Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

by John Hindmarsh

  “Yes, it’s Leary,” Kelsi said. “No, he’s not breathing. Yes, I’m a doctor. I know if someone is dead or not. Get some help here as quickly as you can. I feel exposed. There’s only me and my assistant.” She listened for a while. “Good, we’ll be here.” She ended the call.

  Kelsi turned to Ladder and said, “They’re sending Harkness and an investigative team, an ambulance, and the ME. Probably twenty minutes. We should remain in the vehicle until someone gets here. Plenty of time for you to tell me how you got your name.”

  Ladder was pale; this was the closest he’d been to a dead body, and he realized the killer could still be around.

  “Yes, Doc. Do you—do you think the—?”

  “The killer is still here? No, long gone. Well, if he had any sense.”

  Kelsi took her seat and Ladder sat in the passenger seat. He reached over and turned on the ignition and pressed the button to wind down the side window. The glass slowly recessed into the door. He turned to look out and jumped back with a shrill scream.

  A head, with blood streaks adding to disheveled hair, had rested on the glass and now fell towards him, stopped only by a half-conscious restraint of the body that thumped lightly against the door panel. As he watched, the girl’s face slid slowly out of sight.

  “Help me.” The request was faint as she disappeared, falling to the ground.

  Kelsi leapt out and ran to the other side of the van where the slight form lay crumpled on the tarmac. Ladder watched anxiously, still recovering from his fright. His boss knelt down beside the body and checked vital signs.

  She said, “The girl’s alive, unconscious. Her heartbeat is strong. Her matted hair is full of partly-congealed and crusted blood—she has a head wound. I can’t check it any further without cutting her hair back. I’d prefer the hospital to do that. Ladder, come on out. I need to settle her on the seat. Come on, she won’t bite.” She lifted the child carefully from the blacktop parking strip.

  “Um—sure, okay Doc.” He struggled out of the vehicle and held the passenger door open while Kelsi deposited her burden gently on the seat.

  “There’s a blanket in the back. Get it for me, please. Also a large bottle of water, some wipes, a towel, and a plastic cup. Quickly.”

  Ladder moved with purpose, quickly returning with the requested items. Kelsi first wrapped the girl in the blanket and used the wipes to clean her own hands. She washed some of the blood away from the girl’s face. She pushed her hair back from where the blood was still oozing. It looked as though she had been struck by a bullet. She checked further, as gently as she could. The girl moaned.

  Kelsi straightened up and breathed deeply. She said, “That’s possibly a bullet wound. Not deep, the bullet didn’t penetrate. She’ll live. As long as we get her some hospital treatment.”

  The girl stirred and her eyes opened. “Thank you.” Her eyes closed again.

  “She’s a tough one,” surmised Ladder.

  “She’s drifting in and out of consciousness. I don’t know whether to take her to hospital or wait for the ambulance. Let me contact base again. Stand here, make sure she doesn’t move or fall.”

  Kelsi returned to the driver’s side of the vehicle, reached in, and picked up the microphone. She pressed the transmit button and made contact.

  “Who is it—Harriet? This is Kelsi. I’ve an update for you. There’s a shooting victim here, a girl. Probably twelve or so. Head wound. Alive. Needs emergency treatment. Where’s the ambulance? Should we take her to emergency ourselves or wait?”

  She listened to the reply. “Five minutes? I agree, the ambulance is better equipped. The van would be a rough ride. Okay, we’ll wait. Yes, if she regains consciousness, I’ll try to find out what happened.”

  Ladder waited for Kelsi to end her call. “I think I can hear the siren, so they’re close,” he said.

  “Good. Yes, you’re right. I can hear it, too. Relax, Ladder. Your secret’s safe. For the moment.”

  ###

  Kelsi and Lieutenant Harkness stood by as the ambulance crew lifted the stretcher into their vehicle. The little girl opened her eyes and, in panic, sought Kelsi.

  “You’ll come and visit me?”

  “Why, yes, I will. You’re in good hands.” She reached out to hold a tiny hand.

