my wrists. They were just about to go. I gave a hard twist of the wrists, broke free from Jefferson, and punched Waters as hard as I could. He fell back, badly dazed by the blow. Keyes grabbed for her phone. Jefferson slapped it from her. With all the strength I could muster, I lifted the battering ram from the floor and slammed it into Jefferson’s chest. It knocked him against the wall. He shook himself and smashed his huge fist into my shoulder. I fell to the floor on top of Keyes.

  Jefferson grabbed me by the collar and lifted me until my head touched the ceiling. The ceiling was constructed of slip-in panels of aluminum. The edges looked sharp. As Jefferson stepped back to throw me into the wall, I yanked out a metal panel and swung it wildly, slashing Jefferson’s arm.

  Bulky muscle pushed through the six-inch cut in the tight skin covering his arm. He tried to throw me against the wall, but, weakened by the deep cut, there was not enough force in his arm.

  I fell to the floor.

  Enraged, Jefferson screamed, “Enough of this. Now you die!” And went for the kill.

  He raised his foot to stomp on me, but I rolled to the side and the foot crashed to the floor. I reached for the pipe Waters had dropped and slammed it into Jefferson’s ankle. A jagged edge, protruding from the pipe, cut deeply into his leg. For the first time in the fight, he screamed and his face twisted in pain.

  Jefferson hopped on one foot and then fell to the floor.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Watson Farm

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  3:10 pm

  MICHELLE PACED THE FLOOR of the barn, continually looking at her watch. She kept the launch control remote in her hand. Thirty minutes earlier, Celena had informed her that the control center had been discovered, but she still hadn’t confirmed that Alpha Charlie was at the site. Things were in a holding pattern.

  60,000 Feet above the Virginia-North Carolina Border

  3:11 pm

  Omar Farok was visibly agitated as his Learjet 60 flew over the vast Dismal Swamp on the Virginia-North Carolina border. The muscles in his jaw worked and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  He called Quasart. “Celena must be with Waters at the drone control center. Use the bomber now and blow it up. Launch the first missile to strike one minute after the bomber detonates.”

  “But why do we need the missile if the bomber is—”

  “In case the bomber fails, we will still achieve our objective.”

  “You want to kill Celena along with Alpha Charlie?”

  “Yes! Kill them both!”

  “But I thought you and Celena—”

  “I said, send the bomber! And the missile! Now!” Farok bellowed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Watson Farm

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  3:17 pm

  Quasart texted Farok: BOMBER ON THE WAY TO CELENA’S LOCATION. ARRIVAL IS 3:37 pm. MISSILE TO LAUNCH AT 3:36 pm for 3:38 STRIKE.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Drone Control Center

  3:25 pm

  BRIGHTMAN SHOOK HIS HEAD and opened his eyes. As he slowly sat up, he brushed away blood from a bullet wound that had creased his scalp and knocked him out. He stood and shook his head. He was still dazed, but sensed Celena was in danger and entered the RV.

  “Zahar! Help me!” Keyes screamed when she saw him. “Get my phone! It’s in Waters’ hand.”

  Joshua Zahar Brightman stepped toward Waters.

  Waters called out, weakly, “Zahar, I pay your salary, not Celena. Kill her. And the doctor!”

  Brightman paused. Waters had paid him well for eliminating Carey, Fowler, Jolly, and Barnes. But now Farok was his boss, and Farok paid ten times what Waters did. As Brightman lurched for the phone, something slammed his kidney. Zahar turned to face Jefferson.

  For a brief moment, the two giants stood face to face, their heads nearly touching the ceiling. Then Jefferson threw a body block. The entire Emergency Disaster Unit reacted by rolling with the huge men. Brightman raised both arms and threw the huge football player back to the other side. The mobile hospital lurched back with them. I fell to the ground.

  Jefferson was not fazed. Ignoring his badly injured ankle, Jefferson locked arms with Brightman, spun around, and yanked the huge blond back across the RV. The entire Mobile Hospital squealed under the strain. The room rolled and equipment flew into the air, crashing all around.

  Suddenly Brightman saw an opportunity and smashed his fist into Jefferson’s throat. Jefferson had been hit a thousand times in the neck by eager young football players, both his teammates who wanted his spot on the roster, and opponents who wanted to kill him. It was a move to fracture the trachea and permanently disable the opponent. Jefferson had spent hours in the gym developing his neck muscles to sustain such blows, and now he blocked Brightman’s punch and grabbed one of his arms.

  Brightman tried to put Jefferson in a headlock. Jefferson let go of Brightman’s arm and grabbed his leg. He yanked up on the leg and forced the pony-tailed giant to fall backwards, sending him crashing to the floor.

