by James Barney
Kathleen glanced in her rearview mirror and winced. McCreary.
She floored the accelerator and braced herself as her damaged car shook and shimmied its way up to 80 miles per hour. To her dismay, however, the 350-horsepower Suburban pulled into the passing lane and drew alongside. Kathleen glanced over and saw Goodwin driving and McCreary in the front passenger’s seat of the Suburban. He was signaling to her, pointing emphatically to the side of the road.
“Forget it!” she screamed at him through the Subaru’s broken window. “You’re all in this together!” She didn’t trust McCreary. In fact, she didn’t trust anyone anymore. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? She saw an exit sign. Without hesitation, she banked sharply to the right, barely managing to keep her car on the road as she skidded into the tight cloverleaf turn onto Route 50 West.
The Suburban slammed on its brakes and skidded seventy-five feet down the emergency lane of Route 2, well beyond the exit Kathleen had taken.
She’d lost them . . . for now.
Kathleen continued west on Route 50 at top speed. Less than three minutes later, however, the Suburban was back on her tail, honking and flashing its lights. Once again, she veered unexpectedly onto an exit ramp, this time onto Route 70. Again, she managed to lose the less nimble Suburban in the process.
The road was deserted at this hour, with virtually no traffic in either direction. After several minutes with no sign of her pursuers, Kathleen breathed a sigh of relief and slowed down.
She seemed to have lost them.
Route 70 terminated at College Avenue. Kathleen turned right toward the historic district of Annapolis, still with no real plan in mind, other than getting away. She entered Church Circle, a roundabout in the center of town, and circumnavigated it slowly, trying to figure out which of the eight roads to take.
The irony did not escape her. Her own life was now at a crossroads—a bewildering intersection of dimly lit paths, each leading to an unknown destiny. Literally and figuratively, she had no idea which way to go.
Without warning, Venfeld’s black BMW careened into the roundabout at high speed, causing Kathleen to swerve sharply to the left. The BMW slowed and maneuvered alongside her car, so that both vehicles were now traveling side by side around Church Circle, with Kathleen’s car trapped on the inside.
She glanced over at the BMW and saw Venfeld glaring at her, his eyes hard with anger. Suddenly, he cut his steering wheel sharply to the left.
The BMW slammed violently into the passenger’s side of Kathleen’s car, causing her to lose control and bounce up over the inner curb of the traffic circle. The Subaru crashed through a wrought-iron fence into the grounds of St. Anne’s Church, where it stopped dead.
She punched the accelerator, anyway.
To her surprise, the Subaru lurched forward across the grass. Kathleen coaxed the damaged vehicle back onto the roadway, barely able to control the steering wheel as it yanked wildly left and right, nearly escaping her grasp in both directions. The Subaru wobbled around Church Circle, squealing like a wounded animal.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kathleen could see Venfeld coming at her again from the right, approaching fast at an oblique angle, obviously trying to sideswipe her. Instinctively, she stepped hard on the brakes and simultaneously cut the wheel sharply to the right. A half second later, the BMW whizzed in front of her car, missing it by inches and plowing into the curb ahead of her. Without hesitation, she floored the accelerator and veered right, guiding the squealing Subaru with great effort down the first available side street, a narrow cobblestone alley lined with brick buildings.
To Kathleen’s dismay, the street soon terminated at College Creek. There was nowhere left to go. She stepped hard on the brakes, and the crippled Subaru shuddered to a halt.
The wash of headlights from a vehicle was already approaching from behind. Kathleen’s heart skipped a beat. She opened the driver’s side door, wrangled herself free of the seat belt, and jumped out of the car. With the rumble of the approaching vehicle growing louder, she sprinted toward a high wrought-iron fence that ran along the side of the road. She approached it, looked up and groaned. Too high.
She looked right. Nowhere to run. She looked left.
Set into the fence a few yards away was a black wrought-iron gate that led into the darkened expanse beyond. Kathleen reached it just as the headlights of the approaching vehicle flicked across the vertical fence balusters, casting strange linear shadows. She pressed down hard on the latch and was amazed when it clicked open.