  “There’s a car shed at the end of the trail,” the soft voice whispered. “That’s where they shot me. They’re both dead.” Her eyes closed again. Kelsi stood back and let the ambulance crew complete their task.

  “She’ll be okay,” the driver said, detecting Kelsi’s concern. “We’ll get her to emergency as quickly as possible. Do you have any details? Name, parents, address?”

  “No, not a thing. She was only conscious for seconds, and I didn’t want to interrogate her. I’d like to follow up, see how she is, perhaps some time tomorrow?”

  “I’ll let the hospital know you’ll be visiting. Okay, we’ve gotta go.”

  “Don’t forget you have to come back.”

  “No problem—we won’t be long.”

  Kelsi and Ladder watched as the ambulance accelerated along the drive towards the road, its lights flashing. She turned to her assistant. “We’ll both visit her, if you like?”

  “Yes, Doc. I’d like to.”

  Harkness intruded. “We’ll interview her once she’s cleared by her doctor. Now I’d better see where this other shed is and check whether there really are another two bodies. You coming?” He headed off without waiting for a reply.

  Ladder followed Kelsi and Harkness, his dragging footsteps providing an accurate measure of his enthusiasm at the thought of attending multiple crime scenes with a total of three bodies.

  Chapter 8

  Maeve Donnelly tried to relax as her driver threaded his way through Washington’s evening traffic. The driver was Cerberus-engineered, as was her guard seated beside him. She had her briefcase, with papers that she should read later in the evening. Leading and managing the Cerberus organization was not, she thought, a walk in the park. A walk in the dark, more like. She had worries that would overwhelm those she’d experienced when she was director of the FBI.

  Schmidt—now he was one of her more significant worries—would be waiting for her when she arrived at her apartment. She had invited him to join her for dinner and she hoped to detect some progress from the therapy he’d been undergoing. When the Russians shot down the helicopter, which was taking him to a scheduled Defense meeting, it surprised his rescuers that he had survived. Unfortunately Major Dempsey, CO of the 145th, had not.

  Schmidt had recovered—well, nearly. He had not yet resumed his military duties, and his medical issues were severe enough to reduce the value of his advice to her. She reflected on the drastic step he had taken before the accident, of undergoing a series of Cerberus nanite-based DNA medications. She wondered, had they helped his recovery or delayed it?

  Doctors—specialists who oversaw his immediate treatment—were surprised that Schmidt had survived the missile explosion and the crash-landing. They were also surprised at the rapidity of his physical recovery. They could not, however, account for his central nervous system disorder. Their diagnosis was that nerve cell activity in his brain was experiencing random disruptions, resulting in short term bouts of loss of consciousness. Their conclusion: time and therapy would tell.

  The car was approaching her apartment building—the driver had worked wonders to find his way through the peak hour streets without too much delay. She sighed. The papers in her briefcase weighed heavily on her mind. What could she plan for the future of Cerberus? That’s where she needed Schmidt’s insight and advice. Especially now, that he, too, was Cerberus engineered. The driver stopped the vehicle at the allocated parking space in the underground car park, two floors below ground level, beneath the block of apartments. She waited for her guard and driver to move.

  Her security processes were, she thought, extreme. However, no matter how much she protested, her Cerberus people would not reduce their level
of care and caution. The two men watched their security monitor, waiting for the clearance from the team on duty in the apartment building before they would exit the vehicle.

  Initially, when Maeve first moved into her apartment, other apartment tenants had protested the heavy security presence, so Cerberus purchased the building. Now they had the freedom to manage the building security as they wanted, and any tenant who objected was politely requested to terminate their lease and leave. Not many did so—most appreciated the increased level of security, for Washington was not always a safe town.

  It was thirty seconds before the monitor screen displayed the all clear and the guard rushed to open her door. They both—the driver and the guard—escorted her to the elevators where another security guard waited. No one else was in the elevator and it delivered her to the tenth floor without interruption. At last, she reached her apartment where she could relax.