  Brightman immediately sprung back to his feet.

  Jefferson threw a crushing blow to Brightman’s face, splattering blood into his eyes. Brightman didn’t even stagger before returning the blow. The two goliaths traded lethal blows to the head, but neither showed any signs of injury. Brightman faked a strike to the face and then pummeled Jefferson’s ribs. Breaking bones snapped loudly as Jefferson fell against the wall.

  Honing in on the point of weakness, Brightman hammered the fractured ribs. Blood flowed from Jefferson’s mouth as he fell to his knees. Brightman continue
d to hit the defenseless man with smashing blows to the body until Jefferson fell, face forward, to the floor.

  Then Brightman turned and started coming at me.

  “No, Zahar!” Keyes screamed.

  Brightman didn’t hear her. He was like a beast on a hunt.

  As he raised his fist to strike me, Waters slapped Keyes and she fell backward. The giant turned to help her, giving me time to pick up the battering ram.

  I’d seen enough of Brightman, as had my dead, cremated friend, Andy Fowler.

  I took the heavy pipe and slammed it into Brightman’s body. He didn’t fall backward like Jefferson did. Instead the giant pushed away the fifty-pound weapon and came at me again.

  I swung the battering ram as hard as I could, this time centering the strike on the solar plexus. Brightman doubled over in pain from the direct hit to the bundles of nerves in his mid-chest.

  The blow knocked the wind out of him.

  In Brightman’s momentary incapacitation, I gathered every ounce of strength I could muster and swung the ram upward, slamming it into his chin. The force of the explosive uppercut knocked the giant backward and onto the floor with a crash. He blinked several times. Blood poured from his mouth and into his lungs each time he gasped for air. He started turning purple, suffocating from his own blood.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Drone Control Center

  3:30 pm

  I FELT THE BROWNING press to my head. “Dr. James. You’re a dead man. With the two of you gone, I’ll have no more enemies left in the world.”

  Waters held the gun perfectly against my head while he stared at Keyes.

  “You’ll get the death penalty for shooting us.”

  “I was never here.”

  Waters pressed the pistol harder against my head and said to Keyes, “Reach into my desk and get my handcuffs, won’t you, my dear?”

  Keyes brought out the handcuffs and Waters said, “Put them on, both of you.”

  Waters motioned me forward to join her.

  Keyes and I were now chained to the wall railing.

  A small speaker at Waters station squawked: “Alpha Charlie, do you read me? This is Edwards. I need you right now! Where are you?”

  Turning to me, Waters said, “James, it’s your lucky day. Edwards just gave you a ninety-second reprieve, but I’ll be right back.”

  Waters went to his control chair and faced Edwards in the monitor. “I’m here,” he said as he placed the Browning to his side and activated the computer system. “What’s our status? Is there another target?”

  “Affirmative. There’s a suicide bomber coming for you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Drone Control Center

  3:32 pm

  “HOW DO YOU KNOW that?”

  “The intelligence people at Camp Peary. They’ve intercepted two messages from a terrorist group near you. One confirms that a vehicle driving toward you is a suicide bomber. The other message says there’s also some sort of missile scheduled to launch. We’re betting you’re the target.”

  “Understood.”

  “We have your Predator from Peary airborne at this time. The DE Laser is ready. This’ll be a good test for you. You can kill that bomber. He’s only three miles away.” Edwards said. “Hold on … I’ve got another message.”

  Waters went to the fuse box behind the computer and flipped off all electrical power to the RV. With the heavily tinted windows, the bus was dark, barely lit by a battery-operated lantern.

  Red and blue lights flashed in the windows. The police had clearly taken up a position nearby, but it was impossible to tell where, or how far away.

  I said to Keyes, “Sounds like even if the suicide bomber doesn’t get us, the missile will.”

  “I’m sorry, Scott. Farok betrayed me.”

  Waters ran to the door.

  I called out, “You can’t just leave us.”

  “Why not? It’s the perfect time. To the police I’m just another frightened soul, evacuating the area. The whole, beautiful, ‘missile game’ will take care of everything else. I won’t even have to dirty my hands with your blood.”

  “But what about all the innocent people in the hospital? There are over a thousand people in there! Patients and nurses and doctors! People you’ve known and worked with for years. And think of all the workers and volunteers and visitors. Let us die, if you must, but save them!”

  “And blow my cover? No way. Let the hospital be leveled to the ground! Then maybe I’ll collect the insurance money and federal government disaster money as well. I’ll double my fortune. And all those poor ‘innocent people’—well, surely you’ve heard of ‘collateral damage,’ Scott.”