Slipping through the gate, Kathleen found herself in a large, manicured courtyard. In the moonlight, she could see a maze of waist-high boxwoods, perfectly trimmed and squared, stretching out before her in the fashion of an English garden. She glanced at the red brick building to her left and realized she was standing behind the caretaker’s house at Saint Anne’s Cedar Bluff Cemetery.
A car door slammed out on the street.
Terrified, Kathleen darted down a narrow gravel path that led into the boxwood labyrinth, ducking low so she couldn’t be seen. As quietly as possible, she navigated her way through the maze, the stones crunching softly beneath her shoes. As she exited the other side, she heard the garden gate screech open and clank quietly shut.
Kathleen froze in place. Breathing became more difficult as panic set in.
Ahead in the moonlight, she saw a white wooden gate between two stone pillars. Leaving the boxwoods behind, she scurried across the lawn to the white gate. Behind her, she could hear the sound of shuffling feet in the boxwood garden. He was searching for her.
The painted wooden sign beside the white gate read:
ST. ANNE’S CEMETERY
FOUNDED 1783
Kathleen opened the gate slowly about a quarter of the way, cringing at the slight squeak it emitted. She slipped stealthily through the opening and closed the gate quietly behind her.
Spread before her in the moonlight were hundreds of headstones, monuments, statues, and crosses, some grouped together, others standing alone in the manicured grass, all stained dark with age.
She drew a deep breath and headed toward the largest marker she could see, which stood alone in the middle of the cemetery. It was a towering granite memorial crowned with a thick stone cross.
Chapter Sixty
Annapolis, Maryland.
Kathleen crouched behind the largest burial marker in Saint Anne’s Cemetery, a massive cruciform tombstone marking the final resting place of Sarah Davis Clagett. Kathleen’s eyes remained fixed on the churchyard gate, some twenty-five yards away. It had been nearly five minutes since she’d heard any shuffling noise from the garden. Perhaps her pursuer had given up.
She seriously doubted it.
Digging into her pocket, she pulled out the neoprene sample container and stared at it in the moonlight.
She realized now, of course, that McCreary was right. As long as she had this in her possession, bad things would keep happening to her. Whoever—or whatever—was after her, they would never stop until they had what they wanted . . . or until she was dead. Or both.
A panicky, desperate emotion swept through her. How would she ever get out of this alive? Where could she go? Whom could she trust? To her surprise, she found herself thinking about McCreary’s offer. Cowering behind the cold, damp tomb in the dead of night, the sunny French Riviera was starting to seem mighty attractive.
Suddenly, something about the sample container caught her eye. She held it up for a closer look. In the moonlight, she could just barely make out the first letter of the smudged label. Was that an E?
“Don’t move!” said a deep voice behind her.
Kathleen gasped and froze in place.
“Stand up slowly,” Luce Venfeld ordered.
She complied.
“Now, turn around. Slowly!”
Kathleen turned slowly to find herself face-to-face with Luce Venfeld, his arm outstretched, his 9 mm pistol aimed squarely at her head. His scarred face was
resolute, his dark eyes cold with anger, vengeance.
“End of the line,” he said flatly, arm already outstretched. He snatched the neoprene sample container from Kathleen’s grasp. As he inspected the vial in the moonlight, the corners of his mouth curled up into a sinister smile. He tucked the container quickly into the breast pocket of his overcoat.
He took a step backward, keeping the pistol trained unwaveringly on Kathleen’s forehead. “Now, Dr. Sainsbury, it’s time.”
Every muscle in Kathleen’s body tensed as she prepared for the inevitable. A thousand thoughts flooded her mind at once. Her grandfather and grandmother, her parents, Carlos, Julie, and Jeremy, all the QLS investors, cash calls, NIH, Dr. Sargon and the relic, the FBI, and—above it all—the words of Bill McCreary: “Sometimes science can be its own worst enemy.”
She met Venfeld’s vengeful gaze and studied the cold expression on his face. As she did, she noticed something strange. A bright red dot had suddenly appeared on his forehead. It bounced around for a split second, then stabilized just above his eyebrows . . .