  Archimedes Schmidt handed her a cocktail. “To your precise requirements,” he said. He appeared fit and healthy. He was dressed casually, for once forsaking his more military style.

  “Oh, I need this.”

  “You need a vacation, more likely.” They touched glasses. Schmidt was drinking sparkling water, Maeve knew.

  “Yes, I do. Not likely, though. How about you?”

  “I’m healthy, as you can see. I think I’ve regained some of my youth—seriously. I suspect it’s a side effect of the Cerberus treatment. Now to convince everyone my head is screwed on properly.” He smiled ruefully. “I won’t get medical clearance to resume my duties until I do.”

  “Perhaps you’re subconsciously avoiding that responsibility?”

  “Now don’t you start. It’s bad enough all the witch doctors trying that approach.” His smile took the sting out of his words.

  “I’ll stop, I promise. It’s—” Maeve sipped her drink.

  “You’re worried, concerned for me, I know. I do think the worst is over—the Cerberus nanites have completed their tasks.”

  “Indeed. Now Bennie is going to prepare us a nice meal. Your contribution is to read some of my papers. I need your insights.”

  Her cell phone buzzed before Schmidt could reply. She checked the caller ID. “That’s Brian Winter. Let me take his call.”

  “Yes, Brian?”

  “Maeve, we’ve lost Mark.”

  “What? Hold on, Schmidt’s here—I’ll put you on speaker.”

  “Hi, Schmidt. I have bad news. We’ve lost Mark. One of my primary teams was escorting him. They were intercepted somewhere along the highway back to Boston from Redmont. My team was eliminated: two are dead, two badly injured, and, fortunately, two will recover without hospital time.”

  Maeve said, “Please accept our condolences for your losses. That is so sad. Any details you can add?”

  “It’s all confused. There’s a report my senior man was shot resisting arrest. I haven’t found out why he was being arrested. There’s a report of FBI involvement and some rumor of Mark being taken off in a helicopter. There’s a lot of obfuscation—the local law is putting up major roadblocks in response to our questions. We’re trying to make sense of it. Maeve, can you check with the FBI to see if they had an ongoing operation on the Northern Expressway?”

  “I’ll get on it right away, as soon as we’re finished here.”

  Schmidt spoke up. “Can we provide you with more people?”

  “Thanks for the offer—I’ve pulled some of my people off less important duties. I’ll let you know if I need more.”

  Maeve added, “Good. Don’t hesitate to ask. Let’s review the situation tomorrow morning. Get what you can. I’ll work with the FBI to see what they can add.”

  “Yes, Maeve. I’m sorry. We should have been better than this.”

  “Now don’t condemn yourself. Mark has managed to attract some powerful enemies. We’ll combine forces to find him. Now, is there anything we can do for your people? For families?”

  “I’m taking care of them. As you can imagine, it’s painful when you lose someone on duty, more so for the surviving families, of course. We can discuss details later after we’ve rescued Mark, if you like.”

  “Yes, indeed. We’ll call for an update tomorrow at 10:30 a.m? Will that work for you?”

  “Done. I hope we have good news.”

  Maeve ended the call and turned to Schmidt. “Dinner may be full of interruptions. I need to call Linda; she’s leading, well not only leading, she’s managing your team of analysts. Doing a good job, too.”

  “She’s more than capable, as is the team.” He frowned. “I need to get involved, tomorrow. That will shock them all.”

  “She can get everyone focused—they’ll work all night if they need to. They’re mostly Cerberus, and Mark is their hero.”

  “Not at all unexpected. He’s helped more than a few Cerberus people.”

  Maeve decided to try a number of approaches. There were hundreds of Cerberus people in the FBI organization, from agents to office workers, from programmers to scientists, who would respond to informal questions from Linda’s team. Indeed, the team could reach out to all the Cerberus resources, to see if anyone had news of activities against Mark. That would encompass the military, CIA, and numerous other governmental and law enforcement agencies. Sometimes Maeve shuddered when she considered the extent of Cerberus penetration into core government organizations. She would ensure this wider network responded to Linda if they discovered anti-Cerberus activities, especially if it involved harm to Mark. She would also make more formal inquiries, using her senior government contacts.