  He turned to the door and called over his shoulder, “Say ‘Hi’ to that missile for me.”

  “Please, Herb, let us go!” Keyes shrieked.

  “Let your lover, Farok, free you.”

  He grabbed the knob.

  “WAIT! … Aren’t you forgetting something? The Rolex Farok gave Elizabeth. It’s probably worth half a million dollars.”

  Waters stopped in his tracks. He turned around and walked over to Keyes. Grabbing and twisting her arm, he took a minute to admire the jewel-studded watch: ten flawless, three-carat diamonds on the bracelet band, a multitude of two-carat emeralds on the face of the watch, covered all over with one-carat diamonds and emeralds. Waters knew real precious gemstones when he saw them. “I’m going to rub this in Farok’s ugly face someday,” he said.

  He jerked the watch from Keyes arm and ran to his Aston Martin.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Drone Control Center

  3:35 pm

  I RIPPED A SIX-INCH piece of wire from the wall panel attachment. Handing it to Keyes, I said, “Here, I believe you do this sort of thing in your line of work. Unlock the cuffs.”

  Keyes didn’t blink. She looked over the wire for a moment, then bent it carefully and precisely and inserted it into the slot. The lock released, and off slid the cuff from my wrist.

  The moment she’d freed herself, she yelled, “The bomber and missile will be here any minute!”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  I flipped on the electricity to the bus.

  “What are you doing? We have to get out of here! Now!”

  My mind flashed on the casualties and damage the weapons aimed at the hospital could do. Despite Keyes’ contention that Farok was bombing only the drone control center, I suspected that the combination of his suicide bomber and his missile would be enough to wipe out the whole hospital. The few lives I’d altered in my medical career were like a grain of sand compared to the lives that would be lost and the people who would be maimed within minutes, if I didn’t do something.

  Turning to Keyes, I said, “You go. Save yourself, but I need to stay and do this.”

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “I’m not going until I try one last thing.”

  Power returned at precisely 3:35 pm.

  Edwards’ voice boomed through the BAMUS monitor: “Alpha Charlie! Alpha Charlie! The suicide bomber is only a mile from the hospital! He’ll be there in less than three minutes! Where are you? Please respond!”

  I went to the control chair. “Colonel Edwards, you’re too late. Charlie made a getaway. He’s not the good guy you thought. It’s a long story; I’ll tell you about it someday. Right now, we’ve got more important things to do.”

  Edwards jaw dropped open. “Get the hell out of there!”

  “No. I’m going to take out the suicide bomber myself or die trying.”

  “Hold on a damn minute!” Edwards bellowed. “Who the hell are you?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Drone Control Center

  3:36 pm

  “I’M DR. SCOTT JAMES. I’m a plastic su
rgeon.”

  “What the fuck? I don’t need a fucking boob job! There are two tons of TATP in that car, enough to blow up that whole hospital!”

  The power of the bombs only strengthened my resolve.

  “I know, and I’m going to stop that son of a bitch,” I said. “I watched Waters operate this, and I can do it. I know the terrain around here like the back of my hand and I bet I can pick off your bomber.”

  Edwards muttered, “No way. I can’t have an untrained operator—”

  “Let me do it!”

  “You sure you can really do this?”

  I turned to Keyes. “Leave now, just in case I miss my shot.”

  Tears came to her eyes. “No. If you die, I want to die with you. Besides, you may need me.”

  “Go!” I yelled. “It’s too risky.”

  “Shut up and do this.”

  On the monitor, the system was tracking a speeding car. I zoomed in to get a closer look at the car: a gold Cadillac Seville, its rear-end almost dragging on the ground as if something very heavy was in the back seat and trunk. I zoomed in for a close-up of the driver: a middle-aged woman with long, black hair and dressed in a maroon thobe, trimmed in gold, with a green breast plate. Despite a maroon scarf draped around her face and pinned at the neck with an ivory clasp, her face was readily recognizable.

  “Anna Duke,” I whispered.

  “I’m absolutely certain that’s a suicide bomber,” Edwards said. “I see this all the time in Afghanistan and Iraq. The back of that big Caddy is almost touching the ground. Can you see the sacks of TATP in the back seat? Several thousand pounds of it. And the mason jars with grenades lying on top of the TATP? They’re detonators. The glass breaks with any collision, and the handles of the grenades fly off.”

  Edwards turned from the screen for a moment and then came back. “That’s not only a suicide bomber. That’s Nicole Banzar, a terrorist on the international most-wanted list for the bombings in London and Madrid. Her code name is ‘Quasart’”