A shot rang out, and Kathleen flinched, closing her eyes tightly.
Had she been shot? Where was the pain? She opened her eyes and immediately observed that Venfeld’s face had changed dramatically. His angry eyes were now open wide with surprise. His mouth was agape. And, where the red dot had been a second before, there was now a dark circle with blood oozing out of it.
Venfeld stumbled backward and collapsed on the ground, a .40-caliber bullet lodged deep in his brain.
Kathleen could barely breathe. What the hell just happened? She heard footsteps coming up quickly behind her.
“Are you okay?” asked the familiar voice of Agent Wills as he trotted out of the shadows and into the moonlight before her, impeccably dressed as always, a SIG laser-sight pistol in his hand.
Kathleen shook her head in disbelief. “How did you . . .”
“I heard the call come in from Goodwin and McCreary and got down here as fast as I could.” Wills stepped cautiously toward the motionless body of Luce Venfeld, pistol at the ready. “I picked up this guy’s trail back on Route 2.” He was advancing slowly toward the body.
“Who is that?” Kathleen asked.
“Name’s Luce Venfeld. He’s a lobbyist . . . of sorts.” Wills knelt down and felt Venfeld’s neck for a pulse, apparently finding none. Then he patted Venfeld’s overcoat until he found what he was looking for. He removed the neoprene sample bottle from Venfeld’s overcoat, inspected it momentarily, then slipped it into his own coat pocket.
Kathleen was just about to say something when she heard another voice behind her.
“Wills? Is that you?”
Kathleen turned to see Bill McCreary and Steve Goodwin bursting through the wooden cemetery gate. They jogged over to where Wills and Kathleen stood, out of breath and obviously confused by the situation.
McCreary positioned himself between Kathleen and Wills. Goodwin stood next to him. “Is that Venfeld?” McCreary asked, nodding at the dead body.
“Yep,” Wills replied. He tipped his chin toward Kathleen. “He was just about to shoot Dr. Sainsbury here. I had no choice but to take him down.”
McCreary glanced at Kathleen and then back to Wills. “Sure, of course.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Good job, Agent Wills. Excellent work!” He paused a moment to catch his breath. “Where’s the sample?”
Wills hesitated before responding. “I’ve got it.”
“Good,” said McCreary. “Let me have it. We need to get it to the SCIF immediately.”
Wills didn’t move.
“Agent Wills, did you hear me? Give me the sample so we can secure it properly in the SCIF. We can’t risk having it out here in the open any longer.”
“Actually, Bill,” Wills replied in a firm voice, “I’ve got other plans.” As he spoke, he pulled a small two-way radio from his breast pocket and spoke into it quietly. “I’m ready,” he said.
McCreary was incredulous. “What do you mean you have other plans?”
“There’s not much to say,” said Wills flatly. “You and I just have different ideas about what to do with this technology.”
McCreary sputtered, “Different ideas? It’s not your job to—” He stopped short. “What, exactly, do you have in mind?”
“This technology’s too valuable to be locked away in a SCIF, Bill. I’m going to put it in the hands of those who value it most.”
“And who might that be?”
Wills shrugged. “I can’t tell you yet. Right now, there’s a six-way bidding war, and the Chinese are in the lead. But that could change at any moment.”
Kathleen’s jaw dropped and she shook her head disbelief. Agent Wills? She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Jesus Christ, are you crazy!” McCreary shouted. “Do you realize the consequences? Do you know the impact this will have on national security? On the human race?”
Wills shrugged. “Bill, those are your concerns. You dreamed all that stuff up using a bunch of fancy computer models. But this technology is inevitable. I’ve heard you say so yourself.” He patted his coat pocket. “I’ve decided the time is now.”
As Wills spoke, the steady thumping of an approaching helicopter arose in the distance.
Wills began backing up toward a small clearing in the cemetery.
“I can’t let you do this,” screamed McCreary over the noise of the approaching chopper. He tapped Goodwin on the shoulder and nodded.
Steve Goodwin—215 pounds of solid muscle—immediately charged toward Wills, hunched over like a defensive tackle, arms outstretched, legs pumping up and down.