  She said to Schmidt, “I’ll contact Robbie Fisher. He’s been a good friend since taking on the responsibilities of director, after my retirement. Linda can launch a Cerberus-wide search. I’ll inform Jenkins, because this has national security ramifications and he’ll filter details up to the president. I’ll tap other contacts, as we go. Read while I make phone calls.”

  Maeve handed Schmidt a set of files. He began to read the contents as Maeve spoke to Linda and made her other calls.

  Dinner was not the relaxing meal she had intended. She was worried about Mark. She had many reasons to like and respect the young man. Whoever had planned and conducted this assault—including murder and kidnapping—was going to feel heat, lots of it, before she was finished. She said as much to Schmidt and his reply was straightforward.

  “I’ll hold the bastard’s feet to the fire for you.”

  Chapter 9

  “You idiots did what?” exploded Ross Cromarty, spilling his Scotch. His face reddened, as he appeared to struggle to restrain his anger.

  “Relax, Ross,” said O’Hare. “We’re covered.”

  “I’m not so sure,” countered Grovers. “I disagreed with this venture. I told you not to proceed, that it had the potential to expose all of us.”

  “So this is what the media is full of: a major police chase on Interstate 93, cars wrecked, three or four people killed, others in hospital?” Cromarty asked.

  “Yes, and none of it can link back to us.”

  “For this little piece of mayhem, what do you have to show?”

  “I have Midway.”

  “Midway?” Cromarty’s voice rose in pitch. “Midway? It’s Schmidt I want to deal with, not bloody Midway.”

  “Midway will give us Schmidt.”

  “This is not in the plan you both provided me.” He looked at Grovers. “Were you involved in this madness?”

  “No, Ross. I had no knowledge of this.”

  Cromarty turned his attention back to O’Hare. “I thought you were the sensible one. I’m totally—totally—amazed that you carried out this little adventure without my knowledge or approval.”

  “Ross, if you don’t want Schmidt, I know others who do—the Russians will take him and pay us any price—well, within reason. He’s exposed some of their network in this country, killed some of their senior people, plus he’s had substantial access to the genetic material you’ve been after. They’d lo
ve to get their hands on that knowledge. There are indications he’s been genetically modified, too.”

  Cromarty paced the floor of his study. This time they were meeting in his upstate New York mansion and his study was larger than most average-sized houses. There was a bar and wall long wine rack at one end, a home theater system at the other, and a huge desk half way between the two. He stubbed out his cheroot, anger still evident in his flushed face. He was trying to show he was controlling his fury at the NSA agent.

  “Note for the future.” He glared at O’Hare. “I don’t care if you’re NSA or something else. I call the shots if you want to work for me. I. Call. The. Shots.” He punctuated his words with a stubby forefinger. “Do you understand?”

  O’Hare shrugged. “I used my discretion. If you don’t want me to do so in future,”—he shrugged again—“that’s okay with me. We’ll lose opportunities.”

  “More to the point, we won’t see rogue activities that will come back to bite us.”

  O’Hare replenished his bourbon. “As you say.”

  “Where is Midway?” Grovers asked.

  “I don’t think that’s in your need-to-know box,” O’Hare replied. “Take my word, he’s safe and secure.”

  Cromarty regarded the speaker. “I think we have a need to know,” he stated.

  O’Hare pondered for a long moment. “He’s in Gitmo. We have a facility—a camp—that’s secure. Code-named Botany Bay. It’s one of our new detention camps. He’s our first resident.”

  “Guantánamo? How the hell can we access him there? Assuming we wanted to, that is.”

  “General, I have staff who will find out anything and everything he knows. Tell me what you need.”

  “I’m not interested—this is a flawed approach,” he said, dismissing the suggestion. “NSA will have access to whatever you extract from Midway. I’m more interested in how you’re planning to use him to catch Schmidt.”

  “Likewise.” Cromarty poured himself another dram of Scotch.