“Back off!” Wills yelled at Goodwin, who was barreling down on him like a freight train. Wills raised his SIG and barked one last warning, “Freeze!”
Goodwin didn’t stop.
Wills pulled the trigger, and a deafening report resulted. He watched in anguish as Goodwin crumpled to the ground, just inches from his feet. Then he trained his gun on McCreary. “God damn it, Bill!” he screamed over the rotor wash of the approaching helicopter. “Why’d you make me do that?”
McCreary’s response could not be heard over the sound of rotors and the swirling windstorm caused by the descending helicopter.
Kathleen watched in astonishment as a blue-and-white Bell 407 touched down in the grassy clearing. Wills ran toward the chopper, bent over and hugging his overcoat to his body. The side door of the helicopter opened, and Wills climbed in.
Just before the helicopter door closed, Wills turned and gave McCreary one last look. There was nothing triumphant or gleeful in his expression. Rather, Kathleen thought, Wills looked resigned, as if he were merely carrying out the inevitable. Seconds later, the chopper lifted off with a deafening thump-thump-thump of the rotors, and disappeared into the night sky.
As soon as the rotor wash subsided, Kathleen and McCreary rushed to Steve Goodwin, who was writhing in pain on the ground, clutching his shattered left knee.
McCreary looked up at the blinking taillight of the helicopter as it disappeared into the sky and shook his head glumly. “God help us, the world is about to change.”
“Maybe not,” Kathleen whispered to herself.
Chapter Sixty-One
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Bryce Whittaker had just drifted into to a blissful slumber, bringing to a satisfying close the best day of his career so far. He’d finally achieved his dream of breaking into television. And, according to the producer of Randi Rice Tonight, he’d done extremely well. “A natural” were the producer’s exact words. Just as Whittaker had always known.
Whittaker’s boss at the Post was overjoyed by the excitement and controversy caused by the QLS article. He called right after the TV segment aired to congratulate Whittaker and offer him a position at the national desk. With Whittaker’s rising star power, the Post clearly did not want to lose him to a rival newspaper or, worse, to a television network.
It had been quite
a day for Bryce Whittaker. So when the phone rang just after midnight, he naturally assumed it would be more good news. “Hello?” he answered groggily.
“Screw you, Bryce!”
Whittaker paused momentarily, confused. “Kathleen? My God, where are you?”
“Drop it, Bryce. You betrayed me! How could you?”
“Kathleen, I . . . I . . . had no choice.”
“The hell you didn’t! Do you realize what I‘ve been through today because of your damned story?”
“I’m really sorry. I . . . I didn’t know it would be such a big deal. Honestly!”
“Apology not accepted,” Kathleen said evenly. “You nearly got me killed. Carlos is in the hospital. You can’t apologize your way out of this one, Bryce.”
Whittaker sighed. “What do you want?”
For the next five minutes, Kathleen explained in exact detail the article she wanted Whittaker to write.
“Are you kidding?” Whittaker said when she’d finished. He was fully awake now. “You’re talking career suicide, you know.”
Kathleen didn’t hesitate. “Listen, Bryce, either you write it, or I’ll call the Washington Times. Your choice.”
Whittaker rubbed his temples, weighing the prospect of the rival Washington Times breaking the story. “All right,” he said finally, exhaling loudly. “When can we meet?”
“We just did. And I want that story in the paper tomorrow morning. Front page.”
“Jesus, Kathleen. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Andros Island, Bahamas.
The Atlantic Ocean lapped rhythmically against the sugar white sand of Los Brazos beach with a soft, lulling rumble. Palm trees swayed in the warm, tropical breeze as the sun rose above the red-tiled roof of Casa de Las Rocas, a twenty-two-room mansion overlooking the spectacular private beach on the island’s south end.
Guests had been arriving all night long. Several had landed in private jets on the estate’s airstrip, two miles away. Others had flown in from the United States by helicopter, landing on the estate’s helipad near the beach. One had arrived on Isadora, a 180-foot yacht, which was now moored just offshore.
